14884	----	[Illustration: OLE BULL] Famous Violinists of To-day and Yesterday By Henry C. Lahee _ILLUSTRATED_ Boston The Page Company Publishers 1899 L.C. PAGE AND COMPANY (INCORPORATED) Ninth Impression, February, 1912 Tenth Impression, January, 1916 THE COLONIAL PRESS C.H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U.S.A. PREFACE. In "Famous Violinists" the writer has endeavoured to follow the same general plan as in "Famous Singers," viz., to give a "bird's-eye view" of the most celebrated violinists from the earliest times to the present day rather than a detailed account of a very few. Necessarily, those who have been prominently before the public as performers are selected in preference to those who have been more celebrated as teachers. It was at first intended to arrange the chapters according to "schools," but it soon became evident that such a plan would lead to inextricable confusion, and it was found best to follow the chronological order of birth. The "Chronological Table" is compiled from the best existing authorities, and is not an effort to bring together a large number of names. If such were the desire, there would be no difficulty in filling up a large volume with names of the violinists of good capabilities, who are well known in their own cities. HENRY C. LAHEE. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE PREFACE ix I. INTRODUCTORY 11 II. 1650 TO 1750 30 III. 1750 TO 1800 60 IV. PAGANINI 104 V. 1800 TO 1830 135 VI. OLE BULL 172 VII. 1830 TO 1850 204 VIII. JOACHIM 244 IX. VIOLINISTS OF TO-DAY 261 X. WOMEN AS VIOLINISTS 300 XI. FAMOUS QUARTETS 345 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE OLE BULL _Frontispiece_ ARCANGELO CORELLI 30 NICOLO PAGANINI 104 CAMILLO SIVORI 154 MARTIN PIERRE JOSEPH MARSICK 238 JOSEPH JOACHIM 244 EMIL SAURET 264 MAUD POWELL 340 FRANZ KNEISEL 362 FAMOUS VIOLINISTS OF TO-DAY AND YESTERDAY. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. There is no instrument of music made by the hands of man that holds such a powerful sway over the emotions of every living thing capable of hearing, as the violin. The singular powers of this beautiful instrument have been eloquently eulogised by Oliver Wendell Holmes, in the following words: "Violins, too. The sweet old Amati! the divine Stradivari! played on by ancient maestros until the bow hand lost its power, and the flying fingers stiffened. Bequeathed to the passionate young enthusiast, who made it whisper his hidden love, and cry his inarticulate longings, and scream his untold agonies, and wail his monotonous despair. Passed from his dying hand to the cold virtuoso, who let it slumber in its case for a generation, till, when his hoard was broken up, it came forth once more, and rode the stormy symphonies of royal orchestras, beneath the rushing bow of their lord and leader. Into lonely prisons with improvident artists; into convents from which arose, day and night, the holy hymns with which its tones were blended; and back again to orgies, in which it learned to howl and laugh as if a legion of devils were shut up in it; then, again, to the gentle _dilettante_, who calmed it down with easy melodies until it answered him softly as in the days of the old maestros; and so given into our hands, its pores all full of music, stained like the meerschaum through and through with the concentrated hue and sweetness of all the harmonies which have kindled and faded on its strings." Such, indeed, has been the history of many a noble instrument fashioned years and years ago, in the days when violin playing did not hold the same respect and admiration that it commands at the present time. The evolution of the violin is a matter which can be traced back to the dark ages, but the fifteenth century may be considered as the period when the art of making instruments of the viol class took root in Italy. It cannot be said, however, that the violin, with the modelled back which gives its distinctive tone, made its appearance until the middle of the sixteenth century. In France, England, and Germany, there was very little violin making until the beginning of the following century. Andrea Amati was born in 1520, and he was the founder of the great Cremona school of violin makers, of which Nicolo Amati, the grandson of Andrea, was the most eminent. The art of violin making reached its zenith in Italy at the time of Antonio Stradivari, who lived at Cremona. He was born in 1644, and lived until 1737, continuing his labours almost to the day of his death, for an instrument is in existence made by him in the year in which he died. It is an interesting fact that the art of violin making in Italy developed at the time when the painters of Italy displayed their greatest genius, and when the fine arts were encouraged by the most distinguished patronage. As the art of violin making developed, so did that of violin playing, but, whereas the former reached its climax with Stradivari, the latter is still being developed, as new writers and players find new difficulties and new effects. While there are many proofs that orchestras existed, and that violins of all sizes were used in ecclesiastical music, there is still some doubt as to who was the first solo violinist of eminence. The earliest of whom we have any account worthy of mention, was Baltazarini, a native of Piedmont, who went to France in 1577 to superintend the music of Catharine de Medici. In 1581 he composed the music for the nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with Mlle. de Vaudemont, sister of the queen, and this is said to have been the origin of the heroic and historical ballet in France. The progress of violin playing can also be judged somewhat by the compositions written for the instrument. Of these the earliest known is a "Romanesca per violone Solo e Basso se piaci," and some dances, by Biagio Marini, published in 1620. This contains the "shake." Then there is a "Toccata" for violin solo, by Paolo Quagliati, published in 1623, and a collection of violin pieces by Carlo Farina, published in 1627 at Dresden, in which the variety of bowing, double stopping, and chords shows a great advance in the demands upon the execution. Farina held the position of solo violinist at the Court of Saxony, and has been called the founder of the race of violin virtuosi. One of his compositions, named "Cappriccio Stravagante," requires the instrument to imitate the braying of an ass, and other sounds belonging to the animal kingdom, as well as the twanging of guitars and the fife and drum of the soldier. Eighteen sonatas composed by Giovanni Battista Fontana, and published at Venice in 1641, show a distinct advance in style, and Tomasso Antonio Vitali, himself a famous violinist, wrote a "Chaconne" of such merit that it was played by no less a virtuoso than Joachim, at the Monday popular concerts in London, in 1870, nearly two hundred years after its composition. Italy was the home of the violin, of composition for the violin, and of violin playing, for the first school was the old Italian school, and from Italy, by means of her celebrated violinists, who travelled and spread throughout Europe, the other schools were established. Violin playing grew in favour in Italy, France, Germany, and England at about the same time, but in England it was many years before the violinist held a position of any dignity. The fiddle, as it was called, was regarded by the gentry with profound contempt. Butler, in "Hudibras," refers to one Jackson, who lost a leg in the service of the Roundheads, and became a professional "fiddler:" "A squeaking engine he apply'd Unto his neck, on northeast side, Just where the hangman does dispose, To special friends, the knot or noose; For 'tis great grace, when statesmen straight Dispatch a friend, let others wait. His grisly beard was long and thick, With which he strung his fiddle-stick; For he to horse-tail scorned to owe, For what on his own chin did grow." Many years later Purcell, the composer, wrote a catch in which the merits of a violin maker named Young, and his son, a violin player, are recorded. The words are as follows: "You scrapers that want a good fiddle, well strung, You must go to the man that is old while he's Young; But if this same Fiddle, you fain would play bold, You must go to his son, who'll be Young when he's old. There's old Young and young Young, both men of renown, Old sells and young plays the best Fiddle in town, Young and old live together, and may they live long, Young to play an old Fiddle; old to sell a new song." In the course of time the English learned to esteem all arts more highly, and in no country was a great musician more sure of a warm welcome. Two celebrated violinists were born in the year 1630, Thomas Baltzar, and John Banister, the former in Germany, at Lubec, and the latter in London. Baltzar was esteemed the finest performer of his time, and is said to have been the first to have introduced the practice of "shifting." In 1656 Baltzar went to England, where he quite eclipsed Davis Mell, a clockmaker, who was considered a fine player, and did much to give the violin an impetus toward popularity. The wonder caused by his performances in England, shortly after his arrival, is best described in the quaint language of Anthony Wood, who "did, to his very great astonishment, hear him play on the violin. He then saw him run up his Fingers to the end of the Fingerboard of the Violin, and run them back insensibly, and all with alacrity, and in very good tune, which he nor any in England saw the like before." At the Restoration Baltzar was appointed leader of the king's celebrated band of twenty-four violins, but, sad to relate, "Being much admired by all lovers of musick, his company was therefore desired; and company, especially musical company, delighting in drinking, made him drink more than ordinary, which brought him to his grave." And he was buried in the cloister of Westminster Abbey. John Banister was taught music by his father, one of the _waits_ of the parish of St. Giles, and acquiring great proficiency on the violin was noticed by King Charles II., who sent him to France for improvement. On his return he was appointed chief of the king's violins. King Charles was an admirer of everything French, and he appears, according to Pepys, to have aroused the wrath of Banister by giving prominence to a French fiddler named Grabu, who is said to have been an "impudent pretender." Banister lost his place for saying, either to or in the hearing of the king, that English performers on the violin were superior to those of France. John Banister lived in times when fiddle playing was not highly esteemed, if we may judge by the following ordinance, made in 1658: "And be it further enacted by the authority aforesaid, that if any person or persons, commonly called Fiddlers, or minstrels, shall at any time after the said first day of July be taken playing, Fiddling, or making music in any inn, alehouse, or tavern or shall be proffering themselves, or desiring, or entreating any person or persons to hear them play ... shall be adjudged ... rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars." John Banister seems to have been a somewhat "sturdy beggar," though not exactly in the sense meant by the ordinance, for he established regular concerts at his house, "now called the Musick-school, over against the George Tavern in Whitefriars." These concerts began in 1672, and continued till near his death, which occurred in 1679. He too, was buried in the cloister of Westminster Abbey. His son, also, was an excellent performer on the violin, and played first violin in the Italian opera when it was first introduced into England. He was one of the musicians of Charles II., James II., William and Mary, and of Queen Anne. Henry Eccles, who lived about the end of the seventeenth century, went to France, where he became a member of the king's band, and William Corbett, who went to Italy to study the violin in 1710, was a player of much ability; but one of the most eminent of English violinists was Matthew Dubourg, born 1703, who played at a concert when he was so small that he was placed on a stool in order that he might be seen. At eleven years of age he was placed under Geminiani, who had recently established himself in London. Dubourg was appointed, in 1728, Master and Composer of State-Music in Ireland, and on the death of Festing, in 1752, he became leader of the king's band in London, and held both posts until his death in 1767. An amusing incident is related of Dubourg and Handel. The latter visited Dublin and presided at a performance of the "Messiah." A few evenings later, Dubourg, who was leader of the band at the Theatre, had to improvise a "close," and wandered about in a fit of abstract modulation for so long that he forgot the original key. At last, however, after a protracted shake, he landed safely on the key-note, when Handel called out in a voice loud enough to be heard in the remotest parts of the theatre, "Welcome home, welcome home, Mr. Dubourg." Dubourg's name is the first on record in connection with the performance of a concerto in an English theatre. John Clegg, a pupil of Dubourg, was a violinist of great ability, whom Handel placed at the head of the opera band, but his faculties became deranged by intense study and practice, and he died at a comparatively early age, in 1742, an inmate of Bedlam. Another very promising young English violinist was Thomas Linley, who exhibited great musical powers, and performed a concerto in public when eight years old. He was sent to Italy to study under Nardini, and through the mediation of that artist he became acquainted with Mozart, who was about the same age. Linley's career was prematurely closed, for at the age of twenty-two he was drowned through the capsizing of a pleasure-boat. This completes the list of English violinists of note who were born previous to the nineteenth century. The later ones we shall find in their place in succeeding chapters, but there have been very few violinists of English birth who have followed the career of the "virtuoso." Even Antonio James Oury, who made a series of concert tours lasting nine years, during which he occasionally appeared in conjunction with De Bériot and Malibran, is hardly known as a "virtuoso," and was not all English. But there are pathetic circumstances in regard to the career of Oury. He was the son of an Italian of noble descent, who had served as an officer in the army of Napoleon, and had been taken prisoner by the English. Making the best of his misfortunes the elder Oury settled in England, married a Miss Hughes, and became a professor of dancing and music. The son, Antonio, began to learn the violin at the age of three, in which he was a year or two ahead of the average virtuoso, and he made great progress. By and by he heard Spohr, and after that his diligence increased, for he practised, during seven months, not less than fourteen hours a day. Even Paganini used to sink exhausted after ten hours' practice. In 1820, we are told, he went to Paris and studied under Baillot, Kreutzer, and Lafont, receiving from each two lessons a week for several successive winters. With such an imposing array of talent at his service much might be expected of Mr. Oury, and he actually made his début at the Philharmonic concerts in London. There was another unfortunate officer of Napoleon who became tutor to the Princesses of Bavaria. His name was Belleville. Mr. Oury met his daughter, and, there being naturally a bond of sympathy between them, they married. She was an amiable and accomplished pianist, and together they made the nine years' concert tour. During the period in which the art of violin playing was being perfected on the Continent, the English were too fully occupied with commercial pursuits to foster and develop the art. Up to the present day the most eminent virtuoso is commonly spoken of as a "fiddler." Even Joachim, when he went to a barber's shop in High Street, Kensington, and declined to accept the advice of the tonsorial artist, and have his hair cropped short, was warned that "he'd look like one o' them there fiddler chaps." The barber apparently had no greater estimation of the violinist's art than the latter had of the tonsorial profession, and the situation was sufficiently ludicrous to form the subject of a picture in _Punch_, and thus the matter assumed a serious aspect. England has not been the home of any particular school of violin playing, but has received her stimulus from Continental schools, to which her sons have gone to study, and from which many eminent violinists have been imported. The word "school," so frequently used in connection with the art of violin playing, seems to lead to confusion. The Italian school, established by Corelli, appears to have been the only original school. Its pupils scattered to various parts of Europe, and there established other schools. To illustrate this statement, we will follow in a direct line from Corelli, according to the table given in Grove's Dictionary. The pupils of Corelli were Somis, Locatelli, Geminiani (Italians), and Anêt (a Frenchman), whose pupil Senaillé was also French. The greatest pupil of Somis was Pugnani, an Italian, and his greatest pupil was Viotti, a Piedmontese, who founded the French school, and from him came Roberrechts, his pupil De Bériot and his pupil Vieuxtemps, the two latter Belgians, also Baillot, etc., down to Marsick and Sarasate, a Spaniard, while through Rode, a Frenchman, we have Böhm (school of Vienna) and his pupil Joachim, a Hungarian (school of Berlin). Several violinists are found under two schools, as for instance, Pugnani, who was first a pupil of Tartini and later of Somis, and Teresa Milanollo, pupil of Lafont and of De Bériot, who appear under different schools. The only conclusion to be drawn is that the greatest violinists were really independent of any school, and, by their own genius, broke loose from tradition and established schools of their own. Some of them, on the other hand, had but few pupils, as for instance, Paganini, who had but two, and Sarasate. Many also were teachers rather than performers. We have to deal chiefly with the virtuosi. CHAPTER II. 1650 TO 1750. Arcangelo Corelli, whose name is recognised as one of the greatest in the history of violin playing and composition, and who laid the foundation for all future development of technique, was born in 1653, at Fusignano, near Imola, in the territory of Bologna. He showed an early propensity for the violin, and studied under Bassani, a man of extensive knowledge and capabilities, while Mattei Simonelli was his instructor in counterpoint. Corelli at one time sought fame away from home, and he is said to have visited Paris, where Lulli, the chief violinist of that city, exhibited such jealousy and violence that the mild-tempered Corelli withdrew. In 1680 he went to Germany, where he was well received, and entered the service of the Elector of Bavaria, but he soon returned to Rome. His proficiency had now become so great that his fame extended throughout Europe, and pupils flocked to him. His playing was characterised by refined taste and elegance, and by a firm and even tone. [Illustration: ARCHANGE CORELLI] When the opera was well established in Rome, about 1690, Corelli led the band. His chief patron in Rome was Cardinal Ottoboni, and it was at his house that an incident occurred which places Corelli at the head of those musicians who have from time to time boldly maintained the rights of music against conversation. He was playing a solo when he noticed the cardinal engaged in conversation with another person. He immediately laid down his violin, and, on being asked the reason, answered that "he feared the music might interrupt the conversation." Corelli was a man of gentle disposition and simple habits. His plainness of dress and freedom from ostentation gave the impression that he was parsimonious, and Handel says of him that "he liked nothing better than seeing pictures without paying for it, and saving money," He was also noted for his objection to riding in carriages. He lived on terms of intimacy with the leading artists of his time, and had a great fondness for pictures, of which he had a valuable collection. These he left at his death to Cardinal Ottoboni. It was at Cardinal Ottoboni's that Corelli became acquainted with Handel, and at one of the musical evenings there a "Serenata," written by the latter, was performed. Corelli does not seem to have played it according to the ideas of the composer, for Handel, giving way to his impetuous temper, snatched the fiddle out of Correlli's hand. Corelli mildly remarked, "My dear Saxon, this music is in the French style, with which I am not acquainted." For many years Corelli remained at Rome, but at last he yielded to temptation and went to Naples, where Scarlatti induced him to play some of his concertos before the king. This he did in great fear, for he had not his own orchestra with him. He found Scarlatti's musicians able to play at first sight as well as his own did after rehearsals, and, the performance going off well, he was again admitted to play, this time one of his sonatas, in the royal presence. The king found the adagio so long and dry that he quitted the room, much to Corelli's mortification. But greater trouble was in store for the virtuoso. Scarlatti had written a masque, which was to be played before the king, but owing to the composer's limited knowledge of the violin, Corelli's part was very awkward and difficult, and he failed to execute it, while the Neapolitan violinists played it with ease. To make matters worse, Corelli made an unfortunate mistake in the next piece, which was written in the key of C minor, and led off in C major. The mistake was repeated, and Scarlatti had to call out to him to set him right. His mortification was so great that he quietly left Naples and returned to Rome. He found here a new violinist, Valentini, who had won the admiration of the people, and he took it so much to heart that his health failed, and he died in January, 1713. Corelli was buried in princely style in the Pantheon, not far from Raphael's tomb, and Cardinal Ottoboni erected a monument over his grave. During many years after his death a solemn service, consisting of selections from his own works, was performed in the Pantheon on the anniversary of his funeral. On this occasion, the works were performed in a slow, firm, and distinct manner, just as they were written, without changing the passages in the way of embellishment, and this is probably the way in which he himself played them. Corelli's compositions are remarkable for delicate taste and pleasing melodies and harmonies. He must be considered as the author of the greatest improvement which violin music underwent at the beginning of the eighteenth century. These compositions are regarded as invaluable for the instruction of young players, and some of them may be frequently heard in the concert-room at the present day, two hundred years since they were written. Corelli's most celebrated pupils, Somis, Locatelli, Geminiani, and Anêt, settled respectively in Italy, Holland, England, and Poland. Giovanni Battista Somis was born in Piedmont, and, after studying under Corelli, he went to Venice and studied under Vivaldi. He was appointed solo violinist to the king at Turin and leader of the royal band, and seems scarcely ever to have left Turin after these appointments. Little is known of his playing or his compositions, but, by the work of his pupils, it is evident that he possessed originality. He formed a style more brilliant and more emotional, and caused a decided step forward in the art of violin playing. He was the teacher of Leclair, Giardini, and Chiabran, as well as Pugnani, and he forms a connecting link between the classical schools of Italy and France. Pietro Locatelli was born at Bergamo, and became a pupil of Corelli at a very early age. He travelled considerably, and was undoubtedly a great and original virtuoso. He has been accused of charlatanism, inasmuch as he overstepped all reasonable limits in his endeavours to enlarge the powers of execution of the violin, and has, on that account, been called the grandfather of our modern "finger-heroes." Locatelli settled in Amsterdam, where he died in 1764. There he established regular public concerts, and he left a number of compositions, some of which are used at the present day. Jean Baptiste Lulli, one of the earliest violinists in France, is perhaps associated with the violin in a manner disproportionate to the part he actually played in its progress. He was a musician of great ability, and his compositions are occasionally heard even to this day. Lulli was born near Florence about 1633. When quite young he was taken to France by the Chevalier de Guise, and entered the service of Mlle. de Montpensier. He was employed in the kitchen, where he seems to have lightened his burdens by playing tricks on the cook and tunes on the stewpans. He also beguiled his leisure hours by playing the violin, in which art he made such progress that the princess engaged a regular instructor for him. Fortunately, as it turned out, his wit led him into composing a satirical song on his employer, and he was sent off, but shortly afterwards secured a post as one of the king's violinists in the celebrated band of the twenty-four violins. Soon after this a special band called _Les Petits Violons_ was formed with Lulli at their head, and under his direction it surpassed the band of twenty-four. Lulli found great favour at court, and, indeed, astonished the world with his exquisite taste and skill. That he was firmly established in the favour of the king is shown by the story that, when Corelli came to France and played one of his sonatas, King Louis listened without showing any sign of pleasure, and, sending for one of his own violinists, requested him to play an aria from Lulli's opera of "Cadmus et Hermione," which, he declared, suited his taste. There is little doubt that the principles of the great Italian school of violin playing were, some years later, brought into France by Anêt, who was born in 1680, and returned from Italy about 1700, but owing to the jealousies of his colleagues, he found it advisable to leave France in a short time, and he is said to have spent the rest of his life as conductor of the private band of a nobleman in Poland. Lulli is said to have been very avaricious, and his wealth included four houses, all in the best quarters of Paris, together with securities and appointments worth about $70,000. His death, in 1687, was caused by a peculiar accident. While conducting a performance of his orchestra he struck his foot with the cane which he used for marking the time. The bruise gradually assumed such a serious condition that it ended his life. Jean Baptiste Senaillé, who was a pupil of Anêt, was born in 1687, and turned to the Italian school. In 1719 he entered the service of the Duke of Orleans. Francesco Geminiani was considered the ablest of the pupils of Corelli, and was born about 1680. When about twenty-four years of age he went to England, where his talent secured a great reputation for him, some people even declaring him to be superior, as a player, to Corelli. He lived to an advanced age, and was in Dublin visiting his pupil Dubourg at the time of his death. He was a man of unsettled habits, and was frequently in dire necessity, caused chiefly by his love of pictures, which led him into unwise purchases, and thus frequently into debt. About the year 1650 three violinists were born in Italy, who all left their mark upon the history of violin playing. Tommaso Vitali was born at Bologna, and was leader of the orchestra in that city, and later in Modena. Giuseppe Torelli was leader of a church orchestra in Bologna, and afterwards accepted the post of leader of the band of the Markgraf of Brandenburg-Anspach, at Anspach, in Germany. To him is generally ascribed the invention of the "Concerto." Antonio Vivaldi was the son of a violinist, and sought his fortune in Germany, but returned to his native city in 1713. He wrote extensively for the violin, and is said to have added something to the development of its technique. An anecdote is told of him to the effect that one day during mass a theme for a fugue struck him. He immediately quitted the altar at which he was officiating, for he united clerical with musical duties, and, hastening to the sacristy to write down the theme, afterwards returned and finished the mass. For this he was brought before the Inquisition, but being considered only as a "musician," a term synonymous with "madman," the sentence was mild,--he was forbidden to say mass in the future. The most illustrious pupil of Vivaldi was Francesco Maria Veracini, who was born about 1685. He is said to have been a teacher of Tartini, who, if he did not actually receive instruction from him, at least profited by his example. Veracini's travels were extensive, for he visited London in 1714 and remained there two years, during which time he was very successful. He then went to Dresden, where he was made composer and chamber virtuoso to the King of Poland. While in Dresden he threw himself out of a window and broke his leg, an injury from which he never entirely recovered. This act is said to have been caused by his mortification at a trick which was played upon him for his humiliation by Pisendel, an eminent violinist, but this story is discredited by some of the best authorities. He left Dresden and went to Prague, where he entered the service of Count Kinsky. In 1736 he again visited London, but met with little success, owing to the fact that Geminiani had ingratiated himself with the public. In 1847 Veracini returned to Pisa. Veracini has been sometimes ranked with Tartini as a performer. He was also a composer of ability. In making a comparison of him with Geminiani it has been said that Geminiani was the spirit of Corelli much diluted, while Veracini was the essence of the great master fortified with _l'eau de vie_. Veracini was conceited and vainglorious, and these traits of his character have given rise to a number of rather inconsequential stories. He was a most excellent conductor of orchestra, and Doctor Burney mentions having heard him lead a band in such a bold and masterly manner as he had never before witnessed. Soon after leaving London Veracini was shipwrecked, and lost his two Stainer violins, which he stated were the best in the world. These instruments he named St. Peter and St. Paul. The name of Giuseppe Tartini will ever live as that of one of the greatest performers on, and composers for, the violin. Born at Pirano, in 1692, his career may be said to have commenced with the eighteenth century. He was not only one of the greatest violinists of all time, and an eminent composer, but he was a scientific writer on musical physics, and was the first to discover the fact that, in playing double stops, their accuracy can be determined by the production of a third sound. He also wrote a little work on the execution and employment of the various kinds of shakes, mordents, cadenzas, etc., according to the usage of the classical Italian school. Tartini's father, who was an elected Nobile of Parenzo, being a pious Church benefactor, intended his son for the Church, and sent him to an ecclesiastical school at Capo d'Istria, where he received his first instruction in music. Finding himself very much averse to an ecclesiastical career, Tartini entered the University of Padua to study law, but this also proved distasteful to him. He was a youth of highly impulsive temperament, and became so much enamoured of the art of fencing that he, at one time, seriously contemplated adopting it as a profession. This very impulsive nature caused him to fall in love with a niece of the Archbishop of Padua, to whom he was secretly married before he was twenty years of age. The news of this marriage caused Tartini's parents to withdraw their support from him, and it so enraged the archbishop that the bridegroom was obliged to fly from Padua. After some wanderings he was received into a monastery at Assisi, of which a relative was an inmate. Here he resumed his musical studies, but though he learned composition of Padre Boemo, the organist of the monastery, he was his own teacher on the violin. The influence of the quiet monastic life caused a complete change in his character, and he acquired the modesty of manner and serenity of mind for which he was noted later in life. One day, during the service, a gust of wind blew aside the curtain behind which Tartini was playing, and a Paduan, who remembered the archbishop's wrath and recognised the object of it, carried the news of his discovery to the worthy prelate. Time had, however, mollified him, and instead of still further persecuting the refugee, he gave his consent to the union of the young couple, and Tartini and his wife went to Venice, where he intended to follow the profession of a violinist. Here he met and heard Francesco Maria Veracini, who was some seven years his senior, and whose style of playing made such a deep impression on him that he at once withdrew to Ancona, to correct the errors of his own technique, which, as he was self-taught, were not a few. After some years of study and retirement, he reappeared at Padua, where he was appointed solo violinist in the chapel of San Antonio, the choir and orchestra of which already enjoyed a high reputation. It is said that the performance of Veracini had an effect upon Tartini beyond that of causing him to quit Venice. It made him dream, and the dream as told by Tartini himself to M. de Lalande is as follows: "He dreamed one night (in 1713) that he had made a compact with the devil, who promised to be at his service on all occasions; and, during this vision, everything succeeded according to his mind; his wishes were anticipated, and his desires always surpassed, by the assistance of his new servant. In short, he imagined that he presented the devil with his violin, in order to discover what kind of a musician he was, when, to his great astonishment, he heard him play a solo so singularly beautiful, which he executed with such superior taste and precision, that it surpassed all the music he had ever heard or conceived in his life. So great was his surprise, and so exquisite his delight upon this occasion, that it deprived him of the power of breathing. He awoke with the violence of his sensations, and instantly seized his fiddle in hopes of expressing what he had just heard; but in vain. He, however, directly composed a piece, which is perhaps the best of all his works, and called it the 'Devil's Sonata;' he knew it, however, to be so inferior to what his sleep had produced, that he stated he would have broken his instrument, and abandoned music for ever, if he could have subsisted by other means." This composition is said to have secured for him the position in the chapel of San Antonio, where he remained until 1723, in which year he was invited to play at the coronation festivities of Charles VI. at Prague. On this occasion he met Count Kinsky, a rich and enthusiastic amateur, who kept an excellent private orchestra. Tartini was engaged as conductor and remained in that position three years, then returning to his old post at Padua, from which nothing induced him to part, except for brief intervals. At Padua Tartini carried on the chief work of his life and established the Paduan school of violin playing. His ability as a teacher is proved by the large number of excellent pupils he formed. Nardini, Bini, Manfredi, Ferrari, Graun, and Lahoussaye are among the most eminent, and were attached to him by bonds of most intimate friendship to his life's end. Tartini's contemporaries all agree in crediting him with those qualities which make a great player. He had a fine tone, unlimited command of finger-board and bow, enabling him to overcome the greatest difficulties with remarkable ease, perfect intonation in double stops, and a most brilliant shake and double-shake, which he executed equally well with all fingers. The spirit of rivalry had no place in his amiable and gentle disposition. Both as a player and composer Tartini was the true successor of Corelli, representing in both respects the next step in the development of the art. Tartini lived until the year 1770. He had, as Doctor Burney says, "no other children than his scholars, of whom his care was constantly paternal," Nardini, his first and favourite pupil, came from Leghorn to see him in his sickness and attend him in his last moments with true filial affection and tenderness. He was buried in the Church of St. Catharine, a solemn requiem being held in the chapel of San Antonio, and at a later period his memory was honoured by a statue which was erected in the Prato della Valle, a public walk at Padua, where it may be seen among the statues of the most eminent men connected with that famous university. Jean Marie Leclair, a pupil of Somis, was a Frenchman, born at Lyons, and he began life as a dancer at the Rouen Theatre. He went to Turin as ballet master and met Somis, who induced him to take up the violin and apply himself to serious study. On returning to Paris, he was appointed ripieno-violinist at the Opéra, and in 1731 became a member of the royal band, but he, although undoubtedly superior to any violinist in Paris at that time, never seems to have made much of a success, for he resigned his positions and occupied himself exclusively with teaching and composition, and it is on the merits of his works that he occupies a high place among the great classical masters of the violin. Leclair was murdered late one night close to the door of his own house, shortly after his return from Amsterdam, to which place he had gone solely for the purpose of hearing Locatelli. No motive for the crime was ever discovered, nor was the murderer found. Gaetano Pugnani was a native of Turin, and to him more than to any other master is due the preservation of the pure, grand style of Corelli, Tartini, and Vivaldi, for he combined the prominent qualities of style and technique of all three. He became first violin to the Sardinian court in 1752, but travelled extensively. He made long stays in Paris and London, where he was for a time leader of the opera band, and produced an opera of his own, also publishing a number of his compositions. In 1770 he was at Turin, where he remained to the end of his life as teacher, conductor, and composer. Felice Giardini, another pupil of Somis, was born at Turin and became one of the foremost violinists in Europe. In 1750 he went to England where he made his first appearance at a benefit concert for Cuzzoni, the celebrated opera singer, then in the sere and yellow leaf of her career. His performance was so brilliant that he became established as the best violinist who had yet appeared in England, and in 1754 he was placed at the head of the opera orchestra, succeeding Festing. Soon afterwards he joined with the singer Mingotti in the management of opera, but the attempt was not a financial success. Notwithstanding his excellence as a performer and composer and the fine appointment which he held, Giardini died in abject poverty at Moscow, to which place he had gone after finding himself superseded in England by newcomers. Among the pupils of Tartini the most eminent was Pietro Nardini, who was born at Fibiano, a village of Tuscany, in 1722. He became solo violinist at the court of Stuttgart and remained there fifteen years. In 1767 he went to Leghorn for a short time, and then returned to Padua, where he remained with his old master Tartini until the latter's death, when he was appointed director of music to the court of the Duke of Tuscany, in whose service he remained many years. Of his playing, Leopold Mozart, himself an eminent violinist, writes: "The beauty, purity and equality of his tone, and the tastefulness of his cantabile playing, cannot be surpassed; but he does not execute great difficulties." His compositions are marked by vivacity, grace, and sweet sentimentality, but he has neither the depth of feeling, the grand pathos, nor the concentrated energy of his master Tartini. Antonio Lolli, who was born at Bergamo about 1730, appears to have been somewhat of a charlatan. He was self-taught, and, though a performer of a good deal of brilliancy, was but a poor musician. He was restless, vain, and conceited, and addicted to gambling. He is said to have played the most difficult double-stops, octaves, tenths, double-shakes in thirds and sixths, harmonics, etc., with the greatest ease and certainty. At one time he appeared as a rival of Nardini, with whom he is said to have had a contest, and whom he is supposed to have defeated. According to some accounts, he managed to excite such universal admiration in advance of the contest that Nardini withdrew. Lolli was so eccentric that he was considered by many people to be insane, and Doctor Burney, in writing of him, says, "I am convinced that in his lucid intervals, he was in a serious style a very great, expressive, and admirable performer;" but Doctor Burney does not mention any lucid interval. Early in the eighteenth century Franz Benda was born in Bohemia at the village of Altbenatky, and Benda became the founder of a German school of violin playing. In his youth he was a chorister at Prague and afterward in the Chapel Royal at Dresden. At the same time he began to study the violin, and soon joined a company of strolling musicians who attended fêtes, fairs, etc. At eighteen years of age Benda abandoned this wandering life and returned to Prague, going thence to Vienna, where he pursued his study of the violin under Graun, a pupil of Tartini. After two years he was appointed chapel master at Warsaw, and eventually he became a member of the Prince Royal of Prussia's band, and then concert master to the king. Benda was a master of all the difficulties of violin playing, and the rapidity of his execution and the mellow sweetness of his highest notes were unequalled. He had many pupils and wrote a number of works, chiefly exercises and studies for the violin. A violinist whose career had a great influence on musical life in England was Johann Peter Salomon, a pupil of Benda, and it is necessary to speak of him because his name is so frequently mentioned in connection with other artists during the latter half of the eighteenth century. Salomon was born at Bonn in the same house in which Beethoven was born, and of Salomon, after his death, Beethoven wrote: "Salomon's death grieves me much, for he was a noble man, and I remember him ever since I was a child." Salomon became an expert violinist at an early age, and travelled a good deal in Europe before he settled in England, which was in 1781, when he made his appearance at Covent Garden Theatre. He was criticised thus: "He does not play in the most graceful style, it must be confessed, but his tone and execution are such as cannot fail to secure him a number of admirers in the musical world." He established a series of subscription concerts at the Hanover Square rooms, and produced symphonies of Mozart and Haydn. In fact, he was connected with almost every celebrity who appeared in England for many years. He was instrumental in bringing Haydn to England, and toward the end of his career he was actively interested in the foundation of the Philharmonic Society. He was noted more as a quartet player than as a soloist, and Haydn's last quartets were composed especially to suit his style of playing. He was a man of much cultivation and moved in distinguished society. His death was caused by a fall from his horse. He was the possessor of a Stradivarius violin which was said to have belonged to Corelli and to have had his name upon it. This he bequeathed to Sir Patrick Blake of Bury St. Edmunds. CHAPTER III. 1750 TO 1800. Giovanni Baptiste Viotti has been called the last great representative of the classical Italian school, and it is also stated that with Viotti began the modern school of the violin. In whatever light he may be regarded, he was undoubtedly one of the greatest violinists of all. He retained in his style of playing and composing the dignified simplicity and noble pathos of the great masters of the Italian school, treating his instrument above all as a singing voice, and keeping strictly within its natural resources. According to Baillot, one of his most distinguished pupils, his style was "perfection," a word which covers a host of virtues. Viotti was born in 1753 at Fontanetto, a village in Piedmont. His first musical instruction was received from his father, who is severally mentioned as a blacksmith and as a horn player. His musical talent being early noticeable, he was sent to Turin and placed by Prince Pozzo de la Cisterna under the tutelage of Pugnani, and was soon received into the royal band. In 1780 he travelled extensively, visiting Germany, Poland, and Russia, and meeting with great success. The Empress Catharine endeavoured to induce him to remain at St. Petersburg, but without success, and he proceeded to London, where he soon eclipsed all other violinists. In 1782 he went to Paris and made his début at the celebrated Concert Spirituels. He was at once acknowledged as the greatest living violinist, but soon after this he ceased altogether to play in public. This decision seems to have been caused by the fact that an inferior player once achieved a greater success than he. He was evidently of a sensitive nature, and there is an anecdote told of him which is amusing even if its authenticity is open to question. Viotti was commanded to play a concerto at the Court of Louis XVI., at Versailles, and had proceeded through about half of his performance, when the attention of the audience was diverted by the arrival of a distinguished guest. Noise and confusion reigned where silence should have been observed, and Viotti, in a fit of indignation, removed the music from the desk and left the platform. In 1783 Viotti returned to Italy for a short time, but the following year he was back in Paris teaching, composing, and benefiting the art of music in every way except by public performance. He became the artistic manager of the Italian Opera, and brought together a brilliant number of singers. In this business he came in contact with Cherubini, the composer, with whom he was on great terms of friendship. This enterprise was suddenly stopped by the revolution, and Viotti was obliged to leave France, having lost almost everything that he possessed. He went to London and renewed his former successes, playing again in public at Salomon's concerts, and in the drawing-rooms of the aristocracy. But here his ill-luck followed him, for London being full of French refugees, and the officials being suspicious of them all, he was warned to leave England, as it was feared that he was connected with some political conspiracy. This misfortune occurred in 1798, and Viotti retired to a small village called Schoenfeld, not far from Hamburg, where he lived in strict seclusion. During this time he was by no means idle, for he composed some of his finest works, notably the six duets for violins, which he prefaced by these words: "This book is the fruit of leisure afforded me by misfortune. Some of the pieces were dictated by trouble, others by hope." It was also during this period of retirement that he perfected his pupil Pixis, who, with his father, lived at Schoenfeld a whole summer for the express purpose of receiving Viotti's instruction. In 1801 Viotti found himself at liberty to visit England once more, but when he returned he astonished the world by going into the wine business, in which he succeeded in getting rid of the remainder of his fortune. As a man of business the strictest integrity and honour regulated his transactions, and his feelings were kind and benevolent, whilst as a musician, he is said never to have been surpassed in any of the highest qualities of violin playing. At the close of his career as a wine merchant, he returned to Paris to resume his regular profession, and was appointed director of the Grand Opéra, but he failed to rescue the opera from its state of decadence, and, finding the duties too arduous for one of his age and state of health, he retired on a small pension. In 1822 he returned once more to England, where he passed the remainder of his life in quietude. While travelling in Switzerland, and enjoying the beauties of the scenery, Viotti heard for the first time the plaintive notes of the Ranz des Vaches given forth by a mountain horn, and this melody so impressed him that he learned it and frequently played it on his violin. The subject was referred to by him with great enthusiasm in his letters to his friends. There are numerous anecdotes about Viotti in reference to his ready repartee and to his generous nature. One of the most interesting is that concerning a tin violin. He had been strolling one evening on the Champs Elysées, in Paris, with a friend (Langlé), when his attention was arrested by some harsh, discordant sounds, which, on investigation, proved to be the tones of a tin fiddle, played by a blind and aged street musician. Viotti offered the man twenty francs for the curious instrument, which had been made by the old man's nephew, who was a tinker. Viotti took the instrument and played upon it, producing some most remarkable effects. The performance drew a small crowd, and Langlé, with true instinct, took the old man's hat and, passing it round, collected a respectable sum, which was handed to the aged beggar. When Viotti got out his purse to give the twenty francs the old man thought better of his bargain, for, said he, "I did not know the violin was so good. I ought to have at least double the amount for it." Viotti, pleased with the implied compliment, did not hesitate to give the forty francs, and then walked off with his newly acquired curiosity. The nephew, however, who now arrived to take the old man home, on hearing the story ran after Viotti, and offered to supply him with as many as he would like for six francs apiece. Violin literature owes much to Viotti, for his compositions are numerous and contain beauties that have never been surpassed. His advice was sought by many young musicians, and among these was Rossini, who was destined to become great. De Bériot also sought out Viotti and played before him, but the old violinist told him that he had already acquired an original style which only required cultivating to lead to success, and that he could do nothing for him. Viotti was one of the first to use the Tourte bow, and he studied its effects closely, so that the sweep of his bow became his great characteristic, and was alike the admiration of his friends and the despair of his rivals. He died in 1824, after about two years of retirement. Among Viotti's most prominent pupils were Roberrechts, Pixis, Alday le jeune, Cartier, Rode, Mori, Durand, and Baillot, also Mlle. Gerbini and Madame Paravicini. Roberrechts became the teacher of De Bériot, who in turn taught Vieuxtemps, Teresa Milanollo, and Lauterbach. Baillot taught Habeneck, who taught Alard, Léonard, Prume, Cuvillon, and Mazas. From Alard we have Sarasate, and from Léonard, Marsick and Dengremont, while through Rode we have Böhm, and from him a large number of eminent violinists, including G. Hellmesberger, Ernst, Dont, Singer, L. Strauss, Joachim, Rappoldi. Some of them we shall refer to at length as great performers, others were celebrated more as teachers. Rodolphe Kreutzer, who was born at Versailles in 1766, is the third in order of development of the four great representative masters of the classical violin school of Paris; the others being Viotti, first, Rode, second, and Baillot, fourth. With Baillot he compiled the famous "Methode de Violon" for the use of the students at the Conservatoire. Kreutzer's first teacher was his father, who was a musician in the king's chapel, but he was soon placed under Anton Stamitz, and at the age of thirteen he played a concerto in public, with great success. This is said by some writers to have been his own composition, though by others it was attributed to his teacher. Kreutzer made a tour through the north of Italy, Germany, and Holland, during which he acquired the reputation of being one of the first violinists in Europe. On his return to Paris, he turned his attention to dramatic music, and composed two grand operas, which were performed before the court, and secured for him the patronage of Marie Antoinette. He also became first violin at the Opéra Comique, and professor at the Conservatoire, where he formed some excellent pupils, among them being D'Artot, Rovelli, the teacher of Molique, Massart, the teacher of Wieniawski and Teresina Tua, and Lafont, who also became a pupil of De Bériot. On Rode's departure for Russia, Kreutzer succeeded him as solo violin at the Opéra, later becoming Chef d'Orchestre, and after fourteen years' service in this capacity he was decorated with the insignia of the Legion of Honour, and became General Director of the Music at the Opéra. In 1826 he resigned his post and retired to Geneva, where he died in 1831. Kreutzer was a prolific composer, and his compositions include forty dramatic works and a great number of pieces for the violin. In 1798, when Kreutzer was at Vienna in the service of the French ambassador, Bernadotte, he made the acquaintance of Beethoven, and was afterwards honoured by that great composer with the dedication to him of the famous Sonata, Op. 47, which was first played by Beethoven and the violinist Bridgetower, at the Augarten, in May, 1803, either the 17th or the 24th. This is the sonata the name of which Count Leo Tolstoi took for his famous book, though to the vast majority of hearers it will always remain a mystery how the classical harmonies of the sonata could have aroused the passions which form the _raison d'être_ of the book. Kreutzer was noted for his style of bowing, his splendid tone, and the clearness of his execution. With three such masters as Baillot, Rode, and Kreutzer, besides Viotti, who was frequently in Paris, the French school of violin playing had now superseded the Italian. Pierre Marie François de Sales Baillot, who was associated with Rode and Kreutzer in the compilation of the celebrated "Methode du Violon," was born at Passy, near Paris, in 1771, and became one of the most excellent violinists that France ever produced. His eminence in his profession was not obtained without a long struggle against great difficulties, for at the age of twelve he lost his father, who had kept a school, and became dependent upon friends for his education. His musical talent was remarkable at an early age, and he received his first instruction from an Italian named Polidori. At the age of nine he was placed under a French teacher named Sainte-Marie, whose training gave him the severe state and methodical qualities by which his playing was always distinguished. His love for his instrument was greatly augmented when, at the age of ten, he heard Viotti play one of his concertos, and from that day the great violinist became his model. When his father died a year or two later, a government official, M. de Boucheporn, sent him, with his own children, to Rome, where he was placed with Pollani, a pupil of Nardini, under whom he made rapid progress, and soon began to play in public. He was, however, unable to follow directly in the path of his profession, and for five years he travelled with his benefactor, acting as private secretary, and securing but little time for his violin playing. In 1791 he returned to Paris, and Viotti secured a place for him in the opera orchestra, but on being offered a position in the Ministère des Finances, he gave up his operatic work, and for some years devoted only his leisure to the study of the violin. He now had to serve with the army for twenty months, at the end of which time he once more determined to take up music as a profession, and soon appeared in public with a concerto of Viotti. This performance established his reputation, and he was offered a professorship of violin playing at the Conservatoire, then recently opened. His next appointment was to the private band of Napoleon, after which he travelled for three years in Russia with the violoncello player Lemare, earning great fame. Returning to Paris, he established concerts for chamber music, which proved successful, and built up for him a reputation as an unrivalled quartet player. He travelled again, visiting Holland, Belgium, and England, and then he became leader of the opera band in Paris and of the royal band. He made a final tour in Switzerland in 1833, and died in 1842. Baillot is considered to have been the last distinguished representative of the great classical school of violin playing in Paris. In his "L'Art du Violon" he points out the chief distinction between the old and the modern style of violin playing to be the absence of the dramatic element in the former, and its predominance in the latter, thus enabling the executive art to follow the progress marked out by the composer, and to bring out the powerful contrasts and enlarged ideas of the modern musical compositions. After the time of Baillot and his contemporaries the style of Paganini became predominant in Paris, but the influence of the Paris school extended to Germany, where Spohr must be considered the direct descendant artistically of Viotti and Rode. Perhaps the most illustrious pupil of Viotti was Pierre Rode, who was born at Bordeaux in 1774, and exhibited such exceptional talent that at the age of sixteen he was one of the violins at the Théâtre Feydeau in Paris. He had made his début in Paris at the Théâtre de Monsieur, when he played Viotti's thirteenth concerto with complete success. In 1794 he began to travel, and made a tour through Holland and North Germany, visiting England, driven there by stress of weather, on his way home. He appeared once in London, and then left for Holland and Germany again. On his return to France he was appointed professor of the violin at the Conservatoire, then newly established. In 1799 ne made a trip to Spain, where he met Boccherini. The following year he returned to Paris, where he was made solo violinist to the First Consul, and it was at this period that he gained his greatest success, when he played with Kreutzer a duo concertante of the latter's composition. After this he went to Russia, where he was enthusiastically received, and was appointed one of the emperor's musicians. The life in Russia, however, overtaxing his strength, from that time his powers began to fail, and he met with many disappointments. In 1814 he married, and, although he made an unsuccessful attempt to renew his public career, he may be said to have retired. He died at Bordeaux in 1830. Of Rode's playing in his best days we are told that he displayed all the best qualities of a grand, noble, pure, and thoroughly musical style. His intonation was perfect, his tone large and pure, and boldness, vigour, deep and tender feeling characterised his performances. In fact he was no mere virtuoso but a true artist. His musical nature shows itself in his compositions, which are thoroughly suited to the nature of the violin, and have a noble, dignified character and considerable charm of melody, though they show only moderate creative power. He had few pupils, but his influence through his example during his travels, and through his compositions, was very great indeed. Beethoven wrote for Rode, after hearing him play in Vienna, the famous violin Romance in F, Op. 50, one of the highest possible testimonials to Rode's ability as a violinist. It is known, however, that he was obliged to seek assistance in scoring his own compositions, and therefore lacked an important part of a musical education. The most celebrated pupil of Baillot was François Antoine Habeneck, the son of a musician in a French regimental band. During his early youth Habeneck was taught by his father, and at the age of ten played concertos in public. He visited many places with his father's regiment, which was finally stationed at Brest. At the age of twenty he went to Paris and entered the Conservatoire, where in 1804 he was awarded first prize for violin playing, and became a sub-professor. The Empress Josephine, on hearing him play, was so pleased that she granted him a pension of twelve hundred francs. He became one of the first violins at the Opéra, but his special forte was as leader of orchestras, and he held that post at the Conservatoire, on account of his efficiency, until 1815, when the advent of the allied armies caused it to be closed. Habeneck was instrumental in bringing forward the great orchestral works of Beethoven. He became director of the Grand Opéra, and inspector-general of the Conservatoire. Habeneck is said to have been greatly addicted to taking snuff, and this habit led to an amusing episode with Berlioz, which the latter regarded in a very unfriendly light. At a public performance of the Requiem of Berlioz, the composer had arranged with Habeneck to conduct the music, Berlioz taking his seat close behind the conductor. The work was commenced, and had been proceeded with some little time, when Habeneck (presumably taking advantage of what seemed to him a favourable moment) placed his baton on the desk, took out his snuff-box, and proceeded to take a pinch. Berlioz, aware of the breakers ahead, rushed to the helm and saved the wreck of his composition by beating time with his arm. Habeneck, when the danger was passed, said, "What a cold perspiration I was in! Without you we should assuredly have been lost." "Yes," said the composer, "I know it well," accompanying his words with an expression of countenance betokening suspicion of Habeneck's honesty of purpose. The violinist little dreamed that this gratification of his weakness for snuff-taking would be regarded in the pages of Berlioz's Memoirs as having been indulged in from base motives. Habeneck died in 1849. He published only a few of his compositions. One of the most eminent violinists of the French school, who flourished during the early part of the nineteenth century, was Charles Philippe Lafont. Besides brilliant technical capabilities he had a sympathetic tone and a most elegant style, and these qualities gave him a very high position in the ranks of performers. Lafont was born at Paris, December 7, 1781, and received his first lessons from his mother, who afterward placed him under her brother, Berthaume. Under his care he made a successful concert tour through Germany and other countries as early as 1792, after which he returned to Paris and settled down to study under Rudolf Kreutzer. For a time his studies were interrupted by an attempt to become a singer, and he appeared at the Théâtre Feydeau, which had then been opened by Viotti. This diversion being soon at an end, he returned to the violin, but on the outbreak of the revolution in France he left the country and travelled throughout Europe, being absent from Paris, with the exception of a short visit in 1805, until 1815. During his travels he was made chamber virtuoso to the Czar Alexander, and on his return to France he became first violinist of the royal chamber musicians of Louis XVIII., and musical accompanist to the Duchesse de Berry. Lafont's career came to a sudden end by the overturning of a carriage while on a concert tour in the south of France in 1839. He was one of the numerous violinists who challenged Paganini to an artistic duel, in which he got the worst of it, though his admirers accounted for his defeat by the fact that the contest took place at La Scala, in Milan, where the sympathy of the audience was in favour of the Italian virtuoso. Lafont was a prolific composer, but few of his works have survived. He was also the owner of a magnificent Guarnerius violin, which is now said to be the property of Adolf Brodsky. As a composer Spohr probably influenced the modern style of violin playing even more than as a player, for he lifted the concerto to the dignity of a work of art, whereas it had formerly been simply a show piece, though not always without merit. He set a great example of purity of style and legitimate treatment of the instrument, and is considered to have had a more beneficial effect on violin playing than Paganini, who was born in the same year, 1784. Louis Spohr was the son of a physician, who, two years after Louis was born at Brunswick, took up his residence at Seesen, where the childhood of the future virtuoso was passed. Both father and mother were musical, the former playing the flute, while the latter was a pianist and singer. It is said that young Spohr showed his talents remarkably early, and was able to sing duets with his mother when only four years of age. At five he began to learn the violin and at six he could take part in Kalkbrenner's trios. He also began to compose music, and under his father's methodical guidance acquired the habit of finishing everything that he began to write, without erasure or alteration. His instruction in the art of composition was confined to the mere rudiments, and he acquired the art chiefly by studying the scores of the great composers. Spohr's first public appearance was at a school concert, and such was his success that he was asked to repeat the performance at a concert given by the duke's band. More study ensued, and then, at the age of fourteen, he undertook to make his first artistic tour, and set out for Hamburg, carrying with him some letters of introduction. It seems that the people of Hamburg did not show much enthusiasm over the young artist, for he was unable to arrange a hearing, and, having exhausted his funds, he returned to Brunswick in the time-honoured manner of unsuccessful artists,--on foot. Spohr's experience seems to have produced upon him the same effect that many aspiring young players have since felt, viz., that he had better go on with his studies. He accordingly presented a petition to the Duke of Brunswick asking for means to carry out his desires. The duke was pleased with him, and not only gave him a place in his band, but also agreed to pay his expenses while he studied with one of the most eminent teachers of the day. Neither Viotti nor Ferdinand Eck could receive him as a pupil, but by the advice of the latter, young Spohr was placed under his brother, Franz Eck, who was then travelling in Germany. With Franz Eck an agreement was made by the duke, under which Spohr should travel with him, and study _en route_. During the continuance of this agreement Spohr practised sometimes ten hours a day, and being so constantly with his teacher he made great progress. On his return to Brunswick he was appointed first violinist in the duke's band, and the following year he once more undertook a concert tour on his own account, travelling through Saxony and Prussia, and meeting with great enthusiasm. While in Russia he met Clementi and Field, and he was presented with a most valuable Guarnerius violin by an enthusiast. This instrument he lost while on the way to France, where he intended to make a concert tour. Just before entering Göttingen the portmanteau which contained the violin was taken from the coach, and owing to the delays of officialism it was never recovered. The thieves had been seen with the booty in their possession, but in order to arrest them it was necessary to travel some nine miles for the necessary warrant and officer. In the meantime they had disappeared, as thieves occasionally do. In 1805 Spohr was appointed concert-master in the band of the Duke of Gotha, and while holding this position he met, wooed, and wedded the Fraülein Dorothea Scheidler, an excellent harp player, who for many years afterwards appeared with him in all his concerts, and for whom he wrote many solo pieces as well as some sonatas for violin and harp. In view of this important step the following description of Spohr's personal appearance may be interesting: "The front of Jove himself is expressed in the expansive forehead, massive, high, and broad; the speaking eyes that glance steadfastly and clearly under the finely pencilled arches of the eyebrows, which add a new grace to their lustrous fire; the long, straight nose with sharply curved nostrils, imperial with the pride of sensibility and spiritual power; the firm, handsome mouth, and the powerful chin, with its strong outlines melted into the utter grace of oval curves. In its calmness and repose, in its subdued strength and pervading serenity, it is the picture of the man's life in little." Spohr seems to have been somewhat attractive. Another authority tells us, in less flowery language, that he was of herculean frame and very strong constitution. In 1807 he made a tour, with his wife, through Germany, and while at Munich the king showed his gallantry to Madame Spohr in a most gracious manner. The usher had neglected to place a chair on the platform for her, and the king handed up his own gilded throne chair, in spite of her protestations. The anecdote would be more satisfactory if it stated what the king sat upon during the concert, but that is left to the imagination. The king had some bad habits, and, we are told, was very fond of playing cards during the concerts. Spohr was not accustomed to having his audiences indulge in cards, and so informed the chamberlain, absolutely declining to play unless the cards were put aside for the time being. It was a delicate task that fell to the lot of the chamberlain, but he carried it through with the greatest diplomacy, each side making a slight concession: the king on his part promising to abstain from card playing during Spohr's performance on condition that the violinist's two pieces should immediately follow each other on the program, and Spohr withdrawing his embargo from the whole concert on condition that the king would abstain from his favourite amusement during his particular performance. The king, however, seems to have put in the last blow, for on the conclusion of the violin solos he gave no signal for applause, and as it would be a breach of court manners for any one to applaud without his Majesty's consent, the artist was obliged to make his bow and retire amidst deathly silence. In 1808 Spohr wrote his first opera, but although it was accepted for representation, it was never performed in public. During this year Napoleon held his celebrated congress of princes at Erfurt. Spohr was consumed by a burning desire to behold Napoleon and the surrounding princes, and went to Erfurt. Here he found that a French theatrical troupe was performing every evening before the august assembly, but only the privileged few could by any possibility gain admittance to the theatre. Spohr's ingenuity was equal to the emergency, and making friends with the second horn player, he induced that artist to allow him to substitute for him one night. Spohr had never in his life attempted to play the horn, but it was now necessary for him to acquire the art before night, and he set to work with such vim that by the time of the performance his lips were swollen and black, but he was able to produce the requisite tones. The orchestra having received strict injunctions to sit with their backs to the brilliant assembly, probably to protect their eyesight from its dazzling effects, Spohr fitted himself out with a small mirror, and placing this upon his music-rack, he was able to enjoy for a couple of hours the vision of the great Napoleon, who, with his most distinguished guests, occupied the front row of the stalls. Spohr remained at Gotha until 1813, when he was offered and accepted the post of the leadership at the Theatre an der Wien at Vienna, and while here he composed his opera of "Faust," which, however, was not produced at that time. He also wrote a cantata in celebration of the battle of Leipzig, which he did not succeed in producing, and not feeling satisfied with his position, and having various disagreements with the management, the engagement was cancelled by mutual consent. During his stay in Vienna Spohr was frequently in contact with Beethoven, and though he admired that great master he criticised some of his compositions very severely, and is said to have remarked that "Beethoven was wanting in aesthetic culture and sense of beauty," a remark difficult to understand in these later days. It is the more incomprehensible from the fact that Spohr in after years was the very first musician of eminence to interest himself in Wagner's talent, for he brought out at Cassel "Der Fliegende Holländer," and continued with "Tannhäuser," notwithstanding the opposition of the court. He considered Wagner to be by far the greatest of all dramatic composers living at that time. In 1815 he made a concert tour in France and Italy, during which he met Rossini and Paganini, playing at Venice a sinfonia concertante of his own composition, with the latter. On his return to Germany in 1817 Spohr was appointed conductor of the Opera at Frankfort-on-the-Main, where his opera "Faust" was now produced, also "Zemire and Azor." Owing to difficulties with managers again he left Frankfort after a stay of only two years, and his next venture was a visit to England, where he appeared at the concerts of the Philharmonic Society in London. His success was brilliant, for his clear style and high artistic capacity, added to his reputation as a composer, carried him into popularity, and the artistic world vied with the public in doing honour to him. At his farewell concert, his wife made her last appearance as a harp player, for on account of ill-health she was obliged to give it up, and thereafter she played only the pianoforte. On his way home from England Spohr visited Paris for the first time, and made the personal acquaintance of Kreutzer, Viotti, Habeneck, Cherubini, and other eminent musicians, who received him with the greatest cordiality. But the public did not seem to appreciate his merits, for his quiet, unpretentious style was not quite in keeping with the taste of the French. On his return to Germany Spohr settled in Dresden, and remained there until 1822, when he became Hofkapellmeister to the Elector of Hesse-Cassel, and he remained in Cassel for the rest of his life. This position he obtained on the advice of Weber. In 1831 he completed his great "Violin School," which has ever since its publication been considered a standard work. The following year the political disturbances interfered with the opera performances at Cassel, and caused him much annoyance. In 1834 he lost his wife, but his work of composition proceeded with vigour. In 1839 he again visited England, where his music had become very popular, and during the remainder of his career he repeated his visit several times, many of his works being produced by the various societies. His life at Cassel was not free from cares and friction, and he was subjected to many indignities and annoyances by the elector. Perhaps his sympathy with the revolutionists of 1848 was the chief cause of these petty persecutions. When Spohr married his second wife, Marianne Pfeiffer, the elector objected, and only gave his reluctant consent when Spohr agreed to waive the right of his wife to a pension. All his proposals were met with opposition. "Tannhäuser" was produced and well received, but a repetition of the performance was not allowed, and "Lohengrin" was ordered to be withdrawn from rehearsal, for Wagner was one of the revolutionists and was obliged to live in seclusion. America is indebted to this revolution of 1848 for some excellent musicians, for the Germania Orchestra, an organisation of young revolutionists, sought these shores, and after a prosperous career, begun under great trials and discouragements, the various members settled in different cities and became identified with the musical life of the nation. In 1851 the elector refused to sign the permit for Spohr's two months' leave of absence, to which he was entitled under his contract, and when the musician departed without the permit, a portion of his salary was deducted. In 1857 he was pensioned off, much against his own wish, and in the winter of the same year he had the misfortune to break his arm, an accident which put an end to his violin playing. Nevertheless he conducted his opera "Jessonda" at the fiftieth anniversary of the Prague Conservatorium in the following year, with all his old-time energy. In 1859 he died at Cassel. Through all his long career Spohr had lived up to the ideal he had conceived in his youth. He was a man of strong individuality, and invariably maintained the dignity of his art with unflinching independence. Even the mistakes that he made, as for instance his criticism of Beethoven, bore the strongest testimony to his manly straightforwardness and sincerity in word and deed. He was a most prolific composer, leaving over two hundred works in all. His violin concertos stand foremost among his works, and are distinguished as much by noble and elevated ideas as by masterly thematic treatment, yet there is a certain monotony of treatment in all, and his style and manner are entirely his own. As an executant Spohr stands among the greatest of all time. In slow movements he played with a breadth and beauty of tone, and a delicacy and refinement of expression almost unequalled. His hands were of exceptional size and strength, and enabled him to execute the most difficult double stops and stretches with the greatest facility. Even in quick passages he preserved a broad, full tone, and his staccato was brilliant and effective. He disliked the use of the "springing bow," which came with the modern style of playing. Spohr had a great many pupils, of whom the best known were Ries, Ferd. David, Blagrove, Bargheer, Kömpel, and Henry Holmes. He was also considered one of the best conductors of his time, and introduced into England the custom of conducting with a baton. Amongst the amusing episodes in the life of Spohr was one which took place in London, when a servant brought him a letter desiring M. Spohr to "be present at four o'clock to-morrow evening at the closet of the undersigned," Spohr had not the faintest idea as to the identity of "the undersigned," nor the least inkling of that gentleman's design. He therefore replied that he had an engagement at that time. To this note he received another polite epistle asking him to be good enough to honour the "undersigned" with an interview, and to choose his own time. He therefore made an appointment, which he kept punctually, and on arriving at the house to which he was directed, he found an old gentleman, who was very genial, but who could speak neither French nor German. As Spohr spoke no English the communication between them was of necessity carried on by pantomime. The old gentleman led the way into a room, the walls of which were literally covered with violins, from which Spohr gathered the idea that he was to pick out that which he considered the best. After trying them all he had to decide between the merits of half a dozen, and, when he finally gave his opinion, the gentleman seemed delighted, and offered him a five pound note to compensate him for his trouble. This the violinist declined to accept, for he had found as much enjoyment as his host, and considered it a privilege to be able to examine such a fine collection of beautiful instruments. The gentleman found a way of satisfying his ideas of compensation by buying tickets to the value of ten pounds, for one of Spohr's concerts. Among the most talented violinists of the early part of the nineteenth century was Karl Joseph Lipinski, the son of a Polish violin player whose gifts were uncultivated. He was born in Poland, in 1790, at a small town named Radzyn. After learning, with the aid of his father, to play the violin, he took up the 'cello, and taught himself to play that instrument, and in later days he attributed his full tone on the violin to the power which his 'cello practice gave to his bow arm. Lipinski seems to have been an energetic and original man. He was in the habit of appearing at concerts both as violinist and 'cellist. He was unable to play the piano, so when he was conductor of the opera at Lemberg he directed with the violin, and frequently had to play two parts, which gave him great command over his double stops. When the fame of Paganini reached him he set forth to Italy, that he might profit by hearing the great virtuoso, and when the opportunity came at Piacenza, he distinguished himself by being the only person in the audience to applaud the first adagio. After the concert he was introduced to Paganini, and he did not fail to improve the acquaintance, frequently visiting Paganini and playing with him, sometimes even in his concerts. Lipinski declined the honour of going on a concert tour with Paganini, as he wished to return to his home. On stopping at Trieste he heard of an old man, over ninety years of age, who had once been a pupil of Tartini, and sought him out in order to "get some points" on Tartini's style. The old man, Doctor Mazzurana, declared himself too old to play the violin, but suggested that if Lipinski would play a Tartini sonata he would tell him if his style reminded him of the great master. It did not, but Doctor Mazzurana brought out of a cupboard a volume of Tartini's sonatas having letter-press under the music, and this Lipinski was ordered to read in a loud tone and with all possible expression. Then he had to play the sonata, and after numerous attempts and corrections, the old man began to applaud his efforts. Lipinski ever afterwards profited by these lessons. Later on he met Paganini again at Warsaw, where they were rivals, for the time being, and different factions waxed warm over their respective merits. Paganini himself, who is said to have been asked whom he considered to be the greatest violinist, replied, with conscious modesty, "The _second_ greatest is certainly Lipinski." Lipinski travelled throughout Europe, meeting with great success, until in 1839 he was appointed concert-meister at the Royal Opera in Dresden, where he remained for many years. He also organised a string quartet, and was considered a most excellent performer of chamber-music. He wrote a large quantity of music for the violin, but little of it was of a lasting quality. In 1861 he was pensioned, and retired to Urlow, near Lemberg, where he had some property, and there he died in December of the same year. CHAPTER IV. PAGANINI. The name Paganini stands for the quintessence of eccentric genius,--one of the most remarkable types of mankind on record. Paganini was able to excite wonder and admiration by his marvellous technical skill, or to sway the emotions of his hearers by his musical genius, while his peculiar habits, eccentric doings, and weird aspect caused the superstitious to attribute his talent to the power of his Satanic Majesty. Yet Paganini was not only mortal, but in many respects a weak mortal, although the most extraordinary and the most renowned violinist of the nineteenth century. [Illustration: NICCOLO PAGANINI] Nicolo Paganini was the son of a commercial broker, Antonio Paganini, and was born at Genoa, February 18, 1784. He was a child of nervous and delicate constitution, and the harsh treatment accorded to him by his father tended to accentuate and develop the peculiarities of his character. He was a good violinist at the age of six, and before he was eight years of age he had outgrown, not only his father's instruction, but also that of one Servetto, a musician at the theatre, and that of Costa, the director of music and principal violinist to the churches of Genoa. He had also written a sonata for violin, which was afterwards lost. At the age of nine he appeared in his first concert, given by Marchesi and Albertinatti in a large theatre at Genoa. At the age of twelve he was taken to Rolla, the celebrated violinist and composer at Parma, upon whom he made a great impression. When Paganini arrived with his father at Rolla's house they found him ill in bed, and not at all disposed to receive them. Whilst awaiting him, young Paganini found on the table a copy of Rolla's last concerto, and a violin. Taking up the violin, he played the piece off at first sight. This brought Rolla out of bed, for he would not believe, without seeing, that such a feat could be accomplished by so young a boy. Rolla said that he could teach him nothing, and advised him to go to Paer, but Paer was then in Germany, and the boy went to Ghiretti. Although Paganini denied ever having taken lessons with Rolla, he nevertheless had frequent discussions with him concerning the new effects which he was continually attempting, and which did not always meet with the unqualified approval of the older musician. The music which he wrote for his instrument contained so many difficulties that he had to practise unremittingly to overcome them, often working ten or twelve hours a day and being overwhelmed with exhaustion. In 1797 Paganini made his first tour, with his father, through the chief towns of Lombardy, and now he determined to release himself, on the first opportunity, from the bondage in which he was held by his father. This opportunity presented itself when the fête of St. Martin was celebrated at Lucca, and after much opposition he at last obtained the consent of his father to attend the celebration. Meeting with much success, he went on to Pisa, and then to other places, in all of which he was well received. Being now free from the restraint of his home he fell into bad company, and took to gambling and other vices, the most natural result of his father's harsh training showing itself in lack of moral stamina. For a time his careless life had its allurements, but the young virtuoso was frequently reduced to great straits, and on one occasion, if not more, pawned his violin. This happened at Leghorn, where he was to play at a concert, and it was only through the kindness of a French merchant, M. Livron, who lent him a beautiful Guarnieri, that he was able to appear. When the concert was over, and Paganini brought back the instrument, its owner was so delighted with what he had heard that he refused to receive it. "Never will I profane strings which your fingers have touched," he said, "the instrument is now yours." And Paganini used that violin afterwards in all his concerts. This violin was, some time later, the means by which he was cured of gambling, for having been reduced to extreme poverty, he was tempted to sell it. The price offered was a large one. At this juncture he won one hundred and sixty francs, which saved the violin, but the mental agony he endured through the affair convinced him that a gamester is an object of contempt to all well regulated minds. Paganini won another violin by his ability to read music at sight. Pasini, an eminent painter and an amateur violinist, refused to believe the wonderful faculty for playing at sight, which had been imputed to Paganini, and in order to test it brought him a manuscript concerto containing some difficulties considered as insurmountable. "This instrument shall be yours," said Pasini, placing in his hands an excellent Stradivari, "if you can play, in a masterly manner, this concerto, at first sight." Paganini accepted the challenge, threw Pasini into ecstasies, and became the owner of the instrument. The severe course of dissipation in which Paganini indulged during these days of his youth ruined his health, and caused him frequently to disappear from the public gaze for long periods, throughout his career. With the fair sex he had more than one romantic episode. At one time a lady of high rank fell in love with him and led him captive to her castle in Tuscany. Here the lovers solaced themselves with duets on the guitar, and the violinist attained a proficiency, on that instrument, equal to the expression of the tenderest passion. This adventure brought retribution in after days, and in a most unexpected manner, for as his genius began to excite the wonder of the world, sundry malicious stories concerning him were invented and circulated. One of these stories was to the effect that he had been imprisoned for stabbing one of his friends, another rumour said that he strangled his wife, and that during his imprisonment he had been allowed only the solace of playing his violin with but one string. This story was told in order to account for his wonderful one-stringed performances, and it was absolutely untrue, but the time allotted by rumour to his supposed imprisonment coincided with the period which was really occupied with this romance. At the end of three years he resumed his travels and his violin playing, returning to Genoa in 1804, where he set to work on some compositions. At this time he became interested in a little girl, Catarina Calcagno, to whom he gave lessons on the violin. She was then about seven years of age, and a few years later she became well known as a concert violinist. Paganini did not remain long in Genoa, for the following year found him wandering again, and another love affair in Lucca led to the composition of a piece to be played on two strings, the first and the fourth: the first to express the sentiments of a young girl, and the fourth the passionate language of her lover. The performance of this extremely expressive composition was rewarded by the most languishing glances from his lady-love in the audience, but the most important result was that the Princess Elise Bacchiochi, sister of Napoleon, declared to him that he had performed impossibilities. "Would not a single string suffice for your talent?" she asked. Paganini was delighted, and shortly afterward composed his military sonata entitled "Napoleon," which is performed on the G string only. At Ferrara he once nearly lost his life through unwittingly trampling upon the susceptibilities of the people, in the following manner. It appears that the peasantry in the suburbs of Ferrara bore ill-will toward the citizens of that town and called them "asses." This little pleasantry was manifested by the suburbanites in "hee-hawing" at the citizens when fitting opportunity presented itself. Now it happened that Paganini played at a concert, and some of the audience expressed dissatisfaction with the singer, Madame Pallerini, and hissed her. Paganini decided to have revenge, and when about to commence his last solo, he amused the public by giving an imitation of the notes and cries of various animals. The chirping of various birds, the crowing of the chanticleer, the mewing of cats, the barking of dogs were all imitated and the audience was delighted. Now was the time to punish the reprobates who hissed. Paganini advanced to the footlights exclaiming, "This for the men who hissed," and gave a vivid imitation of the braying of an ass. Instead of exciting laughter and thus causing the confusion of the enemy as he expected, the whole audience rose as one man, scaled the orchestra and footlights, and swore they would have his blood. Paganini sought safety in flight. He was eventually enlightened as to the mistake he had made. Once, when he was at Naples, Paganini was taken ill, and in his desire to secure lodgings where the conditions would be favourable for his recovery, he made a mistake and soon became worse. It was said that he was consumptive, and consumption being considered a contagious disease, his landlord put him out in the street, with all his possessions. Here he was found by Ciandelli, the violoncellist, who, after giving the landlord a practical and emphatic expression of his opinion by means of a stick, conveyed his friend Paganini to a comfortable lodging, where he was carefully attended until restored to health. In 1817 Paganini was urged by Count Metternich and by Count de Kannitz, the Austrian ambassador to Italy, to visit Vienna, but several times he was prevented from carrying out his plans by illness, and it was not until 1828 that he reached Vienna and gave his first concert. His success was prodigious. "He stood before us like a miraculous apparition in the domain of art," wrote one of the critics. The public seemed to be intoxicated. Hats, dresses, shoes, everything bore his name. His portrait was to be found everywhere, he was decorated and presented with medals and honours. He continued his tour through Germany, being received everywhere with the utmost enthusiasm, and he visited England, after a sojourn in Paris, in 1831. When he reached home after an absence of six years, he was the possessor of a considerable fortune, part of which he lost by injudicious investments. Some friends induced him to join them in the establishment of a casino in a fashionable locality in Paris. It was called the Casino Paganini, and was intended to be a gambling-house. The authorities, however, refused to grant a license, and it was found impossible to support it by concerts only. After some vicissitudes a law-suit was established against Paganini, who was condemned to pay fifty thousand francs, and to be imprisoned until the amount was paid, but this decision was not reached until Paganini was in a dying condition, and he went, by the advice of his physicians, to Marseilles, where he remained but a short time. Finding that his health did not improve, he decided to pass the winter at Nice, but the progress of his ailment was not checked, and on May 27, 1840, he expired. By his will, made three years previously, he left an immense fortune and the title of baron, which had been conferred on him in Germany, to his son Achille,--the fruit of a liaison with the singer Antonia Bianchi of Como,--whose birth had been legitimised by deeds of law. His fortune amounted to about four hundred thousand dollars, besides which he had a valuable collection of musical instruments. His large Guarnieri violin he bequeathed to the town of Genoa, that no artist might possess it after him. During his last illness Paganini, not realising that death was so near, devoted himself to music and to arranging for another concert tour. During his lifetime he had never paid much attention to religion and there were some doubts as to his belief. Although he expressed his adherence to the Roman Church, yet he dallied with its formalities, and when the priest visited him three days before his death to administer the final consolations of religion, the dying man put him off on the ground that he was not yet ready, and would send for him when the time came. Death prevented this, and burial in consecrated ground was therefore denied him. An appeal was made to the spiritual tribunal and in the meantime the body was embalmed and kept in a hall in the palace of the Conte di Cessole, whose guest he was during his last illness. People now began to come from all parts of Italy to pay honour to the dead artist, and this so angered the bishop and priests that an order was obtained for the removal of the body. Under military escort the remains of the great violinist were taken to Villafranca and placed in a small room, which was then sealed up. And now Paganini became a terror to the ignorant peasants and fishermen, who crossed themselves as they hurried past the spot where the excommunicated remains lay. It was said that in the dead of night the spectre of Paganini appeared and played the violin outside his resting-place. In the meantime every effort was being made to secure Christian burial. The spiritual tribunal decided that Paganini had died a good Catholic. The bishop refused to accept the decision, and an appeal to the archbishop was unavailing. Eventually the case was brought before the Pope himself by the friends of the dead man, and the Pope overruled the decision of the archbishop and ordained that Christian burial should be accorded to the artist. On the 21st of August, 1843, the Conte di Cessole took away the coffin from Villafranca, and interred it in the churchyard near Paganini's old residence at Villa Gavonà, near Parma. Thus even after death he was the victim of superstition, as he had been during his lifetime. Paganini resolved not to publish his compositions until after he had ceased to travel, for he was aware that his performances would lose much of their interest if his works were available to everybody. He seldom carried with him the solo parts, but only the orchestral scores of the pieces that he played. His studies were pronounced impossible by some of the best violinists of the day, so great were the difficulties which they contained, and in his mastery of these difficulties, which he himself created, may be found the true secret of his success. People accounted for it in many ways, one man declaring that he saw the devil standing at his elbow, and others stating that he was a child of the devil, and that he was bewitched. His compositions are remarkable for novelty in ideas, elegance of form, richness of harmony, and variety in the effects of instrumentation. Few compositions ever attained such fame as the "Streghe," of which the theme was taken from the music of Süssmayer to the ballet of "Il Noce di Benevento." While it may be readily admitted that many of the effects with which Paganini dazzled the multitude were tainted with charlatanism, yet the fact remains that no one ever equalled him in surmounting difficulties, and it is doubtful if, among all the excellent violinists of the present day, any of them compares with that remarkable man. Some of his studies have been adapted to the pianoforte by Schumann and by Liszt, and of the collection arranged by Liszt, consisting of five numbers from the Caprices, Schumann says: "It must be highly interesting to find the compositions of the greatest violin virtuoso of this century in regard to bold bravura--Paganini--illustrated by the boldest of modern pianoforte virtuosi--Liszt." This collection is probably the most difficult ever written for the pianoforte, as its original is the most difficult work that exists for the violin. Paganini knew this well, and expressed it in his short dedication, "Agli Artisti," that is to say, "I am only accessible to artists." It is doubtful whether any violinist ever lived concerning whom more fantastic stories were told. His gruesome aspect, his frequent disappearances from public life, his peculiar habits, all tended to make him an object of interest,--and interest is sometimes shown in eagerness to hear anything at all about the subject. He enjoyed conversation when he was in the company of a small circle of friends. He was cheerful at evening parties,--if music was not mentioned. He had an excellent memory for features and names of persons whom he had met, but it is said that he never remembered the names of towns at which he had given concerts. He was very severe with orchestras, and any mistakes made by them would bring forth a tempest of rage, though satisfactory work would be rewarded with expressions of approval. When he came to a pause for the introduction of a cadenza, at rehearsal, the musicians would frequently rise, eager to watch his performance, but Paganini would merely play a few notes, and then stopping suddenly would smile and say, "Et cetera, messieurs!" and reserve his strength for the public performance. His peculiarities were shown strongly in his arrangements for personal comfort while travelling, for his constant suffering precluded the enjoyment of the beauties of nature. He was always cold, and even in summer kept a large cloak wrapped around him, and the windows of the carriage carefully closed. Before starting he took merely a basin of soup or a cup of chocolate, and though he frequently remained nearly the whole day without further refreshment, he slept a great deal and thus escaped some of the pain which the jolting of the carriage caused him. His luggage consisted of a small dilapidated trunk, which contained his violin, his jewels, his money, and a few fine linen articles. Besides this he had only a hat-case and a carpet-bag, and frequently a napkin would contain his entire wardrobe. In a small red pocketbook he kept his accounts and his papers, which represented an immense value, and nobody but himself could decipher the hieroglyphics which indicated his expenses and receipts. He cared not whether his apartment, at the inns on the road, was elegantly furnished or a mere garret, but he always kept the windows open in order to get an "air-bath," contrary to his custom while in a carriage. While the secret of Paganini's marvellous technique was incessant hard work, to which he was urged not less by his own ambition than by his father's cruelty, yet in later years he seldom practised, and his playing was chiefly confined to his concerts and rehearsals. There are several good stories dealing with this peculiarity. One man is said to have followed him around for months, taking the adjoining room at hotels, in order to find the secret of his success by hearing him practise. Once, when looking through the keyhole, he saw the virtuoso go to the violin case, take out the instrument, and after seeing that it was in tune,--put it back again. Sir Charles Hallé tells about seeing Paganini in Paris, where he used to spend an hour every day sitting in a publisher's shop, "a striking, awe-inspiring, ghostlike figure." Hallé was introduced to him, but conversation was difficult, for Paganini sat there taciturn, rigid, hardly ever moving a muscle of his face. He made the young pianist play for him frequently, indicating his desire by pointing at the piano with his long, bony hand, without speaking. Hallé was dying to hear the great violinist play, and one day, after they had enjoyed a long silence, Paganini rose and went to his violin case. He took the violin out, and began to tune it carefully with his fingers, without using the bow. Hallé's agitation was becoming intolerable, for he thought that the moment had arrived at which his desire was to be gratified. But when Paganini had satisfied himself that his violin was all right, he carefully put it back in the case and shut it up. Paganini was notoriously parsimonious, and it was related that one evening in Florence he left his hotel rather late, jumped into a coach and ordered the man to drive him to the theatre. The distance was short, but he felt that it would not do to keep the public waiting. He was to play the prayer from "Moses" on one string. On arrival at the theatre he asked the driver, "How much?" "For you," replied the Jehu, "ten francs." "What? Ten francs? You joke," replied the virtuoso. "It is only the price of a ticket to your concert," was the excuse. Paganini hesitated a moment, and then handed to the man what he considered to be a fair remuneration, saying, "I will pay you ten francs when you drive me on one wheel." At one time Paganini astonished the world by making to Hector Berlioz the magnificent present of twenty thousand francs. Berlioz was at that time almost in a state of despair. His compositions were not appreciated, and he was at a loss to know which way to turn. He made a final effort and gave a last concert, at which Paganini was present and congratulated him. Jules Janin, the celebrated critic and writer, went into ecstasies over the affair. Paganini, he said, who had been attacked for hard-heartedness and avarice, was present at the concert, and at the end prostrated himself before Berlioz, and shed tears. Hope returned and Berlioz went home in triumph, for he had satisfied one great musical critic. The next day he received a note from Paganini enclosing twenty thousand francs, to be devoted to three years of repose, study, liberty, and happiness. In Sir Charles Hallé's biography, however, this story receives important modifications. It appears that Armand Bertin, the wealthy proprietor of the _Journal des Debates_, had a high regard for Berlioz, who was on his staff, and knew of his struggles, which he was anxious to lighten. He resolved, therefore, to make him a present of twenty thousand francs, and to enhance the moral effect of this gift he persuaded Paganini to appear as the donor of the money. What would have appeared as a simple gratuity from a rich and powerful editor toward one of his staff, became a significant tribute from one genius to another. The secret was well kept and was never divulged to Berlioz. It was known only to two of Bertin's friends, and Hallé learned it about seven years later, when he had become an intimate friend of Madame Bertin, and she had been for years one of his best pupils. Paganini created the difficulties which he performed. He had a style of his own, and was most successful in playing his own compositions. In Paris, when, out of respect to the Parisians, he played a concerto by Rode, and one by Kreutzer, he scarcely rose above mediocrity, and he was well aware of his failure. He adopted the ideas of his predecessors, resuscitated forgotten effects and added to them, and the chief features of his performance were, the diversity of tones produced, the different methods of tuning his instrument, the frequent employment of double and single harmonics, the simultaneous use of pizzicato and bow passages, the use of double and triple notes, the various staccati, and a wonderful facility for executing wide intervals with unerring accuracy, together with a great variety of styles of bowing. The quality of tone which he produced was clear and pure, but not excessively full, and, according to Fétis, he was a master of technique and phrasing rather than a pathetic player,--there was no tenderness in his accents. It is said that Baillot used to hide his face when Paganini played a pizzicato with the left hand, harmonics, or a passage in staccato. Dancla, in his recollections, says: "I had noticed in Paganini his large, dry hand, of an astonishing elasticity; his fingers long and pointed, which enabled him to make enormous stretches, and double and triple extensions, with the utmost facility. The double and triple harmonics, the successions of harmonics in thirds and sixths, so difficult for small hands, owing to the stretch they require, were to him as child's play. When playing an accentuated pizzicato with the left hand, while the melody was played by the hand of the bow, the fourth finger pinched the string with prodigious power even when the other three fingers were placed." There are anecdotes told of Paganini's artistic contests with rival violinists, chief among whom were Lafont and Lipinski, both of whom he eclipsed, and of his playing a concerto in manuscript at sight, with the music upside down on the rack. Of his appearance we are told, in an account of a concert in London: "A tall, haggard figure, with long, black hair, strangely falling down to his shoulders, slid forward like a spectral apparition. There was something awful, unearthly in that countenance; but his play! our pen seems involuntarily to evade the difficult task of giving utterance to sensations which are beyond the reach of language." After detailing the performance, the account continues: "These excellencies consist in the combination of absolute mechanical perfection of every imaginable kind, perfection hitherto unknown and unthought of, with the higher attributes of the human mind, inseparable from eminence in the fine arts, intellectual superiority, sensibility, deep feeling, poesy, genius." In regard to this accomplishment of playing on one string, a critic said: "To effect so much on a single string is truly wonderful; nevertheless any good player can extract more from two than from one. If Paganini really produces so much effect on a single string, he would certainly obtain more from two. Then why not employ them? We answer, because he is waxing exceedingly wealthy by playing on one." Paganini seems to have reasoned from the opposite point, viz., that if the retention of two strings be regarded with such wonder, how much greater the marvel will be if only one is used. To offset these suggestions of charlatanism, or perhaps rather to show that, with all his charlatanism, Paganini was a marvel, we may see what effect his playing had upon some men who were not likely to be caught by mere trickery. Rossini, upon being asked how he liked Paganini, replied: "I have wept but three times in my life; the first, on the failure of my earliest opera; the second time, when, in a boat with some friends, a turkey stuffed with truffles fell overboard; and thirdly, when I heard Paganini play for the first time." Spohr, after hearing him play, in 1830, said: "Paganini came to Cassel and gave two concerts, which I heard with great interest. His left hand and his constantly pure intonation were, to me, astonishing; but in his compositions and his execution I found a strange mixture of the highly genial and the childishly tasteless, by which one felt alternately charmed and disappointed." George Hogarth, the musical critic, writes about Paganini's "running up and down a single string, from the nut to the bridge, for ten minutes together, or playing with the bow and the fingers of his right hand, mingling pizzicato and arcato notes with the dexterity of an Indian juggler." It was not, however, by such tricks as these, but in spite of them, that he gained the suffrages of those who were charmed by his truly great qualities,--his soul of fire, his boundless fancy, his energy, tenderness, and passion; these are the qualities which give him a claim to a place among the greatest masters of the art. Perhaps the finest description of Paganini is the one written by Leigh Hunt: "So play'd of late to every passing thought With finest change (might I but half as well So write) the pale magician of the bow, Who brought from Italy the tales, made true, Of Grecian lyres; and on his sphery hand, Loading the air with dumb expectancy, Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath; "Of witches' dance, ghastly with whinings thin, And palsied nods--mirth, wicked, sad, and weak; And then with show of skill mechanical, Marvellous as witchcraft he would overthrow That vision with a show'r of notes like hail; Flashing the sharp tones now, In downward leaps like swords; now rising fine Into some utmost tip of minute sound, From whence he stepp'd into a higher and higher On viewless points, till laugh took leave of him. "Then from one chord of his amazing shell Would he fetch out the voice of quires, and weight Of the built organ; or some twofold strain Moving before him like some sweet-going yoke, Ride like an Eastern conqueror, round whose state Some light Morisco leaps with his guitar; And ever and anon o'er these he'd throw Jets of small notes like pearl." CHAPTER V. 1800 TO 1830. Paganini was an epoch-making artist. He revolutionised the art of violin playing, and to his influence, or through his example, were developed the modern French and Belgian schools. While Paganini was a genius, a great musician, and a wonderful violinist, he combined with these qualities that of a trickster, and the exponents of the modern French school adopted some of the less commendable features of Paganini's playing, while the Belgian school followed the more serious lines, and became a much sounder school. Alard, Dancla, and Maurin were exponents of the French school, while in that of Belgium we have De Bériot, Massart, Vieuxtemps, Léonard, Wieniawski. Lambert Joseph Massart was born at Liège in 1811, and was first taught by an amateur named Delavau, who, delighted with the remarkable talent displayed by his young pupil, succeeded in securing for him, from the municipal authorities of Liège, a scholarship which enabled him to go to Paris. On his arrival at the Conservatoire, Cherubini, who was splenetive and rash, refused him admission without assigning any reason for his decision, but Rudolph Kreutzer took upon his shoulders the task of forming the future artist. Notwithstanding Massart's great talent and excellent capabilities as an artist, he never became a success as a concert player, because of his inordinate shyness, but as a teacher few have equalled him. Sir Charles Hallé, in his autobiography, tells a good anecdote concerning Massart's shyness and modesty. Massart was to play, with Franz Liszt, a program which included the Kreutzer sonata. Just as the sonata was begun a voice from the audience called out "Robert le Diable," referring to Liszt's brilliant fantasia on themes from that opera, which he had recently composed, and had played several times with immense success. The call was taken up by other voices, and the sonata was drowned. Liszt rose and bowed, and presently, in response to the continued applause, he said: "I am always the humble servant of the public. But do you wish to hear the fantasia before or after the sonata?" Renewed cries of "Robert" were the only reply, upon which Liszt turned half around to Massart and dismissed him with a wave of the hand, but without a word of excuse or apology. Liszt's performance roused the audience to a perfect frenzy, but Massart nevertheless most dutifully returned and played the Kreutzer sonata, which fell entirely flat after the dazzling display of the great pianist. Few teachers have formed as many distinguished pupils as Massart, for in 1843 he was appointed professor of violin at the Paris Conservatoire, where his energy, care, exactness, and thoroughness brought him an immense reputation. Lotto, Wieniawski, Teresina Tua, and a host of other distinguished violinists studied under him: among them also was Charles M. Loeffler, of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Massart was also an excellent quartet player and gave many delightful chamber concerts, with his wife, who was a pianist. He died in Paris, February 13, 1892. Charles Auguste de Bériot, who holds a position of great importance in the history of violin playing and composition, was born in 1802 at Louvain. He had the misfortune to be left an orphan at the age of nine. His parents were of noble extraction, but at their death he was left entirely without fortune, and was taken in charge by M. Tiby, a professor of music, who had noticed the little boy's love of the musical art, and had already taught him to such good purpose that he was able even at that time to play one of Viotti's concertos in public so skilfully that he received the hearty applause of the audience. He also took lessons of Roberrechts, one of Viotti's most noted pupils. De Bériot was a youth of contemplative mind and of high moral character. He formed the acquaintance of the scholar and philosopher Jacotot, who imbued him with principles of self-reliance, and exerted an influence over him which lasted throughout his life. De Bériot learned from his guide, philosopher, and friend that "perseverance triumphs over all obstacles," and that "we are not willing to do all that we are able to do." At the age of nineteen De Bériot went to Paris, taking with him a letter of introduction to Viotti, who was then the director of music at the Opéra, and he succeeded in gratifying his greatest ambition, which was to be heard by that illustrious violinist. Viotti gave him the following advice: "You have a fine style. Give yourself up to the business of perfecting it. Hear all men of talent, profit by everything, but imitate nothing." De Bériot applied himself assiduously to his studies, entering the Paris Conservatoire and taking lessons of Baillot. In a few months, however, he withdrew from the Conservatoire and relied upon his own resources. He soon began to appear in concerts, generally playing compositions of his own, which won him universal applause by their freshness and originality as much as by his finished execution and large style of cantabile. In 1826 he went to London from Paris, his first appearance taking place on May 1st, before the Philharmonic Society. Wherever he appeared, either in London or the provinces, he was greeted with enthusiasm, and he established a lasting reputation. His appearance in England antedated that of Paganini by about five years, and it has been questioned whether the impression which he made would have been less if he had appeared after instead of before the great Italian. It seems, however that De Bériot continued to meet with success even after the advent of Paganini. His playing was distinguished by unfailing accuracy of intonation, great neatness and facility of bowing, grace, elegance, and piquancy. After travelling for some years he returned to Belgium, where he was appointed solo violin to the King of the Netherlands. He had held the position but a short time when the revolution of 1830 broke out and deprived him of it. He returned to Paris, and now began the most romantic portion of his life. Madame Malibran, whose brilliant career was then at its height, was singing in opera, and De Bériot became acquainted with her. The acquaintance ripened into the most intimate friendship, and in 1832 a concert company was formed, consisting of Malibran, De Bériot, and Luigi Lablache, the celebrated and gigantic basso. They made a tour of Italy, meeting with the most extraordinary success. De Bériot and the beautiful Madame Malibran were now inseparable. Malibran had for some years been living apart from her husband, an American merchant, who, with the view of supporting himself by her talents, had married her when on the brink of financial collapse. In 1835 she succeeded in securing a divorce from him, and then she married De Bériot. A few months after their marriage Malibran was thrown from her horse and sustained internal injuries of such severity that she died after an illness of nine days, and De Bériot became frantic with grief. More than a year elapsed before he could at all recover from the effects of his irreparable loss, and his first appearance in concert, after this tragic event, was when Pauline Garcia, the sister of Madame Malibran, made her first début in a concert at Brussels given for the benefit of the poor. In 1841 De Bériot married Mlle. Huber, daughter of a magistrate of Vienna. He returned to Brussels, and became director of the violin classes at the Conservatoire, after which he ceased giving concerts. He remained in this position until 1852, when failing eyesight caused him to retire, and he died at Louvain in 1870. Before his acquaintance with Madame Malibran, De Bériot was a suitor for the hand of Mlle. Sontag, and her rejection of him threw him into a state of despondency, from which it required the brilliancy and wit of Malibran to rouse him. De Bériot left a number of compositions which abound in pleasing melodies, have a certain easy, natural flow, and bring out the characteristic effects of the instrument in the most brilliant manner. There are seven concertos, eleven "airs variées," several books of studies, four trios and a number of duets for piano and violin. His "Violin School" has been published in many languages and used a great deal by students. Delphin Jean Alard was at one time a favourite violinist in France. In 1842 he succeeded Baillot as professor of violin at the Conservatoire in Paris. He was first soloist in the royal band, to which post he was appointed in 1858, and he was presented with the Cross of the Legion of Honour. Alard was born at Bayonne in March, 1815, and was well taught from his earliest youth. He appeared in concerts at the age of ten, and at twelve entered the Paris Conservatoire, where he became a pupil of Habeneck, while Fétis taught him composition. He was the winner of numerous prizes, and he also wrote a great deal of music for the violin. His greatest pupil was Sarasate. Alard married the daughter of Vuillaume, one of the best violin makers of France, and through him became the owner of one of the most beautiful Stradivarius violins. Alard died in Paris, February 22, 1881. Hubert Léonard was born at Bellaire, near Liège, in 1819, but unlike the majority of violinists he did not appear in concerts at an early age, nor did he enter the Paris Conservatoire until he was seventeen. At this time the wife of a wealthy merchant in Brussels took interest in him and provided the means necessary for him to go to Paris. In 1844 he appeared at Leipzig, and created a deep impression by the beauty of his tone and his elegant performance. He travelled through Europe and played chiefly his own compositions, of which there are a great many, but his greatest fame was earned after he was appointed professor at the Brussels Conservatoire, where he had many pupils, of whom the most celebrated is, perhaps, Martin Marsick. Concerning the merits of Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst there seems to be a wide difference of opinion between various commentators. He was a man of warm, impulsive nature, whose playing was distinguished by great boldness in the execution of technical difficulties of the most hazardous nature. His tone had a peculiar charm, and at the same time his fiery, impetuous nature and uneven disposition led to certain occasional errors in technique and faulty intonation. Nevertheless, he was one of the most welcome performers in the concert halls of Europe for a number of years. He was a thorough musician and a good composer, though his works are so full of technical difficulties as to be almost impossible of performance. Indeed it is said that some of them contained difficulties which even he could not always overcome. Born in Moravia at the town of Brünn in 1814, he entered the Vienna conservatory, and in 1830 made his first concert tour through Munich and Paris. Paganini was at that time travelling in Europe, and Ernst, in the desire to learn something from this great artist, followed him from town to town, and endeavoured to model his own playing upon the style of the Italian virtuoso, an effort which seems to have brought down upon him the censure of some critics, but which others have considered highly praiseworthy. In 1832 he settled in Paris, where he studied hard under De Bériot, and played in concerts frequently. After 1844 he lived chiefly in England, where he was highly appreciated, until the approach of his fatal disease made it necessary for him to give up, first, public performances, and then violin playing of any kind. He died at Nice after eight years of intense suffering, in 1865. When Ernst died the critic of the _Atheneum_ compared him with other players of his day in the following words: "Less perfection in his polish, less unimpeachable in the diamond lustre and clearness of his tone, than De Bériot, Ernst had as much elegance as that exquisite violinist, with greater depth of feeling. Less audaciously inventive and extravagant than Paganini, he was sounder in taste, and, in his music, with no lack of fantasy, more scientific in construction.... The secret, however, of Ernst's success, whether as a composer or a virtuoso, lay in his expressive power and accent. There has been nothing to exceed these as exhibited by him in his best days. The passion was carried to its utmost point, but never torn to tatters, the freest use of _tempo rubato_ permitted, but always within the limits of the most just regulation." Among the violinists of this period (those who were born between 1800 and 1830) will be found those who first visited the United States. In 1843 Ole Bull found his way to these shores, and in the following year both Vieuxtemps and Artot were giving concerts in New York. A kind of triangular duel took place, for the admirers of Artot and Vieuxtemps, who were chiefly the French residents of the city, endeavoured to belittle the capabilities of Ole Bull, who nevertheless appears to have been very successful, and if anything, to have benefited by the competition. Musical culture was, at that time, in a very low state in America, and one may judge somewhat of its progress by the press criticisms of the artists who visited the country from time to time. It will be seen that those who, like Ole Bull, Sivori, and Remenyi, applied their talents to the elaboration of popular airs and operatic themes were able to elicit the warmest praise. Vieuxtemps appears to have appealed to the cultured minority and was understood and appreciated by very few. Flowery language was used without stint, and was frequently misapplied in the most ludicrous manner, as will be seen by the following extract: "Since the death of his great master, the weird Paganini, Ole Bull had been left without a rival in Europe. Herwig, Nagel, Wallace, Artot, and De Bériot can only 'play second fiddle' to this king of the violin. His entrance upon the stage is remarkably modest, and after the Parisian graces of Artot seems a little awkward; a tip of his bow brings a crash from the orchestra. He then lays his cheek caressingly on the instrument, which gradually awakes, and wails, and moans, like an infant broken of its slumber. Every tone seems fraught with human passion. At one time he introduces a dialogue, in which a sweet voice complains so sadly that it makes the heart ache with pity, which is answered from another string with imprecations so violent and threatening that one almost trembles with fear. We fancied that a young girl was pleading for the life of her lover, and receiving only curses in reply. At the close of the first piece, the 'Adagio Maestoso,' there was one universal shout of applause, which afforded an infinite relief to a most enthusiastic house that had held its breath for fifteen minutes. Ole Bull came before the curtain and bowed, with his hand upon his heart. There is something different in his performance from that of any other artist, and yet it is difficult to describe the peculiarity of his style, except that he touches all the strings at once, and plays a distinct accompaniment with the fingers of his right hand. But the charm is in the genius of the man and the grandeur of his compositions. He knows how to play upon the silver cord of the heart which binds us to a world of beauty, and vibrates only when touched by a master hand." The sentiments and emotions aroused in the breast of this critic appear to have been those with which Paganini inspired his audience, when he played a duet on two strings, as related in an earlier chapter. Ole Bull was a child of nature, he gave his audience a description of the beauties of nature, and behold! it is interpreted as a story of human passions,--a high tribute to descriptive music. The following criticism seems more in keeping with the ideas known to have been held by the violinist, and almost leads one to imagine that the critic was fortunate enough to obtain an interview with the virtuoso before writing his account: "FEBRUARY, 1844. "To what shall we compare Ole Bull's playing? Was it like some well-informed individual who has seen the world and who spices his tales of men and things with song and story--now describing the beauties of Swiss scenery, now repeating the air which he caught up one moonlight night on the Bosphorus, and anon relating a stirring joke which he gleaned on the Boulevard. Such a man would create an impression on any small tea-party, but that violin did more--the comparison fails. There might be to him who chose to give rein to his fancy a vision at one moment of the old ivy-covered church and the quiet graveyard, the evening sun streaming through the rich stained glass, the organ faintly heard through the long aisles and the deep chancel, and around and about the singing of some bird of late hours, and the hum of the bee as he flew by, well laden, to his storehouse of sweets. "Then the clouds flew fearfully, and the wind moaned through the boughs of the old oak-tree in its winter dishabille, and so down to the seashore, when it rushed over cliffs and crags and knocked off the caps of the mad waves and sped on like a tyrant, crashing everything in its way and rejoicing in its might. And so we glided oddly but easily enough into the ballroom, where mirth and laughter, bright eyes, fairy feet, and all that was good and pleasant to behold flitted by. It was not all music that Ole Bull's violin gave out. There were old memories and pleasant ones, ideas which shaped themselves into all manners of queer visions; and the main difference between Ole Bull and those I have heard before him seemed to me to consist in this--that whereas many others may excite and hold by the button, as it were, the organ of hearing and the mind therewith immediately connected, Ole Bull awakens the other senses along with it and occupies them in the field of imagination." In 1846 came Sivori, and in 1848 Remenyi, both artists whose desire to please their audiences took them far from the path of the highest musical standard. It may be said with truth that the country was hardly ready for musicianship of the highest quality, and even in 1872, when Wieniawski came with the great pianist and composer, Rubinstein, the two were accepted on their reputation rather than on their merits, which were understood by a comparatively small proportion of their audiences. Although several violinists endeavoured to copy Paganini's style, or at least to learn as much as possible from hearing and seeing him play, there was only one, excepting Catarina Calcagno, who received direct instruction from him, and on whom his mantle was said, by his admirers, to have fallen. That one was Camillo Sivori, born at Genoa, June 6, 1817. [Illustration: CAMILLO SIVORI] The connecting link between Sivori and Paganini began very early in the career of the former. Indeed it is said that the excitement of his mother, on hearing Paganini play at a concert, caused the premature birth of the future disciple of the great artist. Marvellous stories are told of Sivori's infancy. At the age of eighteen months, before he had ever seen or heard a violin player, he continually amused himself by using two pieces of stick after the manner of the violin and bow, and singing to himself. It is fair to say that similar precocity in other children has not always resulted in virtuosity. A case might be cited of a very young person who amused himself by inverting a small chair, and imagining that he was a street organist, but he grew to maturity without adopting that profession. At two years of age, the account continues, he cried out lustily for a violin, and when his father, reduced to submission by the boy's importunity, bought him a child's violin, he at once began to apply himself, morning, noon, and night, to practising on this instrument, and without any aid he was able in a short time to play many airs he had heard his sisters play or sing. His renown spread through Genoa, and he was invited everywhere. At concerts and parties he was placed upon a table to play, and he was frequently called upon to perform before the king and the queen-dowager. He must have been a most wilful and embarrassing child, for the account goes on to say that he would not enter a church unless he heard music; but on the other hand, if he did hear music he insisted on going in, or else he would scream and make a terrible scene. These anecdotes, told by an effusive admirer, seem rather ridiculous, but when Paganini visited Genoa, and Sivori was six years old, the virtuoso took a great deal of interest in the little fellow and gave him lessons. He also wrote a concerto for him, and six short sonatas with accompaniment for guitar, tenor, and 'cello, and these the young artist soon played in public. In six months Paganini left Genoa and desired to take his young pupil with him, but this was not allowed by the parents, and Sivori was placed under the tuition of Costa. Three years later Paganini returned to Genoa, and by his advice his protégé was placed under M. Dellepaine, who taught him taste and expression, his lessons with Costa in technique continuing. In 1827 Sivori made a concert tour with M. Dellepaine, and visited Paris, where his playing at the Conservatoire won him great applause. He also appeared in England, after which he entered upon another serious course of study for several years, and perfected the tone which enraptured the world for so long, and at the same time he studied composition under Serra. In 1839 his concert tours began again, and he visited Germany, Russia, Belgium, and Paris, where he played at the Conservatoire concerts and received the medal of honour. Sivori now set out on extensive travels, and, after visiting England, proceeded, in 1846, to America, travelling through the United States, Mexico, and various parts of South America, spending eight years in these peregrinations, and amassing a considerable fortune. During this great tour he met with many adventures, frequently travelling on horseback, and at one time being at death's door with yellow fever. On his return to Europe he shared the fate of many musicians who have achieved financial success, and lost his money by unfortunate investment, which made it necessary for him to resume his travels. He therefore visited Great Britain, Switzerland, Germany, Spain, Portugal, etc. He was, of course, compared to many of the great violinists of his time, who all had their special merits. One criticism, in which Sivori is compared with Spohr, may be interesting: "Spohr is of colossal stature, and looks more like an ancient Roman than a Brunswicker; Sivori is the antithesis of Spohr in stature. Spohr has the severe phlegmatic Teutonic aspect; Sivori has the flashing Italian eye and variability of feature. Spohr stands firm and still; Sivori's body is all on the swing, he tears the notes, as it were, from his instrument. Spohr's refinement and polish have been the characteristics of his playing; in Sivori it is wild energy--the soul in arms--the determination to be up and doing--the daring impulse of youthful genius. Spohr's playing is remarkable for its repose and finish; Sivori electrifies by the most powerful appeals to the affections." Sivori was a man of generous impulses, and was seldom appealed to in vain to assist in a good cause. When his teacher, M. Dellepaine, was taken ill and was unable temporarily to fill his post of first violin at the theatre, and of director of the conservatoire at Genoa, Sivori replaced him in both and gave him the entire benefit of his services. After two years the teacher died, and Sivori still held the two places an entire year for the benefit of the widow, until a situation was procured for her which enabled her to live without further assistance. At one time Sivori felt that the instrument which he played was not so perfect as to satisfy him. He asked Paganini to sell him one, and the reply was, "I will not sell you the violin, but I will present it to you in compliment to your high talents." Sivori travelled to Nice to receive the instrument from his master's own hands. Paganini was then--it was in 1840--in a deplorable condition, and could hardly speak. He signified a desire to hear his pupil play once more, and Sivori, withdrawing to a room a little way off, so that the sound of the instrument would not be too loud, played whatever Paganini called for. About two weeks later Paganini died. In 1851 Hallé wrote of him as follows: "Sivori was here lately, but caused little furore; such rubbish as the man plays now I had never heard, and really, as an artist, felt ashamed of him." Sivori continued to play in public until 1864, when he visited London and played at the Musical Union and elsewhere, but his triumph in Paris in 1862 must not be forgotten. On that occasion he executed Paganini's B minor concerto, and aroused immense enthusiasm, although he played immediately after Alard, who was at that time a prime favourite. During his later years Sivori lived in retirement, and he died February 18, 1894. He was the first person allowed to play on the celebrated violin which Paganini bequeathed to the city of Genoa. He was also the first to play, with orchestra, Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in England. This performance was at the Philharmonic Society concert, June 29, 1846. Henry Vieuxtemps was one of the greatest violinists of his time. He was born at Verviers, in Belgium, in 1820, and was brought up in a musical atmosphere. So early did his talent develop, that he played a concerto of Rode in public at the age of six, and the following year made a tour with his father and his teacher, Lecloux, during which he had the good fortune to meet De Bériot, before whom he played. During four years he remained a pupil of De Bériot, and when that artist left Paris, in 1831, Vieuxtemps went to Brussels, where he practised hard, but without a teacher, until 1833, when he again set out on a prolonged concert tour. From this time on he seems to have spent the greater part of his time in travelling, for which he had a passion. He visited all parts of Europe and met most of the celebrated musicians of the day. Spohr, Molique, Schumann, Paganini, Henselt, and Richard Wagner were among the celebrities whom he met, and in his tours he was associated with Servais, Thalberg, and other well-known artists. Not content with Europe as a field for conquest, he visited America in 1844, and again in 1857 and in 1870. He was offered many excellent positions, some of which he held for a time and others he declined. In 1845 he married Josephine Eder, an eminent pianist of Vienna, and shortly after was appointed solo violinist to the Emperor of Russia, relinquishing that post six years later in order to travel again. He was professor at the Brussels conservatoire from 1871 to 1873, and in 1872 he was elected a member of the Academic Royale of Belgium, on which occasion he read a memoir of Étienne Jean Soubre. In 1868 he suffered a double bereavement through the deaths, first of his father, and a short time later of his wife, and, to divert his mind from these troubles, he undertook a tour which lasted three years. During 1873 his active career was cut short by a stroke of paralysis which disabled his left side. He now travelled for health's sake, and went to Algiers, where he lived quietly for several years. His life was brought to an end by a drunken Arab, who threw a large stone at him while he was riding in his carriage one day, striking him on the head. As a violinist Vieuxtemps possessed a wonderful staccato, both on the up and down bow. His intonation was perfect. He was fond of strong dramatic accents and contrasts. As a composer for the violin he had wider success than any one since Spohr, but while some of his works contain really fine ideas worked out with much skill, others are merely show pieces of no particular value. As a man Vieuxtemps had a gay and restless disposition. He was not easily depressed by trifles, and he enjoyed the freedom of a life of constant change and travel, and it was during his travels that most of his best compositions were written. During the last few years of his active life, after his paralytic stroke had prevented his playing, he suffered much from his inability to demonstrate to his pupils the way in which certain passages should be played. Frequent outbursts of rage ensued, of which his pupils were obliged to bear the brunt, even to being prodded with his iron-shod stick. Sometimes scenes more amusing would occur, as when some grandees would visit the class, and Vieuxtemps would change his manner from smiles and affability while addressing them, to scowls and grimaces while talking to his pupils, the latter, of course, being invisible to the visitors. When Vieuxtemps visited America in 1857, he was associated with Thalberg, the pianist, and together they visited many towns and cities. Amongst the gems of American newspaper criticism they no doubt took with them several copies of the following, which appeared in the local paper of a town in Tennessee, and was headed "Thalberg and Vieuxtemps:" "These distinguished individuals are now at Nashville, giving high pressure concerts, and selling tickets at two dollars apiece, when convenient. A stage-load and a half or two stage-loads of ladies and gentlemen went down from this place to hear them. Thalberg is said to be death, in its most horried shape, on the piano, and it is probably true; while Vieuxtemps is represented as a fiddler of considerable skill, considering his opportunities, which he no doubt is. We haven't heard either of them since they were quite small, and unless they come out here and reduce the price of their tickets to their value,--say about sixty-two and a half cents a dozen,--it is possible that we sha'n't hear them any more. When we ride forty miles, at an expense of at least ten dollars, extras not included, to hear a couple of itinerant Dutchmen torture a brace of unoffending instruments into fits, until the very spirit of music howls in sympathy, if some one will cave in our head with a brickbat, we will feel greatly obliged. "But seriously, Thalberg and Vieuxtemps have never done us any harm that we know of, and we don't suppose they intend to. We wouldn't much mind hearing their music, for no doubt it is nearly, if not quite, as good as that of the average common run of Dutchmen, which, as the latter will tell you, is saying a good deal." And yet musical culture was said to be in its infancy in America at that time! In Boston, Vieuxtemps, after an absence of fourteen years, was criticised thus: "We cannot see in M. Vieuxtemps the spark of genius, but he is a complete musician, and the master of his instrument. Tone so rich, so pure, so admirably prolonged and nourished, so literally drawn from the instrument, we have scarcely heard before; nor such vigour, certainty, and precision, such nobility and truth in every motion and effect. We recognise the weakness for sterile difficulties of extreme harmonics." Vieuxtemps was also subject to comparison with Sivori, rather to the former's disparagement. "The one plays the violin like a great musician, the other like a spoiled child of nature, who has endowed him with the most precious gifts. Intrepid wrestlers, both, and masters of their instrument, they each employ a different manner. M. Vieuxtemps never lets you forget that he plays the violin, that the wonders of mechanism which he accomplishes under your eye are of the greatest difficulty and have cost him immense pains, whereas M. Sivori has the air of being ignorant that he holds in his hands one of the most complicated instruments that exists, and he sings to you like Malibran. He sings, he weeps, he laughs on the violin like a very demon." The following paragraph is a good sample of New York musical journalism in the year 1844: "Vieuxtemps's first concert on Monday night was a very stylish jam. He is a small, puny-built man, with gold rings in his ears, and a face of genteel ugliness, but touchingly lugubrious in its expression. With his violin at his shoulder, he has the air of a husband undergoing the nocturnal penance of walking the room with 'the child'--and performing it, too, with unaffected pity. He plays with the purest and coldest perfection of art, and is doubtless more learned on the violin than either of the rival performers [Ole Bull and Artot], but there is a vitreous clearness and precision in his notes that would make them more germane to the humour of before breakfast than to the warm abandon of vespertide. His sister travels with him (a pretty blonde, very unlike him), and accompanies him on the piano." Vieuxtemps also visited America in 1870, with the celebrated singer Christine Nilsson. Among the celebrated violinists of this period must be mentioned Bernhard Molique, of whom Sir Charles Hallé says that he was a good executant, knowing no difficulties, but his style was polished and cold, and he never carried his public with him. "Ernst," he continues, "was all passion and fire, regulated by reverence for and clear understanding of the masterpieces he had to interpret. Sainton was extremely elegant and finished in his phrasing, but vastly inferior to the others. Vieuxtemps was an admirable violinist and a great musician, whose compositions deserve a much higher rank than it is the fashion to accord them." Molique was the son of a town musician of Nuremberg, and became a composer whose works have stood the test of time. He was a pupil of Kreutzer and of Spohr, and held the position of director and first violinist of the royal band at Stuttgart. He had a number of excellent pupils, of whom John T. Carrodus was the best known. He died at Stuttgart in 1869. Henry Gamble Blagrove was a musical prodigy, who began the study of the violin at the age of four, and appeared in public a year later. He was born at Nottingham in 1811, and at six years of age played at Drury Lane. He studied abroad with Spohr, and appeared in Vienna in 1836, but the greater part of his life was spent in England, where he was soloist in several of the best orchestras. He was a man of refreshing modesty, and was held in high esteem. He died in London in 1872. Jacob Dont, of Vienna, and Jean Dancla, a French violinist, both belong to this period, and were teachers of reputation. CHAPTER VI. OLE BULL. "A typical Norseman, erect of bearing, with a commanding presence and mobile, kindly face, from which the eyes shone clear and fearless as the spirits of old Norway hovering over his native mountains. He was a man to evoke respect and love under all conditions, and, when he stepped before an audience, roused an instantaneous throb of sympathy, of interest, before the sweep of his magical bow enthralled their souls with its melodious measures." Such is an excellent pen picture of Ole Bull, who during the middle of the nineteenth century was known far and wide as a great violinist. Among the celebrated musicians of all nations, Ole Bull will always remain a striking figure. As a musician, none so eminent has been so essentially a self-made man, none has grown up with so little influence from outside, none with a technique so essentially self-discovered. As a son of his country, none has retained so sturdy a sense of patriotism; none has, amid the more brilliant surroundings of a life spent in the gayest cities of the world, refused to be weaned from the poor northern, half-dependent state from which he issued a penniless lad. Olaus Borneman Bull was born at Bergen, in Norway, February 5, 1810, and was the eldest of ten children. His father was a physician and apothecary. He was musical, as were several other members of his family, and little Ole's love for music was fostered to a great degree at home by the Tuesday quartet meetings, at which his Uncle Jens played the 'cello. In the early part of the century, the proverb, "Spare the rod and spoil the child," was regarded as the foundation of education in most countries, and few children were allowed to spoil. All childish desires which conflicted with parental ideas were promptly suppressed by "the rod," until by sheer strength they proved to be unsuppressible. Then they became great virtues. It was thus with Ole Bull. His first desire to hear the quartet music, which he gratified by hiding under sofas or behind curtains, was rewarded with the rod,--for he should have been in bed. After a time a concession was made through the intervention of Uncle Jens, and Ole was allowed to become familiar with the best music of the day. Uncle Jens used to amuse himself with the small boy's susceptibility to music, and would sometimes shut him up in the 'cello case, promising him some candy if he would stay there while he (Uncle Jens) played. But Ole could never endure the ordeal for long. He had to come out where he could see and hear. His first violin was given him by Uncle Jens when he was five years old, and he soon learned to play it well without any instructor. He was not allowed to practise music until his study hours were over, and occasional breaches of this rule kept "the rod" active. Ole Bull's first instructor was a violinist named Paulsen, a man of convivial temperament, who used to come and enjoy the hospitality of Ole's father and play "as long as there was a drop in the decanter," with a view to educating the young artist, as he said. But Ole's parents were thinking of prohibiting the violin altogether on the plea that it interfered too much with his studies, when the tide of affairs was changed by the following incident. One Tuesday evening, Paulsen, who played first violin in the quartet, had been so convivial that he was unable to continue. In this unfortunate dilemma Uncle Jens called upon Ole, saying, "Come, my boy, do your best, and you shall have a stick of candy." Ole quickly accepted the challenge, and as the quartet was one which he had several times heard, he played each movement correctly, much to the astonishment of all present. This happened on his eighth birthday, and the event marked an epoch in his life, for he was elected an active member of the Tuesday club, and began to take lessons regularly of the convivial Paulsen. There is a pathetic story of how Ole induced his father to buy a new violin for him, and, unable to restrain his desire to play it, he got up in the night, opened the case, and touched the strings. This furtive touch merely served to whet his appetite, and he tried the bow. Then he began to play very softly; then, carried away with enthusiasm, he played louder and louder, until suddenly he felt the sharp sting of his father's whip across his shoulders, and the little violin fell to the floor and was broken. From 1819 to 1822 Ole Bull received no violin instruction, for Paulsen had left Bergen without explanation, though it has been hinted that Ole Bull had outgrown him, and on that account he thought it wise to depart. In 1822 a Swedish violinist came to Bergen, and Ole took lessons of him. His name was Lundholm, and he was a pupil of Baillot. Lundholm was very strict and would admit of no departure from established rules. He quite failed to make the boy hold his instrument according to the accepted method, but his custom of making his pupil stand upright, with his head and back against the wall while playing, no doubt gave to him that repose and grace of bearing which was so noticeable in later years. Lundholm was, however, quite unable to control his precocious pupil and a coolness soon sprung up between them, which appears to have culminated in the following incident. On a Tuesday evening, at one of the regular meetings, Lundholm played Baillot's "Caprizzi," but Ole Bull was much disappointed at the pedantic, phlegmatic manner in which he rendered the passionate phrases. When the company went to supper Ole found on the leader's music-rack a concerto of Spohr's, and began to try it over. Carried away with the music, he forgot himself, and was discovered by Lundholm on his return, and scolded for his presumption. "What impudence!" said the violinist. "Perhaps you think you could play this at sight, boy?" "Yes," was the reply, "I think I could." His remark was heard by the rest of the company, who were now returning, and they all insisted that he should try it. He played the allegro, and all applauded except Lundholm, who looked angry. "You think you can play anything," he said, and, taking a caprice of Paganini's from the stand, he added, "Try this." It happened that this caprice was a favourite of the young violinist, who had learned it by heart. He therefore played it in fine style, and received the hearty applause of the little audience. Lundholm, however, instead of raving, was more polite and kind than he had ever been before, and told Ole that with practice he might hope to equal him (Lundholm) some day. Years afterwards, when Ole Bull was making a concert tour through Norway, and was travelling in a sleigh over the snow-covered ground, he met another sleigh coming from the opposite direction, of which the occupant recognised him, and made signs to him to stop. It was Lundholm. "Well," shouted he, "now that you are a famous violinist, remember that when I heard you play Paganini I predicted that your career would be a remarkable one." "Oh," exclaimed Ole Bull, "you were mistaken, for I did not read that piece, I knew it before." "It makes no difference," was the reply, as the sleighs parted. As young Ole approached manhood, and developed in strength and stature, we find him asserting his independence. His father, who intended him to be a clergyman, engaged a private tutor named Musaeus, who, when he found that Ole's musical tastes conflicted with his studies, forbade him to play the violin, so that the boy could only indulge at night in an inclination which, under restraint, became a passion. Ole and his brothers had long and patiently borne both with cross words and blows from this worthy pedagogue, and at length decided to rebel. Accordingly when one morning at half-past four the tutor appeared and dragged out the youngest from his warm bed, Ole sprang upon him and a violent struggle ensued. The household was aroused, and in a few moments the parents appeared on the spot in time to see Musaeus prostrate upon the floor and suing for peace. Contrary to his expectations, Ole found himself taken more into his father's confidence, and as a result he became more desirous than ever of carrying out his father's wishes. In 1828 he went to the university in Christiania, where, in spite of the best intentions, he soon found himself musical director of the Philharmonic and Dramatic Societies, a position which gave him independence, and somewhat consoled him for his failure to pass his entrance examinations for the university. His father reluctantly forgave him, and he was now, in spite of everything, fairly launched upon a musical career. He was not long contented to remain in Christiania. His mind was in a state of restless agitation, and he determined to go to Cassel, and seek out Spohr, whose opinion he desired to secure. He accordingly left Christiania on May 18, 1829. His departure was so hurried that he left his violin behind, and it had to be forwarded to him by his friends. This suddenness was probably caused by the fact that he had taken part in the observance of Independence Day on May 17th, a celebration which had been interdicted by the government. On reaching Cassel he went to Spohr, who accorded him a cold reception. "I have come more than five hundred miles to hear you," said Ole Bull, wishing to be polite. "Very well," was the reply, "you can now go to Nordhausen; I am to attend a musical festival there," Bull therefore went to Nordhausen, where he heard a quartet by Maurer, of which Spohr played the first violin part. He was so overwhelmed with disappointment at the manner in which the quartet was played by the four masters that he came to the conclusion that he was deceived in his aspirations, and had no true calling for music. Spohr was a most methodical man, and had no appreciation for wild genius. He saw only the many faults of the self-taught youth, and coldly advised him to give up his idea of a musical career, declining to accept him as a pupil. Some five years later, Bull having in the meantime refused to accept this advice, which did not coincide with his own inclinations, Spohr heard him play, and wrote thus of him: "His wonderful playing and sureness of his left hand are worthy of the highest admiration, but, unfortunately, like Paganini, he sacrifices what is artistic to something that is not quite suitable to the noble instrument. His tone, too, is bad, and since he prefers a bridge that is quite plain, he can use A and D strings only in the lower positions, and even then pianissimo. This renders his playing (when he does not let himself loose with some of his own pieces) monotonous in the extreme. We noticed this particularly in two Mozart quartets he played at my house. Otherwise he plays with a good deal of feeling, but without refined taste." After his discouraging interview with Spohr, Ole Bull returned to Norway, making, on the way, a short visit to Göttingen, where he became involved in a duel. Feeling that his own capabilities were worth nothing, after what he had seen and heard in Germany, Ole Bull returned home in a despondent state of mind, but, on passing through a town where he had once led the theatre orchestra, he was recognised, welcomed, and compelled to direct a performance, and thus he once more fell under the influence of music, and began to apply himself vigorously to improvement. In 1831 he went to Paris in order to hear Paganini, and if possible to find some opportunity to improve himself. He failed to enter the Conservatoire, but he succeeded in hearing Paganini, and this, according to his own account, was the turning-point of his life. Paganini's playing made an immense impression on him, and he threw himself with the greatest ardour into his technical studies, in order that he might emulate the feats performed by the great Italian. His stay in Paris was full of adventure. He was hampered by poverty, and frequently in the depths of despair. At one time he is said to have attempted suicide by drowning in the Seine. There is also a story told to the effect that the notorious detective, Vidocq, who lived in the same house with him, and knew something of his circumstances, prevailed upon him to risk five francs in a gambling saloon. Vidocq stood by and watched the game, and Ole Bull came away the winner of eight hundred francs, presumably because the detective was known, and the proprietors of the saloon considered discretion to be the better part of valour. It was a delicate method of making the young man a present in a time of difficulty, but one of which the moral effect could hardly fail to be injurious. At one time, when he was ill and homeless, he entered a house in the Rue des Martyrs in which there were rooms to let. He was received and treated kindly, and was nursed through a long illness by the landlady and her granddaughter. He tried to secure a place in the orchestra of the Opéra Comique, but his arrogance lost him the position, for when he was requested to play a piece at sight, it seemed to him so simple that he asked at which end he should begin. This offence caused him to be rejected without a hearing. Fortune, however, began at last to smile upon him when he made the acquaintance of M. Lacour, a violin maker, who conceived the idea of engaging him to show off his violins. Ole Bull accordingly played on one of them at a soirée given by the Duke of Riario, Italian chargé d'affaires in Paris. He was almost overcome by the smell of assafoetida which emanated from the varnish, and which was caused by the heat. Nevertheless, he played finely, and as a result was invited to breakfast the next morning by the Duke of Montebello, Marshal Ney's son. This brought him into contact with Chopin, and shortly afterwards he gave his first concert under the duke's patronage, and with the assistance of Ernst, Chopin, and other celebrated artists. He now made a concert tour through Switzerland to Italy, and on reaching Milan he played at La Scala, where he made an immense popular success, but drew from one of the journals a scathing criticism, which, however humiliating it may have been, struck him by its truth. "M. Bull played compositions by Spohr, Mayseder, and Paganini without understanding the true character of the music, which he marred by adding something of his own. It is quite obvious that what he adds comes from genuine and original talent, from his own musical individuality; but he is not master of himself; he has no style; he is an untrained musician. If he be a diamond, he is certainly in the rough and unpolished." Ole Bull sought out the writer of this criticism, who gave him valuable advice, and for six months he devoted himself to ardent study under the guidance of able masters. In this way he learned to know himself, the nature and limitations of his own talent. We now arrive at the point in Ole Bull's career at which he became celebrated, and this was due to accident. He was at Bologna, where De Bériot and Malibran were to appear at one of the Philharmonic concerts. By chance Malibran heard that De Bériot was to receive a smaller sum than that which had been agreed upon for her services, and in a moment of pique she sent word that she was unable to appear on account of indisposition. De Bériot also declared himself to be suffering from a sprained thumb. It happened that Madame Colbran (Rossini's first wife) had one day heard Ole Bull practising as she passed his window, and now she remembered the fact, and advised the Marquis Zampieri, who was the director of the concerts, to hunt up the young violinist. Accordingly, Ole Bull, who had gone to bed very early, was roused by a tap on the door, and invited to improvise on the spot for Zampieri. Bull was then hurried off, without even time to dress himself suitably for the occasion, and placed before a most distinguished audience, which contained the Duke of Tuscany and other celebrities, besides De Bériot, with his arm in a sling. His playing charmed and captivated the audience, although he was almost overcome with exhaustion. After taking some food and wine he appeared again, and this time he asked for a theme on which to improvise. He was given three, and, instead of making a selection, he took all three and interwove them in so brilliant a manner that he carried the audience by storm. He was at once engaged for the next concert, and made such success that he was accompanied to his hotel by a torchlight procession, and his carriage drawn home by the excited people. Ole Bull continued his triumphant course through Italy. At Lucca he played at the duke's residence, where the queen-dowager met with a surprise, as Ole refused to begin playing until she stopped talking. At Naples he experienced the misfortune of having his violin stolen, and he was obliged to buy a Nicholas Amati, for which he paid a very high price. After playing and making a great success in Rome, he returned to Paris, where he now found the doors of the Grand Opéra open to him, and he gave several concerts there. In 1836 he married Félicie Villernot, the granddaughter of the lady in whose house he had met with so much kindness during his first stay in Paris. Following the advice of Rossini, he went to London, where he made his usual success, notwithstanding the intrigues of certain musicians, who endeavoured to discredit him. Such was his popularity in England that he received for one concert, at Liverpool, the sum of £800, and in sixteen months' time he gave two hundred and seventy-four concerts in the United Kingdom. He now decided to visit Germany, and on his way through Paris he made the acquaintance of Paganini, who greeted him with the utmost cordiality. He went through Germany giving many concerts, and visited Cassel, where he was now received by Spohr with every mark of distinction. He played in Berlin, where his success was great, notwithstanding some adverse criticism. He also played in Vienna and Buda-Pesth, and so on through Russia. At St. Petersburg he gave several concerts before audiences of five thousand people. He now went through Finland and so on to Sweden and Norway, where he was fêted. Although closely followed by Vieuxtemps and Artot, Ole Bull was the first celebrated violinist to visit America, and in 1843 he made his first trip, landing in Boston in November of that year and proceeding directly to New York, playing for the first time on Evacuation Day. "John Bull went out on this day," he said, "and Ole Bull comes in." He remained two years in the United States, during which time he played in two hundred concerts and met with many remarkable adventures. During his sojourn he wrote a piece called "Niagara," which he played for the first time in New York, and which became very popular. He also wrote "The Solitude of the Prairies," which won more immediate success. He travelled during these two years more than one hundred thousand miles, and played in every city of importance. He is estimated to have netted by his trip over $80,000, besides which he contributed more than $20,000, by concerts, to charitable institutions. No artist ever visited the United States and received so many honours. In 1852 he returned to America, and this time he was destined to meet with tribulation. It was his desire to aid the poor of his country by founding a colony. He therefore bought a tract of land of 125,000 acres in Potter County, Pennsylvania, on the inauguration of which he stated his purpose: "We are to found a New Norway, consecrated to liberty, baptised with independence, and protected by the Union's mighty flag." Some three hundred houses were built, with a store and a church, and a castle on a mountain, which was designed for his permanent home. Hundreds flocked to the new colony, and the scheme took nearly the whole of his fortune. Ole Bull now started on a concert tour together with little Adelina Patti, her sister Amalia Patti Strakosch, and Mr. Maurice Strakosch. Patti was then only eight years old, and was already exciting the wonder of all who heard her. When crossing the Isthmus of Panama his violin was stolen by a native porter, and Ole Bull was obliged to remain behind to find his instrument, while the company went on to California. He was now taken down with yellow fever, and owing to a riot in the town he was entirely neglected, and was obliged to creep off his bed on to the floor in order to escape the bullets which were flying about. On his recovery he set out for San Francisco, but the season was too late for successful concerts. He was miserably weak, and when he played his skin would break and bleed as he pressed the strings. He now heard that there was some trouble in regard to his title to the land in Pennsylvania, and, hastening to Philadelphia, he was legally notified that he was trespassing. It transpired that the man who had sold the land to Ole Bull had no claim to it whatever, and had perpetrated a barefaced swindle, and now, having the money, he dared his victim to do his worst. The actual owner of the land, who had come forward to assert his rights, became interested in the scheme, and was willing to sell the land at a low price, but Ole now had no money. He instituted legal proceedings against the swindler, who, in return, harassed the violinist as much as possible, trying to prevent his concerts by arrests, and bringing suits against him for services supposed to have been rendered. It is even stated that an attempt was made to poison him, which only failed because the state of excitement in which he was at the time prevented his desire for food. Ole Bull now set to work to retrieve his fortunes, but ill luck still followed him, and he fell a victim to chills and fever, was abandoned by his manager, and taken to a farm-house on a prairie in Illinois, where he endured a long illness. For five years he continued his struggle against misfortune, and during that period he made hosts of friends who did much to help him in one way and another. Nevertheless, when he gave his last concerts in New York, in 1857, he was still so ill that he had to be helped on and off the stage. He now returned to Bergen, where the air of his native land soon restored him to health. On his arrival, however, he found that the report had been circulated that he had been speculating at the expense of his countrymen, and that they were the only sufferers by his misfortunes. For a short time he assumed control of the National Theatre, but before long he was again on the road, giving concerts in various parts of Europe. While he was in Paris, in 1862, his wife died. The year 1867 found him again in the United States, and during this tour he met at Madison, Wis., Miss Sara C. Thorpe, the lady who was to become his second wife. He also took part in the Peace Jubilee in Boston, in 1869. When he sailed for Norway, in April, 1870 (he was to be married on his arrival), the New York Philharmonic Society presented him with a beautiful silken flag. This flag--the Norwegian colours with the star-spangled banner inserted in the upper staff section--was always carried in the seventeenth of May processions in Bergen, and floated on the fourth of July. The remaining years of Ole Bull's life were spent in comparative freedom from strife and struggle. He spent much of his time in Norway, but also found time for many concert tours. His sixty-sixth birthday was spent in Egypt, and he solemnised the occasion by ascending the Pyramid of Cheops and playing, on its pinnacle, his "Saeter-besög." This performance took place at the suggestion of the King of Sweden, to whom the account was duly telegraphed the next morning from Cairo. In Boston Ole Bull was always a great favourite and had many friends. He felt much interest in the Norsemen's discovery of America, and took steps to bring the subject before the people of Boston. The result of his efforts is to be seen in the statue of Lief Ericsson, commemorative of the event, which adorns the Public Gardens. In March and April, 1880, Ole Bull appeared at a few concerts in the Eastern cities, with Miss Thursby, and in June he sailed, for the last time, from America. He was in poor health, but, contrary to all hopes, the sea voyage did not improve his condition, and much anxiety was felt until his home was reached. A few weeks later he died, and, at the funeral, honours more than royal were shown. In the city of Bergen all business was suspended, and the whole population of the city stood waiting to pay their last respects to the celebrated musician and patriot. Ole Bull was a man of remarkable character and an artist of undoubted genius. All who heard him, or came in contact with him, agree that he was far from being an ordinary man. Tall, of athletic build, with large blue eyes and rich flaxen hair, he was the very type of the Norseman, and there was something in his personal appearance and conversation which acted with almost magnetic power on those who approached him. He was a prince of story-tellers, and his fascination in this respect was irresistible to young and old alike, and its effect not unlike his violin playing. In regard to his playing, his technical proficiency was such as very few violinists have ever attained to. His double stopping was perfect, his staccato, both upward and downward, of the utmost brilliancy, and though he cannot be considered a serious musician in the highest sense of the word, he played with warm and poetical, if somewhat sentimental, feeling. He has often been described as the "flaxen-haired Paganini," and his style was to a great extent influenced by Paganini, but only so far as technicalities are concerned. In every other respect there was a wide difference, for while Paganini's manner was such as to induce his hearers to believe that they were under the spell of a demon, Ole Bull took his hearers to the dreamy moonlit regions of the North. It is this power of conveying a highly poetic charm which enabled him to fascinate his audiences, and it is a power far beyond any mere trickster or charlatan. He was frequently condemned by the critics for playing popular airs, which indeed formed his greatest attraction for the masses of the people. He seldom played the most serious music, in fact, he confined himself almost entirely to his own compositions, most of which were of a nature to meet the demand of his American audiences. When Ole Bull played in Boston in 1852, after having been absent for several years, during which time other violinists had been heard, John S. Dwight wrote of his performance thus: "We are wearied and confused by any music, however strongly tinged with any national or individual spirit, however expressive in detail, skilful in execution, and original or bold, or intense in feeling, if it does not at the same time impress us by its unity as a whole, by its development from first to last of one or more pregnant themes. As compositions, therefore, we do not feel reconciled to what Ole Bull seems fond of playing.... He cannot be judged by the usual standards, his genius is exceptional, intensely individual in all its forms and methods, belongs to the very extreme of the romantic as distinguished from the classical in art. He makes use of the violin and of the orchestra, in short of music, simply and mainly to impress his own personal moods, his own personal experience, upon the audiences. You go to hear Ole Bull, rather than to hear and feel his music. It is eminently a personal matter.... Considered simply as an executive power, he seems, after hearing so many good violinists for years past, to exceed them all--always excepting Henri Vieuxtemps." It may be said with truth that Ole Bull achieved his reputation at a time when it was comparatively easy to do so. There was very little musical cultivation in this country when he first appeared here, as may be easily imagined by a glance at the extracts from criticisms, given here and there. By his strong personality, apparent mastery of his instrument, and by being practically the sole occupant of the field, he became famous and popular. He prided himself on the fact that his playing was addressed rather to the hearts than to the sensitive ears of his audiences, and during his later years he adopted certain mannerisms by way of distracting attention from his somewhat imperfect performances. He never made any pretension to being a musician of the modern school, nor of any regularly recognised school of music, but his concert pieces were his own compositions, of no great merit, and he still more delighted his audiences by playing national airs as no one had ever played them before. He was a minstrel rather than a musician in the broad sense of the word, but he held the hearts of the people as few, if any, minstrels had previously done. CHAPTER VII. 1830 TO 1850. One of the most noticeable features of the biography of the violin virtuoso is that he invariably displays great talent at an early age and plays in public at any time from eight to twelve years old. There are doubtless more who do this than are ever heard of at a later day, for the idea of the infant phenomenon is alluring. The way of the violinist is hard. He has many years of study and self-denial before him, if he is to excel as a musician. Therefore the infant who can be exploited in such a manner as to make money provides for his future education, unless hard work or flattery kill him physically or intellectually before he is ripe. Many prodigies sink into oblivion,--some few rise to celebrity. It will be noticed that the violinists who played in public while very young have invariably settled down afterward to serious study, and at a more mature age have thus been able to take their place in the musical world. Year by year, too, the demands upon the violinist have been greater. A virtuoso is judged rather by the standard of Beethoven's concerto than by his ability to perform musical gymnastics with operatic selections. Nevertheless, it is a fact that many of the best known violinists were those who catered to the taste of the multitude, while many better musicians have been comparatively unknown. Among celebrated violinists few have led more romantic or adventurous lives than Edouard Remenyi, whose name is not yet forgotten in this country. Born at Hewes, in Hungary, in 1830, he possessed the restless spirit of his race, fought in the insurrection of 1848, escaped to the United States when the insurrection was crushed, but was received into favour again a few years later, on his return to his native land. From his twelfth to his fifteenth year he studied the violin at the Vienna Conservatoire under Böhm, who was also the teacher of Joachim. In 1848 he became adjutant to the distinguished General Görgey, and fought under Kossuth and Klapka in the war with Austria. Then came the flight to America, where he made a tour as a virtuoso, but in 1853 he visited Weimar, and sought out Franz Liszt, who at once recognised his genius and became his friend and guide. In 1854 he went to London and was appointed solo violinist in the queen's band, but when in 1860 he obtained his amnesty and returned to Hungary he was created solo violinist in the band of the Emperor of Austria. His restless disposition would not allow him to remain long in one place, and in 1865 he once more began to travel. He visited Paris, where he created a perfect furore, and then continued his triumphant course through Germany, Holland, and Belgium. After settling in Paris for about two years, he returned in 1877 to London, where he repeated his Parisian successes, appearing, as in Paris, chiefly in the salons of wealthy patrons. During this visit to London he appeared in public only once, at Mapleson's benefit at the Crystal Palace, when he played a fantasia on themes from the "Huguenots." The following year he went once more to the United States, and on his way played at the promenade concerts in London. In America he remained for some years, and then proceeded in 1887 to the Cape of Good Hope and Madagascar. While on this voyage it was reported that his ship was wrecked and that he was drowned, and numerous obituary notices of him appeared in the newspapers throughout the world. In 1891 he was once more in London, and played at the house of the late Colonel North, "the Nitrate King." He now returned to the United States, where he passed the remainder of his days. His powers were, however, failing, and other violinists had brought new and perhaps higher interest to American audiences. When Remenyi visited the United States in 1878, he arrived a few weeks after Wilhelmj, and notwithstanding the fact that the two violinists were widely different in temperament, ideas, musicianship, in fact in every particular, they were frequently made the subjects of comparison. At this time Remenyi played an "Otello Fantaisie," "Suwanee River," "Grandfather's Clock," etc. He was well sketched in a journal of the time, which said: "Remenyi is gifted with a vivacious, generous, rather mocking disposition which rebels against monotony, and whose originality shines through everything, and in spite of everything. He is fluent in five or six languages, and entertains with droll conceits, or with reminiscences of famous artists and composers.... In the wild rhythms of the gypsy dance, in the fierce splendour of the patriotic hymn, the player and audience alike are fired with excitement. The passion rises, the tumult waxes furious; a tremendous sweep of the bow brings the music to an end; and then we can say that we have heard Remenyi." The gypsy dance and the patriotic hymn! And yet he was weighed in the balance with Wilhelmj, who played the grandest and best music in the most refined, musicianly manner, and whose tour in America marked an epoch in the musical life of the country. In his prime Remenyi was the master of an enormous technique, and the possessor of a strongly pronounced poetic individuality. His whole soul was in his playing, and his impulse carried him away with it as he warmed to his task, and it carried the audience too. His greatest success was in the playing of Hungarian music, some of which he adapted for his instrument, but the stormier pieces of Chopin which he arranged for the violin were given by him with tremendous effect. In the more tender pieces, such as the nocturnes of Field and of Chopin, he played with the utmost dreaminess. His individuality showed in his playing. He was impulsive and uncertain,--a wandering musician, who, when the whim took him, would disappear from public view altogether. When he made a success in any place his restless nature would not allow him to follow it up, so that when his prime was past, instead of having formed connections which should have lasted him for the rest of his life, he was still the wandering musician, but without the marvellous powers which he had wielded only a few years before. During his long career he toured Australia and almost all the islands of the Pacific, also Java, China, and Japan; in fact, he went where few, if any, violinists of his ability had been before. Once upon a time the representative of a London newspaper went to interview Remenyi, and was surprised to find that the violinist was not only willing to tell him much, but even proposed questions which he should answer. He said that he had played in the 60's before the natives of South Africa, and had been shipwrecked, after which he had the pleasure of reading some very fine obituary notices. In New Zealand he found the Maoris perfectly reckless in their demand for encores, and instead of playing six pieces, as announced on his programmes, he frequently had to play sixteen. In South Africa he discovered thirty out of his collection of forty-seven old and valuable violins. Most of them were probably the property of the Huguenots, who after the edict of Nantes went to Holland and thence to South Africa, to which place they were banished by the Dutch government. It was related by Remenyi that when he was a young man in Hamburg, in 1853, he was to appear at a fashionable soirée one night, but at the last moment his accompanist was too ill to play. Remenyi went to a music store and asked for an accompanist. The proprietor sent Johannes Brahms, then a lad of sixteen, who was struggling for existence and teaching for a very small sum. Remenyi and Brahms became so interested in each other that they forgot all about the soirée, and sat up till four the next morning chatting and playing together. Remenyi's negligence of his engagement resulted in the loss of any further business in Hamburg, and together with Brahms he set out for Hanover, giving concerts as they went, and thus earning sufficient funds to carry them on their way. At Hanover they called upon Joachim, who arranged for them to play before the court. After this they proceeded to the Altenberg to see Liszt, who received them warmly, and offered them a home. During all this time Brahms received little or no recognition, in spite of Remenyi's enthusiasm in his cause, neither did he find very much favour with Liszt, although the latter recognised his talent. He therefore returned to Hanover, where Joachim gave him a letter to Schumann, and it was Schumann's enthusiastic welcome and declaration that a new genius had arisen that established Brahms's reputation in musical circles. Remenyi said that Brahms, shortly after his arrival at the Altenberg, offended Liszt and his pupils by comfortably sleeping during one of the famous lessons, which were in the nature of a general class. This breach of manners Brahms justified on the score of being exhausted by his previous journey. The death of Remenyi, which occurred on May 15, 1898, created a sensation throughout the country. He had, after many misgivings, consented to appear in "vaudeville." The financial inducement was large, and he soothed his artistic conscience with the argument that his music would tend to elevate the vaudeville rather than that the vaudeville would tend to degrade him. It was at the Orpheus Theatre in San Francisco, and it was his first appearance. He played one or two selections, and being tremendously applauded, and correspondingly gratified, he returned and answered the encore with the well-known "Old Glory." He was in his best vein, and played as one inspired. The audience literally rose with him, leaving their seats in their excitement, and the applause lasted several minutes. He came forward, and in response to another burst of applause commenced to play Delibes's "Fizzicati." He had played but a few measures when he leaned over as if to speak to one of the musicians in the orchestra. He paused a moment, and then fell slowly forward on his face. One of the musicians caught him before he touched the stage, and thus prevented his rolling off. All was over. Remenyi left a widow, a son, and a daughter, who lived in New York. His health had been failing for some time, for in 1896, for the first time in thirty years, he had, while in Davenport, Iowa, been compelled to cancel all his engagements and rest. It is said that Remenyi's real name was Hoffmann. The name of Miska Hauser is seldom mentioned in these days, and yet it was once known all over the world. No virtuoso of his time travelled more extensively, and few created more enthusiasm than did Hauser. He was born in Pressburg, Hungary, in 1822, and became a pupil of Böhm and of Mayseder at Vienna, also of Kreutzer and Sechter. He is said to have acquired more of Mayseder's elegant style and incisive tone than of the characteristics of his other teachers, but his talent was devoted to the acquisition of virtuoso effects, which appeal to the majority rather than to the most cultivated. As a boy of twelve Hauser made an extensive and successful concert tour. In 1840 he toured Europe, and ten years later went to London, and thence to the West Indies and the United States, where he made quite a sensation, and was a member of Jenny Lind's company. He afterwards visited San Francisco, where he got himself into difficulties on account of Lola Montes. Then he went to South America, visiting Lima, where passionate creoles languished for him, Santiago, where a set of fanatics excited the mob against him, declaring that he was charmed by the devil, and Valparaiso, where he suffered shipwreck. He then proceeded to the Sandwich Islands, where he played before the royal family and all the dusky nobles. They listened solemnly, but made no sign of approbation, and Hauser felt that he was sinking into a mere nothing in their esteem. In desperation he tore the strings from his violin and played, with all his power, several sentimental songs on the G string only. Then he gave them Paganini's witches' dance. This succeeded, and they gave a yell of joy and wanted more. They particularly delighted in harmonic effects, and before long were willing to do anything for the foreigner who could pipe on the wood as well as any bird. He became a hero at Otaheite, but was obliged to continue on his journey. He next visited Australia, and while in Sydney he made such a success that he was presented with the freedom of the city and thanked by the government for his playing. In 1860 he reached Turkey, where he played before the Sultan, who beat time to his music and seemed highly delighted. Hauser had many amusing stories to tell of his travels, and especially of his experiences in the Sandwich Islands and Turkey, Cairo and Alexandria. His adventures, which were numerous and thrilling, were published in two volumes, in Vienna. Hauser was not the possessor of a great technique, but there was something characteristic and charming in his tone and mannerisms, which were especially pleasing to the fair sex. He was a man of restless, and, in some respects, dissatisfied nature. Some of his compositions are still to be found on concert programmes, and these he used to play exquisitely. Hauser lived in retirement in Vienna after concluding his travels, and in 1887 he died practically forgotten. Few violinists succeeded more completely in captivating their audiences than Henri Wieniawski, whose impetuous Slavonic temperament, with its warm and tender feeling, gave a colour to his playing, which placed his hearers entirely under his control, went straight to their hearts, and enlisted their sympathy from the very first note. Both fingering and bowing were examples of the highest degree of excellence in violin technique, and difficulties did not exist for him. At times his fiery temperament may have led him to exaggeration, and to a step beyond the bounds of good taste, but this was lost sight of in the peculiar charm of his playing, its gracefulness and piquancy. Wieniawski's tour in America, which took place in 1872, when he accompanied Rubinstein, may be said to mark an era in the musical life of this nation. These two great artists revealed the possibilities of the musical art to a people who, while loving music, were still in their infancy as far as musical development is concerned. Wieniawski, like nearly all the great performers, showed his talent while very young. He was born in 1835 at Lublin, in Poland, where his father was a medical man. He was taken to Paris by his mother when he was only eight years old, and he entered the Conservatoire, where he soon joined Massart's class, and when only eleven gained the first prize for violin playing. After this he made a concert tour in Poland and Russia, but soon returned to Paris to renew his studies, especially composition. In 1850 he went again on the road, and with his brother Joseph, a pianist, he gave concerts in most of the principal towns in the Netherlands, France, England, and Germany. In 1860 he was appointed solo violinist to the Emperor of Russia, and held that position for twelve years, residing chiefly at St. Petersburg. It was at the conclusion of this engagement that he made his tour in the United States with Rubinstein, who was his intimate friend, and when the great pianist returned to Europe Wieniawski remained in America and succeeded in making a large fortune, travelling all over the country and creating a furore by his performances. This tour was cut short toward the end of 1874 by a telegram from Brussels offering him the position of professor of violin at the Conservatoire, during the illness of Vieuxtemps. He remained in Brussels until 1877, when, Vieuxtemps becoming convalescent, Wieniawski set forth once more on his travels. At this time his health was failing, and an incident took place at Berlin which is well worth recording. During a concert he was seized with a sudden spasm, and was compelled to stop in the middle of a concerto. Joachim was amongst the audience, and came to the rescue, taking up Wieniawski's violin and finishing the programme, thus showing his friendship for the sufferer and earning the enthusiastic applause of an appreciative audience. Notwithstanding his sufferings, Wieniawski continued his tour, but at Odessa he broke down altogether. It has been stated that he died unknown and friendless in the hospital at Moscow, and was buried by public charity; but his son, Jules Wieniawski, has contradicted this, and states that he died in the house of the Countess of Meek, and was buried by the Czar Alexander III., of whom he was the friend as well as the favourite violinist. Wieniawski was a man of somewhat enthusiastic nature, and his actions were not always tempered by the most perfect wisdom. It was said that just before his marriage to Miss Hampton he took a run up the Rhine, not, like a wise man, waiting until he had some one to take proper care of him. The consequence was that he must just take an hour's look into Wiesbaden to see several old friends, and this led naturally to passing an idle moment looking at the green table doings. Here the excitement became too great for one of his temperament, and he felt compelled to stake a small sum. A small sum led to a larger amount, and when he left the place he was poorer to the tune of forty thousand francs, and he came away to his bride a sadder and wiser man. Although a great gambler, Wieniawski owed the loss of a large part of his fortune to the failure of a New York banking firm in 1873, rather than to his favourite propensity. The friendship between him and Vieuxtemps was very strong, in fact it was described as being ideal. Once, while Wieniawski was playing at a concert, Vieuxtemps was among the audience, and, at the conclusion of one of the violinist's solos, Vieuxtemps called, at the top of his voice, "Bravo, Wieniawski!" This drew attention to Vieuxtemps, who was immediately recognised by the audience and enthusiastically welcomed. Wieniawski's compositions number two and twenty. As a proof of the old adage that "doctors do not always agree," we are told by one excellent authority that his D minor concerto, the two polonaises, and his "Legende" will probably never vanish from the violinist's repertoire, and by another that Wieniawski's compositions are not of much importance. Both statements are no doubt true, for there are many fascinating concert pieces which, from the strictly classical point of view, are not important additions to musical literature. An American critic wrote of him, after his first appearance: "In Wieniawski we have the greatest violinist who has yet been heard in America.... Of all now living Joachim alone can claim superiority over him." This sweeping enthusiasm was not universal, for a critic more difficult to please wrote as follows: "Wieniawski's playing is as perfect as a faultless technique, artistic culture, great aesthetic sensibility, and perfect mastery over himself and his instrument can make it But with all its perfection we cannot but feel that the great original, heaven-and-earth-moving master-soul is wanting." He was also severely scathed by a critic in New York in 1872, who wrote: "Some people like pure, clear tone,--others don't. Those who admire scratching and false stopping, together with sundry other things of the same nature, would have experienced wild joy upon hearing Beethoven's "Violin Concerto" as it was played by Wieniawski; but for those who regard a correct intonation as a thing of primal importance, it could not have been pleasing. Wieniawski belongs to that school of which Ole Bull is a prominent member, whose first article of belief is that genuine passion and fervour is signified by rasping the strings." Other criticisms of the same concert, however, were of a very different tenor, and when, a week or two later, Wieniawski played the same concerto in Boston, John S. Dwight praised the performance highly, and took occasion to specially record his disagreement with the eminent critic in New York. While not technically the equal of one or two of his contemporaries, Wieniawski played with so much fire, and knew so well how to reach the heart of his audience by methods perfectly legitimate, that he must be ranked among the greatest violinists. Don Pablo Martin Meliton de Sarasate is a name known throughout Europe and America, if not throughout the civilised world. Sarasate was born in Spain, in Pampeluna, the chief city of Navarre. He was a youthful prodigy, and played before the court of Madrid at the age of ten, when Queen Isabella was so delighted with him that she presented him with a fine Stradivarius violin. A couple of years later he was sent to Paris, where he entered the Conservatoire, and was admitted into Alard's class, while M. Lassabathie, who was then administrator of the institution, took him into his house and boarded him. This arrangement continued until the death, about ten years later, of M. Lassabathie. In the course of a year after entering the Conservatoire, Sarasate won the first prize for violin playing. From the first he manifested remarkable facility in mechanical execution, and his playing was distinguished for elegance and delicacy, though nothing indicated that his talent would become extraordinary. For ten years after gaining the prize Sarasate remained a salon violinist, of amiable disposition, a ladies' virtuoso, with a somewhat mincing style, who played only variations on opera motives, and who was an entire stranger to classical music. Then came a complete change; the character of his playing becoming serious, a large and noble style replaced the mincing manner which he had previously affected, and, instead of the showy trifles which had filled his repertoire, he took to the works of the great masters. By hard work he developed his technical ability, so that he reached the limit beyond which few, if any, violinists succeed in passing. And all this he accomplished without losing anything of the elegance of his phrasing or of the infinite charm of his tone. Although Sarasate made Paris his home, he began to travel as early as 1859, and in 1872, when he played in Paris, he was welcomed as a new star. When his prestige was well established in Paris his friends advised him to go to Germany, but he feared that so soon after the Franco-German war he, who by long residence was practically a Frenchman, would not be welcome. At last, however, the entreaties of his friends prevailed, and when Sarasate appeared at Leipzig he produced an immense sensation. Then followed a series of tours in Germany, Russia, Austria, England, and Belgium, which lasted three years, and brought him much glory and pecuniary gain. In Vienna the celebrated critic, Hanslick, wrote of him as follows: "There are few violinists whose playing gives such unalloyed enjoyment as the performance of this Spaniard. His tone is incomparable,--not powerfully or deeply affecting, but of enchanting sweetness. The infallible correctness of the player contributes greatly to the enjoyment. The moment the bow touches the Stradivarius a stream of beautiful sound flows toward the hearer. A pure tone seems to me the prime quality of violin playing--unfortunately, also, it is a rare quality. Sarasate's virtuosity shines and pleases and surprises the audience continually. He is distinguished, not because he plays great difficulties, but because he plays with them." Both in France and Germany Sarasate has always been a great favourite, and is always sure of a large and enthusiastic audience, even though he has passed the zenith of his powers. He has never taken pupils, but has confined himself to concert playing only, and he has been called the highest-priced player in Germany, where it was said that he received three thousand marks for a concert, while even Joachim received only one thousand. He has received many valuable gifts during his career, and these he has presented to his native city, Pampeluna, where they have been placed in a museum by the municipal council. The collection includes articles of great worth from the Emperor William I. of Germany, Napoleon III., the Emperor of Brazil, and the Queen of Spain, and its value is estimated at one hundred thousand francs. Sarasate has visited the United States twice, and won great favour, for his playing is of the kind which appeals to the fancy, graceful, vivacious, and pure toned, and he plays Spanish dances in a manner never to be surpassed. He has been compared with some of the most eminent violinists thus:--Vieuxtemps was an artist with an ardent mind, and a magnificent interpreter of Beethoven; Joachim towers aloft in the heights of serene poetry, upon the Olympic summits inaccessible to the tumults of passion; Sivori was a dazzling virtuoso; Sarasate is an incomparable charmer. There are doubtless many who remember the tour of August Wilhelmj, the celebrated violinist, who visited the United States about twenty years ago. He was considered second to no artist then living in his general command over the resources of his instrument, and he excelled in the purity and volume of his tone, no less than in the brilliancy of his execution. He did not possess the warmth and impulsiveness which constituted the charm of Wieniawski, but his performances appealed to his audiences in a different and more legitimate manner. He was even a greater traveller than Remenyi, and visited almost, if not quite, every civilised country. His travels took him throughout Europe, America, Australia, and Asia. He was, in 1885, invited by the Sultan of Turkey to perform in his seraglio, the only violinist to whom such a compliment had ever been paid. The Sultan on this occasion decorated him with the Order of the Medjidie, second class, and presented him with some beautiful diamonds. August Wilhelmj was born in 1845 at Usingen, in the Duchy of Nassau, and, showing his aptitude, was placed under Konrad Fischer, a violinist of Wiesbaden, at the age of six. His progress was so rapid that when nine years old he played in a concert in Limburg and received great applause. Wilhelmj's father was a lawyer of distinction and a wealthy vine-grower, and, in spite of the boy's progress, he did not favour the idea of allowing him to take to the violin as a profession, for he felt that the majority of infant prodigies fail as they reach manhood. But the boy had received much encouragement, and persisted in his desire. Henrietta Sontag, the celebrated singer, heard him play Spohr's ninth concerto and "The Carnival of Venice," and was so charmed that she said he would become the German Paganini. In the course of time Wilhelmj succeeded in obtaining a concession from his father:--he was to get the judgment of a musical authority on his capabilities, and, if favourable, no objection should be made to his becoming a virtuoso. On the recommendation of Prince Emil of Wittgenstein, the young violinist went in 1861 to Liszt at Weimar, and after playing to him Spohr's "Scena Cantante" and the Hungarian fantasia by Ernst, he was asked to play several pieces at sight. At the end of this trial Liszt sprang from his seat, calling out in a loud voice, "Ay! indeed you are predestinated to become a violinist--so much so that for you the violin must have been invented if it had not already existed." This judgment satisfied the father, and a few days later Liszt himself took the boy to Leipzig and introduced him to Ferdinand David, saying, "Let me present to you a future Paganini. Look well to him!" For three years Wilhelm; was a pupil of David, and at the same time studied the theory of music with Richter and Hausmann. In due course he passed his examinations at the Leipzig Conservatory, playing Joachim's Hungarian concerto. In 1865 he began his concert tours, travelling through Switzerland and Holland to England, and from this time he seems to have been almost continually travelling. During 1869, 1870, and 1871 he made a long tour in England with Charles Santley, the great singer. In 1876 he led the violins at the Nibelungen performance at Bayreuth, and the Wagner concerts in London, at the Albert Hall, in 1877, were due to his representations. In 1882, after travelling all over the globe, he spent some time in Russia, but presently returned to Germany and established a violin school at Biberich, which, however, he abandoned after a time. From time to time he continued to play in public, but gradually withdrew and lived in retirement at Blasewitz, near Dresden. Eventually he went to London, where he was appointed professor at the Guildhall School of Music. Unfortunately, his powers have been on the wane for some years past, but though the days of his public performances are past, he is known as a most patient and painstaking teacher. The high esteem in which he has been held was quaintly expressed by an eminent musician, who referred to his decadence in these words: "Ah, if Wilhelmj had not been what he _is_, Joachim would never have been what _he_ is." By which one may infer that Wilhelmj was, in some respects, a greater man than Joachim. In 1894 Wilhelmj married Marcella Mausch-Jerret, of Dresden, a distinguished pianist. Wilhelmj's first appearance in America took place on September 26, 1878, in New York, and his playing caused an unusual demonstration. He was described in the following words: "His figure is stately, his face and attitude suggest reserve force and that majestic calm which seems to befit great power.... A famous philosopher once said that beauty consists of an exact balance between the intellect and the imagination. The violin performance of Wilhelmj exhibits this just proportion more perfectly than the work of any other artist of whom we have personal knowledge. Wilhelmj himself has said, 'After all, what the people want is intellectual playing,' that is, playing with a clear under standing." Neither his character nor his playing was of such a nature as to appeal to the great mass of people in the way in which Remenyi and Ole Bull won their hearts. Wilhelmj was massive in person and in tone. He stood for dignity in his actions, appearance, and playing, and was honoured by the more cultivated and educated portion of the people. He is regarded by musicians as one of the greatest violinists who ever visited America, and at the present day visiting artists are spoken of as "one of the best since Wilhelmj," or, "not to be compared with Wilhelmj," and by many Ysaye is regarded as "the best--since Wilhelmj." Martin Pierre Joseph Marsick, who was born at Jupille, near Liège, on March 9, 1848, is one of the foremost solo and quartet violinists of the day, with a remarkable technique and admirable intelligence, power, and fire. When eight years of age he was placed at the music school at Liège, where in two years he gained the first prize in the preparatory classes. In 1864 he secured the gold medal, which is awarded only to pupils of extraordinary talent. [Illustration: MARTIN PIERRE JOSEPH MARSICK] He now entered the Brussels Conservatoire, where his expenses were met by a lady who was a musical enthusiast, and he studied for two years under Léonard, working at the same time in composition under Kufferath. In 1868 he went to Paris, where he studied for a season under Massart. In 1870 Marsick proceeded to Berlin, where, through the instrumentality of a government subvention, he was enabled to study under Joachim. After that he began to travel, and soon acquired a great reputation. He was said to equal, if not exceed, Sarasate in the wonderful celerity of his scales, and in lightness and certainty. His tone is not very full, but is sweet and clear. His playing is also marked by exceptional smoothness, scholarly phrasing, and graceful accentuation, but, in comparison with some of the other great players, he lacks breadth and passion. He appeals rather to the educated musician than to the general public, and for that reason many people were somewhat disappointed when he played in the United States in 1896. He was compared with Ysaye, a player of an entirely different stamp, and he suffered in popular estimation by the comparison. To this period also belong a number of excellent violinists whose names are seldom heard in America. Edmund Singer, a Hungarian, born in 1831, by dint of hard work and talent reached a high position. He became celebrated as a teacher, and was for years professor of violin at the conservatory in Stuttgart. He was also largely instrumental in the establishment of the Musical Artists' Society of that place. Ferdinand Laub was a virtuoso of high rank who was born in Prague in 1832. He succeeded Joachim at Weimar, but two years later became violin teacher at the Stern-Marx conservatory in Berlin, also concert-master of the royal orchestra and chamber virtuoso. Heinrich Karl de Ahna was an excellent artist, and was for some years second violin in the famous Joachim quartet. At the age of fourteen he had already made a successful concert tour, and become chamber virtuoso to the Duke of Coburg-Gotha. He then abandoned the musical profession and entered the army, fighting in the Italian campaign as lieutenant. After the war he returned to his profession, and became leader of the royal band in Berlin and professor at the Hochschule. He died in 1892. Russia also produced an excellent violinist, Wasil Wasilewic Besekirskij, who was born at Moscow, and after a career as virtuoso in the west of Europe returned to his native city. He is the composer of some good violin music and has formed some excellent pupils, of whom Gregorowitsch is perhaps best known. In England, John Tiplady Carrodus and the Holmes brothers attained high rank. Carrodus was a native of Keighley, Yorkshire. His father was a barber, and it was only by the most constant self-denial and incessant hard work that the boy succeeded in securing his education. He walked with his father twelve miles in order to hear Vieuxtemps play, and to take his lessons he walked each week ten miles to Bradford, usually getting a ride back in the carrier's cart. He became a pupil of Molique, and eventually one of the best known violinists of England, where his character as a man was always highly respected. Alfred Holmes was born in 1837 and his brother Henry in 1839. They appeared together at the Haymarket Theatre in 1847, but immediately withdrew from public life and continued their studies for six more years. In 1853 they again appeared in London, and then made a long concert tour through the north of Europe. Finally they settled in Paris, where, nine years later, Alfred died. Henry Holmes became the chief professor of violin at the Royal College of Music in London, and has been also active as a composer and editor of violin works. Jacob Grün, too, who was born in 1837 at Buda-Pesth, and who, after a career as concert soloist in Europe, became a teacher in the Vienna conservatory, should not be forgotten. Several of his pupils are now holding valuable positions in the United States, and he is an excellent teacher, besides being popular and kind-hearted. Eduard Rappoldi, the leader of the Royal Court Orchestra at Dresden, has a high reputation as a sound and earnest player and excellent teacher. He was born in Vienna in 1839, and was at one time a teacher in the Hochschule at Berlin, but went to Dresden in 1877. CHAPTER VIII. JOACHIM. Joseph Joachim is one of the musical giants of the nineteenth century. He will be remembered as one whose life has been interwoven with the lives of the greatest musicians of his day, as one of the greatest educators in his line who ever lived, and as the embodiment of the purest and highest ideas in public performance. [Illustration: JOSEPH JOACHIM] Joachim is called the greatest violinist of modern times, and no better words can be found to describe his characteristics than those of Wasielewski, who says: "Joachim's incomparable violin playing is the true _chef-d'oeuvre_, the ideal of a perfect violinist (so far as we present-day critics can judge). Less cannot, dare not, be said, but, at the same time, more cannot be said of him or of any one, and it is enough. But that which raises him above all other contemporary violinists and musicians generally is the line he takes in his professional life. He is no virtuoso in the ordinary sense, for he is far more,--before all he will be a musician. And that he unquestionably is,--a magnificent example to young people, who are to some extent possessed of the demon of vanity, of what they should do and what they should leave undone. Joachim makes music, and his preëminent capabilities are directed toward the serving one true, genuine art, and he is right." Joachim was born on June 28, 1831, in the village of Kittsee, in Hungary, within the small radius which has produced three other great musicians,--Haydn, Hummel, and Liszt. He began to study the violin when he was five years old, and was placed under Servaczinski, leader of the opera orchestra at Pesth. In two years he made his first public appearance at a concert at Pesth, when he played a duet concerto for two violins and orchestra with his master, and a solo on a theme by Schubert, with variations. He was now (1841) sent to Vienna, where he entered the conservatoire and studied under Böhm for two years. At the end of this time he went to Leipzig, where he met with Mendelssohn and played in a concert of Madame Viardot's. A few months later he appeared as a finished artist in a Gewandhaus concert, and played Ernst's "Otello Fantasie." Leipzig was then, under Mendelssohn's guidance, in the zenith of its fame, and for a boy of twelve to appear in a Gewandhaus concert and earn, not only the applause of the audience, but also the praise of the critics, was something very unusual. But a still greater honour was in store for him,--the following year he took part, in a Gewandhaus concert, in a concertante for four violins by Maurer, the other performers being Ernst, Bazzini, and David, all violinists of renown and very much his seniors. Joachim remained in Leipzig until 1850, studying with Ferdinand David, while Hauptmann gave him instruction in composition, though during this time he occasionally travelled in Germany and elsewhere to play in concerts. Thus in 1844 Mendelssohn brought him to England, where he played in public for the first time at a benefit concert of Mr. Bunn's at Drury Lane, in March, 1844, and in May of the same year he appeared at the fifth Philharmonic concert and played Beethoven's concerto with very great success. In this year two other violinists of note made their first appearance at the Philharmonic concerts,--Ernst and Sainton, also Piatti, the great violoncellist. Joachim visited England again in 1847, and since that time so frequently that he became one of the regular features of musical life in that country, where he has been so highly honoured. Joachim's first appearance in Paris was made in 1849, when he spent two months in that city, and began his successes by playing in an orchestral concert given by Hector Berlioz. About this time Franz Liszt, who had heard of Joachim's rapidly increasing reputation, invited him to go to Weimar and lead the orchestra which he conducted. Joachim accepted the invitation and remained in Weimar two years. He could never be brought to see the beauty of the new school of music, and while he recognised the extraordinary gifts, and admired the personality and brilliant qualities of Liszt, he could not be prevailed upon to remain in Weimar longer than two years. In 1854 he accepted the post of conductor and solo violinist to the King of Hanover, a position which he retained for twelve years, during which time he enhanced his reputation as a musician, and married Amalia Weiss, a celebrated contralto singer. In 1866 the troubles which enveloped Germany brought Joachim's engagement in Hanover to an end, but two years later he entered upon what has proved to be the most important part of his career, when he was appointed professor of violin at the Hochschule for music in Berlin. This school was a new branch of the already existing Academy of Arts, and was to be a high school for musical execution, as apart from composition. Joachim threw his whole heart into the new work before him, and the branch of the school under his direction soon rivalled any similar school. Various branches were added to the school,--in 1871 a class for organ, in 1872 classes for brass instruments, double-bass, and solo vocalists, in 1873 a chorus class. In 1875 the Royal Academy of Arts was reorganised and became the Royal High School for Music, with Joachim as director. That Joachim had earned a very high position as early as 1859 is shown by an extract from the _Musical World_ of London, in that year. "So long as virtuosi walked (or galloped) in their proper sphere, they amused by their mechanical _tours de force_, charmed by their _finesse_ and did no great harm to musical taste. They were accepted _cum grano salis_, applauded for their dexterity, and admired for the elegance with which they were able to elaborate thoughts in themselves of every slight artistic worth. But recently our 'virtuosi' have been oppressed with a notion that, to succeed in this country, they must invade and carry by storm the 'classics' of the art, instead of adhering exclusively as of old to their own fantasies and _jeux de marteaux_. One composition after another by the great masters is seized upon and worried. If they were things of flesh and blood, and could feel the gripe, be conscious of the teeth, and appreciate the fangs of these rapid-devouring 'virtuosi,' concertos, sonatas, trios, etc., would indeed be in a pitiable condition. Happily, being of the spirit, they bleed not, but are immortal. "One great result attending Herr Joachim's professional visit to London is, that it enables both professors and amateurs opportunity after opportunity of studying _his_ manner of playing the works of the giants of music. _How_ Herr Joachim executes these compositions--how differently from the self-styled 'virtuosi,' how purely, how modestly, how wholly forgetful of himself in the text he considers it an honour being allowed to interpret to the crowd--we need scarcely remind our readers. Not a single eccentricity of carriage or demeanour, not a moment of egotistical display, to remind his hearers that, although Beethoven is being played, it is Joachim who is playing, ever escapes this truly admirable and (if words might be allowed to bear their legitimate signification) most accomplished of 'virtuosi.'" As an example of Joachim's conscientiousness, the following little anecdote will serve to give an idea. Joachim once introduced into the _point d'orgue_ of Beethoven's concerto a cadence terminated by a _trait en octave_, which caused an extraordinary effect. People spoke only of this cadence; it was the event of the evening wherever he played. This success wounded his feelings of artistic probity; he considered it unbecoming that people should be more taken up with the skill of the executant than with the beauties of the music, and the cadence was suppressed. During the many years of his connection with the Hochschule, Joachim's personal influence has been exerted upon a large number of pupils, in fact almost every well-known violin player has been to Berlin to seek his advice and instruction, and the players he has perfected are almost without number. Many anecdotes are told concerning his kindness to his pupils, but so greatly is he sought after that comparatively few of the hundreds who flock to Berlin are able to reach him. Joachim's early training and education developed his character both as a musician and as a man. The influence of Mendelssohn, whose friendship ended only with his death, of David, Schumann, Liszt, Berlioz, and Brahms, who was largely indebted to Joachim for the introduction of many of his works to the public, brought out the thorough uprightness, firmness of character and earnestness of purpose, and that intense dislike of all that is artificial or untrue in art, which have made him a great moral power in the musical world. He combines in a unique degree the highest executive powers with the most excellent musicianship. Unsurpassed as a master of the instrument, he uses his powers of execution in the services of art, and represents the perfection of a pure style and legitimate school, with breadth and fidelity of interpretation. His performances undoubtedly derive their charm and merit from the strength of his talent and of his artistic character, and are stamped with a striking originality of conception; at the same time fidelity to the text, and careful endeavour to enter into the spirit and feeling of the composer, are the principles of executive art which Joachim has invariably practised. In the rendering of Bach's solos, Beethoven's concertos and quartets, he has no rival, and for the revival of many great works the musical world is indebted to him. Of these, one instance may be cited, viz., the violin concerto (Op. 61) of Beethoven, which was first played by Clement, December 23, 1806. This concerto bears evidence of having been written in a hurry. Clement played it at sight without rehearsal, and, as a consequence of its being brought forward in such a slipshod manner, it was very seldom heard until its revival by Joachim. The MS. shows that the solo part was the object of much thought and alteration by the composer, but evidently after the first performance. As a composer, Joachim has contributed work of value to the literature of the violin. His "Hungarian Concerto" is a creation of real grandeur, built up in noble symphonic proportions. Most of his works are of a grave, somewhat melancholy character, and all of them are marked by earnestness of purpose and a high ideal. The jubilee of Joachim's life as a violin player was celebrated in Berlin with great ceremony and with unusual honour, and in England a demonstration was made in his honour by the public, who subscribed a sum of about $6,000, with which was purchased an instrument of wonderful beauty, a celebrated "Red Strad," which was presented to him at a public meeting held at the conclusion of the Monday Popular Concerts, in 1888. This celebration was, however, quite eclipsed by that of the sixtieth anniversary of his first public appearance, which was held at Berlin on April 22, 1899. A grand concert was given at the Philharmonie, with an orchestra consisting of two hundred performers. There were ninety violins, thirty violas, twenty-one 'celli, and twenty double-basses, and of these all except the double-basses had been pupils of Joachim, the violas and 'celli having been his pupils in chamber music. They had come from all over Europe to take part in the festival. Nearly half of the violins were concert-masters, and many of them famous soloists, as Carl Halir, Henri Petri, Jeno Hubay, Willy Hess, Gustav Hollaender, Gabrielle Wietrowitz, Marie Soldat, and others. Joachim entered the hall at half-past six, and was greeted with a deafening fanfare played by the combined trumpeters of the military bands stationed in Berlin. The audience rose in a body and added its cheers to the noise of the trumpets. A large armchair, beautifully decorated with flowers and wreaths, was reserved as a seat of honour for the great musician. The seventh number on the programme was left vacant, but when it was reached the orchestra began the introduction to Beethoven's concerto. No soloist was in sight, but Gabrielle Wietrowitz and Marie Soldat, his most celebrated women pupils, came slowly down toward Joachim's chair, one carrying a violin and the other a bow, which they placed in his hands. Joachim, however, did not wish to play, and did not yield except under the force of persuasion, and then he said: "I have not had a violin in my hands for three days; I am in no mood to play; moreover, there are many in the orchestra who can play it better than I, but I don't want to refuse." So Joachim played the great concerto, and received an ovation such as had probably never been accorded to him before. Then he conducted Bach's concerto in G major for strings, which was played by sixty-six violins, fifty-seven violas, twenty-four 'celli, and twenty double-basses, and this brought the concert to a close. The concert was followed by a banquet at which there were eight hundred guests, and the festivities lasted until four o'clock the next morning. No violinist was ever more respected or beloved by his pupils, nor did one ever wield a more powerful influence in the musical world. To be put forward by Joachim gives one a high standing in the musical world to begin with, but few indeed are those who receive this privilege in comparison with those who desire it. Joachim is not a builder of technique or a teacher of beginners. Pupils who are accepted by him must be already proficient technicians, and it may be stated that the teacher who can prepare pupils for Joachim stands high in the profession. Joachim is a great adviser, a former of style, and a master of interpretation, to whom pupils flock two or three years too early, and feel aggrieved if they are not at once accepted. "What else can you do?" he once asked of a young man who desired to become a great violinist, and had sought Joachim's advice. "I think I would like to study for the ministry," was the reply. "It is much better to be a good minister than a poor violinist," said Joachim, looking him full in the face. His liberality is proverbial, and after a long and successful life, during which he has received high salaries, he is not rich. He seldom refuses to play gratis for any really worthy object, and the anecdotes of his kindness toward his pupils are without number. Few men have shone with such an even, steady lustre, through a long life. Others have come up, flourished, and sunk into oblivion, but the light of Joachim has shone steadily for more than sixty years, and as an interpreter of the classics he has never been excelled, and perhaps never will be. CHAPTER IX. VIOLINISTS OF TO-DAY. In these latter days the number of good violinists seems to have increased greatly. A season seldom passes without witnessing the début of some half-dozen aspirants for public approbation, but the great majority of them settle down into some special field of labour, and do not acquire world-wide fame as virtuosi. Virtuosity to-day depends very largely on the art of advertising. In the old days of Viotti and Spohr, the violinist would remain in a city for months, make acquaintances, and gradually acquire a reputation which would justify his giving some concerts. A tour lasting from three to six years would cover a comparatively small amount of territory. To-day the concert agent searches among the new lights for one or two who seem, in his judgment, likely to please the audiences to whom he caters, and who will justify the curiosity roused by the wholesale advertising done in their behalf. The violinist is rushed from one place to another with mechanical precision, and flits from Maine to California and from Canada to the Gulf in a few short weeks. There are more soloists, more concerts, more musical organisations than ever before. It does not follow by any means that the travelling virtuoso is one of the _greatest_ violinists of his time. There are, in every city of Europe and in many cities of America, violinists who equal or even excel many of those who are exploited as virtuosi. The _great_ violinists are not to be found every day. In the past twenty years, perhaps, not more than two can be recalled who have visited the United States as mature, great artists,--Wilhelmj and Ysaye. Many violinists of excellent ability have been heard, and to some of them some day the adjective _great_ may be applied. The fact that they have devoted their energies to concert work, and have been favourably received by the most important musical organisations, makes them celebrated, but the word _great_ can apply but to few. Adolf Brodsky, who came to America in 1892, and who is a violinist of much ability, with a beautiful tone, facile and brilliant technique, but somewhat lacking in elegance and polish, did not come to tour the country as a virtuoso. He was engaged by Mr. Walter Damrosch as concert-master for the New York orchestra, but during his stay in this country he appeared in many of the most important concerts, and was considered one of the best violinists who had ever come to live in America. Brodsky was born in 1851 at Taganrog, in Southern Russia, and was one of those who found his profession at the age of four, when he bought a violin at a fair, and began to pick out Russian folk-tunes. For four years he was taught music at home, and made good progress. Then a wealthy gentleman was attracted by his talent, hearing him play at a concert at Odessa, and provided the funds necessary for him to go to Vienna and study under Hellmesberger. He became second violin in the celebrated Hellmesberger Quartet, and thus gained a great reputation as a quartet player. After travelling all over Europe for four years, he was appointed second professor of the violin at the Conservatory of Moscow, where he remained another four years. Then followed more study and more travel until, when Schradieck accepted the position of violin teacher at the Cincinnati conservatory, Brodsky was appointed to fill his place at Leipzig. In 1892 he was called to New York, but, owing to troubles which arose in the musical profession, he returned to Europe the following year, and, after a short sojourn in Berlin, received the appointment of director of the Royal College of Music at Manchester, England, where he succeeded Sir Charles Hallé. Emil Sauret is well known in America, for he visited the United States in 1872-73, and made a tour which was so successful, that it was repeated in 1874, when he travelled with Ilma di Murska, the great singer, and his wife, Teresa Careño, the pianist. [Illustration: EMIL SAURET] Sauret began his public career at the age of eight. He was born at Dun-le-Roi, in the department of Cher, in France, in 1852, and at the age of six entered the conservatory at Strasburg, after some preliminary instruction at home. In two years he began his travels, and for several years he divided his time between study and travel. As a boy he was taken up by De Bériot, who was much interested in his welfare. He studied under Vieuxtemps in Paris, and in 1872 was one of the artists engaged for the tour organised by the President of the French Republic for the relief of the sufferers by the Franco-German war. In 1879 ne was appointed teacher at the Stern Conservatory in Berlin, a post which he relinquished on being offered the position made vacant in the Royal Academy of Music, London, by the death of Sainton. M. Sauret is pronounced conservative and conscientious to the last degree in handling the classics, and, although he has great individuality, passion, and fire, he would consider it a sacrilege to obtrude his own personality upon the listener. He is distinguished for elegance rather than perfection of technique. He may be considered a representative of the extreme French school. In temperament he is quick and somewhat impatient. He expects much of his pupils, and is the very opposite of the painstaking, phlegmatic Wilhelmj. In 1896 M. Sauret again visited the United States, when it was admitted by those who had heard him twenty years before that he had grown to a consummate and astounding virtuoso. His tone was firm, pure, and beautiful, though not large. Marsick and Ondricek had preceded him by a few weeks, but Sauret did not suffer by comparison. One of the most remarkable violinists of the present day is César Thomson, who was born at Liège in 1857. He entered the conservatory of his native place, after receiving some instruction from his father, and had completed the regular course by the time he was twelve years of age, after which he became a pupil of Leonard. At the age of eighteen he made a concert tour through Italy, and while there became a member of the private orchestra of the Baron de Derwies. In 1879 he became a member of the Bilse Orchestra, and in 1882, having won distinction at the musical festival at Brussels, he was appointed professor of the violin in the Liège conservatory. Most of his travelling has been done since that time, and he has acquired an immense reputation in Europe. In Leipzig, at a Gewandhaus concert in 1891, he made a phenomenal success, and in 1898 at Brussels he received five enthusiastic recalls from a cold and critical audience, for his magnificent performance of the Brahms concerto. M. Thomson's command of all the technical resources of the violin is so great that he can play the most terrific passages without sacrificing his tone or clearness of phrasing, and his octave playing almost equals that of Paganini himself. Yet he is lacking in personal magnetism, and is a player for the musically cultivated rather than for the multitude, though his technique fills the listener with wonder. He visited the United States in 1896, and was, like Marsick, compared with Ysaye, who at that time swept everything before him and carried the country by storm. In 1897 César Thomson left Liège, owing, it is said, to disagreements at the Conservatoire, and made his home at Brussels. The greatest of Belgian violinists of to-day is Eugene Ysaye, who possesses that magnetism which charms alike the musician and the amateur, because of his perfect musical expression. He possesses the inexplicable and inexpressible something which takes cold judgment off its feet and leads criticism captive. Ysaye was born at Liège in 1858, and, after studying at the conservatories of his native town under his father and at Brussels, entered that of Paris, where he completed the course in 1881, and immediately afterward started on a series of concert tours. Ysaye's eminence as a violinist has been gained by hard work. He did not burst meteor-like upon the world, but he earned his position in the violin firmament by ten years of concert touring, during which time he passed successively through the stages of extreme sentimentality until he reached the "sea" of real sentiment. It was in 1873 that Ysaye, after preparation given chiefly by his father, made his way to Brussels and sought out Wieniawski, then professor at the Conservatoire. Wieniawski was teaching, when a note was brought to him marked "private and important." The servant was told to show the bearer in, and Ysaye, then about fifteen years of age, timidly entered the room carrying his violin. After a little preliminary conversation which allowed the youth to tell his history, Wieniawski asked him what he would play, and in reply he placed on the piano desk a concerto of Vieuxtemps. The result of his performance was that he at once became a pupil of Wieniawski, with whom he remained some three years, during the period in which Vieuxtemps was recovering from his paralytic shock. In 1876 Vieuxtemps heard him at Antwerp, and through his influence the Belgian government was induced to grant Ysaye a stipend in order to allow him to pursue his studies at Paris. There he was the pupil of Massart, who had also been the teacher of Wieniawski, Ysaye's master at Brussels. Vieuxtemps is said to have expressed the desire, while in Algiers during his latter years, to have Ysaye stay with him to play his compositions, but Ysaye was at that time in St. Petersburg. When Vieuxtemps died and his remains were brought to Verviers, his birthplace, Ysaye carried in the procession the violin and bow of the virtuoso on a black velvet cushion fringed with silver. When Ysaye first appeared in America he was a mature artist, the recognised leader of the Belgian school of violinists, the first professor of violin at the Brussels Conservatoire, and the possessor of many decorations and honours bestowed upon him by various royalties. Before he had been in America a month he was acknowledged to be the greatest violinist who had visited this country for many years. A man of large and powerful physique, he plays with a bold and manly vigour, and yet with exquisite delicacy. He is a master of phrasing and of all beauties of detail, has a wonderfully perfect technique, but that quality which places him at the head of all rivals is his musical feeling, his temperament. He has been compared to Rubinstein and to Paderewski. He inspires his hearers, or, as it was once expressed, very neatly, "he creeps up under your vest." He disarms criticism, and he seems to be more completely part of his violin and his violin of him than has been the case with any other player who has visited these shores for some years. He has given the greatest performance of the celebrated Bach chaconne ever heard in America. He has been declared to be not inferior to Joachim in his performance of this work, though he has not so broad a tone as the latter, nor as Wieniawski. He combines Sarasate's tenderness of tone and showy technique with more manliness and sincerity than Sarasate gives. The student, perhaps, can learn more from César Thomson than from Ysaye, but he will receive from the latter the greater inspiration. Ysaye is noted, too, for sincerity of purpose and seriousness such as few of the virtuosi have possessed. He is free from all traits of charlatanism and trickery. Once, when in California, he was asked for an autograph copy of a few measures of his original cadenza to the Beethoven concerto (an embellishment which all violinists seem obliged to compose), but he declared that he did not like the idea of an original cadenza to Beethoven's work, that it was much better to omit it, as it formed no part of the concerto. "In original cadenzas by virtuosi," he said, "we find too much violin and too little music," for which confession from such an artist the world may be truly grateful. When Ysaye came to America in 1894 he was prepared with a repertoire consisting of ninety-one pieces. Of these, fourteen were concertos, seventeen sonatas, and eleven were compositions of his own. He made a second tour in America in 1898, when he confirmed the opinions already formed as to his wonderful qualities. In March, 1899, he went to Berlin, which city he had not visited for several years, and appeared as soloist of the tenth Nikisch Philharmonic concert, when he played the E major concerto by Bach, and scored an overwhelming success. At the end of the concert he was recalled some fifteen times, and had completely exploded the idea so firmly held in Berlin, that the Belgians cannot play the classics. Of late years M. Ysaye has made his mark as a conductor, and has given a series of orchestral concerts in Brussels. He organised and managed this enterprise entirely by himself, without any guarantee fund, and the concerts were so successful, financially as well as artistically, that at the end of the season it was found that they had paid all expenses, and this, as all who know anything about the financial side of orchestral concerts, is a most remarkable showing. Few, if any, artists have been made the recipients of more ridiculous adulation from women Paderewski perhaps being the only exception, and at the conclusion of his concerts scenes have been witnessed which are simply nauseating. This fashion is not confined, by any means, to the United States, for there are anecdotes from all countries illustrative of the manner in which members of the fair sex vie with each other in the effort to do the silliest things. Ysaye has a home near the Palais de Justice in Brussels. He is married to the daughter of a Belgian army officer, and has several children. He is a man of much modesty, and is devoted to his family. As a violinist he may be considered to rank next to Joachim. Carl Halir, who visited America in 1896, was born in 1859 at Hohenelbe in Bohemia, and was first taught by his father. He entered the conservatory at Prague at the age of eight, and remained there until he was fourteen, studying under Bennewitz, after which he went to Berlin and became a pupil of Joachim. For some time he was a member of the Bilse orchestra, and then went to Königsberg as concert-master, after which he held a similar position for three years at Mannheim, and then at Weimar, where he married the well-known singer, Theresa Zerbst. On his first appearance, at the Bach festival at Eisenath, he played with Joachim the Bach double concerto, and was very successful. He has made concert tours throughout the greater part of Europe, and while in America he was recognised as a broad artist. He is no virtuoso in the ordinary sense of the word, but a classical, non-sensational, well-educated musician, whose playing was not dazzling or magnetic, but delighted by its intellectuality. He has an even and sympathetic tone, and inspires the greatest respect as an artist and as a man, and, while other players may make greater popular successes, Halir stands on a high artistic plane which few can reach. Franz Ondricek, who visited the United States also in 1896, was born at Prague in 1859, the same year as Halir, but is an artist of an entirely different stamp. In his early youth he was a member of a dance music band, and his father taught him to play the violin. It was not until he was fourteen years of age that he was able to enter the conservatory of his native town. Three years later he was sent, through the generosity of a wealthy merchant, to Paris, where he became a pupil of Massart. He shared with Achille Rivarde the honour of the first prize at the Conservatoire, since which time he has been a wandering star, and has never sought any permanent engagement. His playing is marked by individuality and dash, but he does not show to the best advantage in the interpretation of the classics. Charles Martin Loeffler, who shares the first desk of the first violins in the Boston Symphony Orchestra with Mr. Kneisel, is a musician of the highest ability. He was born in Muhlhausen, Alsace, in 1861. He enjoyed the advantages of instruction under Joachim, in Berlin, after which he continued his studies in Paris, with Massart and Leonard, studying composition with Guiraud. While in Paris he was a member of Pasdeloup's celebrated orchestra, and was afterward appointed first violin and soloist in the private orchestra of Baron Derwies, at Nice, of which orchestra César Thomson was also a member. In 1880 Mr. Loeffler crossed the Atlantic, and took up his residence in New York, but the following year he was engaged as second concert-master and soloist in the Boston Symphony Orchestra, a position which he has held ever since, and in which he has had opportunity to display his exceptional talents. As a violinist he plays with largeness of style, boldness of contrast, and exquisite grace. He has a technique equalled by few, and his performances have been confined to music of the highest class. Mr. Loeffler has never made a tour of the country as a virtuoso, but as soloist of the orchestra he has been heard under the best conditions in most of the large cities of the United States, and has shown himself to be a virtuoso in the best sense of the word. As a composer Mr. Loeffler is distinctly original and imaginative. His works are both poetical and musical, and they display high thought and exceptional knowledge. His compositions include a sextet, a quintet, and an octet, also a suite for violin and orchestra, "Les Veillées de l'Ukraine;" a concerto for violoncello, which has been played by Mr. Alwyn Schroeder; a divertimento for violin and orchestra, and a symphonic poem, "La Mort de Tintagiles." Besides these large works he has written a number of songs, of which five are with viola obligato. These works have been performed by the Kneisel Quartet and the Symphony Orchestra, the solo parts of the suite and divertimento by the composer himself, and they have gained for him a reputation as a gifted and scholarly tone artist. One of the most promising young violinists of the century was a native of Brazil, Maurice Dengremont, who was born in Rio Janeiro, in 1867. He was the son of a French musician who had settled in Brazil, and who gave him his first lessons to such good effect that, when only eight years of age, he gave a concert, and the Brazilian orchestra was so delighted with his playing that its members presented him with a medal, to which the emperor added an imperial crown, as a recognition of his talent. He now became a pupil of Leonard, and after three years' study he appeared in many concerts, travelling throughout Europe and England, and being received with enthusiasm. About 1880 he visited America, but his career ended shortly after, as he fell a victim to dissipation. Dengremont was compared with Sarasate and Wilhelmj, but all that could be said about him was that he might have developed into a player of their rank. As it was, he disappointed his admirers, and died while still quite young. Of the many violinists who have made their home in the United States there are few whose accomplishments better entitle them to a position among celebrated violinists than Mr. Franz Kneisel. Mr. Kneisel was called to Boston to fill the position of concert-master of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in 1885, and has held that place for fourteen years, during which time he has done much toward the cultivation of musical taste in America. He was born in Roumania, of German parents, in 1865, and gained his musical education at Bucharest and at Vienna, where he studied under Grün and Hellmesberger. He then received the appointment of concert-master of the Hofburg Theatre Orchestra, after which he went to Berlin to fill the same position in Bilse's orchestra, following Halir, Ysaye, and César Thomson. When he was called to Boston, at the instance of Mr. Gericke, who was then the conductor of the Symphony Orchestra, he was only twenty years of age. He played, on his first appearance as soloist, the Beethoven concerto, and was at once recognised as a violinist of remarkable ability. Mr. Kneisel has never toured the country as a virtuoso, but has been heard in many of the great cities of America, as solo violinist with the Symphony Orchestra, and as first violin of the Kneisel Quartet. He is a master of technique, and surmounts all difficulties with ease; his tone is pure, and, though not large, is satisfying, and in his interpretation of the great works he never attempts to enforce his personality upon the hearer,--in short, he is a true artist. As a conductor he has marked ability, and as a quartet player he has made a reputation which will live in the history of music in America, if not in the whole world. Charles Gregorowitsch, who visited America in 1898, has risen in a very short time to a place among the leading violinists of the world. He was born in 1867 at St. Petersburg, and, his talent making itself manifest in the usual manner, he was taught by his father until he was of an age to be sent to Moscow, where he studied until his fifteenth year, under Besekirskij and Wieniawski. From Moscow he was sent to Vienna, where he became a pupil of Dont, and finally he studied under Joachim in Berlin, where he gained the Mendelssohn prize. Gregorowitsch was the last pupil of Wieniawski, and that master was so impressed with the great promise of the boy that on first hearing him he offered to take him as a pupil gratis. Few violinists have had the advantage which has fallen to the lot of Gregorowitsch, of receiving instruction from so many great teachers. Gregorowitsch has travelled extensively throughout Europe, has been highly honoured in Russia, where the Czar granted him exemption from military service, and decorated by the King of Portugal. In London he made his first appearance in 1897, at the Queen's Hall Symphony concerts. M. Gregorowitsch is remarkable for a large tone, and in the smoothness and finish of his playing he has been compared with Sauret and with Sarasate. A far greater sensation was caused in America by Willie Burmester than by Gregorowitsch. Burmester was born in Hamburg in 1869, and received his first instruction from his father. He owned his first violin when he was four years of age, and it came to him from a Christmas tree. This served to show the talent which he possessed, and the next year he received a better violin, and began to study in earnest. When he was eight years old his father took him to Berlin to consult Joachim, who was, and is, regarded as the oracle for violinists. Joachim gave some encouragement to the parent, although he does not seem to have given much to the boy, who in consequence felt somewhat bitter. Four years later he was again taken to the Berlin Hochschule, to pass his entrance examination. On this occasion he received the recognition of the jury, and was admitted to the school, where he began a rigorous course of technical study. At the end of four years' study under Joachim he was refused a certificate, for some reason not stated, and he went to Helsingfors in Finland, where he worked according to his own ideas, which were to unlearn all he had studied, and begin afresh. During this period he worked with the greatest perseverance, practising nine or ten hours a day, and thus developed the wonderful technique which has astonished the world. For three years he continued this work, supporting himself meanwhile with a modest appointment which he had obtained. Before he left Berlin he had worn down the end of his first finger to the nerve. This troubled him to such a degree that he had several operations for the purpose of removing it, but the result was not wholly satisfactory. Emerging from his retirement in 1894, he went to Berlin again, and gave a recital in which he met with the most remarkable success. It was written at the time: "Mr. Burmester comes from an obscure town, unheralded, and, in the face of indifference, prejudice, and jealousy, conquered the metropolis off-hand. For nearly half an hour recall followed recall." The following season he created an equal impression in London, and shortly afterward in America. His technique has been described as "marvellous, almost diabolical." Difficult pizzicato passages and runs in thirds and tenths at top speed are but as child's play to him. His left hand pizzicato is marvellous, and he makes runs in single and artificial harmonics as quickly as most violinists can play an ordinary scale. He plays harmonics with a vibrato (Paganini played a double shake in harmonics), and his staccato volante is developed to an astounding degree of perfection. When Burmester played in London his success was at once attributed to Joachim, and he resented it, in view of the fact that he had been denied his certificate and had narrowly escaped musical suffocation at the hands of that great master. He had already made the same statement in Berlin, referring to the fact of his retirement to Helsingfors, and the development which he had acquired there in solitude. This announcement brought forth a deluge of letters from "pupils of Joachim," and in a couple of weeks Burmester wrote another letter stating that he did not know the Hochschule had as many pupils as those who had claimed Joachim as their teacher, and who were all unknown. "If one known pupil of Joachim," he wrote, "will appoint a meeting to interview me on the subject, I shall be glad to continue it." But the one known pupil did not come. The complaint of Mr. Burmester, that the one idea at the Hochschule is technique, is not new by any means. In every school there are students with great talent, who find it difficult to subject themselves to the rigid discipline required by the teacher. It is the stumbling-block on which many fall. It is, nevertheless, a fact that without a solid technique the highest perfection in playing cannot be reached, and it is usually regarded as a hopeless case when the pupil antagonises the teacher. Many pupils are apt to try and run ahead of their technical ability, and do not find out their mistake until it is too late. The argument that Paganini was self-taught leads many a young violinist into error. If Burmester is to be judged by his playing of the Beethoven concerto in Boston, good musicians will declare that Joachim was right in refusing the certificate, for while his technique was brilliant it appeared to lack foundation. Time may justify the stand which the young virtuoso has taken in opposition to his teacher, for he is still young and has time in which to develop. He has undoubted musical talent and great ability, but while he may be a celebrated violinist he can hardly yet be considered a great one, notwithstanding the furore which he caused in Berlin. Burmester plays with unassuming simplicity and without cheap display. He is sincere, but without authority or distinction of style. His tone is warm and pleasing, but not large, his intonation is not always sure. One of Burmester's earliest musical friends was Hans Von Bülow, and the friendship extended over a period of three and a half years, until Von Bülow went to Cairo shortly before his death. Von Bülow had inaugurated a series of orchestral concerts in Berlin, and as they interfered with the Philharmonic series every effort was made to put a stop to them. Musicians were forbidden to play for Von Büllow, and many obstacles were placed in his way. Von Büllow's temperament was such as to intensify the hostility rather than succumb to it. Burmester was then only sixteen years old, but his sympathy was with Von Büllow, and he wrote a letter to him offering his services, and expressing his contempt for the injustice to which he was being subjected. Von Büllow invited him to attend the rehearsals, and printed the letter which he had received. Burmester accepted the invitation, and, going to the rehearsal, found vacant a seat amongst the first violins, which he took. The rehearsal was about to commence when Von Büllow paused and asked, "Which of you gentlemen is Burmester?" The young fellow approached Von Büllow, who had motioned him to come. "Mr. Burmester," he said, "I have no desk in the first row to offer you or it would be yours. Gentlemen," he added, turning to the musicians, "I wish to introduce to you the guest of honour of my orchestra, Mr. Burmester." This was the beginning of a friendship, through which the young violinist showed unswerving loyalty, and it is now one of his greatest desires to reach a point of independence which will enable him to build a monument to Von Bülow's memory. In 1893 a sensation was created in America by the visit of Henri Marteau, a young French violinist whose excellent playing and charming personality delighted all who heard him. Marteau was called "the Paderewski of the Catgut," and he met with a most cordial reception among musicians. Marteau was born at Reims in 1874. His father was an amateur violinist and president of the Philharmonic Society of Reims. His mother was an accomplished pianist, a pupil of Madame Schumann. He therefore had every advantage in his early youth for the development of musical taste. When he was about five years of age Sivori paid a visit to the family, and was so charmed with the little fellow that he gave him a violin, and persuaded his parents to let him become a professional violinist. Marteau now began to take lessons of Bunzl, a pupil of Molique, but three years later he went to Paris, and was placed under Leonard. In 1884, when ten years of age, he played in public before an audience of 2,500 people, and in the following year he was selected by Gounod to play the obligato of a piece composed for the Joan of Arc Centenary celebration at Reims, which piece was dedicated to him. In 1892 Marteau carried off the first prize for violin playing at the Paris Conservatoire, and Massenet, the celebrated French composer, wrote a concerto for him. When Marteau played in Boston at the Symphony concerts he received twelve recalls, and immediately became the idol of the hour. The concerto selected was that in G minor by Bruch, and it was played without a rehearsal, a fact which reflects great credit on the orchestra, which was at that time conducted by Mr. Arthur Nikisch. In the following year Marteau again visited America and brought with him a concerto composed for him by Dubois. This was played for the first time by the Colonne orchestra, with Marteau as soloist, at Paris, on November 28, 1894, and again on the following Sunday. It was next given at Marseilles on December 12th, and the next performances were at Pittsburg, Louisville, and Nashville during the second American tour. Marteau's tone is large, brilliant, and penetrating. His technique is sure, and he plays with contagious warmth of sentiment and great artistic charm. The violin which he used during his American tours was a Maggini, which once belonged to Maria Theresa of Austria. She gave it to a Belgian musician who had played chamber music with her in Vienna. He took it to Belgium, where at his death it became the property of Leonard, who, at his death, gave it to Marteau. Alexander Petschnikoff, the son of a Russian soldier, is the latest violinist who has created a furore in Europe. When he was quite young his parents moved to Moscow, near which city he was born, and one day a musician of the Royal Opera House happened to hear the boy, who had already endeavoured to master the difficulties of the instrument, and he used his influence to get the lad into the conservatory. Petschnikoff now became a pupil of Hrimaly, and devoted himself to hard work, earning some money by teaching even at the age of ten. In due course he won the first prize and the gold medal at the conservatory, and was then offered an opportunity to study in Paris, which he declined. For a time he earned his living by playing in a theatre orchestra, but fortune smiled upon him, and he became an object of interest to the Princess Ourosoff, who heard him play at a concert. Her influence was exerted in his behalf, and he was soon noticed and courted by the nobility. The princess also made him a present of a magnificent violin, which formerly belonged to Ferdinand Laub, and is said to be the most costly instrument in existence. When he made his début in Berlin, in 1895, his success was unprecedented, inasmuch as it covered four points,--the artistic, popular, social, and financial. He has created a furore wherever he has appeared, and has been recalled as many as sixteen times. So great has been his success that he is said to have received the highest honorarium for a single concert ever obtained by a violinist in Europe. He is described as a man of commonplace appearance, with dull, expressionless eyes, sluggish movements, and slow, affected manner of speech. His technique is not astonishing, but he has a full, penetrating, sympathetic tone. There is no charlatanism or trickery in his playing, nor any virtuoso effects, but the charm of it rests in his glowing temperament, ideal conception, and wonderful power of expression. He has been regarded as phenomenal, because he can move the hearts of his hearers as few other violinists are able to do. Petschnikoff has been given an introduction to America, through Mr. Emil Paur, by Theodor Leschetizky, couched in the most glowing terms, and is called by him "an artist of the very first rank and of inconceivable versatility." One might prolong the list of violinists to a tremendous extent, and yet fail to mention all those of great merit. In England, John Dunn appears to be acquiring a great reputation. On the Continent, such names as Hubay, Petri, Rosé are well known. In America, we have Leopold Lichtenberg, a good musician of admirable qualifications. Bernhard Listemann, now of Chicago, has done much toward forming musical taste in America, and was concert-master of the Boston Symphony Orchestra during the first few years of its existence. But space does not permit of a mention of more than has been attempted, and a few pages must be given to lady violinists and to a few words about celebrated quartets. CHAPTER X. WOMEN AS VIOLINISTS. During the past forty or fifty years the violin has become a fashionable instrument for ladies, and has become correspondingly popular as a profession for those who are obliged to earn a living. Formerly, for many years, it seems to have been considered improper, or ungraceful, or unladylike,--the reasons are nowhere satisfactorily given, but the fact remains that until recently few women played the violin. From the year 1610 until 1810 the list of those who played in public is extremely short, numbering only about twenty, and of these several were gambists. That women did, once upon a time, play on the violin, or the corresponding string and bow instruments which were its ancestors, there is evidence. On the painted roof of Peterborough Cathedral, in England, which is said to have been built in the year 1194 A.D., there is a picture of a woman seated, and holding in her lap a sort of viol, with four strings and four sound-holes. This seems to indicate that in very early days ladies sometimes played on stringed instruments, if only for their own amusement. Among the accounts of King Henry VII., dated November 2, 1495, is the following item, "For a womane that singeth with a fiddle, 2 shillings." Anne of Cleves after her divorce comforted herself by playing on a viol with six strings. Queen Elizabeth, also, amused herself not only with the lute, the virginals, and her voice, but also with the violin. These, however, were amateurs, and the earliest professional violinist known was Mrs. Sarah Ottey, who was born about 1695, and who about 1721-22 performed frequently at concerts, giving solos on the harpsichord, violin, and bass viol. Previous to her there was one Signora Leonora Baroni, born at Mantua about 1610, but she played the theorbo and the viol di gamba. The next is "La Diamantina," born about 1715, who is referred to by the poet Gray in 1740, when he was at Rome, as "a famous virtuosa, played on the violin divinely, and sung angelically." Anne Nicholl, born in England about 1728, played the violin before the Duke of Cumberland at Huntley in 1746, and her granddaughter, Mary Anne Paton, also, who was better known as a singer and who became Lady Lenox, and afterwards Mrs. Wood, was a violinist. The celebrated Madame Gertrude Elizabeth Mara, one of the greatest singers of her time, was a violinist when young. Her father took her to England, hoping by means of her playing to get sufficient money to give her a thorough musical education. She was then a mere child, and as she grew to womanhood her voice developed and she became one of the celebrities in the history of song. There is no doubt that the training in intervals which her practice on the violin gave her proved invaluable as an aid to her in singing. In later days several of the most celebrated singers have been also good violinists, as, for instance, Christine Nilsson and Marcella Sembrich. Maddalena Lombardi Sirmen, born about 1735, had an almost European reputation toward the end of the eighteenth century. She visited France and England about 1760-61, and was so good a player that she was looked upon almost as a rival of Nardini. She will always be celebrated in history because of the letter which was written to her by Tartini, and which is not only one of the rarities of musical literature, but constitutes also a valuable treatise on the use of the violin. This letter, which has been printed in almost every book on the violin, would take up rather more space than can be afforded in this sketch. It is admirably clear and is divided into three parts, the first giving advice on bowing, "pressing the bow lightly but steadily, upon the strings in such a manner as that it shall seem to _breathe_ the first tone it gives, which must proceed from the friction of the string, and not from percussion, as by a blow given with a hammer upon it,--if the tone is _begun_ with delicacy, there is little danger of rendering it afterwards either coarse or harsh." The second section of the letter is devoted to the finger-board, or the "carriage of the left hand," and the last part to the "shake." Maddalena Sirmen received her instruction first at the conservatory of Mendicanti at Venice, after which she took lessons from Tartini. She also composed a considerable quantity of violin music, much of which was published at Amsterdam. About 1782 she, emulating the example of Madame Mara, appeared as a singer at Dresden, but with comparatively small success. Regina Sacchi, who married a noted German violoncellist named Schlick, was celebrated for her performances on the violin. She was born at Mantua in 1764, and educated at the Conservatorio della Pietà at Venice. This lady was highly esteemed by Mozart, who said of her, "No human being can play with more feeling." When Mozart was in Vienna, about 1786, Madame Schlick was also there, and solicited him to write something for the piano and violin, which they should play together at a concert. Mozart willingly promised to do so, and accordingly composed and arranged, _in his mind_, his beautiful sonata in B-flat minor, for piano and violin. The time for the concert drew near, but not a note was put upon paper, and Madame Schlick's anxiety became painful. Eventually, after much entreaty, she received the manuscript of the violin part the evening before the concert, and set herself to work to study it, taking scarcely any rest that night. The sonata was played before an audience consisting of the rank and fashion of Vienna. The execution of the two artists was perfect and the applause was enthusiastic. It happened, however, that the Emperor Joseph II., who was seated in a box just above the performers, in using his opera-glass to look at Mozart, noticed that there was nothing on his desk but a sheet of blank paper, and, afterward calling the composer to him, said: "So, Mozart, you have once again trusted to chance," to which Mozart, of course, graciously acquiesced, though the emperor did not state whether he considered Mozart's knowledge of his new composition, or Madame Schlick's ability to play with him unrehearsed, constituted the "chance." The next virtuosa was a Frenchwoman, Louise Gautherot, who was born about 1760, and who played in London and made a great impression about 1780 to 1790, and about the same time Signora Vittoria dall' Occa played at the theatre in Milan. Signora Paravicini, born about 1769, and Luigia Gerbini, about 1770, were pupils of Viotti, and earned fame. The former made a sensation in 1799 by her performance of some violin concertos at the Italian Theatre at Lisbon, where she played between the acts. Signora Paravicini attracted the attention of the Empress Josephine, who became her patroness and engaged her to teach her son, Eugene Beauharnais, and took her to Paris. After a time, however, the Empress neglected her, and she suffered from poverty. Driven to the last resource, and having even pawned her clothes, she applied for aid to the Italians resident in Paris, and they enabled her to return to Milan, where her ability soon gained her both competence and credit. She also played at Vienna in 1827, and at Bologna in 1832, where she was much admired. Catarina Calcagno, who has already been mentioned as a pupil of Paganini, was a native of Genoa, born about 1797, and had a short but brilliant career. She disappeared from before the public in 1816. Madame Krahmer and Mlles. Eleanora Neumann, and M. Schulz all delighted the public in Vienna and Prague. Miss Neumann came from Moscow, and astonished the public when she had scarcely reached her tenth year. Other names are Madame Filipowicz, Madame Pollini, Mlle. Zerchoff, Eliza Wallace, and Rosina Collins, who all played publicly and were well known. In 1827 Teresa Milanollo was born, and in 1832 her sister Marie, and these two young ladies played so well, and were in such striking contrast to one another, that they proved very successful as concert players. They were natives of Savigliano, in Piedmont, where their father was a manufacturer of silk-spinning machinery. Teresa, the elder, was taught by Ferrero, Caldera, and Morra, but in 1836 she went to Paris and studied under Lafont, and afterwards under Habeneck, going still later to Brussels, where she took lessons of De Bériot, and received the finishing touch to her artistic education,--faultless intonation. Her career as a concert player began when she was about nine years of age. When Marie was old enough to handle a violin Teresa began to teach her, and in fact was the only teacher Marie ever had. The two sisters, who were called, on account of their most striking characteristics, Mlle. Staccato and Mlle. Adagio, travelled together through France, Holland, Belgium, Germany, and England, and were everywhere received with the greatest interest. They played before Louis Philippe at Neuilly, and appeared with Liszt before the King of Prussia. They also created a furore at Vienna and Berlin. Marie, the younger, who was of a happy and cheerful disposition, was not strong, and in 1848 she died in Paris. Teresa, the elder, after a long retirement, resumed her travels, and, having matured and improved, she played better and excited more interest than before. In 1857 she married a French officer, Captain Théodore Parmentier, who had seen service in the Crimean War, and she abandoned the concert stage. From 1857 until 1878 she followed the fortunes of her husband, who became a general and a "Grand Officier de la Legion d'Honneur," and her public appearances were limited to such places as the vicissitudes of a military life took her to. Since 1878 Madame Parmentier has lived quietly in Paris, where she is still to be met by a few fortunate persons in select musical and social circles. During the lifetime of Marie, the sisters had already put themselves into direct personal relations with the poor of Lyons, but after Teresa had roused herself from her mourning for her sister she established a system of "Concerts aux Pauvres," which she carried out in nearly all the chief cities of France, and part of the receipts of these concerts was used for the benefit of the poor. Her plan was to follow up the first concert with a second, at which the audience consisted of poor school-children and their parents, to whom she played in her most fascinating manner, and, at the conclusion of her performance, money, food, and clothing, purchased with the receipts of the previous concerts, were distributed. From 1830 there has been a constantly increasing number of ladies who have appeared as concert violinists, but few have continued long before the public, or have reached such a point of excellence as to be numbered amongst the great performers. Mlle. Emilia Arditi, Fraülein Hortensia Zirges, Miss Hildegard Werner, Miss Bertha Brousil, and Madame Rosetta Piercy-Feeny were all born during the decade 1830 to 1840, and were well known, but in 1840 and 1842 two violinists were born who were destined to hold the stage for many years and to exert a great influence in their profession. Wilma Neruda, now known as Lady Hallé and Camilla Urso are the two ladies in question, the former exerting her influence chiefly in England and on the Continent, and the latter in America. Miss Werner has played an important part in advancing the art amongst women, having for many years conducted a school of music at Newcastle-on-Tyne, in England. She was also the first woman ever to address the Literary and Philosophical Society, when in 1880 she delivered an address on the history of the violin. There is little doubt, however, that the success of Teresa Milanollo gave the first great impulse toward the study of the violin by women. Lady Hallé was born at Brünn, March 21, 1840. Her father was Josef Neruda, a musician of good ability, and he gave her the first instruction on the violin, and then placed her under Leopold Jansa, in Vienna. Wilhelmina Maria Franziska Neruda made her first appearance in public in 1846, at which time she was not quite seven years old. On this occasion her sister Amalie, who was a pianist, accompanied her, and shortly afterwards her father took her, with her sister Amalie and one of her brothers, on an extended tour. The family consisted of two sons--a pianist and a 'cellist--and two daughters--a violinist and a pianist. In 1849 they reached London, where the young violinist played a concerto by De Bériot, at the seventh Philharmonic concert of that season. By the critics at that time she was said to be wonderful in bravura music, in musical intelligence, and in her remarkable accuracy. As time went on, and her playing matured, she became known throughout Europe. In 1864 she married Ludwig Norman, conductor of the opera at Stockholm, and for a time she remained in that city and became a teacher at the Royal Music School. Before long she was again busy with concert playing, and in 1869 she again appeared in England, where she became a great favourite, and has appeared there regularly almost, if not quite, every season since. Hans von Bülow spoke of her as Joachim's rival, and called her "the violin fairy." Joachim has always been a great favourite in England, but Madame Norman-Neruda, or Lady Hallé, as she became later, has fully shared his popularity. What Joachim is to the sterner sex, just the same is Lady Hallé to the gentler. Joachim was indeed one of the first to recognise the fact that he had in Mlle. Neruda a rival, for in the days when she was earning her reputation he heard her at some place on the Continent, and remarked to Charles Hallé, who afterwards became her husband, "I recommend this artist to your careful consideration. Mark this, when people have given her a fair hearing, they will think more of her and less of me." Ludwig Norman died in 1885, and three years later Madame Norman-Neruda married the pianist, Charles Hallé, who had long been identified with all that was best musically in England, and who was knighted in recognition of his services to the cause of art. Sir Charles Hallé established a series of orchestral concerts at Manchester in 1857, and by means of these concerts brought before the English public the works of many composers who would have remained unknown perhaps for years but for his efforts. In this work he was ably supported by this talented violinist, afterwards his wife, and with her he made many tours all over the British Isles. In 1890 Sir Charles and Lady Hallé made a tour in Australia, which was highly successful. Five years later they went to South Africa, where they met with a flattering reception. In his memoirs, Sir Charles Hallé tells of a curious compliment which they received at Pietermaritzburg. The mayor invited them to play at a municipal concert to be given one Sunday afternoon. The concert began, and after an organ solo and a song had been given by other musicians, they played the Kreutzer sonata. At the conclusion of the sonata, a member of the corporation came forward, and said that after the impression just received he thought it would be best to omit the remainder of the programme, upon which the audience cheered and dispersed. In 1895, shortly after their return from the South African tour, Sir Charles Hallé died, and Lady Hallé went into retirement. At this time her numerous admirers in England presented her with a valuable testimonial of their appreciation. Throughout her career she has fulfilled the prophecies made of her in her youth, for her talent and musicianship developed as she grew up, and her genius did not burn itself out as that of many infant prodigies has done. She has never endeavoured to secure public applause at the expense of her real artistic nature. Her performances are and always have been synonymous with all that is good in musical art, and nothing but that which is of the best has ever been allowed to appear upon her programmes. She is celebrated no less as a quartet player than as a soloist, and was for many years first violin of the Philharmonic Quartet in London. In 1898, Lady Hallé had the misfortune to lose her son, Mr. Norman Neruda, who, while scaling a difficult place in the Alps, slipped and was killed. In the following year she emerged from her retirement and visited the United States, where her playing was highly appreciated by unbiassed critics. There was a feeling, however, that she might have made the journey many years before, and allowed the American public to hear her in her prime, when she would have received not only a very warm welcome, but would have been judged rather by her merits than by her history, and she would not have challenged comparison with the violinists of the rising generation. Camilla Urso has been for many years one of the best known violinists in the United States. She was born at Nantes, in France, in 1842, of Italian parents. Her father was Salvator Urso, a good musician, and son of a good musician, so that the young violinist inherited some of her talent. In 1852 the family crossed the Atlantic and settled in the United States, and almost immediately the little girl began to appear at concerts. Camilla Urso began to study the violin at the age of six years, and her choice of that instrument was determined by her hearing the violin and being fascinated by it during a celebration of the Mass of St. Cecilia. She was taken to Paris for instruction, for which purpose her father abandoned his position at Nantes. She entered the Conservatoire and became a pupil of Massart. She made a tour through Germany, during which she met with immense success, and then returned to Paris to continue her studies. She was fresh from Massart's instruction when, in October, 1852, she made her first appearance in Boston, where her playing and her style called forth eulogies from the critics of those days. John S. Dwight wrote to the effect that it was one of the most touching experiences of his life to see and hear the charming little maiden, so natural and childlike, so full of sentiment and thought, so self-possessed and graceful. Her tone was pure, and her intonation faultless, and she played with a "fine and caressing delicacy," and gave out strong passages in chords with thrilling grandeur. For three years she continued to travel and delight American audiences, and then for a period of about five years she retired into private life, and did not resume her professional career until 1862, from which time she frequently made concert tours in America until she returned to Paris. It was about the period of these tours that her influence upon young women began to be felt, for she was at an age when womanly grace becomes evident, and her manners and character were as fascinating as her playing. In Paris she so pleased M. Pasdeloup that he begged her not to allow herself to be heard in public until she had played at his concerts. "You may count upon a splendid triumph," he said. "It is _I_ who tell you so. Your star is in the ascendant, and soon it will shine at the zenith of the artistic firmament." The result justified the prophecy, and Camilla Urso was the recipient of great honours in Paris. She was presented by the public with a pair of valuable diamond earrings, and was treated almost like a prima donna. In March, 1867, Mlle. Urso received a testimonial from the musical profession in Boston, where a few years later she had a curious experience. She was playing a Mozart concerto, at a concert, when an alarm of fire was given, and caused a good deal of excitement. Many of the audience left their seats and made for the door, but the violinist stood unmoved until the alarm was subdued and the audience returned to their seats, when she played the interrupted movement through from the beginning. In 1879 she made a tour to Australia, and again in 1894. In 1895 she was in South Africa, and achieved great triumphs in Cape Town, besides giving concerts at such out-of-the-way places as Bloemfontein. She has probably travelled farther than any other violin virtuosa. For the past few years she has lived in New York, and has practically retired from the concert stage. Teresina Tua, who was well known in the United States about 1887, was born at Turin in 1867. As in the case of Wilhelmina Neruda and of Camilla Urso, her father was a musician, and she received her early musical instruction from him. Her first appearance in public was made at the age of seven, and up to that time she had received no instruction, except that given her by her father. During her first tour she played at Nice, where a wealthy Russian lady, Madame Rosen, became interested in her, and provided the means to go to Paris, where she was placed under Massart. In 1880 Signorina Tua won the first prize for violin playing at the Paris Conservatoire, and the following year made a concert tour which extended through France and Spain to Italy. In 1882 she appeared in Vienna, and in 1883 in London, where she played at the Crystal Palace. Wherever she went people of wealth and distinction showed the greatest interest in her, and when she came to America in 1887 she appeared laden with jewelry given her by royalty. Her list of jewels was given in the journals of that day,--"a miniature violin and bow ablaze with diamonds, given by the Prince and Princess of Wales; a double star with a solitaire pearl in the centre, and each point tipped with pearls, from Queen Margherita of Italy." Besides these, there were diamonds from the Queen of Spain and from the Empress of Russia and sundry grand duchesses. No lady violinist ever appeared before an American audience more gorgeously arrayed. "Fastened all over the bodice of her soft white woollen gown she wore these sparkling jewels, and in her hair were two or three diamond stars," said the account in Dwight's _Journal of Music_. Yet with all this the criticisms of her playing were somewhat lukewarm. The expectation of the people had been wrought up to an unreasonable pitch, and Signorina Tua, while she was acknowledged to be an excellent and charming violinist, was not considered _great._ After a time, however, as she became better known, she grew in popular estimation, and before she left America she had hosts of admirers. On returning to Europe she made another tour, but shortly afterwards she married Count Franchi Verney della Valetta, a distinguished Italian critic, and retired into private life, though from time to time she was heard in concerts in Italy. In 1897 she was again on the concert stage, and played at St. James's Hall, London, after an absence of eight years, and it was considered that her playing had gained in breadth, while her technique was as perfect as ever. Of the three hundred or more pupils of Joachim, there have been several ladies who have attained celebrity, of whom Miss Emily Shinner (now Mrs. A. F. Liddell) has been for some years the most prominent in England, while the names of Gabrielle Wietrowitz and Marie Soldat are known throughout Europe, and Maude Powell and Leonora Jackson are among the brightest lights from the United States. Miss Emily Shinner has been in many respects a pioneer amongst lady violinists, for in 1874, when quite young, she went to Berlin to study the violin. In those days pupils of the fair sex were not admitted to the Hochschule, and Miss Shinner began to study under Herr Jacobsen. It happened, however, that a lady from Silesia arrived at Berlin, intending to take lessons of Joachim, but unaware of the rules against the admission of women to the Hochschule. Joachim interested himself in her, and she was examined for admission. Miss Shinner at once presented herself as a second candidate, and the result was that both ladies were accepted as probationers. In six months Miss Shinner was allowed to become a pupil of Joachim, and thus gained the distinction of being the first girl violinist to study under the great professor. Again in 1884 Miss Shinner, having acquired a great reputation in musical circles in England, was called upon at very short notice to take Madame Neruda's place as leader to the "Pop" Quartet, on which occasion she acquitted herself so well that an encore of the second movement of the quartet was demanded. Since that time she has been always before the public, and has taken special interest in chamber music and quartet playing, the Shinner Quartet of ladies having acquired a national reputation. Her marriage to Capt. A. F. Liddell took place in 1889. Marie Soldat was born at Gratz in 1863 or 1864, and was the daughter of a musician, who was pianist, organist, and choirmaster, and who gave her instruction from her fifth year on the piano. Two years later she began to learn the organ, and was soon able to act as substitute for her father when occasion required her services. Until her twelfth year she studied music vigorously, taking violin lessons with Pleiner at the Steier Musical Union at Gratz, and composition with Thierot, the Kapellmeister, at the same time keeping on with the pianoforte. She played the phantasie-caprice by Vieuxtemps in a concert at the Musical Union when she was ten years of age, and at thirteen she went on a tour and played Bruch's G minor concerto. Soon after this she had the misfortune to lose her father, and a little later her violin teacher, Pleiner, also died, so that her progress received a check. Joachim, however, visited Gratz to play at a concert, and the young girl went to him and consulted him as to her future course. As a result of the interview she began to take lessons of August Pott, a good violinist at Gratz, and the following year (1879) she again went on a concert tour, visiting several cities in Austria. During this tour, she made the acquaintance of Johannes Brahms, who took a great deal of interest in her, advised her to devote all her energies to the violin, and succeeded in arranging for another interview with Joachim, the result of which was that she was enabled to enter the Berlin High School for Music. Here she pursued her studies until 1882, after which she still continued her studies and took private lessons of Joachim. At the high school she gained the Mendelssohn prize, and from that time commenced her career as a virtuosa, touring extensively throughout Europe. One of her greatest triumphs was when, in 1885, at Vienna, she played Brahm's violin concerto with Richter's orchestra. Her career has been marked by hard work and continual practice, which have enabled her to overcome many obstacles, and have placed her on a level with the very best violinists of her sex. The Ladies' String Quartet, which she formed in Berlin, consisting of herself as first violin, with Agnes Tschetchulin, Gabrielle Roy, and Lucie Campbell, had a creditable career, and appeared in several German cities. In 1889 Marie Soldat married a lawyer named Röger, but did not retire from her profession. She is now known as Madame Soldat-Röger. Gabrielle Wietrowitz was born a few years later, in 1866, at Laibach, and was also a pupil at the Musical Institute at Gratz. Her father was a military bandsman who had some knowledge of the violin, which enabled him to give his daughter elementary instruction on that instrument. After a few years he left Laibach to settle in Gratz, and Gabrielle took violin lessons from A. Geyer (some accounts say Caspar). On entering the Musical Union she made a sensation by playing brilliantly at a concert before a large audience. She was then eleven years of age, and from that time she made the most rapid progress, taking first prize at the annual trial concert. In consequence of her great promise Count Aichelburg, who was a member of the Directorate of the Musical Union, presented her with a valuable violin, and the Directorate assigned her a yearly salary which enabled her to go to Berlin and enter the high school, where she became a pupil of Joachim in 1882. At the high school her career was as brilliant as it had been in Gratz, for at the end of her first year she succeeded in capturing the Mendelssohn prize, which brought her 1,500 marks, and at the end of her third year she took it for a second time. She remained at the high school three years, after which she began a splendid career by playing the concerto by Brahms at the St. Cecilia Festival at Münster. Then followed a series of concert tours, which resulted in securing her a reputation as one of the most brilliant stars amongst women. Miss Wietrowitz plays with the most consummate ease the greatest works of the modern school. She has a powerful and brilliant tone, with sweet tenderness and sympathy, which appeal to the soul of the listener, and she confines her repertoire to the highest class of musical compositions. She has recently succeeded Miss Emily Shinner as first violin in the quartet which that talented lady established in England. The most recent star of Europe is Madame Saenger-Sethe, whose appearances are invariably followed by eulogies from the critics. In Berlin, when she appeared at the Singakademie, in November, 1898, where she was assisted by the Philharmonic Orchestra, one critic declared that no violin playing had been heard to compare with it during that season, with the exception of Burmester's performance of the Beethoven concerto. "Such wealth and sensuous beauty of tone, such certainty of technique, such mental grasp of the work, and at the same time such all-conquering temperament have not been heard in Berlin at the hands of a female violinist during several years." After many recalls, she gave, as an encore, a rousing performance of a Bach sarabande. Mlle. Irma Sethe was born on April 28, 1876, at Brussels, and such was her early aptitude for music that at the age of five she was placed under a violinist of repute, named Jokisch, who in three months from the start taught her to play a Mozart sonata. Five years of hard study enabled her to appear at a concert at Marchiennes, when she played a concerto by De Bériot and the rondo capriccioso by Saint-Saëns. The following year she played at Aix-la-Chapelle, and made such an impression that several offers of concert engagements were made, but were declined by her mother on the score of the child's health, and for three years after this she never appeared at a concert. One summer, during the holidays, she met August Wilhelmj, who was charmed with her talent, and devoted his mornings for two months to giving her lessons daily. At the end of that time he emphasised his appreciation by making her a present of a valuable violin. She still continued her regular studies with Jokisch, until, acting on the advice of her friends, she obtained a hearing from Ysaye, and played for him Bach's prelude and fugue in G minor. Ysaye at once recognised her immense ability, and advised her to enter the conservatoire at Brussels, which she did, with the result that in eight months she carried off the first prize, being then only fifteen years of age. She continued her studies for three more years, and was frequently employed as a substitute for Ysaye, as professor, to teach his classes while he was absent on concert tours. In 1894 she appeared with him at a number of important concerts, and shortly afterwards made her first concert tour, visiting many of the principal towns of Germany. In November, 1895, she made her first appearance in London, where she was pronounced to be, with the exception of Lady Hallé, the most remarkable lady violinist who had ever appeared before the public in England, and where her excellent technique, perfect intonation, warmth of feeling, and musical insight were highly, almost extravagantly, praised. In August, 1898, Mlle. Sethe married Doctor Saenger, a _littérateur_, and professor of philosophy at Berlin, but she continues her career as a violinist, and has made several tours of Europe. She has been compared to Rubinstein, inasmuch as her remarkable musical temperament and irresistible impulsiveness carry her at times almost beyond the limits of her instrument, but these are the very qualities by which she captivates and carries away her hearers. Among other European ladies who have made their mark as violinists, and whose stars are in the ascendant, may be mentioned Sophie Jaffé, who has been called the greatest of all women violinists, and Frida Scotta. Although many years behind the continent of Europe in musical life, and with a musical atmosphere not nearly as dense as that found in almost any village of Italy, France, or Germany, America has contributed to the musical world many shining lights during the past few years. Mlle. Urso has been claimed as an American violinist, though she was born in Europe and was a good violinist before she reached these shores, but in 1864, in New York, Anna Senkrah was born, who for a few years rivalled Teresina Tua. The real name of Arma Senkrah was Harkness, which for professional purposes she "turned end for end," as the sailors would say, and dropped an "s." After Miss Harkness had been taught the elements of music by her mother, she went to Brussels to study under Wieniawski, and then to Paris, where she became a pupil of Massart She is said also to have taken lessons of Vieuxtemps and of Arno Hilf. In 1881 she won the first prize at the Paris Conservatoire, a feat which always stamps the winner "artist." From 1877 to 1880 Arma Senkrah travelled a great deal throughout Europe, and in 1882 she played, under her proper name, at the Crystal Palace, London. She was created, at Weimar, a chamber virtuoso, by the grand duke. Here she met and shortly afterwards married a lawyer named Hoffman, and disappeared from the concert platform. New York has contributed other stars to the violin firmament, for Nettie Carpenter and Geraldine Morgan are names which have become well known. Miss Carpenter went abroad at an early age, though not until she had appeared in concerts in her native city, and created considerable interest. On going to Paris, she was successful in passing the entrance examinations for the Conservatoire, and in 1884 won the first prize for violin playing. In 1882 she appeared in London at the promenade concerts, and again in 1884, when she confirmed the reputation which she had made two years previously, at the same concerts. From that time on she went through the usual routine of the concert violinist, with considerable success. In 1894 she married Leo Stern, the violoncello player, but the union did not continue for long, Mr. Stern becoming about four years later the husband of Miss Suzanne Adams, the opera singer. Miss Geraldine Morgan is the daughter of John P. Morgan, who was for some years organist of Old Trinity Church, New York. She studied in her native city under Leopold Damrosch, besides which she received much instruction from her father. Then she went to Leipzig, where she studied with Schradieck, after which she was the pupil in Berlin of Joachim, under whose guidance she remained eight years. She was the first American who ever gained the Mendelssohn prize. Miss Morgan has made tours through the Continent and Great Britain, and had the honour of playing the Bach double concerto with Joachim at the Crystal Palace. In 1891 she appeared in New York under the auspices of Walter Damrosch. A lady who holds a high position among the violinists of the world is Miss Maud Powell, who was born in Aurora, Ill., in 1868. Her father is American and her mother German. She began her musical education at the age of four, by taking piano lessons. At eight she took up the violin, and made such excellent progress that, when she was thirteen years old, she was taken to Leipzig, where she studied under Schradieck, and received her diploma in a year, playing also at one of the Gewandhaus concerts. [Illustration: MAUD POWELL] She next went to Paris, where she was the first selected out of eighty applicants for admission to the Conservatoire. In the following year she accepted an engagement for a tour in England, and had the honour of playing before the royal family. While in London Joachim heard her, and expressed his approval of her capabilities by inviting her to go to Berlin and become one of his pupils, which she accordingly did, and remained with him for two years. In 1885 she made her début in Berlin at the Philharmonic concerts, when she played the Bruch concerto, which she also played in Philadelphia later in the same year. Her performance in America brought her much praise, and she was declared to be a marvellously gifted woman, one who in every feature of her playing disclosed the instincts and gifts of a born artist, though she had not yet reached the heights of her ability. Since that time she has gained in breadth, and has become a mature artist. Miss Powell has appeared in the best concerts throughout America, and has gained a reputation second to no American violinist. By many she is declared to be the equal of Soldat and Wietrowitz in tone, technique, and interpretative power. She has an immense repertoire, and is also a student of literature. She also is said to have been the first to establish a female quartet in America. The latest American lady violinist to gain honours abroad is Miss Leonora Jackson, who won the Mendelssohn state prize at Berlin, in 1898, and who has gained a great reputation by her performances before the most important musical organisations in Europe. Miss Jackson was fortunate enough to attract the attention of Mrs. Grover Cleveland, who admired her talent, and, with Mr. George Vanderbilt, sent her abroad. For two years she studied in Paris, and then went to Berlin, where she became a pupil of Joachim. In Berlin she made her début in 1896, with the Philharmonic Orchestra, which was conducted by Joachim on that occasion. Shortly afterwards she was commanded by the Empress of Germany to play at the Royal Opera House, in Berlin, and she soon earned for herself a position amongst the best of the rising violinists of the day. When she appeared in London, in 1898, she surprised and delighted the audience, displaying a fine tone, natural musical feeling, and complete technique. Few violinists can play with such quiet, intense sentiment. Miss Jackson, though but twenty years of age, is already a veteran concert player, for she has appeared in many cities of Europe, and was already known in America before she went to Berlin. She played in July, 1899, before the Queen of England at Windsor Castle, and again in August at Osborne House, in the Isle of Wight. The time has long since gone by when mere showy technique would earn a reputation for any violinist, male or female, and she who expects to be numbered with the great violinists must be first of all a musician, capable of interpreting the greatest works. If in addition to this she has "the divine spark," she will be truly great. CHAPTER XI. FAMOUS QUARTETS. Quartet playing is at once the delight and the despair of the amateur, who finds no greater pleasure than an evening spent in endeavouring to unravel the intricacies of chamber music, nor any keener disappointment than the realisation that it is capable of far better interpretation. For the professional there are many influences which cause him to hesitate before he launches forth upon the quicksands of public performance. The first necessity in professional quartet playing is the devotion of a large amount of time to the acquisition of a perfect ensemble. A quartet may be likened unto a family, in which the members learn to know one another by being brought up together, and few are the professionals who can sacrifice the time necessary for the acquisition of this perfect ensemble. Apparently very little was done previous to the nineteenth century in the way of quartet concerts, but Baillot founded a series of quartet concerts in Paris, which were highly spoken of, and about the same time Schuppanzigh, an excellent violinist and teacher in Vienna, established a quartet which became famous. In this quartet Mayseder played, in his younger days, second violin. Mayseder was considered the foremost violinist in Vienna, but he never travelled as a virtuoso. When Spohr went first to Leipzig and was unknown, he had to find a way by which he could attract attention to himself,--in those days the advertising agent was not much in evidence,--so that he might give a concert with a reasonable prospect of success. The rich merchants, to whom he had brought letters of introduction, knew nothing of him and received him coldly. "I was very anxious to be invited to play at one of their music parties in order to draw attention to myself," Spohr says in his autobiography, "and my wish was fulfilled, for I was invited to a grand party and asked to play something. I chose one of the loveliest of the six new quartets of Beethoven, with which I had often charmed my hearers in Brunswick. But after a few bars I already noticed that my accompanists knew not the music and were quite incapable of playing it. This disturbed me, and my dismay increased when I observed that the assembled company paid little attention to my playing. Conversation became general, and ultimately so loud as almost to drown the music. I rose in the midst of the music, hurried to my violin case without saying a word, and was on the point of putting my instrument away. This made quite a sensation in the company, and the host approached me questioningly. I met him with the remark,--which could be heard everywhere,--'I have always been accustomed to be listened to with attention. As it has been otherwise here, I thought the company would prefer that I should stop.' The host did not know at first how to reply, and retired somewhat discomfited. As I made preparations for leaving, after having excused myself to the other musicians, the host came up and said, quite amicably: 'If you could but play something else, something more suitable to the taste and capacity of the company, you would find them an attentive and grateful audience.' It was clear to me before that I had chosen the wrong music in the first instance for such a company, and I was glad enough now to have an opportunity to change it. So I took up my violin again and played Rode's E flat quartet, which the musicians already knew and accompanied well enough. This time there was perfect silence, and the enthusiasm for my playing increased with each movement. At the end of the quartet so much flattery was heaped upon me that I trotted out my hobby-horse,--the G variations of Rode. With this piece I made quite a sensation, and for the remainder of the evening I was the object of the most flattering attention." This little episode shows that Beethoven was not fully appreciated, and it also shows that quartet playing was regarded at that time in an entirely different light from that in which we are accustomed to think of it to-day. We do not consider the first violinist a soloist and the rest merely his accompaniment, but each member of the quartet is practically of equal importance. Lambert Joseph Massart, the eminent teacher of Paris, is said to have been an excellent quartet player, and often, with his wife, an admirable pianist, he gave delightful chamber concerts. Few violinists have been more closely associated with quartet playing than Ferdinand David, in his way one of the most celebrated violinists. Little is known of his early youth except that he was born at Hamburg in 1810, and was there at the time of the French occupation. It has been said that he played in a concert at ten years of age and at thirteen became a pupil of Spohr at Cassel. He made a concert tour with his sister, Madame Dulcken, and in 1827 entered the orchestra of the Königstadt Theatre at Berlin. Here he became acquainted with Mendelssohn, with whom he was from that time on terms of the greatest intimacy. While in Berlin he was heard by a wealthy musical amateur named Liphart, who lived at Dorpat, and who maintained a private quartet. He engaged David, who eventually married his daughter, to lead this quartet, and for several years the young violinist remained in Dorpat, though he found opportunity to make some concert tours through the north of Europe. When Mendelssohn was appointed conductor of the Gewandhaus concerts at Leipzig, he sent for David and made him concert master, which post he occupied from 1836. Seven years later the conservatory was founded by Mendelssohn, and David became professor of violin, in which position his influence became great and beneficial. In Leipzig David established a quartet, which was one of the best, if not the very best, in its day, though it may have been surpassed later by the Florentine Quartet and those of Joachim, in London and Berlin, and possibly by Brodsky's later Leipzig quartet. David died in 1873, beloved and respected, and will be remembered as one of the most refined musicians and admirable teachers of the century. Josef Hellmesberger, one of the most brilliant violinists and noted teachers of Vienna, founded, in 1849, a quartet which achieved an immense reputation. His associates were Heissler, Durst, and Schlesinger. Hellmesberger made a point of finding works of merit which had sunk into oblivion, but which were worthy of a hearing. Hellmesberger spent the whole of his life in Vienna, with the exception of a tour in 1847, and he held the highest musical office in the Austrian Empire, that of director of the Imperial Band. A story which is told of him bears testimony to his remarkable musical instinct. Teresa Milanollo, in 1840, took a new manuscript by De Bériot to Vienna. She wished to keep it for her own use, and did not show it to anybody. Hellmesberger heard it played at two rehearsals, and then went home and wrote out the whole work from memory. No small portion of the immense influence which Joachim has wielded in the musical world has been directed toward quartet playing, and he has established a quartet in London and another one at Berlin, which both bear an enviable reputation. His chamber music classes, too, at the Berlin High School, tend to develop admirable quartet players; thus we find Marie Soldat organising a ladies' quartet which had a good career, and Gabrielle Wietrowitz taking the place of first violin in the excellent ladies' quartet formed in England by Miss Emily Shinner.[1] Miss Shinner, whose efforts in the artistic world have been of great value, and whose quartet has an immense reputation in England, was also a pupil of Joachim. [Footnote 1: The Shinner Quartet consisted of Miss Emily Shinner (Mrs. F. Liddell), first violin, Miss Lucy H. Stone, second violin, Miss Cecilia Gates, viola, and Miss Florence Hemmings, violoncello.] The "Florentine Quartet" was founded by Jean Becker, a violinist of excellent ability, who made his mark in Europe about the middle of the nineteenth century. Becker was travelling in Italy in 1865, and settled in Florence for a time, during which he organised the above-mentioned quartet, with Masi, second violin, Chiostri, viola, and Hilpert, violoncello. In Florence there existed a society for the performance of chamber music, which had been established by a wealthy professor named Bazzini, a violinist and composer who travelled much, and whose influence in Italy, in the cause of German music, was of great value. Bazzini was born in 1818 and died in 1897. From time to time this society gave subscription concerts, and Becker was invited to lead ten such concerts during the winter of 1865-66. He consented to do so, but found the quartet in a state of dissolution. He brought Hilpert with him, and engaged Masi as second violin, Chiostro being the only member of the original quartet. Masi was not accustomed to chamber music, but Becker took him in hand and he improved rapidly. In order to still enhance his value in the quartet, Becker presented him with a Stradivarius violin. They remained in Florence until their ensemble was absolutely perfect, and then began a series of tours which took them all over Europe. In Vienna the quartet was subjected to comparison with those of Hellmesberger and of Joachim, for the former had just given six chamber concerts, and the latter three. The first concert given by the Florentine Quartet was thinly attended, but the report of its excellence brought an overflowing audience to the second concert, and in all ten were given during the remainder of the season. About 1875 Hilpert withdrew, and his place was filled by Hegyesi, who remained with the quartet until it was disbanded in 1880. An excellent series of quartet concerts was founded in Stuttgart by Edmund Singer, who was appointed professor of violin in the Conservatorium, leader of the court music, and chamber musician, in 1861, after a distinguished career of some ten or more years as a virtuoso. These concerts met with triumphant success. Georg J.R. Heckmann founded a quartet at Cologne and travelled through Europe, but it was surpassed by the Florentine Quartet, and did not gain the highest reputation. A quartet which has been pronounced to be one of the best in existence is that which is led by Jeno Hubay, in Pesth, and in which Hegyesi, formerly of the Florentine Quartet, is the 'cellist. Adolf Brodsky, who for a time resided in New York, founded a string quartet at Leipzig, with Hans Becker, son of the founder of the Florentine Quartet, Hans Sitt, and Julius Klengel, the 'cellist, and this quartet was said to have no superior in Europe, and not more than one equal,--the Joachim Quartet of Berlin. In 1891 Brodsky went to New York, where he also established a quartet, but with little success. The organisation was received with respect, owing to Mr. Brodsky's European reputation, but it was admitted on all hands that superior organisations existed in America. Before Mr. Brodsky had time to bring his quartet to a high degree of proficiency, he returned to Europe, and, after a brief stay in Germany, accepted a position in England, where he has established another quartet. He was succeeded in the quartet at Leipzig and at the conservatory by Arno Hilf, a distinguished violinist with an enormous technique, who was born in 1858 and was taught by David, Röntgen, and Schradieck. Quartet playing in public was established in England in 1835, when the admirers of Joseph Dando, an excellent violinist, opened a subscription for the purpose of giving some concerts in which the chamber music, and especially the quartets of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Spohr, etc., should be performed. The first concert was given at the Horn Tavern, Doctors'-Commons, in London, on September 23d of that year, and being highly successful, a second was given on October 12th, and a third on the 26th, each proving more attractive than its predecessor. These concerts lasted for two seasons, when a new quartet was formed, with H.G. Blagrove and Henry Gattie as first and second violins, Mr. Dando, viola, and Mr. Lucas, 'cello, for the more perfect study and presentation of quartets and other chamber music. These concerts were given at the Hanover Square rooms, and on account of the care bestowed upon the rehearsals (of which they held seven or eight for each concert), they threw all previous performances into the shade. The tide of public favour had now set in, and other quartets were formed, but none reached such excellence as that headed by Blagrove, which was invited to play at the Philharmonic concerts, where it produced a great sensation. About the end of the seventh season Blagrove withdrew, but the quartet continued in existence for many years, Mr. Dando playing first violin, and Mr. Loder, the viola, and the concerts were given at Crosby Hall in the city, instead of the Hanover Square rooms. At St. Petersburg a quartet was formed by Leopold Auer, an excellent violinist, who at the death of Wieniawski was appointed professor of violin at the Conservatoire. Auer was born in Hungary, and became a pupil of Dont at Vienna, after which he had a brilliant career as a virtuoso in Europe. His St. Petersburg quartet was founded in 1868, and became one of the leading musical organisations of the Russian capital, until the death of Davidoff, the violoncellist, who was one of its members, in 1890. Auer has been very active in the musical life of St. Petersburg, and is very highly esteemed both as a man and as a musician, teacher, and performer. A quartet which has gained a great reputation in Europe during recent years is the Bohemian Quartet, consisting of Carl Hoffmann, first violin, Joseph Suk, second violin, Oscar Nedbal, viola, and Hanus Wihom, violoncello. They play with a great deal of vim and abandon, and the ensemble is remarkable. At Hanover Richard Sahla has established a quartet, with Meneke, Kugler, and Loeleberg, and Arnold Rosé's quartet, of Vienna, has travelled in Hungary, Italy, and other countries, gaining a good reputation. In the United States there have been well meant efforts to found good quartets, and these have all had a beneficial influence. In Boston Mr. Bernhard Listemann, some twenty years ago, established a quartet which gave some very delightful concerts, but the past decade has witnessed the rise of an organisation which is able to bear comparison with any quartet in the world. The Kneisel Quartet was organised in 1885, the year in which Mr. Franz Kneisel accepted the position of concert-master to the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Mr. Henry L. Higginson invited him at the same time to organise a quartet, and a series of concerts was given that season in Chickering Hall. While the excellence of the quartet was apparent from the start, there were comparatively few people in Boston who took much interest in chamber music, and the audiences were, as a rule, small. Year by year they have increased, and for the past few years it has been necessary to give the concerts in Association Hall, which has a seating capacity about twice as large as that of the original hall. The second violin is Mr. Otto Roth,[2] a native of Vienna, who played for three years under the baton of Hans Richter, and came to Boston to play first violin in the Symphony Orchestra. [Footnote 2: Mr. Roth retired from the quartet in 1899 and his place was filled by Mr. Karl Ondricek.] Mr. Louis Svecenski, an excellent artist, who studied in the Vienna Conservatory, under Hellmesberger and Grün, plays the viola, and the 'cellist is Alwyn Schroeder, an artist, who had achieved a high reputation as a 'cello virtuoso, before he came to America. After a few years the Kneisel Quartet began to appear in other cities, and now gives regular series of subscription concerts in New York, Washington, Baltimore, Hartford, and Worcester, also Harvard, Yale, and Princeton Universities, besides occasional performances in more remote cities. In 1896 the quartet had given over eight hundred concerts since its formation. [Illustration: FRANZ KNEISEL] At the end of the Symphony season in Boston, in 1896, the Kneisel Quartet made a visit to London and gave several concerts. In London it was obliged to stand comparison with the finest quartets in existence. The Joachim Quartet and the Bohemian Quartet gave concerts the same season, but the unanimous verdict was to the effect that none could equal the Kneisel Quartet in absolute ensemble and perfection of detail. While the Bohemian Quartet played with a great deal of abandon and enthusiasm, and the Joachim Quartet contained players of a greater reputation in Europe, yet the Kneisel Quartet simply confirmed the reputation it had acquired in America. "It would, indeed, be impossible to conceive greater perfection in the matter of ensemble, precision, delicacy, and all the qualities requisite for the proper interpretation of chamber music." In the spring of 1899 the Kneisel Quartet made an extended tour in America, and found the musical condition of the great cities in the United States, as evidenced by the appreciation of music, fully equal to that of the European centres. Brahms and Beethoven were played in Denver and in San Francisco to audiences who were fully equal to the enjoyment of the highest class of music, and everywhere the quartet was greeted with enthusiasm. The success of the Kneisel Quartet is due to the long and arduous practice which the members have enjoyed together, for perfection in quartet playing is only possible through long association. While virtuosity is not essential for quartet playing, good musicianship is very necessary. Patient and self-denying practice are absolute requisites. The love of chamber music is apparently growing in the United States, for in many of the large cities quartets have been established by good musicians, and the opportunities for hearing fine interpretations of the best chamber music are increasing each year. It is a branch of musical art which appeals only to cultivated taste, for it is necessarily free from sensationalism and individual display. Therefore, the love of quartet playing may be considered to be a true index of the growth of musical culture. THE END. CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF FAMOUS VIOLINISTS. "c" indicates that the date given is only approximate. ------------------------------------------------------------------- NAME. | Place and Date | Place and Date | | of Birth. | of Death. | ------------------------------------------------------------------- Alessandro, Romano | Italy c1530 | ? ? | Baltazarini | Italy c1550 | ? ? | Farina, Carlo | Italy c1580 | ? ? | Alberghi, Paolo | Italy c1600 | ? ? | Biber, Henry J. | England c1600 | ? ? | Cortellini, Camillo | Italy c1600 | ? ? | Madorus, Giovanni | Venice c1600 | ? ? | Manoir, Guillaume | ? c1600 | ? ? | Baltzar, Thomas | Lubec 1630 | London 1663 | Bannister, John | England 1630 | London 1679 | Lulli, Jean Baptiste de | Florence 1633 | Paris 1687 | Strunck, Nicolas Adam | Germany 1640 | ? 1700 | Laurenti, Bartolomeo G. | Bologna 1644 | ? 1726 | Vitali, Tomasso | Bologna c1650 | ? ? | Eccles, John | London 1650 | London 1735 | Marini, Carlo Antonio | Bergamo c1650 | ? ? | Corelli, Arcangelo | Italy 1653 | Rome 1713 | Aschenbrunner, Christian H.| Alstettin 1654 | Jena 1732 | Bassani, Giovanni B. | Padua 1657 | Ferrara 1716 | Vivaldi, Antonio | Venice 1660 | ? 1743 | Eccles, Henry | London 1660 | London ? | Bannister, John, Jr. | England 1673 | London 1735 | Albinoni, Thomas | Venice 1674 | Venice 1745 | Hesse, Ernest Christian | Germany 1676 | Darmstadt 1762 | Somis, Lorenzo | Piedmont 1676 | ? 1763 | Aubert, Jacques | ? 1678 | Paris 1753 | Geminiani, Francesco | Lucca 1680 | Dublin 1762 | Alberti, Guiseppe Matteo | Bologna 1685 | ? ? | Veracini, Francesco | Florence c1685 | 1750 | Senaillé, Jean Baptiste | Paris 1687 | ? 1730 | Pisendel, Johann Georg | Karlsburg 1687 | Dresden 1755 | Birckenstock, Johann A. | Hesse 1687 | Eisenach 1733 | Montanari, Francesco | Padua ? | Rome 1730 | Matheis, Nicola | ? ? | ? 1749 | Gentili, Georges | Venice 1688 | ? ? | Valentini, Guiseppe | Florence 1690 | ? ? | Castrucci, Pietro | Rome 1690 | London 1769 | Tartini, Guiseppe | Pirano 1692 | Padua 1770 | Locatelli, Pietro | Bergamo 1693 | Amsterdam 1764 | Rothe, August Friedrich | Sonderhausen 1696 | ? 1784 | Leclair, Jean Marie | Lyons 1697 | Paris 1764 | Graun, Jean G. | Germany 1698 | Berlin 1771 | Francoer, François | Paris 1698 | ? 1787 | Abaco, Evaristo F. Dall | Verona c1700 | ? ? | Anderle, F.J. | ? c1700 | ? ? | Bitti, Martini | ? 1700 | ? ? | Borghi, Luigi | ? ? | ? ? | Brown, Abram | ? ? | ? ? | Carbonelli, Stefano | Rome c1700 | London ? | Dalloglio, Domenico | Venice c1700 | Russia 1764 | Guignon, Jean Pierre | Turin 1702 | Versailles 1775 | Dubourg, Matthew | England 1703 | London 1767 | De Croes, Henri Jacques | Antwerp 1705 | Brussels 1786 | Guillemain, Gabriel | Paris 1705 | ? 1770 | Czarth, Georg C. | Deutschbrod 1708 | Mannheim 1774 | Benda, Franz | Albenatky 1709 | Potsdam 1786 | Girauek, Fernandino | Bohemia 1712 | Dresde 1761 | Benda, Johann | Albenatky 1713 | Potsdam 1752 | D'Auvergne, Antoine | France 1713 | Lyons 1797 | Clegg, John | Ireland 1714 | ? c1750 | Hempel, George C. | Gotha 1715 | Gotha 1801 | Fritz, Caspar | Geneva 1716 | Geneva 1782 | Giardini, Felice | Turin 1716 | Moscow 1796 | Mozart, Leopold | Augsburg 1719 | Salzburg 1787 | Stamitz, Johann Carl | Bohemia 1719 | Mannheim 1761 | Bini, Pasqualino | Pesaro 1720 | ? ? | Morigi, Angelo | ? ? | Parma 1788 | Lemière | ? ? | Paris 1771 | Pagin, André Noel | Paris 1721 | ? ? | Abel, Leopold A. | Cothen c1700 | ? ? | Festing, Michael C. | London ? | London 1752 | Ferrari, Domenico | Piacenza ? | Paris 1780 | Enderle, Wilhelm C. | Bayreuth 1722 | Darmstadt 1793 | Nardini, Pietro | Tuscany 1722 | Florence 1793 | Lefêbre, Jacques | Prinzlow 1723 | ? 1777 | Van Malder, Pierre | Brussels 1724 | Brussels 1768 | Glaser, John Michel | Erlangen 1725 | ? ? | Hattasch, Dismas | Hohenmant 1725 | Gotha 1777 | Gavinies, Pierre | Bordeaux 1726 | Paris 1800 | Gow, Neil | Strathband 1727 | Inver 1787 | Pugnani, Gaetano | Turin 1727 | Turin 1803 | Manfredi, Filippo | Lucca 1729 | Madrid c1780 | Gallo, Domenico | Venice 1730 | ? ? | Cannabich, Christian | Mannheim 1730 | Frankfort 1798 | Lolli, Antonio | Bergamo 1730 | Sicily 1802 | Vachon, Pierre | Arles 1730 | Berlin 1802 | Goepfert, Charles F. | Weissenstein 1733 | Weimar 1798 | Raimoni, Ignazio | Naples 1733 | London 1802 | Lahoussaye, Pierre | Paris 1735 | Paris 1818 | Haranc, Louis André | Paris 1738 | Paris 1805 | Celestine, Eligio | Rome 1739 | ? ? | Weigl, Franz J. | Bavaria 1740 | Vienna 1820 | Tomasini, Luigi | Bohemia 1745 | Gotha 1805 | Jarnowick, Giovanni M. | Palermo 1745 | St. | | | Petersburg 1804 | Navoigille, Guillaume J. | Givet 1745 | Paris 1811 | Paisible | Paris 1745 | St. | | | Petersburg 1781 | Salomon, Johann Peter | Bönn 1745 | London 1815 | Cambini, Giovanni G. | Leghorn 1746 | Bicêtre 1825 | Gervais, Pierre Noel | Mannheim 1746 | Bordeaux 1805 | Stamitz, Carl | Mannheim 1746 | Jena 1801 | Ghirett, Gaspar | Naples 1747 | Parma 1827 | Leduc, Simon | Paris 1748 | Paris 1787 | Mestrino, Niccolo | Milan 1748 | Paris 1790 | Guerillot, Henri | Bordeaux 1749 | Paris 1805 | Navoigille, Herbert J. | Givet 1749 | ? ? | Obermeyer, Joseph | Bohemia 1749 | ? ? | Bagatella, Antonio | Padua 1750 | ? ? | Almeyda, C.F. | ? c1750 | ? ? | Fuchs, Peter | Bohemia 1750 | Vienna 1804 | Henry, Bonventure | ? c1750 | ? ? | Kriegck, J.J. | Bebra 1750 | Meiningen 1813 | Sirmen, Maddalena | Venice c1750 | ? ? | Woldemar, Michael | Orleans 1750 | Clermont- | | | -Ferrand 1816 | Barthelemon, François H. | Bordeaux 1751 | ? 1808 | Campagnoli, Bartolomeo | Cento 1751 | Neustrelitz 1827 | Lamotte, François | Vienna 1751 | Holland 1781 | Berthaume, Isidore | Paris 1752 | St. | | | Petersburg 1802 | Kasska, Wilhelm | Ratisbon 1752 | Ratisbon 1806 | Brunetti, Gaetano | Pisa 1753 | Madrid 1808 | Janitsch, Anton | Switzerland 1753 | Westphalia 1812 | Lem, Pierre | Copenhagen 1753 | ? ? | Fiorillo, Federigo | Brunswick 1753 | ? c1800 | Stamitz, Anton | Mannheim 1753 | Paris ? | Viotti, Giovanni B. | Piedmont 1753 | London 1824 | Kranz, Johann F. | Weimar 1754 | Stuttgart 1807 | Mosel, Giovanni F. | Florence 1754 | ? ? | Leduc, Pierre | Paris 1755 | Holland 1816 | Fauvel, André Joseph | Bordeaux 1756 | ? ? | Lacroix, Antoine | Remberville 1756 | Lubeck 1812 | Wranitzky, Paul | Moravia 1756 | Vienna 1808 | Haack, Karl | Potsdam 1757 | Potsdam 1819 | Rolla, Alessandro | Pavia 1757 | Milan 1841 | Galeazzi, Francesco | Turin 1758 | Rome 1819 | Liber, Wolfgang | Donanworth 1758 | Ratisbon 1817 | Weberlin, Jean F. | Stuttgart 1758 | Stuttgart 1825 | Bruni, Antonio B. | Piedmont 1759 | ? ? | Gautherot, Louise | ? 1760 | ? ? | Guiliani, François | Florence 1760 | ? 1819 | Haack, Friedrich | Potsdam 1760 | ? ? | Krommer, Franz | Kamenitz 1760 | Vienna 1831 | Neubauer, Franz C. | Bohemia 1760 | Bückeburg 1795 | Jarnewicz, Felix | Wilna 1761 | Edinburgh 1848 | Wranitzky, Anton | Moravia 1761 | Vienna 1819 | Wessely, Johann | Bohemia 1762 | ? ? | Bonnet, Jean Baptiste | Montauban 1763 | ? ? | Danzi, Franz | Mannheim 1763 | Carlsruhe 1826 | Peshatschek, François | Bohemia 1763 | Vienna 1816 | Alday, P | Perpignan 1764 | ? ? | Lorenziti, Bernado | Würtemburg 1764 | ? 1813 | Schlick, Regina (Sacchi) | Mantua 1764 | ? ? | Cartier, Jean Baptiste | Avignon 1765 | Paris 1841 | LaCroix, Antoine | ? 1765 | ? ? | Hampeln, Karl von | Mannheim 1765 | Stuttgart 1834 | Eck, Johann F. | Mannheim 1766 | Bamberg 1809 | Hunt, Karl | Dresden 1766 | ? ? | Kreutzer, Rudolph | Versailles 1766 | Geneva 1831 | De Volder, Pierre Jean | Antwerp 1767 | Brussels 1841 | Romberg, Andreas | Vechta 1767 | Gotha 1821 | Pauwels, Jean E. | Brussels 1768 | Brussels 1804 | Spagnoletti, P. | Cremona 1768 | London 1834 | Valmalete, Louis de | Rieux 1768 | ? ? | Grasset, Jean J. | Paris 1769 | Paris 1839 | Paravicini, Signora | Turin 1769 | ? ? | Boucher, Alexandre Jean | Paris 1770 | Paris 1861 | Gerbini, Luigia | ? 1770 | ? ? | Girault, August | Paris 1770 | Paris 1806 | Hoffmann, Heinrich Anton | Mainz 1770 | Mainz 1842 | Baillot, | | | Pierre M.F. de Sales | Passy 1771 | Paris 1842 | Festa, Guiseppe M. | Naples 1771 | ? 1839 | Labarre, Louis J.C. | Paris 1771 | ? ? | Vacher, Pierre Jean | Paris 1772 | Paris 1819 | Lottini, Denis | Orleans 1773 | Orleans 1826 | Vaccaro, Francesco | Modena 1773 | Portugal 1823 | Eck, Franz | Mannheim 1774 | Strasburg 1804 | Rode, Pierre | Bordeaux 1774 | Loire-et- | | | Garonne 1831 | Eberwen, Traugott M. | Weimar 1775 | Rudolstadt 1831 | Libon, Philippe | Cadiz 1775 | Paris 1838 | Schuppanzigh, Ignace | Vienna 1776 | Vienna 1830 | Dobrynski, Ignace | Volhyna 1777 | Warsaw 1841 | Giorgis, Joseph | Turin 1777 | ? ? | Kieserwetter, Cristophe G. | Anspach 1777 | London 1827 | Moralt, Johann B. | Mannheim 1777 | Munich 1825 | Paravicini, Mme. | Milan 1778 | ? ? | Blanchard, Henri L. | Bordeaux 1778 | Paris 1858 | Radicati, Felice A. | Turin 1778 | ? 1823 | Weiss, Franz | Silesia 1778 | ? ? | Bridgetower, George A. | Poland ?1779 | ? c1850 | Müller, John Henry | Königsberg 1780 | ? ? | Habeneck, François A. | Mézières 1781 | Paris 1849 | Lafont, Charles Philippe | Paris 1781 | Tarbes 1839 | Polledro, Giovanni B. | Turin 1781 | Turin 1853 | Mazas, Jacques F. | Beziers 1782 | ? 1849 | Puppo, Felice A. | Turin 1778 | ? 1823 | Bohrer, Anthony | Munich 1783 | Hanover 1852 | Linke, Joseph | Silesia 1783 | Vienna 1837 | Paganini, Nicolo | Genoa 1784 | Nice 1840 | Spohr, Louis | Brunswick 1784 | Cassel 1859 | Zocca | Ferrara 1784 | ? ? | Fontaine, Antoine N.M. | Paris 1785 | St. Cloud 1866 | Lafonde | ? 1785 | ? ? | Eberwen, Karl | Weimar 1786 | Weimar 1868 | Granafond, Eugene | Compiegne 1786 | ? ? | Pixis, Friedrich, Wilhelm | Mannheim 1786 | Prague 1842 | Cudmore, Richard | Chichester 1757 | Manchester 1841 | Guhr, Charles | Militsch 1787 | Frankfurt 1848 | Berwald, Johann F. | Stockholm 1788 | Stockholm 1861 | Fesca, Friedrich E. | Magdeburg 1789 | Carlsruhe 1826 | Maurer, Ludwig | Potsdam 1789 | St. | | | Petersburg 1878 | Mayseder, Joseph | Vienna 1789 | Vienna 1863 | Wery, Nicolas L. | Liège 1789 | Luxemburg 1867 | Femy, François | Ghent 1790 | ? ? | Klose, J. | London 1790 | London 1830 | Lipinski, Karl Joseph | Poland 1790 | Urlow 1861 | Goetz, Jean N.C. | Weimar 1791 | ? 1861 | Benesch, Joseph | Batelow 1793 | ? ? | Pichatschek, François | Vienna 1793 | Carlsruhe 1840 | Filipowicz, Elizabeth M. | ? 1794 | ? ? | Jansa, Leopold | Bohemia 1794 | Vienna 1875 | Krahmer, Mme. Caroline | ? 1794 | ? ? | Parmy, Joseph | Austria 1794 | Mainz 1835 | Batta, Pierre | Maastricht 1795 | Brussels 1876 | Bohm, Joseph | Pesth 1795 | Vienna 1876 | Drin, Finlay | Aberdeen 1795 | Edinburgh 1853 | Lacy, Michael R. | Bilbao 1795 | London 1867 | Giorgetti, Fernandino | Florence 1796 | Florence 1867 | Mori, Nicolas | London 1796 | London 1839 | Calcagno, Catarina | Italy 1797 | ? ? | Collins, Isaac | ? 1797 | London 1871 | Girard, Narcisse | Nantes 1797 | Paris 1860 | Müller, Karl Friedrich | Brunswick 1797 | ? 1873 | Roberrechts, Andre | Brussels 1797 | Paris 1860 | Rolla, Antoine | Parma 1797 | Dresden 1837 | Tolberque, Jean B.J. | Belgium 1797 | Paris 1869 | Coronini, Paolo | Vincenza 1798 | ? 1875 | Batta, Pantaleon | Paris 1799 | Paris 1870 | Rudersdorff, J. | Amsterdam 1799 | Königsberg 1866 | Gattie, Henry | ? 1800 | ? ? | Hellmesberger, Georg | Vienna 1800 | Newaldegg 1873 | Meerts, Lambert | Brussels 1800 | Brussels 1863 | Müller, Theodore Heinrich | Brunswic 1800 | ? 1855 | Nohr, Christian F. | Thuringia 1800 | Meiningen 1875 | Schulz, Mlle. L. | ? 1800 | ? ? | Wanski, Johann N. | Posen c1800 | ? ? | Kalliwoda, Johann W. | Prague 1801 | Carlsruhe 1866 | Saint Lubin, Leon de | Turin 1801 | Berlin 1856 | De Bériot, Charles | Louvain 1802 | Brussels 1870 | Ella, John | England 1802 | London 1888 | Labitzky, Joseph | Schönfeld 1802 | Carlsbad 1881 | Molique, Wilhelm Bernard | Nuremburg 1802 | Stuttgart 1869 | Ries, Hubert | Bonn 1802 | Berlin 1886 | Lomagne, Joseph | Perpignan 1804 | Perpignan 1868 | Magnien, Victor | Epinal 1804 | Lille 1885 | Kudelski, Karl Matthias | Berlin 1805 | Baden-Baden 1877 | Pollini, Mme. | ? 1805 | ? ? | Dando, Joseph H.B. | London 1806 | ? 1894 | Hartmann, Franz | Coblentz 1807 | Cologne 1857 | Panofka, Heinrich | Breslau 1807 | Florence 1887 | Sauzay, Moritz | Moravia 1808 | Breslau 1885 | Bessems, Antoine | Antwerp 1809 | Antwerp 1868 | Müller, Franz F.G. | Brunswick 1809 | ? ? | Bull, Ole Borneman | Bergen 1810 | Bergen 1880 | David, Ferdinand | Hamburg 1810 | Switzerland 1873 | Ganz, Leopold | Mainz 1810 | Berlin 1869 | Ghys, Joseph | Ghent 1810 | ? 1848 | Blagrove, Henry Gamble | Nottingham 1811 | London 1872 | Hamm, Johann V. | Winterhausen 1811 | Stuttgart 1834 | Sainton, Prosper Philippe | Toulouse 1813 | London 1890 | Ernst, Heinrich Wilhelm | Brünn 1814 | Nice 1865 | Alard, Delphine J. | Bayonne 1815 | Paris? 1888 | Artot, Alexandre J.M. | Brussels 1815 | Paris 1845 | Dont, Jacob | Vienna 1815 | Vienna 1888 | Sivori, Ernest Camillo | Genoa 1815 | Paris 1894 | Zerchoff, Mlle. | ? 1815 | ? ? | Batta, Alexandre | Maastricht 1816 | ? ? | Prume, François Herbert | Liège 1816 | Liège 1849 | Deldevez, Ernest | Paris 1817 | Paris 1897 | Göbel, Johann Ferdinand | Baumgarten 1817 | ? ? | Bazzini, Antonio | Brescia 1818 | Milan 1897 | Dancla, Jean B. C. | Bagnières de | | | Bignon 1818 | ? ? | Kramer, Traugott | Codburg 1818 | ? ? | Eller, Louis | Graz 1819 | Pau 1862 | Hering, Karl | Berlin 1819 | ? 1889 | Léonard, Hubert | Bellaire 1819 | Paris 1890 | Batta, Joseph | Maastricht 1820 | Dreyschock, Raimund | Bohemia 1820 | Leipzig 1869 | Kéler-Béla | Hungary 1820 | Wiesbaden 1882 | Neumann, Louise | 1820 | | Vieuxtemps, Henri | Verviers 1820 | Algiers 1881 | Wallace, Eliza | England 1820 | | Gautier, Karl | Vaugirard 1822 | Vaugirard 1878 | Hauser, Miska | Presburg 1822 | Vienna 1887 | Dancla, Leopold | France 1823 | 1895 | Gaertner, Karl | Stralsund 1823 | | Hermann, Constant | Douai 1823 | | Eichberg, Julius | Düsseldorf 1824 | Boston 1893 | Hullweck, Ferdinand | Dessau 1824 | Blasewitz 1887 | De Kontski, Apollinari | Warsaw 1825 | Warsaw 1879 | Bott, Jean Joseph | Cassel 1826 | 1895 | Collins, Rosina | 1826 | | Hauser, Maurice | Berlin 1826 | Königsberg 1857 | Kundinger, August | Kitzengen 1827 | | Milanollo, Teresa | Turin 1827 | | Mollenhauer, Edward | Erfurt 1827 | | Hellmesberger, Georg | Vienna 1828 | Hanover 1853 | Hermann, Frederick | Frankfort 1828 | | Huber, Karl | Varjas 1828 | Pesth 1885 | Hellmesberger, Joseph | Vienna 1829 | Vienna 1893 | Röntgen, Engelbert | Holland 1829 | | Adelburg, August R. Von | ? 1830 | ? 1873 | Arditi, Emilia | ? 1830 | | Garcin, Jules A. S. | Bourges 1830 | ? 1896 | Hennen, Friedrich | Heerlen 1830 | | Remenyi, Edouard | Hungary 1830 | SanFrancisco1898 | Zirges, Hortensia | 1830 | | Bargheer, Karl Louis | Bückeburg 1831 | | Joachim, Joseph | Kitsee 1831 | | Kassmayer, Moritz | Vienna 1831 | Vienna 1884 | Kömpel, August | Bavaria 1831 | Weimar 1891 | Singer, Edmund | Hungary 1831 | | Laub, Ferdinand | Prague 1832 | Tyrol 1875 | Lauterbach, Johann C. | Bavaria 1832 | | Milanollo, Maria | Turin 1832 | 1848 | Becker, Jean | Mannheim 1833 | Mannheim 1884 | Bennewitz, Anton | Privat 1833 | | Graff, Carl | Hungary 1833 | | Filby, Heinrich | Vienna 1834 | | De Ahna, Heinrich K. H. | Vienna 1835 | Vienna 1892 | Jaffé, Moritz | Posen 1835 | | Monasterio, Jesus | Potes (Spain)1835 | | Strauss, Ludwig | Pressburg 1835 | | Wieniawski, Henry | Poland 1835 | Moscow 1880 | Besekirskij, Wasil W. | Moscow 1836 | | Carrodus, John T. | Keighley 1836 | London 1895 | Holmes, Alfred | London 1837 | Paris 1876 | Grün, Jacob | Buda-Pesth 1837 | | Brousil, Bertha | ? 1838 | | Piercy-Feeny, Mme. | 1838 | | Neruda, Wilhelmina (Lady | | | Hallé) | Brünn 1838 | | Werner, Hildegard | 1838 | | Holmes, Henry | London 1839 | | Jacobsohn, Simon | Mittau 1839 | | Rappoldi, Edouard | Vienna 1839 | | Bargheer, Adolph | 1840 | | David, Peter P. | Leipzig 1840 | | Lotto, Isidor | Warsaw 1840 | | Gobbi, Aloys | Pesth 1844 | | Heermann, Hugo | Hulbrönn 1844 | | Sarasate, Pablo de | Pampeluna 1844 | | Auer, Leopold | Hungary 1845 | | Singelee, Louise | 1845 | | Castellan, Mlle | 1845 | | Wilhelmj, August | Usingen 1845 | | Courvoisier, Carl | Basle 1846 | | Schradieck, Henry | Hamburg 1846 | | Papini, Guido | Florence 1847 | | Walter, Benno | Munich 1847 | | De Bono, Victoria | 1848 | | Heckmann, Georg J. R. | Mannheim 1848 | Glasgow 1891 | Marsick, Martin P. J. | Jupille 1848 | | Drechsler-Adamson, Mme. | 1849 | | Gibson, Alfred | Nottingham 1849 | | Drechsler-Woycke, Mme. | ? 1850 | | Brodsky, Adolph | Taganrog 1851 | | Hagen, Adolph | Bremen 1851 | | Sauret, Emil | Dun-le-Roi 1852 | | Boulanger, Mlle. | 1853 | | Meyer, Waldemar | Berlin 1853 | | Zajic, Florian | Bohemia 1853 | | Ferrari, Signora Elvira | 1854 | | Hermant, Mlle. | 1854 | | Drechsler-Hamilton, Mme | Agnes 1855 | | Holländer, Gustav | Silesia 1855 | | Sahla, Richard | Graz 1855 | | Kess, Wilhelm | Dordrecht 1856 | | Petri, Henri Wilhelm | Utrecht 1856 | | Thomson, César | Liège 1857 | | Barcevicz, Stanislaus | Warsaw 1858 | | Hilf, Arno | Saxony 1858 | | Huber, Eugen (Jeno Hubay) | Budapest 1858 | | Halir, Karl | Hohenlohe 1859 | | Hess, Willie | Mannheim 1859 | | Ondricek, Franz | Prague 1859 | | Ysaye, Eugene | Liège 1859 | | Loeffler, Charles Martin | Alsace 1861 | | Rossi, Marcello | Vienna 1862 | | Wolff, Johannes | Hague 1862 | | Rose, Arnold | Roumania 1863 | | Soldat, Marie | Gratz 1863 | | Prill, Carl | Berlin 1864 | | Senkrah, Arma | New York 1864 | | Eissler, Marianne | Brünn 1865 | | Kneisel, Franz | Roumania 1865 | | Carpenter, Nettie | New York 1865 | | Dunn, John | Hull 1866 | | Wietrowitz, Gabrielle | Laibach 1866 | | Dengremont, Maurice | Rio Janeiro 1867 | ? c1887 | Gregorowitsch, Charles | St. | | | Petersburg 1867 | | Tua, Teresina | Turin 1867 | | Powell, Maud | Aurora, Ill. 1868 | | Sapellnikoff | Odessa 1868 | | Burmester, Willy | Hamburg 1869 | | Petschnikoff, Alexander | Moscow 1873 | | Marteau, Henri | Reims 1874 | | Saenger-Sethe, Irma | Brussels 1876 | | Jackson, Leonora | Boston 1879 | | INDEX. Adams, Suzanne, 339. Ahna, H.K. de, 240. Aichelburg, Count, 331. Alard, D., 68, 135, 144, 145, 161, 226. Albertinatti, 105. Alday le jeune, 68. Alexander, Czar, 81. Alexander III., 222. Amati, Andrea, 13. Amati, Nicolo, 14. Anêt, B., 28, 35, 39, 40. Arditi, Emilia, 312. Artot, 149, 150, 169, 192. Auer, Leopold, 359, 360. Austria, Emperor of, 206. Bacchiochi, Princess Elise, 112. Bach, J.S., 254, 275, 277, 334, 340. Baillot, P.M.F. de S., 26, 68, 71-75, 129, 144, 177, 346. Baltizarini, 15. Baltzar, Thomas, 19, 20. Banister, John, 19, 20, 21. Bargheer, C.L., 97. Baroni, Leonora, 302. Bassani, G.B., 30. Bazzini, 247, 354. Beauharnais, Eugene, 307. Becker, Hans, 356. Becker, Jean, 353, 354, 355. Beethoven, L. von, 57, 77, 91, 205, 225, 231, 352, 254, 290, 333, 347, 258, 364. Benda, Franz, 56, 57. Bennewitz, 277. Bériot, Charles A. de, 25, 28, 29, 67, 68, 136, 138-144, 147, 148, 150, 162, 188, 266, 309, 334, 352. Berlioz, Hector, 79, 80, 126, 127, 128, 248, 253. Berry, Duchesse de, 81. Berthaume, 81. Bertin, Armand. 127. Besekirskij, Wasil W., 240, 285. Bianchi, Antonia, 116. Bilse Orchestra, 277, 283. Bini, P., 49. Blagrove, H.G., 97, 170, 358. Boccherini, L., 76. Bohemian Quartet, 360, 363. Böhm, J., 28, 68, 206, 215. Brahms, Johannes, 212, 253, 329, 332, 364. Brazil, Emperor of, 230. Brodsky, Adolf, 82, 263-265, 356, 357. Brousil, Bertha, 312. Bruch, Max, 295, 328, 341. Brunswick, Duke of, 85. Bull, Ole, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 169, 172-203, 225, 237. Bülow, Hans Von, 291, 292, 293, 315. Bunn, 247. Bunzl, 294. Burmester, Willy, 286-293, 333. Burney, Doctor, 43, 55, 56. Calcagno, Caterina, 111, 154, 308. Caldera, 309. Campbell, Lucie, 330. Careño, Theresa, 265. Carpenter, Nettie, 338. Carrodus, John T., 170, 241. Cartier, 68. Cessole, Conte di, 117, 118. Cherubini, 62, 93, 136. Chiabran, F., 36. Chiostri, 354. Chopin, F., 187, 210. Ciandelli, 114. Clegg, John, 24. Clement, 254, 255. Clementi, 86. Cleveland, Mrs. G., 342. Cleves, Anne of, 301. Coburg-Gotha, Duke of, 240. Colbran, Madame, 189. Collins, Rosina, 308. Colonne, 295. Corbett, William, 22. Corelli, A., 28, 30, 31-35, 36, 38, 40, 50, 52, 59. Costa, G., 105, 157. Cumberland, Duke of, 302. Cuvillon, 68. Cuzzoni, F., 53. Damrosch, Leopold, 339. Damrosch, Walter, 263, 340. Dancla, C., 129, 135, 171. Dando, J., 357, 358, 359. D'Artot, 69. David, Ferd., 97, 234, 247, 253, 350, 351, 357. Davidoff, 360. Delavan, 136. Delibes, 214. Dellepaine, 157, 159. Dengremont, M., 68, 281, 282. Derwies, Baron, 268, 279. Diamantina, La, 302. Dont, Jacob, 68, 171, 285, 359. Dubois, 295. Dubourg, M., 22, 23, 40. Dulcken, Madame, 350. Dunn, John, 299. Durand, 68. Durst, 352. Dwight, J.S., 201, 225, 320, 324. Eccles, Henry, 22. Eck, Ferdinand, 85. Eck, Franz, 85. Eder, Josephine, 163. Elizabeth, Queen, 301. England, Queen of, 343. Ericsson, Lief, 198. Ernst, H., 68, 146-149, 169, 187, 233, 246, 247. Farina, Carlo, 15, 16. Ferrari, 49. Ferrero, 309. Festing, M., 53. Fétis, 129, 145. Field, 86, 210. Filipowicz, Madame, 308. Fischer, Konrad, 232. Florentine Quartet, 353-355, 356. Fontana, Giovanni B., 16. Garcia, Pauline, 143. Gattie, Henry, 358. Gautherst, Louise, 307. Geminiani, F., 23, 24, 28, 35, 40, 43. Gerbini, Luigia, 68, 307. Gericke, W., 283. Germany, Empress of, 343. Geyer, A., 331. Ghiretti, 106. Giardini, F., 36, 53. Görgey, General, 206. Gotha, Duke of, 86. Gounod, C., 294. Graun, 49, 56. Gregorowitsch, C., 241, 284, 286. Grün, Jacob, 242, 283, 362. Guiraud, 279. Habeneck, 68, 78-80, 93, 145, 309. Halir, Carl, 256, 276-278, 283. Hallé, Lady (Mme. Norman-Neruda), 312-319, 323, 327, 335. Hallé, Sir Charles, 124, 125, 127, 136, 160, 169, 265, 315-317. Hampton, Miss, 222. Handel, G.F., 23, 32. Hanover, King of, 248. Hanslick, E., 229. Harkness, A., 337. Hauptmann, 247. Hauser, Miska, 215-218. Hausmann, 234. Haydn, J., 58, 245, 358. Heckmann, G.J.R., 356. Hegyesi, 356. Heissler, 352. Hellmesberger, G., 68. Hellmesberger, J., 264, 283, 352, 355, 362. Henry VII., King, 301. Henselt, 162. Herwig, 150. Hess, Willy, 256. Higginson, H.L., 361. Hilf, A., 357. Hilpert, 354. Hoffmann, 215, 360. Hogarth, G., 133. Hollaender, G., 256. Holmes, Henry, 98, 241. Holmes, Alfred, 241. Hrimaly, 296. Hubay, J., 256, 299, 356. Huber, Mlle., 143. Hummel, 245. Hunt, L., 133. Isabella, Queen, 226. Jackson, 17. Jackson, Leonora, 326, 342, 343. Jacobsen, 326. Jacotot, 139. Jaffé, Sophie, 336. Janin, Jules, 126. Jansa, L., 313. Joachim, J., 16, 27, 29, 68, 206, 212, 213, 224, 231, 234, 236, 238, 240, 244-260, 277, 279, 285, 286, 287, 289, 290, 315, 325, 326, 328, 329, 331, 341, 351, 353, 355. Joachim Quartet, 357, 363. Jokisch, 334. Joseph II., Emperor, 306. Josephine, Empress, 78, 307. Kalkbrenner, 83. Kannitz, Count de, 114. Kinsky, Count, 43, 49. Klapka, 206. Klengel, J., 356. Kneisel, F., 279, 282, 361-364. Kneisel Quartet, 281, 284, 361-364. Kömpel, 97. Kossuth, 206. Krahmer, Madame, 308. Kreutzer, Rodolphe, 26, 68-71, 76, 93, 128, 136, 170, 215. Kreutzer Sonata, 137, 138. Kufferath, 238. Kugler, 360. Lablache, L., 142. Lacour, 186. Lafont, C.F., 26, 29, 70, 80-82, 130, 309. Lahoussaye, 49. Lassabathie, M., 226, 227. Laub, F., 240, 297. Lauterbach, 68. Leclair, J.M., 36, 51, 52. Lecloux, 162. Lenox, Lady, 302. Léonard, H., 68, 136, 145, 238, 268, 282, 294, 296. Leschetizky, Th., 298. Lichtenberg, L., 299. Liddell, Capt. A.F., 327. Lind, Jenny, 216. Linley, Thomas, 24. Liphart, 350. Lipinski, K.J., 100-103, 130. Listemann, B., 299, 361. Liszt, F., 120, 137, 206, 213, 233, 234, 245, 248, 253, 310. Livron, M., 108. Locatelli, 28, 35, 36. Loder, 359. Loeffler, C.M., 138, 279-281. Loeleberg, 360. Lolli, A., 55. Lotto, L, 138. Louis Philippe, 310. Lucas, 358. Lulli, J.B., 30, 37-39. Lundholm, 177, 178, 179. Malibran, 25, 142, 143, 144, 168, 188. Manfredi, 49. Mapleson, 207. Mara, G.E., 302, 305. Marchesi, 105. Margherita, Queen, 324. Maria Theresa, 296. Marini, B., 15. Marsick, M., 28, 68, 146, 237-239, 267, 269. Marteau, H., 293-296. Masi, 354. Massart, 70, 136-138, 238, 278, 320, 323, 349. Massenet, 294. Maurer, 182, 247. Maurin, 135. Mausch-Jerret, M., 236. Mayseder, 188, 215, 346. Mazas, 68. Mazzurana, Doctor, 101. Meck, Countess of, 222. Mell, D., 19. Mendelssohn, 161, 246, 247, 278, 279, 329, 331, 342, 351. Meneke, 360. Metternich, Count, 114. Milanollo, M., 310. Milanollo, T., 29, 68, 309, 313, 352. Mingotti, 53. Molique, B.H., 70, 162, 169, 241, 294. Montes, Lola, 216. Montebello, Duke of, 187. Morgan, Geraldine, 338, 339, 340. Mori, 68. Morra, 309. Mozart, L., 54. Mozart, W., 24, 58, 306, 307, 322, 323, 358. Murska, Ilma di, 265. Musaeus, 180, 181. Nagel, 150. Napoleon, 89, 90, 112. Napoleon III., 230. Nardini, P., 24, 49, 50, 54, 55, 73, 303. Nedbal, 360. Neruda, J., 313. Neruda, Norman, 318. Neumann, E., 308. Nicholl, Anne, 302. Nickisch, A., 275, 295. Nilsson, C., 169, 303. Norman, L., 314, 315. North, Colonel, 208. Occa, Victoria dall', 307. Ondricek, F., 267, 278. Ottey, Sarah, 302. Ottoboni, Cardinal, 31. Ourosoff, Princess, 297. Oury, A.J., 25. Paderewski, I., 273, 276. Paer, 106. Paganini, Achille, 116. Paganini, Antonio, 105. Paganini, Nicolo, 26, 29, 75, 82, 92, 100-134, 135, 141, 147, 148, 150, 151, 154, 156, 157, 160, 161, 162, 180, 183, 184, 185, 188, 191,200, 217, 233, 269, 288, 308. Pallerini, Mme., 112. Paravicini, Mme., 68, 307. Parmentier, Captain, 310. Pasdeloup, 280, 321. Pasini, 109. Paton, Mary Ann, 302. Patti, Adelina, 194. Patti, Amalia S., 194. Paulsen, 175. Paur, Emil, 298. Petri, Henri, 236, 299. Petschnikoff, A., 296-298. Pfeiffer, Marianne, 95. Piatti, 247. Piercy-Feeny, Mme., 312. Pisendel, 42. Pixis, 64, 68. Pleiner, 328. Polidori, 72. Pollani, 72. Pollini, 308. Portugal, King of, 285. Pott, A., 329. Powell, Maude, 326, 340-342. Prume, 68. Prussia, King of, 310. Pugnani, G., 28, 29, 36, 52, 61. Purcell, 18. Quagliati, P., 15. Rappoldi, E., 68, 242. Remenyi, E., 150, 154, 205-215, 232. Riario, Duke of, 187. Richter, Hans, 234, 330, 362. Rivarde, A., 278. Roberrechts, 28, 68, 139. Rode, Pierre, 28, 68, 70, 71, 75-77, 120, 162, 348, 349. Röger, 330. Rolla, 105, 106. Röntgen, 357. Rosé, A., 299, 360. Rossini, 67, 92, 191. Roth, O., 362. Rovelli, 70. Roy, Gabrielle, 330. Rubinstein, Anton, 154, 219, 220, 273. Russia, Czar of, 285. Russia, Empress of, 324. Sacchi, R. (Schlick), 305, 306, 307. Saenger-Sethe, I., 332-336. Sahla, R., 360. Saint-Saëns, C., 334. Sainte-Marie, 72. Sainton, C.P., 169, 247. Salomon, J.P., 57, 63. Santley, C., 234. Sarasate, P., 28, 29, 68, 226-231, 238. Sauret, E., 265-267. Scarlatti, A., 33, 34. Scheidler, D., 86. Schlesinger, 352. Schradieck, H., 265, 357. Schroeder, A., 281, 362. Schubert, F., 246. Schulz, M., 308. Schumann, 120, 162, 213, 253. Schumann, Mme., 293. Schuppanzigh, 346. Scotta, Frida, 336. Sechter, 215. Sembrich, M., 303. Senaillé, J.B., 28, 39. Senkrah, A., 337. Servaczinski, 246. Servais, 163. Servetto, 105. Shinner, E. (Mrs. Liddell), 325-327, 332, 353. Shinner Quartet, 327, 353. Simonelli, 30. Singer, E., 68, 239. Sirmen, Maddalena, 303. Sitt, Hans, 356. Sivori, C., 150, 153, 154-161, 167, 168, 231, 294. Soldat, M., 257, 326, 327-330, 342, 353. Somis, 28, 29, 35, 51, 53. Sontag, H., 143, 233. Soubre, E.J., 163. Spain, Queen of, 230, 324. Spohr, L., 26, 75, 82-99, 158, 159, 162, 170, 178, 182, 183, 184, 188, 191, 233, 261, 346-349, 358. Stamitz, A., 69. Stern, Leo, 339. Stradivari, A., 14. Strakosch, M., 194. Strauss, L., 68. Suk, J., 360. Süssmayer, 120. Svecenski, L., 362. Sweden, King of, 198. Tartini, G., 29, 43, 44-51, 52, 54, 101, 304. Thalberg, 163, 165, 166. Thierot, 328. Thomson, C., 267-269, 273, 279, 283. Thorpe, S.C., 197. Thursby, Emma, 198. Tiby, M., 139. Torelli, G., 41. Tschetchulin, Agnes, 330. Tua, Teresina, 70, 138, 323-325, 337. Turkey, Sultan of, 217, 232. Tuscany, Duke of, 189. Urso, Camilla, 312, 319-322, 323, 337. Urso, Salvator, 319. Valentini, 34. Valetta, Count F.V. della, 325. Vanderbilt, G., 342. Veracini, F.M., 42, 43, 46, 47. Viardot, Madame, 246. Vidocq, 185. Vieuxtemps, H., 28, 68, 136, 149, 162-169, 192, 202, 221, 223, 231, 241, 271, 328, 337. Villermot, F., 191. Viotti, G.B., 28, 56-68, 72, 73, 75, 81, 85, 93, 140, 261, 307. Vitali, T., 16, 40. Vivaldi, A., 36, 41, 42, 52. Vuillaume, 145. Wagner, R., 92, 162. Wales, Prince of, 324. Wales, Princess of, 324. Wallace, 150. Wallace, Eliza, 308. Wasielewski, 244. Weber, 94. Weiss, A., 249. Werner, H., 312, 313. Wieniawski, 70, 136, 138, 154, 218-226, 231, 270, 271, 273, 285, 337. Wietrowitz, G., 257, 326, 330-332, 342, 353. Wihom, H., 360. Wilhelmj, A., 208, 209, 231-237, 263, 267, 282, 334. William I, Emperor, 230. Wittgenstein, Prince Emil of, 233. Wood, Mrs., 302. Young, 18. Ysaye, 237, 239, 263, 269, 276, 334, 335. Zampieri, Marquis, 189. Zerbst, Theresa, 277. Zerchoff, Mlle., 308. 
29481	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 29481-h.htm or 29481-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29481/29481-h/29481-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29481/29481-h.zip) [Illustration] THE FIFTH STRING by JOHN PHILIP SOUSA The Illustrations by Howard Chandler Christy Indianapolis The Bowen-Merrill Company Publishers Copyright 1902 The Bowen-Merrill Company Press of Braunworth & Co. Bookbinders and Printers Brooklyn, N. Y. _The Fifth String_ I The coming of Diotti to America had awakened more than usual interest in the man and his work. His marvelous success as violinist in the leading capitals of Europe, together with many brilliant contributions to the literature of his instrument, had long been favorably commented on by the critics of the old world. Many stories of his struggles and his triumphs had found their way across the ocean and had been read and re-read with interest. Therefore, when Mr. Henry Perkins, the well-known impresario, announced with an air of conscious pride and pardonable enthusiasm that he had secured Diotti for a "limited" number of concerts, Perkins' friends assured that wide-awake gentleman that his foresight amounted to positive genius, and they predicted an unparalleled success for his star. On account of his wonderful ability as player, Diotti was a favorite at half the courts of Europe, and the astute Perkins enlarged upon this fact without regard for the feelings of the courts or the violinist. On the night preceding Diotti's début in New York, he was the center of attraction at a reception given by Mrs. Llewellyn, a social leader, and a devoted patron of the arts. The violinist made a deep impression on those fortunate enough to be near him during the evening. He won the respect of the men by his observations on matters of international interest, and the admiration of the gentler sex by his chivalric estimate of woman's influence in the world's progress, on which subject he talked with rarest good humor and delicately implied gallantry. During one of those sudden and unexplainable lulls that always occur in general drawing-room conversations, Diotti turned to Mrs. Llewellyn and whispered: "Who is the charming young woman just entering?" "The beauty in white?" "Yes, the beauty in white," softly echoing Mrs. Llewellyn's query. He leaned forward and with eager eyes gazed in admiration at the new-comer. He seemed hypnotized by the vision, which moved slowly from between the blue-tinted portières and stood for the instant, a perfect embodiment of radiant womanhood, silhouetted against the silken drapery. "That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred Wallace, only child of one of New York's prominent bankers." "She is beautiful--a queen by divine right," cried he, and then with a mingling of impetuosity and importunity, entreated his hostess to present him. And thus they met. Mrs. Llewellyn's entertainments were celebrated, and justly so. At her receptions one always heard the best singers and players of the season, and Epicurus' soul could rest in peace, for her chef had an international reputation. Oh, remember, you music-fed ascetic, many, aye, very many, regard the transition from Tschaikowsky to terrapin, from Beethoven to burgundy with hearts aflame with anticipatory joy--and Mrs. Llewellyn's dining-room was crowded. Miss Wallace and Diotti had wandered into the conservatory. "A desire for happiness is our common heritage," he was saying in his richly melodious voice. "But to define what constitutes happiness is very difficult," she replied. "Not necessarily," he went on; "if the motive is clearly within our grasp, the attainment is possible." "For example?" she asked. "The miser is happy when he hoards his gold; the philanthropist when he distributes his. The attainment is identical, but the motives are antipodal." "Then one possessing sufficient motives could be happy without end?" she suggested doubtingly. "That is my theory. The Niobe of old had happiness within her power." "The gods thought not," said she; "in their very pity they changed her into stone, and with streaming eyes she ever tells the story of her sorrow." "But are her children weeping?" he asked. "I think not. Happiness can bloom from the seeds of deepest woe," and in a tone almost reverential, he continued: "I remember a picture in one of our Italian galleries that always impressed me as the ideal image of maternal happiness. It is a painting of the Christ-mother standing by the body of the Crucified. Beauty was still hers, and the dress of grayish hue, nun-like in its simplicity, seemed more than royal robe. Her face, illumined as with a light from heaven, seemed inspired with this thought: 'They have killed Him--they have killed my son! Oh, God, I thank Thee that His suffering is at an end!' And as I gazed at the holy face, another light seemed to change it by degrees from saddened motherhood to triumphant woman! Then came: 'He is not dead, He but sleeps; He will rise again, for He is the best beloved of the Father!'" "Still, fate can rob us of our patrimony," she replied, after a pause. "Not while life is here and eternity beyond," he said, reassuringly. "What if a soul lies dormant and will not arouse?" she asked. "There are souls that have no motive low enough for earth, but only high enough for heaven," he said, with evident intention, looking almost directly at her. "Then one must come who speaks in nature's tongue," she continued. "And the soul will then awake," he added earnestly. "But is there such a one?" she asked. "Perhaps," he almost whispered, his thought father to the wish. "I am afraid not," she sighed. "I studied drawing, worked diligently and, I hope, intelligently, and yet I was quickly convinced that a counterfeit presentment of nature was puny and insignificant. I painted Niagara. My friends praised my effort. I saw Niagara again--I destroyed the picture." "But you must be prepared to accept the limitations of man and his work," said the philosophical violinist. "Annihilation of one's own identity in the moment is possible in nature's domain--never in man's. The resistless, never-ending rush of the waters, madly churning, pitilessly dashing against the rocks below; the mighty roar of the loosened giant; that was Niagara. My picture seemed but a smear of paint." [Illustration] "Still, man has won the admiration of man by his achievements," he said. "Alas, for me," she sighed, "I have not felt it." "Surely you have been stirred by the wonders man has accomplished in music's realm?" Diotti ventured. "I never have been." She spoke sadly and reflectively. "But does not the passion-laden theme of a master, or the marvelous feeling of a player awaken your emotions?" persisted he. She stood leaning lightly against a pillar by the fountain. "I never hear a pianist, however great and famous, but I see the little cream-colored hammers within the piano bobbing up and down like acrobatic brownies. I never hear the plaudits of the crowd for the artist and watch him return to bow his thanks, but I mentally demand that these little acrobats, each resting on an individual pedestal, and weary from his efforts, shall appear to receive a share of the applause. "When I listen to a great singer," continued this world-defying skeptic, "trilling like a thrush, scampering over the scales, I see a clumsy lot of ah, ah, ahs, awkwardly, uncertainly ambling up the gamut, saying, 'were it not for us she could not sing thus--give us our meed of praise.'" Slowly he replied: "Masters have written in wondrous language and masters have played with wondrous power." "And I so long to hear," she said, almost plaintively. "I marvel at the invention of the composer and the skill of the player, but there I cease." He looked at her intently. She was standing before him, not a block of chiseled ice, but a beautiful, breathing woman. He offered her his arm and together they made their way to the drawing-room. "Perhaps, some day, one will come who can sing a song of perfect love in perfect tones, and your soul will be attuned to his melody." "Perhaps--and good-night," she softly said, leaving his arm and joining her friends, who accompanied her to the carriage. [Illustration: ACADEMY _of_ MUSIC DECEMBER 12TH--8:00 P. M. FIRST APPEARANCE IN AMERICA OF THE RENOWNED TUSCAN VIOLINIST ANGELO DIOTTI ASSISTED BY ARTISTS OF INTERNATIONAL REPUTATION DIRECTION OF MR. HENRY PERKINS SECOND CONCERT OF SIGNOR DIOTTI DECEMBER 14TH] II The intangible something that places the stamp of popular approval on one musical enterprise, while another equally artistic and as cleverly managed languishes in a condition of unendorsed greatness, remains one of the unsolved mysteries. When a worker in the vineyard of music or the drama offers his choicest tokay to the public, that fickle coquette may turn to the more ordinary and less succulent concord. And the worker and the public itself know not why. It is true, Diotti's fame had preceded him, but fame has preceded others and has not always been proof against financial disaster. All this preliminary,--and it is but necessary to recall that on the evening of December the twelfth Diotti made his initial bow in New York, to an audience that completely filled every available space in the Academy of Music--a representative audience, distinguished alike for beauty, wealth and discernment. When the violinist appeared for his solo, he quietly acknowledged the cordial reception of the audience, and immediately proceeded with the business of the evening. At a slight nod from him the conductor rapped attention, then launched the orchestra into the introduction of the concerto, Diotti's favorite, selected for the first number. As the violinist turned to the conductor he faced slightly to the left and in a direct line with the second proscenium box. His poise was admirable. He was handsome, with the olive-tinted warmth of his southern home--fairly tall, straight-limbed and lithe--a picture of poetic grace. His was the face of a man who trusted without reserve, the manner of one who believed implicitly, feeling that good was universal and evil accidental. As the music grew louder and the orchestra approached the peroration of the preface of the coming solo, the violinist raised his head slowly. Suddenly his eyes met the gaze of the solitary occupant of the second proscenium box. His face flushed. He looked inquiringly, almost appealingly, at her. She sat immovable and serene, a lace-framed vision in white. It was she who, since he had met her, only the night before, held his very soul in thraldom. He lifted his bow, tenderly placing it on the strings. Faintly came the first measures of the theme. The melody, noble, limpid and beautiful, floated in dreamy sway over the vast auditorium, and seemed to cast a mystic glamour over the player. As the final note of the first movement was dying away, the audience, awakening from its delicious trance, broke forth into spontaneous bravos. Mildred Wallace, scrutinizing the program, merely drew her wrap closer about her shoulders and sat more erect. At the end of the concerto the applause was generous enough to satisfy the most exacting _virtuoso_. Diotti unquestionably had scored the greatest triumph of his career. But the lady in the box had remained silent and unaffected throughout. The poor fellow had seen only her during the time he played, and the mighty cheers that came from floor and galleries struck upon his ear like the echoes of mocking demons. Leaving the stage he hurried to his dressing-room and sank into a chair. He had persuaded himself she should not be insensible to his genius, but the dying ashes of his hopes, his dreams, were smouldering, and in his despair came the thought: "I am not great enough for her. I am but a man; her consort should be a god. Her soul, untouched by human passion or human skill, demands the power of god-like genius to arouse it." Music lovers crowded into his dressing-room, enthusiastic in their praises. Cards conveying delicate compliments written in delicate chirography poured in upon him, but in vain he looked for some sign, some word from her. Quickly he left the theater and sought his hotel. A menacing cloud obscured the wintry moon. A clock sounded the midnight hour. He threw himself upon the bed and almost sobbed his thoughts, and their burden was: "I am not great enough for her. I am but a man. I am but a man!" III Perkins called in the morning. Perkins was happy--Perkins was positively joyous, and Perkins was self-satisfied. The violinist had made a great hit. But Perkins, confiding in the white-coated dispenser who concocted his _matin Martini_, very dry, an hour before, said he regarded the success due as much to the management as to the artist. And Perkins believed it. Perkins usually took all the credit for a success, and with charming consistency placed all responsibility for failure on the shoulders of the hapless artist. When Perkins entered Diotti's room he found the violinist heavy-eyed and dejected. "My dear Signor," he began, showing a large envelope bulging with newspaper clippings, "I have brought the notices. They are quite the limit, I assure you. Nothing like them ever heard before--all tuned in the same key, as you musical fellows would say," and Perkins cocked his eye. Perkins enjoyed a glorious reputation with himself for bright sayings, which he always accompanied with a cock of the eye. The musician not showing any visible appreciation of the manager's metaphor, Perkins immediately proceeded to uncock his eye. "Passed the box-office coming up," continued this voluble enlightener; "nothing left but a few seats in the top gallery. We'll stand them on their heads to-morrow night--see if we don't." Then he handed the bursting envelope of notices to Diotti, who listlessly put them on the table at his side. "Too tired to read, eh?" said Perkins, and then with the advance-agent instinct strong within him he selected a clipping, and touching the violinist on the shoulder: "Let me read this one to you. It is by Herr Totenkellar. He is a hard nut to crack, but he did himself proud this time. Great critic when he wants to be." Perkins cleared his throat and began: "Diotti combines tremendous feeling with equally tremendous technique. The entire audience was under the witchery of his art." Diotti slowly negatived that statement with bowed head. "His tone is full, round and clear; his interpretation lends a story-telling charm to the music; for, while we drank deep at the fountain of exquisite melody, we saw sparkling within the waters the lights of Paradise. New York never has heard his equal. He stands alone, pre-eminent, an artistic giant." "Now, that's what I call great," said the impresario, dramatically; "when you hit Totenkellar that way you are good for all kinds of money." Perkins took his hat and cane and moved toward the door. The violinist arose and extended his hand wearily. "Good-day" came simultaneously; then "I'm off. We'll turn 'em away to-morrow; see if we don't!" Whereupon Perkins left Diotti alone in his misery. IV It was the evening of the fourteenth. In front of the Academy a strong-lunged and insistent tribe of gentry, known as ticket speculators, were reaping a rich harvest. They represented a beacon light of hope to many tardy patrons of the evening's entertainment, especially to the man who had forgotten his wife's injunction "to be sure to buy the tickets on the way down town, dear, and get them in the family circle, not too far back." This man's intentions were sincere, but his newspaper was unusually interesting that morning. He was deeply engrossed in an article on the causes leading to matrimonial infelicities when his 'bus passed the Academy box-office. He was six blocks farther down town when he finished the article, only to find that it was a carefully worded advertisement for a new patent medicine, and of course he had not time to return. "Oh, well," said he, "I'll get them when I go up town to-night." But he did not. So with fear in his heart and a red-faced woman on his arm he approached the box-office. "Not a seat left," sounded to his hen-pecked ears like the concluding words of the black-robed judge: "and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul." But a reprieve came, for one of the aforesaid beacon lights of hope rushed forward, saying: "I have two good seats, not far back, and only ten apiece." And the gentleman with fear in his heart and the red-faced woman on his arm passed in. They saw the largest crowd in the history of the Academy. Every seat was occupied, every foot of standing room taken. Chairs were placed in the side aisles. The programs announced that it was the second appearance in America of Angelo Diotti, the renowned Tuscan violinist. The orchestra had perfunctorily ground out the overture to "Der Freischuetz," the baritone had stentorianly emitted "Dio Possente," the soprano was working her way through the closing measures of the mad scene from "Lucia," and Diotti was number four on the program. The conductor stood beside his platform, ready to ascend as Diotti appeared. The audience, ever ready to act when those on the stage cease that occupation, gave a splendid imitation of the historic last scene at the Tower of Babel. Having accomplished this to its evident satisfaction, the audience proceeded, like the closing phrase of the "Goetterdaemmerung" Dead March, to become exceedingly quiet--then expectant. This expectancy lasted fully three minutes. Then there were some impatient handclappings. A few persons whispered: "Why is he late?" "Why doesn't he come?" "I wonder where Diotti is," and then came unmistakable signs of impatience. At its height Perkins appeared, hesitatingly. Nervous and jerky he walked to the center of the stage, and raised his hand begging silence. The audience was stilled. "Ladies and gentlemen," he falteringly said, "Signor Diotti left his hotel at seven o'clock and was driven to the Academy. The call-boy rapped at his dressing-room, and not receiving a reply, opened the door to find the room empty. We have despatched searchers in every direction and have sent out a police alarm. We fear some accident has befallen the Signor. We ask your indulgence for the keen disappointment, and beg to say that your money will be refunded at the box-office." Diotti had disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him. V My dearest sister: You doubtless were exceedingly mystified and troubled over the report that was flashed to Europe regarding my sudden disappearance on the eve of my second concert in New York. Fearing, sweet Francesca, that you might mourn me as dead, I sent the cablegram you received some weeks since, telling you to be of good heart and await my letter. To make my action thoroughly understood I must give you a record of what happened to me from the first day I arrived in America. I found a great interest manifested in my première, and socially everything was done to make me happy. Mrs. James Llewellyn, whom, you no doubt remember, we met in Florence the winter of 18--, immediately after I reached New York arranged a reception for me, which was elegant in the extreme. But from that night dates my misery. You ask her name?--Mildred Wallace. Tell me what she is like, I hear you say. Of graceful height, willowy and exquisitely molded, not over twenty-four, with the face of a Madonna; wondrous eyes of darkest blue, hair indescribable in its maze of tawny color--in a word, the perfection of womanhood. In half an hour I was her abject slave, and proud in my serfdom. When I returned to the hotel that evening I could not sleep. Her image ever was before me, elusive and shadowy. And yet we seemed to grow farther and farther apart--she nearer heaven, I nearer earth. The next evening I gave my first and what I fear may prove my last concert in America. The vision of my dreams was there, radiant in rarest beauty. Singularly enough, she was in the direct line of my vision while I played. I saw only her, played but for her, and cast my soul at her feet. She sat indifferent and silent. "Cold?" you say. No! No! Francesca, not cold; superior to my poor efforts. I realized my limitations. I questioned my genius. When I returned to bow my acknowledgments for the most generous applause I have ever received, there was no sign on her part that I had interested her, either through my talent or by appeal to her curiosity. I hoped against hope that some word might come from her, but I was doomed to disappointment. The critics were fulsome in their praise and the public was lavish with its plaudits, but I was abjectly miserable. Another sleepless night and I was determined to see her. She received me most graciously, although I fear she thought my visit one of vanity--wounded vanity--and me petulant because of her lack of appreciation. Oh, sister mine, I knew better. I knew my heart craved one word, however matter-of-fact, that would rekindle the hope that was dying within me. Hesitatingly, and like a clumsy yokel, I blurted: "I have been wondering whether you cared for the performance I gave?" "It certainly ought to make little difference to you," she replied; "the public was enthusiastic enough in its endorsement." "But I want your opinion," I pleaded. "My opinion would not at all affect the almost unanimous verdict," she replied calmly. "And," I urged desperately, "you were not affected in the least?" Very coldly she answered, "Not in the least;" and then fearlessly, like a princess in the Palace of Truth: "If ever a man comes who can awaken my heart, frankly and honestly I will confess it." "Perhaps such a one lives," I said, "but has yet to reach the height to win you--your--" "Speak it," she said, "to win my love!" "Yes," I cried, startled at her candor, "to win your love." Hope slowly rekindled within my breast, and then with half-closed eyes, and wooingly, she said: "No drooping Clytie could be more constant than I to him who strikes the chord that is responsive in my soul." Her emotion must have surprised her, but immediately she regained her placidity and reverted no more to the subject. I went out into the gathering gloom. Her words haunted me. A strange feeling came over me. A voice within me cried: "Do not play to-night. Study! study! Perhaps in the full fruition of your genius your music, like the warm western wind to the harp, may bring life to her soul." I fled, and I am here. I am delving deeper and deeper into the mysteries of my art, and I pray God each hour that He may place within my grasp the wondrous music His blessed angels sing, for the soul of her I love is attuned to the harmonies of heaven. Your affectionate brother, ANGELO. ISLAND OF BAHAMA, January 2. VI When Diotti left New York so precipitately he took passage on a coast line steamer sailing for the Bahama Islands. Once there, he leased a small _cay_, one of a group off the main land, and lived alone and unattended, save for the weekly visits of an old fisherman and his son, who brought supplies of provisions from the town miles away. His dwelling-place, surrounded with palmetto trees, was little more than a rough shelter. Diotti arose at daylight, and after a simple repast, betook himself to practise. Hour after hour he would let his muse run riot with his fingers. Lovingly he wooed the strings with plaintive song, then conquering and triumphant would be his theme. But neither satisfied him. The vague dream of a melody more beautiful than ever man had heard dwelt hauntingly on the borders of his imagination, but was no nearer realization than when he began. As the day's work closed, he wearily placed the violin within its case, murmuring, "Not yet, not yet; I have not found it." Days passed, weeks crept slowly on; still he worked, but always with the same result. One day, feverish and excited, he played on in monotone almost listless. His tired, over-wrought brain denied a further thought. His arm and fingers refused response to his will. With an uncontrollable outburst of grief and anger he dashed the violin to the floor, where it lay a hopeless wreck. Extending his arms he cried, in the agony of despair: "It is of no use! If the God of heaven will not aid me, I ask the prince of darkness to come." A tall, rather spare, but well-made and handsome man appeared at the door of the hut. His manner was that of one evidently conversant with the usages of good society. "I beg pardon," said the musician, surprised and visibly nettled at the intrusion, and then with forced politeness he asked: "To whom am I indebted for this unexpected visit?" "Allow me," said the stranger taking a card from his case and handing it to the musician, who read: "Satan," and, in the lower left-hand corner, "Prince of Darkness." "I am the Prince," said the stranger, bowing low. There was no hint of the pavement-made ruler in the information he gave, but rather of the desire of one gentleman to set another right at the beginning. The musician assumed a position of open-mouthed wonder, gazing steadily at the visitor. "Satan?" he whispered hoarsely. "You need help and advice," said the visitor, his voice sounding like that of a disciple of the healing art, and implying that he had thoroughly diagnosed the case. "No, no," cried the shuddering violinist; "go away. I do not need you." "I regret I can not accept that statement as gospel truth," said Satan, sarcastically, "for if ever a man needed help, you are that man." "But not from you," replied Diotti. "That statement is discredited also by your outburst of a few moments ago when you called upon me." "I do not need you," reiterated the musician. "I will have none of you!" and he waved his arm toward the door, as if he desired the interview to end. "I came at your behest, actuated entirely by kindness of heart," said Satan. Diotti laughed derisively, and Satan, showing just the slightest feeling at Diotti's behavior, said reprovingly: "If you will listen a moment, and not be so rude to an utter stranger, we may reach some conclusion to your benefit." "Get thee behind--" "I know exactly what you were about to say. Have no fears on that score. I have no demands to make and no impossible compacts to insist upon." "I have heard of you before," knowingly spoke the violinist, nodding his head sadly. "No doubt you have," smilingly. "My reputation, which has suffered at the hands of irresponsible people, is not of the best, and places me at times in awkward positions. But I am beginning to live it down." The stranger looked contrition itself. "To prove my sincerity I desire to help you win her love," emphasizing her. "How can you help me?" "Very easily. You have been wasting time, energy and health in a wild desire to play better. The trouble lies not with you." "Not with me?" interrupted the violinist, now thoroughly interested. "The trouble lies not with you," repeated the visitor, "but with the miserable violin you have been using and have just destroyed," and he pointed to the shattered instrument. Tears welled from the poor violinist's eyes as he gazed on the fragments of his beloved violin, the pieces lying scattered about as the result of his unfortunate anger. "It was a Stradivarius," said Diotti, sadly. "Had it been a Stradivarius, an Amati or a Guarnerius, or a host of others rolled into one, you would not have found in it the melody to win the heart of the woman you love. Get a better and more suitable instrument." "Where is one?" earnestly interrogated Diotti, vaguely realizing that Satan knew. "In my possession," Satan replied. "She would hate me if she knew I had recourse to the powers of darkness to gain her love," bitterly interposed Diotti. Satan, wincing at this uncomplimentary allusion to himself, replied rather warmly: "My dear sir, were it not for the fact that I feel in particularly good spirits this morning, I should resent your ill-timed remarks and leave you to end your miserable existence with rope or pistol," and Satan pantomimed both suicidal contingencies. "Do you want the violin or not?" "I might look at it," said Diotti, resolving mentally that he could go so far without harm. "Very well," said Satan. He gave a long whistle. An old man, bearing a violin case, came within the room. He bowed to the wondering Diotti, and proceeded to open the case. Taking the instrument out the old man fondled it with loving and tender solicitude, pointing out its many beauties--the exquisite blending of the curves, the evenness of the grain, the peculiar coloring, the lovely contour of the neck, the graceful outlines of the body, the scroll, rivaling the creations of the ancient sculptors, the solidity of the bridge and its elegantly carved heart, and, waxing exceedingly enthusiastic, holding up the instrument and looking at it as one does at a cluster of gems, he added, "the adjustment of the strings." "That will do," interrupted Satan, taking the violin from the little man, who bowed low and ceremoniously took his departure. Then the devil, pointing to the instrument, asked: "Isn't it a beauty?" The musician, eying it keenly, replied: "Yes, it is, but not the kind of violin I play on." [Illustration] "Oh, I see," carelessly observed the other, "you refer to that extra string." "Yes," answered the puzzled violinist, examining it closely. "Allow me to explain the peculiar characteristics of this magnificent instrument," said his satanic majesty. "This string," pointing to the G, "is the string of pity; this one," referring to the third, "is the string of hope; this," plunking the A, "is attuned to love, while this one, the E string, gives forth sounds of joy. "You will observe," went on the visitor, noting the intense interest displayed by the violinist, "that the position of the strings is the same as on any other violin, and therefore will require no additional study on your part." "But that extra string?" interrupted Diotti, designating the middle one on the violin, a vague foreboding rising within him. "That," said Mephistopheles, solemnly, and with no pretense of sophistry, "is the string of death, and he who plays upon it dies at once." "The--string--of--death!" repeated the violinist almost inaudibly. "Yes, the string of death," Satan repeated, "and he who plays upon it dies at once. But," he added cheerfully, "that need not worry you. I noticed a marvelous facility in your arm work. Your staccato and spiccato are wonderful. Every form of bowing appears child's play to you. It will be easy for you to avoid touching the string." "Why avoid it? Can it not be cut off?" "Ah, that's the rub. If you examine the violin closely you will find that the string of death is made up of the extra lengths of the other four strings. To cut it off would destroy the others, and then pity, hope, love and joy would cease to exist in the soul of the violin." "How like life itself," Diotti reflected, "pity, hope, love, joy end in death, and through death they are born again." "That's the idea, precisely," said Satan, evidently relieved by Diotti's logic and quick perception. The violinist examined the instrument with the practised eye of an expert, and turning to Satan said: "The four strings are beautifully white and transparent, but this one is black and odd looking. "What is it wrapped with?" eagerly inquired Diotti, examining the death string with microscopic care. "The fifth string was added after an unfortunate episode in the Garden of Eden, in which I was somewhat concerned," said Satan, soberly. "It is wrapped with strands of hair from the first mother of man." Impressively then he offered the violin to Diotti. "I dare not take it," said the perplexed musician; "it's from--" "Yes, it is directly from there, but I brought it from heaven when I--I left," said the fallen angel, with remorse in his voice. "It was my constant companion there. But no one in my domain--not I, myself--can play upon it now, for it will respond neither to our longing for pity, hope, love, joy, nor even death," and sadly and retrospectively Satan gazed into vacancy; then, after a long pause: "Try the instrument!" Diotti placed the violin in position and drew the bow across the string of joy, improvising on it. Almost instantly the birds of the forest darted hither and thither, caroling forth in gladsome strains. The devil alone was sad, and with emotion said: "It is many, many years since I have heard that string." Next the artist changed to the string of pity, and thoughts of the world's sorrows came over him like a pall. "Wonderful, most wonderful!" said the mystified violinist; "with this instrument I can conquer the world!" "Aye, more to you than the world," said the tempter, "a woman's love." A woman's love--to the despairing suitor there was one and only one in this wide, wide world, and her words, burning their way into his heart, had made this temptation possible: "No drooping Clytie could be more constant than I to him who strikes the chord that is responsive in my soul." Holding the violin aloft, he cried exultingly: "Henceforth thou art mine, though death and oblivion lurk ever near thee!" VII Perkins, seated in his office, threw the morning, paper aside. "It's no use," he said, turning to the office boy, "I don't believe they ever will find him, dead or alive. Whoever put up the job on Diotti was a past grand master at that sort of thing. The silent assassin that lurks in the shadow of the midnight moon is an explosion of dynamite compared to the party that made way with Diotti. You ask, why should they kill him? My boy, you don't know the world. They were jealous of his enormous hit, of our dazzling success. Jealousy did it." The "they" of Perkins comprised rival managers, rival artists, newspaper critics and everybody at large who would not concede that the attractions managed by Perkins were the "greatest on earth." "We'll never see his like again--come in!" this last in answer to a knock. Diotti appeared at the open door. Perkins jumped like one shot from a catapult, and rushing toward the silent figure in the doorway exclaimed: "Bless my soul, are you a ghost?" "A substantial one," said Diotti with a smile. "Are you really here?" continued the astonished impresario, using Diotti's arm as a pump handle and pinching him at the same time. When they were seated Perkins plied Diotti with all manner of questions: "How did it happen?" "How did you escape?" and the like, all of which Diotti parried with monosyllabic replies, finally saying: "I was dissatisfied with my playing and went away to study." "Do you know that the failure to fulfill your contract has cost me at least ten thousand dollars?" said the shrewd manager, the commercial side of his nature asserting itself. "All of which I will pay," quietly replied the artist. "Besides I am ready to play now, and you can announce a concert within a week if you like." "If I like?" cried the hustling Perkins. "Here, James," calling his office boy, "run down to the printer's and give him this," making a note of the various sizes of "paper" he desired, "and tell Mr. Tompkins that Diotti is back and will give a concert next Tuesday. Tell Smith to prepare the newspaper 'ads' and notices immediately." In an hour Perkins had the entire machinery of his office in motion. Within twenty-four hours New York had several versions of the disappearance and return, all leading to one common point--that Diotti would give a concert the coming Tuesday evening. The announcement of the reappearance of the Tuscan contained a line to the effect that the violinist would play for the first time his new suite--a meditation on the emotions. He had not seen Mildred. As he came upon the stage that night the lights were turned low, and naught but the shadowy outlines of player and violin were seen. His reception by the audience was not enthusiastic. They evidently remembered the disappointment caused by his unexpected disappearance, but this unfriendly attitude soon gave way to evidences of kindlier feelings. Mildred was there, more beautiful than ever, and to gain her love Diotti would have bartered his soul that moment. The first movement of the suite was entitled "Pity," and the music flowed like melodious tears. A subdued sob rose and fell with the sadness of the theme. Mildred's eyes were moistened as she fixed them on the lone figure of the player. Now the theme of pity changed to hope, and hearts grew brighter under the spell. The next movement depicted joy. As the _virtuoso's_ fingers darted here and there, his music seemed the very laughter of fairy voices, the earth looked roses and sunshine, and Mildred, relaxing her position and leaning forward in the box, with lips slightly parted, was the picture of eager happiness. The final movement came. Its subject was love. The introduction depicted the Arcadian beauty of the trysting place, love-lit eyes sought each other intuitively and a great peace brooded over the hearts of all. Then followed the song of the Passionate Pilgrim: "_If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other._ * * * * * _Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus' lute (the queen of music) makes; And I in deep delight, am chiefly drown'd When as himself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets feign, One knight loves both, and both in thee remain._" [Illustration: He took her hand reverently] Grander and grander the melody rose, voicing love's triumph with wondrous sweetness and palpitating rhythm. Mildred, her face flushed with excitement, a heavenly fire in her eyes and in an attitude of supplication, reveled in the glory of a new found emotion. As the violinist concluded his performance an oppressive silence pervaded the house, then the audience, wild with excitement, burst into thunders of applause. In his dressing-room Diotti was besieged by hosts of people, congratulating him in extravagant terms. Mildred Wallace came, extending her hands. He took them almost reverently. She looked into his eyes, and he knew he had struck the chord responsive in her soul. VIII The sun was high in the heavens when the violinist awoke. A great weight had been lifted from his heart; he had passed from darkness into dawn. A messenger brought him this note: _My Dear Signor Diotti--I am at home this afternoon, and shall be delighted to see you and return my thanks for the exquisite pleasure you gave me last evening. Music, such as yours, is indeed the voice of heaven._ _Sincerely, Mildred Wallace._ The messenger returned with this reply: _My Dear Miss Wallace--I will call at three to-day._ _Gratefully, Angelo Diotti._ He watched the hour drag from eleven to twelve, then counted the minutes to one, and from that time until he left the hotel each second was tabulated in his mind. Arriving at her residence, he was ushered into the drawing-room. It was fragrant with the perfume of violets, and he stood gazing at her portrait expectant of her coming. Dressed in simple white, entrancing in her youthful freshness, she entered, her face glowing with happiness, her eyes languorous and expressive. She hastened to him, offering both hands. He held them in a loving, tender grasp, and for a moment neither spoke. Then she, gazing clearly and fearlessly into his eyes, said: "My heart has found its melody!" He, kneeling like Sir Gareth of old: "The song and the singer are yours forever." She, bidding him arise: "And I forever yours." And wondering at her boldness, she added, "I know and feel that you love me--your eyes confirmed your love before you spoke." Then, convincingly and ingenuously, "I knew you loved me the moment we first met. Then I did not understand what that meant to you, now I do." He drew her gently to him, and the motive of their happiness was defined in sweet confessions: "My love, my life--My life, my love." The magic of his music had changed her very being, the breath of love was in her soul, the vision of love was dancing in her eyes. The child of marble, like the statue of old, had come to life: "_And not long since I was a cold, dull stone! I recollect That by some means I knew that I was stone; That was the first dull gleam of consciousness; I became conscious of a chilly self, A cold, immovable identity. I knew that I was stone, and knew no more! Then, by an imperceptible advance, Came the dim evidence of outer things, Seen--darkly and imperfectly--yet seen The walls surrounding me, and I, alone. That pedestal--that curtain--then a voice That called on Galatea! At that word, Which seemed to shake my marble to the core, That which was dim before, came evident. Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct, Vague, meaningless--seemed to resolve themselves Into a language I could understand; I felt my frame pervaded by a glow That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh; Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life, My limbs grew supple, and I moved--I lived! Lived in the ecstasy of a new-born life! Lived in the love of him that fashioned me! Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope._" Day after day he came; they told their love, their hopes, their ambitions. She assumed absolute proprietorship in him. She gloried in her possession. He was born into the world, nurtured in infancy, trained in childhood and matured into manhood, for one express purpose--to be hers alone. Her ownership ranged from absolute despotism to humble slavery, and he was happy through it all. One day she said: "Angelo, is it your purpose to follow your profession always?" "Necessarily, it is my livelihood," he replied. "But do you not think that after we stand at the altar, we never should be separated?" "We will be together always," said he, holding her face between his palms, and looking with tender expression into her inquiring eyes. "But I notice that women cluster around you after your concerts--and shake your hand longer than they should--and talk to you longer than they should--and go away looking self-satisfied!" she replied brokenly, much as a little girl tells of the theft of her doll. "Nonsense," he said, smiling, "that is all part of my profession; it is not me they care for, it is the music I give that makes them happy. If, in my playing, I achieve results out of the common, they admire me!" and he kissed away the unwelcome tears. "I know," she continued, "but lately, since we have loved each other, I can not bear to see a woman near you. In my dreams again and again an indefinable shadow mockingly comes and cries to me, 'he is not to be yours, he is to be mine.'" Diotti flushed and drew her to him. "Darling," his voice carrying conviction, "I am yours, you are mine, all in all, in life here and beyond!" And as she sat dreaming after he had gone, she murmured petulantly, "I wish there were no other women in the world." Her father was expected from Europe on the succeeding day's steamer. Mr. Wallace was a busy man. The various gigantic enterprises he served as president or director occupied most of his time. He had been absent in Europe for several months, and Mildred was anxiously awaiting his return to tell him of her love. When Mr. Wallace came to his residence the next morning, his daughter met him with a fond display of filial affection; they walked into the drawing-room, hand in hand; he saw a picture of the violinist on the piano. "Who's the handsome young fellow?" he asked, looking at the portrait with the satisfaction a man feels when he sees a splendid type of his own sex. "That is Angelo Diotti, the famous violinist," she said, but she could not add another word. As they strolled through the rooms he noticed no less than three likenesses of the Tuscan. And as they passed her room he saw still another on the _chiffonnier_. "Seems to me the house is running wild with photographs of that fiddler," he said. For the first time in her life she was self-conscious: "I will wait for a more opportune time to tell him," she thought. In the scheme of Diotti's appearance in New York there were to be two more concerts. One was to be given that evening. Mildred coaxed her father to accompany her to hear the violinist. Mr. Wallace was not fond of music; "it had been knocked out of him on the farm up in Vermont, when he was a boy," he would apologetically explain, and besides he had the old puritanical abhorrence of stage people--putting them all in one class--as puppets who danced or played or talked for an idle and unthinking public. So it was with the thought of a wasted evening that he accompanied Mildred to the concert. The entertainment was a repetition of the others Diotti had given, and at its end, Mildred said to her father: "Come, I want to congratulate Signor Diotti in person." "That is entirely unnecessary," he replied. "It is my desire," and the girl led the unwilling parent back of the scenes and into Diotti's dressing-room. Mildred introduced Diotti to her father, who after a few commonplaces lapsed into silence. The daughter's enthusiastic interest in Diotti's performance and her tender solicitude for his weariness after the efforts of the evening, quickly attracted the attention of Mr. Wallace and irritated him exceedingly. When father and daughter were seated in their carriage and were hurriedly driving home, he said: "Mildred, I prefer that you have as little to say to that man as possible." "What do you object to in him?" she asked. "Everything. Of what use is a man who dawdles away his time on a fiddle; of what benefit is he to mankind? Do fiddlers build cities? Do they delve into the earth for precious metals? Do they sow the seed and harvest the grain? No, no; they are drones--the barnacles of society." "Father, how can you advance such an argument? Music's votaries offer no apologies for their art. The husbandman places the grain within the breast of Mother Earth for man's material welfare; God places music in the heart of man for his spiritual development. In man's spring time, his bridal day, music means joy. In man's winter time, his burial day, music means comfort. The heaven-born muse has added to the happiness of the world. Diotti is a great genius. His art brings rest and tranquillity to the wearied and despairing," and she did not speak again until they had reached the house. The lights were turned low when father and daughter went into the drawing-room. Mr. Wallace felt that he had failed to convince Mildred of the utter worthlessness of fiddlers, big or little, and as one dissatisfied with the outcome of a contest, re-entered the lists. "He has visited you?" "Yes, father." "Often?" "Yes, father," spoken calmly. "Often?" louder and more imperiously repeated the father, as if there must be some mistake. "Quite often," and she sat down, knowing the catechizing would be likely to continue for some minutes. "How many times, do you think?" She rose, walked into the hallway; took the card basket from the table, returned and seated herself beside her father, emptying its contents into her lap. She picked up a card. It read "Angelo Diotti," and she called the name aloud. She took up another and again her lips voiced the beloved name. "Angelo Diotti," she continued, repeating at intervals for a minute. Then looking at her father: "He has called thirty-two times: there are thirty-one cards here and on one occasion he forgot his card-case." "Thirty-two!" said the father, rising angrily and pacing the floor. "Yes, thirty-two. I remember all of them distinctly." Her father came over to her, half coaxingly, half seriously. "Mildred, I wish his visits to cease; people will imagine there is a romantic attachment between you." "There is, father," out it came, "he loves me and I love him." [Illustration: Father I will obey you implicitly] "What!" shouted Mr. Wallace, and then severely, "this must cease immediately." She rose quietly and led her father over to the mantel. Placing a hand on each of his shoulders she said: "Father, I will obey you implicitly if you can name a reasonable objection to the man I love. But you can not. I love him with my whole soul. I love him for the nobility of his character, and because there is none other in the world for him, nor for me." IX Old Sanders as boy and man had been in the employ of the banking and brokerage firm of Wallace Brothers for two generations. The firm gradually had advanced his position until now he was confidential adviser and general manager, besides having an interest in the profits of the business. He enjoyed the friendship of Mr. Wallace, and had been a constant visitor at his house from the first days of that gentleman's married life. He himself was alone in the world, a confirmed bachelor. He had seen Mildred creep from babyhood into childhood, and bud from girlhood to womanhood. To Mildred he was one of that numerous army of brevet relations known as "gran-pop," "pop," or "uncle." To her he was Uncle Sanders. If the old man had one touch of human nature in him it was a solicitude for Mildred's future--an authority arrogated to himself--to see that she married the right man; but even that was directed to her material gain in this world's goods, and not to any sentimental consideration for her happiness. He flattered himself that by timely suggestion he had "stumped" at least half a dozen would-be candidates for Mildred's hand. He pooh-poohed love as a necessity for marital felicity, and would enforce his argument by quoting from the bard: "All lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one." "You can get at a man's income," he would say, "but not at his heart. Love without money won't travel as far as money without love," and many married people whose bills were overdue wondered if the old fellow was not right. He was cold-blooded and generally disliked by the men under him. The more evil-minded gossips in the bank said he was in league with "Old Nick." That, of course, was absurd, for it does not necessarily follow, because a man suggests a means looking to an end, disreputable though it be, that he has Mephistopheles for a silent partner. The conservative element among the employees would not openly venture so far, but rather thought if his satanic majesty and old Sanders ran a race, the former would come in a bad second, if he were not distanced altogether. The old man always reached the office at nine. Mr. Wallace usually arrived a half hour later, seldom earlier, which was so well understood by Sanders that he was greatly surprised when he walked into the president's office, the morning after that gentleman had attended Diotti's concert, to find the head of the firm already there and apparently waiting for him. "Sanders," said the banker, "I want your advice on a matter of great importance and concern to me." Sanders came across the room and stood beside the desk. "Briefly as possible, I am much exercised about my daughter." The old man moved up a chair and buried himself in it. Pressing his elbows tightly against his sides, he drew his neck in, and with the tips of his right hand fingers consorted and coquetted with their like on the opposite hand; then he simply asked, "Who is the man?" "He is the violinist who has created such a sensation here, Angelo Diotti." "Yes, I've seen the name in print," returned the old man. "He has bewitched Mildred. I never have seen her show the least interest in a man before. She never has appeared to me as an impressionable girl or one that could easily be won." "That is very true," ejaculated Sanders; "she always seemed tractable and open to reason in all questions of love and courting. I can recall several instances where I have set her right by my estimation of men, and invariably she has accepted my views." "And mine until now," said the father, and then he recounted his experience of the night before. "I had hoped she would not fall in love, but be a prop and comfort to me now that I am alone. I am dismayed at the prospect before me." Then the old man mused: "In the chrysalis state of girlhood, a parent arranges all the details of his daughter's future; when and whom she shall marry. 'I shall not allow her to fall in love until she is twenty-three,' says the fond parent. 'I shall not allow her to marry until she is twenty-six,' says the fond parent. 'The man she marries will be the one I approve of, and then she will live happy ever after,' concludes the fond parent." Deluded parent! false prophet! The anarchist, Love, steps in and disdains all laws, rules and regulations. When finally the father confronts the defying daughter, she calmly says, "Well, what are you going to do about it?" And then tears, forgiveness, complete capitulation, and, sometimes, she and her husband live happily ever afterwards. "We must find some means to end this attachment. A union between a musician and my daughter would be most mortifying to me. Some plan must be devised to separate them, but she must not know of it, for she is impatient of restraint and will not brook opposition." "Are you confident she really loves this violinist?" "She confessed as much to me," said the perturbed banker. Old Sanders tapped with both hands on his shining cranium and asked, "Are you confident he loves her?" "No. Even if he does not, he no doubt makes the pretense, and she believes him. A man who fiddles for money is not likely to ignore an opportunity to angle for the same commodity," and the banker, with a look of scorn on his face, threw himself back into the chair. "Does she know that you do not approve of this man?" "I told her that I desired the musician's visits to cease." "And her answer?" "She said she would obey me if I could name one reasonable objection to the man, and then, with an air of absolute confidence in the impossibility of such a contingency, added, 'But you can not.'" "Yes, but you must," said Sanders. "Mildred is strangely constituted. If she loves this man, her love can be more deadly to the choice of her heart than her hate to one she abhors. The impatience of restraint you speak of and her very inability to brook opposition can be turned to good account now." And old Sanders again tapped in the rhythm of a dirge on his parchment-bound cranium. "Your plan?" eagerly asked the father, whose confidence in his secretary was absolute. "I would like to study them together. Your position will be stronger with Mildred if you show no open opposition to the man or his aspirations; bring us together at your house some evening, and if I can not enter a wedge of discontent, then they are not as others." * * * * * Mildred was delighted when her father told her on his return in the evening that he was anxious to meet Signor Diotti, and suggested a dinner party within a few days. He said he would invite Mr. Sanders, as that gentleman, no doubt, would consider it a great privilege to meet the famous musician. Mildred immediately sent an invitation to Diotti, adding a request that he bring his violin and play for Uncle Sanders, as the latter had found it impossible to attend his concerts during the season, yet was fond of music, especially violin music. X The little dinner party passed off pleasantly, and as old Sanders lighted his cigar he confided to Diotti, with a braggart's assurance, that when he was a youngster he was the best fiddler for twenty miles around. "I tell you there is nothing like a fiddler to catch a petticoat," he said, with a sharp nudge of his elbow into Diotti's ribs. "When I played the Devil's Dream there wasn't a girl in the country could keep from dancing, and 'Rosalie, the Prairie Flower,' brought them on their knees to me every time;" then after a pause, "I don't believe people fiddle as well nowadays as they did in the good old times," and he actually sighed in remembrance. Mildred smiled and whispered to Diotti. He took his violin from the case and began playing. It seemed to her as if from above showers of silvery merriment were falling to earth. The old man watched intently, and as the player changed from joy to pity, from love back to happiness, Sanders never withdrew his gaze. His bead-like eyes followed the artist; he saw each individual finger rise and fall, and the bow bound over the finger-board, always avoiding, never coming in contact with the middle string. Suddenly the old man beat a tattoo on his cranium and closed his eyes, apparently deep in thought. As Diotti ceased playing, Sanders applauded vociferously, and moving toward the violinist, said: "Magnificent! I never have heard better playing! What is the make of your violin?" Diotti, startled at this question, hurriedly put the instrument in its case; "Oh, it is a famous make," he drawled. "Will you let me examine it?" said the elder, placing his hand on the case. "I never allow any one to touch my violin," replied Diotti, closing the cover quickly. "Why; is there a magic charm about it, that you fear other hands may discover?" queried the old man. "I prefer that no one handle it," said the _virtuoso_ commandingly. "Very well," sighed the old man resignedly, "there are violins and violins, and no doubt yours comes within that category," this half sneeringly. "Uncle," interposed Mildred tactfully, "you must not be so persistent. Signor Diotti prizes his violin highly and will not allow any one to play upon it but himself," and the look of relief on Diotti's face amply repaid her. Mr. Wallace came in at that moment, and with perfunctory interest in his guest, invited him to examine the splendid collection of revolutionary relics in his study. "I value them highly," said the banker, "both for patriotic and ancestral reasons. The Wallaces fought and died for their country, and helped to make this land what it is." The father and the violinist went to the study, leaving the daughter and old Sanders in the drawing-room. The old man, seating himself in a large armchair, said: "Mildred, my dear, I do not wonder at the enormous success of this Diotti." "He is a wonderful artist," replied Mildred; "critics and public alike place him among the greatest of his profession." "He is a good-looking young fellow, too," said the old man. "I think he is the handsomest man I ever have seen," replied the girl. "Where does he come from?" continued Sanders. "St. Casciano, a small town in Tuscany." "Has he a family?" "Only a sister, whom he loves dearly," good-naturedly answered the girl. "And no one else?" continued the seemingly garrulous old man. "None that I have heard him speak of. No, certainly not," rather impetuously replied Mildred. "How old is he?" continued the old man. "Twenty-eight next month; why do you wish to know?" she quizzically asked. "Simply idle curiosity," old Sanders carelessly replied. "I wonder if he is in love with any one in Tuscany?" "Of course not; how could he be?" quickly rejoined the girl. "And why not?" added old Sanders. "Why? Because, because--he is in love with some one in America." "Ah, with you, I see," said the old man, as if it were the greatest discovery of his life; "are you sure he has not some beautiful sweetheart in Tuscany as well as here?" "What a foolish question," she replied. "Men like Angelo Diotti do not fall in love as soldiers fall in line. Love to a man of his nobility is too serious to be treated so lightly." "Very true, and that's what has excited my curiosity!" whereupon the old man smoked away in silence. "Excited your curiosity!" said Mildred. "What do you mean?" "It may be something; it may be nothing; but my speculative instinct has been aroused by a strange peculiarity in his playing." "His playing is wonderful!" replied Mildred proudly. "Aye, more than wonderful! I watched him intently," said the old man; "I noted with what marvelous facility he went from one string to the other. But however rapid, however difficult the composition, he steadily avoided one string; in fact, that string remained untouched during the entire hour he played for us." "Perhaps the composition did not call for its use," suggested Mildred, unconscious of any other meaning in the old man's observation, save praise for her lover. "Perhaps so, but the oddity impressed me; it was a new string to me. I have never seen one like it on a violin before." "That can scarcely be, for I do not remember of Signor Diotti telling me there was anything unusual about his violin." "I am sure it has a fifth string." "And I am equally sure the string can be of no importance or Angelo would have told me of it," Mildred quickly rejoined. "I recall a strange story of Paganini," continued the old man, apparently not noticing her interruption; "he became infatuated with a lady of high rank, who was insensible of the admiration he had for her beauty. "He composed a love scene for two strings, the 'E' and 'G,' the first was to personate the lady, the second himself. It commenced with a species of dialogue, intending to represent her indifference and his passion; now sportive, now sad; laughter on her part and tears from him, ending in an apotheosis of loving reconciliation. It affected the lady to that degree that ever after she loved the violinist." "And no doubt they were happy?" Mildred suggested smilingly. "Yes," said the old man, with assumed sentiment, "even when his profession called him far away, for she had made him promise her he never would play upon the two strings whose music had won her heart, so those strings were mute, except for her." The old man puffed away in silence for a moment, then with logical directness continued: "Perhaps the string that's mute upon Diotti's violin is mute for some such reason." "Nonsense," said the girl, half impatiently. "The string is black and glossy as the tresses that fall in tangled skeins on the shoulders of the dreamy beauties of Tuscany. It may be an idle fancy, but if that string is not a woven strand from some woman's crowning glory, then I have no discernment." "You are jesting, uncle," she replied, but her heart was heavy already. "Ask him to play on that string; I'll wager he'll refuse," said the old man, contemptuously. "He will not refuse when I ask him, but I will not to-night," answered the unhappy girl, with forced determination. Then, taking the old man's hands, she said: "Good-night, I am going to my room; please make my excuses to Signor Diotti and father," and wearily she ascended the stairs. Mr. Wallace and the violinist soon after joined old Sanders, fresh cigars were lighted and regrets most earnestly expressed by the violinist for Mildred's "sick headache." "No need to worry; she will be all right in the morning," said Sanders, and he and the violinist buttoned their coats tightly about them, for the night was bitter cold, and together they left the house. In her bed-chamber Mildred stood looking at the portrait of her lover. She studied his face long and intently, then crossing the room she mechanically took a volume from the shelf, and as she opened it her eyes fell on these lines: "How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the Morning!" * * * * * Old Sanders builded better than he knew. XI When Diotti and old Sanders left the house they walked rapidly down Fifth Avenue. It was after eleven, and the streets were bare of pedestrians, but blinking-eyed cabs came up the avenue, looking at a distance like a trail of Megatheriums, gliding through the darkness. The piercing wind made the men hasten their steps, the old man by a semi-rotary motion keeping up with the longer strides and measured tread of the younger. When they reached Fourteenth Street, the elder said, "I live but a block from here," pointing eastward; "what do you say to a hot toddy? It will warm the cockles of your heart; come over to my house and I'll mix you the best drink in New York." The younger thought the suggestion a good one and they turned toward the house of old Sanders. It was a neat, red brick, two-story house, well in from the street, off the line of the more pretentious buildings on either side. As the old man opened the iron gate, the police officer on the beat passed; he peered into the faces of the men, and recognizing Sanders, said, "tough night, sir." "Very," replied the addressed. "All good old gentlemen should be in bed at this hour," said the officer, lifting one foot after the other in an effort to keep warm, and in so doing showing little terpsichorean grace. "It's only the shank of the evening, officer," rejoined the old man, as he fumbled with the latch key and finally opened the door. The two men entered and the officer passed on. Every man has a fad. One will tell you he sees nothing in billiards or pool or golf or tennis, but will grow enthusiastic over the scientific possibilities of mumble-peg; you agree with him, only you substitute "skittles" for "mumble-peg." Old Sanders' fad was mixing toddies and punches. "The nectar of the gods pales into nothingness when compared with a toddy such as I make," said he. "Ambrosia may have been all right for the degenerates of the old Grecian and Roman days, but an American gentleman demands a toddy--a hot toddy." And then he proceeded with circumspection and dignity to demonstrate the process of decocting that mysterious beverage. The two men took off their overcoats and went into the sitting-room. A pile of logs burned brightly in the fire-place. The old man threw another on the burning heap, filled the kettle with water and hung it over the fire. Next he went to the sideboard and brought forth the various ingredients for the toddy. "How do you like America?" said the elder, with commonplace indifference, as he crunched a lump of sugar in the bottom of the glass, dissolving the particles with a few drops of water. "Very much, indeed," said the Tuscan, with the air of a man who had answered the question before. "Great country for girls!" said Sanders, pouring a liberal quantity of Old Tom gin in the glass and placing it where it gradually would get warm. "And for men!" responded Diotti, enthusiastically. "Men don't amount to much here, women run everything," retorted the elder, while he repeated the process of preparing the sugar and gin in the second glass. The kettle began to sing. "That's music for you," chuckled the old man, raising the lid to see if the water had boiled sufficiently. "Do you know I think a dinner horn and a singing kettle beat a symphony all hollow for real down-right melody," and he lifted the kettle from the fire-place. Diotti smiled. With mathematical accuracy the old man filled the two tumblers with boiling water. "Try that," handing a glass of the toddy to Diotti; "you will find it all right," and the old man drew an armchair toward the fire-place, smacking his lips in anticipation. The violinist placed his chair closer to the fire and sipped the drink. "Your country is noted for its beautiful women?" "We have exquisite types of femininity in Tuscany," said the young man, with patriotic ardor. "Any as fine looking as--as--as--well, say the young lady we dined with to-night?" "Miss Wallace?" queried the Tuscan. "Yes, Miss Wallace," this rather impatiently. "She is very beautiful," said Diotti, with solemn admiration. "Have you ever seen any one prettier?" questioned the old man, after a second prolonged sip. "I have no desire to see any one more beautiful," said the violinist, feeling that the other was trying to draw him out, and determined not to yield. "You will pardon the inquisitiveness of an old man, but are not you musicians a most impressionable lot?" "We are human," answered the violinist. "I imagined you were like sailors and had a sweetheart in every port." "That would be a delightful prospect to one having polygamous aspirations, but for myself, one sweetheart is enough," laughingly said the musician. "Only one! Well, here's to her! With this nectar fit for the gods and goddesses of Olympus, let us drink to her," said old Sanders, with convivial dignity, his glass raised on high. "Here's wishing health and happiness to the dreamy-eyed Tuscan beauty, whom you love and who loves you." "Stop!" said Diotti; "we will drink to the first part of that toast," and holding his glass against that of his bibulous host, continued: "To the dreamy-eyed women of my country, exacting of their lovers; obedient to their parents and loyal to their husbands," and his voice rose in sonorous rhythm with the words. "Now for the rest of the toast, to the one you love and who loves you," came from Sanders. "To the one I love and who loves me, God bless her!" fervently cried the guest. "Is she a Tuscan?" asked old Sanders slyly. "She is an angel!" impetuously answered the violinist. "Then she is an American!" said the old man gallantly. "She is an American," repeated Diotti, forgetting himself for the instant. "Let me see if I can guess her name," said old Sanders. "It's--it's Mildred Wallace!" and his manner suggested a child solving a riddle. The violinist, about to speak, checked himself and remained silent. "I sincerely pity Mildred if ever she falls in love," abstractedly continued the host while filling another glass. "Pray why?" was anxiously asked. The old man shifted his position and assumed a confidential tone and attitude: "Signor Diotti, jealousy is a more universal passion than love itself. Environment may develop our character, influence our tastes and even soften our features, but heredity determines the intensity of the two leading passions, love and jealousy. Mildred's mother was a beautiful woman, but consumed with an overpowering jealousy of her husband. It was because she loved him. The body-guard of jealousy--envy, malice and hatred--were not in her composition. When Mildred was a child of twelve I have seen her mother suffer the keenest anguish because Mr. Wallace fondled the child. She thought the child had robbed her of her husband's love." "Such a woman as Miss Wallace would command the entire love and admiration of her husband at all times," said the artist. "If she should marry a man she simply likes, her chances for happiness would be normal." "In what manner?" asked the lover. "Because she would be little concerned about him or his actions." "Then you believe," said the musician, "that the man who loves her and whom she loves should give her up because her chances of happiness would be greater away from him than with him?" "That would be an unselfish love," said the elder. "Suppose they have declared their passion?" asked Diotti. "A parting before doubt and jealousy had entered her mind would let the image of her sacrificing lover live within her soul as a tender and lasting memory; he always would be her ideal," and the accent old Sanders placed on _always_ left no doubt of his belief. "Why should doubt and jealousy enter her life?" said the violinist, falling into the personal character of the discussion despite himself. "My dear sir, from what I observed to-night, she loves you. You are a dangerous man for a jealous woman to love. You are not a cloistered monk, you are a man before the public; you win the admiration of many; some women do not hesitate to show you their preference. To a woman like Mildred that would be torture; she could not and would not separate the professional artist from the lover or husband." And Diotti, remembering Mildred's words, could not refute the old man's statements. "If you had known her mother as I did," continued the old man, realizing his argument was making an impression on the violinist, "you would see the agony in store for the daughter if she married a man such as you, a public servant, a public favorite." "I would live my life not to excite her suspicions or jealousy," said the artist, with boyish enthusiasm and simplicity. "Foolish fellow," retorted Sanders, skeptically; "women imagine, they don't reason. A scented note unopened on the dressing table can cause more unhappiness to your wife than the loss of his country to a king. My advice to you is: do not marry; but if you must, choose one who is more interested in your gastronomic felicity than in your marital constancy." Diotti was silent. He was pondering the words of his host. Instead of seeing in Mildred a possibly jealous woman, causing mental misery, she appeared a vision of single-hearted devotion. He felt: "To be loved by such a one is bliss beyond the dreams of this world." XII A tipsy man is never interesting, and Sanders in that condition was no exception. The old man arose with some effort, walked toward the window and, shading his eyes, looked out. The snow was drifting, swept hither and thither by the cutting wind that came through the streets in great gusts. Turning to the violinist, he said, "It's an awful night; better remain here until morning. You'll not find a cab; in fact, I will not let you go while this storm continues," and the old man raised the window, thrusting his head out for an instant. As he did so the icy blast that came in settled any doubt in the young man's mind and he concluded to stop over night. It was nearly two o'clock; Sanders showed him to his room and then returned down stairs to see that everything was snug and secure. After changing his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers and wrapping a dressing gown around him, the old man stretched his legs toward the fire and sipped his toddy. "He isn't a bad sort for a violinist," mused the old man; "if he were worth a million, I believe I'd advise Wallace to let him marry her. A fiddler! A million! Sounds funny," and he laughed shrilly. He turned his head and his eyes caught sight of Diotti's violin case resting on the center table. He staggered from the chair and went toward it; opening the lid softly, he lifted the silken coverlet placed over the instrument and examined the strings intently. "I am right," he said; "it is wrapped with hair, and no doubt from a woman's head. Eureka!" and the old man, happy in the discovery that his surmises were correct, returned to his chair and his toddy. He sat looking into the fire. The violin had brought back memories of the past and its dead. He mumbled, as if to the fire, "she loved me; she loved my violin. I was a devil; my violin was a devil," and the shadows on the wall swayed like accusing spirits. He buried his face in his hands and cried piteously, "I was so young; too young to know." He spoke as if he would conciliate the ghastly shades that moved restlessly up and down, when suddenly--"Sanders, don't be a fool!" He ambled toward the table again. "I wonder who made the violin? He would not tell me when I asked him to-night; thank you for your pains, but I will find out myself," and he took the violin from the case. Holding it with the light slanting over it, he peered inside, but found no inscription. "No maker's name--strange," he said. He tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and listened intently; "he must be asleep; he won't hear me," and noiselessly he closed the door. "I guess if I play a tune on it he won't know." He took the bow from its place in the case and tightened it. He listened again. "He is fast asleep," he whispered. "I'll play the song I always played for her--until," and the old man repeated the words of the refrain: "_Fair as a lily, joyous and free, Light of the prairie home was she; Every one who knew her felt the gentle power Of Rosalie, the Prairie Flower._" He sat again in the arm-chair and placed the violin under his chin. Tremulously he drew the bow across the middle string, his bloodless fingers moving slowly up and down. The theme he played was the melody to the verse he had just repeated, but the expression was remorse. * * * * * Diotti sat upright in bed. "I am positive I heard a violin!" he said, holding one hand toward his head in an attitude of listening. He was wide awake. The drifting snow beat against the window panes and the wind without shrieked like a thousand demons of the night. He could sleep no more. He arose and hastily dressed. The room was bitterly cold; he was shivering. He thought of the crackling logs in the fire-place below. He groped his way along the darkened staircase. As he opened the door leading into the sitting-room the fitful gleam of the dying embers cast a ghastly light over the face of a corpse. Diotti stood a moment, his eyes transfixed with horror. The violin and bow still in the hands of the dead man told him plainer than words what had happened. He went toward the chair, took the instrument from old Sanders' hands and laid it on the table. Then he knelt beside the body, and placing his ear close over the heart, listened for some sign of life, but the old man was beyond human aid. He wheeled the chair to the side of the room and moved the body to the sofa. Gently he covered it with a robe. The awfulness of the situation forced itself upon him, and bitterly he blamed himself. The terrible power of the instrument dawned upon him in all its force. Often he had played on the strings telling of pity, hope, love and joy, but now, for the first time, he realized what that fifth string meant. "I must give it back to its owner." "If you do you can never regain it," whispered a voice within. "I do not need it," said the violinist, almost audibly. "Perhaps not," said the voice, "but if her love should wane how would you rekindle it? Without the violin you would be helpless." "Is it not possible that, in this old man's death, all its fatal power has been expended?" He went to the table and took the instrument from its place. "You won her for me; you have brought happiness and sunshine into my life. No! No! I can not, will not give you up," then placing the violin and bow in its case he locked it. The day was breaking. In an hour the baker's boy came. Diotti went to the door, gave him a note addressed to Mr. Wallace and asked him to deliver it at once. The boy consented and drove rapidly away. Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived; Diotti told the story of the night. After the undertaker had taken charge of the body he found on the dead man's neck, just to the left of the chin, a dullish, black bruise which might have been caused by the pressing of some blunt instrument, or by a man's thumb. Considering it of much importance, he notified the coroner, who ordered an inquest. At six o'clock that evening a jury was impaneled, and two hours later its verdict was reported. XIII On leaving the house of the dead man Diotti walked wearily to his hotel. In flaring type at every street corner he saw the announcement for Thursday evening, March thirty-first, of Angelo Diotti's last appearance: "To-night I play for the last time," he murmured in a voice filled with deepest regret. The feeling of exultation so common to artists who finally reach the goal of their ambition was wanting in Diotti this morning. He could not rid himself of the memory of Sanders' tragic death. The figure of the old man clutching the violin and staring with glassy eyes into the dying fire would not away. When he reached the hotel he tried to rest, but his excited brain banished every thought of slumber. Restlessly he moved about the room, and finally dressing, he left the hotel for his daily call on Mildred. It was after five o'clock when he arrived. She received him coldly and without any mark of affection. She had heard of Mr. Sanders' death; her father had sent word. "It shocked me greatly," she said; "but perhaps the old man is happier in a world far from strife and care. When we realize all the misery there is in this world we often wonder why we should care to live." Her tone was despondent, her face was drawn and blanched, and her eyes gave evidence of weeping. Diotti divined that something beyond sympathy for old Sanders' sudden death racked her soul. He went toward her and lovingly taking her hands, bent low and pressed his lips to them; they were cold as marble. "Darling," he said; "something has made you unhappy. What is it?" "Tell me, Angelo, and truly; is your violin like other violins?" This unexpected question came so suddenly he could not control his agitation. "Why do you ask?" he said. "You must answer me directly!" "No, Mildred; my violin is different from any other I have ever seen," this hesitatingly and with great effort at composure. "In what way is it different?" she almost demanded. "It is peculiarly constructed; it has an extra string. But why this sudden interest in the violin? Let us talk of you, of me, of both, of our future," said he with enforced cheerfulness. "No, we will talk of the violin. Of what use is the extra string?" "None whatever," was the quick reply. "Then why not cut it off?" "No, no, Mildred; you do not understand," he cried; "I can not do that." "You can not do it when I ask it?" she exclaimed. "Oh Mildred, do not ask me; I can not, can not do it," and the face of the affrighted musician told plainer than words of the turmoil raging in his soul. "You made me believe that I was the only one you loved," passionately she cried; "the only one; that your happiness was incomplete without me. You led me into the region of light only to make the darkness greater when I descended to earth again. I ask you to do a simple thing and you refuse; you refuse because another has commanded you." "Mildred, Mildred; if you love me do not speak thus!" And she, with imagination greater than reasoning power, at once saw a Tuscan beauty and Diotti mutually pledging their love with their lives. "Go," she said, pointing to the door, "go to the one who owns you, body and soul; then say that a foolish woman threw her heart at your feet and that you scorned it!" She sank to the sofa. He went toward the door, and in a voice that sounded like the echo of despair, protested: "Mildred, I love you; love you a thousand times more than I do my life. If I should destroy the string, as you ask, love and hope would leave me forevermore. Death would not be robbed of its terror!" and with bowed head he went forth into the twilight. She ran to the window and watched his retreating figure as he vanished. "Uncle Sanders was right; he loves another woman, and that string binds them together. He belongs to her!" Long and silently she stood by the window, gazing at the shadowing curtain of the coming night. At last her face softened. "Perhaps he does not love her now, but fears her vengeance. No, no; he is not a coward! I should have approached him differently; he is proud, and maybe he resented my imperative manner," and a thousand reasons why he should or should not have removed that string flashed through her mind. "I will go early to the concert to-night and see him before he plays. Uncle Sanders said he did not touch that string when he played. Of course he will play on it for me, even if he will not cut it off, and then if he says he loves me, and only me, I will believe him. I want to believe him; I want to believe him," all this in a semi-hysterical way addressed to the violinist's portrait on the piano. When she entered her carriage an hour later, telling the coachman to drive direct to the stage-door of the Academy, she appeared more fascinating than ever before. She was sitting in his dressing-room waiting for him when he arrived. He had aged years in a day. His step was uncertain, his eyes were sunken and his hand trembled. His face brightened as she arose, and Mildred met him in the center of the room. He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss upon it. "Angelo, dear," she said in repentant tone; "I am sorry I pained you this afternoon; but I am jealous, so jealous of you." "Jealous?" he said smilingly; "there is no need of jealousy in our lives; we love each other truly and only." "That is just what I think, we will never doubt each other again, will we?" "Never!" he said solemnly. He had placed his violin case on the table in the room. She went to it and tapped the top playfully; then suddenly said: "I am going to look at your violin, Angelo," and before he could interfere, she had taken the silken coverlet off and was examining the instrument closely. "Sure enough, it has five strings; the middle one stands higher than the rest and is of glossy blackness. Uncle Sanders was right; it is a woman's hair! "Why is that string made of hair?" she asked, controlling her emotion. "Only a fancy," he said, feigning indifference. "Though you would not remove it at my wish this afternoon, Angelo; I know you will not refuse to play on it for me now." He raised his hands in supplication. "Mildred! Mildred! Stop! do not ask it!" "You refuse after I have come repentant, and confessing my doubts and fears? Uncle Sanders said you would not play upon it for me; he told me it was wrapped with a woman's hair, the hair of the woman you love." "I swear to you, Mildred, that I love but you!" "Love me? Bah! And another woman's tresses sacred to you? Another woman's pledge sacred to you? I asked you to remove the string; you refused. I ask you now to play upon it; you refuse," and she paced the room like a caged tigress. "I will watch to-night when you play," she flashed. "If you do not use that string we part forever." He stood before her and attempted to take her hand; she repulsed him savagely. Sadly then he asked: "And if I do play upon it?" "I am yours forever--yours through life--through eternity," she cried passionately. The call-boy announced Diotti's turn; the violinist led Mildred to a seat at the entrance of the stage. His appearance was the signal for prolonged and enthusiastic greeting from the enormous audience present. He clearly was the idol of the metropolis. [Illustration: If you do not play upon it we separate forever] The lights were lowered, a single calcium playing with its soft and silvery rays upon his face and shoulders. The expectant audience scarcely breathed as he began his theme. It was pity--pity molded into a concord of beautiful sounds, and when he began the second movement it was but a continuation of the first; his fingers sought but one string, that of pity. Again he played, and once more pity stole from the violin. When he left the stage Mildred rushed to him. "You did not touch that string; you refuse my wish?" and the sounds of mighty applause without drowned his pleading voice. "I told you if you refused me I was lost to you forever! Do you understand?" Diotti returned slowly to the center of the stage and remained motionless until the audience subsided. Facing Mildred, whose color was heightened by the intensity of her emotion, he began softly to play. His fingers sought the string of Death. The audience listened with breathless interest. The composition was weirdly and strangely fascinating. The player told with wondrous power of despair,--of hope, of faith; sunshine crept into the hearts of all as he pictured the promise of an eternal day; higher and higher, softer and softer grew the theme until it echoed as if it were afar in the realms of light and floating o'er the waves of a golden sea. Suddenly the audience was startled by the snapping of a string; the violin and bow dropped from the nerveless hands of the player. He fell helpless to the stage. Mildred rushed to him, crying, "Angelo, Angelo, what is it? What has happened?" Bending over him she gently raised his head and showered unrestrained kisses upon his lips, oblivious of all save her lover. "Speak! Speak!" she implored. A faint smile illumined his face; he gazed with ineffable tenderness into her weeping eyes, then slowly closed his own as if in slumber. 
17463	----	GREAT VIOLINISTS AND PIANISTS By George T. Ferris Copyright, 1881, By D. Appleton and Company. NOTE The title of this little book may be misleading to some of its readers, in its failure to include sketches of many eminent artists well worthy to be classed under such a head. There has been no attempt to cover the immense field of executive music, but only to call attention to the lives of those musical celebrities who are universally recognized as occupying the most exalted places in the arts of violin and pianoforte playing; who stand forth as landmarks in the history of music. To do more than this, except in a merely encyclopedic fashion, within the allotted space, would have been impossible. The same necessity of limits has also compelled the writer to exclude consideration of the careers of noted living performers; as it was thought best that discrimination should be in favor of those great artists whose careers have been completely rounded and finished. An exception to the above will be noted in the case of Franz Liszt; but, aside from the fact that this greatest of piano-forte virtuosos, though living, has practically retired from the held of art, to omit him from such a volume as this would be an unpardonable omission. In connection with the personal lives of the artists sketched in this volume, the attempt has been made, in a general, though necessarily imperfect, manner, to trace the gradual development of the art of playing from its cruder beginnings to the splendid virtuosoism of the present time. The sources from which facts have been drawn are various, and, it is believed, trustworthy, including French, German, and English authorities, in some cases the personal reminiscences of the artists themselves. CONTENTS. THE VIOLINISTS AND PIANISTS. The Ancestry of the Violin.--The Origin of the Cremona School of Violin-Making.--The Amatis and Stradiuarii.--Extraordinary Art Activity of Italy at this Period.--Antonius Stradiuarius and Joseph Guarnerius.--Something about the Lives of the Two Greatest Violin-Makers of the World.--Corelli, the First Great Violinist.--His Contemporaries and Associates.--Anecdotes of his Career.--Corelli's Pupil, Geminiani.--Philidor, the Composer, Violinist, and Chess-Player.--Giuseppe Tartini.--Becomes an Outcast from his Family on Account of his Love of Music.--Anecdote of the Violinist Vera-cini.--Tartini's Scientific Discoveries in Music.--His Account of the Origin of the "Devil's Trill."--Tartini's Pupils. VIOTTI. Viotti, the Connecting Link between the Early and Modern Violin Schools.--His Immense Superiority over his Contemporaries and Predecessors.--Other Violinists of his Time, Giornowick and Boccherini.--Viotti's Early Years.--His Arrival in Paris, and the Sensation he made.--His Reception by the Court.--Viotti's Personal Pride and Dignity.--His Rebuke to Princely Impertinence.--The Musical Circles of Paris.--Viotti's Last Public Concert in Paris.--He suddenly departs for London.--Becomes Director of the King's Theatre.--Is compelled to leave the Country as a Suspected Revolutionist.--His Return to England, and Metamorphosis into a Vintner.--The French Singer, Garat, finds him out in his London Obscurity.--Anecdote of Viotti's Dinner Party.--He quits the Wine Trade for his own Profession.--Is made Director of the Paris Grand Opéra.--Letter from Rossini.--Viotti's Account of the "Ranz des Vaches."--Anecdotes of the Great Violinist.--Dies in London in 1824.--Viotti's Place as a Violinist, and Style of Playing.--The Tourté Bow first invented during his Time.--An Indispensable Factor in Great Playing on the Violin.--Viotti's Pupils, and his Influence on the Musical Art. LUDWIG SPOHR. Birth and Early Life of the Violinist Spohr.--He is presented with his First Violin at six.--The French _Emigré_ Dufour uses his Influence with Dr. Spohr, Sr., to have the Boy devoted to a Musical Career.--Goes to Brunswick for fuller Musical Instruction.--Spohr is appointed _Kammer-musicus_ at the Ducal Court.--He enters under the Tuition of and makes a Tour with the Violin Virtuoso Eck.--Incidents of the Russian Journey and his Return.--Concert Tour in Germany.--Loses his Fine Guarnerius Violin.--Is appointed Director of the Orchestra at Gotha.--He marries Dorette Schiedler, the Brilliant Harpist.--Spohr's Stratagem to be present at the Erfurt Musical Celebration given by Napoleon in Honor of the Allied Sovereigns.--Becomes Director of Opera in Vienna.--Incidents of his Life and Production of Various Works.--First Visit to England.--He is made Director of the Cassel Court Oratorios.--He is retired with a Pension.--Closing Years of his Life.--His Place as Composer and Executant. NICOLO PAGANINI. The Birth of the Greatest of Violinists.--His Mother's Dream.--Extraordinary Character and Genius.--Heine's Description of his Playing.--Leigh Hunt on Paganini.--Superstitious Rumors current during his Life.--He is believed to be a Demoniac.--His Strange Appearance.--Early Training and Surroundings.--Anecdotes of his Youth.--Paga-nini's Youthful Dissipations.--His Passion for Gambling.--He acquires his Wonderful Guarnerius Violin.--His Reform from the Gaming-table.--Indefatigable Practice and Work as a Young Artist.--Paganini as a _Preux Chevalier_.--His Powerful Attraction for Women.--Episode with a Lady of Rank.--Anecdotes of his Early Italian Concertizing.--The Imbroglio at Ferrara.--The Frail Health of Paganini.--Wonderful Success at Milan where he first plays One of the Greatest of his Compositions, "Le Streghe."--Duel with Lafont.--Incidents and Anecdotes.--His First Visit to Germany.--Great Enthusiasm of his Audiences.--Experiences at Vienna, Berlin, and other German Cities.--Description of Paganini, in Paris, by Castil-Blaze and Fetis.--His English Reception and the Impression made.--Opinions of the Critics.--Paganini not pleased with England.--Settles in Paris for Two Years, and becomes the Great Musical Lion.--Simplicity and Amiability of Nature.--Magnificent Generosity to Hector Berlioz.--The Great Fortune made by Paganini.--His Beautiful Country Seat near Parma.--An Unfortunate Speculation in Paris.--The Utter Failure of his Health.--His Death at Nice.--Characteristics and Anecdotes.--Interesting Circumstances of his Last Moments.--The Peculiar Genius of Paganini, and his Influence on Art. DE BÉRIOT. De Bériot's High Place in the Art of the Violin and Violin Music.--The Scion of an Impoverished Noble Family.--Early Education and Musical Training.--He seeks the Advice of Viotti in Paris.--Becomes a Pupil of Robrechts and Baillot successively.--De Bériot finishes and perfects his Style on his Own Model.--Great Success in England.--Artistic Travels in Europe.--Becomes Soloist to the King of the Netherlands.--He meets Malibran, the Great Cantatrice, in Paris.--Peculiar Circumstances which drew the Couple toward Each Other.--They form a Connection which only ends with Malibran's Life.--Sketch of Malibran and her Family.--The Various Artistic Journeys of Malibran and De Bériot.--Their Marriage and Mme. de Bériot's Death.--De Bériot becomes Professor in the Brussels Conservatoire.--His Later Life in Brussels.--His Son Charles Malibran de Bériot.--The Character of De Bériot as Composer and Player. OLE BULL. The Birth and Early Life of Ole Bull at Bergen, Norway.--His Family and Connections.--Surroundings of his Boyhood.--Early Display of his Musical Passion.--Learns the Violin without Aid.--Takes Lessons from an Old Musical Professor, and soon surpasses his Master.--Anecdotes of his Boyhood.--His Father's Opposition to Music as a Profession.--Competes for Admittance to the University at Christiania.--Is consoled for Failure by a Learned Professor.--"Better be a Fiddler than a Preacher."--Becomes Conductor of the Philharmonic Society at Bergen.--His first Musical Journey.--Sees Spohr.--Fights a Duel.--Visit to Paris.--He is reduced to Great Pecuniary Straits.--Strange Adventure with Vidocq, the Great Detective.--First Appearance in Concert in Paris.--Romantic Adventure leading to Acquaintance.--First Appearance in Italy.--Takes the Place of De Bériot by Great Good Luck.--Ole Bull is most enthusiastically received.--Extended Concert Tour in Italy and France.--His _Début_ and Success in England.--One Hundred and Eighty Concerts in Six Months.--Ole Bull's Gaspar di Salo Violin, and the Circumstances under which he acquired it.--His Answer to the King of Sweden.--First Visit and Great Success in America in 1848.--Attempt to establish a National Theatre.--The Norwegian Colony in Pennsylvania.--Latter Years of Ole Bull.--His Personal Appearance.--Art Characteristics. MUZIO CLEMENTI. The Genealogy of the Piano-forte.--The Harpsichord its Immediate Predecessor.--Supposed Invention of the Piano-forte.--Silbermann the First Maker.--Anecdote of Frederick the Great.--The Piano-forte only slowly makes its Way as against the Clavichord and Harpsichord.--Emanuel Bach, the First Composer of Sonatas for the Piano-forte.--His Views of playing on the New Instrument.--Haydn and Mozart as Players.--Muzio Clementi, the Earliest Virtuoso, strictly speaking, as a Pianist.--Born in Rome in 1752.--Scion of an Artistic Family.--First Musical Training.--Rapid Development of his Talents.--Composes Contrapuntal Works at the Age of Fourteen.--Early Studies of the Organ and Harpsichord.--Goes to England to complete his Studies.--Creates an Unequaled Furore in London.--John Christian Bach's Opinion of Clementi.--Clementi's Musical Tour.--His Duel with Mozart before the Emperor.--Tenor of Clementi's Life in England.--Clementi's Pupils.--Trip to St. Petersburg.--Sphor's Anecdote of Him.--Mercantile and Manufacturing Interest in the Piano as Partner of Collard.--The Players and Composers trained under Clementi.--His Composition.--Status as a Player.--Character and Influence as an Artist.--Development of the Technique of the Piano, culminating in Clementi. MOSCHELES. Clementi and Mozart as Points of Departure in Piano-forte Playing.--Moscheles the most Brilliant Climax reached by the Viennese School.--His Child-Life at Prague.--Extraordinary Precocity.--Goes to Vienna as the Pupil of Salieri and Albrechtsburger.--Acquaintance with Beethoven.--Moscheles is honored with a Commission to make a Piano Transcription of Beethoven's "Fidelio."--His Intercourse with the Great Man.--Concert Tour.--Arrival in Paris.--The Artistic Circle into which he is received.--Pictures of Art-Life in Paris.--London and its Musical Celebrities.--Career as a Wandering Virtuoso.--Felix Mendelssohn becomes his Pupil.--The Mendelssohn Family.--Moseheles's Marriage to a Hamburg Lady.--Settles in London.--His Life as Teacher, Player, and Composer.--Eminent Place taken by Moscheles among the Musicians of his Age.--His Efforts soothe the Sufferings of Beethoven's Death-bed.--Friendship for Mendelssohn.--Moscheles becomes connected with the Leipzig Conservatorium.--Death in 1870.--Moscheles as Pianist and Composer.--Sympathy with the Old as against the New School of the Piano.--His Powerful Influence on the Musical Culture and Tendencies of his Age. THE SCHUMANNS AND CHOPIN. Robert Schumann's Place as a National Composer.--Peculiar Greatness as a Piano-forte Composer.--Born at Zwickau in 1810.--His Father's Aversion to his Musical Studies.--Becomes a Student of Jurisprudence in Leipzig.--Makes the Acquaintance of Clara Wieck.--Tedium of his Law Studies.--Vacation Tour to Italy.--Death of his Father, and Consent of his Mother to Schumann adopting the Profession of Music.--Becomes Wieck's Pupil.--Injury to his Hand which prevents all Possibilities of his becoming a Great Performer.--Devotes himself to Composition.--The Child, Clara Wieck--Remarkable Genius as a Player.--Her Early Training.--Paganini's Delight in her Genius.--Clara Wieck's Concert Tours.--Schumann falls deeply in Love with her, and Wieck's Opposition.--His Allusions to Clara in the "Neue Zeit-schrift."--Schumann at Vienna.--His Compositions at first Unpopular, though played by Clara Wieck and Liszt.--Schumann's Labors as a Critic.--He marries Clara in 1840.--His Song Period inspired by his Wife.--Tour to Russia, and Brilliant Reception given to the Artist Pair.--The "Neue Zeitschrift" and its Mission.--The Davidsbund.--Peculiar Style of Schumann's Writing.--He moves to Dresden.--Active Production in Orchestral Composition.--Artistic Tour in Holland.--He is seized with Brain Disease.--Characteristics as a Man, as an Artist, and as a Philosopher.--Mme. Schumann as her Husband's Interpreter.--Chopin a Colaborer with Schumann.--Schumann on Chopin again.--Chopin's Nativity.--Exclusively a Piano-forte Composer.--His Genre as Pianist and Composer.--Aversion to Concert-giving.--Parisian Associations.--New Style of Technique demanded by his Works.--Unique Treatment of the Instrument.--Characteristics of Chopin's Compositions. THALBERG AND GOTTSCHALK. Thalberg one of the Greatest of Executants.--Rather a Man of Remarkable Talents than of Genius.--Moseheles's Description of him.--The Illegitimate Son of an Austrian Prince.--Early Introduction to Musical Society in London and Vienna.--Beginning of his Career as a Virtuoso.--The Brilliancy of his Career.--Is appointed Court Pianist to the Emperor of Austria.--His Marriage.--Visits to America.--Thalberg's Artistic Idiosyncrasy.--Robert Schumann on his Playing.--His Appearance and Manner.--Characterization by George William Curtis.--Thalberg's Style and Worth as an Artist.--His Piano-forte Method, and Place as a Composer for the Piano.--Gottschalk's Birth and Early Years.--He is sent to Paris for Instruction.--Successful _Début_ and Publie Concerts in Paris and Tour through the French Cities.--Friendship with Berlioz.--Concert Tour to Spain.--Romantic Experiences.--Berlioz on Gottschalk.--Reception of Gottschalk in America.--Criticism of his Style.--Remarkable Success of his Concerts.--His Visit to the West Indies, Mexico, and Central America.--Protracted Absence.--Gottschalk on Life in the Tropics.--Return to the United States.--Three Brilliant Musical Years.--Departure for South America.--Triumphant Procession through the Spanish-American Cities.--Death at Rio Janeiro.--Notes on Gottschalk as Man and Artist. FRANZ LISZT. The Spoiled Favorite of Fortune.--His Inherited Genius.--Birth and Early Training.--First Appearance in Concert.--Adam Liszt and his Son in Paris.--Sensation made by the Boy's Playing.--His Morbid Religious Sufferings.--Franz Liszt thrown on his own Resources.--The Artistic Circle in Paris.--Liszt in the Ranks of Romanticism.--His Friends and Associates.--Mme. D'Agoult and her Connection with Franz Liszt.--He retires to Geneva.--Is recalled to Paris by the Thalberg _Furore_.--Rivalry between the Artists and their Factions.--He commences his Career as Traveling Virtuoso.--The Blaze of Enthusiasm throughout Europe.--Schumann on Liszt as Man and Artist.--He ranks the Hungarian Virtuoso as the Superior of Thalberg.--Liszt's Generosity to his own Countrymen.--The Honors paid to him in Pesth.--Incidents of his Musical Wanderings.--He loses the Proceeds of Three Hundred Concerts.--Contributes to the Completion of the Cologne Cathedral.--His Connection with the Beethoven Statue at Bonn, and the Celebration of the Unveiling.--Chorley on Liszt.--Berlioz and Liszt.--Character of the Enthusiasm called out by Liszt as an Artist.--Remarkable Personality as a Man.--Berlioz characterizes the Great Virtuoso in a Letter.--Liszt ceases his Life as a Virtuoso, and becomes Chapel-Master and Court Conductor at Weimar.--Avowed Belief in the New School of Music, and Production of Works of this School.--Wagner's Testimony to Liszt's Assistance.--Liszt's Resignation of his Weimar Post after Ten Years.--His Subsequent Life.--He takes Holy Orders.--Liszt as a Virtuoso and Composer.--Entitled to be placed among the most Remarkable Men of his Age. THE GREAT VIOLINISTS AND PIANISTS. THE VIOLIN AND EARLY VIOLINISTS. The Ancestry of the Violin.--The Origin of the Cremona School of Violin-Making.--The Amatis and Stradiuarii.--Extraordinary Art Activity of Italy at this Period.--Antonius Stradiuarius and Joseph Guarnerius.--Something about the Lives of the Two Greatest Violin-Makers of the World.--Corelli, the First Great Violinist.--His Contemporaries and Associates.--Anecdotes of his Career.--Corelli's Pupil, Geminiani.--Philidor, the Composer, Violinist, and Chess-Player.--Giuseppe Tartini.--Becomes an Outcast from his Family on Account of his Love of Music.--Anecdote of the Violinist Veracini.--Tartini's Scientific Discoveries in Music.--His Account of the Origin of the "Devil's Trill."--Tartini's Pupils. I. The ancestry of the violin, considering this as the type of stringed instruments played with a bow, goes back to the earliest antiquity; and innumerable passages might be quoted from the Oriental and classical writers illustrating the important part taken by the forefathers of the modern violin in feast, festival, and religious ceremonial, in the fiery delights of battle, and the more dulcet enjoyments of peace. But it was not till the fifteenth century, in Italy, that the art of making instruments of the viol class began to reach toward that high perfection which it speedily attained. The long list of honored names connected with the development of art in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries is a mighty roll-call, and among these the names of the great violin-makers, beginning with Gaspard de Salo, of Brescia, who first raised a rude craft to an art, are worthy of being included. From Brescia came the masters who established the Cremona school, a name not only immortal in the history of music, but full of vital significance; for it was not till the violin was perfected, and a distinct school of violin-playing founded, that the creation of the symphony, the highest form of music, became possible. The violin-makers of Cremona came, as we have said, from Brescia, beginning with the Ama-tis. Though it does not lie within the province of this work to discuss in any special or technical sense the history of violin-making, something concerning the greatest of the Cremona masters will be found both interesting and valuable as preliminary to the sketches of the great players which make up the substance of the volume. The Amatis, who established the violin-making art at Cremona, successively improved, each member of the class stealing a march on his predecessor, until the peerless masters of the art, Antonius Stradiuarius and Joseph Guarnerius del Jesû, advanced far beyond the rivalry of their contemporaries and successors. The pupils of the Amatis, Stradiuarius, and Guarnerius settled in Milan, Florence, and other cities, which also became centers of violin-making, but never to an extent which lessened the preeminence of the great Cremona makers. There was one significant peculiarity of all the leading artists of this violin-making epoch: each one as a pupil never contented himself with making copies of his master's work, but strove incessantly to strike out something in his work which should be an outcome of his own genius, knowledge, and investigation. It was essentially a creative age. Let us glance briefly at the artistic activity of the times when the violin-making craft leaped so swiftly and surely to perfection. If we turn to the days of Gaspard di Salo, Morelli, Magini, and the Amatis, we find that when they were sending forth their fiddles, Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian, and Tintoretto were busily painting their great canvases. While Antonius Stradiuarius and Joseph Guarnerius were occupied with the noble instruments which have immortalized their names, Canaletto was painting his Venetian squares and canals, Giorgio was superintending the manufacture of his inimitable maiolica, and the Venetians were blowing glass of marvelous beauty and form. In the musical world, Corelli was writing his gigues and sarabandes, Geminiani composing his first instruction book for the violin, and Tartini dreaming out his "Devil's Trill"; and while Guadognini (a pupil of Antonius Stradiuarius), with the stars of lesser magnitude, were exercising their calling, Viotti, the originator of the school of modern violin-playing, was beginning to write his concertos, and Boccherini laying the foundation of chamber music. Such was the flourishing state of Italian art during the great Cremona period, which opened up a mine of artistic wealth for succeeding generations. It is a curious fact that not only the violin but violin music was the creature of the most luxurious period of art; for, in that golden age of the creative imagination, musicians contemporary with the great violin-makers were writing music destined to be better understood and appreciated when the violins then made should have reached their maturity. There can be no doubt that the conditions were all highly favorable to the manufacture of great instruments. There were many composers of genius and numerous orchestras scattered over Italy, Germany, and France, and there must have been a demand for bow instruments of a high order. In the sixteenth century, Palestrina and Zarlino were writing grand church music, in which violins bore an important part. In the seventeenth, lived Stradella, Lotti, Buononcini, Lulli, and Corelli. In the eighteenth, when violin-making Avas at its zenith, there were such names among the Italians as Scarlatti, Geminiani, Vivaldi, Locatelli, Boccherini, Tartini, Piccini, Viotti, and Nardini; while in France it was the epoch of Lecler and Gravinies, composers of violin music of the highest class. Under the stimulus of such a general art culture the makers of the violin must have enjoyed large patronage, and the more eminent artists have received highly remunerative prices for their labors, and, correlative to this practical success, a powerful stimulus toward perfecting the design and workmanship of their instruments. These plain artisans lived quiet and simple lives, but they bent their whole souls to the work, and belonged to the class of minds of which Carlyle speaks: "In a word, they willed one thing to which all other things were made subordinate and subservient, and therefore they accomplished it. The wedge will rend rocks, but its edge must be sharp and single; if it be double, the wedge is bruised in pieces and will rend nothing." II. So much said concerning the general conditions under which the craft of violin-making reached such splendid excellence, the attention of the reader is invited to the greatest masters of the Cremona school. "The instrument on which he played Was in Cremona's workshops made, By a great master of the past, Ere yet was lost the art divine; Fashioned of maple and of pine, That in Tyrolean forests vast Had rooked and wrestled with the blast. "Exquisite was it in design, A marvel of the lutist's art, Perfect in each minutest part; And in its hollow chamber thus The maker from whose hand it came Had written his unrivaled name, 'Antonius Stradivarius.'" The great artist whose work is thus made the subject of Longfellow's verse was born at Cremona in 1644. His renown is beyond that of all others, and his praise has been sounded by poet, artist, and musician. He has received the homage of two centuries, and his name is as little likely to be dethroned from its special place as that of Shakespeare or Homer. Though many interesting particulars are known concerning his life, all attempt has failed to obtain any connected record of the principal events of his career. Perhaps there is no need, for there is ample reason to believe that Antonius Stradiuarius lived a quiet, uncheckered, monotonous existence, absorbed in his labor of making violins, and caring for nothing in the outside world which did not touch his all-beloved art. Without haste and without rest, he labored for the perfection of the violin. To him the world was a mere workshop. The fierce Italian sun beat down and made Cremona like an oven, but it was good to dry the wood for violins. On the slopes of the hills grew grand forests of maple, pine, and willow, but he cared nothing for forest or hillside except as they grew good wood for violins. The vineyards yielded rich wine, but, after all, the main use of the grape was that it furnished the spirit wherewith to compound varnish. The sheep, ox, and horse were good for food, but still more important because from them came the hair of the bow, the violin strings, and the glue which held the pieces together. It was through this single-eyed devotion to his life-work that one great maker was enabled to gather up all the perfections of his predecessors, and stand out for all time as the flower of the Cremonese school and the master of the world. George Eliot, in her poem, "The Stradivari," probably pictures his life accurately: "That plain white-aproned man, who stood at work, Patient and accurate full fourscore years, Cherished his sight and touch by temperance; And since keen sense is love of perfectness, Made perfect violins, the needed paths For inspiration and high mastery." M. Fetis, in his notice of the greatest of violin-makers, summarizes his life very briefly. He tells us the life of Antonius Stradiuarius was as tranquil as his calling was peaceful. The year 1702 alone must have caused him some disquiet, when during the war the city of Cremona was taken by Marshal Villeroy, on the Imperialist side, retaken by Prince Eugene, and finally taken a third time by the French. That must have been a parlous time for the master of that wonderful workshop whence proceeded the world's masterpieces, though we may almost fancy the absorbed master, like Archimedes when the Romans took Syracuse, so intent on his labor that he hardly heard the din and roar of battle, till some rude soldier disturbed the serene atmosphere of the room littered with shavings and strewn with the tools of a peaceful craft. Polledro, not many years ago first violin at the Chapel Royal of Turin, who died at a very advanced age, declared that his master had known Stradiuarius, and that he was fond of talking about him. He was, he said, tall and thin, with a bald head fringed with silvery hair, covered with a cap of white wool in the winter and of cotton in the summer. He wore over his clothes an apron of white leather when he worked, and, as he was always working, his costume never varied. He had acquired what was regarded as wealth in those days, for the people of Cremona were accustomed to say "As rich as Stradiuarius." The house he occupied is still standing in the Piazza Roma, and is probably the principal place of interest in the old city to the tourists who drift thitherward. The simple-minded Cremonese have scarcely a conception to-day of the veneration with which their ancient townsman is regarded by the musical connoisseurs of the world. It was with the greatest difficulty that they were persuaded a few years ago, by the efforts of Italian and French musicians, to name one street Stradiuarius, and another Amati. Nicholas Amati, the greatest maker of his family, was the instructor of Antonius Stradiuarius, and during the early period of the latter artist the instruments could hardly be distinguished from those of Amati. But, in after-years, he struck out boldly in an original line of his own, and made violins which, without losing the exquisite sweetness of the Amati instruments, possessed far more robustness and volume of tone, reaching, indeed, a combination of excellences which have placed his name high above all others. It may be remarked of all the Cremona violins of the best period, whether Amati, Stradiuarius, Guarnerius, or Steiner, that they are marked no less by their perfect beauty and delicacy of workmanship than by their charm of tone. These zealous artisans were not content to imprison the soul of Ariel in other form than the lines and curves of ideal grace, exquisitely marked woods, and varnish as of liquid gold. This external beauty is uniformly characteristic of the Cremona violins, though shape varies in some degree with each maker. Of the Stradiuarius violins it may be said, before quitting the consideration of this maker, that they have fetched in latter years from one thousand to five thousand dollars. The sons and grandsons of Antonius were also violin-makers of high repute, though inferior to the chief of the family. The name of Joseph Guarnerius del Jesû is only less in estimation than that of Antonius Stradiuarius, of whom it is believed by many he was a pupil or apprentice, though of this there is no proof. Both his uncle Andreas and his cousin Joseph were distinguished violin-makers, but the Guarnerius patronymic has now its chiefest glory from that member known as "del Jesû." This great artist in fiddle-making was born at Cremona in the year 1683, and died in 1745. He worked in his native place till the day of his death, but in his latter years Joseph del Jesû became dissipated, and his instruments fell off somewhat in excellence of quality and workmanship. But his _chef d'oeuvres_ yield only to those of the great Stradiuarius in the estimation of connoisseurs. Many of the Guarnerius violins, it is said, were made in prison, where the artist was confined for debt, with inferior tools and material surreptitiously obtained for him by the jailer's daughter, who was in love with the handsome captive. These fruits of his skill were less beautiful in workmanship, though marked by wonderful sweetness and power of tone. Mr. Charles Reade, a great violin amateur as well as a novelist, says of these "prison" fiddles, referring to the comical grotesqueness of their form: "Such is the force of genius, that I believe in our secret hearts we love these impudent fiddles best, they are so full of _chic_." Paganini's favorite was a Guarnerius del Jesû, though he had no less than seven instruments of the greatest Cremona masters. Spohr, the celebrated violinist and composer, offered to exchange his Strad, one of the finest in the world, for a Guarnerius, in the possession of Mr. Mawkes, an English musician. Carlo Bergonzi, the pupil of Antonius Stradiuarius, was another of the great Cremona makers, and his best violins have commanded extraordinary prices. He followed the model of his master closely, and some of his instruments can hardly be distinguished in workmanship and tone from genuine Strads. Something might be said, too, of Jacob Steiner, who, though a German (born about 1620), got the inspiration for his instruments of the best period so directly from Cremona that he ought perhaps to be classified with the violin-makers of this school. His famous violins, known as the Elector Steiners, were made under peculiar circumstances. Almost heartbroken by the death of his wife, he retired to a Benedictine monastery with the purpose of taking holy orders. But the art-passion of his life was too strong, and he made in his cloister-prison twelve instruments, on which he lavished the most jealous care and attention. These were presented to the twelve Electors of Germany, and their extraordinary merit has caused them to rank high among the great violins of the world. A volume might be easily compiled of anecdotes concerning violins and violin-makers. The vicissitudes and changes of ownership through which many celebrated instruments have passed are full of romantic interest. Each instrument of the greatest makers has a pedigree, as well authenticated as those of the great masterpieces of painting, though there have been instances where a Strad or a Guarnerius has been picked up by some strange accident for a mere trifle at an auction. There have been many imitations of the genuine Cremonas palmed off, too, on the unwary at a high price, but the connoisseur rarely fails to identify the great violins almost instantly. For, aside from their magical beauty of tone, they are made with the greatest beauty of form, color, and general detail. So much has been said concerning the greatest violin-makers, in view of the fact that coincident with the growth of a great school of art-manufacture in violins there also sprang up a grand school of violin-playing; for, indeed, the one could hardly have existed without the other. III. The first great performer on the violin whose career had any special significance, in its connection with the modern world of musical art, was Archangelo Corelli, who was born at Fusignano, in the territory of Bologna, in the year 1653. Corelli's compositions are recognized to-day as types of musical purity and freshness, and the great number of distinguished pupils who graduated from his teaching relate him closely with all the distinguished violinists even down to the present day. In Corelli's younger days the church had a stronger claim on musicians than the theatre or concert-room. So we find him getting his earliest instruction from the Capuchin Simonelli, who devoted himself to the ecclesiastical style. The pupil, however, yielded to an irresistible instinct, and soon put himself under the care of a clever and skillful teacher, the well-known Bassani. Under this tuition the young musician made rapid advancement, for he labored incessantly in the practice of his instrument. At the age of twenty Corelli followed that natural bent which carried him to Paris, then, as now, a great art capital; and we are told, on the authority of Fetis, that the composer Lulli became so jealous of his extraordinary skill that he obtained a royal mandate ordering Corelli to quit Paris, on pain of the Bastille. In 1680 he paid a visit to Germany, and was specially well received, and was so universally admired, that he with difficulty escaped the importunate invitations to settle at various courts as chief musician. After a three years' absence from his native land he returned and published his first sonatas. The result of his assiduous labor was that his fame as a violinist had spread all over Europe, and pupils came from distant lands to profit by his instruction. We are told of his style as a solo player that it was learned and elegant, the tone firm and even, that his playing was frequently impressed with feeling, but that during performance "his countenance was distorted, his eyes red as fire, and his eyeballs rolled as if he were in agony." For about eighteen years Corelli was domiciled at Rome, under the patronage of Cardinal Ottoboni. As leader of the orchestra at the opera, he introduced many reforms, among them that of perfect uniformity of bowing. By the violin sonatas composed during this period, it is claimed that Corelli laid the foundation for the art of violin-playing, though it is probable that he profited largely by those that went before him. It was at the house of Cardinal Ottoboni that Corelli met Handel, when the violent temper of the latter did not hesitate to show itself. Corelli was playing a sonata, when the imperious young German snatched the violin from his hand, to show the greatest virtuoso of the age how to play the music. Corelli, though very amiable in temper, knew how to make himself respected. At one of the private concerts at Cardinal Ottoboni's, he observed his host and others talking during his playing. He laid his violin down and joined the audience, saying he feared his music might interrupt the conversation. In 1708, according to Dubourg, Corelli accepted a royal invitation from Naples, and took with him his second violin, Matteo, and a violoncellist, in case he should not be well accompanied by the Neapolitan orchestra. He had no sooner arrived than he was asked to play some of his concertos before the king. This he refused, as the whole of his orchestra was not with him, and there was no time for a rehearsal. However, he soon found that the Neapolitan musicians played the orchestral parts of his concertos as well as his own accompanists did after some practice; for, having at length consented to play the first of his concertos before the court, the accompaniment was so good that Corelli is said to have exclaimed to Matteo: "_Si suona a Napoli!_"--"They _do_ play at Naples!" This performance being quite successful, he was presented to the king, who afterward requested him to perform one of his sonatas; but his Majesty found the adagio "so long and so dry that he got up and _left the room_ (!), to the great mortification of the eminent virtuoso." As the king had commanded the piece, the least he could have done would have been to have waited till it was finished. "If they play at Naples, they are not very polite there," poor Corelli must have thought! Another unfortunate mishap also occurred to him there, if we are to believe the dictum of Geminiani, one of Corelli's pupils, who had preceded him at Naples. It would appear that he was appointed to lead a composition of Scarlatti's, and on arriving at an air in C minor he led off in C major, which mistake he twice repeated, till Scarlatti came on the stage and showed him the difference. This anecdote, however, is so intrinsically improbable that it must be taken with several "grains of salt." In 1712 Corelli's concertos were beautifully engraved at Amsterdam, but the composer only survived the publication a few weeks. A beautiful statue, bearing the inscription "_Corelli princeps musicorum_," was erected to his memory, adjacent that honoring the memory of Raffaelle in the Pantheon. He accumulated a considerable fortune, and left a valuable collection of pictures. The solos of Corelli have been adopted as valuable studies by the most eminent modern players and teachers. Francesco Geminiani was the most remarkable of Corelli's pupils. Born at Lucca in 1680, he finished his studies under Corelli at Rome, and spent several years with great musical _éclat_ at Naples. In 1714 he went to England, in which country he spent many years. His execution was of great excellence, but his compositions only achieved temporary favor. His life is said to have been full of romance and incident. Geminiani's connection with Handel has a special musical interest. The king, who arrived in England in September, 1714, and was crowned at Westminster a month later, was irritated with Handel for having left Germany, where he held the position of chapel-master to George, when Elector of Brunswick, and still more so by his having composed a _Te Deum_ on the Peace of Utrecht, which was not favorably regarded by the Protestant princes of Germany. Baron Kilmanseck, a Hanoverian, and a great admirer of Handel, undertook to bring them together again. Being informed that the king intended to picnic on the Thames, he requested the composer to write something for the occasion. Thereupon Handel wrote the twenty-five little concerted pieces known under the title of "Water Music." They were executed in a barge which followed the royal boat. The orchestra consisted of four violins, one tenor, one violoncello, one double-bass, two hautboys, two bassoons, two French horns, two flageolets, one flute, and one trumpet. The king soon recognized the author of the music, and his resentment against Handel began to soften. Shortly after this Geminiani was requested to play some sonatas of his own composition in the king's private cabinet; but, fearing that they would lose much of their effect if they were accompanied in an inferior manner, he expressed the desire that Handel should play the accompaniments. Baron Kilmanseck carried the request to the king, and supported it strongly. The result was that peace was made, and an extra pension of two hundred pounds per annum settled upon Handel. Geminiani, after thirty-five years spent in England, went to Paris for five years, where he was most heartily welcomed by the musical world, but returned across the Channel again to spend his latter years in Dublin. It was here that Matthew Dubourg, whose book on "The Violin and Violinists" is a perfect treasure-trove of anecdote, became his pupil. Another remarkable violinist was an intimate friend of Geminiani, a name distinguished alike in the annals of chess-playing and music, André Danican Philidor. This musician was born near Paris in 1726, and was the grandson of the hautboy-player to the court of Louis XIII. His father and several of his relations were also eminent players in the royal orchestras of Louis XIV and Louis XV. Young Philidor was received into the Chapel Royal at Versailles in 1732, being then six years old, and when eleven he composed a motette which extorted much admiration. In the Chapel Royal there were about eighty musicians daily in attendance, violins, hautboys, violas, double-basses, choristers, etc.; and, cards not being allowed, they had a long table inlaid with a number of chess-boards, with which they amused their leisure time. When fourteen years old Philidor was the best chess-player in the band. Four years later he played at Paris two games of chess at the same time, without seeing the boards, and afterward extended this feat to playing five games simultaneously, which, though far inferior to the wonderful feats of Morphy, Paulsen, and others in more recent years, very much astonished his own generation. Philidor was an admirable violinist, and the composer of numerous operas which delighted the French public for many years. He died in London in 1759. There were several other pupils of Corelli who achieved rank in their art and exerted a recognizable influence on music. Locatelli displayed originality and genius in his compositions, and his studies, "Arte di Nuova Modulazione," was studied by Paganini. Another pupil, Lorenzo Somis, became noted as the teacher of Lecler, Pugnani (the professor of Viotti), and Giardini. Visconti, of Cremona, who was taught by Corelli, is said to have greatly assisted by his counsels the constructive genius of Antonius Stradiuarius in making his magnificent instruments. IV. The name of Giuseppe Tartini will recur to the musical reader more familiarly than those previously mentioned. He was the scion of a noble stock, and was born in Istria in 1692. Originally intended for the law, he was entered at the University of Padua at the age of eighteen for this profession, but his time was mostly given to the study of music and fencing, in both of which he soon became remarkably proficient, so that he surpassed the masters who taught him. It may be that accident determined the future career of Tartini, for, had he remained at the university, the whole bent of his life might have been different. Eros exerted his potent sway over the young student, and he entered into a secret marriage, that being the lowest price at which he could win his _bourgeois_ sweetheart. Tartini became an outcast from his family, and was compelled to fly and labor for his own living. After many hardships, he found shelter in a convent at Assisi, the prior of which was a family connection, who took compassion on the friendless youth. Here Tartini set to work vigorously on his violin, and prosecuted a series of studies which resulted in the "Sonata del Diavolo" and other remarkable compositions. At last he was reconciled to his family through the intercession of his monastic friend, and took his abode in Venice that he might have the benefit of hearing the playing of Veracini, a great but eccentric musician, then at the head of the Conservatario of that city. Veracini was nicknamed "Capo Pazzo," or "mad-head," on account of his eccentricity. Dubourg tells a curious story of this musician: Being at Lucca at the time of the annual festival called "Festa della Croce," on which occasion it was customary for the leading artists of Italy to meet, Veracini put his name down for a solo. When he entered the choir, he found the principal place occupied by a musician of some rank named Laurenti. In reply to the latter's question, "Where are you going?" Veracini haughtily answered, "To the place of the first violinist." It was explained by Laurenti that he himself had been engaged to fill that post, but, if his interlocutor wished to play a solo, he could have the privilege either at high mass or at vespers. Evidently he did not recognize Veracini, who turned away in a rage, and took his position in the lowest place in the orchestra. When his turn came to play his concerto, he begged that instead of it he might play a solo where he was, accompanied on the violoncello by Lanzetti. This he did in so brilliant and unexpected a manner that the applause was loud and continued, in spite of the sacred nature of the place; and whenever he was about to make a close, he turned toward Laurenti and called out: "Cost se suona per fare il primo violino"--"This is the way to play first violin." Veracini played upon a fine Steiner violin. The only master he ever had was his uncle Antonio, of Florence; and it was by traveling all over Europe, and by numerous performances in public, that he formed a style of playing peculiar to himself, very similar to what occurred to Pa-ganini and the celebrated De Bériot in later years. It does not appear certain that Tartini ever took lessons from Veracini; but hearing the latter play in public had no doubt a very great effect upon him, and caused him to devote many years to the careful study of his instrument. Some say that Veracini's performance awakened a vivid emulation in Tartini, who was already acknowledged to be a very masterly player. Up to the time, however, that Tartini first heard Veracini, he had never attempted any of the more intricate and difficult feats of violin-playing, as effected by the management of the bow. An intimate friendship sprang up between the two artists and another clever musician named Marcello, and they devoted much time to the study of the principles of violin-playing, particularly to style and the varied kinds of bowing. Veracini's mind afterward gave way, and Tartini withdrew himself to Ancona, where in utter solitude he applied himself to working out the fundamental principles of the bow in the technique of the violin--principles which no succeeding violinist has improved or altered. Tartini, even while absorbed in music, did not neglect the study of science and mathematics, of which he was passionately fond, and in the pursuit of which he might have made a name not less than his reputation as a musician. It was at this time that Tartini made a very curious discovery, known as the _phenomenon of the third sound_, which created some sensation at the time, and has since given rise to numerous learned discourses, but does not appear to have led to any great practical result. Various memoirs or treatises were written by him, and that in which he develops the nature of the _third sound_ is his "Tratto di Musica se-condo la vera scienza de l'Armonia." In this and others of his works, he appears much devoted to _theory_, and endeavors to place all his practical facts upon a thoroughly scientific basis. The effect known as the _third sound_ consists in the sympathetic resonance of a third note when the two upper notes of a chord are played in perfect tune. "If you do not hear the bass," Tartini would say to his pupils, "the thirds or sixths which you are playing are not perfect in intonation." At Ancona, Tartini attained such reputation as a player and musician that he was appointed, in 1721, to the directorship of the orchestra of the church of St. Anthony at Padua. Here, according to Fetis, he spent the remaining forty-nine years of his life in peace and comfort, solely occupied with the labors connected with the art he loved. His great fame brought him repeated offers from the principal cities of Europe, even London and Paris, hat nothing could induce him to leave his beloved Italy. Though Tartini could not have been heard out of Italy, his violin school at Padua graduated many excellent players, who were widely known throughout the musical world. Tartini's compositions reached no less than one hundred and fifty works, distinguished not only by beauty of melody and knowledge of the violin, but by soundness of musical science. Some of his sonatas are still favorites in the concert-room. Among these, the most celebrated is the "Trille del Dia-volo," or "Devil's Sonata," composed under the following circumstances, as related by Tartini himself to his pupil Lalande: "One night in 1713," he says, "I dreamed that I had made a compact with the devil, who promised to be at my service on all occasions. Everything succeeded according to my mind; my wishes were anticipated and desires always surpassed by the assistance of my new servant. At last I thought I would offer my violin to the devil, in order to discover what kind of a musician he was, when, to my great astonishment, I heard him play a solo, so singularly beautiful and with such superior taste and precision, that it surpassed all the music I had ever heard or conceived in the whole course of my life. I was so overcome with surprise and delight that I lost my power of breathing, and the violence of this sensation awoke me. Instantly I seized my violin in the hopes of remembering some portion of what I had just heard, but in vain! The work which this dream suggested, and which I wrote at the time, is doubtless the best of all my compositions, and I still call it the 'Sonata del Diavolo'; but it sinks so much into insignificance compared with what I heard, that I would have broken my instrument and abandoned music altogether, had I possessed any other means of subsistence." Tartini died at Padua in 1770, and so much was he revered and admired in the city where he had spent nearly fifty years of his life, that his death was regarded as a public calamity. He used to say of himself that he never made any real progress in music till he was more than thirty years old; and it is curious that he should have made a great change in the nature of his performance at the age of fifty-two. Instead of displaying his skill in difficulties of execution, he learned to prefer grace and expression. His method of playing an adagio was regarded as inimitable by his contemporaries; and he transmitted this gift to his pupil Nardini, who was afterward called the greatest adagio player in the world. Another of Tartini's great _élevés_ was Pugnani, who before coming to him had been instructed by Lorenzo Somis, the pupil of Corelli. So it may be said that Pugnani united in himself the schools of Corelli and Tartini, and was thus admirably fitted to be the instructor of that grand player, who was the first in date of the violin virtuosos of modern times, Viotti. Both as composer and performer, Pugnani was held in great esteem throughout Europe. His first meeting with Tartini was an incident of considerable interest. He made the journey from Paris to Padua expressly to see Tartini, and on reaching his destination he proceeded to the house of the great violinist. Tartini received him kindly, and evinced some curiosity to hear him play. Pugnani took up his instrument and commenced a well-known solo, but he had not played many bars before Tartini suddenly seized his arm, saying, "Too loud, my friend, too loud!" The Piedmontese began again, but at the same passage Tartini stopped him again, exclaiming this time, "Too soft, my good friend, too soft!" Pugnani therefore laid down the violin, and begged of Tartini to give him some lessons. He was at once received among Tartini's pupils, and, though already an excellent artist, began his musical education almost entirely anew. Many anecdotes have been foisted upon Pugnani, some evidently the creation of rivals, and not worth repeating. Others, on the contrary, tend to enlighten us upon the character of the man. Thus, when playing, he was so completely absorbed in the music, that he has been known, at a public concert, to walk about the platform during the performance of a favorite cadenza, imagining himself alone in the room. Again, at the house of Madame Denis, when requested to play before Voltaire, who had little or no music in his soul, Pugnani stopped short, when the latter had the bad taste to continue his conversation, remarking in a loud, clear voice, "M. de Voltaire is very clever in making verses, but as regards music he is devilishly ignorant." Pugnani's style of play is said to have been very broad and noble, "characterized by that commanding sweep of the bow, which afterward formed so grand a feature in the performance of Viotti." He was distinguished as a composer as well as a player, and among his numerous works are some seven or eight operas, which were very successful for the time being on the Italian stage. VIOTTI. Viotti, the Connecting Link between the Early and Modern Violin Schools.--His Immense Superiority over his Contemporaries and Predecessors.--Other Violinists of his Time, Giornowick and Boccherini.--Viotti's Early Years--His Arrival in Paris, and the Sensation he made--His Reception by the Court.--Viotti's Personal Pride and Dignity.--His Rebuke to Princely Impertinence.--The Musical Circles of Paris.--Viotti's Last Publie Concert in Paris.--He suddenly departs for London.--Becomes Director of the King's Theatre.--Is compelled to leave the Country as a Suspected Revolutionist.--His Return to England, and Metamorphosis into a Vintner.--The French Singer, Garat, finds him out in his London Obscurity.--Anecdote of Viotti's Dinner Party.--He quits the Wine Trade for his own Profession.--Is made Director of the Paris Grand Opéra.--Letter from Rossini.--Viotti's Account of the "Ranz des Vaches."--Anecdotes of the Great Violinist.--Dies in London in 1824.--Viotti's Place as a Violinist, and Style of Playing.--The Tourté Bow first invented during his Time.--An Indispensable Factor in Great Playing on the Violin.--Viotti's Pupils, and his Influence on the Musical Art. I. In the person of the celebrated Viotti we recognize the link connecting the modern school of violin-playing with the schools of the past. He was generally hailed as the leading violinist of his time, and his influence, not merely on violin music but music in general, was of a very palpable order. In him were united the accomplishments of the great virtuoso and the gifts of the composer. At the time that Viotti's star shot into such splendor in the musical horizon, there were not a few clever violinists, and only a genius of the finest type could have attained and perpetuated such a regal sway among his contemporaries. At the time when Viotti appeared in Paris the popular heart was completely captivated by Giornowick, whose eccentric and quarrelsome character as a man cooperated with his artistic excellence to keep him constantly in the public eye. Giornowick was a Palermitan, born in 1745, and his career was thoroughly artistic and full of romantic vicissitudes. His style was very graceful and elegant, his tone singularly pure. One of the most popular and seductive tricks in his art was the treating of well-known airs as rondos, returning ever and anon to his theme after a variety of brilliant excursions in a way that used to fascinate his hearers, thus anticipating some of his brilliant successors. Michael Kelly heard him at Vienna. "He was a man of a certain age," he tells us, "but in the full vigor of talent. His tone was very powerful, his execution most rapid, and his taste, above all, alluring. No performer in my remembrance played such pleasing music." Dubourg relates that on one occasion, when Giornowick had announced a concert at Lyons, he found the people rather retentive of their money, so he postponed the concert to the following evening, reducing the price of the tickets to one half. A crowded company was the result. But the bird had flown! The artist had left Lyons without ceremony, together with the receipts from sales of tickets. In London, where he was frequently heard between 1792 and 1796, he once gave a concert which was fully attended, but annoying to the player on account of the indifference of the audience and the clatter of the tea-cups; for it was then the custom to serve tea during the performance, as well as during the intervals. Giornowick turned to the orchestra and ordered them to cease playing. "These people," said he, "know nothing about music; anything is good enough for drinkers of warm water. I will give them something suited to their taste." Whereupon he played a very trivial and commonplace French air, which he disguised with all manner of meretricious flourishes, and achieved a great success. When Viotti arrived in Paris in 1779, Giornowick started on his travels after having heard this new rival once. A distinguished virtuoso and composer, with whom Viotti had already been thrown into contact, though in a friendly rather than a competitive way, was Boccherini, who was one of the most successful early composers of trios, quartets, and quintets for string instruments. During the latter part of Boccherini's life he basked in the sunlight of Spanish royalty, and composed nine works annually for the Royal Academy of Madrid, in which town he died in 1806, aged sixty-six. A very clever saying is attributed to him. The King of Spain, Charles IV, was fond of playing with the great composer, and was very ambitious of shining as a great violinist; his cousin, the Emperor of Austria, was also fond of the violin, and played tolerably well. One day the latter asked Boccherini, in a rather straightforward manner, what difference there was between his playing and that of his cousin Charles IV. "Sire," replied Boccherini, without hesitating for a moment, "Charles IV plays like a king, and your Majesty plays like an emperor." Giovanni Battista Viotti was born in a little Piedmontese village called Fontaneto, in the year 1755. The accounts of his early life are too confused and fragmentary to be trustworthy. It is pretty well established, however, that he studied under Pugnani at Turin, and that at the age of twenty he was made first violin at the Chapel Royal of that capital. After remaining three years, he began his career as a solo player, and, after meeting with the greatest success at Berlin and Vienna, directed his course to Paris, where he made his _debut_ at the "Concerts Spirituels." II. Fetis tells us that the arrival of Viotti in Paris produced a sensation difficult to describe. No performer had yet been heard who had attained so high a degree of perfection, no artist had possessed so fine a tone, such sustained elegance, such fire, and so varied a style. The fancy which was developed in his concertos increased the delight he produced in the minds of his auditory. His compositions for the violin were as superior to those which had previously been heard as his execution surpassed that of all his predecessors and contemporaries. Giornowick's style was full of grace and suave elegance; Viotti was characterized by a remarkable beauty, breadth, and dignity. Lavish attentions were bestowed on him from the court circle. Marie Antoinette, who was an ardent lover and most judicious patron of music, sent him her commands to play at Versailles. The haughty artistic pride of Viotti was signally displayed at one of these concerts before royalty. A large number of eminent musicians had been engaged for the occasion, and the audience was a most brilliant one. Viotti had just begun a concerto of his own composition, when the arrogant Comte d'Artois made a great bustle in the room, and interrupted the music by his loud whispers and utter indifference to the comfort of any one but himself. Viotti's dark eyes flashed fire as he stared sternly at this rude scion of the blood royal. At last, unable to restrain his indignation, he deliberately placed his violin in the case, gathered up his music from the stand, and withdrew from the concert-room without ceremony, leaving the concert, her Majesty, and his Royal Highness to the reproaches of the audience. This scene is an exact parallel of one which occurred at the house of Cardinal Ottoboni, when Corelli resented in similar fashion the impertinence of some of his auditors. Everywhere in artistic and aristocratic circles at the French capital Viotti's presence was eagerly sought. Private concerts were so much the vogue in Paris that musicians of high rank found more profit in these than in such as were given to the miscellaneous public. A delightful artistic rendezvous was the hôtel of the Comte de Balck, an enthusiastic patron and friend of musicians. Here Viotti's friend, Garat, whose voice had so great a range as to cover both the tenor and barytone registers, was wont to sing; and here young Orfila, the brilliant chemist, displayed his magnificent tenor voice in such a manner as to attract the most tempting offers from managers that he should desert the laboratory for the stage. But the young Portuguese was fascinated with science, and was already far advanced in the career which made him in his day the greatest of all authorities on toxicological chemistry. The most brilliant and gifted men and women of Paris haunted these reunions, and Viotti always appeared at his best amid such surroundings. Another favorite resort of his was the house of Mme. Montegerault at Montmorency, a lady who was a brilliant pianist. Sometimes she would seat herself at her instrument and begin an improvisation, and Viotti, seizing his violin, would join in the performance, and in a series of extemporaneous passages display his great powers to the delight of all present. He evinced the greatest distaste for solo playing at public concerts, and, aside from charity performances, only consented once to such an exhibition of his talents. A singular concert was arranged to take place on the fifth story of a house in Paris, the apartment being occupied by a friend of Viotti, who was also a member of the Government. "I will play," he said, on being urged, "but only on one condition, and that is, that the audience shall come up here to us--we have long enough descended to them; but times are changed, and now we may compel them to rise to our level"; or something to that effect. It took place in due course, and was a very brilliant concert indeed. The only ornament was a bust of Jean Jacques Rousseau. A large number of distinguished artists, both instrumental and vocal, were present, and a most aristocratic audience. A good deal of Boccherini's music was performed that evening, and though many of the titled personages had mounted to the fifth floor for the first time in their lives, so complete was the success of the concert that not one descended without regret, and all were warm in their praise of the performances of the distinguished violinist. What the cause of Viotti's sudden departure from Paris in 1790 was, it is difficult to tell. Perhaps he had offended the court by the independence of his bearing; perhaps he had expressed his political opinions too bluntly, for he was strongly democratic in his views; perhaps he foresaw the terrible storm which was gathering and was soon to break in a wrack of ruin, chaos, and blood. Whatever the cause, our violinist vanished from Paris with hardly a word of farewell to his most intimate friends, and appeared in London at Salomon's concerts with the same success which had signalized his Parisian _début_. Every one was delighted with the originality and power of his playing, and the exquisite taste that modified the robustness and passion which entered into the substance of his musical conceptions. Viotti was one of the artistic celebrities of London for several years, but his eccentric and resolute nature did not fail to involve him in several difficulties with powerful personages. He became connected with the management of the King's Theatre, and led the music for two years with signal ability. But he suddenly received an order from the British Government to leave England without delay. His sharp tongue and outspoken language were never consistent with courtly subserviency. We can fancy our musician shrugging his shoulders with disdain on receiving his order of banishment, for he was too much of a cosmopolite to be disturbed by change of country. He took up his residence at Schönfeld, Holland, in a beautiful and splendid villa, and produced there several of his most celebrated compositions, as well as a series of studies of the violin school. III. The edict which had sent Viotti from England was revoked in 1801, and he returned with commercial aspirations, for he entered into the wine trade. It could not be said of him, as of another well-known composer, who attempted to conduct a business in the vending of sweet sounds and the juice of the grape simultaneously, that he composed his wines and imported his music; for Viotti seems to have laid music entirely aside for the nonce, and we have no reason to suspect that his port and sherry were not of the best. Attention to business did not keep him from losing a large share of his fortune, however, in this mercantile venture, and for a while he was so completely lost in the London Babel as to have passed out of sight and mind of his old admirers. The French singer, Garat, tells an amusing story of his discovery of Viotti in London, when none of his Continental friends knew what had become of him. In the very zenith of his powers and height of his reputation, the founder of a violin school which remains celebrated to this day, Viotti had quitted Paris suddenly, and since his departure no one had received, either directly or indirectly, any news of him. According to Garat, some vague indications led him to believe that the celebrated violinist had taken up his residence in London, but, for a long time after his (Garat's) arrival in the metropolis, all his attempts to find him were fruitless. At last, one morning he went to a large export house for wine. It had a spacious courtyard, filled with numbers of large barrels, among which it was not easy to move toward the office or counting-house. On entering the latter, the first person who met his gaze was Viotti himself. Viotti was surrounded by a legion of employees, and so absorbed in business that he did not notice Garat. At last he raised his head, and, recognizing his old friend, seized him by the hand, and led him into an adjoining room, where he gave him a hearty welcome. Garat could not believe his senses, and stood motionless with surprise. "I see you are astonished at the metamorphosis," said Viotti; "it is certainly _drôle_--unexpected; but what _could_ you expect? At Paris I was looked upon as a ruined man, lost to all my friends; it was necessary to do something to get a living, and here I am, making my fortune!" "But," interrupted Garat, "have you taken into consideration all the drawbacks and annoyances of a profession to which you were not brought up, and which must be opposed to your tastes?" "I perceive," continued Viotti, "that you share the error which so many indulge in. Commercial enterprise is generally considered a most prosaic undertaking, but it has, nevertheless, its seductions, its prestige, its poetical side. I assure you no musician, no poet, ever had an existence more full of interesting and exciting incidents than those which cause the heart of the merchant to throb. His imagination, stimulated by success, carries him forward to new conquests; his clients increase, his fortune augments, the finest dreams of ambition are ever before him." "But art!" again interrupted his friend; "the art of which you are one of the finest representatives--you can not have entirely abandoned it?" "Art will lose nothing," rejoined Viotti, "and you will find that I can conciliate two things without interfering with either, though you doubtless consider them irreconcilable. We will continue this subject another time; at present I must leave you; I have some pressing business to transact this afternoon. But come and dine with me at six o'clock, and be sure you do not disappoint me." Garat, who relates this conversation, tells us that at the appointed time he returned to the house. All the barrels and wagons that had encumbered the courtyard were cleared away, and in their place were coroneted carriages, with footmen and servants. A lackey in brilliant livery conducted the visitor to the drawing-room on the first floor. The apartments were magnificently furnished, and glittered with mirrors, candelabra, gilt ornaments, and the most quaint and costly _bric-à-brac_. Viotti received his guests at the head of the staircase, no longer the plodding man of business, but the courtly, high-bred gentleman. Garat's amazement was still further increased when he heard the names of the other guests, all distinguished men. After an admirably cooked dinner, there was still more admirable music, and Viotti proved to the satisfaction of his French friend that he was still the same great artist who had formerly delighted his listeners in Paris. The wine business turned out so badly for our violinist that he was fain to return to his old and legitimate profession. Through the intervention of powerful friends in Paris, he was appointed director of the Grand Opéra, but he became discontented in a very onerous and irritating position, and was retired at his own request with a pension. An interesting letter from the great Italian composer Rossini, who was then first trying his fortune in the French metropolis, written to Viotti in 1821, is pleasant proof of the estimate placed on his talents and influence: "Most esteemed Sir: You will be surprised at receiving a letter from an individual who has not the honor of your personal acquaintance, but I profit by the liberality of feeling existing among artists to address these lines to you through my friend Hérold, from whom I have learned with the greatest satisfaction the high, and, I fear, somewhat undeserved opinion you have of me. The oratorio of 'Moïse,' composed by me three years ago, appears to our mutual friend susceptible of dramatic adaptation to French words; and I, who have the greatest reliance on Hérold's taste and on his friendship for me, desire nothing more than to render the entire work as perfect as possible, by composing new airs in a more religious style than those which it at present contains, and by endeavoring to the best of my power that the result shall neither disgrace the composer of the partition, nor you, its patron and protector. If M. Viotti, with his great celebrity, will consent to be the Mecænas of my name, he may be assured of the gratitude of his devoted servant, "Gioacchino Rossini. "P.S.--In a month's time I will forward you the alterations of the drama 'Moïse,' in order that you may judge if they are conformable to the operatic style. Should they not be so, you will have the kindness to suggest any others better adapted to the purpose." IV. Viotti, though in many respects proud, resolute, and haughty in temperament, was simple-hearted and enthusiastic, and a passionate lover of nature. M. Eymar, one of his intimate friends, said of him, "Never did a man attach so much value to the simplest gifts of nature, and never did a child enjoy them more passionately." A modest flower growing in the grass of the meadow, a charming bit of landscape, a rustic _fête_, in short, all the sights and sounds of the country, filled him with delight. All nature spoke to his heart, and his finest compositions were suggested and inspired by this sympathy. He has left the world a charming musical picture of the feelings experienced in the mountains of Switzerland. It was there he heard, under peculiar circumstances, and probably for the first time, the plaintive sound of a mountain-horn, breathing forth the few notes of a kind of "Ranz des Vaches." "The 'Ranz des Vaches' which I send you," he says in one of his letters, "is neither that with which our friend Jean Jacques has presented us, nor that of which M. De la Bord speaks in his work on music. I can not say whether it is known or not; all I know is, that I heard it in Switzerland, and, once heard, I have never forgotten it. I was sauntering along, toward the decline of day, in one of those sequestered spots.... Flowers, verdure, streamlets, all united to form a picture of perfect harmony. There, without being fatigued, I seated myself mechanically on a fragment of rock, and fell into so profound a reverie that I seemed to forget that I was upon earth. While sitting thus, sounds broke on my ear which were sometimes of a hurried, sometimes of a prolonged and sustained character, and were repeated in softened tones by the echoes around. I found they proceeded from a mountain-horn; and their effect was heightened by a plaintive female voice. Struck as if by enchantment, I started from my dreams, listened with breathless attention, and learned, or rather engraved upon my memory, the 'Ranz des Vaches' which I send you. In order to understand all its beauties, you ought to be transplanted to the scene in which I heard it, and to feel all the enthusiasm that such a moment inspired." It was a similar delightful experience which, according to Rossini's statement, first suggested to that great composer his immortal opera, "Guillaume Tell." Among many interesting anecdotes current of Viotti, and one which admirably shows his goodness of heart and quickness of resource, is one narrated by Ferdinand Langlé to Adolph Adam, the French composer. The father of the former, Marie Langlé, a professor of harmony in the French Conservatoire, was an intimate friend of Viotti, and one charming summer evening the twain were strolling on the Champs Élysées. They sat down on a retired bench to enjoy the calmness of the night, and became buried in reverie. But they were brought back to prosaic matters harshly by a babel of discordant noises that grated on the sensitive ears of the two musicians. They started from their seats, and Viotti said: "It can't be a violin, and yet there is some resemblance to one." "Nor a clarionet," suggested Langlé, "though it is something like it." The easiest manner of solving the problem was to go and see what it was. They approached the spot whence the extraordinary tones issued, and saw a poor blind man standing near a miserable-looking candle and playing upon a violin--but the latter was an instrument made of tin-plate. "Fancy!" exclaimed Viotti, "it is a violin, but a violin of tin-plate! Did you ever dream of such a curiosity?" and, after listening a while, he added, "I say, Langlé, I must possess that instrument. Go and ask the old blind man what he will sell it for." Langlé approached and asked the question, but the old man was disinclined to part with it. "But we will give you enough for it to enable you to purchase a better," he added; "and why is not your violin like others?" The aged fiddler explained that, when he got old and found himself poor, not being able to work, but still able to scrape a few airs upon a violin, he had endeavored to procure one, but in vain. At last his good, kind nephew Eustache, who was apprenticed to a tinker, had made him one out of a tin-plate. "And an excellent one, too," he added; "and my poor boy Eustache brings me here in the morning when he goes to work, and fetches me away in the evening when he returns, and the receipts are not so bad sometimes--as, when he was out of work, it was I who kept the house going." "Well," said Viotti, "I will give you twenty francs for your violin. You can buy a much better one for that price; but let me try it a little." He took the violin in his hands, and produced some extraordinary effects from it. A considerable crowd gathered around, and listened with curiosity and astonishment to the performance. Langlé seized on the opportunity, and passed around the hat, gathering a goodly amount of chink from the bystanders, which, with the twenty francs, was handed to the astonished old beggar. "Stay a moment," said the blind man, recovering a little from his surprise; "just now I said I would sell the violin for twenty francs, but I did not know it was so good. I ought to have at least double for it." Viotti had never received a more genuine compliment, and he did not hesitate to give the old man two pieces of gold instead of one, and then immediately retired from the spot, passing through the crowd with the tin-plate instrument under his arm. He had scarcely gone forty yards when he felt some one pulling at his sleeve; it was a workman, who politely took off his cap, and said: "Sir, you have paid too dear for that violin; and if you are an amateur, as it was I who made it, I can supply you with as many as you like at six francs each." This was Eustache; he had just come in time to hear the conclusion of the bargain, and, little dreaming that he was so clever a violin-maker, wished to continue a trade that had begun so successfully. However, Viotti was quite satisfied with the one sample he had bought. He never parted with that instrument; and, when the effects of Viotti were sold in London after his death, though the tin fiddle only brought a few shillings, an amateur of curiosities sought out the purchaser, and offered him a large sum if he could explain how the strange instrument came into the possession of the great violinist. After resigning his position as director of the Grand Opéra, Viotti returned to London, which had become a second home to him, and spent his remaining days there. He died on the 24th of March, 1824. V. Viotti established and settled for ever the fundamental principles of violin-playing. He did not attain the marvelous skill of technique, the varied subtile and dazzling effects, with which his successor, Paganini, was to amaze the world, but, from the accounts transmitted to us, his performance must have been characterized by great nobility, breadth, and beauty of tone, united with a fire and agility unknown before his time. Viotti was one of the first to use the Tourté bow, that indispensable adjunct to the perfect manipulation of the violin. The value of this advantage over his predecessors cannot be too highly estimated. The bows used before the time of François Tourté, who lived in the latter years of the last century in Paris, were of imperfect shape and make. The Tourté model leaves nothing to be desired in all the qualities required to enable the player to follow out every conceivable manner of tone and movement--lightness, firmness, and elasticity. Tartini had made the stick of his bow elastic, an innovation from the time of Corelli, and had thus attained a certain flexibility and brilliancy in his bowing superior to his predecessors. But the full development of all the powers of the violin, or the practice of what we now call virtuosoism on this instrument, was only possible with the modern bow as designed by Tourté, of Paris. The thin, bent, elastic stick of the bow, with its greater length of sweep, gives the modern player incalculable advantages over those of an earlier age, enabling him to follow out the slightest gradations of tone from the fullest _forte_ to the softest _piano_, to mark all kinds of strong and gentle accents, to execute staccato, legato, saltato, and arpeggio passages with the greatest ease and certainty. The French school of violin-playing did not at first avail itself of these advantages, and even Viotti and Spohr did not fully grasp the new resources of execution. It was left for Paganini to open a new era in the art. His daring and subtile genius perceived and seized the wonderful resources of the modern bow at one bound. He used freely every imaginable movement of the bow, and developed the movement of the wrist to that high perfection which enabled him to practice all kinds of bowing with celerity. Without the Tourté bow, Paganini and the modern school of virtuosos, which has followed so splendidly from his example, would have been impossible. To many of our readers an amplification of this topic may be of interest. While the left hand of the violin-player fixes the tone, and thereby does that which for the pianist is already done by the mechanism of the instrument, and while the correctness of his intonation depends on the proficiency of the left hand, it is the action of the right hand, the bowing, which, analogous to the pianist's touch, makes the sound spring into life. It is through the medium of the bow that the player embodies his ideas and feelings. It is therefore evident that herein rests one of the most important and difficult elements of the art of violin-playing, and that the excellence of a player, or even of a whole school of playing, depends to a great extent on its method of bowing. It would have been even better for the art of violin-playing as practiced to-day that the perfect instruments of Stradiuarius and Guarnerius should not have been, than that the Tourté bow should have been uninvented. The long, effective sweep of the bow was one of the characteristics of Viotti's playing, and was alike the admiration and despair of his rivals. His compositions for the violin are classics, and Spohr was wont to say that there could be no better test of a fine player than his execution of one of the Viotti sonatas or concertos. Spohr regretted deeply that he could not finish his violin training under this great master, and was wont to speak of him in terms of the greatest admiration. Viotti had but few pupils, but among them were a number of highly gifted artists. Rode, Robrechts, Cartier, Mdlle. Gerbini, Alday, La-barre, Pixis, Mari, Mme. Paravicini, and Vacher are well-known names to all those interested in the literature of the violin. The influence of Viotti on violin music was a very deep one, not only in virtue of his compositions, but in the fact that he molded the style not only of many of the best violinists of his own day, but of those that came after him. LUDWIG SPOHR. Birth and Early Life of the Violinist Spohr.--He is presented with his First Violin at six.--The French _Emigré_ Dufour uses his Influence with Dr. Spohr, Sr., to have the Boy devoted to a Musical Career.--Goes to Brunswick for fuller Musical Instruction.--Spohr is appointed _Kammer-musicus_ at the Ducal Court.--He enters under the Tuition of and makes a Tour with the Violin Virtuoso Eck.--Incidents of the Russian Journey and his Return.--Concert Tour in Germany.--Loses his Fine Guarnerius Violin.--Is appointed Director of the Orchestra at Gotha.--He marries Dorette Schiedler, the Brilliant Harpist.--Spohr's Stratagem to be present at the Erfurt Musical Celebration given by Napoleon in Honor of the Allied Sovereigns.--Becomes Director of Opera in Vienna.--Incidents of his Life and Production of Various Works.--First Visit to England.--He is made Director of the Cassel Court Oratorios.--He is retired with a Pension.--Closing Years of his Life.--His Place as Composer and Executant. I. "The first singer on the violin that ever appeared!" Such was the verdict of the enthusiastic Italians when they heard one of the greatest of the world's violinists, who was also a great composer. The modern world thinks of Spohr rather as the composer of symphony, opera, and oratorio than as a wonderful executant on the violin; but it was in the latter capacity that he enjoyed the greatest reputation during the earlier part of his lifetime, which was a long one, extending from the year 1784 to 1859. The latter half of Spohr's life was mostly devoted to the higher musical ambition of creating, but not until he had established himself as one of the greatest of virtuosos, and founded a school of violin-playing which is, beyond all others, the most scientific, exhaustive, and satisfactory. All of the great contemporary violinists are disciples of the Spohr school of execution. Great as a composer, still greater as a player, and widely beloved as a man--there are only a few names in musical art held in greater esteem than his, though many have evoked a deeper enthusiasm. Ludwig Spohr was born at Brunswick, April 5, 1784, of parents both of whom possessed no little musical talent. His father, a physician of considerable eminence, was an excellent flutist, and his mother possessed remarkable talent both as a pianist and singer. To the family concerts which he heard at home was the rapid development of the boy's talents largely due. Nature had given him a very sensitive ear and a fine clear voice, and at the age of four or five he joined his mother in duets at the evening gatherings. From the very first he manifested a taste for the instrument for which he was destined to become distinguished. He so teased his father that, at the age of six, he was presented with his first violin, and his joy on receiving his treasure was overpowering. The violin was never out of his hand, and he continually wandered about the house trying to play his favorite melodies. Spohr tells us in his "Autobiography": "I still recollect that, after my first lesson, in which I had learned to play the G-sharp chord upon all four strings, in my rapture at the harmony, I hurried to my mother, who was in the kitchen, and played the chord so incessantly that she was obliged to order me out." Young Spohr was placed under the tuition of Dufour, a French _emigré_ of the days of '91, who was an excellent player, though not a professional, then living at the town of Seesen, the home of the Spohr family; and under him the boy made very rapid progress. It was Dufour who, by his enthusiastic representations, overcame the opposition of Ludwig's parents to the boy's devoting himself to a life of music, for the notion of the senior Spohr was that the name musician was synonymous with that of a tavern fiddler, who played for dancers. In Germany, the land _par excellence_ of music, there was a general contempt among the educated classes, during the latter years of the eighteenth century, for the musical profession. Spohr remained under the care of Dufour until he was twelve years old, and devoted himself to his work with great sedulity. Though he as yet knew but little of counterpoint and composition, his creative talent already began to assert itself, and he produced several duos and trios, as well as solo compositions, which evinced great promise, though crude and faulty in the extreme. He was then sent to Brunswick, that he might have the advantage of more scientific instruction, and to this end was placed under the care of Kunisch, an excellent violin teacher, and under Hartung for harmony and counterpoint. The latter was a sort of Dr. Dryasdust, learned, barren, acrid, but an efficient instructor. When young Spohr showed him one of his compositions, he growled out, "There's time enough for that; you must learn something first." It may be said of Spohr, however, that his studies in theory were for the most part self-taught, for he was a most diligent student of the great masters, and was gifted with a keenly analytic mind. At the age of fourteen young Spohr was an effective soloist, and, as his father began to complain of the heavy expense of his musical education, the boy determined to make an effort for self-support. After revolving many schemes, he conceived the notion of applying to the duke, who was known as an ardent patron of music. He managed to place himself in the way of his Serene Highness, while the latter was walking in his garden, and boldly preferred his request for an appointment in the court orchestra. The duke was pleased to favor the application, and young Spohr was permitted to display his skill at a court concert, in which he acquitted himself so admirably as to secure the cordial patronage of the sovereign. Said the duke: "Be industrious and well behaved, and, if you make good progress, I will put you under the tuition of a great master." So Louis Spohr was installed as a _Kammer-musicus_, and his patron fulfilled his promise in 1802 by placing his _protégé_ under the charge of Francis Eck, one of the finest violinists then living. Under the tuition of this accomplished instructor, the young virtuoso made such rapid advance in the excellence of his technique, that he was soon regarded as worthy of accompanying his master on a grand concert tour through the principal cities of Germany and Russia. II. This concert expedition of the two violinists, as narrated in Spohr's "Autobiography," was full of interesting and romantic episodes. Both master and pupil were of amorous and susceptible temperaments, and their affairs were rarely regulated by a common sense of prudence. Spohr relates with delightful _naivete_ the circumstances under which he fell successively in love, and the rapidity with which he recovered from these fitful spasms of the tender passion. Herr Eck, in addition to his tendency to intrigues with the fairer half of creation, was also of a quarrelsome and exacting disposition, and the general result was ceaseless squabbling with authorities and musical societies in nearly every city they visited. In spite of these drawbacks, however, the two violinists gained both in fame and purse, and were everywhere well received. If Herr Eck carried off the palm over the boyish Spohr as a mere executant, the impression everywhere gained ground that the latter was by far the superior in real depth of musical science, and many of his own violin concertos were received with the heartiest applause. The concert tour came to an end at St. Petersburg in a singular way. Eck fell in love with a daughter of a member of the imperial orchestra, but the idea of marriage did not enter into his project. As the young lady soon felt the unfortunate results of her indiscretion, her parents complained to the Empress, at whose instance Eck was given the choice of marrying the girl or taking an enforced journey to Siberia. He chose the former, and determined to remain in St. Petersburg, where he was offered the first violin of the imperial orchestra. Poor Eck found he had married a shrew, and, between matrimonial discords and ill health brought on by years of excess, he became the victim of a nervous fever, which resulted in lunacy and confinement in a mad-house. Spohr returned to his native town in July, 1803, and his first meeting with his family was a curious one. "I arrived," he says, "at two o'clock in the morning. I landed at the Petri gate, crossed the Ocker in a boat, and hastened to my grandmother's garden, but found that the house and garden doors were locked. As my knocking didn't arouse any one, I climbed over the garden wall and laid myself down in a summer-house at the end of the garden. Wearied by the long journey, I soon fell asleep, and, notwithstanding my hard couch, would probably have slept for a long while had not my aunts in their morning walk discovered me. Much alarmed, they ran and told my grandmother that a man was asleep in the summer-house. Returning together, the three approached nearer, and, recognizing me, I was awakened amid joyous expressions, embraces, and kisses. At first, I did not recollect where I was, but soon recognized my dear relations, and rejoiced at being once again in the home and scenes of my childhood." Spohr was most graciously received by the duke, who was satisfied with the proofs of industry and ambition shown by his _protege_. The celebrated Rode, Viotti's most brilliant pupil, was at that time in Brunswick, and Spohr, who conceived the most enthusiastic admiration of his style, set himself assiduously to the study and imitation of the effects peculiar to Rode. On Rode's departure, Spohr appeared in a concert arranged for him, in which he played a new concerto dedicated to his ducal patron, and created an enthusiasm hardly less than that made by Rode himself. He was warmly congratulated by the duke and the court, and appointed first court-violinist, with a salary more than sufficient for the musician's moderate wants. Shortly after this he undertook another concert tour in conjunction with the violoncellist, Benike, through the principal German cities, which added materially to his reputation. But no amount of world's talk or money could fully compensate him for the loss of his magnificent violin, one of the _chefs-d'ouvre_ of Guarnerius del Gesù when that great maker was at his best. This instrument he had brought from Russia, and it was an imperial gift. A concert was announced for Gôttingen, and Spohr, with his companion, was about to enter the town by coach, when he asked one of the soldiers at the guard-house if the trunk, which had been strapped to the back of the carriage, and which contained his precious instrument, was in its place. "There is no trunk there," was the reply. "With one bound," says Spohr, "I was out of the carriage, and rushed out through the gate with a drawn hunting-knife. Had I, with more reflection, listened a while, I might have heard the thieves running out through a side path. But in my blind rage I had far overshot the place where I had last seen the trunk, and only discovered my overhaste when I found myself in the open field. Inconsolable for my loss, I turned back. While my fellow-traveler looked for the inn, I hastened to the post-office, and requested that an immediate search might be made in the garden houses outside the gate. With astonishment and vexation, I was informed that the jurisdiction outside the gate belonged to Weende, and that I must prefer my request there. As Weende was half a league from Gottingen, I was compelled to abandon for that evening all further steps for the recovery of my things. That these would prove fruitless on the following morning I was well assured, and I passed a sleepless night in a state of mind such as in my hitherto fortunate career had been unknown to me. Had I not lost my splendid Guarneri violin, the exponent of all the artistic success I had so far attained, I could have lightly borne the loss of clothes and money." The police recovered an empty trunk and the violin-case despoiled of its treasure, but still containing a magnificent Tourté bow, which the thieves had left behind. Spohr managed to borrow a Steiner violin, with which he gave his concert, but he did not for years cease to lament the loss of his grand Guarneri fiddle. In 1805 Spohr was quietly settled in his avocation at Brunswick as composer and chief _Kam-mer-musicus_ of the ducal court, when he received an offer to compete for the direction of the orchestra at Gotha, then one of the most magnificent organizations in Europe, to be at the head of which would give him an international fame. The offer was too tempting to be refused, and Spohr was easily victorious. His new duties were not onerous, consisting of a concert once a week, and in practicing and rehearsing the orchestra. The annual salary was five hundred thalers. One of the most interesting incidents of Spohr's life now occurred. The susceptible heart, which had often been touched, was firmly enslaved by the charms of Dorette Schiedler, the daughter of the principal court singer, and herself a fine virtuoso on the harp. Dorette was a woman whose personal loveliness was an harmonious expression of her beauty of character and artistic talent, and Spohr accepted his fate with joy. This girl of eighteen was irresistible, for she was accomplished, beautiful, tender, as good as an angel, and with the finest talent for music, for she played admirably, not only on the harp, but on the piano and violin. Spohr had reason to hope that the attachment was mutual, and was eager to declare his love. One night they were playing together at a court concert, and Spohr after the performance noticed the duchess, with an arch look at him, whispering some words to Dorette which covered her cheeks with blushes. That night, as the lovers were returning home in the carriage, Spohr said to her, "Shall we thus play together for life?" Dorette burst into tears, and sank into her lover's arms. The compact was sealed by the joyous assent of the mother, and the young couple were united in the ducal chapel, in the presence of the duchess and a large assemblage of friends, on the 2d of February, 1806. III. In the following year Spohr and his young wife set out on a musical tour, "by which," he says, "we not only reaped a rich harvest of applause, but saved a considerable sum of money." On his return to Gotha he was met by a band of pupils, who unharnessed the horses from the coach and drew him through the streets in triumph. He now devoted himself to composition largely, and produced his first opera, "Alruna," which is said to have been very warmly received, both at Gotha and Weimar, in which latter city it was produced under the superintendence of the poet Goethe, who was intendant of the theatre. Spohr, however, allowed it to disappear, as his riper judgment condemned its faults more than it favored its excellences. Among his amusing adventures, one which he relates in his "Autobiography" as having occurred in 1808 is worth repeating. He tells us: "In the year 1808 took place the celebrated Congress of Sovereigns at Erfurt, on which occasion Napoleon entertained his friend Alexander of Russia and the various kings and princes of Germany. The lovers of sights and the curious of the whole country round poured in to see the magnificence displayed. In the company of some of my pupils, I made a pedestrian excursion to Erfurt, less to see the great ones of the earth than to see and admire the great ones of the French stage, Talma and Mars. The Emperor had sent to Paris for his tragic performers, who played every evening in the classic works of Corneille and Racine. I and my companions had hoped to have seen one such representation, but unfortunately I was informed that they took place for the sovereigns and their suites alone, and that everybody else was excluded from them." In this dilemma Spohr had recourse to stratagem. He persuaded four musicians of the orchestra to vacate their places for a handsome consideration, and he and his pupils engaged to fill the duties. But one of the substitutes must needs be a horn-player, and the four new players could only perform on violin and 'cello. So there was nothing to be done but for Spohr to master the French horn at a day's notice. At the expense of swollen and painful lips, he managed this sufficiently to play the music required with ease and precision. "Thus prepared," he writes, "I and my pupils joined the other musicians, and, as each carried his instrument under his arm, we reached our place without opposition. We found the saloon in which the theatre had been erected already brilliantly lit up and filled with the numerous suites of the sovereigns. The seats for Napoleon and his guests were right behind the orchestra. Shortly after, the most able of my pupils, to whom I had assigned the direction of the music, and under whose leadership I had placed myself as a new-fledged hornist, had tuned up the orchestra, the high personages made their appearance, and the overture began. The orchestra, with their faces turned to the stage, stood in a long row, and each was strictly forbidden to turn around and look with curiosity at the sovereigns. As I had received notice of this beforehand, I had provided myself secretly with a small looking-glass, by the help of which, as soon as the music was ended, I was enabled to obtain in succession a good view of those who directed the destinies of Europe. Nevertheless, I was soon so engrossed with the magnificent acting of the tragic artists that I abandoned my mirror to my pupils, and directed my whole attention to the stage. But at every succeeding _entr'acte_ the pain of my lips increased, and at the close of the performance they had become so much swollen and blistered that in the evening I could scarcely eat any supper. Even the next day, on my return to Gotha, my lips had a very negro-like appearance, and my young wife was not a little alarmed when she saw me. But she was yet more nettled when I told her that it was from kissing to such excess the pretty Erfurt women. When I had related, however, the history of my lessons on the horn, she laughed heartily at my expense." In October, 1809, Spohr and his wife started on an art journey to Russia, but they were recalled by the court chamberlain, who said that the duchess could not spare them from the court concerts, but would liberally indemnify them for the loss. Spohr returned and remained at home for nearly three years, during which time he composed a number of important works for orchestra and for the violin. In 1812 a visit to Vienna, during which he gave a series of concerts, so delighted the Viennese that Spohr was offered the direction of the Ander Wien theatre at a salary three times that received at Gotha, besides valuable emoluments. This, and the assurance of Count Palffy, the imperial intendant, that he meant to make the orchestra the finest in Europe, induced Spohr to accept the offer. When it became necessary for our musician to search for a domicile in Vienna, he met with another piece of good fortune. One morning a gentleman waited on him, introducing himself as a wealthy clock manufacturer and a passionate lover of music. The stranger made an eccentric proposition. Spohr should hand over to him all that he should compose or had composed for Vienna during the term of three years, the original scores to be his sole property during that time, and Spohr not even to retain a copy. "But are they not to be performed during that time?" "Oh, yes! as often as possible; but each time on my lending them for that purpose, and when I can be present myself." The bargain was struck, and the ardent connoisseur agreed to pay thirty ducats for a string quartet, five and thirty for a quintet, forty for a sextet, etc., according to the style of composition. Two works were sold on the spot, and Spohr said he should devote the money to house-furnishing. Herr Von Tost undertook to provide the furniture complete, and the two made a tour among the most fashionable shops. When Spohr protested against purchasing articles of extreme beauty and luxury, Von Tost said, "Make yourself easy, I shall require no cash settlement. You will soon square all accounts with your manuscripts." So the Spohr domicile was magnificently furnished from kitchen to attic, more fitly, as the musician said, for a royal dignitary or a rich merchant than for a poor artist. Von Tost claimed he would gain two results: "First, I wish to be invited to all the concerts and musical circles in which you will play your compositions, and to do this I must have your scores in my possession; secondly, in possessing such treasures of art, I hope upon my business journeys to make a large acquaintance among the lovers of music, which I may turn to account in my manufacturing interests." Let us hope that this commercial enthusiast found his calculations verified by results. Spohr soon gave two important new works to the musical world, the opera of "Faust," and the cantata, "The Liberation of Germany," neither of which, however, was immediately produced. Weber brought out "Faust" at Prague in 1816, and the cantata was first performed at Franken-hausen in 1815, at a musical festival on the anniversary of the battle of Leipsic, a battle which turned the scale of Napoleon's career. The same year (1815) also witnessed the quarrel between Spohr and Count Palffy, which resulted in the rupture of the former's engagement. Spohr determined to make a long tour through Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. Before shaking the dust of Vienna from his feet, he sold the Von Tost household at auction, and the sum realized was even larger than what had been paid for it, so vivid were the public curiosity and interest in view of the strange bargain under which the furniture had been bought. On the 18th of March, 1815, Louis Spohr, with his beloved Dorette and young family, which had increased with truly German fecundity, bade farewell to Vienna. Two years of concert-giving and sight-seeing swiftly passed, to the great augmentation of the German violinist's fame. On Spohr's return home he was invited to become the opera and music director of the Frankfort Theatre, and for two years more he labored arduously at this post. He produced the opera of "Zemire and Azar" (founded on the fairy fable of "Beauty and the Beast" ) during this period among other works, and it was very enthusiastically received by the public. This opera was afterward given in London, in English, with great success, though the opinion of the critics was that it was too scientific for the English taste. IV. Louis Spohr's first visit to England was in 1820, whither he went on invitation of the Philharmonic Society. He gives an amusing account of his first day in London, on the streets of which city he appeared in a most brilliantly colored shawl waistcoat, and narrowly escaped being pelted by the enraged mob, for the English people were then in mourning for the death of George III, which had recently occurred, and Spohr's gay attire was construed as a public insult. He played several of his own works at the opening Philharmonic concert, and the brilliant veteran of the violin, Viotti, to become whose pupil had once been Spohr's darling but ungratified dream, expressed the greatest admiration of the German virtuoso's magnificent playing. The "Autobiography" relates an amusing interview of Spohr with the head of the Rothschild's banking establishment, to whom he had brought a letter of introduction from the Frankfort Rothschild, as well as a letter of credit. "After Rothschild had taken both letters from me and glanced hastily over them, he said to me, in a subdued tone of voice, 'I have just read (pointing to the "Times") that you manage your business very efficiently; but I understand nothing of music. This is my music (slapping his purse); they understand that on the exchange.' Upon which with a nod of the head he terminated the audience. But just as I had reached the door he called after me, 'You can come out and dine with me at my country house.' A few days afterward Mme. Rothschild also invited me to dinner, but I did not go, though she repeated the invitation." While in London on this visit Spohr composed his B flat Symphony, which was given by the Philharmonic Society under the direction of the composer himself, and, as he tells us in his "Autobiography," it was played better than he ever heard it afterward. His English reception, on the whole, was a very cordial one, and he secured a very high place in public estimation, both as a violinist and orchestral composer. On returning to Germany, Spohr gave a series of concerts, during which time he produced his great D minor violin concerto, making a great sensation with it. He had not yet visited Paris in a professional way, and in the winter of 1821 he turned his steps thitherward, in answer to a pressing invitation from the musicians of that great capital. On January 20th he made his _début_ before a French audience, and gave a programme mostly of his own compositions. Spohr asserts that the satisfaction of the audience was enthusiastically expressed, but the fact that he did not repeat the entertainment would suggest a suspicion that the impression he made was not fully to his liking. It may be he did not dare take the risk in a city so full of musical attractions of every description. Certainly he did not like the French, though his reception from the artists and literati was of the most friendly sort. He was disgusted "with the ridiculous vanity of the Parisians." He writes: "When one or other of their musicians plays anything, they say, 'Well! can you boast of that in Germany?' Or when they introduce to you one of their distinguished artists, they do not call him the first in Paris, but at once the first in the world, although no nation knows less what other countries possess than they do, in their--for their vanity's sake most fortunate--ignorance." Spohr's appointment to the directorship of the court theatre at Cassel occurred in the winter of 1822, and he confesses his pleasure in the post, as he believed he could make its fine orchestra one of the most celebrated in Germany. He remained in this position for about thirty years, and during that time Cassel became one of the greatest musical centers of the country. His labors were assiduous, for he had the true tireless German industry, and he soon gave the world his opera of "Jessonda," which was first produced on July 28, 1823, with marked success. "Jessonda" has always kept its hold on the German stage, though it was not received with much favor elsewhere. Another opera, "Der Berg Geist" ("The Mountain Spirit"), quickly followed, the work having been written to celebrate the marriage of the Princess of Hesse with the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen. One of his most celebrated compositions, the oratorio "Die Letzten Dinge" ("The Last Judgment"), which is more familiar to English-speaking peoples than any other work of Spohr, was first performed on Good Friday, 1826, and was recognized from the first as a production of masterly excellence. Spohr's ability as a composer of sacred music would have been more distinctly accepted, had it not been that Handel, Haydn, and, in more recent years, Mendelssohn, raised the ideal of the oratorio so high that only the very loftiest musical genius is considered fit to reign in this sphere. The director of the Cassel theatre continued indefatigable in producing works of greater or less excellence, chamber-music, symphonies, and operas. Among the latter, attention may be called to "Pietro Albano" and the "Alchemist," clever but in no sense brilliant works, though, as it became the fashion in Germany to indulge in enthusiasm over Spohr, they were warmly praised at home. The best known of his orchestral works, "Die Weihe der Tone " ("The Power of Sound"), a symphony of unquestionable greatness, was produced in 1832. We are told that Spohr had been reading a volume of poems which his deceased friend Pfeiffer had left behind him, when he alighted on "Die Weihe der Tone," and the words delighted him so much that he thought of using them as the basis of a cantata. But he changed his purpose, and finally decided to delineate the subject of the poem in orchestral composition. The finest of all Spohr's symphonies was the outcome, a work which ranks high among compositions of this class. His toil on the new oratorio of "Calvary" was sadly interrupted by the death of his beloved wife Dorette, who had borne him a large family, and had been his most sympathetic and devoted companion. Spohr was so broken down by this calamity that it was several months before he could resume his labors, and it was because Dorette during her illness had felt such a deep interest in the progress of the work that the desolate husband so soon plucked heart to begin again. When the oratorio was produced on Good Friday, 1835, Spohr records in his diary: "The thought that my wife did not live to listen to its first performance sensibly lessened the satisfaction I felt at this my most successful work." This oratorio was not given in England till 1839, at the Norwich festival, Spohr being present to conduct it. The zealous and narrow-minded clergy of the day preached bitterly against it as a desecration, and one fierce bigot hurled his diatribes against the composer, when the latter was present in the cathedral. A journal of the day describes the scene: "We now see the fanatical zealot in the pulpit, and sitting right opposite to him the great composer, with ears happily deaf to the English tongue, but with a demeanor so becoming, with a look so full of pure good-will, and with so much humility and mildness in the features, that his countenance alone spoke to the heart like a good sermon. Without intending it, we make a comparison, and can not for a moment doubt in which of the two dwelt the spirit of religion which denoted the true Christian." Spohr had been two years a widower when he became enamored of one of the daughters of Court Councilor Pfeiffer. He tells us he had long been acquainted "with the high and varied intellectual culture of the two sisters, and so I became fully resolved to sue for the hand of the elder, Marianne, whose knowledge of music and skill in pianoforte playing I had already observed when she sometimes gave her assistance at the concerts of the St. Cecilia Society. As I had not the courage to propose to her by word of mouth, there being more than twenty years difference in our ages, I put the question to her in writing, and added, in excuse for my courtship, the assurance that I was as yet perfectly free from the infirmities of age." The proposition was accepted, and they were married without delay on January 3, 1836. The bridal couple made a long journey through the principal German cities, and were universally received with great rejoicings. Musical parties and banquets were everywhere arranged for them, at which Spohr and his young wife delighted every one by their splendid playing. The "Historical" symphony, descriptive of the music and characteristics of different periods, was finished in 1839, and made a very favorable impression both in Germany and England. Spohr had now become quite at home in England, where his music was much liked, and during different years went to the country, where oratorio music is more appreciated than anywhere else in the musical world, to conduct the Norwich festival. One of his most successful compositions of this description, "The Fall of Babylon," was written expressly for the festival of 1842. When it was given the next year in London under Spohr's own direction, the president of the Sacred Harmonic Society presented the composer at the close of the performance with a superb silver testimonial in the name of the society. V. Louis Spohr had now become one of the patriarchs of music, for his life spanned a longer arch in the history of the art than any contemporary except Cherubini. He was seven years old when Mozart died, and before Haydn had departed from this life Spohr had already begun to acquire a name as a violinist and composer. He lived to be the friend of Mendelssohn, Meyerbeer, Liszt, and Wagner. Everywhere he was held in veneration, even by those who did not fully sympathize with his musical works, for his career had been one of great fecundity in art. In addition to his rank as one of the few very great violin virtuosos, he had been indefatigable in the production of compositions in nearly all styles, and every country of Europe recognized his place as a musician of supereminent talent, if not of genius, one who had profoundly influenced contemporary music, even if he should not mold the art of succeeding ages. Testimonials of admiration and respect poured in on him from every quarter. He composed the opera of "The Crusaders" in 1845, and he was invited to conduct the first performance in Berlin. He relates two pleasing incidents in his "Autobiography." He had been invited to a select dinner party given at the royal palace, and between the king and Spohr, who was seated opposite, there intervened an ornamental centerpiece of considerable height in the shape of a flower vase. This greatly interfered with the enjoyment by the king of Spohr's conversation. At last his Majesty, growing impatient, removed the impediment with his own hands, so that he had a full view of Spohr. The other incident was a pleasing surprise from his colleagues in art. He was a guest of the Wickmann family, and they were all gathered in the illuminated garden saloon, when there entered through the gloom of the garden a number of dark figures swiftly following each other, who proved to be the members of the royal orchestra, with Meyerbeer and Taubert at their head. The senior member then presented Spohr with a beautifully executed gold laurel-wreath, while Meyerbeer made a speech full of feeling, in which he thanked him for his enthusiastic love of German art, and for all the grand and beautiful works which he had created, specially "The Crusaders." The twenty-fifth anniversary of Spohr's connection with the court theatre of Cassel occurred in 1847, and was to have been celebrated with a great festival. The death of Felix Bartholdy Mendelssohn cast a great gloom over musical Germany that year, so the festival was held not in honor of Spohr, but as a solemn memorial of the departed genius whose name is a household word among all those who love the art he so splendidly illustrated. Spohr's next production was the fine symphony known as "The Seasons," one of the most picturesque and expressive of his orchestral works, in which he depicts with rich musical color the vicissitudes of the year and the associations clustering around them. This symphony was followed by his seventh quintet, in G minor, another string quartet, the thirty-second, and a series of pieces for the violin and piano, and in 1852 we find the indefatigable composer busy in remodeling his opera of "Faust" for production by Mr. Gye, in London. It was produced with great splendor in the English capital, and conducted by Spohr himself; but it did not prove a great success, a deep disappointment to Spohr, who fondly believed this work to be his masterpiece. "On this occasion," writes a very competent critic, _à propos_ of the first performance, "there was a certain amount of heaviness about the performance which told very much against the probability of that opera ever becoming a favorite with the Royal Italian Opera subscribers. Nothing could possibly exceed the poetical grace of Eonconi in the title rôle, or surpass the propriety and expression of his singing. Mme. Castellan's _Cunegonda_ was also exceedingly well sung, and Tamberlik outdid himself by his thorough comprehension of the music, the splendor of his voice, and the refinement of his vocalization in the character of _Ugo_.... The _Mephistopheles_ of Herr Formes was a remarkable personation, being truly demoniacal in the play of his countenance, and as characteristic as any one of Retsch's drawings of Goethe's fiend-tempter. His singing being specially German was in every way well suited to the occasion." In spite of the excellence of the interpretation, Spohr's "Faust" did not take any hold on the lovers of music in England, and even in Germany, where Spohr is held in great reverence, it presents but little attraction. The closing years of Spohr's active life as a musician were devoted to that species of composition where he showed indubitable title to be considered a man of genius, works for the violin and chamber music. He himself did not recognize his decadence of energy and musical vigor; but the veteran was more than seventy years old, and his royal master resolved to put his baton in younger and fresher hands. So he was retired from service with an annual pension of fifteen hundred thalers. Spohr felt this deeply, but he had scarcely reconciled himself to the change when a more serious casualty befell him. He fell and broke his left arm, which never gained enough strength for him to hold the beloved instrument again. It had been the great joy and solace of his life to play, and, now that in his old age he was deprived of this comfort, he was ready to die. Only once more did he make a public appearance. In the spring of 1859 he journeyed to Meiningen to direct a concert on behalf of a charitable fund. An ovation was given to the aged master. A colossal bust of himself was placed on the stage, arched with festoons of palm and laurel, and the conductor's stand was almost buried in flowers. He was received with thunders of welcome, which were again and again reiterated, and at the close of the performance he could hardly escape for the eager throng who wished to press his hand. Spohr died on October 22, 1859, after a few days' illness, and in his death Germany at least recognized the loss of one of its most accomplished and versatile if not greatest composers. VI. Dr. Ludwig Spohr's fame as a composer has far overshadowed his reputation as a violin virtuoso, but the most capable musical critics unite in the opinion that that rare quality, which we denominate genius, was principally shown in his wonderful power as a player, and his works written for the violin. Spohr was a man of immense self-assertion, and believed in the greatness of his own musical genius as a composer in the higher domain of his art. His "Autobiography," one of the most fresh, racy, and interesting works of the kind ever written, is full of varied illustrations of what Chorley stigmatizes his "bovine self-conceit." His fecund production of symphony, oratorio, and opera, as well as of the more elaborate forms of chamber music, for a period of forty years or more, proves how deep was his conviction of his own powers. Indeed, he half confesses himself that he is only willing to be rated a little less than Beethoven. Spohr was singularly meager, for the most part, in musical ideas and freshness of melody, but he was a profound master of the orchestra; and in that variety and richness of resources which give to tone-creations the splendor of color, which is one of the great charms of instrumental music, Spohr is inferior only to Wagner among modern symphonists. Spohr's more pretentious works are a singular union of meagerness of idea with the most polished richness of manner; but, in imagination and thought, he is far the inferior of those whose knowledge of treating the orchestra and contrapuntal skill could not compare with his. There are more vigor and originality in one of Schubert's greater symphonies than in all the multitudinous works of the same class ever written by Spohr. In Spohr's compositions for the violin as a solo instrument, however, he stands unrivaled, for here his true _genre_ as a man of creative genius stamps itself unmistakably. Before the coming of Spohr violin music had been illustrated by a succession of virtuosos, French and Italian, who, though melodiously charming, planned in their works and execution to exhibit the effects and graces of the players themselves instead of the instrument. Paganini carried this tendency to its most remarkable and fascinating extreme, but Spohr founded a new style of violin playing, on which the greatest modern performers who have grown up since his prime have assiduously modeled themselves. Mozart had written solid and simple concertos in which the performer was expected to embroider and finish the composer's sketch. This required genius and skill under instant command, instead of merely phenomenal execution. Again, Beethoven's concertos were so written as to make the solo player merely one of the orchestra, chaining him in bonds only to set him free to deliver the cadenza. This species of self-effacement does not consort with the purpose of solo playing, which is display, though under that display there should be power, mastery, and resource of thought, and not the trickery of the accomplished juggler. Spohr in his violin music most felicitously accomplished this, and he is simply incomparable in his compromise between what is severe and classical, and what is suave and delightful, or passionately exciting. In these works the musician finds nerve, sparkle, _elan_, and brightness combined with technical charm and richness of thought. Spohr's unconscious and spontaneous force in this direction was the direct outcome of his remarkable power as a solo player, or, more properly, gathered its life-like play and strength from the latter fact. It may be said of Spohr that, as Mozart raised opera to a higher standard, as Beethoven uplifted the ideal of the orchestra, as Clementi laid a solid foundation for piano-playing, so Spohr's creative force as a violinist and writer for the violin has established the grandest school for this instrument, to which all the foremost contemporary artists acknowledge their obligations. Dr. Spohr's style as a player, while remarkable for its display of technique and command of resource, always subordinated mere display to the purpose of the music. The Italians called him "the first singer on the violin," and his profound musical knowledge enabled him to produce effects in a perfectly legitimate manner, where other players had recourse to meretricious and dazzling exhibition of skill. His title to recollection in the history of music will not be so much that of a great general composer, but that of the greatest of composers for the violin, and the one who taught violinists that height of excellence as an excutant should go hand in hand with good taste and self-restraint, to produce its most permanent effects and exert its most vital influence. NICOLO PAGANINI. The Birth of the Greatest of Violinists.--His Mother's Dream--Extraordinary Character and Genius.--Heine's Description of his Playing.--Leigh Hunt on Paganini.--Superstitious Rumors current during his Life.--He is believed to be a Demoniac.--His Strange Appearance.--Early Training and Surroundings.--Anecdotes of his Youth.--Paganini's Youthful Dissipations.--His Passion for Gambling.--He acquires his Wonderful Guarnerius Violin.--His Reform from the Gaming-table.--Indefatigable Practice and Work as a Young Artist.--Paganini as a _Preux Chevalier_.--His Powerful Attraction for Women.--Episode with a Lady of Rank.--Anecdotes of his Early Italian Concertizing.--The Imbroglio at Ferrant.--The Frail Health of Paganini.--Wonderful Success at Milan, where he first plays One of the Greatest of his Compositions, "Le Streghe."--Duel with Lafont.--Incidents and Anecdotes.--His First Visit to Germany.--Great Enthusiasm of his Audiences.--Experiences at Vienna, Berlin, and other German Cities.--Description of Paganini, in Paris, by Castil-Blaze and Fetis.--His English Reception and the Impression made.--Opinions of the Critics.--Paganini not pleased with England.--Settles in Paris for Two Years, and becomes the Great Musical Lion.--Simplicity and Amiability of Nature.--Magnificent Generosity to Hector Berlioz.--The Great Fortune made by Paganini.--His Beautiful Country Seat near Parma.--An Unfortunate Speculation in Paris.--The Utter Failure of his Health.--His Death at Nice.--Characteristics and Anecdotes.--Interesting Circumstances of his Last Moments.--The Peculiar Genius of Paganini, and his Influence on Art. I. In the latter part of the last century an Italian woman of Genoa had a dream which she thus related to her little son: "My son, you will be a great musician. An angel radiant with beauty appeared to me during the night and promised to accomplish any wish that I might make. I asked that you should become the greatest of all violinists, and the angel granted that my desire should be fulfilled." The child who was thus addressed became that incomparable artist, Paganini, whose name now, a glorious tradition, is used as a standard by which to estimate the excellence of those who have succeeded him. No artist ever lived who so piqued public curiosity, and invested himself with a species of weird romance, which compassed him as with a cloud. The personality of the individual so unique and extraordinary, the genius of the artist so transcendant in its way, the mystery which surrounded all the movements of the man, conspired to make him an object of such interest that the announcement of a concert by him in any European city made as much stir as some great public event. Crowds followed his strange figure in the streets wherever he went, and, had the time been the mediaeval ages, he himself a celebrated magician or sorcerer, credited with power over the spirits of earth and air, his appearance could not have aroused a thrill of attention more absorbing. Over men of genius, as well as the commonplace herd, he cast the same spell, stamping himself as a personage who could be compared with no other. The German poet Heine thus describes his first acquaintance with this paragon of violinists: "It was in the theatre at Hamburg that I first heard Paganini's violin. Although it was fast-day, all the commercial magnates of the town were present in the front boxes, the goddesses Juno of Wandrahm, and the goddesses Aphrodite of Dreckwall. A religious hush pervaded the whole assembly; every eye was directed toward the stage, every ear was strained for hearing. At last a dark figure, which seemed to ascend from the under world, appeared on the stage. It was Paganini in full evening dress, black coat and waistcoat cut after a most villainous pattern, such as is perhaps in accordance with the infernal etiquette of the court of Proserpine, and black trousers fitting awkwardly to his thin legs. His long arms appeared still longer as he advanced, holding in one hand his violin, and in the other the bow, hanging down so as almost to touch the ground--all the while making a series of extraordinary reverences. In the angular contortions of his body there was something so painfully wooden, and also something so like the movements of a droll animal, that a strange disposition to laughter overcame the audience; but his face, which the glaring footlights caused to assume an even more corpse-like aspect than was natural to it, had in it something so appealing, something so imbecile and meek, that a strange feeling of compassion removed all tendency to laughter. Had he learned these reverences from an automaton or a performing dog? Is this beseeching look the look of one who is sick unto death, or does there lurk behind it the mocking cunning of a miser? Is that a mortal who in the agony of death stands before the public in the art arena, and, like a dying gladiator, bids for their applause in his last convulsions? or is it some phantom arisen from the grave, a vampire with a violin, who comes to suck, if not the blood from our hearts, at least the money from our pockets? Questions such as these kept chasing each other through the brain while Paganini continued his apparently interminable series of complimentary bows; but all such questionings instantly take flight the moment the great master puts his violin to his chin and began to play. "Then were heard melodies such as the nightingale pours forth in the gloaming when the perfume of the rose intoxicates her heart with sweet forebodings of spring! What melting, sensuously languishing notes of bliss! Tones that kissed, then poutingly fled from another, and at last embraced and became one, and died away in the ecstasy of union! Again, there were heard sounds like the song of the fallen angels, who, banished from the realms of bliss, sink with shame-red countenance to the lower world. These were sounds out of whose bottomless depth gleamed no ray of hope or comfort; when the blessed in heaven hear them, the praises of God die away upon their pallid lips, and, sighing, they veil their holy faces." Leigh Hunt, in one of his essays, thus describes the playing of this greatest of all virtuosos: "Paganini, the first time I saw and heard him, and the first moment he struck a note, seemed literally to strike it, to _give_ it a blow. The house was so crammed that, being among the squeezers in the standing room at the side of the pit, I happened to catch the first glance of his face through the arms akimbo of a man who was perched up before me, which made a kind of frame for it; and there on the stage through that frame, as through a perspective glass, were the face, the bust, and the raised hand of the wonderful musician, with the instrument at his chin, just going to begin, and looking exactly as I describe him in the following lines: "His hand, Loading the air with dumb expectancy, Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath. He _smote_; and clinging to the serious chords With Godlike ravishment drew forth a breath, So deep, so strong, so fervid, thick with love-- Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers-- That Juno yearned with no diviner soul To the first burthen of the lips of Jove. The exceeding mystery of the loveliness Sadden'd delight; and, with his mournful look, Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face Twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seemed Too feeble, or to melancholy eyes One that has parted from his soul for pride, And in the sable secret lived forlorn. "To show the depth and identicalness of the impression which he made on everybody, foreign or native, an Italian who stood near me said to himself, with a long sigh, 'O Dio!' and this had not been said long, when another person in the same tone uttered 'Oh Christ!' Musicians pressed forward from behind the scenes to get as close to him as possible, and they could not sleep at night for thinking of him." The impression made by Paganini was something more than that of a great, even the greatest, violinist. It was as if some demoniac power lay behind the human, prisoned and dumb except through the agencies of music, but able to fill expression with faint, far-away cries of passion, anguish, love, and aspiration--echoes from the supernatural and invisible. His hearers forgot the admiration due to the wonderful virtuoso, and seemed to listen to voices from another world. The strange rumors that were current about him, Paganini seems to have been not disinclined to encourage, for, mingled with his extraordinary genius, there was an element of charlatanism. It was commonly reported that his wonderful execution on the G-string was due to a long imprisonment, inflicted on him for the assassination of a rival in love, during which he had a violin with one string only. Paganini himself writes that, "At Vienna one of the audience affirmed publicly that my performance was not surprising, for he had distinctly seen, while I was playing my variations, the devil at my elbow, directing my arm and guiding my bow. My resemblance to the devil was a proof of my origin." Even sensible people believed that Paganini had some uncanny and unlawful secret which enabled him to do what was impossible for other players. At Prague he actually printed a letter from his mother to prove that he was not the son of the devil. It was not only the perfectly novel and astonishing character of his playing, but to a large extent his ghostlike appearance, which caused such absurd rumors. The tall, skeleton-like figure, the pale, narrow, wax-colored face, the long, dark, disheveled hair, the mysterious expression of the heavy eye, made a weirdly strange _ensemble_. Heine tells us in "The Florentine Nights" that only one artist had succeeded in delineating the real physiognomy of Paganini: "A deaf and crazy painter, called Lyser, has in a sort of spiritual frenzy so admirably portrayed by a few touches of his pencil the head of Paganini that one is dismayed and moved to laughter at the faithfulness of the sketch! 'The devil guided my hand,' said the deaf painter to me, with mysterious gesticulations and a satirical yet good-natured wag of the head, such as he was wont to indulge in when in the midst of his genial tomfoolery." II. Nicolo Paganini was born at Genoa on the night of February 18, 1784, of parents in humbly prosperous circumstances, his father being a ship-broker, and, though illiterate in a general way, a passionate lover of music and an amateur of some skill. The father soon perceived the child's talent, and caused him to study so severely that it not only affected his constitution, but actually made him a tolerable player at the age of six years. The elder Paganini's knowledge of music was not sufficient to carry the lad far in mastering the instrument, but the extraordinary precocity shown so interested Signor Corvetto, the leader at the Genoese theatre, that he undertook to instruct the gifted child. Two years later the young Paganini was transferred to the charge of Signor Giacomo Costa, an excellent violinist, and director of church music at one of the cathedrals, under whom he made rapid progress in executive skill, while he studied harmony and counterpoint under the composer Gnecco. It was at this time, Paganini not yet being nine years of age, that he composed his first piece, a sonata now lost. In 1793 he made his first appearance in public at Genoa, and played variations on the air "La Carmagnole," then so popular, with immense effect. This _début_ was followed by several subsequent appearances, in which he created much enthusiasm. He also played a violin concerto every Sunday in church, an attraction which drew great throngs. This practice was of great use to Paganini, as it forced him continually to study fresh music. About the year 1795 it was deemed best to place the boy under the charge of an eminent professor, and Alessandro Rolla, of Parma, was pitched on. When the Paganinis arrived, they found the learned professor ill, and rather surly at the disturbance. Young Paganini, however, speedily silenced the complaints of the querulous invalid. The great player himself relates the anecdote: "His wife showed us into a room adjoining the bedroom, till she had spoken to the sick man. Finding on the table a violin and the music of Rolla's latest concerto, I took up the instrument and played the piece at sight. Astonished at what he heard, the composer asked for the name of the player, and could not believe it was only a young boy till he had seen for himself. He then told me that he had nothing to teach me, and advised me to go to Paër for study in composition." But, as Paër was at this time in Germany, Paganini studied under Ghiretti and Rolla himself while he remained in Parma, according to the monograph of Fetis. The youthful player had already begun to search out new effects on the violin, and to create for himself characteristics of tone and treatment hitherto unknown to players. After his return to Genoa he composed his first "Études," which were of such unheard-of difficulty that he was sometimes obliged to practice a single passage ten hours running. His intense study resulted not only in his acquirement of an unlimited execution, but in breaking down his health. His father was a harsh and inexorable taskmaster, and up to this time Paganini (now being fourteen) had remained quiescent under this tyrant's control. But the desire of liberty was breeding projects in his breast, which opportunity soon favored. He managed to get permission to travel alone for the first time to Lucca, where he had engaged to play at the musical festival in November, 1798. He was received with so much enthusiasm that he determined not to return to the paternal roof, and at once set off to fulfill engagements at Pisa and other towns. In vain the angry and mortified father sought to reclaim the young rebel who had slipped through his fingers. Nicolo found the sweets of freedom too precious to go back again to bondage, though he continued to send his father a portion of the proceeds of his playing. The youth, intoxicated with the license of his life, plunged into all kinds of dissipation, specially into gambling, at this time a universal vice in Italy, as indeed it was throughout Europe. Alternate fits of study and gaming, both of which he pursued with equal zeal, and the exhaustion of the life he led, operated dangerously on his enfeebled frame, and fits of illness frequently prevented his fulfillment of concert engagements. More than once he wasted in one evening the proceeds of several concerts, and was obliged to borrow money on his violin, the source of his livelihood, in order to obtain funds wherewith to pay his gambling debts. Anything more wild, debilitating, and ruinous than the life led by this boy, who had barely emerged from childhood, can hardly be imagined. On one occasion he was announced for a concert at Leghorn, but he had gambled away his money and pawned his violin, so that he was compelled to get the loan of an instrument in order to play in the evening. In this emergency he applied to M. Livron, a French gentleman, a merchant of Leghorn, and an excellent amateur performer, who possessed a Guarneri del Gesù violin, reputed among connoisseurs one of the finest instruments in the world. The generous Frenchman instantly acceded to the boy's wish, and the precious violin was put in his hands. After the concert, when Paganini returned the instrument to M. Livron, the latter, who had been to hear him, exclaimed, "Never will I profane the strings which your fingers have touched! That instrument is yours." The astonishment and delight of the young artist may be more easily imagined than described. It was upon this violin that Paganini afterward performed in all his concerts, and the great virtuoso left it to the town of Genoa, where it is now preserved in a glass case in the Museum. An excellent engraving of it, from a photograph, was published in 1875 in George Hart's book on "The Violin." At this period of his life, between the ages of seventeen and twenty, Nicolo Paganini was surrounded by numerous admirers, and led into all kinds of dissipation. He was naturally amiable and witty in conversation, though he has been reproached with selfishness. There can be no doubt that he was, at this period, constantly under the combined influences of flattery and unbounded ambition; nevertheless, in spite of all his successful performances at concerts, the style of life he was leading kept him so poor that he frequently took in hand all kinds of musical work to supply the wants of the moment. It is a curious coincidence that the fine violin which was presented to him by M. Livron, as we have just seen, was the cause of his abandoning, after a while, the allurements of the gaming-tables. Paganini tells us himself that a certain nobleman was anxious to possess this instrument, and had offered for it a sum equivalent to about four hundred dollars; but the artist would not sell it even if one thousand had been offered for it, although he was, at this juncture, in great need of funds to pay off a debt of honor, and sorely tempted to accept the proffered amount. Just at this point Paganini received an invitation to a friend's house where gambling was the order of the day. "All my capital," he says, "consisted of thirty francs, as I had disposed of my jewels, watch, rings, etc.; I nevertheless resolved on risking this last resource, and, if fortune proved fickle, to sell my violin and proceed to St. Petersburg, without instrument or baggage, with the view of reestablishing my affairs. My thirty francs were soon reduced to three, and I already fancied myself on the road to Russia, when luck took a sudden turn, and I won one hundred and sixty francs. This saved my violin and completely set me up. From that day forward I gradually gave up gaming, becoming more and more convinced that a gambler is an object of contempt to all well-regulated minds." III. Love-making was also among the diversions which Paganini began early to practice. Like nearly all great musicians, he was an object of great fascination to the fair sex, and his life had its full share of amorous romances. A strange episode was his retirement in the country château of a beautiful Bolognese lady for three years, between the years 1801 and 1804. Here, in the society of a lovely woman, who was passionately devoted to him, and amid beautiful scenery, he devoted himself to practicing and composition, also giving much study to the guitar (the favorite instrument of his inamorata), on which he became a wonderful proficient. This charming idyl in Paganini's life reminds one of the retirement of the pianist Chopin to the island of Majorca in the company of Mme. George Sand. It was during this period of his life that Paganini composed twelve of his finest sonatas for violin and guitar. When our musician returned again to Genoa and active life in 1804, he devoted much time also to composition. He was twenty years of age, and wrote here four grand quartets for violin, tenor, violoncello, and guitar, and also some bravura variations for violin with guitar accompaniment. At this period he gave lessons to a young girl of Genoa, Catherine Calcagno, about seven years of age; eight years later, when only fifteen years old, this young lady astonished Italian audiences by the boldness of her style. She continued her artistic career till the year 1816, when she had attained the age of twenty-one, and all traces of her in the musical world appear to be lost; doubtless, at this period she found a husband, and retired completely from public life. In 1805 Paganini accepted the position of director of music and conductor of the opera orchestra at Lucca, under the immediate patronage of the Princess Eliza, sister of Napoleon and wife of Bacciochi. The prince took lessons from him on the violin, and gave him whole charge of the court music. It was at the numerous concerts given at Lucca during this period of Paganini's early career that he first elaborated many of those curious effects, such as performances on one string, harmonic and pizzicato passages, which afterward became so characteristic of his style. But the demon of unrest would not permit Paganini to remain very long in one place. In 1808 he began his wandering career of concert-giving afresh, performing throughout northern Italy, and amassing considerable money, for his fame had now become so widespread that engagements poured on him thick and fast. The lessons of his inconsiderate past had already made a deep impression on his mind, and Paganini became very economical, a tendency which afterward developed into an almost miserly passion for money-getting and -saving, though, through his whole life, he performed many acts of magnificent generosity. He had numerous curious adventures, some of which are worth recording. At a concert in Leghorn he came on the stage, limping, from the effects of a nail which had run into his foot. This made a great laugh. Just as he began to play, the candles fell out of his music desk, and again there was an uproar. Suddenly the first string broke, and there was more hilarity; but, says Paganini, naively, "I played the piece on three strings, and the sneers quickly changed into boisterous applause." At Ferrara he narrowly escaped an enraged audience with his life. It had been arranged that a certain Signora Marcolini should take part in his concert, but illness prevented her singing, and at the last moment Paganini secured the services of Signora Pallerini, who, though a danseuse, possessed an agreeable voice. The lady was very nervous and diffident, but sang exceedingly well, though there were a few in the audience who were inconsiderate enough to hiss. Paganini was furious at this insult, and vowed to be avenged. At the end of the concert he proposed to amuse the audience by imitating the noises of various animals on his violin. After he had reproduced the mewing of a cat, the barking of a dog, the crowing of a cock, etc., he advanced to the footlights and called out, "Questo è per quelli che han fischiato" ("This is for those who hissed"), and imitated in an unmistakable way the braying of the jackass. At this the pit rose to a man, and charged through the orchestra, climbed the stage, and would have killed Paganini, had he not fled incontinently, "standing not on the order of his going, but going at once." The explanation of this sensitiveness of the audience is found in the fact that the people of Ferrara had a general reputation for stupidity, and the appearance of a Ferrarese outside of the town walls was the signal for a significant hee-haw. Paganini never gave any more concerts in that town. As he approached his thirtieth year his delicate and highly strung organization, already undermined by the excesses of his early youth, began to give way. He was frequently troubled with internal inflammation, and he was obliged to regulate his habits in the strictest fashion as to diet and hours of sleep. Even while comparatively well, his health always continued to be very frail. Paganini composed his remarkable variations called "Le Streghe" ("The Witches") at Milan in 1813. In this composition, the air of which was taken from a ballet by Sussmayer, called "Il Noce de Benevento," at the part where the witches appear in the piece as performed on the stage, the violinist introduced many of his most remarkable effects. He played this piece for the first time at La Scala theatre, and he was honored with the most tumultuous enthusiasm, which for a long time prevented the progress of the programme. Paganini always had a predilection for Milan afterward, and said he enjoyed giving concerts there more than at any other city in Europe. He gave no less than thirty-seven concerts here in 1813. In this city, three years afterward, occurred his interesting musical duel with Lafont, the well-known French violinist. Paganini was then at Genoa, and, hearing of Lafont's presence at Milan, at once hastened to that city to hear him play. "His performance," said Pagani-ni, "pleased me exceedingly." When the Italian violinist, a week later, gave a concert at La Scala, Lafont was in the audience, and the very next day he proposed that Paganini and himself should play together at the same concert. "I excused myself," said Paganini, "alleging that such experiments were impolitic, as the public invariably looked upon these matters as duels, in which there must be a victim, and that it would be so in this case; for, as he was acknowledged to be the best of the French violinists, so the public indulgently considered me to be the best player in Italy. Lafont not looking at it in this light, I was obliged to accept the challenge. I allowed him to arrange the programme. We each played a concerto of our own composition, after which we played together a duo concertante by Kreutzer. In this I did not deviate in the least from the composer's text while we played together, but in the solo parts I yielded freely to my own imagination, and introduced several novelties, which seemed to annoy my adversary. Then followed a 'Russian Air,' with variations, by Lafont, and I finished the concert with my variations called 'Le Streghe.' Lafont probably surpassed me in tone; but the applause which followed my efforts convinced me that I did not suffer by comparison." There seems to be no question that the victory remained with Paganini. A few years later Paganini played in a similar contest with the Polish violinist Lipinski, at Placentia. The two artists, however, were intimate friends, and there was not a spark of rivalry or jealousy in their generous emulation. In fact, Paganini appears to have been utterly without that conceit in his own extraordinary powers which is so common in musical artists. Heine gives an amusing illustration of this. He writes: "Once, after listening to a concert by Paganini, as I was addressing him with the most impassioned eulogies on his violin-playing, he interrupted me with the words, 'But how were you pleased to-day with my compliments and reverences?'" The musician thought more of his genuflexions than of his musical talent. IV. In the year 1817 Rossini, Meyerbeer, and Paganini were at Rome during Carnival time, and the trio determined on a grand frolic. Rossini had composed a very clever part-song, "Carnavale, Carnavale," known in English as "We are Poor Beggars," and the three great musicians, having disguised themselves as beggars, sang it with great effect through the streets. Rossini during this Carnival produced his "Cenerentola," and Paganini gave a series of concerts which excited great enthusiasm. Shortly after this, Paganini's health gave way completely at Naples, and the landlord of the hotel where he was stopping got the impression that his sickness was infectious. In the most brutal manner he turned the sick musician into the street. Fortunately, at this moment a violoncello player, Ciandelli, who knew Paga-nini well, was passing by, and came to the rescue, and his anger was so great, when he saw what had happened to the great violinist, that he belabored the barbarous landlord unmercifully with a stick, and conveyed the invalid to a comfortable lodging where he was carefully attended to. Some time subsequently Paganini had an opportunity of repaying this kindness, for he gave Ciandelli some valuable instruction, which enabled him in the course of a few years to become transformed from a very indifferent performer into an artist of considerable eminence. At the age of thirty-six Paganini again found himself at Milan, and there organized a society of musical amateurs, called "Gli Orfei." He conducted several of their concerts. But either the love of a roving life or the necessity of wandering in order to fill his exchequer kept him constantly on the move; and, though during these travels he is said to have met with many extraordinary adventures, very little reliance can be placed upon the accounts that have come down to us, the more so when we consider that Paga-nini's mode of life was, as we shall see presently, become by this time extremely sober. It was not until he was forty-four years old that he finally quitted Italy to make himself better known in foreign countries. He had been encouraged to visit Vienna by Prince Metternich, who had heard and admired his playing at Rome in 1817, and had repeatedly made plans to visit Germany, but his health had been so wretched as to prevent his departure from his native country. But a sojourn in the balmy climate of Sicily for a few months had done him so much good that in 1828 he put his long-deferred plans into execution. The first concert in March of that year made an unparalleled sensation. He gave a great number of concerts in Vienna, among them several for the poor. A fever seized all classes of society. The shop windows were crowded with goods _à la Paganini_; a good stroke at billiards was called _un coup à la Paganini_; dishes Avere named after him; his portrait was enameled on snuff-boxes, and the Viennese dandies carried his bust on the head of their walking-sticks. A cabman wheedled out of the reluctant violinist permission to print on his cab, _Cabriolet de Paganini_. By this cunning device, Jehu so augmented his profits that he was able to rent a large house and establish a hotel, in which capacity Paganini found him when he returned again to Vienna. Among the pleasant stories told of him is one similar to an incident previously related of Viotti. One day, as he was walking in Vienna, Paganini saw poor little Italian boy scraping some Neapolitan songs before the windows of a large house. A celebrated composer who accompanied the artist remarked to him, "There is one of your compatriots." Upon which Paganini evinced a desire to speak to the lad, and went across the street to him for that purpose. After ascertaining that he was a poor beggar-boy from the other side of the Alps, and that he supported his sick mother, his only relative, by his playing, the great violinist appeared touched. He literally emptied his pockets into the boy's hand, and, taking the violin and bow from him, began the most grotesque and extraordinary performance possible. A crowd soon collected, the great virtuoso was at once recognized by the bystanders, and when he brought the performance to an end, amid the cheers and shouts of all assembled, he handed round the boy's hat, and made a considerable collection of coin, in which silver pieces were very conspicuous. He then handed the sum to the young Italian, saying, "Take that to your mother," and, rejoining his companion, walked off with him, saying, "I hope I've done a good turn to that little animal." At Berlin, where he soon afterward astonished his crowded audiences by his marvelous playing, the same fanatical enthusiasm ensued; and, with the exception of Palermo, Naples (where he seems to have had many detractors), and Prague, his visits to the various cities of Europe were one continued triumph. People tried in vain to explain his method of playing, professors criticised him, and pamphlets were published which endeavored to make him out a quack or a charlatan. It was all to no purpose. Nothing could arrest his onward course; triumph succeeded triumph wherever he appeared; and, though no one could understand him, every one admired him, and he had only to touch his violin to enchant thousands. A curious scene occurred at Berlin, at a musical evening party to which Paganini was invited. A young and presumptuous professor of the violin performed there several pieces with very little effect; he was not aware of the presence of the Genoese giant, whom he did not know even by sight. Others, however, quickly recognized him, and he was asked to play, which he at first declined, but finally consented to do after urgent solicitation. Purposely he played a few variations in wretchedly bad style, which caused a suppressed laugh from those ignorant of his identity. The young professor came forward again and played another selection in a most pretentious and pointed way, as if to crush the daring wretch who had ventured to compete with him. Paganini again took up the instrument, and played a short piece with such touching pathos and astonishing execution, that the audience sat breathless till the last dying cadence wakened them into thunders of applause, and hearts thrilled as the name "Paganini" crept from mouth to mouth. The young professor had already vanished from the room, and was never again seen in the house where he had received so severe a lesson. Paganini repeated his triumphs again the following year, performing in Vienna and the principal cities of Germany, and everywhere arousing similar feelings of admiration. Orders and medals were bestowed on him, and his progress was almost one of royalty. His first concert in Paris was given on March 9, 1831, at the opera-house. He was then forty-seven years old, and Castil-Blaze described him as being nearly six feet in height, with a long, pallid face, brilliant eyes, like those of an eagle, long curling black hair, which fell down over the collar of his coat, a thin and cadaverous figure--altogether a personality so gaunt and delicate as to be more like a shadow than a man. The eyes sparkled with a strange phosphorescent gleam, and the long bony fingers were so flexible as to be likened only to "a handkerchief tied to the end of a stick." Petis describes the impression he created at his first concert as amounting to a "positive and universal frenzy." Being questioned as to why he always performed his own compositions, he replied "that, if he played other compositions than his own, he was obliged to arrange them to suit his own peculiar style, and it was less trouble to write a piece of his own." Indeed, whenever he attempted to interpret the works of other composers, he failed to produce the effects which might have been expected of him. This was especially the case in the works of Beethoven. V. When Paganini appeared in England, of course there was a prodigious curiosity to see and hear the great player. All kinds of rumors were in the public mouth about him, and many of the lower classes really believed that he had sold himself to the evil one. The capacious area of the opera-house was densely packed, and the prices of admission were doubled on the opening night. The enthusiasm awakened by the performance can best be indicated by quoting from some of the contemporary accounts. The concert opened with Beethoven's Second Symphony, performed by the Philharmonic Society, and it was followed by Lablache, who sang Rossini's "Largo al factotum." "A breathless silence then ensued," writes Mr. Gardiner, an amateur of Leicester, who at the peril of his ribs had been struggling in the crowd for two hours to get admission, "and every eye watched the action of this extraordinary violinist as he glided from the side scenes to the front of the stage. An involuntary cheering burst from every part of the house, many persons rising from their seats to view the specter during the thunder of this unprecedented applause, his gaunt and extraordinary appearance being more like that of a devotee about to suffer martyrdom than one to delight you with his art. With the tip of his bow he set off the orchestra in a grand military movement with a force and vivacity as surprising as it was new. At the termination of this introduction, he commenced with a soft, streamy note of celestial quality, and with three or four whips of his bow elicited points of sound that mounted to the third heaven, and as bright as stars.... Immediately an execution followed which was equally indescribable. A scream of astonishment and delight burst from the audience at the novelty of this effect.... etc." This _naive_ account may serve to show the impression created on the minds of those not trained to guard their words with moderation. "Nothing can be more intense in feeling," said a contemporary critic, "than his conception and delivery of an adagio passage. His tone is, perhaps, not quite so full and round as that of a De Bériot or Baillot, for example; it is delicate rather than strong, but this delicacy was probably never possessed equally by another player." "There is no trick in his playing," writes another critic; "it is all fair scientific execution, opening to us a new order of sounds.... All his passages seem free and unpremeditated, as if conceived on the instant. One has no impression of their having cost him either forethought or labor.... The word difficulty has no place in his vocabulary.... etc." Paganini's lengthened tour through London and the provinces was everywhere attended with the same success, and brought him in a golden harvest, for his reputation had now grown so portentous that he could exact the greatest terms from managers. Paganini avowed himself as not altogether pleased with England, but, under the surface of such complaints as the following, one detects the ring of gratified vanity. He writes in a MS. letter, dated from London in 1831, of the excessive and noisy admiration to which he was subjected in the London streets, which left him no peace, and actually blocked his passage to and from the theatre. "Although the public curiosity to see me," says he, "is long since satisfied; though I have played in public at least thirty times, and my likeness has been reproduced in all possible styles and forms, yet I can never leave my home without being mobbed by people who are not content with following and jostling me, but actually get in front of me, and prevent my going either way, address me in English of which I don't know a word, and even feel me as if to find out if I am made of flesh and blood. And this is not only among the common people, but among the upper classes." Paganini repeated his visit to England during the next season, playing his final farewell concert at the Victoria Theatre, London, June 17, 1832. The two following years our artist lived in Paris, and was the great lion of musical and social circles. People professed to be as much charmed with his lack of pretension, his _naive_ and simple manners, as with his musical genius. Yet no man was more exacting of his rights as an artist. One day a court concert was announced at the Tuilleries, at which Paganini was asked to play. He consented, and went to examine the room the day before. He objected to the numerous curtains, so hung as to deaden the sound, and requested the superintendent to see that they were changed. The supercilious official ignored the artist's wish, and the offended Paganini determined not to play. When the hour of the concert arrived, there was no violinist. The royalties and their attendants were all seated; murmurs arose, but still no Paganini. At last an official was sent to the hotel of the artist, only to be informed that _the great violinist had not gone out, but that he went to bed very early_. It was during his residence in Paris in the winter of 1834 that he proposed to Berlioz, for whom he had the most cordial esteem and admiration, to write a concerto for his Stradiuarius violin, which resulted in the famous symphony "Harold en Italie." Four years after this he bestowed the sum of twenty thousand francs on Berlioz, who was then in pressing need, delicately disguising the donation as a testimonial of his admiration for the "Symphonie Fantastique." Though the eagerness of Paganini to make money urged him to labor for years while his health was exceedingly frail, and though he was justly stigmatized as penurious in many ways, he was capable of princely generosity on occasions which appealed strongly to the ardent sympathies which lay at the bottom of his nature. Paganini made a great fortune by the exercise of his art, and in 1834 purchased, among other property in his native country, a charming country seat called Villa Gajona, near Parma. Here he spent two years in comparative quiet, though still continuing to give concerts. At this period and for some time previous many music-sellers had striven to buy the copyright of his works. But Paganini put a price on it which was prescriptive, the probability being that he did not wish his compositions to pass out of his hands till he had given up his career on the concert stage. He was willing that they should be arranged for the piano, but not published as violin music. After his return to Italy Paganini gave several most successful concerts, among others, one for the poor at Placentia, on the 14th of November, 1834, and another at the court of the Duchess of Parma, in the December following. But his health was already giving way most visibly. Phthisis of the larynx, which rendered him a mere shadow of his former self, and sometimes almost deprived him of speech, had been gaining ground since his return to his native climate. In 1836, however, he was better, and some unscrupulous Parisian speculators induced him to lend his name to a joint-stock undertaking, a sort of gambling-room and concert-hall, which they called the Casino Paganini. This was duly opened in a fashionable part of Paris in 1837; but, as the Government would not allow the establishment to be used as a gambling-house, and the concerts did not pay the expenses, it became a great failure, and the illustrious artist actually suffered loss by it to the extent of forty thousand francs. One of his last, if not his very last, concert was given with the guitar-player, Signor Legnani, at Turin, on the 9th of June, 1837, for the benefit of the poor. He was then on his way to fulfill his engagements at the fatal Parisian casino, which opened with much splendor in the November following. But his health had again broken down, and the fatigue of the journey had told upon him so much that he was unable to appear at the casino. When the enterprise was found to be a failure, a pettifogging lawsuit was carried on against him, and, according to Fetis, who is very explicit on this subject, the French judges condemned him to pay the aforesaid forty thousand francs, and to be deprived of his liberty until that amount was paid--all this without hearing his defense! The career of Paganini was at this critical period fast drawing to a close. His medical advisers recommended him to return at once to the South, fearing that the winter would kill him in Paris. He died at Nice on May 27, 1840, aged fifty-six years. He left to his legitimized son Achille, the offspring of his _liaison_ with the singer Antonia Bianchi, a fortune of eighty thousand pounds, and the title of baron, of which he had received the patent in Germany. His beautiful Guarnerius violin, the vehicle of so many splendid artistic triumphs, he bequeathed to the town of Genoa, where he was born. Though Paganini was superstitious, and died a son of Holy Church, he did not leave any money in religious bequests, nor did he even receive the last sacraments. The authorities of Rome raised many difficulties about the funeral, and it was only after an enormous amount of trouble and expense that Achille was able to have a solemn service to the memory of his father performed at Parma. It was five years after Paganini's death that this occurred, and permission was obtained to have the body removed to holy ground in the village churchyard near the Villa Gajona. During this long period the dishonored remains of the illustrious musician were at the hospital of Nice, where the body had been embalmed, and afterward at a country place near Genoa, belonging to the family. The superstitious peasantry believed that strange noises were heard about the grave at night--the wailings of the unsatisfied spirit of Paganini over the unsanctified burial of its earthly shell. It was to end these painful stories that the young baron made a final determined effort to placate the ecclesiastical authorities. VI. The singular personality of Paganini displayed itself in his private no less than in his artistic life, and a few out of the many anecdotes told of him will be of interest, as throwing fresh light on the man. Paganini was accused of being selfish and miserly, of caring little even for his art, except as a means of accumulating money. While there is much in his life to justify such an indictment, it is no less true that he on many occasions displayed great generosity. He was always willing to give concerts for the benefit of his fellow-artists and for other charitable purposes, and on more than one occasion bestowed large sums of money for the relief of distress. We may assume that he was niggardly by habit and generous by impulse. Utterly ignorant of everything except the art of music, bred under the most unfortunate and demoralizing conditions, the fact that his character was, on the whole, so _naive_ and upright, speaks eloquently for the native qualities of his disposition. His eccentricities, perhaps, justified the unreasoning vulgar in believing that he was slightly crazed. His appearance and manner on the platform were fantastic in the extreme, and rarely failed to provoke ridicule, till his magic bow turned all other emotions into one of breathless admiration. He talked to himself continually when alone, a habit which was partly responsible for the popular belief that he was always attended by a familiar demon. When a stranger was introduced to him, his corpse-like face became galvanized into a ghastly smile, which produced a singular impression, half fascinating, half repulsive. He was taciturn in society, except among his intimates, when his buoyant spirits bubbled out in the most amusing jokes and anecdotes expressed in a polyglot tongue, for he never knew any language well except his own. Naturally irritable, his quick temper was inflamed by intestinal disease, which racked him with a suffering that was aggravated by a nostrum, in the use of which he indulged freely. Indeed, it was said by his friends that his death was accelerated by his devotion to medical quackery, from a belief in which no arguments could wean him. To his fellow-artists he was always polite and attentive, though they annoyed him by their persistent curiosity as to the means by which he produced his unrivaled effects--effects which the established technique of violin-playing could not explain. An Englishman named George Harris, who was an _attache_ of the Hanoverian court, attended Paganini for a year as his private secretary, and he asserts that Paganini was never seen to practice a single note of music in private. His astonishing dexterity was kept up to its pitch by the numerous concerts which he gave, and by his exquisitely delicate organization. He was accustomed to say that his whole early life had been one of prodigious and continual study, and that he could afford to repose in after years. Paganini's knowledge of music was profound and exact, and the most difficult music was mere child's play to him. Pasini, a well-known painter, living at Parma, did not believe the stories told of Paganini's ability to play the most difficult music at sight. Being the possessor of a valuable Stradiuarius violin, he challenged our artist to play, at first hand, a manuscript concerto which he placed before him. "This instrument shall be yours," he said, "if you can play, in a masterly manner, that concerto at first sight." The Genoese took the violin in his hand, saying, "In that case, my friend, you may bid adieu to it at once," and he immediately threw Pasini into ecstatic admiration by his performance of the piece. There is little doubt that this is the Stradiuarius instrument left by Paganini to his son, and valued at about six hundred pounds sterling. Of Antonia Bianchi, the mother of his son Achille, Paganini tells us that, after many years of a most devoted life, the lady's temper became so violent that a separation was necessary. "Antonia was constantly tormented," he says, "by the most fearful jealousy. One day she happened to be behind my chair when I was writing some lines in the album of a great pianiste, and, when she read the few amiable words I had composed in honor of the artist to whom the book belonged, she tore it from my hands, demolished it on the spot, and, so fearful was her rage, would have assassinated me." He was very fond of his little son Achille. A French gentleman tells us that he called once to take Paganini to dine with him. He found the artist's room in great disorder. A violin on the table with manuscript music, another upon a chair, a snuff-box on the bed along with his child's toys, music, money, letters, articles of dress--all _pêle-mêle_; nor were the tables and chairs in their proper places. Everything was in the most conspicuous confusion. The child was out of temper; something had vexed him; he had been told to wash his hands; and, while the little one gave vent to the most violent bursts of temper, the father stood as calm and quiet as the most accomplished of nurses. He merely turned quietly to his visitor, and said, in melancholy accents: "The poor child is cross; I do not know what to do to amuse him; I have played with him ever since morning, and I can not stand it any longer." "It was rather amusing," says the same writer, "to see Paganini in his slippers doing battle with his child, who came about up to his knees. The little one advanced boldly with his wooden sword, while the father retired, crying out, 'Enough, enough! I am already wounded.' But it was not enough; the young Achilles was never satisfied until his father, completely vanquished, fell heavily on the bed." In the early part of the present century the facilities for travel were far less convenient than at the present time, and it was always an arduous undertaking to one in Paganini's frail condition of health. He was, however, generally cheerful while jolting along in the post-chaise, and chatted incessantly as long as his voice held out. Harris tells us that the artist was in the habit of getting out when the horses were changed, to stretch his long limbs after the confinement of the carriage. Often he extended his promenades when he became interested in the town through which he was passing, and would not return till long after the fresh horses had been harnessed, thereby causing much annoyance to the driver. On one occasion Jehu swore, if it occurred again, he would drive on, and leave his passenger behind, to get along as best he could. The secretary, Harris, was enjoying a nap, and the driver was true to his resolution at the next stopping-place, leaving Paganini behind. This made much trouble, and a special coach had to be sent for the enraged artist, who was found sputtering oaths in half a dozen languages. Paganini refused to pay for the carriage, and it was only by force of law that he reluctantly settled the bill. His baggage was always of the plainest description; in fact, ludicrously simple. A shabby box contained his precious Guarnerius fiddle, and served also as a portmanteau wherein to pack his jewelry, his linen, and sundry trifles. In addition to this he carried a small traveling-bag and a hat-box. Mr. Harris tolls us that Paganini was in eating and drinking exceedingly frugal. Table indulgence was forbidden him by the condition of his health, as any deviation from the strictest diet resulted in great suffering. He was a thorough Italian in all his habits and ideas. Among other traits was a great disdain for the lower classes, though he was by no means subservient to people of rank and wealth. It was his habit, when an inferior addressed him, to inquire of his companion, "What does this animal want with me?" If he was pleased with his coachman, he would say, "That animal drives well." This seemed not so much the vulgar arrogance of a small nature, elevated above the class in life from which it sprang, as that pride of great gifts which made the freemasonry of genius the measure by which he judged all others, noble and simple. Like all men of highly nervous constitution, he was keenly susceptible to both enjoyment and suffering. He was so sensitive to atmospheric changes that his irritability was excessive during a thunderstorm. He would then remain silent for hours together, while his eyes rolled and his limbs twitched convulsively. Such fragile, nervous, highly sensitive organizations are not unfrequently characteristic of men of great genius, and in the great Italian violinist it was developed in an abnormal degree. The circumstances accompanying the last scenes of Paganini's life are very interesting. He had been intimate with most of the great people of Europe, among them Lord Byron, Sir Clifford Constable, Lord Holland, Rossini, Ugo Fascolo, Monti, Prince Jerome, the Princess Eliza, and most of the great painters, poets, and musicians of his age. For Lord Byron he had a most ardent and exaggerated admiration. Paganini had stopped at Nice on his way from Paris, detained by extreme debility, for his last hours were drawing near. Under the blue sky and balmy air of this Mediterranean paradise the great musician somewhat recovered his strength at first. One night he sat by his bedroom window, surrounded by a circle of intimate friends, watching the glories of the Italian sunset that emblazoned earth, air, and sky, with the richest dyes of nature's palette. A soft breeze swept into the room, heavy with the perfumes of flowers, and the twittering of the birds in the green foliage mingled with the hum of talk from the throngs of gay promenaders sauntering on the beach. For a while Paganini sat silently absorbed in watching the joyous scene, when suddenly his eyes turned on the picture of Lord Byron that hung on the wall. A flash of enthusiasm lightened his face, as if a great thought were struggling to the surface, and he seized his violin to improvise. The listeners declared that this "swan song" was the most remarkable production of his life. He illustrated the stormy and romantic career of the English poet in music. The accents of doubt, irony, and despair mingled with the cry of liberty and the tumult of triumph. Paganini had scarcely finished this wonderful musical picture when the bow fell from the icy fingers that refused any longer to perform their function, and the player sank into a dead swoon. The shock had been too great, and Paganini never quitted his bed afterward. The day before his death he seemed a little better, and directed his servant to buy a pigeon for him, as he had a slight return of appetite. On the last evening of his life he seemed very tranquil, and ordered the curtains to be drawn that he might look out of the window at the beautiful night. The full moon was sailing through the skies, flooding everything with splendor. Paganini gazed eagerly, gave a long sigh of pleasure, and fell back on his pillow dead. VII. Paganini was the first to develop the full resources of the violin as a solo instrument. He departed entirely from the traditions of violin-playing as practiced by earlier masters, as he believed that great fame could never be acquired in pursuing their methods. A work of Locatelli, one of the cleverest pupils of Corelli, and a great master of technique, first seems to have inspired him with a conception of the more brilliant possibilities of the violin. What further favored Paganini's new departure was that he lived in an age when the artistic mind, as well as thought in other directions, felt the desire of innovation. The French Revolution stirred Europe to its deepest roots, intellectually as well as politically. At a very early date in his career Paganini seems to have begun experimenting with the new effects for which he became famous, though these did not reach their full fruitage until just before he left Italy on his first general tour. Fetis says: "In adopting the ideas of his predecessors, in resuscitating forgotten effects, in superadding what his genius and perseverance gave birth to, he arrived at that distinctive character of performance which contributed to his ultimate greatness. The diversity of sounds, the different methods of tuning his instrument, the frequent employment of harmonics, single and double, the simultaneous pizzicato and bow passages, the various staccato effects, the use of double and even triple notes, a prodigious facility in executing wide intervals with unerring precision, together with an extraordinary knowledge of all styles of bowing--such were the principal features of Paganini's talent, rendered all the more perfect by his great execution, exquisitely nervous sensibility, and his deep musical feeling." In a word, Paganini possessed the most remarkable creative power in the technical treatment of an instrument ever given to a player. Franz Liszt as a pianist approaches him more nearly in this respect than any other virtuoso, but the field open to the violinist was far greater and wider than that offered to the great Hungarian pianist. It was not, however, mere perfection of technical power that threw Europe into such paroxysms of admiration; it was the irresistible power of a genius which has never been matched, and which almost justified the vulgar conclusion that none but one possessed with a demon could do such things. Paganini possessed the oft-quoted attribute of genius, "the power of taking infinite pains," but behind this there lay superlative gifts of mind, physique, and temperament. He completely dazzled the greatest musical artists as well as the masses. "His constant and daring flights," writes Moscheles, "his newly discovered flageolet tones, his gift of fusing and beautifying objects of the most diverse kinds--all these phases of genius so completely bewilder my musical perceptions that for days afterward my head is on fire and my brain reels." His tone lacked roundness and volume. His use of very thin strings, made necessary by his double harmonics and other specialties, necessarily prevented a broad, rich tone. But he more than compensated for this defect by the intense expression, "soft and melting as that of an Italian singer," to use the language of Moscheles again, which characterized the quality of sound he drew from his instrument. Spohr, a very great player, but, with all his polish, precision, and classical beauty of style, somewhat phlegmatic and conventional withal, critcised Paganini as lacking in good taste. He could never get in sympathy with the bent of individuality, the Southern passion and fire, and the exceptional gifts of temperament which made Paganini's idiosyncrasies of style as a player consummate beauties, where imitations of these effects on the part of others would be gross exaggeration. Spohr developed the school of Viotti and Rode, and in his attachment to that school could see no artistic beauty in any deviation. Paganini's peculiar method of treating the violin has never been regarded as a safe school for any other violinist to follow. Without Paganini's genius to give it vitality, his technique would justly be charged with exaggeration and charlatanism. Some of the modern French players, who have been strongly influenced by the great Italian, have failed to satisfy serious musical taste from this cause. On the German violinists he has had but little influence, owing to the powerful example of Spohr and the musical spirit of the great composers, which have tended to keep players within the strictly legitimate lines of art. Some of the principal compositions of Paganini are marked by great originality and beauty, and are violin classics. Schumann and Liszt have transcribed several of them for the piano, and Brahms for the orchestra. But the great glory of Paganini was as a virtuoso, not as a composer, and it has been generally agreed to place him on the highest pedestal which has yet been reached in the executive art of the violin. DE BÉRIOT De Bériot's High Place in the Art of the Violin and Violin Music.--The Scion of an Impoverished Noble Family.--Early Education and Musical Training.--He seeks the Advice of Viotti in Paris.--Becomes a Pupil of Kobrechts and Baillot successively.--De Bériot finishes and perfects his Style on his Own Model.--Great Success in England.--Artistic Travels in Europe.--Becomes Soloist to the King of the Netherlands.--He meets Malibran, the Great Cantatrice, in Paris.--Peculiar Circumstances which drew the Couple toward Each Other.--They form a Connection which only ends with Malibran's Life.--Sketch of Malibran and her Family.--The Various Artistic Journeys of Malibran and De Bériot.--Their Marriage and Mme. de Bériot's Death.--De Bériot becomes Professor in the Brussels Conservatoire.--His Later Life in Brussels.--His Son Charles Malibran de Bériot.--The Character of De Bériot as Composer and Player. I. Among the great players contemporary with Paganini, the name of Charles Auguste de Bériot shines in the musical horizon with the luster of a star of the first magnitude. His influence on music has been one of unmistakable import, for he has perpetuated his great talents through the number of gifted pupils who graduated from his teachings and gathered an inspiration from an artist-master, in whom were united splendid gifts as a player, an earnest musical spirit, depth and precision of science, the chivalry of high birth and breeding, and a width of intellectual culture which would have dignified the _litterateur_ or scholar. De Bériot was for many years the chief of the violin department at the Brussels Conservatoire, where, even before the revolution of 1830, there was one of the finest schools of instruction for stringed instruments to be found in Europe. When in the full ripeness of his fame as a virtuoso and composer, De Bériot was called on to take charge of the violin section of this great institution, and his influence has thus been transmitted in the world of art in a degree by no means limited to his direct greatness as an executant. De Bériot was born at Louvain, in 1802, of a noble family, which had been impoverished through the crash and turmoil of the French Revolution. Left an orphan at the age of nine years, without inheritance except that of a high spirit and family pride, he would have fared badly in these early years, had it not been for the kindness of M. Tiby, a professor of music, who perceived the child's latent talent, and he acquired skill in playing so rapidly that he was able to play one of Viotti's concertos at the age of nine. His hearers, many of whom were connoisseurs, were delighted, and prophesied for him the great career which made the name of De Bériot famous. Naturally of a contemplative and thoughtful mind, he lost no time in studying not only the art of violin-playing but also acquiring proficiency in general branches of knowledge. His theories of an art ideal even at that early age were far more lofty and earnest than that which generally guides the aspirations of musicians. De Bériot, in after years, attributed many of the elevated ideas which from this time guided his life to the influence of the well-known scholar and philosopher Jacotot, who, though a poor musician himself, had very clear ideas as to the aesthetic and moral foundations on which art success must be built. The text-book, Jacotot's "Method," fell early into the young musician's hand, and imbued him with the principles of self-reliance, earnestness, and patience which helped to model his life, and contributed to the remarkable proficiency in his art on which his fame rests. Two golden principles were impressed on De Bériot's mind from these teachings: "All obstacles yield to unwearied pursuit," and "We are not ordinarily willing to do all that we are really able to accomplish." In after years De Bériot met Jacotot, and had the pleasure of acknowledging the deep obligation under which he felt himself bound. In 1821 young Charles de Bériot had attained the age of nineteen, and it was determined that he should leave his native town and go to Paris, where he could receive the teachings of the great masters of the violin. At this time he was a handsome youth with a strongly knit figure, somewhat above the middle height, with fine, dark eyes and hair, a florid complexion, and very gentlemanly appearance. Good blood and breeding displayed themselves in every movement, and ardent hope shone in his face. He resided for several months in Brussels, which was afterward to be his home, and associated with the scenes of his greatest usefulness, and then pursued his eager way to Paris with a letter of introduction to Viotti, then director of music at the Grand Opéra. De Bériot's ambition was to play before the veteran violinist of Europe, and to feed his own hopes on the great master's praise and encouragement. "You have a fine style," said Viotti; "give yourself up to the business of perfecting it; hear all men of talent; profit by everything, but imitate nothing." There was at this time in Brussels a violinist named Robrechts, a former pupil of Viotti, and one of the last artists who derived instruction directly from the celebrated Italian. Andreas Robrechts was born at Brussels on the 18th of December, 1797, and made rapid progress as a musician under Planken, a professor, who, like the late M. Wéry, who succeeded him, formed many excellent pupils. He then entered himself at the Conservatoire of Paris in 1814, where he received some private lessons from Baillot, while the institution itself was closed during the occupation by the allied armies. Viotti, hearing the young Robrechts play, was so struck with his magnificent tone and broad style that he undertook to give him finishing lessons, with the approbation of Baillot. This was soon arranged, and for many years the two violinists were inseparable. He even accompanied Viotti in his journey to London, where they were heard more than once in duets. The illustrious Italian had recognized in Robrechts the pupil who most closely adhered to his style of playing, and one of the few who were likely to diffuse it in after years. In 1820 Robrechts returned to Brussels, where he was elected first violin solo to the king, Wil-helm I. It was shortly after this that De Bériot took lessons from him, and he it was who gave him the letter of introduction to Viotti. The same excellent professor also gave instructions to the young Artot. He died in 1860, the last direct representative of the great Viotti school. It will now be seen where De Bériot acquired the first principles of that large, bold, and exquisitely charming style that in after life characterized both his performances and his compositions. II. Arriving at Paris, and believing probably that the classical style of Robrechts, from whom he had had instruction in Brussels, did not lead him swiftly forward enough in the path he would travel, he sought Viotti, as we have related above, and by his advice entered himself in the violin class of the Conservatoire, which was directed by Baillot, an eminent player of the Viotti school, though never a direct pupil of the latter master. De Bériot, however, did not remain long in the class, but applied himself most assiduously to the study of the violin in his own way. This is what Paganini had done, and through this course had been able to form a style so peculiarly his own. It is not probable that De Bériot at this time knew much about Paganini; certainly he had never heard him. Paganini was at first looked on as a mere comet of extraordinary brilliancy, without much soundness or true genius, and many who afterward became his most ardent admirers began with sneering at his pretensions. De Bériot was in later years undoubtedly powerfully influenced by Paganini, but at the time of which we speak the young violinist appears to have been determined to evolve a style and character in art out of his own resources purely. He was carrying out Viot-ti's advice. At this time our young artist was the possessor of a very fine instrument by Giovanni Magini, a celebrated maker of the Brescian school, and a pupil of Gaspar de Salo. Many of the violins of this make are of an excellence hardly inferior to the Strads of the best period, and De Bériot seems to have preferred this violin during the whole of his career, though he afterward owned instruments of the most celebrated makers. Very soon De Bériot made his public appearance in concerts, and was brilliantly successful from the outset. The range of his ambition may be seen from the fact that he had enough confidence in his own genius from the very first to play his own music, and it was conceded to possess great freshness and originality. These early "Airs Varié" consisted of an introduction, a theme, followed by three or four variations, and a brilliant finale. The young artist preceded Paganini in London several years, as he made his first appearance before an English audience in 1826. It was fortunate, perhaps, for De Bériot that such was the case, as it is more than probable that, after the dazzling and electric displays of the Geneose player, the more sedate and simple style which then characterized De Bériot would have failed to please. As it was, he was most cordially admired, and was generally recognized by English connoisseurs, as well as by the general public, as one of the most accomplished players who had ever visited England. The pecuniary results of these concerts were large, and sufficient to relieve De Bériot, who had formerly been rather straitened in his means, from the friction and embarrassment which poverty so often imposes on struggling talent. There was a peculiar charm in De Bériot's style which was permanently characteristic of him, though his technical method did not always remain the same. In addition to very facile execution and a rich, mellow tone, he possessed the most refined taste. His playing impressed people less as that of a great professional violinist than that of the marvelously accomplished amateur, the gentleman of leisure and culture, who performed with the easy, sparkling grace of one who took no thought of whether he played well or not, but did great feats on his instrument because he could not help it. Such was also the characteristic of Mario as a singer, and there seems to have been many features of resemblance between these two fine artists, though moving in different fields of art. After traveling through Europe for several years, giving concerts with great success, he was presented to King Wilhelm of the then united kingdom of the Netherlands. This monarch, though quite ignorant of music, was an enthusiastic patron of art, and, believing that De Bériot was destined to be a great ornament of his native country (for he was born in Belgium, though his parents were from France), bestowed on the artist a pension of two thousand florins a year, and the title of first violin solo to his majesty. But this honor was soon rudely snatched from De Bériot's grasp. The revolution of 1830, which began with the excitement inflamed in Brussels by the performance of Auber's revolutionary opera, "La Muette di Portici," better known as "Masaniello," dissolved the kingdom, and Belgium parted permanently from Holland. It was, perhaps, owing to this apparent misfortune that De Bériot made an acquaintance which culminated in the most interesting episode of his life. He lost his official position at Brussels, but he met Mme. Malibran. III. De Bériot returned to Paris, where Sontag and Malibran were engaged in ardent artistic rivalry, about equally dividing the suffrages of the French public. Mlle. Sontag was a beautiful, fair-haired, blue-eyed woman, in the very flush of her youth, with an expression of exquisite sweetness and mildness. De Bériot became madly enamored of her at once, and pressed his suit with vehemence, but without success. Henrietta Sontag was already the betrothed of Count Rossi, whom she soon afterward married, though the engagement was then a secret. The lady's firm refusal of the young Belgian artist's overtures filled him with a deep melancholy, which he showed so unmistakably that he became an object of solicitude to all his friends. Among those was Mme. Malibran, whose warm sympathies went out to an artist whose talents she admired. Malibran, living apart from her husband, was obliged to be careful in her conduct, to avoid giving food for the scandal of a censorious world, but this did not prevent her from exhibiting the utmost pity and kindness in her demeanor toward De Bériot. The violinist was soothed by this gentle and delightful companion, and it was not long before a fresh affection, even stronger than the other, sprang up in his susceptible nature for the woman whose ardent Spanish frankness found it difficult to conceal the fact that she cherished sentiments different from mere friendship. The splendid career of Mme. Malibran shines almost without a rival in the records of the lyric stage, and her influence on De Bériot, first her lover and afterward her husband, was most marked. Maria Garcia, afterward Mme. Malibran, was one of a family of very eminent musicians. She was trained by her father, Manuel Garcia, who, in addition to being a tenor singer of world-wide reputation, was a composer of some repute, and the greatest teacher of his time. Her sister, Pauline Garcia, in after years became one of the greatest dramatic singers who ever lived, and her brother Manuel also attained considerable eminence as singer, song-composer, and teacher. The whole family were richly dowered with musical gifts, and Maria was probably one of the most versatile and accomplished musical artists of any age. At the age of thirteen she was a professed musician, and at fifteen, when she came with her parents to London, she obtained a complete triumph by accidentally performing in Rossini's "Il Barbiere," to supply the place of a prima donna who was unable to appear. We can not tarry here to enter into the details of her interesting life. Her father having taken her to America, where she fulfilled a number of engagements with an increasing success, she finally espoused there a rich merchant named Malibran, much older than herself. It was a most ill-advised marriage, and, to make matters worse, the merchant failed very soon afterward. Some go so far as to say that he foresaw this catastrophe before he contracted his marriage, in the hope of regaining his fortune by the proceeds of the singer's career. However that may be, a separation took place, and Mme. Malibran returned to Paris in 1827. Her singing in Italian opera was everywhere a source of the most enthusiastic ovation, and, as she rose like a star of the first magnitude in the world of song, so the young De Bériot was fast earning his laurels as one of the greatest violinists of the day. In 1830 an indissoluble friendship united these two kindred spirits, and in 1832 De Bériot, Lablache, the great basso, and Mme. Malibran set out for a tour in Italy, where the latter had operatic engagements at Milan, Rome, and Naples, and where they all three appeared in concerts with the most _éclatant_ success--as may well be imagined. At Bologna, in 1834, it is difficult to say whether the cantatrice, or the violinist, or the inestimable basso, produced the greatest sensation; but her bust in marble was there and then placed under the peristyle of the Opera-house. Henceforward De Bériot never quitted her, and their affection seems to have increased as time wore on. In the year following she appeared in London, where she gave forty representations at Drury Lane, performing in "La Sonnambula," "The Maid of Artois," etc., for which she received the sum of three thousand two hundred pounds. De Bériot would not have made this amount probably with his violin in a year. After a second journey to Italy, in which Mme. Malibran renewed the enthusiasm which she had first created in the public mind, and a series of brilliant concerts which also added to De Bériot's prestige, they returned to Paris to wait for the divorce of Mme. Malibran from her husband, which had been dragging its way through the courts. The much longed for release came in 1836, and the union of hearts and lives, whose sincerity and devotion had more than half condoned its irregularity, was sanctified by the Church. The happiness of the artistic pair was not destined to be long. Only a month afterward Mme. de Bériot, who was then singing in London, had a dangerous fall from her horse. Always passionately fond of activity and exercise, she was an excellent horsewoman, and was somewhat reckless in pursuing her favorite pursuit. The great singer was thrown by an unruly and badly trained animal, and received serious internal injuries. Her indomitable spirit would not, however, permit her to rest. She returned to the Continent after the close of the London season, to give concerts, in spite of her weak health, and gave herself but little chance of recovery, before she returned again to England in September to sing at the Manchester festival, her last triumph, and the brilliant close of a short and very remarkable life. She was seized with sudden and severe illness, and died after nine days of suffering. During this period of trial to De Bériot, he never left the bedside of his dying wife, but devoted himself to ministering to her comfort, except once when she insisted on his fulfilling an important concert engagement. Racked with pain as she was, her greatest anxiety was as to his artistic success, fearing that his mental anguish would prevent his doing full justice to his talents. It is said that her friends informed her of the vociferous applause which greeted his playing, and a happy smile brightened her dying face. She died September 22, 1836, at the age of twenty-eight, but not too soon to have attained one of the most dazzling reputations in the history of the operatic stage. M. de Bériot was almost frantic with grief, for a profound love had joined this sympathetic and well-matched pair, and their private happiness had not been less than their public fame.* * For a full sketch of Mme. Malibran de Beriot's artistic and personal career, the reader is referred to "Great Singers, Malibran to Tietjens," Appletons' "Handy-Volume Series." The news of this calamity to the world of music spread swiftly through the country, and was known in Paris the next day, where M. Mali-bran, the divorced husband of the dead singer, was then living. As the fortune which Mme. de Bériot had made by her art was principally invested in France, and there were certain irregularities in the French law which opened the way for claims of M. Malibran on her estate, De Bériot was obliged to hasten to Paris before his wife's funeral to take out letters of administration, and thus protect the future of the only child left by his wife, young Charles de Bériot, who afterward became a distinguished pianist, though never a professional musician. As the motives of this sudden disappearance were not known, De Bériot was charged with the most callous indifference to his wife. But it is now well known that his action was guided by a most imperative necessity, the welfare of his infant son, all that was left him of the woman he had loved so passionately. The remains of Mme. de Bériot were temporarily interred in the Collegiate Church in Manchester, but they were shortly afterward removed to Laeken, near Brussels. Over her tomb in the Laeken churchyard the magnificent mausoleum surmounted with her statue was erected by De Bériot. The celebrated sculptor Geefs modeled it, and the work is regarded as one of the _chefs-d'ouvre_ of the artist. IV. M. de Bériot did not recover from this shock for more than a year, but remained secluded at his country place near Brussels. It was not till Pauline Garcia (subsequently Mme. Viardot) made her _debut_ in concert in 1837, that De Bériot again appeared in public before one of the most brilliant audiences which had ever assembled in Brussels. In honor of this occasion the Philharmonic Society of that city caused two medals to be struck for M. de Bériot and Mlle. Garcia, the molds of which were instantly destroyed. The violinist gave a series of concerts assisted by the young singer in Belgium, Germany, and France, and returned to Brussels again on the anniversary of their first concert, where they appeared in the Théâtre de la Renaissance before a most crowded and enthusiastic audience. Among the features of the performance which called out the warmest applause was Panseron's grand duo for voice and violin, "Le Songe de Tartini," Mlle. Garcia both singing and playing the piano-forte accompaniment with remarkable skill. Two years afterward Mile. Garcia married M. Viardot, director of the Italian Opera at Paris, and De Bériot espoused Mlle. Huber, daughter of a Viennese magistrate, and ward of Prince Dietrischten Preskau, who had adopted her at an early age. De Bériot became identified with the Royal Conservatory of Music at Brussels in the year 1840, and thenceforward his life was devoted to composition and the direction of the violin school. He gave much time and care to the education of his son Charles, who, in addition to a wonderful resemblance to his mother, appears to have inherited much of the musical endowment of both parents. Had not an ample fortune rendered professional labor unnecessary, it is probable that the son of Malibran and De Bériot would have attained a musical eminence worthy of his lineage; but he is even now celebrated for his admirable performances in private, and his musical evenings are said to be among the most delightful entertainments in Parisian society, gathering the most celebrated artists and _litterateurs_ of the great capital. De Bériot ceased giving public concerts after taking charge of the violin classes of the Brussels Conservatoire, though he continued to charm select audiences in private concerts. Many of his pupils became distinguished players, among whom may be named Monasterio, Standish, Lauterbach, and, chief of all, Henri Vieuxtemps, with whose precocious talents he was so much pleased that he gave him lessons gratuitously. During his life at Brussels, and indeed during the whole of his career, De Bériot enjoyed the friendship and esteem of many of the most distinguished men of the day, among his most intimate friends and admirers having been Prince de Chimay, the Russian Prince Youssoupoff, and King Leopold I, of Belgium. The latter part of his life was not un-laborious in composition, but otherwise of affluent and elegant ease. During the last two years his eyesight failed him, and he gradually became totally blind. He died, April 13, 1870, at the age of sixty-eight, while visiting his friend Prince Youssoupoff at St. Petersburg, of the brain malady which had long been making fatal inroads on his health. In originality as a composer for the violin, probably no one can surpass De Bériot except Paganini, who exerted a remarkable modifying influence on him after he had formed his own first style. His works are full of grace and poetic feeling, and worked out with an intellectual completeness of form which gives him an honorable distinction even among those musicians marked by affluence of ideas. These compositions are likely to be among the violin classics, though some of the violinists of the Spohr school have criticised them for want of depth. He produced seven concertos, eleven _airs variés_, several books of studies, four trios for piano, violin, and 'cello, and, together with Osborne, Thalberg, and other pianists, a number of brilliant duos for piano and violin. His book of instruction for the violin is among the best ever written, though somewhat diffuse in detail. He may be considered the founder of the Franco-Belgian school of violinists, as distinguished from the classical French school founded by Viotti, and illustrated by Rode and Baillot. His early playing was molded entirely in this style, but the dazzling example of Paganini, in course of time, had its effect on him, as he soon adopted the captivating effects of harmonics, arpeggios, pizzicatos, etc., which the Genoese had introduced, though he stopped short of sacrificing his breadth and richness of tone. He combined the Paganini school with that of Viotti, and gave status to a peculiar _genre_ of players, in which may be numbered such great virtuosos as Vieuxtemps and Wieniawski, who successively occupied the same professional place formerly illustrated by De Bériot, and the latter of whom recently died. De Bériot's playing was noted for accuracy of intonation, remarkable deftness and facility in bowing, grace, elegance, and piquancy, though he never succeeded in creating the unbounded enthusiasm which everywhere greeted Paganini. OLE BULL. The Birth and Early Life of Ole Bull at Bergen, Norway.--His Family and Connections.--Surroundings of his Boyhood.--Early Display of his Musical Passion.--Learns the Violin without Aid.--Takes Lessons from an Old Musical Professor, and soon surpasses his Master.--Anecdotes of his Boyhood.--His Father's Opposition to Music as a Profession.--Competes for Admittance to the University at Christiania.--Is consoled for Failure by a Learned Professor.--"Better be a Fiddler than a Preacher."--Becomes Conductor of the Philharmonic Society at Bergen.--His first Musical Journey.--Sees Spohr.--Fights a Duel.--Visit to Paris.--He is reduced to Great Pecuniary Straits.--Strange Adventure with Vidocq, the Great Detective.--First Appearance in Concert in Paris.--Romantic Adventure leading to Acquaintance.--First Appearance in Italy.--Takes the Place of Do Bériot by Great Good Luck.--Ole Bull is most enthusiastically received.--Extended Concert Tour in Italy and France.--His _Début_ and Success in England.--One Hundred and Eighty Concerts in Six Months.--Ole Bull's Gaspar di Salo Violin, and the Circumstances under which he acquired it.--His Answer to the King of Sweden.--First Visit and Great Success in America in 1843.--Attempt to establish a National Theatre.--The Norwegian Colony in Pennsylvania.--Latter Years of Ole Bull.--His Personal Appearance.--Art Characteristics. I. The life of Olaus Bull, or Ole Bull, as he is generally known to the world, was not only of much interest in its relation to music, but singularly full of vicissitude and adventure. He was born at Bergen, Norway, February 5, 1810, of one of the leading families of that resort of shippers, timber-dealers, and fishermen. His father, John Storm Bull, was a pharmaceutist, and among his ancestors he numbered the Norwegian poet Edward Storm, author of the "Sinclair Lay," an epic on the fate of Colonel Sinclair, who with a thousand Hebridean and Scotch pirates, made a descent on the Norwegian coast, thus emulating the Vikingr forefathers of the Norwegians themselves. The peasants slew them to a man by rolling rocks down on them from the fearful pass of the Gulbrands Dahl, and the event has been celebrated both by the poet's lay and the painter's brush. By the mother's side Ole Bull came of excellent Dutch stock, three of his uncles being captains in the army and navy, and another a journalist of repute. A passion for music was inherent in the family, and the editor had occasional quartet parties at his house, where the works of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven were given, much to the delight of young Ole, who was often present at these festive occasions. The romantic and ardent imagination of the boy was fed by the weird legends familiar to every Norwegian nursery. The Scheherezade of this occasion was the boy's own grandmother, who told him with hushed breath the fairy folk-lore of the mysterious Huldra and the Fossikal, or Spirit of the Waterfall, and Ole Bull, with his passion for music, was wont to fancy that the music of the rushing waters was the singing of the violins played by fairy artists. From an early age this Greek passion for personifying all the sights and sounds of nature manifested itself noticeably, but always in some way connected with music. He would fancy even that he could hear the bluebells and violets singing, and perfume and color translated themselves into analogies of sound. This poetic imagination grew with his years and widened with his experience, becoming the cardinal motive of Ole Bull's art life. For a long time the young boy had longed for a violin of his own, and finally his uncle who gave the musical parties presented him with a violin. Ole worked so hard in practicing on his new treasure that he was soon able to take part in the little concerts. There happened to be at this time in Bergen a professor of music named Paulsen, who also played skillfully on the violin. Originally from Denmark, he had come to Bergen on business, but, finding the brandy so good and cheap, and his musical talent so much appreciated, he postponed his departure so long that he became a resident. Paulsen, it was said, would show his perseverance in playing as long as there remained a drop in the brandy bottle before him, when his musical ambition came to a sudden close. When the old man, for he was more than sixty when young Ole Bull first knew him, had worn his clothes into a threadbare state, his friends would supply him with a fresh suit, and at intervals he gave concerts, which every one thought it a religious duty to attend. It was to this Dominie Sampson that Ole Bull was indebted for his earliest musical training; but it seems that the lad made such swift progress that his master soon had nothing further to teach him. Poor old Paulsen was in despair, for in his bright pupil he saw a successful rival, and, fearing that his occupation was gone, he left Bergen for ever. In spite of the boy's most manifest genius for music, his father was bent on making him a clergyman, going almost to the length of forbidding him to practice any longer on the dearly loved fiddle, which had now become a part of himself; but Ole persevered, and played at night softly, in constant fear that the sounds would be heard. But his mother and grandmother sympathized with him, and encouraged his labors of love in spite of the paternal frowns. The author of a recent article in an American magazine relates an interview with Ole Bull, in which the aged artist gave some interesting facts of that early period in his life. His father's assistant, who was musical, occasionally received musical catalogues from Copenhagen, and in one of these the boy first saw the name of Paganini, and reference to his famous "Caprices." One evening his father brought home some Italian musicians, and Ole Bull heard from them all they knew of the great player, who was then turning the musical world topsy-turvy with a fever of excitement. "I went to my grandmother. 'Dear grandmother,' I said, 'can't I get some of Paganini's music?' 'Don't tell any one,' said that dear old woman, 'but I will try and buy a piece of his for you if you are a good child.' And she did try, and I was wild when I got the Paganini music. How difficult it was, but oh, how beautiful! That garden-house was my refuge. Maybe--I am not so sure of it--the cats did not go quite so wild as some four years before. One day--a memorable one--I went to a quartet party. The new leader of our philharmonic was there, a very fine violinist, and he played for us a concerto of Spohr's. I knew it, and was delighted with his reading of it. We had porter to drink in another room, and we all drank it, but before they had finished I went back to the music-room, and commenced trying the Spohr. I was, I suppose, carried away with the music, forgot myself, and they heard me. "'This is impudence,' said the leader. 'And do you think, boy, that you can play it?' 'Yes,' I said, quite honestly. I don't to this day see why I should have told a story about it--do you? 'Now you shall play it,' said somebody. 'Hear him! hear him!' cried my uncle and the rest of them. I did try it, and played the allegro. All of them applauded save the leader, who looked mad. "'You think you can play anything, then?' asked the leader. He took a caprice of Paganini's from a music stand. 'Now you try this,' he said, in a rage. 'I will try it,' I said. 'All right; go ahead.' "Now it just happened that this caprice was my favorite, as the cats well knew. I could play it by memory, and I polished it off. When I did that, they all shouted. The leader before had been so cross and savage, I thought he would just rave now. But he did not say a word. He looked very quiet and composed like. He took the other musicians aside, and I saw that he was talking to them. Not long afterward this violinist left Bergen. I never thought I would see him again. It was in 1840, when I was traveling through Sweden on a concert tour, of a snowy day, that I met a man in a sleigh. It was quite a picture: just near sunset, and the northern lights were shooting in the sky; a man wrapped up in a bear-skin a-tracking along the snow. As he drew up abreast of me and unmuffled himself, he called out to my driver to stop. It was the leader, and he said to me, 'Well, now that you are a celebrated violinist, remember that, when I heard you play Paganini, I predicted that your career would be a remarkable one.' 'You were mistaken,' I cried, jumping up; 'I did not read that Paganini at sight; I had played it before.' 'It makes no difference; good-by,' and he urged on his horse, and in a minute the leader was gone." II. To please his father, Ole Bull studied assiduously to fit himself for the preliminary examination of the university, but he found time also to pursue his beloved music. At the age of eighteen he was entered at the University of Christiania as a candidate for admission, and went to that city somewhat in advance of the day of ordeal to finish his studies. He had hardly entered Christiania before he was seduced to play at a concert, which beginning gave full play to the music-madness beyond all self-restraint. As a result Ole Bull was "plucked," and at first he did not dare write to his father of this downfall of the hopes of the paternal Bull. We are told that he found consolation from one of the very professors who had plucked him. "It's the best thing could have happened to you," said the latter, by way of encouragement. "How so?" inquired Ole. "My dear fellow," was the reply, "do you believe you are a fit man for a curacy in Finmarken or a mission among the Laps? Nature has made you a musician; stick to your violin, and you will never regret it." "But my father, think of his disappointed hopes," said Ole Bull. "Your father will never regret it either," answered the professor. As good fortune ordered for the forlorn youth, his musical friends did not desert him, but secured for him the temporary position of director of the Philharmonic Society of Christiania, the regular incumbent being ill. On the death of the latter shortly afterward, Ole Bull was tendered the place. As the new duties were very well paid, and relieved the youth from dependence on his father's purse, further opposition to his musical career was withdrawn. In the summer of 1829 Ole Bull made a holiday trip into Germany, and heard Dr. Spohr, then director of the opera at Cassel. "From this excursion," said one of Ole Bull's friends, "he returned completely disappointed. He had fancied that a violin-player like Spohr must be a man who, by his personal appearance, by the poetic character of his performance, or by the flash of genius, would enchant and overwhelm his hearers. Instead of this, he found in Spohr a correct teacher, exacting from the young Norwegian the same cool precision which characterized his own performance, and quite unable to appreciate the wild, strange melodies he brought from the land of the North." Spohr was a man of clock-work mechanism in all his methods and theories--young Ole Bull was all poetry, romance, and enthusiasm. At Minden our young violinist met with an adventure not of the pleasantest sort. He had joined a party of students about to give a concert at that place, and was persuaded to take the place of the violinist of the party, who had been rather free in his libations, and became "a victim of the rosy god." Ole Bull was very warmly applauded at the concert, and so much nettled was the student whose failure had made the vacancy for Ole Bull's talent, that the latter received a challenge to fight a duel, which was promptly accepted. Ole Bull proved that he could handle a sword as well as a fiddle-bow, for in a few passes he wounded and disabled his antagonist. He was advised, however, to leave that locality as soon as possible, and so he returned straight to Christiania, "feeling as if the very soil of Europe repelled him" (to use an expression from one of his letters). Ole Bull remained in Norway for two years, but he felt that he must bestir himself, and go to the great centers of musical culture if he would find a proper development and field for the genius which he believed he possessed. His friends at Christiania idolized him, and were loath to let him go, but nothing could stay him, so with pilgrim's staff and violin-case he started on his journey. Scarcely twenty-one years of age, nearly penniless, with no letters of introduction to people who could help him, but with boundless hope and resolution, he first set foot in Paris in 1831. The town was agog over Paganini and Mme. Malibran, and of course the first impulse of the young artist was to hear these great people. One night he returned from hearing Malibran, and went to bed so late that he slept till nearly noon the next day. To his infinite consternation, he discovered that his landlord had decamped during the early morning, taking away the household furniture of any value, and even abstracting the modest trunk which contained Ole Bull's clothes and his violin. After such an overwhelming calamity as this, the Seine seemed the only resource, and the young Norwegian, it is said, had nearly concluded to find relief from his troubles in its turbid and sin-weighted waters. But it happened that the young man had still a little money left, enough to support him for a week, and he concluded to delay the fatal plunge till the last sou was gone. It was while he was slowly enjoying the last dinner which he was able to pay for, that he made the acquaintance of a remarkable character, to whom he confided his misery and his determination to find a tomb in the Seine. III. Said the stranger, after pondering a few moments over the simple but sad story of the young violinist, in whom he had taken a sudden interest: "Well, I will do something for you, if you have courage and five francs." "I have both." "Then go to Frascate's at ten; pass through the first room, enter the second, where they play 'rouge-et-noir,' and when a new _taille_ begins put your five francs on _rouge_, and leave it there." This promise of an adventure revived Ole Bull's drooping spirits, and he was faithful in carrying out his unknown friend's instructions. At the precise hour the tall stalwart figure of the young Norwegian bent over the table at Frascate's, while the game of "rouge-et-noir" was being played. He threw his five francs on red; the card was drawn--red wins, and the five francs were ten. Again Ole Bull bet his ten francs on _rouge_, and again he won; and so he continued, leaving his money on the same color till a considerable amount of money lay before him. By this time the spirit of gaming was thoroughly aroused. Should he leave the money and trust to red turning up again, or withdraw the pile of gold and notes, satisfied with the kindness of Fortune, without further tempting the fickle goddess? He said to a friend afterward, in relating his feelings on this occasion: "I was in a fear--I acted as if possessed by a spirit not my own; no one can understand my feelings who has not been so tried--left alone in the world, as if on the extreme verge of an abyss yawning beneath, and at the same time feeling something within that might merit a saving hand at the last moment." Ole Bull stretched forth to grasp the money, when a white hand covered it before his. He seized the wrist with a fierce grasp, while the owner of it uttered a loud shriek, and loud threats came from the other players, who took sides in the matter, when a dark figure suddenly appeared on the scene, and spoke in a voice whose tones carried with them a magic authority which stilled all tumult at once. "Madame, leave this gold alone!"--and to Ole Bull: "Sir, take your money, if you please." The winner of an amount which had become very considerable lingered a few moments to see the further results of the play, and, much to his disgust, discovered that he would have possessed quite a little fortune had he left his pile undisturbed for one more turn of the cards. He was consoled, however, on arriving at his miserable lodgings, for he could scarcely believe that this stroke of good luck was true, and yet there was something repulsive in it to the fresh, unsophisticated nature of the man. He said in a letter to one of his friends, "What a hideous joy I felt--what a horrible pleasure it was to have saved one's own soul by the spoil of others!" The mysterious stranger who had thus befriended Ole Bull was the great detective Vidocq, whose adventures and exploits had given him a world-wide reputation. Ole Bull never saw him again. In exploring Paris for the purchase of a new violin, he accidentally made the acquaintance of an individual named Labout, who fancied that he had found the secret of the old Cremona varnish, and that, by using it on modern-made violins, the instruments would acquire all the tone and quality of the best old fiddles of the days of the Stradiuarii and Amati. The inventor persuaded Ole Bull to appear at a private concert where he proposed to test his invention, and where the Duke and Duchesse de Montebello were to be present. The Norwegian's playing produced a genuine sensation, and the duke took the young artist under his patronage. The result was that Ole Bull was soon able to give a concert on his own account, which brought him a profit of about twelve hundred francs, and made him talked about among the musical _cognoscenti_ of Paris. Of course every one at the time was Paganini mad, but Ole Bull secured more than a respectful hearing, and opened the way toward getting a solid footing for himself. Among the incidents which occurred to him in Paris about this time was one which had a curiously interesting bearing on his life. Obliged to move from his lodgings on account of the death of the landlord and his wife of cholera, a disease then raging in Paris, Ole Bull was told of a noble but impoverished family who had a room to let on account of the recent death of the only son. The Norwegian violinist presented himself at the somewhat dilapidated mansion of the Comtesse de Faye, and was shown into the presence of three ladies dressed in deepest mourning. The eldest of them, on hearing his errand, haughtily declined the proposition, when the more beautiful of the two girls said, "Look at him, mother!" with such eagerness as to startle the ancient dame. Ole Bull was surprised at this. The old lady put on her spectacles, and, as she riveted her eyes upon him, her countenance changed suddenly. She had found in him such a resemblance to the son she had lost that she at once consented to his residing in her house. Some time afterward Ole Bull became her son indeed, having married the fascinating girl who had exclaimed, "Look at him, mother!" With the little money he had now earned he determined to go to Italy, provided with some letters of introduction; and he gave his first Italian concert at Milan in 1834. Applause was not wanting, but his performance was rather severely criticised in the papers. The following paragraph, reproduced from an Italian musical periodical, published shortly after this concert, probably represents very truly the state of his talent at that period: "M. Ole Bull plays the music of Spohr, May-seder, Pugnani, and others, without knowing the true character of the music he plays, and partly spoils it by adding a color of his own. It is manifest that this color of his own proceeds from an original, poetical, and musical individuality; but of this originality he is himself unconscious. He has not formed himself; in fact, he has no style; he is an uneducated musician. _Whether he is a diamond or not is uncertain; but certain it is that the diamond is not polished_." In a short time Ole Bull discovered that it was necessary to cultivate, more than he had done, his cantabile--this was his weakest point, and a most important one. In Italy he found masters who enabled him to develop this great quality of the violin, and from that moment his career as an artist was established. The next concert of any consequence in which he played was at Bologna under peculiar circumstances; and his reputation as a great violinist appears to date from that concert. De Bériot and Malibran were then idolized at Bologna, and just as Ole Bull arrived in that ancient town, De Bériot was about to fulfill an engagement to play at a concert given by the celebrated Philharmonic Society there. The engagement had been made by the Marquis di Zampieri, between whom and the Belgian artist there was some feeling of mutual aversion, growing out of a misunderstanding and a remark of the marquis which had wounded the susceptibilities of the other. The consequence was that on the day of the concert De Bériot sent a note, saying that he had a sore finger and could not play. Marquis Zampieri was in a quandary, for the time was short. In his embarrassment he took council with Mme. Colbran Rossini, who was then at Bologna with her husband, the illustrious composer. It happened that Ole Bull's lodging was in the same palazzo, and Mme. Rossini had often heard the tones of the young artist's violin in his daily practicing; her curiosity had been greatly aroused about this unknown player, and now was the chance to gratify it. She told the noble _entrepreneur_ that she had discovered a violinist quite worthy of taking De Bériot's place. "Who is it?" inquired the marquis. "I don't know," answered the wife of Rossini. "You are joking, then?" "Not at all, but I am sure there is a genius in town, and he lodges close by here," pointing to Ole Bull's apartment. "Take your net," she added, "and catch your bird before he has flown away." The marquis knocked at Ole Bull's door, and the delighted young artist soon concluded an engagement which insured him an appearance under the best auspices, for Mme. Malibran would sing at the same concert. In a few hours Ole Bull was performing before a distinguished audience in the concert-hall of the Philharmonic Society. Among the pieces he played, all of his own composition, was his "Quartet for One Violin," in which his great skill in double and triple harmonics was admirably shown. Enthusiastic applause greeted the young virtuoso, and he was escorted home by a torchlight procession of eager and noisy admirers. This was Ole Bull's first really great success, though he had played in France and Germany. The Italians, with their quick, generous appreciation, and their demonstrative manner of showing admiration, had given him a reception of such unreserved approval as warmed his artistic ambition to the very core. Mme. Malibran, though annoyed at the mischance which glorified another at the expense of De Bériot, was too just and amiable not to express her hearty congratulations to the young artist, and De Bériot himself, when he was shortly afterward introduced to Ole Bull, treated him with most brotherly kindness and cordiality. Prince and Princess Poniatowsky also sent their cards to the now successful artist, and gave him letters of introduction to distinguished people which wore of great use in his concert tour. His career had now become assured, and the world received him with open arms. The following year, 1835, contributed a catalogue of similar successes in various cities of Italy and France, culminating in a grand concert at Paris in the Opera-house, where the most distinguished musicians of the city gave their warmest applause in recognition of the growing fame and skill of Ole Bull, for he had already begun to illustrate a new field in music by setting the quaint poetic legends and folk-songs of his native land. His specialty as a composer was in the domain of descriptive music, his genius was for the picturesque. His vivid imagination, full of poetic phantasy, and saturated with the heroic traditions and fairy-lore of a race singularly rich in this inheritance from an earlier age, instinctively flowered into art-forms designed to embody this legendary wealth. Ole Bull's violin compositions, though dry and rigorous musicians object to them as lacking in depth of science, as shallow and sensational, are distinctly tone-pictures full of suggestiveness for the imagination. It was this peculiarity which early began to impress his audiences, and gave Ole Bull a separate place by himself in an age of eminent players. IV. In 1836 and 1837 Ole Bull gave one hundred and eighty concerts in England during the space of sixteen months. By this time he had become famous, and a mere announcement sufficed to attract large audiences. Subsequently he visited successively every town of importance in Europe, earning large amounts of money and golden opinions everywhere. For a long time our artist used a fine Guarnerius violin and afterward a Nicholas Amati, which was said to be the finest instrument of this make in the world. But the violin which Ole Bull prized in latter years above all others was the famous Gaspar di Salo with the scroll carved by Benvenuto Cellini. Mr. Barnett Phillips, an American _littérateur_, tells the story of this noble old instrument, as related in Ole Bull's words: "Well, in 1839 I gave sixteen concerts at Vienna, and then Rhehazek was the great violin collector. I saw at his house this violin for the first time. I just went wild over it. 'Will you sell it?' I asked. 'Yes,' was the reply--'for one quarter of all Vienna.' Now Ehehazek was really as poor as a church mouse. Though he had no end of money put out in the most valuable instruments, he never sold any of them unless when forced by hunger. I invited Rhehazek to my concerts. I wanted to buy the violin so much that I made him some tempting offers. One day he said to me, 'See here, Ole Bull, if I do sell the violin, you shall have the preference at four thousand ducats.' 'Agreed,' I cried, though I knew it was a big sum. "That violin came strolling, or playing rather, through my brain for some years. It was in 1841. I was in Leipsic giving concerts. Liszt was there, and so also was Mendelssohn. One day we were all dining together. We were having a splendid time. During the dinner came an immense letter with a seal--an official document. Said Mendelssohn, 'Use no ceremony; open your letter.' 'What an awful seal!' cried Liszt. 'With your permission,' said I, and I opened the letter. It was from Bhehazek's son, for the collector was dead. His father had said that the violin should be offered to me at the price he had mentioned. I told Liszt and Mendelssohn about the price. 'You man from Norway, you are crazy,' said Liszt. 'Unheard of extravagance, which only a fiddler is capable of,' exclaimed Mendelssohn. 'Have you ever played on it? Have you ever tried it?' they both inquired. 'Never,' I answered, 'for it can not be played on at all just now.' "I never was happier than when I felt sure that the prize was mine. Originally the bridge was of boxwood, with two fishes carved on it--that was the zodiacal sign of my birthday, February--which was a good sign. Oh, the good times that violin and I have had! As to its history, Ehehazek told me that in 1809, when Innspruck was taken by the French, the soldiers sacked the town. This violin had been placed in the Innspruck Museum by Cardinal Aldobrandi at the close of the sixteenth century. A French soldier looted it, and sold it to Ehehazek for a trifle. This is the same violin that I played on, when I first came to the United States, in the Park Theatre. That was on Evacuation day, 1843. I went to the Astor House, and made a joke--I am quite capable of doing such things. It was the day when John Bull went out and Ole Bull came in. I remember that at the very first concert one of my strings broke, and I had to work out my piece on the three strings, and it was supposed I did it on purpose." Ole Bull valued this instrument as beyond all price, and justly, for there have been few more famous violins than the Treasury violin of Innspruck, under which name it was known to all the amateurs and collectors of the world. During his various art wanderings through Europe, Ole Bull made many friends among the distinguished men of the world. A dominant pride of person and race, however, always preserved him from the slightest approach to servility. In 1838 he was presented to Carl Johann, king of Sweden, at Stockholm. The king had at that time a great feeling of bitterness against Norway, on account of the obstinate refusal of the people of that country to be united with Sweden under his rule. At the interview with Ole Bull the irate king let fall some sharp expressions relative to his chagrin in the matter. "Sire," said the artist, drawing himself up to the fullness of his magnificent height, and looking sternly at the monarch, "you forget that I have the honor to be a Norwegian." The king was startled by this curt rebuke, and was about to make an angry reply, but smoothed his face and answered, with a laugh: "Well! well! I know you d--d sturdy fellows." Carl Johann afterward bestowed on Ole Bull the order of Gustavus Vasa. V. Ole Bull's first visit to America was in 1843, and the impression produced by his playing was, for manifest causes, even greater than that created in Europe. He was the first really great violinist who had ever come to this country for concert purposes, and there was none other to measure him by. There were no great traditions of players who had preceded him; there were no rivals like Spohr, Paganini, and De Bériot to provoke comparisons. In later years artists discovered that this country was a veritable El Dorado, and regarded an American tour as indispensable to the fulfillment of a well-rounded career. But, when Ole Bull began to play in America, his performances were revelations, to the masses of those that heard him, of the possibilities of the violin. The greatest enthusiasm was manifested everywhere, and, during the three years of this early visit, he gave repeated performances in every city of any note in America. The writer of this little work met Ole Bull a few years ago in Chicago, and heard the artist laughingly say that, when he first entered what was destined to be such a great city, it was little more than a vast mudhole, a good-sized village scattered over a wide space of ground, and with no building of pretension except Fort Dearborn, a stockade fortification. Our artist returned to Europe in 1846, and for five years led a wandering life of concert-giving in England, France, Holland, Germany, Italy, and Spain, adding to his laurels by the recognition everywhere conceded of the increased soundness and musicianly excellence of his playing. It was indeed at this period that Ole Bull attained his best as a virtuoso. He had been previously seduced by the example of Paganini, and in the attempt to master the more strange and remote difficulties of the instrument had often laid himself open to serious criticism. But Ole Bull gradually formed a style of his own which was the outcome of his passion for descriptive and poetic playing, and the correlative of the mode of composition which he adopted. In still later years Ole Bull seems to have returned again to what might be termed claptrap and trickery in his art, and to have desired rather to excite wonder and curiosity than to charm the sensibilities or to satisfy the requirements of sound musical taste. In 1851 Ole Bull returned home with the patriotic purpose of establishing a strictly national theatre. This had been for a long time one of the many dreams which his active imagination had conjured up as a part of his mission. He was one of the earliest of that school of reformers, of whom we have heard so much of late years, that urge the readoption of the old Norse language--or, what is nearest to it now, the Icelandic--as the vehicle of art and literature. In the attempt to dethrone Dansk from its preeminence as the language of the drama, Ole Bull signally failed, and his Norwegian theatre, established at Bergen, proved only an insatiable tax on money-resources earned in other directions. The year succeeding this, Ole Bull again visited the United States, and spent five years here. The return to America did not altogether contemplate the pursuit of music, for there had been for a good while boiling in his brain, among other schemes, the project of a great Scandinavian colony, to be established in Pennsylvania under his auspices. He purchased one hundred and twenty-five thousand acres of land on the Susquehanna, and hundreds of sturdy Norwegians flocked over to the land of milk and honey thus auspiciously opened to them. Timber was felled, ground cleared, churches, cottages, school-houses built, and everything was progressing desirably, when the ambitious colonizer discovered that the parties who sold him the land were swindlers without any rightful claim to it. With the unbusiness-like carelessness of the man of genius, our artist had not investigated the claims of others on the property, and he thus became involved in a most perplexing and expensive suit at law. He attempted to punish the rascals who so nearly ruined him, but they were shielded behind the quips and quirks of the law, and got away scot free. Ole Bull's previously ample means were so heavily drained by this misfortune that he was compelled to take up his violin again and resume concert-giving, for he had incurred heavy pecuniary obligations that must be met. Driven by the most feverish anxiety, he passed from town to town, playing almost every night, till he was stricken down by yellow fever in New Orleans. His powerful frame and sound constitution, fortified by the abstemious habits which had marked his whole life of queer vicissitudes, carried him through this danger safely, and he finally succeeded in honorably fulfilling the responsibility which he had assumed toward his countrymen. For many recent years Ole Bull, when not engaged in concert-giving in Europe or America, has resided at a charming country estate on one of the little islands off the coast of Norway. His numerous farewell concert tours are very well known to the public, and would have won him ridicule, had not the genial presence and brilliant talents of the Norwegian artist been always good for a renewed and no less cordial welcome. He frequently referred to the United States in latter years as the beloved land of his adoption. One striking proof of his preference was, at all events, displayed in his marriage to an American lady, Miss Thorpe, of Wisconsin, in 1870. One son was the fruit of this second marriage, and Mr. and Mrs. Ole Bull divided their time between Norway and the United States. The magnificent presence of Ole Bull, as if of some grand old viking stepped out of his armor and dressed in modern garb, made a most picturesque personality. Those who have seen him can never forget him. The great stature, the massive, stalwart form, as upright as a pine, the white floating locks framing the ruddy face, full of strength and genial humor, lit up by keen blue eyes--all these things made Ole Bull the most striking man in _personnel_ among all the artists who have been familiar to our public. While Ole Bull will not be known in the history of art as a great scientific musician, there can be no doubt that his place as a brilliant and gifted solo player will stand among the very foremost. As a composer he will probably be forgotten, for his compositions, which made up the most of his concert programmes, were so radically interwoven with his executive art as a virtuoso that the two can not be dissevered. No one, unless he should be inspired by the same feelings which animated the breast of Ole Bull, could ever evolve from his musical tone-pictures of Scandinavian myth and folk-lore the weird fascination which his bow struck from the strings. Ole Bull, like Paganini, laid no claim to greatness in interpreting the violin classics. His peculiar title to fame is that of being, aside from brilliancy as a violin virtuoso, the musical exponent of his people and their traditions. He died at Bergen, Norway, on August 18, 1880, in the seventy-first year of his age, and his funeral services made one of the most august and imposing ceremonials held for many a long year in Norway. MUZIO CLEMENTI The Genealogy of the Piano-forte.--The Harpsichord its Immediate Predecessor.--Supposed Invention of the Piano-forte.--Silbermann the First Maker.--Anecdote of Frederick the Great.--The Piano-forte only slowly makes its Way as against the Clavichord and Harpsichord.--Emanuel Bach, the First Composer of Sonatas for the Piano-forte.--His Views of playing on the New Instrument.--Haydn and Mozart as Players.--Muzio Clementi, the Earliest Virtuoso, strictly speaking, as a Pianist.--Born in Rome in 1752.--Scion of an Artistic Family.--First Musical Training.--Rapid Development of his Talents.--Composes Contrapuntal Works at the Age of Fourteen.--Early Studies of the Organ and Harpsichord.--Goes to England to complete his Studies.--Creates an Unequaled Furore in London.--John Christian Bach's Opinion of Clementi.--Clementi's Musical Tour.--His Duel with Mozart before the Emperor.--Tenor of Clementi's Life in England.--Clementi's Pupils.--Trip to St. Petersburg.--Sphor's Anecdote of Him.--Mercantile and Manufacturing Interest in the Piano as Partner of Collard.--The Players and Composers trained under Clementi.--His Composition.--Status as a Player.--Character and Influence as an Artist.--Development of the Technique of the Piano, culminating in Clementi. I. Before touching the life of Clementi, the first of the great virtuosos who may be considered distinctively composers for and players on the pianoforte, it is indispensable to a clear understanding of the theme involved that the reader should turn back for a brief glance at the history of the piano and piano-playing prior to his time. Before the piano-forte came the harpsichord, prior to the latter the spinet, then the virginal, the clavichord, and monochord; before these, the clavieytherium. Before these instruments, which bring us down to modern civilized times, and constitute the genealogy of the piano-forte, we have the dulcimer and psaltery, and all the Egyptian, Grecian, and Roman harps and lyres which were struck with a quill or plectrum. No product of human ingenuity has been the outcome of a steady and systematic growth from age to age by more demonstrable stages than this most remarkable of musical instruments. As it is not the intention to offer an essay on the piano, but only to make clearer the conditions under which a great school of players began to appear, the antiquities of the topic are not necessary to be touched. The modern piano-forte had as its immediate predecessor the harpsichord, the instrument on which the heroines of the novels of Fielding, Smollett, Richardson, and their contemporaries were wont to discourse sweet music, and for which Haydn and Mozart composed some delightful minor works. In the harpsichord the strings were set in vibration by points of quill or hard leather. One of these instruments looked like a piano, only it was provided with two keyboards, one above the other, related to each other as the swell and main keyboards of an organ. At last it occurred to lovers of music that all refinement of musical expression depended on touch, and that whereas a string could be plucked or pulled by machinery in but one way, it could be hit in a hundred ways. It was then that the notion of striking the strings with a hammer found practical use, and by the addition of this element the piano-forte emerged into existence. The idea appears to have occurred to three men early in the eighteenth century, almost simultaneously--Cristofori, an Italian, Marins, a Frenchman, and Schrôter, a German. For years attempts to carry out the new mechanism were so clumsy that good harpsichords on the wrong principle were preferred to poor piano-fortes on the right principle. But the keynote of progress had been struck, and the day of the quill and leather jack was swiftly drawing to a close. A small hammer was made to strike the string, producing a marvelously clear, precise, delicate tone, and the "scratch" with a sound at the end of it was about to be consigned to oblivion for ever and a day. Gottfried Silbermann, an ingenious musical instrument maker, of Freyhurg, Saxony, was the first to give the new principle adequate expression, about the year 1740, and his pianos excited a great deal of curiosity among musicians and scientific men. He followed the mechanism of Cristofori, the Italian, rather than of his own countrymen. Schrôter and his instruments appear to have been ingenious, though Sebastian Bach, who loved his "well-tempered clavichord" (the most powerful instrument of the harpsichord class) too well to be seduced from his allegiance, pronounced them too feeble in tone, a criticism which he retracted in after years. Silbermann experimented and labored with incessant energy for many years, and he had the satisfaction before dying of seeing the piano firmly established in the affection and admiration of the musical world. One of the most authentic of musical anecdotes is that of the visit of John Sebastian Bach and his son to Frederick the Great, at Potsdam, in 1747. The Prussian king was an enthusiast in music, and himself an excellent performer on the flute, of which, as well as of other instruments, he had a large collection. He had for a long time been anxious for a visit from Bach, but that great man was too much enamored of his own quiet musical solitude to run hither and thither at the beck of kings. At last, after much solicitation, he consented, and arrived at Potsdam late in the evening, all dusty and travel-stained. The king was just taking up his flute to play a concerto, when a lackey informed him of the coming of Bach. Frederick was more agitated than he ever had been in the tumult of battle. Crying aloud, "Gentlemen, old Bach is here!" he rushed out to meet the king in a loftier domain than his own, and ushered him into the lordly company of powdered wigs and doublets, of fair dames shining with jewels, satins, and velvets, of courtiers glittering in all the colors of the rainbow. "Old Bach" presented a shabby figure amid all this splendor, but the king cared nothing for that. He was most anxious to hear the grand old musician play on the new Silbermann piano, which was the latest hobby of the Prussian monarch. It is not a matter of wonder that the lovers of the harpsichord and clavichord did not take kindly to the piano-forte at first. The keys needed a greater delicacy of treatment, and the very fact that the instrument required a new style of playing was of course sufficient to relegate the piano to another generation. The art of playing had at the time of the invention of the piano attained a high degree of efficiency. Such musicians as Do-menico Scarlatti in Italy and John Sebastian Bach in Germany had developed a wonderful degree of skill in treating the _clavecin_, or spinet, and the clavichord, and, if we may trust the old accounts, they called out ecstasies of admiration similar to those which the great modern players have excited. With the piano-forte, however, an entirely new style of expression came into existence. The power to play soft or loud at will developed the individual or personal feeling of the player, and new effects were speedily invented and put in practice. The art of playing ceased to be considered from the merely objective point of view, for the richer resources of the piano suggested the indulgence of individuality of expression. It was left to Emanuel Bach to make the first step toward the proper treatment of the piano, and to adapt a style of composition expressly to its requirements, though even he continued to prefer the clavichord. The rigorous, polyphonic style of his illustrious father was succeeded by the lyrical and singing element, which, if fantastic and daring, had a sweet, bright charm very fascinating. He writes in one of his treatises: "Methinks music ought appeal directly to the heart, and in this no performer on the piano-forte will succeed by merely thumping and drumming, or by continual arpeggio playing. During the last few years my chief endeavor has been to play the piano-forte, in spite of its deficiency in sustaining the sound, so much as possible, in a singing manner, and to compose for it accordingly. This is by no means an easy task, if we desire not to leave the ear empty or to disturb the noble simplicity of the cantabile by too much noise." Haydn and Mozart, who composed somewhat for the harpsichord (for until the closing years of the eighteenth century this instrument had not entirely yielded to the growing popularity of the piano-forte), distinguished themselves still more by their treatment of the latter instrument. They closely followed the maxims of Emanuel Bach. They aimed to please the public by sweet melody and agreeable harmony, by spontaneous elegance and cheerfulness, by suave and smooth simplicity. Their practice in writing for the orchestra and for voices modified their piano-forte style both as composers and players, but they never sacrificed that intelligible and simple charm which appeals to the universal heart to the taste for grand, complex, and eccentric effects, which has so dominated the efforts of their successors. Mozart's most distinguished contemporaries bear witness to his excellence as a player, and his great command over the piano-forte, and his own remarks on piano-playing are full of point and suggestion. He asserts "that the performer should possess a quiet and steady hand, with its natural lightness, smoothness, and gliding rapidity so well developed that the passages should flow like oil.... All notes, graces, accents, etc., should be brought out with fitting taste and expression.... In passages [technical figures], some notes may be left to their fate without notice, but is that right? Three things are necessary to a good performer"; and he pointed significantly to his head, his heart, and the tips of his fingers, as symbolical of understanding, sympathy, and technical skill. But it was fated that Clementi should be the Columbus in the domain of piano-forte playing and composition. He was the father of the school of modern piano technique, and by far surpassed all his contemporaries in the boldness, vigor, brilliancy, and variety of his execution, and he is entitled to be called first (in respect of date) of the great piano-forte virtuosos, Clementi wrote solely for this instrument (for his few orchestral works are now dead). The piano, as his sole medium of expression, became a vehicle of great eloquence and power, and his sonatas, as pure types of piano-forte compositions, are unsurpassed, even in this age of exuberant musical fertility. II. Muzio Clementi was born at Rome in the year 1752, and was the son of a silver worker of great skill, who was principally engaged on the execution of the embossed figures and vases employed in the Catholic worship. The boy at a very early age evinced a most decided taste for music, a predilection which delighted his father, himself an enthusiastic amateur, and caused him to bestow the utmost pains on the cultivation of the child's talents. The boy's first master was Buroni, choir-master a tone of the churches, and a relation of the family. Later, young Clementi took lessons in thorough bass from an eminent organist, Condicelli, and after a couple of years' application he was thought sufficiently advanced to apply for the position of organist, which he obtained, his age then being barely nine. He prosecuted his studies with great zeal under the ablest masters, and his genius for composition as well as for playing displayed a rapid development. By the time Clementi had attained the age of fourteen he had composed several contrapuntal works of considerable merit, one of which, a mass for four voices and chorus, gained great applause from the musicians and public of Rome. During his studies of counterpoint and the organ Clementi never neglected his harpsichord, on which he achieved remarkable proficiency, for the piano-forte at this time, though gradually coming into use, was looked on rather as a curiosity than an instrument of practical value. The turning-point of Clementi's life occurred in 1767, through his acquaintance with an English gentleman of wealth, Mr. Peter Beckford, who evinced a deep interest in the young musician's career. After much opposition Mr. Beckford persuaded the elder Clementi to intrust his son's further musical education to his care. The country seat of Mr. Beckford was in Dorsetshire, England, and here, by the aid of a fine library, social surroundings of the most favorable kind, and indomitable energy on his own part, he speedily made himself an adept in the English language and literature. The talents of Clementi made him almost an Admirable Crichton, for it is asserted that, in addition to the most severe musical studies, he made himself in a few years a proficient in the principal modern languages, in Greek and Latin, and in the whole circle of the belles-lettres. His studies in his own art were principally based on the works of Corelli, Alexander Scarlatti, Handel's harpsichord and organ music, and on the sonatas of Paradies, a Neapolitan composer and teacher, who enjoyed high repute in London for many years. Until 1770 Clementi spent his time secluded at his patron's country seat, and then fully equipped with musical knowledge, and with an unequaled command of the instrument, he burst on the town as pianist and composer. He had already written at this time his "Opus No. 2," which established a new era for sonata compositions, and is recognized to-day as the basis for all modern works of this class. Clementi's attainments were so phenomenal that he carried everything before him in London, and met with a success so brilliant as to be almost without precedent. Socially and musically he was one of the idols of the hour, and the great Handel himself had not met with as much adulation. Apropos of the great sonata above mentioned, with which the Clementi furore began in London, it is said that John Christian Bach, son of Sebastian, one of the greatest executants of the time, confessed his inability to do it justice, and Schrôter, one of those sharing the honor of the invention of the piano-forte, and a leading musician of his age, said, "Only the devil and Clementi could play it." For seven years the subject of our sketch poured forth a succession of brilliant works, continually gave concerts, and in addition acted as conductor of the Italian opera, a life sufficiently busy for the most ambitious man. In 1780 Clementi began his musical travels, and gave the first concerts of his tour at Paris, whither he was accompanied by the great singer Pacchierotti. He was received with the greatest favor by the queen, Marie Antoinette, and the court, and made the acquaintance of Gluck, who warmly admired the brilliant player who had so completely revolutionized the style of execution on instruments with a keyboard. Here he also met Viotti, the great violinist, and played a _duo concertante_ with the latter, expressly composed for the occasion. Clementi was delighted with the almost frantic enthusiasm of the French, so different from the more temperate approbation of the English. He was wont to say jocosely that he hardly knew himself to be the same man. From Paris Clementi passed, via Strasburg and Munich, where he was most cordially welcomed, to Vienna, the then musical Mecca of Europe, for it contained two world-famed men--"Papa" Haydn and the young prodigy Mozart. The Emperor Joseph II, a great lover of music, could not let the opportunity slip, for he now had a chance to determine which was the greater player, his own pet Mozart or the Anglo-Italian stranger whose fame as an executant had risen to such dimensions. So the two musicians fought a musical duel, in which they played at sight the most difficult works, and improvised on themes selected by the imperial arbiter. The victory was left undecided, though Mozart, who disliked the Italians, spoke afterward of Clementi, in a tone at variance with his usual gentleness, as "a mere mechanician, without a pennyworth of feeling or taste." Clementi was more generous, for he couldn't say too much of Mozart's "singing touch and exquisite taste," and dated from this meeting a considerable difference in his own style of play. With the exception of occasional concert tours to Paris, Clementi devoted all his time up to 1802 in England, busy as conductor, composer, virtuoso, and teacher. In the latter capacity he was unrivaled, and pupils came to him from all parts of Europe. Among these pupils were John B. Cramer and John Field, names celebrated in music. In 1802 Clementi took the brilliant young Irishman, John Field, to St. Petersburg on a musical tour, where both master and pupil were received with unbounded enthusiasm, and where the latter remained in affluent circumstances, having married a Russian lady of rank and wealth. Field was idolized by the Russians, and they claim his compositions as belonging to their music. He is now distinctively remembered as the inventor of that beautiful form of musical writing, the nocturne. Spohr, the violinist, met Clementi and Field at the Russian capital, and gives the following amusing account in his "Autobiography": "Clementi, a man in his best years, of an extremely lively disposition and very engaging manners, liked much to converse with me, and often invited me after dinner to play at billiards. In the evening I sometimes accompanied him to his large piano-forte warehouse, where Field was often obliged to play for hours to display instruments to the best advantage to purchasers. I have still in recollection the figure of the pale overgrown youth, whom I have never since seen. When Field, who had outgrown his clothes, placed himself at the piano, stretching out his arms over the keyboard, so that the sleeves shrank up nearly to the elbow, his whole figure appeared awkward and stiff in the highest degree. But, as soon as his touching instrumentation began, everything else was forgotten, and one became all ear. Unfortunately I could not express my emotion and thankfulness to the young man otherwise than by the pressure of the hand, for he spoke no language but his mother tongue. Even at that time many anecdotes of the remarkable avarice of the rich Clementi were related, which had greatly increased in later years when I again met him in London. It was generally reported that Field was kept on very short allowance by his master, and was obliged to pay for the good fortune of having his instruction by many privations. I myself experienced a little sample of Clementi's truly Italian parsimony, for one day I found teacher and pupil with upturned sleeves, engaged at the wash-tub, washing their stockings and other linen. They did not suffer themselves to be disturbed, and Clementi advised me to do the same, as washing in St. Petersburg was not only very expensive, but the linen suffered much from the method used in washing it." From the above it may be suspected that Clementi was not only player and composer, but man of business. He had been very successful in money-making in England from the start, and it was not many years before he accumulated a sufficient amount to buy an interest in the firm of Longman & Broderip, "manufacturers of musical instruments, and music sellers to their majesties." The failure of the house, by which he sustained heavy losses, induced him to try his hand alone at music publishing and piano-forte manufacturing; and his great success (the firm is still extant in the person of his partner's son, Mr. Col-lard) proves he was an exception to the majority of artists, who rarely possess business talents. Clementi met many reverses in his commercial career. In March, 1807, the warehouses occupied by Clementi's new firm were destroyed by fire, entailing a loss of about forty thousand pounds. But the man's courage was indomitable, and he retrieved his misfortunes with characteristic pluck and cheerfulness. After 1810 he gave up playing in public, and devoted himself to composing and the conduct of his piano-forte business, which became very large and valuable. Himself an inventor and mechanician, he made many important improvements in the construction of the piano, some of which have never been superseded. III. Clementi numbers among his pupils more great names in the art of piano-forte playing than any other great master. This is partly owing to the fact, it may be, that he began his career in the infancy of the piano-forte as an instrument, and was the first to establish a solid basis for the technique of the instrument. In addition to John Field and J. B. Cramer, previously mentioned, were Zeuner, Dussek, Alex. Kleugel, Ludwig Berger, Kalkbrenner, Charles Mayer, and Meyerbeer. These musicians not only added richly to the literature of the piano-forte, but were splendid exponents of its powers as virtuosos. But mere artistic fame is transitory, and it is in Clementi's contributions to the permanent history of piano-forte playing that we must find his chief claim on the admiration of posterity. He composed not a few works for the orchestra, and transcriptions of opera, but these have now receded to the lumber closet. The works which live are his piano concertos, of which about sixty were written for the piano alone, and the remainder as duets or trios; and, _par excellence_, his "Gradus ad Parnassum," a superb series of one hundred studies, upon which even to-day the solid art of piano-forte playing rests. Clementi's works must always remain indispensable to the pianist, and, in spite of the fact that piano technique has made such advances during the last half century, there are several of Clementi's sonatas which tax the utmost skill of such players as Liszt and Von Billow, to whom all ordinary difficulty is merely a plaything. As Viotti was the father of modern violin-playing, Clementi may be considered the father of virtuosoism on the piano-forte, and he has left an indelible mark, both mechanically and spiritually, on all that pertains to piano-playing. Compared with Clementi's style in piano-forte composition, that of Haydn and Mozart appears poor and thin. Haydn and Mozart regarded execution as merely the vehicle of ideas, and valued technical brilliancy less than musical substance. Clementi, on the other hand, led the way for that class of compositions which pay large attention to manual skill. His works can not be said to burn with that sacred fire which inspires men of the highest genius, but they are magnificently modeled for the display of technical execution, brilliancy of effect, and virile force of expression. The great Beethoven, who composed the greatest works for the piano-forte, as also for the orchestra, had a most exalted estimate of Clementi, and never wearied of playing his music and sounding his praises. No musician has probably exerted more far-reaching effects in this department of his art than Clementi, though he can not be called a man of the highest genius, for this lofty attribute supposes great creative imagination and rich resources of thought, as well as knowledge, experience, skill, and transcendent aptitude for a single instrument. As far as a musician of such unique and colossal genius as Beethoven could be influenced by preceding or contemporary artists, his style as a piano-forte player and composer was more modified by Clementi than by any other. He was wont to say that no one could play till he knew Clementi by heart. He adopted many of the peculiar figures and combinations original with Clementi, though his musical mentality, incomparably richer and greater than that of the other, transfigured them into a new life. That Beethoven found novel means of expression to satisfy the importunate demands of his musical conceptions; that his piano works display a greater polyphony, stronger contrasts, bolder and richer rhythm, broader design and execution, by no means impair the value of his obligations to Clementi, obligations which the most arrogant and self-centered of men freely allowed. Beethoven's fancy was penetrated by all the qualities of tone which distinguish the string, reed, and brass instruments; his imagination shot through and through with orchestral color; and he succeeded in saturating his sonatas with these rich effects without sacrificing the specialty of the piano-forte. But in general style and technique he is distinctly a follower of Clementi. The most unique and splendid personality in music has thus been singled out as furnishing a vivid illustration of the influence exerted by Clementi in the department of the piano-forte. Clementi lived to the age of eighty, and spent the last twelve years of his life in London uninterruptedly, his growing feebleness preventing him from taking his usual musical trips to the Continent. He retained his characteristic energy and freshness of mind to the last, and was held in the highest honor by the great circle of artists who had centered in London, for he was the musical patriarch in England, as Cherubini was in France at a little later date. He was married three times, had children in his old age, and only a few months before his death, Moscheles records in his diary, he was able to arouse the greatest enthusiasm by the vigor and brilliancy of his playing, in spite of his enfeebled physical powers. He died March 9, 1832, at Eversham, and his funeral gathered a great convocation of musical celebrities. His life covered an immense arch in the history of music. At his birth Handel was alive; at his death Beethoven, Schubert, and Weber had found refuge in the grave from the ingratitude of a contemporary public. He began his career by practicing Scarlatti's harpsichord sonatas; he lived to be acquainted with the finest piano-forte works of all time. When he first used the piano, he practiced on the imperfect and feeble Silbermann instrument. When he died, the magnificent instruments of Erard, Broadwood, and Collard, to the latter of which his own mechanical and musical knowledge had contributed much, were in common vogue. Such was the career of Muzio Clementi, the father of piano-forte virtuosos. Had he lived later, he might have been far eclipsed by the great players who have since adorned the art of music. As Goethe says, through the mouthpiece of Wil-helm. Meister: "The narrowest man may be complete while he moves within the bounds of his own capacity and acquirements, but even fine qualities become clouded and destroyed if this indispensable proportion is exceeded. This unwholesome excess, however, will begin to appear frequently, for who can suffice to the swift progress and increasing requirements of the ever-soaring present time?" But, measured by his own day and age, Clementi deserves the pedestal on which musical criticism has placed him. MOSCHELES. Clementi and Mozart as Points of Departure in Piano-forte Playing.--Moscheles the most Brilliant Climax reached by the Viennese School.--His Child-Life at Prague.--Extraordinary Precocity.--Goes to Vienna as the Pupil of Salieri and Albrechts-burger.--Acquaintance with Beethoven.--Moscheles is honored with a Commission to make a Piano Transcription of Beethoven's "Fidelio."--His Intercourse with the Great Man.--Concert Tour.--Arrival in Paris.--The Artistic Circle into which he is received.--Pictures of Art-Life in Paris.--London and its Musical Celebrities.--Career as a Wandering Virtuoso.--Felix Mendelssohn becomes his Pupil.--The Mendelssohn Family.--Moscheles's Marriage to a Hamburg Lady.--Settles in London.--His Life as Teacher, Player, and Composer.--Eminent Place taken by Moscheles among the Musicians of his Age.--His Efforts soothe the Sufferings of Beethoven's Deathbed.--Friendship for Mendelssohn.--Moscheles becomes connected with the Leipzig Conservatorium.--Death in 1870.--Moscheles as Pianist and Composer.--Sympathy with the Old as against the New School of the Piano.--His Powerful Influence on the Musical Culture and Tendencies of his Age. I. The rivalry of Clementi and Mozart as exponents of piano-forte playing in their day was continued in their schools of performance. The original cause of this difference was largely based on the character of the instruments on which they played. Clementi used the English piano-forte, and Mozart the Viennese, and the style of execution was no less the outcome of the mechanical difference between the two vehicles of expression than the result of personal idiosyncrasies. The English instrument was speedily developed into the production of a richer, fuller, and more sonorous tone, while the Viennese piano-forte continued for a long time to be distinguished by its light, thin, sweet quality of sound, and an action so sensitive that the slightest pressure produced a sound from the key, so that the term "breathing on the keys" became a current expression, Clementi's piano favored a bold, masculine, brilliant style of playing, while the Viennese piano led to a rapid, fluent, delicate treatment. The former player founded the school which has culminated, through a series of great players, in the magnificent virtuosoism of Franz Liszt, while the Vienna school has no nearer representative than Tgnaz Moscheles, one of the greatest players in the history of the pianoforte, who, whether judged by his gifts as a concert performer, a composer for the instrument which he so brilliantly adorned, or from his social and intellectual prominence, must be set apart as peculiarly a representative man. There were other eminent players, such as Hummel, Czerny, and Herz, contemporary with Moscheles and belonging to the same _genre_ as a pianist, but these names do not stand forth with the same clear and permanent luster in their relation to the musical art. Ignaz Moscheles was born at Prague, May 30, 1794, his parents being well-to-do people of Hebrew stock. His father, a cloth merchant, was passionately fond of music, and was accustomed to say, "One of my children must become a thoroughbred musician." Ignaz was soon selected as the one on whom the experiment should be made, and the rapid progress he made justified the accident of choice, for all of the family possessed some musical talent. The boy progressed too fast, for he attempted at the age of seven to play Beethoven's "Sonata Pathétique." He was traveling on the wrong road, attempting what he could in no way attain, when his father took him to Dionys Weber, one of the best teachers of the time. "I come," said the parent, "to you as our first musician, for sincere truth instead of empty flattery. I want to find out from you if my boy has such genuine talent that you can make a really good musician of him." "Naturally, I was called on to play," says Moscheles, in his "Autobiography," "and I was bungler enough to do it with some conceit. My mother having decked me out in my Sunday best, I played my best piece, Beethoven's 'Sonata Pathétique.' But what was my astonishment on finding that I was neither interrupted by bravos nor overwhelmed by praise! and what were my feelings when Dionys Weber finally delivered himself thus: "'Candidly speaking, the boy has talent, but is on the wrong road, for he makes bosh of great works which he does not understand, and to which he is utterly unequal. I could make something of him if you could hand him over to me for three years, and follow out my plan to the letter. The first year he must play nothing but Mozart, the second Clementi, and the third Bach; but only that: not a note as yet of Beethoven; and if he persists in using the circulating libraries, I have done with him for ever.'" This scheme was followed out strictly, and Moscheles at the age of fourteen had acquired a sufficient mastery of the piano to give a concert at Prague with brilliant success. The young musician continued to pursue his studies assiduously under Weber's direction until his father's death, and his mother then determined to yield to his oft-repeated wish to try his musical fortunes in a larger field, and win his own way in life. So young Ignaz, little more than a child, went to Vienna, where he was warmly received in the hospitable musical circles of that capital. He took lessons in counterpoint from Albrechts-burger, and in composition from Salieri, and in all ways indicated that serene, tireless industry which marked his whole after-career. Moscheles spent eight years at Vienna, continually growing in estimation as artist and beginning to make his mark as a composer. His own reminiscences of the brilliant and gifted men who clustered in Vienna are very pleasant, but it is to Beethoven that his admiration specially went forth. The great master liked his young disciple much, and proposed to him that he should set the numbers of "Fidelio" for the piano, a task which, it is needless to say, was gladly accepted. Moscheles tells us one morning, when he went to see Beethoven, he found him lying in bed. "He happened to be in remarkably good spirits, jumped up immediately, and placed himself, just as he was, at the window looking out on the Schotten-bastei, with the view of examining the 'Fidelio' numbers which I had arranged. Naturally, a crowd of street-boys collected under the window, when he roared out, 'Now, what do these confounded boys want?' I laughed and pointed to his own figure. 'Yes, yes! You are quite right,' he said, and hastily put on a dressing-gown." Moscheles's associations were even at this early period with all the foremost people of the age, and he was cordially welcome in every circle. He composed a good deal, besides giving concerts and playing in private select circles, and was recognized as being the equal of Hummel, who had hitherto been accepted as the great piano virtuoso of Vienna. The two were very good friends in spite of their rivalry. They, as well as all the Viennese musicians, were bound together by a common tie, very well expressed in the saying of Moscheles: "We musicians, whatever we be, are mere satellites of the great Beethoven, the dazzling luminary." II. In the autumn of 1816 Moscheles bade a sorrowful adieu to the imperial city, where he had spent so many happy years, to undertake an extended concert tour, armed with letters of introduction to all the courts of Europe from Prince Lichtenstein, Countess Hardigg, and other influential admirers. He proceeded directly to Leipzig, where he was warmly received by the musical fraternity of that city, especially by the Wiecks, of whose daughter Clara he speaks in highly eulogistic words. He played his own compositions, which already began to show that serene and finished beauty so characteristic of his after-writings. À similar success greeted him at Dresden, where, among other concerts, he gave one before the court. Of this entertainment Moscheles writes: "The court actually dined (this barbarous custom still prevails), and the royal household listened in the galleries, while I and the court band made music to them, and barbarous it really was; but, in regard to truth, I must add that royalty and also the lackeys kept as quiet as possible, and the former congratulated me, and actually condescended to admit me to friendly conversation." He continued his concerts in Munich, Augsburg, Amsterdam, Brussels, and other cities, creating the most genuine admiration wherever he went, and finally reached Paris in December, 1817. Here our young artist was promptly received in the extraordinary world of musicians, artists, authors, wits, and social celebrities which then, as now, made Paris so delightful for those possessing the countersign of admission. Baillot, the violinist, gave a private concert in his honor, in which he in company with Spohr played before an audience made up of such artists and celebrities as Cherubini, Auber, Herold, Adam, Lesueur, Pacini, Paer, Habeneck, Plantade, Blangini, La-font, Pleyel, Ivan Muller, Viotti, Pellegrini, Boïeldieu, Schlesinger, Manuel Garcia, and others. These areopagites of music set the mighty seal of their approval on Moscheles's genius. He was invited everywhere, to dinners, balls, and _fêtes_, and there was no _salon_ in Paris so high and exclusive which did not feel itself honored by his presence. His public concerts were thronged with the best and most critical audiences, and he by no means shone the less that he appeared in conjunction with other distinguished artists. He often entertained parties of jovial artists at his lodgings, and music, punch, and supper enlivened the night till 3 A.M. Whoever could play or sing was present, and good music alternated with amusing tricks played on the respective instruments. "Altogether," he writes, "it is a happy, merry time! Certainly, at the last state dinner of the Rothschilds, in the presence of such notabilities as Canning or Narischkin, I was obliged to keep rather in the background. The invitation to a large, brilliant, but ceremonious ball appears a very questionable way of showing me attention. The drive up, the endless queue of carriages, wearied me, and at last I got out and walked. There, too, I found little pleasure." On the other hand, he praises the performance of Gluck's opera at the house of the Erards. The "concerts spirituels" delight him. "Who would not," he says, "envy me this enjoyment? These concerts justly enjoy a world-wide celebrity. There I listen with the most solemn earnestness." On the other hand, there are cheerful episodes, and jovial dinners with Carl Blum and Schlesinger, at the Restaurant Lemelle. "Yesterday," he writes, "Schlesinger quizzed me about my slowness in eating, and went so far as to make the stupid bet with me, that he would demolish three dozen oysters while I ate one dozen, and he was quite right. On perceiving, however, that he was on the point of winning, I took to making faces, made him laugh so heartily that he couldn't go on eating; thus I won my bet." We find the following notice on the 20th of March: "I spent the evening at Ciceri's, son-in-law of Isabey, the famous painter, where I was introduced to one of the most interesting circles of artists. In the first room were assembled the most famous painters, engaged in drawing several things for their own amusement. In the midst of these was Cherubini, also drawing. I had the honor, like every one newly introduced, of having my portrait taken in caricature. Bégasse took me in hand, and succeeded well. In an adjoining room were musicians and actors, among them Ponchard, Le-vasseur, Dugazon, Panseron, Mlle, de Munck, and Mme. Livère, of the Théâtre Français. The most interesting of their performances, which I attended merely as a listener, was a vocal quartet by Cherubini, performed under his direction. Later in the evening, the whole party armed itself with larger or smaller 'mirlitons' (reed-pipe whistles), and on these small monotonous instruments, sometimes made of sugar, they played, after the fashion of Russian horn music, the overture to 'Demophon,' two frying-pans representing the drums." On the 27th of March this "mirliton" concert was repeated at Ciceri's, and on this occasion Cherubini took an active part. Moscheles relates: "Horace Vernet entertained us with his ventriloquizing powers, M. Salmon with his imitation of a horn, and Dugazon actually with a 'mirliton' solo. Lafont and I represented the classical music, which, after all, held, its own." It was hard to tear himself from these gayeties; but he had not visited London, and he was anxious to make himself known at a musical capital inferior to none in Europe. He little thought that in London he was destined to find his second home. He plunged into the gayeties and enjoyments of the English capital with no less zest than he had already experienced in Paris. He found such great players as J. B. Cramer, Ferdinand Ries, Kalkbrenner, and Clementi in the field; but our young artist did not altogether lose by comparison. Among other distinguished musicians, Moscheles also met Kiesewetter, the violinist, the great singers Mara and Catalani, and Dragonetti, the greatest of double-bass players. Dragonetti was a most eccentric man, and of him Moscheles says: "In his _salon_ in Liecester Square he has collected a large number of various kinds of dolls, among them a negress. When visitors are announced, he politely receives them, and says that this or that young lady will make room for them; he also asks his intimate acquaintances whether his favorite dolls look better or worse since their last visit, and similar absurdities. He is a terrible snuff-taker, helping himself out of a gigantic snuff-box, and he has an immense and varied collection of snuff-boxes. The most curious part of him is his language, a regular jargon, in which there is a mixture of his native Bergamese, bad French, and still worse English." During the several months of this first English visit Moscheles made many acquaintances which were destined to ripen into solid friendships, and gave many concerts in which the most distinguished artists, vocal and instrumental, participated. Altogether, he appears to have been delighted with the London art and social world little less than he had been with that of Paris. He returned, however, to the latter city in August, and again became a prominent figure in the most fashionable and admired concerts. During this visit to Paris he writes in his diary: "Young Erard took me to-day to his piano-forte factory to try the new invention of his uncle Sebastian. This quicker action of the hammer seems to me so important that I prophesy a new era in the manufacture of piano-fortes. I still complain of some heaviness in the touch, and, therefore, prefer to play on Pape's and Petzold's instruments (Viennese pianos). I admired the Erards, but am not thoroughly satisfied, and urged him to make new improvements." From 1815, when Moscheles began his career as a virtuoso in the production of his "Variationen fiber den Alexandermarsch," to 1826, he established a great reputation as a virtuoso and composer for the piano-forte. Though he played his own works at concerts with marked approbation, he also became distinguished as an interpreter of Mozart and Beethoven, for whom he had a reverential admiration. Moscheles often records his own sense of insignificance by the side of these Titans of music. A delightful characteristic of the man was his modesty about himself, and his genial appreciation of other musicians. Nowhere do those performers who, for example, came in active rivalry with himself, receive more cordial and unalloyed praise. Moscheles was entirely devoid of that littleness which finds vent in envy and jealousy, and was as frank and sympathetic in his estimate of others as he was ambitious and industrious in the development of his own great talents. In 1824 he gave piano-forte lessons to Felix Mendelssohn, then a youth of fifteen, at Berlin. He wrote of the Mendelssohn family: "This is a family the like of which I have never known. Felix, a boy of fifteen, is a phenomenon. What are all prodigies as compared with him? Gifted children, but nothing else. This Felix Mendelssohn is already a mature artist, and yet but fifteen years old! We at once settled down together for several hours, for I was obliged to play a great deal, when really I wanted to hear him and see his compositions, for Felix had to show me a concerto in C minor, a double concerto, and several motets; and all so full of genius, and at the same time so correct and thorough! His elder sister Fanny, also extraordinarily gifted, played by heart, and with admirable precision, fugues and passacailles by Bach. I think one may well call her a thorough 'Mus. Doc' (guter Musiker). Both parents give one the impression of being people of the highest refinement. They are far from overrating their children's talents; in fact, they are anxious about Felix's future, and to know whether his gift will prove sufficient to lead to a noble and truly great career. Will he not, like so many other brilliant children, suddenly collapse? I asserted my conscientious conviction that Felix would ultimately become a great master, that I had not the slightest doubt of his genius; but again and again I had to insist on my opinion before they believed me. These two are not specimens of the genus prodigy-parents (Wunderkinds Eltern), such as I most frequently endure." Moscheles soon came to the conclusion that to give Felix regular lessons was useless. Only a little hint from time to time was necessary for the marvelous youth, who had already begun to compose works which excited Moscheles's deepest admiration. III. In January, 1825, Moscheles, in the course of his musical wanderings, gave several concerts at Hamburg. Among the crowd of listeners who came to hear the great pianist was Charlotte Embden, the daughter of an excellent Hamburg family. She was enchanted by the playing of Moscheles, and, when she accidentally made the acquaintance of the performer at the house of a mutual acquaintance, the couple quickly became enamored of each other. A brief engagement of less than a month was followed by marriage, and so Moscheles entered into a relation singularly felicitous in all the elements which make domestic life most blessed. After a brief tour in the Rhenish cities, and a visit to Paris, Moscheles proceeded to London, where he had determined to make his home, for in no country had such genuine and unaffected cordiality boon shown him, and nowhere were the rewards of musical talent, whether as teacher, virtuoso, or composer, more satisfying to the man of high ambition. He made London his home for twenty years, and during this time became one of the most prominent figures in the art circles of that great city. Moscheles's mental accomplishments and singular geniality of nature contributed, with his very great abilities as a musician, to give him a position attained by but few artists. He gave lessons to none but the most talented pupils, and his services were sought by the most wealthy families of the English capital, though the ability to pay great prices was by no means a passport to the good graces of Moscheles. Among the pupils who early came under the charge of this great master was Thalberg, who even then was a brilliant player, but found in the exact knowledge and great experience of Moscheles that which gave the crowning finish to his style. Busy in teaching, composing, and public performance; busy in responding to the almost incessant demands made by social necessity on one who was not only intimate in the best circles of London society, but the center to whom all foreign artists of merit gravitated instantly they arrived in London; busy in confidential correspondence with all the great musicians of Europe, who discussed with the genial and sympathetic Moscheles all their plans and aspirations, and to whom they turned in their moments of trouble, he was indeed a busy man; and had it not been for the loving labors of his wife, who was his secretary, his musical copyist, and his assistant in a myriad of ways, he would have been unequal to his burden. Moscheles's diary tells the story of a man whose life, though one of tireless industry, was singularly serene and happy, and without those salient accidents and vicissitudes which make up the material of a picturesque life. He made almost yearly tours to the Continent for concert-giving purposes, and kept his friendship with the great composers of the Continent green by personal contact. Beethoven was the god of his musical idolatry, and his pilgrimage to Vienna was always delightful to him. When Beethoven, in the early part of 1827, was in dire distress from poverty, just before his death, it was to Moscheles that he applied for assistance; and it was this generous friend who promptly arranged the concert with the Philharmonic Society by which one hundred pounds sterling was raised to alleviate the dying moments of the great man whom his own countrymen would have let starve, even as they had allowed Schubert and Mozart to suffer the direst want on their deathbeds. An adequate record of Moscheles's life during the twenty years of his London career would be a pretty full record of all matters of musical interest occurring during this time. In 1832 he was made one of the directors of the Philharmonic Society, and in 1837-'38 he conducted with signal success Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony." When Sir Henry Bishop resigned, in 1845, Moscheles was made the conductor, and thereafter wielded the baton over this orchestra, the noblest in England. Among the yearly pleasures to which our pianist looked forward with the greatest interest were the visits of Mendelssohn, between whom and Moscheles there was the most tender friendship. Whole pages of his diary are given up to an account of Mendelssohn's doings, and to the most enthusiastic expression of his love and admiration for one of the greatest musical geniuses of modern times. We can not attempt to follow up the placid and gentle current of Moscheles's life, flowing on to ever-increasing honor and usefulness, but hasten to the period when he left England in 1846, to become associated with Mendelssohn in the conduct of the Leipzig Conservatorium, then recently organized. Mendelssohn lived but a few months after achieving this great monument of musical education, but Moscheles remained connected with it for nearly twenty years, and to his great zeal, knowledge, and executive skill is due in large measure the solid success of the institution. Mendelssohn's early death, while yet in the very prime of creative genius, was a stunning blow to Moscheles; more so, perhaps, than would have occurred from the loss of any one except his beloved wife, the mother of his five children. Our musician died himself, in Leipzig, March 10, 1870, and his passage from this world was as serene and quiet as his passage through had been. He lived to see his daughters married to men of high worth and position, and his sons substantially placed in life. Perhaps few distinguished musicians have lived a life of such monotonous happiness, unmarked by those events which, while they give romantic interest to a career, make the gift at the expense of so much personal misery. IV. As a pianist Moscheles was distinguished by an incisive, brilliant touch, wonderfully clear, precise phrasing, and close attention to the careful accentuation of every phase of the composer's meaning. Of the younger composers for the piano, Mendelssohn and Schumann were the only ones with whose works he had any sympathy, though he often complains of the latter on account of his mysticism. His intelligence had as much if not more part in his art work than his emotions, and to this we may attribute that fine symmetry and balance in his own compositions, which make them equal in this respect to the productions of Mendelssohn. Chopin he regarded with a sense of admiration mingled with dread, for he could by no means enter into the peculiar conditions which make the works of the Polish composer so unique. He wrote of Chopin's "Études," in 1838: "My thoughts and consequently my fingers ever stumble and sprawl at certain crude modulations, and I find Chopin's productions on the whole too sugared, too little worthy of a man and an educated musician, though there is much charm and originality in the national color of his motive." When he heard Chopin play in after-years, however, he confessed the fascination of the performance, and bewailed his own incapacity to produce such effects in execution, though himself one of the greatest pianists in the world. So, too, Moscheles, though dazzled by Liszt's brilliant virtuosoism and power of transforming a single instrument into an orchestra, shook his head in doubt over such performances, and looked on them as charlatanism, which, however magnificent as an exhibition of talent, would ultimately help to degrade the piano by carrying it out of its true sphere. Moscheles himself was a more bold and versatile player than any other performer of his school, but he aimed assiduously to confine his efforts within the perfectly legitimate and well-established channels of pianism. As an extemporaneous player, perhaps no pianist has ever lived who could surpass Moscheles. His improvisation on themes suggested by the audience always made one of the most attractive features of his concerts. His profound musical knowledge, his strong sense of form, the clearness and precision with which he instinctively clothed his ideas, as well as the fertility of the ideas themselves, gave his improvised pieces something of the same air of completeness as if they were the outcome of hours of laborious solitude. His very lack of passion and fire were favorable to this clear-cut and symmetrical expression. His last improvisation in public, on themes furnished by the audience, formed part of the programme of a concert at London, in 1865, given by Mme. Jenny Lind Goldschmidt, in aid of the sufferers by the war between Austria and Prussia, where he extemporized for half an hour on "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and on a theme from the andante of Beethoven's C Minor Symphony, in a most brilliant and astonishing style. Aside from his greatness as a virtuoso and composer for the piano-forte, whose works will always remain classics in spite of vicissitudes of public opinion, even as those of Spohr will for the violin, the influence of Moscheles in furtherance of a solid and true musical taste was very great, and worthy of special notice. Perhaps no one did more to educate the English mind up to a full appreciation of the greatest musical works. As teacher, conductor, player, and composer, the life of Ignaz Moscheles was one of signal and permanent worth, and its influences fertilized in no inconsiderable streams the public thought, not only of his own times, but indirectly of the generation which has followed. It is not necessary to attribute to him transcendent genius, but lie possessed, what was perhaps of equal value to the world, an intellect and temperament splendidly balanced to the artistic needs of his epoch. The list of Moscheles's numbered compositions reaches Op. 142, besides a large number of ephemeral productions which he did not care to preserve. THE SCHUMANNS AND CHOPIN. Robert Schumann's Place as a National Composer.--Peculiar Greatness as a Piano-forte Composer.--Born at Zwickau in 1810.--His Father's Aversion to his Musical Studies.--Becomes a Student of Jurisprudence in Leipzig.--Makes the Acquaintance of Clara Wieck.--Tedium of his Law Studies.--Vacation Tour to Italy.--Death of his Father, and Consent of his Mother to Schumann adopting the Profession of Music.--Becomes Wieck's Pupil.--Injury to his Hand which prevents all Possibilities of his becoming a Great Performer.--Devotes himself to Composition.--The Child, Clara Wieck--Remarkable Genius as a Player.--Her Early Training.--Paganini's Delight in her Genius.--Clara Wieck's Concert Tours.--Schumann falls deeply in Love with her, and Wieck's Opposition.--His Allusions to Clara in the "Neue Zeitschrift."--Schumann at Vienna.--His Compositions at first Unpopular, though played by Clara Wieck and Liszt.--Schumann's Labors as a Critic.--He Marries Clara in 1840.--His Song Period inspired by his Wife.--Tour to Russia, and Brilliant Reception given to the Artist Pair.--The "Neue Zeitschrift" and its Mission.--The Davidsbund.--Peculiar Style of Schumann's Writing.--He moves to Dresden.--Active Production in Orchestral Composition.--Artistic Tour in Holland.--He is seized with Brain Disease.--Characteristics as a Man, as an Artist, and as a Philosopher.--Mme. Schumann as her Husband's Interpreter.--Chopin a Colaborer with Schumann.--Schumann on Chopin again.--Chopin's Nativity.--Exclusively a Piano-forte Composer.--His _Genre_ as Pianist and Composer.--Aversion to Concert-giving.--Parisian Associations.--New Style of Technique demanded by his Works.--Unique Treatment of the Instrument.--Characteristics of Chopin's Compositions. I. Robert Schumann shares with Weber the honor of giving the earliest impulse to what may be called the romantic school of music, which has culminated in the operatic creations of Richard Wagner. Greatly to the gain of the world, his early aspirations as a mere player were crushed by the too intense zeal through which he attempted to perfect his manipulation, the mechanical contrivance he used having had the effect of paralyzing the muscular power of one of his hands. But this department of art work was nobly borne by his gifted wife, _nee_ Clara Wieck, and Schumann concentrated his musical ambition in the higher field of composition, leaving behind him works not only remarkable for beauty of form, but for poetic richness of thought and imagination. Schumann composed songs, cantatas, operas, and symphonies, but it is in his works for the piano-forte that his idiosyncrasy was most strikingly embodied, and in which he has bequeathed the most precious inheritance to the world of art. All his powers were swept impetuously into one current, the poetic side of art, and alike as critic and composer he stands in a relation to the music of the pianoforte which places him on a pinnacle only less lofty than that of Beethoven. Robert Schumann was born in the small Saxon town of Zwickau in the year 1810, and was designed by his father, a publisher and author of considerable reputation, for the profession of the law. The elder Schumann, though a man of talent and culture, had a deep distaste for his son's clearly displayed tendencies to music, and though he permitted him to study something of the science in the usual school-boy way (for music has always been a part of the educational course in Germany), he discouraged in every way Robert's passion. The boy had quickly become a clever player, and even at the age of eight had begun to put his ideas on paper. We are told by his biographers that he was accustomed to extemporize at school, and had such a knack in portraying the characteristics of his school-fellows in music as to make his purpose instantly recognizable. His father died when Schumann was only seventeen, and his mother, who was also bent on her son becoming a jurist, became his guardian. It was a severe battle between taste and duty, but love for his widowed mother conquered, and young Robert Schumann entered the University of Leipzig as a law student. It was with a feeling almost of despair that he wrote at this time, "I have decided upon law as my profession, and will work at it industriously, however cold and dry the beginning may be." Previously, however, he had spent a year in the household of Frederick Wieck, the distinguished teacher of music. So much he had exacted before succumbing to maternal pleading. At this time he first made the acquaintance of a charming and precocious child, Clara Wieck, who played such an important part in his future life. Robert Schumann's law studies were inexpressibly tedious to him, and so he told his sympathetic professor, the learned Thibaut, author of the treatise "On the Purity of Music," in a characteristic manner. He went to the piano and played Weber's "Invitation to the Waltz," commenting on the different passages: "Now she speaks--that's the love prattle; now he speaks--that's the man's earnest voice; now both the lovers speak together "; concluding with the remark, "Isn't all that better far than anything that jurisprudence can utter?" The young student became quite popular in society as a pianist, heard Ernst and Paganini for the first time, and composed several works, among them the Toccata in D major. The genius for music would come to the fore in spite of jurisprudence. A vacation trip to Italy which the young man made gave fresh fuel to the flame, and he began to write the most passionate pleas to his mother that she should con sent to his adoption of a musical career. The distressed woman wrote to Wieck to know what he thought, and the answer was favorable to Robert's aspirations. Robert was intoxicated with his mother's concession, and he poured out his enthusiasm to Wieck: "Take me as I am, and, above all, bear with me. No blame shall depress me, no praise make me idle. Pails upon pails of very cold theory can not hurt me, and I will work at it without the least murmur." Taking lodgings at the house of Wieck, Schumann devoted himself to piano-forte playing with intense ardor; but his zeal outran prudence. To hasten his proficiency and acquire an independent action for each finger, he contrived a mechanical apparatus which held the third finger of the right hand immovable, while the others went through their evolutions. The result was such a lameness of the hand that it was incurable, and young Schumann's career as a virtuoso was for ever checked. His deep sorrow, however, did not unman him long, for he turned his attention to the study of composition and counterpoint under Kupsch, and, afterward, Heinrich Dorn. He remained for three years under Wieck's roof, and the companionship of the child Clara, whose marvelous musical powers were the talk of Leipzig, was a sweet consolation to him in his troubles and his toil, though ten years his junior. The love, which became a part of his life, had already begun to flutter into unconscious being in his feeling for a shy and reserved little girl. Schumann tells us that the year 1834 was the most important one of his life, for it witnessed the birth of the "N'eue Zeitschrift fur Musik," a journal which was to embody his notions of ideal music, and to be the organ of a clique of enthusiasts in lifting the art out of Philistinism and commonplace. The war-cry was "Reform in art," and never-ending battle against the little and conventional ideas which were believed then to be the curse of German music. Among the earlier contributors were Wieck, Schumke, Knorr, Banck, and Schumann himself, who wrote under the pseudonyms Florestan and Eusebius. Between his new journal and composing, Schumann was kept busy, but he found time to persuade himself that he was in love with Frâulein Ernestine von Fricken, a beautiful but somewhat frivolous damsel, who became engaged to the young composer and editor. Two years cooled off this passion, and a separation was mutually agreed on. Perhaps Schumann recognized something, in the lovely child who was swiftly blooming into maidenhood, which made his own inner soul protest against any other attachment. II. It would have been very strange indeed if two such natures as Clara Wieck and Robert Schumann had not gravitated toward each other during the almost constant intercourse between them which took place between 1835 and 1838. Clara, born in 1820, had been her father's pupil from her tenderest childhood, but the development of her musical gifts was not forced in such a way as to interfere with her health and the exuberance of her spirits. The exacting teacher was also a tender father and a man of ripe judgment, and he knew the bitter price which mere mental precocity so frequently has to pay for its existence. But the young girl's gifts were so extraordinary, and withal her character so full of childish simplicity and gayety, that it was difficult to think of her as of the average child phenomenon. At the age of nine she could play Mozart's concertos, and Hummel's A minor Concerto for the orchestra, one of the most difficult of compositions. A year later she began to compose, and improvised without difficulty, for her lessons in counterpoint and harmony had kept pace with her studies of pianoforte technique. Paganini visited Leipzig at this period, and was so astonished at the little Clara's precocious genius that he insisted on her presence at all his concerts, and addressed her with the deepest respect as a fellow-artist. She first appeared in public concert at the age of eleven, in Leipzig, Weimar, and other places, playing Pixis, Moscheles, Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Chopin. The latter of these composers was then almost unknown in Germany, and Clara Wieck, young as she was, contributed largely to making him popular. A year later she visited Paris in company with her father, and heard Chopin, Liszt, and Kalkbrenner, who on their part were delighted with the little artist, who, beneath the delicacy and timidity of the child, indicated extraordinary powers. Society received her with the most flattering approbation, and when her father allowed her to appear in concert her playing excited the greatest delight and surprise. Her improvisation specially displayed a vigor of imagination, a fine artistic taste, and a well-defined knowledge which justly called out the most enthusiastic recognition. When Clara Wieck returned home, she gave herself up to work with fresh ardor, studying composition under Heinrich Dorn, singing under the celebrated Mieksch, and even violin-playing, so great was her ambition for musical accomplishments. From 1836 to 1838 she made an extended musical tour through Germany, and was welcomed as a musico-poetic ideal by the enthusiasts who gathered around her. The poet Grillparzer spoke of her as "the innocent child who first unlocked the casket in which Beethoven buried his mighty heart," and it must be confessed that Clara Wieck, even as a young girl, did more than any other pianist to develop a love of and appreciation for the music of the Titan of composers. Long before Schumann distinctly contemplated the image of Clara as the beloved one, the half of his soul, he had divined her genius, and expressed his opinion of her in no stinted terms of praise. When she was as yet only thirteen, he had written of her in his journal: "As I know people who, having but just heard Clara, yet rejoice in their anticipation of their next occasion of hearing her, I ask, What sustains this continual interest in her? Is it the 'wonder child' herself, at whose stretches of tenths people shake their heads while they are amazed at them, or the most difficult difficulties which she sportively flings toward the public like flower garlands? Is it the special pride of the city with which a people regards its own natives? Is it that she presents to us the most interesting productions of recent art in as short a time as possible? Is it that the masses understand that art should not depend on the caprices of a few enthusiasts, who would direct us back to a century over whose corpse the wheels of time are hastening? I know not; I only feel that here we are subdued by genius, which men still hold in respect. In short, we here divine the presence of a power of which much is spoken, while few indeed possess it.... Early she drew the veil of Isis aside. Serenely the child looks up; older eyes, perhaps, would have been blinded by that radiant light.... To Clara we dare no longer apply the measuring scale of age, but only that of fulfillment.... Clara Wieck is the first German artist.... Pearls do not float on the surface; they must be sought for in the deep, often with danger. But Clara is an intrepid diver." The child whose genius he admired ripened into a lovely young woman, and Schumann became conscious that there had been growing in his heart for years a deep, ardent love. He had fancied himself in love more than once, but now he felt that he could make no mistake as to the genuineness of his feelings. In 1836 he confessed his feelings to the object of his affections, and discovered that he not only loved but was loved, for two such gifted and sympathetic natures could hardly be thrown together for years without the growth of a mutual tenderness. The marriage project was not favored by Papa Wieck, much as he liked the young composer who had so long been his pupil and a member of his family circle. The father of Clara looked forward to a brilliant artistic career for his daughter, perhaps hoped to marry her to some serene highness, and Schumann's prospects were as yet very uncertain. So he took Clara on a long artistic journey through Germany, with a view of quenching this passion by absence and those public adulations which he knew Clara's genius would command. But nothing shook the devotion of her heart, and she insisted on playing the compositions of the young composer at her concerts, as well as those of Beethoven, Liszt, and Chopin, the latter two of whom were just beginning to be known and admired. Hoping to overcome Papa Wieck's opposition by success, Schumann took his new journal to Vienna, and published it in that city, carrying on simultaneously with his editorial duties active labors in composition. The attempt to better his fortunes in Vienna, however, did not prove very successful, and after six months he returned again to Leipzig. Schumann's generous sympathy with other great musicians was signally shown in his very first Vienna experiences, for he immediately made a pious pilgrimage to the Währing cemetery to offer his pious gift of flowers on the graves of Beethoven and Schubert. On Beethoven's grave he found a steel pen, which he preserved as a sacred treasure, and used afterward in writing his own finest musical fancies. He remembered, too, that the brother of Schubert, Ferdinand, was still living in a suburb of Vienna. "He knew me," Schumann says, "from my admiration for his brother, as I had publicly expressed it, and showed me many things. At last he let me look at the treasures of Franz Schubert's compositions, which he still possesses. The wealth that lay heaped up made me shudder with joy, what to take first, where to cease. Among other things, he also showed me the scores of several symphonies, of which many had never been heard, while others had been tried, but put back, on the score of their being too difficult and bombastic." One of these symphonies, that in C major, the largest and grandest in conception, Schumann chose and sent to Leipzig, where it was soon afterward produced under Mendelssohn's direction at one of the Ge-wandhaus concerts, and produced an immediate and profound sensation. For the first time the world witnessed, in a more expanded sphere, the powers of a composer the very beauties of whose songs had hitherto been fatal to his general success. During this period of Schumann's life the most important works he composed were the "Études Symphoniques," the famous "Carnival" dedicated to Liszt, the "Scenes of Childhood," the "Fantasia" dedicated to Liszt, the "Novellettes," and "Kreisleriana." As he writes to Heinrich Dorn: "Much music is the result of the contest I am passing through for Clara's sake." Schumann's compositions had been introduced to the public by the gifted interpretation of Clara Wieck, with whom it was a labor of love, and also by Franz Liszt, then rising almost on the top wave of his dazzling fame as a virtuoso. Liszt was a profound admirer of the less fortunate Schumann, and did everything possible to make him a favorite with the public, but for a long time in vain. Liszt writes of this as follows: "Since my first knowledge of his compositions I had played many of them in private circles at Milan and Vienna, without having succeeded in winning the approbation of my hearers. These works were, fortunately for them, too far above the then trivial level of taste to find a home in the superficial atmosphere of popular applause. The public did not fancy them, and few players understood them. Even in Leipzig, where I played the 'Carnival' at my second Gewandhaus concert, I did not obtain my customary applause. Musicians, even those who claimed to be connoisseurs also, carried too thick a mask over their ears to be able to comprehend that charming 'Carnival,' harmoniously framed as it is, and ornamented with such rich variety of artistic fancy. I did not doubt, however, but that this work would eventually win its place in general appreciation beside Beethoven's thirty-three variations on a theme by Diabelli (which work it surpasses, according to my opinion, in melody, richness, and inventiveness)." Both as a composer and writer on music, Schumann embodied his deep detestation of the Philistinism and commonplace which stupefied the current opinions of the time, and he represented in Germany the same battle of the romantic in art against what was known as the classical which had been carried on so fiercely in France by Berlioz, Liszt, and Chopin. III. The year 1840 was one of the most important in Schumann's life. In February he was created Doctor of Philosophy in the University of Jena, and, still more precious boon to the man's heart, Wieck's objections to the marriage with Clara had been so far melted away that he consented, though with reluctance, to their union. The marriage took place quietly at a little church in Schônfeld, near Leipzig. This year was one of the most fruitful of Schumann's life. His happiness burst forth in lyric forms. He wrote the amazing number of one hundred and thirty-eight songs, among which the more famous are the set entitled "Myrtles," the cycles of song from Heine, dedicated to Pauline Viardot, Chamisso's "Woman's Love and Life," and Heine's "Poet Love." Schumann as a song-writer must be called indeed the musical reflex of Heine, for his immortal works have the same passionate play of pathos and melancholy, the sharp-cut epigrammatic form, the grand swell of imagination, impatient of the limits set by artistic taste, which characterize the poet themes. Schumann says that nearly all the works composed at this time were written under Clara's inspiration solely. Blest with the continual companionship of a woman of genius, as amiable as she was gifted, who placed herself as a gentle mediator between Schumann's intellectual life and the outer world, he composed many of his finest vocal and instrumental compositions during the years immediately succeeding his marriage; among them the cantata "Paradise and the Peri," and the "Faust" music. His own connection with public life was restricted to his position as teacher of piano-forte playing, composition, and score playing at the Leipzig Conservatory, while the gifted wife was the interpreter of his beautiful piano-forte works as an executant. A more perfect fitness and companionship in union could not have existed, and one is reminded of the married life of the poet pair, the Brownings. After four years of happy and quiet life, in which mental activity was inspired by the most delightful of domestic surroundings, an artistic tour to St. Petersburg was undertaken by Robert and Clara Schumann. Our composer did not go without reluctance. "Forgive me," he writes to a friend, "if I forbear telling you of my unwillingness to leave my quiet home." He seems to have had a melancholy premonition that his days of untroubled happiness were over. A genial reception awaited them at the Russian capital. They were frequently invited to the Winter Palace by the emperor and empress, and the artistic circles of the city were very enthusiastic over Mme. Schumann's piano-forte playing. Since the days of John Field, Clementi's great pupil, no one had raised such a furore among the music-loving Russians. Schumann's music, which it was his wife's dearest privilege to interpret, found a much warmer welcome than among his own countrymen at that date. In the Sclavonic nature there is a deep current of romance and mysticism, which met with instinctive sympathy the dreamy and fantastic thoughts which ran riot in Schumann's works. On returning from the St. Petersburg tour, Schumann gave up the "Neue Zeitschrift," the journal which he had made such a powerful organ of musical revolution, and transferred it to Oswald Lorenz. Schumann's literary work is so deeply intertwined with his artistic life and mission that it is difficult, perhaps impossible, to separate the two. He had achieved a great work--he had planted in the German mind the thought that there was such a thing as progress and growth; that stagnation was death; and that genius was for ever shaping for itself new forms and developments. He had taught that no art is an end to itself, and that, unless it embodies the deep-seated longings and aspirations of men ever striving toward a loftier ideal, it becomes barren and fruitless--the mere survival of a truth whose need had ceased. He was the apostle of the musico-poetical art in Germany, and, both as author and composer, strove with might and main to educate his countrymen up to a clear understanding of the ultimate outcome of the work begun by Beethoven, Schubert, and Weber. Schumann as a critic was eminently catholic and comprehensive. Deeply appreciative of the old lights of music, he received with enthusiasm all the fresh additions contributed by musical genius to the progress of his age. Eschewing the cold, objective, technical form of criticism, his method of approaching the work of others was eminently subjective, casting on them the illumination which one man of genius gives to another. The cast of his articles was somewhat dramatic and conversational, and the characters represented as contributing their opinions to the symposium of discussion were modeled on actual personages. He himself was personified under the dual form of Florestan and Eusebius, the "two souls in his breast"--the former, the fiery iconoclast, impulsive in his judgments and reckless in attacking prejudices; the latter, the mild, genial, receptive dreamer. Master Raro, who stood for Wieck, also typified the calm, speculative side of Schumann's nature. Chiara represented Clara Wieck, and personified the feminine side of art. So the various personages were all modeled after associates of Schumann, and, aside from the freshness and fascination which this method gave his style, it enabled him to approach his subjects from many sides. The name of the imaginary society was the Davids-bund, probably from King David and his celebrated harp, or perhaps in virtue of David's victories over the Philistines of his day. As an illustration of Schumann's style and method of treating musical subjects, we can not do better than give his article on Chopin's "Don Juan Fantasia": "Eusebius entered not long ago. You know his pale face and the ironical smile with which he awakens expectation. I sat with Florestan at the piano-forte. Florestan is, as you know, one of those rare musical minds that foresee, as it were, coming novel or extraordinary things. But he encountered a surprise today. With the words 'Off with your hats, gentlemen! a genius,' Eusebius laid down a piece of music. We were not allowed to see the title-page. I turned over the music vacantly; the veiled enjoyment of music which one does not hear has something magical in it. And besides this, it seems that every composer has something different in the note forms. Beethoven looks differently from Mozart on paper; the difference resembles that between Jean Paul's and Goethe's prose. But here it seemed as if eyes, strange, were glancing up to me--flower eyes, basilisk eyes, peacock's eyes, maiden's eyes; in many places it looked yet brighter. I thought I saw Mozart's 'La ci darem la mano' wound through a hundred chords. _Leporello_ seemed to wink at me, and _Don Juan_ hurried past in his white mantle. 'Now play it,' said Florestan. Eusebius consented, and we, in the recess of a window, listened. Eusebius played as though he were inspired, and led forward countless forms filled with the liveliest, warmest life; it seemed that the inspiration of the moment gave to his fingers a power beyond the ordinary measure of their cunning. It is true that Florestan's whole applause was expressed in nothing but a happy smile, and the remark that the variations might have been written by Beethoven or Franz Schubert, had either of these been a piano virtuoso; but how surprised he was when, turning to the title-page, he read 'La ci darem la mano, varié pour le piano-forte, par Frederic Chopin, Ouvre 2,' and with what astonishment we both cried out, 'An Opus 2!' How our faces glowed as we wondered, exclaiming, 'That is something reasonable once more! Chopin? I never heard of the name--who can he be? In any case, a genius. Is not that _Zerlina's_ smile, And _Leporello_, etc' I could not describe the scene. Heated with wine, Chopin, and our own enthusiasm, we went to Master Raro, who with a smile, and displaying but little curiosity for Chopin, said, 'Bring me the Chopin! I know you and your enthusiasm.' We promised to bring it the next day. Eusebius soon bade us good-night. I remained a short time with Master Raro. Florestan, who had been for some time without a habitation, hurried to my house through the moonlit streets. 'Chopin's variations,' he began, as if in a dream, 'are constantly running through my head; the whole is so dramatic and Chopin-like; the introduction is so concentrated. Do you remember _Leporello's_ springs in thirds? That seems to me somewhat unfitted to the theme; but the theme--why did he write that in A flat? The variations, the finale, the adagio, these are indeed something; genius burns through every measure. Naturally, dear Julius, _Don Juan, Zerlina, Leporello, Massetto_, are the _dramatis persona; Zerlina's_ answer in the theme has a sufficiently enamored character; the first variation expresses, a kind of coquettish coveteousness: the Spanish Grandee flirts amiably with the peasant girl in it. This leads of itself to the second, which is at once confidential, disputative, and comic, as though two lovers were chasing each other and laughing more than usual about it. How all this is changed in the third! It is filled with fairy music and moonshine; _Masetto_ keeps at a distance, swearing audibly, but without any effect on _Don Juan_. And now the fourth--what do you think of it? Eusebius played it altogether correctly. How boldly, how wantonly, it springs forward to meet the man! though the adagio (it seems quite natural to me that Chopin repeats the first part) is in B flat minor, as it should be, for in its commencement it presents a beautiful moral warning to _Don Juan_. It is at once so mischievous and beautiful that _Leporello_ listens behind the hedge, laughing and jesting that oboes and clarionettes enchantingly allure, and that the B flat major in full bloom correctly designates the first kiss of love. But all this is nothing compared to the last (have you any more wine, Julius?). That is the whole of Mozart's finale, popping champagne corks, ringing glasses, _Leporello's_ voice between, the grasping, torturing demons, the fleeing _Don Juan_--and then the end, that beautifully soothes and closes all.' Florestan concluded by saying that he had never experienced feelings similar to those awakened by the finale. When the evening sunlight of a beautiful day creeps up toward the highest peaks, and when the last beam vanishes, there comes a moment when the white Alpine giants close their eyes. We feel that we have witnessed a heavenly apparition. 'And now awake to new dreams, Julius, and sleep.' 'Dear Flores-tan,' I answered, 'these confidential feelings, are perhaps praiseworthy, although somewhat subjective; but as deeply as yourself I bend before Chopin's spontaneous genius, his lofty aim, his mastership; and after that we fell asleep.'" This article was the first journalistic record of Chopin's genius. IV. When Schumann gave up his journal in 1845 he moved to Dresden, and he began to suffer severely from the dreadful disorder to which he fell a victim twelve years later. This disease--an abnormal formation of bone in the brain--afflicted him with excruciating pains in the head, sleeplessness, fear of death, and strange auricular delusions. A sojourn at Parma, where he had complete repose and a course of sea-bathing, partially restored his health, and he gave himself up to musical composition again. During the next three years, up to 1849, Schumann wrote some of his finest works, among which may be mentioned his opera "Genoviva," his Second symphony, the cantata "The Rose's Pilgrimage," more beautiful songs, much piano-forte and concerted music, and the musical illustrations of Byron's "Manfred," which latter is one of his greatest orchestral works. During the years 1850 to 1854 Schumann composed his "Rhenish Symphony," the overtures to the "Bride of Messina" and "Hermann and Dorothea," and many vocal and piano-forte works. He accepted the post of musical director at Dûsseldorf in 1850, removed to that city with his wife and children, and, on arriving, the artistic pair were received with a civic banquet. The position was in many respects agreeable, but the responsibilities were too great for Schumann's declining health, and probably hastened his death. In 1853 Robert and Clara Schumann made a grand artistic tour through Holland, which resembled a triumphal procession, so great was the musical enthusiasm called out. When they returned Schumann's malady returned with double force, and on February 27, 1854, he attempted to end his misery by jumping into the Rhine. Madness had seized him with a clutch which was never to be released, except at short intervals. Every possible care was lavished on him by his heartbroken and devoted wife, and the assiduous attention of the friends who reverenced the genius now for ever quenched. The last two years of his life were spent in the private insane asylum at Endenich, near Bonn, where he died July 20, 1856. Schumann possessed a wealth of musical imagination which, if possibly equaled in a few instances, is nowhere surpassed in the records of his art. For him music possessed all the attributes inherent in the other arts--absolute color and flexibility of form. That he attempted to express these phases of art expression, with an almost boundless trust in their applicability to tone and sound, not unfrequently makes them obscure to the last degree, but it also gave much of his composition a richness, depth, and subtilty of suggestive power which place them in a unique niche, and will always preserve them as objects of the greatest interest to the musical student. There is no doubt that his increasing mental malady is evident in the chaotic character of some of his later orchestral compositions, but, in those works composed during his best period, splendor of imagination goes hand in hand with genuine art treatment. This is specially noticeable in the songs and the piano-forte works. Schumann was essentially lyrical and subjective, though his intellectual breadth and culture (almost unrivaled among his musical compeers) always kept him from narrowness as a composer. He led the van in the formation of that pictorial and descriptive style of music which has asserted itself in German music, but his essentially lyric personality in his attitude to the outer world presented the external thoroughly saturated and modified by his own moods and feelings. In his piano-forte works we find his most complete and satisfactory development as the artist composer. Here the world, with its myriad impressions, its facts, its purposes, its tendencies, met the man and commingled in a series of exquisite creations, which are true tone pictures. In this domain Beethoven alone was worthy to be compared with him, though the animus and scheme of the Beethoven piano-forte works grew out of a totally different method. In personal appearance Schumann bore the marks of the man of genius. As he reached middle age we are told of him that his figure was of middle height, inclined to stoutness, that his bearing was dignified, his movements slow. His features, though irregular, produced an agreeable impression; his forehead was broad and high, the nose heavy, the eyes excessively bright, though generally veiled and downcast, the mouth delicately cut, the hair thick and brown, his cheeks full and ruddy. His head was squarely formed, of an intensely powerful character, and the whole expression of his face sweet and genial. Even when young he was distinguished by a kind of absent-mindedness that prevented him from taking much part in conversation. Once, it is said, he entered a lady's drawing-room to call, played a few chords on the piano, and smilingly left without speaking a word. But, among intimate friends, he could be extraordinarily fluent and eloquent in discussing an interesting topic. He was conscious of his own shyness, and once wrote to a friend: "I shall be very glad to see you here. In me, however, you must not expect to find much. I scarcely ever speak except in the evening, and most in playing the piano." His wife was the crowning blessing of his life. She was not only his consoler, but his other intellectual life, for she, with her great powers as a virtuoso, interpreted his music to the world, both before and after his death. It has rarely been the lot of an artist to see his most intimate feelings and aspirations embodied to the world by the genius of the mother of his children. Well did Ferdinand Hiller write of this artist couple: "What love beautified his life! A woman stood beside him, crowned with the starry circlet of genius, to whom he seemed at once the father to his daughter, the master to the scholar, the bridegroom to the bride, the saint to the disciple." Clara Schumann still lives, though becoming fast an old woman in years, if still young in heart, and still able to win the admiration of the musical world by her splendid playing. Berlioz, who heard her in her youth, pronounced her the greatest virtuoso in Germany, in one of his letters to Heine; and while she was little more than a child she had gained the heartiest admiration in England, France, and Germany. Henry Chorley heard her at Leipzig in 1839, and speaks of "the organ-playing on the piano of Mme. Schumann (better known in England under the name of Clara Wieck), who commands her instrument with the enthusiasm of a sibyl and the grasp of a man." Since Schumann's death, Mme. Schumann has been known as the exponent of her husband's works, which she has performed in Germany and England with an insight, a power of conception, and a beauty of treatment which have contributed much to the recognition of his remarkable genius. V. The name of Frederic Francis Chopin is so closely linked in the minds of musical students with that of Schumann in that art renaissance which took place almost simultaneously in France and Germany, when so many daring and original minds broke loose from the petrifactions of custom and tradition, that we shall not venture to separate them here. Chopin was too timid and gentle to be a bold aggressor, like Berlioz, Liszt, and Schumann, but his whole nature responded to the movement, and his charming and most original compositions, which glow with the fire of a genius perhaps narrow in its limits, have never been surpassed for their individuality and poetic beauty. The present brief sketch of Chopin does not propose to consider his life biographically, full of pathos and romance as that life may be.* * See article Chopin, in "Great German Composers." Schumann, in his "N'eue Zeitschrift," sums up the characteristics of the Polish composer admirably; "Genius creates kingdoms, the smaller states of which are again divided by a higher hand among talents, that these may organize details which the former, in its thousand-fold activity, would be unable to perfect. As Hummel, for example, followed the call of Mozart, clothing the thoughts of that master in a flowing, sparkling robe, so Chopin followed Beethoven. Or, to speak more simply, as Hummel imitated the style of Mozart in detail, rendering it enjoyable to the virtuoso on one particular instrument, so Chopin led the spirit of Beethoven into the concert-room. "Chopin did not make his appearance accompanied by an orchestral army, as great genius is accustomed to do; he only possessed a small cohort, but every soul belongs to him to the last hero. "He is the pupil of the first masters--Beethoven, Schubert, Field. The first formed his mind in boldness, the second his heart in tenderness, the third his hand to its flexibility. Thus he stood well provided with deep knowledge in his art, armed with courage in the full consciousness of his power, when in the year 1830 the great voice of the people arose in the West. Hundreds of youths had waited for the moment; but Chopin was the first on the summit of the wall, behind which lay a cowardly renaissance, a dwarfish Philistinism, asleep. Blows were dealt right and left, and the Philistines awoke angrily, crying out, 'Look at the impudent one!' while others behind the besieger cried, 'The one of noble courage.' "Besides this, and the favorable influence of period and condition, fate rendered Chopin still more individual and interesting in endowing him with an original pronounced nationality; Polish, too, and because this nationality wanders in mourning robes in the thoughtful artist, it deeply attracts us. It was well for him that neutral Germany did not receive him too warmly at first, and that his genius led him straight to one of the great capitals of the world, where he could freely poetize and grow angry. If the powerful autocrat of the North knew what a dangerous enemy threatens him in Chopin's works in the simple melodies of his mazurkas, he would forbid music. Chopin's works are cannons buried in flowers.... He is the boldest, proudest poet soul of to-day." But Schumann could have said something more than this, and added that Chopin was a musician of exceptional attainments, a virtuoso of the very highest order, a writer for the piano pure and simple preeminent beyond example, and a master of a unique and perfect style. Chopin was born of mixed French and Polish parentage, February 8, 1810, at Zelazowa-Wola, near Warsaw. He was educated at the Warsaw Conservatory, and his eminent genius for the piano shone at this time most unmistakably. He found in the piano-forte an exclusive organ for the expression of his thoughts. In the presence of this confidential companion he forgot his shyness and poured forth his whole soul. A passionate lover of his native country, and burning with those aspirations for freedom which have made Poland since its first partition a volcano ever ready to break forth, the folk-themes of Poland are at the root of all of Chopin's compositions, and in the waltzes and mazurkas bearing his name we find a passionate glow and richness of color which make them musical poems of the highest order. Chopin's art position, both as a pianist and composer, was a unique one. He was accustomed to say that the breath of the concert-room stifled him, whereas Liszt, his intimate friend and fellow-artist, delighted in it as a war-horse delights in the tumult of battle. Chopin always shrank from the display of his powers as a mere executant. To exhibit his talents to the public was an offense to him, and he only cared for his remarkable technical skill as a means of placing his fanciful original poems in tone rightly before the public. It was with the greatest difficulty that his intimate friends, Liszt, Meyerbeer, Nourrit, Delacroix, Heine, Mme. George Sand, Countess D'Agoult, and others, could persuade him to appear before large mixed audiences. His genius only shone unconstrained as a player in the society of a few chosen intimate friends, with whom he felt a perfect sympathy, artistic, social, and intellectual. Exquisite, fastidious, and refined, Chopin was loss an aristocrat from political causes, or even by virtue of social caste, than from the fact that his art nature, which was delicate, feminine, and sensitive, shrank from all companions except those molded of the finest clay. We find this sense of exclusiveness and isolation in all of the Chopin music, as in some quaint, fantastic, ideal world, whose master would draw us up to his sphere, but never descend to ours. In the treatment of the technical means of the piano-forte, he entirely wanders from the old methods. Moscheles, a great pianist in an age of great players, gave it up in despair, and confessed that he could not play Chopin's music. The latter teaches the fingers to serve his own artistic uses, without regard to the notions of the schools. It is said that M. Kalkbrenner advised Chopin to attend his classes at the Paris Conservatoire, that the latter might learn the proper fingering. Chopin answered his officious adviser by placing one of his own "Études" before him, and asking him to play it. The failure of the pompous professor was ludicrous, for the old-established technique utterly failed to do it justice. Chopin's end as a player was to faithfully interpret the poetry of his own composition. His genius as a composer taught him to make innovations in piano-forte effects. He was thus not only a great inventor as a composer, but as regards the technique of the piano-forte. He not only told new things well worth hearing which the world would not forget, but devised new ways of saying them, and it mattered but little to him whether his more forcible and passionate dialectic offended what Schumann calls musical Philistinism or no. Chopin formed a school of his own which was purely the outcome of his genius, though as Schumann, in the extract previously quoted, justly says: "He was molded by the deep poetic spirit of Beethoven, with whom form only had value as it expressed truthfully and beautifully symmetry of conception." The forms of Chopin's compositions grew out of the keyboard of the piano, and their _genre_ is so peculiar that it is nearly impracticable to transpose them for any other instrument. Some of the noted contemporary violinists have attempted to transpose a few of the Nocturnes and Études, but without success. Both Schumann and Liszt succeeded in adapting Paganini's most complex and difficult violin works for the piano-forte, but the compositions of Chopin are so essentially born to and of the one instrument that they can not be well suited to any other. The cast of the melody, the matchless beauty and swing of the rhythm, his ingenious treatment of harmony, and the chromatic changes and climaxes through which the motives are developed, make up a new chapter in the history of the piano-forte. Liszt, in his life of Chopin, says of him: "His character was indeed not easily understood. A thousand subtile shades, mingling, crossing, contradicting, and disguising each other, rendered it almost undecipherable at first view; kind, courteous, affable, and almost of joyous manners, he would not suffer the secret convulsions which agitated him to be ever suspected. His works, concertos, waltzes, sonatas, ballades, polonaises, mazurkas, nocturnes, scherzi, all reflect a similar enigma in a most poetical and romantic form." Chopin's moral nature was not cast in an heroic mold, and he lacked the robust intellectual marrow which is essential to the highest forms of genius in art as well as in literature and affairs, though it is not safe to believe that he was, as painted by George Sand and Liszt, a feeble youth, continually living at death's door in an atmosphere of moonshine and sentimentality. But there can be no question that the whole bent of Chopin's temperament and genius was melancholy, romantic, and poetic, and that frequently he gives us mere musical moods and reveries, instead of well-defined and well-developed ideas. His music perhaps loses nothing, for, if it misses something of the clear, inspiring, vigorous quality of other great composers, it has a subtile, dreamy, suggestive beauty all its own. The personal life of Chopin was singularly interesting. His long and intimate connection with George Sand; the circumstances under which it was formed; the blissful idyl of the lovers in the isle of Majorca; the awakening from the dream, and the separation--these and other striking circumstances growing out of a close association with what was best in Parisian art and life, invest the career of the man, aside from his art, with more than common charm to the mind of the reader. Having touched on these phases of Chopin's life at some length in a previous volume of this series, we must reluctantly pass them by. In closing this imperfect review of the Polish composer, it is enough to say that the present generation has more than sustained the judgment of his own as to the unique and wonderful beauty of his compositions. Hardly any concert programme is considered complete without one or more numbers selected from his works; and though there are but few pianists, even in a day when Chopin as a stylist has been a study, who can do his subtile and wonderful fancies justice, there is no composer for the piano-forte who so fascinates the musical mind. THALBERG AND GOTTSCHALK. Thalberg one of the Greatest of Executants.--Bather a Man of Remarkable Talents than of Genius.--Moscheles's Description of him.--The Illegitimate Son of an Austrian Prince.--Early Introduction to Musical Society in London and Vienna.--Beginning of his Career as a Virtuoso.--The Brilliancy of his Career.--Is appointed Court Pianist to the Emperor of Austria.--His Marriage.--Visits to America.--Thalborg's Artistic Idiosyncrasy.--Robert Schumann on his Playing.--His Appearance and Manner.--Characterization by George William Curtis.--Thalberg's Style and Worth as an Artist.--His Pianoforte Method, and Place as a Composer for the Piano.--Gott-schalk's Birth and Early Years.--He is sent to Paris for Instruction.--Successful _Début_ and Public Concerts in Paris and Tour through the French Cities.--Friendship with Berlioz.--Concert Tour to Spain.--Romantic Experiences.--Berlioz on Gottschalk.--Reception of Gottschalk in America.--Criticism of his Style.--Remarkable Success of his Concerts.--His Visit to the West Indies, Mexico, and Central America.--Protracted Absence.--Gottschalk on Life in the Tropics.--Return to the United States.--Three Brilliant Musical Years.--Departure for South America.--Triumphant Procession through the Spanish-American Cities.--Death at Rio Janeiro.--Notes on Gottschalk as Man and Artist. I. One of the most remarkable of the great piano-forte virtuosos was unquestionably Sigismond Thalberg, an artist who made a profound sensation in two hemispheres, and filled a large space in the musical world for more than forty-five years. Originally a disciple of the Viennese school of piano-forte playing, a pupil of Mosche-les, and a rigid believer in making the instrument which was the medium of his talent sufficient unto itself, wholly indifferent to the daring and boundless ambition which made his great rival, Franz Liszt, pile Pelion on Ossa in his grasp after new effects, Thalberg developed virtuoso-ism to its extreme degree by a mechanical dexterity which was perhaps unrivaled. But the fingers can not express more than rests in the heart and brain to give to their skill, and Thalberg, with all his immense talent, seems to have lacked the divine spark of genius. It goes without saying, to those who are familiar with the current cant of criticism, that the word genius is often applied in a very loose and misleading manner. But, in all estimates of art and artists, where there are two clearly defined factors, imagination or formative power and technical dexterity, it would seem that there should not be any error in deciding on the propriety of such a word as a measure of the quality of an artist's gifts. The lack of the creative impulse could not be mistaken in Thalberg's work, whether as player or composer. But the ability to execute all that came within the scope of his sympathies or intelligence was so prodigious that the world was easily dazzled into forgetting his deficiencies in the loftier regions of art. Trifles are often very significant. What, for example, could more vividly portray an artist's tendencies than the description of Thalberg by Moscheles, who knew him more thoroughly than any other contemporary, and felt a keener sympathy with his _genre_ as an artist than with the more striking originality of Chopin and Liszt. Moscheles writes: "I find his introduction of harp effects on the piano quite original. His theme, which lies in the middle part, is brought out clearly in relief with an accompaniment of complicated arpeggios which reminds me of a harp. The audience is amazed. He himself sits immovably calm; his whole bearing as he sits at the piano is soldierlike; his lips are tightly compressed and his coat buttoned closely. He told me he acquired this attitude of self-control by smoking a Turkish pipe while practicing his piano-forte exercises: the length of the tube was so calculated as to keep him erect and motionless." This exact discipline and mechanism were not merely matters of technical culture; they were the logical outcome of the man and surely a part of himself. But within his limits, fixed as these were, Thalberg was so great that he must be conceded to be one of the most striking and brilliant figures of an age fecund in fine artists. Thalberg was born at Geneva, January 7,1812, and was the natural son of Prince Dietrichstein, an Austrian nobleman, temporarily resident in that city. His talent for music, inherited from both sides, for his mother was an artist and his father an amateur of no inconsiderable skill, became obvious at a very tender age, following the law which so generally holds in music that superior gifts display themselves at an early period. These indications of nature were not ignored, for the boy was placed under instruction before he had completed his sixth year. It is a little singular that his first teacher was not a pianist, though a very superior musician. Mittag was one of the first bassoonists of his times, and, in addition to his technical skill, a thoroughly accomplished man in the science of his profession. Thalberg was accustomed to attribute the wonderfully rich and mellow tone which characterized his playing to the influence and training of Mittag. From this instructor the future great pianist passed to the charge of the distinguished Hummel, who was not only one of the greatest virtuosos of the age, but ranked by his admirers as only a little less than Beethoven himself in his genius for pianoforte compositions, though succeeding generations have discredited his former fame by estimating him merely a "dull classic." Contemporaneously with his pupilage under Hummel, he studied the theory of music with Simon Sechter, an eminent contrapuntist. Even at this early age, for Thalberg must have been less than ten years old, he impressed all by the great precision of his fingering and the instinctive ease with which he mastered the most difficult mechanism of the art of playing. At the age of fourteen young Thalberg went to London in the household of his father, who had been appointed imperial ambassador to England, and the youth was then placed under the instruction of the great pianist Moscheles. The latter speaks of Thalberg as the most distinguished of his pupils, and as being, even at that age, already an artist of distinction and mark. It was a source of much pleasure to Moscheles that his brilliant scholar, who played much at private soirées, was not only recognized by the _dilletante_ public generally, but by such veteran artists as Clementi and Cramer. Moscheles, in his diary, speaks of the wonderful brilliancy of a grand fancy dress ball given by Thalberg's princely father at Covent Garden Theatre. Pit, stalls, and proscenium were formed into one grand room, in which the crowd promenaded. The costumes were of every conceivable variety, and many of the most gorgeous description. The spectators, in full dress, sat in the boxes; on the stage was a court box, occupied by the royal family; and bands played in rooms adjoining for small parties of dancers. "You will have some idea," wrote Mme. Moscheles, in a letter, "of the crowd at this ball, when I tell you that we left the ballroom at two o'clock and did not get to the prince's carriage till four." One of the interesting features of this ball was that the boy Thalberg played in one of the smaller rooms before the most distinguished people present, including the royal family, all crowding in to hear the youthful virtuoso, whose tacit recognition by his father had already opened to him the most brilliant drawing-rooms in London. Thalberg did not immediately begin to perform in public, but, on returning to Vienna in 1827, played continually at private soirées, where he had the advantage of being heard and criticised by the foremost amateurs and musicians of the Austrian capital. It had some time since become obvious to the initiated that another great player was about to be launched on his career. The following year the young artist tried his hand at composition, for he published variations on themes from Weber's "Euryanthe," which were well received. Thalberg in after-years spoke of all his youthful productions with disdain, but his early works displayed not a little of the brilliant style of treatment which subsequently gave his fantasias a special place among compositions for the piano-forte. It was not till 1830 that young Thalberg fairly began his career as a traveling player. The cities of Germany received him with the most _éclatant_ admiration, and his feats of skill as a performer were trumpeted by the newspapers and musical journals as something unprecedented in the art of pianism. From Germany Thalberg proceeded to France and England, and his audiences were no less pronounced in their recognition. Liszt had already been before him in Paris, and Chopin arrived about the same time. Kalkbrenner, Ferdinand Hiller, and Field were playing, but the splendid, calm beauty of Thalberg's style instantly captivated the public, and elicited the most extravagant and delighted applause not only from the public, but from enlightened connoisseurs. To follow the course of Thalberg's pianoforte achievements in his musical travels through Europe would be merely to repeat a record of uninterrupted successes. He disarmed envy and criticism everywhere, and even those disposed to withhold a frank and generous acknowledgment of his greatness did not dare to question powers of execution which seemed without a technical flaw. During his travels Thalberg composed a concerto for piano and orchestra, to play at his concerts. But this species of composition was so obviously unsuited to his abilities that he quickly forsook it, and thenceforward devoted his efforts exclusively to the instrument of which he was such an eminent master. A more extensive ambition had been rebuked in more ways than one. He composed two operas, "Fiorinda" and "Christine," and of course easily yielded to the entreaties of his admirers to have them produced. But it was clearly evident that his musical idiosyncrasy, though magnificent of its kind, was limited in range, and after the failure of his operas and attempts at orchestral writing Thalberg calmly accepted the situation. In the year 1834 Thalberg was appointed pianist of the Imperial Chamber to the court of Austria, and accompanied the Emperor Ferdinand to Toplitz, where a convocation of the European sovereigns took place. His performances were warmly received by the assembled monarchs, and he was overwhelmed with presents and congratulations. Thalberg's way throughout the whole of his life was strewn with roses, and, though his career did not present the same romantic incidents which make the life of Franz Liszt so picturesque, it was attended by the same lavish favors of fortune. From one patron he received the gift of a fine estate, from another a magnificent city mansion in Vienna, and testimonials, like snuff-boxes set with diamonds, jeweled court-swords, superbly set portraits of his royal and imperial patrons, and costly jewelry, poured in on him continually. Imperial orders from Austria and Russia were bestowed on him, and hardly any mark of favor was denied him by that good fortune which had been auspicious to him from his very birth. In 1845, while still in the service of the Austrian emperor, though he did not intermit his musical tours through the principal European cities, Thalberg married the charming widow, whom he had known and admired before her marriage, the daughter of the great singer Lablache, Mme. Bouchot, whose first husband had been the distinguished French painter of that name. The marriage was a happy one, though scandal, which loves to busy itself about the affairs of musical celebrities, did not fail to associate Thalberg's name with several of the most beautiful women of his time. Mile. Thalberg, a daughter of this marriage, made her _début_ with considerable success in London, in 1874. Thalberg's first visit to America was in 1853, and he came again in 1857, to more than repeat the enthusiastic reception with which he was greeted by music-loving Americans. Musical culture at that time had not attained the refinement and knowledge which now make an audience in one of our greater cities as fastidious and intelligent as can be found anywhere in the world. But Thalberg's wonderful playing, though lacking in the fire, glow, and impetuosity which would naturally most arouse the less cultivated musical sense, created a _furore_, which has never been matched since, among those who specially prided themselves on being good judges. He extended both tours to Cuba, Mexico, and South America, and it is said took away with him larger gains than he had ever made during the same period in Europe. During the latter years of Thalberg's life he spent much of his time in elegant ease at his fine country estate near Naples, only giving concerts at some few of the largest European capitals, like London and Paris. He became an enthusiastic wine-grower, and wine from his estate gained a medal at the Exposition Universelle of 1867. Many of his best piano-forte compositions date from the period when he had given up the active pursuit of virtuosoism. His works comprise a concerto, three sonatas, many nocturnes, rondos, and études, about thirty fantasias, two operas, and an instruction series, which latter has been adopted by many of the best teachers, and has been the means of forming a number of able pupils. This fine artist died at his Neapolitan estate, April 27, 1871. II. Thalberg had but little sympathy with the dreamy romanticism which found such splendid exponents, while he was yet in his early youth, in Schumann, Chopin, and Liszt. Imagination in its higher functions he seemed to lack. A certain opulence and picturesqueness of fancy united in his artistic being with an intelligence both lucid and penetrating, and a sense of form and symmetry almost Greek in its fastidiousness. The sweet, vague, passionate aspiration^, the sensibility that quivers with every breath of movement from the external world, he could not understand. Placidity, grace, and repose he had in perfection. Yet he was very highly appreciated by those who had little in common with his artistic nature. As, for example, Robert Schumann writes of Thalberg and his playing, on the occasion of a charity concert, given in Leipzig in 1841: "In his passing flight the master's pinions rested here awhile, and, as from the angel's pinions in one of Rucker's poems, rubies and other precious stones fell from them and into indigent hands, as the master ordained it. It is difficult to say anything new of one who has been so praise beshow-ered as he has. But every earnest virtuoso is glad to hear one thing said at any time--that he has progressed in his art since he last delighted us. This best of all praise we are conscientiously able to bestow on Thalberg; for, during the last two years that we have not heard him, he has made astonishing additions to his acquirements, and, if possible, moves with greater boldness, grace, and freedom than ever. His playing seemed to have the same effect on every one, and the delight that he probably feels in it himself was shared by all. True virtuosity gives us something more than mere flexibility and execution: aman may mirror his own nature in it, and in Thalberg's playing it becomes clear to all that he is one of the favored ones of fortune, one accustomed to wealth and elegance. Accompanied by happiness, bestowing pleasure, he commenced his career; under such circumstances he has so far pursued it, and so he will probably continue it. The whole of yesterday evening and every number that he played gave us a proof of this. The public did not seem to be there to judge, but only to enjoy; they were as certain of enjoyment as the master was of his art." Thalberg in his appearance had none of the traditional wild picturesqueness of style and manner which so many distinguished artists, even Liszt himself, have thought it worth while to carry perhaps to the degree of affectation. Smoothly shaven, quiet, eminently respectable-looking, his handsome, somewhat Jewish-looking face composed in an expression of unostentatious good breeding, he was wont to seat himself at the piano with all the simplicity of one doing any commonplace thing. He had the air of one who respected himself, his art, and the public. His performance was in an exquisitely artistic sense that of the gentleman, perfect, polished, and elaborately wrought. The distinguished American litterateur, Mr. George William Curtis, who heard him in New York in 1857, thus wrote of him: "He is a proper artist in this, that he comprehends the character of his instrument. He neither treats it as a violoncello nor a full orchestra. Those who in private have enjoyed the pleasure of hearing--or, to use a more accurate epithet, of seeing--Strepitoso, that friend of mankind, play the piano, will understand what we mean when we speak of treating the piano as if it were an orchestra. Strepitoso storms and slams along the keyboard until the tortured instrument gives up its musical soul in despair and breaks its heart of melody by cracking all its strings.... Every instrument has its limitations, but Strepitoso will tolerate no such theory. He extracts music from his piano, not as if he were sifting the sands for gold, but as if he were raking oysters.... Now, Thalberg's manner is different from Strepitoso's. He plays the piano; that is the phrase which describes his performance. He plays it quietly and suavely. You could sit upon the lawn on a June night and hear with delight the sounds that trickled through the moonlight from the piano of this master. They would not melt your soul in you; they would not touch those longings that, like rays of starry light, respond to the rays of the stars; they would not storm your heart with the yearning passion of their strains, but you would confess it was a good world as you listened, and be glad you lived in it--you would be glad of your home and all that made it homelike; the moonlight as you listened would melt and change, and your smiling eyes would seem to glitter in cheerful sunlight as Thalberg ended." Thalberg's style was, perhaps, the best possible illustration of the legitimate effects of the pianoforte carried to the highest by as perfect a technique as could possibly be attained by human skill. That he lacked poetic fire and passion, that the sense of artistic restraint and a refined fastidiousness chilled and fettered him, is doubtlessly true. Whether the absence of the imaginative warmth and vigor which suffuse a work of art with the glow of something that can not be fully expressed, and kindle the thoughts of the hearer to take hitherto unknown flights, is fully compensated for by that repose and symmetry of style which know exactly what it wishes to express, and, being perfect master of the means of expression, puts forth an exact measure of effort and then stops as if shut down by an iron wall--this is an open question, and must be answered according to one's art theories. The exquisite modeling of a Benvenuto Cellini vase, wrought with patient elaboration into a thing of unsurpassable beauty, does not invoke as high a sense of pleasure as an heroic statue or noble painting by some great master, but of its kind the pleasure is just as complete. Apart from Thalberg's power as a player, however, there was something captivating in the quality of his talent, which, though not creative, was gifted with the power of seizing the very essence of the music to be interpreted. A striking example of this is shown in the fantasias he composed on the different operas, a form of writing which reached its perfection in him. His own contribution is simply a most delightful setting of the melodies of his subject, and the whole is steeped in the very atmosphere and feeling of the original, as if the master himself had done the work. A good example is the fantasia on Mozart's "Don Giovanni." The little, wild, unformed melodies rustle in quick gusts along the keys as if wavering shadows, yet with all the familiar rhythm and family likeness, filling the mind of the hearer with the atmosphere and necessity of what is to follow, while gradually the full harmonies unfold themselves. The introduction of the minuet is one of the most striking portions. The scene of the minuet in the opera is a vision of rural loveliness and repose, whispering of flowers, fields, and happy flying hours. All this becomes poetized, and the music seems to imply rich reaches of odorous garden and moonlight, whispering foliage, and nightingales mad with the delight of their own singing, and a palace on the lawn sounding with riotous mirth. The player-composer weaves the glamour of such a dream, and the hearer finds himself strolling in imagination through the moonlit garden, listening to the birds, the waters, and the rustling leaves, while the stately beat of the minuet comes throbbing through it all, calling up the vision of gayly dressed cavaliers and beautiful ladies fantastically moving to the tune. Such poetic sentiment as this of the purely picturesque sort was in large measure Thalberg's possession, but he could never understand that turbulent ground-swell of passion which music can also powerfully express, and by which the soul is lifted up to the heights of ecstasy or plunged in depths of melancholy. Music as a vehicle for such meanings was mere Egyptian hieroglyphic, utterly beyond his limitation, absolute bathos and absurdity. It is doubtful whether any player ever possessed a more wonderfully trained mechanism; the smallest details were polished and finished with the utmost care, the scales marvels of evenness, the shakes rivaling the trill of a canary bird. His arpeggios at times rolled like the waves of the sea, and at others resembled folds of transparent lace floating airily with the movements of the wearer. The octaves were wonderfully accurate, and the chords appeared to be struck by steel mallets instead of fingers. He was called the Bayard of pianists, "le Chevalier sans peur et sans reproche." His tone was noble, yet mellow and delicate, and the gradations between his forte and piano were traced most exquisitely. In a word, technical execution could go no further. It is said that he never played a piece in public till he had absolutely made it the property of his fingers. He was the first to divide the melody between the two hands, making the right hand perform a brilliant figure in the higher register, while the left hand exhibited a full and rich bass part, supplementing it with an accompaniment in chords. It was this characteristic which made his fantasias so unique and interesting, in spite of their lack of originality of motive, as compositions. Almost all writers for the piano have since adopted this device, even the great Mendelssohn using it in some of his concertos and "Songs without Words"; and in many cases it has been transformed into a mere trick of arrant musical charlatanism, designed to cover up with a sham glitter the utter absence of thought and motive. No better suggestion of the dominant characteristic of Thal-berg as a pianist can be found than a critical word of his friend Moscheles: "The proper ground for finger gymnastics is to be found in Thalberg's latest compositions; for mind [Geist], give me Schumann." III. During Thalberg's first visit to America he had an active and dangerous rival in the young and brilliant pianist, Louis Moreau Gottschalk, who was as fresh to New York audiences as Thalberg himself, though the latter had the advantage over his young competitor in a fame which was almost world-wide. Of American pianists Louis Gottschalk stands confessedly at the head by virtue of remarkable native gifts, which, had they been assisted by greater industry and ambition, might easily have won him a very eminent rank in Europe as well as in his own country. An easy, pleasure-loving, tropical nature, flexible, facile, and disposed to sacrifice the future to the present, was the only obstacle to the attainment to a place level with the foremost artists of his age. Edward Gottschalk, who came to America in his young manhood and settled in New Orleans, and his wife, a French Creole lady, had five children, of whom the future pianist was the eldest, born in 1829. His feeling for music manifested itself when he was three years old by his ability to play a melody on the piano which he had heard. Instantly he was strong enough, he was placed under the instruction of a good teacher, and no pains were spared to develop his precocious talent. At the age of six he had made such progress on the piano that he was also instructed on the violin, and soon was able to play pieces of more than ordinary difficulty with taste and expression. We are told that the lad gave a benefit concert at the age of eight to assist an unfortunate violin-player, with considerable success, and was soon in great request at evening parties as a child phenomenon. The propriety of sending the little Louis to Paris had long been discussed, and it was finally accomplished in 1842. On reaching Paris he was first put under the teaching of Charles Halle, but, as the latter master was a little careless, he was replaced by M. Camille Stamaty, who had the reputation of being the ablest professor in the city. The following year he began the study of harmony and counterpoint with M. Malidan, and the rapid progress he evinced in his studies was of a kind to justify his parents in their wish to devote him to the career of a pianist. Young Louis Gottschalk was much petted in the aristocratic salons of Paris, to which he had admission through his aunts, the Comtesse de Lagrange and the Comtesse de Bourjally. His remarkable musical gifts, and more especially his talent for improvisation, excited curiosity and admiration, even in a city where the love of musical novelty had been sated by a continual supply of art prodigies. Young as he was, he wrote at this time not a few charming compositions, which were in after-years occasional features of his concerts. His delicate constitution succumbed under hard work, and for a while a severe attack of typhoid fever interrupted his studies. On his recovery, our young artist spent a few months in the Ardennes. On returning to Paris, he became the pupil of Hector Berlioz, who felt a deep interest in the young American, as an art prodigy from a land of savages in harmony, and devoted himself so assiduously to the study that he declined an invitation from the Spanish queen to become a guest of the court at Madrid. An amusing incident occurred in a pedestrian trip which he made to the Vosges in 1846. He had forgotten his passport, and, on arriving at a small town, was arrested by a gendarme and taken before the maire. The latter official was reading a newspaper containing a notice of his last concert, and through this means he assured the worthy functionary of his identity, and was cordially welcomed to the hospitality of the official residence. His friend Berlioz, who was ever on the alert to help the American pupil who promised to do him so much credit, arranged a series of concerts for him at the Italian Opéra in the winter of 1846-'47, and these proved brilliantly successful, not merely in filling the young artist's purse, but in augmenting his fast-growing reputation. Steady labor in study and concert-giving, many of his public performances being for charity, made two years pass swiftly by. A musical tour through France in 1849 was highly successful, and the young American returned to Paris, loaded down with gifts, and rich in the sense of having justly earned the congratulations which showered on him from all his friends. A second invitation now came from Spain, and Louis Gottschalk on arriving at Madrid was made a guest at the royal palace. From the king he received two orders, the diamond cross of Isabella la Catholique and that of Leon d'Holstein, and from the Duke de Montpensier he received a sword of honor. We are told that at one of the private court concerts Gottschalk played a duet with Don Carlos, the father of the recent pretender to the Spanish throne. Among the romantic incidents narrated of this visit of Gottschalk to Madrid, one is too characteristic to be overlooked, as showing the tender, generous nature of the artist. An imaginative Spanish girl, whose fancy had been excited by the public enthusiasm about Gottschalk, but was too ill to attend his concerts, had a passionate desire to hear him play, and pined away in the fret-fulness of ungratified desire. Her family were not able to pay Gottschalk for the trouble of giving such an exclusive concert, but, to satisfy the sick girl, made the circumstances known to the artist. Gottschalk did not hesitate a moment, but ordered his piano to be conveyed to the humble abode of the patient. Here by her bedside he played for hours to the enraptured girl, and the strain of emotion was so great that her life ebbed away before he had finished the final chords. Gottschalk remained in Spain for two years, and it was not till the autumn of 1852 that he returned to Paris, to give a series of farewell concerts before returning again to America, where his father and brothers were anxiously awaiting him. IV. Before Gottschalk's departure from Paris, Hector Berlioz thus wrote of his _protégé_, for whom we may fancy he had a strong bias of liking; and no judge is so generous in estimation as one artist of another, unless the critic has personal cause of dislike, and then no judge is so sweepingly unjust: "Gottschalk is one of the very small number who possess all the different elements of a consummate pianist, all the faculties which surround him with an irresistible prestige, and give him a sovereign power. He is an accomplished musician; he knows just how far fancy may be indulged in expression. He knows the limits beyond which any freedom taken with the rhythm produces only confusion and disorder, and upon these limits he never encroaches. There is an exquisite grace in his manner of phrasing sweet melodies and throwing off light touches from the higher keys. The boldness, brilliancy, and originality of his play at once dazzle and astonish, and the infantile _naivete_ of his smiling caprices, the charming simplicity with which he renders simple things, seem to belong to another individuality, distinct from that which marks his thundering energy. Thus the success of M. Gottschalk before an audience of musical cultivation is immense." But even this enthusiastic praise was pale in comparison with the eulogiums of some of the New York journals, after the first concert of Gottschalk at Niblo's Garden Theatre. One newspaper, which arrogated special strength and good judgment in its critical departments, intimated that after such a revelation it was useless any longer to speak of Beethoven! Whether Beethoven as a player or Beethoven as a composer was meant was left unknown. Gottschalk at his earlier concerts played many of his own compositions, made to order for the display of his virtuosoism, and their brilliant, showy style was very well calculated to arouse the enthusiasm of the general public. Perhaps the most sound and thoughtful opinion of Gottschalk expressed during the first enthusiasm created by his playing was that of a well-known musical journal published in Boston: "Well, at the concert, which, by the way, did not half fill the Boston Music Hall, owing partly, we believe, to the one-dollar price, and partly, we _hope_, to distrust of an artist who plays wholly his own compositions, our expectation was confirmed. There was, indeed, most brilliant execution; we have heard none more brilliant, but are not yet prepared to say that Jaell's was less so. Gottschalk's touch is the most clear and crisp and beautiful that we have ever known. His play is free and bold and sure, and graceful in the extreme; his runs pure and liquid; his figures always clean and perfectly denned; his command of rapid octave passages prodigious; and so we might go through with all the technical points of masterly execution. It _was_ great execution. But what is execution, without some thought and meaning in the combinations to be executed?... Skillful, graceful, brilliant, wonderful, we own his playing was. But players less wonderful have given us far deeper satisfaction. We have seen a criticism upon that concert, in which it was regretted that his music was too fine for common apprehension, 'too much addressed to the _reasoning_ faculties,' etc. To us the want was, that it did _not_ address the reason; that it seemed empty of ideas, of inspiration; that it spake little to the mind or heart, excited neither meditation nor emotion, but simply dazzled by the display of difficult feats gracefully and easily achieved. But of what use were all these difficulties? ('Difficult! I wish it was _impossible_,' said Dr. Johnson.) Why all that rapid tossing of handfuls of chords from the middle to the highest octaves, lifting the hand with such conscious appeal to our eyes? To what end all those rapid octave passages? since in the intervals of easy execution, in the seemingly quiet impromptu passages, the music grew so monotonous and commonplace: the same little figure repeated and repeated, after listless pauses, in a way which conveyed no meaning, no sense of musical progress, but only the appearance of fastidiously critical scale-practicing." In the series of concerts given by Gottschalk throughout the United States, the public generally showed great enthusiasm and admiration, and the young pianist sustained himself very successfully against the memories of Jaell, Henri Herz, and Leopold de Meyer, as well as the immediate rivalry of Thalberg, who appealed more potently to a select few. The hold the American pianist had secured on his public did not lessen during the five years of concert-giving which succeeded. No player ever displayed his skill before American audiences who had in so large degree that peculiar quality of geniality in his style which so endears him to the public. This characteristic is something apart from genius or technical skill, and is peculiarly an emanation from the personality of the man. In the spring of 1837 Gottschalk found himself in Havana, whither he had gone to make the beginning of a musical tour through the West Indies. His first concert was given at the Tacon Theatre, which Mr. Maretzek, who was giving operatic representations then in Havana, yielded to him for the occasion. The Cubans gave the pianist a tropical warmth of welcome, and Gott-schalk's letters from the old Spanish city are full of admiration for the climate, the life, and the people, with whom there was something strongly sympathetic in his own nature. The artist had not designed to protract his musical wanderings in the beautiful island of the Antilles for any considerable period, but his success was great, and the new experiences admirably suited his dreaming, sensuous, pleasure-loving temperament. Everywhere the advent of Gottschalk at a town was made the occasion of a festival, and life seemed to be one continued gala-day with him. V. In the early months of 1860 the young pianist, Arthur Napoleon, joined Gottschalk at Havana, and the two gave concerts throughout the West Indies, which were highly successful. The early summer had been designed for a tour through Central America and Venezuela, but a severe attack of illness prostrated Gottschalk, and he was not able to sail before August for his new field of musical conquest. Our artist did not return to New York till 1862, after an absence of five years, though his original plan had only contemplated a tour of two years. It must not be supposed that Gottschalk devoted his time continually to concert performances and composition, though he by no means neglected the requirements of musical labor. As he himself confesses, the balmy climate, the glorious landscapes, the languid _dolce far niente_, which tended to enervate all that came under their magic spell, wrought on his susceptible temperament with peculiar effect. A quotation from an article written by Gottschalk, and published in the "Atlantic Monthly," entitled "Notes of a Pianist," will furnish the reader a graphic idea of the influence of tropical life on such an imaginative and voluptuous character, passionately fond of nature and outdoor life: "Thus, in succession, I have visited all the Antilles--Spanish, French, English, Dutch, Swedish, and Danish; the Guianas, and the coasts of Para. At times, having become the idol of some obscure _pueblo_, whose untutored ears I had charmed with its own simple ballads, I would pitch my tent for five, six, eight months, deferring my departure from day to day, until finally I began seriously to entertain the idea of remaining there for evermore. Abandoning myself to such influences, I lived without care, as the bird sings, as the flower expands, as the brook flows, oblivious of the past, reckless of the future, and sowed both my heart and my purse with the ardor of a husbandman who hopes to reap a hundred ears for every grain he confides to the earth. But, alas! the fields where is garnered the harvest of expended doubloons, and where vernal loves bloom anew, are yet to be discovered; and the result of my prodigality was that, one fine morning, I found myself a bankrupt in heart, with my purse at ebb-tide. Suddenly disgusted with the world and myself, weary, discouraged, mistrusting men (ay, and women too), I fled to a desert on the extinct volcano of M------, where, for several months, I lived the life of a cenobite, with no companion but a poor lunatic whom I had met on a small island, and who had attached himself to me. He followed me everywhere, and loved me with that absurd and touching constancy of which dogs and madmen alone are capable. My friend, whose insanity was of a mild and harmless character, fancied himself the greatest genius in the world. He was, moreover, under the impression that he suffered from a gigantic, monstrous tooth. Of the two idiosyncrasies, the latter alone made his lunacy discernible, too many individuals being affected with the other symptom to render it an anomalous feature of the human mind. My friend was in the habit of protesting that this enormous tooth increased periodically, and threatened to encroach upon his entire jaw. Tormented, at the same time, with the desire of regenerating humanity, he divided his leisure between the study of dentistry, to which he applied himself in order to impede the progress of his hypothetical tyrant, and a voluminous correspondence which he kept up with the Pope, his brother, and the Emperor of the French, his cousin. In the latter occupation he pleaded the interests of humanity, styled himself 'the Prince of Thought,' and exalted me to the dignity of his illustrious friend and benefactor. In the midst of the wreck of his intellect, one thing still survived--his love of music. He played the violin; and, strange as it may appear, although insane, he could not understand the so-called _music of the future_. "My hut, perched on the verge of the crater, at the very summit of the mountain, commanded a view of all the surrounding country. The rock upon which it was built projected over a precipice whose abysses were concealed by creeping plants, cactus, and bamboos. The species of table-rock thus formed had been encircled with a railing, and transformed into a terrace on a level with the sleeping-room, by my predecessor in this hermitage. His last wish had been to be buried there; and from my bed I could see his white tombstone gleaming in the moonlight a few steps from my window. Every evening I rolled my piano out upon the terrace; and there, facing the most incomparably beautiful landscape, all bathed in the soft and limpid atmosphere of the tropics, I poured forth on the instrument, and for myself alone, the thoughts with which the scene inspired me. And what a scene! Picture to yourself a gigantic amphitheatre hewn out of the mountains by an army of Titans; right and left, immense virgin forests full of those subdued and distant harmonies which are, as it were, the voices of Silence; before me, a prospect of twenty leagues marvelously enhanced by the extreme transparency of the air; above, the azure of the sky: beneath, the creviced sides of the mountain sweeping down to the plain; afar, the waving savannas; beyond them, a grayish speck (the distant city); and, encompassing them all, the immensity of the ocean closing the horizon with its deep-blue line. Behind me was a rock on which a torrent of melted snow dashed its white foam, and there, diverted from its course, rushed with a mad leap and plunged headlong into the gulf that yawned beneath my window. "Amid such scenes I composed 'Réponds-moi la Marche des Gibaros,' 'Polonia,' 'Columbia,' 'Pastorella e Cavalière,' 'Jeunesse,' and many other unpublished works. I allowed my fingers to run over the keys, wrapped up in the contemplation of these wonders; while my poor friend, whom I heeded but little, revealed to me with a childish loquacity the lofty destiny he held in reserve for humanity. Can you conceive the contrast produced by this shattered intellect expressing at random its disjointed thoughts, as a disordered clock strikes by chance any hour, and the majestic serenity of the scene around me? I felt it instinctively. My misanthropy gave way. I became indulgent toward myself and mankind, and the wounds of my heart closed once more. My despair was soothed; and soon the sun of the tropics, which tinges all things with gold--dreams as well as fruits--restored me with new confidence and vigor to my wanderings. "I relapsed into the manners and life of these primitive countries: if not strictly virtuous, they are at all events terribly attractive. Existence in a tropical wilderness, in the midst of a voluptuous and half-civilized race, bears no resemblance to that of a London cockney, a Parisian lounger, or an American Quaker. Times there were, indeed, when a voice was heard within me that spoke of nobler aims. It reminded me of what I once was, of what I yet might be; and commanded imperatively a return to a healthier and more active life. But I had allowed myself to be enervated by this baneful languor, this insidious _far niente_; and my moral torpor was such that the mere thought of reappearing before a polished audience struck me as superlatively absurd. 'Where was the object?' I would ask myself. Moreover, it was too late; and I went on dreaming with open eyes, careering on horseback through the savannas, listening at break of day to the prattle of the parrots in the guava-trees, at nightfall to the chirp of the _grillos_ in the cane-fields, or else smoking my cigar, taking my coffee, rocking myself in a hammock--in short, enjoying all the delights that are the very heart-blood of a _guajiro_, and out of the sphere of which he can see but death, or, what is worse to him, the feverish agitation of our Northern society. Go and talk of the funds, of the landed interest, of stock-jobbing, to this Sybarite lord of the wilderness, who can live all the year round on luscious bananas and delicious cocoa-nuts which he is not even at the trouble of planting; who has the best tobacco in the world to smoke; who replaces today the horse he had yesterday by a better one, chosen from the first _calallada_ he meets; who requires no further protection from the cold than a pair of linen trousers, in that favored clime where the seasons roll on in one perennial summer; who, more than all this, finds at eve, under the rustling palm-trees, pensive beauties, eager to reward with their smiles the one who murmurs in their ears those three words, ever new, ever beautiful, 'Yo te quiero.'" VI. Mr. Gottschalk's return to America in February, 1862, was celebrated by a concert in Irving Hall, on the anniversary of his _début_ in New York. This was the beginning of another brilliant musical series, in pursuance of which he appeared in every prominent city of the country. While many found fault with Gottschalk for descending to pure "claptrap" and bravura playing, for using his great powers to merely superficial and unworthy ends, he seemed to retain as great a hold as ever over the masses of concert-goers. Gottschalk himself, with his epicurean, easy-going nature, laughed at the lectures read him by the critics and connoisseurs, who would have him follow out ideals for which he had no taste. It was like asking the butterfly to live the life of the bee. Great as were the gifts of the artist, it was not to be expected that these would be pursued in lines not consistent with the limitations of his temperament. Gottschalk appears to have had no desire except to amuse and delight the world, and to have been foreign to any loftier musical aspiration, if we may judge by his own recorded words. He passed through life as would a splendid wild singing-bird, making music because it was the law of his being, but never directing that talent with conscious energy to some purpose beyond itself. In 1863 family misfortunes and severe illness of himself cooperated to make the year vacant of musical doings, but instantly he recovered he was engaged by M. Strakosch to give another series of concerts in the leading Eastern cities. Without attempting to linger over his career for the next two years, let us pass to his second expedition to the tropics in 1865. Four years were spent in South America, each country that he visited vieing with the other in doing him honor. Magnificent gifts were heaped on him by his enthusiastic Spanish-American admirers, and life was one continual ovation. In Peru he gave sixty concerts, and was presented with a costly decoration of gold, diamond, and pearl. In Chili the Government voted him a grand gold medal, which the board of public schools, the board of visitors of the hospitals, and the municipal government of Valparaiso supplemented by gold medals, in recognition of Gottschalk's munificence in the benefit concerts he gave for various public and humane institutions. The American pianist, through the whole of his career, had shown the traditional benevolence of his class in offering his services to the advancement of worthy objects. A similar reception awaited Gottschalk in Montevideo, where the artist became doubly the object of admiration by the substantial additions he made to the popular educational fund. While in this city he organized and conducted a great musical festival in which three hundred musicians engaged, exclusive of the Italian Opera company then at Montevideo. The spring of 1869 brought Gottschalk to the last scene of his musical triumphs, for the span of his career was about to close over him. Rio Janeiro, the capital of Brazil, gave Gottschalk an ardent reception, which made this city properly the culmination of his toils and triumphs. Gottschalk wrote that his performances created such a _furore_ that boxes commanded a premium of seventy-five dollars, and single seats fetched twenty-five. He was frequently entertained by Dom Pedro at the palace; in every way the Brazilians testified their lavish admiration of his artistic talents. In the midst of his success Gottschalk was seized with yellow fever, and brought very low. Indeed, the report came back to New York that he was dead, a report, however, which his own letters, written from the bed of convalescence, soon contradicted. In October of 1869 Gottschalk was appointed by the emperor to take the leadership of a great festival, in which eight hundred performers in orchestra and chorus would take part. Indefatigable labor, in rehearsing his musicians and organizing the almost innumerable details of such an affair, acted on a frame which had not yet recovered its strength from a severe attack of illness. With difficulty he dragged himself through the tedious preparation, and when he stood up to conduct the first concert of the festival, on the evening of November 26, he was so weak that he could scarcely stand. The next day he was too ill to rise, and, though he forced himself to go to the opera-house in the evening, he was so weak as to be unable to conduct the music, and he had to be driven back to his hotel. The best medical skill watched over him, but his hour had come, and after three weeks of severe suffering he died, December 18, 1869. The funeral solemnities at the Cathedral of Rio were of the most imposing character, and all the indications of really heart-felt sorrow were shown among the vast crowd of spectators, for Gottschalk had quickly endeared himself to the public both as man and artist. At the time of Gott-schalk's death, it was his purpose to set sail for Europe at the earliest practicable moment, to secure the publication of some of his more important works, and the production of his operas, of which he had the finished scores of not less than six. Louis Moreau Gottschalk was an artist and composer whose gifts were never more than half developed; for his native genius as a musician was of the highest order. Shortly before he died, at the age of forty, he seemed to have ripened into more earnest views and purposes, and, had he lived to fulfill his prime, it is reasonable to hazard the conjecture that he would have richly earned a far loftier niche in the pantheon of music than can now be given him. A rich, pleasure-loving, Oriental temperament, which tended to pour itself forth in dreams instead of action; vivid emotional sensibilities, which enabled him to exhaust all the resources of pleasure where imagination stimulates sense; and a thorough optimism in his theories, which saw everything at its best, tended to blunt the keen ambition which would otherwise inevitably have stirred the possessor of such artistic gifts. Gottschalk fell far short of his possibilities, though he was the greatest piano executant ever produced by our own country. He might have dazzled the world even as he dazzled his own partial countrymen. His style as a pianist was sparkling, dashing, showy, but, in the judgment of the most judicious, he did not appear to good advantage in comparison with Thalberg, in whom a perfect technique was dominated by a conscious intellectualism, and a high ideal, passionless but severely beautiful. Gottschalk's idiosyncrasy as a composer ran in parallel lines with that of the player. Most of the works of this musician are brilliant, charming, tender, melodious, full of captivating excellence, but bright with the flash of fancy, rather than strong with the power of imagination. We do not find in his piano-forte pieces any of that subtile soul-searching force which penetrates to the deepest roots of thought and feeling. Sundry musical cynics were wont to crush Gottschalk's individuality into the coffin of a single epigram. "A musical bonbon to tickle the palates of sentimental women." But this falls as far short of justice as the enthusiasm of many of his admirers overreaches it. The easy and genial temperament of the man, his ability to seize the things of life on their bright side, and a naive indolence which indisposed the artist to grapple with the severest obligations of an art life, prevented Gottschalk from attaining the greatness possible to him, but they contributed to make him singularly lovable, and to justify the passionate attachment which he inspired in most of those who knew him well. But, with all of Gottschalk's limitations, he must be considered the most noticeable and able of pianists and composers for the piano yet produced by the United States. FRANZ LISZT. The Spoiled Favorite of Fortune.--His Inherited Genius.--Birth and Early Training.--First Appearance in Concert.--Adam Liszt and his Son in Paris.--Sensation made by the Boy's Playing.--His Morbid Religious Sufferings.--Franz Liszt thrown on his own Resources.--The Artistic Circle in Paris.--Liszt in the Banks of Romanticism.--His Friends and Associates.--Mme. D'Agoult and her Connection with Franz Liszt.--He retires to Geneva.--Is recalled to Paris by the Thalberg _Furore_.--Rivalry between the Artists, and their Factions.--He commences his Career as Traveling Virtuoso.--The Blaze of Enthusiasm throughout Europe.--Schumann on Liszt as Man and Artist.--He ranks the Hungarian Virtuoso as the Superior of Thalberg.--Liszt's Generosity to his own Countrymen.--The Honors paid to him in Pesth.--Incidents of his Musical Wanderings.--He loses the Proceeds of Three Hundred Concerts.--Contributes to the Completion of the Cologne Cathedral.--His Connection with the Beethoven Statue at Bonn, and the Celebration of the Unveiling.--Chorley on Liszt.--Berlioz and Liszt.--Character of the Enthusiasm called out by Liszt as an Artist.--Remarkable Personality as a Man.--Berlioz characterizes the Great Virtuoso in a Letter.--Liszt erases his Life as a Virtuoso, and becomes Chapel-Master and Court Conductor at Weimar.--Avowed Belief in the New School of Music, and Production of Works of this School.--Wagner's Testimony to Liszt's Assistance.--Liszt's Resignation of his Weimar Post after Ten Years.--His Subsequent Life.--He takes Holy Orders.--Liszt as a Virtuoso and Composer.--Entitled to be placed among tire most Remarkable Men of his Age. I. There are but few names in music more interesting than that of Franz Liszt, the spoiled favorite of Europe for more than half a century, and without question the greatest piano-forte virtuoso that ever lived. His life has passed through the sunniest regions of fortune and success, and from his cradle upward the gods have showered on him their richest gifts. His career as an artist and musician has been most remarkable, his personal life full of romance, and his connection with some of the most vital changes in music which have occurred during the century interesting and significant. From his first appearance in public, at the age of twelve, his genius was acknowledged with enthusiasm throughout the whole republic of art, from Beethoven down to the obscurest _dilletante_, and it may be asserted that the history of music knows no instance of success approaching that achieved by the performances of this great player in every capital of Europe, from Madrid to St. Petersburg. When he wearied of the fame of the virtuoso, and became a composer, not only for the piano-forte, but for the orchestra, his invincible energy soon overcame all difficulties in his path, and he has lived to see himself accepted as one of the greatest of living musical thinkers and writers. The life of Liszt is so crowded with important incidents that it is difficult to condense into the brief limits of a sketch any fairly adequate statement of his career. He was born October 22, 1811, in the village of Raiding, in Hungary, and it is said that his father Adam Liszt, who was in the service of the Prince Esterhazy, was firmly convinced that the child would become distinguished on account of the appearance of a remarkable comet during the year. Adam Liszt himself was a fine pianist, gifted indeed with a talent which might have made him eminent had he pursued it. All his ambition and hope, however, centered in his son, in whom musical genius quickly declared itself; and the father found teaching this gifted child not only a labor of love, but a task smoothed by the extraordinary aptness of the pupil. He was accustomed to say to the young Franz: "My son, you are destined to realize the glorious ideal that has shone in vain before my youth. In you that is to reach its fulfillment which I have myself but faintly conceived. In you shall my genius grow up and bear fruit; I shall renew my youth in you even after I am laid in the grave." Such prophetic words recall the vision of the Genoese woman, who foresaw the future greatness of the little Nicolo Paganini, a genius who resembled in many ways the phenomenal musical force embodied in Franz Liszt. When the lad was very young, perhaps not more than six, he read the "Kené" of Chateaubriand, and it made such an indelible impression on his mind that he in after years spoke of it as having been one of the most potent influences of his life, since it stimulated the natural melancholy of his character when his nature was most flexible and impressible. At the age of nine he made his first appearance in public at Odenburg, playing Bies's concerto in three flats, and improvising a fantasia so full of melodic ideas, striking rhythms, and well-arranged harmony as to strike the audience with surprise and admiration. Among the hearers was Prince Esterhazy, who was so pleased with the precocious talent shown that he put a purse of fifty ducats in the young musician's hand. Soon after this Adam Liszt went to Pres-burg to live, and several noblemen, among whom were Prince Esterhazy, and the Counts Amadée and Szapary, all of them enthusiastic patrons of music, determined to bear the burden of the boy's musical education. To this end they agreed to allow him six hundred florins a year for six years. Young Liszt was placed at Vienna under the tutelage of the celebrated pianist and teacher Czerny, and soon made such progress that he was able to play such works as those even of Beethoven and Hummel at first sight. When Liszt did this for one of Hummel's most difficult concertos, at the rooms of the music publisher one day, it created a great sensation in Vienna, and he quickly became one of the lions of the drawing-rooms of the capital. Czerny himself was so much delighted with the genius of his charge that he refused to accept the three hundred florins stipulated for his lessons, saying he was but too well repaid by the success of the pupil. Though toiling with incessant industry in musical study and practice, for the boy was working at composition with Salieri and Randhartinger, as well as the piano-forte with Czerny, he found time to indulge in those strange, mystical, and fantastic dreams which have molded his whole life, oscillating between pietistic delirium, wherein he saw celestial visions and felt the call to a holy life, and the most voluptuous images and aspirations for earthly pleasures. Franz Liszt at this early age had a sensibility so delicate, and an imagination so quickly kindled, that he himself tells us no one can guess the extremes of ecstasy and despair through which he alternately passed. These spiritual experiences were perhaps fed by the mysticism of Jacob Boehme, whose works came into his possession, and furnished a most delusive and dangerous guide for the young enthusiast's fancy. But, dream and suffer as he might, nothing was allowed to quench the ardor of his musical studies. Eighteen months were passed in diligent labor under the guidance of the masters, who found teaching almost unnecessary, as the wonderful lad needed but a hint to work out for himself the most difficult problems, and he toiled so incessantly that he often became conscious of the change of day into night only by the failure of the light and the coming of the candles. Finally, by advice of Salieri, after eighteen months of labor, he determined to appear in concert in Vienna. On this occasion the audience was composed of the most distinguished people of Vienna, drawn thither to hear the young musical wonder of whom every one talked. Among the hearers was Beethoven, who after the concert gave the proud boy the most cordial praise, and prophesied a great career for him. The elder Liszt was already in Paris, and it was determined that Franz should go to that city, to avail himself of the instructions of Cherubini, at the Conservatoire, who as a teacher of counterpoint had no equal in Europe. The Prince Metternich sent letters of the warmest recommendation, but they were of no avail, for Cherubini, who was singularly whimsical and obstinate in his notions, refused to accept the new candidate, on account of the rule of the Conservatoire excluding pupils of foreign birth, a plea which the famous director did not hesitate to break when he chose. Franz, however, continued his studies under Reicha and Paer, and, while the gates of the Conservatoire were closed, all the salons of Paris opened to receive him. Everywhere he was feted, courted, caressed. This fair-haired, blue-eyed lad, with the seal of genius burning on his face, had made the social world mad over him. The young adventurer was sailing in a treacherous channel, full of dangerous reefs. Would he, in the homage paid to him, an unmatured youth, by scholars, artists, wealth, beauty, and rank, forgot in mere self-love and vanity his high obligations to his art and the sincere devotion which alone could wrest from art its richest guerdon? This problem seems to have troubled his father, for he determined to take his young Franz away from the palace of Circe. The boy had already made an attempt at composition in the shape of an operetta, in one act, "Don Sanche," which was very well received at the Académie Royale. Adolph Nourrit, the great singer, had led the young composer on the stage, where he was received with thunders of applause by the audience, and was embraced with transport by Rudolph Kreutzer, the director of the orchestra. Adam Liszt and his son went to England, and spent about six months in giving concerts in London and other cities. Franz was less than fourteen years old, but the pale, fragile, slender boy had, in the deep melancholy which stamped the noble outline of his face, an appearance of maturity that belied his years. English audiences everywhere received him with admiration, but he seemed to have lost all zest for the intoxicating wine of public favor. A profound gloom stole over him, and we even hear of hints at an attempt to commit suicide. Adam Liszt attributed it to the sad English climate, which Hein-rich Heine cursed with such unlimited bitterness, and took his boy back again to sunnier France. But the dejection darkened and deepened, threatening even to pass into epilepsy. It assumed the form of religious enthusiasm, alternating with fits of remorse as of one who had committed the unpardonable sin, and sometimes expressed itself in a species of frenzy for the monastic life. These strange experiences alarmed the father, and, in obedience to medical advice, he took the ailing, half-hysterical lad to Boulogne-sur-Mer, for sea-bathing. II. While by the seaside Franz Liszt lost the father who had loved him with the devotion of father and mother combined. This fresh stroke of affliction deepened his dejection, and finally resulted in a fit of severe illness. When he was convalescent new views of life seemed to inspire him. He was now entirely thrown on his own resources for support, for Adam Liszt had left his affairs so deeply involved that there was but little left for his son and widow. A powerful nature, turned awry by unhealthy broodings, is often rescued from its own mental perversities by the sense of some new responsibility suddenly imposed on it. Boy as Liszt was, the Titan in him had already shown itself in the agonies and struggles which he had undergone, and, now that the necessity of hard work suddenly came, the atmosphere of turmoil and gloom began to clear under the imminent practical burden of life. He set resolutely to work composing and giving concerts. The religious mania under which he had rested for a while turned his thoughts to sacred music, and most of his compositions were masses. But the very effort of responsible toil set, as it were, a background against which he could appoint the true place and dimensions of his art work. There was another disturbance, however, which now stirred up his excitable mind. He fell madly in love with a lady of high rank, and surrendered his young heart entirely to this new passion. The unfortunate issue of this attachment, for the lady was much older than himself, and laughed with a gentle mockery at the infatuation of her young adorer, made Liszt intensely unhappy and misanthropical, but it did not prevent him from steady labor. Indeed, work became all the more welcome, as it served to distract his mind from its amorous pains, and his fantastic musings, instead of feeding on themselves, expressed themselves in his art. Certainly no healthier sign of one beginning to clothe himself in his right mind again can easily be imagined. Liszt was now twenty years of age, and had regularly settled in Paris. He became acquainted intimately with the leaders of French literature, and was an habitué of the brilliant circles which gathered these great minds night after night. Lamartine and Chateaubriand were yielding place to a young and fiery school of writers and thinkers, but cordially clasped hands with the successors whom they themselves had made possible. Mme. George Sand, Balzac, Dumas, Victor Hugo, and others were just then beginning to stir in the mental revolution which they made famous. Liszt felt a deep interest in the literary and scientific interests of the day, and he threw himself into the new movement with great enthusiasm, for its strong wave moved art as well as letters with convulsive throes. The musician found in this fresh impulse something congenial to his own fiery, restless, aspiring nature. He entered eagerly into all the intellectual movements of the day. He became a St. Simonian and such a hot-headed politician that, had he not been an artist, and as such considered a harmless fanatic, he would perhaps have incurred some penalties. Liszt has left us, in his "Life of Chopin," and his letters, some very vivid portraitures of the people and the events, the fascinating literary and artistic reunions, and the personal experiences which made this part of his life so interesting; but, tempting as it is, we can not linger. There can be no question that this section of his career profoundly colored his whole life, and that the influence of Victor Hugo, Balzac, and Mme. George Sand is very perceptible in his compositions not merely in their superficial tone and character, but in the very theory on which they are built. Liszt thenceforward cut loose from all classic restraints, and dared to fling rules and canons to the winds, except so far as his artistic taste approved them. The brilliant and daring coterie, defying conventionality and the dull decorum of social law, in which our artist lived, wrought also another change in his character. Liszt had hitherto been almost austere in his self-denial, in restraint of passion and license, in a religious purity of life, as if he dwelt in the cold shadow of the monastery, not knowing what moment he should disappear within its gates. There was now to be a radical change. One of the brilliant members of the coterie in which he lived a life of such keen mental activity was Countess D'Agoult, who afterward became famous in the literary world as "Daniel Stern." Beautiful, witty, accomplished, imaginative, thoroughly in sympathy with her friend George Sand in her views of love and matrimony, and not less daring in testifying to her opinion by actions, the name of Mme. D'Agoult had already been widely bruited abroad in connection with more than one romantic escapade. In the powerful personality of young Franz Liszt, instinct with an artistic genius which aspired like an eagle, vital with a resolute, reckless will, and full of a magnetic energy that overflowed in everything--looks, movements, talk, playing--the somewhat fickle nature of Mme. D'Agoult was drawn to the artist like steel to a magnet. Liszt, on the other hand, easily yielded to the refined and delicious sensuousness of one of the most accomplished women of her time, who to every womanly fascination added the rarest mental gifts and high social place. The mutual passion soon culminated in a tie which lasted for many years, and was perhaps as faithfully observed by both parties as could be expected of such an irregular connection. Three children were the offspring of this attachment, a son who died, and two daughters, one of whom became the wife of M. Ollivier, the last imperial prime minister of France, and the other successively Mme. Von Bûlow and Mme. Wagner, under which latter title she is still known. The _chroniques scandaleuses_ of Paris and other great cities of Europe are full of racy scandals purporting to connect the name of Liszt with well-known charming and beautiful women, but, aside from the uncertainty which goes with such rumors, this is not a feature of Liszt's life on which it is our purpose to dilate. The errors of such a man, exposed by his temperament and surroundings to the fiercest breath of temptation, should be rather veiled than opened to the garish day. Of the connection with Mme. D'Agoult something has been briefly told, because it had an important influence on his art career. Though the Church had never sanctioned the tie, there is every reason to believe that the lady's power over Liszt was consistently used to restrain his naturally eccentric bias, and to keep his thoughts fixed on the loftiest art ideals. III. Soon after Liszt's connection with Mme. D'Agoult began, he retired with his devoted companion to Geneva, Switzerland, a city always celebrated in the annals of European literature and art. In the quiet and charming atmosphere of this city our artist spent two years, busy for the most part in composing. He had already attained a superb rank as a pianist, and of those virtuosos who had then exhibited their talents in Paris no one was considered at all worthy to be compared with Liszt except Chopin. Aside from the great mental grasp, the opulent imagination, the fire and passion, the dazzling technical skill of the player, there was a vivid personality in Liszt as a man which captivated audiences. This element dominated his slightest action. He strode over the concert stage with the haughty step of a despot who ruled with a sway not to be contested. Tearing his gloves from his fingers and hurling them on the piano, he would seat himself with a proud gesture, run his fingers through his waving blonde locks, and then attack the piano with the vehemence of a conqueror taking his army into action. Much of this manner was probably the outcome of natural temperament, something the result of affectation; but it helped to add to the glamour with which Liszt always held his audiences captive. When he left Paris for a studious retirement at Geneva, the throne became vacant. By and by there came a contestant for the seat, a player no less remarkable in many respects than Liszt himself, Sigismond Thalberg, whose performances aroused Paris, alert for a new sensation, into an enthusiasm which quickly mounted to boiling heat. Humors of the danger threatened to his hitherto acknowledged ascendancy reached Liszt in his Swiss retreat. The artist's ambition was stirred to the quick; he could not sleep at night with the thought of this victorious rival who was snatching his laurels, and he hastened back to Paris to meet Thalberg on his own ground. The latter, however, had already left Paris, and Liszt only felt the ground-swell of the storm he had raised. There was a hot division of opinion among the Parisians, as there had been in the days of Gluck and Piccini. Society was divided into Lisztians and Thalbergians, and to indulge in this strife was the favorite amusement of the fashionable world. Liszt proceeded to reestablish his place by a series of remarkable concerts, in which he introduced to the public some of the works wrought out during his retirement, among them transcriptions from the songs of Schubert and the symphonies of Beethoven, in which the most free and passionate poetic spirit was expressed through the medium of technical difficulties in the scoring before unknown to the art of the piano-forte. There can be no doubt that the influence of Thalberg's rivalry on Liszt's mind was a strong force, and suggested new combinations. Without having heard Thalberg, our artist had already divined the secret of his effects, and borrowed from them enough to give a new impulse to an inventive faculty which was fertile in expedients and quick to assimilate all things of value to the uses of its own insatiable ambition. Franz Liszt's career as a traveling virtuoso commenced in 1837, and lasted for twelve years. Hitherto he had resisted the impulsion to such a course, all his desires rushing toward composition, but the extraordinary rewards promised cooperated with the spur of rivalry to overcome all scruples. The first year of these art travels was made memorable by the great inundation of the Danube, which caused so much suffering at Pesth. Thousands of people were rendered homeless, and the scene was one that appealed piteously to the humanitarian mind. The heart of Franz Liszt burned with sympathy, and he devoted the proceeds of his concerts for nearly two months to the alleviation of the woes of his countrymen. A princely sum was contributed by the artist, which went far to assist the sufferers. The number of occasions on which Liszt gave his services to charity was legion. It is credibly stated that the amount of benefactions contributed by his benefit concerts, added to the immense sums which he directly disbursed, would have made him several times a millionaire. The blaze of enthusiasm which Liszt kindled made his track luminous throughout the musical centers of Europe. Cæsar-like, his very arrival was a victory, for it aroused an indescribable ferment of agitation, which rose at his concerts to wild excesses. Ladies of the highest rank tore their gloves to strips in the ardor of their applause, flung their jewels on the stage instead of bouquets, shrieked in ecstasy and sometimes fainted, and made a wild rush for the stage at the close of the music to see Liszt, and obtain some of the broken strings of the piano, which the artist had ruined in the heat of his play, as precious relics of the occasion. The stories told of the Liszt craze among the ladies of Germany and Russia are highly amusing, and have a value as registering the degree of the effect he produced on impressible minds. Even sober and judicious critics who knew well whereof they spoke yielded to the contagion. Schumann writes of him, _apropos_ of his Dresden and Leipzig concerts in 1840: "The whole audience greeted his appearance with an enthusiastic storm of applause, and then he began to play. I had heard him before, but an artist is a different thing in the presence of the public compared with what he appears in the presence of a few. The fine open space, the glitter of light, the elegantly dressed audience--all this elevates the frame of mind in the giver and receiver. And now the demon's power began to awake; he first played with the public as if to try it, then gave it something more profound, until every single member was enveloped in his art; and then the whole mass began to rise and fall precisely as he willed it. I never found any artist except Paga-nini to possess in so high a degree this power of subjecting, elevating, and leading the public. It is an instantaneous variety of wildness, tenderness, boldness, and airy grace; the instrument glows under the hand of its master.... It is most easy to speak of his outward appearance. People have often tried to picture this by comparing Liszt's head to Schiller's or Napoleon's; and the comparison so far holds good, in that extraordinary men possess certain traits in common, such as an expression of energy and strength of will in the eyes and mouth. He has some resemblance to the portraits of Napoleon as a young general, pale, thin, with a remarkable profile, the whole significance of his appearance culminating in his head. While listening to Liszt's playing, I have often almost imagined myself as listening to one I heard long before. But this art is scarcely to be described. It is not this or that style of piano-forte playing; it is rather the outward expression of a daring character, to whom Fate has given as instruments of victory and command, not the dangerous weapon of war, but the peaceful ones of art. No matter how many and great artists we possess or have seen pass before us of recent years, though some of them equal him in single points, all must yield to him in energy and boldness. People have been very fond of placing Thalberg in the lists beside him, and then drawing comparisons. But it is only necessary to look at both heads to come to a conclusion. I remember the remark of a Viennese designer who said, not inaptly, that his countryman's head resembled that of a handsome countess with a man's nose, while of Liszt he observed that he might sit to every painter for a Grecian god. There is a similar difference in their art. Chopin stands nearer to Liszt as a player, for at least he loses nothing beside him in fairy-like grace and tenderness; next to him Paganini, and, among women, Mme. Malibran; from these Liszt himself says he has learned the most.... Liszt's most genial performance was yet to come, Weber's 'Concert-stuck,' which he played at the second performance. Virtuoso and public seemed to be in the freshest mood possible on that evening, and the enthusiasm during and after his playing almost exceeded anything hitherto known here. Although Liszt grasped the piece from the begin-ing with such force and grandeur that an attack on the battle-field seemed to be in question, yet he carried this on with continually increasing power, until the passage where the player seems to stand at the summit of the orchestra, leading it forward in triumph. Here, indeed, he resembled that great commander to whom he has been compared, and the tempestuous applause that greeted him was not unlike an adoring 'Vive l'Empereur.'" Flattering to his pride, however, as were the universal honors bestowed on the artist, none were so grateful as those from his own countrymen. The philanthropy of his conduct had made a deep impression on the Hungarians. Two cities, Pesth and Odenburg, created him an honorary citizen; a patent of nobility was solicited for him by the _comitat_ of Odenburg; and the "sword of honor," according to Hungarian custom, was presented to him with due solemnities. A brief account from an Hungarian journal of the time is of interest. "The national feeling of the Magyars is well known; and proud are they of that star of the first magnitude which arose out of their nation. Over the countries of Europe the fame of the Hungarian Liszt came to them before they had as yet an opportunity of admiring him. The Danube was swollen by rains, Pesth was inundated, thousands were mourning the loss of friends and relations or of all their property. During his absence in Milan Liszt learned that many of his countrymen were suffering from absolute want. His resolution was taken. The smiling heaven of Italy, the _dolce far niente_ of Southern life, could not detain him. The following morning he had quitted Milan and was on his way to Vienna. He performed for the benefit of those who had suffered by the inundation at Pesth. His art was the horn of plenty from which streamed forth blessings for the afflicted. Eighteen months afterward he came to Pesth, not as the artist in search of pecuniary advantage, but as a Magyar. He played for the Hungarian national theatre, for the musical society, for the poor of Pesth and of Odenburg, always before crowded houses, and the proceeds, fully one hundred thousand francs, were appropriated for these purposes. Who can wonder that admiration and pride should arise to enthusiasm in the breasts of his grateful countrymen? He was complimented by serenades, garlands were thrown to him; in short, the whole population of Pesth neglected nothing to manifest their respect, gratitude, and affection. But these honors, which might have been paid to any other artist of high distinction, did not satisfy them. They resolved to bind him for ever to the Hungarian nation from which he sprang. The token of manly honor in Hungary is a sword, for every Magyar has the right to wear a sword, and avails himself of that right. It was determined that their celebrated countryman should be presented with the Hungarian sword of honor. The noblemen appeared at the theatre, in the rich costume they usually wear before the emperor, and presented Liszt, midst thunders of applause from the whole assembled people, with a costly sword of honor." It was also proposed to erect a bronze statue of him in Pesth, but Liszt persuaded his countrymen to give the money to a struggling young artist instead. IV. In the autumn of 1840 Liszt went from Paris, at which city he had been playing for some time, to the north of Germany, where he at first found the people colder than he had been wont to experience. But this soon disappeared before the magic of his playing, and even the Hamburgers, notorious for a callous, bovine temperament, gave wild demonstrations of pleasure at his concerts. He specially pleased the worthy citizens by his willingness to play off-hand, without notes, any work which they called for, a feat justly regarded as a stupendous exercise of memory. From Hamburg he went to London, where he gave nine concerts in a fortnight, and stormed the affections and admiration of the English public as he had already conquered the heart of Continental Europe. While in London a calamity befell him. A rascally agent in whom he implicitly trusted disappeared with the proceeds of three hundred concerts, an enormous sum, amounting to nearly fifty thousand pounds sterling. Liszt bore this reverse with cheerful spirits and scorned the condolences with which his friends sought to comfort him, saying he could easily make the money again, that his wealth was not in money, but in the power of making money. The artist's musical wanderings were nearly without ceasing. His restless journeying carried him from Italy to Denmark, and from the British Islands to Russia, and everywhere the art and social world bowed at his feet in recognition of a genius which in its way could only be designated by the term "colossal." It seems cumbersome and monotonous to repeat the details of successive triumphs; but some of them are attended by features of peculiar interest. He offered, in the summer of 1841, to give the proceeds of a concert to the completion of the Cathedral of Cologne (who that loves music does not remember Liszt's setting of Heine's song "Im Rhein," where he translates the glory of the Cathedral into music?). Liszt was then staying at the island of Nonneworth, near Bonn, and a musical society, the Liedertafel, resolved to escort him up to Cologne with due pomp, and so made a grand excursion with a great company of invited guests on a steamboat hired for the purpose. A fine band of music greeted Liszt on landing, and an extensive banquet was then served, at which Liszt made an eloquent speech, full of wit and feeling. The artist acceded to the desire of the great congregation of people who had gathered to hear him play; and his piano was brought into the ruined old chapel of the ancient nunnery, about which so many romantic Rhenish legends cluster. Liszt gave a display of his wonderful powers to the delighted multitude, and the long-deserted hall of Nonneworth chapel, which for many years had only heard the melancholy call of the owl, resounded with the most magnificent music. Finally the procession with Liszt at the head marched to the steamboat, and the vessel glided over the bosom of the Rhine amid the dazzling glare of fireworks and to the music of singing and instruments. All Cologne was assembled to meet them, and Liszt was carried on the shoulders of his frantic admirers to his hotel. In common with all other great musicians, Liszt has throughout life been a reverential admirer of the genius of Beethoven, an isolated force in music without peer or parallel. In his later years Liszt bitterly reproached himself because, in the vanity and impetuosity of his youth, he had dared to take liberties with the text of the Beethoven sonatas. Many interesting facts in Liszt's life connect themselves, directly or indirectly, with Beethoven. Among these is worthy of mention our artist's part in the Beethoven festival at Bonn in 1845, organized to celebrate the erection of a colossal bronze statue. The enterprise had been languishing for a long time, when Liszt promptly declared he would make up the deficiency single-handed, and this he did with great celerity. In an incredibly short time the money was raised, and the commission put in the hands of the sculptor Hilbnel, of Dresden, one of the foremost artists of Germany. The programme for the celebration was drawn up by Liszt and Dr. Spohr, who were to be the joint conductors of the festival music. A thousand difficulties intervened to embarrass the organization of the affair, the jealousies of prominent singers, who revolted against the self-effacement they would needs undergo, a certain truly German parsimony in raising the money for the expenses, and the envious littleness of certain great composers and musicians, who feared that Liszt would reap too much glory from the prominence of the part he had taken in the affair, But Liszt's energy had surmounted all these obstacles, when finally, only a month before the festival, which was to take place in August, it was discovered that there was no suitable Pesthalle in Bonn. The committee said, "What if the affair should not pay expenses? would they not be personally saddled with the debt?" Liszt promptly answered that, if the proceeds were not sufficient, he himself would pay the cost of the building. The architect of the Cologne Cathedral was placed at the head of the work, a waste plot of ground selected, the trees grubbed up, timber fished up from one of the great Rhine rafts, and the Festhalle rose with the swiftness of Aladdin's palace. The erection of the statue of Beethoven at his birthplace, and the musical celebration thereof in August, 1845, one of the most interesting events of its kind that ever occurred, must be, for the most part, attributed to the energy and munificence of Franz Liszt. Great personages were present from all parts of Europe, among them King William of Prussia and Queen Victoria of England. Henry Chorley, who has given a pretty full description of the festival, says that Liszt's performance of Beethoven's concerto in E flat was the crowning glory of the festival, in spite of the richness and beauty of the rest of the programme. "I must lastly commemorate, as the most magnificent piece of piano-forte playing I ever heard, Dr. Liszt's delivery of the concerto in E flat.... Whereas its deliverer restrained himself within all the limits that the most sober classicist could have prescribed, he still rose to a loftiness, in part ascribable to the enthusiasm of time and place, in part referable to a nature chivalresque, proud, and poetic in no common degree, which I have heard no other instrumentalist attain.... The triumph in the mind of the executant sustained the triumph in the idea of the compositions without strain, without spasm, but with a breadth and depth and height such as made the genius of the executant approach the genius of the inventor.... There are players, there are poets; and as a poet Liszt was possibly never so sublimely or genuinely inspired as in that performance, which remains a bright and precious thing in the midst of all the curiously parti-colored recollections of the Beethoven festival at Bonn." In 1846, among Liszt's other musical experiences, he played in concerts with Berlioz throughout Austria and Southern Germany. The impetuous Osechs and Magyars showed their hot Tartar blood in the passion of enthusiasm they displayed. Berlioz relates that, at his first concert at Pesth, he performed his celebrated version of the "Rákóczy March," and there was such a furious explosion of excitement that it wellnigh put an end to the concert. At the end of the performance Berlioz was wiping the perspiration from his face in the little room off the stage, when the door burst open, and a shabbily dressed man, his face glowing with a strange fire, rushed in, throwing himself at Berlioz's feet, his eyes brimming with tears. He kissed the composer over and over again, and sobbed out brokenly: "Ah, sir! Me Hungarian... poor devil... not speak French... _un, poco l'taliano_.... Pardon... my ecstasy... Ah! understand your cannon... Yes! yes! the great battle... Germans, dogs!" Then, striking great blows with his fists on his chest, "In my heart I carry you... A Frenchman, revolutionist... know how to write music for revolutions." At a supper given after the performance, Berlioz tells us Liszt made an inimitable speech, and got so gloriously be-champagned that it was with great difficulty that he could be restrained from pistolling a Bohemian nobleman, at two o'clock in the morning, who insisted that he could carry off more bottles under his belt than Liszt. But the latter played at a concert next day at noon "assuredly as he had never played before," says Berlioz. Before passing from that period of Liszt's career which was distinctly that of the virtuoso, it is proper to refer to the unique character of the enthusiasm which everywhere followed his track like the turmoil of a stormy sea. Europe had been familiar with other great players, many of them consummate artists, like Hummel, Henri Herz, Czerny, Kalkbrenner, Field, Moscheles, and Thalberg, the most brilliant name of them all. But the feeling which these performers aroused was pale and passionless in comparison with that evoked by Franz Liszt. This was not merely the outcome of Liszt as a player and musician, but of Liszt as a man. The man always impressed people as immeasurably bigger than what he did, great as that was. His nature had a lavishness that knew no bounds. He lived for every distinguished man and beautiful woman, and with every joyous thing. He had wit and sympathy to spare for gentle and simple, and his kindliness was lavished with royal profusion on the scum as well as the salt of the earth. This atmosphere of personal grandeur radiated from him, and invested his doings, musical and otherwise, with something peculiarly fine and fascinating. And then as a player Liszt rose above his mates as something of a different genius, a different race, a different world, to every one else who has ever handled a piano. He is not to be considered among the great composers, also pianists, who have merely treated their instrument as an interpreting medium, but as a poet, who executively employed the piano as his means of utterance and material for creation. In mere mechanical skill, after every one else has ended, Liszt had still something to add, carrying every man's discovery further. If he was surpassed by Thalberg in richness of sound, he surpassed Thalberg by a variety of tone of which the redoubtable Viennese player had no dream. He had his delicate, light, freakish moods in which he might stand for another Chopin in qualities of fancy, sentiment, and faëry brilliancy. In sweep of hand and rapidity of finger, in fire and fineness of execution, in that interweaving of exquisite momentary fancies where the work admits, in a memory so vast as to seem almost superhuman; in that lightning quickness of view, enabling him to penetrate instantaneously the meaning of a new composition, and to light it up properly with its own inner spirit (some touch of his own brilliancy added); briefly, in a mastery, complete, spontaneous, enjoying and giving enjoyment, over every style and school of music, all those who have heard Liszt assert that he is unapproached among players and the traditions of players. In a letter from Berlioz to Liszt, the writer gives us a vivid idea of the great virtuoso's playing and its effects. Berlioz is complaining of the difficulties which hamper the giving of orchestral concerts. After rehearsing his mishaps, he says: "After all, of what use is such information to you? You can say with confidence, changing the mot of Louis XIV, '_L'orchestre, c'est moi; le chour, c'est moi; le chef c'est encore moi_.' My piano-forte sings, dreams, explodes, resounds; it defies the flight of the most skillful forms; it has, like the orchestra, its brazen harmonies; like it, and without the least preparation, it can give to the evening breeze its cloud of fairy chords and vague melodies. I need neither theatre, nor box scene, nor much staging. I have not to tire myself out at long rehearsals. I want neither a hundred, fifty, nor twenty players. I do not even need any music. A grand hall, a grand pianoforte, and I am master of a grand audience. I show myself and am applauded; my memory awakens, dazzling fantasies grow beneath my fingers. Enthusiastic acclamations answer them. I sing Schubert's "Ave Maria," or Beethoven's "Adelaida" on the piano, and all hearts tend toward me, all breasts hold their breath.... Then come luminous bombs, the banquet of this grand firework, and the cries of the public, and the flowers and the crowns that rain around the priest of harmony, shuddering on his tripod; and the young beauties, who, all in tears, in their divine confusion kiss the hem of his cloak; and the sincere homage drawn from serious minds and the feverish applause torn from many; the lofty brows that bow down, and the narrow hearts, marveling to find themselves expanding '.... It is a dream, one of those golden dreams one has when one is called Liszt or Paganini." That such a man as this, brilliant in wit, extravagant in habit and opinion, courted for his personal fascination by every one greatest in rank and choicest in intellect from his prodigious youth to his ripe manhood, should suddenly cease from display at the moment when his popularity was at its highest, when no rival was in being, is a remarkable trait in Dr. Franz Liszt's remarkable life. But this he did in 1849, by settling in Weimar as conductor of the court theatre, his age then being thirty-eight years. V. Liszt closed his career as a virtuoso, and accepted a permanent engagement at Weimar, with the distinct purpose of becoming identified with the new school of music which was beginning to express itself so remarkably through Richard Wagner. His new position enabled him to bring works before the world which would otherwise have had but little chance of seeing the light of day, and he rapidly produced at brief intervals eleven works, either for the first time, or else revived from what had seemed a dead failure. Among these works were "Lohengrin," "Rienzi," and "Tannhâuser" by Wagner, "Benvenuto Cellini" by Berlioz, and Schumann's "Genoveva," and music to Byron's "Manfred." Liszt's new departure and the extraordinary band of artists he drew around him attracted the attention of the world of music, and Weimar became a great musical center, even as in the days of Goethe it had been a visiting shrine for the literary pilgrims of Europe. Thus a nucleus of bold and enthusiastic musicians was formed whose mission it was to preach the gospel of the new musical faith. Richard Wagner says that, after the revolution of 1849, when he was compelled to fly for his life, he was thoroughly disheartened as an artist, and that all thought of musical creativeness was dead within him. From this stagnation he was rescued by a friend, and that friend was Franz Liszt. Let us tell the story in Wagner's own words: "I met Liszt for the first time during my earliest stay in Paris, at a period when I had renounced the hope, nay, even a wish of a Paris reputation, and, indeed, was in a state of internal revolt against the artistic life which I found there. At our meeting he struck me as the most perfect contrast to my own being and situation. In this world into which it had been my desire to fly from my narrow circumstances, Liszt had grown up from his earliest age so as to be the object of general love and admiration at a time when I was repulsed by general coldness and want of sympathy. In consequence, I looked upon him with suspicion. I had no opportunity of disclosing my being and working to him, and therefore the reception I met with on his part was of a superficial kind, as was indeed natural in a man to whom every day the most divergent impressions claimed access. But I was not in a mood to look with unprejudiced eyes for the natural cause of this behavior, which, though friendly and obliging in itself, could not but wound me in the then state of my mind. I never repeated my first call on Liszt, and, without knowing or even wishing to know him, I was prone to look on him as strange and adverse to my nature. My repeated expression of this feeling was afterward told to him, just at the time when my "Rienzi" at Dresden was attracting general attention. He was surprised to find himself misunderstood with such violence by a man whom he had scarcely known, and whose acquaintance now seemed not without value to him. I am still moved when I think of the repeated and eager attempts he made to change my opinion of him, even before he knew any of my works. He acted not from any artistic sympathy, but led by the purely human wish of discontinuing a casual disharmony between himself and another being; perhaps he also felt an infinitely tender misgiving of having really hurt me unconsciously. He who knows the selfishness and terrible insensibility of our social life, and especially of the relations of modern artists to each other, can not be struck with wonder, nay, delight, with the treatment I received from this remarkable man.... At Weimar I saw him for the last time, when I was resting for a few days in Thuringia, uncertain whether the threatening persecution would compel me to continue my flight from Germany. The very day when my personal danger became a certainty, I saw Liszt conducting a rehearsal of my 'Tannhouser,' and was astonished at recognizing my second self in his achievement. What I had felt in inventing this music, he felt in performing it; what I had wanted to express in writing it down, he expressed in making it sound. Strange to say, through the love of this rarest friend, I gained, at the very moment of becoming homeless, a real home for my art which I had hitherto longed for and sought for in the wrong place.... At the end of my last stay in Paris, when, ill, miserable, and despairing, I sat brooding over my fate, my eye fell on the score of my 'Lohengrin,' which I had totally forgotten. Suddenly I felt something like compassion that this music should never sound from off the death-pale paper. Two words I wrote to Liszt; the answer was that preparation was being made for the performance on the grandest scale which the limited means of Weimar permitted. Everything that man or circumstances could do was done to make the work understood.... Errors and misconceptions impeded the desired success. What was to be done to supply what was wanted, so as to further the true understanding on all sides and, with it, the ultimate success of the work? Liszt saw it at once, and did it. He gave to the public his own impression of the work in a manner the convincing eloquence and overpowering efficacy of which remain unequaled. Success was his reward, and with this success he now approaches me, saying, 'Behold, we have come so far! Now create us a new work, that we may go still farther.'" Liszt remained at Weimar for ten years, when he resigned his place on account of certain narrow jealousies and opposition offered to his plans. Since 1859 he has lived at Weimar, Pesth, and Rome, always the center of a circle of pupils and admirers, and, though no longer occupying an active place in the world, full of unselfish devotion to the true interests of music and musicians. In 1868 he took minor orders in the Roman priesthood. Since his early youth Liszt had been the subject of strong paroxysms of religious feeling, which more than once had nearly carried him into monastic life, and thus his brilliant career would have been lost to the world and to art. After he had gained every reward that can be lavished on genius, and tasted to the very dregs the wine of human happiness, so far as that can come of a splendid prosperity and the adoration of the musical world for nearly half a century, a sudden revulsion seems to have recalled again to the surface that profound religious passion which the glory and pleasure of his busy life had never entirely suppressed. It was by no means astonishing to those who knew Liszt's life best that he should have taken holy orders. Abbé Liszt lives a portion of each year with the Prince-Cardinal Hohenlohe, in the well-known Villa d'Esté, near Rome, a château with whose history much romance is interwoven. He is said to be very zealous in his religious devotions, and to spend much time in reading and composing. He rarely touches the piano, unless inspired by the presence of visitors whom he thoroughly likes, and even in such cases less for his own pleasure than for the gratification of his friends. Even his intimate friends would hardly venture to ask Liszt to play. His summer months are divided between Pesth and Weimar, where his advent always makes a glad commotion among the artistic circles of these respective cities. Of the various pupils who have been formed by Liszt, Hans von Bulow, who married his daughter Cosima, is the most distinguished, and shares with Rubenstein the honor of being the first of European pianists, now that Liszt has for so long a time withdrawn himself from the field of competition. VI. Liszt has been a very industrious and prolific writer, his works numbering thirty-one compositions for the orchestra; seven for the piano-forte and orchestra; two for piano and violin; nine for the organ; thirteen masses, psalms, and other sacred music; two oratorios; fifteen cantatas and chorals; sixty-three songs; and one hundred and seventy-nine works for the piano-forte proper. The bulk of these compositions, the most important of them at least, were produced in the first forty years of his life, and testify to enormous energy and capacity for work, as they came into being during his active period as a virtuoso. In addition to his musical works, Liszt has shown distinguished talent in letters, and his articles and pamphlets, notably the monographs on Robert Franz, Chopin, and the Music of the Gypsies, indicate that, had he not chosen to devote himself to music, he might have made himself an enviable name in literature. Perhaps no better characterization of Liszt could be made than to call him the musical Victor Hugo of his age. In both these great men we find the same restless and burning imagination, a quickness of sensibility easily aroused to vehemence, a continual reaching forward toward the new and untried and impatience of the old, the same great versatility, the same unequaled command of all the resources of their respective crafts, and, until within the last twenty years, the same ceaseless fecundity. Of Liszt as a player it is not necessary to speak further. Suffice it that he is acknowledged to have been, while pursuing the path of the virtuoso, not only great, but the greatest in the records of art, with the possible exception of Paganini. To the possession of a technique which united all the best qualities of other players, carrying each a step further, he added a powerful and passionate imagination which illuminated the work before him. Wagner wrote of him: "He who has had frequent opportunities, particularly in a friendly circle, of hearing Liszt play, for instance, Beethoven, must have understood that this was not mere reproduction, but production. The actual point of division between these two things is not so easily determined as most people believe, but so much I have ascertained without a doubt, that, in order to reproduce Beethoven, one must produce with him." It was this quality which made Liszt such a vital interpreter of other composers, as well as such a brilliant performer of his own works. As a composer for the piano Franz Liszt has been accused of sacrificing substantial charm of motive for the creation of the most gigantic technical difficulties, designed for the display of his own skill. This charge is best answered by a study of his transcriptions of songs and symphonies, which, difficult in an extreme degree, are yet rich in no less excess with musical thought and fullness of musical color. He transcribed the "Etudes" of Pa-ganini, it is true, as a sort of "tour deforce", and no one has dared to attempt them in the concert room but himself; but for the most part Liszt's piano-forte writings are full of substance in their being as well as splendid elaboration in their form. This holds good no less of the purely original compositions, like the concertos and "Rhapsodies Hongroises," than of the transcriptions and paraphrases of the _Lied_, the opera, and symphony. As a composer for the orchestra Liszt has spent the ripest period of his life, and attained a deservedly high rank. His symphonies belong to what has been called, for want of a better name, "programme music," or music which needs the key of the story or legend to explain and justify the composition. This classification may yet be very misleading. Liszt does not, like Berlioz, refer every feature of the music to a distinct event, emotion, or dramatic situation, but concerns himself chiefly with the pictorial and symbolic bearings of his subject. For example, the "Mazeppa" symphony, based on Victor Hugo's poem, gets its significance, not in view of its description of Mazeppa's peril and rescue, but because this famous ride becomes the symbol of man: "_Lie vivant sur la croupe fatale, Genie, ardent Coursier_." The spiritual life of this thought burns with subtile suggestions throughout the whole symphony. Liszt has not been merely a devoted adherent of the "Music of the Future" as expressed in operatic form, but he has embodied his belief in the close alliance of poetry and music in his symphonies and transcriptions of songs. Anything more pictorial, vivid, descriptive, and passionate can not easily be fancied. It is proper also to say in passing that the composer shows a command over the resources of the orchestra similar to his mastery of the piano, though at times a tendency to violent and strident effects offends the ear. Franz Liszt, take him for all in all, must be regarded as one of the most remarkable men of the last half century, a personality so stalwart, picturesque, and massive as to be not only a landmark in music, but an imposing figure to those not specially characterized by their musical sympathies. His influence on his art has been deep and widespread; his connection with some of the most important movements of the last two generations well marked; and his individuality a fact of commanding force in the art circles of nearly every country of Europe, where art bears any vital connection with social and public life. THE END. 
31521	----	[Illustration: Looking anxiously at the babe in her arms. _See page 42._] LITTLE FRIDA A TALE OF THE BLACK FOREST BY THE AUTHOR OF "LITTLE HAZEL, THE KING'S MESSENGER" "UNDER THE OLD OAKS; OR, WON BY LOVE" ETC. ETC. THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, LTD. LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK CONTENTS I. LOST IN THE WOODS 9 II. THE WOOD-CUTTER'S HUT 16 III. FRIDA'S FATHER 23 IV. THE PARSONAGE 29 V. THE WOODMEN'S PET 36 VI. ELSIE AND THE BROWN BIBLE 42 VII. IN DRINGENSTADT 46 VIII. THE VIOLIN-TEACHER AND THE CONCERT 54 IX. CHRISTMAS IN THE FOREST 68 X. HARCOURT MANOR 76 XI. IN THE RIVIERA 86 XII. IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS 95 XIII. IN THE SLUMS 104 XIV. THE OLD NURSE 115 XV. THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE 127 XVI. THE STORM 131 XVII. THE DISCOVERY 137 XVIII. OLD SCENES 151 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Looking anxiously at the babe in her arms _Frontispiece_ Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book" 17 "Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together" 66 LITTLE FRIDA. CHAPTER I. LOST IN THE WOODS. "When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up." "See, Hans, how dark it gets, and thy father not yet home! What keeps him, thinkest thou? Supper has been ready for a couple of hours, and who knows what he may meet with in the Forest if the black night fall!" and the speaker, a comely German peasant woman, crossed herself as she spoke. "I misdoubt me something is wrong. The saints preserve him!" The boy, who looked about ten years old, was gazing in the direction of a path which led through the Forest, but, in answer to this appeal, said, "Never fear, Mütterchen; father will be all right. He never loses his way, and he whistles so loud as he walks that I am sure he will frighten away all the bad--" But here his mother laid her hand on his mouth, saying, "Hush, Hans! never mention them in the twilight; 'tis not safe. Just run to the opening in the wood and look if ye see him coming; there is still light enough for that. It will not take you five minutes to do so. And then come back and tell me, for I must see to the pot now, and to the infant in the cradle." The night, an October one, was cold, and the wind was rising and sighing amongst the branches of the pine trees. Darker and darker gathered the shades, as mother and son stood again at the door of their hut after Hans had returned from his useless quest. No sign of his father had he seen, and boy though he was, he knew too much of the dangers that attend a wood-cutter's life in the Forest not to fear that some evil might have befallen his father; but he had a brave young heart, and tried to comfort his mother. "He'll be coming soon now, Mütterchen," he said; "and won't he laugh at us for being so frightened?" But the heart of the wife was too full of fear to receive comfort just then from her boy's words. "Nay, Hans," she said; "some evil has befallen him. He never tarries so late. Thy father is not one to turn aside to his mates' houses and gossip away his time as others do. It is always for home and children that he sets out when his work is done. No, Hans; I know the path to the place where he works, and I can follow it even in the dark. Stay here and watch by the cradle of the little Annchen, whilst I go and see if I can find thy father." "Nay, Mütterchen," entreated the boy; "thee must not go. And all alone too! Father would never have let you do so had he been here. O Mutter, stay here! Little Annchen will be waking and wanting you, and how could I quiet her? O Mütterchen, go not!" and he clung to her, trying to hold her back. Just as his mother, maddened with terror, was freeing herself from his grasp, the sound of a footstep struck her ear, and mother and child together exclaimed, "Ah, there he comes!" Sure enough through the wood a man's figure became visible, but he was evidently heavily laden. He carried, besides his axe and saw, two large bundles. What they were could not be distinguished in the darkness. With a cry of joyous welcome his wife sprang forward to meet her husband, and Hans ran eagerly to help him to carry his burden; but to their amazement he said, though in a kindly tone, "Elsie--Hans, keep off from me till I am in the house." The lamp was lighted, and a cheerful blaze from the stove, the door of which was open, illumined the little room into which the stalwart young wood-cutter, Wilhelm Hörstel, entered. Then, to the utter astonishment of his wife and son, he displayed his bundle. Throwing back a large shawl which completely covered the one he held in his arms, he revealed a sleeping child of some five or six years old, who grasped tightly in her hand a small book. In his right hand he held a violin and a small bag. Elsie gazed with surprise, not unmingled with fear. "What meaneth these things, Wilhelm?" she said; "and from whence comes the child? _Ach_, how wonderfully beautiful she is! Art sure she is a child of earth? or is this the doing of some of the spirits of the wood?" At these words Wilhelm laughed. "Nay, wife, nay," he replied, and his voice had a sad ring in it as he spoke. "This is no wood sprite, if such there be, but a little maiden of flesh and blood. Let me rest, I pray thee, and lay the little one on the bed; and whilst I take my supper I will tell thee the tale." And Elsie, wise woman as she was, did as she was asked, and made ready the simple meal, set it on the wooden bench which served as table, then drew her husband's chair nearer the stove, and restraining her curiosity, awaited his readiness to begin the tale. When food and heat had done their work, Wilhelm felt refreshed; and when Elsie had cleared the table, and producing her knitting had seated herself beside him, he began his story; whilst Hans, sitting on a low stool at his feet, gazed with wondering eyes now on the child sleeping on the bed, and then at his father's face. "Ay, wife," the wood-cutter began, speaking in the _Plattdeutsch_ used by the dwellers in the Forest, "'tis a wonderful story I have to tell. 'Twas a big bit of work I had to finish to-day, first cutting and then piling up the wood far in the Forest. I had worked hard, and was wearying to be home with you and the children; but the last pile had to be finished, and ere it was so the evening was darkening and the wind was rising. So when the last log was laid I collected my things, and putting on my blouse, set off at a quick pace for home. But remembering I had a message to leave at the hut of Johann Schmidt, telling him to meet me in the morning to fell a tree that had been marked for us by the forester, I went round that way, which thou knowest leads deeper into the Forest. Johann had just returned from his work, and after exchanging a few words I turned homewards. "The road I took was not my usual one, but though it led through a very dark part of the Forest, I thought it was a shorter way. As I got on I was surprised to see how dark it was. Glimpses of light, it is true, were visible, and the trees assumed strange shapes, and the Forest streams glistened here and there as the rising moon touched them with its beams. But the gathering clouds soon obscured the faint moonlight.--You will laugh, Hans, when I tell you that despite what I have so often said to you about not believing in the woodland spirits, that even your good Mütterchen believes in, my heart beat quicker as now one, now another of the gnarled trunks of the lower trees presented the appearance of some human form; but I would not let my fear master me, so only whistled the louder to keep up my courage, and pushed on my way. "The Forest grew darker and darker, and the wind began to make a wailing sound in the tree-tops. A sudden fear came over me that I had missed my way and was getting deeper into the Forest, and might not be able to regain my homeward path till the morning dawned, when once more for a few minutes the clouds parted and the moon shone out, feeble, no doubt--for she is but in her first quarter--and her beams fell right through an opening in the wood, and revealed the figure of a little child seated at the foot of a fir tree. Alone in the Forest at that time of night! My heart seemed to stand still, and I said to myself, 'Elsie is right after all. That can only be some spirit child, some woodland being.' "A whisper in a little voice full of fear roused me and made me approach the child. She looked up, ere she could see my face, and again repeated the words in German (though not like what we speak here, but more the language of the town, as I spoke it when I lived there as a boy), 'Father, father, I am glad you've come. I was feeling very frightened. It is so dark here--so dark!' As I came nearer she gave a little cry of disappointment, though not fear; and then I knew it was no woodland sprite, but a living child who sat there alone at that hour in the Forest. My heart went out to her, and kneeling down beside her I asked her who she was, and how she came to be there so late at night. She answered, in sweet childish accents, 'I am Frida Heinz, and fader and I were walking through this big, big Forest, and by-and-by are going to see England, where mother used to live long ago.' It was so pretty to hear her talk, though I had difficulty in making out the meaning of her words. 'But where then is your father?' I asked. I believe, wife, the language I spoke was as difficult for her to understand as the words she had spoken were to me, for she repeated them over as if wondering what they meant. Then trying to recall the way I had spoken when a boy, which I have never quite forgotten, I repeated my question. She understood, and answered in her sweet babyish accents, 'Fader come back soon, he told little Frida. He had lost the road, and he said I'se to wait here till he came back, and laid his violin and his bag 'side me, and told me to keep this little book, which he has taught me to read, 'cos he says mother loved it so. Then he went away; and I've waited--oh so long, and he's never come back, and I'se cold, so cold, and hungry, and I want my own fader. O kind man, take Frida to him. And he's ill, so ill too! Last night I heard the people in the place we slept in say he'd never live to go through the Forest; but he would go, 'cos he wanted to take me 'cross the sea.' Then the pretty little creature began to cry bitterly, and beg me again to take her to father. I told her I would wait a bit with her, and see if he came. For more than an hour I sat there beside her, trying to warm and comfort her; for I tell you, Elsie, she seemed to creep into my heart, and reminded me of our little one, who would have been about her size had she been alive, though she was but three years old when she died. "Well, time went on, and the night grew darker, and I knew how troubled you would be, and yet I knew not what to do. I left the child for a bit, and looked here and there in the Forest; but all was dark, and though I called long and loud no answer came. So I returned, took the child in my arms (for she is but a light weight), and with my tools thrown over my shoulder, and the violin and bag in my hand, I made my way home. The child cried awhile, saying she must wait for fader, then fell sound asleep in my arms. Now, wife, would it not be well to undress her, and give her some food ere she sleeps again, for she must be hungry?" CHAPTER II. THE WOOD-CUTTER'S HUT. "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me; Bless Thy little lamb to-night." "Indeed you are right, Wilhelm," said his wife. "No doubt the poor little maid must be hungry, only I had not the heart to waken her.--See, Hans, there is some goat's milk in the corner yonder. Get it heated, whilst I cut a bit of this bread, coarse though it be. 'Tis all we have to give her; but such as it is, she is right welcome to it, poor little lamb." As she spoke she moved quietly to the bed where the child lay asleep. As she woke she uttered the cry, "Fader, dear fader!" then raised herself and looked around. Evidently the story of the day flashed upon her, and she turned eagerly to the wood-cutter, asking if "fader" had come yet. On being told that he had not, she said no more, but her eyes filled with tears. She took the bread and milk without resistance, though she looked at the black bread as if it were repugnant to her. Then she let herself be undressed by Elsie, directing her to open the bag, and taking from it a nightdress of fine calico, a brush and comb, also a large sponge, a couple of fine towels, a change of underclothing, two pairs of stockings, and one black dress, finer than the one she wore. [Illustration: Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book."] Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book," which was a German Bible, and read aloud, slowly but distinctly, the last verse of the Fourth Psalm: "Ich liege und schlafe ganz mit Frieden; denn allein Du, Herr, hilfst mir, dass ich sicher wohne" ("I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety"). Then she knelt down, and prayed in simple words her evening prayer, asking God to let father come home, and to bless the kind people who had given her a shelter, for Christ's sake. Elsie and Wilhelm looked at each other with amazement. Alas! there was no fear of God in that house. Elsie might cross herself when she spoke of spirits, but that was only as a superstitious sign that she had been told frightened them away. Of Christ and His power to protect and save they knew nothing. Roman Catholics by profession, they yet never darkened a church door, save perhaps when they took a child to be baptized; but they only thought of that ordinance as a protection to their child from the evil one. God's holy Word was to them a sealed book. True, all the wood-cutters were not like them, but still a spirit of ignorance and indifference as regarded religion reigned amongst them; and if now and then a priest sought their dwelling, his words (such as they were) fell on dull ears. Things seen and temporal engrossed all their thoughts. The daily work, the daily bread, and the nightly sleep--these filled their hearts and excluded God. So it was not to be wondered at that little Frida's reading and prayer were an astonishment to them. "What think you of that, Elsie?" said Wilhelm. "The child spoke as if she were addressing some one in the room." "Ay, ay," answered his wife. "It was gruesome to hear her. She made me look up to see if there was really any one there; and she wasn't speaking to our Lady either. Art sure she is a child of earth at all, Wilhelm?" "Ay, she's that; and the question is, wife, What shall we do with her? Suppose the father never turns up, shall we keep her, or give her over to them that have the charge of wanderers and such like?" Here Hans sprang forward. "Nay, father, nay! Do not send her away. She is so pretty, and looks like the picture of an angel. I saw one in the church where little Annchen was baptized. Oh, keep her, father!--Mutter, do not send the little maid back into the forest!" But Elsie's woman's heart had no thought of so doing. "No, no, my lad," she said. "Never fear; we'll keep the child till some one comes to take her away that has a right to her. Who knows but mayhap she'll bring a blessing on our house; for often I think we don't remember the Virgin and the saints as we ought. My mother did, I know;" and as she spoke great tears rolled down her cheeks. The child's prayer had touched a chord of memory, and recalled the days of her childhood, when she had lived with parents who at least reverenced the Lord, though they had not been taught to worship Him aright. Wilhelm sat for a few minutes lost in thought. He was pondering the question whether, supposing the child was left on his hands, he could support her by doing extra work. It would be difficult, he knew; but if Elsie were willing he'd try, for his kind heart recoiled from sending the little child who clung to him so confidingly adrift amongst strangers. No, he would not do so. After a while he turned to his wife, who had gone to the cradle where lay their six-weeks-old baby, and was rocking it, as the child had cried out in her sleep. "Elsie," he said, "I'll set off at break of day, and go amongst my mates, and find out if they have seen or heard aught of the missing gentleman.--Come, Hans," he said suddenly; "'tis time you were asleep." A few minutes later and Hans had tumbled into his low bed, and lay for a short time thinking about Frida, and wondering who she had been speaking to when she knelt down; but in the midst of his wondering he fell asleep. Wilhelm, wearied with his day's work, was not long in following his son's example, and was soon sound asleep; but no word of prayer rose from his heart and lips to the loving Father in heaven, who had guarded and kept him from the dangers of the day. Elsie was in no hurry to go to bed; her heart was full of many thoughts. The child's prayer and the words out of the little book had strangely moved her, and she was asking herself if there were indeed a God (as in her childhood she had been taught to believe), what had she ever done to please Him. Conscience said low, Nothing; but she tried to drown the thought, and busied herself in cleaning the few dishes and putting the little room to rights, then sat down for a few minutes beside the stove to think. Where could the father of the child be, she asked herself, and what would be his feelings on returning to the place where he had left her when he found she was no longer there? Could he have lost his way in the great Forest? That was by no means unlikely; she had often heard of such a thing as that happening. Then she wondered if there were any clue to the child's friends or the place she was going to in the bag; and rising, she took it up and opened it. Besides the articles we have already enumerated, she found a case full of needles, some reels of cotton, a small book of German hymns, and a double locket with chain attached to it. This Elsie succeeded in opening, and on the one side was the picture of a singularly beautiful, dark-eyed girl, on the verge of womanhood; and on the other a blue-eyed, fair-haired young man, a few years older than the lady. Under the pictures were engraved the words "Hilda" and "Friedrich." Elsie doubted not that these were the likenesses of Frida's father and mother, for the child bore a strong resemblance to both. She had the dark eyes of her mother and the golden hair of her father, if such was the relationship she bore to him. These pictures were the only clue to the child's parentage. No doubt she wore a necklace quite unlike anything that Elsie had ever seen before; but then, except in the shop windows, she had seen so few ornaments in her life that she knew not whether it was a common one or not. She put the locket carefully back in its place, shut the bag, and slipped across the room to take another glance at the sleeping child. Very beautiful she looked as she lay, the fair, golden hair curling over her head and falling round her neck. Her lips were slightly parted, and, as if conscious of Elsie's approach, she muttered the word "fader." Elsie patted her, and turned once more to the little cradle where lay her infant. The child was awake and crying, and the mother stooped and took her up, and sat down with her in her arms. A look of anxiety and sadness crossed the mother's face when she observed that although she flashed the little lamp in the baby's face her eyes never turned to the light. For some time the terrible fear had been rising in her head that her little Anna was blind. She had mentioned this to her husband, but he had laughed at her, and said babies of that age never took much notice of anything; but that was three weeks ago, and still, though the eyes looked bright, and the child was intelligent, the eyes never followed the light, nor looked up into the mother's face. The fear was now becoming certainty. Oh, if only she could make sure, see some doctors, and find out if nothing could be done for her darling! A blind child! How could they support her, how provide for the wants of one who could never help herself? Poor mother! her heart sank within her, for she knew nothing of the One who has said, "Cast all your cares upon me, for I care for you." Now as she gazed at the child she became more than ever convinced that that strange trial had fallen upon her. And to add to this new difficulty, how could she undertake the charge and keeping of this stranger so wonderfully brought to their door? Elsie, although no Christian, had a true, loving woman's heart beating within her, and putting from her the very idea of sending away the lost child, she said to herself, "The little that a child like that will take will not add much to the day's expense; and even if it did, Elsie Hörstel is not the woman to cast out the forlorn child." Oh, the pity of it that she did not know the words of Him who said, "Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me;" and again, "Whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me." But these words had never yet reached her ears, and as yet it was only the instincts of a true God-created heart that led her to compassionate and care for the child lost in the forest. Taking the babe in her arms, she slipped into bed and soon fell asleep. CHAPTER III. FRIDA'S FATHER. "And though we sorrow for the dead, Let not our grief be loud, That we may hear Thy loving voice Within the light-lined cloud." Early in the morning, ere wife or children were awake, and long before the October sun had arisen, Wilhelm Hörstel arose, and putting a hunch of black bread and goat-milk cheese into his pocket, he shouldered his axe and saw and went out into the Forest. The dawn was beginning to break, and there was light enough for the practised eye of the wood-cutter to distinguish the path which he wished to take through the Forest. Great stillness reigned around; even the twittering of the birds had hardly begun--they were for the most part awaiting the rising of the sun, though here and there an early bird might be heard chirping as it flew off, no doubt in search of food. Even the frogs in the Forest ponds had not yet resumed their croaking, and only the bubbling of a brooklet or the falling of a tiny cascade from the rocks (which abound in some parts of the Forest) was heard. The very silence which pervaded, calmed, and to a Christian mind would have raised the thoughts Godward. But it had no such influence on the heart, the kindly heart, of the young wood-cutter as he walked on, bent only on reaching the small hamlet or "Dorf" where stood the hut of the man with whom he sought to hold counsel as to how a search could be instituted in the Forest for the father of little Frida. As he reached the door, and just as the sun was rising above the hill-tops, and throwing here and there its golden beams through the autumn-tinted trees, he saw not one but several wood-cutters and charcoal-burners going into the house of his friend Johann Schmidt. Somewhat wondering he hastened his steps, and entered along with them, putting as he did so the question, "_Was gibt's?_" (What is the matter?) His friend, who came forward to greet him, answered the question by saying, "Come and help us, Wilhelm; a strange thing has happened here during the night. "Soon after Gretchen and I had fallen asleep, we were awakened by the noise of some heavy weight falling at the door; and on going to see what it was, there, to our amazement, lay a man, evidently in a faint. We got him into our hut, and after a while he became conscious, looked around him, and said 'Frida!' Gretchen tried to find out who it was he wished, but could only make out it was a child whom he had left in the Forest; but whether he was still delirious none could tell. He pressed his hand on his heart and said he was very ill, and again muttering the word, 'Frida, Armseliger Frida,' he again fainted away. "We did what we could for him, and he rallied a little; and then an hour ago, Gretchen stooping over him heard him say, 'Herr Jesu. Ob ich schon wandelte im finstern Thal fürchete ich kein Unglück: denn Du bist bei mir' ('Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me'); and giving one deep breath his spirit fled." As their mate said these words, exclamations of sorrow were heard around. "_Ach_, poor man!" said one. "Thinkest thou the child he spoke of can be in the Forest?" "And the words he said about fearing no evil, what did they mean?" said another. "Well," said one who looked like a chief man amongst them, "I believe he was _ein Ketzer_, and if that be so we had better send to Dringenstadt, where there is a _ketzer Pfarrer_ [heretic pastor], and get his advice. I heard the other day that a new one had come whom they called Herr Langen." Then as a momentary pause came, Wilhelm Hörstel stepped forward and told the tale of the child he had found in the Forest the night before, who called herself Frida. The men listened with amazement, but with one breath they all declared she must be the child of whom the dead man had spoken. "Ay," said Wilhelm, "and I am sure she is the child of a _Ketzer_ [heretic]; for what think ye a child like that did ere she went to bed? She prayed, and my wife says never a word said she to the Virgin, but spoke just straight to God." "_Ach_, poor _Mädchen_!" said another of the men; "does she think the Lord would listen to the prayer of a child like her? The blessed Virgin have pity on her;" and as he spoke he crossed himself. "If these things be so," said the chief man, by name Jacob Heine, "then it is plain one of us must go off to Dringenstadt, see the _Pfarrer_, and settle about the funeral." His proposal was at once agreed to, and as he was overseer of the wood-cutters, and could not leave his work, Johann Schmidt, in whose hut the man had died, was chosen as the best man to go; whilst Wilhelm should return to his home, and then take the child to see her dead father. "Yes, bring the _Mädchen_" (little maid), said all, "and let us see her also; seems as if she belongs to us all, found in the Forest as she was." There was no time to be lost, for the sun was already well up, and the men should have been at work long ago. So they dispersed, some going to their work deeper in the Forest, Wilhelm retracing his way home, and Johann taking the path which led through the wood to the little town of Dringenstadt. As Wilhelm approached his door, the little Frida darted to him, saying, "Have you found my fader? Oh, take me to him! Frida must go to her fader." Tears rose to the wood-cutter's eyes, as lifting the child in his arms he entered the hut, and leaving Frida there with Hans, he beckoned his wife to speak to him outside; and there he told her the story of the man who had died in Johann's cottage. "Ah, then," said Elsie, "the little Frida is indeed an orphan, poor lambie. How shall we tell her, Wilhelm? Her little heart will break. Ever since she woke she has prattled on about him; ay" (and the woman's voice lowered as she spoke), "and of a Father who she says lives in heaven and cares both for her earthly father and herself. And, Wilhelm, she's been reading aloud to Hans and me about the Virgin's Son of whom my mother used to speak." "Well, never mind about all that, wife, but let us tell the child; for I and my mates think she should be taken to see the body, and so make sure that the man was really her father." * * * * * "Fader dead!" said the child, as she sat on Wilhelm's knee and heard the sad story. "Dead! Shall Frida never see him again, nor walk with him, nor talk with him? Oh! dear, dear fader, why did you die and leave Frida all alone? I want you, I want you!" and the child burst into a flood of tears. They let her cry on, those kind-hearted people--nay, they wept with her; but after some minutes had passed, Wilhelm raised her head, and asked her if she would not like to see her father once more, though he could not speak to her now. "Yes, oh yes! take me to see him!" she exclaimed. "Oh, take me!" Then looking eagerly up she said, "Perhaps Jesus can make him live again, like he did Lazarus, you know. Can't he?" But alas! of the story of Lazarus being raised from the dead these two people knew nothing; and when they asked her what she meant, and she said her father had read to her about it out of her little brown book, they only shook their heads, and Wilhelm said, "I feared there was something wrong about that little book. How could any one be raised from the dead?" Frida's passionate exclamations of love and grief when she saw the dead body of the man who lay in Johann Schmidt's hut removed all doubt from the minds of those who heard her as to the relationship between them; and the manner in which the child turned from a crucifix which Gretchen brought forward to her, thinking it would comfort her, convinced them more firmly that the poor man had indeed been a heretic. No! father never prayed to that, nor would he let _her_ do so, she said--just to Jesus, dear Jesus in heaven; and though several of those who heard her words crossed themselves as she spoke, and prayed the Virgin to forgive, all were much taken with and deeply sorry for the orphan child; and when Wilhelm raised her in his arms to take her back to his hut and to the care of Elsie, more than one of the inhabitants of the Dorf brought some little gift from their small store to be taken with him to help in the maintenance of the little one so strangely brought among them. Ere they left the Dorf, Johann Schmidt had returned from executing his message to Dringenstadt. He had seen the _Pfarrer_, and he had promised to come along presently and arrange about the funeral. CHAPTER IV. THE PARSONAGE. "The Lord thy Shepherd is-- Dread not nor be dismayed-- To lead thee on through stormy paths, By ways His hand hath made." On the morning of the day that we have written of, the young Protestant pastor of Dringenstadt was seated in a room of the small house which went by the name of "Das Pfarrhaus." He was meditating more than studying just then. He felt his work there an uphill one. Almost all the people in that little town were Roman Catholics. His own flock was a little one indeed, and only that morning he had received a letter telling him that it had been settled that no regular ministry would be continued there, as funds were not forthcoming, and the need in one sense seemed small. He had come there only a few months before, knowing well that he might only be allowed to remain a short time; but now that the order for his removal elsewhere had come, he felt discouraged and sad. Was it right, he was asking himself, to withdraw the true gospel light from the people, and to leave the few, no doubt very few, who loved it to themselves? Karl Langen was a true Christian, longing to lead souls to Jesus, and was much perplexed by the order he had received. Suddenly a knock at the door roused him, and the woman who took charge of his house on entering told him that a man from the Forest wished to speak to him. Telling her to send him in at once, he awaited his entry. Johann Schmidt was shown into the room, and told his sorrowful tale in a quiet, manly way. The pastor was much moved, and repeated with amazement the words, "A child lost in the Black Forest, and the father dead, you say? Certainly I will come and see. But why, my friend, should you think the man was an Evangelisch?" Then Johann told of the words he had repeated, of the child's prayer and her little brown book. Suddenly a light seemed to dawn on the mind of the young pastor. "Oh!" he said, "I believe you are right. I think I have seen both the father and the child. Last Sunday there came into our church a gentleman and a lovely little girl, just such a one as you describe the child you speak of to be. I tried to speak to them after worship, but ere I could do so they had gone. And no one could tell me who they were or whither they had gone. I will now see the Bürgermeister about the funeral, and make arrangements regarding it. I think through some friends of mine I can get money sufficient to pay all expenses." Johann thanked him warmly, and hastened back to tell what had been agreed on, and then got off to his work. Late in the afternoon Pastor Langen took his way to the little hut in the Black Forest. The Forest by the road he took was not well known to him, and the solemn quiet which pervaded it struck him much and raised his thoughts to God. It was as if he had entered the sanctuary and heard the voice of the Lord speaking to him. It was, as a poet has expressed it, as if "Solemn and silent everywhere, The trees with folded hands stood there, Kneeling at their evening prayer." Only the slight murmuring of the breeze amongst the leaves, or the flutter of a bird's wing as it flew from branch to branch, broke the silence. All around him there was "A slumberous sound, a sound that brings The feeling of a dream, As when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow echo rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream." As he walked, he thought much of the child found in the Forest, and he wondered how he could help her or find out to whom she belonged. Oh, if only, he said to himself, he had been able to speak to the father the day he had seen him, and learned something of his history! Johann had told him that if no clue could be found to the child's relations, Wilhelm Hörstel had determined to bring her up; but Johann had added, "We will not, poor though we be, let the whole expense of her upbringing fall on the Hörstels. No; we will go share for share, and she shall be called the child of the wood-cutters." As he thought of these words, the young pastor prayed for the kind, large-hearted men, asking that the knowledge of the loving Christ might shine into their hearts and bring spiritual light into the darkness which surrounded them. The afternoon had merged into evening ere he entered the wood-cutters' Dorf. As he neared Johann's hut, Gretchen came to the door, and he greeted her with the words, "The Lord be with you, and bless you for your kindness to the poor man in the time of his need." "Come in, sir," she said, "and see the corpse. Oh, but he's been a fine-looking man, and he so young too. It was a sight to see his bit child crying beside him and begging him to say one word to her--just one word. Then she folded her hands, and looking up said, 'O kind Jesus, who made Lazarus come to life, make dear fader live again.' Oh, 'twas pitiful to see her! Who think you, sir, was the man she spoke of called Lazarus? When I asked her she said it was all written in her little brown book, which she would bring along and read to me some day, bless the little creature." The pastor said some words about the story being told by the Lord Jesus, and recorded in the Holy Scriptures. He did not offer her a Testament, as he knew if the priest heard (as it was likely he would) of his having been there, he would ask if they had been given a Bible, and so trouble would follow. But he rejoiced that the little child had it in her heart to read the words of life to the kind woman, and he breathed a prayer that her little brown Bible might prove a blessing to those poor wood-cutters. Pastor Langen at once recognized the features of the dead man as those of the stranger whom he had seen with the lovely child in the little church. He then made arrangements for the funeral the next day, and departed. * * * * * On the morrow a number of wood-cutters met at the house of Johann Schmidt to attend the funeral of the stranger gentleman. Wilhelm Hörstel, and his wife, Hans, and little Frida, were there also. The child was crying softly, as if she realized that even the corpse of her father was to be taken from her. Presently the young pastor entered, and the moment Frida saw him she started forward, saying in her child language, "O sir, I've seen you before, when fader and I heard you preach some days ago." All this was said in the pure German language, which the people hardly followed at all, but which was the same as the pastor himself spoke. He at once recognized the child, and sought to obtain from her some information regarding her father. She only said, as she had already done, that he was going to England to see some friends of her mother's. When questioned as to their name, she could not tell. All that she knew was that they were relations of her mother's. Yes, her father loved his Bible, and had given her such a nice little brown one which had belonged to her mother. Could she speak any English, the pastor asked. "Yes, I can," said Frida. "Mother taught me a number of words, and I can say 'Good-morning,' and 'How are you to-day?' Also mother taught me to say the Lord's Prayer in English. But I do not know much English, for father and mother always spoke German to each other." No more could be got from the child then, and the simple service was gone on with; and when the small procession set off for Dringenstadt, the kindly men took it by turns to carry the little maiden in their arms, as the walk through the forest was a long one for a child. In the churchyard of the quiet little German town they laid the mortal remains of Friedrich Heinz, to await the resurrection morning. Tears rose to the eyes of many onlookers as Frida threw herself, sobbing, on the grave of her father. Wilhelm and Elsie strove in vain to raise her, but when Pastor Langen drew near and whispered the words, "Look up, Frida; thy father is not here, he is with Jesus," a smile of joy played on the child's face, and rising she dried her tears, and putting her hand into that of Elsie she prepared to leave the "God's acre," and the little party set off for their home in the Black Forest. Darkness had fallen on all around ere they reached the Dorf, and strange figures that the trees and bushes assumed appeared to the superstitious mind of Elsie and some of the others as the embodiment of evil spirits, and they wished themselves safe under the shelter of their little huts. That night the little stranger child mingled her tears with her prayers, and to Elsie's amazement she heard her ask her Father in heaven to take greater care of her now than ever, because she had no longer a father on earth to do it. Little did the kneeling child imagine that that simple prayer was used by the Holy Spirit to touch the heart of the wood-cutter's wife. And from the lips of Elsie ere she fell asleep that night arose a cry to the Father in heaven for help. True, it was but "As an infant crying in the night, An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry." But still there was a felt need, and a recognition that there was One who could meet and satisfy it. At all events Elsie Hörstel clasped her blind babe to her heart that night, and fell asleep with a feeling of rest and peace to which she had long been a stranger. Ah! God had a purpose for the little child and her brown Bible in that little hut of which she as yet had no conception. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings He still perfects praise. CHAPTER V. THE WOODMEN'S PET. "Lord, make me like the gentle dew, That other hearts may prove, E'en through Thy feeblest messenger, Thy ministry of love." Pastor Langen, ere leaving Dringenstadt, visited the hut in the Black Forest where Frida had found a home. His congregation, with two or three exceptions, was a poor one, and his own means were small; yet he had contrived to collect a small sum for Frida's maintenance, which he had put into the hands of the Bürgermeister, who undertook to pay the interest of it quarterly to the Hörstels on behalf of the child. True, the sum was small, but it was sufficient to be a help; and a kind lady of the congregation, Fräulein Drechsler, said she would supply her from time to time with dress, and when she could have her now and then with herself, instruct her in the Protestant faith and the elements of education. Frida could already read, and had begun to write, taught by her father. Every effort was being made to discover if the child had any relations alive. The Bürgermeister had put advertisements in many papers, German and English, but as yet no answer had come, and many of the wood-cutters still held the opinion that the child was the offspring of some woodland spirit. But in spite of any such belief, Frida had a warm welcome in every hut in the Dorf, and a kindly word from every man and woman in it. The "woodland child" they called her, and as such cherished and protected her. Many a "bite and sup" she got from them. Many a warm pair of stockings, or a knitted petticoat done by skilful hands, did the inmates of the Dorf present to her. They did what they could, these poor people, for the orphan child, just out of the fullness of their kind hearts, little thinking of the blessing that through her was to descend on them. The day of Pastor Langen's visit to the hut, some time after her father's funeral, Frida was playing beside the door, and on seeing him coming up the path she rose from the spot where she was sitting and ran eagerly to meet him. But though unseen by her, he had been standing near for some time spell-bound by the music which, child though she was, she was bringing out of her father's violin, in the playing of which she was amusing herself. From a very early age her father, himself a skilled violinist, had taught her to handle the bow, and had early discovered the wonderful talent for music which she possessed. The day of which we write was the first one since her father's death that Frida had played on the violin, so neither Wilhelm nor Elsie was aware that she could do so at all. The pastor was approaching the cottage when the sound of music reached his ears, and having a good knowledge of that art himself, he stood still to listen. A few minutes convinced him that though the playing was that of a child, still the performer had the true soul of music, and only needed full instruction to develop into a musician of no ordinary talent. As he drew nearer his surprise was great to see that the player was none other than the beautiful child found in the Black Forest. Attracted by the sound of steps, Frida had turned round, and seeing her friend had, as we have written, bounded off to meet him. Hearing that Elsie had taken her babe and gone a message to the Dorf, he seated himself on a knoll with the child and began to talk to her. "How old are you?" he asked her. "Seven years and more," she replied; "because I remember my birthday was only a little while before Mütterchen (I always called her that) died, and that that day she took the locket she used to wear off her neck and gave it to me, telling me always to keep it." "And have you that locket still?" queried the pastor. "Yes; Elsie has it carefully put away. There is a picture of Mütterchen on the one side, and of my father on the other." "And did your mother ever speak to you of your relations either in Germany or England?" "Yes, she did sometimes. She spoke of grandmamma in England and grandpapa also, and she said they lived in a beautiful house; but she never told me their name, nor where their house was. Father, of course, knew, for he said he was going to take me there, and he used to speak of a brother of his whom he said he dearly loved." "But tell me," asked the pastor, "where did you live with your parents in Germany?" "Oh, in a number of different places, but never long at the same place. Father played at concerts just to make money, and we never remained long anywhere--we were always moving about." "And your parents were Protestants?" "I don't know what that means," said the child. "But they were often called 'Ketzers' by the people where he lodged. And they would not pray to the Virgin Mary, as many did, but taught me to pray to God in the name of Jesus Christ. And Mütterchen gave me a little 'brown Bible' for my very own, which she said her mother had given to her. Oh, I must show it to you, sir!" and, darting off, the child ran into the house, returning with the treasured book in her hand. The pastor examined it and read the inscription written on the fly-leaf--"To my dear Hilda, from her loving mother, on her eighteenth birthday." That was all, but he felt sure from the many underlined passages that the book had been well studied. He found that Frida could read quite easily, and that she had been instructed in Scripture truth. Ere he bade her farewell he asked her to promise him to read often from her little Bible to Wilhelm, Elsie, and Hans. "For who knows, little Frida, that the Lord may not have chosen you to be a child missionary to the wood-cutters, and to read to them out of His holy Word." Frida thought over these words, though she hardly took in their full meaning; but she loved her Bible, and wished that the people who were so kind to her loved it also. On his way home the pastor met Elsie with her babe in her arms, and told her of his farewell visit to Frida, and of his delight with the child's musical talent, and advised her to encourage her as much as possible to play on the violin. Elsie's face brightened as he spoke, for she and her husband, like many of the German peasants, dearly loved music. "O sir," she said, "have you heard her sing? It is just beautiful and wonderful to hear her; she beats the very birds themselves." Thanking her once more for her care of the orphan child, and commending her to God, the pastor went on his way, musing much on the future of the gifted child, and wondering what could be done as regarded her education. In the meantime Elsie went home, and entrusting her babe to the care of Frida, who loved the little helpless infant, she made ready for her husband's return from his work. Hans had gone that day to help his father in the wood, which he loved much to do, so Elsie and Frida were alone. "Mutter," said the child (for she had adopted Hans's way of addressing Elsie), "the pastor was here to-day, and he played to me--oh so beautifully--on my violin, it reminded me of father, and made me cry. O Mutter, I wish some one could teach me to play on it as father did. You see I was just beginning to learn a little how to do it, and I do love it so;" and as she spoke, the child joined her hands together and looked pleadingly at Elsie. "_Ach_, poor child," replied Elsie, "how canst thou be taught here?" And that night when Elsie repeated to Wilhelm Frida's desire for lessons on the violin, the worthy couple grieved that they could do nothing to gratify her wish. Day after day and week after week passed, and still no answer came to any of the advertisements about the child; and save for her own sake none of the dwellers in the wood wished it otherwise, for the "woodland child," as they called her, had won her way into every heart. CHAPTER VI. ELSIE AND THE BROWN BIBLE. "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path." Frida, as time went on, was growing hardy and strong in the bracing Forest air. Every kindness was lavished on her, and the child-spirit had asserted itself, and though often tears would fill her eyes as something or other reminded her vividly of the past, yet her merry laughter was often heard as she played with Hans in the woods. Yet through all her glee there was at times a seriousness of mind remarkable in one so young, also a power of observation as regarded others not often noticeable in one of her years. She had become warmly attached to the kind people amongst whom her lot was cast, and especially so to Elsie. Several times she had observed her looking anxiously at the babe in her arms, taking her to the light and endeavouring to attract her attention to the plaything which she held before her. Then when the babe, now some months old, showed no signs of observing it, Frida would see a great tear roll down Elsie's cheek, and once she heard her mutter the words, "Blind! my baby's blind!" Was it possible? Frida asked herself; for the child's eyes looked bright, and she felt sure she knew her, and had often stretched out her little arms to be taken up by her. "No," she repeated again, "she cannot be blind!" Poor little Frida knew not that it was her voice that the baby recognized. Often she had sung her to sleep when Elsie had left her in her charge. Already father and mother had noted with joy the power that music had over their blind babe. One day Frida summoned courage to say, "Mutter, dear Mutter, why are you sad when you look at little Anna? I often notice you cry when you do so." At that question the full heart of the mother overflowed. "O Frida, little Frida, the babe is blind! She will never see the light of day nor the face of her father and mother. Wilhelm knows it now: we took her to Dringenstadt last week, and the doctor examined her eyes and told us she _ist blind geboren_ [born blind]. O my poor babe, my poor babe!" Frida slipped her hand into that of the poor mother, and said gently, "O Mutter, Jesus can make the babe to see if we ask Him. He made so many blind people to see when He was on earth, and He can do so still. Let me read to you about it in my little brown book;" and the child brought her Bible and read of Jesus healing the two blind men, and also of the one in John ix. who said, "Whereas I was blind, now I see." Elsie listened eagerly, and said, "And it was Jesus the Virgin's Son who did that, do you say? Read me more about Him." And the child read on, how with one touch Jesus opened the eyes of the blind. She read also how they brought the young children to Jesus, and He took them into His arms and blessed them, and said to His disciples, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of heaven." "Oh," said Elsie, "if only that Jesus were here now, I'd walk miles and miles to take my Anna to Him; but, alas! He is not here now." Frida was a young child, and hardly knew how to answer the troubled mother; but her faith was a simple one, so she answered, "No, Jesus is not here now, but He is in heaven, and He answers us when we pray to Him. Father once read to me the words in Matthew's Gospel--see, here they are--'Ask, and it shall be given you.' Shall we ask Him now?" and kneeling down she prayed in child language, "O Lord Jesus, who dost hear and answer prayer, make little Anna to see as Thou didst the blind men when Thou wert on earth, and oh, comfort poor Elsie!" As she rose from her knees, Elsie threw her arms round her, saying, "O Frida, I do believe the God my mother believed in hath sent thee here to be a blessing to us!" Often after that day Frida would read out of her brown Bible to Elsie about Jesus, His life and His atoning death. And sometimes in the evening, when Hans would sit cutting out various kinds of toys, for which he had a great turn, and could easily dispose of them in the shops at Dringenstadt, she would read to him also; and he loved to hear the Old Testament stories of Moses and Jacob, Joseph, and Daniel in the lion's den; also of David, the sweet psalmist of Israel, who had once been a shepherd boy. They were all new to poor Hans, and from them he learned something of the love God has to His children; but it was ever of Jesus that Elsie loved to hear, and again and again she got the child to read to her the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." And erelong it was evident, though she would scarcely have acknowledged it, that she was seeking not only the rest but the "_Rest_-Giver." And we know that He who gave the invitation has pledged His word that whosoever cometh to Him He will in no wise cast out. All this while Wilhelm seemed to take no notice of the Bible readings. Once or twice, when he had returned from his work, he had found Frida reading to his wife and boy, and he had lingered for a minute or two at the door to catch some of the words; but he made no remark, and interrupted the reading by asking if supper were ready. But often later in the evening he would ask the child to bring out her violin and play to him, or to sing one of his favourite songs, after which she would sing a hymn of praise; but as yet it was the sweetness of the singer's voice and not the beauty of the words that he loved to listen to. But notwithstanding, by the power of the Holy Ghost, the Bible was doing its work--slowly, it may be, but surely; so true is it that God's word shall not return to Him void. CHAPTER VII. IN DRINGENSTADT. "Sing them over again to me, Wonderful words of love." Three years had passed. Summer had come round again. Fresh green leaves quivered on the trees of the Forest, though the pines still wore their dark clothing. The song of the birds was heard, and the little brooks murmured along their course with a joyful tinkling sound. In the Forest it was cool even at noontide, but in Dringenstadt the heat was oppressive, and in spite of the sun-blinds the glare of light even indoors was excessive. In a pleasant room, into which the sun only shone through a thick canopy of green leaves, sat a lady with an open book in her hand. It was an English one, and the dictionary by her side showed it was not in a language she was altogether familiar with. The book evidently recalled memories of the past. Every now and then she paused in her reading, and the look which came into her eyes told that her thoughts had wandered from the present surroundings to other places, and it might be other days. Sitting beside her, engaged in doing a sum of arithmetic, was a beautiful child of some ten years old, neatly though plainly dressed. The lady's eyes rested on her from time to time, as if something in her appearance, as well as the book she was reading, recalled other days and scenes. "Frida," she said, for the child was none other than our little friend found in the Forest, "have you no recollections of ever hearing your mother speak of the home of her childhood, or of her companions there?" "No, dear Miss Drechsler, I do not remember her ever speaking of any companions; but she told me about her mother and father, and that they lived in a beautiful house in England, somewhere in the country; and whenever she spoke of her mother she used to cry, and then she would kiss me, and wish she could show me to her, for she knew she would love me, and I am sure it was to her that my father was taking me when he died. See, here is my little brown Bible which her mother gave to her and she gave to me." Miss Drechsler took the Bible in her hand, and examined the writing, and noted the name "Hilda;" but neither of them seemed to recall any special person to her memory. "Strange," she said to herself; "and yet that child's face reminds me vividly of some one whom I saw when I was in England some years ago, when living as governess to the Hon. Evelyn Warden, and I always connect it with some fine music which I heard at that time." Then changing the subject, she said abruptly, "Frida dear, bring your violin and let me hear how far you are prepared for your master to-morrow." Miss Drechsler, true to her promise to the German pastor, had kept a look-out on the child known as "the wood-cutters' pet," who lived in the little hut in the Black Forest. From the time Pastor Langen had left, she had her often living with herself for days at a time at Dringenstadt, and was conducting her education; but as she often had to leave that town for months, Frida still had her home great part of the year with the Hörstels in the Forest. At the time we write of, Miss Drechsler had returned to her little German home, and Frida, who was once more living with her, was getting, at her expense, lessons in violin-playing. She bid fair to become an expert in the art which she dearly loved. She was much missed by the kind people in the Forest amongst whom she had lived so long. Just as, at Miss Drechsler's request, she had produced her violin and begun to play on it, a servant opened the door and said that a man from the Forest was desirous of seeing Fräulein Heinz. The girl at once put down her instrument and ran to the door, where she found her friend Wilhelm awaiting her. "Ah, Frida, canst come back with me to the Forest? There is sorrow there. In one house Johann Schmidt lies nigh to death, caused by an accident when felling a tree. He suffers much, and Gretchen is in sore trouble. And the Volkmans have lost their little boy. You remember him, Frida; he and our Hans used to play together. And our little Anna seems pining away, and Elsie and all of them are crying out for you to come back and comfort them with the words of your little book. Johann said this morning, when his wife proposed sending for the priest, 'No, Gretchen, no. I want no priest; but oh, I wish little Frida were here to read to me from her brown book about Jesus Christ our great High Priest, who takes away our sins, and is always praying for us.'" "Oh, I remember," interrupted Frida. "I read to him once about Jesus ever living 'to make intercession for us.' Yes, Wilhelm, I'll come with you. I know Miss Drechsler will say I should go, for she often tells me I really belong to the kind people in the Forest." And so saying, she ran off to tell her story to her friend. Miss Drechsler at once assented to her return to the Forest to give what help she could to the people there, adding that she herself would come up soon to visit them, and bring them any comforts necessary for them such as could not be easily got by them. Ere they parted she and Frida knelt together in prayer, and Miss Drechsler asked that God would use the child as His messenger to the poor, sorrowing, suffering ones in the Forest; after which she took Frida's Bible and put marks in at the different passages which she thought would be suitable to the different cases of the people that Wilhelm had spoken of. It was late in the afternoon ere Wilhelm and Frida reached the hut of Johann Schmidt, where he left the child for a while, whilst he went on to the Volkmans to tell them of Frida's return, and that she hoped to see them the next day. Gretchen met the girl with a cry of delight. "_Ach!_ there she comes, our own little Fräulein. What a pleasure it is to see thee again, our woodland pet! And see, here is my Johann laid up in bed, nearly killed by the falling of a tree." The sick man raised himself as he heard the child's voice saying as she entered, in reply to Gretchen's words, "Oh, I am sorry, so sorry! Why did you not tell me sooner?" And in another moment she was sitting beside Johann, speaking kind, comforting words to him. He stroked her hair fondly, and answered her questions as well as he could; but there was a far-away look in his eyes as if his thoughts were in some region distant from the one he was living in now. After a few minutes he asked eagerly,-- "Have you the little brown book with you now?" "Yes, I have," was the reply. "Shall I read to you now, Johann? for Wilhelm is to come for me soon." "Yes, read, read," he said; "for I am weary, so weary." Frida turned quickly to the eleventh chapter of Matthew, and read distinctly in the German, which he could understand, and which she could now speak also, the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He stopped her there. "Read that again," he said. She complied, and then he turned to her, saying, "And Jesus, the Son of God, said that? Will He give it to me, thinkest thou?" "Yes," she said, "He will; for He has promised to do it, and He never breaks His word." "Well, if that be so, kneel down, pretty one, and ask Him to give it me, for I need it sorely." Frida knelt, and in a few simple words besought the Saviour to give His rest and peace to the suffering man. "Thanks, little Frida," he said as she rose. "I believe that prayer will be answered." And shutting his eyes he fell quietly asleep, and Frida slipped out of the room and joined Wilhelm in the Forest. "Is little Anna so very ill?" she queried as they walked. "I fear she is," was the answer the father gave, with tears in his eyes. "The mother thinks so also; though the child, bless her, is so good and patient we hardly know whether she suffers or not. She just lies still mostly on her bed now, and sings to herself little bits of hymns, or speaks about the land far away, which she says you told her about, and where she says she is going to see Jesus. Then her mother begins to cry; but she also speaks about that bright land. 'Deed it puzzles me to know where they have learned so much about it, unless it be from your little brown book. And the child has often asked where Frida is. 'I want to hear her sing again,' she says." "O Wilhelm, why did you not come for me when she said that?" "Well, you see, I had promised the pastor that I would let you visit Miss Drechsler as often as possible, and then you were getting on so nicely with your violin that we felt as if we had no right to call you back to us. But see, here we are, and there is Hans looking out for us." But Hans, instead of rushing to meet them as he usually did, ran back hastily to his mother, calling out, "Here they come, here they come!" "Oh, I am glad!" she said.--"Anna, dear Anna, you will hear Frida's voice again." The mother looked round with a smile, but moved not, for the dying child lay in her arms. A moment longer, and Frida was beside her, her arms round the blind child. "Annchen, dear Annchen, speak to me," she entreated--"just one word, to say you know me. It is Frida come home, and she will not leave you again, but will tell you stories out of the little brown book." A look of intelligence crossed the face of the blind child, and she said,-- "Dear Frida, tell Annchen 'bout Jesus, and sing." Frida, choking back her sobs, opened her Bible and read the story that little Anna loved, of Jesus taking the children in His arms and blessing them; then sang a hymn of the joys of heaven, where He is seen face to face, and where there is "no more pain, neither sorrow nor crying, neither is there any more death," and where His redeemed ones _see_ His face. The mother, almost blinded with tears, heard her child whisper, "'See His face;' then Annchen will see Him too, won't she, Frida?" "Yes, Annchen. There your eyes will be open, and you will be blind no more." As Frida said these words she heard one deep-drawn breath, one cry, "Fader, Mutter, Jesus!" and the little one was gone into that land where the first face she saw was that of her loving Saviour, whom "having not seen she loved," and the beauties of that land which had been afar off burst on her eyes, which were no longer blind. Poor father! poor mother! look up; your child sees now, and will await your coming to the golden gates. Heartfelt tears were shed on earth by that death-bed, but there was a song of great rejoicing in heaven over another ransomed soul entering heaven, and also over another sinner entering the kingdom of God on earth, as Wilhelm Hörstel bent his knee by the bed where his dead child lay, and in broken words asked the Saviour whom that child had gone to see face to face to receive him as a poor sinner, and make him all he ought to be. In after-years he would often say that it was the words little Frida, the woodland child, had read and sung to his blind darling that led him, as they had already led his wife, to the feet of Jesus. CHAPTER VIII. THE VIOLIN-TEACHER AND THE CONCERT. "There in an arched and lofty room She stands in fair white dress, Where grace and colour and sweet sound Combine and cluster all around, And rarest taste express." Three years had passed since all that was mortal of the blind child was laid to rest in the quiet God's acre near where the body of Frida's father lay. After the funeral of little Anna, Frida at her own request returned to the Forest with her friends, anxious to help and comfort Elsie, who she knew would sorely miss the blind child, who had been such a comfort and companion to her when both Wilhelm and Hans were busy at work in the woods; but after remaining with them for a few months, she again returned for a part of each year to Dringenstadt, and made rapid progress under Miss Drechsler's tuition with her education, and especially with her music. The third summer after little Anna's death, Frida was again spending some weeks in the Forest. It was early summer when she returned there. Birds and insects were busy in the Forest, and the wood-cutters were hard at work loading the carts with the piles of wood which the large-eyed, strong, patient-looking oxen conveyed to the town. Loud sounded the crack of the carters' whips as they urged on the slow-paced oxen. Often in those days Frida, accompanied by Elsie (who had now no little child to detain her at home), would take Wilhelm's and Hans's simple dinner with them to carry to them where they worked. One day Frida left Elsie talking to her husband and boy, and strolled a little way further into the Forest, gathering the flowers that grew at the foot of the trees, and admiring the soft, velvety moss that here and there covered the ground, when suddenly she was startled by the sounds of footsteps quite near her, and looking hastily round, saw to her amazement the figure of the young violinist from whom she had lately taken lessons. "Fräulein Heinz," he said, as he caught sight of the fair young girl as she stood, flowers in hand, "I rejoice to meet you, for I came in search of you. Pupils of mine in the town of Baden-Baden, many miles from here, where I often reside, are about to have an amateur concert, and they have asked me to bring any pupil with me whom I may think capable of assisting them. They are English milords, and are anxious to assist local musical talent; and I have thought of you, Fräulein, as a performer on the violin, and I went to-day to Miss Drechsler to ask her to give you leave to go." "And what did she say?" asked the child eagerly. "How could I go so far away?" And she stopped suddenly; but the glance she gave at her dress told the young violinist the direction of her thoughts. "Ah!" he said, "Fräulein Drechsler will settle all that. She wishes you to go, and says she will herself accompany you and also bring you back to your friends." "Oh! then," said Frida, "I would like very much to go; but I must ask Wilhelm and Elsie if they can spare me. But, Herr Müller, do you think I can play well enough?" The violinist smiled as he thought how little the girl before him realized the musical genius which she possessed, and which already, young as she was, made her a performer of no ordinary skill. "Ah yes, Fräulein," he said, "I think you will do. But you know, as the concert is not for a month yet, you can come to Dringenstadt and can have a few more lessons ere then." "Come with me, then, and let me introduce you to my friends;" and she led him up to the spot where Wilhelm, Elsie, and Hans stood. They looked surprised, but when they heard her request they could not refuse it. To have their little woodland child play at a concert seemed to them an honour of no small magnitude. Hans in his eagerness pressed to her side, saying, "O Frida, I am so glad, for you do play so beautifully." "As for that matter, so do you, Hans," she replied, for the boy had the musical talent so often found even in German peasants, and taught by Frida could really play with taste on the violin. "O Herr Müller," she said, turning to him, "I wish some day you could hear Hans play; I am sure you would like it. If only he could get lessons! I know he would excel in it." "Is that so?" said the violinist; "then we must get that good Fräulein Drechsler to have him down to Dringenstadt, and I will hear him play; and then if we find there is real talent, I might recommend him to the society for helping those who have a turn for music, but are not able to pay for instruction." Hans's eyes danced with delight at the idea, but in the meantime he knew his duty was to help his father as much as he could in his work as a wood-cutter. "But then some day," he thought, "who knows but I might be able to devote my time to music, and so it would all be brought about through the kindness of little Frida." Frida was a happy girl when a few days after the violinist's visit to the Forest she set out for Dringenstadt, to live for a month with Fräulein Drechsler, and with her go on to Baden-Baden. A few more lessons were got from Herr Müller, the selection of music she was to perform gone through again and again, and all was ready to start the next day. When Frida went to her room that evening, great was her amazement to see laid out on her bed a prettily-made plain black delaine morning dress, neatly finished off at neck and wrists with a pure white frill; and beside it a simple white muslin one for evening wear, with a white silk sash to match. These Miss Drechsler told her were a present from herself. Frida's young heart was filled with gratitude to the kind friend who was so thoughtful of her wants; and she wondered if a day would ever come when she would be able in any way to repay the kindnesses of the friends whom God had raised up for her. In the meantime Herr Müller had told the Stanfords, in whose house the concert was to be held, about the young girl violinist whose services he had secured. They were much interested in her, and were prepared to give a hearty welcome, not to her only, but to her friend Miss Drechsler, whom they had already met. Sir Richard Stanford, who was the head of an old family in the south of England, had with his wife come abroad for the health of their young and only daughter. Sir Richard and Lady Stanford were Christians, and interested themselves in the natives of the place where they were living, and themselves having highly-cultivated musical tastes, they took pleasure in helping on any of the poorer people there in whom they recognized the like talent. "Father," said his young daughter Adeline, as she lay one warm day on a couch under a shady tree in the garden of their lovely villa at Baden-Baden, "suppose we have a concert in our villa some evening; and let us try and find out some good amateur performers, and also engage two or three really good professionals to play, so that some of the poorer players who have not opportunities of hearing them may do so, and be benefited thereby." Anxious in any reasonable way to please their daughter, a girl not much older than Frida, Sir Richard and Lady Stanford agreed to carry out her suggestion; and calling their friend Herr Müller to their assistance, the private concert was arranged for, and our friend the child of the Black Forest invited to play at it. * * * * * The day fixed for the concert had come round, and Adeline Stanford, who was more than usually well, flitted here and there, making preparations for the evening. The concert-room had been beautifully decorated, and the supper-table tastefully arranged. Very pretty did Ada (as she was called) look. Her finely-cut features and graceful appearance all proclaimed her high birth, and the innate purity and unselfishness of her spirit were stamped on her face. Adeline Stanford was a truly Christian girl whose great desire was to make those around her happy. One thing she had often longed for was to have a companion of her own age to live with her and be as a sister to her. Her parents often tried to get such a one, but as yet difficulties had arisen which prevented their doing so. The very morning of the concert, Ada had said, "O mother, how pleasant it would be, when we are travelling about and seeing so many beautiful places, to have some young girl with us who would share our pleasure with us and help to cheer you and father when I have one of my bad days and am fit for nothing." Then she added with a smile, "Not that I would like it only for your sakes, but for my own as well. It would be nice to have a sister companion to share my lessons and duties with me, and bear with my grumbles when I am ill." Adeline's grumbles were so seldom heard that her parents could not help smiling at her words, though they acknowledged that her wish was a natural one; but then, where was the suitable girl to be found? "Ah! here we are at last," said Miss Drechsler, as she and Frida drove up to the door of the villa where the Stanfords lived. "How lovely it all is!" said Frida, who had been in ecstasies ever since she arrived in Baden. Everything was so new to her--not since her father's death had she been in a large town; and her admiration as they drove along the streets between the rows of beautiful trees was manifested by exclamations of delight. Once or twice something in the appearance of the shops struck her as familiar. "Surely," she said, "I have seen these before, but where I cannot tell. Ah! look at that large toy-shop. I know I have been there, and some one who was with me bought me a cart to play with. I think it must have been mamma, for I recollect that the purse she had in her hand was like one that I often got from her to play with. Oh, I am sure I have lived here before with father and mother!" As they neared the villa, the "woodland child" became more silent, and pressed closer to her friend's side. "Ah! here they come," exclaimed Adeline Stanford, as followed by her father and mother she ran downstairs to welcome the strangers. Miss Drechsler they had seen before, but the appearance of the girl from the Black Forest struck them much. They had expected to see a peasant child (for Herr Müller had told them nothing of her history nor spoken of her appearance), and when Frida had removed her hat and stood beside them in the drawing-room, they were astonished to see no country child, but a singularly beautiful, graceful girl, of refined appearance and lady-like manners. Her slight shyness soon vanished through Ada's unaffected pleasant ways, and erelong the two girls were talking to each other with all the frankness of youth, and long ere the hour for the concert came they were fast friends. [Illustration: "Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together." _See page 61._] Ada was herself a good pianist, and could play fairly well on the violin, and she found that Herr Müller had arranged that she and the girl from the Forest should perform together. "Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together; we must be sure we have it perfect." "Oh, how well you play!" she said when they had finished. "Has Herr Müller been your only teacher?" "Latterly he has," was the answer; "but when I was quite little I was well taught by my father." "Your father!" said Adeline; "does he play well? He cannot have had many advantages if he has to work in the woods all day." "Work in the woods! why, he never did that." Then she added, "Oh! I see you think Wilhelm Hörstel is my father; but that is not the case. My own dear father is dead, and Wilhelm found me left alone in the Black Forest." "Found in the Black Forest alone!" said Ada. Here was indeed a romance to take the fancy of an imaginative, impulsive girl like Adeline Stanford; and leaving Frida with her story unfinished, she darted off to her parents to tell them what she had heard. They also were much interested in her story, for they had been much astonished at the appearance of the girl from the Forest; and telling Ada that she had better go back to Frida, they turned to Miss Drechsler and asked her to tell them all she knew of the child's history. She did so, mentioning also her brown Bible and the way in which God was using its words amongst the wood-cutters in the Forest. * * * * * The concert was over, but Sir Richard, Lady Stanford, and Miss Drechsler lingered awhile (after the girls had gone to bed), talking over the events of the evening. "How beautifully your young friend played!" said Lady Stanford; "her musical talent is wonderful, but the girl herself is the greatest wonder of all. She cannot be the child of common people, she is so like a lady and so graceful. And, Miss Drechsler, can you tell us how she comes to be possessed of such a lovely mosaic necklace as she wore to-night? Perhaps it belongs to yourself, and you have lent it to her for the occasion." "No, indeed," was the answer; "it is not mine. It evidently belonged to the child's mother, and was on her neck the night she was found in the Forest." "Then," said Sir Richard, "it is just possible it may be the means of leading to the discovery of the girl's parentage, for the pattern is an uncommon one. She is a striking-looking child, and it is strange that her face haunts me with the idea that I have seen it somewhere before; but that is impossible, as the girl tells me she has never been in England, and I can never have met her here." "It is curious," said Miss Drechsler; "but I also have the feeling that I have seen some one whom she greatly resembles when I was in England living in Gloucestershire with the Wardens." "'Tis strange," said Lady Stanford, "that you should see a likeness to some one whom you have seen and yet cannot name, the more so that the face is not a common one." "She is certainly a remarkable child," continued Miss Drechsler, "and a really good one. She has a great love for her Bible, and I think tries to live up to its precepts." That evening Sir Richard and his wife talked together of the possibility of by-and-by taking Frida into their house as companion to Ada, specially whilst they were travelling about; and perhaps afterwards taking her with them to England and continuing her education there, so that if her relations were not found she might when old enough obtain a situation as governess, or in some way turn her musical talents to account. The day after the concert, Frida returned with Miss Drechsler to Dringenstadt, to remain a few days with her before returning to her Forest home. As they were leaving the Stanfords, and Frida had just sprung into the carriage which was to convey them to the station, a young man who had been present at the concert, and was a friend of the Stanfords, came forward and asked leave to shake hands with her, and congratulated her on her violin-playing. He was a good-looking young man of perhaps three-and-twenty years, with the easy manners of a well-born gentleman. After saying farewell, he turned into the house with the Stanfords, and began to talk about the "fair violinist," as he termed her. "Remarkably pretty girl," he said; "reminds me strongly of some one I have seen. Surely she cannot be (as I overheard a young lady say last night) just a wood-cutter's child." "No, she is not that," replied Sir Richard, and then he told the young man something of her history, asking him if he had observed the strange antique necklace which the girl wore. "No," he answered, "I did not. Could you describe it to me?" As Sir Richard did so a close observer must have seen a look of pained surprise cross the young man's face, and he visibly changed colour. "Curious," he said as he rose hastily. "It would be interesting to know how it came into her possession; perhaps it was stolen, who knows?" And so saying, he shook hands and departed. Reginald Gower was the only child of an old English family of fallen fortune. Rumour said he was of extravagant habits, but that he expected some day to inherit a fine property and large fortune from a distant relative. There were good traits in Reginald's character: he had a kind heart, and was a most loving son to his widowed mother, who doted on him; but a love of ease and a selfish regard to his own comfort marred his whole character, and above all things an increasing disregard of God and the Holy Scriptures was pervading more and more his whole life. As he walked away from Sir Richard's house, his thoughts were occupied with the story he had just heard of the child found in the Black Forest. He was quite aware of the fact that the girl's face forcibly reminded him of the picture of a beautiful girl that hung in the drawing-room of a manor-house near his own home in Gloucestershire. He knew that the owner of that face had been disinherited (though the only child of the house) on account of her marriage, which was contrary to the wishes of her parents, and that now they did not know whether she were dead or alive; though surely he had lately heard a report that, after years of bitter indignation at her, they had softened, and were desirous of finding out where she was, if still alive. And then what impressed him most was the curious coincidence (he called it) that round the neck of the girl in the picture was just such another mosaic necklace as the Stanfords had described the one to be which the young violinist wore. Was it possible, he asked himself, that she could be the child of the daughter of the manor of whom his mother had often told him? and if so, ought he to tell them of his suspicions--the more so that he had heard from his mother that the lady of the manor was failing in health, and longing, as she had long done, to see and forgive her child? If he were right in his surmises that this "woodland girl," as he had heard her called, was the daughter of the child of the manor, then even if the mother was dead, the young violinist would be received with open arms by both the grand-parents, and would (and here arose the difficulty in the young man's mind) inherit the estates and wealth which would have devolved on her mother, all of which, but for the existence of this woodland child, he, Reginald Gower, would have inherited as heir-at-law. "Well, there is no call on you to say anything about the matter, at all events at present," whispered the evil spirit in the young man's heart. "You may be mistaken. Why ruin your whole future prospects for a fancy? Likenesses are so deceptive; and as to the necklace, pooh! that is nonsense--there are hundreds of mosaic necklaces. Let the matter alone, and go your way. 'Eat, drink, and be merry.'" All very well; but why just then of all times in the world did the words of the Bible, taught him long ago by the mother he loved, come so vividly to his remembrance--"Do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God;" and those words, heard more distinctly still, which his mother had taught him to call "the royal law of love"--"As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them"? Good and bad spirits seemed fighting within him for the mastery; but alas, alas! the selfish spirit so common to humanity won the day, and Reginald Gower turned from the low, soft voice of the Holy Spirit pleading within him, and resolutely determined to be silent regarding his meeting with the child found in the Black Forest, and the strange circumstance of her likeness to the picture and her possession of the mosaic necklace. Once again the god of self, who has so many votaries in this world, had gained a great triumph, and the prince of this world got a more sure seat in the heart of the young man. But all unknown to him there was one "climbing for him the silver, shining stair that leads to God's great treasure-house," and claiming for her fatherless boy "the priceless boon of the new heart." Was such a prayer ever offered in vain or unanswered by Him who hath said, "If ye ask anything according to my will, I will do it. Ask, and ye shall receive"? CHAPTER IX. CHRISTMAS IN THE FOREST. "Christmas, happy Christmas, Sweet herald of good-will, With holy songs of glory, Brings holy gladness still." Summer had long passed, autumn tints had faded, and the fallen leaves lay thick in the Forest. For days a strong wind had blown, bending the high trees under its influence, and here and there rooting up the dark pines and laying them low. Through the night of which we are going to write, a heavy fall of snow had covered all around with a thick mantle of pure white. It weighed down the branches of the trees in the Forest, and rested on the piles of wood which lay ready cut to be carted off to be sold for fuel in the neighbouring towns. The roll of wheels, as the heavily-laden wagons passed, was heard no more. The song of the birds had ceased, though the print of their claws was to be seen on the snow. All was quiet. The silence of nature seemed to rest on the hearts of the dwellers in the Forest. In vain Elsie heaped on the wood; still the stove gave out little heat. She busied herself in the little room, but a weight seemed to be on her spirit, and she glanced from time to time uneasily at Frida, who sat listlessly knitting beside the stove. "Art ill, Frida?" she said at last. "All this morning hast thou sat there with that knitting on thy lap, and scarce worked a round at it. And your violin--why, Frida, you have not played on it for weeks, and even Hans notices it; and Wilhelm says to me no longer ago than this morning, 'Why, wife, what ails our woodland child? The spirit has all left her, and she looks white and tired-like.'" Frida, thus addressed, rose quickly from her seat, a blush, perchance of shame, colouring her cheeks. "O Mutter," she said, "I know I am lazy; but it is not because I am ill, only I keep thinking and wondering and--There! I know I'm wrong, only, Elsie dear, Mutter Elsie, I do want to know if any of my own people are alive, and where they live. I have felt like this ever since I was at Baden-Baden; and I have not heard from Adeline Stanford for such a long time, and I suppose, though she was so kind, she has forgotten me; and Miss Drechsler has left Dringenstadt for months; and, O Mutter, forgive me, and believe that I am not ungrateful for all that you and Wilhelm and the kind people in the Dorf have done for me. Only, only--" And the poor girl laid her head on Elsie's shoulder and cried long and bitterly. Elsie was much moved, she did so love the bright, fairy-like girl who had been the means of letting in the light of the gospel to her dark heart. "_Armes Kind_" (poor child), she said, soothing her as tenderly as she would have done her own blind Anna, had she been alive and in trouble, "I understand it all, dear." (And her kind woman heart had taken it all in.) "It is just like the little bird taken from its mother's nest, and put into a strange one, longing to be back amongst its like again, and content nowhere else. But, Frida, dost thou not remember that we read in the little brown book that our Lord hath said, 'Lo, I am with you alway'? Isn't that enough for you? No place can be very desolate, can it, if He be there?" In a moment after Elsie said these words, Frida raised her head and dried her eyes. Had she been forgetting, she asked herself, whose young servant she was? Was it right in a child of God to be discontented with her lot, and to forget the high privilege that God had given her in allowing her to read His Word to the poor people in the Forest? "I must throw off this discontented spirit," she said to herself; and turning to Elsie she told her how sorry she was for the way in which she had acted, adding, "But with God's help I will be better now." Frida was no perfect character, and, truth to tell, ever since her return from Baden-Baden, a sense of the incongruity of her circumstances had crept upon her. The tasteful surroundings, the cultured conversation, the musical evenings, the refinement of all around, had enchanted the young girl, and the humble lot and homely ways of her Forest friends had on her return to them stood out in striking contrast. And, alas! for the time being she refused to see in all these things the guiding hand of God. But after the day we have written of, things went better. The girl strove to conquer her discontent, and in God's strength she overcame, and her friends in the Forest had once more the pleasure of seeing her bright smile and hearing her sweet voice in song. Johann Schmidt had fallen asleep in Jesus with the words of Holy Scripture on his lips, blessing the "wood-cutters' pet," as he called her, for having, through the reading of God's Word, led him to Jesus. But though sickness had left the Forest, the severe cold and deep snow were very trying to the health of all the dwellers in it, and the winter nights were long and dreary. One day in December, Wilhelm Hörstel had business in Dringenstadt, and on his return home he gave Frida two letters which he had found lying at the post-office for her. They proved, to Frida's great delight, to be from her two friends Miss Drechsler and Adeline Stanford. Miss Drechsler's ran thus:-- "DEAR FRIDA,--I have been thinking very specially of you and your friends in the Forest, now that the cold winter days have come, and the snow, I doubt not, is lying thick on the trees and ground. Knowing how interested you are, dear, in all your kind friends there, I have thought how nice it would be for you, if Elsie and Wilhelm consent, to have a Christmas-tree for a few of your friends; and in order to carry this out, I enclose a money order to the amount of £2, and leave it to you and Elsie to spend it to the best of your power. "I am also going to write to Herr Steiger to send, addressed to you, ten pounds of tea, which I trust you to give from me to each of the householders--nine in number, I think--in the little Dorf, retaining one for your friends the Hörstels. Will you, dear Frida, be my almoner and do my business for me? I often think of and pray for you, and I know you do not forget me. I fear I will not be able to return to Dringenstadt till the month of May, as my sister is still very ill, and I feel I am of use to her.--Your affectionate friend. M. DRECHSLER." "Oh, isn't it good? isn't it charming?" said Frida, jumping about the room in her glee. "Mayn't we have the tree, Mutter? And will you not some day soon come with me to Dringenstadt and choose the things for it? Oh, I wish Hans were here, that I might tell him all about it! See, I have not yet opened Adeline's letter; it is so long since I heard from her. I wonder where they are living now. Oh, the letter is from Rome." Then in silence she read on. Elsie, who was watching her, saw that as she read on her cheeks coloured and her eyes sparkled with some joyful emotion. She rose suddenly, and going up to Elsie she said, "O Mutter, _was denken Sie?_ [what do you think?]. Sir Richard and Lady Stanford enclose a few lines saying they would like so much that I should, with your consent, spend some months with them at Cannes in the Riviera, as a companion to Adeline; and if you and Miss Drechsler agree to the plan, that I would accompany friends of theirs from Baden-Baden who propose to go to Cannes about the middle of January. And, Mutter," continued the girl, "they say all my expenses will be paid, and that I shall have Adeline's masters for music and languages, and be treated as if I were their daughter." Elsie looked up with tears in her eyes. "Well, Frida dear," she said, "it does seem a good thing for you, and right glad I am about it for your sake; but, oh, we will miss you sorely. But there! the dear Lord has told us in the book not to think only of ourselves, and I am sure that He is directing your way. Of course I'll speak to Wilhelm about it, for he has so much sense; but I don't believe he'll stand in your way." Frida, overcome with excitement, and almost bewildered with the prospect before her, had yet a heart full of sorrow at the thought of leaving the friends who had helped her in her time of need; and in broken words she told Elsie so, clinging to her as she spoke. Matters were soon arranged. Elsie and Wilhelm heartily agreed that Frida should accept Sir Richard and Lady Stanford's invitation. They only waited till an answer could be got from Miss Drechsler regarding the plan. And when that came, full of thankfulness for God's kindness in thus guiding her path, a letter of acceptance was at once dispatched to Cannes, and the child of the Forest only remained with her friends till the new year was a fortnight old. In the meantime, whilst snow lay thick around, Christmas-eve came on, and Frida and Elsie were busy preparing the tree. Of the true Christmas joy many in the Forest knew nothing, but in some hearts a glimmer at least of its true meaning was dawning, and a few of the wood-cutters loved to gather together and hear Frida read the story of the angelic hosts on the plain of Bethlehem singing of peace and good-will to men, because that night a Babe, who was Christ the Lord, was born in a manger. How much they understood of the full significance of the story we know not, but we _do_ know God's word never returns to Him void. The tree was ready at last. Elsie, Frida, and Hans had worked busily at it for days, Miss Drechsler's money had gone a long way, and now those who had prepared it thought there never had been such a beautiful tree. True, every child in the Forest had had on former occasions a tree of their own at Christmas time--none so poor but some small twig was lit up, though the lights might be few; but this one, ah, that was a different matter--no such tree as this had ever been seen in the Forest before. "Look, Hans," said Frida; "is not that doll like a little queen? And only see that little wooden cart and horse; won't that delight some of the children in the Dorf?--And, Mutter, we must hang up that warm hood for Frau Schenk, poor woman; and now here are the warm cuffs for the men, and a lovely pair for Wilhelm.--And, O Hans, we will not tell you what _you_ are to have; nor you either, Mutter. No, no, you will never guess. I bought them myself." And so, amid chattering and laughing, the tree got on and was finished; and all I am going to say about it is that for long years afterwards that particular Christmas-tree was remembered and spoken of, and in far other scenes--in crowded drawing-rooms filled with gaily-dressed children and grown-up people--Frida's eyes would fill as she thought of the joy that Christmas-tree had given to the dwellers in the Forest, both young and old. Ere that memorable night ended, Frida and Hans, who had prepared a surprise for every one, brought out their violins, and sang together in German a Christmas carol; and as the assembled party went quietly home through the snow-carpeted Forest, a holy influence seemed around them, as if the song of the angels echoed through the air, "Peace on earth, and goodwill to men." CHAPTER X. HARCOURT MANOR. "Shall not long-suffering in thee be wrought To mirror back His own? His _gentleness_ shall mellow every thought And look and tone." Three years and a half have passed since the Christmas-eve we have written of, and the golden light of a summer day was falling on the earth and touching the flowers in a lovely garden belonging to the old manor-house of Harcourt, in the county of Gloucester in England. In the lawn-tennis court, which was near the garden, preparations were making for a game. Young men in flannels and girls in light dresses were passing to and fro arranging the racquets and tightening the nets, some gathering the balls together and trying them ere the other players should arrive. It was a pleasant scene. Birds twittered out and in the ivy and rose covered walls of the old English manor-house, and the blithe laughter of the young people blended with the melodious singing of the choristers around. The company was assembling quickly, kind words were passing amongst friends, when there appeared on the scene an elderly lady of great elegance and beauty, to whom all turned with respectful greeting, and a hush came over all. Not that there was anything stern or severe in the lady's appearance to cause the hush, for a look of calmness and great sweetness was in her countenance, but through it there was also an appearance of sadness that touched every heart, and although it would not silence any true young joy, had certainly the effect of quieting anything boisterous or rude. The "gentle lady" of Harcourt Manor was the name Mrs. Willoughby had gone by for some years. It was pretty well known that a deep sorrow had fallen upon her whilst still in the prime of life; and those there were who said they could recall a time when, instead of that look of calm peace and chastened sorrow, there were visible on her face only haughty pride and fiery temper. It was hard to believe that that had ever been the case; but if so, it was but one of many instances in which God's declaration proved true, that though "no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous, nevertheless _afterward_ it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness." Mr. Willoughby, a man older by some years than his wife, was a man who had long been more feared than beloved; and the heavy trial, which had affected him no less than his wife, had apparently hardened instead of softening his whole nature, though a severe illness had greatly mitigated, it was thought, some of his sternness. The party of which we are writing was given in honour of the return from abroad of the heir of the manor, a distant relation of the Willoughbys, Mr. Reginald Gower, whom we have written of before. For five years he had been living abroad, and had returned only a month ago to the house of his widowed mother, the Hon. Mrs. Gower of Lilyfield, a small though pretty property adjoining Harcourt Manor. Just as Mrs. Willoughby entered the grounds, Reginald and his mother did so also, although by a different way, and a few minutes passed ere they met. The young man walked eagerly up to the hostess, a smile of real pleasure lighting up his handsome face at the sight of the lady he really loved, and who had from his boyish days been a kind friend to him. But as he greeted her, the look of sadness on her countenance struck him, and some secret thought sent a pang through him, and for the moment blanched his cheek. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he had it in his power, by the utterance of a few words, to dispel that look of deep sadness from the face of one of the dearest friends, next to his mother, whom he possessed? "Very glad to see you back again, Reginald," said Mrs. Willoughby. "But surely the southern skies have blanched rather than bronzed your cheeks. You were not wont to be so pale, Reggie. Ay, there you are more like your old self" (as a flush of colour spread over his face once more). "We hope you have come to stay awhile in your own country, for your dear mother has been worrying about your long absence.--Is it not so, Laura?" she said, addressing herself to Mrs. Gower, who now stood beside them. "Yes, indeed," was the reply; "I am thankful to have my boy home again. Lilyfield is a dull place without him." "Yes," said Mrs. Willoughby; "it is a dreary home that has no child in it." And as she spoke she turned her face away, that no one might see that her eyes were full of tears. But Reginald had caught sight of them, and turned away suddenly, saying, "Farewell for the present;" and raising his cap to the two ladies, he went off to join the players in the tennis-court, to all outward appearance one of the brightest and most light-hearted there. But he played badly that day, and exclamations from his friends were heard from time to time such as, "Why, Reginald, have you forgotten how to play tennis?" "Oh, look out, Gower; you are spoiling the game! It was a shame to miss that ball." Thus admonished, Reginald drew himself together, collected his thoughts, concentrated his attention on the game, and played well. But no sooner was the game over than once again there rose before his eyes the face and figure of the beautiful foundling of the Black Forest, with her strange story and her extraordinary likeness not only to the picture of the young girl in the drawing-room of the manor, but also to his gentle friend Mrs. Willoughby. Oh, if only he had never met the young violinist; if he could blot out the remembrance of her and be once more the light-hearted man he had been ere he heard her story from Sir Richard Stanford! He had been so sure of his sense of honour, his pure morality, his good principles, his high-toned soul ("True," he said to himself, "I never set up to be one of your righteous-overmuch sort of people, nor a saint like my noble mother and my friend Mrs. Willoughby") that he staggered as he thought of what he was now by the part he was acting. Dishonest, cruel, unjust--he, Reginald Gower; was it possible? Ah! his self-righteousness, his boasted uprightness, had both been put to the test and found wanting. "Well, Reggie, had you a pleasant time at the manor to-day?" said his mother to him as they sat together at their late dinner. "Oh, it was well enough," was the reply; but it was not spoken in his usual hearty tone, and his mother observed it, and also the unsatisfied look which crossed his face, and she wondered what had vexed him. A silence succeeded, broken at last by Reginald. "Mother," he said, "what is it that has deepened that look of sadness in Mrs. Willoughby's face since I last saw her? And tell me, is the story about their daughter being disinherited true? And is it certain that she is dead, and that no child (for I think it is said she married) survives her? If that were the case, and the child should turn up and be received, it would be awkward for me and my prospects, mother." "Reginald," Mrs. Gower replied, for she had heard his words with astonishment, "if I thought that there was the least chance that either Mrs. Willoughby's daughter or any child of hers were alive, I would rejoice with all my heart, and do all I could to bring about a reconciliation, even though it were to leave you, my loved son, a penniless beggar. And so I am sure would you." A flush of crimson rose to Reginald's brow at these words. Then his mother believed him to be all that he had thought himself, and little suspected what he really was. But then, supposing he divulged his secret, what about debts which he had contracted, and extravagant habits which he had formed? No! he would begin and save, retrench his expenses, and if possible get these debts paid off; and then he might see his way to speak of the girl in the Black Forest, if she was still to be found. So once more Reginald Gower silenced the voice of conscience with, "At a more convenient time," and abruptly changing the subject, began to speak of his foreign experiences, of the beauty of Italian skies, art, and scenery; and the conversation about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter passed from his mother's mind, and she became absorbed in her son's descriptions of the places he had visited. And as she looked at his handsome animated face, was it any wonder that with a mother's partiality she thought how favoured she was in the possession of such a child? Only--and here she sighed--ah, if only she were sure that this cherished son were a true follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, and that the Word of God, so precious to her own soul, were indeed a light to his feet and a lamp to his path! That evening another couple were seated also at their dinner-table, and a different conversation was being held. The master of Harcourt Manor sat at the foot of the table, opposite his gentle wife; but a troubled look was on his face, brought there very much by the thought that he noticed an extra shade both of weariness and sadness on the face of his wife. What could he do to dissipate it? he was asking himself. Anything, except speak the word which he was well aware would have the desired effect, and, were she still alive, restore to her mother's arms the child for whom she pined; but not yet was the strong self-will so broken down that those words could be spoken by him, not yet had he so felt the need of forgiveness for his own soul that he could forgive as he hoped to be forgiven. Did not his duty as a parent, and his duty towards other parents of his own rank in life, call upon him to make a strong stand, and visit with his righteous indignation such a sin as that of his only child and heiress marrying a man, however good, upright, and highly educated he might be, who yet was beneath her in station (although he denied that fact), and unable to keep her in the comfort and luxury to which she had been accustomed? "No, no, _noblesse oblige_;" and rather than forgive such a sin, he would blight his own life and break the heart of the wife he adored. Such was the state of mind in which the master of Harcourt Manor had remained since the sad night when his only child had gone off to be married at a neighbouring church to the young musician Heinz. But some months before Reginald Gower's return from abroad, during a severe illness which had brought him to the borderland, Mr. Willoughby was aroused to a dawning sense of his own sinfulness and need of pardon, which had, almost unconsciously to himself, a softening effect on his mind. His wife was the first to break the silence at the dinner-table. "Has not Reginald Gower grown more manly and older-looking since we saw him last?" she said, addressing her husband. A shade came over his face as he answered somewhat testily, "Oh, I think he looks well enough! Of course five years must have made him look older. But Reginald never was the favourite with me that he is with you, wife; a self-indulgent lad he always seems to me to be." "Well, but surely, husband" (once she always called him father, but that was years ago now), "he is a good son, and kind to his mother." "Well, well, I am glad to hear it. But surely we have some more interesting subject to discuss than Reginald Gower." Mrs. Willoughby sighed. Well she knew that many a time she had a conflict in her own heart to think well of the lad who was to succeed to the beautiful estates that by right belonged to their own child. Dinner over, she sought the quiet of her own boudoir, a room specially endeared to her by the many sweet memories of the hours that she and her loved daughter had spent together there. The day had been a trying one to Mrs. Willoughby. Not often nowadays had they parties at Harcourt Manor, and she was tired in mind and body, and glad to be a few minutes alone with her God. She sat for a few minutes lost in thought; then rising she opened a drawer, and took from it the case which contained the miniature of a beautiful girl, on which she gazed long and lovingly. The likeness was that of the daughter she had loved so dearly, and of whose very existence she was now in doubt. Oh to see or hear of her once more! Poor mother, how her heart yearned for her loved one! Only one could comfort her, and that was the God she had learned to love. She put down the picture and opened a little brown book, the very _fac-simile_ of the one which little Frida possessed, and which God had used and blessed in the Black Forest. Turning to the Hundred and third Psalm, she read the words, well underlined, "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him." Then turning to the Gospel of Matthew, she read Christ's own blessed word of invitation and promise, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and _I_ will give you rest." Ah, how many weary, burdened souls have these words helped since they were spoken and then under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost written for the comfort of weary ones in all ages! Ere she closed the book, Mrs. Willoughby read the fourth verse of the Thirty-seventh Psalm: "Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart." Then kneeling down she poured out, as she so often did, the sorrows of her heart to her heavenly Father, and rose quieted in spirit. Ere she put away the little brown book she looked at it thoughtfully, recalling the day, not long before her daughter had left her, when they had together bought two Bibles exactly alike as regarded binding, but the one was in German, the other in English. The German Bible she had given to her daughter, who presented the English one to her mother. On the fly-leaf of the one she held in her hand were written the words, "To my much-loved mother, from Hilda." Ah, where was that daughter now? And if she still possessed the little brown German Bible, had she learned to love and prize its words as her mother had done her English Bible? Then carefully locking up her treasured book and portraits, she went downstairs, to wait in solitary grandeur for her husband's coming into the drawing-room. CHAPTER XI. IN THE RIVIERA. "My God, I thank Thee who hast made The earth so bright, So full of splendour and of joy, Beauty, and light; So many glorious things are here, Noble and right." More than four years had elapsed since Frida had left her home in the Black Forest. April sunshine was lighting up the grey olive woods and glistening on the dark-green glossy leaves of the orange-trees at Cannes, and playing on the deep-blue waters of the Mediterranean there. Some of these beams fell also round the heads of two young girls as they sat under the shade of a palm tree in a lovely garden there belonging to the Villa des Rosiers, where they were living. A lovely scene was before their eyes. In front of them, like gems in the deep-blue sea, were the isles of St. Marguerite and St. Honorat, and to the west were the beautiful Estrelle Mountains. Around them bloomed masses of lovely roses, and the little yellow and white noisettes climbed up the various tall trees in the garden, and flung their wealth of flowers in festoons down to the ground. The two girls gazed in silence for some minutes at the lovely scene. Then the youngest of the two, a dark-eyed, golden-haired girl, said, addressing her companion, "Is it not lovely, Adeline? The whole of nature seems to be rejoicing." "Yes, indeed," answered her companion. "And I am sure I owe much to the glorious sunshine, for, by God's blessing, it has been the means of restoring my health. I am quite well now, and the doctor says I may safely winter in England next season. Won't it be delightful, Frida, to be back in dear old England once more?" "Ah! you forget, Adeline, that I do not know the land of your birth, though I quite believe it was my mother's birthplace as well, and perhaps my own also. I do often long to see it, and fancy if I were once there I might meet with some of my own people. But then again, how could I, on a mere chance, make up my mind to leave my kind friends in the Forest entirely? It is long since I have heard of them. Do you know that I left my little Bible with them? I had taught Elsie and Hans to read it, and they promised to go on reading it aloud as I used to do to the wood-cutters on Sunday evenings. It is wonderful how God's Word has been blessed to souls in the Forest. And, Adeline, have I told you how kind your friend Herr Müller has been about Hans? He got him to go twice a week to Dringenstadt, and has been teaching him to play on the violin. He says he has real talent, and if only he had the means to obtain a good musical education, would become a really celebrated performer." "Yes, Frida," replied her friend; "I know more about all that than you do. Herr Müller has been most kind, and taken much trouble with Hans; but it is my own dear, kind father who pays him for so doing, and tells no one, for he says we should 'not let our left hand know what our right hand doeth.'" A silence succeeded, broken only by the noise of the small waves of the tideless Mediterranean at their feet. Then Frida spoke, a look of firm resolution on her face. "Adeline," she said, "your father and mother are the kindest of people, and God will reward them. This morning they told me that they mean to leave this place in a couple of weeks, and return by slow stages to England; and they asked me to accompany you there, and remain with you as your friend and companion as long as I liked. Oh, it was a kind offer, kindly put; but, Adeline, I have refused it." "Refused it, Frida! what do you mean?" said her friend, starting up. "You don't mean to say you are not coming home with us! Are you going back to live with those people in the little hut in the Forest, after all your education and your love of refined surroundings? Frida, it is not possible; it would be black ingratitude!" "O Adeline, hush! do not pain me by such words. Listen to me, dear, for one moment, and do not make it more difficult for me to do the right thing. Your parents have given their consent to my plan, and even said they think it is the right plan for me." "Well, let me hear," said Adeline, in a displeased tone, "what it is you propose to do. Is it your intention really to go back to the Forest and live there?" "Not exactly that, Adeline. I have thought it all over some time ago, and only waited till your parents spoke to me of going to England to tell them what I thought was my duty to do. And this is what has been settled. If you still wish it, as your parents do, I shall remain here till you leave, and accompany you back to Baden-Baden, where your parents tell me they intend going for a week or so. From there I propose returning to my friends in the Forest, not to live there any more, but for a few days' visit to see them who are so dear to me. After that I shall live with Miss Drechsler. Her sister is dead, and has left her a good deal of money, and she is now going to settle in Dringenstadt, and have a paid companion to reside with her. And, Adeline, that situation she has offered to me." "Well, Frida," interrupted her friend, "did not I wish you to be my companion? and would not my parents have given you any sum you required?" "O Adeline dear, hush, I pray of you, and let me finish my story. You _know_ that it is not a question of money; but you are so well, dear, that you do not really _need_ me. You have your parents and friends. Miss Drechsler is alone, and I can never forget all she has done for me. Then I am young, and cannot consent to remain in dependence even on such dear friends as you are. I intend giving lessons in violin-playing at Dringenstadt and its neighbourhood. Miss Drechsler writes she can secure me two or three pupils at once, and she is sure I will soon get more, as the new villas near Dringenstadt are now finished, and have been taken by families. And then, Adeline, living there I shall be near enough to the Forest to carry on the work which I believe God has called me to, in reading to these poor people the words of life. And at Miss Drechsler's I mean to live, as long as she requires me, _unless_ I am claimed by any of my own relations, which, as you know, is a most unlikely event. I believe I am right in the decision I have come to. So once again I pray of you, dear Adeline, not to dissuade me from my purpose. You know how much I love you all, and how grateful I am to you. Only think how ignorant I would have been had not your dear parents taken me and got me educated, as if I had been their own child. Oh, I can never, never forget all that you have done for me!" Adeline's warm heart was touched, and her good sense convinced her, in spite of her dislike to the plan, that her friend was right. "Well, Frida," she said, after a minute or two's silence, "if you feel it really to be your duty, I can say no more. Only you must promise me that you will come sometimes, say in the summer time, and visit us." Frida smiled. "That would be charming, Adeline; but we will not speak of that at present. Only say you really think I am right in the matter. I have not forgotten to ask God's guidance, and you know it is written in the Word of God which we both love so well, 'In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.' But come; we must go now and get ready, for we are to go to-day to the Cap d'Antibes." And in the delights of that lovely drive, and in strolling amongst the rocks honeycombed till they look almost like lacework, the two friends forgot the evils of the impending separation. In the meantime Frida was warmly remembered by her friends in the Forest, and their joy when they heard that she was once more coming to live near them was unbounded. "Ah," said Elsie, as she bent her head over a sweet little year-old girl whom she held on her lap, "now I shall be able to show her my little Gretchen, and she will, I know, sing to her some of the sweet hymns she used to sing to my little Annchen, and she will read to us again, Wilhelm, out of the little brown book which I have taken great care of for her." "Ay," put in Hans, "and Mütterchen, she will bring her violin, and she and I will play together some of the music you and father love; and she will, I know, be glad to hear that through Sir Richard Stanford and Herr Müller I am to become a pupil in the Conservatorium of Leipsic. I can hardly believe it is true." "Ay, my son, thou art a lucky one, and ye owe it all to Frida herself. Was it not she who told Sir Richard about your love of music, and got Herr Müller to promise to hear you play? Ah! under the good God we owe much to the 'woodland child.'" And so it fell out that after a few more happy weeks spent at Cannes and Grasse, Frida found herself once more an inmate of Miss Drechsler's pretty little house at Dringenstadt, and able every now and then to visit and help her friends in the Forest. "Ah, Mütterchen," she said as she threw herself into Elsie's arms, "here I am again your foundling child, come to live near you, and so glad to see you all once more.--And Hans, why, Hans, you look a man now; and oh, I am so pleased you are to go to Leipsic! You must bring down your violin now and then to Miss Drechsler's, and let us play together. I am sure you will be a great musician some day, Hans." The young man (for such he now was) looked much gratified at his friend's hopeful words, and said, "If I do turn that, I shall owe it all to you, Frida." But the girl interrupted his speech by saying, "Now, Mutter, let me see little Gretchen;" and next minute she was stooping over the bed where lay the sleeping child--the very bed whence the spirit of the blind child whom she had loved so dearly had taken its flight to the heavenly land. "What a darling she looks, Elsie! Oh, I am glad God has sent you this little treasure! She will cheer you when Hans has gone away and her father is all day in the Forest." "Yes," said Elsie, "she is indeed a gift from God; and you, Frida, must teach her, as you taught her parents and Anna, the 'way of life.' And O Frida, thou must go down to the Dorf, for all the people there are so eager to see thee once more. And now that thou hast grown a young lady, they all wonder if thou still beest like the woodland child, and wilt care about the like of them, or if perchance thou hast forgotten them." "Forgotten them! O Elsie, how could they think so? Could I ever forget how they and you gave of their little pittance to maintain the child found in the Black Forest, and how you all lavished kindness on her who had neither father nor mother to care for her? I must go at once and ask them what I have done that they should have thought so badly of me even for a minute. Don't you know, Mutter, that I have given up the going to England to live with Miss Drechsler at Dringenstadt, in order that I may often see my dear friends in the Forest; and that shall be my life-work, unless"--and here the girl looked sad--"any of my own friends find me out and claim me." "Hast had any clue to them, Frida?" asked Elsie. "Alas, no!" said the girl, "none whatever; and yet I have seen a great number of people during these few years. And I have always worn my necklace, which, being such a peculiar one, might have attracted attention and led to the discovery of my parentage; but except one Englishman, whom I met at the Stanfords', who said I reminded him of some one whom he had seen, there has been nothing to lead me to suppose that any one thought of me except as a friend of the Stanfords. But, Elsie, though I am not discontented, still at times there is the old yearning for my own people. But God knows best, and I am not going to waste my life in useless longings. I have got five pupils in Dringenstadt already, and several more applications, and next week I begin my life-work as a teacher of the violin.--Don't you envy me, Hans?" "That is what I do, Fräulein Frida," said Hans. Somehow as he looked at the fair young lady the old familiar name of Frida seemed too familiar to use. Frida turned quickly round on him as he uttered the word "Fräulein." "Why, Hans--for I will not call thee Herr--to whom did you speak? There is no Fräulein here--just your old sister playmate Frida; never let me hear you address me again by such a title. Art thou not my brother Hans, the son of my dear friends Elsie and Wilhelm?" and a merry laugh scattered Hans's new-born shyness. And to the end of their lives Frida and Hans remained as brother and sister, each rejoicing in the success of the other in life; and in after years they had many a laugh over the day that Hans began to think that he must call his sister friend, the companion of his childhood, his instructor in much that was good, by the stiff title of Fräulein Frida. Ere Frida left the hut that day, they all knelt together and thanked God for past mercies, and it was Elsie's voice that in faltering accents prayed that Frida might still be used in the Forest to lead many to the knowledge of Christ Jesus through the reading of the Word of God. CHAPTER XII. IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS. "There are lonely hearts to cherish While the days are going by, There are weary souls who perish While the days are going by. If a smile we can renew, As our journey we pursue, Oh, the good we all may do While the days are passing by!" The London season was at its height, but though the pure sunshine was glistening on mountain-top and green meadow, and beginning to tinge the corn-fields with a golden tint in country places, where peace and quietness seemed to reign, and leafy greenery called on every one who loved nature to come and enjoy it in its summer flush of beauty, yet the great city was still filled not only by those who could not leave its crowded streets, but by hundreds who lingered there in the mere pursuit of pleasure, for whom the beauties of nature had no charm. On one peculiarly fine day a group of people were gathered together in the drawing-room of a splendid mansion in one of the West End crescents. There was evidently going to be a riding party, for horses held by grooms stood at the door, and two at least of the ladies in the drawing-room wore riding habits. In conversation with one of these--a pretty fair-haired girl of some twenty years--stood Reginald Gower. "Will your sister ride to-day, do you know?" he was asking, in somewhat anxious tones. "Gertie? No, I think not; she has a particular engagement this morning. I don't exactly know what it is, but she will not be one of the party. So, Mr. Gower, you and Arthur Barton will have to put up with only the company of myself and Cousin Mary." Ere the young man could reply, the door opened, and a girl dressed in a dark summer serge and light straw hat entered. She carried a small leather bag in her hand, and was greeted with exclamations of dismay from more than one of the party. "Are you going slumming to-day, Gertie? What a shame! And the sun so bright, and yet a cool air--just the most delightful sort of day for a ride; and we are going to call on your favourite aunt Mary." "Give her my love then," replied Gertie, "and tell her I hope to ride over one of those days and see her. No, I cannot possibly go with you to-day, as I have an engagement elsewhere." "An engagement in the slums! Who ever heard of such a thing?" said her sister and cousin together. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Lily dear, and my cousin also; but I had promised two or three poor people to see them to-day before I knew anything of this riding party, and I am sure I am right not to disappoint them.--And, Mr. Gower, I know your mother at least would not think I was wrong." "That is true, Miss Warden. My mother thinks far more about giving pleasure to the poor than she does about the wishes of the rich. But could you not defer this slumming business till to-morrow, and give us the pleasure of your company to-day?" But she shook her head, and assuring them they would get on very well without her, she turned to leave the room, saying as she did so, "O Lily, do find out if it is true that Aunt Mary's old governess, Miss Drechsler, of whom we have all heard so much, is coming to visit her soon, and is bringing with her the young violinist who lives with her, and who people say was a child found in the Black Forest. I do so want to know all about her. We must try and get her to come here some evening, and ask Dr. Heinz, who plays so well upon the violin, to meet her; and you also, Mr. Gower, for I know you dearly love music." Had Lily not turned quickly away just then, she would have noticed the uneasy, startled look which crossed Reginald Gower's face at her words. Was this woodland child, he asked himself, to be always crossing his path? He had hoped he had heard the last of her long ago, and some years had elapsed since he had seen her. The circumstance of the likeness to the picture in Harcourt Manor, and the coincidence of the necklace, had _almost_ (but as he had not yet quite killed his conscience), not _altogether_, escaped his memory; and still, as at times he marked the increasing sadness on Mrs. Willoughby's countenance, he felt a sharp pang of remorse; and since he had known and begun to care for Gertie Warden, her devoted Christian life and clear, truthful spirit were making him more conscious than ever of his own selfishness and sin. True, he had no reason to suppose that she cared for him in any way except as the son of his mother, whom she dearly loved, but his vanity whispered that perhaps in time she might do so; and if that came to pass, and he found that his love was returned, _then_ he would tell her all, and consult with her as to what course he should follow. Lately, however, he had become uneasy at the many references which Lily Warden made to a Dr. Heinz, who seemed to be often about the house, and of whom both sisters spoke in high terms as a Christian man and pleasant friend. What if he should gain the affection of Gertie? Heinz! something in the name haunted him. Surely he had heard it before, and in connection with the young violinist. And now was it possible that that beautiful girl was really coming amongst them, and that his own mother might meet her any day? for she was often at the house, not only of the Wardens, but also of their aunt Mary, with whom the girl was coming to stay. No wonder that during the ride Lily Warden thought Mr. Gower strangely preoccupied and silent. She attributed it all to his disappointment at her sister's absence, and felt vexed that such should be the case, as well she knew that in the way he wished Gertie would never think of Reginald Gower; but she felt sorry for him, and tried to cheer him up. Through that long ride, with summer sunshine and summer beauties around him, Reginald saw only one face, and it was not that of Gertie Warden, but that of the young girl whom he had heard play on the violin at the house of the Stanfords at Baden-Baden. Oh, if he had only had courage then to write home and tell all that he had heard about her! And in vivid colours there rose before his mind all the disgrace that would attach to him when it became known that he knew of the girl's existence and kept silence. The reason of his so doing would be evident to many. And what, oh, what, he was asking himself, would his loved, high-souled mother think of her son? Surely the words of the Bible he heeded so little were true, "The way of transgressors is hard," and his sin was finding him out. As soon as the first greetings were over, and the party were seated at the lunch-table in Miss Warden's pretty cottage situated on the banks of the Thames, Lily said, "O Aunt Mary, is it true what Gertie has heard--that Miss Drechsler and a beautiful young violinist with a romantic story are coming to visit you? Gertie is so anxious to know all about her, for neither she nor any of us can believe that she can excel Dr. Heinz in violin-playing; and, indeed, you know how beautifully Gertie herself plays, and she often does so now with Dr. Heinz himself." "Yes, Lily dear, I am glad to say it is all true. I expect both Miss Drechsler and her young _protégé_ next week to visit me for a short time, after which they propose to go to the Stanfords at Stanford Hall, who take a great interest in the young violinist--in fact, I believe she lived for three or four years with them, and was educated along with their own daughter.--By the way, Mr. Gower, you must tell your mother that her old friend Miss Drechsler is coming to me, and I hope she will spend a day with me when she is here." "I am sure she will be delighted to do so, Miss Warden," replied the young man; but even as he spoke his cheek blanched as he thought of all that might come of his mother meeting the young violinist. Reginald rode back with his friends to their house, but could not be induced to enter again, not even to hear how Gertie had got on with her slumming. "Not to-day," he said; "I find I must go home. I don't doubt your sister has been well employed--more usefully than we mere pleasure-seekers have been," he added, in such a grave tone that Lily turned her head to look at him, as she stood on the door-steps, and inquire if he were quite well. "Quite so, thanks," he replied, in his usual gay tone; "only sometimes one does think there is a resemblance between the lives the butterflies live and ours. Confess it now," he said laughingly; but Lily was in no thoughtful mood just then, so her only reply was,-- "Speak for yourself, Mr. Gower. I have plenty of useful things to do, just as much so as making a guy of myself and going a-slumming, only I am often too lazy to do them," and with a friendly nod she followed her cousin into the house. Reginald rode slowly homeward, and, contrary to his usual custom, went to his own room to try to collect his thoughts and make out in what form he would deliver Miss Warden's message to his mother. It was very evident to him that the meshes into which his own sins had brought him were tightening around him. Turn which way he liked, there was no escape. At least only one that he could see, and that was, that if the secret came out, and the young violinist of the Black Forest were proved to be the grandchild of the Willoughbys, he should keep silence as to his ever having known anything of the matter. The more he thought of it, the more that seemed his wisest course; and even if it should come out that he had heard her play, that would tell nothing. Yet his conscience was ill at ease. Suppose he did so, what of his own self-respect? Could he ever regain it? Fortune would be lost, and all ease of mind gone for ever. Then again, if he told his story now, it would only be because he knew that in any case it would be disclosed, and shame would await him. How could he ever bear the reproaches of his kind friends the Willoughbys, and more than all, the deep grief such a disclosure would cause to his loved mother? In that hour Reginald Gower went through a conflict of mind which left a mark on his character for life. But, alas! once more evil won the day, and he resolved that not _yet_ would he tell all he knew; but some day _soon_ he might. But once again, as he rose to go downstairs, Bible words came into his mind: "_To-day_, while it is called to-day, harden not your hearts." O happy mother, to have so carefully stored the young heart with the precious words of God! Long they may be as the seed under ground, apparently forgotten and useless, yet surely one day they will spring up and bear fruit. True even in this application are the words of the poet,-- "The vase in which roses have once been distilled You may break, you may shiver the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will cling to it still." Well may we thank God for all mothers who carefully teach the words of Holy Scripture to their children. That day Reginald delivered Miss Warden's message to his mother, but did not mention the young girl who was to accompany her. "Oh, I will be delighted to see Miss Drechsler again," said his mother. "I liked her so much when she was governess at the Wardens'. We all did; indeed, she was more companion than governess, and indeed was younger than I was, and just about Mary Warden's own age. I remember well going one day with Mrs. Willoughby's daughter, Hilda, to a musical party at the Wardens', and how charmed Miss Drechsler was at the way Hilda played the violin, which was not such a common thing then as it is now." "The violin?" queried Reginald. "Did Miss Willoughby play on the violin?" "Oh yes! she was very musical, and that was one of the great attractions to her in the man she married. He, too, was a wonderful violinist--Herr Heinz they called him. He was, I believe, a much-respected man and of good family connections, but poor, and even taught music to gain a livelihood." "Heinz!" Reginald was repeating to himself. Then he had heard that name before first in connection with the child of the Black Forest; but he only said, "It is curious that I have lately heard that name from the young Wardens, who speak a great deal of a Dr. Heinz. He also is a good violinist. Can he be any relation, do you think, of the one you allude to?" "Possibly he may; but the name is not at all an uncommon German one. By the way, I heard a report (probably a false one) that Gertie Warden is engaged to be married to a Dr. Heinz--a very good man, they say. Have you heard anything of it?" "I never heard she was engaged, nor do I think it is likely; but I have heard both her and her sister speak of this Dr. Heinz, and I know it is only a Christian man that Gertie would marry." Having said so much, he quickly changed the subject and talked of something else. The mother's eye, however, was quick to notice the shade on his brow as he spoke, and she was confirmed in the opinion she had formed for some time that the very idea of Gertie Warden's engagement was a pain to him. As he rose to go out he turned to say, "Remember, mother, that I have given you Miss Warden's message." CHAPTER XIII. IN THE SLUMS. "In dens of guilt the baby played, Where sin and sin _alone_ was made The law which all around obeyed." The summer sunshine, of which we have written as glistening among the "leafy tide of greenery," and on the ripening corn-fields and gaily-painted flowers in the country, was penetrating also the close streets of one of the poorest parts of London, cheering some of the hearts of the weary toiling ones there, into whose lives little sunshine ever fell, and for a while, it may be, helping them to forget the misery of their lot, or to some recalling happier days when they dwelt not in a narrow, crowded street, but in a country village home, amidst grassy meadows and leafy trees, feeling, as they thought of these things, though they could not have put the feeling into words, what a poet gone to his rest says so beautifully,-- "That sorrow's crown of sorrow Is remembering happier things." But the very light that cheered revealed more clearly the misery, dirt, and poverty around. In one such street, where little pale-faced children, without the merriment and laughter of childhood, played in a languid, unchildlike way, sickness prevailed; for fever had broken out, and indoors suffering ones tossed on beds, if they could be so called, of sickness. At the door of a small room in one of the houses stood a girl of some ten or eleven years old, looking out anxiously as if in expectation of some one, turning every now and then to address a word to her mother, who lay in the small room on a bed in the corner. "He baint a-comin' yet," she said, "'cos I knows his step; but he'll be 'long soon--ye see if he don't! I knows as how he will, 'cos he's that kind; so don't ye fret, mother--the doctor 'ill be here in no time. There now! Susan Keats giv' me some tea for ye, and I'll get the water from her and bring you some prime and 'ot--ye see if I don't!" So saying, the child ran off and went into a room next door, and entering begged for some "'ot water." "Ye see," she said, addressing a woman poorly clad like herself, "she be a-frettin', mother is, for the doctor, for she's badly, is mother, to-day, and she thinks mayhap he'll do her good." When the child returned to her mother's room, she found Dr. Heinz (for it was he) sitting by her mother's side and speaking kindly to her. He turned round as the child entered. "Come along, Gussie," he said; "that's right--been getting mother some tea. You'll need to tend her well, for she's very poorly to-day." "Ay, ay," muttered the woman, "that's true, that's true. Be kind to Gussie, poor Gussie, when I am gone, doctor. The young lady--Miss Warden be her name--she said she'd look after her, she did." The doctor bent over the dying woman and said some comforting words, at which the woman's face brightened. "God bless ye," she said, "for promising that. Oh, but life's been weary, weary sin' I came 'ere--work, work, and that not always to be 'ad. But it's true, sir, what ye told me. He says even to the like o' me, 'Come unto me, and I will give you rest;' and He's done it, I think. Ye'll come again, sir, won't ye?" After a few moments of prayer with the poor woman, and giving her some medicine to allay her restlessness, Dr. Heinz left the room. From house to house in the fever-stricken street he went, ministering alike to body and soul, often feeling cast down and discouraged, overwhelmed at times by the vice and poverty of all around. The gospel had never reached these poor neglected ones. The very need of a Saviour was by the great majority of them unfelt. Love many of them had never experienced. The evil of sin they did not comprehend. Brought up from babyhood in the midst of iniquity, they were strangers to the very meaning of righteousness and virtue. No wonder that the heart of the doctor was oppressed as he went out and in amongst them. Yet he felt assured that by love they could be won to the God of love, and that only the simple gospel of Jesus Christ dying in their room and stead, told in the power of the Holy Ghost, could enlighten their dark souls and prove the true lever to raise them from their sin and misery. And so, whilst alleviating pain, he tried when possible to say a word from the book--God's revealed will, which alone "maketh wise unto salvation." More than once on the day we write of, as he went from house to house, the vision of a young girl whom he had often met going about doing good flitted before his eyes. Gertie Warden and Dr. Heinz had first met in one of those abodes of wretchedness, where she stood by a bed of sickness trying to comfort and help a dying woman. Only two years before that and Gertie was just ready to throw herself into the vortex of the gay society in which the other members of her family mingled; but ere she did so the voice of the Holy Ghost spake to her as to so many others, and showed her how true life was only to be found in Christ and lived in Him. Henceforth she lived no longer a life of mere worldliness, but a life spent in the service of Him who had loved her and given Himself for her; and then her greatest joy was found in visiting the poor, the afflicted, the tried--ay, and often the oppressed ones of earth. In her own family she found great opposition to her new mode of life; but the Lord raised up a kind helpful friend to her in the person of the gentle, sorely-tried Mrs. Willoughby of Harcourt Manor. To her Gertie confided all her difficulties as regarded her district visiting (or, as her sister called it, her slumming), and many a word of sympathy and wise counsel she got from her friend. One day she spoke of Dr. Heinz. "You cannot think how much the people love him," she said, "and trust him. 'Ah!' I heard a poor woman say the other day, 'if only all were like him, it's a better world it would be than it's now.' And do you know," she went on, "he is actually interesting my father and Aunt Mary in some of his poor patients. And he likes to come to our house sometimes in the evenings and play on the violin along with us; and he does play beautifully. I wish you knew him, dear Mrs. Willoughby, for I know you would like him. But, dear friend, are you not well?" For at the name of Heinz a deadly faintness had overcome Mrs. Willoughby. Was not that the name of her daughter's husband? and if he should prove to be in any way related to him, might he not be able to give some information regarding her loved one? But she composed herself, and in answer to Gertie's question she replied,-- "It is nothing, dear, only a passing weakness. I am all right now. Tell me something more of this Dr. Heinz and the Christian work he is engaged in. He must be a German, I fancy, from his name." "Yes, he is," replied Gertie; "he was speaking to me lately about his relations. He was born in Germany, and lived there till he was a boy of seven years old. Then his parents died, and he came to this country with an older brother who was a wonderful violinist, and he taught him to play; but many years ago this brother married and returned to Germany, leaving him here in the charge of some kind friends; and though at first he heard from him from time to time, he has ceased to write to him for some years, and he fears he is dead. He knows he had a child, for his last letter mentioned her, but he knows nothing more." Again that terrible pallor overcame Mrs. Willoughby, but this time she rose and said in an excited tone,-- "I must see this Dr. Heinz. Could you bring him to see me, Gertie, and soon? Say to him that I think, although I am not sure, that I knew a relation of his some years ago." "Oh yes, Mrs. Willoughby; I will gladly ask him to come and see you. Indeed, I was just going to ask if you would allow him to call--" Here the girl hesitated a moment, then said, "You see, it was only last night, but I am engaged to be married to Dr. Heinz, and do wish you to know and love him for my sake." Love one of the name of Heinz! Could she do so, the gentle lady was asking herself. What if he should prove to be the brother of the man who had caused her such bitter sorrow? But at that moment there rose to her remembrance the words of Scripture, said by Him who suffered from the hand of man as never man suffered, "Forgive, as ye would be forgiven," and who illustrated that forgiveness on the cross when He prayed for His deadly enemies, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do." The momentary struggle was over. Mrs. Willoughby raised her head, and said in a calm, quiet tone,-- "God bless you, Gertie; and may your union be a very happy one. I should like to see Dr. Heinz." And so it came to pass that ere many days had elapsed, Dr. Heinz was ushered into Mrs. Willoughby's drawing-room in the London house which they had taken for the season. He was hardly seated before she said,-- "Yes, oh yes--there can be no mistake--you certainly are the brother of the man who married my daughter. Tell me, oh tell me," she added, "what you know of her and of him!" Dr. Heinz was strongly moved as he looked on the face of the agitated mother. "Alas!" he said, "I grieve to say I can tell you nothing. I have not heard for several years from my brother, and at times I fear he must be dead. My poor brother, how I loved him! for, Mrs. Willoughby, a gentler or more kind-hearted man never lived. You may be sure, however much your daughter was to blame in marrying any one against her parents' wishes, she found in my brother a truly loving, kind husband." "Thank God for that!" she replied. "But now tell me, was there a child? Gertie spoke as if you knew there was one." "Certainly there was. In the last letter I had from my brother, he spoke of the great comfort their little girl (who was the image of her mother) was to them--his little Frida he called her, and at that time she was three or four years old. Oh yes, there was a child. Would that I could give you more particulars! but I cannot; only I must mention that he said, 'I am far from strong, and my beloved wife is very delicate.'" "Ah," said the mother, "she was never robust; and who knows what a life of hardship she may have had to live! O Hilda, Hilda! Dr. Heinz, is there no means by which we may find out their whereabouts? I have lately had some advertisements put into various papers, praying them to let us know where they are; but no answer has come, and now I am losing all hope." "Would that I could comfort you!" he said; "but I also fear much that we have lost the clue to their whereabouts. I will not cease to do all I can to trace them; but, dear Mrs. Willoughby, we believe that there is One who knows all, whose eyes are everywhere, and we can trust them to Him. If I should in any way hear of our friends, you may be sure I shall not be long of communicating with you. In the meantime it has been a great pleasure to me to have made the acquaintance of one whom my dear Gertrude has often spoken to me of as her kindest of friends." Then Dr. Heinz told of the work in which he was engaged amongst the poor, sorrowful, and also too often sinful ones, in the East End of London. Before Dr. Heinz left, Mrs. Willoughby showed him the little brown English Bible which her daughter had given to her not long before her marriage, and told him about the German one, which looked exactly the same outwardly, which she had given to her daughter. "Strange," said Dr. Heinz, as he held the little brown book in his hand, "that in the last letter I ever received from my brother, he told me of the blessing which he had got through reading God's Word in a brown Bible belonging to his wife, adding that she also had obtained blessing through reading it." "Praise God!" said Mrs. Willoughby; "then my prayers have been answered, that Hilda, like her mother, might be brought to the knowledge of God. Now I know that if we meet no more on earth we shall meet one day in heaven.--I thank Thee, O my God!" It was with a heart full of emotion that Dr. Heinz found himself leaving Mrs. Willoughby's house. Oh, how he longed that he could hear tidings of his brother and his wife, and so be able to convey comfort to the heart of the sorrowful lady he had just left! As he was walking along, lost in thought, he came suddenly face to face with Reginald Gower, whom he had lately met several times at the Wardens', and to whom he suspected the news of his engagement to Gertrude Warden would bring no pleasure; but from the greeting which Reginald gave him he could not tell whether or not he knew of the circumstance. He accosted him with the words: "What are you doing, doctor, in this part of the town? I thought it was only in the narrow, dirty slums, and not in the fashionable part of the west of London, that you were to be found; and that it was only the sick and sorrowful, not the gay, merry inhabitants of Belgravia that you visited." "Do you think then," replied Dr. Heinz, "that the sick, sad, and sorrowful are only to be found in the narrow, dark streets of London? What if I were to tell you that although there is not poverty, there are sorrowful, sad, unsatisfied hearts to be found in as great numbers in these fashionable squares and terraces as in the places you speak of; and that the votaries of fashion, whom you style gay and merry, are too often the most wretched of mankind, and that beneath the robes of silk and satin of fashionable life there beats many a breaking heart? You see that splendid square I have just left. Well, in one of the handsomest houses there dwells one of the sweetest Christian ladies I have ever met. She has everything that wealth and the love of friends can give her, yet I believe she is slowly dying of a broken heart, longing to know if a dearly-loved daughter, who made a marriage which her parents did not approve of, years ago, is still alive; and no one can tell her whether she or any child of hers still survives. I know all the circumstances, and would give a great deal to be able to help her. He would be a man to be envied who could go to that sweet mother, Mrs. Willoughby, and say, I can tell you all about your daughter, or, if she is not alive, of her child. O Reginald Gower, never say that there are not sad hearts in the west part of London, though you may see only the smiling face and dry eyes. You remember the words of the gifted poetess,-- 'Go weep with those who weep, you say, Ye fools! I bid you pass them by, Go, weep with those whose hearts have bled What time their eyes were dry.' But I must go. Have you not a word of congratulation for me, Reginald?" "Why?" was the amazed reply; "and for what?" "Oh," said Dr. Heinz, somewhat taken aback, "do you not know that I am engaged to be married to Gertrude Warden?" "You are?" was the reply, with a look of amazement that Dr. Heinz could not fail to notice; "well, I rather think you are a lucky fellow. But"--and a look of deep sorrow crossed his face as he spoke--"I do believe you are worthy of her. Tell her I said so. And would you mind saying good-bye to her and her sister from me, as I may not be able to see them before starting for America, which I shall probably do in a week; and should you again see the Mrs. Willoughby you have been speaking of, and whom I know well, please tell her I could not get to say farewell to her, as my going off is a sudden idea. Good-bye, Dr. Heinz. May you and Miss Gertrude Warden be as happy as you both deserve to be;" and without another word he turned away. Dr. Heinz looked after him for a moment, then shook his head somewhat sadly, saying to himself, "There goes a fine fellow, if only he had learned of Him 'who pleased not himself.' Reginald is a spoiled character, by reason of self-pleasing. I must ask Gertrude how he comes to know Mrs. Willoughby, and why he is going off so suddenly to America, although I may have my suspicions as to the reason for his so doing." CHAPTER XIV. THE OLD NURSE. "It chanced, eternal God, that chance did guide." "How are you getting on with your packing, Frida?" said Miss Drechsler, as the girl, wearing a loose morning-dress, looked into the room where her friend was sitting. "Oh, very well," was the answer; "I have nearly finished. When did you say the man would come for the trunks?" "I expect him in about an hour. But see, here comes the post; look if there is one for me from Miss Warden. I thought I would get one to tell me if any of her friends would meet us at Dover." Frida ran off to meet the postman at the door, and returned in triumph, bearing two letters in her hand. "One for you, auntie" (she always now addressed Miss Drechsler by that name), "and one for myself. Mine is from Ada Stanford, and yours, I am sure, is the one you are expecting." A few minutes of silence was broken by Frida exclaiming,-- "O auntie, Ada has been very ill again, and is still very weak, and she asks, as a great favour, that I would come to visit them before going to the Wardens; and adds, 'If Miss Drechsler would accompany you, we would be so delighted; but in any case,' she writes to me, 'you would not lose your London visit, as my doctor wishes me to see a London physician as soon as I can be moved, specially as to settling whether or not I should go abroad again next winter. So in perhaps another month we may go to London, and then you can either remain with us or join your friend at Miss Warden's.'" "What do you think about it, auntie? Of course it is a great disappointment to me not to go with you; but do I not owe it to the Stanfords to go to them when I may be of use during Ada's convalescence?" Miss Drechsler looked, as she felt, disappointed, she had anticipated so much pleasure in having Frida with her in London; but after a few minutes' thought she said, "You are right, Frida: you must, I fear, go first to the Stanfords. We cannot forget all that they have done for you, and as they seem to be so anxious for you to go there, I think you must yield to their wishes; but I must go at once to Miss Warden, who is expecting me. You had better write at once and tell them we hope to be at Dover in four days. They live, as you know, not so far from there. I think that the train will take you to the station, not above a couple of miles from Stanford Hall, where I doubt not they will meet you; but I must write at once and let Miss Warden know that you cannot accompany me, and the reason why, though I hope that erelong, if convenient to her, you may join me there. Ah, Frida! 'man's heart deviseth his way: but God directeth his steps.'" And so it came to pass that Miss Drechsler arrived alone at Miss Warden's, whilst Frida went to Stanford Hall. When it became known in the Forest that the woodland child, as they still called her, was again about to leave them for some undefined time, there was great lamentation. "How then are we to get on without you?" they said. "_Ach!_ shall we have to do without the reading of the book again? True, Hans Hörstel reads it well enough; but what of that? He too has left us. _Ach!_ it is plain no one cares for the poor wood-cutters and charcoal-burners who live in the Forest, and some grand English gentleman will be getting our woodland child for a wife, and she will return to us no more." But Frida only laughed at these lamentations. "Why, what nonsense you speak!" she said. "It is only for a little while that I am going away. I hope to come back in about three months. And many of you can now read the Bible for yourselves. And as to the grand gentleman, that is all fancy; I want no grand gentleman for a husband. The only thing that would detain me in England would be if any of my relations were to find me out and claim me; but if that were to be the case, I am sure none of my friends in the Forest would grudge their child to her own people, and they may be assured she would never forget them, and would not be long in revisiting them." "_Ach!_ if the child were to find her own friends, her father or her mother's people, that would be altogether a different matter," they said simultaneously. "We would then say, 'Stay, woodland child, and be happy with those who have a right to you; but oh, remember the poor wood-cutters and workers in the Forest, who will weary for a sight of the face of the fair girl found by one of them in the Black Forest.'" Very hearty was the welcome which awaited Frida at Stanford Hall. Ada received her with open arms. "Ah, Frida, how glad I am to see you once again; and how good of you to give up the pleasure of a month in London to come to see and comfort us!--You will see how quickly I will get well now, mother.--And erelong, Frida, we shall take you to London ourselves, and father will show you all the wonders there." Frida answered merrily, but she felt much shocked to see how delicate-looking Ada had become. The girls had much to tell each other of all that had happened since last they met; and when dinner was over, and Frida went to see Ada as she lay on her couch in her prettily-fitted-up boudoir, Ada roused herself to have, as she said, "a right down delightful chat." "See, Frida, here is a charming easy-chair for you; please bring it quite close to my couch, and now tell me all about your Forest friends. How are Elsie and Wilhelm, and their little Gretchen and Hans? But, indeed, I believe I know more about them than you do; for only two days ago my father received a letter from Hans's music-teacher in Leipsic, giving him unqualified praise, and predicting a successful musical career for him." "Oh, I am glad!" said Frida. "How pleased his parents will be, and how grateful to Sir Richard Stanford for all he has done for him!" And so in pleasant talk the evening of the first day of Frida's visit to Stanford Hall drew to a close. As time passed on, Ada's health rapidly improved, and together the girls went about the beautiful grounds belonging to the Hall--Ada at first drawn in an invalid chair, and Frida walking by her side. But by-and-by Ada was able to walk, and together the girls visited in some of the cottages near the Hall--Frida finding out that Ada in her English home was conveying comfort and blessing to many weary souls by reading to them from her English Bible the words of life, even as she had done from her German one in the huts of the wood-cutters, carters, and charcoal-burners in the Black Forest. "Have you heard, Ada," said Lady Stanford one morning at breakfast, "that the old woman who has lately come to the pretty picturesque cottage at the Glen is very ill? I wish you and Frida would go and see her, and take her some beef-tea and jelly which the housekeeper will give you. I understand she requires nourishing food; and try and discover if there is anything else she requires." "Certainly, mother," answered Ada; "we will go at once and see what can be done for her.--That Glen is a lovely spot, Frida, and you have never been there. What say you--shall we set off at once? The poor woman is very old, and her memory is a good deal affected." "I shall be pleased to go, Ada; but I have a letter from Miss Drechsler, received this morning, which I must answer by the first post. She tells me that her friend Miss Warden is in great distress about the illness of a friend of hers. She wishes to know how soon I can join her in London; and now that you are so well, Ada, I really think I ought to go." "Ah, well," said Ada with a laugh, "time enough to think of that, Frida. We are not prepared to part with you yet; but seriously, mother talks of carrying us all off to London by another fortnight, and that must suffice you. But after you have written your letter we will set off to the Glen." It was a lovely walk that the girls took that summer day through green lanes and flowery meadows, till they came to a beautiful glen overshadowed with trees in their fresh summer foliage of greenery, through which the sunbeams found their way and touched with golden light the green velvety moss and pretty little woodland flowers which so richly carpeted the ground. "How beautiful it is here!" said Frida, "and yet how unlike the sombre appearance of the trees in the dear Black Forest!" "Ah," said Ada, "that Forest, where I do believe your heart still is, Frida, always seemed to me to be so gloomy and dark, so unlike our lovely English woods with their 'leafy tide of greenery.'" As they spoke they neared the cottage where dwelt the old woman they were going to see. It was thatch-covered and low, but up the walls grew roses and ivy, which gave it a bower-like appearance. "She is a strange old woman," said Ada, "who has only lately come here, and no one seems to know much about her. A grandchild of fourteen or fifteen years old lives with and takes care of her. Her memory is much impaired, but she often talks as if she had friends who if they knew where she lived and how ill-off she was would help her; but when questioned as to their name, she shakes her head and says she can't remember it, but if she could only see the young lady she would know her. They fancy the friends she speaks of must have been the family with whom she lived as nurse, for her grandchild says she used often to speak of having had the charge of a little girl to whom she was evidently much attached. But here we are, Frida, and yonder is little Maggie standing at the door." When they entered the room, Frida was amazed to see how small it was and how dark; for the ivy, which from the outside looked so picturesque, darkened the room considerably. Ada, who had seen the old woman before, went forward to the bed where she lay and spoke some kind words to her. The old woman seemed as if she hardly understood, and gave no answer. "Ah, madam," said the grandchild, "she knows nothing to-day, and when she speaks it is only nonsense." Frida now came forward and laid her hand kindly on the poor woman, addressing a few words of sympathy to her. The invalid raised her eyes and looked around her, giving first of all a look of recognition to Ada, and holding out her thin hand to her, but her eyes sought evidently to distinguish the face of the stranger who had last spoken. "She knows," explained Maggie, "yours is a strange voice, and wishes to see you, which she can't do, miss, for you are standing so much in the shade." Frida moved so that the glimmer of light which entered the little room fell on her face. As she did so, and the old woman caught a glimpse of her, a look of joy lit up the faded face, and she said in a distinct voice: "'Bless the Lord, O my soul;' my dear has come to see me. Oh, but I am glad! It's a long time since I saw you, Miss Hilda--a long, long time. I thought you were dead, or you would never have forgotten your old nurse you loved so dearly; but now you've come, my lamb, and old nurse can die in peace." And seizing Frida's hand, the old woman lay back as if at rest, and said no more. Frida was startled, and turning to her friend, said, "O Ada, whom does she take me for? Can it be that she knew my mother, whose name was Hilda, and that she takes me for her? Miss Drechsler says I am strikingly like the picture I have of her. Perhaps she can tell me where my mother lived, and if any of her relations are still alive;" and bending over the bed, she said in a low tone, "Who was Hilda, and where did she live? Perhaps she was my mother, but she is dead." The old woman muttered to herself, but looked up no more, "Dead, dead; yes, every one I loved is dead. But not Miss Hilda; you are she, and you have come to see your old nurse. But listen, Miss Hilda: there is the master calling on us to go in, and you know we must not keep the master waiting for even a minute;" and then the old woman spoke only of things and people of whom no one in the room knew anything. But through all Frida distinctly heard the words, "Oh, if only you had never played on that instrument, then he would never have come to the house. O Miss Hilda, why did you go away and break the heart of your mother, and old nurse's also? Oh, woe's the day! oh, woe's the day!" "Was his name Heinz?" asked Frida in a trembling voice. "Oh yes, Heinz, Heinz. O Miss Hilda, Miss Hilda, why did you do it?" and then the old woman burst out crying bitterly. "O miss, can you sing?" said Maggie, coming forward; "for nothing quiets grandmother like singing." "Yes, I can," replied Frida.--"And you, I am sure, Ada, will help me. I know now the woman, whoever she is, knows all about my mother." Together the two young girls sang the hymn, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." As they sang the dying woman became quieter, her muttering ceased, and presently she fell into a quiet sleep; the last words she uttered before doing so were, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." Much moved in spirit, Frida quitted the house; she felt as if now she stood on the verge of discovering the name and relations of her mother. She and Ada hastened their return home to confide to Lady Stanford all that had passed. She was much interested, and, as Sir Richard entered the room just then, she repeated the story to him. He listened eagerly, and said he would at once find out all he could about the woman and her friends; and so saying he left the house. He returned home cast down and discouraged. The woman had become quite delirious, and the names of Hilda and Heinz were often on her lips, but he could, of course, get nothing out of her. The grandchild could tell nothing of her former life; she never remembered hearing where she had been nurse, but her father, who was now in Canada, might know. Sir Richard could write and ask him. She had his address, and sometimes got letters from him. The doctor said he did not think that grandmother would live over the night. The only thing that had quieted her was the singing of the young lady whom she had called Miss Hilda, and who had come to the cottage that day with Miss Stanford. Maybe if she could come again and sing grandmother would be quieter. On hearing this Frida rose, and said if Lady Stanford would allow her, she would go and remain all night with the old woman, who she felt sure must have been her mother's nurse. She often, she said, watched a night by dying beds in the Black Forest, and had comforted some on their death-beds by reading to them portions of God's Word. The Stanfords could not refuse her request; and when Lady Stanford had herself filled a basket with provisions for Frida herself and little Maggie, the girl set off, accompanied by Sir Richard, who went with her to the door of the cottage. Finding the poor woman still delirious, Frida took off her cloak and bonnet and prepared to spend the night with her, and sitting down beside the bed she once more began to sing some sweet gospel hymns. In low and gentle tones she sang of Jesus and His love, and again the sufferer's restlessness and moaning ceased, and she seemed soothed. Hours passed, and the early summer morn began to dawn, and still the old woman lived on. Every now and then she muttered the name of Miss Hilda, and once she seemed to be imploring her not to vex her mother; and more than once she said the name of Heinz, and whenever she did so she became more excited, and moaned out the words, "Woe's me! woe's me!" Frida watched anxiously every word, in the hope that she might hear the name of Hilda's mother or the place where they lived; but she watched in vain. It was evident that though there was a look of returning consciousness, life was fast ebbing. A glance upward seemed to indicate that the dying woman's thoughts had turned heavenward. Frida opened her Bible and read aloud the words of the "shepherd psalm," so precious to many a dying soul, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me." To her amazement the sick woman repeated the words, "_thou_ art with me;" and as she finished the last word the soul fled, and Frida and Maggie were alone with the dead. The story of Frida's birth was still undisclosed, but God's word, as recorded in Holy Scripture, had again brought peace to a dying soul. Neighbours came in, and Frida turned away from the death-bed with a heart full of gratitude to the Lord that she had been allowed with His own words to soothe and comfort the old nurse, who she felt sure had tended and loved her own mother. When she returned to the Hall, the Stanfords were truly grieved to hear that the old woman was dead, and that there had been no further revelation regarding Frida's relations. Lady Stanford and Ada had just persuaded Frida to go to bed and rest awhile after her night of watching, when the door opened, and the butler came in bearing a telegram to Miss Heinz. Frida opened it with trembling hands, saw it was from Miss Drechsler, and read the words, "Come at once; you are needed here." What could it mean? Was Miss Drechsler ill? It looked like it, for who else would require her in London? Fatigue was forgotten; she could rest, she said, in the train; she must go at once. In a couple of hours she could start. Ada was disconsolate. Nevertheless, feeling the urgency of the case, she assisted her friend to pack her boxes; and erelong Frida was off, all unaware of what might be awaiting her in the great city. But ere we can tell that, we must turn for a while to other scenes, and write of others closely linked, although unknown to herself, with the life and future of the child found in the Black Forest. CHAPTER XV. THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE. "Being convicted by their own conscience." The day on which Reginald Gower met Dr. Heinz on the street, and sent through him a farewell message to Gertrude Warden, found him a couple of hours afterwards seated in his mother's boudoir, communicating to her his suddenly-formed plan of starting in a few days for America. It was no easy thing to do. The bond between mother and son was a very strong one, and her pleasure in having had him with her for some little time had been great. Her look of pleasure when he entered the room made it more difficult for him to break the news to her. "Earlier back to-day than usual, Reggie," she said, "but never too early for your old mother. But is anything amiss?" she said in a voice of alarm, as she noticed the grave look on his face. "Have you heard any bad news, or are you ill?" "No, mother, it is neither of these things--there is nothing the matter; only I fear, mother dear, that what I am going to say will vex you, but you must not let it do so. I am not worth all the affection you lavish on me. Mother, I have made up my mind to go to America, and to remain there for some time. I cannot stop here any longer. I am tired--not of my dear mother," he said, as he stooped over her and kissed her fondly, "but of the idle life I lead here; and so I mean to go and try and get work there, perhaps buy land if I can afford it, and see if I can make anything of my life as a farmer. Nay, mother, do not look so sad," he pleaded; "you do not know how hard it is for me to come to this resolution, but I must go. I cannot continue to live on future prospects of wealth that may--nay, perhaps ought never to be mine, but must act the man--try and earn my own living." "Your own living, Reginald!" interposed his mother; "surely you have enough of your own to live comfortably on even as a married man, and your prospects of succeeding to Harcourt Manor are, I grieve to say for one reason, almost certain. O Reginald, don't go and leave me so soon again!" But the young man, usually so easily led, fatally so indeed, stood firm now, and only answered, "Mother, it must be, and if you knew all you would be the first to advise me to go. Mother, you will soon hear that Gertie Warden is engaged to be married to a man worthy of her--a noble Christian doctor of the name of Heinz; but don't think that that circumstance is the reason of my leaving home. Fool though I have been and still am, I was never fool enough to think I was worthy of gaining the love of a high-principled girl like Gertie Warden. But, mother, your unselfish, God-fearing life, and that of Gertie and Dr. Heinz, have led me to see my own character as I never saw it before, and to wish to put right what has been so long wrong, and which it seems to me I can do best if I were away from home. Ask me no more, mother dear; some day I will tell you all, but not now. Only, mother, I must tell you that the words of the Bible which you love so well and have so early taught to me have not been without their effect, at least in keeping my conscience awake. And, mother, don't cease to pray for me that I may be helped to do the right. Oh, do not, do not," he entreated, as his mother began to urge him to remain, "say that, mother; say rather, 'God bless you,' and let me go. Believe me, it is best for me to do so." At these words Mrs. Gower ceased speaking. If, indeed, her loved son was striving to do the right thing, would she be the one to hold him back? Ah no! she would surrender her will and trust him in the hands of her faithful God. So with one glance upward for help and strength, she laid her hand on his head and said, "Go then, my son, in peace; and may God direct your way and help you to do the right thing, and may He watch between us when we are separate the one from the other." Just as Reginald was leaving the room Miss Drechsler entered. She greeted Mrs. Gower cordially, remembering her in old times; and she recognized Reginald as the young man who had spoken to Frida the day after the concert, though then she had not heard his name. As Reginald was saying good-bye, he heard his mother ask Miss Drechsler where her friend the young violinist was. "I thought you would have brought her to see me," she added. Her answer struck Reginald with dismay. "Oh! she did not accompany me to London after all. A great friend of hers was ill, and she had to go to her instead. It was a great disappointment to me." Reginald went to his room feeling as if in a dream. Then it might never come to pass, after all, that Frida's parentage would be found out; and Satan suggested the thought that therefore he need not disclose all he knew, but let things go on as they were. He hugged the idea, for not yet had he got the victory over evil; at all events he thought he would still wait a bit, but he would certainly carry out his intention of leaving the country for a while at least; and two days after the time we write of, his mother sat in her own room with a full heart after having parted from her only son. Well for her that she knew the way to the mercy-seat, and could pour out her sorrow at the feet of One who has said, "Call upon me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me." CHAPTER XVI. THE STORM. "More things are wrought by prayer Than the world dreams of." After Mrs. Willoughby's interview with Dr. Heinz of which we have written, her thoughts turned more than ever to the daughter she loved so well. It seemed certain from what Dr. Heinz had said that there had been a child; and if so, even although, as she feared, her loved daughter were dead, the child might still be alive, and probably the father also. The difficulty now was to obtain the knowledge of their place of residence. Mrs. Willoughby quite believed that if any news could be obtained of either mother or child, Mr. Willoughby's heart was so much softened that he would forgive and receive them thankfully. Once more advertisements were inserted in various papers, and letters written to friends abroad, imploring them to make every inquiry in their power. More than once Dr. Heinz called to see his new-made friend; but as Mr. Willoughby had returned to Harcourt Manor, whither his wife was soon to follow him, he never met him; and as Dr. Heinz was leaving town to take a much-needed holiday in the west Highlands of Scotland, nothing more could be done for the present to obtain information regarding the lost ones. It thus happened that although Dr. Heinz was a frequent visitor at Miss Warden's, he never met Miss Drechsler; but he heard from Gertie that she had not been able to bring the young girl violinist with her. It was to Mrs. Willoughby that Mrs. Gower went for sympathy and consolation at the time of her son's departure. Mrs. Willoughby heard of his sudden departure with surprise and deep sorrow for her friend's sake. "Reginald gone off again so soon!" she said. "Oh, I am sorry for you, dear friend! And does he speak of remaining long away? Making his own living, you say? Has he not enough to live comfortably on in the meantime? And then, you know," and her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, "his future prospects are very good, unless--" But here Mrs. Gower interrupted her. "Dear friend, from my heart I can say, if only dear Hilda or any child of hers could be restored to you, there is no one would more truly rejoice than I would; and I believe Reginald would do so also." But even as she said these words a pang of fear crossed her mind as to Reginald's feeling on the subject; but the mother's belief in her child refused to see any evil in him, and she added, "I am sure he would. But in any case the day of his succession as heir-at-law to Harcourt Manor is, we trust, far off, and so perhaps it is best for him that he should make his way in life for himself. I have been able now to trust him in God's hands, who doeth all things well." From that visit Mrs. Gower returned to her home comforted and strengthened. Alone she might be, yet, like her Saviour, "not alone, for the Father was with her." And ere many days had elapsed she was able to busy herself in making preparations for her return to her pleasant country home, which she had only left at Reginald's special request that for once they might spend the season together in London. One thing only she regretted--that she would be for some weeks separated from her friend Mrs. Willoughby, who was not to return to Harcourt Manor for some weeks. Ah! truly has it been said, "Man proposes, but God disposes." The very day that Mrs. Gower started for her home, Mrs. Willoughby received a telegram telling her that Mr. Willoughby was very ill at the Manor, and that the doctor begged she would come at once; and so it turned out that, unknown to each other, the friends were again near neighbours, and Mrs. Willoughby in her turn was to receive help and comfort from her friend Mrs. Gower. Long hours of suspense and anxiety followed the gentle lady's arrival at her country home. It soon became evident that Mr. Willoughby's hours were numbered, but his intellect remained clear. His eyes often rested with great sadness on his wife, and as he thought of leaving her alone and desolate, his prayer was that he might hear something definite regarding the child ere he died. Could he but have obtained that boon, he would have felt that that knowledge had been granted to him as a pledge of God's forgiveness. Not always does our all-wise God grant us signs even as an answer to our prayers. Still, He is a God who not only forgives as a king, royally, but also blesses us richly and fully to show the greatness of His forgiving power. And such a God He was to prove Himself in the case of Mr. Willoughby. * * * * * Whilst he lay on that bed of death, watched over and tended by loving friends, Reginald Gower was tossing on a stormy sea, a fair emblem of the conflict between good and evil, right and wrong, that was still raging within his breast. But that night, when the waves of the Atlantic were wellnigh overwhelming the vessel in which he sailed, when fear dwelt in every heart, when the captain trod the deck with an anxious gravity on his face, light broke on Reginald's heart. So his mother's prayers were answered at last. The Holy Spirit worked on his heart, and showed him as it were in a moment of time his selfishness and his sin; and from the lips of the self-indulgent young man arose the cry never uttered in vain, "God be merciful to me a sinner." And when the morning light dawned, and it was seen they were nearing in safety the harbour whither they were bound, Reginald Gower looked out on the sea, which was fast quieting down, and gave thanks that the conflict in his soul was ended, and that clear above the noise of the waters he heard the voice of Him who, while He tarried here below, had said, "Peace, be still," to the raging billows, say these same words to his soul. "Safe in port," rang out the captain's voice; and "Safe in port, through the merits of my Saviour," echoed through the soul of the young man. "Now," he said to himself, "let house, lands, and fortune go. I will do the just, right thing, which long ago I should have done--write to Mrs. Willoughby, and tell all I know about the child found in the Black Forest." At that resolution methinks a song of rejoicing was heard in heaven, sung by angel voices as they proclaimed the glad news that once more good had overcome evil--that the power of Christ had again conquered the power of darkness--that in another heart the Saviour of the world had seen of the travail of His soul and was satisfied. * * * * * In the meantime, the events we have written of were transpiring in Harcourt Manor. Mr. Willoughby still lay on a bed of sickness, from which the doctor said he would never rise, although a slight rally made it possible that life might yet be spared for a few days or even weeks. He was wonderfully patient, grieving only for the sorrow experienced by his wife, and the sad thought that his own unforgiving spirit was in great part the reason why now she would be left desolate without a child to comfort her. Daily Mrs. Gower visited her friend, and often watched with her by the bed of death. Dr. Heinz, at Mrs. Willoughby's request, came to see Mr. Willoughby, and obtained from his lips a message of full forgiveness if either his daughter, her husband, or any child should be found after his death; and together they prayed that if it were God's will something might be heard of the lost ones ere Mr. Willoughby entered into rest. "'Nevertheless,'" added the dying man, "'not my will but thine be done.'" CHAPTER XVII. THE DISCOVERY. "All was ended now--the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow." One day shortly after Dr. Heinz's visit, Mrs. Gower came to Harcourt Manor accompanied by Miss Drechsler, who had arrived from London the night before to remain with her for a couple of days. "You will not likely see Mrs. Willoughby," she said as they neared the manor-house, "as she seldom leaves her husband's room; but if you do not object to waiting a few minutes in the drawing-room whilst I go to see her, I would be so much obliged to you, as I am desirous of knowing how Mr. Willoughby is to-day. He seemed so low when I last saw him." "Oh, certainly," answered Miss Drechsler. "Don't trouble about me; I can easily wait. And don't hurry, please; I am sure to get some book to while away the time." They parted in the hall, Mrs. Gower turning off to the sick-room, while Miss Drechsler was ushered by the butler into the drawing-room. The room was a very fine one, large and lofty. It had been little used for some weeks, and the venetian blinds were down, obscuring the light and shutting out the summer sunshine. At first Miss Drechsler could hardly distinguish anything in the room, coming into it as she did from a blaze of light; but as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she made out first one object and then another clearly, and rising from the place where she had been seated, she began to look around her, turning to the pictures, which she had heard were considered very fine. She looked attentively at some of them. Then her eyes rested on a full-sized portrait of a beautiful girl, and with a start of astonishment Miss Drechsler uttered the word, "Frida! and with her curious necklace on, too. What does it mean?" she queried. In a moment the whole truth flashed on her mind. That, she felt sure, must be a picture of Frida's mother, and she must have been the missing child of Harcourt Manor. She sat down a moment, feeling almost stunned by the discovery she had made. What a secret she had to disclose! Oh, if Mrs. Gower would only come back quickly, that she might share it with her! Oh, if Frida had only been with her, and she could have presented her to her grandparents as the child of their lost daughter! At last the door opened, and her friend appeared, but much agitated. "Excuse me, dear Miss Drechsler, for having kept you so long waiting; but I found Mr. Willoughby much worse, and I must ask you kindly to allow me to remain here for a short time longer. Perhaps you would like to take a stroll about the beautiful grounds, and--" But Miss Drechsler could no longer keep silence. "O dear friend, do not distress yourself about me! Listen to me for a moment. I have made such a discovery. I know all about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter; but, alas, she is dead! She died some years ago; but her only child, the very image of that picture on the wall yonder, is living, and is now residing within a few hours of London. She is my _protégé_, my dearly-loved young violinist, Frida Heinz, the child I have told you of found in the Black Forest!" "Is it possible?" replied Mrs. Gower. "What a discovery you have made! thank God for it. Can she be got at once, I wonder, ere the spirit of her grandfather passes away? Oh, this is indeed an answer to prayer! The cry of the poor man's heart for days has been, 'Oh, if God has indeed forgiven me, as I fully believe He has, I pray He may allow me to know ere I go hence if my child, or any child of hers, is alive to come and comfort my dear wife in the sorrow that is awaiting her!'" "A telegram must be sent at once to Stanford Hall, where she is now living," said Miss Drechsler; "and another to Miss Warden, asking her to send off Frida, after she arrives at her house, at once to Harcourt Manor." And without loss of time the telegram was dispatched which summoned Frida to London, and from thence to the manor-house. The first sense of surprise having passed, Mrs. Gower's thoughts involuntarily turned to Reginald. How would he like this discovery? But again the mother's partiality, which already had too often blinded her to his faults, suggested the impossibility that he would receive the news with aught but pleasure, though there might be a momentary feeling of disappointment as regarded his future prospects. But now she must return to the sick-room, and try to see her friend for a minute or two alone, and tell her the glad tidings; also, if possible, let her hear the particulars of the story from the lips of Miss Drechsler herself. It was no easy matter now, under any pretence, to get Mrs. Willoughby to leave her husband's side even for a moment. The doctors had just told her that at most her husband had not more than two days to live, perhaps not so long, and every moment was precious; but Mrs. Grower's words, spoken with calm deliberation, "Dear friend, you must see me in another room for a few minutes about a matter of vital importance," had their effect. And she rose, and after leaving a few orders with the nurse, and telling her husband she would return immediately, she quietly followed Mrs. Gower into another room. She listened as if in a dream to the story which Miss Drechsler told. Incident after incident proved that the child found in the Forest was indeed her grand-daughter; and as she heard that her own child, her loved Hilda, was indeed dead, the mother's tears fell fast. The necklace which Frida still possessed, the same as that worn by the girl in the picture, the small portrait which had been found in her bag the night that Wilhelm Hörstel had discovered her in the Black Forest, all confirmed the idea that she was indeed the grandchild of the Manor; but it was not until Mrs. Willoughby heard the story of the "brown German Bible" that she sobbed out the words, "Oh, thank God, thank God, she is the child of my darling Hilda. Now, dear friend, this discovery must be communicated by me to my husband, and he will know that his last prayer for me has been granted." Mr. Willoughby was quite conscious, and evidently understood the fact that at last a child of his daughter's had been found. As regarded the death of the mother, he merely whispered the words, "I shall see her soon;" then said, "I thank thee, O my Father, that Thou hast answered prayer, and that now my sweet wife will not be left alone.--Give my fond love to the girl, wife, for I feel my eyes shall not see her. That is my punishment for so long cherishing an unforgiving spirit." And if God could act as a man, such might have been the case; but our God is fully and for ever a promise-keeping God, and He has declared, "If any man confess his sins, He is faithful and just to forgive him, and to cleanse him from all iniquity." And so it came to pass that ere the spirit of Mr. Willoughby passed away, he had pressed more than one kiss on the lips of his grandchild, and whispered the words, "Full forgiveness through Christ--what a God we have! Comfort your grandmother, my child, and keep near to Jesus in your life. God bless the kind friends who have protected and loved you when you were homeless.--And now, Lord, let Thy servant depart in peace.--Farewell, loved and faithful wife, who, by the reading to me God's word of life, hast led my soul to Christ." One deep-drawn breath, and his spirit fled, and his wife and grandchild were left alone to comfort each other. * * * * * "And now, Frida, my loved child, come and tell me all about those friends who were so kind to you in the Forest," said Mrs. Willoughby some days after Mr. Willoughby's funeral. "Ah, how little we thought that we had a grandchild living there, and that our darling Hilda was dead! When I look upon you, Frida, it almost seems as if all these long years of suffering had been a dream, and my daughter were again seated beside me, work in hand, as we so often sat in the years that have gone. You are wonderfully like her, and I believe that during the last four hours of his life, when his mind was a little clouded, my dear husband thought that Hilda really sat beside him, and that it was to her he said the words, 'I fully forgive, as I hope to be forgiven.' But comfort yourself, Frida; at the very last he knew all distinctly, and told us to console each other.--But now tell me what I asked you to do, and also if you ever met any one who recognized you as your mother's daughter." "Not exactly," replied Frida. "Still, one or two people were struck with my likeness to some one whom they had seen, but whose name they could not recall. Miss Drechsler was one of those, and now she says she wonders she did not remember that it was Miss Willoughby, although she had only seen her twice at the Wardens', and then amongst a number of people. And then a young man, a Mr. Gower (the same name as your friend), who had heard me play on the violin at the Stanfords' concert, told them that he was much struck with my resemblance to a picture he had seen. I wonder if he could be any relation to your Mrs. Gower?" "Was his name Reginald?" Mrs. Willoughby asked hurriedly. "Yes. Sir Richard Stanford used to call him Reginald Gower; but I seldom saw him. But, grandmother, is there anything the matter?" for as Frida spoke, Mrs. Willoughby's face had blanched. Was it possible, she asked herself, that Reginald Gower had known, or at least suspected, the existence of this child, and for very evident reasons concealed it from his friends? A terrible fear that it was so overcame her; for she liked the lad, and tenderly loved his mother. She felt she must betray herself, and so answered Frida's question by saying,-- "Oh, it is nothing, dear, only a passing faintness; but I shall lie on the sofa, and you shall finish your talk. Now tell me about the Forest." And Frida, well pleased to speak of the friends she loved so well, told of her childhood's life in the Forest, and the kindness shown to her by Elsie and Wilhelm, not forgetting to speak of Hans and the little blind Anna so early called to glory. "And, O grandmother, all the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners were so kind to me, and many amongst them learned to love the words of this little book;" and as she spoke she took from her pocket the little brown German Bible, her mother's parting legacy to her child. "It was no words of mine that opened their eyes (I was too young to have said them); but I could read the Word of God to them, and they did the deed." Mrs. Willoughby took the little book in her hands and pressed it to her lips. "It was often in the hands of my darling Hilda, you say? and those words in a foreign language became as precious to her as did the English ones to her mother in the little Bible she gave her ere they parted? Blessed book, God's own inspired revelation of Himself, which alone can make us 'wise unto salvation.'" Mrs. Willoughby listened with great pleasure to Frida's tale, glancing every now and again at the fair girl face, which was lit up as with sunshine as she spoke of her happy days and dear friends in the Forest. "I must write to a friend in Dringenstadt," she said, "to go to the Forest and tell them all the good news,--of how good God has been to me in restoring me to my mother's friends, and in letting me know that a brother of my father's was alive. But see, here comes the postman. I must run and get the letters." In a minute she re-entered bearing a number of letters in her hand. "Ah! here are quite a budget," she said. "See, grandmother, there is one for you bearing the New York mark, and another for myself from Frankfort. Ah! that must be from the uncle you spoke of, Dr. Heinz. You said he had gone there, did you not?" Whilst Frida was talking thus, her grandmother had opened her American letter, and saw that it was from Reginald Gower. "He has heard, of course, of my dear husband's death, and writes to sympathize with me. But no; he could hardly have heard of that event, nor of the discovery of our grandchild, and replied to it. He must be writing about some other subject." She then read as if in a dream the following words:-- "DEAR FRIEND--if indeed I may still dare to address you thus--I write to ask forgiveness for a sore wrong which I have done to you and Mr. Willoughby. I confess with deep shame that for some years I have had a suspicion, nay, almost a certainty, that a child of your daughter was alive. Miss Drechsler, now living with Miss Warden, can tell you all. I met the girl, who plays charmingly on the violin, at a concert in the house of Sir Richard Stanford. Her face reminded me of a picture I had seen somewhere, but at first I could not recall where, until the fact, told me by the Stanfords, of a peculiar necklace which the girl possessed, and which they described to me, brought to my remembrance the picture of your daughter at Harcourt Manor with a _fac-simile_ of the necklace on. Added to this, I had heard that the girl had been found by a wood-cutter in the Black Forest, and that of her birth and parentage nothing was known. It is now with deep repentance that I confess to having concealed these facts (though I had no doubt as to whose child she was), because I knew that by disclosing the secret my right to succeed to the property of Harcourt Manor would be done away with. I felt even then the shame and disgrace of so doing, and knew also the trouble and grief I was causing to you, whom (although you may find it difficult to believe) I really loved, and who had ever been such a kind friend to me. I now see that it was a love of self-indulgence which led me to commit so foul a sin. Conscience remonstrated, and the words of the Bible, so early instilled into my mind by my mother, constantly reproached me; but I turned from and stifled the voice of conscience, and deliberately chose the evil way. All these years I have experienced at times fits of the deepest remorse, but selfishness prevailed; and when I heard that Frida Heinz was coming to England, and that probably ere-long all might be disclosed, I resolved to leave my native land and begin a better life here. Ere I left I had reason to believe that she was unable to come to England, so even now I may be the first to reveal the secret of her existence. I do not know if even yet I would have gained strength to do this or not, had not God in His great mercy opened my eyes, during a fearful storm at sea, when it seemed as if any moment might be my last, to see what a sinner I was in His sight, and led me to seek forgiveness through the merits of Christ for all my past sins. _That_ I believe I have obtained, and now I crave a like forgiveness from you whom I have so cruelly wronged. Should you withhold it, I dare not complain; but I have hopes that you, who are a follower of our Lord Jesus Christ, will not do so. One more request, and I have done. Comfort, I beg of you, my mother when she has to bear the bitter sorrow of knowing how shamefully the son she loves so dearly has acted. By this post I write also to her. I trust to prove to both of you by my future life that my repentance is sincere. REGINALD GOWER." Mrs. Willoughby's grief on reading this letter was profound. To think that the lad whom she had loved, and whom in many ways she had befriended, had acted such a base, selfish part, overwhelmed her; and the thought that if he had communicated even his suspicions to her so long ago the child would have been found, and probably have gladdened her grandfather's life and heart for several years ere he was taken hence, was bitter indeed. But not long could any unforgiving feeling linger in her heart, and ere many hours were over she was able fully to forgive. Of Mrs. Gower's feelings we can hardly write. The shame and grief she experienced on reading the letter, which she received from her son by the same post as that by which Mrs. Willoughby received hers, cannot be expressed; but through it all there rang a joyful song, "This my son was dead, and is alive again." The prayers--believing prayers--of long years were answered, and the bond between mother and son was a doubly precious one, united as they now were in Christ. It was for her friend she felt so keenly, and to know how she had suffered at the hand of Reginald was a deep grief to her. Could she, she queried, as she set out letter in hand to Harcourt Manor--could she ever forgive him? That question was soon answered when she entered the room and met her friend. Ere then Mrs. Willoughby had been alone with her God in prayer, and had sought and obtained strength from her heart to say, "O Lord, as Thou hast blotted out my transgressions as a thick cloud, and as a cloud my sins, so help me to blot out from my remembrance the sorrow which Reginald has caused to me, and entirely to forgive him." After two hours spent together the two friends separated, being more closely bound together than ever before; Mrs. Willoughby saying she would write to Reginald that very night, and let him know that he had her forgiveness, and that without his intervention God had restored her grandchild to her arms. In the meantime letters had reached Dr. Heinz telling that the search for the missing ones was at an end. His short holiday was drawing to a close, and erelong Frida was embraced by the brother of the father she had loved so much and mourned so deeply. And ere another summer had gone she was present at her uncle's marriage with Gertie Warden, and was one of the bridesmaids. And a few days after that event it was agreed, with her grandmother's full consent--nay, at her special request--that she should accompany them on their marriage jaunt, and that that should include a visit to Miss Drechsler and a sight of her friends in the Black Forest. Many were the presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby to Elsie, Wilhelm, and others who had been kind to her grandchild in the Forest. "O grandmother," said Frida, as she was busy packing up the things, "do you know that I have just heard that my kind friend the German pastor has returned to Dringenstadt and settled there. He was so very kind to me when I was a little child, I should like to take him some small special remembrance--a handsome writing-case, or something of that kind." "Certainly, Frida," was the answer. "You shall choose anything you think suitable. I am glad you will have an opportunity of thanking him in person for all his kindness to you, and, above all, for introducing you to Miss Drechsler. And look here, Frida. As you say that Wilhelm and Elsie can read, I have got two beautifully-printed German Bibles, one for each of them, as a remembrance from Frida's grandmother, who, through the reading of those precious words, has got blessing to her own soul. See, I have written on the first page the words, 'Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me.'" It was settled that during Frida's absence Mrs. Gower should live at Harcourt Manor, and together Mrs. Willoughby and she bid adieu to Frida as she set off three days after the marriage to meet her uncle and his bride at Dover, from whence they were to start for the Continent. Tears were in Frida's eyes--tears of gratitude--as she thought of the goodness of God in restoring her, a lonely orphan, to the care of kind relations since she had crossed the Channel rather more than a year before. Frida endeared herself much to her uncle and his wife, and after a trip with them for some weeks, they left her with regret at Miss Drechsler's, promising to return soon and take her home with them after she had seen her friends in the Forest. "Ah, Frida," said Miss Drechsler, when they were seated in the evening in the pretty little drawing-room, "does it not seem like olden days? Do you not remember the first time when Pastor Langen brought you here a shy, trembling little child, and asked me to see you from time to time?" Ere Frida could reply, the door opened, and Pastor Langen entered, and Miss Drechsler introduced him to his _protégé_. "Frida Heinz! Is it possible? I must indeed be getting _ein Alter_ if this be the little girl who was found in the Black Forest." He listened with interest whilst Miss Drechsler told him the history of her past years, much of which was new to him, although he had heard of Frida's gift as a violinist; but when she told of the wonderful way in which her relations had been discovered, he could refrain himself no longer, but exclaimed,-- "_Lobe Herrn_, He is good, very good, and answers prayer." And ere they parted the three knelt at the throne of grace and gave thanks to God. On the next day it was settled that Frida should go to the Forest and see her old friends, taking her grandmother's present with her. CHAPTER XVIII. OLD SCENES. "God's world is steeped in beauty, God's world is bathed in light." It was in the leafy month of June that Frida found herself once more treading the Forest paths. The smaller trees were clothed in their bright, fresh, green lining-- "Greenness shining, not a colour, But a tender, living light;" and to them the dark, gloomy pines acted as a noble background, and once again the song of birds was heard, and the gentle tinkle, tinkle of the forest streams. Memory was very busy at work as the girl--nay, woman now--trod those familiar scenes. Yonder was the very tree under which Wilhelm found her, a lonely little one, waiting in vain for the father she would see no more on earth. There in the distance were the lonely huts of the wood-cutters who had so lovingly cared for the orphan child. And as she drew nearer the hut of the Hörstels, she recognized many a spot where she and Hans had played together as happy children, to whom the sighing of the wind amid the tall pines had seemed the most beautiful music in the world. As she recalled all these things, her heart filled with love to God, who had cared for and protected her when her earthly friends had cast her off. The language of her heart might have been expressed in the words of the hymn so often sung in Scottish churches:-- "When all Thy mercies, O my God! My rising soul surveys, Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise." Words cannot depict the joy of Elsie and Wilhelm at the sight of their dear woodland child. They had already heard of her having found her English relations, and heartily they rejoiced at the good news, although well they knew that they would seldom see the child they loved so well. Many were the questions asked on both sides. Frida, on her part, had to describe Harcourt Manor and her gentle grandmother and her father's brother, Dr. Heinz, and his beautiful bride. She told also of the full-sized picture (which hung on the walls of Harcourt Manor) of her mother, which had been the means of the discovery of her birth, from her extraordinary likeness to it. When the many useful presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby were displayed, the gratitude of those poor people knew no bounds, and even the little girl looked delighted at the bright-coloured, warm frocks and cloaks for winter wear which had been sent for her. Hans was by no means forgotten: some useful books fell to his share when he returned home in a few weeks from Leipsic for a short holiday. It was with difficulty that Frida tore herself away from those kind friends, and went to the Dorf to see her friends there, and take them the gifts she had brought for them also. It was late ere she reached Dringenstadt, and there, seated by Miss Drechsler, related to her the doings of the day. To Pastor Langen was entrusted a sum of money to be given to the Hörstels, and also so much to be spent every Christmas amongst the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners in the Dorf. The two Bibles Frida had herself given to the Hörstels, who had been delighted with them. When, soon after that day, Dr. Heinz and his bride, accompanied by Frida, visited the Forest, they received a hearty welcome. Many of the wood-cutters recognized the resemblance Dr. Heinz bore to his brother who had died in the cottage in the Forest. Many a story did Dr. Heinz hear of the woodland child and her brown book. The marriage trip over, the Heinzes, accompanied by Frida, returned to their homes--they to carry on their work of love in the dark places of the great metropolis, taking with them not only comforts for the body, but conveying to them the great and only treasures of the human mind, the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. And to many and many a sin-sick, weary soul the words of Holy Scripture spoken by the lips of those two faithful ambassadors of the Lord Jesus Christ brought peace and rest and comfort. And Frida, on her part, found plenty of work to do for the Master in the cottages near Harcourt Manor, in which her grandmother helped her largely. Three years had passed since Frida had become an inmate of her grandmother's home, and they had gone for the winter to London in order to be near Frida's relations the Heinzes, and at Frida's request Ada Stanford, who was now much stronger, had come to pay her a visit. Many a talk the two friends had about the past, recalling with pleasure the places they had visited together and the people they had seen. The beauties of Baden-Baden and the sunny Riviera were often dwelt on, and together they loved to review God's wonderful love as regarded them both. They spoke also of their visit to the dying woman in the Glen, whom Frida had long before found out to have been a faithful nurse to her mother, and for whose little grand-daughter Mrs. Willoughby had provided since hearing from Frida of the old woman's death. Then one day the girls spoke of a musical party which was to take place in Mrs. Willoughby's house that day, and in the arranging for which Ada and Frida had busied themselves even as they had done years before in Baden-Baden for the party at which Frida had played on the violin. A large party assembled that night, and Dr. Heinz and Frida played together; but the great musician of the night was a young German violinist who had begun to attract general attention in the London musical world. He was no other than Hans Hörstel, the playmate of Frida's childhood. Very cordial was the meeting between those two who had last seen each other in such different circumstances. And Sir Richard Stanford, who was also present, felt he was well repaid for what he had spent on young Hörstel's education by the result of it, and by the high moral character which the young man bore. It was a happy night. Frida rejoiced in the musical success of the companion of her early years, and together they spoke of the days of the past, and of his parents, who had been as father and mother to her. Long after the rest of the company had gone, Hans, by Mrs. Willoughby's invitation, remained on; and ere they parted they together gave thanks for all God's kindness towards them. All hearts were full of gratitude, for Mrs. Gower was there rejoicing in the news she had that day received from Reginald, that he was about to be married to a niece of Sir Richard Stanford's, whom he had met whilst visiting friends in New York; and she was one who would help in the work for Christ which he carried on in the neighbourhood of his farm. He was prospering as regarded worldly matters, and he hoped soon to take a run home and introduce his bride to his loved mother and his kind friend Mrs. Willoughby. He added, "I need hardly say that ere I asked Edith to marry me I told her the whole story of my sin in concealing what I knew of the birth of Frida Heinz; but she said, what God had evidently forgiven, it became none to refuse to do so likewise." So after prayer was ended, it was from their hearts that all joined in singing the doxology,-- "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!" 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T. NELSON AND SONS, LTD., London, Edinburgh, and New York. 
20052	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 20052-h.htm or 20052-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/0/5/20052/20052-h/20052-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/0/5/20052/20052-h.zip) WE TEN Or The Story of the Roses by BARBARA YECHTON Author of "Ingleside," "A Matter of Honor," "Gentle-Heart Stories," "Two Knights-Errant," "Little Saint Hilary," "Christine's Inspiration" With Illustrations by Minna Brown [Illustration: "'OH, PAPA! _PAPA_! SURELY YOU ARE NOT GOING TO _BURN_ THE _FETICH_!'"] New York Dodd, Mead and Company 1896 Copyright, 1896, by Dodd, Mead and Co. All rights reserved. University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. TO MY DEAR ONES. _"Thou hast done well thy part, if Thou hast done thy best; As sure as I am God, I answer For the rest."_ CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. ROSES AND ROSES 1 II. IN THE STUDY 17 III. CONCERNING A PERFORMANCE 25 IV. AND A FETICH 43 V. A FRACAS AND AN ARRIVAL 53 VI. DISPOSING OF A FETICH 72 VII. NEW FRIENDS 92 VIII. A RESOLUTION 109 IX. MAX'S WARD 123 X. IN THE SCHOOLROOM 145 XI. AN AFTERNOON RECEPTION 165 XII. IN THE SHADOW 182 XIII. THROUGH THE SHADOW 200 XIV. A MISSION OF THREE 213 XV. SOME MINORS 230 XVI. AND A MAJOR 254 XVII. NORA'S SECRET 274 XVIII. EXPERIENCES AT ENDICOTT BEACH 283 XIX. HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 322 XX. A SOLEMN PROMISE 346 XXI. THROUGH THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND 367 XXII. AUF WIEDERSEHEN 378 WE TEN, OR THE STORY OF THE ROSES. I. ROSES AND ROSES. TOLD BY JACK. When papa said positively that only Phil could go to college, we all felt so badly for Felix that we held a council in the schoolroom that very afternoon. At least, six of us did; the other four had been ruled out by Felix, who declared that "kids were not allowed in council." Paul and Mädel didn't mind so much,--they're the twins, they're only seven years old; nor did Alan,--he's the baby; but Kathie was awfully mad: you see, she's nearly ten, and she does love to hear all that's going on. When she gets crying, there's no stopping her, and I tell you she made things pretty lively round that schoolroom for a little while. How she did howl! We were so afraid she'd start Alan, and that the noise would reach papa's study; good-bye then to our council. We got provoked with Kathie; it was so silly of her to stand there crying like a big baby, and keeping us back that way. First Phil called out, "You just stop, this minute, Kathie!" and then, when she kept right on, he threw the old sofa pillow at her, and told her to go smother herself; Nora said, "Horrid child!" in her most disgusted tone, and Nannie and Betty coaxed and coaxed, trying to quiet her. [Illustration: "THE SCHOOLROOM VIXEN."] But nothing had any effect until Felix limped over to his easel. Felix is lame,--dear old Fee!--but my! isn't he clever! Greek and Latin are just as easy as--as--anything to him, and he writes stories and poems,--though nobody knows this 'cept us children and Miss Marston, and we wouldn't tell for the world,--and he paints the most _beautiful_ pictures you ever saw. Well, as I was telling you, he limped over to his easel, and took up his brush. "Just keep that charming expression on your face a few minutes longer, Kathie," he said, "until I get it on canvas; and I'll paint your picture as the 'Schoolroom Vixen,' and send it to the Academy. That's right, open your mouth _just_ a little wider--what a wonderful cavern!--hullo! why'd you stop crying? I'm not half through." That quieted my lady! You see she was afraid he was in earnest; and after Nannie had wiped her eyes for her, and given her the last piece of chocolate in her box, off she went to the other end of the room, and began playing house with the twins and Alan under the schoolroom table, as nicely as you please. Then the council began. Nannie said it was called to discuss "ways and means." I suppose by that she meant to see if there was any way that Felix could go to college too; but, as usual, in a very little while everybody began to take "sides," and then, the first thing we knew, we were all talking at the same time, and just as loud as ever we could. That's a way we have,--all talking and nobody listening. What a din there was, until Felix scrambled up on a chair and pounded on the floor with his cane, and shouted out louder than anybody else: "Who _am_ I talking to? I _will_ be heard!" That made everybody laugh, and brought us back to business; but in a few minutes we were just as bad again. We're the greatest family for taking sides that you ever heard of, and we do get so excited over things! Anybody that didn't know would surely think we were quarrelling, when really we'd just be having a discussion. I can't see where we got it from, for dear mamma was always just as sweet and gentle, and goodness knows papa doesn't say ten words in a day, and those in the very quietest voice. I can't explain it, but it's a fact all the same that we are a noisy family,--even Nora. Miss Marston--she's our governess--says it's very vulgar to be noisy, and that we ought to be ashamed to be so boisterous; but nurse declares--and I think she's right--that the reason is 'cause "the whole kit an' crew" (she means us) "come just like steps, one after the other, an' one ain't got any more right to rule than the other." You see Phil is seventeen and Alan is five, and between them we eight come in; so we are "just like steps," as she says. [Illustration: "PLAYING HOUSE WITH THE TWINS AND ALAN UNDER THE SCHOOLROOM TABLE."] Perhaps I'd better tell you a little about each of us, so you'll understand as I go on: Well, to begin, Phil is a big strong fellow, and just as full of fun and mischief as he can stick; he just _loves_ to play practical jokes, but he isn't so fond of study, I can tell you, and that vexes papa, 'cause he's got it all laid out that Phil's to be a lawyer. Being the eldest, he seems to think he can order us children round as he pleases, and of course we won't stand it, and that makes trouble sometimes. But Phil's generous; he'd give us anything he's got, particularly to Felix, he thinks so much of him,--though of course he wouldn't say so,--so we get along pretty well with him. Next come Felix and Nannie; they're twins too. I've told you 'most everything about Fee already. He's awfully cross sometimes, when he isn't well, and, as Nora says, he really orders us about more than Phil does; but somehow we don't mind it, 'cause, with all his queerness, he's the life of the house, and he's got some ways that just make us love him dearly: mamma used to call him her "lovable crank." Nannie is devoted to Felix; they're always together. They're trying to teach themselves the violin, and she reads the same books and studies the same lessons as he does, to keep up with him; she's clever, too, now I tell you,--- I'd never get my Greek and Latin perfect if she didn't help me,--though she doesn't make any fuss over it. Nannie is an awfully nice girl,--I don't know what we'd do without her; since mamma died, she's all the time looking after us children, and making things go smoothly. She doesn't "boss" us a bit, and yet, somehow, she gets us to do lots of things. She is real pretty, too,--her eyes are so brown and shiny. It's queer, but we don't any of us mind telling Nannie when we get into scrapes; she talks to us at the time, and makes us feel sorry and ashamed, but she never makes us feel small while she's doing it, and we never hear of it again. But you wouldn't catch us doing that to Nora! She comes next, you know, and she's really _very_ pretty, though we never tell her so, 'cause she's so stuck up already. Felix puts her into lots of his pictures, and I heard Max Derwent say once that she was beautiful. Max is papa's friend; he is a grown-up man, though he isn't as old as papa. He used to come here a lot, and we children like him first-rate; but now he's in Europe. Well, to come back to Nora: she likes to be called Eleanor, but we don't do it; she is so fussy and so very proper that Felix has nick-named her Miss Prim, and we _do_ call her that. Miss Marston thinks Nora is the best behaved of us all; and sometimes, when Nannie is in papa's study, she lets her go in the drawing-room and entertain people that call. You should see the airs that Nora puts on when she comes upstairs after these occasions; it's too killing for anything! We boys make lots of fun of her, but she doesn't care a jot. And yet, isn't it queer! with all her primness and fine airs, of us all, Nora cares most for Phil, and he's so untidy and rough; she almost runs her legs off waiting on him, and half the time he doesn't even say thank you! The next after Nora is Betty, our "long-legged tomboy," as Felix calls her, 'cause she is so tall and so full of mischief. Just to look at her you'd think she was as mild as a lamb; but in reality she's wilder than all of us boys put together. I've seen her slide down the banisters of three flights of stairs, one flight after the other, balancing papa's breakfast tray on one palm; and for warwhoops and the ability to make the most hideous faces, she goes ahead of anything I've ever heard or seen. She is as bad as Phil for playing jokes, and when she gets in one of her wild moods, the only way Miss Marston can manage her is to threaten to take her to papa's study; that brings her to terms every time. For that matter, we none of us like to go there, though I'm sure papa never scolds, as some people's fathers do,--I almost wish he would sometimes; he just looks at us; but, all the same, we don't like to go to the study. I hope you won't think from what I've said that Betty is a disagreeable girl, for she isn't at all; I'm really very fond of her, and we're together a great deal, because I am the next in age to her. She's awfully quick-tempered, and flies into a rage for almost nothing; but she's very honest, and she'll own up to a fault like a soldier. Once in a while we have a falling out, but not often, 'cause I won't quarrel. Nannie says that I give in sometimes when I oughtn't to,--she means when it isn't right to; I guess that's my fault, but I do hate to squabble with any one,--it's such a bother. I don't know what to tell you about myself, except that I'm not very bright at my books, though I love to read stories. It does seem so strange that we shouldn't all be smart, when papa, as everybody knows, is such a wonderfully clever man. I'm Jack, or, rather,--to give my full name,--John Minot Rose. I think that's rather a nice name, but you can't think what fun the whole family make of it; they call me "a Jack rose," and "Jacqueminot," and "Rosebud," and a "sweet-scented flower," and all sorts of absurd names. Of course it's very silly of them. Betty gets furious over it; but I don't really care, so what's the use of being angry. Kathie comes next to me; she is a nice little girl, only she does love to tattle things, and that makes trouble sometimes. She's very gentle, and just as pretty as a picture, with her long light curls and pretty, big blue eyes; but my! isn't she obstinate! She doesn't fly into rages, like Betty, but she keeps persisting and persisting till she carries her point, and when she once starts in crying, you may make up your mind she isn't going to stop in a hurry. But she doesn't mean to be naughty, I'm sure; and she's the most polite child, and so willing to do things for people! Then come the other twins, Paul and Mädel. Paul is a standing joke with us, he's so solemn; and yet he says such bright, funny things, in his slow way, that we have to laugh: we call him the "Judge." Mädel is a little darling, just as jolly and round and sweet as she can be; nurse says she's going to be a second Nannie. We all make a great deal of her,--much more than we do of Alan; for though he's the baby, he's so independent that he doesn't like to be petted. So now you know all about the Roses; it does seem as if I'd been a long time telling about them, but you see there are such a lot of us. Well, to go back to the council. Fee was awfully cut up over his disappointment, and cranky too; but nobody minded what he said, until, all at once, Nora got in a tantrum, and declared he was "acting _very_ mean to Phil," that he needn't always expect to have things his own way, and that papa was perfectly right to give Phil the first chance. That set Fee off, and in about two minutes we were all mixed up in the fuss,--taking "sides," you know; that is, all but Phil,--he just sat hunched up on the arm of the old sofa, swinging one of his long legs, and scowling, and chewing away on a piece of straw he'd pulled out of the whisk-broom, and he didn't say a word until Nora turned on him, and asked him, very indignantly, how he could sit there and let Felix bully her in that way. Then all at once he seemed to get very mad and just pitched into Fee. I don't remember what he said, and I'm glad that I don't, 'cause I _know_ Phil didn't mean a word of it; but Felix felt awfully hurt. He got two bright red spots on his cheeks, and he set his lips tight together, and when Phil stopped to catch his breath, after an unusually long speech, he got up and pushed his chair back. "It is so pleasant to hear one's family's honest opinion of one's self," he remarked, in that sarcastic way he has. "I shall try to remember all that you've said," bowing to Phil and Nora, "and I shall endeavour to profit by it. And as long as I'm such a contemptible and useless member of the community, I'll relieve you of my company." His voice shook so he could hardly say the last words, and he started for the door, stumbling over the furniture as he went. Between you and me, I think his eyes were full of tears, and that they blurred his glasses so he couldn't see,--did I tell you that Felix is near-sighted? Well, he is. "Oh, Phil, how _could_ you say such mean things to your own brother!" cried out Nannie; and with that she flew after Felix. That cooled Phil down, and if he didn't turn on Nora! "It's all your fault," he said angrily; "you just nagged me on to it. You're never happy unless you're quarrelling." This was pretty true, but I don't think it was at all nice of Phil to say so, and I felt very sorry for Nonie when she burst out crying. Betty and I were trying to quiet her, when in walked Miss Marston, to know what all that loud noise and banging of doors meant. We didn't tell her about the _fracas_, 'cause, though she's pretty good in a way, she isn't at all the person one would want to tell things to. She carried the little ones off for their early dinner, and Nora and Betty too,--"to help," she said. But I stayed in the schoolroom. I knew if I went down stairs they'd just keep me trotting about waiting on them all, and that's such a nuisance! so I curled up on the sofa and read for a while. The fire was so bright, and everything was so cozy, that I did wish some of the others would come in and enjoy it. I was really pleased when Major and Whiskers came walking in and settled down near me. They're our dog and cat, and they're good playfellows with us; but they will fight with each other now and then. At first I enjoyed my story immensely; it was about a boy who was having the wildest kind of adventures among the Indians. I wouldn't go through such exciting times for anything; but I enjoy reading about 'em, when I'm all safe and comfortable at home. Well, when it grew too dark to read, I laid my book down and began to think, and presently it seemed as if a whole pack of Indians were dancing like wild round me, in full war-paint and feathers, and nipping little pieces out of my arms and legs. I stood it as long as I could, and then I began to hit out at 'em. All at once one of the creatures commenced flourishing his tomahawk at me, getting nearer and nearer all the time. "I _have_ tried, but I can't get in," he said, grinning horribly, and the voice sounded just like Phil's; "he's locked his door, and he won't even answer me,--he's madder than hornets." [Illustration: "'WHY, _JACK_!' SAID NANNIE."] "I'm sure you can't blame him: what you said was very unkind, Phil; I didn't think it of you!" The voice was certainly Nannie's; and yet there was that horrid old Indian still nipping me. "I know it, Nan; you needn't rub it in," groaned Phil,--the Indian. "But really, I didn't mean one word of it, and he ought to have known that. Why, Fee's got more brains than the whole crowd of us put together, and if only one of us can go to college, he ought to be that one. I've screwed up my courage, and I'm going to speak to father about it." "Oh, Phil, don't, please don't; it'll be no use. You know there is no changing papa when his mind is made up. Better let things stand as they are until Max gets home; it won't be very long, you know. And besides, I'm sure Felix wouldn't let you give up college for him. But you're a dear, generous boy, to propose it." "No, I'm not; I'm a great clumsy, cantankerous animal. Now if I could only talk as Felix can, I wouldn't mind interviewing the _pater_ to-morrow; but just as sure as I undertake to say anything to him, I get so nervous and confused that I act like a fool, and that provokes him. He seems to paralyse me. But, all the same, I'm going to talk to him about this matter to-morrow, Nannie,"--the Indian's voice sank so low that I could hardly hear it; "I have a feeling that mother would want Fee to go to college." I sat up and rubbed my arms that had gone to sleep, and looked around; I was still on the old sofa, and just a few feet away from me sat Phil, on the edge of the schoolroom table, and Nannie in a chair beside him. Confused and only half awake as I was, my one idea was to slip away quietly and not let 'em know I'd heard what they had been saying, for I was sure they wouldn't like that. Nannie says I ought to have spoken right out; but I do hate to make people feel uncomfortable. So I swung myself softly to my feet, and--landed hard on Whiskers's tail! Of course, after that, there was no hiding that I was there. Poor Whiskers gave a howl of pain, and, flying at Major, boxed the solemn old doggie's ears, much to his surprise and wrath, and they had a free fight on the spot. "Why, _Jack_!" said Nannie; and I got hot all over, for I just felt by her tone that she thought I'd been listening. "Our Jacqueminot, I declare!" cried Phil. "You are a nice young rosebud, I must say, to be snooping around this way! Come here, sir!" He made a dive for me, but I drew back. "I _didn't_ listen!" I called out. And then I remembered that I really had, only I thought it was the Indians talking; and, dipping under his arm, I rushed out of the room as hard as I could go, before he could catch me. II. IN THE STUDY. TOLD BY JACK. I thought very often of what Phil had said, I couldn't help it; but I don't suppose I would ever have really understood what he meant if I hadn't heard something more the next day. Poor me! it just seemed for those two days as if I did nothing but get into people's way and keep hearing things that they didn't want me to. This time it was partly Betty's fault,--at least, she was what Phil calls the "primary cause." I suppose it was because it was such a lovely day out-of-doors, that I couldn't seem to put my mind on my books at all, and when Betty pulled two feather-tops out of her pocket, and offered me one, I took it very willingly, and we began to play on the sly. Of course we got caught: my feather-top must needs fly away from the leg of the table, which was our mark, and stick itself into Kathie's leg. I don't think it hurt her so very much, but she was startled, and didn't she howl! Miss Marston was all out of patience with me already, and when, soon after that, I made a mess of my Latin, she got very angry, and walked me right down to the study. Papa listened in dead silence to all she told him; then he just lifted his eyes from his writing, and pointed to a chair a good way from him: "Sit there," he said, "and study your lesson, and don't disturb me." So I took my seat, and Miss Marston shut the door and went away. My! how quiet it was in that room! Not a sound except a faint scrabbling noise now and then from the L behind the portière,--where some very old reference books are kept,--and papa's pen scratching across the paper, and even that stopped presently, and he began to read a book that lay open beside him. As he sat there reading, with sheets upon sheets of the Fetich scattered all round him, I looked and looked at him; I don't know why it is, but somehow, when I'm anywhere alone with papa, I just have to keep looking at him instead of anything else. He's a tall man, and thin, and he stoops round his shoulders; he wears glasses, too, like Felix, and he always looks as if he were thinking of something 'way off in his mind. Nurse says she's sure he'd forget to eat, if the things weren't put right under his nose; you see that's because he's all the time thinking of books. Oh, papa's awfully clever! [Illustration: "PLAYING FEATHERTOP."] After a while I found a lollipop in my pocket, and I began to suck it,--just for company, you know; and truly the room was so quiet I was afraid papa'd hear me swallow. Every now and then there was that little scrabble behind the portière; I made up my mind papa must have some one there making references for him, and I wondered who. But just then came a quite loud knock at the study door, and before papa had finished saying "Come!"--he never does say it right away,--the door flew open, and in bounced Phil, as if he were in an awful hurry. He marched straight to papa's desk, and began, very quickly, "Father, I'd like--" But papa just waved his hand at him, without looking up: "In a few minutes," he said, and went right on reading. You should have seen Phil fidget: he stood on one foot, then on the other; he put his hands in his pockets and jingled the things he had there, till he remembered that papa doesn't like us to do that, then he took his hands out. He straightened up, and shook his coat collar into place, and he cleared his throat; but nothing had any effect until he accidentally knocked a book off the desk. Then papa started, and peered up at him in the near-sighted way that Felix does sometimes: "H'm, too bad!" he said, taking the book from Phil; then he sighed, put his finger on the page of his book to mark the place, and said, in a resigned sort of way, "Well, what is it you want?" And I tell you, Phil didn't take long to come to the point; he pitched right in, in that quick, headlong way he has when he's awfully in earnest. "I want to ask you, father, please to let Felix go to college in my place. As long as we can't both go, I think he ought to be the one. You know, sir, he's a thousand times cleverer than I am, and he'll be sure to do you twice the credit that I shall. I do wish you'd consider the change." "And what do _you_ propose to do in that case?" papa asked, peering up at him again. "Go into business,--lots of fellows do at my age,--if I can get anything at all," answered Phil, squaring his shoulders. Papa sat and thought and thought for several minutes, without a word; then he said, in that quiet tone of voice that we children know always settles a question, "No, I prefer that the present arrangement should be carried out." Then he began reading again. I thought Phil would have gone, after that; but no, he got quite excited: "It isn't fair to Felix," he cried, thumping his hand down on the desk with such force that the pages of the Fetich just danced,--you'll hear more about the Fetich by and by,--"indeed it isn't! He's got the most brains of the whole lot of us put together, and he _ought_ to have some advantages. And besides, sir, you know he was mother's boy." Phil's voice shook so that a big lump came in my throat. "I'm sure she would want him to go to college; for her sake, let us change places." Papa put up his hand quickly, and shielded his eyes from the light, and he didn't answer right away. "It was--her wish--that you should go," he said presently, stopping between the words. "Because she expected there'd be money enough for us both," Phil began eagerly; but all of a sudden the portière that hung over the L was pushed aside, and who should come limping up to them but Felix! His eyes were shining, even through his glasses, and he didn't seem to mind papa one bit. "So that's what you're up to, is it?" he said to Phil, "trying to give me your birthright!" By this time he'd reached Phil's side, and he threw his arm right across Phil's shoulders. "_Dear_ old Lion-heart!" he said,--how his voice did ring out! "And I thought you didn't care!" And papa just sat there and looked at them, without a word, from under his hand. Now I suppose you think I was a very mean sort of a boy to sit there and take in all this that wasn't intended for me to hear; but really it wasn't my fault. You see, I was so surprised when Phil walked in and began to talk like that, that I never thought of saying anything; but pretty soon I remembered, and I felt very uncomfortable. I got up then, and walked a few steps forward, but nobody noticed me. And when Phil got so excited, I _couldn't_ get a word out. Then Felix came out, and I really got desperate,--I felt I _must_ let 'em know I was there; so I just called out twice, quite loud, "Please, I'm here!" They all jumped, they were so surprised, and Phil wheeled round on me in a minute. "That ubiquitous 'Jack rose' _again_!" he exclaimed; and taking me by the collar,--that was really _very_ mean of Phil,--he walked me very fast over to the door. Then he opened the door, and said, "_Skip!_" and gave me quite a hard shove into the hall, and shut the door again. I tell you what now, my feelings were awfully hurt; I just wished Betty were there; I know she'd have given it to Phil! "Jack!" somebody called just then, and there was Nannie seated in the niche at the head of the stairs. I ran up and squeezed in alongside of her, and she snuggled me up to her, and made me feel ever so much better. I told her the whole story, and somehow, by the time I got through, instead of being angry any more, I really felt sorry for the boys. "Oh, Nannie," I said, "I do wish Fee _could_ go to college!" Nannie caught my hand tight between her two palms. "Jack," she said softly, "say our verse for the day, will you?" So I repeated it: "'I say unto you, that if two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven. For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.'" "That has comforted me all day," whispered Nannie. "That's what we can do for Felix: we can pray--you and I--that God will make a way for him to go to college. Will you, Jackie-boy?" "Yes," I said presently; "but--but--perhaps, Nannie, you'd better not say anything to Betty about it, 'cause--well, you know she _might_ make fun of me." "Oh, no, she won't," said Nannie, "because you and I are the 'two,' Jack, and she's the 'three'; she's praying for Felix, too." Well, I _was_ dumfounded,--Betty, of all people! Just then the study door opened, and Phil and Felix came out; Phil had his arm over Fee's shoulder, and he began helping him up the steps. I felt they'd want Nannie to themselves,--and, besides, Phil might just have said something to tease me again; so I ran up stairs alone, and left them to talk together. All this happened some weeks ago, and though Phil has commenced college, no way has come yet for Felix to go; but we "three" still keep on praying for it. III. CONCERNING A PERFORMANCE. TOLD BY NANNIE. So many and such unexpected things have happened lately that I scarcely know where to begin, or how to tell everything. The very first surprise was two letters that came for Felix and me from our godmother, aunt Lindsay. She is not really our aunt, though we call her so, and I'm named Nancy after her; but she knew dear mamma when she was a girl, and she is the only person except mamma that we ever heard call papa "Jack." Aunt Lindsay is quite an old lady, and she's very eccentric. She lives in a big old house in Boston, and very seldom comes to New York; but twice a year, on our birthday and at Christmas, she sends us a letter and a present,--generally a book,--and Fee and I have to write and thank her. How we dread those letters! It was hard enough when we had mamma to talk them over with before we began them; but now it's a great deal worse, for Miss Marston does not help us in the least. She says we are quite old enough now to do them alone, and I suppose we are. But we can't express ourselves in the same way time after time, and it is so difficult to think of new things to say that are interesting and not frivolous,--for aunt Lindsay wouldn't permit that. Sometimes we really get low-spirited over our efforts, and I'd be ashamed to tell how many sheets of paper and envelopes are spoilt in the undertaking. Once, in a fit of desperation, Felix bought a "Complete Letter-Writer," and we hunted through it; but there seemed to be nothing in it suitable for an occasion such as ours, and besides, the language used in the "Letter-Writer" was so very fine and unlike our former efforts that we were afraid aunt Lindsay would, as Phil vulgarly puts it, "smell a mice." So that had to be given up, and finally, after many and great struggles, with the help of the whole family, we would manage to write something that Miss Marston allowed us to send. On the principle that brevity is wit, some of these productions of ours are really remarkable. And now, though it was neither Christmas nor our birthday, here came two letters from our godmother which would have to be answered. We groaned as we received them, and the family, even to Kathie, gave us their sympathy,--Phil suggesting that perhaps "the old lady" had sent us a whole library this time, which would of course call for a special expression of gratitude. Think, then, how we felt when we opened the letters and found that our godmother wrote to tell us she had made arrangements for Felix to take painting lessons for one term, and for me, violin lessons for the same length of time! To say we were astonished doesn't at all express our state of mind. The questions that occurred to us when we got over the first shock were, how could aunt Lindsay have known just what would best please each of us, and why had she remembered us at this time of the year, which was no particular occasion? And then we thought of her kindness, and were _so_ ashamed! Fee and I looked at each other, and though we didn't say it, the same thought came to us both,--that we would write her the nicest letter of thanks that we could compose, if it took every sheet of note-paper we owned. Of course we read aunt Lindsay's letter aloud,--that and talking them over is the best part of receiving letters,--and of course we all got very much excited over our unexpected good fortune. Felix said right away that he would give Nora lessons in drawing two afternoons in the week,--she really draws very nicely, and is so anxious to get on,--provided she'd promise not to "put on any airs or frills;" and I told Fee I'd help him--in the same way--with his violin playing. Then Phil proposed, and the whole family approved, that we should on the following evening--which was papa's night at the Archæological Society--celebrate the happy event by what we call "a musical performance." Though we are very fond of these "performances," we have not had one for quite a while, because some of us older ones haven't felt up to it; for, as Fee truly says, "it really requires very good spirits indeed to make a festive occasion go off successfully." Since that day in papa's study that Jack has told about, nothing more has been said of Fee's going to college,--though we all want it just as much as ever, and Jack and I feel that it _will_ come,--and Felix himself seems to have quite given up the idea. He laughs and jokes again in his old merry way, particularly when Phil is at home; Nora and he have made friends, and Betty and Jack have got over staring at Fee with big round eyes of sympathy, and dear old Phil no longer skulks in and out of the house as if he were ashamed of himself; now he tells us bits of his college experience, and--as of old--gets Felix to help him with his studies. Things look as if everybody was satisfied; but, though he never alludes to it, I know Fee's heart is sore over his disappointment,--you see, he is my own twin, and, while I love all my brothers and sisters, Felix is more dear to me than any one else in the whole wide world, and I understand him better than anybody else does. Fee is not like the rest of us; in the first place, he is more delicate, and his lameness makes him very sensitive. Then, too, though we all, from Phil to Alan, confide in him our troubles and pleasures, he rarely, if ever, opens his heart to any of us. And when we talk things over among ourselves, and so in a way help one another along, Fee keeps his deepest feelings to himself. Very often we children talk of dear mamma, particularly when we're together in the firelight Sunday afternoons and evenings,--it's a comfort to us; but Felix simply listens,--he never speaks of her, though he was mother's boy. But I know, all the same, that he misses her every day of his life, and that as long as he lives he'll never forget one tone of her voice, or one word she has said to him. Fee used to have a dreadful temper; he'd say such cutting, sarcastic things! and when mamma would speak to him about it, he'd declare that he _couldn't_ help it, and that the sharp ugly words _would_ come. But now, since she's gone, he is so much better, and I'm sure that he's trying to control himself, because he remembers how grieved she used to be when he got into a rage. I don't mean to say that he has entirely gotten over it,--I don't suppose that will ever be; but he doesn't flash out as he used to, and sometimes when he is very angry, he sets his lips tight together, and limps out of the room just as fast as ever he can go, to keep the ugly words from being spoken. Once in a great while, if I am alone in the schoolroom, he'll come and throw himself down on the old sofa beside me, and, putting his head in my lap, lay my hand over his eyes. I know then, as well as if he had told me, that he is thinking of dear mamma and longing for her; and such a rush of love comes into my heart for him that I think he must feel it in my very finger-tips as they touch him. He was more with mamma at the last than any of us, because he is so gentle and helpful in a sick-room; but when the end had come, and we children were standing about the bed, crying bitterly, with our arms around one another, I missed Felix. From room to room I hunted, and at last I found him, huddled up in a heap on the floor of the old store-room at the top of the house. And never shall I forget the white, utterly wretched face that he turned on me, as I knelt down by him and put my arms round his neck. He held my shoulders with his two thin hands so tight that I could feel his finger-nails through my sleeves. "Oh, Nannie!" he said, in such a hoarse whisper I'd never have known it for Fee's sweet voice, "if I could only _die_ this very night!" Then he sank down, and lay there trembling from head to foot, and sobbing, sobbing! I pulled a quilt down from one of the shelves and threw it over him; then I sat on the floor and drew his head into my lap and just smoothed his forehead and hair for the longest while, without a word, until he quieted down. I felt, somehow, that he would rather not have me say anything. Don't imagine, from what I've said, that Fee is a dismal sort of person, for indeed he isn't; he's the merriest of us all, and the prime leader in all the mischief and fun that goes on; and just as soon as it was settled that we should have a performance, he began to plan what each person should do, and to arrange the programme. We always have a programme: it saves confusion and people's feelings getting hurt; for, of course, then one can only go on in one's turn and for the special part set down; otherwise, everybody would be on the stage at once, and there'd be no audience. The large closet in the schoolroom is our dressing-room on these occasions, and as we have no way of making a stage, the younger children, Paul and Mädel and Alan,--Kathie is too big for that now,--stand on a table near the closet and deliver their parts. Felix makes up the funniest names for us on the programme, and we answer to them as readily as if we were in the habit of doing so every day. We were all very busy that afternoon and evening and the next afternoon preparing our parts for the performance; but, with all that, Fee and I got our letters off to our godmother. I felt so truly grateful both for him and for myself, that I didn't have nearly as much trouble composing it as I had expected. But all day I was in a perfect fever to get up to the Conservatory, where aunt Lindsay had entered my name, and to make arrangements for taking my violin lessons. Miss Marston and I talked the matter over, and found that when all the little home duties and my regular studies were finished, there was but one hour that I could set aside regularly for my new work. For though I should only take two lessons a week, I should have to have time to practise, or I'd be able to make no progress at all. She said I might go up that afternoon; so right after school Nora and I started out to the Conservatory. I was very nervous, and my violin is not a very good one; Phil says it's nothing but a fiddle, and that the old second-hand dealer from whom we bought them--Fee has one, too,--cheated us. They certainly do squeak dreadfully, at times, when you least expect it; but then we didn't pay much for them,--you may know that, when we saved for them out of our allowance!--and, as nurse says, "If you want a good article, you've got to pay for it;" still, they're a great deal better than nothing. But to go back to my story: Nora says that, considering how very nervous I was, and the poor instrument I had, she thinks I did fairly well. I love violin music! I can't express what a delight it is to me to play; and the prospect of being able to improve myself in it made me very happy. The professor that aunt Lindsay wanted to be my teacher told us his classes were very full, and that the hour I named for Wednesday and Saturday afternoons was the only time he could give me; then he said something kind about my playing, that gave me a little confidence, and sent me home quite radiant. As I came out of the room which Betty and I share, after putting away my things, nurse opened the nursery door and beckoned me in: "Miss Nannie," she said impressively, "I'm kinder worried 'bout your pa. He's never had no appetite to brag of; but for a week past he's been eatin' like a bird. Mornin' after mornin' he ain't touched nothin' but his tea, an' I'm afraid something's wrong. I don't want to frighten you, my dear, but I thought by tellin' you, maybe you could find out if anything ails him, and get him to send for the doctor. I think he looks kinder bad, and--lors! child, if anything happened to him, what _would_ become o' you all!" I got very nervous, until I remembered how easily nurse gets alarmed; if the children feel the least under the weather, she is apt to imagine that they are going to be seriously ill. "No," I said, "I haven't noticed that he looks badly; but thank you, nursie, for telling me. I'll look closely at him this evening at dinner, and I'll try my best to find out if he isn't well." Papa always has his breakfast and lunch in the study, and dines with us. We older ones think that he does this as a duty, for we are pretty sure that he doesn't enjoy it; you see, papa does not really care for children, and there is no grown person now for him to talk to,--except Miss Marston, and she is not very interesting. Poor papa! He sits at the head of the table, but Phil does the carving; and though very often he does not say a dozen words throughout the entire meal, yet even our daring Betty is subdued into good behaviour by his presence. There is no reason for it that we know of,--papa has never forbidden our talking at table,--but somehow, since dear mamma has gone, we have very little conversation at dinner; though we make up for it at other meals, I assure you. I sit in mamma's place now, and this evening, as I looked carefully at papa across the long table, I could see that he did look thinner: there was a tired expression on his face, too, that troubled me. As I passed through the hall, about half an hour later, he stood there in overcoat and hat, putting on his gloves before starting out for a meeting of the Archæological Society; and when I asked, "Papa, are you feeling well? really quite well?" he put on that bored expression that always makes me feel miles away from him. "Well? Oh, yes!" then he added, with more animation, "Nannie, I wish you would get me that pamphlet that is lying on my desk. I nearly forgot it." [Illustration: "ALAN MADE HIS BOW."] He took the pamphlet when I brought it, and began fingering it aimlessly, giving me a disagreeable feeling of being in the way; and as I turned and ran up the stairs, he went into the drawing-room. He wasn't there but a minute or two,--before I reached the second floor I heard the front door close behind him,--and the next morning, when Nora and I were dusting the drawing-room, we found the pamphlet on the floor before mamma's picture. After all, he had forgotten it. I ran on up to the schoolroom, and there everybody was in a great state of excitement, preparing for the performance, which was to begin and end early on account of the younger children. There was no attempt at costume, but we girls wore a ribbon--they belong to our "stage property"--tied from shoulder to waist, the boys carried a paper rose in their button-holes, and Kathie and the twins and Alan were decorated with huge paper-muslin sashes and fancy caps, so that we all presented quite a festive and unusual appearance. The chairs were ranged in rows; the invited guests--Murray Unsworth, and his cousin, Helen Vassah (they always come to our "festive occasions")--arrived; nurse, and Hannah, our maid, came in and took their places at the back, cook stealing in a little later; a bell tinkled; Alan walked out of the closet, was assisted to the table by Felix,--who was master of ceremonies,--and made his bow to the audience with one hand on his heart and a trumpet in the other, and the performance began. [Illustration: "VIOLIN DUO, RENDERED BY THE WORLD-RENOWNED VIOLINISTS, MLLE. NANINA AND MONS. FELIX."] The programme was elaborately printed in two or three colours, on heavy light-brown paper, and it was tacked up on the schoolroom wall in full view of all, so that each person would know when his or her turn had come, and could disappear in the dark closet,--no lights were allowed there for fear of fire,--to reappear immediately before the audience, amid a storm of applause. This is the way the programme read:-- "Yankibus Doodlum," trumpet solo by the Infant Prodigy, Master Alano Enrico Rosie. "Eight White Sheep," vocal duet, rendered with appropriate finger-play by the Celebrated Twin Singers, Fräulein Mädel and Herr Paulus. "Little White Lily," charming vocal solo by the Famous Prima Donna, Mlle. Kathé. "Charge of the Six Hundred," favourite recitation by the Distinguished Elocutionist, Prof. Jacqueminot. Extraordinary exhibition with Indian clubs by the Remarkable Strong Girl, Signorina Bettina, with piano accompaniment by Signorina Eleanora Nonie. "Serenade," Gounod, violin duo, rendered by the World-Renowned Violinists, Mlle. Nanina and Mons. Felix. "Le Soupir," piano solo by the Brilliant Pianist, Signorina Eleanora Nonie. { "Swanee River." { "Feniculi." { "Good-night, Ladies," college songs, with banjo accompaniment, by the Wonderful Tenor Singer and Banjoist, Prof. Philipo. Curtain down! Lights out! Everything went off beautifully, from Alan's opening bow to Phil's parting obeisance, with two exceptions,--the small boy fell off the table and scraped his shin, and so had to be comforted, and Kathie got so excited when she knew her turn was coming that she jumped up from her chair and raced round and round the schoolroom table, scuffing her feet on the floor and making her hand squeak on the wooden surface of the table, thereby interfering with the effect of Fräulein Mädel and Herr Paulus's vocal efforts. She was captured, however, and brought to reason and good behaviour by the threat of having her name crossed off the programme. With these two trifling exceptions, the performance was most creditable, the _artistes_ were warmly received and enthusiastically applauded,--in one or two instances they even applauded themselves. Hastily manufactured bouquets of newspaper and paper-muslin were showered upon the stage, and when all was over nurse and cook surprised us by refreshments of cookies and lemonade, served on the schoolroom table. How we enjoyed it! Not a cake was left, nor a drop of lemonade. Nora was shocked, and I was so glad Miss Marston had not accepted our invitation to be present! When it was all over, and we were putting away the things, I told Felix what nurse had said, and asked him if he had noticed that papa wasn't well. Fee looked at me with reflective eyes for a moment or two. "Yes," he said slowly, "come to think of it, the _pater_ _has_ looked rather seedy lately. And another thing," he added, "he hasn't let me make a single reference for him this whole week; and yesterday, when I went in somewhat abruptly, he was sitting at his desk with pages of the Fetich before him, but not writing or reading, just resting his head on his hand. I don't think I've ever seen him do that before." Again that horrid apprehension came over me. "Oh, Fee," I said nervously, "do you suppose he is ill,--that anything is going to happen to him? _Do_ tell me frankly what you think!" Felix bent over the stage property he was doing up, as he answered: "I've thought for some time past that he misses--mother--more than ever." Then he walked off with his bundle. How utterly ashamed I felt! Nurse had noticed how badly he looked; Felix had, too,--and perhaps he had guessed the trouble truly; Phil, even, might have seen it, and I, papa's eldest daughter, who had promised mamma to take care of him, had been too selfishly absorbed in my own affairs to even think of him! It was no comfort to tell myself that papa was hard to get at; I felt I had neglected him. "Don't worry, twinnie," Felix said, kindly, coming back to me. "You know care once killed a feline, in spite of his nine lives; so don't you go in for that sort of thing, or you'll get the worst of it. Go to bed now, and have a good sleep; by daylight things will look very much brighter; and at any rate you have your violin lessons ahead of you, and the performance behind you,--two good things. Good-night." IV. AND A FETICH. TOLD BY NANNIE. BUT my first thought in the morning was of papa, and I wondered what I ought to do for him; how I longed for dear mamma! If even Max were home!--for he was a great favourite with papa, and might be able to persuade him to see Dr. Archard. Though papa is so quiet and gentle, he is really a very difficult person to get to do things that he doesn't want to; and he never wants to have a physician for himself. I was feeling very blue, when something Betty said reminded me of my violin lessons, and then the very thought made me more cheerful. Betty and I room together, and Nora and Kathie have the next apartment; and what did Nora and Betty do but put their heads together while we were dressing to think of a place in the house where I might go to practise every afternoon without disturbing papa. One or the other of the girls practises every afternoon, and the combination of violin squeaks and piano exercises would, we knew, disturb papa very much. Miss Marston, we were sure, would not permit them to neglect their music,--Nora is a fine musician, and Betty would be if she'd only put the same interest into that that she does into some other things, such as Indian clubs, and sliding down banisters, and playing practical jokes,--and we couldn't plan where my violin hour could best come in, when Nora thought of the old store-room at the top of the house. That was a good idea, because, by closing the door and hanging a thick quilt over it, not much of my scraping would escape to mingle with the piano scale-running, and so annoy papa. The girls' arranging for me in this way quite cheered me up,--the question of practising having troubled me a good deal, for I knew a noise of that kind would seriously interfere with papa's writing, and delay still longer the completion of the Fetich. Years and years ago, before Phil was born,--indeed, before mamma and papa were ever married,--papa began to write a book, and it is not yet finished, though there are pages and pages of it. Of course it is _very_ deep and _very_ clever, for papa is a great scholar. Max Derwent says that if papa would only finish the book he thinks he knows of a publisher who would accept it at once; and that would be a great help to us, for papa has lost a lot of money this year, and we have to be _very_ economical. That is the reason Fee can't go to college as well as Phil; papa explained this to the boys that day in the study, after Jack had been put out. Dear Jack! he is such a gentle, old-fashioned little fellow, it really seems as if he ought to have been the girl, and Betty the boy. But, for all that Max said, papa can't seem to get to the end of his work; he writes and re-writes, and keeps making changes all the time. Sometimes I have wondered if he has worked over it so long that he hates to part with it. The title of this great piece of work is "The History of Some Ancient Peoples," or something very like that,--it's about the Egyptians and Phoenicians and Chaldeans; but among ourselves we children call it the Fetich. Long ago Fee gave it that name, because he says it rules the house, and everything and everybody has to give way to it; and he isn't very far wrong, I'm sorry to say. Ever since we older ones can remember, the Fetich has engrossed papa's entire attention, and kept him so occupied that he has had no time for anything else,--not even for his children. In our own home we have to go quietly and soberly about as if in a stranger's house,--to creep softly through the halls and steal up the back stairs, and to subdue our voices when the natural childish impulse is to run gaily and speak out merrily. It has kept our father apart from us and made him almost a stranger to his children; and, as we look back, some of us grudge the hours of dear mamma's time that were spent each day in the study,--away from us,--reading and copying off the Fetich, and helping and encouraging papa. Dear, blessed mother! what a brave, loving spirit hers was! Even to the last, when she was almost too weak to speak, she would have papa carry her to the study, and, lying there in the invalid-chair, she'd smile at him as he kept looking up at her from his writing. The very last talk we had together,--after she had been taken back to her room,--when we had spoken about the children and she had told me different little points about their dispositions, and some ways in which I might be able to help them after she had gone, she said very earnestly, "And always be very good to your father, Nannie; he will be in sore need of comfort, for he will miss me more than any one else." "Oh, mamma, mamma!" I cried, choking, "no one _could_ miss you more than we shall!" Mamma stroked my hand softly as it lay on the bed beside her. "Dear," she said presently, "I know my boys and girls will _never_ forget me, not even the very youngest, for they will hear of me from you older ones. Oh, if it had been my Father's will, how gladly would I have remained with you all! But you are all young; life and hope are strong within you, and you love one another. He--your father--is so different; he will grieve--alone--and grow farther and farther from human love and sympathy. Nannie, dear little daughter, remember how very, _very_ happy he has made me all these years, and oh, be good to him, and very patient and loving when I am gone!" Her very last look was given to papa; her last word was "Jack!" [Illustration: "I GAVE A VERY FAINT KNOCK."] For a good while I did try to do things for him, and to let him see that I loved him; but I had a feeling all the time--as in the hall that night--that he didn't want me near him, and would rather not have me in the study: so gradually I gave up going there, except for a few minutes each morning to ask if he needed anything. But this morning dear mamma's words came back to me, and I felt very guilty as I ran up to the study after breakfast; I had tried faithfully to look after the brothers and sisters, but I had neglected papa; and I am afraid, in the lowness of my spirits, that I gave a very faint knock on the door. After waiting a minute or two, I opened the door, as no answer came, and stepped into the study. Papa's breakfast, which had been sent up more than half an hour before, lay cold and untasted on his desk, and papa himself knelt on the hearth; there was no fire, and in the empty grate, laid criss-cross, were pages and pages of closely written manuscript. On the chair beside him, and on the floor, were more pages of manuscript in bundles. In my father's hand was a match, which he had just drawn and was about to apply to the papers. My heart gave a tremendous throb that seemed to send it right into my throat, and I sprang forward, crying out, "Oh, papa! _papa!_ surely you are not going to _burn_ the _Fetich_!" The match fell from papa's fingers, and he looked up at me with an expression that was half bewilderment, half relief. "Eh! burn _what_?" he said. "I--I--mean--were you going to burn--your book?" I remembered in time that he did not know we called it the Fetich. "Oh, papa," I pleaded, "_why_ are you doing this? Your wonderful book, that mamma was so proud of!" Papa got up and sat in his chair, and the sadness of his face made me think of Fee's that awful night; the tears came rushing to my eyes, and I knelt down and took his hand in my two and held it fast. He let me keep it, and peered earnestly at me for a few minutes in his near-sighted way. "It might as well be destroyed; I shall never finish it--_now_" he said presently, in a low voice, as if he were speaking to himself, and looking beyond me at the Fetich in the grate. "She is no longer here to praise and encourage--my lifelong work,--a failure!" Then, all at once, a daring idea came to me; and, without giving my courage time to cool, I said quickly: "Papa! dear, dear papa,"--how my voice shook!--"_please_ let me help you with your work of an afternoon, something as mamma used to do!" I thought I saw a refusal in his face, and went on hastily: "I know quite a good deal of Latin and Greek, and I write a plain hand; I could copy for you, anyway, and I would be _very_ careful. Will you? Ah, _please_! I know she would like me to do it. And perhaps"--the words faltered--"perhaps she can see and hear us now; and if she can, I _know_ she will be glad to have me do this for you." Papa gave an eager, startled glance around the room; then he drooped his head, and covered his face with the hand I wasn't holding, and for several minutes we didn't speak. Presently he said slowly,--and the unsteadiness of his voice told me more than his words did,--"I suppose I could let you try; for I do need--some one. You might be useful to me, my dear, if you could come regularly to help me--every day; on that condition I will accept your offer, and thank you for it--" "I can--I will; _indeed_ I will!" I broke in. A look of relief came over papa's face, a faint little smile stirred his lips, and he gently patted my shoulder. "You are like your mother," he said; and turning up my chin he kissed me,--a light little kiss that just brushed my face, but I knew what it meant from him. Then, as he stooped over and began to gather up the Fetich, he added, in his usual voice: "These are some chapters that I've written lately, and become somewhat discouraged over. Help me put them back in their place on my desk, Nannie; and be careful to keep every page in its regular order." I did so, and listened attentively while he explained, with great care and insistence, what I should have to do, and how much time he would require me to spend in the study. It was not until I had left him, and was on my way to the schoolroom, that I remembered that the hours I had promised papa were those I had set aside for my violin lessons and practice. And then--I am sorry and ashamed, but I _couldn't_ help it--I ran swiftly away and hid in a corner by myself, and cried bitterly. It wasn't that I wished I hadn't made papa that offer, for I would have done it over again, even while I felt so badly; but, oh, how hard it was to give up my dear music! And I really didn't know what to do about my teacher and aunt Lindsay. [Illustration: "'I CAN--I WILL; _INDEED_ I WILL!'"] But it all came right after a while; dear old Felix came to the rescue, as he generally does, and offered to go to the conservatory and take the lessons for me, and then give them to me in the evenings in the old store-room,--that is, if aunt Lindsay didn't object. Of course I was thankful; for while Fee does not love violin music as I do, he is very thorough, and would, I know, do his best for me. So I wrote and explained to aunt Lindsay, and she did not object in the least; in fact, her letter was the nicest she has written us yet. And this is the way that things stand at present: Papa is still writing the Fetich, and I am helping him; evenings, Fee and I have great times in the store-room, with the door closed and heavily muffled, giving and receiving music lessons, and practising with our squeaky violins,--we really do have lots of fun! And now to-day comes the good news from Max that he will soon be home; he writes that he has a "surprise" for us, and of course we are all very curious. Dear old fellow! It will be such a comfort to have him among us again! V. A FRACAS AND AN ARRIVAL. TOLD BY BETTY. Of all people in the world, _Jack_ has been in a fight! Phil brought him in, and such a sight as he was! his nose bleeding, his coat torn, and a lump on his forehead as big as a hen's egg! "Why," said Phil, "I couldn't believe my eyes at first; but true it was, all the same,--there was our gentle 'rosebud' pommelling away at a fellow nearly twice his size! And what's more, when I pulled him off, and separated them, if my young man didn't fly at the other fellow again like a little cock sparrow! I could hardly get him home." "Yes, and I'd do it again!" cried Jack, ferociously, mopping his wounded nose with his handkerchief, while Nannie rushed to get water and court-plaster. "What'd he do?" asked Phil and Fee and I, all together. We knew it must have been something very dreadful to rouse Jack to such a pitch; for, as nurse says, he is one of the "most peaceablest children that ever lived." But he wouldn't tell. "Never you mind," was all he'd say. By this time Nannie had brought a basin of water and the other things, and when Fee waved his arm and called out tragically, "Gather round, gather round, fellow-citizens, and witness the dressing of this bleeding hero's wounds," we crowded so near that Nannie declared we made her nervous. Jack did look so funny, with a big bath-towel pinned round his shoulders, and the basin right up under his chin, so the water shouldn't get over his clothes! And of course, as we looked on, everybody had something to say. "Tell you what, Jack," said Phil, "you could paint the town red now, and no mistake, just from your nose; _what_ an opportunity lost!" "And I shouldn't wonder if the bridge of that classic member were broken. Oh the pity of it!" put in Fee, in mock sympathy. "You'll be a sight to-morrow,--all black and blue," remarked Nora, eyeing him critically. "I thought you were too much of a gentleman to fight on the street, Jack,--just like a common rowdy!" "I'm glad you didn't get beaten," I said; "but my! won't Miss Marston give it to you to-morrow!" She was out this afternoon. "Your nose is all swelling up!" announced Judge, solemnly, and Kathie murmured sympathetically, "_Poor_ Jack!" [Illustration: "'GATHER ROUND, GATHER ROUND, FELLOW-CITIZENS, AND WITNESS THE DRESSING OF THIS BLEEDING HERO'S WOUNDS.'"] Even Nannie--and she isn't one bit a nagger--said, "Oh, Jackie, I'm _so_ ashamed of you! Mamma wouldn't want her gentle boy to become a fighter." "Yes, she _would_ so, if she knew what this fellow did," asserted Jack, as positively as he could with the water pouring down over his mouth. "_What_ did he do?" we all shouted. "Tell us, what _did_ he do, Jack?" But Jack got furious. "None of your business!" he roared; and twisting himself away from us, he dashed out of the room, Nannie following after him, basin in hand, imploring him to let her finish dressing his nose. We really didn't mean to make him angry,--it's just a way we have of speaking out our minds to one another; but Nannie felt very sorry,--she said we had teased Jack. I felt sorry, too, when he told me all about it,--Jack generally does tell me things,--after making me promise "truly and faithfully" that I would not say "one word about it to any single person we know." Many a time since I've wished that I hadn't promised,--it isn't fair to Jack himself; but he won't let me off. Jack is really a _very_ odd boy. Well, it seems that as Felix passed along the street where Jack and some of his friends were playing, one of the boys caught up a piece of straw, and twisting it across his nose like a pair of spectacles, limped after Fee, mimicking his walk, and singing, "H'm-ha! hipperty hop!" Jack clinched his hands tight while he was telling me. "Betty," he said, "I got such a queer feeling inside; I just _swelled_ up, and if he'd been _three_ times as big, I'd have tackled him. I waited for Fee to turn the corner,--you see I didn't want him to know what Henderson was doing behind his back,--and _then_ didn't I just _go_ for him! I _tell_ you, I whacked him!" My blood fairly boiled to think that anybody could have been so contemptibly mean as to mock our dear old Fee,--as if he didn't feel badly enough about being near-sighted and lame! I would like to have gone right out and thrashed Henderson all over again; but, as Jack very truly said, "that would only make a grand row, and then the whole thing'd be sure to get to Fee's ears, and that's what we don't want." So I had to cool down. This was the reason Jack wouldn't tell the others what the trouble was--and there Felix himself had been teasing him! Nor has he said one word to anybody but me about it, though he has been blamed and punished for fighting on the street, when, if he had only told, or let me tell for him, the true reason for his acting so, I'm sure everybody would have changed their mind at once; but he will not. This was very nice of Jack,--he has some ways that really make me very fond of him; but he is also a very queer and provoking boy sometimes, as you will hear. The worst was to get through dinner that evening without papa's noticing. Of course Miss Marston would be sure to tell him as soon as she knew, and of course Jack would be punished; but he did want to put off the evil hour as long as possible. His seat at table is quite near to papa, but I come between, and I promised I'd lean as far forward as I could, all through the meal, so as to shield him. We got downstairs and settled in our places safely; but Jack was as nervous as a cat. I really think he wouldn't have minded taking his dinner _under_ the table for that one occasion; and no wonder, for everybody, even to Hannah, kept looking at him, and Phil and Felix kept passing him all sorts of things, with such unusual politeness as was enough to fluster anybody. Still, everything went well until we came to dessert; it was cottage pudding,--Jack's favourite,--and I suppose he got reckless, or forgot, in his enjoyment of it, and leaned a little too far forward, for presently papa said, very quietly, "Betty, sit properly in your chair." Of course I had to obey, and that brought poor Jack into full view. A broad strip of white court-plaster across one's nose, and a big bruised lump on one's forehead _are_ rather conspicuous things, and, I tell you, papa did stare! but he didn't say a word. Neither did Jack speak, though he knew papa was looking at him; he just kept right on eating very fast. He said afterward he'd have eaten the whole pudding, had it been before him, for he was so nervous he didn't really know what he was doing; but he got redder and redder in the face, and presently he choked,--a regular snort! I immediately flew up and pounded him on the back; but papa made me sit down again, and as soon as Jack had stopped coughing violently, he said, "Leave the table, sir, and come to my study to-morrow morning at nine o'clock." I think, had we dared, we could all have roared with laughter as Jack got up and walked out of the room; not because we didn't feel sorry for him, for we did,--I especially, knowing how it was he got into this scrape,--but he did look _so_ funny! I don't know why it is, but Jack is a person that makes one laugh without his intending in the least to be funny; it's the way he does things. I can't begin to tell you how I urged Jack to tell papa why it was he had gotten into that fight. I scolded, and coaxed, and talked, _and_ talked, but I _couldn't_ get him to say he would, nor to let me tell; in his way, I do believe he is as obstinate as Kathie. Even the next morning, when he stood at the study door, ready to knock, though his hands were as cold as ice, and he looked awfully scared, all he'd say to my repeated, "_Do_ speak out like a man, and tell it, Jack," was, "_Perhaps_." I would like to have gone right in and told papa the whole matter myself, but you see I had promised; and besides, we are none of us very fond of going into the study,--though Nannie is in there pretty often lately,--I'm sure I can't say why it is, for papa never scolds us violently: whatever he says is very quietly spoken, but I tell you every word goes home! The schoolroom bell rang while I was talking to Jack; so of course I had to go, and it was fully half an hour before he walked in and took his place. His face was very red, even his ears, and he didn't look happy; but it wasn't until after school that I had a chance to ask him anything, and he wasn't very amiable then. He had a book,--some story of wild adventure and hair-breadth escape, and he hated to be interrupted. For all that Jack is such a quiet, gentle sort of a boy, he likes to read the most exciting books, about fighting and shipwrecks and savages,--though I'm _sure_ if an Indian should walk into the room, he'd fly into the remotest corner of the closet and hide,--and the hymns he loves the best are the ones that bring in about war and soldiers. You should hear him sing, "The Son of God goes forth to war," in church! he positively shouts. So when I said, "Well, Jack, how'd you get along this morning?" he went right on turning over the leaves to find his place, and answered shortly:-- "Oh, no play out-of-doors for a week, and a double dose of that vile Latin, and a sound rating for getting into a row on the street,--that's all." "But didn't you tell him--" I began indignantly, but Jack interrupted. "He didn't ask why I did it, and I didn't tell him," he said. "What a _silly_ you are!" I cried, I was _so_ mad! "That Henderson ought to be told about and punished--now!" "Henderson is a beast!" Jack said severely; then, having come to his place in the story, he added: "Now please go away, and don't bother me, Betty; I want to read." He settled himself on the schoolroom sofa in his favourite position, with his back against the arm of the sofa, and his legs straight out along the seat, and began to read. I knew he'd get cranky if I said any more, so I went away. But for all that he called Henderson names, what did Jack do but go and make _friends_ with him just a day or two after he was allowed to go out! I was so provoked when I heard of it, that I fairly stormed at Jack; he took it all in the meekest way, and when I finished up,--with a fine attempt at sarcasm,--"If _I'd_ been you, I would have snubbed such a mean boy for at least a _week_ longer," he grinned and said, "If you'd been I, you'd have done just as I did." Then he added, in that old-fashioned, confidential way he has, "I couldn't help it, Betty; you see the boys wouldn't have a thing to do with him, or let him join in any of the games, until I had forgiven him, and I just _couldn't_ stand seeing him hanging around and being snubbed." "Oh, yes, you're very considerate for him; but _he_ will make fun of _your_ brother again to-morrow, if he feels like it," I said, still angry. "No, he _won't_" asserted Jack, positively; "'cause I told him--not disagreeably, you know, but so he'd feel I was in earnest--that if he ever did, I'd just have to thrash him again. And he said, 'A-a-h, what d'you take me for? D'you s'pose I knew 'twas _your_ brother?' And that's a good deal from Henderson, for he's an awfully rough boy. You know, Betty, you've _got_ to make allowances for people, or you'd never get along with 'em. And, besides, he looks worse than I do," went on Jack, feeling of his nose and forehead. "I really felt ashamed to think I'd hit him so hard, and,"--shuffling his feet, and looking very sheepish,--"well, you know, the Golden Rule is my motto for this year, and, as I thought to myself, what's the use of a motto, if you don't act up to it? So I just made friends with Henderson. I knew you'd say I was silly to do it, but I don't care,--I feel better; I do hate to be mad with people!" And with that he walked off, before I could think of anything to say. A lot of things happened that week. To begin with, some new people moved into the house opposite us, that has been empty for so long. It's a small house,--nurse says it used to be a stable, and was turned into a dwelling-house since she has lived here,--set quite a good way back from the street, and with a low stoop to one side and a piazza off that. A tall iron railing, with an ornamental gate, encloses a front yard in which are some forlorn-looking shrubs, a rosebush or two, and a couple of scraggy altheas. Workmen had been about the place for some time, putting everything in order, and of course we took the liveliest interest in all that went on, from the pruning of the shrubs to the carrying in of the furniture; and the day the new people moved in, Miss Marston could hardly keep us younger ones from the windows: indeed, for that matter, Nora was just as curious as we were, for all she talks about "vulgar curiosity." They came in a carriage, and there were three of them,--a tall, black-bearded man, a little, fragile-looking lady, and a tall, lanky boy, perhaps as old as Felix, with a rather nice face, who shouldered a satchel and the travelling-rugs, and brought up the rear of the procession to the house, with the end of a shawl trailing on the ground behind him. Jack heard from Henderson--who has become his shadow--that the gentleman has something to do with a newspaper, and that the boy goes to college, and Phil saw him there the other day; but it wasn't until the following Sunday, nearly a week after, that we heard their name and who they were,--and that came by way of a grand surprise. We were sitting round the schoolroom fire, talking and singing hymns, when the door opened, and who should come walking in but--Max Derwent! We _were_ surprised; for though he'd written to say he was coming, we didn't expect it would be so soon. Dear old Max! we were delighted to see him, and I do believe he was just as glad to see us. But just at first we couldn't any of us say very much; dear mamma was with us when Max was here last! After a while, though, that feeling wore away, and I tell you our tongues did fly! Max measured us all by the closet door, where he took our measurements before he went away, and he says we have grown wonderfully,--particularly Nannie. He was so surprised when he first saw her, that he just held her hands and looked at her, until Nannie said, "Why, Max, you haven't kissed me; aren't you glad to see me?" I think she felt a little hurt, for he'd kissed the rest of us,--even to Phil and Felix,--and Nannie and he used to be such good friends. "Why, Nancy Lee," Max said, "you have grown such a tall young lady since I've been away, that I didn't know whether you'd still allow me the dear old privilege; indeed I will kiss you;" and with that he stooped,--Max is tall,--and kissed her on her forehead, just where the parting of her hair begins. But Max couldn't get over her being so grown, for he kept on gazing and gazing at Nannie, and she did look sweet, sitting there in the firelight. Nora is very pretty,--her features are so regular; but Nannie has a _dear_ face: her brown eyes are big and shining, and her hair is so thick and pretty; it's light brown, and little locks of it get loose and curl up round her forehead and ears, and when she talks and laughs I think she's every bit as pretty as Nora. Somehow there's a look about Nannie's face that makes you know you can trust her through and through; I tell you I'm awfully glad she's in the family; in fact, I don't know what we'd any of us do without her, from papa to Alan. Well, we told Max every single thing that had happened--good, bad, and indifferent--since he went away, including, of course, about Phil's going to college, and Fee's not going, and about aunt Lindsay's present to Fee and Nannie,--all talking together, and as loud as we pleased (we always do with Max) until we came to the new people that had moved in across the way--and what do you suppose? Max knows them! "They are the Ervengs," he said, "and the boy's name is Hilliard,--Hilliard Erveng. The father is a partner in a large Boston publishing house that has just opened an agency here, and I shouldn't wonder if Erveng were in charge of the agency by his taking a house in New York. That's the firm I thought would buy your father's book, if he'd only finish it; but from what he told me this afternoon, it's still a long way from completion." He glanced at Nannie as he spoke, and she nodded her head sadly. "I used to know Erveng; he was a classmate of mine," went on Max, thoughtfully, wrinkling up his eyebrows at the fire. "I wonder how it would do to rake up the acquaintance again, and bring him over unexpectedly to call on the professor,"--papa's friends all call him Professor Rose,--"and surprise him into showing Erveng the manuscript!" [Illustration: "'THE BOY'S NAME IS HILLIARD ERVENG.'"] "Oh, Max, that would never, never do," cried Nannie, quickly. "You know how averse papa is to showing his work to any one; he couldn't do it, I'm sure, and it might make him very angry." "And yet, if he _did_ show it, think what a benefit to you all it might be; for I am convinced the work is one that would be an acquisition to the reading public; and Erveng would recognise that at once. Think of what it means for all of you, Nancy Lee," urged Max,--"college for Felix, drawing lessons for Nora, a fine violin for you, gymnasium for Betty, a splendid military school for Jack,"--here Jack broke in rudely with, "_Don't_ want any military school, this one's bad enough," and was silenced by Phil's hand being laid suddenly and firmly over his mouth,--"and all sorts of good things for everybody, if only Erveng sees the manuscript of the Fetich" (Max knows what we call it). Nannie still looked dubious, but Nora exclaimed: "I say, do it, Max! It does seem a shame to have us suffering for things, and that manuscript just lying down there; and perhaps then papa would stir himself a little and finish it. I declare I would like to take some of the pages over and show them to Mr. Erveng myself!" We all knew that she wouldn't; but as she said the words, an idea popped into my head, such a splendid idea--at least I thought it was then--that I nearly giggled outright with delight, and I had positively to hold myself in to keep from telling it. Happening to look up suddenly at Phil, I caught him with a broad grin on _his_ face, and winking violently at Felix, who winked back. That did not surprise me,--those two are always signalling to each other in that way; but when they both straightened their faces the instant I saw them, and assumed a very innocent expression, then I began to suspect that they were up to some mischief: little did I dream what it was, though! Phil is a _fearful_ practical joker; you never know where he's going to break out. I'm pretty bad, but he is ever so much worse; and Felix helps him every time. "What sort of a man _is_ Mr. Erveng?" asked Felix, with an appearance of great interest. Max laughed. "Well, he used to be considered rather eccentric," he said. "I remember the fellows at college nick-named him 'Old-Woman Erveng,' because--so they said--he had a large picture in his room of a fat old woman in a poke bonnet; and at the social gatherings to which he could be induced to go, he always devoted himself to the oldest and fattest ladies in the room, without noticing the young and pretty girls. _I_ thought he was rather a nice sort of fellow; what's the matter, Betty, want any assistance?" What Max said fitted in so well with the plan I had in my mind that--though I tried to keep it back--I had chuckled, and now they were all looking at me. "When Elizabeth 'chortles' in that fashion you may be sure there's mischief in her mind," Felix remarked, eyeing me severely. "Out with it, miss." "Or I'll have to garote you," put in Phil, leaning over toward me with extended thumb and finger; but I skipped away and got beside Max. "Indeed, it's you and Felix that are up to something," I retorted. "I can see it in your faces." "Oh, tell us what your 'surprise' is, Max," put in Nannie, quickly. I think she wanted to turn the conversation, and so keep us from wrangling, this very first evening that Max was with us. "Why, I've brought back a ward," answered Max. "His name is Chadwick Whitcombe. He went to-day from the steamer to stay a week or two with an old friend of his father's; then I shall bring him to see you, and I'm going to ask you _all_"--here Max looked at each one of us--"to be nice and friendly to him, for poor Chad is singularly alone: he has not a relative in the world. Though he will come into a good deal of money by and by, the poor fellow has knocked about from place to place with his former guardian, who has just died, and he has had no home training at all. May I count on your being kind to him?" Of course we all said yes,--couldn't help ourselves,--but I heard Fee sing, under his breath, so it shouldn't reach Max's ears:-- "Here comes Shad, Looking very sad; We'll hit him with a pad, And make him glad!" and when I laughed, Phil scowled at me, and muttered something about "giving him to Betty to lick into shape." I couldn't say anything, for I was right close to Max; but I made one of my worst faces at Phil. Soon after this, Max went down to the study to spend the rest of the evening with papa. VI. DISPOSING OF A FETICH. TOLD BY BETTY. I might as well tell you that my plan was to dress up, some afternoon that week, in one of nurse's gowns, and her bonnet and veil,--if I could possibly induce her to lend them all to me without having to tell why I wanted them,--and to go and call on Mr. Erveng in regard to the Fetich. What I should say when I met him didn't trouble me; you see there was really only to tell him about the book, so he might make papa an offer for it; but what _did_ weigh upon me was how to get dressed up and out of the house without being caught: there are such a lot of us that somebody or other's sure to be hanging around all the time. For several days I couldn't get a chance: Monday it rained; Tuesday afternoon Phil took Paul to the dentist, and nurse went along,--Judge is one of her pets; Wednesday afternoon Jack and a whole lot of boys played close to the house, and of course I couldn't walk right out before them,--it would have been just like Jack to run up and say something, perhaps offer to assist my tottering steps down the stoop. But at last, on Thursday, the coast seemed clear: Nannie was in the study with papa, Nora was practising, Jack was on the schoolroom sofa reading, the children in the nursery, and Phil and Felix up in Fee's room; I could hear a murmur of voices from there, and every now and then a burst of laughter. This was my opportunity. The door of nurse's room, which was next to the nursery, was open, and as I stole in, hoping she was there, that I might ask her, I saw her wardrobe door open, and hanging within easy reach a dress and shawl that would just serve my purpose. But her bonnet and veil were not in their usual place, which rather surprised me, for nurse is very particular with us about those things, and I had to hunt before I found even her oldest ones, in deadly fear all the time that I'd be caught in the act. You see, I made up my mind I'd borrow the things, and then tell her about it when I brought them back. Flying into my room, I locked the door, and just "jumped" into those clothes, as the boys would say; and I did look so funny when I was dressed, that I had to laugh. In the first place, Max had said Mr. Erveng liked fat old women; so I stuffed myself out to fill nurse's capacious gown to the best of my ability, with pillows and anything else I could lay my hands on; I think I must have measured yards and yards round when I was all finished. Then I pinned my braid on the top of my head, put on nurse's bonnet, and dividing the veil so that one part hung down my back and the other part over my face, I was ready to start. I had slipped on a pair of old black woollen gloves that I found in the pocket of my new skirt, and, stealing cautiously down the stairs, I got out of the house without meeting any one. But I can't tell you how queer I felt in the street,--it seemed as if everybody looked at me, and as if they must suspect what I was up to. I forgot all about walking slowly, like an old woman, and fairly flew up the flagged path to the Ervengs' stoop; and the ring I gave to the bell brought a small boy in buttons very quickly to the door. "I wish to see Mr. Erveng on business," I said, disguising my voice as well as I could. Then, as he murmured something about "card,"--I had entirely forgotten that,--I pushed my way past him, saying, "It is something _very_ important, that I _know_ your master will be glad to hear." This seemed to satisfy him, and he ushered me into a room which looked to be half drawing-room, half study: there were in it a sofa, some fancy chairs, a set of well-filled Eastlake book-shelves, and a desk almost as big as papa's. Portières hung at the end of the room. I took a seat near one of the long windows opening on the balcony, and began to arrange in my mind what I would say to Mr. Erveng, when suddenly, glancing toward the gate, I saw some one open it and come slowly up the walk,--a stout, elderly female, dressed in a black gown, a black shawl, and a bonnet and veil, _precisely_ like the ones I had on! Her veil was drawn closely over her face, she wore black woollen gloves, and held in one hand a black reticule--which I would have declared was nurse's--and in the other a clumsily folded umbrella. As I sat and stared at the advancing figure, I wondered if I were dreaming, and actually gave myself a pinch to assure myself I was awake. But who _could_ she be,--this double of mine? I wouldn't like to tell Jack or any of the others, you know, but I would really not have been sorry to have been at home just then. At this moment the old lady entered the room. Buttons closed the door, and we were left alone facing each other,--for I had got up when she came in,--and I must say the unknown seemed as much surprised as I was. Then all at once she began to walk round and round me; and as I didn't want her to get behind me, I kept turning too,--just as if I'd been on a pivot; I believe I was fascinated by those big eyes glaring at me through the thick black veil. "Betty! 'by all that's abominable!'" suddenly exclaimed my double; and _then_ I knew who it was. "_Phil!_ you _mean_ thing!" I cried, intensely relieved; and darting forward I caught hold of his bonnet and veil. "Hands off!" he called out, wriggling away; "an ye love me, spare me 'bunnit.'" Then, as he got to a safe distance, and threw back his veil: "Look here, old lady, if you lay violent hands on me again, I'll yell for help, and bring the house about your ears. _Then_ you'll rue it." This provoked me. "You're the one will rue it," I said. "You've just spoilt the whole thing by spying on me and following me here--" "Well, I like that!" Phil interrupted. "It seems to me the shoe's on the other foot. What are _you_ doing here, in that outrageous costume, and in a stranger's house? Whew! wouldn't there be a small circus if the _pater_ should see you! I'd feel sorry for you, I tell you. And what excuse do you propose to offer Mr. Erveng when he makes his appearance here, as he will in a few minutes?" Sidling up to me, he nudged my elbow, and added persuasively: "'There _is_ a time for _dis_-appearing.' Say, Betty, my infant, one of us has _got_ to go, so I'd advise you to fly at once. Buttons is out of the way, and in an excess of brotherly affection I'll escort you to the door myself. Come--fly!" And he nudged me again. "No," I said obstinately, "I won't go; I was here first. I'm here, and here I'll remain." "Oh, very well," said Phil, in a resigned sort of tone, seating himself in a most unladylike attitude on a three-cornered chair. "Then come sit on the edge of my chair, you little fairy, and we'll pose for the Siamese twins." [Illustration: "'COME SIT ON THE EDGE OF MY CHAIR, YOU LITTLE FAIRY.'"] But I was so disappointed I was afraid I'd cry. I had hoped _so_ much from this interview with Mr. Erveng, and here was Phil spoiling everything by his silliness. "I think you are simply _horrid_," I broke out, very crossly. "I just wish Mr. Erveng would come in and beat you, or turn you out, or _something_." "If the old man shows fight, I'll have his blood," cried Phil, tragically, springing from his chair. "Gore, _gore_! I _will_ have gore!" He did look _very_ funny, striding up and down the room and scraping his toes along the floor in our most approved "high tragedy" style, with nurse's shawl hanging over one shoulder, his bonnet crooked and almost off his head, and shaking the umbrella, held tight in a black-woollen-gloved fist, at an imaginary foe. Angry as I was, I _had_ to laugh, and I don't know what next he mightn't have done--for Phil never knows when to stop--had we not just then caught the sound of a distant footstep. Phil didn't seem to mind, but I got so nervous that I didn't know what to do. "Oh, _won't_ you go?" I cried in despair. "He'll think we are crazy! Oh, where _am_ I to go?" "Goodness only knows!" answered Phil, trying to straighten his bonnet; then, glancing around the room, "There isn't a piece of furniture here large enough to hide your corpulent form," he said. "There he comes! _Now_, I hope you're satisfied; you _wouldn't_ go when you could." Sure enough, the footsteps were almost at the door. I looked frantically about. I would gladly have escaped through the window, and climbed over the balcony to the ground; but to put aside the delicate lace curtains and unlatch the sash would have taken more time than we had to spare. Suddenly Phil cried, "The _portières_, you dunce!" giving me a push in that direction, and like a flash I got behind them. I heard Phil say "Bother!" under his breath, as he stumbled over a footstool in his haste to get seated, then the door opened, and some one entered the room. Provoked as I was with Phil, I couldn't help hoping that his bonnet was straight, and that he had on his shawl, for his figure wasn't as good as mine. I heard a strange voice--Mr. Erveng's--say: "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but I am extremely busy. Will you be kind enough to state your business as briefly as possible?" Then Phil began, imitating an old lady's voice to a nicety: "Having heard that you publish a great many books, I thought you would like to know of a very clever--really _re_markable--work which is being written by a well-known scholar who lives in this street, and that perhaps you would call on him and make him an offer for it." I knew the moment I heard this speech that Felix had made it up, and just coached Phil; it was certainly better than what I had thought of. The portières behind which I had hid only covered a door, and, though I squeezed up as tight as I could, I was awfully afraid they would part and show me underneath. But, all the same, I couldn't resist peeping to see what was going on. Phil had his back to me, but Mr. Erveng sat facing me in the swing-chair that was by his desk, and I noticed at once that he was the black-bearded man we'd seen the day the family moved in. I listened eagerly for Mr. Erveng's answer. He said very coolly: "It is not our custom to make an offer for a work of which we know nothing. Manuscripts are generally submitted to us. What is the title of this 'remarkable work'?" I didn't like the way he said this, and I thought he looked very suspiciously at Phil; but Phil didn't seem to notice it, for he answered eagerly: "It's called the Fe--'History of Some Ancient Peoples,' and I've brought you a chapter or two to look at." Here I heard a rustling, and peeping between the portières, what should I see but Phil handing Mr. Erveng some _pages of the Fetich_! I was so perfectly amazed that I had to stuff the portière into my mouth to keep from calling out; how _had_ Phil ever got hold of those chapters without papa's knowledge? I knew Nannie would never have helped him after what she had said on Sunday to Max, and how had Phil _dared_ to bring them here! What would papa say if he should know what he had done,--indeed, what we had both done! Oh, how sorry I was that I hadn't gone when Phil urged me to. When I got over my surprise a little, and again looked through the portières, Mr. Erveng stood holding the Fetich in his hands, and looking over the pages with a frown on his face. "This is curious," I heard him say. And then, suddenly, before I could guess what he was going to do, he crossed the room and drew my portières aside! At first I held on to them, with a desperate desire to lose myself in the scanty folds; but they were firmly withdrawn, and there I stood,--a fac-simile of the fat, black-robed, black-veiled person who sat on the three-cornered chair by Mr. Erveng's desk! "_Whew!_" whistled Phil, then tried to look as if he hadn't uttered a sound, while Mr. Erveng took hold of my arm and walked me over to where Phil stood. "Now," he said sternly, "I should like an explanation of this extraordinary behaviour." But not a word said either of us,--I couldn't, I was so frightened; I assure you I wished myself home! And while we stood there--Mr. Erveng waiting for an answer--the door opened, and the boy that Max had said was Hilliard Erveng came into the room. "Oh, I beg your pardon," he exclaimed, turning back, "I didn't know any one was with you." But his father called out to him, "Stay here, Hilliard!" Then turning to us he said _very_ sternly, "I have reason to think that this manuscript"--he still held the Fetich in his hand--"has been stolen from its rightful owner, of whom I have heard, and to whom I shall take pleasure in restoring his property. Unless you both at once take off what I am convinced is a disguise, and offer a full and satisfactory explanation, I shall be under the painful necessity of calling in a policeman and giving you in charge." "Oh, no! no! _no!_" I cried out. "We _didn't_ steal it--at least, it belongs to our father, and--" [Illustration: "THERE WE STOOD; A FINE PAIR WE MUST HAVE LOOKED!"] But Phil strode over to my side. "Hush, Betty," he whispered; "I'll explain." Sweeping off his bonnet and veil, he threw them--nurse's best Sunday hat!--on a chair, and faced Mr. Erveng. You can't think how comical he looked, with his handsome boy's face and rumpled hair above that fat old woman's figure. And in a moment or two, I think, I must have looked almost as comical too; for before Phil could begin, Mr. Erveng said, "I insist upon that person removing her bonnet and veil as well." So off went mine, and there we stood; a fine pair we must have looked! That boy Hilliard gave a little giggle,--Phil said afterwards he'd like to have "punched" him for it, and I felt awfully foolish,--but Mr. Erveng frowned. Then Phil began and told who we were, and how something that had been said by a friend of ours had given him, and me,--though neither knew about the other,--the idea of coming over and asking him, Mr. Erveng, to buy the Fetich (of course Phil called the Fetich by its proper name), and thinking he might like to see some of the manuscript, he had got hold of two chapters and brought them along to show. "But why this absurd disguise, if all this is true?" asked Mr. Erveng of us, looking from one to the other. I began: "Because Ma--" but Phil gave me a hard nudge of the elbow: "Max mightn't like us to tell that," he mumbled, which ended my explanation. But I was determined to get in a few remarks: "Papa doesn't know a thing about our doing this," I said very fast, for fear Phil would interrupt again, "and we don't want him to. We just came here and told you about the Fe--his book, because we were sure he'd never tell you, or let you see it, himself, and we thought if you knew of it, you would want to buy it from him, and that would make him finish it up,--papa's been _years_ writing that book,--and then Felix could go to college and--" "_Betty!_" broke in Phil, in such a sharp, angry tone, and with such a red face, that I moved away from him. "That's where I've seen you,--at college," exclaimed the boy; he talks in a slow, deliberate way, something like Judge. "They _do_ live across the way, father; I've seen him"--with a nod of his head at Phil--"going in there." "Ah, really, how kind of you to remember me!" cried Phil, with sarcasm. "Please let me have that manuscript, Mr. Erveng, and we will go home." "No," remarked Mr. Erveng, very decidedly. "There is something about the affair that I don't understand, and I shall not feel satisfied until I have restored this manuscript, which I know is valuable, to its owner, and found for myself that the story you have told me is true." "All right, then," Phil cried recklessly. "Come, Betty, let's put on our 'bunnits' and go face the music." Deeply mortified, we "dressed up" again, and went home under the escort of Mr. Erveng and his son. Hannah opened the door, and how she did stare at the two fat, black-robed, closely veiled ladies who waddled past her into the drawing-room! Hilliard did not come in with us, and when Mr. Erveng found that neither Phil nor I would answer Hannah's "Please, what name shall I say?" he took a card out and gave it to her, saying, "Ask Mr. Rose if he will be kind enough to let me see him for a few minutes." While we sat waiting, Fee came limping down the stairs and looked in on us. "Hullo!" he exclaimed in astonishment; "_two_ here? What's up?" Then he saw the stranger and stopped. "Oh, we've had a dandy time!" said Phil, throwing back his veil, "and it isn't over yet. Mr. Erveng, allow me to introduce to you my brother, Felix Rose." While the introduction was going on, papa came into the room, and the expression of his face was something that can't be described when he found that the two ladies to whom he had bowed when he entered were indeed Phil and I. Mr. Erveng stated the case as briefly as possible, making much more light of it than we had expected, and handed to papa the pages of the Fetich that Phil had brought to him. Papa said very little, but his face grew quite pale, and he accompanied Mr. Erveng to the door, where they stood talking for a few minutes; then Mr. Erveng went away. Fee had disappeared with our bonnets and veils,--we would willingly have divested ourselves of the other garments as well, but we knew he was not equal to the accumulation of pillows, shawls, and gowns which that would involve,--and we were sitting in dead silence when papa returned, and, opening the folding doors, motioned us to go into the study. Nannie sat there writing; but the merry little laugh with which she greeted our entrance died quickly away as she guessed what we had been doing, and her low, "Oh, Phil, oh, Betty, how _could_ you!" made me feel more ashamed than a scolding would have. Papa put the two chapters of the Fetich carefully away; then he took his seat at his desk and said, "Now I wish to hear the meaning of this most extraordinary and unwarrantable behaviour." For an instant neither of us spoke; then, just as I opened my mouth, Phil began. He made a very short story of it,--how, through Max, we had heard of Mr. Erveng's being a publisher, and how the story about his liking fat old ladies had put the idea into our heads to dress up and call on him, and interest him in papa's book. Papa frowned at us over his glasses. "What has Mr. Erveng to do with my book?" he asked, sternly. "And why did my son put my most cherished work into a stranger's hands without my knowledge?" "Because--" began Phil; then he got as red as a beet, and stood plucking at the skirt of nurse's gown without another word. I felt sorry for Phil. I knew that, like me, he had done it in the interest of the whole family; so when papa said a little sharply, "I am waiting for an answer, Philip," I said very quickly, "Please don't be angry with Phil, papa; we did it because we thought if Mr. Erveng knew of the Fet--book, he'd want to buy it, and then perhaps you would finish it, and sell it for a lot of money, and then Fee--um--eh--we could do lots of things." Just then the study door opened, and in came Felix, quite out of breath from hurrying up and down stairs. He saw Phil's downcast face, and hastening forward, laid his hand on Phil's shoulder, saying, "I deserve a full share of Phil's scolding, father. Betty evidently carried out her scheme without assistance, but I dressed Phil, and helped him to get off without being seen. So I know, sir, that I ought to share his punishment." "I see; then this was a conspiracy to force me to finish my work and sell it," said papa, slowly, with a grieved, shocked look in his eyes; then, turning to Nannie, he asked unsteadily: "Are _you_ in it, too? Margaret--your mother--used to urge me to--write slowly--but--perhaps I have lingered too long over it. I thank you," with a look at us, "for recalling me to my duty, though I think it would have been kinder to have spoken to me, rather than to have gone to a stranger in this way. I will finish the History--as soon--as I can." There was no anger in papa's voice, but a hurt tone that went right to my heart, and made me horribly ashamed, while Nannie flew to his side and threw her arms around his neck. "Don't take it to heart, dear papa," she pleaded, pressing her cheek against his face. "It was only thoughtlessness on their part; they _didn't_ mean to grieve you, I know they didn't. Oh, boys, Betty, speak up and assure papa of this." I began to cry out loud. I _despise_ crying, and I know papa hates it, but I simply _had_ to sob, or I would have choked. The boys felt badly, too. Fee leaned on the desk and said, low and very earnestly, "I am _so_ ashamed of myself, father. And I know Phil is, too." "I've made a great ass of myself," growled poor Phil. "I wish, sir, that you'd give me a thrashing, as if I were a little shaver,--a sound one; I know I deserve it." But papa loosed Nannie's arms from about his neck, and put her gently from him. "My dear," he said wearily, "I--I--wish you would make them all go; I want to be alone." * * * * * Papa did not come down to dinner that evening, and we were a very subdued party, though Nora tried to cheer Phil up by telling him that she knew he had done what he had for the benefit of the whole family,--she didn't tell _me_ that! "Yes," answered our eldest brother, gloomily, "it was my first attempt at that sort of philanthropy, and it'll be my last--stop staring at me, Jack, or I'll throw a bread-pill at you." "Is that what you call it, Philip?" said Miss Marston, lifting her eyebrows. "It seems to me more like that love of practical joking and the self-will that your mother was so constantly warning you and Betty against." "Indeed, then, you're right, ma'am," put in nurse, who happened to be in the room, adding, with a pointed glance at me, "I wonder what the dear lady would 'a' said to this day's conductions!" And not one of us had a word to say in reply, for we well knew how grieved she would have been. VII. NEW FRIENDS. TOLD BY BETTY. "Betty! _Bet-ty!_" called Nannie from the foot of the stairs, "tell Jack that he's got just about three minutes more, as papa has started to put on his overcoat, and he does so dislike to have us late for church. Do make him hurry!" But that, as I knew very well, was easier said than done, for Jack hates to hurry. Almost at the last minute, when we had gathered in the schoolroom to let Miss Marston see us before we started out with papa for church, it was discovered that Jack's boots needed cleaning. So now he was up in the attic, brushing away at them, and singing with all his might,-- "Thy gardens and thy goodly walks Continually are green, Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen. Right through thy streets, with pleasing sound, The living waters flow; And on the banks on either side, The trees of life do grow." Jack was just beginning the last line of this verse when Nannie called to me; so I let him finish, then I shouted up the attic stairs, "Jack, you've just got about two minutes and a half; papa has started to put on his overcoat. Are you ready?" "Most," Jack answered; "I've got one more heel to do,"--as if he'd had a dozen or so! and he actually started on another verse of the hymn. I flew up the attic steps and gazed indignantly at him through the railings: "You are the most provoking boy I ever knew," I said, "and the biggest poke! I do believe you _love_ to be late. There's everybody down in the hall ready to start, and here you are loitering as if you had hours to spare." [Illustration: "'BETTY! _BET-TY!_' CALLED NANNIE."] "Are you two coming, or are you not?" cried Phil from the hall below. "The procession is ready to start, and woe to stragglers! If service began at twelve instead of eleven o'clock, Jack, you'd still be late. Come on, Betty." "I declare, if you aren't all the greatest pack of naggers!" exclaimed Jack, impatiently, throwing down the blacking brushes and snatching up his hat; then he raced after us down the stairs and brought up the rear as we filed out of the front door. There are always so many of us to go to church--all of us children (except Alan, who goes to the children's service in the afternoon), and Miss Marston and papa--that we do make, as Phil says, a regular procession as we walk down the avenue and across the park to the old brown church every Sunday. I don't mind going in the procession, nor does Jack,--unless he's _very_ late; but Nora thinks it's horrid, and Phil and Felix always hang back for the very last, and try to look as if they didn't belong to us at all. Nannie and Mädel go with papa, Kathie and Paul with Miss Marston, and the rest of us straggle along as we like until we get to the church. It's brown and very large, and has a good deal of ivy growing all over it. It's the church where Murray Unsworth and Helen Vassah stood sponsors for their little cousin Paul; they go there and their grandfather and grandmother. Papa likes to sit away up front; so up the middle aisle we go,--oh, how the boys and Nora hate this part!--and file into the first two pews. We are always early, and sometimes it does seem so long before service begins. Jack and I sit at the upper end of the first pew, and I couldn't tell you how many times we have read the Creed and Commandments that are printed back of the chancel, and the memorials on each side. Then we look out the hymns for the day, and read them all through. Jack likes to do this; he has all sorts of odd ideas about them; for instance, he says that when he sings, "Christian! dost thou see them On the holy ground, How the powers of darkness Rage thy steps around? Christian! up and smite them, Counting gain but loss; In the strength that cometh By the holy cross," he somehow always thinks of the picture in papa's study of St. Michael and the Angel. He says he can see, right in his mind, the great beautiful angel of light triumphant in the strength of God, and under his feet the stormy evil face of the conquered Lucifer. I've got so now that I too think of the picture when I sing the hymn, and of the hymn when I look at the picture. Then in the other hymn, where it says, "Finding, following, keeping, struggling, Is He sure to bless? 'Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, Answer, Yes,'" Jack says he sees--just like a picture--a steep hill up which a whole lot of people are striving, with all their might, to climb; they're poor and tired and sick and lame, but they struggle bravely on; and by the beautiful gates at the top of the hill stands One grand and white and shining, wearing a golden crown. He bends forward and takes hold of each tired traveller as soon as he is within reach, and helps him safe within the gates; and in the hands that do this are "wound-prints." Jack always shuts his eyes and lowers his voice when he tells us about this thought of his; only Nannie and I know of it, and while I am hearing about it I always feel quiet. How he _does_ enjoy singing! His little body seems to expand, and you'd be astonished at the noise that he can make. This particular Sunday that I am telling you about my ears were fairly ringing as Jack joined in the chorus of "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and I wasn't sorry when Phil leaned over from behind and whispered, "Say, Rosebud, you're not detailed to lead the choir, you know." Even the choir-master looked at him; but, perfectly regardless of everything and everybody, Jack sang through the five long verses, and sat down with the air of having thoroughly enjoyed himself. I made up my mind, though, that I'd say something about it on our way home; but just as we were coming down the church steps Jack gave my arm a nudge. "There are your friends," he said, with a grin,--"the two of 'em; just see Phil and Felix scoot!" And when I turned quickly to see, who should it be but Mr. Erveng and Hilliard! Mr. Erveng has been over to call on papa since that horrid afternoon that he escorted Phil and me home; but Hilliard didn't come with him, and we weren't sorry,--I mean Phil and I,--for we both felt foolish about meeting him; we hadn't forgotten that giggle of his when we took off our bonnets and veils that day in his father's library, and I think we both felt that we didn't want to know him any better. Mr. Erveng and papa walked across the park together, talking, and as we all followed behind,--Felix and Phil were out of sight,--who should come up beside me and lift his hat but that Hilliard! "May I walk with you part way home?" he asked, "I want to say something to you." He speaks slowly, deliberately, and has a way of half-closing his eyes when he's talking, that gives him a sleepy look,--though he can open them very wide too, sometimes; and he's sallow, and has lots of freckles. Altogether, he isn't nearly as good-looking as our boys, or Murray Unsworth; still he has rather a nice face, and we've found out that he is just as gentle and nice as a girl to his mother,--I mean in waiting on her and doing things for her. But all the same, I don't know whether I like him or not; you see he's never had a sister, never been much with girls, and he's got such silly, prim ideas about them. Well, to go back: when he asked that, I said, "Oh, yes, I suppose so;" but Jack says my tone wasn't very polite. I didn't mean to be impolite, but seeing him brought that horrid afternoon right to my mind, and I could just hear him giggle all over again; I assure you Phil and I'll not try that sort of thing again,--not if the Fetich never gets sold. And evidently that was in his mind, too; for he said, "I want to apologise for being so rude as to laugh that day in my father's office,"--that's the way he talks, so formal, as if he were as old as papa,--"and for guarding--" "We didn't think it was at all polite, I must say," I broke in. But he went right on; that's another of his ways,--if one interrupts him fifty times in a remark, he'll listen, but make no reply until he's finished what he started out to say. Now I think that's provoking,--I wonder how he'd get on if he lived in our family!--and it makes the person that interrupts feel very small and nettled, too. "And for guarding you and your brother home, as if I doubted your word," he finished. Well, now, do you know, I hadn't ever thought about that part,--his going along to guard us,--until he said this; and then, all at once, I felt very angry. "I think it _was_ very, _very_ rude of you," I said decidedly, "and I really wish you would go away and walk with your father, or by yourself--" "Why, _Betty_!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise; then, leaning across me, he said politely, "_Please_ don't think that Betty is a rude girl, for indeed she isn't; but she is awfully quick-tempered, and when she gets mad she is apt to say lots of things that she doesn't mean. She is really quite a nice girl. I'm Jack Rose, her brother; so you see I ought to know." "So you should; I'm glad to meet you," Hilliard said, shaking hands with Jack. Then he added to me: "I _do_ hope you and your brother will let us be friendly. I've told my mother about you both, and she wants so much to know you and your sisters. Perhaps some of you would come over and see her? She is very much of an invalid, and is not able to go out, except for a drive now and then; but when she is well enough to see them, she enjoys having visitors." I was ashamed of having spoken so sharply, but I _didn't_ want to go and see Mrs. Erveng; so all I could say was, in a lame sort of way, "Thank you; perhaps--if papa says we may." Instead of letting the matter drop there, he must needs go on: "I have tried several times to speak to your brother,--at college, and once on the street,--but he seems to avoid me," he said. "I wanted to explain to him; I was afraid you might think my father was severe, but he really didn't beli--he didn't suppose--that is, the young people we've known--" He stopped, looking awfully red and embarrassed, then ended up with, "I'm afraid I'm making an awful muddle of it, but I'm really very sorry; I hope you and your brother will understand that." By "brother" I think he meant Phil, but Jack took it to himself. "Of course, oh, certainly," he said, nudging my elbow to say likewise, and bobbing his head round my shoulder. But I wouldn't, for I understood, just as well as if Hilliard'd said it, that he--they all--thought our coming over to his house, as we had done, to sell the Fetich, was a very queer proceeding. Miss Marston had said that they must think me very unladylike. She so often tells me people think that of me that I've got used to it and don't mind; but I felt _very_ uncomfortable when it occurred to me that perhaps this boy and his father and mother thought so too. "Why didn't you say right out that you thought my dressing up and coming over to your house that way was very queer and unladylike?" I demanded. "I know it's what you think." He opened his mouth to speak, but I went on quickly: "Pooh! that's _nothing_ to what I _can_ do. I can slide down three flights of banisters without one swerve, and make worse faces than any one we know, and whistle, and brandish Indian clubs, and fence and climb besides, and, oh! lots of other things that only boys do; why, I'm strong enough to be able to thrash Jack--there _now_!" "I'd just like to see you try it!" put in Jack, hastily, ruffling up; then, in an undertone, with a nudge of his elbow, "Oh, come now, Betty, _do_ behave yourself." But Hilliard just looked at me--his eyes were wide enough open now--as if I were some strange kind of animal; he really looked shocked. I wondered what he would think of some of my performances at home, and I couldn't resist saying, "I suppose the girls that you know never do such things?" "Not when they are as old or as tall as you are," he answered quietly. Just then Miss Marston and the little ones and Nannie and Nora came up to us, so I introduced Hilliard to them, and as soon as we saw that Nora was talking to him, Jack and I dropped behind and kept there. "Betty," said Jack, severely, as we turned away, "you are really a most provoking girl! I told that boy that you were nice, and you turned right round and acted _abominably_. What possessed you? I didn't hear him say one thing to make you angry." "Jack," I answered, "sometimes you're as dense as a London fog. That boy is a conceited poke because he has no sister; and you'd be just like him if I weren't here to train you." "Well, I declare!" exclaimed Jack, indignantly. "Talking about conceit,--where do you put yourself?" Two hands came suddenly between us; a pleasant voice said, "Let's talk about the sermon, and see which of us remembers most of it;" and there was Max. He had been in church, he said, but stopping to speak to some one had detained him, and he was now going home to have dinner with us,--which meant a visit with papa after dinner, and then a nice long talk with us in the schoolroom. Max is so nice about that; he never slights us. In fact, I think he spends more and more time with us, for he and Nannie have started in to play violin and piano duets together, and he comes one week-evening to practise. He has lent her his violin,--a beauty!--and he takes the piano part. His ward--"the great Shad," as Phil and Felix call him--has not yet arrived; but Max told us this Sunday, as we walked along, that he expected him to be in the city very soon, "and then," he said, "I shall bring him round to be introduced to you young people." When we reached our house, Hilliard said good-bye, and ran across to his own gate; but Max, Mr. Erveng,--Max has been to call on the Ervengs, and has renewed acquaintance with his college-mate,--and papa stood talking for a few minutes before they separated. As we entered our door, Nannie was right behind me, and I heard her say to Felix in a low voice, "Look at papa as he stands between those two men; don't you think he looks _very_ old and worn?" "Well, he's years older than they, isn't he?" asked Fee, turning to look. I too craned my neck for a glimpse, but barely caught sight of the top of papa's hat over Phil's shoulder. "Not so many," Nannie said; "he is eight years older than Mr. Erveng, and ten years older than Max. Not enough to show such a difference." "Why, he looks twenty years older than either of them;" then, lowering his voice,--but I heard him,--Felix added, "Poor old _pater_! He seems to enjoy talking to Mr. Erveng; but do you know, Nannie, I'm _awfully_ sorry we played that joke about the Fetich. I fancy he hasn't been quite the same since." "No, he hasn't, and he's working desperately to get the book finished; he even works in the evening, when he used to read as a recreation. I hope he won't get ill." Then the front door closed, and there was a general rush upstairs to take off coats and hats. I wasn't very happy the rest of that day; Nannie's remark about papa, and what that disagreeable boy across the way had said, kept coming back and coming back to me, so that I really got quite unhappy over it, until I told Nannie the whole thing that night, and then I began to feel better. Though Nannie always tells you right out if you've been wrong, she is also sure to say something to comfort you. I was in the schoolroom the next afternoon, practising, when suddenly the door flew open, and in bounced Jack, in a state of wild excitement. "Oh, think of it! _think_ of it, Betty!" he exclaimed joyously, "I'm going to sing--to _sing_! just think of it!" "Why, you've been doing that for a long time, haven't you?" I asked, with a lively recollection of what I had endured only yesterday. "Oh, but this is different; it's to be in church,--I mean in the _choir_,--and I'm to be _paid_ for it!" "What! really?" I gasped in astonishment. "Why, Jack! _Do_ tell me all about it!" [Illustration: "'WHY, YOU'VE BEEN DOING THAT FOR A LONG TIME, HAVEN'T YOU?' I ASKED."] This he was only too delighted to do; but he was so excited that he could not sit still, and he kept walking backward and forward before me while he was speaking. "Well, it was this way," he said; "just now, while I was playing in the yard, Hannah said papa wanted to see me. Of course I thought right away that something must be wrong, and I didn't feel very happy over it, I can tell you; but when I got to the study, there was papa with a big piece of news for me. Mr. Hawkins from our church had come to see him to ask if he would let me sing in the choir, and was waiting in the drawing-room for my answer! Why, I'd have been glad to sing there for nothing, you know; but when papa went on, and said I would get fifty cents for each Sunday that I sang, I was so delighted, Betty, that I really couldn't say a word. But I guess papa knew by my face how overjoyed I was, for he patted my shoulder and said, 'Well, then, you can go in the drawing-room and tell Mr. Hawkins that you will accept his offer, and be at rehearsal on Friday evening;' and then he spoke about what an honour it was to be chosen to sing God's praises in His own house. I tell you what, Betty, I'm going to try to be a very, _very_ good boy; now aren't you glad for me?" Indeed I _was_ glad, and I told him so; and then what do you think he said? Why, he came close to me, with his clasped hands behind his back, and rocked himself to and fro on his heels and toes; his eyes were shining with delight. "Betty," he said, "I'm to get fifty cents a week at first, and more, Mr. Hawkins says, just as soon as I can read music readily. Now I'm not going to spend one cent of it,--not a single penny. I'm going to save it up until I get a lot, and then,--what d'you think? I'm going to _send Felix to college_! Isn't that a splendid scheme? now isn't it? You see," he went on eagerly, "I've been praying for a way for Fee to go,--you have, too, haven't you? and Nannie,--and I think God has just answered our prayers by letting me get this." "Yes; but won't it take an awfully long time at that rate to save enough to send Fee?" I asked. "Oh, not so _very_ long," Jack replied cheerfully. In the exuberance of his joy he took hold of the schoolroom table and threw his heels in the air; he looked so funny that I could have roared with laughter,--Jack is as clumsy as a cow! Then all at once he remembered something, and coming over to me said, very impressively, "Now, remember, Betty, you're not to say one word about this to Fee,--not a word; I sha'n't mention it to any one beside you, but Nannie, and she wouldn't tell; and then, when we've got enough, we'll give it to Fee, and tell him what it's for. Hoopla!" And again he embraced the table and threw his heels in the air. VIII. A RESOLUTION. TOLD BY BETTY. Two or three days after this--after school hours--Nannie came flying into the schoolroom, where we all were, and announced that some of us had been invited to take tea with the Ervengs that afternoon. While we sat in surprised silence, she went rapidly on to explain: "Such a nice little note to papa, written by Mrs. Erveng: this is one of her 'good days,' and she would like so much to make our acquaintance; would four of us come over and take tea, etc. Hilliard brought the note just now, and papa told him that some of us would be happy to accept." She paused and looked mischievous as a groan broke from us. "I know you are all dying to hear who are to go," she said, "so I'll put you out of your suspense at once; Phil--" "No, you don't! I haven't any 'bunnit,'" broke in Phil. "You don't catch me going over there again in a hurry, I can tell you." "But you ought to go, Phil, really you ought," Nannie said. "You and Betty ought to go over and apologise to Mr. and Mrs. Erveng for the way in which you two Goths invaded their house. Fee, papa says you are to go, too," she added to her twin. "Oh, but this is too bad of the _pater_!" exclaimed Felix, colouring up; "he knows how I hate to go among strange people. I declare, I _won't_ go!" "Go tell the governor so--go _now_, while you're in the humour for it," urged Phil, with suspicious eagerness; "and--um--while you're about it, you know, just mention incidentally that those are my sentiments, too, will you?" "Nonie, you're to lend grace to the entertainment," went on Nannie, with twinkling eyes. "Who, me? I?" exclaimed Nora, quickly. "Oh!" Then, recovering herself the next minute, she said coolly, "Well, I'm perfectly willing to go; for that matter" (with that superior air that does so provoke us), "some of us ought to have gone long ago, and called on the Ervengs,--Miss Marston says so, too,--to apologise for and explain the, to say the least very peculiar, conduct of some other members of our family." And here she looked at me,--just as if Phil were not more to blame than I in that horrid affair of the Fetich! I made a face, and Phil said: "Oh, come, now, Nora, we've heard that before; so do spare us the rest. Who else is to be a victim, Nancy?" "Betty fills up the sum of the 'some,'" answered Nannie; "papa thinks she certainly ought--" "I _won't_ go, I won't, I will not," I interrupted. "That boy is too conceited for anything, and I'm not going over there to be criticised,--so now! I don't want any of their old tea, and I'd just like to be ill or to hide away or something, so's not to go." "Let's you and I run away," suggested Phil, in a stage whisper behind his hand; then, striking an attitude, he extended his long arms: "Come, fair damsel, come, we'll fly to other climes,--the attic or the cellar, _anywhere_, so it be not to the Ervengs'." He made a sudden snatch at me, but I was prepared,--I know him of old!--and, dodging under his arm, darted round the table and soon put a wide distance between us. "Then nobody's going," asserted Jack; he sat on the edge of the schoolroom table, grinning and hugging his knees, which were drawn up to his chin. "Not a one!" "No, _sir_!" "No, _indeed_!" answered Phil, Felix, and I, in one breath. "I do think you are all the rudest, most unmannerly creatures!" exclaimed Nora, indignantly. "These people have been polite enough to invite us to their house, have taken the trouble to prepare for us, when really the attention should have come from us to them, and here you all act as if they had insulted us. Positively, you are a most uncouth set. _I_ am very much pleased with Mrs. Erveng's invitation, and I am going, if no one else does. Rude things!" She started for the door; but Phil got before her, and salaamed to the floor. "What _would_ we do without you, O most noble and elegant Eleanora!" he cried, as he bobbed up and down; and limping over, Fee stared at her through and under and over his glasses. "Friends," he exclaimed, turning to us and putting on an expression of intense astonishment, "allow me to call your attention to this remarkably healthy variety of a well-known plant, Miss"--with a wave of his hand toward Nora--"Miss Prim Rose." "You think that's very smart, don't you?" Nora said, getting red, and tossing her head. Jack flew down from the table, and over to Nora's side, calling out, "Now you just stop teasing her, Felix!" and Phil threw an arm round her, and pulled her down on his lap, saying, "Don't ruffle yourself over such trifles, old lady; keep cool!" I laughed, and Nannie put in quickly, "Nora is quite right: it _was_ our place, as old residents, to call first on the Ervengs,--particularly under the Fetich circumstances; and when they are kind enough to overlook our remissness, and invite us to visit them, we ought at least to appreciate the attention, not rail at it. Anyway, it was papa who decided which of us should go. I would certainly have been included in the number had I not something to do for him this afternoon and evening; I would have liked to go. So do behave yourselves!" "Nancy Lee on etiquette," said Felix, with a grimace, while Nora struggled away from Phil's encircling arm with a sharp, "Of _course_ I am right!" and stalked out of the room, her nose in the air. Now perhaps you think because we said all this that we didn't go to the Ervengs'; well, we did, the whole four of us, and that very afternoon. Though we fret and fume over things beforehand, we generally end by doing just as papa says about them. One reason for this is that, when it comes to the point, none of us are willing to tell him that we won't obey. Papa's very gentle, but he expects us to do as he says, and dear mamma always made us mind; so, as I said, it generally ends by our following orders. Still, sometimes it is a great satisfaction to "spunk up" beforehand, as Phil calls it, and just speak out our minds in the bosom of our family. And after that,--it's the funniest thing! but do you know, we'll almost always turn right round and do just what we said we wouldn't do, as meek as lambs. I don't know if all large families are like this, but it's our way. Well, to go back to the tea. Nora was very glum on the way over,--she usually is when she's on her high horse,--but the boys seemed to be in great spirits, for they just giggled to the Ervengs' very door, and barely had a straight face when Buttons appeared. I fancied that he looked curiously at me, and I wondered uncomfortably if he knew that Phil and I were the two fat old black-robed ladies he had admitted the other day. Mr. Erveng was out, for which Phil and I weren't sorry; but Hilliard met us in the hall and took us upstairs to his mother's sitting-room, where she was lying in an invalid's chair with a white shawl round her shoulders. She's very pretty,--Hilliard isn't a bit like her,--but she looks very delicate and fragile; why, her hands are like _mites_, and she's very, _very_ gentle, and speaks in a low voice. She welcomed us very cordially, and said she thought it was so kind of us to come,--here I thought of our remarks at home, and didn't dare look at Phil and Fee,--and she and Nora seemed to get on nicely. [Illustration: "HILLIARD SHOWING HIS MICROSCOPE AND HIS 'SPECIMENS.'"] Very soon Hilliard carried the boys off to show them his microscope and his "specimens," and what he called his home-gymnasium. I should have loved dearly to go, too, but nobody asked me; so there I had to sit primly on a chair and listen while Mrs. Erveng and Nora talked of books and pictures and music and all sorts of things. And while they talked I looked around the room; Nora said afterward that I stared at everything, until she was ashamed,--but what else was there for me to do? And it was such a pretty room! furnished in light blue, with touches of yellow here and there; some lovely pictures hung on the walls, a graceful bronze Mercury stood on a pedestal between the curtains of one of the windows, growing plants were scattered about, and everywhere were books and flowers. It was all very sweet and lovely: it matched well with Mrs. Erveng, who looked daintiness itself lying back on her silken cushions, and I ought to have enjoyed it; but in some way or other it made me feel uncomfortably big and clumsy and overgrown, and I couldn't get over the feeling. Nora, however, didn't seem to be troubled in this way; I couldn't but notice how pretty she looked, and how well she talked. You mustn't think that Mrs. Erveng slighted me, for she didn't,--she was very polite; but I had a feeling all the time that she just looked upon me as a great rough tomboy,--thinking of that horrid Fetich affair! for she certainly didn't treat me as she did Nora, and there are only fourteen months between us, if Nora _is_ so tall, and acts so grown up. At home we make great fun of Nora's airs and graces, and even that night Phil nudged me, when no one was looking, and whispered, "Do see the frills Nonie's putting on!" but all the same I think both Felix and he were very glad that she could carry off things so well. We had tea in the cosiest little room on the same floor, and we couldn't but notice how Hilliard waited on his mother,--just like a girl would have done; indeed, he was very much more gentle and helpful than I could have been, I am afraid,--though Fee used to be like that with mamma. After tea Nora played; I was asked, too, but I could no more have got through a piece without breaking down than I could have flown. She didn't feel so, though, and did splendidly; she is really a fine pianist, Miss Marston says. After that we sang college songs, and about nine o'clock, or a little after, we four went home. "Unfortunately, I am not able to return any visits," Mrs. Erveng said, when we were leaving, "but if you or your sisters will take pity on my loneliness, and come over to see me whenever you can spare an afternoon or evening, I shall consider it very friendly, and I shall be very glad to see you." She looked at Nora, and Nora answered very sweetly, "Thank you for our pleasant evening, Mrs. Erveng; we shall be glad to come again." Now I never would have thought of saying that! Then we all bade good-night and went home. Hilliard walked to our door with us, and as he shook hands for good-night he said to me, "I'm very glad you came over; mother and I enjoyed it. I hope you'll come again; you see we get very quiet sometimes, just she and father and I." I was surprised that he didn't say this to Nora, for he had talked almost entirely to her,--very little to me during the evening; but I suppose he did it so I shouldn't feel slighted,--as if I cared! Phil admits that he likes Hilliard better than he did, and Felix, who had a long talk with him, says "he's bright, and 'way up in the classics." Well, he may be all that, but all the same I think he's a poke. I don't like him very much. I have a feeling that he went home and told his mother what I said about making faces and sliding down banisters, and that--with the Fetich affair--she thinks I'm a great rough girl. I don't really care, you know, for I have other friends who like me and think I am nice,--Murray and Hope Unsworth and Helen Vassah are always glad to have my company,--but still it _isn't_ comfortable, now that I'm growing older, to be treated as if I were a child. I didn't say much while Nora and the boys were giving Nannie an account of our evening,--they had enjoyed it; but later, when we were alone up in our room, it all came out. She said: "What's wrong, Miss Elizabeth?"--that's one of her pet names for me. "You look as sober as a judge; didn't you enjoy yourself this evening?" And then I told her all about it, though really there wasn't much to tell when we came to it, for Mrs. Erveng had been very polite and nice, and the boy had treated me politely, too. I was afraid Nannie would think I was making a mountain out of a molehill, as nurse says. But that's one of the lovely things about Nannie,--she understands just how things are, and so quickly. She came over and sat on the edge of the bed, and taking one of my hands in hers, kept smoothing it while she talked. "It means this, dear," she said, "that you are getting to be quite grown up, and that the time has come for you to put away rough, hoidenish ways, and to begin to be gentle and dignified, like the true lady that we all know you are at heart. You see we are accustomed to your ways, and while we may tease and scold one another here at home, we also make allowances for the different ones as an outsider would never do, because we love one another--see? Mrs. Erveng and Hilliard simply know you as a tall girl who looks quite a young lady, and naturally they are surprised when you act like a tomboy. You know, Betty, you are nearly as tall as Nora; now just imagine her sliding down the banisters, wrestling with the boys, climbing the fence in the yard, hanging to the tops of the doors, and making the horrible faces that you do!" But my imagination couldn't picture such an impossibility as Nora and I acting alike. "I couldn't--I _couldn't_ be like Nora," I declared, sitting up in bed. "I know she's got nice manners and all that,"--I had never really thought so till that evening,--"but, oh! I _couldn't_ be as prim and--and--proper as she is--" Here my voice began to shake, and I got so sorry for myself that the tears came. Then Nannie put her arms round me, and gave me a hug. "You needn't be like anybody but yourself," she said,--"the nicest, gentlest, and best part of yourself. Give up one hoidenish way at a time; that will be easier than trying to do all at once, you know. Suppose you begin by walking down the stairs to-morrow morning to breakfast, instead of sliding down on the banisters, as you usually do." "Oh, but you don't _know_ how awfully hard that'll be to do," I said tearfully; "our banisters are so broad and smooth, and one goes so swiftly down them,--almost like flying--" "I don't suppose it will be easy to give up the habit," broke in Nannie, wiping my eyes with her handkerchief; "but all the same, Miss Elizabeth, I am confident that if you really make up your mind to stop sliding, you'll do it. You can't keep up such a tomboyish trick all your life, and now is a good time to begin, _I_ think. Dear mamma used to say that everybody had to have some responsibility or other; why not begin to take up yours now? Helen Vassah is only about six months older than you are, and here she has the responsibility of being little Paul's godmother. And there's Hope Unsworth a little younger than you; you know how she helps her grandmother in her charitable work. They are certainly not 'prim or proper;' they are full of fun, yet they wouldn't either of them ever think of doing the rough things that you do,--now would they?" I had to admit that I knew they wouldn't. "Then," said Nannie, "don't you do them either. Take yourself as your responsibility, and show us what you can accomplish in that line. Will you, dearie?" She snuggled her head close up to mine on the pillow as she said this. "Oh, _dear_!" I sighed, "I do wish Jack had been I, and I'd been Jack!" "Even then you would have had to stop such childish tricks some time or other before you grew up. With all his larks, Phil doesn't do them; and think of papa's coming down to breakfast on the banisters!" Nannie and I had to laugh at the very thought. "Well," I said presently, "perhaps I'll try; but that conceited boy'll think he's made me do it." "Oh, no, he won't!" Nannie said, in a tone of conviction that was very comforting. "If he does think now that you're inclined to be a hoiden, why, he'll soon change his mind, when he finds what a nice, sweet little lady you are from day to day. _Don't_ look so dismal, Miss Elizabeth; there's lots of fun left for you!" "I'll try; but I _know_ I'll forget, time and again," I said, sighing heavily. "I don't think there'll be so very many slips," Nannie answered cheerfully; "but if there should be, we'll just do as Rip Van Winkle did,--'we won't count' them." "And will you promise not to tell anybody that I'm trying--not a single creature--not even Felix or Jack?" I asked anxiously. "I _will_ promise not to tell anybody--not a single creature--not even Felix or Jack," Nannie replied, laughing. "Does that satisfy you? Now," she added, "I'm going to say my prayers here beside you, and I'm going to ask our Lord to help you keep your word; you'll ask, too, won't you?" I nodded, and as she knelt down slipped my hand into hers; a few minutes after I was asleep. IX. MAX'S WARD. TOLD BY BETTY. No less than three birthdays in our family fell in the next week: first Fee's and Nannie's,--which I suppose I ought really to count as one, as they are twins,--and then Nora's. As these birthdays _will_ always come together, and to avoid hurting people's feelings, as Jack would say, we celebrate them alternately,--Fee's and Nannie's one year, and Nora's the next; and this was Nora's year. We had had several performances lately, so Fee said he'd try to think of something else, if we'd all promise to do just as we were told. Of course we promised; then he and Phil invited the Unsworths and Helen Vassah and that boy across the way,--I didn't want _him_, but all the others did, so he was asked. Hope was at her grandma's, so she couldn't come; but Murray and Helen did, and, _of course_, Hilliard. The birthday fell on a Friday, and as papa is always at home on that evening, we were afraid he wouldn't allow us to celebrate it; but to our great joy he told Nannie to tell us that we might have all the fun we wanted, as long as we behaved ourselves and kept the doors closed, so the noise would not escape. So right after school hours Phil and Felix took possession of the schoolroom, and after having got us to give them all our presents for Nora, they locked themselves in. "We're going to have a bang-up entertainment, now, you'll see," Felix said, just before he closed the door,--"something unique, unprecedented, etc.; and no one is to put even a nose into the banqueting hall"--with a wave of his hand over his shoulder--"until the doors are thrown open and the music strikes up. Now remember--" "Yes, and no snooping or hanging around either!" put in Phil, standing on tip-toe to rest his chin on Fee's crown and glare at us. Then the door was locked. Such a hammering and dragging about of furniture you never heard; and when every now and then Phil would come out for something or other, Fee would open the door very cautiously, as if afraid somebody'd see something, and shut and lock it with a bang when he re-entered. As you may imagine, our curiosity was excited to the highest pitch to know what we were going to have. Then just before dinner Jack came running in, in a great state of excitement; he had been to rehearsal, and had done so well in the piece he had to sing that Mr. Hawkins had really engaged him, at fifty cents a week, with the promise of more as he improved. Jack was almost wild with delight. "Isn't it fine! Isn't it just jolly! You should have heard me sing; really, it didn't sound bad!" he exclaimed about twenty times; and the knowing looks and nudges and winks that he bestowed on me couldn't be counted. No amount of snubbing could repress him. It seemed to us as if dinner would never be over; but at last it came to an end, and Jack and I and the younger children flew upstairs and stood waiting for the signal to enter the "banqueting hall." In a few minutes more up came Nora, with Helen and Murray and Hilliard. I was sure Murray and Helen would enjoy the "festive occasion," for they like the things that we do; but I didn't know how that boy would take it. He was very smiling, however; and I heard him tell Nora, as he presented her with a lovely bunch of roses, that it was "very kind of her to allow him to be of the party." Just then the schoolroom doors were thrown open, and the strains of the wedding march from Lohengrin floated sweetly out to us from violin and piano. At the same moment Phil appeared with a paper flower in his buttonhole, and arranged us in couples,--Nora and he going first,--and so we marched into the schoolroom. I think perhaps I ought to describe the schoolroom to you, for it is playroom, sitting-room, schoolroom, and everything to us. It's on the top floor,--so that our noise sha'n't disturb papa,--and takes in the whole width of the house and half its length, making an immense room. There are some back rooms on this floor, and the large open space on each side of the stairs is what we call the attic. Though almost everything in it is old and shabby, we do have royal times in the schoolroom, for it is our own, and out of study hours we can do there as we please. Here are Phil's banjo and his boxing-gloves, and a lot of what nurse calls his "rubbish"; Fee's easel is in this corner, and a couple of forlorn, dirty old plaster casts which--unless he has a painting-fit on him--generally serve as hat-rests for Phil and himself. Pictures in various stages of completion stand about. Here, too, are Nannie's and Fee's violins, resting against a pile of old music that Max gave them before he went away. In the next corner, the other side of the low, deep-silled windows, hangs Nora's china-shelf, on which are ranged what the boys call her Lares and Penates,--vases and pretty cups and saucers that have been given to her. Here, too, are her plants, conspicuous among which is a graceful fan-leaved palm, known in the family as Lady Jane. These are the front corners; and between the windows stand our book-shelves,--they are in a clumsy, unsteady old case, that rocks from side to side if you touch it, and is only held together by the wall against which it leans. The shelves are rather short,--now and then a shelf slips off its notches and spills our library,--and they are so narrow that books constantly fall down behind, and lie there until house-cleaning or a sudden desire for one of those volumes brings them all to light, and they are restored to their places. One of the other--back--corners is mine; and here I have my "gymnasium,"--my Indian clubs and dumb-bells; here, too, are my tennis racket (I love to play!) and two old walking-canes with which (when I can get him to do it) Jack and I fence,--dear me! I wonder if I shall have to give _that_ up too, now that I have given that promise to Nannie! Then comes our sofa: it's an old-fashioned, chintz-covered affair, with a high back and high arms that stick straight out at each end, and it's dreadfully shabby now; but all the same there isn't one of us--except, perhaps, Nora--that would be willing to exchange it for the handsomest piece of furniture that could be offered us. The times we've played house and shipwreck, and gone journeys on it, and romped and pranced all over it, can't be counted! This is Jack's favourite place to sit and read; and under it, concealed from public view by the deep chintz flounce that runs around the front and sides of the sofa, are stored his treasures,--his books and stamp album, a queer-looking boat that he has been building for ages, and a toy steam engine with which he is always experimenting, but which, so far, absolutely refuses to "go." I have frequently offered to share my corner with Jack, and I couldn't understand why he always refused, until one day I accidentally over-heard him speaking about it to Nannie. "You see, Nannie, Betty means well," he said, "but she does hit out so with those clubs! I'd be sure to get hurt some time or other; and then, besides, she'd just own my things more than I would myself." Of course this last part isn't really so, for he hasn't a thing that I'd care for; but still he sticks to the sofa. [Illustration: "THE 'QUEEN OF THE REVELS.'"] Kathie and the twins and Alan have the other corner with their doll's house, a tail-less hobby horse, known both as the "palfrey" and the "charger," and blocks and toys without number. We've a piano in the schoolroom for practising, and in the middle of the floor is a large table, round which we sit in and out of school hours. This table has no cover; it is liberally besprinkled with ink stains, and adorned in many places with our initials, and with circles done in red ink,--goals for feather-top playing,--and pieces have been hacked out of the edges, trying the sharpness of sundry new knives. The old table is not at all ornamental, but we couldn't get on without it, and we older ones have quite an affection for our old Jumbo. Some pictures--three or four of them by Felix--are hung up on the walls. And now you know how our schoolroom looks. But a grand transformation had taken place: all our stage property had been utilised; the pictures were draped with red, white, and blue paper muslin; the "statuary" and plants were arranged about the room with an eye to a fine effect; great bunches of paper flowers bloomed in every available place,--even on the gas fixtures! The large table was too heavy to be pushed aside, but it was covered with Murray Unsworth's big flag, which gave it quite a festive appearance; while the smaller table over in the corner, though partially concealed by the dining-room screen, gave tempting glimpses of "refreshments." Nannie was at the piano, and beside her was Fee, playing away on his violin with all his might. At the farther end of the room, on a dais, was Miss Marston's chair, covered with red paper muslin, and here, after we had promenaded several times round the room, Phil seated Nora, announcing her the "Queen of the Revels," which so struck Jack's fancy that he gave his hand a little upward jerk, and shouted, "Hurray for we!" And then, though of course we oughtn't to have done it, being for ourselves, you know, we every one joined in a "three times three" hurrah! Kathie and the little ones got so excited that they fairly yelled, and we had some difficulty in quieting them. When order was restored, Phil and Felix brought from the closet a large clothes-basket, piled full of neatly tied-up parcels of all sizes, which they placed beside Nora. Fee then made a sign to Phil. "Begin!" he whispered. Phil struck an attitude, with his hand on his heart, and began, "Fair Queen!" then stopped, looked astonished, put his hand to his forehead, gazed at the floor and the ceiling, then burst out with:-- "When these you see, Fair maid, remember we; As we've remembered you, And given you your due." "_That_ isn't what you were to say, you goose!" exclaimed Felix, wrathfully. "That isn't your speech!" "Don't talk to me about your old set speeches, when a man can rise to an occasion like _that!_" remarked Phil, loftily, straightening up and throwing back the lapels of his coat with a great air. "_Poetry!_--d'ye mind that, Mr. Wegge? The genuine article, and at a moment's notice! At last I've struck my vocation." Of course we laughed uproariously; we were in the mood for it, and would have laughed if some one had held up a finger at us. Felix then made his speech, expressing our love and wishes for many, many (I believe there were six manys) happy returns of Nora's birthday, and he began to hand her her presents, reading out the inscription on each as he did so, she opening them. The first was "Nora, with love and birthday wishes from Max," and when the wrapper was off, it proved to be a lovely print of Von Bodenhauser's Madonna. Max had given Nannie a picture on her birthday, and Nora was delighted to get one as well. Next came smaller gifts from Helen Vassah, Jack, Felix, and Nannie, and then Felix fished up a large, rather bulky parcel, the inscription on which he read very distinctly: "Dearest Nora, with love from the 'Twinsies,'"--that's the name we give to Felix and Nannie to distinguish them from the younger twins. "Why!" exclaimed Nora, in surprise, as she took the parcel on her lap, "you have both already given me something, you dear, generous creatures; I'm afraid you've been extravagant. And so nicely done up, too; thank you, thank you very much!" and she kissed them warmly. "Oh, that's all right; don't speak of it," said Felix, modestly, while Nannie began wonderingly, "Why, I didn't--" "Ought to be something very fine," hastily interrupted Phil, "_four_ wrappers!" The next minute there was a shout of laughter from us all as, after carefully unfolding the last paper, Nora drew out nurse's work-basket, piled high with innumerable pairs of our stockings and socks which were waiting to be darned! I expected Nora would have been provoked, but she only laughed as heartily as the rest of us. It was a fortunate thing she was in such a good humour, for three more times the boys played that joke on her before the basket was emptied. One was her own choicest cup and saucer, "with love from papa;" the next, the drawing-room feather-duster, "a token of appreciation from the family,"--Nora _hates_ to dust! and the third, an unfinished sketch which she began months ago, and which was for Phil when completed; this was "from her affectionate brother, Philip." And they were so cleverly sandwiched in between the real birthday gifts that Nora got caught each time, to our great enjoyment. After this we had games, and refreshments were served early on account of the little ones. As soon as they had said good-night we played more games, and then the boys began to get noisy; that's the worst with boys,--at least our boys,--just as soon as they begin to enjoy themselves, it seems as if they _must_ make a noise and get rough. Ever since Nannie and I had that talk, I've been trying my best to act like a young lady, and this evening I was particularly on my good behaviour; but, oh, it was tiresome! and I could see that the boys didn't know what to make of it,--Murray Unsworth asked if I didn't feel well, and Fee looked very quizzically at me, though I pretended I didn't see him. I was so afraid he'd say something right before that boy! Well, as it happened, all my pains went for nothing,--and just through Fee's nonsense. Murray and I were looking at Phil's boxing-gloves,--Phil was out of the room,--and as we talked, I slipped on one of the gloves, when Felix came up behind me and took hold of my arm. "That's Phil opening the door," he said quickly; "let's play a joke on him." And before I had the least idea of what he was going to do, Fee had raised my arm and given the person who was entering such a whack on the shoulder with the boxing-glove as whirled him completely round, so that he got in the way of another person who was behind him, and nearly knocked him over. In a moment more we saw that the two persons were papa and a stranger,--a young man! There was an instant's awful pause, broken by a nervous little giggle from Jack at the sight of Phil--behind papa--with his hands clasped, his knees bent as if in abject terror, and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling. Then, settling his glasses--which had been nearly knocked off--straight on his nose, papa looked around at us and asked, "Is this the way you welcome your guests, Nora?" adding, to me, "Take off that glove, Betty!" I got awfully red, I know; but before I could say anything Felix stepped forward and explained, and Nora advanced with a smile, saying, "We are very glad to see you, papa." Then papa introduced the young man, and who should he be but Max's ward, "the great Shad," or, to give him his proper name, Chadwick Whitcombe! He had expected to meet Max at our house, and had waited some time downstairs for him; then, as the evening wore on and Max did not appear, papa had thought it best to himself bring him up and introduce him to us. Of course we all looked at him,--and the more so that he isn't at all like what we had any of us expected. In the first place, though Max says he's just nineteen, he acts as if he were years older than that, and altogether he is different to any of the boys we've ever known. He's not quite so tall as Fee, though he wears very high heels on his boots; and his features are so delicate, his complexion so pink and white, that in spite of a tiny moustache, which he's very fond of caressing, he looks a great deal more like a girl than a boy. His hair is as yellow as Mädel's; it's wavy like a girl's, and he wears it long and parted in the middle; and his eyes are large and very blue,--Phil says they are "languishing," and he and Felix have given him another nick-name of "Lydia Languish." He wore evening clothes, with a white flower in his buttonhole, and there were diamond studs in the bosom of his shirt, and a diamond ring on one of his fingers. When papa introduced him, he put his heels together and made us three very low and graceful bows, saying, in a voice just like a girl's, and with a smile that showed his white teeth, "I am _very_ happy to--aw--meet you!" [Illustration: "'AW!'"] After looking at the presents, which, minus the jokes, were ranged on a table, and saying a few words, papa went away. I have an idea that he noticed the difference between this delicate Dresden-china young man and our own fun-loving boys, and rather dreaded leaving the stranger to our devices; for at the door he laid his hand on Phil's shoulder and said, "Remember, no more jokes to-night, Phil." And with a look of injured innocence that almost upset Felix and me, Phil answered, "Why, no, sir, _certainly_ not." We were rather quiet at first after papa went away; then Phil nudged Nannie, with the whisper: "Go talk to him; I don't know what to say to such a dude;" while Felix chimed in, in the same low voice, "Ask him if he puts his hair up in papers, nights,--or get Betty to ask him." But I edged away quickly, and joined Murray and Helen at the other side of the room. I was determined I would get into no more mischief. But they needn't have troubled themselves,--Chad didn't seem one bit embarrassed: he just drew a chair to Nora's side and began talking to her as easily as if he had known her all his life; and in a little while Nannie got the boys over to the piano and singing songs with rousing choruses, which they always enjoy. I think she did it this time, though, to divert their attention from the new-comer, for they were just ready to bubble over at the way he talked; even Hilliard's sleepy eyes were twinkling with sly merriment. When Chad talks he is, as Murray puts it, "too awfully English, you know, for anything," though he was born and has lived most of his life in America; and he pronounces his words in the most affected way. Altogether, he is awfully affected; you should see the air with which he flirts his handkerchief out of his pocket, his mincing steps, and the bored, you-can't-teach-me-anything expression of his face. "I've--aw--really been very busy since my return," he told Nora, in that high-pitched, affected voice of his. "I've--aw--moved into bachelor quarters, and been--aw--having my apartments decorated and furnished. Have my own ideahs, you know, and--aw--'m having 'em carried out--all in blue--effect will be--aw--really very fine. I've--aw--brought back pictures and bric-à-brac and--aw--curios of all descriptions, and now--aw--'ll turn 'em to good account. Awful job, you know--expect to work like a slave--these--aw--so-called decorators over here have such abominable taste! but the effect will be unique--of that--aw--'m sure." "Why, aren't you going to school--I mean college?" Phil turned round in the middle of a chorus to ask bluntly. "I--aw--have no intention of it," answered Chad, lounging off in his chair and stroking his baby moustache. "Oh, I see: your education's finished," said Phil, with that innocent expression on his face that we know means mischief; but before he could say another word, Helen Vassah cried out, "Oh, Phil, here's our favourite duet; you must sing it with me," and Nannie struck up an unusually loud accompaniment. Before the evening was over, we made up our minds that Chad was the silliest, most conceited creature; he did nothing but talk of himself and his possessions, and in the most lordly way imaginable. No matter what subject was introduced, he'd go right back to the one thing that seemed to interest him,--himself. He lounged back in his chair and made not the slightest effort to join in the entertainment. In fact, Nora was the only person he honoured with any notice; and while we all think him very unmannerly, she--would you believe it!--likes him. Coming over later in the evening to the corner of the room where Helen, Fee, Jack and I were, she said to Helen, "Isn't he nice? Did you see the way he offered me his arm to the piano? so polite, and different from the generality of boys,--don't you think so?" "Yes," Helen said, with a smile, "he is quite unlike any of the boys we know; who _does_ he look like, Nora? We all see a likeness, but can't think to whom." "Oh, I know, I've got it, I know," cried Jack, excitedly; "he looks (except that he hasn't got on knee-breeches and lace ruffles) just like that picture Max gave you, Felix,--don't you remember?--with a lace handkerchief in one hand and a snuff-box in the other. Oh, you _know_,--the French Marquis--" "You're right, Jack,--so it is; he does look like 'Monsieur le Marquis,'" Nora said, glancing at Chad. "He _has_ an aristocratic face,--'Monsieur le Marquis.'" [Illustration: "HERE IS THE SKETCH."] "Monsieur le Don_key_ would be a more suitable name," exclaimed Fee, while Helen, Jack, and I laughed. "If you'd seen how absurd he looked when he clicked his heels together and offered you his arm, you would know mine is the title that best suits him. I declare I'll make a sketch of you both from memory; it was too rich to be lost." Catching up a blank book, he began to sketch rapidly. Nora turned away, laughing; but we three remained, looking over Fee's shoulder, criticising and offering suggestions, until it was finished. Here is the sketch: it's pretty good of Nora, but of course it's a caricature of Chad. About a quarter to ten the "party" broke up. Chad was the first to go; as he rose to say good-night, I heard Nannie whisper to Phil: "Phil, you'll have to see him out. Fee can't go all the way downstairs and then up again,--it's too much for him,--and Jack is too young; anyway, it is your place as the eldest." "Little snob!" said Phil, savagely. "I'd like to take him down by way of the banisters,--just give him one shove, and let him fly." "He _is_ a snob," admitted Nannie, "but he is also Max's ward, and that entitles him to some consideration from us; and remember, too, what Max said,--that he has knocked about the world ever since he was a little fellow: that would account for much. You know, Phil, we've had our home and one another and dear mamma; and besides, you wouldn't want to spoil Nonie's birthday. Do treat him civilly! will you?" "Well, I'll try," Phil answered, making a wry face; "but if he begins any of his 'aw--aw,' on the way down, I'll not answer for the consequences." Bending low over Nora's hand, Chad murmured something of which we only heard "Chawming evening--pleasure of meeting you--Max again," then, bowing twice to the rest of the company, he took his departure. "I've enjoyed myself immensely," Hilliard said, as he bade good-night; then he added to me, "I never knew before how interesting a large family could be,--you have such fun among yourselves; and I think it is so kind of you all to let me come over and share your good times." Then Murray and Helen made their adieux, and all went away together. Phil came racing back to the schoolroom after seeing them out. "Well," he said breathlessly, taking a seat on the edge of the big table, "well, everything went off all right; quite a success, wasn't it? barring the great Shad,--he was no addition to our party. I'm awfully sorry he's such a cad; for Max's sake I'd have liked to be nice to him." "You are hard on him, Phil," Nora said. "He may be a little conceited, but I think he's not at all a bad fellow; now see if you don't like him better after you get to know him." "Not at all a bad fellow!" repeated Felix, sharply. "Well, you may think so, but I don't. I agree with Phil,--he _is_ a cad! Did you see the expression of his face as he looked around our shabby old schoolroom, and took in the simple birthday refreshments? he didn't even take the trouble to hide his contempt for our poverty and childishness. You may think that's like a gentleman, but I do not." "He wouldn't touch the cake, and only took a glass of water," I volunteered at this point. "You here?" cried Nora, wheeling round on me, "and Jack? It's high time you two were in bed." Then she went on: "Our appetites are equal to anything; but not everybody dotes on home-made cookies and tough sponge cake. _I_ found Max's ward a very polite young gentleman, a pleasant change from the rough, unmannerly boys one usually has to put up with. Betty and Jack, _are_ you going to bed, or not? Why don't you speak to them, Nannie?" "Don't be cross to them," whispered Nannie to her; "it's your birthday, you know. Come, Betty; come, Jack, let's go off together. I'm tired and sleepy, too." Rather unwillingly we bade good-night and went downstairs with Nannie. As the schoolroom door closed behind us, I heard Felix say, with a sharp insistence unusual to him, and bringing his hand down on the table to emphasise his words, "I _don't_ like that fellow! I _don't_ like him, and I wish he hadn't come here!" X. IN THE SCHOOLROOM. TOLD BY FELIX. "Felix," said the _pater_, "your two elder sisters are to go with me on Thursday afternoon to Mrs. Blackwood's reception, and I should like you to accompany us; Phil went the last time--" He stopped abruptly, with a stifled sigh, and began hastily turning over the leaves of the book which lay open before him on his desk. I knew why he sighed; I remembered well who had been with him the last time he attended a reception at Mrs. Blackwood's; the awful, aching longing that I have so often to fight down has taught me something of what my father must suffer. If I could only have expressed what was in my heart! but all I could manage to get out was, "Very well, sir," and my voice sounded so cold and indifferent that I was ashamed. I'm not afraid of the _pater_,--I can talk easily enough to him on ordinary subjects; but when it comes to anything about which I feel very deeply, Nannie is the only person to whom I can bear to speak, now that _she_ is gone. And even to Nannie I can't say much; I wish I could,--it would be a relief sometimes. I envy the others that they can talk of--mother; it is a comfort to me to listen, but it cuts me to the heart to even say her name. So this afternoon I sat quietly at Nannie's table, and went on sorting the references I had been making for the Fetich, until my father got up from his desk and began pacing up and down the study floor, with his hands clasped behind his back. His head was bent forward, and he had evidently entirely forgotten that I was in the room; for he sighed heavily several times, and then, with a sudden straightening of his whole body, as if in acute physical pain, he threw back his head, and a low, quivering "_A-a-h!_" that was like a groan, broke from his lips. An iron hand seemed clutching my throat, and I could hardly see for the blur across my eyes, as I crept out of the room and closed the door softly. I sat on the steps for a few moments, then--for I had forgotten my cane in the study--went slowly upstairs, and that gave me a chance to recover myself before I reached the schoolroom; though perhaps Nannie noticed something unusual,--my twinnie's eyes are so sharp, and her heart is so tender,--for it seemed to me that her voice was very loving as she said, pushing forward our big old rocker as soon as I entered the room: "You naughty Fee! you've come up without your cane; you must be tired. Sit here and get rested." [Illustration: "ALAN, ON HIS FIERY STEED."] I _was_ tired,--unusually so,--and was glad to get into the chair. It was after school hours, and the clan was in full force. Nora was seated at my easel, humming "A Media Noche," and trying to copy her birthday picture; Betty and Jack were fencing,--at least, Betty was making furious lunges at Jack, which he was mainly occupied in dodging, while every now and then a vehement protest was heard, such as, "Now, Betty, look out! that was my head," or, "That came within an inch of my nose--I _do_ wish you'd be careful!" Kathie and the twins were playing house, holding lively conversations in a high key, while Alan paid them repeated visits, prancing around the room, and to their door, on a broomstick, which was his fiery steed, and to control which required both voice and whip; Nannie was hunting through our pile of violin music for a certain duet to play with Max when he got home; and in the midst of all the noise Phil lay on the sofa, his head nearly level with the seat, and his long legs extended over the arm, reading Virgil aloud. That's his way of studying,--a most annoying one to a nervous person!--and, as the noise around him increases or decreases, so he raises or lowers his voice. As may be easily understood, there are times when he fairly roars. The news of the reception had preceded me, and as I came in Phil reared his head in such a comical way to speak to me that Betty instantly declared that he looked like a turtle. "So you're booked for the Blackwood tea-fight," he said. "Well, old man, my sympathy for you is only equalled by my thankfulness that I am not the victim. Take my advice,--I've been there several times, you know, and you haven't,--fortify the inner man before you go. It's a very mild orgy,--a thimbleful of chocolate and one macaroon are all you'll get,--and coming between luncheon and dinner, I'm afraid you'll feel--as I did--as if you'd like to fall on the table and eat up all that's on it." His head fell back, and he resumed his reading, the book resting upright on his chest. "People are not supposed to gorge themselves at an afternoon reception," remarked Nora, before I could get a word in. "It is--" "'A feast of reason and a flow of soul,'" finished Nannie, smiling, "though I'm sure dear old Mrs. Blackwood would willingly have given you a pound or two of macaroons and a whole pitcher full of chocolate, had she known you were hungry." "Oh, I'm not saying a word against her in particular; she's a first-rate old party," commenced Phil, but he was instantly interrupted. "Phil, you are positively vulgar," cried Nora, in a tone of disgust. "Don't speak of our dear old friend in that way, Phil; it isn't nice," said Nannie. "Well, now, here's a queer thing," remarked Phil, in an argumentative tone. "If I'd said Mrs. Blackwood was 'a host in herself,' it would have been considered a delicate compliment; and yet when I call her a 'party,' which certainly means a host, you two jump on me. There's no accounting for the eccentricities of the feminine character." Then, as his head sank back, "I do believe somebody's been pulling the feathers out of this sofa pillow; there can't be two dozen left in it. I suppose Betty's been making an Indian head-dress for herself. Just poke that history under my head, will you, Jack? or I'll certainly get rush of blood to the brain. There, that's better! Why so silent, most noble Felix?" with a sidelong glance at me after settling himself. "Art filled with fears for Thursday's function?" Usually I enjoy Phil's nonsense, and talk as much of it as he does; but somehow I didn't feel in the mood for it this afternoon. One reason may have been because of the dreadfully tired feeling that had come over me since entering the schoolroom: it was really an effort for me to answer him; I felt as if I wanted only to be let alone, and I realised, without being able to control it, that my voice was very irritable as I said briefly, "One has got to be silent when you begin to gabble." Phil reared his head again, and looked at me. "Whew!" he whistled, "aren't we spicy this afternoon!" Nannie immediately rushed into conversation. "Mrs. Blackwood wrote papa that she and Mr. Blackwood had just received some very rare old books from Europe," she said, "among them a Chaucer,--and beside that, a charming Corot; so, Fee, both you and papa will have something to enjoy, while Nora and I are exchanging small-talk." "Oh, that's why papa was so willing to go to the reception," Nora remarked, with her usual brilliancy. "I might have known there was something like that about it." [Illustration: "'FEE, DEAR,' SHE SAID IN AN UNDERTONE, 'DON'T YOU FEEL WELL? TELL ME.'"] Willing! I thought of what had happened in the study that afternoon--poor old _pater_! I felt like saying something sharp to Miss Nora, but it was actually too much trouble to speak; I was so tired, and the chair was so comfortable, that I did not want even to think of any exertion. By this time Nannie had found her duet, and she came and stood by my chair, looking anxiously at me. "Fee, dear," she said in an undertone, "don't you feel well? Tell me." Her fingers stole up and gently stroked the hair behind my ear. "Tell me, Fee," she pleaded. "I only want--to be let alone," I said, but not unkindly. I didn't mean to be disagreeable to her, and I think she understood,--she is so quick of comprehension! At this moment there was an outcry from one of the fencers. "If you aren't the meanest girl I know!" cried Jack. "You don't seem to care how much you hurt a person. I won't play another minute, now, then!" and his stick rattled on the floor. "She's given me a horrid poke in the ribs," he said, coming over to Nannie, with his hand pressed to his side. "I tell you now, it hurts; and she doesn't care a rap,--rough thing!" Betty was laughing immoderately. "Poor wounded warrior!" she mocked; "he's taken his 'death of danger' ever since we began. What a baby you are, Jack! I'd just like to give you something to make a fuss about. Ho, there! defend thyself, Sir Knight." She bore down on him with upraised stick, but Jack dodged behind Nannie. "Now stop, I tell you, Betty!" he cried sharply. "Go away! I'm not playing; you're too disagreeable." "Oh, come, Miss Elizabeth, do behave yourself," said Nannie. But Betty kept dancing around Jack, and making thrusts at him. "Hie thee hither, my squires," she called to the younger boys. "Come on, Sir Paul, come on, Sir Alan, and we'll capture this recreant knight." "You ought to be sent to boarding-school, where you'd be _made_ to behave yourself!" "Fair play, Elizabeth; don't hurt our Rosebud;" and "I'd just like to see 'em try it," came simultaneously from Nora, Phil, and Jack. But the "squires" had no intention of interfering; they had pressing affairs of their own to look after. One of the dolls having suddenly developed a complication of diseases,--measles, scarlet fever, and whooping cough,--the heads of the household were after the doctor in hot haste. Sir Paul had mounted the "charger," and was urging him on at his highest speed, while Sir Alan came dashing toward us on his broomstick, thrashing his steed without mercy, and shouting, "Gee up, horsie, _g-e-e_ up!" at the top of his voice. At this juncture the door opened, and in stepped nurse. "Lors-a-me! Bedlam let loose!" she exclaimed, putting up her hands and looking as surprised as if this noisy state of things were not of daily occurrence. "Master Felix, your pa'd like to see you 'bout some referumces,--or something like that. Come, children, it's time to get ready for your dinner. Oh, come now,--I ain't got no time to waste; to-morrow you c'n get the doctor--come!" As I sat up and took hold of the arms of the rocker, as a preliminary to rising, Nannie said, coaxingly: "Mayn't I go down and explain to papa about those references? You could tell me, you know, Fee. Then you could go to your room and lie down for a little while before dinner,--you look so tired." "I _am_ tired," I answered slowly, "awfully tired. And I really don't know why I should feel so. I've not done any more or as much as usual to-day. No, Nan, I think I'll go down; but first I'll get ready for dinner, and that will spare another trip up and down the stairs. I'll go to bed early to-night, and that'll make me all right to-morrow." So saying, I stood up and took a step forward; just then Alan, who had escaped from nurse and taken another gallop around the room, came kicking and prancing up on his restive steed. He rushed by with a great flourish, whirling the end of the broomstick as he got near me; nurse made a dive at him, and the next moment I was in a heap on the floor! I wasn't hurt, except for a sharp rap on one elbow, and my first impulse was to call out and reassure the family, for they were frightened; but though I could hear all that went on,--in a far-off way, as if I were in a dream,--to my great surprise I found that I could neither move nor speak, nor even open my eyes! Like a flash, Nannie was beside me on the floor, crying, "Oh, _Fee!_ are you hurt?" and trying to slip her little hands under my shoulder. Nora and Betty immediately began scolding Alan, who protested vehemently, "I _didn't_ hit him; no, I _didn't_, truly I didn't." I heard Jack's nervous demand, "Oh, do, somebody, tell me what to do for him!" and Phil's startled exclamation, "Great Cæsar's ghost!" and the thud with which his Virgil fell on the floor. Then I felt his strong arms under me, and I was lifted and laid on the sofa. "Are you hurt, old fellow? are you, Fee?" Phil asked anxiously, bending over me. "Mebbe he's faint like; open the window, Master Phil! Children, _don't_ crowd round your brother so," said nurse. "There, now, fan him, an' I'll bring some water." As she turned away I heard her say,--nurse never can whisper,--"I don't like his looks; go tell your pa, Master Phil, an' ask him if you can run for the doctor." Nannie's fingers tightened round my hand. "O-o-h, my _dear_!" she whispered. The quiver in her voice told me that she, too, had heard nurse's remark, and that she was frightened,--my little twinnie! I think she would willingly any time suffer pain to spare me. I longed to comfort her, to tell them all that I was not at all hurt, that I had no pain whatever,--even the backache, which is my almost daily companion, having left me since the fall,--yet the terrible languor which controlled me seemed almost too great to be overcome. Then I thought of poor Nannie, and the _pater_, and the doctor, and the beastly fussing and restrictions I'd have to endure, and with a desperate effort--for my tongue really felt heavy--I managed to get out, "I'm--not--hurt. Don't--need--doctor." Nannie gave a little gasp when I spoke, and catching my two hands in hers, kissed them. "You old humbug!" cried Phil, gaily,--I could hear the note of relief in his voice; "I do believe you've been shamming to give us a scare. Open your eyes this minute." And then I found that I could raise my lids and look at the dear faces gathered about me. "Sure you feel all right, Master Felix?" nurse asked, eyeing me closely. "Sure," I answered slowly; "only tired." "Well, if it's only tired you are, the best place is bed, an' we'll not send for the doctor," she said; and I made no objection, though usually I hate to go to bed in the day-time. Not having inherited the good physique of the family, I've spent more days in bed and on the sofa than I'd be willing to count, and I'm not anxious for more. Still I would rather do that now than have the doctor sent for, so without demur I let Phil carry me down to my room, and undress and put me to bed. What wouldn't I give to be as strong as he is! And he's gentle with it; sometimes he provokes me by the way he watches and takes care of me,--as if I were so fragile I'd go to pieces at a knock,--though in a way I like it, too, and he doesn't mean to rub it in. He has an idea that I care less for him than he does for me, because I am so unfortunately constituted that I can't express what I feel; but--if he only knew it--life to me wouldn't be worth the living without him and Nannie,--dear old lion-heart! Sometimes I wonder if he will always be as good to me, and care as much; I mean when he gets older, and goes more among people, and they find out what a fine fellow he is, and what jolly company. He declares now that I'm the good company; but _I_ know that my good spirits are more dependent on his than his on mine. In our studies I'm the quicker,--he doesn't love books as I do,--but he is so kindly and brave and bright and merry, that I'd defy anybody not to like him. But--though he thinks he is awfully sharp--Phil is one of the kind that will be imposed upon; he's so honest and straightforward himself that he thinks everybody else is also, and I'm constantly afraid that some fellow or other that he doesn't see through'll get hold of him and get him into mischief. This was one of the reasons why I was so awfully disappointed at not going to college; Phil and I've been together all our lives, and I hated mortally to have him go off alone and meet people, and make friends there that I would never know. He really needs me--my cooler judgment, I mean--just as much as I ever need his protecting strength. I'm almost sure that _she_ thought so, too, for whenever college was spoken of she would say, "You must go at the same time, Felix, and help him;" and once she added, "help him in _everything_," and I understood what she meant. It won't always be so: I think that by and by, when Phil gets to be a man, he'll have more judgment; and now it's only because he's so true himself, and so simple-hearted. I really believe I love him all the better for these traits, though sometimes, when I get provoked, I tell him that he is gullible, and a second Dr. Primrose. When I found that I couldn't possibly go to college, it was a great relief to know that Murray Unsworth was there, and that they'd be together. Murray's an A 1 fellow! But I must confess that so far Phil hasn't changed at all; he depends on me and seems to like to be with me just as much as ever. And now comes along that snob Chad. I _don't_ like that fellow, and I'll be furious if he gets intimate with Phil. Phil didn't like him at all at first, but I can see--though he won't admit it--that Chad is worming himself into his good graces. He's found out that Phil is first-rate company, and now he is trying to be very friendly. Max was called out of town on the evening of Nora's birthday, and he didn't get back for some time; but that has not prevented Monsieur le Don_key_ from coming here again and again. He had the assurance to send his card up to Nora the second time he called,--for her to go down to the drawing-room and entertain him alone! just like his impudence! But of course Miss Marston would not let Nora go, and instead, the _pater_ walked in, and squelched Mr. "Shad." We don't know what father said, but the next time Chad appeared he found the schoolroom good enough for him; and now, as I said, he is trying to be very friendly with Phil. I don't want him to get intimate with Phil; I dread it, for I have a conviction he's not the sort of fellow that it will do anybody any good to know. From what he has told Nora, it seems that Chad's father was a miner who "struck a bonanza," as he expresses it, and made a great deal of money; then, just as he was ready to enjoy the fortune, he and his wife were killed in a railroad disaster, leaving Chad, who was the only child, to the guardianship of a fellow miner--another "bonanza" man--and Max, whose only acquaintance with Mr. Whitcomb, by the way, had been in successfully conducting a law case for him. The other guardian took the boy all over the United States, and then to Europe, letting him, I fancy, do as he pleased,--study or not as suited his own will,--with the result that Chad is an ignorant, vulgar, conceited cad, with the merest veneering of refinement, who cares for no one but himself, and whose sole standard for everything and every one is that of money. When the other guardian died, of course Max had to assume the charge of Chad,--who'll not be of age for nearly two years,--though I should think he must be a serious trial, for Max is so thoroughly nice himself, so honourable and clever and refined, that this affected, snobbish little Dresden-china-young-man, as Betty calls him, must jar on him in every way, though perhaps Chad is on his best behaviour with his guardian. Chad affects to be quite a man of the world, talks a great deal about his "bachelor quarters" and the theatres; he drinks and smokes, and I've heard him swear; he considers all this the proper thing for young fellows of our age, and more than once he has sneered at Phil and me as "behind the times." He calls Murray "the Innocent," though I've snubbed him for it pretty sharply, and whenever he gets a chance, he makes fun of Hilliard's slow ways, when old Hill is worth a dozen or two of such blowers as he. I almost wish Murray'd give the bediamonded cad a thrashing,--only that the fellow's not worth his touching. Phil and I neither drink nor smoke; we've never spoken about it to each other, but we know that our--mother--would not have liked us to do any of these things, so we let them alone. I think Chad knows that I've no liking for him,--to put it mildly,--and that he returns the compliment. I try not to quarrel with him; in fact,--though it goes awfully against the grain,--I make an effort to be civil, so as to see, hear, and know all that goes on between himself and Phil, and to be able to guard Phil from him without Phil's knowing it. I've said a few things to warn Phil; but I had to be careful, for he's such an old Quixote that, if he thought I was particularly down on Chad, he'd begin to take up the cudgels for him. But he _sha'n't_ get hold of Phil, I declare he sha'n't,--not as long as I am here. I wish to goodness he hadn't ever come near us! Nannie is the only one to whom I've said anything of my fear, and she laughs it away. She says Phil is the last person in the world to fall in with a fellow like Chad; but I'm not so sure of that, for Chad can be entertaining enough when he chooses to be, telling of his life in California and the wild West, and in Europe. I know he has invited Phil to come to his rooms, and twice he has taken him off for a long walk. Phil _loves_ to walk, with long, swinging strides, that, try to keep up as I may, wear me out before we've gone many blocks, even with the support of his arm. So there I can't be with him. _She_ used to say that it was best to recognise one's limitations, and to respect them: I recognise mine only too well,--I've _got_ to; but instead of respecting, I abhor them, and am always striving to get beyond them. With all the strength of soul that is in me I try to be patient and contented--to accept myself; but now that she has gone, only God and I know the miserable failure I make of it day after day. I want to do so much; I want to amount to something in the world, to have advantages for study and improvement, and to fit myself to mix with wise men by and by,--clever men and scholars,--and to hold my own among them. I could do it, I feel I could, if only I had the opportunity for study, and the health to improve it; this isn't conceit,--_she_ knew that,--but a cool, calm gauging of the sort of ability that I know I have. We--she and I--used to plan great things that I was to do when I went to college; when I finished college, and went into the world, I was to become a famous lawyer,--"good, wise, and great, my son Felix," she used to say, with a look in her eyes that always stirred me to more and better efforts. She helped me in every way, and it was a delight to learn, in spite of the drawback of ill-health. But now all is changed: she is gone, there is no prospect whatever of my getting to college, and somehow, lately, this miserable old back of mine seems to be getting to be a wetter and wetter blanket than ever on my ambition. Ah, if I but had a physique like Phil's! She used to say, "Remember always, Felix, that your fine mind is a gift from God, a responsibility given you by Him." Oh, why, then, did He not give me a body to match? All things are possible to Him; He could have done so. When I was a little fellow I used to pray most earnestly that God would let me outgrow this lameness and be strong like other boys; but we had a talk about it,--just before she went away,--and ever since then I have asked only to be patient and contented. But with all the trying, it is _very_ hard to say truthfully that I am thankful for my creation. I have never spoken of this to Nannie, but perhaps, with that quick intuition which makes her such a blessing to us, she guesses it; for only last Sunday, in church, when we came to that part in the General Thanksgiving, she snuggled closer to me as we knelt, and gave my hand a quick, warm little squeeze, as if to tell me that she was glad of my "creation and preservation." Nannie comforts me more than I can ever express to her; she has many a time given me courage when my spirits were at a very low ebb. XI. AN AFTERNOON RECEPTION. TOLD BY FELIX. Though I felt all right the next day, to please nurse I did not get up; but on Wednesday I did. At first my legs were very shaky, even for me: my cane was not enough; I had to hold on to the furniture besides to make my way about the room. But gradually that wore away, and by afternoon I was quite as well as usual; so on Thursday we went to the reception in the order first planned. The Blackwoods live in a large old house, and by the time we got there--we were rather late--the parlours were quite crowded. I think the _pater_ was a little nervous as we went up the palm-lined staircase; he hates an affair of this kind, and only the rare editions and a strong dislike to hurting the feelings of his old friends could have induced him to attend it. He kept Nannie close beside him, Nora and I following behind. Mrs. Blackwood is a fine-looking old lady, with beautiful white hair, which she wears turned straight off her face; she gave us a warm welcome, and after walking father through the rooms, and introducing him to a number of people,--not one of whom he would have recognised five minutes after!--and after showing us the Corot, which is a _beauty!_ she led the way to the library. It was a cosy room, for all it was so large. The walls were lined with books; a desk stood near one of the windows; some tables--on which were books, photos, and several handsome glass and china bowls filled with flowers--and a variety of comfortable chairs were scattered about; in a space between the book-shelves, and thrown into bold relief by the dark portière behind it, was an exquisite marble Laocoön, and in the bay-window the beautiful Venus de Milo. [Illustration: "IN THE BAY-WINDOW."] I should have enjoyed staying there, but we'd only been in a short while when Mrs. Blackwood's daughter came and carried us younger ones off to the drawing-room again. In vain Nannie and I politely protested that we should rather stay in the library; Mrs. Endicott was not to be resisted. "Your father and my mother enjoy looking at books more than anything else," she said pleasantly, as we made our reluctant way back; "but I know that young people like to be where there are life and gaiety,--and you haven't even had a cup of chocolate. Come this way, and I'll introduce you to Miss Devereaux." She piloted us rapidly through the crowd to the upper end of the room, where at a table sat a young lady pouring chocolate, to whom she introduced us. Taking my "thimbleful" of chocolate, I retreated to a corner where I could sit and sip and take observations unobserved. To begin with, I could not but notice the difference in my two sisters. Nannie had found a place on a lounge near the tea-table, and was gazing about her with the deepest interest,--her brown eyes all a-shine, the faintest ripple of a smile stirring her lips; to my eyes she looked very sweet! Nora stood, cup in hand, sipping her chocolate, and chatting as easily to Miss Devereaux and the different ones who came up as if she were in the habit of going to afternoon receptions every day in the week. I saw people look and look again at her, and it didn't surprise me, for Nora is a stunner, and no mistake. As Phil says, she carries herself as if she owned the whole earth, and she is self-possessed to a degree that is a constant surprise to us. If she weren't always so dead sure that she is right and everybody else wrong, we'd all think a great deal more of her; but as she is, one feels it a positive duty to snub her sometimes. We are proud of Nora's beauty, but she's the very last one we'd any of us go to for comfort or in a strait,--why, Betty'd be better, for all she's so fly-away and blunt. Miss Devereaux was handsome, too: she was large and statuesque, with beautifully moulded throat and arms, and hair which rippled like that of my poor old plaster Juno at home,--in fact, she suggested to my mind some Greek goddess dressed up in silk and lace; I quite enjoyed looking at her, and would have liked to make a sketch of her. But she wasn't as nice as she looked; in her way she was as snobbish as is Chad. A tall, very richly dressed woman was brought up and introduced; she wore enormous diamond ear-rings, and her manner was even more condescending than that of the young goddess herself. She pulled forward a chair, completely barring the way to the table, and, seating herself, stirred her chocolate languidly. Miss Devereaux was all attention; she offered almost everything on the table, and listened with the deepest interest while the diamond lady talked loudly and impressively of _her_ last afternoon reception,--the distinguished people who were present, and what the music and refreshments cost. Then, suddenly remembering that she was "due at one of 'Mrs. Judge' Somebody's receptions,--they were always _alagant_ affairs,"--the diamond lady put down her cup, from which she had barely taken a sip or two, and with a bow, and what Phil calls "a galvanised smile," sailed off to parts unknown. "Such a charming woman!" murmured the goddess to Nannie. Before Nannie could answer, there was a new claimant for refreshments,--a slender, rather spare little woman this time, dressed in a severely plain black gown; her hair was parted and pulled tightly away from her face; her bonnet was a good deal plainer and uglier than anything that nurse has ever had,--and she has rather distinguished herself in that line. This little woman was evidently not used to receptions and young goddesses. She seated herself on the extreme edge of the chair the diamond lady had just vacated, and after taking off her gloves, and laying them across her lap, she accepted her chocolate and cake with a deprecating air, as if apologising for the trouble she was causing. "Oh, thank you, _thank_ you," she said gratefully; "you are _very_ kind." The young goddess gave her a haughty stare, and then assumed a bored expression that I could see made the poor little woman nervous. She stirred her chocolate violently, and drank half of the cupful at a draught; then, evidently considering it her duty to make conversation, she remarked, "Didn't we have an interesting address yesterday at the Missions House?" She glanced at Miss Devereaux as she spoke. "Ah--indeed!" answered that young person, with another haughty glare that almost overcame the little woman. She got very red, and in her agitation drained her cup, and sat holding it. She looked thoroughly uncomfortable. I'm not fond of addressing strangers, but I couldn't stand that sort of treatment any longer, and got on my feet with the desperate intention of immediately starting a lively conversation with this particular stranger, without regard to Miss Devereaux. But Nannie was ahead of me; bending forward, she said in her friendliest tone,--and Nancy's friendliest tone is worth hearing, I tell you,--"I read of it in the papers; it must have been _very_ interesting." The little woman's look of gratitude was positively pathetic. [Illustration: "'IT MUST HAVE BEEN _VERY_ INTERESTING.'"] "Yes, it was, _very_ fine!" she said,--bending forward, and jerking her sentences out nervously,--"so many people, and such splendid speakers! I wish Mrs. Blackwood'd been there!" Then, waxing confidential, she went on in a lower key: "She and I used to be girls together,--ages ago. Then her folks took her to Europe to finish her education,--some people set such store by foreign education! We didn't meet again--though I heard of her off and on--till here, lately, when I came to New York to live. Of course--for old times' sake--I looked her up and called,--handsome house, isn't it? Seems like some people have everything,"--with a short sigh that sounded almost like a snort,--"but I must say Tilly isn't a bit stuck up over it,--never was. Say, who's _she_?" A quick sidelong motion of eyes and thumb in Miss Devereaux's direction gave point to this last question. "I think her name--" began Nannie, but she was interrupted by a loud crash which seemed to come from one of the adjoining rooms. In an instant my twin was on her feet: "Oh, _Felix_!" she cried breathlessly, "that came from the library! Papa has knocked over something!" The _pater_ has an absent-minded way of upsetting things, and Nannie's tone carried conviction with it; so, as fast as I could, I followed in her wake as she threaded her way swiftly through the crowded room. Nora raised her eyebrows with an air of mock resignation. "No use our _all_ going," she said in an undertone as I went past her, and resumed her conversation with the gentleman to whom she had been talking. Some people had collected in the doorway of the library by the time I got there, and I was delayed a minute or two in getting into the room; then I saw, at one glance, that our worst fears were realised. There stood my father, minus his spectacles, peering about him with a most anxious, bewildered expression on his face,--I was struck with how ill he looked! and around him on the polished floor lay the fragments of one of the Doulton bowls! The small table on which it had stood was-overturned, flowers were scattered in every direction, and among the ruins shone my father's glasses, broken in several pieces. Nannie went straight to the _pater's_ side and took his hand. "Felix and I are here, papa; what can we do for you?" she said. The colour was in her face; I know she felt embarrassed, but her voice was quite calm. My father screwed up his eyes in a vain attempt to see the extent of the mischief: "I--I think--I think, my dear, that I've broken something," he said. At which very obvious statement there was a sound of smothered laughter at the door. Nannie's colour deepened, and I believe I muttered something about finding Mrs. Blackwood; to tell the truth, I was so rattled--between sympathy for the _pater_ and embarrassment at the accident--that I hardly knew what I was saying, but my father caught at it. "Yes, yes," he said nervously, "I must speak to our hostess; I must apologise for my awkwardness. Ask Mrs. Blackwood if she will be kind enough to step here, Felix--or stay, I will go to her." "I'll find Mrs. Blackwood for you," volunteered one of the bystanders; but at that moment the little crowd at the door parted and in came Mrs. Blackwood, and who should be behind her but _Max_! I was delighted to see him. I felt that we were all right then, for Max always knows what to do; and I think Nannie felt as relieved as I did, for she gave a glad little cry as she held out her hand. Then she turned as red as a rose,--I suppose she suddenly realised how many people were looking at her; but evidently Max didn't mind them in the least, for he held on to Nannie's hand, and smiled, and looked at her just as kindly as if we were at home,--Max likes us all, but Nannie has always been his favourite. In the mean time Mrs. Blackwood was trying, with exquisite tact, to make my father feel less uncomfortable. "It was the most absurd place to put a bowl of flowers," she asserted cheerfully, "on so slight a table, and so near the book-shelves. I've always declared that an accident would occur; now I can say, 'I told you so!' and that's such a satisfaction to a woman, you know." She laughed merrily, but the _pater_ still looked troubled. "It was a great piece of carelessness on my part," he repeated mournfully, for about the fifth time. "I stood looking over a volume I had taken from the shelf,--that, I am thankful to know, has not been injured" (with a hasty glance at the book still tightly clasped in his left hand),--"and becoming interested, I presume I forgot where I was, and--and leaned too heavily against the table. It gave way, and--this ruin is the result! I--I--cannot express to you how I regret the accident." "_Don't_ be troubled over it, dear friend, _please_ don't," Mrs. Blackwood urged. "Nothing is broken but the bowl, and that may have been cracked before,--it seems to me that one of them was; let us rather rejoice that you were not hurt by your fall, for _that_ would indeed have been a serious matter. Now I'm sure you want to resume looking over that 'Abbé Marité;' isn't it quaint? and perhaps among Mr. Blackwood's glasses we may be able to find a pair that would suit your eyes for the nonce. I know how perfectly lost one feels without one's 'second eyes.' Shall we make the selection? Come, Felix and Nannie,--you, too, Max,--and help us get the right focus. Oh, please don't speak of going, Mr. Rose." Chatting pleasantly to divert my father's mind from the accident, Mrs. Blackwood led us into her husband's smoking-room, where from his collection of spectacles and eyeglasses my father made a selection which enabled him to finish the "Abbé," and soon after that to get home with some degree of comfort. There were no more _contretemps_ that afternoon, I am thankful to say; Max went home and dined with us. He was in fine spirits,--so glad to get home again, he said,--and made even the _pater_ smile over a description of what he calls his "adventures in the far West." With the exception of a short visit in the study, he spent the evening with us in the schoolroom, hearing all that has happened to us since he went away, and playing violin and piano duets with Nannie and me. I intended to have had a talk with Max about Chad, but there was no opportunity on this evening; and besides, he looked so pleased when Nora said she thought that Chad was "nice"--and she claims to be so _very_ fastidious! I can't understand it--that I concluded I'd wait until another time to air my opinion. I noticed that Phil didn't say anything for or against Chad: all the same, _I_ shall speak, just as soon as I can get Max alone; for, if he doesn't know it already, he ought to be told the sort of individual his ward is. As far as I'm personally concerned, I'd put up with the fellow rather than trouble Max, but I've got to think of Phil. After Max had taken his departure, and Betty and Jack had been walked off to bed, we four older ones sat talking for a few minutes. Phil, as usual, sat on the edge of the schoolroom table. "Well, you three gay and festive creatures," he said, with a comprehensive wave of his hand toward us, "what's your true and honest opinion of the afternoon's tea-fight, politely termed 'reception'? You needn't all speak at once, you know." "Thanks awfully for the information," laughed Nora, making him a very graceful and sweeping bow. "Well, except for the unhappy _quart d'heure_ that papa gave us, I enjoyed the reception immensely. Oh, I'd _love_ to be out in society," she said, with sparkling eyes, "and meet lots of people, and go to balls and receptions and all those affairs every day of my life. That's what _I_ call living,--not this stupid, humdrum school life; and I 'll have them all, too, some day, see if I don't," she ended, with a toss of her head and a little conscious laugh. Nora knows she's pretty; that's one of the things that spoil her. Phil eyed her severely, wrinkling up his brows. "Eleanor, my love," he remarked, with his most fatherly air, "I beg that you will bear in mind the fable of the unwise canine who lost his piece of meat by trying to catch its larger reflection in the stream, and endeavour to profit thereby. No charge made for that good advice. Now, Nancy, let's hear from you." Nannie hesitated a little. "Why--I think I enjoyed it," she said slowly; "yes, I did." "What! _did_ you?" I exclaimed in surprise. "You mean to say you enjoyed sitting on that lounge and seeing Miss Devereaux snub that unfortunate little woman in the hideous bonnet?" "Well, no, not that part," admitted Nannie. "And did you enjoy the _pater's_ smashing the Doulton bowl?" "Oh, no, of _course_ not," Nannie returned, somewhat indignantly. "Then where did the enjoyment come in?" I persisted. "I can't tell you why, or when, or how, but I enjoyed it," was Nannie's reply; and then, "without rhyme or reason," as nurse says, she blushed a vivid red. "Do look at her!" teased Phil. "Why, Nancy, it isn't against the law to have enjoyed yourself. What're you blushing for?" "I'm sure I don't know," my twinnie answered, with such a look of perplexity in her sweet, honest eyes that we had to laugh. Whereupon she blushed rosier than ever, even to her ears and her pretty throat, and running over to me, hid her flushed face on my shoulder. "Please stop teasing, Fee," she whispered. Now if anybody was teasing just then Phil was in it, and I started to tell her so; but Phil interrupted: "One more county to be heard from," he declared, "and that's you, most noble Felix. Are you, like Nora, hankering after the unattainable in the shape of daily receptions?" "Can't say that I'm devoured with a desire that way," I confessed with a grin. "I wouldn't go over this afternoon's experience for a farm! As they say in the novels, my feelings can be better imagined than described when I walked into the Blackwoods' library and saw the _pater_ standing in the midst of the shattered vase _à la_ Marius in the ruins of Carthage. Had I but owned a genii, we'd have been whisked out of that room and home in about two seconds. No, on calm reflection, I forswear receptions for the future." "Hullo!" exclaimed Phil, suddenly, "I say,--come to think of it,--how d'you suppose the _Blackwoods_ enjoyed the orgy?" We looked at each other. "_I_ said I enjoyed myself," asserted Nora, with a superior and very virtuous air. "It's the least one can do when people go to the trouble and expense of entertaining one." Nannie sat up and looked contrite. "_Poor_ Mrs. Blackwood!" she said; "Doulton is her favourite china, and that bowl _was_ a beauty!" "I guess they got the worst of it," I said to Phil. "I shouldn't wonder if they had," he answered with a nod. "Moral: Don't give afternoon receptions. Let's be off to bed. Good-night, all." XII. IN THE SHADOW. TOLD BY JACK. Felix and I were together in his room; he was helping me with my Latin--that vile Latin, how I despise it!--when we heard some one calling from the hall two flights below. "Why, that sounds like Nannie's voice!" Felix said, starting from his chair. "I wonder what's up?" We heard plainly enough when we got in the hall, for Nannie was calling, in a loud, frightened way, "Felix! Phil, Jack! somebody!--_anybody!_" "All right! here we are! What's the matter?" Felix answered, making for the steps as fast as he could go. "Oh, pshaw! I've left my cane in the room; get it for me, Jack, and catch up to me on the stairs." I dashed into Fee's room, snatched up the cane, and was out again in time to hear Nannie say, excitedly: "Tell nurse to come right down to the study, Felix, and send Jack flying for Dr. Archard; papa is _very_ ill, I am afraid. Oh, be quick, _quick!_" "Great Scott!" exclaimed Fee. I knew by his voice that he was awfully frightened. Then suddenly he slid down in a sitting position on one of the steps. I thought he must have stumbled; but before I could say anything, or even get to him, he called out, "All right, Nan! nurse will be there in a minute," adding impatiently to me: "What are you gaping at? Get on your hat--it's on the hat rack--and rush for Dr. Archard as fast as you can. Tell him father's very ill, and to come at _once_. Step lively, Jack!" "But nurse--" I hesitated. "Shall I tell her first?" "Do as you've been told," Fee said sharply. "I'll see to that; do you suppose I'm _utterly_ useless? _Start!_" He gave me a little push on the shoulder as he spoke, and I tell you I just flew down those steps and out into the street. I ran every step of the way, and caught Dr. Archard just as he was stepping into his carriage to go somewhere. He looked very serious when he heard my message. "I'm not surprised," he said; "I've been expecting a break-down in that quarter for some time." Then he made me jump into the carriage with him, and we drove rapidly round to the house. There we found everybody very much excited. The study door stood open, and from the hall I could see papa lying on the lounge, with his eyes closed, and looking very white. Nurse was rubbing his feet, Nannie his hands, and Miss Marston stood by his head fanning him. [Illustration: "I COULD SEE PAPA LYING ON THE LOUNGE."] Felix and Phil were not around, but I tell you the younger children were; nurse and Miss Marston not being there to keep them upstairs, they had all collected in the hall, and refused flatly to go to the nursery. For fear of the noise they might raise, Nora couldn't very well make them obey; but after the doctor came, she and Betty half coaxed, half drove them into the drawing-room, and tried to keep them there. It was hard work to do this, though, for every now and then Paul or Alan, or even Kathie--_she_ ought to have known better--would sneak out "to see what was going on." Then Betty'd fly out too, and as quietly as possible catch and haul back the runaway. I think both Nora and Betty would like to have had me come in there too,--Nora said as much,--but I pretended I didn't hear; _I_ didn't want to be shut up, and anyway, as I thought, somebody ought to be on hand to run errands in case anything was needed. So I just stayed where I was. "Oh, I am so _thankful_ you have come!" Nannie exclaimed, as the doctor walked in. But, except for a nod, he didn't notice her; he laid his fingers on papa's pulse, then in a minute or so knelt down and put his ear to papa's chest. I was watching him so intently that I didn't know Phil had come in until I heard Nora--she was standing in the hall and holding the drawing-room doors shut--say, in a low tone, "Hush! don't make a noise; papa is ill. Dr. Archard's here--in the study." "What's the matter?" Phil asked, opening his eyes in a startled sort of way, and looking very serious. "Why, he complained to Nannie of feeling queer, and then suddenly fainted away; and since then he has gone from one fainting fit into another. Isn't it strange? I don't think he has ever done such a thing as faint in his life before." "He's been working like a slave over that beastly old Fetich," Phil said irritably, "as if he was _bound_ to get it finished." I knew he was cross because he was scared about papa, and sorry for him; but Nora didn't seem to guess that,--she doesn't see through things like that as Nannie does,--and now she just put up her eyebrows as if surprised, and said, "Why, isn't that what you all wanted,--to have the Fetich finished?" Phil got red in the face, and he made a step nearer the drawing-room door. "That was a mean speech, Nora," he said in a low, angry voice. _I_ think it was mean, too; but perhaps it was because she felt badly about papa that Nora spoke so,--as nurse says, different people have different ways of showing their feelings,--for she put out her hand and commenced, quickly, "I didn't mean to hurt--" But while she was speaking, Nannie came out of the study. "Oh, Phil," she said, as soon as she saw him, "come right in here, won't you? the doctor says we must get papa to bed as quickly as possible, and you can help us." Phil flung his books on the hat-rack table, and followed her into the room at once, and they shut the study door. It opened again, though, in a minute or two, and out came Miss Marston, just in time to catch Alan as he rushed along the hall, away from Betty, who was in hot pursuit. "What are _you_ doing down here?" demanded Miss Marston, severely. "They're all here," Alan paused to explain, rather defiantly, whereupon Betty pounced on him. Miss Marston held a hot-water bottle in her hand; she was on her way to the kitchen, but she stopped to speak to the children,--for at the sound of her voice Nora had opened the drawing-room doors, and Kathie, Paul, and Mädel had tumbled out into the hall in a body. "This will never do," Miss Marston said, "racing about the halls while your father is so ill! Can't you find something for them to do, Nora? Take them to the nursery, or the schoolroom, and give each--" I didn't wait to hear the rest. I was afraid she'd see me, and remember that old Latin, so I scooted up the back stairs as hard as I could go; you see she wouldn't have taken into account that I was waiting down there in case I was wanted for an errand. It was as I got up near Fee's room that I began to wonder where he was, and why he hadn't been downstairs with the rest of us; he must have wanted to know how papa was, I thought. I looked in the schoolroom, but he wasn't there,--the place had a deserted appearance! Then I ran down again and peeped into his room, and just think! there, flat on the floor, with his feet barely inside the doorway, lay Felix! I was so astonished and so scared--it's a serious matter for Fee to fall, you know (he hasn't really been himself, I mean not as strong, since that day in the schoolroom, when Alan upset him)--that when I cried out, "Oh, _Fee!_ did you fall? have you hurt yourself?" and knelt down by him, I hardly knew what I was saying or doing. [Illustration: "'OH, _FEE!_ DID YOU FALL? HAVE YOU HURT YOURSELF?'"] "Shut the door," Felix said; he spoke slowly, as if he were very tired. His face looked badly, too,--pale, and with black rings under his eyes away below his glasses. And there was something in the way he lay there--a limpness and helplessness--that somehow frightened me, and made me feel right away as if I ought to call nurse or somebody. But I know Fee likes to have people do as he tells them, so first I shut the door tight, then I came back and knelt down by him again. "Hadn't I better help you up, Fee?" I asked, "or shall I call"--I was going to say "Nannie or Phil," but remembered they were helping papa, and ended up with "somebody?" But Felix only said, "How's father? Tell me about him." He listened to all I could tell about papa; then, when I had finished, he threw his arms wide apart on the floor with a groan, and rolled his head impatiently from side to side. I just _longed_ to do something for him,--dear old Fee! "Don't you want to get up?" I asked again, in as coaxing a way as I could. "I could help you, you know, Fee; the floor is so hard for your back." Then he told me. "Jack," he said, in a tired, hopeless voice that made a lump fly into my throat, "I'm in a pretty bad fix, I'm afraid; my poor old back and my legs have given out. I got a very queer feeling that time I sat down so suddenly on the steps, and after you'd gone 'twas all I could do to brace up and drag myself to this floor to call nurse. Then I crawled in here, and barely got inside the door when I collapsed. My legs gave way entirely, and down I tumbled just where you see me now." He threw his arms out again, and twisted one of his hands in the fringe of the rug on which he was lying; then presently he went on: "Do you know why I'm still lying here? do you know why, Jack? because"--his voice shook so he had to stop for a minute--"because, from my waist down, I can't move my body at all. Unless somebody helps me, I'll have to lie here all night; _I'm perfectly helpless_!" I'd been swallowing and swallowing while Fee was talking, but now I couldn't stand it any longer; I felt awfully unhappy, and I just _had_ to let the tears come. "It's that fall that's done it," I said, trying to wipe away the tears that came rushing down,--it's so _girlie_ to cry!--"the day Alan upset you in the schoolroom! Oh, Fee, _do_ let me call somebody to help you! Phil's downstairs, you know; oh, and the doctor,--please, _please_ let me ask _him_ to come up! Oh, mayn't I?" Felix put out his hand and patted my knee in a way that reminded me of Nannie; he doesn't usually do those things. "Don't cry, Jackie-boy," he said very gently, "and don't blame Alan,--I don't believe he touched me that day; I believe now that that was an attack similar to this, only not so severe. What'll the _next_ one be!" His voice began shaking again, but he went right on: "Now I want you to help me keep this thing quiet,--I was hoping you'd be the one to find me,--so that Nannie and the others won't have it to add to their anxiety while the _pater_ is ill. I'm afraid he's in a bad way; I don't like the doctor's sounding his heart,--that looks as if he suspected trouble there. He has been working like a slave ever since--oh, what _beasts_ we were to get up that Fetich joke! Poor old _pater_!" Felix folded his arms across his eyes and lay perfectly quiet; I _think_ I saw a tear run down the side of his face to his ear, but I won't be sure. That just brought that horrid lump right back into my throat, but I was determined I wouldn't break down again; so I got up, and taking a pillow from the bed, brought it over to slip under Fee's head,--the floor was _so_ hard you know. This roused him. "You're not very big, Rosebud, but perhaps you can help me to get to bed," he said, trying to speak as if nothing had happened. "I may feel better after I'm there; who knows but this attack may wear off in a day or two, as the other did." He spoke so cheerfully that I began to feel better, too, and I flew around and did just as he told me. First I pulled his bed right close up to where Fee lay,--it's very light,--then I made a rope of his worsted afghan, and passing it round the farthest bedpost, gave the ends to him; then, as he pulled himself up, I pushed him with all my might, and by and by he got on the bed. It was awfully hard to do, though, for the bed was on casters, and would slip away from us; but after a good while we succeeded. "There, I feel a little better already!" he said, after I'd got him undressed. "That floor _was_ hard, and I was there some time; yes, I do feel a little better." He took hold of the railing at the head of the bed and pulled himself a little higher on the pillows. "Perhaps you'll be all right again in a few days, same as the last time," I suggested. Fee's face brightened up. "That's so,--perhaps I shall," he said. "Why, Jack, you're almost as good a comforter as Nannie!" Then he took my hand as if he were going to shake hands, and holding it tight, went on with, "Now, Jack, I want you to promise me that you'll not speak about this attack of mine to _anybody_. As you say, I'll possibly--probably--be all over it in a few days, and there's too much sickness and trouble in the house already, without my adding to it. Promise me, Jack!" He gave my hand a little shake as he spoke. But I hesitated; for, though now he seemed better, I couldn't get out of my mind how _awfully_ he had looked when I first found him,--and Fee isn't strong like the rest of us. But he shook my hand again two or three times, saying impatiently, "Why don't you promise? There's no harm in doing what I ask; think how worried and anxious Phil and Nannie are about papa!" "Yes, presently," we heard Phil's voice say at the door at that very moment. "Promise! _promise!_" repeated Felix, almost fiercely, and I got so nervous--Phil was coming right into the room--that I said, "All right, I promise," almost before I knew what I was saying. I got a frightened sort of feeling the moment the words were out of my mouth, that made me just wish I hadn't said them. "Hullo! in bed? What's up?" asked Phil in surprise, as he walked up to Fee. "I wondered where you were." Then, without waiting for an answer, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and went on, in an excited tone of voice, "Did you hear about the _pater_? I tell you we've had our hands full downstairs; I'm afraid he's"--here Phil stopped and cleared his throat--"he's pretty low down. Dr. Archard as much as admitted it when I asked him to tell me the truth. It's that Fetich! He has been working over it like a galley slave, because--" Phil stopped again. He and Felix looked at each other; then, starting up, Phil walked over to the other side of the room, and stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at Fee's picture of the Good Shepherd which hangs on the wall there, and which he had seen scores of times before. "Who's going to take care of father?" Felix asked presently, and that brought Phil back to his bedside. "The doctor is going to send us a trained nurse this afternoon," he said; "but in the mean while Nannie and nurse are with him. Every time he became conscious he asked for Nannie or spoke her name, and seemed easier when she was near him; once or twice he called her 'Margaret'!" We were quiet for a moment or two,--that was dear mamma's name,--then Phil began again: "The nurse that's coming is a woman, and very efficient, I believe. Of course she'll have to have a certain amount of rest every day, and at those times somebody will have to take her place; so I'm going to try to be home early afternoons,--Nannie can't do everything, you know,--and sit with the _pater_ while the nurse takes her nap. I thought perhaps we could alternate, you and I,--you're so splendid in a sick room; but I suppose I'll be as awkward as the proverbial bull in the china shop. I generally get rattled when I undertake to do anything for father, and am sure to do just what I shouldn't; so I'm not sorry you're going to be there for a change, old man." He threw his arm across Fee's poor helpless legs as he spoke, and gave one of them a little squeeze. Fee hesitated. "I'm afraid I can't begin right away," he said slowly; "I'm not up to the mark just now, and it would be best not to depend on me for anything for at least--a week. Then, if I can, you may be sure I'll willingly take my part of the nursing." "Why, you're not ill, are you?" exclaimed Phil. "You were all right this morning when I went out. It's just to sit in the room, you know; you could read there, I suppose, if you wanted to." Felix coloured up at Phil's tone. "You know very well I'm not one of the sort to shirk,--I would do anything for the _pater_," he said quickly, "and just as soon as I can I'll take my full share in looking after and nursing him; but, as I told you, I don't feel quite up to it just now. I'm going to keep quiet for a few days,--a week, perhaps." Fee was trying to speak in his usual way, but there was something in his voice when he said that "perhaps" that made me just long to tell Phil right out what the trouble was. As it was, maybe Phil noticed something, for he eyed Fee sharply as he asked, rather anxiously: "Look here, Felix, is there anything you're keeping back? Come to notice, you do look rather white about the gills; do you feel ill, old fellow?" I thought everything would come out then, for I knew Fee wouldn't lie about it; and so it would, I'm pretty sure, if Paul and Alan hadn't come bouncing into the room, and Nora behind them. The boys flew to Fee's bedside. "Oh, Fee, _don't_ let her get us!" "Oh, Fee, _do_ let us stay with you!" they cried at the same moment, while Alan added saucily, "she just thinks we b'long to her!" "They're the _rudest_ children I ever knew!" exclaimed Nora, angrily,--just as if she knew all the children in the world! "They don't know what the word, 'obedience' means. Come straight upstairs this minute,--both of you!" She made a dive for them, but the boys were too quick for her. Alan ducked under Fee's bed, and came up on the other side with a triumphant chuckle, while Paul rolled right over Fee's legs and landed on the floor, where Phil grabbed him. "Can't you behave yourselves, you young rascals?" demanded Phil, sternly, giving Paul's arm a shake, and catching Alan by the collar. "Just walk straight upstairs, and do as your sister tells you. Stop your noise this minute,--do you hear me?" But instead they both roared the louder, at the same time pulling and tugging to get away. "She's just _horrid_!" asserted Alan, trying to wriggle out of Phil's grasp. "I just wish she'd go an' live in some other house, and never come back;" while between his sobs Judge drawled out pertly: "She thinks she can treat us like anything 'cause nurse isn't here to take our part. She won't let us do one single thing, an' she's just as cross as an old cat--so _now_!" "I am, eh?" cried Nora, indignantly. "Well, like it or not, you will have to obey me. Go upstairs at once,--both of you! _Make_ them go, Phil!" I felt awfully sorry for them,--you see I know Nora is a nagger, she tries it on me sometimes; but they _were_ making a horrible din. Fee looked very white; he lay with one arm folded over his eyes; and to make matters worse, in walked Betty. "Kathie has started crying, and I can't stop her," she announced, as she got in the doorway. "I'm afraid Mädel will be off in a few minutes, too, if we don't quiet Kathie; hadn't I better call Nannie?" "Who is taking my name in vain?" said a voice that we were all glad to hear, and there was Nannie herself, smiling at us over Betty's shoulder. XIII. THROUGH THE SHADOW. TOLD BY JACK. Well, it was astonishing how things quieted down after that. Phil let go the boys, and with a shout of delight they rushed up to Nannie, and just threw themselves on her; with an arm round each, she went straight to Fee's side: "Why, Felix, are you ill? My dear, is it your back again?" As she spoke she laid her hand on his forehead, and then stroked his hair back. "Yes," Fee said wearily, closing his eyes; "my back--and the _noise_!" "Come, boys, we'll go up to the nursery and get ready for dinner. Nurse has to stay with poor papa, so I'm going to give you your dinner; and of course I want my little knights to be on their best behaviour for the occasion." Nannie drew them, still hanging on to her, toward the door. "Oh, yes, and _do_ stop Kathie, if you can," put in Betty. "Mädel accidentally rocked the charger on Kathie's pet doll's head and smashed it, and she's just _howled_ ever since. Do listen!" Sure enough, we could all hear a long, mournful wail; then another and another; if there's one thing Kathie does well, it's crying. "What! Esmeralda Dorothea? Poor Kathie!" said Nannie; "I don't wonder she feels badly. Come, boys, we'll go up and see if we can comfort her." The boys looked quite jubilant! holding on to Nannie's hand, Alan threw a defiant glance at Nora as he passed her, and Judge quoted in his slow, droll way: "'My _dear_ dolly's dead! She died of a hole in her head!'" "Instead of petting those boys, Nannie, you ought to punish them well, or give them a good scolding!" cried Nora. "They have both been exceedingly rude and disobedient to me." Nannie looked grieved, and the boys immediately began making excuses, which Nannie heard in silence. When they had finished, she said: "We are going upstairs to get ready for dinner, Nonie; but after that, when we are all sweet and clean, these two little men will, I am sure, come to you and ask you to overlook this afternoon's behaviour. I can't think that they really meant to be rude or disobedient to sister Nora." Nora tossed her head, but said nothing until Nannie had gone upstairs; then she remarked: "It's outrageous the way Nannie spoils the children; did you see the impertinent look Alan gave me as he went by? You will see they won't apologise,--I know they won't;" and then she, too, walked out of the room. But they did apologise, all the same, and very soon after, too. "Like oil on troubled waters! What a blessing that Nannie belongs to this family!" Phil said, when we three were alone again. "Ay, thank God for her!" answered Felix, fervently; and I felt like saying so too. Really, I don't know what we'd do without Nannie to keep the peace. It isn't that we don't love one another, for we do, dearly, and we just _love_ to be together, too; but somehow, somebody or other's sure to get into a discussion, or a fuss, or a regular quarrel, if Nannie isn't on hand to smooth things down. I don't know how it is, but she can get us to do things that we wouldn't do for any one else, and it isn't because she coaxes, for she doesn't always; sometimes she speaks right square out, and doesn't mince matters either,--but even then we don't mind. I mean it doesn't hurt as it would from somebody else. Felix says it's because she has tact, and Betty says it's because she loves us an awful lot. _I_ think perhaps it's both. [Illustration: "'THESE TWO LITTLE MEN WILL, I AM SURE, COME TO YOU AND ASK YOU TO OVERLOOK THIS AFTERNOON'S BEHAVIOUR.'"] Well, those next two weeks were just _awful_! Seems now as if they'd been a tremendous long nightmare. There was Fee in bed upstairs he didn't get up or stand on his feet for nearly ten days,--he couldn't, you know, his legs wouldn't hold him up, though I rubbed and rubbed them every night till I was so tired, I felt as if I'd drop. Of course I didn't let Fee know how tired I got over it, 'cause then he wouldn't have let me rub 'em so long, and I did want to do it thoroughly. At first Fee hadn't a bit of feeling in his legs; but gradually it came back, and at last one afternoon he managed to stand on his feet, holding on to me and the furniture,--his cane wasn't any good at all at first,--and I tell you he used to press hard, though he didn't know it. You see he was anxious to be all right as soon as he possibly could, 'cause the others began to think 'twas queer he stayed in bed so long if it was nothing but his back, and he didn't want them to know what the trouble was; and besides, he felt all the time that he should be up and helping take care of papa: there was a good deal to do, though the nurse was there, for the doctor said papa shouldn't be left alone for even a minute. So they were all very busy and anxious, or they would certainly have noticed what a long time I stayed in Fee's room every afternoon, and perhaps have suspected something. Phil was the one Fee said he was most afraid would find out, but he was a good deal in papa's room in the afternoons, and evenings he was studying, 'cause his exams, were coming on, though sometimes he went for long walks with Chad. Chad was very often at the house at this time, but he never went in to see Fee; and after the first or second time I didn't tell Fee, for he doesn't like Chad, and I could see he didn't want Phil and Chad to be together without his being there too. We don't any of us care very much for Chad,--not half or even a quarter as much as we do for Hilliard; even Betty has to admit that, for all she makes such fun of Hill's slow ways. You see Chad puts on such silly airs, pretending he's a grown-up man, when really he's only a boy,--he's only a year older than Phil. And then he talks so much about his money, and wears _diamonds_,--rings and pins and buttons,--fancy! As Betty says, nice men and boys don't wear diamonds like that. Betty is awfully rude to Chad sometimes; she calls him Monsieur le Don_key_, and Dresden-china-young man, and laughs at him almost to his face. I should think he'd get mad, but he just ignores her. In fact, the only one he shows any attention to is Nora; he's all the time bringing her flowers, and talking to her in his affected way, and lately he has begun to be very friendly with Phil, though I'm not sure that Phil cares very much in return,--he's so short with Chad sometimes. But, dear me! all this isn't what I started to say; I was telling you about those awful nightmare weeks. Well, to go back, there was Fee in bed upstairs, just as brave-hearted as he could be, but getting thinner and paler every day; and there was papa in the extension--he's slept down there ever since dear mamma died--in bed too, and desperately ill. The doctor came two and three and four times a day, and the house was kept as still as could be; we just stole through the halls, and scurried up the stairs like so many mice, so's not to make any noise, and because the constant muttering that we could hear from the sick-room made us feel so badly,--at least it did us older ones, the younger children didn't understand. Papa doesn't usually say very much; but now he was out of his head, and he just talked the whole time, and loud, so one couldn't help hearing what he said. 'Twas about the Fetich; he called it "my book," and scolded himself because he couldn't work faster on it, so's to sell it. I tell you what, that just broke Betty and Phil all up! Then he'd seem to forget that, and begin about walking in the country with mamma, through fields full of flowers and trees and "babbling brooks,"--that's what he called 'em, and quoted poetry about them all. He never once spoke of us; it was always "Margaret, Margaret!" sometimes in a glad voice, as if he were very happy, and sometimes in a sad, wailing sort of way, that brought a great lump into our throats. Nannie had to be in papa's room most all of every day,--the nurse said he got very restless when she wasn't around,--and as he kept getting worse and worse, she was in there lots of nights, too. Her lessons, and all the other things, had to just go, and we hardly saw her except for a little while now and then, when she ran up to sit with Felix and tell him about how papa was getting on. After a while she began to look a little pale, and her eyes got real big and bright; but she never once said she was tired, and it never occurred to any of us--you see we were all worked up over papa--until one day Max spoke of it to Felix: he said Nannie was just killing herself, and got so sort of excited over it--Max isn't one of the excitable kind--that Fee started in to worry about Nannie. It was when he had just begun to walk about a little, and he was wild to go right down and take Nannie's place in the sick-room. But he couldn't, you know; why, 'twas as much as he could do to barely stand on his feet and get round holding on to the furniture. Then, when he realised that, he got disheartened, and called himself a "useless hulk," and all sorts of horrid names, and was just as cranky as he could be; but I felt so sorry for him that I didn't mind. Poor old Fee! Well, from day to day papa got more and more ill; the fever kept right on and he was awfully weak, and at last he fell into a stupor. That day Dr. Archard hardly left our house for even an hour, and the other physicians just went in and out all the time. Max was there, too,--he almost lived at our house those weeks, taking all the night watching they'd let him, and doing all he could for papa and us,--and about seven o'clock that evening he came up to the schoolroom, where we older ones were. Dr. Archard had told Phil, and he had told us, that a change would come very soon,--papa would either pass from that stupor into a sleep which might save his life, or he would go away from us, as our dear mother had gone. No one of us was allowed to stay in the sick-room but Nannie, and she had promised to let us know the minute the change came; so we five and Max were waiting in the schoolroom, longing and yet just dreading what Nannie might have to tell us. It was a glorious afternoon: the sun had just gone down, and from where we sat--close together--we could see through the windows the sky, all rose-colour and gold, with long streaks here and there of the most exquisite pale blue and green; and soft, white, fleecy clouds that kept changing their shape every minute. When I was little and heard that anybody we knew was dead, I used to sit in one of our schoolroom windows and watch the sunset, to see the angels taking the soul up to heaven,--- I thought that was the way it went up; I could almost always make out the shape of an angel in the clouds, and I'd watch with all my eyes till every speck of it had melted away, before I'd be willing to leave the window. Of course I really know better than that now, but this afternoon as we all sat there so sad and forlorn, looking at the skies, there came in the clouds the shape of a most beautiful large angel, all soft white, and with rosy, outspread wings, and I couldn't help wondering if God was sending an angel for papa's soul, or if he would let mamma come for it--she loved him so dearly! Betty saw the angel, too, for she nudged my elbow and whispered softly, "Oh, Jack, look!" Just then we heard a step outside, the door flew open, and Nannie came in; her face was pale, but her eyes were wide opened and shining, and when she spoke her voice rang out joyfully: "Oh, my dears, my dears!" she cried, stretching out her arms to us, "God is good to us,--papa is asleep! He will live!" Then, before anybody could say a word, she got very white, and threw out her hand for the back of Fee's chair; Phil sprang to catch her, but like a flash Max was before him. Taking Nannie right up in his arms, as if she'd been a little child, Max went over and laid her on the sofa, then knelt down by her, and began rubbing one of her hands. Phil flew for nurse, Nora for a fan, Betty for water, and I caught up Nannie's other hand and began rubbing it, though I could scarcely reach it from where I stood almost behind Max. I could hear Fee's chair scraping the floor as he hitched himself along toward us. Max stopped rubbing and began smoothing the loose, curly pieces of Nannie's hair off her forehead. "Dear little Nancy Lee!" I heard him say; and then, "My brave little--" I lost that word, for Nannie opened her eyes just then, and looked up at him with a far-off, wondering look; then the lids fell again, and she lay perfectly still, while Max and I rubbed away at her hands. In a minute or two the others came trooping in with nurse and the things they'd gone for, and pretty soon Nannie was much better. She sat up and looked at us with a smile that just lighted up her whole face,--I think Nannie is so pretty! "What a goose I was to faint!" she said, "when we have such _good_ news! Oh, isn't it splendid, _splendid_! that papa will get well!" Then in a minute--before we knew what she was about--she was kneeling by Felix, with her arms round his neck, crying and sobbing as if her heart would break. And what d'you think! in about two minutes more, if we weren't every one of us crying, too! I don't mean out loud, you know,--though Nora and Betty did,--but all the same we all knew we were doing it. Phil laid his arms on the schoolroom table and buried his face in them, Fee put his face down in Nannie's neck, and I was just _busy_ wiping away the tears that would come pouring down; nurse threw her apron over her face and went out in the hall, and Max walked to the window and stood there clearing his throat. And yet we were all _very_, _very_ glad and happy; queer, wasn't it? XIV. A MISSION OF THREE. TOLD BY JACK. That was the turning-point, for after that papa began to get better; but my! so slowly: why, it was days and days, Nannie said, before she could really see any improvement, he was so dreadfully weak. After a while, though, he began to take nourishment, then to notice things and to say a few words to Nannie, and one day he asked the doctor how long 'twould be before he could get at his writing again. The evening that Nannie came upstairs and told us about his asking the doctor this, we held a council. The "kids" were in bed, and Miss Marston was in her own room, so we had the schoolroom to ourselves; and in about five minutes after Nannie got through telling us, we were all quite worked up and all talking at once. You see we didn't want papa to begin working again on the Fetich as he had done, for Dr. Archard had said right out that that was what made him ill; and yet we didn't see, either, how we could prevent it. "Let's steal the Fetich and bury it in the cellar," proposed Betty, after a good deal'd been said; "then he _couldn't_ work at it, for it wouldn't be there, you know." Her eyes sparkled,--I think she'd have liked no better fun than carrying off the Fetich; but Phil immediately snubbed her. "Talk sense, or leave the council," he said so crossly that Nannie put in, "Why, _Phil_!" and Betty made a horrible face at him. Then Fee spoke up: "Say, how would it do for us, we three,--you, Phil, and Betty and I,--to tell the _pater_ how mean we feel about that beastly joke, and then run through the potential mood in the way of beseeching, imploring, exhorting him not to slave over his work in the future as he's been doing in the past months. I have a fancy that Mr. Erveng has really made him an offer for the book when completed--" "I'm pretty sure he has, from something Mrs. Erveng said the other day," broke in Nora, with a slow nod of her head. "Well," went on Felix, in an I-told-you-so tone of voice, "and I suppose the _pater_ thinks we're watching and measuring his progress like so many hungry hawks, just ready to swoop down and devour him--_ach_!" He threw out his hands with a gesture of disgust that somehow made us all feel ashamed, though we weren't all in it, you know. "That isn't a bad plan," said Nora, presently. "In fact, I think it is good; only, instead of three of you going at papa about it, why not let one speak for all? He would be just as likely to listen to one as to three, and it wouldn't tire him so much,--that's _my_ opinion. What do you think, Nannie?" Nannie shook her head dubiously; she was lying on the sofa looking awfully tired. "I'm not sure that it'll do any good," she answered; "I'm afraid papa has made up his mind to do just so much work, and he likes to carry out his intentions, you know. But I'd speak all the same," she added, "for I think he felt dreadfully cut up over that Fetich affair, and this will show him, anyhow, that you all care more for him--his well-being, I mean--than for the money the book might bring in. I fancy he has been doubtful of that sometimes. And I agree with Nora that it would be better for one to speak for the three. He is getting stronger now, and whoever is to be spokesman might, perhaps, go in to see him for a few minutes some afternoon this week. Who is it to be,--Phil?" "Don't ask me to do it!" exclaimed Phil; "_don't_--if you want the affair to be a success. I feel mortally ashamed of my share in that joke, and I agree with Felix that _somebody_ ought to speak to the _pater_ about working so hard, and almost killing himself; but I warn you that the whole thing will be a dead failure if I have the doing of it. In the first place, he looks so wretchedly now that I can't even look at him without feeling like breaking down; and with all that, if I undertook to say to him what I'd have to, why, I'm convinced I'd get rattled,--make an ass of myself, in fact,--and do no good whatever,--for that sort of thing always makes him mad. That's just the truth,--'tisn't that I want to shirk. Why don't you do it, old fellow?" (throwing his arm across Fee's shoulders), "you always know what to say, and can do it better than I." But Fee didn't seem willing either; _I_ think the chief reason was because he was afraid of the steps,--it's as much as he can do to get up the one short flight from his floor to the schoolroom, and he gets awfully nervous and cranky over even that short distance; but of course the others didn't know that, and he didn't want them to know, and I couldn't say anything, so everybody was very much surprised: even Nannie opened her eyes when, after a good deal of urging, he said sharply, "I am _not_ going to do it, and that settles it!" I was afraid there'd be a fuss, so I sung out quickly, "Why don't _you_ do it, Betty? You're always saying you're equal to anything." Well, if you had seen her face, and felt the punch she gave my shoulder! I declare Betty ought surely to've been a boy; she's entirely too strong for a girl, and rough. I will say, though, that she's been better lately; but still she breaks out every now and then, and then she hits out, perfectly regardless of whether she hurts people or not. She just glared at me. "_Me!_ _I!_ _I_ go into papa's room and make a speech to him!" she exclaimed so loudly that Phil reminded her she needn't roar, as none of us were deaf. "Why, I couldn't, I simply _couldn't_! I'm just as bad as Phil in a sick-room,--you all know I am; I'd tumble over the chairs, or knock things off the table, or fall on the bed, or something horrid, and papa'd have me put out. Then I'm sure matters would be worse than they are now. 'Tisn't that I'm _afraid_,"--with a withering glance at me,--"and I _do_ feel awfully sorry about papa; but all the same, I don't want to be the one to speak to him about the Fetich,--I don't think it's my place: how much attention do you suppose he would pay to what _I_'d say?" She fanned herself vigorously, then added, in a milder tone, "Why not let Felix draw up a petition, and we could all sign it; then--eh--" with another withering glance--"_Jack_ could take it in to papa!" "You're a fine set!" mocked Nora; "all _very_ sorry, _very_ penitent, all seeing what should be done, but no one willing to do it. You are as bad as the rats who decided in council that a bell should be placed on the neck of their enemy, the cat, so that they should always have warning of her approach; but when it came to deciding on who was to do the deed, not one was brave enough." "I suppose you think, as Nora does, that we're a pretty mean set?" Felix said to Nannie; he ignored Nora's remark, though Phil made a dash for her with the laughing threat, "Just let me catch you, Miss Nora!" Nannie sat up and pushed her hair off her forehead; she looked pale and languid, and when she spoke, her voice sounded tired. "No," she said, "I don't think you are any of you mean; but I am disappointed: I like people to have the courage of their convictions, and particularly you, Fee." "That's right, give it to us, Nancy,--we deserve it!" shouted Phil, coming back in triumph with Nora; but Felix coloured up, and, leaning over, laid his hand on Nannie's arm. "Perhaps if you--" he began eagerly, but he didn't say the rest, for Max and Hilliard came in just then, and Nannie got up to speak to them. That was on a Tuesday evening, and the next afternoon, as I was going through the hall, Miss Appleton came out of the sick-room and asked if I would sit with papa for a short time, while she went to the basement to make some nourishment or something or other. "There is nothing to do but to sit somewhere about the room, within range of your father's sight," she said, as I hesitated a little,--not that I minded, but you see I was rather nervous for fear I might be asked to do things that I didn't know how to. "I won't be long, and I don't think he will need anything until I return." [Illustration: "MISS APPLETON ... ASKED IF I WOULD SIT WITH PAPA FOR A SHORT TIME."] Nannie was lying down with a headache, and nurse, Miss Marston, and the others were away upstairs; Phil had not yet come home; so I said, "Very well," and walked in. Papa was lying in bed, and he did look awful!--white and thin! He put out his hand as I went up to the bed, and said with a little smile, "Why, it is Jack! how do you do, my dear?" then he drew me down and kissed me. I would _love_ to have told him how very, _very_ glad I was that he was better, but I choked up so I couldn't get out a word. I just stood there hanging on to his hand, until he drew it away and said, "Take a seat until the nurse returns." Miss Appleton had told me to sit where papa could see me, so I took a chair that somebody had left standing near the foot of the bed, and in full view of him. It was very quiet in the room after that; papa lay with his eyes closed, and I could see how badly he looked. He was very pale,--kind of a greyish white,--his eyes were sunk 'way in, and there were quite big hollows in his temples and his cheeks. I wondered if he knew that he had nearly died, and that we had prayed for him in church; then I thought of the figure of the angel that we'd seen in the clouds that afternoon in the schoolroom, and of the Beautiful City--"O mother dear, Jerusalem"--where everything is lovely and everybody so happy, and I wondered again if papa were sorry or glad that he was going to get better. You see he would have had dear mamma there, and been with the King "in His felicity;" but then he wouldn't have had the Fetich or his books! Suddenly papa opened his eyes and looked at me. "Jack," he said, "suppose you take another seat,--over there behind the curtain. I will call you if I need anything." He told Nannie afterward--and she told me, so I shouldn't do it again--that I'd "stared him out of countenance." I was awfully sorry; I wouldn't have done such a rude thing for the world, you know,--I didn't even know I was doing it; but, as I've told you before, when I'm alone with papa, I somehow just _have_ to look and look at him. I'd hardly taken my seat behind the curtain when the door opened and Fee came slowly in. He leaned heavily on his cane and caught on to the different pieces of furniture to help him make his way to papa's bedside. They just clasped hands, and for a minute neither of them said a word; then Felix began: "Oh, sir, I thank God that you are spared,"--his voice shook so he had to stop. Papa said gently: "More reference-making for you, my lad; I am evidently to be allowed to finish my work." And then Fee began again. He didn't say a great deal, and it was in a low tone,--a little slow, too, at first, as if he were holding himself in,--but there was something in his voice that made my heart swell up in me as it did that day I thrashed Henderson. It's a queer feeling; it makes one feel as if one could easily do things that would be quite impossible at any other time. "I hope I'll not tire or agitate you, sir," Fee said, "but I feel I must tell you, for Phil, Betty, and myself, how _utterly_ ashamed we are of that miserable, heartless joke we got off some months ago,--going to Mr. Erveng about your book; no, father, _please_ let me go on,--this ought to have been said long ago! We earnestly ask your forgiveness for that, sir; the remembrance of it has lain very heavy on our hearts in these last anxious weeks--" He stopped; I guess there was a lump in his throat,--_I_ know what that is! And presently papa said, very gently: "That did hurt me, Felix; but I have forgiven it. It may be that the experience was needed. I am afraid that I forgot I owed it to my children to finish and make use of my work." "No, _no_!" exclaimed Felix, vehemently. "_Don't_ feel that way, father; oh, _please_ don't! We hope you won't ever work on it again as you have been working,--to run yourself down, to make yourself ill. We beg, we implore that you will take better care of yourself. Let the book go; _never_ finish it; what do we care for it, compared to having you with us strong and well once more! Oh, sir, if you really do forgive us, if you really do believe in the love of your children, promise us that you will not work as you've been doing lately!" He waited a minute or two; then, as papa said nothing, he cried out sharply: "We are--_her_--children, sir; for _her_ sake do as we ask!" "Why do you want this--why do you want me to live?" papa asked slowly. "_Why?_ Because we love you!" exclaimed Fee, in surprise. And then I heard papa say, "My _son_!" in _such_ a tender voice; and then,--after a while,--"I am under a contract to finish my book, and I must do it; but I will endeavour to work less arduously, and to look more after my health." Here I think Fee must have kissed him,--it sounded so. "I shall have good news for the others," he said. "You know, sir, Phil and Betty feel as keenly about this as I do, but, for fear it would tire you, it was thought best for only one of us to speak to you about the matter. You don't feel any worse for our talk,--do you, father?" He said this anxiously, but papa said no, it hadn't done him any harm; still, he added, Felix had better go, and so he did in a few minutes. I felt so sorry when I thought of all the steps he'd have to climb to the schoolroom; I wondered how he'd ever get up them. Well, after that I think papa had a nap; anyway, he was very quiet. It was pretty stupid for me behind that curtain, and I was just wishing for about the tenth time that Miss Appleton would put in an appearance, when the door opened suddenly, and who should come walking in but Phil! He went straight up to papa, and began rather loud, and in a quick, excited sort of way,--I could tell he was awfully nervous,--"How d'you feel to-day, sir?" Then, before papa had time to answer, he went on: "We were talking things over last evening, and--and we--well, sir, we--that is, Felix, Betty, and I--feel that we're at the bottom of this illness of yours, through our getting up the scheme about the Fet--your book, you know--in going to Mr. Erveng. It was the cheekiest thing on our part! I deserve to be kicked for that, sir,--I know I do. And we're afraid--we think--you're just killing yourself! I'm a blundering idiot at talking, I know, so I might's well cut it short. What I want to say is this: We'd rather have you living, sir, and the--history--_never_ finished, than have it finished, with no end of money, and you dead. Oh, father, if you could know how we felt that night when your life hung in the balance!" He broke right down with a great sob. Then everything was so quiet again that I looked round the portière; Phil knelt by the bedside with his face buried in the bed-clothes, and papa's hand was resting on his head. I let the curtain fall. I felt, perhaps, they'd rather I didn't look at them. Then presently papa said quite cheerfully, "It will be all right, Phil: I think I am going to get well, and I shall try to take better care of myself; so you will, I hope, have no further occasion to be troubled about my health. I appreciate your speaking frankly to me, as you have done. Now, perhaps, you had better go; I am a little tired." Phil shook hands with papa and started to go, but paused half-way to the door. "This is for Felix and Betty, as well as for myself, father," he said pleadingly. "They feel just as badly as I do about you, but we thought 'twas best for one to speak for the three; and I being the eldest,--you understand?" "Yes," papa said gently, "I understand." As the door closed behind Phil, papa called me. "Jack," he said, in a weak voice, "it seems to me that Miss Appleton is gone a good while; perhaps you had better give me something,--I think I am tired." My! didn't I get nervous! There was nothing on the table but bottles and a medicine glass; I didn't know any more than the man in the moon what to give him, and I didn't like to ask him. I was pretty sure he didn't know; and besides, he had shut his eyes. I caught up one of the bottles and uncorked and smelled it without in the least knowing what I intended doing next. How I did wish the nurse would come! Just then some one came into the room, and when I turned quickly, expecting to see Miss Appleton, who was it but _Betty_! Well, I was so surprised, I nearly dropped the bottle. But she didn't even look at me; she just marched up to papa and began talking. She stood a little distance from the bed,--she said afterward she was afraid to go nearer for fear she'd shake the bed, or fall on it,--with her hands behind her back, and she just rattled off what she had to say as if she'd been "primed," as Phil calls it. Without even a "how d'you do?" she plunged into her subject. That's Betty all over; she always goes right to the point. "Papa," she said earnestly, "I'm awfully--that is, _very_, _very_ sorry we went to Mr. Erveng that time about your book, without first speaking to you about it. We're all _very_ sorry,--Phil, Felix, and I,--and just as ashamed as we can be. We've worried dreadfully over it, and about you, and it was simply _awful_ when we thought you were going to die! We didn't acknowledge it to one another, but if you had died, I know we three'd have felt as if we had as much as killed you" (here Betty's voice dropped to almost a whisper; I thought perhaps she was going to cry, but she didn't, she just went on louder); "for we are sure you never would have hurried so with--your book--if we hadn't played that mean joke. You see, papa, we're _so_ afraid you'll--you'll--die, or be ill, or something else dreadful if you don't stop working so hard,--like a galley slave, as Phil says. And I've come to ask you, for Phil, Felix, and myself, to let the hateful old book go, and just get well and strong again; will you?" "But if the history is completed, it can be sold, and thus bring in the money that is so much needed in the family." Betty eyed papa; I think she wasn't sure whether he was in sarcasm or earnest. "Oh," she said, "we did think it would be nice to have enough money to send Fee to college, but we don't want it any more,--at least, not if it's to come by your being ill--or--or--oh, papa, dear, we're all so _very_ glad and thankful that you are going to get well." She took his hand up carefully and kissed it. "I think that now I am glad, too, Betty," said papa; "much more so than I ever expected to be." "And you won't work so hard again, will you?" asked Betty, anxiously. "You see, papa, I'm to get you to promise that; that's what I've come for. We talked the matter over last evening, and Phil would have come to speak to you about it, but he said you looked so wretchedly--and so you do--that just to look at you made him break down, and he was afraid he'd get rattled and make an a--a mess of it. Then Felix, he couldn't come, because, well, because--I guess he felt badly, too, about your being ill. So I thought _I'd_ better come down and have a talk with you, though I must say I was afraid I might do something awkward,--I'm so _stupid_ in a sick-room; but so far all's right, isn't it? The boys don't know I've come,--I thought I'd surprise them; and so I will, with the good news: you'll promise, won't you, papa?" "Yes," papa said, "I promise." Then Betty flew at him and kissed him, and then papa told her she'd better go. It was only just as she got to the door that she spied me. "Hullo! you here?" she exclaimed in astonishment,--adding, in a lower tone, "What're you laughing at?" Then, as I didn't answer, she walked out. "Jack," called papa, "are there anymore of them to come? Do you suppose they are crazy?" Then he added to himself, "I wonder if any one else in the world has such children as I have?" We looked at each other for a minute or two (papa's eyes were bright, and his mouth was kind of smiley, and I was, I know, on a broad grin), and then we both laughed,--papa quietly, as he always does; but I cackled right out, I _couldn't_ help it. At this moment in came Miss Appleton with papa's nourishment, and right behind her Nannie. "Oh, how bright you look!" Nannie exclaimed with delight, as she came up to him; "that last medicine has certainly done you good." "Yes, I think it has," papa said, with a quizzical glance at me. "It was a new and unexpected kind; Nannie, my dear,--I have had a visitation." XV. SOME MINORS. TOLD BY JACK. Instead of going in the country early, as usual, this year we just hung on and hung on until the weather was quite warm, waiting for papa to get strong enough to stand the journey. It seemed to us as if he were an awful while getting well: long after he was able to be dressed, he had to lie on the lounge for the greater part of every day,--the least exertion used him up; and as for his work, Dr. Archard said he wasn't to even _think_ of touching it. But at last--after changing the date several times--a day was set for us to start. We were all delighted; we _love_ to be at the Cottage. You see we have no lessons then, 'cause Miss Marston goes away for her holidays, and we can be out of doors all day long if we choose; papa doesn't mind as long as we're in time for meals and looking clean and decent. There's a lovely cove near our house,--it isn't deep or dangerous,--and there we go boating and swimming; then there's fishing and crabbing, and drives about the country in the big, rattly depot-wagon behind Pegasus,--that's our horse, but he's an awful old slow-poke,--and rides on our donkey, G. W. L. Spry. Oh, I tell you now, it's all just _splendid_! We always hate to go back to the city. Perhaps you think our donkey has a queer name. Most people do until we explain. Well, his real name is George Washington Lafayette Spry,--so the man said from whom papa bought him,--but that was such a mouthful to say that Fee shortened it to G. W. L. Spry, and I do believe the "baste," as cook calls him, knows it just as well as the other name,--any way, he answers to it just as readily. He _is_ pretty spry when he gets started, but the thing is to start him. [Illustration: "G. W. L. SPRY."] Well, to go back, we were delighted at the prospect of getting away, and we all worked like beavers helping to get ready. Miss Marston and the girls and Phil packed,--his college closed ever so long ago,--Fee directed things generally, and addressed and put on tags, and we children ran errands. Almost everything was ready; in fact, some of the furniture had gone,--there're such a lot of us that we have to take a pile of stuff,--when two unexpected things happened that just knocked the whole plan to pieces. For a good while Max had been urging and urging papa to go to his place in the Adirondacks; he said his mother was there, and she was first-rate at taking care of sick people, and that she'd be awfully glad to see Nannie, too, who, Max declared, needed the change as much as ever papa did. But papa refused, and it was settled that we were all to go to the Cottage, when suddenly Dr. Archard turns round and says that mountain, not sea air was what papa should have, and insisted so on it that at last papa gave in and accepted Max's invitation for Nannie and himself. So then it was arranged that papa, Nannie, and Max were to go to the mountains, and we to the Cottage with Miss Marston,--they going one day, and we the next. [Illustration: "WE ALL WORKED LIKE BEAVERS."] That was the first set-back, and the next one was ten times worse. Just as papa was being helped down the steps to the carriage, what should come but a telegram for Miss Marston from her aunt in Canada, asking her to come right on. Well, that just upset _our_ going in the country! Phil and Felix told papa they could manage things, and get us safely to the Cottage,--and I'm sure they'd have done it as well as ever Miss Marston could, for she's awfully fussy and afraid of things happening; but no, papa wouldn't hear of it, though Max declared he thought 'twould be all right. Felix took it quietly, but Phil got kind of huffy, and said papa must think he was about two years old, from the way he treated him. I tell you, for a little while there Nannie had her hands full,--what with trying to smooth him down, and to keep papa from getting nervous and worked up over the matter. Well, after a lot of talking, and papa losing one train, it was arranged that we should remain in the city with nurse until we heard from Miss Marston, and knew how long she'd be likely to stay in Canada. If only a short time,--say ten days,--we were to wait for her return and go under her care to the Cottage; but if she'd be gone several weeks, then Phil, Felix, and nurse would take us to the country. As soon as this was settled, papa, Nannie, and Max went off, and a little later Miss Marston started for her train. Besides being worried about her aunt, Miss Marston felt real sorry at leaving us so hurriedly, and she gave no end of directions to Nora and Betty, to say nothing of nurse. Nora didn't seem to mind this, but nurse sniffed--she always does that when she doesn't like what people are telling her--and Betty got impatient; you see Nannie'd been drilling Betty, too,--telling her to be nice to Nora, and to help with the little ones, and all that,--and I guess she'd got tired of being told things. "I know just how Phil feels about papa's snubbing," she said to me. "Some people never seem to realise that we're growing up. Why, if papa and Miss Marston should live until we were eighty and ninety years old, I do believe, Jack, that they'd still treat us as if we were infants,--like the story Max told us of the man a hundred and ten years old, who whipped his eighty-year-old son and set him in a corner because he'd been 'naughty'! It's too provoking! And as to being '_nice_' to Nora, I feel it in my bones that she and I will have a falling out the very first thing; she'll put on such airs that I'll not be able to stand her!" But as it turned out, there was something else in store for Betty; that same evening over came Mr. Erveng and Hilliard with an invitation from Mrs. Erveng for Betty to go to their country home, near Boston, and spend a month with them. Mr. Erveng had met papa in the railroad station that day, and got his consent for Betty to accept the invitation. So all she had to do was to pack a trunk and be ready to leave with them the next morning,--they would call for her. I felt awfully sorry Betty was going: though there are so many of us, you've no idea what a gap it makes in the family when even one is away; and, with all her roughness and tormenting ways, Betty is real nice, too. I didn't actually know what I'd do with both Nannie and her away. I couldn't help wishing that the Ervengs had asked Nora instead of Betty, and I know Betty wished so, too, for you never saw a madder person than she was when she came upstairs to help nurse pack her trunk: you see she didn't dare make any objections, as long as papa had given his consent, but she didn't want to go one step, and she just let us know it. "I'll have to be on my company manners the whole livelong time, and I simply _loathe_ that," she fumed. "Mrs. Erveng won't let me play with Hilliard, I'm sure she won't, 'that's so unladylike!'"--mimicking Mrs. Erveng's slow, gentle voice,--"and I never know what to talk to _her_ about. I suppose I'll have to sit up and twirl my thumbs, like a regular Miss Prim, from morning to night. Why didn't they ask _you_?" wheeling round on Nora. "You and Mrs. Erveng seem to be such fine friends, and you suit her better than I do. I always feel as if she looked upon me as a clumsy, overgrown hoiden, an uncouth sort of animal." "I couldn't very well be spared from home just now," answered Nora, calmly, with her little superior air; "and any way, I presume Mrs. Erveng asked the one she wanted,--people generally claim that privilege." So far was all right; but she must needs go on, and, as Phil says, "put her foot in it." "I really hope you'll behave yourself nicely, Betty," she continued, "for only the other day I heard Mrs. Erveng say that she thought you had improved wonderfully lately; _do_ keep up to that reputation." Betty was furious! "No, _really_? How _very_ kind of her!" she burst out scornfully. "The idea of her criticising me,--and to you! You ought to be ashamed not to stand up for your own sister to strangers! Indeed, I'll do just as I please; _I'm_ not afraid of Mrs. Erveng! I'll slide down every banister, if I feel like it, and swing on the doors, too, and make the most horrible faces; you see if I don't come home before the month is out!" "Leave their house standing, Elizabeth,--just for decency's sake, you know," advised Phil. We were all laughing, and what does Nora do but pitch into me for it. "Can't you find anything better to do, Jack, than encouraging Betty to be rude and unladylike?" she commenced sharply; but just then Hannah came, asking for something, and, with a great air of importance, Nora went off with her. But if Nora didn't understand how Betty felt, I did. Of course the Ervengs meant it kindly asking her; but _I_ wouldn't have wanted to go off alone visiting people that were almost strangers,--for that's what Mr. and Mrs. Erveng are to us, though we do know Hilliard so well,--and I just said so to her, and gave her my best feather-top. As I told her, she might play it times when she was alone in her own room, to keep up her spirits. I'd have given her something nicer, but all my things were packed up, except my locomotive, and I knew she wouldn't care for _that_,--she's always making fun of it. Betty's one of the kind that just hate to cry where people can see them, so she went away without the least fuss--though I know her heart was full--when the Ervengs called for her the next morning. Hilliard was as merry as a lark. "It's so good of you to come," he said, beaming on Betty when he met her on the steps. "We are going to take the very best care of you, and help you to enjoy yourself immensely; I only wish all the others were coming with us, too,"--with a glance at us (the whole family had crowded out on the stoop to see Betty off). "We don't want to; we'd rather go to the Cottage," sung out Alan. Nora had to hush him up. Hilliard was just as nice as he could be, putting Betty into the carriage, and looking after her things,--I hadn't thought he could be so polite; but Betty was very cool and snippy, and the last sight I got of her, as the carriage turned the corner, she was sitting bolt upright, looking as stiff as a poker. I felt sorry for Betty, and I felt sorry for the Ervengs, too,--at least for Hilliard. I can't think why Betty doesn't like him better. We were awfully lonely and unsettled for a few days,--it seemed so queer to have Nora in Nannie's place, and Phil at the head of the table; to hear Nora giving orders, and for Phil to have to see to shutting up the house nights. Somehow it made us feel grown-up,--it was such a responsibility, you know; and at first we were all very quiet, and so polite to one another that nurse declared she "wouldn't 'a' known we was the same fam'ly." Felix and Phil were as dignified as could be, and the little ones went to bed without a murmur, and obeyed Nora like so many lambs. But it didn't last,--it couldn't, you know, for we weren't really happy, acting that way; and pretty soon we began to be just as we usually were,--only a little more so, as we boys say. You see nobody was really head, though Nora and Phil both pretended they were,--we didn't count nurse,--and each person just wanted to do as he or she pleased, and of course that made lots of fusses. Phil did a lot of talking, and ordered people around a good deal, but nobody minded him very much. Nora had her hands full with the children; they were awfully hard to manage, particularly Kathie,--her feelings get hurt so easily. Nora said that nurse spoiled them, and in a sort of way took their part against her, while nurse said Nora was too fond of "ordering," and that she nagged them; so there were rumpuses there sometimes. I read over all my favourite books that weren't packed up, and worked on my steam engine, and went about to see what the others were doing; but I tried not to be mixed up in any of the rows. Fee got a fit of painting,--he wanted Nora to pose for him for Antigone, but she wouldn't; and he played his violin any time during the day that he liked,--you see there wasn't anybody there to mind the noise. That was in the day; in the evenings we--Nora and we three boys--sat on the stoop, it was _so_ warm indoors. The Unsworths and Vassahs and 'most all the people we knew were out of town, and Chad Whitcombe was the only person that came round to see us. When he found we hadn't gone to the country, he'd make his appearance every evening, and sit with us on the stoop. At first he stayed the whole evening, and was so pleasant and chatty I could hardly believe 'twas Chad; of course he was affected,--he always is,--but still he was real interesting, telling about places he'd been to, and some of the queer people he'd met in his travels. After a while, though, he began to stay for about half the evening, then he'd ask Phil to take a walk with him, and away they would go; and sometimes Phil wouldn't get back very early either. Well, Felix stood it for a few times without saying anything,--he always has precious little to do with Chad; but one evening when Chad stood up and asked, "Take a stroll--aw--will you, Phil?" and Phil rose to go, Fee got quickly on his feet. "Just let me get my cane, and I'll come, too," he said. I was looking at Chad just then, and I could see he didn't like it; but Phil answered at once, "All right, old fellow; come on!" And Fee went. I was alone on the stoop when the boys got back,--Chad wasn't with them. Nora was playing the piano in the drawing-room, and Phil went in to speak to her; but Felix sat down on the step beside me with his back against the railing. As the light from the hall lamp fell on him, I could see how white and tired he looked. I couldn't help saying something about it. "You do look awfully used up, Fee," I said; "I guess you've been walking too far. Whatever made you do it? You know you can't stand that sort of thing." Of course I didn't say this crossly,--Fee isn't at all the sort of person that one would say cross things to,--but you see I knew just how miserable he'd been, and that he wasn't well yet, by any means. He pretended to be quite well, but I noticed that he sat down lots of times, instead of standing, as he used to, and that it was still an effort for him to go up and down stairs. When I said that about his being tired, he pushed his straw hat back off his face, and I could see his hair lying wet and dark on his white forehead. "I _am_ dead tired," he said, wearily. "I tell you, Jack, the ascent to the third floor seems a formidable undertaking to-night." Then he added abruptly, "_Why_ did I do it? Because I'm _determined_"--he brought his clinched hand down on the stoop--"that that scalawag sha'n't get hold of Phil. I suppose my miserable old back'll take its revenge to-morrow; but I don't care,--I'd do it again and again, if I couldn't keep them apart any other way." Just then Phil's voice came to us through the open drawing-room window. "It's a lovely night," he was saying to Nora; "I don't feel a bit like going to bed,--I think I'll go out again for a little while. You needn't wait up for me, Nonie, and I'll see to the shutting up of the house when I come in; don't let Fee bother about it,--he looks tired." With a quick exclamation, Felix caught hold of the railing of the stoop, and dragging himself to his feet, limped into the parlour. "It's an age since we've sung any of our duets, Phil," he called; "let's have some now. Nora, play 'O wert thou in the cauld blast,'--that's one of our favourites." And in a minute or two they were singing away with all their might. But presently Phil came out with his hat on, and behind him Felix. "Still here, Jack? It's getting pretty late!" Fee said. Then to Phil, "I guess it's too late for another tramp to-night, Philippus; come on, let's go upstairs." He was trying to speak off-hand, but I could hear in his voice the eagerness he was trying to keep back. Perhaps Phil heard it, too, and suspected something, for he answered very shortly, "I'm going out; I'm not an infant to be put to bed at eight o'clock." And with that he jammed his hat tighter on his head, ran down the stoop, and was soon out of sight. Felix sat down on one of the hall chairs, and leaned his head on his hand in such a sad, tired way that I felt as if I'd have liked to pitch right into Phil. I darted in from the stoop and put my hand on Fee's shoulder. "Fee," I whispered,--I didn't want Nora to hear,--"can I do anything to help? Shall I run after him and _make_ him come back?" Felix looked up at me; his lips were set tight together, and there was a stern expression on his face that made him look like papa. "'Twould take a bigger man than you are to do that, Jack," he said, with a faint smile, adding slowly, "but I'll tell you what you _can_ do,--you can keep mum about this; and now help me upstairs, like a good boy: I'm almost too tired to put one foot after the other." Then, as he rose and slowly straightened himself up, he said, "After all, Phil's only gone for a walk, you know, Jack; he'll be home pretty soon, you may depend." But I had a feeling that he said this to make himself believe it as well as me. Fee _was_ awfully used up; I could hardly get him up the steps. Nora would certainly have heard the noise we made if she hadn't been so interested in her music. Phil did not come in very early; in fact, I think it was late. I room with him, you know, and it seemed as if I'd been asleep a good while when his shutting of our door woke me up. Of course I turned over and looked at him; I'm sure there wasn't anything in that to make a person mad, though perhaps I did stare a little, for Phil had a queer expression on his face,--jolly, and yet sort of ashamed, too. His face was quite red, and his eyes looked glassy. He leaned against the closed door, with his hat on the back of his head, and just scowled at me. "What're you staring at, I'd like to know?" he said roughly. "Without exception, you're the most inquisitive youngster! you _must_ have your finger in every pie. Just turn yourself right over to the wall and go to sleep this minute; I _won't_ have you spying on me!" Now I usually give in to Phil, and I do hate to get into rows with people, but I couldn't stand that; I just sat straight up in bed and spoke out. "I'm _not_ inquisitive," I said, "and I'm _not_ spying on you, either. I wouldn't do such a mean thing, and you know it." "Oh, hush up, and go to sleep! you talk entirely too much," Phil answered back, and taking off his hat, he threw it at me. The hat didn't touch me,--it barely fell on the edge of the bed,--but it seemed to me as if I couldn't have felt worse if it had struck me; you see my feelings were so hurt. Phil likes to order people, and he's rough, too, sometimes. We know him so well, though, that I don't usually mind; but this evening he was awfully disagreeable,--so bullying that I couldn't help feeling hurt and mad. I felt just like saying something back,--something sharp,--but I knew that would only make more words, and there was Felix in the next room,--I didn't want him to be waked up and hear how Phil was going on; it wouldn't have done any good, you see, and would only have made Fee unhappy. So I just swallowed down what I was going to say, and bouncing over on my pillow, I turned my face to the wall, away from Phil. But I couldn't go to sleep,--you know one can't at a minute's notice,--and I couldn't help hearing what he was doing about the room. I heard a clinking noise, as if he were putting silver money down on the bureau; then, while he was unlacing his boots and dropping them with a thud on the floor, he began to whistle softly, "O wert thou in the cauld blast." I suppose that reminded him of something he wanted to say, for presently he called out, "Say, Rosebud--_Rose_bud!" I just _wouldn't_ answer,--after his treating me that way! What did he do then but lean over the footboard and shake me by the heel. "Turn over," he said; "I want to talk to you,--d'you hear me?" and he shook my heel again. I jerked my foot away. "I wish you wouldn't bother me," I answered; "I'm trying to go to sleep." "Oh, I see,--on your dig." Phil laughed and pulled my toe. "Well, you provoked me, staring at me with those owly eyes of yours; but now I want to speak to you about Felix." I still felt sore over the way he'd acted, but as long as it was Fee he wanted to talk about, I thought I'd better listen; so I turned over again and looked at Phil. "See here, what's the matter with Felix?" As he spoke, Phil went over and threw himself into a chair, where he could see me. "He's never been very much of a walker, but seems to me that he's worse than ever at it lately. Why, last evening--this evening I mean" (he gave me a funny look)--"we hadn't gone three blocks before he began to drag, and took hold of my arm; he hung on it, too, I can tell you. We didn't go very far, not nearly as far as we used to last winter; and I'd have made it still shorter, for I could see he was most awfully used up, but Fee wouldn't give in,--you know he can be obstinate. And when he came into the drawing-room to sing, he looked wretched,--white as a ghost! Since I've been home, I've noticed, in a good many little ways, that he doesn't do as much as he used to,--in the way of moving around; yet, when I speak to him 'bout it, he either--puts me off, or turns--cranky; I can't get a thing--out--of--him." Phil's voice had been getting slower and slower, and almost before he finished the last word he was _asleep_. I thought he was making believe at first,--he's such a tease,--but I soon found out that he wasn't. Well, I _was_ astonished; for a minute I couldn't say a word; I just lay there and looked at him. Then I remembered how late it was, and called him,--not loud, though, for fear of waking Felix. "Phil, _Phil_, aren't you coming to bed? it's awfully late." "Oh, let me _alone_," he muttered sleepily; then presently he roused up and began to talk real crossly, but in the same slow voice, and with his eyes shut: "I'm not a _child_--and I'm not going--to be treated--like one--you needn't--think so--I'm a _man_--all--the fellows--do it--'tisn't--any harm--" His head drooped and he was off again. I had got awfully nervous when he first began, I mean about Felix; you see Fee hadn't given me back my promise not to speak of his attack when papa was so ill, so I couldn't have told Phil, and I shouldn't have known what to say. Oh, that promise! that _miserable_ promise! if only I had _never_ made it! Well, as I said, I was thankful I didn't have to answer Phil; but when he acted so queerly, I didn't like that either, and jumping out of bed, I went at him, and just talked and coaxed and pulled at him, until at last I got him to get up and undress and go to bed. * * * * * Phil was as cross as a bear the next morning; he said he had a headache, and didn't get up until late. He lay in bed with his face to the wall, and just snapped up everybody that spoke to him; when I took him up some tea and toast,--that was all he'd take,--he turned on me. "I suppose you've told them about last night," he said sharply, "and you've all had a grand pow-wow over me!" "Indeed, I _haven't_" I answered; "I haven't said one single word about it to anybody; we've got other things to talk of, I can tell you, besides your being such a sleepy-head." Perhaps this was a little snippy, but I couldn't help it,--just as if I couldn't keep a thing to myself. You see I didn't understand then what it all meant. Phil looked straight at me for a minute, and it seemed to me there was a kind of sorry expression came in his face; then he laughed. "Great head! keep on being mum!" he said, in that teasing way of his, nodding at me. "Now, Mr. Moses Primrose, suppose you set that tray down and vacate the apartment--shut the door." But I could see that he wasn't sorry I hadn't spoken of it; I've wondered sometimes, since, whether things would have been different if I had told Felix the whole business. Well, he was a little pleasanter for a while; but when a telegram came later in the day from Miss Marston, saying she'd be back in ten days to take us to the Cottage, Phil got all off again, and scolded like everything. He said it was a burning shame for us to have to stay in the city and just _stew_, waiting for Miss Marston to "escort" us to the Cottage, when he and Felix could have taken us there long ago; that he wanted to go in the country _right away_; that papa'd made a big mistake in keeping us back, and that he'd find it out when 'twas too late,--and all that sort of talk. Felix and Nora did their best to cool him down, but it was no use,--the nicer they were, the more disagreeable he grew; and at last they got provoked and left him to himself. "I wish Nannie were here," Fee said, as we stood on the landing together, outside Phil's door; "perhaps she could do something with him." "I just wish she were," I agreed dolefully; and if Nora didn't get miffed because we said that! I can tell you it wasn't a bit pleasant at home those days. As Fee said, "everybody seemed to be disgruntled," and there wasn't a thing to do but wander around; I missed Betty awfully, she's such a splendid person for keeping up one's spirits. Toward afternoon, Phil came downstairs, and after dinner we sat on the stoop; he was still rather grumpy, though we pretended not to notice it. Presently Chad came along and took a seat beside us; but at first I don't think anybody, except, perhaps, Nora, paid him much attention. Felix had been very quiet all day, and now he sat with his elbows on his knees, and his hands holding up his face, a far-off look in his eyes, and not saying a word until about half-past eight, when Chad leaned over, and in a low voice asked Phil to go for a walk. Phil's answer sounded like, "Had enough of it;" and before Chad could say anything more, Fee began to talk to him. I was surprised, for Felix doesn't usually talk to Chad; but to-night, all at once, he seemed to have a friendly fit. He started Chad talking of his travels; then he got Phil into the conversation, and then Nora, and he just kept them all going; he was so bright himself, and funny, and entertaining, that the evening fairly flew by. We were all amazed when ten o'clock struck; soon after that Chad bid good-night, and we shut up the house and went to bed. 'Most always Phil stops in Fee's room for a few minutes: he didn't this evening, though; he just called out,--a little gruffly,--"Good-night, old man!" and marched right into his own room. But I went in. Fee was sitting on the edge of his bed; he looked almost as tired as he had the night before, though now his eyes were bright and his cheeks red. He turned quickly to me. "Did you think I was wound up to-night?" he asked. Then, before I could answer, "But I kept them--I kept them both, Jack; they didn't go walking to-night,--at least, Phil didn't, and that's the main point. Why, I could go on talking till morning." He got up and limped restlessly about, then stopped near me. "What'll we do to-morrow evening?" he said, "and the next, and the next?--there are _ten_ more, you know. We'll _have_ to think of something, that's all; it'll not be easy, but we'll have to do it. I'm afraid"--Fee spoke slowly, shaking his head--"I'm afraid the _pater_ _has_ made a mistake, a big mistake. Now if Nannie were only here--what an owl you look, Rosebud! Come, off to bed with you!" He threw his arm across my shoulder and gave me a little squeeze, then pushed me out of the room and shut the door. I have an idea that he didn't sleep very well that night, for the next morning _he_, too, looked like a owl, in the way of eyes. XVI. AND A MAJOR. TOLD BY JACK. The next day Phil was more like himself,--almost as usual, at least during the first part of the day; after that, everybody got into such a state of excitement that we forgot all about his mood,--I guess he forgot it himself. As I've told you, Kathie and the little ones weren't behaving at all nicely. You see the trouble was they wanted their own way, and Nora wanted hers, and nurse wanted hers too; and some days things went all wrong in the nursery. Nora'd declare that _she_ was mistress as long as Nannie wasn't at home, and that the children _should_ obey her; then nurse would get huffy and call the little ones her "pets" and her "poor darlin's," and of course that made them feel as if they were being dreadfully abused. I think Nora did nag some, and perhaps she ordered people a little more than she need have done, but that's her way of doing things; she didn't mean in the least to be disagreeable, and the children were certainly _very_ provoking. It seemed to me as if they were forever in mischief, and my! weren't they pert! and sometimes they wouldn't mind at all. Once or twice I tried to see if I could help things, but I just got into trouble both times, and only made matters worse, so I thought I'd better leave 'em alone. Well, on this particular morning, nurse woke feeling so ill that she couldn't get up at all; so Nora had to see to dressing the children and giving them their breakfast. Mädel was good,--she's a dear little creature!--but the boys were wild for mischief, and just as saucy and self-willed as they could be, and, worst of all, Kathie got into one of her crying moods. She cried all the time she was dressing, and all through breakfast,--a kind of whining cry that just wears on a person. Phil called her Niobe, and declared that if she didn't look out, she'd float away on her tears; Fee threatened to put her in a picture, just as she looked; I coaxed and promised her one or two of my things, and Nora scolded: nothing had any effect, Kathie just wept straight on. She _is_ awfully trying when she gets in these moods, but I guess she can't always help it,--at least Nannie thinks so,--and perhaps if Nora had been patient just a little while longer, the storm would have blown over. But all at once Nora lost her temper, and catching Kathie by the arm, she walked her wailing from the room. Well, in just about one minute more, Paul and Mädel and Alan were off too, roaring like everything. "_O-o-h!_ we _want_ Kathie! we _w-a-n-t_ Kathie! _O-o-o-h!_ bring back _Kath-i-e_!" Well, you'd have thought they never expected to lay eyes on Kathie again! [Illustration: "WHERE WE FOUND KATHIE."] I coaxed and talked and talked till my throat fairly ached, telling 'em funny things to divert their attention,--the way I've heard Nannie and Betty do; Fee began just as loud as he could (to drown their noise and make them listen) about the Trojan horse,--they like that story; and Phil offered them everything that there was on the table if they'd _only_ stop yelling; he declared the neighbours would be coming in to see what we were doing to them. But at last they quieted down, and let me take them upstairs to the nursery, where we found Kathie seated upon a chair, and still weeping. On account of nurse's being ill, there were a good many things for Nora to do,--I could see she had her hands full,--so I stayed in the schoolroom and looked after the children to help her. By and by Kathie stopped crying--I guess there were no more tears left to come--and began to join in the games I started. Usually she's very penitent after one of these fits of temper, but this time she seemed more sulky than anything else; and she was such a sight that I felt sorry for her. Kathie's very fair,--she's a real pretty little girl when she's in a good humour,--and now, from crying so much, and rubbing her eyes, they were all swollen and red; the red marks went 'way down on her cheeks; and her nose was all red and swollen, too: you'd hardly have known her for the same child. After awhile--I'd set them playing house, and things seemed quiet--I got out one of my books, and, fixing myself comfortably on the sofa, began to read. But presently something--a sort of stillness in the room--made me look up; the children were under the schoolroom table with their heads close together, and they were whispering. Kathie was weeping again, but very softly; Mädel had one arm around her, and was wiping Kathie's tears away with her pinafore; Paul was showing them something which I couldn't see,--he had his back to me,--and Alan sat on his heels, grinning, and gazing at Judge with wide-open, admiring eyes. Just at this moment Nora opened the door and called me; you should have seen those four jump! and the way Judge hurried what he had in his hand out of sight! But I didn't suspect anything; I didn't dream of what they were up to. "Jack," said Nora, when I got out in the hall, "Phil has gone out to see to something for me, and I can't send Fee, so I wish you would go round to Dr. Archard's and ask him to call and see nurse as soon as possible. She won't let me do a thing for her, and yet she's groaning, and says she feels _dreadfully_; she may be very ill, for all I know." There was such an anxious look on Nora's face that I tried to cheer her up. "Don't worry, Nonie," I said; "you know nurse gets scared awfully easy. If she has a finger-ache, she thinks she's dreadfully ill, and wants the doctor." "Well, perhaps she'll feel better after she has seen him," Nora said. "Between Kathie and her I've had a pretty hard morning; I'm doing my very best, but nobody seems to think so." She gave her head a proud toss, but I could see there were tears in her eyes. I didn't know what to say, so I just patted her hand, and then got my hat and went for the doctor. It was a lovely day, and I didn't suppose there was any need for me to hurry back, so I took a walk, and didn't get home for a good while after leaving my message at the doctor's. Before I had time to ring the bell, Nora opened the front door; she looked very much excited, and asked breathlessly, "Did you meet them? Have you seen them?" Of course I didn't understand. "Meet whom? What d'you mean?" I asked in surprise. "The children. Then they are _lost!_" answered Nora, and she sat down on a chair in the hall and burst out crying. Then out came Phil and Felix from the drawing-room, where they had been with Nora, and I heard the whole story. It seems that soon after I left for the doctor's, Judge went down stairs and asked cook for some gingerbread,--"enough for the four of us," he said,--and some time later, when Nora went up to the schoolroom to see what the children were doing, not one of them was there, nor could they be found in the house. Nora flew to tell Felix and Phil, and in the hurried search from garret to cellar which everybody made,--except nurse, she wasn't told anything of it,--it was found that the children's every-day hats were gone. Of course, as soon as I heard that, I remembered the whispering under the schoolroom table, and I felt at once that the children had run away. I just wished I had told Nora about it, or that I had come right back from the doctor's; I might have prevented their going. [Illustration: "NORA TORE IT OPEN."] While I was telling Nora and the boys what I thought about the matter, Hannah came flying into the drawing-room,--she was so excited, she forgot to knock. She held a cocked-hat note in her hand,--Kathie is great on cocked-hat notes and paper lamplighters. "Oh, Miss Nora! it's meself that's just found this on the flure mostly under the big Sarytogy thrunk,--the one that's open," she cried, almost out of breath from her rush down the steps. "Nora" was scrawled in Kathie's handwriting on the outside of the note. In an instant Nora tore it open, but she passed it right over to Phil. "Read it,--I can't," she said in a shaky voice. So he did. The note was very short and the spelling was funny, though we didn't think of that until afterward; this is what was in it: "We are not goging to stay here to be treted like this so we have run away we are goging to Nannie becaws she tretes us good. I have token my new parrasole for the sun goodby we have Jugs bank with us Kathie." Poor Nonie! that just broke her all up! She cried and cried! "I _didn't_ ill-treat them; I was trying to do my _very_ best for them. If I _was_ cross, I didn't mean it,--and they _had_ to be made to mind," she kept saying between her sobs. "And now they've gone off in this dreadful way! Oh, _suppose_ some tramp should get hold of them--or they should be run over or hurt--or--we--should--_never_ see them again! Oh--_oh!_ what shall I say to papa and Nannie!" "Oh, shure, Miss Nora, you don't mane to say the darlints is ralely _lost_!" exclaimed Hannah, and with that _she_ began to bawl; Phil had to send her right down stairs, and warn her against letting nurse know. Then we tried to comfort Nora. "You've done your level best, and nobody can do any more than that," Phil said, drawing Nora to him, and pressing her face down hard on his shoulder, while he patted her cheek. "Cheer up, Nonie, old girl, they are no more lost than I am; you see if we don't walk them home in no time,--young rascals! they ought to be well punished for giving us such a scare." "Yes, we'll probably find them in the park, regaling themselves with the good things that 'Jugs bank' has afforded," remarked Fee, trying to speak cheerfully. "We're going right out to look for them. Come, Jack, get on your hat and go along too; I'm ready." As he spoke, he stuck his hat on and stood up. "Shall we go separately?" I asked, dropping Nora's hand,--I'd been patting it. "Indeed we _will_ go separately," answered Phil, emphatically. "Here, Nora, sit down; and we will have a plan, and stick to it, too," he added, "or we'll all three be sure to think of the same scheme, travel over the same ground, and arrive at the same conclusion. There's been rather an epidemic of that sort of thing in this family lately,--the '_three_ souls with but a single thought, three wills that work as one,' business. Yes, sir, we'll have a plan. Fee, you go to the little parks, and some way down the avenue; Jack, you go up the avenue, and through as many of the cross streets as you can get in; and I'll go east and west, across the _tracks_"--as the word slipped out he gave a quick look at Nora; we knew he was thinking of those dreadful cable cars: but fortunately she didn't seem to have heard. So off we started, after making Nora promise she'd stay at home and wait for us to bring her news. We separated at our corner; but I'd only gone a block or two when I thought of something that sent me flying back to the house. I slipped in the basement way, and up the back stairs to the nursery, where I hunted out an old glove of Kathie's; then down I went to the yard and loosed Major, and he and I started out as fast as we could go. Once or twice in the country, when the children had strayed too far on the beach, by showing Major something they'd worn, and telling him to "Find 'em!" he had led Phil and me right to them. I had remembered this, and now as we walked up the avenue I kept showing Kathie's glove to the dear old doggie, and telling him, "Find Kathie, Major, find her! find her, old boy!" And it did seem as if he understood--Major's an awfully bright dog--by the way he wagged his tail and went with his nose to the ground smelling the pavement. He went pretty straight for nearly a block up the avenue, then he got bothered by the people passing up and down so continually, and he began to whine and run aimlessly about; I could hardly make him go on; and when I took him in the cross streets, he wasn't any good at all. I felt real discouraged. But just as soon as we turned into Twenty-third Street, I could see that he'd struck something; for though he did a lot of zigzagging over the pavement, he went ahead all the time: I tell you, I was right at his tail at every turn. When we came opposite to where Madison Avenue begins, if Major didn't cross over and strike off into the park. Presently he gave a short, quick bark, and tore down a path. I fairly _flew_ after him; up one path and down another we went like mad, until we came to the fountain, and there, in the shade of a big tree, just as cool and unconcerned as you please, were the runaways! Kathie was seated off on one end of the bench, with her new parasol open over her head, putting on all sorts of airs, while she gave orders to Paul and Mädel, who were setting out some forlorn-looking fruit on the other end of the bench; Alan was walking backward and forward dragging his express waggon after him. "Why, it's _Major_!" cried Alan, as the old doggie bounced on him and licked his face. "And _Jack_! hullo!" sang out Paul, turning round and seeing me. "Oh, _lawks_!" exclaimed Mädel,--she'd caught that expression from nurse, who always says it when she's frightened or excited,--and with that she scrambled up on the bench and threw her arms round Kathie's neck with such force that she knocked the parasol out of her hand, and it slipped down over their heads and hid their faces. [Illustration: "AND THERE, JUST AS COOL AND UNCONCERNED AS YOU PLEASE, WERE THE RUNAWAYS."] Of course I was thankful to see them, _very_ thankful; but at the same time I must say I was provoked, too, at the cool way in which they were taking things, when we'd been so frightened about them. "You mean little animals!" I said, giving Paul's shoulder a shake. "There's poor Nonie at home crying her eyes out about you, and here're you all _enjoying_ yourselves! What d'you mean by behaving like this?" Instead of being sorry, if they didn't get saucy right away,--at least the boys did. Judge jerked himself away from me. "If anybody's going to punish us, _I'm not_ coming home," he drawled, planting his feet wide apart on the asphalt pavement, and looking me square in the eye. "Nor me!" chimed in Alan, defiantly. The parasol was lifted a little, and Mädel peeped out. "Will Nora make us go to bed right away?" she asked anxiously; "before we get any dinner?" Up went the parasol altogether, and Kathie slipped to the ground. "Oh, Jack, is everybody awfully mad? and what'll they do to us?" she said, and she looked just ready to begin weeping again. "'Cause if they are, we'd rather stay here; we've got things to eat--" "Yes, we've got lots of things," broke in Alan; "see," pointing to the miserable-looking fruit on the end of the bench, "all that! Judge bought it; we couldn't get the bank open, but the fruitman took it,--he said he didn't mind,--an' let us have all these things for it; wasn't he kind? We're going to have a party." Well, for a few minutes I didn't know what to do,--I mean how to get them to go home without a fuss. I could see that Paul and Alan were just ready for mischief; if they started to run in different directions, I couldn't catch both, and there were those dangerous cable cars not very far away. Suppose the boys should rush across Broadway and get run over! I suppose I could have called a policeman, and got him to take us all home, but I knew that'd make a terrible fuss; Kathie and Mädel would howl,--they're awfully afraid of "p'leecemen," as Alan calls them, and I really don't care very much for them myself. At last I got desperate. "See here, children," I said, "I've been sent to find you if I could, and to bring you home, and I've _got_ to do it, you know. If you'd seen how worried everybody was, and how poor Nonie cried for fear some tramp had got hold of you--" "I just guess not!" broke in Judge, defiantly; but all the same he glanced quickly over his shoulder, and drew a little nearer to me. "--or for fear you'd get hurt, or have no place to sleep in, you'd want to go straight home this minute. You know this park's all very well for the day-time; but when night comes, and it gets dark, what'll you do? The policemen may turn you out, and where will you all go _then_? Nannie is miles and _miles_ away from here by the cars, and how're children like you ever going to get to her without money or anything? And even if it were so you could get to her, what do you suppose Nannie'd say when she found you had all _run away from home_?" I said all this very seriously,--I tell you I felt serious,--and the minute I stopped speaking Mädel slipped from the bench and slid her little hand into mine. "_I'm_ going home," she declared. "Perhaps I will, too, if Nora won't punish us," said Kathie, undecidedly. "I don't know if she'll punish you or not," I said; "but even if she should, isn't that better than staying here all the time, and having no dinner,--cook's made a lovely shortcake for dessert,--and no beds to sleep in, and never coming home at all again?" Kathie caught hold of my hand. "I'm ready," she said; "let's go now." "Coming, boys?" I asked carelessly. "Oh, I s'pose we'll _have_ to," answered Paul, sulkily, kicking the leg of the bench; "and there's my money all gone!" I was wild to get them home, but I had to wait as patiently as I could while the boys piled the horrid old fruit into the express wagon--they wouldn't have left it for anything--and harnessed Major to it with pieces of twine they had in their pockets; then we started. We passed the fruitman that had cheated Judge, and Phil said afterwards that I ought to have stopped and made him give up the bank,--there were nearly two dollars in it, besides the value of the bank itself, and he had given the children about ten or fifteen cents' worth of miserable stuff for it,--but I do hate to fight people, and besides, I was in a hurry to get home, so I didn't notice him at all. We went along in pretty good spirits--Major at the head of the procession--until we got near home; then Kathie asked once or twice, rather nervously, "What do you suppose Nora'll do to us, Jack?" and the boys began to lag behind a little. As we turned off the avenue, into our street, two people came down our stoop--we live near the corner--and came toward us. One of them was an old lady, and I knew at once that I'd seen her before, though I couldn't remember where. She was a little old lady, and she stooped a good deal; her nose was long and hooked, and she had a turn-up chin like in the pictures of Punch that we have at home. Kathie saw the likeness, too, for she pulled my elbow and whispered: "Oh, Jack, doesn't she look like Punch? Perhaps she's his wife." The other woman was stout, and she helped the old lady along,--I think she was a maid. As we got near them, the old lady fumbled for her eyeglasses, put them on, and looked sharply at us. "Yes, yes, looks like his father!" we heard her say; then, "Have we time, Sanders? I should like to speak to them." "Indeed, mum, we haven't time to stop," replied Sanders; "we've barely time to catch the boat." Then they got into the hansom that was standing at the curb, and were driven away. Hannah opened the door, and the yell of joy that she gave when she saw the children brought Nora flying to meet us. I couldn't help noticing how bright and happy Nora looked, very different from when we had left her, an hour or so before; and the way she met the children was also a surprise to me. I knew she'd be glad to see them safe, but I thought surely she would have given them a good scolding, too, or punished them in some way; they deserved it, and I know they expected it. But she met them as sweetly and affectionately as even Nannie could have; she gave them something to eat,--it was long past our lunch hour,--and then she walked them into the study and gave them a tremendous talking to. I don't know whether it was the unexpected way in which she treated them, or the talking to, or what, but they came out of the study looking very subdued, and they certainly behaved better for the rest of the time before we went in the country. And Nora was different, too, for that time; she scarcely nagged, and she was more gentle,--so perhaps their running away taught her a lesson as well. In the mean time--while Nora and the children were in the study--Felix came in, all tired out, and a little while later Phil; and weren't they indignant, though, with those youngsters when they found they were safe and sound! All that afternoon Nora seemed very happy; we could hear her singing as she went up and down stairs and about the house, looking after nurse and the children. It was the same all through dinner-time,--she just bubbled over with fun, and it was the pleasantest meal we'd had since the family broke up. Now Nora isn't often like this,--in fact, very seldom; and to-day we supposed it was because she was so glad the children had been found; as Phil said, 'twas almost worth while losing the youngsters--as long's we'd found them again--to have Nora so bright and pleasant. His ill humour had all disappeared, and he and Nora just kept us laughing with their funny sayings. But Fee was rather quiet; his tramp after the children had tired him, and I guess, too, that he was thinking of the evening, and wondering how he could keep Phil from going off with Chad. After dinner I went out to feed Major; I tell you, we all think him the wisest old doggie in New York! and I gave him the biggest dinner any dog could eat. Just as I was coming through the hall to go on the stoop where Phil and Felix were sitting, Nora ran down the steps and stood at the open front door. "Come in the drawing-room, boys; I have something particular to tell you," she said. "Come right away; better close the front door,--it's a long story." Fee got up slowly, but Phil hesitated. "I wonder if Chad will be round?" he said. "Oh, not to-night," answered Nora, quickly. "Why, didn't you hear him say last evening that he was going out of town for two or three days?" Fee's face lighted up, and he opened his big eyes at me,--I know he was delighted; and it seemed to me that Phil's surprised "No! is _that_ so?" did not sound very sorry. "Oh, hurry in, _do_!" Nora said impatiently. "I've kept the secret all the afternoon,--until we had a chance to talk quietly together,--and now it is just burning my lips to get out. Come, Jack, you, too." XVII. NORA'S SECRET. TOLD BY JACK. Of course that brought us into the drawing-room in double-quick time. Fee threw himself full-length on a lounge; Phil sat on a chair with his face to the back, which he hugged with both arms; I took the next chair,--the biggest in the room; and pulling over the piano stool, Nora seated herself on that, and swung from side to side as she spoke to the different ones. For a minute she just sat and smiled at us without a word, until Phil said: "Well, fire away! We're all ears." "Who do you think has been here to-day?" began Nora. Phil rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, and he and Felix both answered very solemnly, and at the same moment:-- "The Tsar!" "The President!" "_Don't_ be silly!" said Nora, with dignity; then, "I suppose I might as well tell you at once, for you never could guess,--_aunt Lindsay!_" "No!" "Jinks!" "We _saw_ her!" exclaimed Felix, Phil, and I. "Yes," said Nora, swinging herself slowly from side to side, and enjoying our surprise. "And what do you suppose she came for?" Then, interrupting herself, "But there! I'll begin at the very beginning; that will be the best. Well, I had just told Dr. Archard good-bye--by the way, he says nurse will be all right by to-morrow--and come in here for a minute, when the bell rang, and Hannah ushered an old lady into the room. Of course I knew at once that it was aunt Lindsay, though I hadn't seen her for a long time; and I welcomed her as warmly as I could, feeling as I did about the children,--I didn't tell her anything about them, though,--and asked her to take off her things. But she said she could only stay a very short time, and asked to see 'Nancy' and Felix. "She sat in the chair you are in, Jack,"--Nora turned to me,--"and as she's very small, she looked about as lost in it as you do. When I said that Felix was out, and Nannie away in the Adirondacks with papa, she looked _so_ disappointed. 'I knew your father was there,' she said, 'but he did not mention that Nancy was with him. And so Felix is out! H'm, sorry for that. Good children, good children, both of them!'" "Doesn't know you, old man, does she?" put in Phil; and then he and Felix grinned. "Well," continued Nora, "she said she couldn't stay for lunch, but I got her to loosen her bonnet strings and take a cup of tea and some crackers. While she sipped her tea she said: 'I am _en route_ for my usual summer resort, and have come a good deal out of my way to see my godchildren. It is a disappointment not to meet them; but if Nancy is with her sick father, she is doing her duty.' Then she asked about you, Fee; your health particularly. After I had told her that you were as well as usual, and as fond of study as ever, then she told me what she had come on from Boston for. Felix, she knows all about your disappointment in not going to college last fall,--who do you suppose could have told her?--and she says--" Nora stopped and looked at us with a teasing smile. Fee was sitting up, and we were all leaning forward, eager for the rest of the story. "Oh, _go_ on!" cried Fee, quickly. "Yes, out with it!" chimed in Phil. "She says," went on Nora, slowly, lingering over each word, "that you are to prepare yourself for examination to enter Columbia in the fall, and she will see you through the college course. These are her very words: 'Tell Felix that his father has consented that I shall have the great pleasure and happiness of putting him through college. I wanted to do it last fall, but Jack would not listen to it then. Tell the boy that I shall enjoy doing this, and that he will hear from me about the last of August.' Oh, Felix, isn't it _splendid_?" [Illustration: "'HE WILL HEAR FROM ME ABOUT THE LAST OF AUGUST.'"] "Perfectly immense--_immense!_" exclaimed Phil, landing on his feet in great excitement. "Why, it's the _jolliest_, the _very_ best, the _finest_ piece of good news that I could hear--simply _huge!_ _Blessed_ old dame! She's given me _the_ wish of my heart! Hurrah, old chappie! after all we'll be at college together! _Oo-h-ie!_" And he threw his arms right round Felix and just hugged him. Fee's eyes were wide open, and so bright! they shone right through his glasses; he leaned forward and looked anxiously from one to the other of us, his hands opening and shutting nervously on his knees as he spoke. "Are you _sure_ about this?" he asked wistfully; "because I've dreamed this sort of thing sometimes, and--and--the awakening always upsets me for a day or two." "Why, _certainly_ we're sure!" cried Nora. "_Dead sure!_" answered Phil, emphatically; and Nora added reproachfully: "Why, Felix! aren't you glad? I thought you'd be delighted." "_Glad?_" echoed Fee, "_glad?_ why, I'm--" His voice failed, and turning hurriedly from us, he buried his face in the sofa cushions. All this time I hadn't said a word; I really couldn't. You see, ever since I've been a choir boy, I've saved all the money that's been paid me for singing, so's to get enough to send Fee to college. Betty didn't think much of my scheme: she said 'twould take such a long while before I could get even half the amount; but still I kept on saving for it,--I haven't spent a penny of my salary,--and you've no idea how full the bank was, and _heavy!_ I've just hugged the little iron box sometimes, when I thought of what that money would do for Fee; and for a few minutes after I heard Nora's story I was so disappointed that I _couldn't_ congratulate him. Then, all at once, it came over me like a rush how mean I was to want Felix to wait such a long time for me to do this for him, when, through aunt Lindsay's kindness, he could go to college right away. I got awfully ashamed, and going quickly over to Fee's side, I knelt down by him and threw my arm over his shoulder. "Fee," I said,--he still had his face in the cushions,--"I'm _very_, _very_, _very_ glad you are to go to college this fall,--_really_ and _truly_ I am, Fee." I didn't see anything funny about this, but Phil and Nora began to laugh, and, sitting up, Felix said, smiling, "Why, I know you are, Jacqueminot; I never doubted it for a moment. And by and by, when Phil and I are staid old seniors, your turn will come,--we'll see to that." Then, looking round at us, he went on, speaking rapidly, excitedly: "_At last_ it has come, and when I least expected it--when I had given up all hope. I can hardly believe it! _Now_ I shall go in for the hardest sort of hard work, for I've great things to accomplish. Don't think I'm conceited, but I'm going to try for _all_ the honours that a fellow can; and I'll get them, too--I'll get them; I _must!_ I promised--_her_--" He broke off abruptly and turned away, then presently added in a lighter tone: "I must write to my twinnie to-night,--how delighted she will be! Oh, I tell you, you don't any of you know what this is to me!--but there, I _can't_ talk of it. Let's have some fun. What shall we do to celebrate the occasion? Play something lively, Nora; we'll have a _musicale_." He stood up, and as Nora ran to the piano and struck up a waltz, Phil caught Fee round the waist and danced off with him. But before they had turned twice round, Fee was in a chair, holding on to his back, and laughing at Phil's grumbling protest. "I never was much on dancing, you know," he said. "Here, take Rosebud; he'll trip the light fantastic toe with you as long as you like." So Phil finished the waltz with me, but I didn't enjoy it; Phil is so tall, and he grips a person so tight, that half the time my feet were clear off the floor and sticking straight out; and he went so fast that I got dizzy. Well, we had a _jolly_ evening. After the dance, Fee didn't move about very much, but he was just as funny and bright as he could be; Nora was nicer, too, than I've ever known her; and as for Phil, he was perfectly wild with good spirits. He danced,--alone when he couldn't get anybody for a partner,--and sang, and talked, and joked, and kept us in a roar of laughter until bedtime. "Well," said Nora, as we stood together by the drawing-room door for a few minutes before going upstairs, "I thought this morning that this was going to be a black day,--one of the days when everything goes wrong,--and yet see how pleasantly it has ended." "It has been a great day for me," said Fee, slowly. "I don't mind telling you people, now, that that disappointment in the fall took the heart and interest all out of my studies; but now"--he straightened himself up, and his voice rang out--"_now_ I have hope again, and courage, and you'll see what I can do. Thanks don't express my feelings; I'm more than thankful to aunt Lindsay!" "So 'm I," I piped up, and I meant that; I was beginning to feel better about it. "Thankful, more thankful, most thankful," Phil said, pointing his finger at Nora, then at me, then at Felix; "and here am I, the 'thankfullest' of all." There was a break in his voice that surprised us; and to cover it up, he began some more of his nonsense. "High time for us--the _pater's_ little infants--to be a-bed," he said, laughing. "Come, Mr. Boffin, make your adieux and prepare to leave "'The gay, the gay and festive scene; The halls, the halls of dazzling light.'" And suddenly, catching Fee in his arms, he ran lightly up the stairs with him, calling back to us: "'Good-night, ladies! good-night, ladies! good-night, ladies! I'm going to leave you now!'" XVIII. EXPERIENCES AT ENDICOTT BEACH. TOLD BY BETTY. Nora insisted that it was "exceedingly kind" of the Ervengs, and "a compliment" to me, and all that sort of thing, to invite me to spend a month with them at their country place. Well, perhaps she was right: Nora is _always_ right,--in her own estimation; all the same, I didn't want to go one step, and I am afraid I was rather disagreeable about it. You see I had been looking forward to going to the Cottage with the others; and having to start off for an entirely different place at only a few hours' notice quite upset me. At the Cottage, Nannie takes charge while Miss Marston is away for her holidays, and she lets us amuse ourselves in our own way, as long as we are punctual at meals,--papa insists on that,--and don't get into mischief. One can wear one's oldest clothes, and just _live_ out of doors; what with driving old Pegasus, and riding G. W. L. Spry, and boating, fishing, crabbing, wading, and playing in the sand, we do have the jolliest times! Now, instead of all this fun and freedom, I was to be packed off to visit people that I didn't know very well, and didn't care a jot about. Of course I knew Hilliard _pretty_ well,--he's been at the house often enough! I didn't mind him much, though he is provokingly slow, and so--well, _queer_, for I could speak my mind right out to him if I felt like it; but it seemed to me that Mr. Erveng must always remember that silly escapade of mine whenever he looked at me, and I was sure that Mrs. Erveng regarded me as a rough, overgrown tomboy. Somehow, when I am with her I feel dreadfully awkward,--all hands, and feet, and voice; though these things don't trouble me in the least with any one else. I did wish that she had invited Nora to visit her instead of me. When I saw my old blue flannel laid with the things to go to the Cottage, and only my best gowns put into the trunk I was to take to the Ervengs', it suddenly rushed over me that I would have to be on my company manners for a whole month! and I got so mad that it would have been a relief to just _roar_,--the way Kathie does. Nannie was away, and the others didn't seem to understand how I felt; in fact, Nora aggravated me by scolding, and saying I ought to feel highly delighted, when I knew that deep down in her heart she was only too thankful that _she_ hadn't been asked. Jack was the only person that sympathised with me,--dear old Jackie-boy! I'm beginning to think that there is a good deal to Jack, for all he's so girlie. [Illustration: "IN THE DRAWING-ROOM CAR."] The Ervengs called for me the morning after papa and Nannie had gone to the mountains,--right after breakfast,--and I can assure you it was dreadfully hard to keep back the tears when I was telling the family good-bye; and when I was seated in the carriage, right under Mr. and Mrs. Erveng's eyes, I got the most insane desire to scream out loud, or burst the door open and jump out: I had to sit up very straight and set my lips tight together, to keep from doing it. That feeling wore off, though, by the time we got settled in the drawing-room car, and I was three seats from Mrs. Erveng,--I managed that,--with Mr. Erveng and Hilliard between us. It was a marvel to me the way those two waited on Mrs. Erveng; in watching them do it I forgot about myself. Her chair must be at just such an angle, her footstool in just such a position, and the cushions at her back just so many, and most carefully arranged; and if she stirred, they were all attention immediately. And they were like that the whole month that I was at Endicott Beach, though it seemed to me sometimes that she was very exacting. Now with us, though we love one another dearly, and, as Phil says, would go through fire and water for one another if need be, particularly if any one were ill, still we're not willing to be imposed on _all_ the time, and we do keep the different ones up to the mark, and stand up for our individual rights,--we've _got_ to where there are so many. But the Ervengs aren't in the least like us; and I think that, in some ways, Hilliard is the very oddest boy I've _ever_ known. To begin with, he is so literal,--away ahead of Nora; he took so many things seriously that I said in joke that at first I didn't know what to make of him. I used to get _so_ provoked! He doesn't understand the sort of "chaffing" that we do so much at home, and he is slow to get an idea; but once it's fixed in his mind, you needn't think he's going to change,--it's there for the rest of his natural life. He could no more change his opinion about things as I do than he could fly. Perhaps he thinks I'm frivolous and "uncouth,"--as Nora sometimes says I am. Well, let him; who cares? _I_ think _he_ is a regular old poke, though he is better than I thought at first; but you'll hear all about it. Of course Hilliard was polite, and all that, when he came to our house, but I didn't always see him; in fact, I used to keep out of the way on purpose, many a time: so I didn't really know what sort of a boy he was until I went to stay at the beach. Well, as soon as Mrs. Erveng was comfortably settled, Hilliard came over to me with a big soft cushion in his hand. "May I put this at your back?" he asked. "It's a tiresome journey to Boston, and we've got quite a ride after that to reach Endicott Beach; so let me make you as comfortable as possible." Now if he had come up and simply put the cushion on the back of my chair, the way Phil, or Felix, or Jack would have done, I wouldn't have minded at all,--I like cushions; but to stand there holding it, waiting for me to give him permission, struck me as being very silly. I knew he expected me to say yes, and instead of that I found myself saying, "No, I thank you,"--I could hear that my tone was snippy,--"I can get on very comfortably without a cushion." Our boys, or Max, or even Murray Unsworth would have said, "Oh, come now, Betty!" and just slipped the cushion behind me, and I'd have enjoyed it, and made no more fuss. But not so this individual. He looked helplessly at me for a minute, then laid the cushion down on his mother's travelling satchel; and there it reclined until we reached Boston. 'Twas the same way with getting me things to eat. With all the excitement that morning, I had very little appetite for breakfast, so by lunch time I was _very_ hungry; and when Mrs. Erveng opened her box of sandwiches, I felt as if I could have eaten every one in it,--but of course I didn't. They were delicious; but, oh, so small and thin! Mr. Erveng did not take any,--he never takes a mid-day meal. Mrs. Erveng ate two, trifling with the second one as if tired of it. I ate three,--when a _dozen_ would not have been too many! Hilliard disposed of four, and then went out to get his mother a cup of tea,--I suspect he had something more to eat in the restaurant. He asked, in a tone as if he meant it, "Mayn't I bring you a cup of tea?" But I despise tea, so I answered, "No, I thank you," for the second time. Mr. and Mrs. Erveng were talking to an acquaintance who had come up, and actually Hilliard hadn't the sense to offer me anything else, and I _couldn't_ ask. Having sisters is certainly a great thing for a boy, as I've told Jack scores of times; why, for all that he is so shy, Jack could have taken twice as good care of a girl as Hilliard did of me, just because he has had me to train him. Presently Mrs. Erveng passed the lunch box over to me. "_Do_ take another sandwich, Betty," she said kindly, "and some cake." But by this time no one else in the car was eating, and I didn't want to be the only person,--I hate to have people stare at me while I'm eating,--so I refused. The open box remained by me for some time,--'twas all I could do to keep from putting out my hand for a sandwich; then the porter came by, and Mr. Erveng handed it to him to take away. Hilliard talked to me as we flew along, in his deliberate, grown-up way, but pleasantly; if I had not been so hungry and homesick, I might have been interested. But by and by the hunger wore off, and by the time we reached Endicott Beach I had a raving headache; but I said nothing about it until after dinner, for Mrs. Erveng was so tired out that she had to be looked after and got to bed the very first thing, and that made a little fuss, though her maid Dillon, who had come on the day before, was there to assist her. The house is very prettily furnished and arranged,--almost as prettily but more simply than Mrs. Erveng's rooms in New York. After dinner Hilliard showed me a little of the place, which is _very_ pretty, and quite unlike anywhere else that I have been. There's a queer scraggly old garden at the back of the house, and in front a splendid view of the beach, with the ocean rolling up great booming waves. Before very long I got to like Endicott Beach very much; but this first afternoon, though the sunset was most gorgeous, I felt so miserable that I could take interest in nothing. Oh, how I longed for home! Presently Hilliard said, "I'm afraid you are dreadfully tired,--you look so pale. I should have waited until to-morrow to show you the place; I have been inconsiderate--" "I have a headache," I broke in shortly; then all at once my lips began to tremble. "I wish I were at home!" I found myself exclaiming; and then the tears came pouring down my face. "Oh, I am so sorry! so _very_ sorry! What can I do for you?" began Hilliard. "Oh! mayn't I--" I was so mortified that I got very mad; I hate to cry, any way, and above all before this stiff wooden boy! I threw my hands over my face, and turning my back on him, started for the house, walking as fast as I could, stumbling sometimes on the uneven beach. But Hilliard followed close behind me. "I'm _so_ sorry!" he repeated. "Why didn't you let me know sooner? May I--" I got so provoked that I wheeled round suddenly on him,--I think I startled him. "Oh, _do_ stop _asking_ people if you 'may' or 'mayn't do things for them,"--I'm afraid that here I mimicked his tone of voice. "_Do_ the things first, and then ask,--if you must. I declare, you don't know the very first thing about taking care of a girl; why, our Paul could do better." Hilliard stood stock still and stared at me; his sleepy eyes were wide open, and there was such a bewildered expression on his face that it just set me off laughing, in spite of the tears on my cheeks, and my headache. "I am exceedingly sorry if I have neglected--" he began stiffly; but before he could say any more I turned and fled. I fancied I heard his footsteps behind me, and I fairly flew along the beach, into the house, and up to my room, where I began undressing as quickly as I could. But before I was ready for bed, Mrs. Erveng's maid brought a message from her mistress. She was so sorry to hear that I was not well; was there nothing that she could do for me? "Please say that I am going to bed; that will cure my headache quicker than anything else," I called through the keyhole, instead of opening the door. I had a feeling that the Ervengs would think me a crank; but I had got to that pitch that afternoon where I didn't care what anybody thought of me. Then Dillon went away, and I got into bed. But I couldn't sleep for ever so long: you see the sun had not yet set, and I'm not used to going to sleep in broad daylight; besides, I was very unhappy. As I lay there looking at the brilliant colours of the sky, I thought over what I had said to Hilliard, and the oftener I went over it, the more uncomfortable I got; for I began to see that I'd been very rude--to insult the people I was visiting! I wondered if Hilliard had told his mother what I said; and what she thought of me? Would she send me home? I had declared to Nora that I would behave so badly as to be sent home before the visit was over, but I had not really meant it. I got all worked up over the horrid affair, and if I had had then enough money to pay my expenses to New York, I really think I should have been tempted to climb out of the window, or make my escape in some way or other,--I dreaded so having to face the Ervengs in the morning. After a long while I fell asleep, and dreamed that Mr. and Mrs. Erveng were holding me fast, while Hilliard stuffed sandwiches down my throat. But by the next morning my headache was gone, and the sunshine and beautiful view from my window made me feel a new person, though I still dreaded meeting the Ervengs. Usually I dress quickly, but this morning I just dawdled, to put off the evil moment as long as possible. It seemed so strange not to have Nannie, or Miss Marston, or Nora, or any one to tell me what to say or do; I really felt lost without dear old Nannie. I would have been delighted to see her that morning,--we have such nice talks at home while we are dressing! Before I left home, Nora said particularly, "Now, Betty, _do_ remember that your ginghams are for the mornings and your thinner gowns for the afternoons. Don't put on the first frock that comes to your hand, regardless of whether it is flannel, gingham, or _organdi_. You know you haven't a great many clothes, so _please_, I beg of you, for the reputation of the family, take care of them, or you will not have a decent thing to wear two weeks after you get to the Ervengs'." I was provoked at her for saying this, but I could not resent it very much, for--though I love pretty things as well as anybody does--somehow accidents _are_ always happening to my clothes. Nurse says it's because I am too heedless to think about what I have on, and perhaps it is: yet, when I remember, and try to be careful, I'm simply _miserable_; and it does seem too silly to make one's self uncomfortable for clothes,--so I generally forget. But this morning I looked carefully over the ginghams that Dillon had unpacked and hung in the closet in my room, and finally, taking down the one I considered the prettiest, I put it on; I wished afterward that I had chosen the plainest and ugliest. As I said, I was taking as much time as possible over my dressing, when I happened to think that breakfast might be ready, and the Ervengs waiting for me,--papa says "to be late at meals, particularly when visiting, is _extremely_ ill-bred;" then I rushed through the rest of my toilet, and raced down the stairs, not thinking of Mrs. Erveng's headache until I reached the foot of the steps. I was relieved to find no one in the parlour, or in the room across the hall, where the table was set for breakfast. But as I stepped out on the broad front piazza, Hilliard rose from the hammock in which he had been lying, and came forward with such a pleasant "Good-morning!" that I felt surprised and ashamed. "How is your head?" he asked, adding, "It must be better, I fancy,--you look so much brighter than you did yesterday." I could feel my face getting warm; I hate to apologise to people, but I knew that I ought to do it here. "That headache made me cross, and I was homesick," I answered, speaking as fast as I could to get it all over with quickly. "I am sorry I spoke so rudely--" But Hilliard broke in quickly,--for him. "Don't say that; please don't ever speak of it again," he said earnestly. "It's for _me_ to apologise; I must have deserved what you said, or I know you would not have said it." [Illustration: "BETTY."] Well, I _was_ taken aback! that was a new view of the case. At first I thought he might be in sarcasm; but no, he was in earnest, saying the words in his slow, deliberate way, with his eyes half shut. I couldn't help wishing that the family had been there to hear; but I decided that I would certainly tell them of it,--you see I don't often get such a compliment. I would like to have made a polite speech to him, but what was there to say?--it still remained that he _hadn't_ taken good care of me. And while this thought was going through my brain, I heard myself say, "Did you tell your mother what I said to you?" Now I had no more idea of asking Hilliard that--though I did want to know--than I had of flying; my mouth opened, and the words just came out without the least volition on my part,--in fact, I was perfectly astonished to hear them. More than once this has happened at home; Phil teases me about it, and Fee calls me Mrs. Malaprop, because--that's the trouble--these speeches are almost always just the things I shouldn't have said. I'm sure I don't know what I am to do to prevent it. My face actually burnt,--it must have been as red as a beet. "I didn't mean to ask you that," I blurted out. While I was speaking, Hilliard was saying, "Why, certainly not; I simply mentioned that you had a headache," in such a surprised voice that I felt more uncomfortable than ever: but wasn't it nice of him not to tell? I just rushed into talk about the scenery as fast as I could go. From where we stood we could see the wild, rugged coast for miles,--the huge, bare brown rocks standing like so many grim sentinels guarding the spaces of shining white sand, which here and there sloped gently to the water's edge; the sea gulls resting, tiny white specks, against the dark rocks, or circling in flocks above them; the dark blue ocean, dotted with steamers and sailing-vessels and sparkling and dancing in the morning light, rolling up great white-crested waves that dashed on the rocks and threw up a cloud of foaming spray, and broke on the beach with a dull booming noise; and over all was the warm, glorious summer sunshine. As I looked and looked, all the disagreeableness slipped away, and it was _splendid_ just to be alive. I thought of Felix, and how much he would enjoy all this beauty. We all think so much of the scenery at the Cottage, and really it is nothing compared with this. There the beach is smooth and nice, but it hasn't a rock on it; and the water--it's the Sound, you know--just creeps up on it with a soft lapping sound very different to the roar and magnificence of the ocean. I was so surprised and delighted that first morning that I spoke out warmly. "Oh!" I cried, "isn't it _beautiful_! oh, it is grand! fascinating!--I could watch those waves all day!" Hilliard's face lighted up. "I thought you would like it," he said. "You should see it in a storm,--it is magnificent! but it is terrible, too,"--he gave a little shudder. "I love the ocean, but I am afraid of it; it is treacherous." "Afraid!" I looked at him in surprise,--the idea of a big strong boy as he is being _afraid_ of the water! I opened my mouth to exclaim, "Well, _I'm_ not afraid!" then remembered my unlucky remark of a few minutes before and said instead, and in a much milder tone, "After breakfast I'm going to explore those rocks, and get as near to the ocean as I can--" "Don't attempt to do any climbing alone," broke in Hilliard, more positively than he usually speaks; "the rocks are very slippery, and you know nothing about the tides. People have been caught on those rocks and cut off--drowned--by the incoming tide, before they could reach the shore, or be rescued. I shall be very glad to go with you whenever--" "Good-morning!" Mr. Erveng said, appearing in the doorway behind us; "will you young people come in and have some breakfast?" Breakfast was served in a room that looked out on the garden; and everything was very nice, though quite different from our breakfasts at home. Mrs. Erveng was not down,--I found afterward that she always took her breakfast in her own room,--and Hilliard sat in his mother's place and poured the tea. I was thankful that Mr. Erveng hadn't asked me to do it; but it did look so _queer_ to see a boy doing such a thing,--so like a "Miss Nancy," as Phil would say. Mr. Erveng and Hilliard talked a good deal about things that were going on in the world, and about books, and places they had been to. I was perfectly surprised at the way Mr. Erveng asked Hilliard's opinion, and listened to his remarks,--I couldn't imagine papa's doing such a thing with any of us, not even with Felix; and when I said anything, they both acted as if it were really worth listening to,--which is another thing that never happens in our family! And yet, on the other hand, Mr. Erveng goes off to Boston in the mornings without even saying good-bye to Mrs. Erveng or Hilliard,--they never know by what train he is coming home; and in the whole month I visited them I never once saw Hilliard and his mother kiss each other. Now at home papa always tells some one of us when he is going out, and about when he will return; and if we children go anywhere, the whole family is sure to know of it; and quite often we kiss one another good-bye, and always at night. Nora often tells us that it isn't "good form" to do this; and sometimes, when she's in an airish mood, she calls us "a pack of kissers,"--as if that were something dreadful. Still, all the same, I'm _glad_ that we're that sort of a family; and I am more than ever glad since I've been staying with the Ervengs. Hilliard and I were just starting for the beach that morning, when Dillon came out on the piazza with a message. "Mr. Hilliard," she said, "your mother would like to speak to you." So off he went with, "Excuse me; I'll be back in a few minutes," to me. But instead, presently back came Dillon with another message: "Mrs. Erveng asks, Will you please to excuse Mr. Hilliard; she would like him to do something for her for a while." So off I went for my walk, alone. I strolled down to the beach and sat in the shade of a big rock and looked at the waves,--watching them coming in and going out, and making up all sorts of thoughts about them. But after a while I got tired of that, and began wondering what they were all doing at home without Nannie, or Miss Marston, or papa; and then I felt so lonely and homesick that I just _had_ to get up and walk about. And then I got into trouble,--I don't know another girl that gets into scrapes as I do! There were lots of little coves about the beach,--the water in them was just as clear as crystal; and as I stepped from rock to rock, bending down to look into the depths, what should I do but slip,--the rocks _are_ slippery,--and land in the middle of a cove, up to my waist in water! There was nothing to do but to scramble out,--the rocks ran too far out into the ocean to think of walking round them,--and I can assure you it was no easy thing to accomplish with my wet skirts clinging to me. I scratched my hands, and scraped my shoes, and got my sleeves and the whole front of my nice gingham stained with the green slimy moss that covered the rocks. But at last I got out; then came the walk up the beach to the house,--there was no other way of getting there,--and you may imagine my feelings when, half-way up, I discovered that Mrs. Erveng was seated on the piazza in her invalid's chair. I saw her put her _lorgnette_ to her eyes; I imagined I heard her say to Hilliard, who was arranging a cushion back of her head, "Who _is_ that extraordinary looking creature coming up the beach?" and I _longed_ to just burrow in the sand and get out of her sight. Hilliard came running to meet me. "You've fallen into the water--you are wet! I hope you're not hurt?" he exclaimed, as he reached me. It was on the tip of my tongue to answer sharply, "I _have_ fallen into the water; did you expect me to be dry?" It was such a _silly_ speech of his! But I was afraid of Mrs. Erveng, so I just said carelessly,--as if I were in the habit of tumbling into the ocean with all my clothes on every day in the week,--"Oh, I just slipped off one of the rocks; I got my feet wet." And there I was, mind you, wet almost to my waist, and such a figure! Any one of our boys--even Jack, and he is pretty dense sometimes--would have seen the joke, and we'd have had a hearty laugh, anyway, out of the situation; but not a smile appeared on Hilliard's face. Either he didn't see the fun at all, or else he was too deadly polite to laugh. If he had even said roughly, "Didn't I _tell_ you not to go there!" I wouldn't have minded it as much as his "How unfortunate!" and his helpless look. I was afraid to say anything for fear I'd be rude again, so we walked up to the piazza in solemn silence. "Good morning!" Mrs. Erveng said pleasantly, as I laboured up the steps. "An accident? I am so glad you are not hurt! Hilliard should have warned you about those slippery rocks--oh, he did--I see. Dillon will help you change your things; ring for her, Hilliard. Too bad, Betty, to spoil that pretty frock." Well, I changed my wet clothes, and for the rest of that day I was as meek as a lamb. I sat down, and got up, and answered, and talked to the Ervengs as nearly in Nora's manner as I could imitate. Perhaps they liked it, but I didn't; I was having the pokiest kind of a time, and I was so homesick that I cried myself to sleep again that night. Mind you, I wouldn't have our boys and Nora know this for a kingdom! The next few days were more agreeable; the people from the other cottages on the beach came to call on Mrs. Erveng, and while she was entertaining them, Hilliard and I went for walks or sat on the sands. As I've told you before, he isn't at all a wonderful sort of boy,--except for queerness,--and he always _will_ be a poke; but sometimes he's rather nice, and he is certainly polite. He knows the beach well,--he ought to, he's been here nearly every summer of his life, and he is eighteen years old,--and he showed me everything there was to see. There were no more accidents under his guidance; and no wonder,--he is caution itself. There was only one part of the beach that he did not take me, and that was where a tall pointed rock stood, that was separated from the others by a rather wide strip of sand. I thought it looked interesting; I could see what looked in the distance like the arched entrance to a cave in the side of the rock. I would like to have gone to look at it, but every time I proposed it, Hilliard turned the conversation. "Some day we'll investigate it," he said at last; "but don't ever go over there alone,--it is a dangerous place." According to him, the whole beach was dangerous; so I made up my mind that I would "investigate" for myself at the first opportunity that offered. While we rested on the sands, Hilliard would read aloud to me,--he likes to read aloud. Neither Phil nor I care as much for books as do the others in the family; but to be polite, I did not tell Hilliard that I am not fond of being read to; to me it always seems so slow. At first I used to look at the ocean and make up thoughts about it, so that I hardly heard any of what he was reading; but after a while I began to listen, and then, really, I got quite interested. We were sitting in the shade of the rocks one very warm afternoon,--Hilliard was reading aloud,--when there came a sudden peal of thunder, and presently a flash of lightning. "Oh, we're going to have a storm!" I exclaimed. "I am so glad! now I can see the ocean in a storm,--you said it was magnificent then. Why, what are you doing?" "We must get in the house as quickly as possible." Hilliard rose to his feet as he spoke, and began hastily gathering up the books and cushions, and the big sun umbrella. "But the rain hasn't come yet, and I _do_ want to watch the water,--see, it's beginning to get white-caps," I said. "We can reach the house in a few minutes." As I spoke there was another flash of lightning and a long roll of thunder, but neither was severe. To my great astonishment Hilliard shrank back against the rock, and shielded his face with the cushion he held in his hand; I could see that he was very pale. "Oh, come, _come_!" he begged; "oh, let us get to the house at once!" "What!" I flashed out scornfully, "are you _afraid_ of a thunder storm?" He didn't answer; he just stood there flattening himself against the rock, his face deadly white, his eyes almost closed, and his lips set tight together. I got _so_ angry! I _despise_ a coward! Had Jack done that, I thought to myself, I'd have been tempted to thrash him to put some spirit and pluck into him; and here was this great big overgrown boy--! "Why don't you run away to the house?" I broke out sharply. "I can take care of myself; _I'm_ not afraid of a little thunder." He put up his hand in a deprecating way, as if asking me to hush. Then, as a nearer peal reverberated among the rocks, and another flash lighted up the now leaden-coloured sky, he sprang forward and caught hold of my arm, with a sharp cry of "_Come! come!_" Wheeling me round suddenly, he ran toward the house, carrying me along with him with such force and swiftness--though I resisted--that in a few minutes we were on the piazza, and then in the hall, with the heavy outer door swung shut. We were barely under cover when the rain pelted down, and the thunder and lightning grew more loud and vivid. Hilliard leaned breathlessly against the hat-rack table,--I could see that he was trembling. I stood and looked at him,--I suppose it was rude, but I couldn't help it; you see I had never met such a kind of boy before. Mrs. Erveng had spent part of the day on the beach, and had come to the house about an hour before to take her afternoon nap. Now we heard her voice from the floor above us. "Hilliard! Hilliard, my son!" she called; there was something in her voice--a sort of tenderness--that I had never noticed before. "Come here to me; come!" And he went, without a glance at me, lifting his feet heavily from step to step, with drooping head and a shamed, miserable expression on his pale face. In about an hour's time the storm was all over, and that afternoon we had a gorgeous sunset; but Mr. Erveng and I were the only ones who sat on the piazza to enjoy it. Neither Mrs. Erveng nor Hilliard appeared again that day. Mr. Erveng took me for a walk along the beach, and did his best to entertain me: but I had a feeling that I was in the way--that he would rather have been upstairs with his wife and son, or that perhaps if I had not been there they would have come down. I thought of them all at home,--Phil and Fee with their fun and merry speeches, and Jack, and the little ones, and Nora; there is always something or other going on, and I would have given almost anything to be back once more among them. I was so unhappy this afternoon that I actually deliberated whether I had the courage to do something desperate,--make faces at Mr. Erveng, or race upstairs and interview Mrs. Erveng, or call Hilliard names out loud,--_anything_, so that they would send me home. But after a while I concluded I wouldn't try any of these desperate remedies; not that I minded what they'd say at home (teasing, I mean), but papa would want to know the whole affair,--he has got to think a good deal of Mr. Erveng,--and besides, somehow, though she's so gentle and refined, Mrs. Erveng isn't at all the sort of person that one could do those things to. So I said nothing, though I thought a great deal; and I went to bed before nine o'clock thoroughly disgusted with the Ervengs. Hilliard was at breakfast the next morning, just as stiff and prim and proper as ever,--it almost seemed as if what had happened in the storm must be a dream. But later on, when we were on the piazza, he spoke of it to me. "I feel that I should explain to you that I have a nervous dread of a thunder storm," he said, in that proper, grown-up way in which he speaks, but getting very red. "It completely upsets me at the time; I am afraid you think me a coward--" He broke off abruptly. "If it is nervousness, why don't you do something for it?--go to a physician and get cured?" I answered shortly; it seemed to me so silly--"so girlie," as Jack says--to try to turn his behaviour off on _nervousness_. "I _am_ under a physician's care," he said eagerly; "and he says if I could only once--" But just then the carriage that had taken Mr. Erveng to the train drove up to the door, and with an exclamation of pleasure Hilliard started forward to meet the lady and young girl who were getting out of it. They were Mrs. Endicott and her daughter Alice, relatives of the Ervengs, and they had come to stay with them while some repairs were being made to their own house, which was farther along the beach. It was _such_ a relief to see a girl again; and she turned out to be just as nice as she could be. She and Hilliard are cousins, but she isn't at all like him in any way. In the first place, she is splendid looking,--tall and strong, and the picture of health, with the most beautiful colour in her cheeks; and she is so jolly and full of fun that we got on famously together. Alice is a little over sixteen,--just one year older than I am,--and she has travelled almost everywhere with her parents (she's the only child, you see), all over America and in Europe. But she doesn't put on any airs about it; in fact, instead of talking of her travels, as I would ask her to do, she'd beg, actually coax me to tell her about my brothers and sisters, and the times we have at home,--it seems Hilliard has written her about us. She said she had never known such a large family, and she wanted me to describe each one, from Phil down to Alan. On warm mornings we would sit on the beach in the shade of the rocks, and when Hilliard wasn't reading to us, somehow the conversation always got round to the family. Hilliard thinks a good deal of our boys, and he talked to Alice about them; he told her of our entertainment on Nora's birthday, and our "performances," and she seemed to enjoy hearing of it all. She asked questions, too, and said she felt as if she really knew us all. Mrs. Endicott was almost as nice as Alice, and so _kind_! Why, almost every day she got up some amusement for us,--driving, or walking, or a picnic, or something. I really began to enjoy myself very much,--only that I didn't hear often enough from home. Nora's notes were very short,--just scraps; she said she was too busy to write more; and Jack never has shone as a letter writer. He'd say, "Nora had a circus with the 'kids' to-day,--will tell you about it when you come home;" or, "Something splendid has happened for Fee,--you shall have full particulars when you get back," and other things like that. Provoking boy! when I was longing to hear everything. After the Endicotts came, I enjoyed myself so well that the time flew by, and almost before I knew it the last day but one of my visit at the beach had come. That afternoon, instead of going with Mrs. Endicott, Alice, and Hilliard, to see how the repairs were getting on at their cottage, I decided to remain at home. Thinking it over afterward, I could not have explained why I did not care to go; I didn't even remember the excuse I made. It could not have been the heat,--though it was extremely warm,--for a little while after they had gone I dressed for dinner, and started for a stroll along the beach. [Illustration: "ON WARM MORNINGS WE WOULD SIT ON THE BEACH."] I walked slowly on and on, enjoying the beauty of the scenery, until I suddenly discovered that I was directly opposite the large rock which Hilliard and I were to have "investigated" some day, but to which he had never taken me. I knew we could not do it the next day, for Mr. Endicott had invited us to spend it on his steam yacht, and the day after that I was to leave for home; so I made up my mind that that afternoon was my opportunity. Carefully gathering up my skirts,--I had on my best white gown,--I picked my way over the rocks and stepped down on the wide strip of sand which divided this rock from the others. I noticed that the beach sloped downward to the rock; but in my heedlessness I did not notice that the sand was slightly damp. On reaching the rock, I found that what had looked at a distance like an arched entrance to a cave was really some irregular steps cut out of its surface, and which led to a narrow shelf, or ledge, a little more than half-way up the tall, solid-looking mass of stone. I knew that the view from that height must be fine, and I _love_ to climb; so I determined to get up to that ledge. It was not very easy,--the steps were slippery and rather far apart, and then, too, my dress bothered me, I was so afraid I would soil or tear it,--so I was a little tired and warm by the time I reached the top. But the view from there was _beautiful!_ One had a clear sweep of the beach, except that smaller portion which lay behind the big rock. The shelf on which I sat, with my feet resting on the step below, was a little rounded, something of a horseshoe shape, and with the rock to lean back against I was quite comfortable. I wondered again and again why Hilliard had avoided showing me this place, and enjoyed every detail of the view to my heart's content,--the grand, rugged outline of the beach, the exquisite colours of the sky and water, and the crafts that went sailing and purring past. I wondered where they were all going, and made up destinations for them. Then I began counting them, so as to tell Alice at dinner; I got up to twenty-eight, and then--I must have fallen asleep. How long I slept I don't know, but I woke with a great start, conscious of some loud, unusual noise, and that something cool had fallen on my face; and for a moment what I saw turned my heart sick with terror. Everything was changed since last I had looked at it. The sky, so blue and clear then, was now covered with heavy black clouds, across which shot vivid flashes of lightning, and there were deep, fierce growls of thunder. The shining sands that I had crossed so easily but a while before had disappeared; the ocean, which had then been so far away, now covered them, and was on a level with the step on which my feet rested. The blueness of the water had gone,--it was lead-coloured, to match the sky,--and great angry, white-crested, curling waves came rolling in, tumbling over and over each other in a mad race to dash themselves against the rock on which I sat, throwing up each time a heavy shower of white, foamy spray. It was the touch of this spray on my face that had wakened me; and to my horror, the water was dancing and gurgling at my very feet! In a flash I realised that I was in great danger,--entirely cut off from the land, and on a rock that was under water at high tide! "Oh, it can't be! it _can't_ be!" I cried aloud, standing up and looking wildly around; and as I did so, a big wave broke over my feet. With a scream I scrambled back on the ledge, and stood there, clinging to the jagged points of the rock, while I called for help at the top of my voice. I shouted, and shrieked, and yelled, until I was hoarse, and the cries were driven back into my throat by the wind; but all that answered me was the roar of the storm and the screams of the sea gulls as they flew by. As the wind lulled for a minute or two, I managed to drag off the skirt of my gown and wave it, hoping to attract the attention of some passing vessel,--a long range of rocks cut off any view of the cottages on the beach,--but the next wild gust tore it out of my grasp. The water kept rising,--it was bubbling and foaming over my ankles; the waves were lashing themselves higher and higher, the rain coming down in sheets, the wind howling and raging,--I was afraid it would blow me off the ledge! and never in all my life have I heard or seen such thunder and lightning! At first I was all confused,--I was so startled that I could think of nothing but that I was going to be drowned; but after a while I quieted down, and then I remembered that I could swim. Many a swimming match had Jack and I had at the Cottage,--I should have said that I was a very good swimmer; but that was in still water, not in this terrible, cruel ocean. I made up my mind to throw myself off the ledge and strike out for the shore,--three times I thought I would, and each time shrank back and clung the closer to the rock. At last I had to admit to myself that I was _afraid!_ I, Betty Rose, who had always boasted that I was not afraid of anything, had to own to myself that I had not the courage to even attempt to struggle with those waves! My courage seemed all gone. I was afraid--_deadly_ afraid--of the waves; I screamed as each one struck me higher and higher, and I hid my face from the lightning. Oh, it was awful! _awful!_ By and by I began to think; I still felt the rain and waves, and shrunk from the lightning, but not as I had at first, for I was thinking thoughts that had never come to me before in all my life. I could see right before me the faces of papa, and my dear brothers and sisters,--oh, how I loved them! and I should never be with them again! How they would miss me! and yet how many, _many_ times had I been disagreeable, and commanding, and unkind! I loved them, but I had spoken sharply, and teased, and grumbled when I had had little services to do for them; now there would be no more opportunities. I wished that I had done differently! Then my thoughts flew off to Mrs. Erveng,--how surly and disagreeable I had behaved to her! Not once had I offered her the slightest attention; instead, I had got out of her way at every chance. I had called this being very sincere, honest, above deceit; but it did not seem like that to me now. And there was Hilliard,--I had laughed at him, been rude to him, despised him for being a coward, I was _so_ sure of my own courage; and what was I _now?_ I was ashamed--_ashamed!_ Oh, how my heart ached! Then I began saying my prayers. The water was up to my waist now; it came with such force that it swayed me from side to side, and beat me against the rock to which I still clung. My fingers were cramped by my tight grip; the next wave, or perhaps the next to that, would sweep me off--away--to death! I prayed from my very heart, with all my strength and soul, and it seemed as if the other things--the waves, the storm, the terrible death--grew fainter; a feeling came to me that I was speaking right into God's ear--that He was very near to me. Somewhere out of the roar and awfulness of the storm came a human voice,--a cry: "_Betty! Betty! hold on! hold on! I can save you--only hold on!_" And when I opened my eyes, there was a boat coming nearer and nearer, dancing on the top of the waves like a cockle shell, and in it was Hilliard! "I can't--come--too--close," he shouted. "Jump--with--the--next--wave." I understood; and with the next receding wave I leaped into the water,--a wild plunge, scarcely seeing where I was going. But Hilliard's hands caught me and hauled me into the boat, where I sank down, and lay huddled up, confused, and trembling so that I couldn't speak. Hilliard threw something over me,--the rain was coming down in torrents,--and then he pulled with all his might for the shore. Presently my senses began to come back; I knew what a terrible strain it must be to row in such a storm,--though fortunately the tide was with us,--and he had come out in it for me. I felt I ought to take my share of the work. "I--can--row. Let--me--take--an--oar," I said slowly, sitting up. "Not an oar,--I need both," Hilliard answered decidedly; then he added persuasively, "Be a good girl, Betty, and just keep in the bottom of the boat." I saw that he was rowing in his shirt sleeves,--his coat was over me,--and his hat was gone; the rain was pouring down on his bare head. His face was very pale and set,--stern looking,--and the veins in his forehead were standing out like cords as he strained every nerve at the oars. "I'm going for one of the coves," he shouted to me presently, "where I can run her aground." Again and again we were tossed back by the receding waves; but at last we shot into the cove, and I heard the keel grating on the rocky beach. In an instant Hilliard was overboard, and had pulled the boat up on the sand, out of reach of the highest wave. As he helped me on to the beach, I looked up in his white face, and such a sense of what he had endured for me rushed over me that I couldn't get the words out fast enough. I threw my hands out and caught hold of his shoulders: "Oh, Hilliard Erveng, you _are_ a brave boy!" I cried out, choking up. "You are no coward; you are brave--_brave!_ and I have been a mean, contemptible, conceited, stuck-up girl." I think I shook him a little; I was in such earnest that I hardly knew what I was doing. The rain had plastered Hilliard's hair flat to his head, and washed it into funny little points on his forehead, and there were raindrops pouring down his face; but his mouth was smiling, and his eyes were wide open and shining. He laid his hands over mine as they rested on his shoulders. "Thank God for to-day, Betty, _thank_ God!" he said, in a glad, excited way. "He has saved your life, and I am no longer a coward; I am no longer afraid--see!" As the lightning flashed over us he lifted his head and faced it, with lips that quivered a little, but also with unflinching eyes. "Doctor Emmons always said that I would be cured of my dread could I but face one thunder storm throughout," he added, still with that joyous ring in his voice. "And now I've done it! I've done it; I am _free!_" "Oh! I am so _glad!_ so _very_ thankful!" I began, and then broke down and burst into a violent fit of crying. I couldn't stop crying, though I _did_ try hard to control my tears; and my knees shook so that I could hardly walk. Hilliard almost carried me along until we met Jim the coachman and Mr. Erveng on the beach. Mr. Erveng had just got home, and heard that Hilliard and I were out in the storm. Then between them they got me to the house, where Mrs. Erveng and Alice and her mother were anxiously waiting for us. How glad they were to see us! and how they all kissed and hugged me! Mrs. Erveng took me right into her arms. Everybody began talking at once. I heard Alice say, "As soon as we missed you, and Dillon said she had seen you walking toward that part of the beach, Hilliard declared you were on the rock,--he seemed to guess it. And he was off for the boat like a flash,--he wouldn't even wait for Jim; he said every minute was precious--" I lost the rest; a horrid rushing noise came in my ears, everything got black before me, and I fainted, for the very first time in my life. * * * * * It is now nearly a week since all this happened, and to-morrow I am going home--to the Cottage. I was so stiff and tired from the beating of the waves that Mrs. Erveng kept me in bed for several days, and telegraphed the family not to expect me until Thursday; otherwise neither Hilliard nor I have suffered from our drenching in that awful storm. Mrs. Endicott and Alice are going as far as New York with me, and there Phil will meet me and take me home. I shall be _very_ glad to be with my own dear ones again,--it seems an age since I saw them; and I long to talk to Nannie, and tell her everything. Still, _now_, I'm not sorry that I came here. I think that I shall never forget my visit to Endicott Beach. XIX. HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER. TOLD BY JACK. Nora was playing a sweet, wild Hungarian melody on the piano, the boys were on the stoop talking to Chad,--every now and then the sound of their voices came in through the open windows,--and I sat under the drawing-room chandelier reading. Presently Chad came in, and, leaning on the piano, began talking to Nora in a low tone; and without stopping her music, she talked back, in the same tone of voice. [Illustration: "WITHOUT STOPPING HER MUSIC, SHE TALKED BACK, IN THE SAME TONE OF VOICE."] The story I was reading was A 1, and I'd got to a _very_ thrilling place, where the boy comes face to face with an infuriated tiger, when I heard something said outside that just took all the interest out of my book. Phil was speaking sharply,--I wondered Nora and Chad didn't hear him. "What's the _matter_ with you?" he flared out. "I declare, you're getting as fussy as an old cat! I won't stand the way you're watching me, and you've just got to drop it. I'm not a _baby_, to be tied to anybody's apron-strings! I'll go and come as I please." I didn't hear what Fee said to this, but Phil's answer to it was quite loud: "Yes, I _am_ going,--to-night, and to-morrow night, and any other night I please. The _idea_ of a fellow of my age not being able to go out for a walk without asking your permission!" [Illustration: "THE STORY I WAS READING WAS A 1."] "When you talk like that you are downright silly!" broke in Felix. I could tell by his voice he was trying hard to control his temper. "'Tisn't the going out that anybody objects to; it's the person you're going with. You know very well, Phil, that he isn't the sort of fellow to do you any good. I sized him up the very first time we saw him, and I still hold to my opinion,--he's a _b-a-d_ lot." "_A-c-h!_ you make me tired!" exclaimed Phil,--that's a favourite expression of his when he's cornered,--and leaning in through the window, he called, "See here, Chad; any time to-night!" "Yes, A'm coming," Chad called back, and bidding Nora good-night, he went out; a minute after I heard their steps as Phil and he ran down the stoop and passed by the drawing-room windows. Laying my book down quietly and very quickly, I ran out on the stoop. Fee sat there with his elbows on his knees, and his chin resting on his clasped hands, staring at nothing. Dropping down beside him, I slipped my hand in his arm and squeezed it to me. "I heard Phil," I said. "I'm awfully sorry he _would_ go." "Yes," Fee answered, but in a way that I knew he wasn't thinking of what he was saying. We sat quiet for a little while, then Felix turned suddenly and laid his hand on my knee. "Jack," he said earnestly, "I've made up my mind about something that's been bothering me since last night. What I'm going to do may turn out right, it may turn out wrong,--God only knows; but it seems right to me, and I'm going to try it. I dread it, though,--just _dread_ it. If I hadn't promised--" He broke off abruptly, and turned his head away. I wanted to say something to him, but I couldn't think of a _thing_. In a minute Felix began again. "Tell me honestly, Jack," he said, "do you think that Phil cares as much for me as he used to,--I mean before that fellow Chad came?" "Why, Fee!" I exclaimed, "_of course_ he loves you just as well; I _know_ he does,--we all love you _dearly_!" Do you know, it just hurt me to have him think Phil could let a person like Chad come between them. Of course, as nurse says, we have our ups and downs; we get mad with one another sometimes, and all that, you know; but still we do love one another dearly, and we'd stand up for the different ones like everything, if need be. We've always been very proud of Fee,--he's so clever, you see; but since that night that I'm going to tell you about, I just think my brother Felix is the noblest, bravest, truest boy in the world! I've always loved Fee very dearly; but now,--well, now I have a feeling that I would be willing to give my life for him. Poor old Fee! When I said that so positively about Phil's caring, I could see Fee was pleased; his face brightened up. "Well, perhaps he does," he said. "He's been very cranky lately, and sharp to me,--in fact to everybody; but I have a feeling that that's because he isn't really satisfied with the way he's acting. I tell you, Jack, Phil's a good fellow,"--Fee pounded his hand down on his knee as he spoke; "it isn't easy for him to do wrong. And he isn't up to Chad's tricks, or the set he's got him into. They've flattered Phil first, and that has turned his head; and then they've laughed at him for not doing the things they do, and that's nettled him,--until they've got him all their way. I know what they are,--I can see through their cunning; but Phil isn't so sharp. There are people in this world, Jack, so contemptible and wicked that they hate to have anybody better than they are themselves, and Chad and his crowd belong to that class. If I'd been able to go about with Phil as I used to, they'd _never_ have had the chance to get hold of him. And as it is, now that I've found out their game, I'm going to stop the whole business, and bring Phil to his senses. He's too fine a fellow for those rascals to spoil. I'll stop it--I'll stop it, no matter _what_ it costs me!" Oh, how often I've thought of those words since that dreadful night! And yet, I have a feeling that even if he had known, he would have gone--I tell you, there isn't another boy in all the world like our Felix! Fee's voice was shaking, and he got on his feet as if he were going to start that very minute; but before I could say anything he began again: "I've got a plan,--not a very good one, I must confess, but it's the best I can think of, and it may work; that is, if Phil has as much of the old feeling for me as you think, Jack: I'm building a good deal on that,--I hope I won't get left. He may turn obstinate,--you know he _can_ be a very donkey sometimes; and I suppose he'll get furiously mad. Well, I'll have to stand that,--if only he doesn't blaze out at me before those cads; _that_ would cut me _awfully_. But that I'll have to risk; he's worth it. Now, Jack, I want you to help me,--to go somewhere with me, I mean. I'm sorry to have to ask this, for it's no place for a youngster like you; but I think you're one of the kind that won't be hurt by such things, Rosebud,"--putting his hand on my arm,--"and I'm so unsteady on my feet that I am afraid I really couldn't get along alone. Get your hat--and my cane." In a minute I had both, and we went down the stoop together. At the foot of the steps Fee stopped, and taking off his hat, began pushing his hair back off his forehead. I could see he was nervous. "Suppose this _shouldn't_ be the right thing that I'm going to do; suppose it should make matters worse," he said undecidedly, almost irritably. "Now, if Nannie were here--I haven't a creature to advise me!" "_I_ think you're doing right, Fee," I began. I didn't remember until afterward that I really didn't know what his plan was; but I don't think he heard what I said, for he went on in a low tone, as if he were talking to himself: "Suppose he gets furiously angry, and pitches into me before those low fellows,--you never know what Phil's going to say when he gets mad,--and _will not_ come home with me, what'll I do _then_? It's a risk. And if this plan fails, I don't know what else to do. Had I better just let things drift along as they are until we get in the country, and then speak to him? I _dread_ a row before that crowd; they'd just set him up against me. And yet--a week more of nights to come home as he did last night, and the night before that--_ought_ I to let that go on? What would _she_ say to do?" He stood with his head bent, thinking,--his hat and cane in one hand, and holding on to the stone newel-post with the other. And as we waited the gay strains of Nora's waltz came to us through the windows; since that night I just hate to hear her play that piece. Presently Felix looked up at me with the faintest little smile. "I came pretty near asking you to write me down a coward, Jack," he said; "but I'm all right again. Now for your part of this affair: If Phil will come back with me, as I hope, you'll have to make your way home alone, without letting him know of your being there. Try and manage it. If he gets ugly, and will _not_ leave that crowd, why, then we--you and I--'ll have to travel back as we went. You must judge for yourself, Rosebud, whether to go, or to stay for me; I'll have enough to do, you know, to manage Phil. Apart from that, have as little to do in the matter as possible; ask no questions, speak to no one, and see and hear no more than you can help. All right?" "Yes," I answered quickly, "and I only wish I could do more for you, Fee." Felix put his hand on my shoulder for a rest, as he usually did when we walked together. "You've been a real comfort to me, Jack, since Nannie went away," he said. I tell you that meant _lots_ from him, and I knew it; I just put up my hand and squeezed Fee's fingers as they rested on my coat; then we started off. On Fee's account we walked very slowly; but after a while we came to a house with a very low stoop,--just a step or two from the ground. There were handsome glass doors to the vestibule, and the rather small hall was brilliantly lighted up. I fancied that the man who opened the door looked at me as if he thought I had no business there; but Felix marched right by him and stepped into the elevator, and of course I followed. "Mr. Whitcombe," said Fee; and then I knew that we were in the apartment house where Chad has his "bachelor quarters." "Turn to your left," said the elevator man, as he let us out. We did so, and just as we got opposite the door with the big silver knob and old bronze knocker that Chad had told us he brought from Europe, it opened, and some one came out. Well, truly, he didn't look any older than fifteen,--two years older than I am, mind you,--but if he didn't have on a long-tailed evening coat, an awfully high stand-up collar, and a tall silk hat! You can't think what a queer figure he was,--like a caricature. Before he could shut the door, Felix lifted his hat, and then put out his hand quickly. "Allow me," he said politely; and the next moment we were in Chad's hall, with his front door closed behind us. At the other end of this hall was a room very brightly lighted; the portière was pushed almost entirely aside, and we could see some young fellows seated round a table. Nearly all had cigars or cigarettes in their mouths,--Phil, too; the room was just thick with smoke, and they were playing cards. "Sit where they can't see you," Fee whispered to me; "and if you find Phil will go home with me, just slide out without letting him know of your being here. Oh, Jack, if I can _only_ succeed!" He gave my hand a little squeeze--though it was a warm evening, his fingers were cold--and then walked up the hall and stood in the doorway of Chad's room. "Hullo! _you!_ Oh--aw--come in--aw--glad to see you! Take a chair," Chad said, in a tone of voice that told he was taken all aback; while Phil was so startled that he dropped his cigarette and called out roughly, "What the mischief are _you_ doing here?" Of course they all looked at Felix; but he answered carelessly, "Oh, I thought I'd accept a long-standing invitation,"--with a little bow toward Chad,--"and drop in for a while." "Oh, certainly, certainly--aw--glad to see you!" exclaimed Chad. "Who's with you?" demanded Phil; but Fee didn't answer him: he just went forward and took the place that one of the fellows made between himself and Phil. And then Chad began introducing Felix to the others. From where I sat on the hat-rack settle,--it was the most shielded place in the hall, and near the door,--I had a full view of the people sitting on one side of the table, and particularly of Felix and Phil, who were almost directly under the glare of the light. Fee's face was as white as marble, except a red spot on each cheek, and there was a delicate look about his eyes and temples, and round his mouth, that I hadn't noticed before. Somehow his fine, regular features and splendid, broad white forehead made me think of the head of the Young Augustus that the Unsworths have. But Phil certainly didn't look like any marble statue; his face was very red and cross, and he was scowling until his eyebrows made a thick black line above his eyes. He was disagreeable, too,--rough and quarrelsome, something like that night when he came home so late, and hurt my feelings. When, in reply to an invitation from Chad, Felix said he would join the game, Phil sung out in a kind of ordering tone, "What's the sense of spoiling the fun for everybody? You know nothing about cards; why don't you look on?" "Because I prefer playing," answered Fee, smiling; "it's the quickest and surest way of learning, I believe,"--with a glance round the company. "What are the stakes?" He drew a handful of money from his pocket, and laid it before him on the table. "Don't make an ass of yourself, Felix!" Phil exclaimed angrily, laying a hand right over the little pile of silver. "We're not fooling here; we're playing in dead earnest, and you will lose every cent of your money." Some of the fellows snickered, and one called out sharply, "Look out what you're saying, Rose." I saw the red spots on Fee's cheeks grow brighter. "I _am going_ to play," he said quietly, but looking Phil steadily in the eyes; "so please don't interfere." "Evidently you've never learned that 'consistency is a jewel'!" Phil retorted with a sneer. I suppose he was thinking of what Fee had said that evening on the stoop. But Felix only answered good-naturedly, "Oh, yes, I have; that used to be one of our copy-book axioms," and then they all began to play. Well, Phil's face was a study,--it grew blacker and blacker as the game went on, and Fee kept losing; and he got very disagreeable,--trying to chaff Felix, almost as if he wanted to make him mad. But Fee just turned it off as pleasantly as he could. Those fellows made it ever so much harder, though; they got off the _silliest_ speeches, and then roared with laughter over them, as if they were jokes. And, in a sly kind of way, they egged Phil on to quarrel with Fee,--laughing at all his speeches, and pretending that they thought Phil was afraid of Felix. And Chad joined in, I could hear his affected laugh and drawl above all the others; I felt how that must cut Fee! There were some decanters and glasses on a side table, and every now and then Chad urged his friends to drink, and he would get up and wait on them. Felix refused every time, and Phil did too at first, until those common fellows began to twit him about it,--as much as saying that he was afraid to take anything 'cause Fee would "go home and tell on him." What did Phil do then--the silly fellow! 'twas just what they wanted--but snatch up a glass and swallow down a lot of that vile stuff! Well, I was so _mad_ with Phil! I'd have liked to go right in and punch him. Felix never said a word ('twouldn't have done the least good,--Phil can be like a mule sometimes); he just sat there with his lips pressed tight together, looking down at the cards he held in his hands. After that Phil's face got awfully red, and how his tongue did run! Real ugly things he said, too, and perfectly regardless who he said them to. And those fellows got _very_ boisterous, and began again trying to tease our boys. I was _so_ afraid there'd be a row; and there surely would have been, if Felix hadn't just worked as he did to prevent it. I tell you now, it was awfully hard to sit out there in that hall and hear those fellows carrying on against my brothers,--you see I was so near I couldn't help it, I just _had_ to hear everything,--and not be able to take their part. Fee kept getting whiter and whiter, the spots on his cheeks redder and redder; and by and by such a tired look came in his face that I got real worked up. I felt as if I _must_ go in and just pitch right into those fellows. Almost before I knew it, I'd got up and gone a step or two in the hall, when suddenly Phil dashed his cards down on the table, and got on his feet. "I'm going home!" he declared. "Are you coming?" turning to Felix. "You sha'n't go!" "Oh, _don't_ go!" "You've _got_ to finish the game," several called out. But Phil just repeated doggedly, "I'm going home! Are you coming or not, Felix?" This was just what Fee wanted,--I knew how glad and thankful he must feel. But all he said was, "Yes, I'll go with you, if our host will excuse us," rising as he spoke and nodding his head toward Chad. Those unmannerly things burst out laughing, as if this were a great joke; and with a smothered exclamation, Phil started for the door, knocking over a chair as he went. Well, if you had seen me scoot down that hall and out of the door! I simply _flew_, and barely got round the corner in the shadow, when Phil and Felix came along. Phil looked like a thundercloud, and instead of leaning on his arm, Fee just had hold of a piece of Phil's sleeve. They marched along in dead silence, and got into the elevator. I hung around a little, until I was sure they were out of the way, then I went down; the elevator man looked harder than ever at me,--I suppose he wondered why I hadn't gone with Fee,--but I pretended I didn't notice. I'd never been out very late alone before, and at first it seemed queer; but I hurried, so that I soon forgot all about that. You see I wanted to get home before the boys did, and yet I had to look out that I didn't run across them. I hadn't thought of the time at Chad's; but we must have been there a good while, for when I got to the house the drawing-room windows were closed, and so was the front door. I don't know what I'd have done if cook hadn't come to close the basement door just as I got to our stoop, and I slipped in that way. "Master _Jack_!" she cried out, holding up her hands in horror; "a little b'y like you out late's this! What'd your pa say to such doin's, an' Miss Marston? An' there's Miss Nora gone to bed, thinkin' it's safe an' aslape ye are." "Oh, hush, cook! it's _all_ right. Don't say anything; please don't," I said softly; then I let her go upstairs ahead of me. The drawing-room was all dark, and the light in the hall was turned down low. The house was very quiet,--everybody had gone to bed; and after thinking it over, I made up my mind I'd wait downstairs and let the boys in before they could ring,--I forgot that Phil had taken possession of papa's latch-key, and was using it. I sat on the steps listening, and what d'you think? I must have fallen asleep, for the first thing I knew there were Phil and Felix in the hall, and Phil was closing the front door. "Oh, I see,--as usual, our gentle Rosebud's to the front," exclaimed Phil, still keeping his hand on the knob of the door; "all right, then he can help you upstairs," and he turned as if to go out. "What!" Fee cried out in a sharp, startled voice, "you are _never_ going back to that crowd!" "That's just what I _am_ going to do," answered Phil; his voice sounded thick and gruff. "Shall I give your love?" Felix caught him by the arm. "_Don't_ go, Phil," he pleaded; "_don't_ go back to-night, _please_ don't. We've had enough of them for one evening. Come, let's go upstairs. Won't you? I have a good reason for what I'm asking, and I'll explain to-morrow." Phil came a step or two forward, shaking Fee's hand off. "Look here!" he said sharply, "this thing might's well be settled right here, and once for all. I'm a man, not a child, I'll have you to understand, and I'm not going to be controlled by you. Just remember that, and don't try any more of your little games on me, as you have to-night, for I _will not_ stand 'em! The idea of your coming up there among those fellows and making such an ass of yourself--" "The asinine part of this evening's performance belongs to you and your friends, not to me," broke in Felix, hotly,--Phil's tone was _so_ insolent. "And there are a few things that _you_ might as well understand, too," he went on more calmly. "If you continue to go to Chad's, I shall go, too; if you make those fellows your boon companions, they shall be mine as well; if you continue to drink and gamble, as you've been doing lately, and to-night, I will drink and gamble, too. I mean every word I am saying, Phil. It may go against the grain at first to associate with such cads as Chad and his crowd; but perhaps that'll wear away in time, and I may come to enjoy what I now abhor. As these low pleasures have fascinated you, so they may fascinate me." "If you _ever_ put your foot in Chad Whitcombe's house again, I'll make him turn you out," cried Phil, in a rage, shaking his finger at Felix. "Why, you donkey! less than three months of that sort of life'd use you up completely. I'll fix you, if you ever undertake to try it; I'll go straight to the _pater_,--I swear I will." "No need to do that, old fellow," Fee said, in _such_ a loving voice! "Just drop that set you've got into, and be your own upright, honourable self again, and you shall never hear another word of such talk out of me. But," he added earnestly, "I _cannot_, I will not stand seeing you, my brother, my chum, our mother's son"--Fee's voice shook--"going all wrong, without lifting a finger to save you. Why, Phil, I'd give my very life, if need be, to keep you from becoming a drunkard and a gambler. _Don't_ go back to those fellows to-night, dear old boy; for--for _her_ sake, _don't_ go!" Felix was pleading with his whole heart in his voice, looking eagerly, entreatingly up at Phil, and holding out his hands to him. My throat was just filling up as Fee spoke,--I could almost have cried; and I'm sure Phil was touched, too, but he tried not to let us see it. He sort of scuffled his feet on the marble tiling of the hall, and cleared his throat in the most indifferent way, looking up at the gas fixture. "Perhaps I will drop them by and by," he said carelessly, "but I can't just yet,--in fact, I don't want to just yet; I have a reason. And that reminds me--I _must_ go back to-night. Now don't get _silly_ over me, Felix; there's no danger whatever of my becoming a drunkard or a gambler,--nice opinion of me you must have!--and I'm quite equal to taking care of myself. As I've told you several times before, I'm a man now, not a child, and I will _not_ have you or anybody running round after me. Just remember that!" As he spoke, he turned deliberately to go out. Then Fee did a foolish thing; he ought to have known Phil better, but he was so awfully disappointed that I guess he forgot. In about one second--I don't know how he _ever_ got there so quickly--he had limped to the door, and planted himself with his back against it. His face was just as _white_! and his lips were set tight together, and he held his head up in the air, looking Phil square in the eye. A horrid nervous feeling came over me,--I just _felt_ there was going to be trouble. I stood up on the steps quickly, and called out, "Oh, boys, _don't_ quarrel! Oh, please, _please_ don't quarrel!" But Phil was talking, and I don't believe they even heard me. "Get away from that door,--I'm going out!" Phil commanded. Not a word answered Fee; he just stood there, his eyes shining steadily up at Phil through his glasses. "Do you hear me?" Phil said savagely. "Get--out--of--the--way. I don't want to hurt you, but I am _determined_ to go out. Come,--move!" He stepped nearer Felix, with a peremptory wave of his hand, and glowered at him. But Fee didn't flinch. "No," he said quietly, but in just as positive a tone as Phil's, "I will _not_ move." Then, suddenly, a sweet, quick smile flashed over his face, and he threw his hands out on Phil's shoulders as he stood before him, saying, in that winning way of his, "I'm not a bit afraid of _your_ ever hurting me, old Lion-heart." I heard every word distinctly, but Phil didn't; in his rage he only caught the first part of what Fee said, and with a sharp, angry exclamation he shoved Felix violently aside, and, hastily opening the door, stepped into the vestibule. Fee was so completely taken by surprise--poor old Fee!--that he lost his balance, swung to one side with the force of Phil's elbow, striking his back against the sharp edge of the hall chair, and fell to the floor. I can't tell you the awful feeling that came over me when I saw Fee lying there; I got _wild_! I dashed down those steps and into the vestibule before Phil had had time to even turn the handle of the outer door, and, locking my hands tight round his arm, I tried to drag him back into the hall. "Come back," I cried out; "come back--oh, come back!" "Hullo! what's happened to you,--crazy?" demanded Phil, giving his arm a shake; but I hung on with all my weight. And then I said something about Felix; I don't remember now what it was,--I hardly knew what I was saying,--but, with a sharp cry, Phil threw me from him and rushed back into the hall. When I got to him, Phil was kneeling by Felix, with his hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. "Fee, _Fee_!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "what's the matter? Are you hurt? Are you, Fee? Oh, _tell_ me!" But Fee didn't answer; he just lay there, his face half resting on the arm he had thrown out in falling; his glasses had tumbled off, and his eyes were closed. In an instant Phil had rolled him over on his back on the hall rug, and I slipped my arm under his head. Fee looked _dreadfully_,--white as death, with big black shadows under his eyes; and such a sad, pitiful expression about his mouth that I burst out crying. "Oh, hush, hush!" Phil cried eagerly; "he's coming to himself. Oh, thank God! Stop your crying, Jack,--you'll frighten him." But he was mistaken; Fee wasn't coming to,--he lay there white and perfectly still. Oh, how we worked over him! We took off his necktie and collar, we poured water on his forehead, and fanned him, and rubbed his hands and feet with hands that were as cold as his own, and trembling. And Phil kept saying, "Oh, Jack, he'll soon be better,--don't you think so? _don't_ you, Jack? Oh, surely, such a _little_ fall couldn't be serious! he _couldn't_ have struck himself on that chair,--see, it's entirely out of his way," with such a piteous pleading in his eyes and voice that I hadn't the heart to contradict him. Nothing that we did had any effect; Fee still lay unconscious, and there was a pinched look about his features, a limp heaviness about his body, that struck terror to our hearts. "Oh, isn't this _awful_!" I sobbed. Then all at once I thought of that day I found Felix lying on the floor,--could this be an attack like that, only worse? His words, "What'll the _next_ one be!" flashed into my mind, and I burst out eagerly, "Oh, Phil, call somebody--go for the doctor--quick, quick, oh, do be _quick_! The doctor will know what to do--he can help him--call nurse--oh, call _somebody_!" But Phil suddenly dropped Felix's hand that he'd been rubbing, and bending down laid his ear on Fee's chest over his heart. I shall never forget the awful horror that was in his white face when he lifted it and looked at me across Fee's body. "Jack," he said in a slow, shrill whisper, that just went through my ears like a knife, "Jack, it's no use; Fee is--" But I screamed out before he could say that dreadful word,--a loud scream that rang through the house and woke the people up. In a confused sort of way--as if I had dreamed it--I remember that Nora came flying down the stairs in her dressing-gown and bare feet, and nurse hurrying behind her, both crying out in a frightened way,--something like, "Oh, _lawkes_! what _have_ them boys been doin'?" and, "Oh, boys, _boys_! what _is_ the matter?" But Phil's answer stands out clear,--I can hear it every time I let myself think of that awful night. He had pushed me aside, and was sitting on the floor with Fee's body gathered in his arms, Fee's face lying against his shoulder. He looked up at Nora; his dry, white lips could hardly utter the words. "Fee is dead," he said; "I have killed Felix!" XX. A SOLEMN PROMISE. TOLD BY JACK. For a little while there was a dreadful commotion down there in the hall. Hannah and cook had come, too, by this time, and everybody was crying, and rushing about, and all talking at once,--telling everybody else what to do. Poor Nonie was awfully frightened; at first she couldn't do a thing but cry, and I was just as bad,--I'd got to that pitch that I didn't care who saw my tears. But nurse kept her head splendidly; generally she gets all worked up over the least little sickness, but this time she kept cool, and told us what to do. "Don't talk so foolish, Master Phil!" she exclaimed sharply, when Phil said that awful thing about Fee. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself,--frightening your sister that way! He ain't no more dead 'n you are." Well, if you'd seen the look of hope that flashed into Phil's face! "Oh, nurse!" he gasped, "do you _honestly_ think so? But he isn't breathing,--I can't feel his heart beat." "That's 'cause he's in a swoond," nurse answered briskly. "Here, lay him down flat. Now rub his feet--_hard_; Hannah, slap his palms,--that'll start up a cirkilation. Here, Miss Nora, fan your brother. Cook, fill them hot-water bottles; if the water in the biler ain't hot 'nough, start your fire _immejiate_. Master Jack, you run for the doctor; an' if he can't come," she added, dropping her voice so that only I heard her, "get another. Don't you come back here without _somebody_. An' be quick's you can." That told me that she wasn't as sure about Fee as she pretended to be, and the hope that had come up in my heart died right out. My eyes got so blinded with tears that I just had to grope for my hat; but as I was opening the outer door, I heard something that brought me in again in double quick time. It was a cry from Phil,--a shout of joy: "He _is_ breathing! Oh, he's _breathing_! His eyes are opening!" Sure enough, they were. Slowly the heavy lids raised, and Fee's near-sighted eyes looked blankly up at Phil. "Don't you know me, old fellow?" Phil asked with a break in his voice, bending eagerly over Felix. A sweet little smile flickered over Fee's lips. "Phil," he said faintly; and then, with what we could all see was a great effort, he raised his hand slowly and let it fall heavily on Phil's hand. Poor Phil! that broke him down completely. Catching Fee's face between his two hands, he kissed him warmly two or three times, and then, dropping his head down on Fee's shoulder, burst into a storm of sobs. "Oh, come, come! this'll _never_ do!" cried nurse, bustling forward. "Come, Master Phil, this ain't any time for sich behaviour,"--mind you, she was wiping the corners of her own eyes! "Now we must get him up to his own room soon's possible; _then_ we can make him comfort'ble. Can you carry him up? Me and Hannah can help." "I can do it alone," Phil said quickly, beginning to gather Fee into his arms. But I tell you it was hard work getting him up, he was such a dead weight! Fee knew Phil was making a desperate effort to lift him, and he tried, poor fellow, to help all he could. When at last Phil stood erect, with him in his arms, nurse raised Fee's hands and joined them back of Phil's neck. "Now clasp your hands tight, Master Felix," she said, "and that'll take some of your weight off your brother." Fee's hands were actually resting one on the other, and I saw his fingers move feebly, trying to take hold of one another. Then he said in a slow, frightened whisper, "I--can't--make--them--hold!" and his arms slipped down, one of them swinging helplessly by his side, until nurse laid it in his lap. "Never mind, don't worry about that, Fee; I can get you up," Phil said cheerfully. "Why, don't you remember I took you almost up to your room the other night?" Nora and I looked at each other. I know we were both thinking of the same thing,--that happy evening when we heard of aunt Lindsay's plan for Fee, and when Phil had picked Felix up and run so gaily up the stairs with him, singing. Was it possible that was only three or four evenings ago! It seemed _years_. "Run for the doctor, Master Jack--_don't_ loiter," nurse said, as she fell in with the procession that was moving so slowly up the stairs; Phil was going one step at a time, and sometimes sliding himself along against the banister to rest the weight he was carrying. I rushed out and up to Dr. Archard's as fast as I could go. The streets through which I went were very lonely,--I scarcely met a creature,--but I didn't mind; in fact, the stillness, and the stars shining so clear and bright in the quiet sky, seemed to do me good. I knew Who was up there above those shining stars; I thought of the poor lame man that He had healed long ago, and as I raced along, I just _prayed_ that He would help our Fee. Dr. Archard was away, out of town, the sleepy boy who answered the bell told me; but Dr. Gordon, his assistant, was in,--would he do? I didn't know him at all,--he'd come since papa's illness; but of course I said yes, and in a few minutes the doctor was ready and we started. He had a nice face,--he was years younger than Dr. Archard,--and as we hurried toward home and began talking of Felix, I suddenly made up my mind that I would tell him about the attack Fee had had when papa was so ill. That promise of mine not to speak of it had always worried me, and now, all at once, a feeling came over me that I just _ought_ to tell Dr. Gordon everything about it,--and I did. He asked a lot of questions, and when I finished he said gravely, "You have done very right in telling me of this; the knowledge of this former attack and his symptoms will help me in treating your brother's case." "Is it the same trouble?" I asked eagerly. "Certain symptoms which you have described point that way," he answered; "but of course I can say nothing until I have seen and examined him." "Could such an accident"--I'd told him that Fee had struck his back against a chair and then fallen--"do anybody--_harm_?" My heart was thumping as I put the question. "Under some circumstances, serious harm," the doctor said. And just then--before I could say anything more--we came to our stoop, and there was Hannah holding the door open for us to go in. * * * * * The doctor turned every one out of Fee's room but Phil and nurse; and he was in there an awful long time. And while Nonie and I sat on the upper stairs waiting for news, what did I do but fall _asleep_! and I didn't wake up until the next morning, when I found myself in my own bed. It seems that Phil had undressed and put me to bed, though I didn't remember a thing about it. I felt dreadfully ashamed to have gone to sleep without hearing how Fee was, but you see I was so dead tired, that I suppose I really _couldn't_ keep awake. Did you ever wake up in the morning with a strange sort of feeling as if there was a weight on your heart, and then remember that something dreadful had happened the night before? Well, then you know just how I felt the morning after Fee got hurt. For a moment or two I tried to make myself believe it was all a bad dream; but there sat Phil on the edge of our bed, and the sight of his wretched white face brought back the whole thing only too plainly. "Oh! how is Fee?" I exclaimed, sitting up in bed. "What does the doctor say about him?" Phil's elbow was resting on his knee, his chin in his palm. "The doctor says," he answered, with, oh! such a look of misery in his tired eyes, "that Felix is not in danger of death, but it looks now as if he _might not be able to walk again_!" [Illustration: "THERE SAT PHIL ON THE EDGE OF OUR BED."] "Oh, Phil, _Phil_!" I cried out; then I sat and stared at him, and wondered if I were really awake, or if this were some dreadful dream. "His back was weak from the start," went on Phil, drearily, "and probably would have been to the end of his life; but at least he would have been able to get around--to go to college--to enter a profession. Now all that is over and done with. Isn't it _awful_!" "Oh, but that can't be true," I broke in eagerly. "Why, Phil, Fee was in a dreadful way that last attack, I told the doctor about it,"--Phil nodded; "he couldn't stand on his feet at all,--and yet he got better. Oh, he may now; he may, Phil, only with a longer time! See?" "I thought of that when Gordon told me what you had told him, and I begged for some hope of that sort,--begged as I wouldn't now for my own life, Jack." Phil's voice got so unsteady that he had to stop for a minute. "After a good deal of talking and pleading," he went on presently, "I got him to admit that there _is_ a bare chance, on account of his being so young, that Fee _may_ get around again, in a sort of a way; but it's too slim to be counted on, and it could only be after a long time,--two or three years or longer. Dr. Archard'll be in town to-morrow, and they will consult; but Gordon says he's had cases of this kind before, and knows the symptoms well. I think he would have given us hope if he could. You see Fee isn't strong; oh, if it had _only_ been _I_!--great, uncouth, ugly brute that I am!" Phil struck his hand so fiercely on the bed that the springs just bounced me up and down. "Fee's feet and legs are utterly useless," he began again; "his spine is so weak he can't sit up. Even his fingers are affected,--he can't close them on anything; he's lost his grip. And he may lie in this condition for years; he may _never_ recover from it. Oh, think of that, Jack!" Phil broke out excitedly; "_think_ of it! Our Fee, with his splendid, clever mind, with all his bright hopes and ambitions, with the certainty of going to college so near at hand,--to have to lie there, day in and day out, a helpless, useless creature! And brought to it by _my_ doing,--his own brother! _Oh_!" He drew his knee up, and folding his arms round it, laid his face down with a moan. I slipped over to his side and threw my arm across his shoulder. "Phil, dear," I said, to comfort him, "try and not think of that part; I'm sure Fee wouldn't want you to. You know he had that other attack--and--perhaps this would have come any way--" But Phil interrupted, looking at me with those miserable, hollow eyes. "Not like this," he said. "Dr. Gordon told me himself that the blow Fee got was what did the mischief this time; with medical care he might have got over those other attacks. Gordon didn't dream that I was the infuriated drunken brute who flung him against that chair. Drunken! I think I must have been possessed by a _devil_! That _I_ should have raised my hand against Fee,--the brother I love so dearly, my chum, my comrade, mother's boy, of whom she was so tender! Oh, _God_! shall I have to carry this awful remorse all the rest of my life!" His voice broke in a kind of a wail, and he threw his clinched hands up over his head. "Oh, Phil, _dear_ Phil! Oh, _please_ don't," I begged. "Oh, Fee _wouldn't_ want you to talk like this." "I know he wouldn't. God bless him!" Phil answered in a quieter tone, dropping his arms by his sides. "Oh, Jack, it cuts me up awfully to see him lying there so cheerful and serene when he knows that what's happened has just spoiled his whole life--" "Oh, _does_ he know?" I exclaimed. "He insisted on knowing, and bore it like a soldier. When I broke down he smiled at me, actually _smiled_, Jack, with, 'Why, old fellow, it isn't so bad--as all that'--_o-oh_!" Phil choked up, and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face deep in the pillows, that Fee in the next room might not hear his sobs. * * * * * That was a miserable day. Dr. Archard came quite early, and after the consultation we heard that, in the main, he agreed with Dr. Gordon. "Still," he said to Nora and me, as he was going, "Felix _may_ surprise us all by recovering much faster and more fully than we expect. The thing is to get him out of town _just_ as soon as we can, and in the mean time to follow directions and keep him quiet and cheerful. Phil seems to have taken charge of the boy, and I do believe he's going to develop into a nurse. I'll send you round a _masseur_, and I'll write to your father, so he'll not be alarmed. Keep up your spirits, and your roses, my dear," patting Nora's cheek. Then he got into his carriage and drove away. Because the doctor said that about keeping Fee quiet, no one but Phil or nurse was allowed in his room all day. But late in the afternoon nurse let me take something up to him,--she had to see to the children's dinner, or something or other downstairs; she said if Phil were with him I wasn't to stay. I knocked, but not very hard,--my hands were pretty full; and then, as nobody answered, I opened the door softly, and went in. Fee was lying sort of hunched up among the pillows, which weren't any whiter than his face. Oh! _didn't_ he look delicate! He had on his glasses again, and now his eyes were shining through them, and there was a very sweet expression on his lips. Phil was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking in a low, unsteady voice: "I didn't really care for them," he was saying, "and there were times when I fairly loathed them; but somehow they got round me, and--I began to go there regularly. They drank and gambled; they said all young fellows did it, and they laughed at me when I objected. I held out for a good while,--then one night I gave in. I was a fool; I dreaded their ridicule. There were times, though, when I was _disgusted_ with myself. Then I began to win at cards, and--well--I thought I'd save the money for a purpose; though in my heart I knew full well that--the--the--the person I was saving for wouldn't touch a penny got that way. Well, then something happened that made that money I was saving quite unnecessary, and then I just played to lose. I wanted those fellows to have their money back; after that I thought I'd cut loose from 'em. That was the reason I wanted to go back to Chad's that night,--was it _only_ last night? It seems like _years_ ago!" Phil dropped his face down in his hands for a minute; then he went on: "I started out this morning and gave each of the fellows his money back. They didn't want to take it,--they think me a crazy loon; but I insisted. I've got beyond caring for their opinion. And now, Fee, the rest of my life belongs to you; you've paid an awful price for it, old fellow,--I'm not worth it. Think of your college course--your profession--all the things we planned! I'm not worth it!" Phil's voice failed, but he cleared his throat quickly, and spoke out clearly and solemnly. "Felix," he said, "I will _never_ play cards again as long as I live; and I will _never_ drink another drop of liquor,--so help me God." He raised his hand as he spoke, as if registering the oath. Then he bent over and buried his face in the bed-clothes. Slowly Fee's poor helpless hand went out and fell on Phil's head. "What is all the rest compared with _this_," he said, oh, so tenderly! then, with a little unsteady laugh, "Philippus, I always said there wasn't a mean bone in your body." And then Phil threw his arms round Felix and kissed him. I laid what I had brought down on the table, and went quickly away, shutting the door a little hard that they might know somebody'd gone out. I should have left just as soon as I found they were talking,--I know I should,--but it seemed as if Phil's words just held me there. I've told Phil and Felix all about it since then, and they say they don't mind my having heard; but between what I felt for them both, and for my having done such a mean thing as to listen to what wasn't meant for me to hear, I was a pretty miserable boy that afternoon. I flew upstairs to the schoolroom, and throwing myself down on the old sofa I just had a good cry. It seems as if I were an awful cry-baby those days; but how could a person help it, with such dreadful things happening? Well, I hadn't been there very long when in came Nora and opened the windows to let in the lovely afternoon light, and of course then I got up. I guess I must have been a forlorn-looking object, for Nora smoothed my hair back off my forehead and kissed me,--she doesn't often do those things. "I'm going to write to Nannie," she said, laying some note-paper on the schoolroom table. "It is the first minute I've had in which to do it; perhaps,"--slowly,--"if she had been here, all this trouble might not have happened. Why don't you send Betty a few lines, Jack? You know she will want to hear of Fee; but don't frighten her about him." So I thought I would write Betty,--I owed her a letter. After all, she wasn't having at all a bad time with the Ervengs; in fact, I fancy she was enjoying herself, though she was careful not to say so. Nora and I were sitting at the same table, but far apart, and I'd just called out and asked her if there were two l's in wonderful--I was writing about Fee--when the schoolroom door opened, and in walked Chad Whitcombe! As usual, he looked a regular dandy, and he held a bunch of roses in his hand. He came forward with his hand out and smiling: "I've--aw--just called in for a minute," he said. "I thought--aw--you might care for these flowers--" But Nora rose quickly from her chair, pushing it a little from her, and putting her hands behind her back, she faced him with her head up in the air. My! how handsome she looked,--like a queen, or something grand like that! "I thank you for your polite intention," she said very stiffly and proudly, "but hereafter I prefer to have neither flowers nor visits from you." Well, you should have seen Chad's face! he'd been stroking his moustache, but now, positively, he stood staring at Nora with his mouth open, he was so astonished. "Wha--what's wrong?" he stammered. "What've I done?" Then Nora gave it to him; she didn't mince matters,--truly, she made me think of Betty. "What have you done?" she repeated, opening her grey eyes at him. "Oh! only acted as I have never known any one calling himself a gentleman to act. Mr. Whitcombe,"--with a toss of her head equal to anything Betty could have done,--"I will _not_ have the acquaintance of a man who drinks and gambles." Then _I_ was the one to be astonished; I didn't dream Nora knew anything about that part. Phil must have told her that day. [Illustration: "'HEREAFTER I PREFER TO HAVE NEITHER FLOWERS NOR VISITS FROM YOU.'"] "And who not only does those dreadful things himself," went on Nora, "but inveigles others into doing them, too. The idea of coming here among us as a friend, and then leading Phil off,--trying to ruin his life!" Nonie's cheeks were scarlet; she was getting madder and madder with every word she said. "Why, that isn't gambling; we just play for small amounts," exclaimed Chad, eagerly, forgetting his affectation, and speaking just like anybody. "All the fellows do it; why, I've played cards and drunk liquor since I was twelve years old. It hasn't hurt me." "No?" said Nora, coldly. "We don't agree on that point;" then, curling her lip in a disgusted way: "What an unfortunate, neglected little boy you must have been. If Jack should do either of those low, wicked things, I should consider a sound thrashing entirely too mild treatment for him. And allow me to tell you that _all_ the young fellows we know are _not_ after your kind: they neither drink, nor play cards; and yet, strange to say,--that is, from your point of view,--they are extremely manly." "I'm sorry, you know; but I didn't suppose you'd mind--so much," Chad began, in the meekest sort of tone. "You always seemed to understand lots of things that the others didn't, and--" But Nora interrupted: "I made allowances for you," she said, with her little superior air, "knowing that you had lost your parents as a little boy, and that you had had so little--now I will say _no_--home training. Besides, I thought, perhaps"--she hesitated, then went on--"that perhaps the others were a little hard on you; it seemed rather unjust, simply because you were--well--different from ourselves. But I didn't imagine for one moment that you were this sort of a person. It isn't honourable to do those things,--don't you know that? It is low and wicked." "I only wanted Phil to have a good time; I never thought he was such a baby he'd get any harm," exclaimed Chad, a little sulkily, getting awfully red, even to his ears. "And as to Felix, he came of his own free will. It's he that has told you all this, and set you up against me. Felix doesn't like me, and he hasn't taken any pains to hide it. I don't see why he came up there last night, if he thinks we're so wicked." "I will tell you why," cried Nora; "he came in the hope that seeing _him_ there would shame Phil, and induce him to get out of such a set. And it _has_ gotten him out,--though not in the way that Fee expected. When I think of all that has happened since you and Phil went out together last evening,--of all the trouble you have brought on us,--I really wish you would go away; I prefer to have nothing more to say to you." She made a motion of her hand as if dismissing him, but Chad never moved. He just stood there, holding the roses upside down, and looking very gloomy. "You're _awfully_ down on me," he said presently; then, "and A'm awfully sorry. Ah wish you'd forgive me!" in _such_ a beseeching sort of tone that I could have laughed right out. But Nonie didn't laugh, or even smile; she just answered, a little more kindly than before: "It's not a question of _my_ forgiving you that will set the matter right; the thing is to give up that way of living. Surely there are plenty of other ways of amusing yourself,--nice honourable ways that belong to a gentleman. Then--people--would be able to respect as well as like you. I wonder that Max has let this sort of thing go on." "Oh, he doesn't know," Chad said, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the door, as if he thought Max might be there, ready to walk in on him. "_Tell_ him," advised Nora,--she just loves to advise people,--"and get him to help you. You could study for college, or--go into business, if you preferred that." Chad was looking intently at her; suddenly he threw the roses on the schoolroom table,--with such force that they slid across and fell on the floor on the other side,--and made a step or two toward Nora, with his hands extended, exclaiming eagerly, "Oh, Nora, if I thought that _you_ cared--" But like a flash Nora got behind her chair, putting it between herself and Chad. "Don't say _another_ word!" she broke in imperiously, standing very straight, and looking proudly at him over the back of the chair. "Jack, pick up those flowers and return them to Mr. Whitcombe, and then open the door for him." Chad was so startled that he jumped,--you see he hadn't noticed that I was there,--and didn't he look foolish! and _blush_! why, his face actually got mahogany colour. He snatched the poor roses from me and just bolted through that schoolroom door. Well, I had to laugh; and when I turned back into the room, after seeing him to the head of the stairs, I said, "I'm just _glad_ you gave it to him, Nonie!" "There is nothing for you to laugh at, Jack," Nora said sharply, turning on me. "Remember you are only a little boy, and this is none of your affair." With that she picked up her writing materials and walked off. Aren't girls the _funniest_! XXI. THROUGH THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND. TOLD BY JACK. The man to massage Felix came the next day; but, except for the time he was there, Phil took entire charge of Fee. He had always declared he wasn't of any use in a sick-room, but now he seemed to get on very well; you can't think how kind and gentle he was! For one thing, Fee wasn't hard to suit, and that helped things a great deal. If Phil made a mistake, or did something awkwardly, Fee just turned it off in a joking way. He was very white and languid, but not at all sad; in fact, he kept our spirits up with his funny sayings. We all thought it was amazing; nurse said he was "a born angel," and now and then I saw Phil look wistfully at Fee, as if wondering how he _could_ be so brave. And Felix, when he caught Phil's eye, would give a roguish little smile, and say something so merry that we had to laugh. The only part that troubled me was that Phil stuck so closely to Fee that nobody else got a chance to do anything for him. I just longed to go in and sit with Fee a while, but the doctor didn't want more than one to be with him at a time; and what with Nora, and nurse, and Phil, I didn't get any chance at all until about the third day that Fee'd been ill. A telegram came that morning from Miss Marston, saying she was on the way home, and would arrive early in the afternoon, and that we would start for the Cottage the next day,--she didn't know about Fee; we'd been so upset that nobody had thought of writing her. Well, that threw Nora into what Phil calls "a state of mind," and she and nurse began getting things together and packing 'em. I just hate packing times; you have to keep running up and down stairs carrying things, and all that, and you don't have a minute to yourself for reading. But of course I had to help, and I was busy in the nursery handing things to nurse off a shelf, when Phil came to the door with his hat on. He looked brighter than he had for some time. "Jack," he said, "will you sit with Felix for a while? I have to go out; but I'll be back as soon as I can." Of course I was only too glad, and I went right to Fee's room. He looked tired, and those circles under his eyes were very big and dark; but he smiled at me, and chatted for a few minutes. Then presently, after Phil'd gone, he said: "Would you mind taking a seat over there in the window, Jack? I want to do a little quiet thinking. There's a nice book on the table; take it. Phil said he wouldn't be away long." [Illustration: "PACKING TIMES."] I was disappointed,--I wanted to talk with him; but I took the book and went over to the window. It was a capital story, and I soon got interested in it. I don't know how long I'd read--I was enjoying the story so much--when I heard a queer, smothered sound, and it came from the direction of Felix. In a minute I was by his side, exclaiming, "Why, what's the matter, Fee?" He had slipped down in the bed, and while his poor helpless legs still lay stretched straight out, he'd twisted the upper part of his body so that he was now lying a little on his side, hugging one of the pillows, and with his face buried in it. His shoulders were shaking, and when he raised his head to answer me, I saw the tears were streaming down his cheeks. "Shut the door--_quick_!" he cried, gasping between the words. "Lock it--pile the furniture against it--don't let a creature in--oh, _don't_ let them see me!" I flew to the door and locked it; and by the time I got back to the bed, Fee seemed to have lost all control over himself. He twisted and twitched, rolling his head restlessly from side to side,--one minute throwing his arms out wildly as far as they could reach, the next snatching at the pillows or the bed-clothes, and trying to stuff them into his mouth. And all the time he kept making that horrible sharp gasping noise,--as if he were almost losing his breath. I was _dreadfully_ scared at first,--that _Felix_, of all people, should act this way! I got goose-flesh all over, and just stood there staring at Fee, and that seemed only to make him worse. "Don't stare at me like that. Oh, don't, don't, _don't_!" he cried out. "I can't help this--really--I can't, I _can't_! Oh, if I could only _scream_ without the others hearing me!" He threw his head back and beat the pillows with his outstretched arms. Then, somehow, I began to understand: a great lump came in my throat, and taking hold of one of Fee's cold, clammy hands, I commenced stroking and patting it without a word. His fingers were twitching so I could hardly hold them, and he talked very fast,--almost as if he couldn't stop himself. "Don't tell them of this, Jack," he begged, in that sharp gasping voice, "_don't_ tell them! they wouldn't understand--they'd worry--and poor Phil would be wretched. I know what this is to him,--poor old fellow! I see the misery in his face from day to day, and I've tried--so hard--to keep everything in--and be cheerful--so he shouldn't guess--until I thought I _should_ go _mad_! Oh, think of what this _means_ to me, Jack! College, profession, hopes, ambitions--gone _forever_--nothing left but to lie here--for the rest of my life--a useless hulk--a cumberer of the ground. Only seventeen, Jack, and I may live to be eighty--like _this_! never to go about--never to walk again. Oh, if I might _die_!"--his voice got shrill,--"if God would _only_ let me die! I've always been a poor useless creature,--and now, _now_, of what good am I in the world? Nothing but a burden and a care. Oh, how shall I ever, _ever_ endure it!" I was so nervous that I began shaking inside, and I had to speak very slowly to keep my voice from shaking too. "Don't talk so foolishly, Fee," I said,--but not unkindly, you know. "Why, I don't know what we'd all do without you,--having you to ask things of, and to tell us what to do. I know papa depends on you an awful lot; and Miss Marston said the day she went away that she wouldn't've gone if she hadn't known you would be here to look after us and keep things straight; and what _would_ Nannie do without you? Talk about being of no use,--just think what you've saved Phil from!" "I _am_ thankful for that," broke in Felix, "most _thankful_! I don't regret what I did that night, Jack. I'd do it again if need be, even knowing that it must end like _this_,"--with a despairing motion of his hand toward his helpless legs. Then he added eagerly, breathlessly, "Don't ever tell Phil about this morning, Jack,--that I feel so terribly about the accident. Don't tell him,--'twould break his heart. I hope he'll _never_ know. I pretended to be cheerful, I laughed and talked to cheer him up, but my heart grew heavier and heavier, and my head felt as if it were being wound up; I was afraid I'd go mad and tell the whole thing out. Oh, Jack, it's those dreary days, those endless years of uselessness that terrify me. Oh, help me to be strong! Oh, Jack, help me! _help_ me!" His arms began to fly about again; he had thrown off his glasses, and his big hollow eyes stared at me with a wild, beseeching expression in them. "I'm so afraid--I'll scream out--and then they'll all hear me--and know," he gasped. "Oh, give me something, _quick_--oh, do something for me before I lose entire control of myself." I flew to the table and got him some water; I didn't know what else to do, and he wouldn't let me call anybody,--even just speaking of it made him wild. Then I fanned him, and knelt by the bed stroking one of his hands. But nothing seemed to help him. And then--God must have put the thought into my mind--I said suddenly, "Fee, dear, I'm going to sing to you;" and before he could say no, I began. At first I could hardly keep my voice steady,--on account of that horrid, inward shaking,--but I went right on, and gradually it got better. I sang very softly and went from one hymn to the other, just as they came to my mind: First, "O Mother dear, Jerusalem,"--I love that old hymn!--then, "And now we fight the battle, but then shall win the crown;" and then, "The Son of God goes forth to war." That's one of Fee's favourites, and he sobbed right out when I sang,-- "'Who best can drink his cup of woe, Triumphant over pain; Who patient bears his cross below,-- He follows in His train.'" But I kept on,--really, I felt as if I couldn't stop,--and when I got to the last line of "For all the saints who from their labours rest," Fee whispered, "Sing those verses again, Jack." I knew which he meant; so I sang:-- "'Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress, and their Might; Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well-fought fight; Thou, in the darkness drear, the one true Light. Alleluia! "O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true, and bold, Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old, And win, with them, the victor's crown of gold. Alleluia! * * * * * "And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, Steals on the ear the distant triumph-song, And hearts are brave again, and arms are strong. Alleluia!'" Fee lay quiet when I finished. He was still twitching, and tears were slipping down his cheeks from under his closed lids; but he no longer made that dreadful gasping sound, and there was a beautiful expression on his mouth,--so sweet and patient. "I've not been a soldier 'faithful, true, and bold,'" he said sadly, "but a miserable coward. Ah! how we must weary God with our grumblings and complainings, our broken resolutions and weaknesses. I prayed with all my heart and strength for Phil, that he might be saved from that crowd. And now that God has granted my prayer, I bewail His way of doing it. I was willing then to say, 'At any cost to myself,' and here I am shrinking from the share He has given me! dreading the pain and loneliness. A faithless soldier, Jack,--not worthy to be called a soldier." "Oh! not faithless," I put in eagerly; "indeed, Fee, you're _not_ faithless. Even if you do shrink from this--this trouble--it's only just here between us; you are going to be brave over it,--you know you are. _Going_ to be! why, Fee, I think you _are_ the _bravest_ boy! the truest, noblest--" I had to stop; that lump was just swelling up in my throat. "No," Fee said mournfully, drawing his breath in as Kathie does hers sometimes when she's been crying for a long while; "no, Jack, I'm not really brave,--not yet! I'm going to bear this only because I must--because I _can't_ escape it. Perhaps, by and by, strength may come to endure the trial more patiently; but now--I _dread_ it. I would _fly_ from it if I could; I would _die_ rather than face those awful years of helplessness! See what a poor creature your 'brave boy' is, Jack." His lips were quivering, and he folded one arm over his eyes. Then all at once there came back to me a talk which mamma and I once had, and I thought perhaps 'twould comfort poor Felix, so I tried to tell him as well as I could. "Fee, dear," I said, holding his hand tight in mine, and snuggling my head close up to his on the pillow, so I could whisper, "once, when mamma and I were talking, she said always to remember that God knows it's awfully hard for people to bear suffering and trouble; and that He always helps them and makes allowances for them, because He's our Father, and for the sake of His own dear Son, who had to go through so much trouble here on earth. "And _He_ knows, too, Fee,--Jesus knows _just_ how you feel about this; don't you remember how He prayed that last night in Gethsemane that--if God would--He might not have to go through the awful trial of the cross? He meant to carry it right through, you know, all the time,--that's what He came on earth for; He meant to do every single thing that God had given Him to do, and just as _bravely_! But, all the same, He felt, too, how _awfully_ hard 'twas going to be, and just for a little while beforehand He _dreaded_ it,--just as you dread the years that'll have to pass before you can be well. See? "And He knows your heart, Fee; He knows that you're going to be just as _brave_ and _patient_ as you can be, and He'll help you every time. Nannie and I'll ask Him for you--and Betty--and poor old Phil--all of us. And dear mamma's up there, too; perhaps she's asking Him to comfort you and make you strong. I feel as if she must be doing it,--she loved you so!" Fee drew his hand out of mine, and raising his arm, touched my cheek softly with his feeble fingers, and for a few minutes we neither of us said a word. Then there came a knock at the door; I scrambled to my feet, and going over, turned the key. Somebody brushed quickly by me with the swish of a girl's dress, and there was Nannie in the middle of the room! She ran toward Felix with her arms out, her brown eyes shining with love. "Oh, my darling!" she cried out, "my _dear_!" I heard Fee's glad, breathless exclamation, "My _twinnie_!" Then Phil's arm went over my shoulders and drew me into the hall, and Phil's voice said softly in my ear, "Come, Rosebud, let's leave them alone for a while." XXII. AUF WIEDERSEHEN. TOLD BY JACK. Miss Marston arrived that afternoon, and the next day we started, bag and baggage, for the Cottage. And here we've been for nearly three months; in a week or two more we'll be thinking of going back to the city. Dr. Gordon came up with us, and he and Phil did all they could to make the journey easier for Felix. But he was dreadfully used up by the time we got him to the house, and for days no one but Phil and Nannie were allowed in his room. Papa came a few days after we did, looking ever so much better than when he went away, and he settled down to work at once. Betty's here, too. From what she lets out now and then, I'm pretty sure she's had a real good time; but, do you know, she _won't_ acknowledge it. Still, I notice she doesn't make such fun of Hilliard as she used to; and I will say Betty's improving. She doesn't romp and tear about so much, nor flare out at people so often, and of course that makes her much more comfortable to live with. I'm ever so glad she's here; if she hadn't been, I'm afraid I'd have had an awfully stupid time this summer. You see Betty and I are in the middle; we come between the big and the little ones in the family, and we 'most always go together on that account. [Illustration: "OUT OF DOORS."] Nannie's had her hands full, what with helping papa with the Fetich, and doing all sorts of things for her twin. Nora's looked after Phil and cheered him up when he got blue about Felix, and Phil has just devoted himself to Fee. He's with him almost the whole time, and you can't think how gentle and considerate Phil is these days. Fee is out of doors a great deal; Phil carries him out on fine days, and lays him on his bamboo lounge under the big maples; and there you're sure to find the whole family gathered, some time or other, every day that he is there. It seems as if we love Fee more and more dearly every day,--he's so bright and merry and sweet, and he tries _so_ hard to be patient and make the best of things. Of course he has times--what he calls his "dark days"--when his courage sinks, and he gets cranky and sarcastic; but they don't come as often as at first. And we all make allowances, for we know there isn't one of us that in his place would be as unselfish and helpful. We go to him with everything,--even papa has got in the way of sitting and talking with Fee; anyway, it seems as if papa were more with us now than he used to be, and he's ever so much nicer,--more like other people's fathers are, you know! Felix has got back the use of his fingers since we've been in the country; he can paint or play his violin for a little while at a time, but his legs are still useless. The doctor, though, declares he can see a slight improvement in them. He says now that perhaps--after several years--Fee may be able to get around on crutches! Betty and I felt awfully disappointed when we heard this,--we've been so sure Fee would get perfectly well; but Fee himself was very happy over it. "Once let me assume the perpendicular, even on crutches," he said, smiling at Phil, who sat sadly beside him, "and you see if, after a while, these old pegs don't come up to their duty bravely. I may yet dance at your wedding, Philippus." Max comes up to the Cottage quite often, and stays from Saturday to Monday. He's just as nice and kind as he can be,--why, he doesn't seem to mind one bit going off on jolly long drives in the old depot-wagon, or on larks, with only Nannie and us children; and he's teaching Mädel how to manage G. W. L. Spry and make him go, without being thrown off. Phil and Felix and Max had a long talk together the first time Max came up, and I have an idea 'twas about Chad, for Max looked very grave. I don't know what he did about it, but the other day I heard him tell Nora that Chad had positively made up his mind to go into business. "He says he has broken loose from a very bad set he was in," Max said, "and seems very much in earnest to make the best of himself,--which is, of course, a great relief to me. I hope his good resolutions will amount to something." "Perhaps they will," Nora answered, rather indifferently, but her cheeks got real red. I shouldn't wonder if she thought Chad'd done it because she advised him to. We have a way this summer, on Sunday afternoons, of all sitting with Felix under the maple-trees, talking, and singing our chants and hymns there instead of in the parlour. We were all there--the whole ten of us--one afternoon, when papa came across the lawn and sat down in the basket-chair that Phil rushed off and got him. We'd just finished singing, "O Mother dear, Jerusalem," Fee accompanying us on his violin, and we didn't begin anything else, for there was a queer--sort of excited--look on papa's face that somehow made us think he had something to tell us. And sure enough he had. "My children," he said presently, and his voice wasn't as quiet and even as it usually is, "I have this to tell you,--that last night I finished my life work; my History is completed!" The Fetich finished! we just looked at each other with wide-open eyes. Then Nannie knelt down by papa's chair and kissed him warmly, and Phil, who was sitting on the edge of Fee's lounge, leaned over and shook hands with papa in a kind of grown-up, manly way. "Allow me to congratulate you, sir," Fee said earnestly, with shining eyes. "It is a great piece of work, and your children are _very_ proud of it and of you." The rest of us didn't know what to say, so we just sat and looked at papa. "I began it years ago," papa said after a minute or two, in a dreamy voice, as if talking more to himself than to us, and looking away at the sunset with a sad, far-off expression in his eyes, "_years_ ago; just after I met--Margaret. But for her encouragement--her loving help--her perfect faith in my ability--it could never have been accomplished. Now it is finished--I am here alone--and she--is far away--at peace!" Papa's lips were working; he put his hand up quickly and shielded his eyes from us. We were all very still; we older ones felt very sad. And then, soft and low--almost like an angel's voice--there came from Fee's violin the sweet strains of Handel's "Largo." The music rose and fell a bar or two, and then Nannie and Nora and Phil sang together very softly:-- "The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God. There shall no sorrow touch them. In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die; but they are in peace, for so He giveth His beloved sleep." 
33601	----	THE MASTER'S VIOLIN BY MYRTLE REED Author of "Lavender and Old Lace" "Old Rose and Silver" "A Spinner in the Sun" "Flower of the Dusk" Etc. New York _GROSSET & DUNLAP_ Publishers COPYRIGHT, 1904 BY MYRTLE REED BY MYRTLE REED: A Weaver of Dreams Old Rose and Silver Lavender and Old Lace The Master's Violin Love Letters of a Musician The Spinster Book The Shadow of Victory Sonnets to a Lover Master of the Vineyard Flower of the Dusk At the Sign of the Jack-o'-Lantern A Spinner in the Sun Later Love Letters of a Musician Love Affairs of Literary Men Myrtle Reed Year Book This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON Contents CHAPTER PAGE I--THE MASTER PLAYS 1 II--"MINE CREMONA" 20 III--THE GIFT OF PEACE 33 IV--SOCIAL POSITION 50 V--THE LIGHT OF DREAMS 65 VI--A LETTER 81 VII--FRIENDS 91 VIII--A BIT OF HUMAN DRIFTWOOD 105 IX--ROSEMARY AND MIGNONETTE 120 X--IN THE GARDEN 127 XI--"SUNSET AND EVENING STAR" 144 XII--THE FALSE LINE 159 XIII--TO IRIS 177 XIV--HER NAME-FLOWER 182 XV--LITTLE LADY 199 XVI--AFRAID OF LIFE 215 XVII--"HE LOVES HER STILL" 233 XVIII--LYNN COMES INTO HIS OWN 247 XIX--THE SECRET CHAMBER 265 XX--"MINE BRUDDER'S FRIEND" 280 XXI--THE CREMONA SPEAKS 298 I The Master Plays The fire blazed newly from its embers and set strange shadows to dancing upon the polished floor. Now and then, there was a gleam from some dark mahogany surface and an answering flash from a bit of old silver in the cabinet. April, warm with May's promise, came in through the open window, laden with the wholesome fragrance of growing things, and yet, because an old lady loved it, there was a fire upon the hearth and no other light in the room. She sat in her easy chair, sheltered from possible draughts, and watched it, seemingly unmindful of her three companions. Tints of amethyst and sapphire appeared in the haze from the backlog and were lost a moment later in the dominant flame. In that last hour of glorious life, the tree was giving back its memories--blue skies, grey days just tinged with gold, lost rainbows, and flashes of sun. Friendly ghosts of times far past were conjured back in shadows--outspread wings, low-lying clouds, and long nights that ended in dawn. Swift flights of birds and wandering craft of thistledown were mirrored for an instant upon the shining floor, and then forgotten, because of falling leaves. Lines of transfiguring light changed the snowy softness of Miss Field's hair to silver, and gave to her hands the delicacy of carved ivory. A tiny foot peeped out from beneath her gown, clad in its embroidered silk stocking and high-heeled slipper, so brave in its trappings of silver buckles that she might have been eighteen instead of seventy-five. Upon her face the light lay longest; perhaps with an answering love. The years had been kind to her--had given her only enough bitterness to make her realise the sweetness, and from the threads that Life had placed in her hands at the beginning, had taught her how to weave the blessed fabric of Content. "Aunt Peace," asked the girl, softly, "have you forgotten that we have company?" Dispelled by the voice, the gracious phantoms of Memory vanished. There was a little silence, then the old lady smiled. "No, dearie," she said, "indeed I haven't. It is too rare a blessing for me to forget." "Please don't call us 'company,'" put in the other woman, quickly, "because we're not." "'Company,'" observed the young man on the opposite side of the hearth, "is extremely good under the circumstances. Somebody nearly breaks down your front door on a rainy afternoon, and when you rush out to save the place from ruin, you discover two dripping tramps on your steps. Stranded on an island in the road is a waggon containing their trunks, from which place of refuge they recently swam to your door. 'How do you do, Aunt Peace?' says mother; 'we've come to live with you from this time on to the finish.' On behalf of this committee, ladies, I thank you, from my heart, for calling us 'company.'" Laughing, he rose and made an exaggerated courtesy. "Lynn! Lynn!" expostulated his mother. "Is it possible that after all my explanations you don't understand? Why, I wrote more than two weeks ago, asking her to let us know if she didn't want us. Silence always gives consent, and so we came." "Yes, we came all right," continued the boy, cheerfully, "and, as everybody knows, we're here now, but isn't it just like a woman? Upon my word, I think they're queer--the whole tribe." "Having thus spoken," remarked the girl, "you might tell us how a man would have managed it." "Very easily. A man would have called in his stenographer--no, he wouldn't, either, because it was a personal letter. He would have made an excavation into his desk and found the proper stationery, and would have put in a new pen. 'My dear Aunt Peace,' he would have said, 'you mustn't think I've forgotten you because I haven't written for such a long time. If I had written every time I had wanted to, or had thought of you, actually, you'd have been bored to death with me. I have a kid who thinks he is going to be a fiddler, and we have decided to come and live with you while he finds out, as we understand that Herr Franz Kaufmann, who is not unknown to fame, lives in your village. Will you please let us know? If you can't take us, or don't want to, here's a postage stamp, and no hard feelings on either side.'" "Just what I said," explained Mrs. Irving, "though my language wasn't quite like yours." The old lady smiled again. "My dears," she began, "let us cease this unprofitable discussion. It is all because we are so far out of the beaten track that we seldom go to the post-office. I am sure the letter is there now." "I will get it to-morrow," replied Lynn, "which is kind of me, considering that my remarks have just been alluded to as 'unprofitable.'" "You can't expect everybody to think as much of what you say as you do," suggested Iris, with a trace of sarcasm. "Score one for you, Miss Temple. I shall now retire into my shell." So saying, he turned to the fire, and his face became thoughtful again. The three women looked at him from widely differing points of view. The girl, concealed in the shadow, took maidenly account of his tall, well-knit figure, his dark eyes, his sensitive mouth, and his firm, finely modelled chin. From a half-defined impulse of coquetry, she was glad of the mood which had led her to put on her most becoming gown early in the afternoon. The situation was interesting--there was a vague hint of a challenge of some kind. Aunt Peace, so long accustomed to quiet ways, had at first felt the two an intrusion into her well-ordered home, though at the same time her hospitable instincts reproached her bitterly. He was of her blood and her line, yet in some way he seemed like an alien suddenly claiming kinship. A span of fifty years and more stretched between them, and across it, they contemplated each other, both wondering. For his part he regarded her as one might a cameo of fine workmanship or an old miniature. She was so passionless, so virginal, so far removed from all save the gentlest emotions, that he saw her only as one who stood apart. The smile still lingered upon her lips and the firelight made shadows beneath her serene eyes. Had they asked her for her thoughts she could have phrased only one. Deep down in her heart she wondered whether anything on earth had ever been so joyously young as Lynn. His mother, too, was watching him, as always when she thought herself unobserved. In spite of his stalwart manhood, to her he was still a child. Forgiving all things, dreaming all things, hoping all things with the boundless faith of maternity, she loved him, through the child that he was, for the man that he might be--loved him, through the man that he was, for the child that he had been. The fire had died down, and Iris, leaning forward, laid a bit of pine upon the dull glow in the midst of the ashes. It caught quickly, and once again the magical light filled the room. "Sing something, dear," said Aunt Peace, drowsily, and Iris made a little murmur of dissent. "Do you sing, Miss Temple?" asked Irving, politely. "No," she answered, "and what's more, I know I don't, but Aunt Peace likes to hear me." "We'd like to hear you, too," said Mrs. Irving, so gently that no one could have refused. Much embarrassed, she went to the piano, which stood in the next room, just beyond the arch, and struck a few chords. The instrument was old and worn, but still sweet, and, fearful at first, but gaining confidence as she went on, Iris sang an old-fashioned song. Her voice was contralto; deep, vibrant, and full, but untrained. Still, there were evidences of study and of work along right lines. Before she had finished, Irving was beside her, resting his elbow upon the piano. "Who taught you?" he asked, when the last note died away. "Herr Kaufmann," she replied, diffidently. "I thought he was a violin teacher." "He is." "Then how can he teach singing?" "He doesn't." Irving went no farther, and Miss Temple, realising that she had been rude, hastened to atone. "I mean by that," she explained, "that he doesn't teach anyone but me. I had a few lessons a long time ago, from a lady who spent the Summer here, and he has been helping me ever since. That is all. He says it doesn't matter whether people have voices or not--if they have hearts, he can make them sing." "You play, don't you?" "Yes--a little. I play accompaniments for him sometimes." "Then you'll play with me, won't you?" "Perhaps." "When--to-morrow?" "I'll see," laughed Iris. "You should be a lawyer instead of a violinist. You make me feel as if I were on the witness stand." "My father was a lawyer; I suppose I inherit it." Iris had a question upon her lips, but checked it. "He is dead," the young man went on, as though in answer to it. "He died when I was about five years old, and I remember him scarcely at all." "I don't remember either father or mother," she said. "I had a very unhappy childhood, and things that happened then make me shudder even now. Just at the time it was hardest--when I couldn't possibly have borne any more--Aunt Peace discovered me. She adopted me, and I've been happy ever since, except for all the misery I can't forget." "She's not really your aunt, then?" "No. Legally, I am her daughter, but she wouldn't want me to call her 'mother,' even if I could." The talk in the other room had become merely monosyllables, with bits of understanding silence between. Iris went back, and Mrs. Irving thanked her prettily for the song. "Thank you for listening," she returned. "Come, Aunt Peace, you're nodding." "So I was, dearie. Is it late?" "It's almost ten." In her stately fashion, Miss Field bade her guests good night. Iris lit a candle and followed her up the broad, winding stairway. It made a charming picture--the old lady in her trailing gown, the light throwing her white hair into bold relief, and the girl behind her, smiling back over the banister, and waving her hand in farewell. In Lynn's fond sight, his mother was very lovely as she sat there, with the firelight shining upon her face. He liked the way her dark hair grew about her low forehead, her fair, smooth skin, and the mysterious depths of her eyes. Ever since he could remember, she had worn a black gown, with soft folds of white at the throat and wrists. "It's time to go out for our walk now," he said. "Not to-night, son. I'm tired." "That doesn't make any difference; you must have exercise." "I've had some, and besides, it's wet." Lynn was already out of hearing, in search of her wraps. He put on her rubbers, paying no heed to her protests, and almost before she knew it, she was out in the April night, woman-like, finding a certain pleasure in his quiet mastery. The storm was over and the hidden moon silvered the edges of the clouds. Here and there a timid planet looked out from behind its friendly curtain, but only the pole star kept its beacon steadily burning. The air was sweet with the freshness of the rain, and belated drops, falling from the trees, made a faint patter upon the ground. Down the long elm-bordered path they went, the boy eager to explore the unfamiliar place; the mother, harked back to her girlhood, thrilled with both pleasure and pain. Happy are they who leave the scenes of early youth to the ministry of Time. Going back, one finds the river a little brook, the long stretch of woodland only a grove in the midst of a clearing, and the upland pastures, that once seemed mountains, are naught but stony, barren fields. As they stood upon the bridge, looking down into the rushing waters, Margaret remembered the lost majesty of that narrow stream, and sighed. The child who had played so often upon its banks had grown to a woman, rich with Life's deepest experiences, but the brook was still the same. Through endless years it must be the same, drawing its waters from unseen sources, while generation after generation withered away, like the flowers that bloomed upon its grassy borders while the years were young. Lynn broke rudely into her thoughts. "I wish I'd known you when you were a kid, mother," he said. "Why?" "Oh, I think I'd have liked to play with you. We could have made some jolly mud pies." "We did, but you were three, and I was twenty-five. Much ashamed, too, I remember, when your father caught me doing it." "Am I like him?" He had asked the question many times and her answer was always the same. "Yes, very much like him. He was a good man, Lynn." "Do I look like him?" "Yes, all but your eyes." "When you lived here, did you know Herr Kaufmann?" "By sight, yes." He was looking straight at her, but she had turned her face away, forgetting the darkness. "We used to see him passing in the street," she went on, in a different tone. "He was a student and never seemed to know many people. He would not remember me." "Then there's no use of my telling him who I am?" "Not the least." "Maybe he won't take me." "Yes, he will," she answered, though her heart suddenly misgave her. "He must--there is no other way." "Will you go with me?" "No, indeed; you must go alone. I shall not appear at all." "Why, mother?" "Because." It was her woman's reason, which he had learned to accept as final. Beyond that there was no appeal. East Lancaster lay on one side of the brook and West Lancaster on the other. The two settlements were quite distinct, though they had a common bond of interest in the post-office, which was harmoniously situated near the border line. East Lancaster was the home of the aristocracy. Here were old Colonial mansions in which, through their descendants, the builders still lived. The set traditions of a bygone century held full sway in the place, but, though circumscribed by conditions, the upper circle proudly considered itself complete. West Lancaster was on a hill, and a steep one at that. Hardy German immigrants had settled there, much to the disgust of East Lancaster, holding itself sternly aloof year after year. It was not considered "good form" to allude to the dwellers upon the hill, save in low tones and with lifted brows, yet there were not wanting certain good Samaritans who sent warm clothing and discarded playthings, after nightfall and by stealth, to the little Teutons who lived so near them. Hemmed in by the everlasting hills, estranged from its neighbour, and barely upon speaking terms with other towns, East Lancaster let the world go on by. Two trains a day rushed through the station, for the main line of the railroad, receiving no encouragement from East Lancaster, had laid its tracks elsewhere. It was still spoken of as "the time when, if you will remember, my dear, they endeavoured to ruin our property with dirt and noise." "Her clothes are like her name," remarked Lynn. "Whose clothes?" asked Mrs. Irving, taken out of her reverie. "That girl's. She had on a green dress, and some yellow velvet in her hair. Her eyes are purple." "Violet, you mean, dear. Did you notice that?" "Of course--don't I notice everything? Come, mother; I'll race you to the top of the hill." Once again her objections were of no avail. Together they ran, laughing, up the winding road that led to the summit, stopping very soon, however, and going on at a more moderate pace. The street was narrow, and the houses on either side were close together. Each had its tiny patch of ground in front, laid out in flower-beds bordered with whitewashed stones, in true German fashion. There were no street lamps, for West Lancaster also resented all modern innovations, but in the Spring night one could see dimly. Lanterns flitted here and there, like fireflies starred against the dark. Margaret protested that she was tired, but Lynn put his arm around her and hurried her on. Never before had she set foot upon the soil of West Lancaster, but she had full knowledge of the way. The brow of the hill was close at hand, and she caught her breath in sudden fear. Lynn, in the midst of a graphic recital of some boyish prank, took no note of her agitation. He did not even know that they had come to the end of their journey, until a man tiptoed toward them, his finger upon his lips. "Hush!" he breathed. "The Master plays." At the very top of the hill, almost at the brink of the precipice, was a house so small that it seemed more like a box than a dwelling. In the street were a dozen people, both men and women, standing in stolid patience. The little house was dark, but a window was open, and from within, muted almost to a whisper, came the voice of a violin. For an hour or more they stood there, listening. By insensible degrees the music grew in volume, filled with breadth and splendour, yet with a lyric undertone. Sounding chords, caught from distant silences, one by one were woven in. Songs that had an epic grasp; question, prayer, and heartbreak; all the pain and beauty of the world were part of it, and yet there was something more. To Lynn's trained ear, it was an improvisation by a master hand. He was lost in admiration of the superb technique, the delicate phrasing, and the wonderful quality of the tone. To the woman beside him, shaken from head to foot by unutterable emotion, it was Life itself, bare, exquisitely alive, tuned to the breaking point--a human thing, made of tears and laughter, of ecstasy, tenderness, and black despair, lying on the Master's breast and answering to his touch. The shallows touch the pebbles, and behold, there is a little song. The deeps are stirred to their foundations, and, long afterward, there is a single vast strophe, majestic and immortal, which takes its place by right in the symphony of pain. To Margaret, standing there with her senses swaying, all her possibilities of feeling were merged into one unspeakable hurt. "Take me away;" she whispered, "I can bear no more!" But Lynn did not hear. He was simply and solely the musician, his body tense, his head bent forward and a little to one side, nodding in emphasis or approval. She slipped her arm through his and, trembling, waited as best she might for the end. It came at last and the little group near them took up its separate ways. Someone put down the window and closed the shutters. The Master knew quite well that some of his neighbours had been listening, but it pleased him to ignore the tribute. No one dared to speak to him about his playing. "Mother! Mother!" said Lynn, tenderly, "I've been selfish, and I've kept you too long!" "No," she answered, but her lips were cold and her voice was not the same. They went downhill together, and she leaned heavily upon his supporting arm. He was humming, under his breath, bits of the improvisation, and did not speak again until they were at home. The fire was out, but Iris had left two lighted candles on a table in the hall. "A fine violin," he said; "by far the finest I have ever heard." "Yes," she returned, "a Cremona--that is, I think it must be, from its tone." "Possibly. Good night, and pleasant dreams." They parted at the head of the stairs, and down on the landing the tall clock chimed twelve. Margaret lay for a long time with her eyes closed, but none the less awake. Toward dawn, the ghostly fingers of her dreams tapped questioningly at the Master's door, but without disturbing his sleep. II "Mine Cremona" Lynn went up the hill with a long, swinging stride. The morning was in his heart and it seemed good to be alive. His blood fairly sang in his pulses, and his cheery whistle was as natural and unconscious as the call of the robin in the maple thicket beyond. The German housewives left their work and came out to see him pass, for strangers in West Lancaster were so infrequent as to cause extended comment, and he left behind him a trail of sharp glances and nodding heads. The entire hill was instantly alive with gossip which buzzed back and forth like a hive of liberated bees. It was a sturdy dame near the summit who quelled it, for the time being. "So," she said to her next-door neighbour, "I was right. He will be going to the Master's." The word went quickly down the line, and after various speculations regarding his possible errand, the neglected household tasks were taken up and the hill was quiet again, except for the rosy-cheeked children who played stolidly in their bits of dooryards. Lynn easily recognised the house, though he had seen it but dimly the night before. It was two stories in height, but very small, and, in some occult way, reminded one of a bird-house. It was perched almost upon the ledge, and its western windows overlooked the valley, filled with tossing willow plumes, the winding river, half asleep in its mantle of grey and silver, and the range of blue hills beyond. It was the only house upon the hill which boasted two front entrances. Through the shining windows of the lower story, on a level with the street, he saw violins in all stages of making, but otherwise, the room was empty. So he climbed the short flight of steps and rang the bell. The wire was slack and rusty, but after two or three trials a mournful clang came from the depths of the interior. At last the door was opened, cautiously, by a woman whose flushed face and red, wrinkled fingers betrayed her recent occupation. "I beg your pardon," said Irving, making his best bow. "Is Herr Kaufmann at home?" "Not yet," she replied, "he will have gone for his walk. You will be coming in?" She asked the question as though she feared an affirmative answer. "If I may, please," he returned, carefully wiping his feet upon the mat. "Do you expect him soon?" "Yes." She ushered him into the front room and pointed to a chair. "You will please excuse me," she said. "Certainly! Do not let me detain you." Left to himself, he looked about the room with amused curiosity. The furnishings were a queer combination of primitive American ideas and modern German fancies, overlaid with a feminine love of superfluous ornament. The Teutonic fondness for colour ran riot in everything, and purples, reds, and yellows were closely intermingled. The exquisite neatness of the place was its redeeming feature. Apparently, there were two other rooms on the same floor--a combined kitchen and dining-room was just back of the parlour, and a smaller room opened off of it. Lynn was meditating upon Herr Kaufmann's household arrangements, when a wonderful object upon the table in the corner attracted his attention, and he went over to examine it. Obviously, it had once been a section of clay drainage pipe, but in its sublimated estate it was far removed from common uses. It had been smeared with putty, and, while plastic, ornamented with hinges, nails, keys, clock wheels, curtain rings, and various other things not usually associated with drainage pipes. When dry, it had been given further distinction by two or three coats of gold paint. A wire hair-pin, placed conspicuously near the top of it, was rendered so ridiculous by the gilding that Lynn laughed aloud. Then, influenced by the sound of the scrubbing-brush close at hand, he endeavoured to cover it with a cough. He was too late, however, for, almost immediately, his hostess appeared in the doorway. "Mine crazy jug," she said, with gratified pride beaming from every feature. "I was just looking at it," responded Lynn. "It is marvellous. Did you make it yourself?" "Yes, I make him mineself," she said, and then retreated, blushing with innocent pleasure. Not knowing what else to do, he went back to his chair and sat down again, carefully avoiding the purple tidy embroidered with pink roses. Outside, the street was deserted. He wondered what type of a man it was who could live in the same house with a "crazy jug" and play as Herr Kaufmann played, only last night. Then he reflected that the room had been dark, and smiled at his foolish fancy. A square piano took up one whole side of the room, and there were two violins upon it. Unthinkingly, Lynn investigated. The first one was a good instrument of modern make, and the other--he caught his breath as he took it out of its case. The thin, fine shell was the beautiful body of a Cremona, enshrining a Cremona's still more beautiful soul. He touched it reverently, though his hands trembled and his face was aglow. He snapped a string with his finger and the violin answered with a deep, resonant tone, but before the sound had died away, there was an exclamation of horror in his ears and a firm grip upon his arm. "Mine brudder's Cremona!" cried the woman, her eyes flashing lightnings of anger. "You will at once put him down!" "I beg a thousand pardons! I did not realise--I did not mean--I did not understand----" He went on with confused explanations and apologies which availed him nothing. He stood before her, convicted and shamed, as one who had profaned the household god. Wiping her hands upon her apron, she went to her work-box, took out her knitting, and sat down between Lynn and the piano. The chair was hard and uncompromising, with an upright back, but she disdained even that support and sat proudly erect. There was no sound save the click of the needles, and she kept her eyes fixed upon her work. After an awkward silence, Lynn made one or two tentative efforts toward conversation, but each opening proved fruitless, and at length he seriously meditated flight. The approach to the door was covered, but there were plenty of windows, and it would be an easy drop to the ground. He smiled as he saw himself, mentally, achieving escape in this manner and running all the way home. "I wonder," he mused, "where in the dickens 'mine brudder' is!" The face of the woman before him was still flushed and the movement of the needles betrayed her excitement. He noted that she wore no wedding ring and surmised that she was a little older than his mother. Her features were hard, and her thin, straight hair was brushed tightly back and fastened in a little knot at the back of her head. It was not unlike a door knob, and he began to wonder what would happen if he should turn it. His irrepressible spirits bubbled over and he coughed violently into his handkerchief, feeling himself closely scrutinised meanwhile. The situation was relieved by the sound of footsteps and the vigorous slam of the lower door. Still keeping the piano, with its precious burden, within range of her vision, Fräulein Kaufmann moved toward the door. "Franz! Franz!" she called. "Come here!" "One minute!" The voice was deep and musical and had a certain lyric quality. When he came up, there was a conversation in indignant German which was brief but sufficient. "I can see," said Lynn to himself, "that I am not to study with Herr Kaufmann." Just then he came in, gave Lynn a quick, suspicious glance, took up the Cremona, and strode out. He was gone so long that Lynn decided to retreat in good order. He picked up his hat and was half way out of his chair when he heard footsteps and waited. "Now," said the Master, "you would like to speak with me?" He was of medium height, had keen, dark eyes, bushy brows, ruddy cheeks, and a mass of grey hair which he occasionally shook back like a mane. He had the typical hands of the violinist. "Yes," answered Lynn, "I want to study with you." "Study what?" Herr Kaufmann's tone was somewhat brusque. "Manners?" "The violin," explained Irving, flushing. "So? You make violins?" "No--I want to play." "Oh," said the other, looking at him sharply, "it is to play! Well, I can teach you nothing." He rose, as though to intimate that the interview was at an end, but Lynn was not so easily turned aside. "Herr Kaufmann," he began, "I have come hundreds of miles to study with you. We have broken up our home and have come to live in East Lancaster for that one purpose." "I am flattered," observed the Master, dryly. "May I ask how you have heard of me so far away as many hundred miles?" "Why, everybody knows of you! When I was a little child, I can remember my mother telling me that some day I should study with the great Herr Kaufmann. It is the dream of her life and of mine." "A bad dream," remarked the violinist, succinctly. "May I ask your mother's name?" "Mrs. Irving--Margaret Irving." "Margaret," repeated the old man in a different tone. "Margaret." There was a long silence, then the boy began once more. "You'll take me, won't you?" For an instant the Master seemed on the point of yielding, unconditionally, then he came to himself with a start. "One moment," he said, clearing his throat. "Why did you lift up mine Cremona?" The piercing eyes were upon him and Lynn's colour mounted to his temples, but he met the gaze honestly. "I scarcely know why," he answered. "I was here alone, I had been waiting a long time, and it has always been natural for me to look at violins. I think we all do things for which we can give no reason. I certainly had no intention of harming it, nor of offending anybody. I am very sorry." "Well," sighed the Master, "I should not have left it out. Strangers seldom come here, but I, too, was to blame. Fredrika takes it to herself; she thinks that she should have left her scrubbing and sat with you, but of that I am not so sure. It is mine Cremona," he went on, bitterly, "nobody touches it but mineself." His distress was very real, and, for the first time, Irving felt a throb of sympathy. However unreasonable it might be, however weak and childish, he saw that he had unwittingly touched a tender place. All the love of the hale old heart was centred upon the violin, wooden, inanimate--but no. Nothing can be inanimate, which is sweetheart and child in one. "Herr Kaufmann," said Lynn, "believe me, if any act of mine could wipe away my touch, I should do it here and now. As it is, I can only ask your pardon." "We will no longer speak of it," returned the Master, with quiet dignity. "We will attempt to forget." He went to the window and stood with his back to Irving for a long time. "What could I have done?" thought Lynn. "I only picked it up and laid it down again--I surely did not harm it." He was too young to see that it was the significance, rather than the touch; that the old man felt as a lover might who saw his beloved in the arms of another. The bloom was gone from the fruit, the fragrance from the rose. For twenty-five years and more, the Cremona had been sacredly kept. The Master's thoughts had leaped that quarter-century at a single bound. Again he stood in the woods beyond East Lancaster, while the sky was dark with threatening clouds and the dead leaves scurried in fright before the north wind. Beside him stood a girl of twenty, her face white and her sweet mouth quivering. "You must take it," she was saying. "It is mine to do with as I please, and no one will ever know. If anyone asks, I can fix it someway. It is part of myself that I give you, so that in all the years, you will not forget me. When you touch it, it will be as though you took my hand in yours. When it sings to you, it will be my voice saying: 'I love you!' And in it you will find all the sweetness of this one short year. All the pain will be blotted out and only the joy will be left--the joy that we can never know!" Her voice broke in a sob, then the picture faded in a mist of blinding tears. Dull thunders boomed afar, and he felt her lips crushed for an instant against his own. When clear sight came back, the storm was raging, and he was alone. Irving waited impatiently, for he was restless and longed to get away, but he dared not speak. At last the old man turned away from the window, his face haggard and grey. "You will take me?" asked Lynn, with a note of pleading in his question. "Yes," sighed the Master, "I take you. Tuesdays and Fridays at ten. Bring your violin and what music you have. We will see what you have done and what you can do. Good-bye." He did not seem to see Lynn's offered hand, and the boy went out, sorely troubled by something which seemed just outside his comprehension. He walked for an hour in the woods before going home, and in answer to questions merely said that he had been obliged to wait for some time, but that everything was satisfactorily arranged. "Isn't he an old dear?" asked Iris. "I don't know," answered Lynn. "Is he?" III The Gift of Peace The mistress of the mansion was giving her orders for the day. From the farthest nooks and corners of the attic, where fragrant herbs swayed back and forth in ghostly fashion, to the tiled kitchen, where burnished copper saucepans literally shone, Miss Field kept in daily touch with her housekeeping. The old Colonial house was her pride and her delight. It was by far the oldest in that part of the country, and held an exalted position among its neighbours on that account, though the owner, not having spent her entire life in East Lancaster, was considered somewhat "new." To be truly aristocratic, at least three generations of one's forbears must have lived in the same dwelling. In the hall hung the old family portraits. Gentlemen and gentlewomen, long since gathered to their fathers, had looked down from their gilded frames upon many a strange scene. Baby footsteps had faltered on the stairs, and wide childish eyes had looked up in awe to this stately company. Older children had wondered at the patches and the powdered hair, the velvet knickerbockers and ruffled sleeves. Awkward schoolboys had boasted to their mates that the jewelled sword, which hung at the side of a young officer in the uniform of the Colonies, had been presented by General Washington himself, in recognition of conspicuous bravery upon the field. Lovers had led their sweethearts along the hall at twilight, to whisper that their portraits, too, should some day hang there, side by side. Soldiers of Fortune who had found their leader fickle had taken fresh courage from the set lips of the gallant gentlemen in the great hall. Women whose hearts were breaking had looked up to the painted and powdered dames along the winding stairway, and learned, through some subtle freemasonry of sex, that only the lowborn cry out when hurt. Faint, wailing voices of new-born babes had reached the listening ears of the portraits by night and by day. Coffin after coffin had gone out of the wide door, flower-hidden, and step after step had died away forever, leaving only an echo behind. And yet the men and women of the line of Field looked out from their gilded frames, high-spirited, courageous, and serene, with here and there the hint of a smile. Far up the stairs and beyond the turn hung the last portrait: Aunt Peace, in the bloom of her mature beauty, painted soon after she had taken possession of the house. The dark hair was parted over the low brow and puffed slightly over the tiny ears. The flowered gown was cut modestly away at the throat, showing a shoulder line that had been famous in three counties when she was the belle of the countryside. For the rest, she was much the same. Let the artist make the brown hair snowy white, change the girlish bloom to the tint of a faded pink rose, draw around the eyes and the mouth a few tiny time-tracks, which, after all, were but the footprints of smiles, sadden the trustful eyes a bit, and cover the frivolous gown with black brocade,--then the mistress of the mansion, who moved so gaily through the house, would inevitably startle you as you came upon her at the turn of the stairs, having believed, all the time, that she was somewhere else. At the moment, she was in the garden, with Mrs. Irving and "the children," as she called Iris and Lynn. "Now, my talented nephew-once-removed," she was saying, in her high, sweet voice, "will you kindly take the spade and dig until you can dig no more? I am well aware that it is like hitching Pegasus to the plough, but I have grown tired of waiting for my intermittent gardener, and there is a new theory to the effect that all service is beautiful." "So it is," laughed Lynn, turning the earth awkwardly. "I know what you're thinking of, mother, but it isn't going to hurt my hands." "You shall have a flower-bed for your reward," Aunt Peace went on. "I will take the front yard myself, and the beds here shall be equally divided among you three. You may plant in them what you please and each shall attend to his own." "I speak for vegetables," said Lynn. "How characteristic," murmured Iris, with a sidelong glance at him which sent the blood to his face. "What shall you plant, Mrs. Irving?" "Roses, heartsease, and verbenas," she replied, "and as many other things as I can get in without crowding. I may change my mind about the others, but I shall have those three. What are you going to have?" "Violets and mignonette, nothing more. I love the sweet, modest ones the best." "Cucumbers, tomatoes, corn, melons, peas, asparagus," put in Lynn, "and what else?" "Nothing else, my son," answered Margaret, "unless you rent a vacant acre or two. The seeds are small, but the plants have been known to spread." "I'll have one plant of each kind, then, for I must assuredly have variety. It's said to be 'the spice of life' and that's what we're all looking for. Besides, judging from the various scornful remarks which have been thought, if not actually made, the rest of you don't care for vegetables. Anyhow, you sha'n't have any--except Aunt Peace." "Over here now, please, Lynn," said Miss Field. "When you get that done, I'll tell you what to do next. Come, Margaret, it's a little chilly here, and I don't want you to take cold." For a few moments there was quiet in the garden. A flock of pigeons hovered about Iris, taking grain from her outstretched hand, and cooing soft murmurs of content. The white dove was perched upon her shoulder, not at all disturbed by her various excursions to the source of supply. Lynn worked steadily, seemingly unconscious of the girl's scrutiny. Finally, she spoke. "I don't want any of your old vegetables," she said. "How fortunate!" "You may not have any at all--I don't believe the seeds will come up." "Perhaps not--it's quite in the nature of things." The pouter pigeon, brave in his iridescent waistcoat, perched upon her other shoulder, and Lynn straightened himself to look at her. From the first evening she had puzzled him. Her face was nearly always pale, but to-day she had a pretty colour in her cheeks and her deep, violet eyes were aglow with innocent mischief. There was a dewy sweetness about her red lips, and Lynn noted that the sheen on the pigeon's breast was like the gleam from her blue-black hair, where the sun shone upon it. She had a great mass of it, which she wore coiled on top of her small, well-shaped head. It was perfectly smooth, its riotous waves kept well in check, except at the blue-veined temples, where little ringlets clustered, unrebuked. "You should be practising," said Iris, irrelevantly. "So should you." "I don't need to." "Why not?" "Because I'm not going to play with you any more." "Why, Iris?" "Oh," she returned, with a little shrug of her shoulders, which frightened away both pigeons, "you didn't like the way I played your last accompaniment, and so I've stopped for good." Lynn thought it only a repetition of what she had said when he criticised her, and passed it over in silence. "I've already done an hour," he said, "and I'll have time for another before lunch. I can get in the other two before dark, and then I'm going for a walk. You'll come with me, won't you?" "You haven't asked me properly," she objected. Irving bowed and, in set, gallant phrases, asked Miss Temple for "the pleasure of her company." "I'm sorry," she answered, "but I'm obliged to refuse. I'm going to make some little cakes for tea--the kind you like." "Bother the cakes!" "Then," laughed Iris, "if you want me as much as that, I'll go. It's my Christian duty." From the very beginning, Aunt Peace had taught Iris the principles of dainty housewifery. Cleanliness came first--an exquisite cleanliness which was not merely a lack of dust and dirt, but a positive quality. When the old lady's keen eyes, reinforced by her strongest glasses, were unable to discern so much as a finger mark upon anything, Iris knew that it was clean, and not before. At first, the little untrained child had bitterly rebelled, but Miss Field's patience was without limit and at last Iris attained the required degree of proficiency. She had done her sampler, like the Colonial maids before her, made her white, sweet loaves, her fragrant brown ones, put up her countless pots of clear, rich preserves, made amber and crimson jellies, huge jars of spiced fruits, and brewed ten different kinds of home-made wine. Then, and not till then, Iris got the womanly idea which was beneath it all. Perception came slowly, but at length she found herself in a beautiful comradeship with Aunt Peace. For sheer love of the daintiness of it, Iris beat the yolks of eggs in a white bowl and the whites in a blue one. She took pleasure out of various fine textures and feathery masses, sang as she shaped small pats of unsalted butter, tying them up in clover blossoms, and laughed at the little packets of seeds Dame Nature sends with her parcels. "See," said Iris, one morning, as she cut a juicy muskmelon and took out the seeds, "this means that if you like it well enough to work and wait, you can have lots, lots more." Miss Field smiled, and a soft pink colour came into her fine, high-bred face. For one, at least, she had opened the way to the Fortunate Isles, where one's daily work is one's daily happiness, and nothing is so poor as to be without its own appealing beauty. As time went on, Iris found deep and satisfying pleasure in the countless little things that were done each day. She piled the clean linen in orderly rows upon the shelves, delighting in the unnameable freshness made by wind and sun; sniffed appreciatively at the cedar chest which stood in a recess of the upper hall, and climbed many a chair to fasten bunches of fragrant herbs, gathered with her own hands, to the rafters in the attic. She washed the fine old china, rubbed the mahogany till she could see her face in it, and kept the silver shining. "A gentlewoman," Aunt Peace had said, "will always be independent of her servants, and there are certain things no gentlewoman will trust her servants to do." Upon this foundation, Aunt Peace had reared the beautiful superstructure of her life. Her hands were capable and strong, yet soft and white. As we learn to love the things we take care of, so every household possession became dear to her, and repaid her for her labours an hundred-fold. To be sure of doing the very best for her adopted daughter, Miss Field had, for many years, kept house without a servant. Now, at seventy-five, she had grudgingly admitted one maid into her sanctum, but some of the work still fell to Iris, and no one ever doubted for an instant that the head of the household vigilantly guarded her own rights. For a long time Iris had known how useless it was--that there had never been a moment when the old lady could not have had a retinue of servants at her command, but had it been useless after all? Remembering the child she had been, Iris could not but see the immeasurable advance the woman had made. "Someday, my child," Aunt Peace had said, "when your adopted mother is laid away with her ancestors in the churchyard, you will bless me for what I have done. You will see that wherever you happen to be, in whatever station of life God may be pleased to place you after I am gone, you have one thing which cannot be taken away from you--the power to make for yourself a home. You will be sure of your comfort independently, and you will never be at the mercy of the ignorant and the untrained. In more than one sense," went on Miss Field, smiling, "you will have the gift of Peace." In the house, in her favourite chair by the fire, the old lady was saying much the same thing to Margaret Irving. It was apropos of a book written by a member of the shrieking sisterhood, which had sorely stirred East Lancaster, set as it was in quiet ways that were centuries old. "I have no patience with such foolishness," Aunt Peace observed. "Since Adam and Eve were placed in the Garden of Eden, women have been home-makers and men have been home-builders. All the work in the world is directly and immediately undertaken for the maintenance and betterment of the home. A woman who has no love for it is unsexed. God probably knew how He wanted it--at least we may be pardoned for supposing that He did. It is absolutely--but I would better stop, my dear. I fear I shall soon be saying something unladylike." Margaret laughed--a low, musical laugh with a girlish note in it. For a long time she had not been so happy as she was to-day. "To quote a famous historian," she replied, "a book like that 'carries within itself the germs of its decay.' You need have no fear, Aunt Peace; the home will stand. This single house, this beautiful old home of yours, has lasted two centuries, hasn't it, just as it is?" "Yes," sighed the other, after a pause, "they built well in those days." The charm of the room was upon them both. Through the open door they could see the long line of portraits in the hall, and the house seemed peopled with friendly ghosts, whose memories and loves still lived. Because she had recently come from a city apartment, Margaret looked down the spacious vista, ending at a long mirror, with an ever-increasing sense of delight. "My dear," said Miss Field, "I have always felt that this house should have come to you." "I have never felt so," answered Margaret. "I have never for a moment begrudged it to you. You know my father died suddenly, and his will, made long before I was born, had not been changed. So what was more natural than for my mother to have the house during her lifetime, with the provision that it should revert to his favourite sister afterward, if she still lived?" "I have cheated you by living, Margaret, and your mother was cut off in her prime. She was a hard woman." "Yes," sighed Margaret, "she was. But I think she meant to be kind." "I knew her very little; in fact, the only chance that I ever had to get acquainted with her was when I came here for a short visit just after you were married. The house had been closed for a long time. She took you away with her, and when she came back she was alone. Then she wrote to me, asking me to share her loneliness for a time, and I consented." The way was open for confidences, but Margaret made none, and Aunt Peace respected her for it. "We never knew each other very well, did we?" asked the old lady, in a tone that indicated no need of an answer. "I remember that when I was here I yearned over you just as I did over Iris several years later. I wanted to give to you out of my abundance; to make you happy and comfortable." "Dear Aunt Peace," said Margaret, softly, "you are doing it now, when perhaps I need it even more than I did then. All your life you have been making people happy and comfortable." "I hope so--it is what I have tried to do. By the way, when I am through with it, this house goes to you, then to Lynn and his children after him." "Thank you." For an instant Margaret's pulses throbbed with the joy of possession, then the blood retreated from her heart in shame. "I have made ample provision for Iris," Miss Field went on. "She is my own dear daughter, but she is not of our line." At this moment, Iris came around the house, laughing and screaming, with Lynn in full pursuit. Mrs. Irving went to the window and came back with an amused light in her eyes. "What is the matter?" asked Aunt Peace. "Lynn is chasing her. He had something in his fingers that looked like an angle-worm." "No doubt. Iris is afraid of worms." "I'll go out and speak to him." "No--let them fight it out. We are never young but once, and Youth asks no greater privilege than to fight its own battles. It is mistaken kindness to shield--it weakens one in the years to come." "Youth," repeated Margaret. "The most beautiful gift of the gods, which we never appreciate until it is gone forever." "I have kept mine," said Aunt Peace. "I have deliberately forgotten all the unpleasant things and remembered the others. When a little pleasure has flashed for a moment against the dark, I have made that jewel mine. I have hundreds of them, from the time my baby fingers clasped my first rose, to the night you and Lynn came to bring more sunshine into my old life. I call it my Necklace of Perfect Joy. When the world goes wrong, I have only to close my eyes and remember all the links in my chain, set with gems, some large and some small, but all beautiful with the beauty which never fades. It is all I can take with me when I go. My material possessions must stay behind, but my Necklace of Perfect Joy will bring me happiness to the end, when I put it on, to be nevermore unclasped." "Aunt Peace," asked Margaret, after an understanding silence, "why did you never marry?" Miss Field leaned forward and methodically stirred the fire. "I may be wrong," she said, "but I have always felt that it was indelicate to allow one's self to care for a gentleman." IV Social Position On Wednesday, the dullest person might have felt that there was something in the air. The old house, already exquisitely clean, received further polishing without protest. Savoury odours came from the kitchen, and Iris rubbed the tall silver candlesticks until they shone like new. "What is it?" asked Lynn. "Are we going to have a party and am I invited?" "It is Wednesday," explained Iris. "Well, what of it?" "Doctor Brinkerhoff comes to see Aunt Peace every Wednesday evening." "Who is Doctor Brinkerhoff?" "The family physician of East Lancaster." "He wasn't here last Wednesday." "That was because you and your mother had just come. Aunt Peace sent him a note, saying that her attention was for the moment occupied by other guests from out of town. It was the first Wednesday evening he has missed for more than ten years." "Oh," said Lynn. "Are they going to be married?" "Aunt Peace wouldn't marry anybody. She receives Doctor Brinkerhoff because she is sorry for him. "He has no social position," Iris continued, feeling the unspoken question. "He is not of our class and he used to live in West Lancaster, but Aunt Peace says that any gentleman who is received by a lady in her bedroom may also be received in her parlour. Another lady, who thinks as Aunt Peace does, entertains him on Saturday evenings." Iris sat there demurely, her rosy lips primly pursed, and vigorously rubbed the tall candlestick. Lynn fairly choked with laughter. "Oh," he cried, "you funny little thing!" "I am not a little thing and I am not funny. I consider you very impertinent." "What is 'social position'?" asked Irving, instantly sobering. "How do we get it?" "It is born with us," answered Iris, dipping her flannel cloth in ammonia, "and we have to live up to it. If we have low tastes, we lose it, and it never comes back." "Wonder if I have it," mused Lynn. "Of course," Iris assured him. "You are a grand-nephew of Aunt Peace, but not so nearly related as I, because I am her legal daughter. I was born of poor but honest parents," she went on, having evidently absorbed the phrase from her school Reader, "so I was respectable, even at the beginning. When Aunt Peace took me, I got social position, and if I am always a lady, I will keep it. Otherwise not." The girl was very lovely as she leaned back in the quaint old chair to rest for a moment. She was still regarding the candlestick attentively and did not look at Lynn. "It is strange to me," she said, "that coming from the city, as you do, you should not know about such things." Here she sent him the quickest possible glance from a pair of inscrutable eyes, and he began to wonder if she were not merely amusing herself. He was tempted to kiss her, but wisely refrained. "Iris," called Aunt Peace, from the doorway, "will you wash the Royal Worcester plate? And Lynn, it is time you were practising." Lynn worked hard until the bell rang for luncheon. When he went down, he found the others already at the table. "We did not wait for you," Aunt Peace explained, "because we were in a hurry. Immediately after luncheon, on Wednesdays, I take my nap. I sleep from two to three. Will you please see that the house is quiet?" She spoke to Margaret, but she looked at Lynn. "Which means," said he, "that those who are studying the violin will kindly not practise until after three o'clock, and that it would be considered a kindness if they would not walk much in the house, their feet being heavy." "Lynn," said the old lady, irrelevantly, "you are extremely intelligent. I expect great things of you." That weekly hour of luxury was the only relaxation in Miss Field's busy, happy life. Breakfast at seven and bed at ten--this was the ironclad rule of the house. Ever since she came to East Lancaster, Iris had kept solemn guard over the front door on Wednesdays, from two to three. Rash visitors never reached the bell, but were met, on the doorstep, by a little maid whose tiny finger rested upon her lip. "Hush," she would say, "Aunt Peace is asleep!" Interruptions were infrequent, however, for East Lancaster knew Miss Field's habits--and respected them. "Good-bye, my dears," she said, as she paused at the foot of the winding stairs, "I leave you for a far country, where, perhaps, I shall meet some of my old friends. I shall visit strange lands and have many new experiences, some of which will doubtless be impossible and grotesque. I shall be gone but one short hour, and when I return I shall have much to tell you." "She dreams," explained Iris, in a low voice, as the mistress of the mansion smiled back at them over the railing, "and when she wakes she always tells me." Lynn went out for a long tramp, after vainly endeavouring to persuade his mother or Iris to accompany him. "I'm walked enough at night as it is," said Mrs. Irving, and the girl excused herself on account of her household duties. He clattered down the steps, banged the gate, and went whistling down the elm-bordered path. The mother listened, fondly, till the cheery notes died away in the distance. "Bless his heart," she said to herself, "how fine and strong he is and how much I love him!" The house seemed to wait while its guardian spirit slept. Left to herself, Margaret paced to and fro; down the long hall, then back, through the parlour and library, and so on, restlessly, until she reflected that she might possibly disturb Aunt Peace. A love-lorn robin, in the overhanging boughs of the maple at the gate, was unsuccessfully courting a disdainful lady who sat on the topmost twig and paid no attention to him. From the distant orchard came the breath of apple blooms, and a single bluebird winged his solitary way across the fields, his colour gleaming brightly for an instant against the silvery clouds. Beautiful as it was, Margaret sighed, and her face lost its serenity. A bit of verse sang itself through her memory again and again. "Who wins his love shall lose her, Who loses her shall gain, For still the spirit wooes her, A soul without a stain, And memory still pursues her With longings not in vain. * * * "In dreams she grows not older The lands of Dream among; Though all the world wax colder, Though all the songs be sung, In dreams doth he behold her-- Still fair and kind and young." "Dreams," she murmured, "empty dreams, while your soul starves." Iris tiptoed in with her sewing and sat down. Margaret felt her presence in the room, but did not turn away from the window. Iris was one of those rare people with whom one could be silent and not feel that the proprieties had been injured. Deep down in her heart, Margaret had stored away all the bitterness of her life--that single drop which is well enough when left by itself, because it is of a different specific gravity. When the cup is stirred, the lees taint the whole, and it takes time for the readjustment. Were it not for the merciful readjustment, this grey old world of ours would be too dark to live in. At length she turned and looked at the little seamstress, who sat bolt upright, as she had been taught, in the carved mahogany chair. She noted the long lashes that swept the tinted cheek, the masses of blue-black hair over the low, white brow, the tender wistfulness in the lines of the mouth, the dimpled hands, and the rounded arm--so evidently made for all the sweet uses of love that Margaret's heart contracted in sudden pain. "Iris," she said, in a tone that startled the girl, "when the right man comes, and you know absolutely in your own heart that he is the right man, go with him, whether he be prince or beggar. If unhappiness comes to you, take it bravely, as a gentlewoman should, but never, for your own sake, allow yourself to regret your faith in him. If you love him and he loves you, there are no barriers between you--they are nothing but cobwebs. Sweep them aside with a single stroke of magnificent daring, and go. Social position counts for nothing, other people's opinions count for nothing; it is between your heart and his, and in that sanctuary no one else has a right to intrude. If he has only a crust to give you, share it with him, but do not let anyone persuade you into a lifetime of heart-hunger--it is too hard to bear!" The girl's deep eyes were fixed upon her, childish, appealing, and yet with evident understanding. Margaret's face was full of tender pity--was this butterfly, too, destined to be broken on the wheel? Iris felt the sudden passion of the other, saw traces of suffering in the dark eyes, the set lips, and even in the slender hands that hovered whitely over the black gown. "Thank you, Mrs. Irving," she said, quietly, "I understand." The minutes ticked by, and no other word was spoken. At half-past three, precisely, Aunt Peace came back. She had on her best gown--a soft, heavy black silk, simply made. At the neck and wrists were bits of rare old lace, and her one jewel, an emerald of great beauty and value, gleamed at her throat. She wore no rings except the worn band of gold that had been her mother's wedding ring. "What did you dream?" asked Iris. "Nothing, dearie," she laughed. "I have never slept so soundly before. Our guests have put a charm upon the house." From the embroidered work-bag that dangled at her side, she took out the thread lace she was making, and began to count her stitches. "I think I'll get my sewing, too," said Margaret. "I feel like a drone in this hive of industry." "One, two, three, chain," said Aunt Peace. "Iris, do you think the cakes are as good as they were last time?" "I think they're even better." "Did you take out the oldest port?" "Yes, the very oldest." "I trust he was not hurt," Aunt Peace went on, "because last week I asked him not to come. The common people sometimes feel those things more keenly than aristocrats, who are accustomed to the disturbance of guests." "Of course, he would be disappointed," said Iris, with a little smile, "but he would understand--I'm sure he would." When Margaret came back she had a white, fluffy garment over her arm. "Who would have thought," she cried, gaily, "that I should ever have the time to make myself a petticoat by hand! The atmosphere of East Lancaster has wrought a wondrous change in me." "Iris," said Miss Field, "let me see your stitches." The girl held up her petticoat--a dainty garment of finest cambric, lace-trimmed and exquisitely made, and the old lady examined it critically. "It is not what I could do at your age," she continued, "but it will answer very well." Lynn came in noisily, remembering only at the threshold that one did not whistle in East Lancaster houses. "I had a fine tramp," he said, "all over West Lancaster and through the woods on both sides of it. I had some flowers for all of you, but I laid them down on a stone and forgot to go back after them. Aunt Peace, you're looking fine since you had your nap. Still working at that petticoat, mother?" "We're all making petticoats," answered Margaret. "Even Aunt Peace is knitting lace for one and Iris has hers almost done." "Let me see it," said Lynn. He reached over and took it out of the girl's lap while she was threading her needle. Much to his surprise, it was immediately snatched away from him. Iris paused only long enough to administer a sounding box to the offender's ear, then marched out of the room with her head high and her work under her arm. "Well, of all things," said Lynn, ruefully. "Why wouldn't she let me look at her petticoat?" "Because," answered Aunt Peace, severely, "Iris has been brought up like a lady! Gentlemen did not expect to see ladies' petticoats when I was young!" "Oh," said Lynn, "I see." His mouth twitched and he glanced sideways at his mother. She was bending over her work, and her lips did not move, but he could see that her eyes smiled. * * * * * At exactly half-past seven, the expected guest was ushered into the parlour. "Good evening, Doctor," said Miss Field, in her stately way; "I assure you this is quite a pleasure." She presented him to Mrs. Irving and Lynn, and motioned him to an easy-chair. He was tall, straight, and seventy; almost painfully neat, and evidently a gentleman of the old school. "I trust you are well, madam?" "I am always well," returned Aunt Peace. "If all the other old ladies in East Lancaster were as well as I, you would soon be obliged to take down your sign and seek another location." The others took but small part in the conversation, which was never lively, and which, indeed, might have been stilted by the presence of strangers. It was the commonplace talk of little things, which distinguishes the country town, and it lasted for half an hour. As the clock chimed eight, Miss Field smiled at him significantly. "Shall we play chess?" she asked. "If the others will excuse us, I shall be charmed," he responded. Soon they were deep in their game. Margaret went after a book she had been reading, and the young people went to the library, where they could talk undisturbed. They played three games. Miss Field won the first and third, her antagonist contenting himself with the second. It had always been so, and for ten years she had taken a childish delight in her skill. "My dear Doctor," she often said, "it takes a woman of brains to play chess." "It does, indeed," he invariably answered, with an air of gallantry. Once he had been indiscreet and had won all three games, but that was in the beginning and it had never happened since. When the clock struck ten, he looked at his heavy, old-fashioned silver watch with apparent surprise. "I had no idea it was so late," he said. "I must be going!" "Pray wait a moment, Doctor. Let me offer you some refreshment before you begin that long walk. Iris?" "Yes, Aunt Peace." The girl knew very well what was expected of her, and dimples came and went around the corners of her mouth. "Those little cakes that we had for tea--perhaps there may be one or two left, and is there not a little wine?" "I'll see." Smiling at the pretty comedy, she went out into the kitchen, where Doctor Brinkerhoff's favourite cakes, freshly made, had been carefully put away. Only one of them had been touched, and that merely to make sure of the quality. With the Royal Worcester plate, generously piled with cakes, a tray of glasses, and a decanter of Miss Field's famous port, she went back into the parlour. "This is very charming," said the Doctor. He had made the same speech once a week for ten years. Aunt Peace filled the glasses, and when all had been served, she looked at him with a rare smile upon her beautiful old face. Then the brim of his glass touched hers with the clear ring of crystal. "To your good health, madam!" "And to your prosperity," she returned. The old toast still served. "And now, my dear Miss Iris," he said, "may we not hope for a song?" "Which one?" "'Annie Laurie,' if you please." She sang the old ballad with a wealth of feeling in her deep voice, and even Lynn, who was listening critically, was forced to admit that she did it well. At eleven, the guest went away, his hostess cordially inviting him to come again. "What a charming man," said Margaret. "An old brick," added Lynn, with more force than elegance. "Yes," replied Aunt Peace, concealing a yawn behind her fan, "it is a thousand pities that he has no social position." V The Light of Dreams "How do you get on with the Master?" asked Iris. "After a fashion," answered Irving; "but I do not get on with Fräulein Fredrika at all. She despises me." "She does not like many people." "So it would seem. I have been unfortunate from the first, though I was careful to admire 'mine crazy jug.'" "It is the apple of her eye," laughed Iris, "it means to her just what his Cremona means to him." "It is a wonderful creation, and I told her so, but where in the dickens did she get the idea?" "Don't ask me. Did you happen to notice anything else?" "No--only the violin. Sometimes I take my lesson in the parlour, sometimes in the shop downstairs, or even in Herr Kaufmann's bedroom, which opens off of it. When I come, he stops whatever he happens to be doing, sits down, and proceeds with my education." "On the floor," said Iris reminiscently, "she has a gold jar which contains cat tails and grasses. It is Herr Kaufmann's silk hat, which he used to have when he played in the famous orchestra, with the brim cut off and plenty of gold paint put on. The gilded potato-masher, with blue roses on it, which swings from the hanging lamp, was done by your humble servant. She has loved me ever since." "Iris!" exclaimed Lynn, reproachfully. "How could you!" "How could I what?" "Paint anything so outrageous as that?" "My dear boy," said Miss Temple, patronisingly, with her pretty head a little to one side, "you are young in the ways of the world. I was not achieving a work of art; I was merely giving pleasure to the Fräulein. Much trouble would be saved if people who undertake to give pleasure would consult the wishes of the recipient in preference to their own. Tastes differ, as even you may have observed. Personally, I have no use for a gilded potato-masher--I couldn't even live in the same house with one,--but I was pleasing her, not myself." "I wonder what I could do that would please her," said Lynn, half to himself. "Make her something out of nothing," suggested Iris. "She would like that better than anything else. She has a wall basket made of a fish broiler, a chair that was once a barrel, a dresser which has been evolved from a packing box, a sofa that was primarily a cot, and a match box made from a tin cup covered with silk and gilded on the inside, not to mention heaps of other things." "Then what is left for me? The desirable things seem to have been used up." "Wait," said Iris, "and I'll show you." She ran off gaily, humming a little song under her breath, and came back presently with a clothes-pin, a sheet of orange-coloured tissue paper, an old black ostrich feather, and her paints. "What in the world--" began Lynn. "Don't be impatient, please. Make the clothes-pin gold, with a black head, and then I'll show you what to do next." "Aren't you going to help me?" "Only with my valuable advice--it is your gift, you know." Awkwardly, Lynn gilded the clothes-pin and suspended it from the back of a chair to dry. "I hope she'll like it," he said. "She pointed to me once and said something in German to her brother. I didn't understand, but I remembered the words, and when I got home I looked them up in my dictionary. As nearly as I could get it, she had characterised me as 'a big, lumbering calf.'" "Discerning woman," commented Iris. "Now, take this sheet of tissue paper and squeeze it up into a little ball, then straighten it out and do it again. When it's all soft and crinkly, I'll tell you what to do next." "There," exclaimed Lynn, finally, "if it's squeezed up any more it will break." "Now paint the head of the clothes-pin and make some straight black lines on the middle of it, cross ways." "Will you please tell me what I'm making?" "Wait and see!" Obeying instructions, he fastened the paper tightly in the fork of the clothes-pin, and spread it out on either side. The corners were cut and pulled into the semblance of wings, and black circles were painted here and there. Iris herself added the finishing touch--two bits of the ostrich feather glued to the top of the head for antennæ. "Oh," cried Lynn, in pleased surprise, "a butterfly!" "How hideous!" said Margaret, pausing in the doorway. "I trust it's not meant for me." "It's for the Fräulein," answered Iris, gathering up her paints and sweeping aside the litter. "Lynn has made it all by himself." "I wonder how he stands it," mused Irving, critically inspecting the butterfly. "I asked him once," said Iris, "if he liked all the queer things in his house, and he shrugged his shoulders. 'What good is mine art to me,' he asked, 'if it makes me so I cannot live with mine sister? Fredrika likes the gay colours, such as one sees in the fields, but they hurt mine eyes. Still because the tidies and the crazy jug swear to me, it is no reason for me to hurt mine sister's feelings. We have a large house. Fredrika has the upstairs and I have the downstairs. When I can no longer stand the bright lights, I can turn mine back and look out of the window, or I can go down in the shop with mine violins. Down there I see no colours and I can put mine feet on all chairs.'" Lynn laughed, but Margaret, who was listening intently, only smiled sadly. That afternoon, when the boy went up the hill, with the butterfly dangling from his hand by a string, he was greeted with childish cries of delight on either side. Hoping for equal success at the Master's, he rang the bell, and the Fräulein came to the door. When she saw who it was, her face instantly became hard and forbidding. "Mine brudder is not home," she said, frostily. "I know," answered Lynn, with a winning smile, "but I came to see you. See, I made this for you." Wonder and delight were in her eyes as she took it from his outstretched hand. "For me?" "Yes, all for you. I made it." "You make this for me by yourself alone?" "No, Miss Temple helped me." "Miss Temple," repeated the Fräulein, "she is most kind. And you likewise," she hastened to add. "It will be of a niceness if Miss Temple and you shall come to mine house to tea to-morrow evening." "I'll ask her," he returned, "and thank you very much." Thus Lynn made his peace with Fräulein Fredrika. * * * * * Laughing like two irresponsible children, they went up the hill together at the appointed time. Lynn's arms were full of wild crab-apple blooms, which he had taken a long walk to find, and Iris had two little pots of preserves as her contribution to the feast. Their host and hostess were waiting for them at the door. Fräulein Fredrika was very elegant in her best gown, and her sharp eyes were kind. The Master was clad in rusty black, which bore marks of frequent sponging and occasional pressing. "It is most kind," he said, bowing gallantly to Iris; "and you, young man, I am glad to see you, as always." Iris found a stone jar for the apple blossoms and brought them in. The Master's fine old face beamed as he drew a long breath of pink and white sweetness. "It is like magic," he said. "I think inside of every tree there must be some beautiful young lady, such as we read about in the old books--a young lady something like Miss Iris. All Winter, when it is cold, she sleeps in her soft bed, made from the silk lining of the bark. Then one day the sun shines warm and the robin sings to her and wakes her. 'What,' says she, 'is it so soon Spring? I must get to work right away at mine apple blossoms.' "Then she stoops down for some sand and some dirt. In her hands she moulds it--so--reaching out for some rain to keep it together. Then she says one charm. With a forked stick she packs it into every little place inside that apple tree and sprinkles some more of it over the outside. "'Now,' says she, 'we must wait, for I have done mine work well. It is for the sun and the wind and the rain to finish.' So the rain makes all very wet, and the wind blows and the sun shines, and presently the sand and dirt that she has put in is changed to sap that is so glad it runs like one squirrel all over the inside of the tree and tries to sing like one bird. "'So,' says this young lady, 'it is as I thought.' Then she says one more charm, and when the sun comes up in the morning, it sees that the branches are all covered with buds and leaves. The young lady and the moon work one little while at it in the evening, and the next morning, there is--this!" The Master buried his face in the fragrant blooms. "It is a most wonderful sweetness," he went on. "It is wind and grass and sun, and the souls of all the apple blossoms that are dead." "Franz," called Fräulein Fredrika, "you will bring them out to tea, yes?" As the entertainment progressed, Lynn's admiration of Iris increased. She seemed equally at home in Miss Field's stately mansion and in the tiny bird-house on the brink of a precipice, where everything appeared to be made out of something else. She was in high spirits and kept them all laughing. Yet, in spite of her merry chatter, there was an undertone of tender wistfulness that set his heart to beating. The Master, too, was at his best. Usually, he was reserved and quiet, but to-night the barriers were down. He told them stories of his student days in Germany, wonderful adventures by land and sea, and conjured up glimpses of the kings and queens of the Old World. "Life," he sighed, "is very strange. One begins within an hour's walk of the Imperial Palace, where sometimes one may see the Kaiser and the Kaiserin, and one ends--here!" "Wherever one may be, that is the best place," said the Fräulein. "The dear God knows. Yet sometimes I, too, must think of mine Germany and wish for it." "Fredrika!" cried the Master, "are you not happy here?" "Indeed, yes, Franz, always." Her harsh voice was softened and her piercing eyes were misty. One saw that, however carefully hidden, there was great love between these two. Iris helped the Fräulein with the dishes, in spite of her protests. "One does not ask one's guests to help with the work," she said. "But just suppose," answered Iris, laughing, "that one's guests have washed dishes hundreds of times at home!" In the parlour, meanwhile, the Master talked to Lynn. He told him of great violinists he had heard and of famous old violins he had seen--but there was never a word about the Cremona. "Mine friend, the Doctor," said the Master, "do you perchance know him?" "Yes," answered Lynn, "I have that pleasure. He's all right, isn't he?" "So he thinks," returned the Master, missing the point of the phrase. "In an argument, one can never convince him. He thinks it is for me to go out on one grand tour and give many concerts and secure much fame, but why should I go, I ask him, when I am happy here? So many people know what should make one happy a thousand times better than the happy one knows. Life," he said again, "is very strange." It was a long time before he spoke again. "I have had mine fame," he said. "I have played to great houses both here and abroad, and women have thrown red roses at me and mine violin. There has been much in the papers, and I have had many large sums, which, of course, I have always given to the poor. One should use one's art to do good with and not to become rich. I have mine house, mine clothes, all that is good for me to eat, mine sister and mine--" he hesitated for an instant, and Lynn knew he was thinking of the Cremona. "Mine violins," he concluded, "mine little shop where I make them, and best of all, mine dreams." Iris came back and Fräulein Fredrika followed her. "If you will give me all the little shells," she was saying, "I will stick them together with glue and make mineself one little house to sit on the parlour table. It will be most kind." Her voice was caressing and her face fairly shone with joy. "I will light the lamp," she went on. "It is dark here now." Suiting the action to the word, she pulled down the lamp that hung by heavy chains in the centre of the room, and the gilded potato-masher swung back and forth violently. "No, no, Fredrika," said the Master. "It is not a necessity to light the lamp." "Herr Irving," she began, "would you not like the lamp to see by?" "Not at all," answered Lynn. "I like the twilight best." "Come, Fräulein," said Iris, "sit over here by me. Did I tell you how you could make a little clothes-brush out of braided rope and a bit of blue ribbon?" "No," returned the Fräulein, excitedly, "you did not. It will be most kind if you will do it now." The women talked in low tones and the others were silent without listening. The street was in shadow, and here and there lanterns flashed in the dark. Down in the valley, velvety night was laid over the river and the willows that grew along its margin, but the last light lingered on the blue hills above, and a single star had set its exquisite lamp to gleaming against the afterglow. The wings of darkness hovered over the little house, and yet no word was spoken. It was an intimate hush, such as sometimes falls between lovers, who have no need of speech. Lynn and Iris looked forward to the future, with the limitless hope of Youth, while the others brooded over a past which had brought each of them a generous measure of joy and pain. The full moon came out from behind the clouds and flooded the valley with silver light. "Oh," cried Iris, "how glorious it is!" "Yes," said the Master, "it is the light of dreams. All the ugliness is hidden, as in life, when one can dream. Only the beauty is left. Wait, I will play it to you." He went downstairs for his violin and Lynn moved closer to Iris. Fräulein Fredrika retreated into the shadow at the farthest corner of the room. Presently the Master returned, snapping and tightening the strings. It was not the Cremona, but the other. He sat down by the window and the moonlight touched his face caressingly. He was grey with his fifty years and more, but as he sat there, his massive head thrown back and his hair silvered, he seemed very near to the Gates of Youth. In a moment, he was lost to his surroundings. He tapped the bow on the sill, as an orchestra leader taps for attention, straightened himself, smiled, and began. It was a rippling, laughing melody, played on muted strings, full of unexpected harmonies, and quaintly phrased. In a moment, they caught the witchery of it, and the meaning. It was Titania and her fairies, suddenly transported half-way around the world. Mystery and magic were in the theme. Moonbeams shimmered through it, elves played here and there, and shining waters sang through Summer silences. All at once there was a pause, then, sonorous, deep, and splendid, came another harmony, which in impassioned beauty voiced the ministry of pain. As before, Lynn saw chiefly the technique. Never for a moment did he forget the instrument. Iris was trembling, for she well knew those high and lonely places of the spirit, within the borders of Gethsemane. The Master put down the violin and sighed. "Come," faltered Iris, "it is late and we must go." He did not hear, and it was Fräulein Fredrika who went to the door with them. "Franz is thinking," she whispered. "He is often like that. He will be most sorry when he learns that you have gone." "This way," said Iris, when they reached the street. They went to the brow of the cliff and looked once more across the shadowed valley to the luminous ranges of the everlasting hills. She turned away at last, thrilled to the depths of her soul. "Come," she whispered, "we must go back." They walked softly, as though they feared to disturb someone in the little house, but there was no sound from within nor any light save at the window, where the light of dreams streamed over the Master's face and made it young. VI A Letter Roses rioted through East Lancaster and made the gardens glorious with bloom. The year was at its bridal and every chalice was filled with fragrant incense. Bees, powdered with pollen, hummed slowly back and forth, and the soft whir of unnumbered gossamer wings came in drowsy melody from the distant clover fields. "June," sang Iris to herself, "June--Oh June, sweet June!" She was getting ready for her daily trip to the post-office. Once in a great while there would be a letter there for Aunt Peace or Mrs. Irving. Lynn also had an intermittent correspondent or two, but the errand usually proved fruitless. Still, since Mrs. Irving's letter had lain nearly two weeks in Miss Field's box, uncalled for, it had been a point of honour with Iris to see that such a thing did not happen again. Books and papers were supplied in abundance by the local circulating library, and the high bookcases at Miss Field's were well filled with standard literature. Iris read everything she could lay her hands upon. Mere print exercised a certain fascination over her mind, and she had conscientiously finished every book that she had begun. Those early years, after all, are the most important. The old books are the best, and how few of us "have the time" to read them! Ten years of browsing in a well equipped library will do much for anyone, and Iris had made the most of her opportunities. This girl of twenty, hemmed about by the narrow standards of East Lancaster, had a broad outlook upon life, a large view, that would have done credit to a woman of twice her age. From the beginning, the people of the books had been real to her, and she had filled the old house with the fairy figures of romance. Of the things that make for happiness, the love of books comes first. No matter how the world may have used us, sure solace lies there. The weary, toilsome day drags to its disheartening close, and both love and friendship have proved powerless to appreciate or understand, but in the quiet corner consolation can always be found. A single shelf, perhaps, suffices for one's few treasures, but who shall say it is not enough? A book, unlike any other friend, will wait, not only upon the hour, but upon the mood. It asks nothing and gives much, when one comes in the right way. The volumes stand in serried ranks at attention, listening eagerly, one may fancy, for the command. Is your world a small one, made unendurable by a thousand petty cares? Are the heart and soul of you cast down by bitter disappointment? Would you leave it all, if only for an hour, and come back with a new point of view? Then open the covers of a book. With this gentle comrade, you may journey to the very end of the world and even to the beginning of civilisation. There is no land which you may not visit, from Arctic snows to the loftiest peaks of southern mountains. Gallant gentlemen will go with you and tell you how to appreciate what you see. Further still, there are excursions into the boundless regions of imagination, where the light of dreams has laid its surpassing beauty over all. Would you wander in company with soldiers of Fortune, and share their wonderful adventures? Would you live in the time of the Crusades and undertake a pilgrimage in the name of the Cross? Would you smell the smoke of battle, hear the ring of steel, the rattle of musketry, and see the colours break into deathly beauty well in advance of the charge? Would you have for your friends a great company of noble men and women who have wrought and suffered and triumphed in the end? Would you find new courage, stronger faith, and serene hope? Then open the covers of a book, and presto--change! * * * * * "Iris," called Aunt Peace, "you're surely not going without your hat?" "Of course not." The colour that came and went in her damask cheeks was very like that in her pink dimity gown. She put on her white hat, the brim drooping beneath its burden of pink roses, and drew her gloves reluctantly over her dimpled hands. "Iris, dear, your sunshade!" "Yes, Aunt Peace." She came back, a little unwillingly, but tan was a personal disgrace in East Lancaster. Ready at last, she tripped down the path and closed the gate carefully. Mrs. Irving waved a friendly hand at her from the upper window. "Bring me a letter!" she called. "I'll try to," answered Iris, "but I can't promise." She lifted her gown a little, to keep it clear of burr and brier, and one saw the smooth, black silk stocking, chastely embroidered at the ankle, as one suspected, by the hand of the wearer, and the dainty, high-heeled shoes. The sunshade waved back and forth coquettishly. It seemed to be an airy ornament, rather than an article of utility. Half-way down the street, she met Doctor Brinkerhoff. "Good morning, little lady," he said, with a smile. "Good morning, sir," replied Iris, with a quaint courtesy. "I trust you are well?" "My health is uniformly good," he returned, primly. "You must remember that I have my own drugs and potions always at hand." He made careful inquiries as to the physical and mental well-being of each member of the family, sent kindly salutations to all, made a low bow to Iris, and went on. "A very pleasant gentleman," she said to herself. "What a pity that he has no social position!" She loitered at the bridge, hanging over the railing, and looked down into the sunny depths of the little stream. All through the sweet Summer, the brook sang cheerily, by night and by day. It began in a cool, crystal pool, far up among the hills, and wandered over mossy reaches and pebbly ways, singing meanwhile of all the fragrant woodland through which it came. Hidden springs in subterranean caverns, caught by the laughing melody, went out to meet it and then followed, as the children followed the Pied Piper of old. Great with its gathered waters, it still sang as it rippled onward to its destiny, dreaming, perchance, of the time when its liquid music, lost at last, should be merged into the vast symphony of the sea. Lynn came down the hill, swinging his violin case, and Iris, a little consciously, went on to the post-office. Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the letter box, and then her heart gave a little leap, for there were two, yes three letters there. "Wait a moment," called the grizzled veteran who served as postmaster. "I've finally got something fer ye! Here! Miss Peace Field, Mrs. Margaret Irving, and Miss Iris Temple." "Oh-h!" whispered Iris, in awe, "a letter for me?" "'Tain't fer nobody else, I reckon," laughed the old man. "Anyhow, it's got your name on it." She went out, half dazed. In all her life she had had but three letters; two from her mother, which she still kept, and one from Santa Claus. The good saint had left his communication in the little maid's stocking one Christmas eve, and it was more than a year before Iris observed that Aunt Peace and Santa Claus wrote precisely the same hand. "For me," she said to herself, "all for me!" It never entered her pretty head to open it. The handwriting was unfamiliar and the post-mark was blurred, but it seemed to have come from the next town. The whole thing was very disturbing, but Aunt Peace would know. Then Iris stopped suddenly in the path. It might be wicked, but, after all, why should Aunt Peace know? Why not have just one little secret, all to herself? The daring of it almost took her breath away, but in that single, dramatic instant, she decided. No one was in sight, and Iris, in the shadow of a maple, tucked the letter safely away in her stocking, fancying she heard it rustle as she walked. In her brief experience of life there had seldom been so long a day. The hours stretched on interminably, and she was never alone. She did not forget the letter for a moment, and when she had once become accustomed to the wonder of it, she was conscious of a growing, very feminine curiosity. A little after ten, when she had dutifully kissed Aunt Peace good night, she stood alone in her room with her heart wildly beating. The door was locked and there was not even the sound of a footstep. Surely, she might read it now! By the flickering light of her candle, she cut it at the end with the scissors, drew out the letter, and unfolded it with trembling hands. "Iris, Daughter of the Marshes," it began, "how shall I tell you of your loveliness? You are straight and slender as the rushes, dainty as a moonbeam, and sweet as a rose of June. Your dimpled hands make me think of white flowers, and the flush on your cheeks is like that on the petals of the first anemone. "Midnight itself sleeps in your hair, fragrant as the Summer dusk, and your laughing lips have the colour of a scarlet geranium, but your eyes, my dear one, how shall I write to you of your eyes? They have the beauty of calm, wide waters, when sunset has given them that wonderful blue; they are eyes a man might look into during his last hour in the world, and think his whole life well spent because of them. "Do you think me bold--your unknown lover? I am bold because my heart makes me so, and because there is no other way. I dare not ask for an answer, nor tell you my name, but if you are displeased, I am sure I have a way of finding it out. Perhaps you wonder where I have seen you, so I will tell you this. I have seen you, more than once, going to the post-office in East Lancaster, and, no matter how, I have learned your name. "Some day, perhaps, I shall see you face to face. Some day you may give me your gracious permission to tell you all that is in my heart. Until then, remember that I am your knight, that you are my lady, and that I love you, Iris, love you!" * * * * * Her eyes were as luminous as the stars that shone upon the breast of night. If the heavens had suddenly opened, she could not have been more surprised. Her first love letter! At a single bound she had gained her place beside those fair ladies of romance, who peopled her maiden dreams. From to-night, she stood apart; no longer a child, but a woman worshipped afar, by some gallant lover who feared to sign his name. She put out the candle, for the moonlight filled the room, and pattered across the polished floor, in her bare feet, to her little white bed, the letter in her hand. "Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst." The hours went by and still Iris was awake, the mute paper crushed close against her breast. "I wonder," she murmured, her crimson face hidden in the pillow, "I wonder who he can be!" VII Friends The Doctor's modest establishment consisted of two rooms over the post-office. Here his shingle swung idly in the Summer breeze or resisted the onslaughts of the Winter storms. The infrequent patient seldom met anyone else in the office, but in case there should be two at once, a dusty chair had been placed in the hall. Both rooms were kept scrupulously clean by the wife of the postmaster, who lived on the same floor, but the bottles ranged in orderly rows upon the shelves were left severely alone, because the ministering influence lived in hourly dread of poison. Here the family physician of East Lancaster lived out his monotonous existence. When he had first taken up his abode there, he had set up his household gods upon the hill, in company with his countrymen. He soon found, however, that his practice was confined to the hill, and that, for all he might know to the contrary, East Lancaster was unaware of his existence. It was the postmaster who first set him right. "If you're a-layin' out to heal them as has the money to pay for it," he had said, "you'll have to move. This yere brook, what seems so innocent-like, is the chalk mark that partitions the sheep off from the goats. You'll find it so in every place. Sometimes it's water, sometimes it's a car track, and sometimes a deepo, but it's always there, though more 'n likely there ain't no real line exceptin' the one what's drawn in folks' fool heads. I reckon, bein' as you're a doctor, you're familiar with that line down the middle of human's brains. Well, this yere brook is practically the same thing, considerin' East and West Lancaster for a minute as brains, the which is a high compliment to both." So, at the earliest possible moment, the Doctor had cast in his fortunes with the "quality." East Lancaster affected refined astonishment at first, but when the resident physician, who had long enjoyed the deep respect of the community, had been gathered to his fathers, Doctor Brinkerhoff became the last resort. His skill was universally admitted, but no one went to his office, for fear of meeting undesirable strangers. It was thought to be in better taste to pay the double fee and have the Doctor call, even for such slight ailments as boils and cut fingers. The man was mentally broad enough to be amused at the eccentricities of East Lancaster, though his keen old eyes did not fail to discern that he was merely tolerated where he had hoped to find friends. Within the narrow confines of his establishment, he cultivated a serene and comfortable philosophy. To suit himself to his environment when that environment was out of his power to change, to seek for the good in everything and resolutely refuse to be affected by the bad, to believe steadfastly in the law of Compensation--this was Doctor Brinkerhoff's creed. On Wednesday and Saturday evenings, he was received as an equal by two of the aristocratic families. On Sunday mornings, he never failed to attend church. Before the last notes of the bell died away, he was always in his place. After the service, he hurried away, making courtly acknowledgments on every side to the formal greetings. Sunday afternoons, precisely at half-past four, he went up the hill to Herr Kaufmann's and spent the evening. This weekly visit was the leaven of Fräulein Fredrika's humdrum life. There was a sort of romance about it which glorified the commonplace and she looked forward to it with repressed excitement. Poor Fräulein Fredrika! Perhaps she, too, had her dreams. In many respects the two men were kindred. Their conversations were frequently perfunctory, but lacked no whit of sustaining grace for that. Talk, after all, is pathetically cheap. Where one cannot understand without words, no amount of explanation will make things clear. Across impassable deeps, like lofty peaks of widely parted ranges, soul greets soul. Separated forever by the limitations of our clay, we live and die absolutely alone. Even Love, the magician, who for dazzling moments gives new sight and boundless revelation, cannot always work his charm. A third of our lives is spent in sleep, and who shall say what proportion of the rest is endured in planetary isolation? June came through the open windows of the house upon the brink of the cliff and the Master dozed in his chair. The height was glaring, because there were no trees. The spirit of German progress had cut down every one of the lofty pines and maples, save at the edges of the settlement, where primeval woods, sloping down to the valley, still flourished. Fräulein Fredrika sat with her face resolutely turned to the west. It was Sunday and almost half-past four, but she would not look for the expected guest. She preferred to concentrate her mind upon something else, and when the rusty bell-wire creaked, experience all the emotion of a delightful surprise. At the appointed hour, he came, and the colour of dead rose petals bloomed on the Fräulein's withered face. "Herr Doctor," she said, "it is most kind. Mine brudder will be pleased." "Wake up!" cried the Doctor, with a hearty laugh, as he strode into the room. "You can't sleep all the time!" "So," said the Master, with an understanding smile, as he straightened himself and rubbed his eyes, "it is you!" Fräulein Fredrika sat in the corner and watched the two whom she loved best in all the world. No one was so wise as her Franz, unless it might be the Herr Doctor, to whom all the mysteries of life and death were as an open book. "To me," said the Doctor, once, "much has been given to see. My Father has graciously allowed me to help Him. I am first to welcome the soul that arrives from Him, and I am last to say farewell to those He takes back. What wonder if, now and then, I presume to send Him a message of my faith and my belief?" The Master's idea of satisfying companionship was not a flow of uninterrupted talk, marred by much levity. He merely asked that his friend should be near at hand, that he might communicate with him when he chose. When he had a thought which seemed worthy of dignified inspection, he would offer it, but not before. On this particular afternoon, Lynn was exceedingly restless. Like many other men, to whom the thing is impossible, he vaguely feared feminisation. The variety of soft influences continually about him had a subtle, enervating effect. Iris was reading, his mother was writing letters, and Aunt Peace was endeavouring to entertain him with reminiscences of her early youth. When life lies fair in the distance, with the rosy hues of anticipation transfiguring its rugged steeps and yawning chasms, we are young, though our years may number threescore and ten. On that first day when we look back, either happily or with remorse, to the stony ways over which we have travelled, losing concern for that part of the journey which is yet to come, we have grown old. "That is very interesting," said Lynn, when Aunt Peace had finished her description of the first school she attended. "I think I'll go out for a walk now, if you don't mind. Will you tell mother, please, when she comes down?" He went off at a rapid pace and made a long, circling tour of East Lancaster, ending at the bridge, where he, too, leaned over and looked into the sunny depths of the stream. Doctor Brinkerhoff's sign, waving in the wind, gave him an idea. Accidentally, he had hit upon his need; he hungered for the companionship of his kind. But Doctor Brinkerhoff was not at home, and the deserted corridors echoed strangely beneath his tread. He walked the length of the long hall a few times, because there seemed nothing else to do, and the Doctor's cat, locked in the office, mewed piteously. "Poor pussy!" said Lynn, consolingly, "I wish I could let you out, but I can't." Up the hill he went, his nameless irritation already sensibly decreased. After all, it was good to be alive--to breathe the free air, feel the warm sun upon his cheek and the springy turf beneath his feet. "Someone is coming," announced Fräulein Fredrika. "I think it will be the Herr Irving." "Herr Irving," repeated the Master. "Mine pupil? It is not the day for his lesson." "Perhaps someone is ill," suggested the Doctor. But, as it happened, Lynn had no errand save that of pure friendliness. His buoyant spirits immediately gave a freshness to the time-worn themes of conversation, and they talked until sunset. "It is good to have friends," observed the Master. "In one's wide acquaintance every person has his own place. You lose one friend, perhaps, and you think, 'Well, I can get along without him,' but it is not so. We have as many sides as we know people, and each acquaintance sees a different one, which is often only a reflection of himself. "This afternoon, we have been speaking of Truth, and how it is that things entirely opposite each other can both be true. The Herr Doctor says it is because Truth has many sides, but I say no. Truth is one clear white light and we are sun-glasses with many corners. Prisms, I think you say. If the light strikes a sharp edge, it breaks into many colours. To one of us everything will be purple, to another red, and to yet one more it will be all blue. If we have many edges, we see many colours. It is only the person who is in tune, who lets the light pass with no interruption, who sees all things in one harmony, and Truth as it is." "Yes," said the Doctor, "that is all very true. When we oppose our personal opinion to the thing as it is, and have our minds set upon what should be, according to our ideas, it makes an edge. I think it is the finest art of living to see things as they are and make the best of them. There is so little that we can change! If the colours break over us, it is the fault of our sharp edges and not of the light." "We are getting very serious," observed Lynn. "For my part, I take each day just as it comes." "One day," repeated the Master. "How many possible things there are in it! What was it the poet said of Herr Columbus? Yes, I have it now. 'One day with life and hope and heart is time enough to find a world.'" "That is the beauty of it," put in the Doctor. "One day is surely enough. An old lady who had fallen and hurt herself badly said to me once: 'Doctor, how long must I lie here?' 'Have patience, my dear madam,' said I. 'You have only one day at a time to live. Get all the content you can out of it, and let the rest wait, like a bud, till the sun of to-morrow shows you the rose.'" "Did she get well?" asked Lynn. "Of course--why not?" "His sick ones always get well," said Fräulein Fredrika, timidly. "Mine brudder's friend possesses great skill." She was laying the table for the simple Sunday night tea, and Lynn said that he must go. "No, no," objected the Master, "you must stay." "It would be of a niceness," the Fräulein assured him, very politely. "We should enjoy it," said the Doctor. "You are all very kind," returned Lynn, "but they will look for me at home, and I must not disappoint them." "Then," continued the Doctor, "may I not hope that you will play for me before you go?" "Certainly, if I have Herr Kaufmann's permission, and if I may borrow one of his violins." "Of a surety." The Master clattered down the uncarpeted stairs and returned with an instrument of his own make. Without accompaniment, Lynn played, and the Doctor nodded his enthusiastic approval. Herr Kaufmann looked out of the window and paid not the slightest attention to the performance. "Very fine," said the Doctor. "We have enjoyed it." "I am glad," replied Lynn, modestly. Then, flushed with the praise, and his own pleasure in his achievement, he turned to the Master. "How am I getting on?" he asked, anxiously. "Don't you think I am improving?" "Yes," returned the Master, dryly; "by next week you will be one Paganini." Stung by the sarcasm, Lynn went home, and after tea the group resolved itself into its original elements. Herr Kaufmann and the Doctor sat in their respective easy-chairs, conversing with each other by means of silences, with here and there a word of comment, and Fräulein Fredrika was in the corner, silent, too, and yet overcome with admiration. "That boy," said the Doctor, at length, "he has genius." The crescent moon gleamed faintly against the sunset, and a wayworn robin, with slow-beating wings, circled toward his nest in one of the maples on the other side of the valley. The fragrant dusk sheltered the little house, which all day had borne the heat of the sun. "Possibly," said the Master, "but no heart, no feeling. He is all technique." There was another long pause. "His mother," observed the Doctor, "do you know her?" "No. I meet no women but mine sister." "She is a lovely lady." "So?" It was evident that the Master had no interest in Margaret Irving, but the Doctor still brooded upon the vision. She was different from anyone else in East Lancaster, and he admired her very much. "That boy," said the Doctor, again, "he has her eyes." "Whose?" "His mother's." "So?" The interval lengthened into an hour, and presently the kitchen clock struck ten. "I shall go now," remarked the Doctor, rising. "Not yet," said the Master. "Come!" They went downstairs together, into the shop. It had happened before, though rarely, and the Doctor suspected that he was about to receive the greatest possible kindness from his friend's hands. Herr Kaufmann disappeared into his bedroom and was gone a long time. The room was dark, and the Doctor did not dare to move for fear of stepping upon some of the wood destined for violins. A cricket in the corner sang cheerily and ceased suddenly in the middle of a chirp when the Master came back with a lighted candle. "One moment, Herr Doctor." He whisked off again and presently returned, holding under his arm something that was wrapped in many pieces of ragged silk. One by one these were removed, and at last the treasure was revealed. He held it off at arm's length, where the light might shine upon its beauty, and well out of reach of a random touch. The Doctor said the expected thing, but it fell upon deaf ears. The Master's fine face was alight with more than earthly joy, and he stroked the brown breasts lovingly. "Mine Cremona!" he breathed. "Mine--all mine!" VIII A Bit of Human Driftwood "Present company excepted," remarked Lynn, "this village is full of fossils." "At what age does one get to be a 'fossil,'" asked Aunt Peace, her eyes twinkling. "Seventy-five?" "That isn't fair," Lynn answered, resentfully. "You're younger than any of us, Aunt Peace,--you're seventy-five years young." "So I am," she responded, good humouredly. She was upon excellent terms with this tall, straight young fellow who had brought new life into her household. A March wind, suddenly sweeping through her rooms, would have had much the same effect. "Am I a fossil?" asked Margaret, who had overheard the conversation. "You're nothing but a kid, mother. You've never grown up. I can do what I please with you." He picked her up, bodily, and carried her, flushed and protesting, to her favourite chair, and dumped her into it. "Aunt Peace, is there any place in the house where you might care to go?" "Thank you, no. I'll stay where I am, if I may. I'm very comfortable." Lynn paced back and forth with a heavy tread which resounded upon the polished floor. Iris happened to be passing the door and looked in, anxiously, for signs of damage. "Iris," laughed Miss Field, "what a little old maid you are! You remind me of that story we read together." "Which story, Aunt Peace?" "The one in which the over-neat woman married a careless man to reform him. She used to follow him around with a brush and dustpan and sweep up after him." "That would make him nice and comfortable," observed Lynn. "What became of the man?" "He was sent to the asylum." "And the woman?" asked Margaret. "She died of a broken heart." "I think I'd be in the asylum too," said Lynn. "I do not desire to be swept up after." "Nobody desires to sweep up after you," retorted Iris, "but it has to be done. Otherwise the house would be uninhabitable." "East Lancaster," continued Lynn, irrelevantly, "is the abode of mummies and fossils. The city seal is a broom--at least it should be. I was never in such a clean place in my life. The exhibits themselves look as though they'd been freshly dusted. Dirt is wholesome--didn't you ever hear that? How the population has lived to its present advanced age, is beyond me." "We have never really lived," returned Iris, with a touch of sarcasm, "until recently. Before you came, we existed. Now East Lancaster lives." "Who's the pious party in brown silk with the irregular dome on her roof?" asked Lynn. "The minister's second wife," answered Aunt Peace, instantly gathering a personality from the brief description. "So, as Herr Kaufmann says. Might one inquire about the jewel she wears?" "It's just a pin," said Iris. "It looks more like a glass case. In someway, it reminds me of a museum." "It has some of her first husband's hair in it," explained Iris. "Jerusalem!" cried Lynn. "That's the limit! Fancy the feelings of the happy bridegroom whose wife wears a jewel made out of her first husband's fur! Not for me! When I take the fatal step, it won't be a widow." "That," remarked Margaret, calmly, "is as it may be. We have the reputation of being a bad lot." Lynn flushed, patted his mother's hand awkwardly, and hastily beat a retreat. They heard him in the room overhead, walking back and forth, and practising feverishly. "Margaret," asked Miss Field, suddenly, "what are you going to make of that boy?" "A good man first," she answered. "After that, what God pleases." By a swift change, the conversation had become serious, and, always quick at perceiving hidden currents, Iris felt herself in the way. Making an excuse, she left them. For some time each was occupied with her own thoughts. "Margaret," said Miss Field, again, then hesitated. "Yes, Aunt Peace--what is it?" "My little girl. I have been thinking--after I am gone, you know." "Don't talk so, dear Aunt Peace. We shall have you with us for a long time yet." "I hope so," returned the old lady, brightly, "but I am not endowed with immortality--at least not here,--and I have already lived more than my allotted threescore and ten. My problem is not a new one--I have had it on my mind for years,--and when you came I thought that perhaps you had come to help me solve it." "And so I have, if I can." "My little girl," said Aunt Peace,--and the words were a caress,--"she has given to me infinitely more than I have given to her. I have never ceased to bless the day I found her." Between these two there were no questions, save the ordinary, meaningless ones which make so large a part of conversation. The deeps were silently passed by; only the shallows were touched. "You have the right to know," Miss Field continued. "Iris is twenty now, or possibly twenty-one. She has never known when her birthday came, and so we celebrate it on the anniversary of the day I found her. "I was driving through the country, fifteen or twenty miles from East Lancaster. I--I was with Doctor Brinkerhoff," she went on, unwillingly. "He had asked me to go and see a patient of his, in whom, from what he had told me, I had learned to take great interest. Doctor Brinkerhoff," she said, sturdily, "is a gentleman, though he has no social position." "Yes," replied Margaret, seeing that an answer was expected, "he is a charming gentleman." "It was a warm Summer day, and on our way back we came upon a dozen or more ragged children, playing in the road. They refused to let us pass, and we could not run over them. A dilapidated farmhouse stood close by, but no one was in sight. "'Please hold the lines,' said the Doctor. 'I will get out and lead the horse past this most unnecessary obstruction.' When he got out, the children began to throw stones at the horse. It was a young animal, and it started so violently that I was almost thrown from my seat. One child, a girl of ten, climbed into the buggy and shrieked to the rest: 'I'll hold the lines--get more stones!' "I was frightened and furiously angry, but I could do nothing, for I had only one hand free. I tried to make the child sit down, and she struck at me. Her torn sleeve fell back, and I saw that her arm was bruised, as if with heavy blows. "Meanwhile the Doctor had led the horse a little way ahead, and had come back. The whole tribe was behind us, yelling like wild Indians, and we were in the midst of a rain of stones. Doctor Brinkerhoff got in and started the horse at full speed. "'We'll put her down,' he said, 'a little farther on. She can walk back.' "She was quiet, and her head was down, but I had one look from her eyes that haunts me yet. She hated everybody--you could see that,--and yet there was a sort of dumb helplessness about it that made my heart ache. "She got out, obediently, when we told her to, and stood by the roadside, watching us. 'Doctor,' I said, 'that child is not like the others, and she has been badly used. I want her--I want to take her home with me.' "'Bless your kind heart, dear lady,' he replied, laughing, and we were almost at home before I convinced him that I was in earnest. He would not let me go there again, but the very next day, he went, late in the afternoon, and brought her to me after dark, so that no one might see. East Lancaster has always made the most of every morsel of gossip. "The poor little soul was hungry, frightened, and oh, so dirty! I gave her a bath, cut off her hair, which was matted close to her head, fed her, and put her into a clean bed. The bruises on her body would have brought tears from a stone. I sat by her until she was asleep, and then went down to interview the Doctor, who was reading in the library. "He said that the people who had her were more than glad to get rid of her, and hoped that they might never see her again. Nothing had been paid toward her support for a long time, and they considered themselves victimised. "Of course I put detectives at work upon the case and soon found out all there was to know. She was the daughter of a play-actress, whose stage name was Iris Temple. Her husband deserted her a few months after their marriage, and when the child was born, she was absolutely destitute. Finally, she found work, but she could not take the child with her, and so Iris does not remember her mother at all. For six years she paid these people a small sum for the care of the child, then remittances ceased, and abuse began. We learned that she had died in a hospital, but there was no trace of the father. "There was no one to dispute my title, so I at once made it legal. Shortly afterward, she had a long, terrible fever, and oh, Margaret, the things that poor child said in her delirium! Doctor Brinkerhoff was here night and day, and his skill saved her, but when she came out of it she was a pitiful little ghost. Mercifully, she had forgotten a great deal, but even now some of the horror comes back to her occasionally. She knows everything, except that her mother was a play-actress. I would not want her to know that. "For a while," Aunt Peace went on, "we both had a very hard time. She was actually depraved. But I believed in the good that was hidden in her somewhere--there is good in all of us if we can only find it,--and little by little she learned to love me. Through it all, I had Doctor Brinkerhoff's sympathetic assistance. He came every week, advised me, counselled with me, helped me, and even faced the gossips. All that East Lancaster knows is the simple fact that I found a child who attracted me, discovered that her parents were dead, and adopted her. There was a great deal of excitement at first, but it died down. Most things die down, my dear, if we give them time." "Dear Aunt Peace," said Margaret, softly, "you found a bit of human driftwood, and with your love and your patience made it into a beautiful woman." The old face softened, and the serene eyes grew dim. "Whenever I think that my life has been in vain; when it seems empty, purposeless, and bare, I look at my little girl, remember what she was, and find content. I think that a great deal will be forgiven me, because I have done well with her." "I am so glad you told me," continued Margaret, after a little. "Her future has sorely troubled me. Of course I can make her comfortable, but money is not everything. I dread to have her go away from East Lancaster, and yet----" "She never need go," interrupted Margaret. "If, as you say, the house comes to me, there is no reason why she should. I would be so glad to have her with me!" "Thank you, my dear! It was what I wanted, but I did not like to ask. Now my mind will be at rest." "It is little enough to do for you, leaving her out of the question. She might be a great deal less lovely than she is, and yet it would be a pleasure to do it for you." "She will repay you, I am sure," said Aunt Peace. "Of course Lynn will marry sometime,"--here the mother's heart stopped beating for an instant and went on unevenly,--"so you will be left alone. You cannot expect to keep him in a place like East Lancaster. He is--how old?" "Twenty-three." "Then, in a few years more, he will leave you." Aunt Peace was merely meditating aloud as she looked out of the window, and had no idea that she was hurting her listener. "Perhaps, after all, Iris will be my best bequest to you." "Iris may marry," suggested Mrs. Irving, trying to smile. "Iris," repeated Aunt Peace, "no indeed! I have made her an old-fashioned spinster like myself. She has never thought of such things, and never will!" (At the moment, Miss Temple was reading an anonymous letter, much worn, but, though walls have ears, they are happily blind, and Aunt Peace did not realise that she was nowhere near the mark.) "Marriage is a negative relation," continued Miss Field, with an air of knowledge. "People undertake it from an unpardonable individual curiosity. They see it all around them, and yet they rush in, blindly trusting that their own venture will turn out differently from every other. Someone once said that it was like a crowded church--those outside were endeavouring to get in, and those inside were making violent efforts to get out. Personally, I have had the better part of it. I have my home, my independence, and I have brought up a child. Moreover, I have not been annoyed with a husband." "Suppose one falls in love," said Margaret, timidly. "Love!" exclaimed Aunt Peace. "Stuff and nonsense!" She rose majestically, and went out with her head high and the step of a grenadier. Left to herself, Margaret mentally reviewed their conversation, passing resolutely over the hurt that Aunt Peace had unconsciously made in her heart. Never before had it occurred to her that Lynn might marry. "He can't," she whispered; "why, he's nothing but a child." She turned her thoughts to Iris and Aunt Peace. The homeless little savage had grown into a charming woman, under the patient care of the only mother she had ever known. If Aunt Peace should die--and if Lynn should marry,--she did not phrase the thought, but she was very conscious of its existence,--she and Iris might make a little home for themselves in the old house. Two men, even the best of friends, can never make a home, but two women, on speaking terms, may do so. "If Lynn should marry!" Insistently, the torment of it returned. If he should fall in love, who was she to put a barrier in his path? His mother, whose heart had been hungry all these years, should she keep him back by so much as a word? Then, all at once, she knew that it was her own warped life which demanded it by way of compensation. "No," she breathed, with her lips white, "I will never stand in his way. Because I have suffered, he shall not." Then she laughed hysterically. "How ridiculous I am!" she said to herself. "Why, he is nothing but a child!" The mood passed, and the woman's soul began to dwell upon its precious memories. Mnemosyne, that guardian angel, forever separates the wheat from the chaff, the joy from the pain. At the touch of her hallowed fingers, the heartache takes on a certain calmness, which is none the less beautiful because it is wholly made of tears. Lynn's violin was silent now, and softly, from the back of the house, the girl's full contralto swelled into a song. "The hours I spent with thee, Dear Heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them over, every one apart-- My rosary! My rosary!" Iris sang because she was happy, but, none the less, the deep, vibrant voice had an undertone of sadness--a world-old sorrow which, by right of inheritance, was hers. Margaret's thoughts went back to her own girlhood, when she was no older than the unseen singer. Love's cup had been at her lips, then, and had been dashed away by a relentless hand. "O memories that bless and burn! O barren pain and bitter loss! I kiss each bead and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross--Sweetheart! To kiss the cross!" "'To kiss the cross,'" muttered Margaret, then the tears came in a blinding flood. "Mother! Mother!" she sobbed. "How could you!" Insensibly, something was changed, and, for the first time, the woman who had gone to her grave unforgiven, seemed not entirely beyond the reach of pardon. IX Rosemary and Mignonette "Sweet Lady of my Dreams, it cannot be that you are displeased. If you were, I should know, but do not ask me how! "Day by day, my eyes long for the sight of you; night by night my heart remembers you, for that inner vision does not vanish with the sun. You have unconsciously given me a priceless gift, for wherever I may go, I take you with me--all the grace of you, all the beauty, and all the softness. I have only to close my eyes and then I see. "But do not think I keep your image always before me, for it is not so. In the work-a-day world, you have no place. You belong, rather, to those fair lands of fancy which lie just beyond the borders of this world and are, or so I think, very near the gleaming gates of Heaven. "I am not always at work, but sometimes, even when I am, you come tripping before my eyes, so dainty, so wholly exquisite, that I forget what I am doing, and then I must put you aside. But when the day is done, and the light of it shows only through the pinholes pricked in the curtain of night, then I can think of you, as radiant, as beautiful, and as far above me as those very stars. "All unknowingly, you are the light of my day. Whatever darkness might surround me, your eyes would make it noon. However steep and thorny my path, your hand in mine would make it a sunny meadow, swept by shadowy wings, where the white and crimson clover bloomed all day. "You give me life. You make the birds sing more sweetly for me; you make the roses more fragrant, the moonlight more like pearl. You have glorified the commonplace affairs of the day with your enchantment; you have put the joy of the gods into the heart of a man. "Do you wonder that, loving you like this, I do not make myself known? Sweetheart, it is because I fear. Already I have more than I deserve because you are not displeased with me, and since I wrote last I have made progress. Would it surprise you very much if I told you I knew where you lived? "I fancy I see you now, with the scarlet signals flaming on your cheeks, but, Iris, I shall never intrude. It is for you to say whether I shall love you in silence and afar, or face to face, as I dream that some day I may. "I want you, dear--I want you with all my heart. Of all the women in the world, you are the one God meant for me. Otherwise, why have I been so strangely led to you? "Since the first day I saw you, I have knelt at your feet. Not for one moment have I forgotten you, so flower-like, so womanly, so dear. So will it always be, whether I live or die. Even to my grave, I shall take the memory of you. "To-night my memories are few, but my dreams--they are so many that I could not begin to tell you all. But one of them you must know--that some day you will let me tell you how much I love you, and promise me that I may shield you all the rest of your life. "The wind should never make you cold, the sun should never shine too fiercely upon you, the storm should never beat against you, if I had my way. "Iris, may I come? Will you let me teach you to care? So sure am I of my love that I ask only for the chance to make you believe. "Put a flower on your gate-post when the moon rises to-night, if you are willing that I should come. Two flowers, if you are willing that I should come sometime, but not now. Then, when your name-flower embroiders the marshes, you will know who loves you--who worships you--who offers you his all." * * * * * That night, when the moon swung high in the heavens, Iris tiptoed out into the garden, with the letter--sentient, alive, and human--crushed close against her heart. So conscious was she of its presence that she felt it blazoned upon her breast for all the world to read. Dew made the grass damp, but Iris did not care. Threads of silver light picked out a dainty tracery, and here and there set a dew-drop to gleaming like a diamond among unnumbered pearls. Drowsy chirps came from the maples above her, where the little birds slept in their swaying nests and dreamed of wild flights at dawn. A great white moth brushed against her face, as softly as thistledown, and she laughed, because it was so like a kiss. Down toward her corner of the garden she went, her dimity skirts daintily uplifted. The moonlight touched a cobweb woven across the rose-bush, and made a rainbow of it. "A little lost rainbow," thought Iris, "out alone in the night, like me!" She stooped and gathered a sprig of mignonette, then a bit of rosemary from Mrs. Irving's garden. "She won't care," said Iris, to herself; "she used to love somebody, long ago." She bound the two together with a blade of grass, and put the merest kiss between them, then impulsively wiped it away. But, after all, some trace of it must linger, and Iris did not intend to give too much, so she threw it aside, as it happened, into Lynn's garden. Then she gathered another sprig of mignonette, another leaf of rosemary, bound them together, and held them very far away, out of reach of temptation. Back toward the gate she went, her heart wildly beating against the imprisoned letter. She hesitated a moment in the shadow of the house. The great white moth had followed her and again touched her face caressingly. Suppose someone should see! But there was no one in sight. "Anyhow," thought Iris, "if one wishes to come out for a moment in the evening, to walk as far as the gate, it is all right. If there should be rosemary and mignonette on the gate-post in the morning, someone who was up very early might take it away before anybody had seen it. There would be no harm in leaving it there overnight, even though it isn't quite orderly." She went bravely toward the gate, and the moonbeams made an aureole about her hair. The light of dreams, shining through the mist, transfigured her with silver sheen. The earth was exquisitely still, and the sound of her little feet upon the gravelled path echoed and re-echoed strangely. Timidly, Iris put the rosemary and mignonette, bound together by a single blade of grass, first upon one gate-post and then upon the other. "Such a little bit!" she mused. "One couldn't call it a flower!" Yes, mignonette was a flower, but rosemary? Surely, no! She walked backward, slowly, toward the house, and to her conscious eyes, the tell-tale message dominated the landscape. The moonlight fairly made it shine. Almost at the steps, Iris was seized with panic. Then her light feet twinkled down the path, and frightened, trembling, and ashamed, she thrust the nosegay into the open throat of her gown. "Oh," murmured Iris, as she went hastily into the house, "what could I have been thinking of!" * * * * * But across the street, in the darkness of the shrubbery, Someone smiled. X In the Garden "To-night," said Aunt Peace, "we will sit in the garden." It was Wednesday, and the rites in the house were somewhat relaxed, though Iris, from force of habit, polished the tall silver candlesticks until they shone like new. Miss Field herself made a pan of little cakes, sprinkled them with powdered sugar, and put them away. She was never lovelier than when at her dainty tasks in her spotless kitchen. By some alchemy of the spirit, she made the homely duties of the day into pleasures--simple ones, perhaps, but none the less genuine. No one alluded to the fact that Doctor Brinkerhoff was coming. "Of course," as Iris said to Lynn, "we don't know that he is, but since he's missed only one Wednesday in ten years, we may be pardoned for expecting him." "One might think so," agreed Lynn, laughing. He took keen delight in the regular Wednesday evening comedy. "We make the little cakes for tea," continued Iris, her eyes dancing. "But we never have 'em for tea," Lynn objected, "and I wish you'd quit talking about 'em. It disturbs my peace of mind." "Pig!" exclaimed Iris. They were alone, and her face was dangerously near his. Her rosy lips were twitching in a most provoking way, and, immediately, there were Consequences. She left the print of four firm fingers upon Lynn's cheek, and he rubbed the injured place ruefully. "I don't see why I shouldn't kiss you," he said. "If you haven't learned yet, I'll slap you again." "No, you won't; I'll hold your hands next time." "There isn't going to be any 'next time.' The idea!" "Iris! Please don't go away! Wait a minute--I want to talk to you." "It's too bad it's so one-sided," remarked Iris, with a sidelong glance. "Look here!" "Well, I'm looking, but so much green--the grass--and the shrubbery, you know--and all--it's hard on my eyes." "We're cousins, aren't we?" Iris sat down on the bench beside him, evidently struck by a new idea. "I hadn't thought of it," she said conversationally. "Are we?" "I think we are. Mother is Aunt Peace's nephew, isn't she?" "Not that anybody knows of. A lady nephew is called a niece in East Lancaster." "Oh, well," replied Lynn, colouring, "you know what I mean. Mother is Aunt Peace's niece, isn't she?" "I hear so. A gentleman for whom I have much respect assures me of it." The wicked light in her eyes belied her words, and Lynn wished that he had kissed her twice while he had the opportunity. "It's the truth," he said. "And mother's my mother." "Really?" "So that makes me Aunt Peace's nephew." "Grand-nephew," corrected Iris, with double meaning. "Thank you for the compliment. Perhaps I'm a nephew-once-removed." "I haven't seen any signs of removal," observed Iris, "but I'd love to." "Don't be so frivolous! If I am Aunt Peace's nephew, what relation am I to her daughter?" "Legal daughter," Iris suggested. "Legal daughter is just as good as any other kind of a daughter. That makes me your cousin." "Legal cousin," explained Iris, "but not moral." "It's all the same, even in East Lancaster. I'm your legal cousin-once-removed." "Grand-legal-cousin-once-removed," repeated Iris, parrot-like, with her eyes fixed upon a distant robin. "That's just the same as a plain cousin." "You're plain enough to be a plain cousin," she observed, and the colour deepened upon Lynn's handsome face. "So I'm going to kiss you again." "You're not," she said, with an air of finality. She flew into the house and took refuge beside Mrs. Irving. "Mother," cried Lynn, closely following, "isn't Iris my cousin?" "No, dear; she's no relation at all." "So now!" exclaimed Iris, in triumph. "Grand-legal-cousin-once-removed, you will please make your escape immediately." "Little witch!" thought Lynn, as he went upstairs; "I'll see that she doesn't slap me next time." "Iris," said Mrs. Irving, suddenly, "you are very beautiful." "Am I, really?" For a moment the girl's deep eyes were filled with wonder, and then she smiled. "It is because you love me," she said, dropping a tiny kiss upon Margaret's white forehead; "and because I love you, I think you are beautiful, too." Alone in her room, Iris studied herself in her small mirror. It was just large enough to see one's face in, for Aunt Peace did not believe in cultivating vanity--in others. In her own room was a long pier-glass, where a certain young person stole brief glimpses of herself. "I'll go in there," she thought. "Aunt Peace is in the kitchen, and no one will know." She left the door open, that she might hear approaching footsteps, and was presently lost in contemplation. She turned her head this way and that, taking pleasure in the gleam of light upon the shining coils of her hair, and in the rosy tint of her cheeks. Just above the corner of her mouth, there was the merest dimple. Iris smiled, and then poked an inquiring finger into it. "I didn't know I had that," she said to herself, in surprise. "I wonder why I couldn't have a glass like this in my room? There's one in the attic--I know there is,--and oh, how lovely it would be!" "It's where I kissed you," said Lynn, from the doorway. "If you'll keep still, I'll make another one for you on the other side. You didn't have that dimple yesterday." "Mr. Irving," replied Iris, with icy calmness, "you will kindly let me pass." He stepped aside, half afraid of her in this new mood, and she went down the hall to her own room. She shut the door with unmistakable firmness, and Lynn sighed. "Happy mirror!" he thought. "She's the prettiest thing that ever looked into it." But was she, after all? Since the great mirror came over-seas, as part of the marriage portion of a bride, many young eyes had sought its shining surface and lingered upon the vision of their own loveliness. Many a woman, day by day, had watched herself grow old, and the mirror had seen tears because of it. The portraits in the hall and the old mirror had shared many a secret together. Happily, neither could betray the other's confidence. Iris, meanwhile, was finding such satisfaction as she might in the smaller glass, and meditating upon the desirability of the one in the attic. "I'll ask Aunt Peace," she thought, and knew, instantly, that she wouldn't ask Aunt Peace for worlds. "I'm vain," she said to herself, reprovingly; "I'm a vain little thing, and I won't look in the mirror any more, so there!" She reviewed her humdrum round of daily duties with increasing pity for herself. Then, she had had only the books and the people who moved across their eloquent pages, but now? Surely, Cupid had come to East Lancaster. Just think! Two letters, not so very far apart, from someone who worshipped her at a distance and was afraid to sign his name! And this very day, not more than an hour ago, she had been kissed. No man had ever kissed Iris before, not even a grand-legal-cousin-once-removed. Still, she rather wished it hadn't happened, for she felt different, someway. It would have been better if the writer of the letters had done it. A romance like this set her far above the commonplace--she felt very much older than Lynn, and was inclined to patronise him. He was nothing but a boy, who chased one around the garden with worms and put grasshoppers in one's hat. Yet one could pardon those things, when one was so undeniably popular. * * * * * After tea, they sat in the shadowy coolness of the parlour, waiting. The very air was expectant. Aunt Peace was beautiful in shimmering white, with the emerald gleaming at her throat. Mrs. Irving, as always, wore a black gown, and Iris had donned her best lavender muslin, in honour of the occasion. "Why can't we go outside?" asked Margaret. "We can, my dear," returned Aunt Peace, "but I was taught that it was better to wait in the house until after calling hours. Of course, there are few visitors in East Lancaster, but even on a desert island one must observe the proprieties, and a lady will always receive her guests in the house." While she was speaking, Doctor Brinkerhoff opened the gate. Miss Field affected not to see him, and waited until the maid ushered him in. "Good evening, Doctor," she said, "I assure you this is quite a pleasure." His manner toward the others was gentle, and even courtly, but he distinguished Miss Field by elaborate deference. If he disagreed with her, it was with evident respect for her opinion, and upon all disputed points he seemed eager to be convinced. "Shall we not go into the garden?" asked Aunt Peace, addressing them all. "We were just upon the point of going, Doctor, when you came." She led the way, with the Doctor beside her, attentive, gallant, and considerate. Margaret came next, with Miss Field's white shawl. Behind were Lynn and Iris, laughing like children at some secret joke. By a strange coincidence, five chairs were arranged in a sociable group under the tall pine in a corner of the garden. "Yes," Miss Field was saying, "I think East Lancaster is most beautiful at this time of year. I have not travelled much, but I have seen pictures, and I am content with my own little corner of the world." "And yet, madam," returned the Doctor, "you would so much enjoy travelling. It is too bad that you cannot go abroad." "Perhaps I may. I have not thought of it, but as you speak of it, it seems to me that it might be very pleasant to go." "Aunt Peace!" exclaimed Mrs. Irving. "What are you thinking of!" "Not of my seventy-five years, my dear; you may be sure of that." "Why shouldn't she go?" asked Lynn. "Aunt Peace could go anywhere and come back safely. Everybody she met would fall in love with her, and see that she was comfortable." "Quite right!" said the Doctor, with evident sincerity. "Flatterers!" she laughed. "Fie upon you!" But there was a note of happy youthfulness in the voice, and they knew that she was pleased. "If you go, madam," the Doctor continued, "it will be my pleasure to give you letters to friends of mine in Germany." "Thank you," she returned, with a stately inclination of her head. "It would be very kind." "And," he went on, "I have many books which would be of service to you. Shall I bring some of them, the next time I come?" "I would not trouble you, Doctor, but sometime, if you happened to be passing." "Yes," he answered, "when I happen to be passing. I shall not forget." "They might be interesting, if not of actual service. I am familiar with much that has been written of foreign lands. We have _Marco Polo's Adventures_ in our library." The Doctor coughed into his handkerchief. "The world has changed, dear madam, since Marco Polo travelled." "Yes," she sighed, "it is always changing, and we older ones are left far behind." "Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Lynn. "I'll tell you what, Aunt Peace, you're well up at the head of the procession. You're no farther behind than the drum-major is." "The drum-major, my dear? I do not understand. Is he a military gentleman?" "He's the boss of the whole shooting match," explained Lynn, inelegantly. "He wears a bear-skin bonnet and tickles the music out of the band. If it weren't for him, the whole show would go up in smoke." "Lynn!" said Margaret, reprovingly. "What language! Aunt Peace cannot understand you!" "I'll bet on Aunt Peace," remarked Lynn, sagely. "I fear I am not quite abreast of the times," said the old lady. "Do you think, Doctor, that the world grows better, or worse?" "Better, madam, steadily better. I can see it every day." "It is well for one to think so," observed Margaret, "whatever the facts may be." Midsummer and moonlight made enchantment in the garden. Merlin himself could have done no more. The house, half hidden in the shadow, stood waiting, as it had done for two centuries, while those who belonged under its roof made holiday outside. Most of them had gone forever, and only their portraits were left, but, replete with memories both happy and sad, the house could not be said to be alone. The tall pine threw its gloom far beyond them, and the moonlight touched Aunt Peace caressingly. Her silvered hair gleamed with unearthly beauty and her serene eyes gave sweet significance to her name. All those she cared for were about her--daughter and friends. "Nights like this," said the Doctor, dreamily, "make one think of the old fairy tales. Elves and witches are not impossible, when the moon shines like this." Lynn looked across the garden to the rose-bush, where a cobweb, dew-impearled, had captured a bit of wandering rainbow. "They are far from impossible," he answered. "I think they were here only the other night, for in the morning, when I went out to look at my vegetables, I found something queer among the leaves." "Something queer, my dear?" asked Aunt Peace, with interest. "What was it?" "A leaf of rosemary and a sprig of mignonette, tied round with a blade of grass and wet with dew." "How strange," said Margaret. "How could it have happened?" "Rosemary," said Aunt Peace, "that means remembrance, and the mignonette means the hope of love. A very pretty message for a fairy to leave among your vegetables." "Very pretty," repeated the Doctor, nodding appreciation. Iris feared they heard the loud beating of her heart. "What do you think?" asked Lynn, turning to her. "Was it a fairy?" "Of course," she returned, with assumed indifference. "Who else?" There was silence then, and in the house the clock struck ten. They heard it plainly, and the Doctor, with a start of recollection, took out his huge silver watch. "I had no idea it was so late," he said. "I must go." "One moment, Doctor," began Miss Field, putting out a restraining hand. "Let me offer you some refreshment before you start upon that long walk. Iris?" "Yes, Aunt Peace." "Those little cakes that we had for tea--there may be one or two left--and is there not a little wine?" "I'll see." Lynn followed her, and presently they came back, with the Royal Worcester plate piled generously with cakes, and a decanter of the port that was famous throughout East Lancaster. With a smile upon her lips, the old lady leaned forward, into the moonlight, glass in hand. The brim of another touched it and the clear ring of crystal seemed carried afar into the night. "To your good health, madam." "And to your prosperity." "This has been very charming," said the Doctor, as he brushed away the crumbs, "and now, my dear Miss Iris, may we not hope for a song?" "Which one?" "'Annie Laurie,' if you please." Iris went in, and Margaret made a move to follow her. "Don't go, mother," said Lynn, "let's stay here." "I'm afraid Aunt Peace will take cold." "No, dearie, I have my shawl. Let me be young again, just for to-night, with no fear of draughts or colds. Midsummer has never hurt anyone, and, as Doctor Brinkerhoff says, the good fairies are abroad to-night." The old-fashioned ballad took on new beauty and meaning. Mellowed by the distance, the girl's deep contralto was surpassingly tender and sweet. When she came out, the others were silent, with the spell of her song still upon them. "A good voice," said Lynn, half to himself. "She should study." "Iris has had lessons," returned Aunt Peace, with gentle dignity, "and her voice pleases her friends. What is there beyond that?" "Fame," said Lynn. "Fame is the love of the many," Aunt Peace rejoined, "and counts for no more than the love of the few. The great ones have said it was barren, and my little girl will be better off here." As she spoke, she put her arm around Iris, and they went to the house together. At the steps, there was a pause, and Doctor Brinkerhoff said good night. "It has been perfect," said Miss Field, as she gave him her hand. "If this were to be my last night on earth, I could not ask for more--my beautiful garden, with the moonlight shining upon it, music, and my best friends." The Doctor was touched, and bent low over her hand, pressing it ever so lightly with his lips. "I thank you, dear madam," he answered, gently, "for the happiest evening I have ever spent." "Come again, then," she said, graciously, with a happy little laugh. "The years stretch fair before us, when one is but seventy-five!" * * * * * That night, just at the turn of dawn, Margaret was awakened by a hot hand upon her face. "Dearie," said Aunt Peace, weakly, "will you come? I'm almost burning up with fever." XI "Sunset and Evening Star" Doctor Brinkerhoff came in the morning, but afterward, when Margaret questioned him, he shook his head sadly. "I will do the best I can," he said, "and none of us can do more." He went down the path, bent and old. He seemed to have aged since the previous night. On Friday, Lynn went to Herr Kaufmann's as usual, but he played carelessly. "Young man," said the Master, "why is it that you study the violin?" "Why?" repeated Lynn. "Well, why not?" "It is all the same," returned the Master, frankly. "I can teach you nothing. You have the technique and the good wrist, you read quickly, but you play like one parrot. When I say 'fortissimo,' you play fortissimo; when I say 'allegro,' you play allegro. You are one obedient pupil," he continued, making no effort to conceal his scorn. "What else should I be?" asked Lynn. "Do not misunderstand," said the Master, more kindly. "You can play the music as it is written. If that satisfies you, well and good, but the great ones have something more. They make the music to talk from one to another, but you express nothing. It is a possibility that you have nothing to express." Lynn walked back and forth with his hands behind his back, vaguely troubled. "One moment," the Master went on, "have you ever felt sorry?" "Sorry for what?" "Anything." "Of course--I am often sorry." "Well," sighed the Master, instantly comprehending, "you are young, and it may yet come, but the sorrows of youth are more sharp than those of age, and there is not much chance. The violin is the most noble of instruments. It is for those who have been sorry to play to those who are. You have nothing to give, but it is one pity to lose your fine technique. Since you wish to amuse, change your instrument, and study the banjo, or perhaps the concertina." Lynn understood no more than if Herr Kaufmann had spoken in a foreign tongue. "I may have to stop for a little while," he said, "for my aunt is ill, and I can't practise." "Practise here," returned the Master, indifferently. "Fredrika will not care. Or go to the office of mine friend, the Herr Doctor. He will not mind. A fine gentleman, but he has no ear, no taste. Until you acquire the concertina, you may keep on with the violin." "My mother," began Lynn. "She wants me to be an artist." "An artist!" repeated the Master, with a bitter laugh. "Your mother--" here he paused and looked keenly into Lynn's eyes. Something was stirred; some far-off memory. "She believes in you, is it not so?" "Yes, she does--she has always believed in me." "Well," said the Master, with an indefinable shrug, "we must not disappoint her. You work on like one faithful parrot, and I continue with your instruction. It is good that mothers are so easy to please." "Herr Kaufmann," pleaded the boy, "tell me. Shall I ever be an artist?" "Yes, I think so." "When?" "When the river flows up hill and the sun rises in the west." Suddenly, Lynn's face turned white. "I will!" he cried, passionately; "I will! I will be an artist! I tell you, I will!" "Perhaps," returned the Master. He was apparently unmoved, but afterward, when Lynn had gone, he regretted his harshness. "I may be mistaken," he admitted to himself, grudgingly. "There may be something in the boy, after all. He is young yet, and his mother, she believes in him. Well, we shall see!" Lynn went home by a long, circuitous route. Far beyond East Lancaster was a stretch of woodland which he had not as yet explored. Herr Kaufmann's words still rang in his ears, and for the first time he doubted himself. He sat down on a rock to think it over. "He said I had the technique," mused Lynn, "but why should I feel sorry?" After long study, he concluded that the Master was eccentric, as genius is popularly supposed to be, and determined to think no more of it. Still, it was not so easily put wholly aside. "You play like one parrot,"--that single sentence, like a barbed shaft, had pierced the armour of his self-esteem. He went on through the woods, and stopped at a pile of rocks near a spring. It might have been an altar erected to the deity of the wood, but for one symbol. On the topmost stone was chiselled a cross. "Wonder who did it," said Lynn, to himself, "and what for." He found some wild berries, made a cup of leaves, and filled it with the fragrant fruit, planning to take it to Aunt Peace. But when he reached home Aunt Peace was far beyond the thought of berries. She was delirious, and her ravings were pitiful. Iris was as white as a ghost, and Margaret was sorely troubled. "Lynn," she said, "don't go away. I need you. Where have you been?" "To my lesson, and then for a walk. Herr Kaufmann says I may practise there sometimes. He also suggested Doctor Brinkerhoff's." "That was kind, and I am sure the Doctor will be willing. How does he think you are getting along?" She asked the question idly, and scarcely expected an answer, but Lynn turned his face away and refused to meet her eyes. "Not very well," he said, in a low tone. "Why not, dear? You practise enough, don't you?" "Yes, I think so. He says I have the technique and the good wrist, but I play like a parrot, and can only amuse. He told me to take up the concertina." Margaret smiled. "That is his way. Just go on, dear, and do the very best you can." "But I don't want to disappoint you, mother--I want to be an artist." "Lynn, dear, you will never disappoint me. You have been a comfort to me since the day you were born. What should I have done without you in all these years that I have been alone!" She drew his tall head down and kissed him, but Lynn, boy-like, evaded the sentiment and turned it into a joke. "That's very Irish, mother--'what would you have done without me in all the time you've been alone?' How is the invalid?" "The fever is high," sighed Margaret, "and Doctor Brinkerhoff looks very grave." "I hope she isn't going to die," said Lynn, conventionally. "Can I do anything?" "No, nothing but wait. Sometimes I think that waiting is the very hardest thing in the world." That day was like the others. Weeks went by, and still Aunt Peace fought gallantly with her enemy. Doctor Brinkerhoff took up his abode in the great spare chamber and was absent from the house only when there was urgent need of his services elsewhere. He even gave up his Sunday afternoons at Herr Kaufmann's, and Fräulein Fredrika was secretly distressed. "Fredrika," said the Master, gently, "the suffering ones have need of our friend. We must not be selfish." "Our friend possesses great skill," replied the Fräulein, with quiet dignity. "Do you think he will forget us, Franz?" "Forget us? No! Fear not, Fredrika; it is only little loves and little friendships that forget. One does not need those ties which can be broken. The Herr Doctor himself has said that, and of a surety, he knows. Let us be patient and wait." "To wait," repeated Fredrika; "one finds it difficult, is it not so?" "Yes," smiled the Master, "but when one has learned to wait patiently, one has learned to live." Meanwhile, Aunt Peace grew steadily weaker, and the strain was beginning to tell upon all. Doctor Brinkerhoff had lost his youth--he was an old man. Margaret, painfully anxious, found relief from heartache only in unremitting toil. Iris ate very little, slept scarcely at all, and crept about the house like the ghost of her former self. Lynn alone maintained his cheerfulness. "Iris," said Aunt Peace, one day, "come here." "I'm here," said the girl, kneeling beside the bed, and putting her cold hand upon the other's burning cheek, "what can I do?" "Nothing, dearie. I could get well, I think, were it not for my terrible dreams." Iris shuddered, and yet was thankful because Aunt Peace could call her delirium "dreams." "Lately," continued Aunt Peace, "I have been afraid that I am not going to get well." "Don't!" cried Iris, sharply, turning her face away. "Dearie, dearie," said the other, caressingly, "be my brave girl, and let me talk to you. When the dreams come back, I shall not know you, but now I do. I am stronger to-day, and we are alone, are we not? Where are the others?" "The Doctor has gone to see someone who is very ill. Lynn has taken Mrs. Irving out for a walk." "I am glad," said Aunt Peace, tenderly. "Margaret has been very good to me. You have all been good to me." Iris stroked the flushed face softly with her cool hand. In her eyes were love and longing, and a foreshadowed loneliness. "Dearie," Aunt Peace continued, "listen while I have the strength to speak. All the papers are in a tin box, in the trunk in the attic. There you will find everything that is known of your father and mother. I do not anticipate any need of the information, but it is well that you should know where to find it. "I have left the house to Margaret," she went on, with difficulty, "for it was rightfully hers, and after her it goes to Lynn, but there is a distinct understanding that it shall be your home while you live, if you choose to claim it. Margaret has promised me to keep you with her. When Lynn marries, as some day he will, you will be left alone. You and Margaret can make a home together." The girl's face was hidden in her hands, and her shoulders shook with sobs. "Don't, dearie," pleaded Aunt Peace, gently; "be my brave girl. Look up at me and smile. Don't, dearie--please don't! "I have left you enough to make you comfortable," she went on, after a little, "but not enough to be a care to you, nor to make you the prey of fortune hunters. It is, I think, securely invested, and you will have the income while you live. Some few keepsakes are yours, also--they are written down in"--here she hesitated--"in a paper Doctor Brinkerhoff has. He has been very good to us, dearie. He is almost your foster-father, for he was with me when I found you. He is a gentleman," she said, with something of her old spirit, "though he has no social position." "Social position is not much, Aunt Peace, beside the things that really count, do you think it is?" "I hardly know, dearie, but I have changed my mind about a great many things since I have lain here. I was never ill before--in all my seventy-five years, I have never been ill more than a day at a time, and it seems very hard." "It is hard, Aunt Peace, but we hope you will soon be well." "No, dearie," she answered, "I'm afraid not. But do not let us borrow trouble, and let me tell you something to remember. When you have the heartache, dearie,"--here the old eyes looked trustfully into the younger ones,--"don't forget that you made me happy. You have filled my days with sunshine, and, more than anything else, you have kept me young. I know you thought me harsh at first, but now, I am sure you understand. You have been my own dear daughter, Iris. If you had been my own flesh and blood, you could not have been more to me than you have." Margaret came in, and Iris went away, sobbing bitterly. Aunt Peace sighed heavily. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes burned like stars. "I'm afraid you've tired yourself," said Margaret, softly. "Was I gone too long?" "No, indeed! Iris has been with me, and I am better to-day." "Try to sleep," said Margaret, soothingly. Obediently, Aunt Peace closed her eyes, but presently she sat up. "I'm so warm," she said, fretfully. "Where is Doctor Brinkerhoff?" "He has not come yet, but I think he will be here soon." "Margaret?" "Yes, Aunt Peace." "Will you write off the recipe for those little cakes for him? He may be able to find someone to make them for him, though of course they will not be the same." "Yes, I will." "It's in my book. They are called 'Doctor Brinkerhoff's cakes.' You will not forget?" "No, I won't forget. Can't you sleep now?" "I'll try." Presently, the deep regular breathing told that she was asleep. Iris came back with her eyes swollen and Margaret took her out into the hall. They sat there for a long time, hand in hand, waiting, but no sound came from the other room. "I cannot bear it," moaned Iris, her mouth quivering. "I cannot bear to have Aunt Peace die." "Life has many meanings," said Margaret, "but it is what we make it, after all. The pendulum swings from daylight to darkness, from sun to storm, but the balance is always true." Iris leaned against her, insensibly comforted. "She would be the first to tell you not to grieve," Margaret went on, though her voice faltered, "and still, we need sorrow as the world needs night. We cannot always live in the sun. We can take what comes to us bravely, as gentlewomen should, but we must take it, dear--there is no other way." Long afterward, Iris remembered the look on Margaret's face as she said it, but the tears blinded her just then. Doctor Brinkerhoff came back at twilight, anxious and worn, yet eager to do his share. Through the night he watched with her, alert, capable, and unselfish, putting aside his personal grief for the sake of the others. In the last days, those two had grown very near together. When the dreams came, he held her in his arms until the tempest passed, and afterwards, soothed her to sleep. "Doctor," she said one day, "I have been thinking a great deal while I have lain here. I seem never to have had the time before. I think it is well, at the end, to have a little space of calm, for one sees so much more clearly." "You have always seen clearly, dear lady," said the Doctor, very gently. "Not always," she answered, shaking her head. "I can see many a mistake now. The fogs have sometimes gathered thick about me, but now they have lifted forever. We are but ships on the sea of life," she went on. "My course has lain through calm waters, for the most part, with the skies blue and fair above me. I have been sheltered, and I can see now that it might have made me stronger and better to face some of the storms. Still, my Captain knows, and now, when I can hear the breakers booming on the reef where I am to strike my colours, I am not afraid." The end came on Sunday, just at sunset, while the bells were tolling for the vesper service. The crescent moon rocked idly in the west, and a star glimmered faintly above it. "Sunset and evening star," she repeated, softly. "And one clear call for me. Will you say the rest of it?" Choking, Doctor Brinkerhoff went on with the poem until he reached the last verse, when he could speak no more. "For though from out our bourne of time and place The flood may bear me far, I hope to meet my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar." She finished it, then turned to him with her face illumined. "It is beautiful," she said, "is it not, my friend?" * * * * * Twilight came, and Margaret found them there when she went in with a lighted candle. The Doctor sat at the side of the bed, very stiff and straight, with the tears streaming over his wrinkled face. On his shoulder, like a tired child, lay Aunt Peace, who had put on, at last, her Necklace of Perfect Joy. XII The False Line Up in the darkened chamber where Aunt Peace lay, Iris stood face to face with the greatest sorrow of her life. Was this, then, the end? Was there nothing more? Cold as snow, unpitying as marble, Death mocked Iris as she stood there, mutely questioning. Timidly she touched the waxen cheek. The crimson fires burned there no more--the fever was gone. Through the house resounded the steady tread of muffled feet. Of all the horrors of Death, the worst is that seemingly endless procession who come to offer "sympathy," to ask if there is anything they can do. Mere acquaintances, privileged only by a casual nod, break down all barriers when the Conqueror comes. Is it that idle curiosity which occasionally dominates the best of us, or is it Life, triumphant for the moment, looking forward fearfully to its inevitable end? Some "friend of the family," high in its confidence, assumes the responsibility at such times. Chance callers are rewarded with grisly details and grewsome descriptions of the soul struggling to free itself from its bonds. We are told how the others "took it," when at last the sail was spread for the voyage over the uncharted sea. In the hall, straight as a soldier under orders, stood Doctor Brinkerhoff. "No, madam," he would say, "there is nothing you can do. The arrangements are made. I will tell Mrs. Irving and Miss Temple that you called. Yes, we were expecting it. She died peacefully; there was no pain. To-morrow at four." And then again: "Thank you, there is nothing you can do, but it is kind of you to offer. The ladies will be grateful for your sympathy. Who shall I say called?" "Iris," pleaded Margaret, "come away." The girl started. "I can't," she answered, dully. "You must come, dear--come into my room." Unwillingly, Iris suffered herself to be led away. It is only the surface emotion which is relieved by tears. Within the prison-house of the soul, when Grief, clad in grey garments, enters silently and prepares to remain, there is no weeping. One hides it, as the Spartan covered the bleeding wound in his breast. "Dear," said Margaret, "my heart aches for you." "She was all I had," whispered Iris. "But not all you have. Lynn and I, and Doctor Brinkerhoff--surely we are something." "Did you ever care?" asked Iris, her despairing eyes fixed upon Margaret. The older woman shrank from the question. She was tempted to dissemble, but one tells the truth in the presence of Death. "Not as you care," she answered. "My mother broke my heart. She took me away from the man I loved, and forced me to marry another, whom I only respected. When my husband died, I had my freedom, but it came too late. When my mother died--she died unforgiven." "Then you don't understand." "Yes, dear, I understand. You must remember that I loved her too." "Suppose it had been Lynn?" "Lynn!" cried Margaret, with her lips white. "Lynn! Dear God, no!" Iris laughed hysterically. "You do not understand," she said, with forced calmness, "but you would if it were Lynn. You would not let me keep you away if it were Lynn instead of Aunt Peace, so please do not disturb me again." Back she went, into the darkened chamber, and closed the door. Lynn walked back and forth through the halls aimlessly. All along, he had felt the repulsion of the healthy young animal for the aged and ill. Now he was unmoved, save by the dank, sweet smell of the house of death. It grated on his sensibilities and made him shudder. He wished that it was over. From his mother, he felt a curious alienation. Her eyes were red, and, man-like, Lynn hated tears. From Doctor Brinkerhoff, too, a gulf divided him. His fingers itched for his violin, but he could not practise. It would not disturb Aunt Peace, but it would be considered out of keeping with the situation. The Doctor's rooms over the post-office were also impossible. He smiled at the thought of the gossip which would permeate East Lancaster if he should practise there. But at Herr Kaufmann's? His face brightened, and with characteristic impulsiveness he hastened downstairs. Doctor Brinkerhoff still stood in the hall, a little wearily, perhaps, but calmness overlaid his features like a mask. Lynn wondered at the change in him. "Mr. Irving," he said, huskily, "you were going out?" "Yes," replied Lynn, "to Herr Kaufmann's. I can do nothing here," he added, by way of apology. "No," sighed the Doctor, "no one can do anything here, but wait one moment." "Yes?" responded Lynn, with a rising inflection. "Is there some message?" "It is my message," said the Doctor, with dignity. "Say to him, please, that no provision has been made for music to-morrow, and that I would like him to come. Be sure to say that I ask it." "Very well." Lynn moved away from the house decorously, though the freedom of the outer air and the spring of the turf beneath his feet lifted the cloud from his spirits and urged him to hasten his steps. Doctor Brinkerhoff looked after him, his old eyes dim. The impassable chasm of the years lay between him and Lynn--a measureless gulf which no trick of magic might span. "If I had it to do over," said the Doctor, to himself,--"if I had my lost youth--and was not afraid,--things would not be as they are now." Margaret saw him from her upper window, and something tightened round her heart, as though some iron hand held it unpityingly. Then came a great throb of relief, because it was Aunt Peace, instead of Lynn. Iris, too, had seen him as he left the house. She perceived that he was eager to get away--that only a sense of the fitness of things kept him from running and whistling as was his wont. From the first, she had known that it was nothing to him. "He has no heart," she said to herself. "He is as cold as--as cold as Aunt Peace is now." Slow torture held the girl in a remorseless gird. Dimly, she knew that some day there would be a change--that it could not always be like this. Sometime it must ease, and each throb would be sensibly less of a hurt--just a little easier to bear. With rare prescience, also, she knew that nothing in the world would ever be the same again--that she had come to the dividing line. One reaches it as a light-hearted child; one crosses it--a woman. "No," said the Doctor, for the fiftieth time, "there is nothing you can do. Mrs. Irving and Miss Temple are not receiving. Yes, we expected it. The end was very peaceful and she did not suffer at all. Yes, it is surely a comfort to know that. The arrangements are all made. Yes, thank you, we have the music provided for. It was kind of you to come, and the ladies will be grateful for your sympathy. Who shall I say called?" Behind him were the portraits, ranged in orderly rows. Some were old and others young, but all had gone the way that Peace should go to-morrow. Dumbly, the Doctor wondered if the same remorseless questioning had gone on every time there had been a death in the old house, and, if so, why the very floors did not cry out in protest at the desecration. Life, that mystery of mysteries! The silence at the end and the beginning is far easier to understand than the rainbow that arches between. Man, the epitome of his forbears,--more than that, the epitome of creation,--stands by himself--the riddle of the universe. The house in some way seemed alive, in pitiful contrast to its mistress, who lay upstairs, spending her last night in the virginal whiteness of her chamber. To-night there, and to-morrow night---- Doctor Brinkerhoff, unable to bear the thought, recoiled as if from an unexpected blow. Was it fancy, or did the painted lips of the young officer in the uniform of the Colonies part in an ironical smile? * * * * * "So," said the Master, as he opened the door, "you are late to your lesson." "It is my lesson day, isn't it?" returned Lynn. "But I have only come to practise. My aunt is dead." "So? Your aunt?" "Yes, Aunt Peace. Miss Field, you know," he continued, in explanation. "So? I did not know. When was it?" "Sunday afternoon." "And this is Tuesday. Well, we hear very little up here. It is too bad." "Yes," agreed Lynn, awkwardly, "It--it upsets things." The Master looked at him narrowly. "So it does. For instance, you have lost one lesson on account of it, but you can practise. Come down in mine shop where I am finishing mine violin. You shall play your concerto. It is not a necessity to lose the practise for death." "That's what I thought," said Lynn, as they went downstairs. "She was very old, you know--more than seventy-five. There is a great deal of fuss made about such things." Again the Master looked at him sharply, but Lynn was unconscious and perfectly sincere. He was not touched at all. "You can have one of mine violins," the Master resumed, "and I shall finish the one upon which I am at work. The concerto, please." At once Lynn began, walking back and forth restlessly as he played. He had long since memorised the composition, and when he finished the first movement he paused to tighten a string. "You," said the Master,--"you have studied composition?" "Only a little." "You feel no gift in that line?" "No, not at all." "It is only to play?" "Yes, for the present." "Then," said the Master, changing the position of the bridge on the violin in his hand, "if you have no talents for composition, why do you not let the composer of your concerto have his own way? You should not correct him--it is most impolite." "What--what do you mean?" stammered Lynn. "Nothing," said the Master, "only, if you have no gifts, you should play G sharp where it is written, instead of G natural. It is not what one might call an improvement in the concerto." Lynn flushed, and began to play the movement over again, but before he reached the bar in question he had forgotten. When he came to it he played G natural again, and instantly perceived his mistake. The Master laughed. "Genius," he said, "must have its own way. It is not to be held down by the written score. It must make changes, flourishes, improvements. It is one pity that the composer cannot know." "I forgot," temporised Lynn. "So? Then why not take up the parlour organ? You should have an instrument on which the notes are all made. I should not advise the banjo, or even the concertina. The organ that turns by the handle would be better yet. To make the notes--that is most difficult, is it not so? Now, then, the adagio. Let us see how much you can better that." Lynn played it correctly, and with intelligence, but without feeling. "One moment," said the Master. "There is something I do not understand. That adagio is one of the most beautiful things ever written. It is full of one heartache and has in it many tears. Your aunt, you say, lies dead in your house, and yet you play it like one machine. I cannot see! Perhaps you had quarrelled?" "No," returned Lynn, in astonishment, "I was very, very fond of her." There was a long silence, then the Master sighed. "The thing means more than the person," he said. "Whoever is dead, if it is only one little bird, it should make you feel sad. But it waits. Before you have finished, the world will do one of three things to you. It will make your heart very soft, very hard, or else break it, so. No one escapes." "By the way," began Lynn, eager to change the subject, "Doctor Brinkerhoff told me to ask you to come and play at the funeral to-morrow at four o'clock. He said it was his wish." The Master's face was troubled. "Once," he said, "I promised one very angry lady that I would not go in that house again, and I have kept mine word. It was only once I went, but that was too much. Still, it was twenty-five years and more past, and she has long since been dead. Death frees one from a promise, is it not so?" "Of course," replied Lynn, vaguely. "At any rate, mine friend, the Herr Doctor, has asked it, even after he has known of mine promise, and, of a surety, he is wiser than I. I will come, at four, with mine violin." Lynn took the long way home, his sunny nature deeply disturbed. "What is it?" he vainly asked of himself. "Am I different from everybody else? They all seem to know something that I do not." * * * * * Iris kept her long vigil by Aunt Peace, her grief too great for her starved body to withstand. At the sound of a fall, Doctor Brinkerhoff left his post and hurried upstairs. Margaret was there almost as soon as he was. Iris had fainted. Together, they carried her into her own room, where at length she revived. "What happened?" she asked, weakly. "Did I fall?" "Hush, dear," said Margaret. "Lie still. I'm coming to sit with you after a while." She went out into the hall to speak to the Doctor, but he was not there. By instinct, she knew where to find him, and went into the front room. He stood with his back to the door, looking down upon that marble face. Margaret was beside him, before he knew of her presence, and when he turned, for once off his guard, she read his secret. "She never knew," he said, briefly, as though in explanation. "I never dared to tell her. Sometimes I think the lines we draw are false ones--that God knows best." "Yes," replied Margaret, unsteadily, "the lines are false, but it is always too late when we find it out." "Yet a part of the barrier was of His own making. She was infinitely above me. I should have been her slave; I was never meant to be her equal. Still, the thirsty heart will aspire to the waters beyond its reach." "She knows now," said Margaret. "Yes, she knows now, and she pardons me for my presumption. I can read it in her face as I stand here." Margaret choked back a sob. "Come away," she said, with her hand upon his arm, "come away until to-morrow." "Until to-morrow," he repeated, softly. He closed the door quietly, as though he feared the sound might break her sleep. Iris was resting, and Margaret tiptoed down into the parlour, where the Doctor sat with his grey head bowed upon his hands. "She knows it now," he said again, "and she forgives me. I can feel it in my heart." "If she had known it before," said Margaret, "things would have been different," but she knew that what she said was untrue. "No," he returned, shaking his head, "the line was there. You would not know what it is like unless there had been a line between you and the one you loved." "There was," she answered, hoarsely, then her eyes met his. "You, too?" he asked, unbelieving, but she could not speak. She only bowed her head in assent. Then his hand grasped hers in full understanding. The false line divided them, also, but in one thing, at least, they were kindred. "I wish," said the Doctor, after a little, "that we could hide her away before to-morrow. The people she has held herself apart from all her life will come and look at her now that she is helpless." "That is the irony of it," returned Margaret. "I have even prayed to outlive those I hated, so that they could not come and look at me when I was dead." "Have you outlived them?" "Yes," answered Margaret, thickly, "every one." "You hated someone who drew the false line?" "Yes." "And that person is dead?" "Yes." "Then," said the Doctor, very gently, "when you have forgiven, the line will be blotted out. The one on the other side of it may be out of your reach forever, but the line will be gone." The idea was new to her, that she must forgive. She thought of it long afterward, when the house was as quiet as its sleeping mistress, and the pale stars faded to pearl at the hour of dawn. The third day came; the end of that pitiful period in which we wait, blindly hoping that the miracle of resurrection may be given once more, and the stone be rolled away from our dead. It was Doctor Brinkerhoff who had the casket closed before the strangers came, and afterward he told Margaret. "She would be thankful," Margaret assured him, and his eyes filled. "Yes," he answered, huskily, "I believe she would." They sat together at the head of the stairs, out of sight, and yet within hearing. Lynn sat at one end, still perplexed, and shuddering at the unpleasantness of it all. His mother's hand was in his, and with her left arm she supported Iris, who leaned heavily against her shoulder, broken-hearted. On the other side of Iris was Doctor Brinkerhoff, austere and alone. From below came the wonderful words of the burial service: "I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." It was followed by a beautiful tribute to Aunt Peace--to the countless good deeds of her five and seventy years. Then there was silence, broken by the muffled sound of a string being tightened to harmonise with the piano. Swiftly upon the discordant note, the voice of a violin, strong, clear, and surpassingly sweet, rose in an _Ave Maria_. Margaret started to her feet. "What is it?" she whispered, hoarsely. "Mother," said Lynn, in a low tone, "don't. It is only Herr Kaufmann. We asked him to play." "The Cremona!" she muttered. "The Cremona--here--to-day!" She lay back in her chair with her eyes closed and her mouth quivering. Lynn held her hand tightly, and Iris breathed hard. Doctor Brinkerhoff listened intently, his heart rejoicing in the beauty of it, because it was done for her. Deep chords, full and splendid, sounded an ultimate triumph over Death. The music counselled acceptance, resignation, because of something that lay beyond--indefinite, yet complete restitution, when the time of its fulfilment should be at hand. Beside it, the individual grief sank into insignificance--it was the sorrow of the world demanding payment for itself from the world's joy. Something vast and appealing took the place of the finite passion, seeking hungrily for its own ends, and in the greatness of it, with heart uplifted, Margaret forgave the dead. XIII To Iris "Daughter of the Marshes, the winds have told me you are sad. If I could, I would bear it for you, but there is no way by which one of us may take another's burden. "I wish I might come to you, but now, when you are troubled, I will not ask you for a signal, even for a flower on the gate-post. I would always have you happy, dear, if my love could buy it from the Fates--those deep eyes of yours should never be veiled by the mist of tears. "Do you know where the marsh is, Iris? You have lived in East Lancaster for many years, so the gossips tell me, yet I doubt whether you could find it unless someone showed you the way. To reach it, you must follow the river, through all its turns and windings, for many a weary mile. "Up in those distant hills, so far that I have never found it, the river begins--perhaps in some tiny pool of crystal clearness. It sings along over its rocky bed until it reaches a low, sandy plain, and here is the marsh. I was there the other day, just at sunset; my heart thrilled with the beauty of it because it is the beauty of you. "How shall I tell you of the wonder of the marshes, those wide, watery plains embroidered with strange bloom? Tall, slender rushes stand there, bending gracefully when the wind passes, and answering with music to the touch. Have you ever heard the song of the marshes when the wind moves through the rushes and plays upon them like strings? Some day, I will take you there, and you shall listen, too, and tell me what you think it means. "Here and there are pools, set like jewels among the rushes, with never a hint of growth. Sometimes you see a wide sweep of grass, starred with tiny yellow flowers, or a lily, surrounded by its leaves, drinking in the loveliness of the day and forgetting all the maze of slime and dark water through which it has somehow come. I think our souls are like that, Iris--we grow through the world, with all its darkness, borne upward by unfailing aspiration, until we reach the end, which we have been taught to call Heaven, but which is only blossoming in the light. "But of all the radiant beauty of marshes, the best is this--that part of it which bears the purple flower of your name. In and out of the rushes, like the thread of a strange tapestry, it winds and wanders, hidden for an instant, maybe, but never lost. I have gathered an armful of the blossoms, and put my face down to them, closing my eyes, and dreaming that it was you--you whom I must ever hold apart as something too beautiful for me to touch--you, whom I can only love from afar. "I have told you that I would come when the iris bloomed, but now, when the marsh is glorious with the purple banners, I dare not. It is not only because you are sad, though not for worlds would I trouble you now, but because I am afraid. "Only in my wildest moments do I dare to hope--you were never meant for such as I. By day, I bow my soul before you in shame at my own unworthiness, but at night, like some flaming star which speeds across the uncharted dark, you light the barren country of my dreams. "I think sometimes that I shall never dare to tell you; that it must be like this, year after year. If you knew your lover, who is so bold and yet so fearful, I think you would cast him aside in scorn. So it is better for me to believe, though that belief has no foundation,--better for me to hope than utterly to despair. Without you, I dare not think what life might be. "Like the marsh, the years stretch out before me--a vast plain of which the uncertainty only is sure. They are full of strange pitfalls, of unsounded deeps and silences, of impassable barriers which I, disheartened and doubting, must one day meet face to face. "Night lies upon it, and I cannot see the way. Storm beats upon me and turns me from my course. The clouded day ends in sunset, and the crystal pools, by which I thought to mark my path, become beacons of blood-red flame. "The will o' the wisp leads me into the mire, where the rushes cling tightly about me and keep me back. But the night wind blows from the east, where the dawn sleeps, and on the strings of the marsh grass breathes a little song. 'Iris! Iris!' it sings, then all at once my sore heart grows strangely glad, for whatever may come to me, I shall have the memory of you. "Like the flags that glorify the marshes and spread their elfin sweetness afar, you shine upon the desert wastes of my life. I can never wholly lose you--you are there for always, and graven on my heart forever is the symbol of the fleur-de-lis." XIV Her Name-Flower Somehow, the days passed. Iris ate mechanically, and went about her household duties with her former precision. On Wednesday evening, Doctor Brinkerhoff came, as usual, and Margaret's eyes filled at the sight of him. Bent, old, and haggard, he came up the path, longing for his accustomed place in the house, and yet dreading to take it. Iris met him with a pitiful little smile, and he bowed over her hand for a moment, his shoulders shaking. Then he straightened himself, like a soldier under fire. "Miss Iris," he said, "we are bound together by a common grief. More than that, I have a trust to fulfil. She"--here he hesitated and then went on--"she asked me if I would not try to take the place of a father to you, and I promised that I would." "I have always felt so toward you," answered Iris, in a low tone. Lynn was quite himself again, and his cheerful talk enlivened the others, almost against their will. There was laughter and to spare, yet beneath it was an undercurrent of sorrow, for the wound was healed only upon the surface. "It is hard," said the Doctor, sadly, "but life holds many hard things for all of us. Perhaps, if we lived rightly, if our faith were stronger, death would not rend our hearts as it does. It is the common lot, the universal leveller, and soon or late it comes to us all. It remains to make our spiritual adjustment accord with the inevitable fact. There is so little that we can change, that it behooves us to confine our efforts to ourselves." "Life," replied Lynn "is the pitch of the orchestra, and we are the instruments." Doctor Brinkerhoff nodded. "Very true. The discord and the broken string of the individual instrument do not affect the whole, except as false notes, but I think that God, knowing all things, must discern the symphony, glorious with meaning, through the discordant fragments that we play." So the talk went on, Lynn taking the burden of it and endeavouring always to make it cheerful. Margaret understood and loved him for it, but she, too, was sad. Iris sat like a stone, waiting, counting off the leaden hours as something to be endured, and blindly believing that rest would come. "Everything," said Margaret, after a long silence, "was as beautiful as it could be." Doctor Brinkerhoff understood at once. "Yes," he sighed, "and I am glad. I think it was as she would have wished it to be, and I am sure she was pleased because I shielded her from the gaze of the curious at the end." His face worked as he said it, but he took a pitiful pride in what he had done. Day by day he hugged this last service closer, because it was done through his own thought and his own understanding, and would have pleased her if she had known. "Yes," returned Margaret, kindly, "it was very thoughtful of you. It would never have occurred to me, and I know she would have been grateful." "Miss Iris?" said the Doctor, inquiringly. The girl turned. "Yes?" "She--she gave me a paper for you. Will you have it, or shall I read it to you?" "Read it," answered Iris, dully. "It is in the form of a letter. She wrote it one day, near the end of her illness, and gave it to me, to be opened after her death." In the midst of a profound silence, he took an envelope from his pocket and broke the seal. "'My Dear Doctor Brinkerhoff,'" he began, clearing his throat, "'I feel that I am not going to get well, and so I have been thinking, as I lie here, and setting my house in order. I have told Iris, but for fear she may forget, I tell you. All the papers which concern her are in a tin box in a trunk in the attic. She will know where to find it. "'To her, as to an only daughter, go my little keepsakes--the emerald pin, my few pieces of real lace, my fan, and the silver buckles. She will understand the spirit of this bequest and will feel free to take what she likes. "'The house is for Margaret, and, after her, for Lynn, but it is to be a home for Iris, just as it has been, while she lives. Her income is to be paid regularly on the first of every month, during her lifetime, as is written in my will, which the lawyer has and which he will read at the proper time. "'Tell my little girl that, though I am dead, I love her still; that she has given me more than I could ever have given her, and that she must be my brave girl and not grieve. Tell her I want her to be happy. "'To you, I send my parting salutations. I have appreciated your friendship and your professional skill. "'With assurances of my deep personal esteem, "'Your Friend, "'PEACE FIELD.'" Iris broke down and left the room, weeping bitterly. Margaret followed her, but the girl pushed her aside. "No," she whispered, "go back. It is better for me to be alone." "I am sorry," said the Doctor, breaking the painful hush; "perhaps I should have waited. I very much regret having given Miss Iris unnecessary pain." "It is as well now as at any other time," Margaret assured him, "but my heart bleeds for her." The clock on the landing struck ten, and Margaret excused herself for a moment. She returned with the Royal Worcester plate, piled with cakes, and a decanter of the port. "I made them," she said, in a low tone; "she asked me to give you the recipe." "She was always thoughtful of others," returned the Doctor, choking. He filled his glass, and from force of habit, offered it to an invisible friend. "To your--" then he stopped. "To her memory," sobbed Margaret, touching his glass with hers. They drank the toast in silence, then the Doctor staggered to his feet. "I can bear no more," he said, unsteadily; "it is a communion service with the dead." "Lynn," said Margaret, after the guest had gone, "I am troubled about Iris. She is grieving herself to death, and it is not natural for the young to suffer acutely for so long. Can you suggest anything?" "No," answered Lynn, anxious in his turn, "except to get outdoors. I don't believe she's been out since Aunt Peace was buried." "You must take her, then." "Do you think she would go with me?" "I don't know, dear, but try it--try it to-morrow. Take her for a long walk and get her so tired that she will sleep. Nothing rests the mind like fatigue of the body." "Mother," began Lynn, after a little, "are we always going to stay in East Lancaster?" "I haven't thought about it at all, Lynn. Are you becoming discontented?" "No--I was only looking ahead." "This is our home--Aunt Peace has given it to us." "It was ours anyway, wasn't it?" "In a way, it was, but your grandfather left it to Aunt Peace. If he had not died suddenly he would have changed his will. Mother said he intended to, but he kept putting it off." "Do you want me to keep on studying the violin?" Margaret looked up in surprise, but Lynn was pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind him and his head down. "Why not, dear?" she asked, very gently. "Well," he sighed, "I don't believe I'm ever going to make anything of it. Of course I can play--Herr Kaufmann says, if it satisfies me to play the music as it is written, he can teach me that much, but he hasn't a very good opinion of me. I'd rather be a first-class carpenter than a second-rate violinist, and I'm twenty-three--it's time I was choosing." Margaret's heart misgave her, but she spoke bravely. "Lynn, look at me." He turned, and his eyes met hers, openly and unashamed. "Tell me the truth--do you want to be an artist?" "Mother, I'd rather be an artist than anything else in the world." "Then, dear, keep at it, and don't get discouraged. Somebody said once that the only reason for a failure was that the desire to succeed was not strong enough." Lynn laughed mirthlessly. "If that is so," he said, moodily, "I shall not fail." "No," she answered, "you shall not fail. I won't let you fail," she added, impulsively. "I know you and I believe in you." "The worst of it," Lynn went on, "would be to disappoint you." Margaret drew his tall head down and rubbed her cheek against his. "You could not disappoint me," she said, serenely, "for all I ask of you is your best. Give me that, and I am satisfied." "You've always had that, mother," he returned, with a forced laugh. "When you strike a snag, I suppose the only thing to do is to drive on, so we'll let it go at that. I'll keep on, and do the best I can. If worst comes to worst, I can play in a theatre orchestra." "Don't!" cried Margaret; "you'll never have to do that!" "Well," sighed Lynn, "you can never tell what's coming, and in the meantime it's almost twelve o'clock." With the happy faculty of youth, Lynn was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Iris lay with her eyes wide open, staring into the dark, inert and helpless under the influence of that anodyne which comes at the end of a hurt, simply through lack of the power to suffer more. The three letters under her pillow brought a certain sense of comfort. In the midst of the darkness which surrounded her, someone knew, someone understood--loved her, and was content to wait. Margaret was troubled because of Lynn's disbelief in himself. His sunny self-confidence was apparently put to rout by this new phase. Then she remembered that they had all passed through a time of stress, that Lynn, strong and self-reliant as he had been, must have felt it, too, and, moreover, the artistic temperament in itself was inclined to various eccentricities. Of his future, she never for one moment had any doubt. It was her heart's desire that Lynn should be an artist. Looking back upon her life and upon all that she had suffered, she saw this one boon as full compensation--as her just due. If this bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh might wear the laurel crown of the great, she would be content--would not begrudge the price which she had paid for it. She smiled ironically at the thought that, while credit was given to some, she had been compelled to pay in advance. "It does not matter," she mused, "we must all pay, and it may be all the sweeter because I know that no further payment will be demanded." She was thinking of it when she fell asleep, and in her dream she stood at a counter with a great throng of people, pushing and jostling. Behind the counter was one in the form of a man who appeared to be an angel. His face was serene and calm; he seemed far removed from the passions which swayed the multitude. He conducted his business without hurry or fret, and all the pushing availed nothing. His voice was clear and high, and had in it a sense of finality. No one questioned him, though many went away grumbling. "You have come to buy wealth?" he asked. "We have it for sale, but the price of it is your peace of mind. For knowledge, we ask human sympathy; if you take much of it, you lose the capacity to feel with your fellow men. If you take beauty, you must give up your right to love, and take the risk of an ignoble passion in its place. If you want fame, you must pay the price of eternal loneliness. For love, you must give self-surrender, and take the hurts of it without complaining. For health, you pay in self-denial and right living. Yes, you may take what you like, and the bill will be collected later, but there is no exchange, and you must buy something. Take as long as you wish to choose, but you must buy and you must pay." * * * * * Margaret awoke with his voice thundering in her ears: "You must buy and you must pay." The dream was extraordinarily vivid, and it seemed as though someone shared it with her. It was difficult to believe that it had not actually happened. "I have bought," she said to herself, "and I have paid. Now it only remains for me to enjoy Lynn's triumph. He will not have to pay--his mother has paid for him." At breakfast, Iris was more like herself, and Lynn was in good spirits. "I dreamed all night," he said, cheerily, "and one dream kept coming back. I was buying something somewhere and refusing to pay for it, and there was a row about it. I insisted that the thing was paid for--I don't know what it was, but it was something I wanted." "We always pay," said Iris, sadly; "but I can't help wondering what I am paying for now." "Perhaps," suggested Margaret, "you are paying in advance." Iris brightened, and upon her face came the ghost of a smile. "That may be," she answered. "Iris," asked Lynn, "will you go out with me this afternoon? You haven't been for a long time." "I don't think so," she replied, dully. "It is kind of you, but I'm not very strong just now." "We'll walk slowly," Lynn assured her, "and it will do you good. Won't you come, just to please me?" His voice was very tender, and Iris sighed. "I'll see," she said, resignedly; "I don't care what I do." "At three, then," said Lynn. "I'll get through practising by that time and I'll be waiting for you." At the appointed time they started, and Margaret waved her hand at them as they went down the path. Iris was so thin and fragile that it seemed as if any passing wind might blow her away. Lynn was very careful and considerate. "Where do you want to go?" he asked. "I don't care; I don't want to climb, though. Let's keep on level ground." "Very well, but where? Which way?" Iris felt the stiff corner of the letter hidden in her gown. "Let's go up the river," she said. "I've never been there and I'd like to go." So they followed the course of the stream, and the fresh air brought a faint colour into her cheeks. As the giant of old gained strength from his mother earth, Iris revived in the sunshine. The long period of inactivity demanded exertion to balance it. "It is lovely," she said. "It seems good to be moving around again." "I'll take you every day," returned Lynn, "if you'll only come. I want to see you happy again." "I shall never be as happy as I was," she sighed. "No one is the same after a sorrow like mine." "I suppose not," answered Lynn. "We are always changing. No one can go back of to-day and be the same as he was yesterday. I often think that old Greek philosopher was right when he said that the one thing common to all life was change." "Which one was he?" "Heraclitus, I think. Anyhow, he was a clever old duck." Iris smiled. "I have sometimes thought ducks were philosophers," she said, "but it never occurred to me that philosophers were ducks." Lynn laughed heartily, thoroughly pleased with himself because Iris seemed so much better. "We don't want to go too far," he said. "I wouldn't tire you for anything. Shall we go back?" "No--not yet. Isn't there a marsh up here somewhere?" "I should think there would be." "Then let's keep on and see if we don't find it. I feel as though I were exploring a new country. It's strange that I've never been here before, isn't it?" "It's because I wasn't here to take you, but you'll always have me now. You and I and mother are all going to live together. Won't that be nice?" "Yes," answered Iris, but her voice sounded far away and her eyes filled. Late afternoon flooded the earth with gold, and from distant fields came the drowsy hum and whir of the fairy folk with melodious wings. The birds sang cheerily, butterflies floated in the fragrant air, and it was difficult to believe that in all the world there was such a thing as Death. "I'm not going to let you go any farther," said Lynn. "You'll be tired." "No, I won't, and besides, I want to see the marsh." "My dear girl, you couldn't see it--you could only stand on the edge of it." "Well, I'll stand on the edge of it, then," said Iris, stubbornly. "I've come this far, and I'm going to see it." "Suppose we climb that hill yonder," suggested Lynn. "It overlooks the marsh." "That will do," returned Iris. "I'm willing to climb now, though I wasn't when we started." At first, Lynn walked by her side, warning her to go slowly, then he took her hand to help her. When they reached the summit, he had his arm around her, and it was some minutes before it occurred to him to take it away. Iris was looking at the tapestry spread out before them--the great marsh with the sunset light upon it and the swallows circling above it. "Oh," she whispered, with her face alight, "how beautiful it is! See all the purple in it--why, it might be violets, from up here!" "Yes," answered Lynn, dreamily, "it is your name-flower, the fleur-de-lis." Then the colour flamed in his face and he bit his lips. Quick as a flash, Iris turned upon him. "Did you write the letters?" she demanded. Lynn's eyes met hers clearly. "Yes," he said, very tenderly. "Dear Heart, didn't you know?" XV Little Lady Up in the attic, Iris sat beside the old trunk, her lap filled with papers. Never had she felt so alone, so desolate as to-day. The rain beat upon the roof and grey swirls of water dashed against the pane. The old house rocked in the rising wind, and from below, like an eerie accompaniment, came the sound of Lynn's violin. He was practising, and Iris heard him walking back and forth, playing with mechanical precision. She shuddered at the sound of it, for, strangely enough, she was conscious of bitter resentment against Lynn. His hand had destroyed her dream and levelled it to the dust. In the darkness, she had leaned, insensibly, upon the writer of the letters, and now she knew that it was only Lynn--Lynn, who had no heart. There comes a time to most of us, when the single prop gives way and, absolutely alone, we either stand or fall. In the hard school of life, sooner or later, one learns self-reliance. Iris began to perceive that, in the end, she could depend upon no one but herself. With a sigh, she turned to the papers once more. There was the report of the detective whom Aunt Peace had engaged at the beginning, voluminous, and obscured by legal phrases. Two or three letters, bearing upon the subject, were attached to it. In the bottom of the box were a wide, showy band of gold which, presumably, had been her mother's wedding ring, and two photographs. One was of a man whose weakness was indelibly stamped upon every feature--the low, narrow forehead, the eyes slanting inward, the full lips, and receding chin. On the back of it, Aunt Peace had written: "Supposed to be her father." Looking at it, Iris wondered how her mother could have cared for a man like that--weak and frankly sensuous. Yet there was an air of gay carelessness about the picture, a sort of friendly _camaraderie_, distantly related to those genial ways which stamp a higher grade of man as "a good fellow." Over the other photograph, she lingered long. The first Iris Temple was pictured in the panoply of a stage queen. The crown of paste brilliants upon her head, the tawdry gown, elaborately trimmed with tinsel, and the gilded sceptre were all discredited by the face. Beneath its mask of artificiality was a woman, a very human woman, impulsive, eager, and loving, whose trustful eyes looked straight at Iris with intimate comprehension. Plainly, the life of the stage was not to her taste; she hungered, as every normal woman hungers, for the quiet hearthstone and the simple joys of home. In all her dreams of her mother, Iris had never imagined her like this, and yet she was not disappointed. At times, looking back upon her miserable childhood, she had bitterly blamed her for it, but now, for the first time, she understood. "Poor little mother," said Iris, "you did the very best you could." If things had been different, she and her mother could have had a little home of their own. Rebellion was hot in the girl's heart, when she suddenly remembered something Fräulein Fredrika had said long ago. "Wherever one may be, that is the best place. The dear God knows." She folded up the papers and put them back in the box, with the photographs and the wedding ring. For the moment, she wondered what her real name might be, for Iris Temple was only a stage name. Then she dismissed the matter as of no importance, for she certainly would not care to bear the name of the man who had deserted her mother in her hour of need. She wondered why Aunt Peace had never given her the papers before, but, after all, what good could it have done? What had she gained by it, even now? In a flash of insight, she saw that she had been given a feeling of definite relationship with the woman in the tawdry stage trappings, who had loved much and suffered more--that though an old grave divided them, she was not quite motherless, not quite alone. For the first time since Aunt Peace was stricken with the fever, balm came into the girl's sore heart. Below, Lynn played unceasingly. "Four hours a day," thought Iris. "One sixth of life--and for what?" Lynn was asking himself the same question. "For what?" Ambition was strong within him, but Herr Kaufmann's words had struck deep. "I will be an artist!" he said to himself, passionately; "I will!" He worked feverishly at his concerto, but his mind was not upon it. He was thinking of Iris and of the unconscious scorn in her face when she discovered that he had written the letters. He put down his violin and meditated, as many a man in that very room had done before him, upon the problem of the eternal feminine. Iris was incomprehensible. He knew that the letters had not displeased her; that, on the contrary, she had been unusually happy when they came. He remembered also that moonlight night, when, safely screened by the shrubbery across the street, he had seen her put the flower upon the gate-post and as swiftly take it away. He had loved her all the more for that quick impulse, that shame-faced retreat, and put the memory securely away in his heart, biding his time. "Iris," he asked, at luncheon, "will you go for a walk with me this afternoon?" "No," she returned, shortly. "Why not? It isn't too wet, is it?" "I'm going by myself. I prefer to be alone." Lynn coloured and said nothing more. In the afternoon, while he was at work, he saw her trip daintily down the path, lifting her skirts to avoid the pools of water the Summer shower had left. He watched her until she was no longer within range of his vision, then went back to his violin. Iris had no definite errand except to the post-office, where, as usual, there was nothing, but it rested her to be outdoors. It is Nature's unfailing charm that she responds readily to every mood, and ultimately brings extremes to a common level of quiet cheerfulness. She leaned over the bridge and looked into the stream, where her own face was mirrored. She saw herself sad and old, a woman of mature years, still further aged by trouble. What had become of the happy girl of a few months ago? The thought of Lynn recurred persistently, and always with repulsion. What should she do? She could not wholly ignore him, year in and year out, and live in the same house. It must be nearly time for him to go away and leave her in peace. Then Iris gasped, for it was Lynn's house,--his and his mother's. She was there upon sufferance only--a guest? No, not a guest--an intruder, an interloper. In her new trouble, she thought of Herr Kaufmann, always gentle, always wise. With Iris, action followed swiftly upon impulse, and she went rapidly up the hill. Fräulein Fredrika was out, but the Master was in the shop, so she went in at the lower door. "So," he said, kindly, "one little lady comes to see the old man. It is long since you have come." "I have been in trouble," faltered Iris. "Yes," returned the Master, "I have heard. Mine heart has been very sorry for you." "It was lovely of you," she went on, choking back a sob, "to come and play for us. We appreciated it--Mrs. Irving and I--Doctor Brinkerhoff--and--Lynn," she added, grudgingly. "The Herr Irving," said the Master, with interest, "he has appreciated mine playing?" "Of course--we all did." "Mine pupil progresses," he remarked, enigmatically. "Was it," began Iris, hesitating over the words,--"was it the Cremona?" The Master looked at her sharply. "Yes, why not? One gives one's best to Death." "Death demands it, and takes it," said the girl. "That is why." She spoke bitterly, and Herr Kaufmann put down the violin he was working upon. His heart went out to Iris, white-faced and ghostly, her eyes burning fiercely. He saw that her hands were trembling, and, moving his chair closer, he took them both in his. "Little lady," he said, "it makes mine old heart ache to see you so close with sorrow. If it could be divided, I would take mine share, because these broad shoulders are used to one heavy burden, and a little more would not matter so much, but one must learn, even though the cross is very hard to bear. "It is most difficult, and yet some day you will see. You have only to look out of your window for one year to understand it all. First it is Winter, and the snow is deep upon the ground. All the flowers are dead, and there are no birds. The moon shines cold, and there are many storms. But, so slow that you can never see it, there is change. Presently, the bare branches turn in their sleep and wake up with leaves. The birds come back, and all the earth is glad again. "Then everything grows and it is all in one blossom. On the wide fields there is much grain, and all hearts are singing. Even after the frost, everything is glad for a little while, and then, very slowly, it is Winter once more. "Little lady, do you not see? There must always be Winter, there must always be night and storm and cold. It is then that the flowers rest--they cannot always be in bloom. But somewhere on the great world the sun is always shining, and, just so sure as you live, it will sometime shine on you. The dear God has made it so. There is so much sun and so much storm, and we must have our share of both. It is Winter in your heart now, but soon it will be Spring. You have had one long Summer, and there must be something in between. We are not different from all else the dear God has made. It is all in one law, as the Herr Doctor will tell you. He is most wise, and he has helped me to understand." "But Aunt Peace!" sobbed the girl. "Aunt Peace is dead, and mother, too! I am all alone!" "Little lady," said the Master, very tenderly, "you must never say you are alone. Because you have had much love, shall you be a child when it is taken away? Has it meant so little to you that it leaves nothing? Just so strong and beautiful as it has been, just so much strength and beauty does it leave. There are many, in this world, who would be so glad to change places with you. To be dead," he went on, bitterly, "that is nothing beside one living grave! It is by far the easier loss!" He left her and went to the window, where he stood for a long time with his back toward her. Then Iris perceived her own selfishness, and she crept up beside him, slipping her cold little hand into his. "I understand," she said, gently, "you have had sorrow, too." The Master smiled, but she saw that his eyes were wet. "Yes," he sighed, "I know mine sorrow. We are old friends." Then he stooped and kissed her, ever so softly, upon her forehead. It was like a benediction. "I think," she said, after a little, "that I must go away from East Lancaster." "So? And why?" Iris knit her brows thoughtfully. "Well," she explained, "I have no right here. The house is Mrs. Irving's, and after her it belongs to Lynn. Aunt Peace said it was to be my home while I lived, but that was only because she did not want to turn me out. She was too kind to do that, but I do not belong there." "The Herr Irving," said the Master, in astonishment. "Does he want you to go away?" "No! No!" cried Iris. "Don't misunderstand! They have said nothing--they have been lovely to me--but I can't help feeling----" The Master nodded. "Yes, I see. Perhaps you will come to live with mine sister and me. The old house needs young faces and the sound of young feet. Mine house," he said, with quiet dignity, "is very large." Even in her perplexity, Iris wondered why the little bird-house on the brink of the cliff always seemed a mansion to its owner. Quickly, he read her thought. "I know what you are thinking," he continued; "you are thinking that mine house is small. Three rooms upstairs and three rooms downstairs. Fredrika could sleep in mine room, and I could take the store closet back of mine shop and keep the wood for the violins at the Herr Doctor's. Upstairs, you could have one bedroom and one parlour. Fredrika and I would come up only to eat." "Herr Kaufmann," cried Iris, her heart warming to him, "it is lovely of you, but I can't. Don't you see, if I could stay anywhere I could stay where I am?" It was not a clear sentence, but he grasped its meaning. "Yes, I see. But when I say mine house is large, it is not of these six rooms that I think. Have you not read in the good book that in mine Father's house there are many mansions? So? Well, it is in those mansions that I live. I have put aside mine sorrow, and I wait till the dear God is pleased to take me home." "To take us home," said Iris, thoughtfully. "Perhaps Aunt Peace was tired." "Yes," answered the Master, "she was tired. Otherwise, she would have been allowed to stay. You have not been thinking of her, but of yourself." "Perhaps I have," she admitted. "If you go away," he went on, "it is better that you should study. You have one fine voice, and with sorrow in your heart, you can make much from it. Those who have been made great have first suffered." Iris turned upon him. "You mean that?" she asked, sharply. "Of course," he returned, serenely. "Before you can help those who have suffered, you must suffer yourself. It is so written." Iris sighed heavily. "I must go," she said, dully. "Not yet. Wait." He went to his bedroom, and came back with a violin case. He opened it carefully; unwrapped the many thicknesses of silk, and took out the Cremona. "See," he said, with his face aglow, "is it not most beautiful? When you are sad, you can remember that you have seen mine Cremona." "Thank you," returned Iris, her voice strangely mingled with both laughter and tears, "I will remember." When she went home, the Master looked after her for a moment or two, then turned away from the window to wipe his eyes. He was drawn by temperament to all who sorrowed, and he had loved Iris for years. That night, she sat alone in the library, sheltered by the darkness. Margaret was reading in her own room, and Lynn was out. More clearly than ever, Iris saw that she must go away. She had no definite plan, but Herr Kaufmann's suggestion seemed a good one. When Lynn came in, he lit the candles in the parlour. Iris hoped he would go upstairs without coming into the library, but he did not. She shrank back into her chair, trusting that he would not see her, but with unerring instinct he went straight to her. "Sweetheart," he whispered, "are you here?" "I'm here," said Iris, frostily, "but that isn't my name." The timid little voice thrilled him with a great tenderness, and he quickly possessed himself of her hand. "Iris, darling," he went on, "why do you avoid me? I have been miserable ever since I told you I wrote the letters." "It was wrong to write them," she said. "Why, dear?" "Because." "Didn't you like them?" "No." "I didn't think you were displeased." He was too chivalrous to remind her of that moonlight night. "It was very wrong," she repeated, stubbornly. "Then forgive me." "It's nothing to me," she returned, unmoved. "I hoped it would be," said Lynn, gently. "Every time, I walked over to the next town to mail them. I knew you hadn't seen any of my writing, and I was sure you wouldn't suspect me." "Nice advantage to take of a girl, wasn't it?" demanded Iris, her temper rising. She rose and started toward the door, but Lynn kept her back. The starlight showed him her face, white and troubled. "Sweetheart," he said, "listen. Just a moment, dear--that isn't much to ask, is it? If it was wrong to write the letters, then I ask you to forgive me, but every word was true. I love you, Iris--I love you with all my heart." "With all your heart," she repeated, scornfully. "You have no heart!" "Iris," he said, unsteadily, "what do you mean?" "This," she cried, in a passion. "You have no more feeling than the ground beneath your feet! Haven't I seen, haven't I known? Aunt Peace died, and you did not care--you only thought it was unpleasant. You play like a machine, a mountebank. Tricks with the violin--tricks with words! And yet you dare to say you love me!" "Iris! Darling!" cried Lynn, stung to the quick. "Don't!" "Once for all I will have my say. To-morrow I go out of your house forever. I have no right here, no place. I am an intruder, and I am going away. You will never see me again, never as long as you live. You, a machine, a clod, a trickster, a thing without a heart--you shall not insult me again!" White to the lips, trembling like a leaf, Iris shook herself free and ran up to her room. Lynn drew a long, shuddering breath. "God!" he whispered, clenching his hands tightly. "God!" XVI Afraid of Life She kept her word. To Mrs. Irving she merely said that she had already trespassed too long upon their hospitality, and that she thought it best to go away. She had talked with Herr Kaufmann, and he had advised her to go to the city and have her voice trained. Yes, she would write, and would always think of them kindly. Lynn, who had passed the first sleepless night of his life, went to the train with her, but few words were spoken. Iris was cool, dignified, and cruelly formal. An immeasurable distance lay between them, and one, at least, made no effort to lessen it. They had only a few minutes to wait, and, just as the train came in sight, Lynn bent over her. "Iris," he said, unsteadily, "if you ever want me, will you promise me that you will let me know?" "Yes," she replied, with an incredulous laugh, "if I ever want you, I will let you know." "I will go to you," said Lynn, struggling for his self-control, "from the very end of the world. Just send me the one word: 'Come.' And let me thank you now for all the happiness you have given me, and for the memory of you, which I shall have in my heart for always." "You are quite welcome," she returned, frigidly. "You--" but the roar of the train mercifully drowned her words. The sun still shone, the birds did not cease their singing. Outwardly, the world was just as fair, even though Iris had gone. Lynn walked away blindly, no longer dull, but keenly alive to his hurt. From the crucible of Eternity, Time, the magician, draws the days. Some are wholly made of beauty; of wide sunlit reaches and cool silences. Some of dreams and twilight, with roses breathing fragrance through the dusk. Some of darkness, wild and terrible, lighted only by a single star. Others still of riving lightnings and vast, reverberating thunders, while the heart, swelled to bursting, breaks on the reef of Pain. It seemed as though Lynn's heart were rising in an effort to escape. "I must keep it down," he thought. It was like an imprisoned bird, cut, bruised, and bleeding, beating against the walls of flesh. And yet, there was a hand upon it, and the iron fingers clutched unmercifully. Iris had gone, and the dream was at an end. Iris had gone, flouting him to the last, calling his love an insult. "Machine--clod--mountebank"-- the bitter words rang through his consciousness again and again. It might be true, part of it at least. Herr Kaufmann had told him, more than once, that he played like a machine. Clod? Possibly. Mountebank? That might be, too. Trickster with the violin, trickster with words? Perhaps. But a thing without a heart? Lynn laughed bitterly and put his hand against his breast to quiet the throbbing. No one knew--no one must ever know. Iris would not betray him, he was sure of that, but he must be on his guard lest he should betray himself. He must hide it, must keep on living, and appear to be the same. His mother's keen eyes must see nothing amiss. Fortunately, he could be alone a great deal--outdoors, or practising, and at night. He shuddered at the white night through which he had somehow lived, and wondered how many more would follow in its train. Suddenly, he remembered that it was his lesson day, and he was not prepared. Common courtesy demanded that he should go up to Herr Kaufmann's, and tell him that he did not feel like taking his lesson--that he had a headache, or something of the kind--that he had hurt his wrist, perhaps. He hoped that Fräulein Fredrika would come to the door, and that he might leave his message with her, but it was Herr Kaufmann who answered his ring. "So," said the Master, "you are once more late." "No," answered Lynn, refusing to meet his eyes, "I just came to tell you that I couldn't take my lesson to-day. I don't think," he stammered, "that I can ever take any more lessons." "And why?" demanded the Master. "Come in!" Before he realised it, he was in the parlour, gay with its accustomed bright colours. One look at Lynn's face had assured Herr Kaufmann that something was wrong, and, for the first time, he was drawn to his pupil. "So," said the Master. "Mine son, is it not well with you?" Lynn turned away to hide the working of his face. "Not very," he answered in a low tone. "Miss Iris," said the Master, "she will have gone away?" It was like the tearing of a wound. "Yes," replied Lynn, almost in a whisper, "she went this morning." "And you are sad because she has gone away? I am sorry mineself. Miss Iris is one little lady." "Yes," returned Lynn, clenching his hands, "she is." Something in the boy's eyes stirred an old memory, and made the Master's heart very tender toward him. "Mine son," he said very gently, "if something has troubled you, perhaps it will give you one relief to tell me. Only yesterday Miss Iris was here. She was very sad when she came, and when she went away the world was more sunny, or so I think." Quickly surmising that Herr Kaufmann had something more than a hint of it, and more eager for sympathy than he realised, Lynn stammered out the story, choking at the end of it. There was a long silence, in which the Master went back twenty-five years. Lynn's eyes, so full of trouble, were they not like another's, long ago? The organ-tone of the thunder once more reverberated through the forest, where the great boughs arched like the nave of a cathedral, and the dead leaves scurried in fright before the rising wind. "That is all," said the boy, his face white to the lips. "It is not much, but it is a great deal to me." "So," said the Master, scornfully, "you are to be an artist and you are afraid of life! You are summoned to the ranks of the great and you shrink from the signal--cover your ears, that you shall not hear the trumpet call! This, when you should be on your knees, thanking the good God that at last He has taught you pain!" Lynn's face was pitiful, and yet he listened eagerly. "There is no half-way point," the Master was saying; "if you take it, you must pay. Nothing in this world is free but the sun and the fresh air. You must buy shelter, food, clothing, with the work of your hands and brain. If someone else gives it to you, it is not yours--you are one parasite. You must earn it all. "You think you can take all, and give nothing? It is not so. For six, eight years now, you study the violin. You learn the scales, the technique, the good wrist, and nothing else. I teach you all I can, but it must come from yourself, not me. I can only guide--tell you when you have made one mistake. "What is it that the art is for? Is it for one great assembly of people to pay the high price for admission? 'See,' they say, 'this young man, what good tone he has, what bowing, what fine wrist! How smooth he plays his concerto! When it is marked fortissimo, see how he plays fortissimo! It is most skilful!' Is the art for that? No! "It is for everyone in the world who has known trouble to be lifted up and made strong. They care nothing for the means, only for the end. They have no eyes for the fine bowing, the good wrist--what shall they know of technique? And yet you must have the technique, else you cannot give the message. "Everyone that hears has had his own sorrow. None of them are new ones, they are all old, and so few that one person can suffer all. It is for you to take that, to know the hurt heart and the rebellious soul, so that you can comfort, lift up, and make noble with your art. "And you--you cry out when you should be glad. Miss Iris does not love you, and beyond that you do not see. Suppose one thousand people were before you, and all had loved someone who did not care for them. Could you make it easier if you knew nothing of it by yourself? "Listen. On a hill in Italy there was once a tree. It was a seed at the beginning, a seed you could hold with the ends of your fingers, so. It was buried in the ground, covered up with earth like something that had died. Do you think the seed liked that? "But is it afraid, when its heart is swelling? No! It breaks through, with the great hurt. Still there is earth around it, still it is buried, but yet it aspires. One day it comes to the surface of the ground, and once more it breaks through, with pain. "But the sun is bright and warm, and the seed grows. Careless feet trample upon it--there is yet one more hurt. But it straightens, waits through the long nights for the blessed sun, and so on, until it is so high as one bush. "Constantly, there is growing, one aspiration upward. Bark comes and the tree swells outward, always with pain. Someone cuts off all the lower branches, and the tree bleeds, yet keeps on. Other branches come thick about it; there is one struggle, but through the dense growth the tree climbs, always upward. In the sun above the thick shade, it can laugh at the ache and the thorns, but it does not forget. "And so, upward, always upward, till it is lifted high above its fellows. Birds come there to sing, to build their nests, to rear their young, to mourn when one little bird falls out from the nest and is made dead. "The sun shines fiercely, and it nearly dies in the heat. The storm comes and it is shrouded in ice--made almost to die with the cold. The wild winds rock it and tear off the branches, making it bleed--there must always be pain. The thunders play over its head, the lightnings burn it, and yet its heart lives on. The rains beat upon it like one river, and still it grows. "The years go by and each one brings new hurt, but the tree is made hard and strong. One day there comes a man to look at it, all the straight fine length, the smooth trunk. 'It will do,' he says, and with his axe he chops it down. Do you think it does not hurt the tree? After the long years of fighting, to be cut like that? "Then it falls, crashing heavy through the branches to the ground. See, there must always be pain, even at the end. Then more cutting, more bleeding, more heat, more cold. Fine tools--steel knives that tear and split the fibres apart. Do you think it does not hurt? More sun, more cold, still more cutting, tearing, and throwing aside. Then, one day, it is finished, and there is mine Cremona--all the strength, all the beauty, all the pain, made into mine violin! "But the end is not yet. God is working with me and mine as well as with mine instrument. As yet, I do not know that it is for me--it comes to me through pain. "One old gentleman, one of the first to travel abroad from this country for pleasure, he goes to Italy, he finds it in the hands of one ignorant drunkard, and he buys it for little. He brings it home, but he cannot play, and no one else can play; he does not know its value, but it pleases him and he takes it. For long years, it stays in one attic, with the dust and the cobwebs, kicked aside by careless feet. "Meanwhile, I know one lovely young lady. I meet her by chance, and we like each other, oh, so much! 'Franz,' she says to me, 'you live on one hill in West Lancaster, and mine mother, she would never let me speak with you, so I must see you sometimes, quite by accident, elsewhere. On pleasant days, I often go to walk in the woods. Mine mother likes me to be outdoors.' So, many times, we meet and we talk of strange things. Each day we love each other more, and all the time her mother does not suspect. We plan to go away together and never let anyone know until we are married and it is too late, but first I must find work. "'Franz,' she says to me one day, 'up in mine attic there is one old violin, which I think must be valuable. Mine mother is away with a friend and the house is by itself. Will you not come up to see?' "So we go, and the house is very quiet. No one is there. We go like two thieves to the attic, laughing as though we were children once more. Presently we find the violin, and I see that it is one Cremona, very old, very fine, but with no strings. I fit on some strings that I have in mine pocket, but there is no bow and I can only play pizzicato. I need to hear the tone but one moment to know what it is that I have. 'It is most wonderful,' I say, and then the door opens and one very angry lady stands there. "She tells me that I shall never come into that house again, that I must go right away, that I have no--what do you say?--no social place, and that I am not to speak with her daughter. To her she says: 'I will attend to you very soon.' We creep down the stairs together and mine Beloved whispers: 'Every day at four, at the old place, until I come.' I understand and I go away, but mine heart is very troubled for her. "For long days I wait, and every day, at four, I am at the meeting-place in the wood, but no one comes, and there is no message, no word. All the time I feel as you feel now because Miss Iris has gone away and does not care. I wait and wait, but I can get no news, and I fear to go to the house because I shall perhaps harm mine Beloved, and she has told me what to do. Every day I am there, even in the rain, waiting. "At last she comes, with the violin under her arm, wrapped in her coat. 'I have only one minute,' she cries; 'they are going to take me away, and we can never see each other again. So I give you this. You must keep it, and when you are sad it will tell you how much I love you, how much I shall always love you. You will not forget me,' she says. There is just one instant more together, with the thunders and the lightnings all around us, then I am alone, except for mine violin. "Do you not see? There must always be pain. The dear God has made mine instrument, and in the same way He has made me, with the cutting and the bruises and the long night. I, too, have known the storm and all the fury of the winds and rain. Like the tree, I have aspired, I have grown upward, I have done the best I could. Otherwise, I should not be fitted to play on mine Cremona--I would not deserve to touch it, and so, in a way, I am glad. "I have had mine fame," he went on. "With the sorrow in mine heart, I have studied and worked until I have made mineself one great artist. If you do not believe, I can show you the papers, where much has been written of me and mine violin. Women have cried when I have played, and have thrown their red roses to me. I had the technique, and when the hurt broke open mine heart, I was immediately one artist. I understood, I could play, I could lift up all who suffered, because I had known suffering mineself. "Mine son, do you not understand? You can give only what you have. If one sorrow is in your heart, if you have learned the beauty and the nobility of it, you can teach others the same thing. You can show them how to rise above it, like the tree that had one long lifetime of hurt, and ended in mine Cremona to help all who hear. The one who plays the instrument must be made in the same way, of the same influences--the cutting, the night, and the cold. Of softness nothing good ever comes, for one must always fight. "Nothing in this whole world is free but the sun and the fresh air and the water to drink. We must pay the fair price for all else. I have had mine fame and I have paid mine price, but the heights are lonely, and sometimes I think it would be better to walk in the valley with a woman's hand in mine. But at the first, before I knew, I chose. I said: 'I will be an artist,' and so I am, but I have paid, oh, mine son, I have paid and I am still paying! There is no end!" The Master's face was grey and haggard, but his eyes burned. Lynn saw what it had cost him to open this secret chamber--to lay bare this old wound. "And I," he said huskily, "I touched the Cremona!" "Yes," said the Master, sadly, "on that first day, you lifted up mine Cremona, and until to-day I have never forgiven. There has been resentment in mine old heart for you, though I have tried to put it aside. Her hands were last upon it--hers and mine. When I touched it, it was the place where her white fingers rested, where many a time I put mine kiss to ease mine heart. And you, you took that away from me!" "If I had only known," murmured Lynn. "But you did not know," said the Master, kindly; "and to-day I have forgiven." "Thank you," returned Lynn, with a lump in his throat; "it is much to give." "Sometimes," sighed the Master, "when I have been discouraged, I have been very hungry for someone to understand me--someone to laugh, to touch mine tired eyes, to make me forget with her little sweet ways. In mine fancy, I have seen it all, and more. "When I have gone down the hill to the post-office, where there has never been the letter from her, and the little children have run to me, holding out their arms that I should take them up, I have felt that the price was too high that I have paid. But all the time I have understood that on the heights one must go alone, for a time at least, with the thunders and the lightnings and the storms. If I had been given one son, I think he would have been like you, one fine tall young fellow with the honest face and the laughing ways, but you have been shielded, and I should not have done so. I should have let you grow from the start and learn all things so soon as you could." "I never knew my father," Lynn said, deeply moved, "but if I could choose, I would choose you." "So," said the Master, his eyes filling. Then their hands met in a long clasp of understanding. "Already I am the richer for it," Lynn went on, after a little. "I know now what I did not know before." The boy's face was still white, but the look of hopeless despair was merged into something which foreshadowed ultimate acceptance. The Master still held his hand. "If you are to be an artist," he said, once more, "you must not be afraid of life. You must welcome it to its utmost cross. You must take the cold, the heat, the poverty, the hunger, the burning way through the desert, the snow-clad steeps, the keen hurt, and the happiness--it is all one, for it gives you knowledge. You must know all the pain of the world, face to face, if you are to help those who bear it. Keen feelings give you the great hurt, but also, in payment, the great joy. The balance swings true. The Herr Doctor has told me this. He is most wise; he understands." "I see," answered Lynn. "I will never be afraid again." "That," said the Master, with his face alight,--"that is mine son's true courage. Take it with your head up, your teeth shut, and your heart always believing. Fear nothing, and much will be given back to you,--is it not so? Let life do all it can--you will never be crushed unless you are willing that it should be so. Defeat comes only to those who invite it." "I see," said Lynn, again; "with all my heart I thank you." He went away soon afterward, insensibly comforted. Overnight, he had come into his heritage of pain, had lost the girl he loved, and in swift restitution found comradeship with the Master. That stately figure lingered long before his vision, grey and rugged, yet with a certain graciousness--simple, kindly, and yet austere; one who had accepted his sorrow, and, by some alchemy of the spirit, transmuted it into universal compassion, to speak, through the Cremona, to all who could understand. XVII "He Loves Her Still" When Doctor Brinkerhoff came on Wednesday evening, he was surprised to discover that Iris had gone away. "It was sudden, was it not?" he asked. "It seemed so to us," returned Margaret. "We knew nothing of it until the morning she started. She had probably been planning it for a long time, though she did not take us into her confidence until the last minute." Lynn sat with his face turned away from his mother. "Did you, perhaps, suspect that she was going?" the Doctor directly inquired of Lynn. He hesitated for the barest perceptible interval before he spoke. "She told us at the breakfast table," he answered. "Iris is replete with surprises." "But before that," continued the Doctor, "did you have no suspicion?" Lynn laughed shortly. "How should I suspect?" he parried. "I know nothing of the ways of women." "Women," observed the Doctor, with an air of knowledge,--"women are inscrutable. For instance, I cannot understand why Miss Iris did not come to say 'good-bye' to me. I am her foster-father, and it would have been natural." "Good-byes are painful," said Margaret. "We Germans do not say 'good-bye,' but only 'auf wiedersehen.' Perhaps we shall see her again, perhaps not. No one knows." "Fräulein Fredrika does not say 'auf wiedersehen,'" put in Lynn, anxious to turn the trend of the conversation. "No," responded the Doctor, with a smile. "She says: 'You will come once again, yes? It would be most kind.'" He imitated the tone and manner so exactly that Lynn laughed, but it was a hollow laugh, without mirth in it. "Do not misunderstand me," said the Doctor, quickly; "it was not my intention to ridicule the Fräulein. She is a most estimable woman. Do you perhaps know her?" he asked of Margaret. "I have not that pleasure," she replied. "She was not here when I first came," the Doctor went on, "but Herr Kaufmann sent for her soon afterward. They are devoted to each other, and yet so unlike. You would have laughed to see Franz at work at his housekeeping, before she came." A shadow crossed Margaret's face. "I have often wondered," she said, clearing her throat, "why men are not taught domestic tasks as well as women. It presupposes that they are never to be without the inevitable woman, yet many of them often are. A woman is trained to it in the smallest details, even though she has reason to suppose that she will always have servants to do it for her. Then why not a man?" "A good idea, mother," remarked Lynn. "To-morrow I shall take my first lesson in keeping house." "You?" she said fondly; "you? Why, Lynn! Lacking the others, you'll always have me to do it for you." "That," replied the Doctor, triumphantly, "disproves your own theory. If you are in earnest, begin on the morrow to instruct Mr. Irving." Margaret flushed, perceiving her own inconsistency. "I could be of assistance, possibly," he continued, "for in the difficult school of experience I have learned many things. I have often taken professional pride in closing an aperture in my clothing with neat stitches, and the knowledge thus gained has helped me in my surgery. All things in this world fit in together." "It is fortunate if they do," she answered. "My own scheme of things has been very much disarranged." "Yet, as Fräulein Fredrika would say, 'the dear God knows.' Life is like one of those puzzles that come in a box. It is full of queer pieces which seemingly bear no relation to one another, and yet there is a way of putting it together into a perfect whole. Sometimes we make a mistake at the beginning and discard pieces for which we think there is no possible use. It is only at the end that we see we have made a mistake and put aside something of much importance, but it is always too late to go back--the pieces are gone. "In my own life, I lost but one--still, it was the keystone of the whole. When I came from Germany, I should have brought letters from those in high places there to those in high places here. It could easily have been done. I should have had this behind me when I came to East Lancaster, and I should not have made the mistake of settling first on the hill. Then----" The Doctor ceased abruptly, and sighed. "This country is supposed to be very democratic," said Lynn, chiefly because he could think of nothing else to say. "Yes," replied the Doctor, "it is in your laws that all men are free and equal, but it is not so. The older civilisations have found there is class, and so you will find it here. At first, when everything is chaotic, all particles may seem alike, but in time there is an inevitable readjustment." "We are getting very serious," said Margaret. "It is an important subject," responded the Doctor, with dignity. "I have often discussed it with my friend, Herr Kaufmann. He is a very fine friend to have." "Yes," said Lynn, "he is. It is only lately that I have learned to appreciate him." "One must grow to understand him," mused the Doctor. "At first, I did not. I thought him rough, queer, and full of sarcasm. But afterward, I saw that his harshness was only a mask--the bark, if I may say so. Beneath it, he has a heart of gold." "People," began Margaret, avoiding the topic, "always seek their own level, just as water does. That is why there is class." "But for a long time, they do not find it," objected the Doctor. "Miss Iris, for instance. Her people were of the common sort, and those with whom she lived afterward were worse still. She"--by the unconscious reverence in his voice, they knew whom he meant--"she taught her all the fineness she has, and that is much. It is an argument for environment, rather than heredity." Lynn left the room abruptly, unable to bear the talk of Iris. "I wish," said the Doctor, at length, "I wish you knew Herr Kaufmann. Would you like it if I should bring him to call?" "No!" cried Margaret. "It is too soon," she added, desperately. "Too soon after----" The Doctor nodded. "I understand," he said. "It was a mistake on my part, for which you must pardon me. I only thought you might be a help to each other. Franz, too, has sorrowed." "Has he?" asked Margaret, her lips barely moving. "Yes," the Doctor went on, half to himself, "it was an unhappy love affair. The young lady's mother parted them because he lived in West Lancaster, though he, too, might have had letters from high places in Germany. He and I made the same mistake." "Her mother," repeated Margaret, almost in a whisper. "Yes, the young lady herself cared." "And he," she breathed, leaning eagerly forward, her body tense,--"does he love her still?" "He loves her still," returned the Doctor, promptly, "and even more than then." "Ah--h!" The Doctor roused himself. "What have I done!" he cried, in genuine distress. "I have violated my friend's confidence, unthinking! My friend, for whom I would make any sacrifice--I have betrayed him!" "No," replied Margaret, with a great effort at self-control. "You have not told me her name." "It is because I do not know it," said the Doctor, ruefully. "If I had known, I should have bleated it out, fool that I am!" "Please do not be troubled--you have done no harm. Herr Kaufmann and I are practically strangers." "That is so," replied the Doctor, evidently reassured; "and I did not mean it. It is not the same thing as if I had done it purposely." "Not at all the same thing." At times, we put something aside in memory to be meditated upon later. The mind registers the exact words, the train of circumstances that caused their utterance, all the swift interplay of opposing thought, and, for the time being, forgets. Hours afterward, in solitude, it is recalled; studied from every point of view, searched, analysed, questioned, until it is made to yield up its hidden meaning. It was thus that Margaret put away those four words: "He loves her still." They are pathetic, these tiny treasure-houses of Memory, where oftentimes the jewel, so jealously guarded, by the clear light of introspection is seen to be only paste. One seizes hungrily at the impulse that caused the hiding, thinking that there must be some certain worth behind the deception. But afterward, painfully sure, one locks the door of the treasure-chamber in self-pity, and steals away, as from a casket that enshrines the dead. They talked of other things, and at half-past ten the Doctor went home, leaving a farewell message for Lynn, and begging that his kind remembrances be sent to Iris, when she should write. "Thank you," said Mrs. Irving. "I shall surely tell her, and she will be glad." The door closed, and almost immediately Lynn came in from the library, rubbing his eyes. "I think I've been asleep," he said. "It was rude, dear," returned Margaret, in gentle rebuke. "It is ill-bred to leave a guest." "I suppose it is, but I did not intend to be gone so long." The house seemed singularly desolate, filled, as it was, with ghostly shadows. Through the rooms moved the memory of Iris, and of that gentle mistress who slept in the churchyard, who had permeated every nook and corner of it with the sweetness of her personality. There was something in the air, as though music had just ceased--the wraith of long-gone laughter, the fall of long-shed tears. "I miss Iris," said Margaret, dreamily. "She was like a daughter to me." Taken off his guard, Lynn's conscious face instantly betrayed him. "Lynn," said Margaret, suddenly, "did you have anything to do with her going away?" The answer was scarcely audible. "Yes." Margaret never forced a confidence, but after a pause she said very gently: "Dear, is there anything you want to tell me?" "It's nothing," said Lynn, roughly. He rose and walked around the room nervously. "It's nothing," he repeated, with assumed carelessness. "I--I asked her to marry me, and she wouldn't. That's all. It's nothing." Margaret's first impulse was to smile. This child, to be talking of marriage--then her heart leaped, for Lynn was twenty-three; older than she had been when the star rose upon her horizon and then set forever. Then came a momentary awkwardness. Childish though the trouble was, she pitied Lynn, and regretted that she could not shield him from it as she had shielded him from all else in his life. Then resentment against Iris. What was she, a nameless outcast, to scorn the offered distinction? Any woman in the world might be proud to become Lynn's wife. Then, smiling at her own folly, Margaret went to him, dominated solely by gratitude. Not knowing what else to do, she drew his tall head down to kiss him, but Lynn swerved aside, and with his face against the softness of his mother's hair, wiped away a boyish tear. "Lynn," she said, tenderly, "you are very young." "How old were you when you married, mother?" "Twenty-one." "How old was father?" "Twenty-three." "Then," persisted Lynn, with remorseless logic, "I am not too young, and neither is Iris--only she doesn't care." "She may care, son." "No, she won't. She despises me." "And why?" "She said I had no heart." "The idea!" "Maybe I didn't have then, but I'm sure I have now." He walked back and forth restlessly. Margaret knew that the griefs of youth are cruelly keen, because they come well in the lead of the strength to bear them. She was about to offer the usual threadbare consolation, "You will forget in time," when she remembered the stock of which Lynn came. His mother, who had carried a secret wound for more than twenty-five years, who was she, to talk about forgetting, and, of all others, to her son? Gratitude was still dominant, though in her heart of hearts she knew that she was selfish. Lynn felt the lack of sympathy, and became conscious, for the first time in his life, that her tenderness had a limit. "Mother," he said, suddenly, "did you love father?" "Why do you ask, son?" "Because I want to know." "I respected him highly," said Margaret, at length. "He was a good man, Lynn." "You have answered," he returned. "You don't know--you don't understand." "But I do understand," she flashed. "You can't, if you didn't love father." "I--I cared for someone else," said Margaret, thickly, unwilling to be convicted of shallowness. Lynn looked at her quickly. "And you still care?" Margaret bowed her head. "Yes," she whispered, "I still care!" "Mother!" he cried. In an instant, his arms were around her and she was sobbing on his shoulder. "Mother," he pleaded, "forgive me! To think I never knew!" They had a long talk then, intimate and searching. "You have borne it bravely," he said. "No one has ever dreamed of it, I am sure. The Master told me, the other day, that I must not be afraid of life. He said that everything, even our blessings, came to us through pain." "I would not say everything," temporised Margaret, "but it is true that much comes that way. We know happiness only by contrast." "Happiness and misery, light and dark, sunshine and storm, life and death," mused Lynn. "Yes, it is by contrast, but, as the Master says, 'the balance swings true.' I wish you knew him, mother; he has helped me. I never knew my father, so it is not wrong for me to say that I wish he might have been my father." Margaret grew as cold as ice, and her senses reeled, then flame swept her from head to foot. "Come," she said, not knowing her own voice, "it is late." Long afterward, in the solitude of her room, she took the precious thought from its hiding-place, and found it purest gold. It was as though all the bitterness in her heart, growing upward, through the years, had flowered overnight into a perfect rose. XVIII Lynn Comes Into His Own At the post-office there was a letter for Mrs. Irving. Lynn took it, with a lump rising in his throat, for, though he had never seen her handwriting, he knew, through a sixth sense, that it was from Iris. Evidently, it was a brief communication, for the envelope contained not more than a single sheet. The straight, precise slope of the address had an old-fashioned air. It was very different from the modern angular hand which demands a whole line for two or three words. In some way, it brought her nearer to him, and in the shadow of the maple, just outside the house, he kissed the superscription before he took it in. He waited, consciously, while his mother read it. It was little more than a note, saying that she was established in a hall bedroom in a city boarding-house, where she had the use of the piano in the parlour, and that she was taking two lessons a week and practising a great deal. She gave the name of her teacher, said she was well, and sent kind remembrances to all who might inquire for her. With a woman's insight, Margaret read heartache between the lines. She knew that the note was brief because Iris did not dare to trust herself to write more. There was no mention of Lynn, but it was not because she had forgotten him. Margaret gave the letter to Lynn, then turned away, that she might not see his face. "I shall write this afternoon," she said. "Shall I send any message for you?" "No," returned Lynn, with a short, bitter laugh, "I have no message to send." Her heart ached in sympathy, for by her own sorrow she measured the depth of his. She knew that the elasticity of youth would fail here--that Lynn was not of those who forget. "Son," she said, gently, "I wish I might bear it for you." "I wouldn't let you, mother, even if you could. You have had enough as it is. Herr Kaufmann says you have always shielded me and that it was a mistake." Had it been a mistake? Margaret thought it over after Lynn went away. She had shielded him--that was true. He had never learned by painful experience anything from which she had the power to save him. If his father had lived---- For the first time, Margaret thought of her freedom as a doubtful blessing. Then, once more, she took the jewelled thought from its hiding-place in her inmost heart. There was no hint of alloy there--it was radiant with its own unspeakable beauty. Lynn went to the post-office to mail the letter. East Lancaster considered post-boxes modern innovations which were reckless and unjustifiable. Suppose a stranger should be passing through East Lancaster, break open a post-box, and feloniously extract a private letter? What if the box should blow away? When a letter was placed in the hands of the accredited representative of the Government, one might be sure that it was safe, but not otherwise. Doctor Brinkerhoff was talking with the postmaster, but he left him to speak to Lynn. "Miss Iris," he began, eagerly, "you have perhaps heard from her?" "Yes," answered Lynn, dully, fingering the letter. "Is she quite well?" Briefly, Lynn told him what Iris had written. "It was kind to send remembrances to all who might inquire," mused the Doctor. "That is like my foster-daughter; she is always thinking of others. She knew that I would be the first to ask. If you will give me the address, it will be a pleasure to me to write to her. She must be quite lonely where she is." Lynn told him. Her letter was at home, but every syllable of it, even the prosaic address, was written in letters of fire upon his brain. "Thank you," said the Doctor, as he took it down in his memorandum book; "I shall write to-night. Shall I give her any word from you?" "No!" cried Lynn. "Ah," laughed the Doctor, "I understand. You write yourself. Well, I will tell her a letter is coming. Good afternoon!" He moved away, leaving Lynn cold from head to foot. He was tempted to call the Doctor back, to ask him not to mention his name to Iris, then he reflected that an explanation would be necessary. In any event, Iris would understand. She would know that he did not intend to write--that he had sent no message. But, three days later, it was fated that Iris should tremble at the sight of Lynn's name in a letter from East Lancaster. "I think he will write soon," Doctor Brinkerhoff had said. "Mr. Irving is a very fine gentleman and I have deep respect for him." "Write to me!" repeated Iris. "He would not dare! Why should he write to me?" She put the letter aside and read over those three anonymous communications of Lynn's, making a vain effort to associate them with his personality. Meanwhile, Lynn was learning endurance. He slept but fitfully, awaking always with the sense of choking and of a hand pulling at his heart. He saw Iris everywhere. There was no room in the house, except his own, that was not full of her and of the faint, elusive perfume which seemed a part of her. Sometimes those ghostly images haunted him until he could bear no more. Margaret often saw him throw down the book he was reading and dash outdoors. For an hour, perhaps, he had not turned a page, and the book was a flimsy pretence at best. He had not touched his violin since Iris went away. More than anything else, it spoke to him of her. "Trickster with the violin" seemed written upon it for all the world to read. Dimly, he knew that work was the only panacea for heartache, but he could not bring himself to go on with his mechanical practising. Summer was drawing to its close. Already there was a single scarlet bough in the maple at the gate, where the frost had set its signal and its promise of return. Many of the birds had gone, and fairy craft of winged seeds, the sport of every wind, drifted aimlessly about in search of some final harbour. Strangely, Lynn rather avoided his mother. He felt her sympathy, her comprehension, and yet he shrank from her. She was gentle and patient, responded readily to his every mood, and rarely offered a caress, yet he continually shrank back within himself. He had made no friends in East Lancaster, though he knew one or two young men near his own age, but he kept so far aloof from them that they had long since ceased to seek him out. He kept away from Doctor Brinkerhoff, fearing talk of Iris, or some new complication, and even the postmaster's kindly sallies fell upon deaf ears. He, too, missed Iris, and often inquired for her, though he could not have failed to note that no letters came for Lynn. Almost in the first of the hurt, when it seemed the hardest to bear, he had wondered whether it could be any worse if Iris were dead. All at once, he knew that it would be; that the cold hand and the quiet heart were the supreme anguish of loving, because there was no longer any possibility of change. Swiftly, he understood how Iris had felt when Aunt Peace died and he stood by, indifferent and unmoved. In tardy atonement, he covered the grave in the churchyard with flowers--the goldenrod and purple aster that marched side by side over the hills to meet the frost, gay and fearless to the last. He saw himself as he had been then, and his heart grew hot with shame. "I don't wonder she called me a clod," he said to himself, "for that is what I was." In the maze of darkness through which he somehow lived, there was but one ray of comfort--the Master. Lynn felt, vaguely, that here was something upon which he might lean. He did not perceive that it was his own individuality which Herr Kaufmann had in some way awakened, so prone are we to confuse the person with the thing, the thought with the deed. Day after day, he tramped over the hills around East Lancaster; day by day, footsore and weary, he sought for peace along those sunlit fields. At night, desperately tired and faint with hunger, he crept home, where he slept uneasily, waking always with that hand of terror clutching at his heart. He went most frequently to the pile of rocks in the woods, a mile or more from the house. There were no signs upon the bare earth around it; seemingly no one went there but Lynn. Yet the suggestion of an altar was openly made, from the wide ledge at the foundation, where one might kneel, to the cross at the summit, rude, stern, and forbidding, chiselled in the rock. Here, many times, Lynn had found comfort. Someone else, whose heart swelled, burned, and tried to escape, had cut that cross upon the granite. Thus he came, by slow degrees, into an intimate, invisible companionship. Herr Kaufmann had ceased to speak of lessons, though Lynn went there sometimes and sat by while he worked. The Master had admitted him to that high fellowship which does not demand speech. For an hour or more, Lynn might sit there, watching, and yet no word would be spoken. As with Dr. Brinkerhoff, there were occasional visits in which nothing was said but "Good afternoon" and "Good-bye." Fräulein Fredrika was always busy overhead with her manifold household tasks, and seldom disturbed them by coming into the shop. Lynn wondered if the house was never clean, and once put the question to Herr Kaufmann. "Mine house is always clean," he answered, "except down here. Twice in every year, I allow Fredrika to come in mine shop with her cloths and her brush and her pails. The rest of the time, it is mine own. If she could clean here all the time, as upstairs, I think she would be more happy. If you like to come in mine shop when I am not here, I am willing. It is one quiet place where one can rest undisturbed and think of many things. Fredrika would not care." Weeks later, Lynn thought of the kindly offer. A storm was coming up, and he remembered that the Master had spoken of driving to another town with Dr. Brinkerhoff. "I have one violin," he had explained, "which was ordered long ago and which is now finished. While the Herr Doctor visits the sick, I will go on with mine instrument and perhaps obtain one more pupil." Fräulein Fredrika answered his ring, and he asked, conventionally, for Herr Kaufmann. "Mine brudder is not home," she said. "He will have gone away, but I think not for long. You will perhaps come in and wait?" "I will not disturb you," replied Lynn. "I will go down in the shop." "But no," returned the Fräulein, coaxingly. "Will you not stay with me? I am with the loneliness when mine brudder is away. You will sit with me? Yes? It will be most kind!" Thus entreated, he could not refuse, and he sat down in the parlour, awkward and ill at ease. His hostess at once proceeded to entertain him. "You think it will rain, yes?" she asked. "Yes, I think so." "Well, I do not," returned the Fräulein, smiling. "I always think the best. Let us wait and see which is right." "We need rain," objected Lynn, turning uneasily in his chair. "But not when mine brudder is out. He and the Herr Doctor will have gone for a long drive. Mine brudder have finished one fine violin and the Herr Doctor will visit the sick. Mine brudder's friend possesses great skill." Lynn looked moodily past her and out of the window. The Fräulein changed her tactics. "You have not seen mine new clothes-brush," she suggested. "No," returned Lynn, unthinkingly, "I haven't." "Then I will get him." She came back, presently, and put it into Lynn's hand. It was made of three strands of heavy rope, braided, looped to form a handle, tied with a blue ribbon, and ravelled at the ends. "See," she said, "is it not most beautiful?" "Yes," agreed Lynn, absently. "Miss Iris have told me how to make him." Lynn came to himself with a start. "And this," she went on, pointing to the gilded potato-masher that hung under the swinging lamp, "and this,--but no, it is you who have made this for me. Miss Iris showed you how." She pointed to the butterfly made so long ago, but still in its pristine glory. He said nothing, but by his face Fräulein Fredrika saw that she had made a mistake--that she had somehow been clumsy. After all, it was very difficult, this conversing with gentlemen. Franz was easy to get along with, but the others? She shook her head in despair, and immediately relinquished the thought of entertaining Lynn. She could not tell him that she had changed her mind, that she no longer wanted him to sit with her, and that he could go down in the shop to wait for Herr Kaufmann. Painfully, in the silence, she considered several expedients, and at last her face brightened. "Now that you are here," she said, "to guard mine house, it will be of a possibility for me to go out for some vegetables for mine brudder's dinner. He will have been very hungry from his long ride, and you see it is not going to rain. You will excuse me for a short time, yes?" "Gladly," answered Lynn, with sincerity. "Then I need not fear to go. It will be most kind." She had been gone but a few minutes when the storm broke. Lynn saw the wild rain sweep across the valley with a sense of peaceful security which was quite new to him. For some time, now, he would be alone--alone, and yet sheltered from the storm. Very often, after a deep experience, one looks upon the inanimate things which were present at the beginning of it with wondering curiosity. The crazy jug, the purple tidy embroidered with pink roses, and the gilded potato-masher which swung back and forth when the wind shook the house, were strangely linked with Destiny. Here he had thoughtlessly touched the Cremona, and, for the time being, made an enemy of the Fräulein. Her dislike of him abated only when he and Iris made her the hideous paper butterfly which illuminated a corner. A flash of memory took him back to the day they made it, alone, in the big dining-room. He saw the sweet seriousness in the girl's face as she glued on the antennæ, having chosen proper bits of an old ostrich feather for the purpose. And now, the dining-room was empty, save of the haunting shadows. Aunt Peace was at rest in the churchyard, the fever at an end, and Iris--Iris had gone, leaving desolation in her wake. Only the butterfly remained--the flimsy, fragile thing that any passing wind might easily have destroyed. The finer things of the spirit, that are supposed to be permanent, had vanished. In their place, there was only a heartache, which waxed greater as the days went by, and through the long nights which brought no surcease of pain. In the beginning, Lynn had felt himself absolutely alone. Now he began to perceive that he had been taken into an invisible brotherhood. He was like one in a crowded playhouse when the lights go out, isolated to all intents and purposes, and yet conscious that others are near him, sharing his emotions. The thunders boomed across the valley and the lightnings rived the clouds. The grey rain swirled against the windows and the house swayed in the wind. Then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the storm ceased, and Lynn smiled. Diamonds dripped from every twig, and the grass was full of them. The laughter of happy children came to his ears, and a rainbow of living light spanned the valley. Its floating draperies overhung the topmost branches of the trees on the crest of the opposite hill, and picked out here and there a jewel--a ruby, an opal, or an emerald, set in the silvered framework of the leaves. Lynn sighed heavily, for the beauty of it sent the old, remorseless pain to surging through his heart. The Master's violin lay on the piano near him, and he took it up, noting only that it was not the Cremona. As his fingers touched the strings, there came a sense of familiarity with the instrument, as one who meets a friend after a long separation. He tightened the strings, picked up the bow, and began to play. It was the adagio movement of the concerto--the one which Herr Kaufmann had said was full of heartache and tears. In all the literature of music, there was nothing so well suited to his mood. He stood with his face to the window, his eyes still fixed upon the rainbow, and deep, quivering tunes came from the violin. In an instant, Lynn recognised his mastery. He was playing as the great had played before him, with passion and with infinite pain. All the beauty of the world was a part of it--the sun, the wide fields of clover, and the Summer rain. Moonlight and the sound of many waters, the unutterable midnights of the universe, Iris and the beauty of the marshes, where her name-flower, like a thread of purple, embroidered a royal tapestry. Beyond this still was the beauty of the spirit, which believes all things, suffers all things, and triumphs at last through its suffering and its belief. Primal forces spoke through the adagio, swelling into splendid chords--love and night and death. It was the cry of a soul in bondage, straining to be free; struggling to break the chain and take its place, by right of its knowledge and its compassion, with those who have learned to live. Lynn was quivering like an aspen in a storm, and he breathed heavily. Through the majestic crescendo came that deathless message: "Endure, and thou shalt triumph; wait, and thou shalt see." Like an undercurrent, too, was the inseparable mystery of pain. Under the spell of the music, he saw it all--the wide working of the law which takes no account of the finite because it deals with the infinite; which takes no heed of the individual because it guards us all. Far removed from its personal significance, his grief became his friend--the keynote, the password, the countersign admitting him to that vast Valhalla where the shining souls of the immortals, outgrowing defeat, have put on the garments of Victory. Sunset took the rainbow and made it into flame. Once more Lynn played the adagio, instinct with its world-old story, voicing its world-old law. He was so keenly alive that the strings cut into his fingers, yet he played on, fully comprehending, fully believing, through the splendid chords of the crescendo to the end. Then there was a faltering step upon the stair, a fumbling at the latch, and someone staggered into the room. It was the Master, blind with tears, his loved Cremona in his outstretched hands. "Here!" he cried, brokenly. "Son of mine heart! Play!" XIX The Secret Chamber "He loves her still." The memory of the words carried balm to Margaret's sore heart. There could be no mistake, for Doctor Brinkerhoff had been positive. It was absolutely, beautifully true. Believing all the time that he had forgotten, she was now proved false. Swiftly upon the thought came another which sent the blood to her face. In all the time she had been in East Lancaster, she had feared that he might in some way learn of her presence, and now there was nothing she desired so much. Had Aunt Peace lived, she would scarcely have dared to continue the acquaintance, for, like Doctor Brinkerhoff, the Master was without "social position." Iris, too, had gone--no one need know but Lynn. Herr Kaufmann did not know the name of the man she had married, and he thought Lynn's mother a stranger. It would be very simple to write the Master a note, saying that he had been so good to Lynn and had done so much for him that his mother would like to express her appreciation personally, and end by asking him to call. But would the old promise still keep him away? As though it were yesterday, Margaret remembered her mother as she sternly demanded from Franz his promise never to enter the house again--and Franz was one who always kept his word. Then she reflected that on the day when Aunt Peace received guests for the last time he had been there, in that very house, with the Cremona, which had separated them in the beginning and, years later, so strangely brought them together. Doctor Brinkerhoff had asked permission to bring his friend, and it would be so simple to give it. So easy to say: "Doctor, it would give me pleasure to meet your friend, Herr Kaufmann. Will you not bring him with you next Wednesday evening?" But, after all the years, all the sorrow that lay between them, would she wish Doctor Brinkerhoff to be there? Was it not also taking an unfair advantage of the Master, to send for him, and then suddenly confront him with his sweetheart of long ago? Margaret put the plan aside without further thought. And Lynn--would she wish Lynn to bring Herr Kaufmann? Would she want her son to tell him that she was the woman he had loved in vain a quarter of a century ago? Margaret flushed crimson as she imagined the meeting. Lynn did not know that it was the Master--only that she had cared for someone whom she did not marry. Would she wish Lynn to stand by, surprised and perhaps troubled? Her heart answered no. The note, too, would be an unfair advantage. He would not know "Margaret Irving," and she could not well write that they had once loved each other. After all, she had only Doctor Brinkerhoff's word for it, and he might be mistaken. Even the Master might be labouring under a delusion--might only think he cared. The after-meetings are often pathetic, between those who have loved in youth. Circumstance parts two who vow undying devotion, and one, perhaps, remains faithful, while the other forgets. Sometimes, both marry elsewhere, each with the other's image securely hidden in those secret chambers of the heart, which twilight and music serve best to open. Time, that kindly magician, softens the harsh outlines, eliminates every defect, and, by his wondrous alchemy, transmutes the real to the ideal. Thus in one's inmost soul is enshrined the old love, with countless other precious things. Rue lies at the threshold, for Regret, like a sentinel, guards the door, and to enter, one must first make peace with Regret. The labyrinthine passages are hung with shining fabrics, woven of long-dead dreams. The floor is deeply hidden with rosemary, that homely, fragrant herb which means remembrance. The light is that of a stained-glass window, where the sun streams through many colours, and illumines the utmost recesses with a rainbow gleam. Costly vessels are there, holding Heart's Desire, which must wait for its fulfilment until immortal dawn. Heart's Belief is in a chest, laid away with lavender, but the lock is rusty and does not readily yield. Heart's Love, sweet with spikenard, waits near the door, so eager to pass the threshold, where stands Regret! Memory's jewels are there, in many a casket of cunning workmanship, where the dust never lies. Emeralds made of the "green pastures and the still waters"; sapphires that were born of sun and sea. Topazes of the golden glow that comes after a rain; diamonds of the white light of noon. Rubies that have stolen their colour from the warm blood of the heart, gladly giving its deepest love. Amethysts made of dead violets, still hinting that perishable fragrance which, perhaps, like a single precious drop, still lives within, forever out of the reach of decay. Opals made from changeful flame, of irised fancies that lived but for the space of a thought, then passed away. Linked together by a thousand perfect moments, these jewels of Memory wait for the quiet hour when one's fingers lift them from their hiding-place, and one's eyes, forgetting tears, shine with the old joy. The petals of crimson roses, long since crushed and dead, rustle softly from the shadow when the door of the secret chamber opens. Melodies start from the silence and breathe the haunting measures of some lost song. Letters, ragged and worn, with the tint of old ivory upon their eloquent pages, whisper still: "I love you," though the hand that penned the tender message has long since been folded, with its mate, upon the quiet heart. When the world has proved forbidding, when love has been unresponsive, and friendship has failed, one steals to the secret chamber with a sense of sanctuary. Past Regret, stern, unyielding, and austere, one goes silently, having given the password, and enters in. The fragrant herbs and the rose petals bring balm to the tired heart, that heart which has loved so vainly, has tried so faithfully, and failed. The ghosts of dreams, woven in the tapestries that hide the walls, come back to touch the roughened fingers of the one who followed out the Pattern, in the midst of blinding tears. All the music that has soothed and comforted, trembles once more from muted strings. The work-worn hands, made old and hard by unselfish toil, become fair and smooth at a lover's kiss of long ago. After an hour in the secret chamber, when Mnemosyne, singing, brings forth her treasures, one goes back, serene and fearless, to meet whatever may come. * * * * * Margaret came from her secret chamber with a smile upon her lips. In that one hour, she had finally parted with all bitterness, all sense of loss. After twenty-five years of heart hunger and disappointment, she had put it all aside, and come into her heritage of content. She began to consider Herr Kaufmann again. After all, what was there to be gained? She might be disappointed in him, or he might be disillusioned in regard to her. She remembered what a friend had once told her, years ago. "My dear," she had said, "there is one thing in my life for which I have never ceased to be thankful. When I was very young, I fell in love with a boy of my own age, and our parents, by separating us, kept us from making a hasty marriage. I did not forget, but later I met a man who was much better suited to me in every way, whom I liked and thoroughly respected, and of whom my mother approved. But, secretly, I cherished this old love until one day a lucky chance brought me face to face with him. In an instant, the whole thing was gone, and I laughed at my folly--laughed because I was free. I married the other, and I have been a very happy wife--far happier than I should have been had I continued to believe myself in love with a memory." There was truth in it, Margaret reflected. She went over to her mirror and sat down before it, to study her face. She was forty-five, and the bloom of youth was gone. The grey threads at her temples and around her low brow softened her face, where Time had left the prints of his passing. Her eyes, that had once been merry, were sad now, and the corners of her mouth drooped a little. She turned away from the mirror with a sigh, wondering if, after all, the dreams were not the best. Moreover, the womanly instinct asserted itself. To be sought and never to do the seeking, to hold one's self high and apart, to be earned but never given--this feeling, so long in abeyance, returned to its rightful place. When the years bring wisdom, one learns to leave many problems to their own working out. Margaret determined not to interfere with the complex undercurrents which, like subterranean rivers, lie beneath our daily living. It might happen or it might not, but she would not seek to control the subtle forces which forever work secretly toward the fulfilling of the law. To live on from day to day, making the best of it,--this is a simple creed, but no one yet has found it unsatisfactory. Lynn came in and went straight to his room. Margaret heard him walking back and forth, as if in search of something. He tuned his violin and she rejoiced, because at last he had turned to his practise. But it was not practising that she heard. It was the concerto, every measure of which she knew by heart. With the first notes, she felt a new authority, a new grasp, and began to wonder if it were really Lynn. She leaned forward, her body tense, to listen. When he came to the adagio, the hot tears blinded her. Lynn, her boy, to play like this! Her mother's heart beat high in an ecstasy of gratitude for the full payment, the granting of her heart's desire. The deep tones stirred her very soul. The passion of it made her tremble, the beauty of it made her afraid. Wondering, she saw the working out of it,--that at the very hour when she had surrendered, had given up, had cast aside her bitterness forever, Lynn had come into his own. With splendid dignity, with exquisite phrasing, with masterful interpretation, the concerto moved to its end. It left her faint, her heart wildly beating. Through Lynn, Franz had worked out her salvation, her atonement; through Lynn full payment had been made. When he came out of his room, she was in the hall, her face alight with her great happiness. "Lynn!" she cried. A world of meaning was in the name. "I know," he returned, but all the youth was gone out of his voice. At once she realised that he had crossed the dividing line, that, even to her, he was no longer a child, but a man. He went past her, walked downstairs slowly, and went out. "Poor lad!" she murmured; "poor soul!" Lynn, too, had paid the price--was it needful that both should pay? But, none the less, the fact remained; the boon had been granted and full payment made, in each instance the same payment. She had paid with long years of heart-hunger, which only now had ceased. Lynn's years still lay before him. A sob choked her. Was not the price too high? Must he bear what she had borne for these five and twenty years? With all the passion of her motherhood, she yearned to shield him; to eke out, in the remainder of her days, the remorseless balance against Lynn. But in the working of that law there is no discrimination--the price is fixed and unalterable, the payment merciless and sure. There is no escape for the individual; it is continually the sacrifice of the one for the many, the part for the whole. Try as she would, Margaret could not go back. She could not, for Lynn's sake, take up the burden she had laid down, in the futile effort to bear more. From her, no more would be accepted, so much was plain. The rest must come from Lynn. Her heart ached for him, but there was nothing she could do, except to stand aside and watch, while his broad shoulders grew accustomed to their load. A wild impulse seized her to go to the city, find Iris, bring her back, even unwillingly, and literally force her to marry Lynn. But that was not what Lynn wanted, and Margaret herself had been forced into a marriage. Clearly, at last, she saw that she must remain passive, and cultivate resignation. The hours went by and Lynn did not return. She well knew the mood in which he had gone away. At night, white-faced and weary, with his eyes gleaming strangely, he would come back, refuse to eat, and lock himself into his room. It had been so for a long time and it would be so until, through the slow working of the inner forces, he stepped over the boundary that his mother had just crossed. White noon ascended the arch of the heavens, blazed a moment at the zenith, and then went on. The golden hours followed, each one making the shadows a little longer, the earth more radiant, if that could be. Upon the hills were set the blood-red seals of the frost. Every maple, robed in glory, had taken on the garments of royalty. The air shimmered with the amethystine haze of Indian Summer, that veil of luminous mist, vibrant with colour, which Autumn weaves on her loom. Margaret went out, leaving the door ajar for Lynn. There were few keys in East Lancaster. A locked door was discourteous--a reflection upon the integrity of one's neighbours. From the elms the yellow leaves were dropping, like telegrams from the high places, saying that Summer had gone. She turned at the corner and went east, the long light throwing her shadow well before her. "It is like Life," she mused, smiling; "we go through it, following shadows--things that vanish when there is a shifting of the light." Across the clover fields, where the dried blossoms stirred in their sleep as she passed, through the upland pastures, stony and barren, with the pools overgrown, through a fallow field, shorn of its harvest, where only the tiny lace-makers spread their webs amidst the stubble, Margaret's way was all familiar, and yet sadly changed. A meadow-lark, the last one of his kind, winged a leisurely way southward, singing as he flew. A squirrel flaunted his bushy tail, gave her a daring backward glance, and scurried up a tree. She laughed, and paused at the entrance to the forest. Once she had stood there, thrilled to her inmost soul. Again she had waited there, white to the lips with pain. Now she had outgrown it, had learned peace, and the long years slipped away, each with its own burden. The wood was exquisitely still. A nut dropped now and then, and a belated bird called to its mate. The swift patter of fairy feet echoed and re-echoed through the long aisles. The air was crystalline, yet full of colour, and the gold and crimson leaves floated idly back and forth. It needed only a passing wind, at the right moment and from the right place, to make a rainbow then and there. She went farther into the wood, with a sense of friendliness for the well-known way. Just at the turn of the path, she stopped, amazed. At their trysting-place, where the wide rock was laid at the foot of the oak, someone had reared an altar and blazoned a cross upon the stone. Her eyes filled, for she knew who had made it, that symbol of sacrifice. Weather-worn and moss-grown, it must have stood for the whole of the five and twenty years. There was no word, no inscription--only the cross, but for her it was enough. "To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, to kiss the cross!" The last measures of the song reverberated through her memory, as Iris had sung it in her deep contralto, so long ago. Sobbing, she knelt, with her lips against the symbol, then suddenly started to her feet, for there was a step upon the path. For a blinding instant, they faced each other, unbelieving, then the Master opened his arms. "Beloved," he breathed, "is it thou?" XX "Mine Brudder's Friend" That day the Master put aside the garment of his years. The quarter century that had lain between them like a thorny, upward path was suddenly blotted out, and only the memory of it remained. Belated, but none the less keen, the primeval joy came back to him. Youth and love, the bounding pulse and the singing heart,--they were all his. It was twilight when they came away from the moss-grown altar in the forest, his arm around his sweetheart, and the faces of both wet with happy tears. "Until to-morrow, mine Liebchen," he said. "How shall I now wait for that to-morrow when we part no more? The dear God knew. He gave to me the cutting and the long night that in the end I might deserve thee. He was making of me an instrument suited to thy little hand." He kissed the hand as he spoke, and Margaret's eyes filled once more. Through the mist of her tears she saw the rising moon rocking idly just above the horizon. "See," said the Master, "it is a new light from the east, from the same place as thou hast come to me. Many a time have I watched it, thinking that it also shone on thee; that perhaps thy eyes, as well as mine, were upon it, and thus, through heaven, we were united." "Those whom God hath joined together," murmured Margaret, "let no man put asunder." "Those whom God hath joined," returned the Master, reverently, "no man can put asunder. Dost thou not see? I thought thou hadst forgotten, and when I go to keep mine tryst with Grief, I find thee there, with thy lips upon the cross." "I have never gone before," whispered Margaret. "I could not." "So? Mine Beloved, I have gone there many times. When mine sorrow has filled mine old heart to breaking, I have gone there, that I might look upon thy cross and mine and so gain strength. It is where we parted, where thy lips were last on mine. Sometimes I have gone with mine Cremona and played until mine sore heart was at peace. And to-day, I find thee there! The dear Father has been most kind." "Did you know me?" asked Margaret, shyly. "Have I not grown old?" "Mine Liebchen, thou canst never grow old. Thou hast the beauty of immortal youth. As I saw thee to-day, so have I seen thee in mine dream. Sometimes I have felt that thou hadst taken up thy passing, and I have hungered for mine, for it was a certainty in mine heart that the dear Father would give thee back to me in heaven. "I do not think of heaven as the glittering place with the streets of gold and the walls of pearl, but more like one quiet wood, where the grass is green and the little brook sings all day. I have thought of heaven as the place where those who love shall be together, free from all misunderstanding or the thought of parting. "The great ones say that man's own need gives him his conception of the dear God; that if he needs the avenging angel, so is God to him; that if he needs but the friend, that will God be. And so, in mine dream of heaven, because it was mine need, I have thought of it but as one sunny field, where there was clover in the long grass and tall trees at one side, with the clear, shining waters beyond, where we might quench our thirst, and thee beside me forever, with thy little hand in mine. And now, because I have paid mine price, I do not have to wait until I am dead for mine heaven; the dear God gives it to me here." "Whatever heaven may be," said Margaret, thrilled to the utmost depths of her soul, "it can be no more than this." "Nor different," answered the Master, drawing her closer. "I think it is like this, without the fear of parting." "Parting!" repeated Margaret, with a rush of tears; "oh, do not speak of parting!" "Mine Beloved," said the Master, and his voice was very tender, "there is nothing perfect here--there must always be parting. If it were not so, we should have no need of heaven. But to the end of the road thou and I will go together. "See! In the beginning, we were upon separate paths, and, after so long a time, the ways met. For a little space we journeyed together, and because of it the sun was more bright, the flowers more sweet, the road more easy. Then comes the hard place and the ways divide. But though the leagues lie between us and we do not see, we go always at the same pace, and so, in a way, together. We learn the same things, we think the same things, we suffer the same things, because we were of those whom the dear God hath joined. Another walks beside thee and yet not with thee, because, through all the distance, thou art mine. "And so we go until thy road is turned. Thou dost not know it is turned, because the circle is so great thou canst not see. Little dost thou dream thou art soon to meet again with thy old Franz. Through the thicket, meanwhile, I am going, and mine way is hard and set with brambles. It is only mine blind faith which helps me onward--that, and the vision in mine heart of thee, which never for a day, nor even for an hour, hath been absent. "One day mine road turns too, and there art thou, mine Beloved, leading by the hand mine son." Margaret was sobbing, her face hidden against his shoulder. "Mine Liebchen, it is not for me to bear thy tears. Much can I endure, but not that. After the long waiting, I have thee close again, thou and mine son, the tall young fellow with the honest face and the laughing ways, who have made of himself one artist. "The way lies long before us, but it is toward the west, and sunset hath already begun to come upon the clouds. But until the end we go together, thy little hand in mine. "Some day, Beloved, when the ways part once more, and thou or I shall be called to follow the Grey Angel into the darkness, I think we shall not fear. Perhaps we shall be very weary, and the one will be glad because the other has come into the Great Rest. But, Beloved, thou knowest that if it is I who must follow the Grey Angel, and still leave thee on the dusty road alone, mine grave will be no division. Life hath not taught me not to love thee with all mine soul, and Death shall not. Life is the positive, and Death is the negation. Shall Death, then, do something more than Life can do? Oh, mine Liebchen, do not fear!" The Autumn mists were rising and the stars gleamed faintly, like far-off points of pearl. At the bridge, they said good night, and Margaret went on home, wishing, even then, that she might bear the burden for Lynn. The Master went up the hill with his blood singing in his veins. Fredrika thought him unusually abstracted, but strangely happy, and until long past midnight, he sat by the window, improvising upon the Cremona a theme of such passionate beauty that the heart within her trembled and was afraid. That night Fredrika dreamed that someone had parted her from Franz, and when she woke, her pillow was wet with tears. It was not until the next afternoon that he realised that he must tell her. After long puzzling over the problem, he went to Doctor Brinkerhoff's. The Doctor was out, and did not return until almost sunset. When he came, the Master was sitting in the same uncomfortable chair that, with monumental patience, he had occupied for hours. "Mine friend," said the Master, with solemn joy, "look in mine face and tell me what you see." "What I see!" repeated the Doctor, mystified; "why, nothing but the same blundering old fellow that I have always seen." The Master laughed happily. "So? And this blundering old fellow; has nothing come to him?" "I can't imagine," said the Doctor, shaking his head. "I may be dense, but I fear you will have to tell me." "So? Then listen! Long since, perhaps, you have known of mine sorrow. Of it I have never said much, because mine old heart was sore, and because mine friend could understand without words." "Yes," replied the Doctor, eagerly, "I knew that the one you loved was taken away from you while you were both very young." "Yes. Well, look in mine face once more and tell me what you see." "You--you haven't found her!" gasped the Doctor, quite beside himself with surprise. "Precisely," the Master assured him, with his face beaming. The Doctor wrung his hand. "Franz, my old friend," he cried, "words cannot tell you how glad I am! Where--who is she?" "Mine friend," returned the Master, "it is you who are one blundering old fellow. After taking to yourself the errand of telling her that I loved her still, you did not see fit to come back to me with the news that she also cared. Thereby much time has been wrongly spent." The Doctor grew hot and cold by turns. "You don't mean--" he cried. "Not--not Mrs. Irving!" "Who else?" asked the Master, serenely. "In all the world is she not the most lovely lady? Who that has seen her does not love her, and why not I?" Doctor Brinkerhoff sank into a chair, very much excited. "It is one astonishment also to me," the Master went on. "I cannot believe that the dear God has been so good, and I must always be pinching mineself to be sure that I do not sleep. It is most wonderful." "It is, indeed," the Doctor returned. "But see how it has happened. Only now can I understand. In the beginning, mine heart is very hurt, but out of mine hurt there comes the power to make mineself one great artist. It was mine Cremona that made the parting, because I am so foolish that I must go in her house to look at it. It was mine Cremona that took her to me the last time, when she gave it to me. 'Franz,' she says, 'if you take this, you will not forget me, and it is mine to do with what I please.' "So, when I have made mineself the great artist, I have played on mine Cremona to many thousands, and the tears have come from all. See, it is always mine Cremona. And because of this, she has heard of me afar off, and she has chosen to have mine son learn the violin from me, so that he also shall be one artist. Twice she has heard me and mine Cremona when we make the music together; once in the street outside mine house, and once when I played the _Ave Maria_ in her house when the old lady was dead." Doctor Brinkerhoff turned away, his muscles suddenly rigid, but the Master talked on, heedlessly. "See, it is always mine Cremona, and the dear God has made us in the same way. He has made mine violin out of the pain, the cutting, and the long night, and also me, so that I shall be suited to touch it. It is so that I am to her as mine Cremona is to me--I am her instrument, and she can do with me what she will. "It is but the one string now that needs the tuning," went on the Master, deeply troubled. "I know not what to do with mine Fredrika." "Fredrika!" repeated Doctor Brinkerhoff. He, too, had forgotten the faithful Fräulein. "The bright colours are not for mine Liebchen," the Master continued. "The bright colours," said the Doctor, by some curious trick of mind immediately upon the defensive, "why, I have always thought them very pretty." A great light broke in upon the Master, and he could not be expected to perceive that it was only a will o' the wisp. "So," he cried, triumphantly, "you have loved mine sister! I have sometimes thought so, and now I know!" The Doctor's face turned a dull red, his eyelids drooped, and he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Ah, mine friend," said the Master, exultantly, "is it not most wonderful to see how we have played at the cross-purposes? All these years you have waited because you would not take mine sister away from me, you, mine kind, unselfish friend! So much fun have you made of mine housekeeping before she came that you would not do me this wrong! "And I--I could not send mine sister the money to take the long journey, and for many years keep her from her Germany and her friends, then after one night say to her: 'Fredrika, I have found mine old sweetheart and I no longer want you.' "Mine Fredrika has never known of mine sorrow, and I cannot to-day give her the news. It is not for me to make mine sister's heart to ache as mine has ached all these years, nor could I give her the money to go back to her Germany because I no longer want her, when she has given it all up for me. It would be most unkind. "But now, see what the dear God has done for us! When it is all worked out, and we come to the end, we see that you, also, share. I know, mine friend, I know what it has been for you, because I, too, have been through the deep waters, and now we come to the land together. It is most fitting, because we are friends. "Moreover, you are to her as she is to you. She has not told me, but mine old eyes are sharp and I see. I tell you this to put the courage into your heart. If you make mine sister happy, it is all I shall ask. Go, now, to mine Fredrika, and tell her I will not be back until late this evening! Is it not most beautiful?" Limp, helpless, and sorely shaken, but without the faintest idea of protesting, Doctor Brinkerhoff found himself started up the hill. The Master stood at the foot, waving his hat in boyish fashion and shouting messages of good-will. At last, when he dared to look back, the Doctor saw that the way was clear, and he sat down upon a boulder by the roadside to think. He would be ungenerous, indeed, he thought, if he could not make some sacrifice for Franz and for Mrs. Irving. Unwillingly, he had come into possession of Fräulein Fredrika's closely guarded secret, and, as he repeatedly told himself, he was a man of honour. Moreover, he was not one of those restless spirits who forever question Life for its meaning. Clearly, there was no other way than the one which was plainly laid before him. But a few more years remained to him, he reflected, for he was twenty years older than the Master; still life was very strange. Disloyalty to the dead was impossible, for she never knew, and would have scorned him if she had known. The end of the tangled web was in his hands--for three people he could make it straight again. The long shadows lay upon the hill and still he sat there, thinking. The children played about him and asked meaningless questions, for the first time finding their friend unresponsive. Finally one, a little bolder than the rest, came closer to him. "The good Fräulein," whispered the child, "she is much troubled for the Master. Why is it that he comes not to his home?" With a sigh and a smile, the Doctor went slowly up the hill to the Master's house, where Fräulein Fredrika was waiting anxiously. "Mine brudder!" she cried; "is he ill?" "No, no, Fräulein," answered the Doctor, reassuringly, his heart made tender by her distress. "Shall not Franz sit in my office to await the infrequent patient while I take his place with his sister? You are glad to see me, are you not, Fräulein?" The tint of faded roses came into the Fräulein's face. "Mine brudder's friend," she said simply, "is always most welcome." She excused herself after a few minutes and began to bustle about in the kitchen. Surely, thought the Doctor, it was pleasant to have a woman in one's house, to bring orderly comfort into one's daily living. The kettle sang cheerily and the Fräulein hummed a little song under her breath. In the twilight, the gay colours faded into a subdued harmony. "It is all very pleasant," said the Doctor to himself, resolutely putting aside a memory of something quite different. Perhaps, as his simple friends said, the dear God knew. After tea, the Fräulein drew her chair to the window and looked out, seemingly unconscious of his presence. "A rare woman," he told himself. "One who has the gift of silence." In the dusk, her face was almost beautiful--all the hard lines softened and made tenderly wistful. The Doctor sighed and she turned uneasily. "Mine brudder," she said, anxiously, "if something was wrong with him, you would tell me, yes?" "Of course," laughed the Doctor. "Why are you so distressed? Is it so strange for me to be here?" "No," she answered, in a low tone, "but you are mine brudder's friend." "And yours also, Fredrika. Did you never think of that?" She trembled, but did not answer, and, leaning forward, the Doctor took her hand in his. "Fredrika," he said, very gently, "you will perhaps think it is strange for me to talk in this way, but have you never thought of me as something more than a friend?" The woman was silent and bitterly ashamed, wondering when and where she had betrayed herself. "That is unfair," he continued, instantly perceiving. "I have thought of you in that way, more especially to-day." Even in the dusk, he could see the light in her eyes, and in his turn he, too, was shamed. "Dear Fräulein Fredrika," he went on, "I have not much to offer, but all I have is yours. I am old, and the woman I loved died, never knowing that I loved her. If she had known, it would have made no difference. Perhaps you think it an empty gift, but it is my all. You, too, may have dreamed of something quite different, but in the end God knows best. Fredrika, will you come?" The maidenly heart within her rioted madly in her breast, but she was used to self-repression. "I thank you," she said, with gentle dignity; "it is one compliment which is very high, but I cannot leave mine Franz. All the way from mine Germany I have come to mend, to cook, to wash, to sew, to scrub, to sweep, to take after him the many things which he forgets and leaves behind, even the most essential. What should he think of me if I should say: 'Franz, I will do this for you no more, but for someone else?' You will understand," she concluded, in a pathetic little voice which stirred him strangely, "because you are mine brudder's friend." "Yes," replied the Doctor, "I am his friend, and so, do you think I would come without his permission? Dear Fräulein, Franz knows and is glad. That is why I left him. Almost the last words he said to me were these: 'If you make mine sister happy, it is all I ask.'" "Franz!" she cried. "Mine dear, unselfish Franz! Always so good, so gentle! Did he say that!" "Yes, he said that. Will you come, Fredrika? Shall we try to make each other happy?" She was standing by the window now, with her hand upon her heart, and her face alight with more than earthly joy. "Dear Fräulein," said the Doctor, rejoicing because it was in his power to give any human creature so much happiness, "will you come?" Without waiting for an answer, he put his hand upon her shoulder and drew her toward him. Then the heavens opened for Fräulein Fredrika, and star-fire rained down upon her unbelieving soul. XXI The Cremona Speaks The grey autumnal rain beat heavily upon her window, and Iris stood watching it, with a heavy weight upon her heart. The prospect was inexpressibly dreary. As far as she could see, there was nothing but a desert of roofs. "Roofs," thought Iris, "always roofs! Who would think there were so many in the world!" Six months ago she had been a happy child, but now all was changed. Grown to womanhood through sorrow, she could never be the same again, even though Aunt Peace, by some miracle of resurrection, should be given back to her. In those long weeks of loneliness, Iris had learned a different point of view. She had not written to Mrs. Irving but once, though the motherly letter that came in reply to her note had seemed like a brief glimpse of East Lancaster. Doctor Brinkerhoff's letter also remained unanswered, chiefly because she could not trust herself to write. Her grief for Aunt Peace was insensibly changed. The poignant sense of loss which belonged to the first few weeks had become something quite different. Gradually, she had learned acceptance, though not yet resignation. With a wisdom far beyond her years, she had plunged into her work. The hours not devoted to lessons or practice were spent at her books. She had even planned out her days by a schedule in which every minute was accounted for--so much for study, so much for practise, so much for the daily walk. She had no friends. Aside from the hard-faced proprietor of the boarding-house, she was upon speaking terms with no one except her teacher and one of the attendants at the library. It has been written that there is no loneliness like that of a great city, and in the experience of nearly every one it is at some time proved true. She missed East Lancaster, with all its dear, familiar ways. The elm-bordered path, the maple at the gate, and every nook and corner of the garden constantly flitted before her like a mocking dream. She could not avoid contrasting the tiny chamber, which was now her only home, with the great rooms of the old house, where everything was always exquisitely clean. She even longed for the kitchen, with its shining saucepans and its tiled hearth. To go back, if only for one night, to her own room--to make the little cakes for Doctor Brinkerhoff, and play her part in the pretty Wednesday evening comedy, while Aunt Peace sat by, graciously hospitable, and Lynn kept them all laughing--oh, if she only could! But it is the sadness of life that there is never any going back. The Hour, with its opportunity, its own individual beauty, comes but once. The hand takes out of the crystal pool as much water as the tiny, curved cup of the palm will hold. The shining drops, each one perfect in itself and changing colour with the shifting of the light, fall through the fingers back into the pool, with a faint suggestion of music in the sound. The circle widens outward, and presently the water is still again. If one could go back, gather from the pool those same shining drops, made into jewels by the light, which, at the moment, is also changing, one might go back to the Hour. Steadfastly, Iris had hardened her heart against Lynn. He had dared to love her! Her cheeks crimsoned with shame at the thought, but still, when the days were dark, it had more than once been a certain comfort to know that someone cared, aside from Aunt Peace, asleep in the churchyard. Lynn and Aunt Peace--they were the only ones who cared. Mrs. Irving had been friendly; Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master had been kind; Fräulein Fredrika had always been glad when she went to see her: but these were like bits of Summer blown for an instant against the Winter of the world. Iris saw clearly, from her new standpoint, that she had learned to love the writer of the letters. It was he upon whom her soul leaned. Then, in the midst of her grief, to find that her unknown lover was merely Lynn--a boy who chased her around the garden with grasshoppers and worms--it was too much. Meditatively, Iris brushed the surface of her cheek, where Lynn had kissed her. She could feel it now--an awkward, boyish kiss. It was much the same as if Aunt Peace or Mrs. Irving had done it, and it was not at all what one read about in the books. If it were not for Lynn, she could go back to East Lancaster. She might go, anyway, if she were sure she would not meet him, but where could she stay? Not with Mrs. Irving--that was certain, unless Lynn went away. But even then, sometimes he would come back--she could not always avoid him. Her eyes filled when she thought of the Master, generously offering her two of his six tiny rooms. The parlour, with its hideous ornaments, seemed far preferable to the dingy room in the boarding-house, where the old square piano stood, thick with dust, and where Iris did her daily practising. But no, even there, she would meet Lynn. East Lancaster was forbidden to her--she could never go there again. Women have a strange attachment for places, especially for those which, even for a little time, have been "home." To a man, home means merely a house, more or less comfortable according to circumstances, where he eats and sleeps--an easy-chair and a fire which await him at the close of the day. The location of it matters not to him. Uproot him suddenly, transport him to a strange land, surround him with new household gods, give him an occupation, and he will rather enjoy the change. Never for an instant will he grieve. With assured comfort and congenial employment, he will be equally happy in New York or on the coast of South Africa. But the woman, ah, the daily tragedy of the woman in the strange place, and the long months before she becomes even reconciled to her new surroundings! After all, it is the home instinct and the mother instinct which make the foundations of civilisation. So it was that Iris hungered for East Lancaster, quite apart from its people. Every rod of the ground was familiar to her, from the woods, far to the east, to the Master's house on the summit of the hill, at the very edge of West Lancaster, overlooking the valley, and toward the blue hills beyond. The rain dripped drearily, and Iris sighed. She felt herself absolutely alone in the world, with neither friend nor kindred. There was only one belonging to her who was not dead--her father. No trace of him had been found, and his death had been taken for granted, but none the less Iris wondered if he might not still live, heart-broken and remorseful; if, perhaps, her skirts had not brushed against him in some crowded thoroughfare of the city. She hoped not, for even that seemed contamination. It did not much matter that in her haste she had left the box containing the photographs and the papers in the attic. Aunt Peace's emerald, the fan, and the lace, which she had also forgotten, were rightfully hers, and yet they seemed to belong to the house--to Mrs. Irving and Lynn. Swiftly upon her thought came a rap at her door. "A letter for you, Miss Temple." Iris took it eagerly and closed the door again, consciously disappointed when she saw that it was from Mrs. Irving. Doctor Brinkerhoff's careless remark, to the effect that Lynn would write soon, had fallen upon fertile soil. First, Iris decided not to read the letter when it came--to return it unopened. Then, that it was not necessary to be rude, but she need not answer it. Next, a healthy human curiosity as to what Lynn might have to say to her, after all that had passed between them. Then she wondered whether Lynn's next letter would be anything like the three that she had put away in her trunk. Now, her hands were trembling, and her cheeks were very pale. "My Dear Child," the letter began. "Not having heard from you for so long, I fear that you are ill, or in trouble. If anything is wrong, do not hesitate to tell us, for we are your friends, as always. Doctor Brinkerhoff, Herr Kaufmann, or I would be glad to do anything to make you happier, or more comfortable. I will come, if you say so, or either of the other two. "We are all well and happy here, but we miss you. Won't you come back to us, if only for a little while? The old house is desolate without you, and it is your home as much as it is mine. You left the emerald and the other little keepsakes. Shall I send them to you, or will you come for them? In any event, please write me a line to tell me that all is well with you, or, if not, how I can help you. "Very affectionately yours, "MARGARET IRVING." And never a word about Lynn! Only that "all" were well and happy, which, of course, included Lynn, and went far to prove to Iris that she was right--that he had no heart. It was different in the books. When a beloved woman went away, the hero's heart invariably broke, and here was Lynn, "well and happy." Iris put the letter aside with a gesture of disdain. Yet the motherly tone of it had touched her more deeply than she knew, and accentuated her loneliness. Twice she tried to answer it, to tell Mrs. Irving that she, too, was well and happy, and ask her to send the emerald, the lace, and the fan. Twice she gave it up, for the page was sadly blotted with her tears. Then she determined to write the next day, and ask also for the box of papers in the attic. Yet would she want Mrs. Irving to see the documents meant for her eyes alone, and that pathetic little mother in the tawdry stage trappings? Surely not! She did not question Margaret's sense of honour, but there were many boxes in the trunk in the attic, and she would have to open them one after another, until she was sure she had found the right one. Sorely puzzled, desperately homesick, and very lonely, Iris sobbed herself to sleep. All night she dreamed of East Lancaster, where the sky came down close to the ground, instead of ending at an ugly line of roofs. The soft winds came through her window, sweet with clover and apple bloom. Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master, Fräulein Fredrika, Aunt Peace, Mrs. Irving, and Lynn--always Lynn--moved in and out of the dream. When she woke, she felt her desolation more keenly than ever before. At the door of Sleep a sentinel stands, an angel in grey garments. The crimson poppies crown her head and droop to her waist. The floor is strewn with them, and the silken petals, crushed by the feet of passing strangers, give out a strange perfume. To enter that door, you must pass Our Lady of Dreams. Sometimes she smiles as you enter, and sometimes there is only a careless nod. Often her clear, serene eyes make no sign of recognition, and at other times she frowns. But, whatever be the temper of the Lady at the door, your dream waits for you inside. The parcels are all alike, so it is useless to stop and choose, but you must take one. Frequently, when you open it, there is nothing there but peaceful slumber, cunningly arranged to look like a dream. Once in a thousand times it happens that you get the dream that is meant for you, because it all depends upon chance, and so many strangers nightly enter that door that it is impossible to arrange the parcels any differently. When the night has passed, and you come back, it is always through the same door, where the patient sentinel still stands. You are supposed to give back your dream, so that someone else may have it the next night, but if she is tired, or very busy, you may sometimes slip through and so have a dream to remember. Iris had given back her dream, but a strong impression of East Lancaster still remained, and it was as though she had been there in the night. Suddenly she sat up in bed, with her heart wildly throbbing. Why not go back? Why not, indeed? Why not take a flying trip, just to see the dear place again? Why not talk for a few minutes with Mrs. Irving, then slip upstairs for the emerald, the bit of lace, the feather fan, and the lonely little mother in the attic? She could plan her journey so that she would be making her call while Lynn was at his lesson. When it was time for him to return, she could go to Doctor Brinkerhoff's and thank him for writing. While there, she could see Lynn come downhill--of course, not to look at him, but just to know that he was out of the way. Then she could go up the hill and stay with Fräulein Fredrika and the Master until almost train time. It was practicable and in every way desirable. Perhaps, after she had seen East Lancaster once more, she would not be so homesick. Iris hummed a little song as she dressed herself, far happier than she had been for many months. Thought and action were never far apart with her. The next day she was safely aboard the train. She stopped overnight at the little hotel in a nearby town, where once she had been with Aunt Peace, after a memorable visit to the city. The morning train left at five, and just at ten she reached her destination, her heart fluttering joyously. Lynn was certainly at his lesson--there could be no doubt of that. She fairly flew up the street, fearful lest someone should see her, and paused at the corner for a look at the old house. Nothing was changed. It was just as it had been for two centuries and more. Panic seized her, but she went on boldly, though her cheeks burned. After all, she was not an intruder--it was her home, not only through the gift, but by right of possession. She rang the bell timidly, but no one answered. Then she tried again, but with no better result, so she turned the knob and the door opened. She stepped in, but no one was there. "Mrs. Irving!" she called, but only the echo of her own voice came back to her. The portraits in the hall stared at her, but it was a friendly scrutiny and not at all distressing. They seemed to nod to one another and to whisper from their gilded frames: "Iris has come back." "Well," she thought, "I can't sit down and wait, for Lynn may come home from his lesson at any minute. I'll just go upstairs." The door of Margaret's room was ajar, and Iris peeped in, but it was empty, like the rest of the house. She stole into Aunt Peace's room, found her keepsakes, and prepared to depart. She saw her reflection in the long mirror, and, for the moment, it startled her. "I feel like a thief," she said to herself, "even though I am only taking my own." She went up into the attic, found the box, and came down again. The old house was so still! Surely it would do no harm if she took just one sniff at the cedar chest before she went away. She loved the fragrance of the wood, and it would delay her only a moment longer. Then, all at once, she paused like a frightened bird. Someone was there! Someone was walking back and forth in Lynn's room! Scarcely knowing what she did, Iris crouched on the floor at the end of the chest, trusting to the kindly shadows to screen her if the door should open. But no one came. Lynn had taken the Cremona from its case with something very like a smile upon his face. The brown breasts had the colour of old wine, and the shell was thin to the point of fragility. He had feared to touch it, but the Master had only laughed at him. "What!" he had said, "shall I not sometimes lend mine Cremona to mine son, who like mineself is one great artist? Of a surety!" Lynn placed the instrument in position, and dreamily, began to play. His mother was out, and he played as he could not if he had not thought himself alone. All his heartbreak, all his pain, the white nights and the dark days went into the adagio, the one thing suited to his mood. At the first notes, Iris drew a quick, gasping breath. Surely it was not Lynn! Yet who else should be in his room, playing as no one played but the great? Primeval forces held her in their grasp, and all at once her shallowness fell away from her, leaving her free. The blood surged into her heart with shame--she had wronged Lynn. She had been so blind, so painfully sure of herself, so pitifully important in her self-esteem! The music went on without hindrance or pause. Deep chords and piercing flights of melody alternated through the theme, yet there was the undertone of love and night and death. Iris clenched her hands until the nails cut into her palms. All her life, she seemed to have been playing with tinsel; now, when it was out of her reach, she had discovered the gold. Why should it seem so strange for Lynn to play like this? Had he not written the letters? Had he not offered her his whole heart--the gift she had so insultingly thrown aside? Iris knelt beside the chest, in bitter humiliation. One thing was certain--she must go away, and quickly. She could not wait there, trembling and afraid, until someone found her; she must get away, but how? She was sorely shaken, both in body and soul. She could not go away, and yet she must. She would go to the station, and, from there, write to Mrs. Irving and to Lynn. The least she could do was to ask him to forgive her. Having done that, she would go back to the city, change her address, and be lost to them forever. Low, quivering tones came from the Cremona, like the sobs of a woman whose heart was broken. Suddenly, Iris knew that she belonged to Lynn--that through love or hate she was bound to him forever. Then, in a blinding flood came the tears. Slowly the adagio swept to its end, and yet she could not move. The music ceased, and yet the silence held her spellbound, vainly praying for the strength to go away. She heard the click of the lock as the violin case was closed, the quick step to the door, and the turning of the knob. She shrank back into the corner, close to the chest, and hid her face in her hands, then someone lifted her up. "Sweetheart," cried Lynn, "have you come back to me?" At the touch, at the tender word, the barriers crumbled away, and Iris lifted her lovely tear-stained face to his. "Yes," she said, unsteadily, "I have come back. Will you forgive me?" "Forgive you?" repeated Lynn, with a happy laugh; "why, dearest, there is nothing to forgive!" In that radiant instant, he thought he spoke the truth, so quickly do we forget sorrow when the sun shines into the soul. "Oh!" sobbed Iris, hiding her face against his shoulder, "I--I said you had no heart!" "So I haven't, darling," answered Lynn, tenderly; "I gave it all to you, the very first day I saw you. Will you keep it for me, dear? Will you give me a little corner of your own?" "All," whispered Iris. "I think it has always been yours, but I didn't know until just now." "How long have you been here, sweetheart?" "I--I don't know. I heard you play, and then I knew." "It was that blessed Cremona," said Lynn, with his lips against her hair. "You said I should never kiss you again, dear, do you remember? Don't you think it's time you changed your mind?" The golden minutes slipped by, and still they stood there, by the window in the hall. Margaret came back, and went up to her room, but no one heard her, even though she was singing. At the head of the stairs, she stopped, startled. Then, by the light of her own happiness, she understood, and crept softly away. THE END TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
504	----	The Fifth String By John Philip Sousa The Conspirators By John Philip Sousa I The coming of Diotti to America had awakened more than usual interest in the man and his work. His marvelous success as violinist in the leading capitals of Europe, together with many brilliant contributions to the literature of his instrument, had long been favorably commented on by the critics of the old world. Many stories of his struggles and his triumphs had found their way across the ocean and had been read and re-read with interest. Therefore, when Mr. Henry Perkins, the well-known impresario, announced with an air of conscious pride and pardonable enthusiasm that he had secured Diotti for a "limited" number of concerts, Perkins' friends assured that wide-awake gentleman that his foresight amounted to positive genius, and they predicted an unparalleled success for his star. On account of his wonderful ability as player, Diotti was a favorite at half the courts of Europe, and the astute Perkins enlarged upon this fact without regard for the feelings of the courts or the violinist. On the night preceding Diotti's debut in New York, he was the center of attraction at a reception given by Mrs. Llewellyn, a social leader, and a devoted patron of the arts. The violinist made a deep impression on those fortunate enough to be near him during the evening. He won the respect of the men by his observations on matters of international interest, and the admiration of the gentler sex by his chivalric estimate of woman's influence in the world's progress, on which subject he talked with rarest good humor and delicately implied gallantry. During one of those sudden and unexplainable lulls that always occur in general drawing-room conversations, Diotti turned to Mrs. Llewellyn and whispered: "Who is the charming young woman just entering?" "The beauty in white?" "Yes, the beauty in white," softly echoing Mrs. Llewellyn's query. He leaned forward and with eager eyes gazed in admiration at the new-comer. He seemed hypnotized by the vision, which moved slowly from between the blue-tinted portieres and stood for the instant, a perfect embodiment of radiant womanhood, silhouetted against the silken drapery. "That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred Wallace, only child of one of New York's prominent bankers." "She is beautiful--a queen by divine right," cried he, and then with a mingling of impetuosity and importunity, entreated his hostess to present him. And thus they met. Mrs. Llewellyn's entertainments were celebrated, and justly so. At her receptions one always heard the best singers and players of the season, and Epicurus' soul could rest in peace, for her chef had an international reputation. Oh, remember, you music-fed ascetic, many, aye, very many, regard the transition from Tschaikowsky to terrapin, from Beethoven to burgundy with hearts aflame with anticipatory joy--and Mrs. Llewellyn's dining-room was crowded. Miss Wallace and Diotti had wandered into the conservatory. "A desire for happiness is our common heritage," he was saying in his richly melodious voice. "But to define what constitutes happiness is very difficult," she replied. "Not necessarily," he went on; "if the motive is clearly within our grasp, the attainment is possible." "For example?" she asked. "The miser is happy when he hoards his gold; the philanthropist when he distributes his. The attainment is identical, but the motives are antipodal." "Then one possessing sufficient motives could be happy without end?" she suggested doubtingly. "That is my theory. The Niobe of old had happiness within her power." "The gods thought not," said she; "in their very pity they changed her into stone, and with streaming eyes she ever tells the story of her sorrow." "But are her children weeping?" he asked. "I think not. Happiness can bloom from the seeds of deepest woe," and in a tone almost reverential, he continued: "I remember a picture in one of our Italian galleries that always impressed me as the ideal image of maternal happiness. It is a painting of the Christ-mother standing by the body of the Crucified. Beauty was still hers, and the dress of grayish hue, nun-like in its simplicity, seemed more than royal robe. Her face, illumined as with a light from heaven, seemed inspired with this thought: 'They have killed Him--they have killed my son! Oh, God, I thank Thee that His suffering is at an end!' And as I gazed at the holy face, another light seemed to change it by degrees from saddened motherhood to triumphant woman! Then came: 'He is not dead, He but sleeps; He will rise again, for He is the best beloved of the Father!'" "Still, fate can rob us of our patrimony," she replied, after a pause. "Not while life is here and eternity beyond," he said, reassuringly. "What if a soul lies dormant and will not arouse?" she asked. "There are souls that have no motive low enough for earth, but only high enough for heaven," he said, with evident intention, looking almost directly at her. "Then one must come who speaks in nature's tongue," she continued. "And the soul will then awake," he added earnestly. "But is there such a one?" she asked. "Perhaps," he almost whispered, his thought father to the wish. "I am afraid not," she sighed. "I studied drawing, worked diligently and, I hope, intelligently, and yet I was quickly convinced that a counterfeit presentment of nature was puny and insignificant. I painted Niagara. My friends praised my effort. I saw Niagara again--I destroyed the picture." "But you must be prepared to accept the limitations of man and his work," said the philosophical violinist. "Annihilation of one's own identity in the moment is possible in nature's domain--never in man's. The resistless, never-ending rush of the waters, madly churning, pitilessly dashing against the rocks below; the mighty roar of the loosened giant; that was Niagara. My picture seemed but a smear of paint." "Still, man has won the admiration of man by his achievements," he said. "Alas, for me," she sighed, "I have not felt it." "Surely you have been stirred by the wonders man has accomplished in music's realm?" Diotti ventured. "I never have been." She spoke sadly and reflectively. "But does not the passion-laden theme of a master, or the marvelous feeling of a player awaken your emotions?" persisted he. She stood leaning lightly against a pillar by the fountain. "I never hear a pianist, however great and famous, but I see the little cream-colored hammers within the piano bobbing up and down like acrobatic brownies. I never hear the plaudits of the crowd for the artist and watch him return to bow his thanks, but I mentally demand that these little acrobats, each resting on an individual pedestal, and weary from his efforts, shall appear to receive a share of the applause. "When I listen to a great singer," continued this world-defying skeptic, "trilling like a thrush, scampering over the scales, I see a clumsy lot of ah, ah, ahs, awkwardly, uncertainly ambling up the gamut, saying, 'were it not for us she could not sing thus--give us our meed of praise.'" Slowly he replied: "Masters have written in wondrous language and masters have played with wondrous power." "And I so long to hear," she said, almost plaintively. "I marvel at the invention of the composer and the skill of the player, but there I cease." He looked at her intently. She was standing before him, not a block of chiseled ice, but a beautiful, breathing woman. He offered her his arm and together they made their way to the drawing-room. "Perhaps, some day, one will come who can sing a song of perfect love in perfect tones, and your soul will be attuned to his melody." "Perhaps--and good-night," she softly said, leaving his arm and joining her friends, who accompanied her to the carriage. II The intangible something that places the stamp of popular approval on one musical enterprise, while another equally artistic and as cleverly managed languishes in a condition of unendorsed greatness, remains one of the unsolved mysteries. When a worker in the vineyard of music or the drama offers his choicest tokay to the public, that fickle coquette may turn to the more ordinary and less succulent concord. And the worker and the public itself know not why. It is true, Diotti's fame had preceded him, but fame has preceded others and has not always been proof against financial disaster. All this preliminary,--and it is but necessary to recall that on the evening of December the twelfth Diotti made his initial bow in New York, to an audience that completely filled every available space in the Academy of Music--a representative audience, distinguished alike for beauty, wealth and discernment. When the violinist appeared for his solo, he quietly acknowledged the cordial reception of the audience, and immediately proceeded with the business of the evening. At a slight nod from him the conductor rapped attention, then launched the orchestra into the introduction of the concerto, Diotti's favorite, selected for the first number. As the violinist turned to the conductor he faced slightly to the left and in a direct line with the second proscenium box. His poise was admirable. He was handsome, with the olive-tinted warmth of his southern home--fairly tall, straight-limbed and lithe--a picture of poetic grace. His was the face of a man who trusted without reserve, the manner of one who believed implicitly, feeling that good was universal and evil accidental. As the music grew louder and the orchestra approached the peroration of the preface of the coming solo, the violinist raised his head slowly. Suddenly his eyes met the gaze of the solitary occupant of the second proscenium box. His face flushed. He looked inquiringly, almost appealingly, at her. She sat immovable and serene, a lace-framed vision in white. It was she who, since he had met her, only the night before, held his very soul in thraldom. He lifted his bow, tenderly placing it on the strings. Faintly came the first measures of the theme. The melody, noble, limpid and beautiful, floated in dreamy sway over the vast auditorium, and seemed to cast a mystic glamour over the player. As the final note of the first movement was dying away, the audience, awakening from its delicious trance, broke forth into spontaneous bravos. Mildred Wallace, scrutinizing the program, merely drew her wrap closer about her shoulders and sat more erect. At the end of the concerto the applause was generous enough to satisfy the most exacting virtuoso. Diotti unquestionably had scored the greatest triumph of his career. But the lady in the box had remained silent and unaffected throughout. The poor fellow had seen only her during the time he played, and the mighty cheers that came from floor and galleries struck upon his ear like the echoes of mocking demons. Leaving the stage he hurried to his dressing-room and sank into a chair. He had persuaded himself she should not be insensible to his genius, but the dying ashes of his hopes, his dreams, were smouldering, and in his despair came the thought: "I am not great enough for her. I am but a man; her consort should be a god. Her soul, untouched by human passion or human skill, demands the power of god-like genius to arouse it." Music lovers crowded into his dressing-room, enthusiastic in their praises. Cards conveying delicate compliments written in delicate chirography poured in upon him, but in vain he looked for some sign, some word from her. Quickly he left the theater and sought his hotel. A menacing cloud obscured the wintry moon. A clock sounded the midnight hour. He threw himself upon the bed and almost sobbed his thoughts, and their burden was: "I am not great enough for her. I am but a man. I am but a man!" III Perkins called in the morning. Perkins was happy--Perkins was positively joyous, and Perkins was self-satisfied. The violinist had made a great hit. But Perkins, confiding in the white-coated dispenser who concocted his matin Martini, very dry, an hour before, said he regarded the success due as much to the management as to the artist. And Perkins believed it. Perkins usually took all the credit for a success, and with charming consistency placed all responsibility for failure on the shoulders of the hapless artist. When Perkins entered Diotti's room he found the violinist heavy-eyed and dejected. "My dear Signor," he began, showing a large envelope bulging with newspaper clippings, "I have brought the notices. They are quite the limit, I assure you. Nothing like them ever heard before--all tuned in the same key, as you musical fellows would say," and Perkins cocked his eye. Perkins enjoyed a glorious reputation with himself for bright sayings, which he always accompanied with a cock of the eye. The musician not showing any visible appreciation of the manager's metaphor, Perkins immediately proceeded to uncock his eye. "Passed the box-office coming up," continued this voluble enlightener; "nothing left but a few seats in the top gallery. We'll stand them on their heads to-morrow night--see if we don't." Then he handed the bursting envelope of notices to Diotti, who listlessly put them on the table at his side. "Too tired to read, eh?" said Perkins, and then with the advance-agent instinct strong within him he selected a clipping, and touching the violinist on the shoulder: "Let me read this one to you. It is by Herr Totenkellar. He is a hard nut to crack, but he did himself proud this time. Great critic when he wants to be." Perkins cleared his throat and began: "Diotti combines tremendous feeling with equally tremendous technique. The entire audience was under the witchery of his art." Diotti slowly negatived that statement with bowed head. "His tone is full, round and clear; his interpretation lends a story-telling charm to the music; for, while we drank deep at the fountain of exquisite melody, we saw sparkling within the waters the lights of Paradise. New York never has heard his equal. He stands alone, pre-eminent, an artistic giant." "Now, that's what I call great," said the impresario, dramatically; "when you hit Totenkellar that way you are good for all kinds of money." Perkins took his hat and cane and moved toward the door. The violinist arose and extended his hand wearily. "Good-day" came simultaneously; then "I'm off. We'll turn 'em away to-morrow; see if we don't!" Whereupon Perkins left Diotti alone in his misery. IV It was the evening of the fourteenth, In front of the Academy a strong-lunged and insistent tribe of gentry, known as ticket speculators, were reaping a rich harvest. They represented a beacon light of hope to many tardy patrons of the evening's entertainment, especially to the man who had forgotten his wife's injunction "to be sure to buy the tickets on the way down town, dear, and get them in the family circle, not too far back." This man's intentions were sincere, but his newspaper was unusually interesting that morning. He was deeply engrossed in an article on the causes leading to matrimonial infelicities when his 'bus passed the Academy box-office. He was six blocks farther down town when he finished the article, only to find that it was a carefully worded advertisement for a new patent medicine, and of course he had not time to return. "Oh, well," said he, "I'll get them when I go up town to-night." But he did not. So with fear in his heart and a red-faced woman on his arm he approached the box-office. "Not a seat left," sounded to his hen-pecked ears like the concluding words of the black-robed judge: "and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul." But a reprieve came, for one of the aforesaid beacon lights of hope rushed forward, saying: "I have two good seats, not far back, and only ten apiece." And the gentleman with fear in his heart and the red-faced woman on his arm passed in. They saw the largest crowd in the history of the Academy. Every seat was occupied, every foot of standing room taken. Chairs were placed in the side aisles. The programs announced that it was the second appearance in America of Angelo Diotti, the renowned Tuscan violinist. The orchestra had perfunctorily ground out the overture to "Der Freischuetz," the baritone had stentorianly emitted "Dio Possente," the soprano was working her way through the closing measures of the mad scene from "Lucia," and Diotti was number four on the program. The conductor stood beside his platform, ready to ascend as Diotti appeared. The audience, ever ready to act when those on the stage cease that occupation, gave a splendid imitation of the historic last scene at the Tower of Babel. Having accomplished this to its evident satisfaction, the audience proceeded, like the closing phrase of the "Goetterdaemmerung" Dead March, to become exceedingly quiet--then expectant. This expectancy lasted fully three minutes. Then there were some impatient handclappings. A few persons whispered: "Why is he late?" "Why doesn't he come?" "I wonder where Diotti is," and then came unmistakable signs of impatience. At its height Perkins appeared, hesitatingly. Nervous and jerky he walked to the center of the stage, and raised his hand begging silence. The audience was stilled. "Ladies and gentlemen," he falteringly said, "Signor Diotti left his hotel at seven o'clock and was driven to the Academy. The call-boy rapped at his dressing-room, and not receiving a reply, opened the door to find the room empty. We have despatched searchers in every direction and have sent out a police alarm. We fear some accident has befallen the Signor. We ask your indulgence for the keen disappointment, and beg to say that your money will be refunded at the box-office." Diotti had disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him. V My Dearest Sister: You doubtless were exceedingly mystified and troubled over the report that was flashed to Europe regarding my sudden disappearance on the eve of my second concert in New York. Fearing, sweet Francesca, that you might mourn me as dead, I sent the cablegram you received some weeks since, telling you to be of good heart and await my letter. To make my action thoroughly understood I must give you a record of what happened to me from the first day I arrived in America. I found a great interest manifested in my premiere, and socially everything was done to make me happy. Mrs. James Llewellyn, whom, you no doubt remember, we met in Florence the winter of 18--, immediately after I reached New York arranged a reception for me, which was elegant in the extreme. But from that night dates my misery. You ask her name?--Mildred Wallace. Tell me what she is like, I hear you say. Of graceful height, willowy and exquisitely molded, not over twenty-four, with the face of a Madonna; wondrous eyes of darkest blue, hair indescribable in its maze of tawny color--in a word, the perfection of womanhood. In half an hour I was her abject slave, and proud in my serfdom. When I returned to the hotel that evening I could not sleep. Her image ever was before me, elusive and shadowy. And yet we seemed to grow farther and farther apart--she nearer heaven, I nearer earth. The next evening I gave my first and what I fear may prove my last concert in America. The vision of my dreams was there, radiant in rarest beauty. Singularly enough, she was in the direct line of my vision while I played. I saw only her, played but for her, and cast my soul at her feet. She sat indifferent and silent. "Cold?" you say. No! No! Francesca, not cold; superior to my poor efforts. I realized my limitations. I questioned my genius. When I returned to bow my acknowledgments for the most generous applause I have ever received, there was no sign on her part that I had interested her, either through my talent or by appeal to her curiosity. I hoped against hope that some word might come from her, but I was doomed to disappointment. The critics were fulsome in their praise and the public was lavish with its plaudits, but I was abjectly miserable. Another sleepless night and I was determined to see her. She received me most graciously, although I fear she thought my visit one of vanity--wounded vanity--and me petulant because of her lack of appreciation. Oh, sister mine, I knew better. I knew my heart craved one word, however matter-of-fact, that would rekindle the hope that was dying within me. Hesitatingly, and like a clumsy yokel, I blurted: "I have been wondering whether you cared for the performance I gave?" "It certainly ought to make little difference to you," she replied; "the public was enthusiastic enough in its endorsement." "But I want your opinion," I pleaded. "My opinion would not at all affect the almost unanimous verdict," she replied calmly. "And," I urged desperately, "you were not affected in the least?" Very coldly she answered, "Not in the least;" and then fearlessly, like a princess in the Palace of Truth: "If ever a man comes who can awaken my heart, frankly and honestly I will confess it." "Perhaps such a one lives," I said, "but has yet to reach the height to win you--your--" "Speak it," she said, "to win my love!" "Yes," I cried, startled at her candor, "to win your love." Hope slowly rekindled within my breast, and then with half-closed eyes, and wooingly, she said: "No drooping Clytie could be more constant than I to him who strikes the chord that is responsive in my soul." Her emotion must have surprised her, but immediately she regained her placidity and reverted no more to the subject. I went out into the gathering gloom. Her words haunted me. A strange feeling came over me. A voice within me cried: "Do not play to-night. Study! study! Perhaps in the full fruition of your genius your music, like the warm western wind to the harp, may bring life to her soul." I fled, and I am here. I am delving deeper and deeper into the mysteries of my art, and I pray God each hour that He may place within my grasp the wondrous music His blessed angels sing, for the soul of her I love is attuned to the harmonies of heaven. Your affectionate brother, ANGELO. ISLAND OF BAHAMA, January 2. VI When Diotti left New York so precipitately he took passage on a coast line steamer sailing for the Bahama Islands. Once there, he leased a small cay, one of a group off the main land, and lived alone and unattended, save for the weekly visits of an old fisherman and his son, who brought supplies of provisions from the town miles away. His dwelling-place, surrounded with palmetto trees, was little more than a rough shelter. Diotti arose at daylight, and after a simple repast, betook himself to practise. Hour after hour he would let his muse run riot with his fingers. Lovingly he wooed the strings with plaintive song, then conquering and triumphant would be his theme. But neither satisfied him. The vague dream of a melody more beautiful than ever man had heard dwelt hauntingly on the borders of his imagination, but was no nearer realization than when he began. As the day's work closed, he wearily placed the violin within its case, murmuring, "Not yet, not yet; I have not found it." Days passed, weeks crept slowly on; still he worked, but always with the same result. One day, feverish and excited, he played on in monotone almost listless. His tired, over-wrought brain denied a further thought. His arm and fingers refused response to his will. With an uncontrollable outburst of grief and anger he dashed the violin to the floor, where it lay a hopeless wreck. Extending his arms he cried, in the agony of despair: "It is of no use! If the God of heaven will not aid me, I ask the prince of darkness to come." A tall, rather spare, but well-made and handsome man appeared at the door of the hut. His manner was that of one evidently conversant with the usages of good society. "I beg pardon," said the musician, surprised and visibly nettled at the intrusion, and then with forced politeness he asked: "To whom am I indebted for this unexpected visit?" "Allow me," said the stranger taking a card from his case and handing it to the musician, who read: "Satan," and, in the lower left-hand corner "Prince of Darkness." "I am the Prince," said the stranger, bowing low. There was no hint of the pavement-made ruler in the information he gave, but rather of the desire of one gentleman to set another right at the beginning. The musician assumed a position of open-mouthed wonder, gazing steadily at the visitor. "Satan?" he whispered hoarsely. "You need help and advice," said the visitor, his voice sounding like that of a disciple of the healing art, and implying that he had thoroughly diagnosed the case. "No, no," cried the shuddering violinist; "go away. I do not need you." "I regret I can not accept that statement as gospel truth," said Satan, sarcastically, "for if ever a man needed help, you are that man." "But not from you," replied Diotti. "That statement is discredited also by your outburst of a few moments ago when you called upon me." "I do not need you," reiterated the musician. "I will have none of you!" and he waved his arm toward the door, as if he desired the interview to end. "I came at your behest, actuated entirely by kindness of heart," said Satan. Diotti laughed derisively, and Satan, showing just the slightest feeling at Diotti's behavior, said reprovingly: "If you will listen a moment, and not be so rude to an utter stranger, we may reach some conclusion to your benefit." "Get thee behind--" "I know exactly what you were about to say. Have no fears on that score. I have no demands to make and no impossible compacts to insist upon." "I have heard of you before," knowingly spoke the violinist nodding his head sadly. "No doubt you have," smilingly. "My reputation, which has suffered at the hands of irresponsible people, is not of the best, and places me at times in awkward positions. But I am beginning to live it down." The stranger looked contrition itself. "To prove my sincerity I desire to help you win her love," emphasizing her. "How can you help me?" "Very easily. You have been wasting time, energy and health in a wild desire to play better. The trouble lies not with you." "Not with me?" interrupted the violinist, now thoroughly interested. "The trouble lies not with you," repeated the visitor, "but with the miserable violin you have been using and have just destroyed," and he pointed to the shattered instrument. Tears welled from the poor violinist's eyes as he gazed on the fragments of his beloved violin, the pieces lying scattered about as the result of his unfortunate anger. "It was a Stradivarius," said Diotti, sadly. "Had it been a Stradivarius, an Amati or a Guarnerius, or a host of others rolled into one, you would not have found in it the melody to win the heart of the woman you love. Get a better and more suitable instrument." "Where is one?" earnestly interrogated Diotti, vaguely realizing that Satan knew. "In my possession," Satan replied. "She would hate me if she knew I had recourse to the powers of darkness to gain her love," bitterly interposed Diotti. Satan, wincing at this uncomplimentary allusion to himself, replied rather warmly: "My dear sir, were it not for the fact that I feel in particularly good spirits this morning, I should resent your ill-timed remarks and leave you to end your miserable existence with rope or pistol," and Satan pantomimed both suicidal contingencies. "Do you want the violin or not?" "I might look at it," said Diotti, resolving mentally that he could go so far without harm. "Very well," said Satan. He gave a long whistle. An old man, bearing a violin case, came within the room. He bowed to the wondering Diotti, and proceeded to open the case. Taking the instrument out the old man fondled it with loving and tender solicitude, pointing out its many beauties--the exquisite blending of the curves, the evenness of the grain, the peculiar coloring, the lovely contour of the neck, the graceful outlines of the body, the scroll, rivaling the creations of the ancient sculptors, the solidity of the bridge and its elegantly carved heart, and, waxing exceedingly enthusiastic, holding up the instrument and looking at it as one does at a cluster of gems, he added, "the adjustment of the strings." "That will do," interrupted Satan, taking the violin from the little man, who bowed low and ceremoniously took his departure. Then the devil, pointing to the instrument, asked: "Isn't it a beauty?" The musician, eying it keenly, replied: "Yes, it is, but not the kind of violin I play on." "Oh, I see," carelessly observed the other, "you refer to that extra string." "Yes," answered the puzzled violinist, examining it closely. "Allow me to explain the peculiar characteristics of this magnificent instrument," said his satanic majesty. "This string," pointing to the G, "is the string of pity; this one," referring to the third, "is the string of hope; this," plunking the A, "is attuned to love, while this one, the E string, gives forth sounds of joy. "You will observe," went on the visitor, noting the intense interest displayed by the violinist, "that the position of the strings is the same as on any other violin, and therefore will require no additional study on your part." "But that extra string?" interrupted Diotti, designating the middle one on the violin, a vague foreboding rising within him. "That," said Mephistopheles, solemnly, and with no pretense of sophistry, "is the string of death, and he who plays upon it dies at once." "The--string--of--death!" repeated the violinist almost inaudibly. "Yes, the string of death," Satan repeated, "and he who plays upon it dies at once. But," he added cheerfully, "that need not worry you. I noticed a marvelous facility in your arm work. Your staccato and spiccato are wonderful. Every form of bowing appears child's play to you. It will be easy for you to avoid touching the string." "Why avoid it? Can it not be cut off?" "Ah, that's the rub. If you examine the violin closely you will find that the string of death is made up of the extra lengths of the other four strings. To cut it off would destroy the others, and then pity, hope, love and joy would cease to exist in the soul of the violin." "How like life itself," Diotti reflected, "pity, hope, love, joy end in death, and through death they are born again." "That's the idea, precisely," said Satan, evidently relieved by Diotti's logic and quick perception. The violinist examined the instrument with the practised eye of an expert, and turning to Satan said: "The four strings are beautifully white and transparent, but this one is black and odd looking. "What is it wrapped with?" eagerly inquired Diotti, examining the death string with microscopic care. "The fifth string was added after an unfortunate episode in the Garden of Eden, in which I was somewhat concerned," said Satan, soberly. "It is wrapped with strands of hair from the first mother of man." Impressively then he offered the violin to Diotti. "I dare not take it," said the perplexed musician; "it's from--" "Yes, it is directly from there, but I brought it from heaven when I--I left," said the fallen angel, with remorse in his voice. "It was my constant companion there. But no one in my domain--not I, myself--can play upon it now, for it will respond neither to our longing for pity, hope, love, joy, nor even death," and sadly and retrospectively Satan gazed into vacancy; then, after a long pause: "Try the instrument!" Diotti placed the violin in position and drew the bow across the string of joy, improvising on it. Almost instantly the birds of the forest darted hither and thither, caroling forth in gladsome strains. The devil alone was sad, and with emotion said: "It is many, many years since I have heard that string." Next the artist changed to the string of pity, and thoughts of the world's sorrows came over him like a pall. "Wonderful, most wonderful!" said the mystified violinist; "with this instrument I can conquer the world!" "Aye, more to you than the world," said the tempter, "a woman's love." A woman's love--to the despairing suitor there was one and only one in this wide, wide world, and her words, burning their way into his heart, had made this temptation possible: "No drooping Clytie could be more constant than I to him who strikes the chord that is responsive in my soul." Holding the violin aloft, he cried exultingly: "Henceforth thou art mine, though death and oblivion lurk ever near thee!" VII Perkins, seated in his office, threw the morning paper aside. "It's no use," he said, turning to the office boy, "I don't believe they ever will find him, dead or alive. Whoever put up the job on Diotti was a past grand master at that sort of thing. The silent assassin that lurks in the shadow of the midnight moon is an explosion of dynamite compared to the party that made way with Diotti. You ask, why should they kill him? My boy, you don't know the world. They were jealous of his enormous hit, of our dazzling success. Jealousy did it." The "they" of Perkins comprised rival managers, rival artists, newspaper critics and everybody at large who would not concede that the attractions managed by Perkins were the "greatest on earth." "We'll never see his like again--come in!" this last in answer to a knock. Diotti appeared at the open door. Perkins jumped like one shot from a catapult, and rushing toward the silent figure in the doorway exclaimed: "Bless my soul, are you a ghost?" "A substantial one," said Diotti with a smile. "Are you really here?" continued the astonished impresario, using Diotti's arm as a pump handle and pinching him at the same time. When they were seated Perkins plied Diotti with all manner of questions; "How did it happen?" "How did you escape?" and the like, all of which Diotti parried with monosyllabic replies, finally saying: "I was dissatisfied with my playing and went away to study." "Do you know that the failure to fulfill your contract has cost me at least ten thousand dollars?" said the shrewd manager, the commercial side of his nature asserting itself. "All of which I will pay," quietly replied the artist. "Besides I am ready to play now, and you can announce a concert within a week if you like." "If I like?" cried the hustling Perkins. "Here, James," calling his office boy, "run down to the printer's and give him this," making a note of the various sizes of "paper" he desired, "and tell Mr. Tompkins that Diotti is back and will give a concert next Tuesday. Tell Smith to prepare the newspaper 'ads' and notices immediately." In an hour Perkins had the entire machinery of his office in motion. Within twenty-four hours New York had several versions of the disappearance and return, all leading to one common point--that Diotti would give a concert the coming Tuesday evening. The announcement of the reappearance of the Tuscan contained a line to the effect that the violinist would play for the first time his new suite--a meditation on the emotions. He had not seen Mildred. As he came upon the stage that night the lights were turned low, and naught but the shadowy outlines of player and violin were seen. His reception by the audience was not enthusiastic. They evidently remembered the disappointment caused by his unexpected disappearance, but this unfriendly attitude soon gave way to evidences of kindlier feelings. Mildred was there, more beautiful than ever, and to gain her love Diotti would have bartered his soul that moment. The first movement of the suite was entitled "Pity," and the music flowed like melodious tears. A subdued sob rose and fell with the sadness of the theme. Mildred's eyes were moistened as she fixed them on the lone figure of the player. Now the theme of pity changed to hope, and hearts grew brighter under the spell. The next movement depicted joy. As the virtuoso's fingers darted here and there, his music seemed the very laughter of fairy voices, the earth looked roses and sunshine, and Mildred, relaxing her position and leaning forward in the box, with lips slightly parted, was the picture of eager happiness. The final movement came. Its subject was love. The introduction depicted the Arcadian beauty of the trysting place, love-lit eyes sought each other intuitively and a great peace brooded over the hearts of all. Then followed the song of the Passionate Pilgrim: "If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, When must the love be great 'twixt thee and me Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other. * * * Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus' lute (the queen of music) makes; And I in deep delight, am chiefly drown'd When as himself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets One knight loves both, and both in thee remain." Grander and grander the melody rose, voicing love's triumph with wondrous sweetness and palpitating rhythm. Mildred, her face flushed with excitement, a heavenly fire in her eyes and in an attitude of supplication, reveled in the glory of a new found emotion. As the violinist concluded his performance an oppressive silence pervaded the house, then the audience, wild with excitement, burst into thunders of applause. In his dressing-room Diotti was besieged by hosts of people, congratulating him in extravagant terms. Mildred Wallace came, extending her hands. He took them almost reverently. She looked into his eyes, and he knew he had struck the chord responsive in her soul. VIII The sun was high in the heavens when the violinist awoke. A great weight had been lifted from his heart; he had passed from darkness into dawn. A messenger brought him this note: My Dear Signor Diotti--I am at home this afternoon, and shall be delighted to see you and return my thanks for the exquisite pleasure you gave me last evening. Music, such as yours, is indeed the voice of heaven. Sincerely, Mildred Wallace. The messenger returned with this reply: My Dear Miss Wallace--I will call at three to-day. Gratefully, Angelo Diotti. He watched the hour drag from eleven to twelve, then counted the minutes to one, and from that time until he left the hotel each second was tabulated in his mind. Arriving at her residence, he was ushered into the drawing-room. It was fragrant with the perfume of violets, and he stood gazing at her portrait expectant of her coming. Dressed in simple white, entrancing in her youthful freshness, she entered, her face glowing with happiness, her eyes languorous and expressive. She hastened to him, offering both hands. He held them in a loving, tender grasp, and for a moment neither spoke. Then she, gazing clearly and fearlessly into his eyes, said: "My heart has found its melody!" He, kneeling like Sir Gareth of old: "The song and the singer are yours forever." She, bidding him arise: "And I forever yours." And wondering at her boldness, she added, "I know and feel that you love me--your eyes confirmed your love before you spoke." Then, convincingly and ingenuously, "I knew you loved me the moment we first met. Then I did not understand what that meant to you, now I do." He drew her gently to him, and the motive of their happiness was defined in sweet confessions: "My love, my life--My life, my love." The magic of his music had changed her very being, the breath of love was in her soul, the vision of love was dancing in her eyes. The child of marble, like the statue of old, had come to life: "And not long since I was a cold, dull stone! I recollect That by some means I knew that I was stone; That was the first dull gleam of consciousness; I became conscious of a chilly self, A cold, immovable identity. I knew that I was stone, and knew no more! Then, by an imperceptible advance, Came the dim evidence of outer things, Seen--darkly and imperfectly--yet seen The walls surrounding me, and I, alone. That pedestal--that curtain--then a voice That called on Galatea! At that word, Which seemed to shake my marble to the core, That which was dim before, came evident. Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct, Vague, meaningless--seemed to resolve themselves Into a language I could understand; I felt my frame pervaded by a glow That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh; Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life, My limbs grew supple, and I moved--I lived! Lived in the ecstasy of a new-born life! Lived in the love of him that fashioned me! Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope." Day after day he came; they told their love, their hopes, their ambitions. She assumed absolute proprietorship in him. She gloried in her possession. He was born into the world, nurtured in infancy, trained in childhood and matured into manhood, for one express purpose--to be hers alone. Her ownership ranged from absolute despotism to humble slavery, and he was happy through it all. One day she said: "Angelo, is it your purpose to follow your profession always?" "Necessarily, it is my livelihood," he replied. "But do you not think that after we stand at the altar, we never should be separated?" "We will be together always," said he, holding her face between his palms, and looking with tender expression into her inquiring eyes. "But I notice that women cluster around you after your concerts--and shake your hand longer than they should--and talk to you longer than they should--and go away looking self-satisfied!" she replied brokenly, much as a little girl tells of the theft of her doll. "Nonsense," he said, smiling, "that is all part of my profession; it is not me they care for, it is the music I give that makes them happy. If, in my playing, I achieve results out of the common, they admire me!" and he kissed away the unwelcome tears. "I know," she continued, "but lately, since we have loved each other, I can not bear to see a woman near you. In my dreams again and again an indefinable shadow mockingly comes; and cries to me, 'he is not to be yours, he is to be mine.'" Diotti flushed and drew her to him "Darling," his voice carrying conviction, "I am yours, you are mine, all in all, in life here and beyond!" And as she sat dreaming after he had gone, she murmured petulantly, "I wish there were no other women in the world." Her father was expected from Europe on the succeeding day's steamer. Mr. Wallace was a busy man. The various gigantic enterprises he served as president or director occupied most of his time. He had been absent in Europe for several months, and Mildred was anxiously awaiting his return to tell him of her love. When Mr. Wallace came to his residence the next morning, his daughter met him with a fond display of filial affection; they walked into the drawing-room, hand in hand; he saw a picture of the violinist on the piano. "Who's the handsome young fellow?" he asked, looking at the portrait with the satisfaction a man feels when he sees a splendid type of his own sex. "That is Angelo Diotti, the famous violinist," she said, but she could not add another word. As they strolled through the rooms he noticed no less than three likenesses of the Tuscan. And as they passed her room he saw still another on the chiffonnier. "Seems to me the house is running wild with photographs of that fiddler," he said. For the first time in her life she was self-conscious: "I will wait for a more opportune time to tell him," she thought. In the scheme of Diotti's appearance in New York there were to be two more concerts. One was to be given that evening. Mildred coaxed her father to accompany her to hear the violinist. Mr. Wallace was not fond of music; "it had been knocked out of him on the farm up in Vermont, when he was a boy," he would apologetically explain, and besides he had the old puritanical abhorrence of stage people--putting them all in one class--as puppets who danced for played or talked for an idle and unthinking public. So it was with the thought of a wasted evening that he accompanied Mildred to the concert. The entertainment was a repetition of the others Diotti had given, and at its end, Mildred said to her father: "Come, I want to congratulate Signor Diotti in person." "That is entirely unnecessary," he replied. "It is my desire," and the girl led the unwilling parent back of the scenes and into Diotti's dressing-room. Mildred introduced Diotti to her father, who after a few commonplaces lapsed into silence. The daughter's enthusiastic interest in Diotti's performance and her tender solicitude for his weariness after the efforts of the evening, quickly attracted the attention of Mr. Wallace and irritated him exceedingly. When father and daughter were seated in their carriage and were hurriedly driving home, he said: "Mildred, I prefer that you have as little to say to that man as possible." "What do you object to in him?" she asked. "Everything. Of what use is a man who dawdles away his time on a fiddle; of what benefit is he to mankind? Do fiddlers build cities? Do they delve into the earth for precious metals? Do they sow the seed and harvest the grain? No, no; they are drones--the barnacles of society." "Father, how can you advance such an argument? Music's votaries offer no apologies for their art. The husbandman places the grain within the breast of Mother Earth for man's material welfare; God places music in the heart of man for his spiritual development. In man's spring time, his bridal day, music means joy. In man's winter time, his burial day, music means comfort. The heaven-born muse has added to the happiness of the world. Diotti is a great genius. His art brings rest and tranquillity to the wearied and despairing," and she did not speak again until they had reached the house. The lights were turned low when father and daughter went into the drawing-room. Mr. Wallace felt that he had failed to convince Mildred of the utter worthlessness of fiddlers, big or little, and as one dissatisfied with the outcome of a contest, re-entered the lists. "He has visited you?" "Yes, father." "Often?" "Yes, father," spoken calmly. "Often?" louder and more imperiously repeated the father, as if there must be some mistake. "Quite often," and she sat down, knowing the catechizing would be likely to continue for some minutes. "How many times, do you think?" She rose, walked into the hallway; took the card basket from the table, returned and seated herself beside her father, emptying its contents into her lap. She picked up a card. It read "Angelo Diotti," and she called the name aloud. She took up another and again her lips voiced the beloved name. "Angelo Diotti," she continued, repeating at intervals for a minute. Then looking at her father: "He has called thirty-two times; there are thirty-one cards here and on one occasion he forgot his card-case." "Thirty-two!" said the father, rising angrily and pacing the floor. "Yes, thirty-two. I remember all of them distinctly." Her father came over to her, half coaxingly, half seriously. "Mildred, I wish his visits to cease; people will imagine there is a romantic attachment between you." "There is, father," out it came, "he loves me and I love him." "What!" shouted Mr. Wallace, and then severely, "this must cease immediately." She rose quietly and led her father over to the mantel. Placing a hand on each of his shoulders she said: "Father, I will obey you implicitly if you can name a reasonable objection to the man I love. But you can not. I love him with my whole soul. I love him for the nobility of his character, and because there is none other in the world for him, nor for me." IX Old Sanders as boy and man had been in the employ of the banking and brokerage firm of Wallace Brothers for two generations. The firm gradually had advanced his position until now he was confidential adviser and general manager, besides having an interest in the profits of the business. He enjoyed the friendship of Mr. Wallace, and had been a constant visitor at his house from the first days of that gentleman's married life. He himself was alone in the world, a confirmed bachelor. He had seen Mildred creep from babyhood into childhood, and bud from girlhood to womanhood. To Mildred he was one of that numerous army of brevet relations known as "gran-pop," "pop," or "uncle." To her he was Uncle Sanders. If the old man had one touch of human nature in him it was a solicitude for Mildred's future--an authority arrogated to himself--to see that she married the right man; but even that was directed to her material gain in this world's goods, and not to any sentimental consideration for her happiness. He flattered himself that by timely suggestion he had "stumped" at least half a dozen would-be candidates for Mildred's hand. He pooh-poohed love as a necessity for marital felicity, and would enforce his argument by quoting from the bard: "All lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one." "You can get at a man's income," he would say, "but not at his heart. Love without money won't travel as far as money without love," and many married people whose bills were overdue wondered if the old fellow was not right. He was cold-blooded and generally disliked by the men under him. The more evil-minded gossips in the bank said he was in league with "Old Nick." That, of course, was absurd, for it does not necessarily follow, because a man suggests a means looking to an end, disreputable though it be, that he has Mephistopheles for a silent partner. The conservative element among the employees would not openly venture so far, but rather thought if his satanic majesty and old Sanders ran a race, the former would come in a bad second, if he were not distanced altogether. The old man always reached the office at nine. Mr. Wallace usually arrived a half hour later, seldom earlier, which was so well understood by Sanders that he was greatly surprised when he walked into the president's office, the morning after that gentleman had attended Diotti's concert, to find the head of the firm already there and apparently waiting for him. "Sanders," said the banker, "I want your advice on a matter of great importance and concern to me." Sanders came across the room and stood beside the desk. "Briefly as possible, I am much exercised about my daughter." The old man moved up a chair and buried himself in it. Pressing his elbows tightly against his sides, he drew his neck in, and with the tips of his right hand fingers consorted and coquetted with their like on the opposite hand; then he simply asked, "Who is the man?" "He is the violinist who has created such a sensation here, Angelo Diotti." "Yes, I've seen the name in print," returned the old man. "He has bewitched Mildred. I never have seen her show the least interest in a man before. She never has appeared to me as an impressionable girl or one that could easily be won." "That is very true," ejaculated Sanders; "she always seemed tractable and open to reason in all questions of love and courting. I can recall several instances where I have set her right by my estimation of men, and invariably she has accepted my views." "And mine until now," said the father, and then he recounted his experience of the night before. "I had hoped she would not fall in love, but be a prop and comfort to me now that I am alone. I am dismayed at the prospect before me." Then the old man mused: "In the chrysalis state of girlhood, a parent arranges all the details of his daughter's future; when and whom she shall marry. 'I shall not allow her to fall in love until she is twenty-three,' says the fond parent. 'I shall not allow her to marry until she is twenty-six,' says the fond parent. 'The man she marries will be the one I approve of, and then she will live happy ever after,' concludes the fond parent." Deluded parent! false prophet! The anarchist, Love, steps in and disdains all laws, rules and regulations. When finally the father confronts the defying daughter, she calmly says, "Well, what are you going to do about it?" And then tears, forgiveness, complete capitulation, and, sometimes, she and her husband live happily ever afterwards. "We must find some means to end this attachment. A union between a musician and my daughter would be most mortifying to me. Some plan must be devised to separate them, but she must not know of it, for she is impatient of restraint and will not brook opposition." "Are you confident she really loves this violinist?" "She confessed as much to me," said the perturbed banker. Old Sanders tapped with both hands on his shining cranium and asked, "Are you confident he loves her?" "No. Even if he does not, he no doubt makes the pretense, and she believes him. A man who fiddles for money is not likely to ignore an opportunity to angle for the same commodity," and the banker, with a look of scorn on his face, threw himself back into the chair. "Does she know that you do not approve of this man?" "I told her that I desired the musician's visits to cease." "And her answer?" "She said she would obey me if I could name one reasonable objection to the man, and then, with an air of absolute confidence in the impossibility of such a contingency, added, 'But you can not.'" "Yes, but you must," said Sanders. "Mildred is strangely constituted. If she loves this man, her love can be more deadly to the choice of her heart than her hate to one she abhors. The impatience of restraint you speak of and her very inability to brook opposition can be turned to good account now." And old Sanders again tapped in the rhythm of a dirge on his parchment-bound cranium. "Your plan?" eagerly asked the father, whose confidence in his secretary was absolute. "I would like to study them together. Your position will be stronger with Mildred if you show no open opposition to the man or his aspirations; bring us together at your house some evening, and if I can not enter a wedge of discontent, then they are not as others." * * * Mildred was delighted when her father told her on his return in the evening that he was anxious to meet Signor Diotti, and suggested a dinner party within a few days. He said he would invite Mr. Sanders, as that gentleman, no doubt, would consider it a great privilege to meet the famous musician. Mildred immediately sent an invitation to Diotti, adding a request that he bring his violin and play for Uncle Sanders, as the latter had found it impossible to attend his concerts during the season, yet was fond of music, especially violin music. X The little dinner party passed off pleasantly, and as old Sanders lighted his cigar he confided to Diotti, with a braggart's assurance, that when he was a youngster he was the best fiddler for twenty miles around. "I tell you there is nothing like a fiddler to catch a petticoat," he said, with a sharp nudge of his elbow into Diotti's ribs. "When I played the Devil's Dream there wasn't a girl in the country could keep from dancing, and 'Rosalie, the Prairie Flower,' brought them on their knees to me every time;" then after a pause, "I don't believe people fiddle as well nowadays as they did in the good old times," and he actually sighed in remembrance. Mildred smiled and whispered to Diotti. He took his violin from the case and began playing. It seemed to her as if from above showers of silvery merriment were falling to earth. The old man watched intently, and as the player changed from joy to pity, from love back to happiness, Sanders never withdrew his gaze. His bead-like eyes followed the artist; he saw each individual finger rise and fall, and the bow bound over the finger-board, always avoiding, never coming in contact with the middle string. Suddenly the old man beat a tattoo on his cranium and closed his eyes, apparently deep in thought. As Diotti ceased playing, Sanders applauded vociferously, and moving toward the violinist, said: "Magnificent! I never have heard better playing! What is the make of your violin?" Diotti, startled at this question, hurriedly put the instrument in its case; "Oh, it is a famous make," he drawled. "Will you let me examine it?" said the elder, placing his hand on the case. "I never allow any one to touch my violin," replied Diotti, closing the cover quickly. "Why; is there a magic charm about it, that you fear other hands may discover?" queried the old man. "I prefer that no one handle it," said the virtuoso commandingly. "Very well," sighed the old man resignedly, "there are violins and violins, and no doubt yours comes within that category," this half sneeringly. "Uncle," interposed Mildred tactfully, "you must not be so persistent. Signor Diotti prizes his violin highly and will not allow any one to play upon it but himself," and the look of relief on Diotti's face amply repaid her. Mr. Wallace came in at that moment, and with perfunctory interest in his guest, invited him to examine the splendid collection of revolutionary relics in his study. "I value them highly," said the banker, "both for patriotic and ancestral reasons. The Wallaces fought and died for their country, and helped to make this land what it is." The father and the violinist went to the study, leaving the daughter and old Sanders in the drawing-room. The old man, seating himself in a large armchair, said: "Mildred, my dear, I do not wonder at the enormous success of this Diotti." "He is a wonderful artist," replied Mildred; "critics and public alike place him among the greatest of his profession." "He is a good-looking young fellow, too," said the old man. "I think he is the handsomest man I ever have seen," replied the girl. "Where does he come from?" continued Sanders. "St. Casciano, a small town in Tuscany." "Has he a family?" "Only a sister, whom he loves dearly," good-naturedly answered the girl. "And no one else?" continued the seemingly garrulous old man. "None that I have heard him speak of. No, certainly not," rather impetuously replied Mildred. "How old is he?" continued the old man. "Twenty-eight next month; why do you wish to know?" she quizzically asked. "Simply idle curiosity," old Sanders carelessly replied. "I wonder if he is in love with any one in Tuscany?" "Of course not; how could he be?" quickly rejoined the girl. "And why not?" added old Sanders. "Why? Because, because--he is in love with some one in America." "Ah, with you, I see," said the old man, as if it were the greatest discovery of his life; "are you sure he has not some beautiful sweetheart in Tuscany as well as here?" "What a foolish question," she replied. "Men like Angelo Diotti do not fall in love as soldiers fall in line. Love to a man of his nobility is too serious to be treated so lightly." "Very true, and that's what has excited my curiosity!" whereupon the old man smoked away in silence. "Excited your curiosity!" said Mildred. "What do you mean?" "It may be something; it may be nothing; but my speculative instinct has been aroused by a strange peculiarity in his playing." "His playing is wonderful!" replied Mildred proudly. "Aye, more than wonderful! I watched him intently," said the old man; "I noted with what marvelous facility he went from one string to the other. But however rapid, however difficult the composition, he steadily avoided one string; in fact, that string remained untouched during the entire hour he played for us." "Perhaps the composition did not call for its use," suggested Mildred, unconscious of any other meaning in the old man's observation, save praise for her lover. "Perhaps so, but the oddity impressed me; it was a new string to me. I have never seen one like it on a violin before." "That can scarcely be, for I do not remember of Signor Diotti telling me there was anything unusual about his violin." "I am sure it has a fifth string." "And I am equally sure the string can be of no importance or Angelo would have told me of it," Mildred quickly rejoined. "I recall a strange story of Paganini," continued the old man, apparently not noticing her interruption; "he became infatuated with a lady of high rank, who was insensible of the admiration he had for her beauty. "He composed a love scene for two strings, the 'E' and 'G,' the first was to personate the lady, the second himself. It commenced with a species of dialogue, intending to represent her indifference and his passion; now sportive, now sad; laughter on her part and tears from him, ending in an apotheosis of loving reconciliation. It affected the lady to that degree that ever after she loved the violinist." "And no doubt they were happy?" Mildred suggested smilingly. "Yes," said the old man, with assumed sentiment, "even when his profession called him far away, for she had made him promise her he never would play upon the two strings whose music had won her heart, so those strings were mute, except for her." The old man puffed away in silence for a moment, then with logical directness continued: "Perhaps the string that's mute upon Diotti's violin is mute for some such reason." "Nonsense," said the girl, half impatiently. "The string is black and glossy as the tresses that fall in tangled skeins on the shoulders of the dreamy beauties of Tuscany. It may be an idle fancy, but if that string is not a woven strand from some woman's crowning glory, then I have no discernment." "You are jesting, uncle," she replied, but her heart was heavy already. "Ask him to play on that string; I'll wager he'll refuse," said the old man, contemptuously. "He will not refuse when I ask him, but I will not to-night," answered the unhappy girl, with forced determination. Then, taking the old man's hands, she said: "Good-night, I am going to my room; please make my excuses to Signor Diotti and father," and wearily she ascended the stairs. Mr. Wallace and the violinist soon after joined old Sanders, fresh cigars were lighted and regrets most earnestly expressed by the violinist for Mildred's "sick headache." "No need to worry; she will be all right in the morning," said Sanders, and he and the violinist buttoned their coats tightly about them, for the night was bitter cold, and together they left the house. In her bed-chamber Mildred stood looking at the portrait of her lover. She studied his face long and intently, then crossing the room she mechanically took a volume from the shelf, and as she opened it her eyes fell on these lines: "How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the Morning!" * * * Old Sanders builded better than he knew. XI When Diotti and old Sanders left the house they walked rapidly down Fifth Avenue. It was after eleven, and the streets were bare of pedestrians, but blinking-eyed cabs came up the avenue, looking at a distance like a trail of Megatheriums, gliding through the darkness. The piercing wind made the men hasten their steps, the old man by a semi-rotary motion keeping up with the longer strides and measured tread of the younger. When they reached Fourteenth Street, the elder said, "I live but a block from here," pointing eastward; "what do you say to a hot toddy? It will warm the cockles of your heart; come over to my house and I'll mix you the best drink in New York." The younger thought the suggestion a good one and they turned toward the house of old Sanders. It was a neat, red brick, two-story house, well in from the street, off the line of the more pretentious buildings on either side. As the old man opened the iron gate, the police officer on the beat passed; he peered into the faces of the men, and recognizing Sanders, said, "tough night, sir." "Very," replied the addressed. "All good old gentlemen should be in bed at this hour," said the officer, lifting one foot after the other in an effort to keep warm, and in so doing showing little terpsichorean grace. "It's only the shank of the evening, officer," rejoined the old man, as he fumbled with the latch key and finally opened the door. The two men entered and the officer passed on. Every man has a fad. One will tell you he sees nothing in billiards or pool or golf or tennis, but will grow enthusiastic over the scientific possibilities of mumble-peg; you agree with him, only you substitute "skittles" for "mumble-peg." Old Sanders' fad was mixing toddies and punches. "The nectar of the gods pales into nothingness when compared with a toddy such as I make," said he. "Ambrosia may have been all right for the degenerates of the old Grecian and Roman days, but an American gentleman demands a toddy--a hot toddy." And then he proceeded with circumspection and dignity to demonstrate the process of decocting that mysterious beverage. The two men took off their overcoats and went into the sitting-room. A pile of logs burned brightly in the fire-place. The old man threw another on the burning heap, filled the kettle with water and hung it over the fire. Next he went to the sideboard and brought forth the various ingredients for the toddy. "How do you like America?" said the elder, with commonplace indifference, as he crunched a lump of sugar in the bottom of the glass, dissolving the particles with a few drops of water. "Very much, indeed," said the Tuscan, with the air of a man who had answered the question before. "Great country for girls!" said Sanders, pouring a liberal quantity of Old Tom gin in the glass and placing it where it gradually would get warm. "And for men!" responded Diotti, enthusiastically. "Men don't amount to much here, women run everything," retorted the elder, while he repeated the process of preparing the sugar and gin in the second glass. The kettle began to sing. "That's music for you," chuckled the old man, raising the lid to see if the water had boiled sufficiently. "Do you know I think a dinner horn and a singing kettle beat a symphony all hollow for real down-right melody," and he lifted the kettle from the fire-place. Diotti smiled. With mathematical accuracy the old man filled the two tumblers with boiling water. "Try that," handing a glass of the toddy to Diotti; "you will find it all right," and the old man drew an armchair toward the fire-place, smacking his lips in anticipation. The violinist placed his chair closer to the fire and sipped the drink. "Your country is noted for its beautiful women?" "We have exquisite types of femininity in Tuscany," said the young man, with patriotic ardor. "Any as fine looking as--as--as--well, say the young lady we dined with to-night?" "Miss Wallace?" queried the Tuscan. "Yes, Miss Wallace," this rather impatiently. "She is very beautiful," said Diotti, with solemn admiration. "Have you ever seen any one prettier?" questioned the old man, after a second prolonged sip. "I have no desire to see any one more beautiful," said the violinist, feeling that the other was trying to draw him out, and determined not to yield. "You will pardon the inquisitiveness of an old man, but are not you musicians a most impressionable lot?" "We are human," answered the violinist. "I imagined you were like sailors and had a sweetheart in every port." "That would be a delightful prospect to one having polygamous aspirations, but for myself, one sweetheart is enough," laughingly said the musician. "Only one! Well, here's to her! With this nectar fit for the gods and goddesses of Olympus, let us drink to her," said old Sanders, with convivial dignity, his glass raised on high. "Here's wishing health and happiness to the dreamy-eyed Tuscan beauty, whom you love and who loves you." "Stop!" said Diotti; "we will drink to the first part of that toast," and holding his glass against that of his bibulous host, continued: "To the dreamy-eyed women of my country, exacting of their lovers; obedient to their parents and loyal to their husbands," and his voice rose in sonorous rhythm with the words. "Now for the rest of the toast, to the one you love and who loves you," came from Sanders. "To the one I love and who loves me, God bless her!" fervently cried the guest. "Is she a Tuscan?" asked old Sanders slyly. "She is an angel!" impetuously answered the violinist. "Then she is an American!" said the old man gallantly. "She is an American," repeated Diotti, forgetting himself for the instant. "Let me see if I can guess her name," said old Sanders. "It's--it's Mildred Wallace!" and his manner suggested a child solving a riddle. The violinist, about to speak, checked himself and remained silent. "I sincerely pity Mildred if ever she falls in love," abstractedly continued the host while filling another glass. "Pray why?" was anxiously asked. The old man shifted his position and assumed a confidential tone and attitude: "Signor Diotti, jealousy is a more universal passion than love itself. Environment may develop our character, influence our tastes and even soften our features, but heredity determines the intensity of the two leading passions, love and jealousy. Mildred's mother was a beautiful woman, but consumed with an overpowering jealousy of her husband. It was because she loved him. The body-guard of jealousy--envy, malice and hatred--were not in her composition. When Mildred was a child of twelve I have seen her mother suffer the keenest anguish because Mr. Wallace fondled the child. She thought the child had robbed her of her husband's love." "Such a woman as Miss Wallace would command the entire love and admiration of her husband at all times," said the artist. "If she should marry a man she simply likes, her chances for happiness would be normal." "In what manner?" asked the lover. "Because she would be little concerned about him or his actions." "Then you believe," said the musician, "that the man who loves her and whom she loves should give her up because her chances of happiness would be greater away from him than with him?" "That would be an unselfish love," said the elder. "Suppose they have declared their passion?" asked Diotti. "A parting before doubt and jealousy had entered her mind would let the image of her sacrificing lover live within her soul as a tender and lasting memory; he always would be her ideal," and the accent old Sanders placed on ALWAYS left no doubt of his belief. "Why should doubt and jealousy enter her life?" said the violinist, falling into the personal character of the discussion despite himself. "My dear sir, from what I observed to-night, she loves you. You are a dangerous man for a jealous woman to love. You are not a cloistered monk, you are a man before the public; you win the admiration of many; some women do not hesitate to show you their preference. To a woman like Mildred that would be torture; she could not and would not separate the professional artist from the lover or husband." And Diotti, remembering Mildred's words, could not refute the old man's statements. "If you had known her mother as I did," continued the old man, realizing his argument was making an impression on the violinist, "you would see the agony in store for the daughter if she married a man such as you, a public servant, a public favorite." "I would live my life not to excite her suspicions or jealousy," said the artist, with boyish enthusiasm and simplicity. "Foolish fellow," retorted Sanders, skeptically; "women imagine, they don't reason. A scented note unopened on the dressing table can cause more unhappiness to your wife than the loss of his country to a king. My advice to you is: do not marry; but if you must, choose one who is more interested in your gastronomic felicity than in your marital constancy." Diotti was silent. He was pondering the words of his host. Instead of seeing in Mildred a possibly jealous woman, causing mental misery, she appeared a vision of single-hearted devotion. He felt: "To be loved by such a one is bliss beyond the dreams of this world." XII A tipsy man is never interesting, and Sanders in that condition was no exception. The old man arose with some effort, walked toward the window and, shading his eyes, looked out. The snow was drifting, swept hither and thither by the cutting wind that came through the streets in great gusts. Turning to the violinist, he said, "It's an awful night; better remain here until morning. You'll not find a cab; in fact, I will not let you go while this storm continues," and the old man raised the window, thrusting his head out for an instant. As he did so the icy blast that came in settled any doubt in the young man's mind and he concluded to stop over night. It was nearly two o'clock; Sanders showed him to his room and then returned down stairs to see that everything was snug and secure. After changing his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers and wrapping a dressing gown around him, the old man stretched his legs toward the fire and sipped his toddy. "He isn't a bad sort for a violinist," mused the old man; "if he were worth a million, I believe I'd advise Wallace to let him marry her. A fiddler! A million! Sounds funny," and he laughed shrilly. He turned his head and his eyes caught sight of Diotti's violin case resting on the center table. He staggered from the chair and went toward it; opening the lid softly, he lifted the silken coverlet placed over the instrument and examined the strings intently. "I am right," he said; "it is wrapped with hair, and no doubt from a woman's head. Eureka!" and the old man, happy in the discovery that his surmises were correct, returned to his chair and his toddy. He sat looking into the fire. The violin had brought back memories of the past and its dead. He mumbled, as if to the fire, "she loved me; she loved my violin. I was a devil; my violin was a devil," and the shadows on the wall swayed like accusing spirits. He buried his face in his hands and cried piteously, "I was so young; too young to know." He spoke as if he would conciliate the ghastly shades that moved restlessly up and down, when suddenly--"Sanders, don't be a fool!" He ambled toward the table again. "I wonder who made the violin? He would not tell me when I asked him to-night; thank you for your pains, but I will find out myself," and he took the violin from the case. Holding it with the light slanting over it, he peered inside, but found no inscription. "No maker's name--strange," he said. He tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and listened intently; "he must be asleep; he won't hear me," and noiselessly he closed the door. "I guess if I play a tune on it he won't know." He took the bow from its place in the case and tightened it. He listened again. "He is fast asleep," he whispered. "I'll play the song I always played for her--until," and the old man repeated the words of the refrain: "Fair as a lily, joyous and free, Light of the prairie home was she; Every one who knew her felt the gentle power Of Rosalie, the Prairie Flower." He sat again in the arm-chair and placed the violin under his chin. Tremulously he drew the bow across the middle string, his bloodless fingers moving slowly up and down. The theme he played was the melody to the verse he had just repeated, but the expression was remorse. * * * Diotti sat upright in bed. "I am positive I heard a violin!" he said, holding one hand toward his head in an attitude of listening. He was wide awake. The drifting snow beat against the window panes and the wind without shrieked like a thousand demons of the night. He could sleep no more. He arose and hastily dressed. The room was bitterly cold; he was shivering. He thought of the crackling logs in the fire-place below. He groped his way along the darkened staircase. As he opened the door leading into the sitting-room the fitful gleam of the dying embers cast a ghastly light over the face of a corpse. Diotti stood a moment, his eyes transfixed with horror. The violin and bow still in the hands of the dead man told him plainer than words what had happened. He went toward the chair, took the instrument from old Sanders' hands and laid it on the table. Then he knelt beside the body, and placing his ear close over the heart, listened for some sign of life, but the old man was beyond human aid. He wheeled the chair to the side of the room and moved the body to the sofa. Gently he covered it with a robe. The awfulness of the situation forced itself upon him, and bitterly he blamed himself. The terrible power of the instrument dawned upon him in all its force. Often he had played on the strings telling of pity, hope, love and joy, but now, for the first time, he realized what that fifth string meant. "I must give it back to its owner." "If you do you can never regain it," whispered a voice within. "I do not need it," said the violinist, almost audibly. "Perhaps not," said the voice, "but if her love should wane how would you rekindle it? Without the violin you would be helpless." "Is it not possible that, in this old man's death, all its fatal power has been expended?" He went to the table and took the instrument from its place. "You won her for me; you have brought happiness and sunshine into my life. No! No! I can not, will not give you up," then placing the violin and bow in its case he locked it. The day was breaking. In an hour the baker's boy came. Diotti went to the door, gave him a note addressed to Mr. Wallace and asked him to deliver it at once. The boy consented and drove rapidly away. Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived; Diotti told the story of the night. After the undertaker had taken charge of the body he found on the dead man's neck, just to the left of the chin, a dullish, black bruise which might have been caused by the pressing of some blunt instrument, or by a man's thumb. Considering it of much importance, he notified the coroner, who ordered an inquest. At six o'clock that evening a jury was impaneled, and two hours later its verdict was reported. XIII On leaving the house of the dead man Diotti walked wearily to his hotel. In flaring type at every street corner he saw the announcement for Thursday evening, March thirty-first, of Angelo Diotti's last appearance: "To-night I play for the last time," he murmured in a voice filled with deepest regret. The feeling of exultation so common to artists who finally reach the goal of their ambition was wanting in Diotti this morning. He could not rid himself of the memory of Sanders' tragic death. The figure of the old man clutching the violin and staring with glassy eyes into the dying fire would not away. When he reached the hotel he tried to rest, but his excited brain banished every thought of slumber. Restlessly he moved about the room, and finally dressing, he left the hotel for his daily call on Mildred. It was after five o'clock when he arrived. She received him coldly and without any mark of affection. She had heard of Mr. Sanders' death; her father had sent word. "It shocked me greatly," she said; "but perhaps the old man is happier in a world far from strife and care. When we realize all the misery there is in this world we often wonder why we should care to live." Her tone was despondent, her face was drawn and blanched, and her eyes gave evidence of weeping. Diotti divined that something beyond sympathy for old Sanders' sudden death racked her soul. He went toward her and lovingly taking her hands, bent low and pressed his lips to them; they were cold as marble. "Darling," he said; "something has made you unhappy. What is it?" "Tell me, Angelo, and truly; is your violin like other violins?" This unexpected question came so suddenly he could not control his agitation. "Why do you ask?" he said. "You must answer me directly!" "No, Mildred; my violin is different from any other I have ever seen," this hesitatingly and with great effort at composure. "In what way is it different?" she almost demanded. "It is peculiarly constructed; it has an extra string. But why this sudden interest in the violin? Let us talk of you, of me, of both, of our future," said he with enforced cheerfulness. "No, we will talk of the violin. Of what use is the extra string?" "None whatever," was the quick reply. "Then why not cut it off?" "No, no, Mildred; you do not understand," he cried; "I can not do that." "You can not do it when I ask it?" she exclaimed. "Oh Mildred, do not ask me; I can not, can not do it," and the face of the affrighted musician told plainer than words of the turmoil raging in his soul. "You made me believe that I was the only one you loved," passionately she cried; "the only one; that your happiness was incomplete without me. You led me into the region of light only to make the darkness greater when I descended to earth again. I ask you to do a simple thing and you refuse; you refuse because another has commanded you." "Mildred, Mildred; if you love me do not speak thus!" And she, with imagination greater than reasoning power, at once saw a Tuscan beauty and Diotti mutually pledging their love with their lives. "Go," she said, pointing to the door, "go to the one who owns you, body and soul; then say that a foolish woman threw her heart at your feet and that you scorned it!" She sank to the sofa. He went toward the door, and in a voice that sounded like the echo of despair, protested: "Mildred, I love you; love you a thousand times more than I do my life. If I should destroy the string, as you ask, love and hope would leave me forevermore. Death would not be robbed of its terror!" and with bowed head he went forth into the twilight. She ran to the window and watched his retreating figure as he vanished. "Uncle Sanders was right; he loves another woman, and that string binds them together. He belongs to her!" Long and silently she stood by the window, gazing at the shadowing curtain of the coming night. At last her face softened. "Perhaps he does not love her now, but fears her vengeance. No, no; he is not a coward! I should have approached him differently; he is proud, and maybe he resented my imperative manner," and a thousand reasons why he should or should not have removed that string flashed through her mind. "I will go early to the concert to-night and see him before he plays. Uncle Sanders said he did not touch that string when he played. Of course he will play on it for me, even if he will not cut it off, and then if he says he loves me, and only me, I will believe him. I want to believe him; I want to believe him," all this in a semi-hysterical way addressed to the violinist's portrait on the piano. When she entered her carriage an hour later, telling the coachman to drive direct to the stage-door of the Academy, she appeared more fascinating than ever before. She was sitting in his dressing-room waiting for him when he arrived. He had aged years in a day. His step was uncertain, his eyes were sunken and his hand trembled. His face brightened as she arose, and Mildred met him in the center of the room. He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss upon it. "Angelo, dear," she said in repentant tone; "I am sorry I pained you this afternoon; but I am jealous, so jealous of you." "Jealous?" he said smilingly; "there is no need of jealousy in our lives; we love each other truly and only." "That is just what I think, we will never doubt each other again, will we?" "Never!" he said solemnly. He had placed his violin case on the table in the room. She went to it and tapped the top playfully; then suddenly said: "I am going to look at your violin, Angelo," and before he could interfere, she had taken the silken coverlet off and was examining the instrument closely. "Sure enough, it has five strings; the middle one stands higher than the rest and is of glossy blackness. Uncle Sanders was right; it is a woman's hair! "Why is that string made of hair?" she asked, controlling her emotion. "Only a fancy," he said, feigning indifference. "Though you would not remove it at my wish this afternoon, Angelo; I know you will not refuse to play on it for me now." He raised his hands in supplication. "Mildred! Mildred! Stop! do not ask it!" "You refuse after I have come repentant, and confessing my doubts and fears? Uncle Sanders said you would not play upon it for me; he told me it was wrapped with a woman's hair, the hair of the woman you love." "I swear to you, Mildred, that I love but you!" "Love me? Bah! And another woman's tresses sacred to you? Another woman's pledge sacred to you? I asked you to remove the string; you refused. I ask you now to play upon it; you refuse," and she paced the room like a caged tigress. "I will watch to-night when you play," she flashed. "If you do not use that string we part forever." He stood before her and attempted to take her hand; she repulsed him savagely. Sadly then he asked: "And if I do play upon it?" "I am yours forever--yours through life--through eternity," she cried passionately. The call-boy announced Diotti's turn; the violinist led Mildred to a seat at the entrance of the stage. His appearance was the signal for prolonged and enthusiastic greeting from the enormous audience present. He clearly was the idol of the metropolis. The lights were lowered, a single calcium playing with its soft and silvery rays upon his face and shoulders. The expectant audience scarcely breathed as he began his theme. It was pity--pity molded into a concord of beautiful sounds, and when he began the second movement it was but a continuation of the first; his fingers sought but one string, that of pity. Again he played, and once more pity stole from the violin. When he left the stage Mildred rushed So him. "You did not touch that string; you refuse my wish?" and the sounds of mighty applause without drowned his pleading voice. "I told you if you refused me I was lost to you forever! Do you understand?" Diotti returned slowly to the center of the stage and remained motionless until the audience subsided. Facing Mildred, whose color was heightened by the intensity of her emotion, he began softly to play. His fingers sought the string of Death. The audience listened with breathless interest. The composition was weirdly and strangely fascinating. The player told with wondrous power of despair,--of hope, of faith; sunshine crept into the hearts of all as he pictured the promise of an eternal day; higher and higher, softer and softer grew the theme until it echoed as if it were afar in the realms of light and floating o'er the waves of a golden sea. Suddenly the audience was startled by the snapping of a string; the violin and bow dropped from the nerveless hands of the player. He fell helpless to the stage. Mildred rushed to him, crying, "Angelo, Angelo, what is it? What has happened?" Bending over him she gently raised his head and showered unrestrained kisses upon his lips, oblivious of all save her lover. "Speak! Speak!" she implored. A faint smile illumined his face; he gazed with ineffable tenderness into her weeping eyes, then slowly closed his own as if in slumber. The Conspirators Arriving opposite the Franklin house, Tom Foley took position in a near-by alley, where he could keep close watch on the front gate. After hours of nervous waiting, little Lillian Franklin came out, and Tom's heart gave a jump. She was alone, and began to roll a hoop, which her friend Sandy had given her that morning. Down the street she tripped, all smiles and happiness. Tom watched her until she had turned a corner, then he rushed up the alley to intercept her. When he emerged into the street, he saw her resting on a rustic bench, and hastened to join her. As he came up, he was greeted with: "Why, Tom, I thought you went fishing with Gil, and papa, and Sandy, and the rest." "No, Lily. I felt so bad 'bout my dad being arrested yest'day I couldn't git up no courage to go," answered the boy with simulated contrition. "What d'yer say? let's s'prise Gil, and go down to the landin' an' meet him when he comes in from fishin'," suggested Foley, knowing the intense love she had for her brother. "That'll be lovely, won't it? And Gil will be so glad if I come." Lillian whipped the hoop rapidly, and Tom kept pace with her. "Gil will be surprised, sure enough, when he sees me coming, won't he?" "Yes, he'll be s'prised, you bet!" said the boy, taking a firmer hold of her hand. The night was fast approaching and Foley was leading the child through unfrequented alleys and streets. "But maybe Gil won't come back this way, and it's getting awful dark." "Oh, he'll come back this way, all right." They were now on the shore of the river, dark and desolate in its winter dress. The restless splash of the water sent icy sprays over the child, and, clinging still closer to her treacherous companion, she stopped him for a second and begged him to return. "Don't be afear'd, nuthin's goin' ter happen to yer," he said, jerking her savagely, and almost breaking into a run at the same time. "Oh, Tom, please let's go back," supplicated the child. They were now at the old wharf. He gave a low whistle, and, without waiting for an answer, pulled the helpless child through the entrance. Then, groping his way over the slimy stones and through the oozing mud, he dragged the affrighted little one after him, to the mouth of the cave, and called: "Dad, I'm here." "Come right in," answered a voice. "I've got her, an' I got her easy as dirt," said the son, pushing the terrified child into the cave, and then roughly into the arms of his father. "Don't yell, yer brat!" said the older, clasping his hand over mouth, and drawing her brutally toward him. "Shut up, or I'll kill yer." Foley now called Hildey, who was, asleep in the corner, and said, "Cul, we've got to git out er this place jest as quick as possible. It's too near the city, an' if we're tracked here we'll stand no more chance than a snowball on Beelzebub's gridiron." "What's yer lay, Dennis?" questioned Hildey. "Move up the river," was the reply. "I knows jest the place where we wouldn't be found in a thousand years." "When d'yer want to start?" asked Tom. In ten minutes the abductors, with the stolen child, were slowly winding their way along the deserted beach. It was now very dark. No stars were shining, and it had become bitterly cold. Suddenly voices were heard, and the abductors stopped to listen. They were in a ravine near the magazine landing, not more than fifty feet from the spot where the Lillian was launched. Foley, Tom, and Hildey crouched low, and drew the little girl closer. The steady dip of oars was heard up stream, and the voices grew plainer. Out of the mingled sounds was heard, "I agrees with Sandy, he's the dirtiest coward as ever went unhung." Lillian started, for she recognized the voice of the Jedge, who with Colonel Franklin, Sandy, Dink, Leander and Gilbert, were returning from a sail up the river. Foley became frightened, and bending over, hissed into the child's ear: "Remember what I tol' yer: if yer utter a sound, I'll kill yer." The sailing party meantime had reached the landing and stepped ashore. Sandy and the other three boys lowered the sail, rolled and carried it into the boat-house. The whole party then, marching three abreast, with steady step, went up the graveled walk of the old magazine road, singing in unison: "Hep--Hep-- Shoot that ni**er if he don't keep step. Hep--Hep-- Shoot that ni**er if he don't keep step." While its cadence was continued by Colonel Franklin and the Jedge, the four boys, in marching rhythm, sang out cheerily into the crisp cold night: "When other lips and other hearts, Their tales of love shall tell, In accents whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. There may, perhaps, in such a scene, Some recollection be, Of days that have as happy been, And you'll remember me." The three scoundrels listened, as the voices rose and fell on the air. The child, with the fear of death before her, and in the clutches of her horrible captor, gave one convulsive sob and sank swooning at his feet. Foley picked her up and, walking quickly, placed her in the very boat her father and friends had left but a moment before. He wrapped her in a ragged coat, loosened the hasp of the door on the boat-house, and took out the oars. Quickly the captors pushed the craft into deep water, and with muffled stroke moved through the inky waves, a somber specter sneaking along the banks of the sleeping marches. When they neared the upper bridge, Foley ran the boat ashore and abandoned it. Picking up the exhausted and benumbed child, he led his two companions along the causeway and over the road leading to the bridge. The wind came out of the north, howling through the leafless boughs of the mighty monarchs of the forest. The last flickering light of the town was left far behind, and darkness, like a great shroud, enveloped river, valley and woods. In due time Colonel Franklin and his party reached home, hungry after their fine sail on the river, and all in high spirits. "Jedge, you and the boys sit right down, and we'll have supper in a jiffy." The guests thoroughly enjoyed the evening meal. The repast was about concluded when Edith, who had just returned from the parsonage, came in, and called cheerily: "Hurry up, Lily, it's time to go to the festival. They're going to light up thet tree at half-past eight, and it's nearly that now." "Why, chil', Lily ain't here. She's wif yo' folks," exclaimed Delia. "With us? She hasn't been with us at all," responded Edith. "It's likely she's at one of the neighbors," ventured the Colonel. "I'll fin' her, Muster Franklin, an' I'se gwine to scol' her good an' hard fo' worryin' her ol' mammy. At this she put a shawl over her head and shoulderst and started in search of the absent one. "Suppose I go too," suggested Gilbert, rising. "I don't think that's necessary," interposed the Colonel. "It'll only take me a minute," assured the son, as he began to put on his overcoat. "Go if you like then," consented the Colonel. "An' if yer don't mind, Miss Deed," volunteered Sandy, "I'll go up to church with yer, an' then come back an' fetch Lily and Gil." "That's a good idea," answered Edith, "bring her right over to the church, and I'll be waiting for you there." "I guess I'll go up to my house an' look. Mebbe Lily is playin' with Zorah, an' if she is, I'll come right back an' tell yer," put in Dink. Edith, Delia and the three boys departed, leaving the Colonel and the Jedge alone, smoking their pipes and discussing the sensational events of the week, in which Dennis Foley was the central figure. The conversation was stopped by the appearance of Delia and Gilbert, who declared that not one of the neighbors had seen Lillian that afternoon. "It seems almost incredible that she could be lost," said the father, "she must be somewhere about here. Perhaps she went to the church, and fell asleep in one of the pews." The searching party set out once more, this time accompanied by the Colonel himself, and by the Jedge. At the church they heard from Sandy and Dink that no trace of the child had been found, so the father requested the minister to inquire of the congregation if the missing one had been seen anywhere. There was no response from those present, and the family and friends began to show grave concern. Another effort at finding her was immediately made. The police sergeant was notified, and he sent out a general alarm. All night long, and all the next day the hunt was continued. Wells were explored, basements, cellars and out-of-the-way places were ransacked, lumber yards and coal yards were gone through most carefully. In fact, not a foot of the town was left unsearched, but all to no avail, and the once happy home of the Franklins was steeped in sorrow and despair. The morning after Lillian's disappearance, Mrs. Foley inquired of the boys in the neighborhood if they had seen anything of her son Tom, who, she declared, had been gone since the previous morning. From Sandy she learned that Tom had taken dinner at Gilbert's the day before, but that when the party had started for the river he had dropped out, claiming he was too down-hearted to join in the pleasure. "That's the way he acted at home," said the widow, "and it seemed to me it was almost unnacheral for him to talk against his father, as he did. However, I'm not bothered about him, for he comes and goes just as he pleases, and when he gets good and ready he'll turn up, like a bad penny. I've stopped worryin' about him years an' years ago." "If I see Tom," volunteered the boy, "I'll tell him yer want him,"--and he hurried away. The next morning Sandy left home earlier than usual, and on his own account began a search for Lillian. A new theory had taken possession of him, and he started at once for the river. At the magazine gate he chatted with the sentry about the mysterious disappearance, and passed on. When he reached the shore half a mile beyond, he was surprised to find that the padlock on the door of the shed had been pried off, and that his boat was missing. Opening the door he saw that his oars and blankets were gone, and he began to feel that his theory might lead him to important discoveries. For fully five minutes he stood motionless, and gazed into the river, buried deep in his own thoughts. Then he soliloquized: "I wonder if Lily's been stolen? S'pose, while we've been searchin' fer her high an' low, Foley an' the galoot what whacked me jest took the little girl an' carried her off in my boat? That 'ere story 'bout Dennis Foley buyin' a ticket for Philadelphy struck me as fishy when I fust heerd it, an' now I don't believe it a t'all. They couldn't git through the magazine gate 'thout the guards seein' them, an' whoever took my boat either came up the shore or down the shore. 'Tain't likely they came from up shore, 'cause they could 'a' found a hundred boats 'tween here an' the upper bridge." Turning around, Sandy started down the beach toward the cemetery. He was studying carefully the ground beyond the point of high tide, and in a few moments reached the ravine where, two nights before, the three abductors had stopped, upon hearing Colonel Franklin and his sailing party approach. "Well, I'll be durned," he exclaimed, for in the sand before his very eyes was the impress of four pairs of shoes. Two were evidently those of men, one small enough to be that of a boy, and one so tiny as to convince him it was that of a child. "This is the way they come," he continued, "and there wuz three of 'em in the gang besides the little one, an' I'm sure er that." He followed the footprints until he reached the old wharf. Peering through the rotten timbers, he said: "That's a rum ol' hole. I don't believe Satan hisself would go in there, but I'm goin', an' see what I kin see." Sandy had no difficulty in entering the cave, which he found strewn with whisky bottles, pieces of bread and newly-picked bones, evidence enough that some one had been there but a short time before. Penetrating deeper in his search, he made a find of the utmost importance. Lying at one side, and near a bed of rags, was an envelop addressed to Dennis Foley, and, on a peg which had been driven into the wall, was hanging an old hat, which he had often seen on Hildey's head. Elated at the results of his quest, he began to retrace his steps, and in eager haste he left the cave. Picking his way along the slimy stones under the wharf, he soon neared the outlet and there was startled by the most significant of all his discoveries. Right before him lay the identical hoop which he had given the lost child only Christmas Day, and which bore the inscription, "From Sandy Coggles to Lillian Franklin." Every suspicion now was confirmed, and he was sure he knew the culprits. Taking the hoop, he returned to his boathouse with all possible speed, and leaping into his skiff, paddled up the river, his eyes scanning the marsh lines on either bank of the channel. Arriving at the bridge, he learned by inquiry from the tender stationed there that he had not seen the Lillian coming up stream within the past three days. "But," explained the bridge-tender, "I'm only on from six to six during daylight, and of course if anything comes through at night I wouldn't know about it. I'm pretty sure, though, there's been nothing up this way for a month of Sundays, 'cept Buck Wesley, who creeped up 'bout two hours ago, following a gang of ducks that uses right over there above Mayhew's Meadows. And the way Buck's been shooting for the last hour, he must be having a time and no mistake." "Well, so long," called Sandy. "I guess I'll go up the river a little further and have a look." And once more he took up his paddles. As he came abreast of the Meadows he saw Buck Wesley coming out of the creek in his gunning skiff. "Is that you, Sandy?" shouted the gunner. "That's me," was the boy's answer. "Come over here, I want to talk to you," requested Buck. When Sandy got alongside the hunter's boat, he asked: "Well, Buck, what's the trouble?" "No trouble, Sandy, but when I come up the river this mornin'--I ain't been up for three weeks, it's been such pore weather for ducks--I seen a bunch of widgeon go down right over here, an' as I skims up by the collard patch t'other side of the bridge, I noticed a boat lyin' in the mud, and when I gits near to her, I knows by the cut of her jib that she's yer Lillian." "My Lillian? Wher'd yer say yer seen her?" asked Sandy excitedly. "Why, by the collard patch, not fifty yards from the Causeway. She looked like she'd drifted on the marsh. I calc'lated when I got through shootin' that I'd pick her up an' take her down to yer landin'. The oars wuz in, an' I guess she must 'a' strayed from the shore, through somebody fergettin' to tie her up." "I'm much 'bliged, Buck," thanked Sandy, "but yer needn't bother. I'll bring her down, an' the next galoot that takes her an' lets her git away from him, is goin' to hear from me." Sandy retraced the course he had come, and after turning on the other side of the bridge, had no trouble in finding his boat. She was lying on a sand-bar, but he soon succeeded in floating her and bringing her ashore. Safely securing the skiff and the boat, he began another search along the beach, and almost immediately was rewarded by finding a knot of blue ribbon, such as he had often seen Lillian wear in her hair. Farther along, he discovered tracks in the sand. These he followed, Indian fashion, up the embankment, lost trace of them for a moment on the hardened surface of the carriage way, but speedily picked them up again in the soft soil that ran downward on the other side. Then, it was easy to pursue them along a pathway that led to a graveled beach where a dozen or more skiffs had been drawn up and tied to stakes for the winter. From here on, all further traces were obliterated. Thoroughly familiar with all the river craft belonging there, even to the individual ownership, Sandy noticed at once that one of the boats was missing, and that its painter had only recently been cut. "Why, it's Willie Bagner's boat they've got," he said to himself as he recognized which boat was missing, "an' I'll bet my life the scalawags are hidin' somewhere up the river." Hurrying back, he rowed to the landing and started in haste for his home, with a plan of rescue fully developed in his mind. He sought out Leander, Dink and Gilbert, and asked them to call at his house without delay. While Sandy's investigation had convinced him that Lillian was stolen, Colonel Franklin had been made to realize the same terrible fact in another and more brutal way. When he reached his office on the same afternoon, he found on his desk a letter that read as follows: dere sur--if U meen bizness i can put U on to whar your dorter is but its goin to kost U sum muney if U evr want to see her agin theres a big gang got her hid where U woodnt find hur in a 100 yerze but if U will plank down 10000 dolers sheze yourze if U dont you'll nevr see hur no moar if sheze wurth thet much to U U can git her by not blabin to nobudy that yer got this leter an plankin down the rino taint no use fer U to try an git the police on our trax fer one uv the gang is alwayz with the kid an we have sworn to kill her if enny of us is jugged if U meen bizness an will leeve a noat under the big stone in front of the ded tree by oyster shell landin up the river we will git it an rite U where to meet us to bring the muney and git the child member we dont stand fer no trechery an if U squeel we ll no it and we ll take it out on the kid mums the word if yer want ter see the kid again c o d and fare deelin is our moto a word to the wize is sufishent yourze trooley a frend The Colonel was completely unnerved by the horrible knowledge that his little daughter was in the hands of desperate criminals. Without delay he wrote a note offering to pay the money demanded, agreeing to deliver it at any spot they might name, and vowing to share his secret with no one. Sealing the missive, he placed it carefully in his pocket, and drove out along the river turnpike to a point about a quarter of a mile from the place designated by the anonymous writer. Tying his horse to a tree, he walked through the woods, and hid the note under the stone mentioned in the letter. It was after nightfall when he reached home, where he was met with the heartrending and oft-repeated question, "Have you heard anything from Lily?" Fearing to betray himself, even to his family, and thus perhaps endanger the life of his child, he was compelled to answer, "No, not a thing." With a heavy heart, he passed into his study. Supper was announced shortly afterward, and as the family gathered about the table, the father noticed that his son was not present. "Where is Gilbert?" he inquired nervously. "Sandy was here and asked Gilbert to come over and spend the night with him," answered Mrs. Franklin. "I hadn't the heart to refuse him, for I don't believe any one has worked harder to find our lost darling than Sandy, and he seems to be the only one that can give Gilbert any consolation." "I think it's better that the boys stop searching," said the father. "They might get themselves into trouble; it's too dangerous." "I don't believe you could stop those boys from hunting for Lillian, if they had to go into the very jaws of death," interposed the grandmother. "Oh, well," spoke the father; "they must not wear themselves out, and to-morrow, I will tell Gilbert and Sandy to leave the investigation to the police." "They'll never do it," objected the grandmother, "they love Lillian too much. You mark my words." At this very moment, Sandy, Leander, Gilbert and Dink were together, in Sandy's little garret room. Sandy closed the door carefully, locked it, and called his companions about him in the middle of the room. "Boys," he whispered, "afore I sez anythin', I wants yer to gimme yer word, honor bright, an' cross yer heart three times, that yer won't spout a syllable of what I tells yer to a soul." All were agreed, and the boy began: "Now, it's this 'ere way. My boat wuz stolen an' left, right below the upper bridge, an' I foun' footprints an' this 'ere piece of ribbon, which Gil knows b'longed to his sister, for she wore it round her hair. Willie Bagner's skiff's bin stolen, an' I believe the party that took it hez got little Lily, because I foun' the hoop I give her, an' this envellup in the same place, an' it seems to me the galoot whose name's on it is hid somewhere up the river, an' I'm goin' after him if I has to go alone." "But you won't go alone, while I'm alive," insisted Leander, intensely excited. "An' I'm goin', too, even if I never come back," added Dink, taking it for granted that he was needed. "And you must take me," said Gilbert imploringly. The four boys grasped one another's hands, and Sandy declared in a solemn tone: "We'll stick together to the bitter end." "What's your plan?" asked Leander, with great interest. "Without breathin' a word to a soul, to-night about nine o'clock we wants to leave the boat-house, you an' Dink in one skiff, an' me an' Gil in t'other, an' sneak up the river, an' try so nobody won't see us. When we gits to the upper bridge, paddle in as close to the Causeway on the right, as we kin, huggin' the marsh all the way. Jest before we git to Beaver Dam, there's a deep gut that runs 'longside of it fer a hundred yards or more. Foller me in there, Leander, an' stay hid till I sez move. Don't speak a word, from the time we push off till I sez so. Beaver Dam is the lonesomest creek in the world, an' mebbe Gil's little sister is kept in one of them ol' shacks what muskrat hunters live in, in the spring an' summer. If them galoots is in there, they're mighty apt ter come out late at night, when they don't expec' nobody's roun'. Of course, nacherelly they have some plan about gettin' paid fer little Lily, an' they ain't a-goin' to stay in hidin' without tryin' to find out the lay er the land, an' jest how hot the police is on their trail. My idee is to go an' lay in ambush fer 'em all night. If they don't come out, we'll explore in the mornin', an' if we don't find 'em hidin' roun' Beaver Dam, then we'll lay low all day, an' push up the river to-morrow night. But somehow, I think that's the place they would pick out to hide in. 'Tain't one person out er a million that would know how to git through Beaver Dam without gittin' lost, an' I'm a recollectin' I took Tom Foley through there onct an' that's why I'm goin' there to-night. I knows it so well, I could go through with my eyes shet. "Each of us wants his pistol loaded fer keeps, a knife, an' about three yards er rope he can tie round his waist. Let's have a bite o' supper right here in my house, an' then we'll start fer the river, but each feller goin' alone, an' in a different way. Now, remember, no talkin' to nobody, an' let's all say honor bright, an' cross our hearts three times ag'in." Sandy was the first to arrive at the boat-house. Securing the paddles, he put them into the skiffs and watched for his companions. He had not long to wait. Gilbert came in a few moments, then Leander, and shortly afterward, Dink. Not a word was spoken. Sandy motioned Gilbert to sit in the center seat of the Dolly, while he took his accustomed place at the stern. Noiselessly they pushed into the stream, followed by Leander and Dink. The tide was going out, and had, perhaps, two hours to ebb. The boys hugged the channel bank on the right, passed under the bridge unnoticed, and kept on their silent and anxious way, mile after mile. Finally, Sandy steered into a creek and glided softly against the mud bank, holding his skiff firmly by driving a paddle into the soft soil. Leander and Dink followed suit. That they might be screened from any one coming out of Beaver Dam, which was separated by a narrow strip of marsh-land, they lay flat on the bottom of their boats. The night was not especially dark, for the moon was looking through a mist of hazy clouds. It was bitingly cold, and though the boys became numb from the many minutes of inactivity, not one of them moved. For fully an hour they had remained motionless, when faintly over the water was heard the splash, splash, splash, of paddles, far away. The searching party were all alert in an instant, and with raised heads, peered cautiously over the top of the marsh line in the direction of the sounds. Hardly a minute had passed, when out of the shadows that hid the entrance to Beaver Dam, there came slowly a skiff into the clear water. It approached to within fifteen feet of the hidden boys, when they recognized a voice, distinctly saying: "I hope that guy Franklin's ben up to the landin' an' left the note where I tol' him to, an' don't try no shenanigan." "He ain't goin' to try no flapdoodles with us," was the quick answer. "Well, if he knows when he's well off," the first voice resumed, "he'll come round with the rhino mighty quick, an' give us no more trouble." "I kin see us livin' like gent'men, a'ready." "Gent'men born an'--" the other began, but the last of his sentence was lost as the boat turned up the river, and the cadence of the paddles died in the distance. Sandy waited until the rascals had disappeared around the bend, then shoving his skiff quickly alongside Leander's, he whispered into the latter's ear: "Me an' Gil is goin' in to Beaver Dam. Yer knows them two fellers, an' so do I. One of 'em is the feller what whacked me, an' the t'other is that bum Hildey. If they gits here afore I come back, you an' Dink'll have to do somethin' desp'ret." "All right," said Leander, clutching his pistol, "you can trust me." Sandy rounded the point that divided the two creeks, and in a short time had paddled past the trees and vines that hung over and partly covered the entrance to Beaver Dam. The boat was managed with consummate skill, now left, now right, through the sinuous waterway, and the two boys had gone fully half a mile, when, without warning, they were rudely jolted as the skiff grated harshly on a bar. Ordinarily, such an incident would have been without effect upon them, but now their nerves were so highly strung, that the noise of the boat rubbing against the gravel seemed as loud as the report of a cannon. Using all possible force, Sandy and Gilbert succeeded in shoving their craft back into the water. Then they pressed forward into the shadow of an embankment on the left, and not a moment too soon did they reach Gover, for the door of a hut was thrown open, and the voice of Tom Foley was heard, asking: "Is that you, dad?" An instant later Foley was seen standing in the dim light of the doorway, shading his eyes and peering into the darkness. "I say, dad, is that you?" came again. "I'll be doggoned if I didn't think I heerd somebody comin'. I guess 'tain't nuthin',"--looking anxiously to the right and left. "I cert'nly does git scared out er my boots aroun' here, though, when I'm left alone. I'm goin' to wake up the brat an' make her keep me comp'ny,"--and the door closed with a bang. He had hardly gone inside when the piteous cry of a child was heard, "Please don't beat me, Tom." "I ain't beatin' yer; go ahead, dance fer me." Sandy and Gilbert were fairly crazed, and in their anger rushed up toward the hut. Again came the cry, "Please don't hit me, Tom." "Dance, I say,"--and the sharp swish of a whip was heard. It took but a second for Sandy to bound into the room. Surprised and terrified, Foley made a dart for the door, but was met by Gilbert, who, pistol in hand, held him stock still. In desperation Foley reached for a club and ran back of the frightened child in the hope that she might serve as guard against his assailant. Like a flash, Sandy followed, and knocked the cowardly brute senseless with the barrel of his pistol. Gilbert ran to his sister, and, taking her up, showered loving kisses upon her. With her arms clasped about his neck and her head nestling on his shoulder, she cried: "Oh, Gil, I'm so glad you've come. I've been waiting all this time for you. I knew Sandy would come, because he ain't afraid of robbers, or anybody else, even if he had his hands tied behind him. I've been praying for you every minute, and here you are." Again Gilbert pressed his sister to his heart, and kissed her. Young Foley was still lying unconscious, as the result of the blow he had received, and Sandy was clutching him tightly by the throat. "Take yer sister, little codger," said Sandy, "wrap her up, git in the skiff, an' I'll be with yer as soon as I tie this chuckle-headed idiot fast and tight." Gilbert left the hut with Lillian, while the other boy remained long enough to loosen the rope around his waist, and bind the young ruffian securely. Then he placed him in a corner of the room. Locking the door behind him, Sandy joined Gilbert in the skiff, and together they paddled furiously out of the creek into the river. The moon was up in all her splendor, and objects on the water were plainly visible for some distance. Lillian was seated in the bow, facing the two boys at the paddles. Leander and Dink fell in the wake of Sandy's skiff, about ten yards in the rear. As the party reached the middle of the channel, a skiff came into view from the bend, a short way above, and steered directly toward them. With a cry, Lillian stood up: "Oh, Gil, here come those two bad men that took me away." The boys turned, and they, too, recognized Dennis Foley and Hildey as the occupants of the approaching boat. "Lie flat, little one," whispered Sandy, "an' don't move till I tells yer." The child obeyed, but already Foley and his partner had espied her, and it was evident they were using all their efforts to catch up. Leander now called: "It's the same gang, Sandy, that came out of the creek. What shall we do?" "Paddle fer all ye're worth," was shouted back. "Hold up, or we'll shoot," yelled Dennis Foley. With that a pistol-shot was heard coming from the direction of the pursuers, but the bullet went wide of its mark, and the boys sped on. "Don't waste yer load unless yer have to," cautioned Sandy, "'cause yer won't have time to put in 'nother, an' I don't want er draw their fire, fer fear they might hit Lily." The race had become one of life and death. The boys strained to the utmost their strong young muscles, and, with paddles bent almost double, drove their little craft like the wind before them. Down past Turtle Creek they flew; Licking Banks were soon left behind, and shortly, they were alongside the Sycamores. Dink looked back over his shoulder, and whispered: "We ain't gained on 'em a bit, an' they seem to be goin' strong." When the Meadows were reached, Dink said again: "They're comin' like everythin'." "Don't weaken," urged Leander; "as long as we're between them and Sandy's skiff, they'll have to kill us before they can get to Lillian." The moon was casting its light on the waters like a great silvery path, and the splashing of the paddles was the only sound that awakened the echoes. Again came the sharp report of a pistol, and Dink dodged, as if by instinct. He wheeled in his seat and shot point-blank at Foley, but the ball imbedded itself in the side of the skiff behind and did no further damage. "That's tit for tat," said Dink, "but it wuz a mighty close call fer me. When the bullet whizzed past my ear I thought I was plugged, sure." There were now not more than fifteen yards between the boys and their pursuers. Turning about, Leander saw Hildey raise his pistol and take careful aim at him. Quick as thought, the boy fired first, and Hildey uttered a sharp cry of pain, as his right arm fell helpless, and his pistol dropped into the water. "Curse the luck!" muttered Foley. "Don't give up, pard; we'll ketch 'em afore they git much further." Though Hildey's right arm was useless, he plied the paddle with his left, and the men continued to gain. As the boys passed through under the bridge, Leander's boat was abreast of Sandy, who whispered: "I'll take the swash on the right that goes through the big marsh and comes out at the Devil's Elbow. You hug the channel bank, an' mebbe we'll fool 'em." Sandy knew that, after the river left the bridge, it went almost southerly for half a mile, then made an abrupt turn at right angles, pursued its way westward for another quarter of a mile, and then met the swash channel, which cut diagonally through the big marsh. At this junction of the two streams a whirlpool called the Devil's Elbow had been formed, a treacherous spot for small craft, and requiring rare skill to pass in safety. When Sandy told Leander to take the main channel, it was with a desperate hope that Foley and Hildey would be in doubt, for the moment, which skiff to follow as they came out under the bridge. Within himself, he reasoned that this hesitation, on their part, would consume sufficient time to permit the boys to gain a lead and reach in safety the landing, two miles below. "The chances are jest even-Stephen," he said to Gilbert, "though it separates us from Leander, till we reach the Devil's Elbow." But alas! Sandy's reasoning failed him for once this time. As Foley and Hildey came through under the bridge, the former cried: "Steer to the right channel an' foller that boat; that's the one the kid's in." "They're after us, darn 'em," said Sandy, "but we're gittin' ahead bully. Keep it up, Gil, an' we'll come out all right, see if we don't." Dripping with perspiration, and with hands burned and blistered, Sandy and Gilbert were forging ahead and gaining on their pursuers, straining every nerve to increase their lead. As they rounded a bend in the channel, Hildey shouted: "There's yer chance to plug 'em, pard. Shoot!" Foley obeyed, and the boys' skiff, which was a metallic one, was bored through by the pistol ball. The water poured through the hole, and Sandy shouted to Gilbert: "Drop yer paddle; take yer hat an' put it over the leak, tight as yer kin; bale with the other hand, or we'll sink in a minit. Lily, sit up, so yer won't get wet; but don't show yer head," and with a courage born of despair, Sandy renewed his efforts. Foley was gaining rapidly, and it seemed that only a miracle could prevent the boy's capture before they reached the Devil's Elbow. Three minutes passed with only the sound of the lightning-like dip of the paddles. Another short bend in the channel, and a hundred yards ahead was the confluence of the two currents, which were ever at war. "Keep on bailing, Gil," cried Sandy, "an' when we git past the Elbow, if they're too close to us, I'm goin' to use my pistol on 'em, but I don't want ter shoot till I can make the shot tell fer all it's worth. Steady, Lily; hold tight, Gil; don't move, I'll git yer through without swampin', 'cause I knows every current in the Elbow." Through the mad swirl of waters the boy held his boat, and steered her into the quiet tide beyond. Leander and Dink were just turning the bend of the main channel an eighth of a mile away, and the skiff containing Foley and Hildey had reached the outer current of the eddy. "Now you've got 'em," yelled Hildey, as Sandy's skiff veered to the left, not twenty yards from the other. "Not if I knows it," cried Sandy as he shot square at Foley, the ball going through the sleeve of his coat, but leaving him unharmed. "Curse yer fer a fool!" came from Foley, dropping his paddle and standing up in the skiff, which now had nothing to guide it but Hildey's exhausted arm. The skiff was rocking violently. Foley attempted to balance himself as he raised his pistol to shoot. In a flash the frail craft was caught in the conflicting currents, it careened and capsized, and the two men were battling for life in the whirlpool. Sandy was so intent on escape that he had gone some distance down stream before realizing he was no longer pursued. Suddenly an agonizing cry was borne on the midnight air: "Help! Help! I'm drownin'!" The boy rested on his paddle, and scanned the river in the direction of the voice. "Don't let's let 'em drown like rats in a hole," said Sandy, and he started his boat back toward the bend. "Gil, gimme yer pistol. They may be tryin' to play some trick on us, an' if they are, we'll be ready for 'em." The precaution was unnecessary, for when they came near, they saw the upturned skiff circling around in the eddy, its paddles bobbing with the waves, and the hats of Foley and Hildey slowly drifting toward the bank. Leander and Dink, meanwhile, had come up, and with the other two boys remained for fully half an hour waiting for some sign of the two robbers, but in vain; for far beneath the surface of the water in the maddening current, the ill-spent lives of Foley and Hildey were ended. They were dead in the cruel embrace of the Devil's Elbow. 
36105	----	HOPE BENHAM. A Story for Girls. By NORA PERRY AUTHOR OF "LYRICS AND LEGENDS," "ANOTHER FLOCK OF GIRLS," "A ROSEBUD GARDEN OF GIRLS," ETC. Illustrated by FRANK T. MERRILL. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. _Copyright, 1894_, BY NORA PERRY. Printers S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A. [Illustration: "TEN CENTS A BUNCH"] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. "TEN CENTS A BUNCH" "HE LIFTED THE BOW AND DREW IT ACROSS THE STRINGS" "SHE TOOK HOPE'S VIOLIN FROM HER HANDS" "IT WAS THE WORK OF A MOMENT TO POSSESS HERSELF OF THE BOOK" "HOW DE DO, HOPE?" "SHE STOOD THERE AN IMAGE OF GRACE, HER CHIN BENT LOVINGLY DOWN TO HER VIOLIN" "DON'T, DON'T GO" "HOPE KNELT DOWN BY THE COUCH WHERE DOROTHEA HAD FLUNG HERSELF" HOPE BENHAM. CHAPTER I. "Ten cents a bunch! ten cents a bunch!" A party of three young girls coming briskly around the southwest corner of the smart little Brookside station, hearing this call, turned, then stopped, then exclaimed all together,-- "Oh, how perfectly lovely! the first I have seen. Just what I want!" and they pulled out their purses to buy "just what they wanted," just what everybody wants,--a bunch of trailing arbutus. "And they are made up so prettily, without all that stiff arbor-vitæ framing. What is this dear little leafy border?" asked one of the young ladies, glancing up from her contemplation of the flowers to the flower-seller. "It's the partridge-berry leaf." "Oh! and you picked them all yourself,--the arbutus and this partridge-berry leaf?" "Yes." "Oh!" repeated the young lady, giving a stare at the little flower-seller,--a stare that was quickly followed by another question,-- "Do you live near here?" "Yes; very near." "But you don't find this arbutus in Brookside?" "No, in Riverview." "In Riverview! why, I didn't know that the arbutus grew so near Boston as that." "We have always found a little in Riverview woods, but this year there is quite a large quantity." Riverview was the next station to Brookside. In Riverview were manufactories, locomotives, and iron-works, and in Riverview lived the people who worked in these manufactories. But in Brookside were only fine suburban residences, and a few handsome public buildings, for in Brookside lived the owners of the manufactories and other rich folk, who liked to be out of the smoke and grime of toil. The railroad station of Brookside, as contrasted with that of Riverview, showed the difference in the residents of the two places; for the Brookside station was a fine and elegant stone structure, suited to fine and elegant folk, and the Riverview station was just a plain little wooden building, hardly more than a platform and a shelter. "But you don't live in Riverview, do you?" was the next question the young lady asked of the flower-seller, about whom she seemed to have a great deal of curiosity. "Yes; I live in Riverview," was the answer, with an upward glance of surprise at the questioner and the question. Why should the young lady question her in that tone, when she said, "But you don't live in Riverview?" The next question was more easily understood. "You come over to the Brookside station to sell your flowers, don't you, because there are likely to be more buyers here?" "Oh, yes; I couldn't sell them at Riverview." Just then other voices were heard, and other people began to gather about the flower-seller, who from that time was kept busy until the train approached. As the cars moved away from the station, the young lady who had been so curious looked out of the window, and then said to her companions,-- "She has sold every bunch." "What? Oh, that flower-girl! Why in the world were you so interested in her?" one of the girls asked wonderingly. "Why? Did you look at her?" "I can't say that I did, particularly. What was there peculiar about her?" "Nothing. Only she didn't look like a poor child,--a common child, you know, who would sell things on the street. She was very prettily and neatly dressed, and she spoke just like--well, just like any well-brought-up little girl." "Did she?" politely remarked her friend, in an absent way. She was not in the least interested in this flower-girl. Her thoughts were turning in a very different direction,--the direction of her spring shopping, a gay little party, and a dozen other kindred subjects. In the mean time the little flower-seller, with a light basket and a lighter heart, was waiting for the down train. It was only a mile from Brookside to Riverview, an easy walk for a strong, sturdy girl of ten; but all the same, this strong, sturdy girl of ten preferred to ride, and you will see why presently. The down or out-going train from Boston passes the in-going train a short distance from Brookside, and she had only five minutes to wait for it. This five minutes was very happily employed in mentally counting up her sales, as she walked to and fro upon the platform. She had brought twenty bunches of arbutus in her basket, and she had sold every one. Twenty bunches at ten cents a bunch made two dollars. She gave a little hop, skip, and jump, as she thought of this sum. Two dollars! Now, if she should go again this very afternoon to the Riverview woods and gather a new supply, she might come back to Brookside and be ready when the 5.30 train brought people home from the city. So many people drove down to the station then to meet their husbands or fathers or brothers,--ladies and children too. It would be just the very best hour of all to sell flowers. Yes, she would certainly do it. It was only half-past one. She would have ample time, and then perhaps she would double--Cling-a-ling-a-ling, went the electric announcement of the coming train, and pouf, pouf, pouf, comes the train down the line, and there is her father looking out for her from the engine cab. He nods and smiles to her, and in another minute she has been helped up, and is standing beside him. "Well, Hope, how did the flowers go?" "I sold them all,--twenty bunches. Now!" The last word was thrown out as a joyful exclamation of triumph. Her father laughed a little. "And, father, I want to go to the woods again this afternoon for more flowers, and come back here for the 5.30 train,--there's such lots of people on that train." The father looked grave. "Oh, do let me, please!" "I don't like to have you hanging around a station so much." "But Brookside is different from a great many stations. There are no rough people ever about;" and with a brisk little air, "It's business, you see." Mr. Benham laughed again, as he said, "Two dollars a day is pretty good business, I should think." "But it won't last long,--only this vacation week. 'T isn't as if I were going to make two dollars every day all through the season." "That is true. Well, go ahead and 'make hay while the sun shines.' You'll be a better business fellow than your father if you keep on. But here we are at Riverview. Mind, now, that you leave Brookside to-night on the six o'clock train, no matter whether you've sold your flowers or not." "Yes, sir." There was a joyful sound in this "Yes, sir," and a happy upward look at her father, which he did not catch, however, for not once did his eyes move from their steady watchfulness of the road before him. CHAPTER II. "There he comes!" and Hope ran forward out of the little garden to meet her father, as he came down the street, while her mother turned from the door where she had been waiting and watching with Hope, and went back into the tiny dining-room to put a few finishing-touches to the supper-table. Mr. Benham nodded as he caught sight of Hope. Then he called out,-- "How's business?" "Two dollars more!" "Well, well, you'll be a big capitalist soon at this rate, and grind the poor." "Poor engineers like John Benham!" and Hope laughed gleefully at their joint joke. "Yes, poor engineers like John Benham, who have extravagant daughters who want to buy violins. But, Hope, you mustn't get your thoughts so fixed on this violin business that you can't think of anything else. Your school, you know, begins next week." "Yes, I know. I sha'n't neglect that. I wouldn't get marked down for anything." "You're going to learn to be a teacher, you know; keep that in mind." "I do; I do. Oh, father dear, don't worry about the music! 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,' you said the other day. Now, music is my play. Some of the girls in my classes go to dancing-school, and do lots of things to amuse themselves. They don't seem to neglect their lessons, and why should I, with just this one thing outside, that I like to do?" There was a twinkle in John Benham's eyes, as he looked down at his daughter. "Who taught you to argue, Hope?" "A poor engineer named John Benham," answered Hope, as quick as a flash. John Benham laughed outright at this quick retort; and as he opened the gate that led into the little garden in front of his house, he put his arm over his daughter's shoulder, and thus affectionately side by side they walked along the narrow pathway. They were great friends, he and Hope. He used to tell her that as she was an only child, she must be son and daughter too, and he had very early got into the habit of talking to her in a confidential fashion that had the effect of making her a sort of little comrade from the first. The young lady who had wondered at the little flower-seller's looking and speaking just like any other well-brought-up little girl would have had further cause for wonder if she could have followed the engineer and his daughter into their home, and seen the good taste of its pretty though inexpensive furnishing and arrangements. Locomotive engineers were unknown persons to this young lady. They belonged to the laboring-class; and that in her mind included all mechanical workers, from the skilled artisan to the ignorant hod-carrier and wielder of pick and shovel. She knew that the latter lived poorly, in poor quarters, crowded tenement houses, or shabby little frame cottages or cabins of two or three rooms. As the difference in the different work did not occur to her, neither did the possible difference in the manner of living. There are older people than this young lady, this pretty Mary Dering, who are almost as unintelligent about the workers of the world, and they would have been almost as astonished as she, not only at the good taste of the simple furnishings, but at the signs of intelligent thought in the collection of books and magazines on the table. If pretty Mary Dering, however, could have seen all these things, she would not have wondered so much at Hope's speaking and looking like any well-brought-up little girl. Hope _was_ a well-brought-up little girl, as you will see,--as well brought up as Mary herself, or Mary's sister Dolly, who was just Hope's age. If you had said this to Mary Dering, she would have told you that she could not imagine a well-brought-up child selling things on the street. Dolly would never have been allowed to stand in public places and cry, "Ten cents a bunch! ten cents a bunch!" under any circumstances. But Mary did not know how much circumstances altered cases; and for one thing, if she _could_ have seen Dolly in Hope's place for one half-hour, she would have had to own that Hope was much the better behaved of the two, for in spite of Dolly's bringing up, she was the greatest little rattler in public places, calling down upon herself this constant remonstrance from each one of her family, "Now, Dolly, do try to be quiet, like a lady!" "But why, why, _why_," you ask, "did Hope, with such a nice, intelligent father, who could buy all those magazines and books,--why did she need to earn the money herself, to buy a violin?" I'll tell you. To begin with, all those books and magazines were not bought by Mr. Benham; they were, with one or two exceptions, taken from the Boston Public Library. Mr. Benham's salary was only fifteen hundred dollars a year, and it took every cent of this to keep up that simple little home, and put by a sum every week for a rainy day. Hope loved music, and she loved the music of a violin beyond any other kind. One day when she was in Boston, she saw the dearest little violin in a shop-window. What possessed her I don't know, for she knew she hadn't a penny in the world; but she went in and asked the price of it with the easiest air imaginable. "Twenty-five dollars," the shopkeeper told her. "Oh!" and Hope drew in her breath. Twenty-five dollars! It might as well have been twenty-five thousand dollars, for all the possibility of her possessing it. "Don't--don't they have cheaper ones?" she asked timidly. "They have things they _call_ violins for ten, fifteen, twenty dollars, but they'd crack your ears. If you're going to learn to play, this is a good little fiddle for you to begin with, for it's true and sweet;" and the shopkeeper lifted it up and drew the bow across the strings, in a melodious, rippling strain that went to Hope's heart. The man thought that she was going to take lessons; and she could, if she only had an instrument, for Mr. Kolb, an old German neighbor of theirs, who had once been the first violin in a famous orchestra, had said to her more than once when she had listened to his playing with delight: "Some day your fader will puy you a little violin, and I will teach you for notting, Mädchen; you have such true lofe for music." But twenty-five dollars! Oh, no! it could never be! and Hope went out of the shop with her plans laid low. A few minutes later, as she was walking to the station, she heard a boy's voice, crying, "Ten cents a bunch! ten cents a bunch!" She looked up, and saw that he held some very meagre little nosegays of arbutus,--meagre, that is, as to the arbutus, but made sizable by the border of stiff arbor-vitæ. Then, all at once, the thought flashed into her mind. Why shouldn't she turn flower-seller? She knew where the arbutus grew thick, thick; and why, why--There was no putting the rest of her thoughts into words; but right there on the street she gave a little jump, and hummed the rippling strain she had just heard drawn from the good little fiddle. Twenty-five dollars! What was that now with "Ten cents a bunch! ten cents a bunch!" ringing in her ears with such alluring possibilities? Mr. Benham at first would not hear to the flower-selling plan; but when he saw that Hope's heart was set upon that "good little fiddle," when he heard her say to her mother, "If father can't buy the fiddle for me, it seems to me he might let me try to buy it for myself," he began to relent; and when the mother and he had a talk, and the mother said, "Of course you can't afford to buy it, John, for we are a little behind now, with your and my winter suits, and the new range to pay for yet; but as I really think it will be a good thing for Hope to learn to play the violin, I don't see why it wouldn't be a good thing for her to earn it herself," he relented still more, and when the mother said further, in answer to his objections to having Hope hanging around in public places, as a little peddler, "John, you can trust Hope; she is a sensible child," he relented entirely; and the next week after, Hope entered upon her business as a flower-seller. The success of that first day was a surprise to her father, and he warned her not to expect anything like it on the succeeding days, telling her that the weather would very likely turn chilly and rainy, that fewer people might be going and coming from town, and that even these might not stop to buy flowers. He did not want to discourage her; he simply wanted to prepare her for disappointment. But Hope was not doomed to disappointment in this direction. The succeeding days proved both pleasant and profitable; especially profitable were Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, when so many ladies went in to the matinée performances. Yet with all this success, this pleasantness of weather, and steady increase in her sales, there was something very _un_pleasant for Hope to bear,--something that she had not in the least looked for, because she had never before met with anything like it. CHAPTER III. It was on Wednesday that a little party of girls came hurrying into the Brookside station, as if they had not a minute to lose, when one of them exclaimed: "Why, our train has gone; look at that!" pointing to the indicator. "The next train goes at 1.40. We shall have only twenty minutes to get from the Boston station to the Museum." "Time enough," answered Mary Dering; "we always go too early. But there's our little girl. We shall have ample opportunity now to buy all the flowers we want. Dolly," to her younger sister, who was marching up and down the platform with a friend of her own age, "Dolly, don't you want to buy some flowers?" "Flowers? Oh, yes!" and Dolly came racing up, calling out in a loud whisper, as she joined the group, "Say, Mary, is that your wonderful flower-girl?" "Hush, Dolly; don't!" "Don't what?" "Don't whisper so loudly; she can hear you." Dolly laughed. "What if she does? I didn't say anything that wasn't nice." The group of girls pressed around Hope, and bought lavishly of her stock. Dolly and her friend Lily Styles were the latest of the buyers, for coming up last they were on the outside of the group. As they stood alone with Hope, they picked and pecked first at one bouquet, and then another. This was fuller, and that was bigger, and still another was prettier and pinker. At last they made a choice, and Hope breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that now her exacting purchasers would leave her to herself. But Dolly Dering had no notion of leaving Hope to herself. No sooner was the purchase concluded than Miss Dolly, lifting her big black eyes with a curious gaze to Hope's face, asked abruptly,-- "Do you like to sell flowers on the street?" Hope flushed hotly. "I don't sell flowers on the street." "Well, in a station, then. I should think that was just the same as on the street; it's out-of-doors in a public place." Hope made no further reply. She would have moved away if she could have done so easily, but the two girls stood directly in front of her, completely shutting her into her corner. Perhaps, however, they would go away if she busied herself with her flowers, and she began to re-arrange and spray them with water. But Dolly, at sight of this operation, began with fresh interest, "Oh! is that the way you keep 'em fresh? How nice! let me try it, do!" and before Hope could say "yes" or "no," she had seized the sprayer out of her hands. Her first effort, instead of benefiting the flowers, sent a sharp little sprinkle directly against Hope's light cloth jacket. Hope started back with an exclamation of dismay. "Oh, it won't hurt it!" cried Dolly. Then, as she saw Hope rubbing the wet place with her handkerchief, she asked, "Will your mother punish you if she finds the jacket spotted?" "Punish me?" exclaimed Hope, looking up at the questioner. "Yes, punish you; whip you, perhaps." "My mother--whip me?" ejaculated Hope, staring at Dolly, as if she thought her out of her mind. "Yes, whip you; I didn't know--" "Would _your_ mother whip _you_ if you got spots on _your_ jacket?" inquired Hope, in a sharp, indignant voice. "_My_ mother? No." "Then why should you think _my_ mother would whip _me_?" Dolly was not a very sensitive young person, but she could not blurt out exactly what was in her mind,--that she thought all poor people, working-people, whipped their children when they offended them in any way. Her ideas of poor people were very vague, and gathered partly from the talk of her elders about the North End poor that the Associated Charities assisted. In this talk a word now and then concerning the careless way in which these people beat their children for the slightest offence impressed her more than anything. Then Bridget Kelly, who had been Dolly's nurse, had often related stories of her own childish naughtinesses, for her--Dolly's--benefit, and she had almost invariably wound up these stories with the remark, "And didn't my mother beat me well for being such a bad girl!" Dolly had put this and that together, and come to the conclusion that poor people were all alike,--a good deal as her sister had included all mechanical workers together. But if Miss Dolly couldn't blurt out all that was in her mind, she had very little tact of concealment, and when she replied to Hope's question something about people's being different, and that she knew that some people beat their children for doing things they didn't like them to do, she unwittingly made things quite clear enough to Hope, with her fine, keen intelligence, so clear that she comprehended at once the whole state of the case. What would have happened when this moment of comprehension suddenly came to Hope, what she would have said if there had been time to say anything, it is needless to conjecture, for there wasn't an instant of time for a word, as at that very moment, pouf, pouf, pouf, the train steamed into the station, and Dolly Dering and her friend Lily ran scampering down the platform. Hope looked after them, with eyes blinded by hot, angry tears. The last few minutes had been a revelation to her of the thoughtless misunderstandings of the world. To think that she--Hope Benham--should be ranked with that vast ignorant class of "poor people" who "lived anyhow," all because she was selling flowers in a public place! "They might have known better, if they had any sense; they might have known at a glance!" And with this indignant thought, Hope went into the ladies' waiting-room, and surveyed herself in the mirror that hung there. What did she see? A bright-faced girl, clean and fresh, with neatly braided hair; clothed in a little fawn-colored jacket, a brown dress, and with a pretty plain brown felt hat upon her head. To be sure, she wore no gloves; but her hands were nicely kept, the nails well cut and rosily clean. To mix her up with poor people who "lived anyhow"! Perhaps they fancied, those girls, that the fawn-colored jacket and the brown dress and the hat were given to her,--gifts of charity! Yes, that was what they fancied, of course. They had talked her over. "Is that your wonderful flower-girl?" she had overheard the younger girl say to the older. She had been called this because she was dressed decently, because she behaved herself decently. They couldn't understand--these rich people--how any one who sold flowers, who sold anything--_on the street_--yes, that was what they called it--could be decent. Oh, it was they who were ignorant,--these rich people! They didn't know anything about other people's lives,--other people who were not rich like themselves. Hope's little purse was full of shining silver pieces as she went back to Riverview, but her heart was fuller of bitterness. "You look tired, Hope," said her mother, anxiously, as Hope walked into the house. But Hope declared that she was not in the least tired, that it was only the tiresomeness of some of her customers,--fussy folk, who picked and pecked and asked questions. Not a word more did she say. She was not going to worry her mother, hurt her feelings as hers had been hurt with the foolish, ignorant talk of those foolish, ignorant, rich girls,--not she! So she comforted herself by counting up her silver pieces, and reckoning how much nearer she was to the "good little fiddle." She tried to keep the little fiddle and the sweet strain the shopkeeper had drawn from it, continually in her mind, as she stood in the station again that night on the arrival of the 5.30 train. The good little fiddle, with the sweet strain, should be the shield against tormenting questioners and questions. But she was not to be tormented that night by any one. Dolly Dering did not even look at her, as she skipped by. Dolly was too eager to secure a place beside her father on the front seat of the carriage, as they drove home, to see or think about anything else. Even Mary Dering did not find time, as she went by, to cast an interested glance towards that "wonderful flower-girl." There were plenty of purchasers, however, without the little matinée group,--ladies and gentlemen just returning from shopping or business,--plenty of purchasers; and Hope went home with only the sweet sense of success stirring at her heart,--a success unalloyed by any new bitterness. She had not needed a shield against tormentors. Thursday and Friday were equally pleasant and fairly profitable. Saturday would, of course, be the best day of all, and bring her sales up to almost if not quite the desired amount. But she dreaded Saturday, for she was quite sure that "that girl" would be at the station, and she could not help keeping a nervous look-out from the moment she took her stand in her chosen corner. The 12.35, the 1, and the 1.15 trains, however, went in, and Dolly was not to be seen. If she was not on the 1.40 train, there was little danger, Hope thought, that she would be there at all, for the 1.40 was the last early afternoon train. The next was 3.30, and Hope would be back at Riverview by that time, preparing another stock of flowers for her 5.30 sale. Just before the 1.40 steamed in, Hope heard a gay chatter of voices. There she was! But no; a glance at the party sufficed to show that Dolly Dering was not one of the party, and Hope drew a deep breath of relief. The week would end without further annoyance, and with _such_ a heap of bright silver pieces. CHAPTER IV. Forgetful of everything disagreeable, Hope stood in her corner for the last time, softly humming the sweet little strain she had heard from the good little fiddle. She was earlier than usual,--ten, fifteen minutes earlier. "Tum, tum, ti tum," she was softly humming, when-- "Do you stay here all day?" asked a clear, confident voice. She turned her head, and there stood that girl,--Dolly Dering. "No," answered Hope, politely, to this question, but with a coldness and distance of manner that was meant to check all further questioning. But Dolly Dering wasn't easily checked. "My sister says that you live in Riverview, and that you get your flowers in Riverview woods," was her next questioning remark. "Yes." "What other kinds of flowers are you going to sell when these arbutus are gone?" "I'm not going to sell any." "Why not?" "Because I--I don't want to." "I should think you would. You must make a lot of money." No answer. "To be sure, I don't suppose you'd make so much with garden flowers, but there are ever so many kinds of wild flowers coming on by and by, aren't there?" "I suppose so." "Perhaps you go to school, do you?" "Yes." "Oh! and this is vacation week at the public schools; that's why you can be here. I see. What you earn must be a great help, isn't it?" Hope's patience and dignity were giving way. She looked up with a fiery glance. "A great help in what?" she asked. "Why, why, in your home, you know,--in buying bread and things,--you know what I mean." "Yes, I know what you mean," burst forth Hope. "You mean that you think because I am selling flowers here in the station that I belong to poor people, who live anyhow,--poor, ignorant people, who are helped by the missions and the unions,--poor, ignorant people like those at the North End." Dolly Dering stared with all her might at the flushed, excited face before her. "Why--why--you _are_ poor, aren't you, or you wouldn't be selling things like this?" she blunderingly asked. Hope, in her turn, stared back at Dolly. Then in a vehement, exasperated tone, she said,-- "I didn't think anybody _could_ be so ignorant as you are." "I! ignorant! well!" exclaimed Dolly, in astonishment and rising resentment. "Yes, ignorant," went on Hope, recklessly, "or you'd know more about the difference in people. You'd _see_ the difference. You'd see that I didn't belong to the kind of poor folks who live any way and anyhow. My father is John Benham, an engineer on this road, and we have a nice home, and plenty to eat and drink and to wear,--and books and magazines and papers," she added, with a sudden instinct that these were the most convincing proofs of the comfort and respectability of her home. "What do you sell flowers on the street for, then, if you are as nice as all that?" cried Dolly, now thoroughly aroused by Hope's words and manner. "Because I wanted to buy something for myself that my father couldn't afford to buy. Don't you ever want anything that your father doesn't feel as if he could buy for you just when you wanted him to?" "Well, if I did, I shouldn't be let to go out on the street and peddle flowers to earn the money," replied Dolly, with what she meant to be withering emphasis. "And I shouldn't be _allowed_ to say 'let to go,' like ignorant North Enders," retorted Hope, with still more withering emphasis. Dolly reddened with mortification and anger; then she said haughtily, "I don't happen to know as much as you seem to, how ignorant North Enders talk." "No; I told you that you were ignorant, and didn't know the difference between people." "How dare you talk like this to me! You are the most impudent girl I ever saw," cried Dolly, passionately. "Impudent! How did _you_ dare to speak to me as you did,--to ask me questions? You didn't know me; you never saw me before. You wouldn't have dared to speak to a girl that you thought was like yourself. But you thought you could speak to _me_. You needn't be polite to a girl who was selling things on the street." Hope stopped breathless. Her lips were dry; her heart was beating in hard, quick throbs. As for Dolly she was for the moment silenced, for Hope had divined the exact state of her mind. Other things, too, had silenced Dolly for the moment, and these were the evidences of respectability that Hope had enumerated. She was also faced by these evidences in Hope's speech and manner, as those fiery but not vulgar words were poured forth from the dry, tremulous lips; and the effect had been confusing and disturbing to those fixed ideas about working-people that had taken root in her--Dolly's--mind. She was not a bad girl at heart, was this Dolly. She was like a great many people without keen perception or sensibility, and thoughtless from this very lack. The youngest of a prosperous family, she had been petted and pampered until her natural wilfulness and high spirits had made her heedless and over-confident. She had not meant to insult Hope. She had meant simply to satisfy her curiosity; and she thought that it was a perfectly proper thing to satisfy this curiosity about a poor girl who sold flowers on the street, by asking this girl plain questions, such as she had heard her mother ask the poor people who came to get work or to beg. But Hope's plain answers had at first astonished, then angered, then enlightened her. In the little breathless pause that followed Hope's last words, the two girls regarded each other with a strange mixture of feeling. Hope's feeling was that of relief tinctured with triumph, for she saw that she had made an impression upon "that ignorant girl." Dolly, humiliated but not humble, had a queer struggle with her temper and her sense of justice. She had been made to see that she was partly, if not wholly, in the wrong, and that she had wounded Hope to the quick. In another minute she would have blunderingly made some admission of this,--have said to Hope that she was sorry if she had hurt her feelings, or something to that effect,--if Hope herself had not suddenly remarked in a tone of cold dislike,-- "If you are waiting to ask any more questions, I might as well tell you it's of no use. I sha'n't answer any more; so if you'll please to go away from this corner and stop staring at me, I shall be much obliged to you." Scarlet with anger, all her better impulses scattered to the winds, Dolly flashed out,-- "You're an ugly, impudent, hateful thing, and I don't care if I _have_ hurt your feelings, so there!" It happened that John Benham had exchanged his hours of work for that day with a fellow engineer on the 5.30 train that came out from Boston. Dolly, watching the train as it came to a stop at the Brookside station, saw something that interested her greatly. It was an exchange of glances between that "ugly, impudent, hateful thing" and the engineer, as he stood in his cab. "So that is her father, is it,--that smutty workman! She'd better set herself up and talk about her nice home!" was Dolly's inward comment out of the wrath that was raging within her. "What is the matter with Dolly?" asked Mr. Dering, fifteen minutes later, as Dolly, red and pouting, and with a fierce little frown wrinkling her forehead, sat in unusual silence beside him on the front seat of the carriage. Matter? and Dolly, finding her tongue, poured forth the story of her grievance. With all her faults, Dolly was not deceitful or untruthful; and the story she told was remarkably exact, neither glossing over her own words, nor her humiliating defeat through Hope's cleverness of speech. Mr. Dering seemed to find the whole story very amusing, and at the end of it laughingly remarked: "I don't think you had the best of it, Dolly." Her mother, from the back seat, was mortified and shocked that Dolly should have been so vulgar as to quarrel on the street. "But Dolly began it by asking such questions," spoke up Mary Dering. "Dolly is such a rattler. I'm sure that flower-girl would never have spoken to her first." Then Mrs. Dering wanted to know what Mary knew about "that flower-girl," and Mary described Hope as she had seen her. "She said her father was an engineer on this road, did she?" asked Mr. Dering, turning to Dolly. "Yes, papa." "It must be John Benham. He is one of the best engineers on this road,"--Mr. Dering was one of the Directors of the road,--"yes, it must be Benham. I should think he might have just such a child as that." "Why, papa?" asked Mary Dering, leaning forward. "Well, because he's a proud sort of fellow, rather short of speech; doesn't give or take any familiar words. But he's an excellent engineer, excellent, and is full of intelligent ideas. He saved the road from quite a loss last year by a suggestion of his. He's always tinkering, I've been told, on one or another of these ideas,--has quite an inventive faculty, I believe; and some of these days I suppose he hopes, as so many of these fellows do, to make a fortune out of some invention. Hey, what do you say to that, Dolly?" turning from this graver talk, and pulling one of Dolly's black locks. "What do you say to your impudent little girl turning into a millionaire's daughter one of these days?" "I'd say 'Ten cents a bunch' to her!" cried Dolly, vindictively. Mr. Dering flung back his head, and laughed. "Do you _really_ think he may make a fortune in that way?" asked Mary, interestedly. "Well, no; really I don't, Mary," her father replied. "Such things don't happen very frequently. Most skilled mechanics, like Benham, make inventive experiments in their peculiar line, but it's only one in a thousand who is a genius at that sort of thing, and produces anything remarkable or valuable enough to bring them a fortune. Benham is a clever, industrious fellow, but he isn't a genius; so we won't make a hero for a story out of him, my dear." And Mr. Dering nodded with a smile at Mary,--a smile that brought a blush to Mary's cheek, for she knew that papa was making fun of what he called her sentimentality. CHAPTER V. Almost at the very moment that Mr. Dering was asking Dolly what was the matter, John Benham, speeding along in his cab, was mentally asking the same question in regard to Hope; for, as he caught that glimpse of her as the train stopped, he saw at once that something was amiss. There was a strained, excited look about her eyes, and a hot, uncomfortable color in her cheeks. Had any one been troubling her? His own color rose at the thought. Why had he allowed her to take such a position? But, thank Heaven, this was the last night. Two hours after this he put the question to Hope in words. What was the matter? Hope had not meant to tell. She would be brave and keep her annoyance to herself. But the suddenness of the question broke down her defences, and she burst into tears. "My dear, my dear, what is it? Who is it that has been troubling you? There, there!" taking her in his arms, "have your cry out, then tell father all about it." Hope was to the full as honest and truthful as Dolly, and her story was as exact; but she did not, for she could not, do full justice to Dolly, from the fact that she had not caught the faintest idea of that good impulse that she herself had nipped in the bud; and without this impulse Dolly's share in the story looked pretty black, and John Benham, as he listened to it, did not laugh, as Mr. Dering had done. It was not amusing to him to hear how his sweet little daughter had been hurt by all that impertinent questioning. He saw better than Hope that the impertinence was not malice, and that the ignorance it proceeded from was that old ignorance that comes from the selfishness that is born of long-continued prosperity. In trying to convey something of this to Hope, and to show her that she must not let her mind get poisoned by dwelling too much upon the matter, he said,-- "Try to put it out of your mind by thinking of something else." Hope lifted her head, and a faint smile irradiated her face. "I'll push it out with the good little fiddle," she answered. "That's my brave little woman!" That very night Hope carried her resolve into action by going over to see Mr. Kolb to arrange for the purchase of the violin. She had told him at the first, of the shop where she had seen the instrument that had taken her fancy, and of her flower-selling plan to buy it. "Yes, yes; it was a very good shop," he had told her, and the plan was a very good plan, and some day he would go with her to look at the little fiddle. He was quite astonished, however, when, on Saturday night, she ran in to tell him that her plan had succeeded so well that she wanted him to go with her on Monday afternoon to buy the little fiddle. "What! you haf all the money?" he asked incredulously. "Yes; I earned all but two dollars, and that my father gave me." The old German threw out his hands with a gesture of surprise. "Ah! you little American mädchen," he cried, "you do anything!" But when, on Monday afternoon, the two set out on their errand, Hope began to have a misgiving. Perhaps she had made a mistake. Perhaps, after all, it wasn't a good little fiddle, and she looked anxiously at Mr. Kolb when he entered the shop with her, and took the instrument in his hands, for Mr. Kolb would know all about it. And Mr. Kolb _did_ know all about it. He knew at the first sight of it; and when he lifted the bow and drew it across the strings, his eyes were smiling with approbation. [Illustration: "HE LIFTED THE BOW AND DREW IT ACROSS THE STRINGS"] "A good fiddle! ach! it is a peautiful little fiddle!" he exclaimed, as he ceased playing. Then he complimented Hope by saying: "You haf the musical eye, as well as ear, Mädchen, to put your heart on this little fiddle, and we shall haf so good a time, you and I, learning to play it." That night, just after supper, Hope took her first lesson. As she tucked the little fiddle under her chin, and drew the bow uncertainly and awkwardly across the strings, her heart beat, and her eyes filled with joyous tears. The little fiddle for the time quite pushed Dolly Dering and everything connected with her out of her mind. While she was thus happily occupied, her father was busily engaged with what looked like a toy engine. He was tinkering over one of those ideas of his, that Mr. Dering had spoken of. This particular idea was something connected with the speed of the locomotive and the economy of fuel at one and the same time. Two years before, certain improvements in this direction had been made, but they were not fully successful, because they did not combine harmoniously,--what was gained in one direction being partially lost in another. John Benham's idea was to invent something that should combine so harmoniously that a high rate of speed could be attainable with a minimum of fuel. When he first started to work out this idea, he was quite confident that he could carry it through to success; but he had been at it now for months, and the harmonious combination still evaded him. What was it? What had he missed? Over and over again he would ask himself this question, and over and over again he would add here or take away there, and all without achieving the result he desired. So many failures had at length beaten down his courageous confidence not a little, and he had begun to think that he must be on the wrong track altogether, and might as well give up the whole thing. He was thinking this very strongly that Monday night when he sat in his workshop,--a long, low room he had arranged for himself at the end of the house. The night was warm for the season, and through the open doorway he could hear the quavering, uncertain scraping of the little fiddle. "Dear little soul!" he thought; "I hope this good time is paying her for that bad time of hers." If he could only have known how thoroughly it was "paying her,"--that at that moment the bad time was pushed completely out of mind by the good time! He hoped that she was comforted; that was the most that he expected. For himself, nothing had put the story she had told him out of his mind; and while he sat there adjusting and readjusting the little model, it was half mechanically,--his thought being more occupied with his child's painful little experience, and all that it suggested to him. He was not a bitter or a violent man. He did not think that the poor were always in the right, and the rich always in the wrong in their relations with each other, as a good many working-people do. No; he was too intelligent for that. But what he did think, what he _knew_ was, that the rich were not hampered and hindered by the daily struggle for existence, for the means to procure food and clothing and shelter from week to week. He knew that his own abilities were hindered and hampered by the necessity that compelled him to work almost incessantly for the necessaries of life. If he could have had only a little of the leisure of the rich, a little of their money, he could have had constantly at his hand, not merely the books that he needed, and the time to study them, but various other ways and opportunities would have been open to him to follow out his strong taste for mechanical construction. As it was, he had been obliged to grope along slowly, working at odd times after his labor of the day, and generally at some disadvantage, either in the lack of proper tools, or needed books of reference directly at his hand. All these thoughts bore down upon him that night with greater force than usual, because of Hope's story; for here it was again in another direction, that difference between the rich and the poor. And while he thought these thoughts, scrape, scrape, went Hope's bow across the strings. "Do you hear that, John?" asked Mrs. Benham as she came into the workshop. "Yes, I've been listening to it for some time." There was an absent expression in John Benham's eyes, as he glanced up. His wife noticed it. "You look tired, John. I wouldn't bother over that"--with a nod at the engine model--"any more." "No; I've about made up my mind to give it up. I don't seem to be on the right track with it, anyhow." There was a depressed, discouraged note in the husband's voice that his wife at once detected. It was a new note for her to hear in that voice. She regarded him anxiously a moment, and then, smiling, but with a good deal of real earnestness, said,-- "Don't fret about it, John. Hope, maybe, 'll make all our fortunes yet. Mr. Kolb told me that she had a wonderful ear for music, and would be a fine performer some day." "Fortunes! 't isn't money only, Martha; I hate to give up a thing like this. I felt so sure of myself when I started; and--and--it is failure, you see; and failure is harder to bear than the hardest kind of labor. I've always thought, you know, that I was cut out for this sort of thing,--this inventive business,--but it looks as though I had been more conceited than anything else, doesn't it?" "No, no; it doesn't, John. Your worst enemy couldn't say that you were conceited. But you've had so little chance, so little time; that's what's the trouble. But you haven't come to the end yet, and I didn't mean that I wanted you to give up trying. I only meant that I wouldn't bother over _that_. You must start something new; that's all I meant, John," cried Mrs. Benham, full of affectionate sympathy and repentance. "Oh! I understand, Martha; I understand. What you said didn't discourage me. I dare say I shall tinker away at something again by and by; but _this_ thing"--striking the model a little blow with his hand--"is a failure." At that moment the door-bell rang, and Mrs. Benham hurried away to answer its summons. Left alone, her husband stretched out his hand towards the model, and opened the door of its fire-box. There was still a tiny bed of coals there. "We'll have a last run," he said, with a half-smile; and opening the steam-valve, he saw the beautiful little model start once more on its way along the rails he had laid for it upon the work-bench that ran around the room. As he had constructed a self-acting pressure that should close the steam-valve at a certain point, the model was under as perfect control from where he stood as if it were of larger proportions, and he were managing and directing it from its engine cab. A look of pride, followed by an expression of sadness, flickered over the builder's face, as he watched it. Where _had_ he failed? Round and round the course the pretty thing sped, not at any headlong speed, but at the pace that had been set for it, to prove or disprove the effectiveness of the combination. Click, click, how smoothly it ran! everything apparently perfect, from the wheels to the wire-netted flues. If only--But what--what is that? and John Benham starts forward with sudden eager attention. His quick ear has caught a slight sound that he had not heard before, so slight that only _his_ ear would have detected it. The machine was on its finishing round; three seconds more, and the self-acting steam-valve has shut, the engine slows up to a stop, and its builder, with a quickened pulse, bends eagerly forward. CHAPTER VI. Perhaps it is five minutes later that the wife opens the door again. "John, who do you think has just called?" She receives no answer. "Dear me!" she says vexedly to herself, "he's worrying at that machine again. I wish he'd give it up. John!" Still no answer. Mrs. Benham walks into the room. "John, I wish--" But as she catches sight of her husband's face, which is pale, and changed by some strong feeling, she forgets what she was about to say, and exclaims in a troubled tone, "What is it? What is the matter, John?" He starts and turns to her. Matter? A half-smile stirs his lips, and he points to the engine without another word. Mrs. Benham is frightened. She thinks to herself: "This constant worry over that thing is turning his head; he will lose his mind. Oh, John!" she cries, "if you would only come away and rest and give this up, if only for a little while! I--I--" and poor Mrs. Benham's voice breaks, and the tears rush to her eyes. "Martha, Martha, you don't understand. My worry is all over,--all over. The thing is a success,--a success, Martha, and not a failure!" "What--why--when I went out--" "When you went out a while ago, I'd given it up, and I thought I'd say good-bye to it in a last run, and on that run I heard a new sound. Look here, Martha, do you see that link in the valve gearing? I thought I had taken every pains to suspend it properly. Well, it seems I hadn't. I suspended it in the usual way, and it worked in the usual way; but it turns out that wasn't the way to work with my new injector, and there is where the hitch was. Do you remember when I brought my hand down on the machine when we were talking? I must have displaced this delicate little bolt or pin that you see here, at that blow, and in that way put the link--it is what is called a shifting link--into the right position to work my injector combination. This little change of position makes everything clear as daylight, and I can put this little beauty into fine shape now; fasten the bolts and pins permanently instead of temporarily, for I don't need any more changes. It will do its double work of speed and fuel-saving every time; for see there!"--and the exultant builder pointed to some almost infinitesimal figures in two different portions of the engine. They were the registers that proved the result of this last triumphant run, and the complete success of his invention. The tears were still in Mrs. Benham's eyes, but they were tears of joy. "It seems too good to be true," she faltered. "And I thought the other thing--the failure--too bad to be true," he returned. Then smiling a little, "I shall name it 'Hope,'" he said. "And it is Hope that will make our fortunes, after all; for this will make a fortune, won't it, John?" inquired Mrs. Benham, looking up into her husband's face eagerly. But he didn't hear her. His thoughts had gone back to that valve gearing, and the link that had been so happily put in place. She touched his arm, and repeated her question. "Fortune?" He turned from his loving contemplation of the thing that he had builded. It seemed almost human to him. "Fortune,--I don't know," he answered absently. Mrs. Benham did not repeat her question again. She saw, as she glanced at her husband's face, that it would be of no use, for she saw that just for the present he was all absorbed in the delight that had come to him, in the successful accomplishment of his undertaking. This was joy enough for him at the moment. He had often said to her when she had advised him not to tire himself out pottering over things that might not bring him a penny, that he loved the work for itself, independent of anything else. And it was the work that he was thinking of now, not the possible financial results. But by and by--and Mrs. Benham's thoughts went wandering off into that by and by, when these results would take tangible form. Her ideas, however, were extremely modest. This fortune that she had in her mind, that she saw before her at that instant, was very limited. Harry Richards, an old friend of her husband's, had made a comfortable little sum out of an improvement upon car-window fastenings, and it was some such comfortable little sum that Mrs. Benham was thinking of. A little sum that would be sufficient, perhaps, to pay at once what mortgage there was still left upon their little home, to buy a new carpet for the parlor, and the books her husband needed, and to give Hope all the instruction she wanted upon the violin, from Mr. Kolb, or any other teacher, at the teacher's price. Just at this point of her thought, a quick, flying step was heard, and a quick, humming voice,--a little sweet, thready sound, as near like a violin tone as the owner could make it,--and the next minute Hope appeared in the workshop rosy and radiant. "Mr. Kolb says," she broke out, dropping her humming violin note, "that I shall make a very good little fiddler some day if I 'haf patience,'" gayly imitating the old German's pronunciation. "He says--" But something in her father's absorbed attitude, in her mother's expression, stopped her. "What is it? what has happened?" she inquired, looking from one to the other. "Your father has got the little engine all right." "It does just what he wanted it to do?" asked Hope, eagerly. "Yes, just what he wanted it to do." Hope danced about the room, humming her little thready violin note. Her father, roused from his reverie, looked up at her, and smiled. "Well, Hope, the little fiddle was a success, eh?" "And the little engine too;" and the girl danced up to her father, humming her note of gladness. "Yes, the little engine too." Mrs. Benham, looking across the work-bench at her husband and daughter, nodded and laughed at them. "You're just alike,--you two," she said. "There's nothing now but the little engine and the little fiddle. But how does it happen, Hope, that Mr. Kolb could give you such a long lesson? Didn't he go in to play at the concert to-night?" "No; he has a cold, and his nephew, Karl, is to take his place. It is Karl, you know, who teaches at the Conservatory; and Mr. Kolb says that some time, when he gets too old and rheumatic to go out in the evening, he may give up orchestra-playing altogether, and take to teaching like Karl." "Well, he'll have to get more profitable pupils than Hope Benham in that case," said Mrs. Benham, laughingly. "Mother, do you think--is it taking too much--from--" "No, no, Hope," interrupted her mother. "I don't think anything of the kind. Mr. Kolb meant what he said when he told you he'd like to give you lessons. Don't you fret about that; father will pay him some time." "Perhaps _I'll_ pay him when--" But Mrs. Benham did not stop to hear the end of her daughter's sentence. A patter of rain-drops caught her ear, and she hurried away to close the upper windows. Hope turned to her father with her new idea; she was aglow with it. "Farver," she began, using her old baby pronunciation, as she was in the habit of doing now and then,--"Farver, Mr. Kolb says if I practise hard, I may get to play the little fiddle at a concert some day, and earn money, and then--then, I shall pay Mr. Kolb for teaching me, farver." "Oh! that is your plan? Hope, the little fiddle has done a good work already. It has pushed all that bad time out of your mind, hasn't it?" "Yes, yes, it has pushed it away--away--oh! ever so much further; but, farver," and Hope put her head down on her father's shoulder, "I--I--don't ever want to see that girl again." "Yes, father knows;" and drawing her closer to him, John Benham stroked his daughter's sleek brown head with a soft caressing touch. And father _did_ know. He knew that the little daughter was having her first experience of the world, and the way it made its separations, its class distinctions between rich and poor and high and low. He was not envious or jealous or bitter, but he was very observant and thoughtful, and he could not help seeing how ignorantly made were some of these distinctions, and how unchristian. He knew that his little Hope was intelligent and refined,--the fit companion for any refined child, however placed in the world; and he knew that he himself was a fit companion for intelligent, thoughtful men, however placed,--for, though obliged to be a hard worker since he came a boy of fifteen from his father's farm, he had found time to think and read and study, and he was conscious that he had read and studied and thought to some purpose, and that his thought was worth something; yet because of this way that the world had of separating people without regard to their real natures or their real tastes, but solely in regard to the accidents of poverty or family influence, he was debarred from acquaintanceship on true, equal terms with many who would naturally have been his companions and friends, and whose companionship would have been of service to him, as his would have been of service to them, from the different knowledge that had come to each, from their different experiences. And here was Hope--he looked down at her as his thoughts came to this point--here was Hope, his cherished little daughter, so fine, so sweet. Was that girl of the world's so-called higher class, whose blunt speech had hurt so deeply,--was _she_ a fit companion for his little daughter? He bent down and put his lips to the sleek brown head, as he asked this question. Then he saw that the child was asleep; but his movement roused her, and, stirring uneasily, she murmured in her dreams, "Ten cents a bunch!" then, half awakening, cried, "Farver, farver, I don't ever want to see that girl again." "No, no, you sha'n't. It's all over, dear. We're not going to have any more of that 'Ten cents a bunch!'--never any more of it," he repeated consolingly, but with an emphasis of indignation and self-reproach. But he was mistaken. Neither he nor Hope had heard the last of that "Ten cents a bunch!" CHAPTER VII. To be a pupil in Miss Marr's school was a distinction in itself. "Why don't you give and write your name 'Mademoiselle Marr,' as you have a right to do?" asked one of Miss Marr's acquaintances, when the school was first started. Miss Marr laughed; then she answered soberly, "When my father came to America, he made himself a legal citizen of the country and he fought in its battles. He never called himself, and he was never called by any one, 'Monsieur.'" "Because he bore the title of General." "Not at first,--not until he had earned it here. But I--I was born and brought up here, and I have been always Miss Marr here. Why should I now suddenly change to Mademoiselle?" "Because it would be of benefit to your school. Americans are attracted by anything foreign, and Mademoiselle Marr's school would sound so much more distinguished than Miss Marr's school." "Oh!" and Miss Marr flung up her hands impatiently; "I am a better American than these foolish people who like foreign titles so much. But they shall come to me, they shall send their children to Miss Marr's school. I am not going to begin with any little tricks,--to throw out any little bait to catch silly folk, for it is not such folk's patronage that I want. I am going to keep an honest school, and I shall start as I mean to go on." The acquaintance sighed, and shook her head, and told all her friends how obstinate Miss Marr was, how she had been advised and how she had gone against the advice, and that the school wouldn't come to anything, would get no start as Miss Marr's school, whereas as Mademoiselle Marr's it would at once impress everybody. But Miss Marr went on in her own way, and at the end of five years there was no school in all New York that had the kind of high reputation that hers had. It was, in a certain sense, the fashion, and yet it was not fashionable. "It's that French way of hers, after all," said the acquaintance whose advice had not been taken; "it's that French way that she inherited from the General. Nobody had finer manners than General Marr, and he had the qualities of a leader, too, in some ways,--though he never could keep any money; and these qualities also his daughter inherits." Miss Marr laughed at this explanation when she was told of it,--laughed, and declared that the only secret of her success lay in the fact that she liked her work, and put her whole heart into it. And I'm inclined to think she was right. If she got a start at first because she was General Marr's daughter, she held it and made much of it because she had character and purpose. She put her heart into her work, and that meant that she put the magic of her lively sympathy and interest into it; and if she had not possessed this character and purpose, she couldn't have done what she did, even if she had been the daughter of an even more distinguished man than General Marr. She had said in the beginning: "I am not going to model my school after any fashionable pattern, for I don't care to have what is called a fashionable school, and I don't solicit fashionable patronage. There are plenty of quiet, cultivated people in New York and elsewhere who, I am sure, want just such a school as I mean to have,--a sensible, honest school, that shall give a sensible, honest, all-round education." And she was right, as events proved. The quiet, cultivated people came forth at once to her support; and then the queerest thing happened,--the fashionable folk began to come forward too, and in such numbers that she couldn't accommodate half of them, and they, instead of accepting the situation, and going elsewhere at this crisis, patiently bided their time, waiting until a vacancy occurred. It will readily be understood that when things had come to this pass, it was considered a most decided distinction to be a pupil at Miss Marr's school. It was just at the climax of this popularity, just before the beginning of a new year, that a certain young lady said to her younger sister,-- "Now, Dorothy"-- "Doro_thea_! Doro_thea_! I'm going to have my whole name, every syllable of it, to start off in New York with." "Well, Dorothea, then; you must remember one thing about Miss Marr,--she won't put up with any of your flippant smartness." "She needn't." "But, Dorothea, you won't be punished, and you won't be allowed to argue, as you did at Miss Maynard's. It will be like this,--Miss Marr will let you go on and reveal yourself and all your faults without a word of comment, as she would if you were a guest; then if she finds that you or your faults are of the kind that she doesn't care to have in her school, she'll send you home. She says, you know, that her school is neither an infant school, nor a reform school,--that by the time girls are fifteen, they are young ladies enough to have some idea of good breeding, and if they haven't, they are not the sort of girls that she wants in her school. Now remember that, Dorothea." "I never heard of a school-teacher putting on such airs as this Miss Marr does, in my life. It's always what _she_ wants, what _she_ expects, what _she_ is going to do. I know I shall hate her!" "Well, if this is the spirit that you propose to start with, it is very easy to foresee the result." "I don't care." "Now, Dorothea, you _do_ care. Just think--your name has been on the list for a whole year for this vacancy; and it was your own idea, you know. Nothing would satisfy you but to go to Miss Marr's." "Oh, I know, I know; don't preach, you dear Molly Polly! I'm not going to fly at Miss Marr and call her an old cat, if I think she's one." "No, I should say not, but you mustn't fly at a good many things,--at certain rules and regulations, for instance,--and you mustn't take any saucy little liberties, such as you have been in the habit of taking at Miss Maynard's." "Oh, not a liberty!" smiling and nodding at her elder sister. "I shall pull my face down like this"--drawing down her lips and lowering her eyes--"when I meet the great Miss Marr, and I shall say, in a little bit of a frightened voice like this, 'Oh, Miss Marr, Miss Marr, _please_ don't shut me up in a dark closet and put me on bread and water, whatever I do.'" "What a goose you are, Dorothy!" but the elder sister laughed. "Doro_thea_! Doro_thea_! remember now it's to be Doro_thea_, and you must write Doro_thea_ on the envelopes of your letters to me," was the swift protest. Three days after this conversation, Dolly, or Dorothea Dering, sat waiting with her mother in a handsome but rather old-fashioned-looking parlor in a rather old-fashioned house in New York, for the appearance of its hostess, Miss Marr. Dolly had been fidgeting about, examining the ornaments on the tables and the pictures on the walls, with a mingled expression of curiosity and irritability on her face, when she caught the sound of a firm even footfall on the polished oak floor of the hall. The girl made a little face at this firm, even sound, and said to herself, "It's just like her,--old Madam Prim!" In another moment the footsteps came to the threshold of the parlor, and Dolly looked across the room to see--Why, there was some mistake! This was one of the pupils, and no Madam Prim; and what a stylish girl, what a stunning plain gown! thought Dolly. The minute after, "the stylish girl in the stunning plain gown" was saying, "How do you do, Mrs. Dering?" and Mrs. Dering was saying, "How do you do, Miss Marr?" Dolly almost gasped with astonishment. "_This_, Miss Marr! Why, she didn't look any older than Mary." The fact was, that Miss Marr was seven years older than Mary Dering, who was only twenty-three; but Angelique Marr was one of those persons who never look their age. Though not childish or immature, she had a fresh girl's aspect. In looking at her, Dolly forgot all her little plans for saying or doing this or that. Miss Marr looking at _her_ said to herself: "Poor child! how shy and awkward and overgrown she is!" and forthwith concluded that it would be better not to notice her much for a time, and therefore gave all her attention to the mother, bestowing a swift fleeting smile now and then upon the girl,--a _young_ smile, like that of a comrade in passing. Dolly was out of all her reckoning; her program of word and action which she had so carefully arranged being completely destroyed by this surprise of personality,--this substitution of the "stylish girl in a stunning plain gown" for an old Madam Prim. So absorbed was she in these thoughts, she heard but vaguely what her mother was saying, and was quite startled when the moment of parting from her came, forgetting all the fine little airs and good-bye messages she had arranged. She was so dazed, indeed, that she seemed stupid, and impressed Miss Marr more than ever as shy and awkward and overgrown; and it was out of pity for this shyness that Angelique Marr, as the door closed upon Mrs. Dering, turned to Mrs. Dering's daughter with her sweetest and friendliest of young smiles, and said to her,-- "Would you like to come up to my little parlor and have a cup of chocolate with me before I show you your room?" As Dolly accepted the invitation, she had an odd subdued sort of feeling, as if she had been invited to lunch with one of Mary's fine young lady friends; and this feeling, instead of wearing off, increased, as she found herself in the little parlor drinking the most delicious foamy chocolate from a delicate Sèvres cup, while her entertainer helped her to biscuit or extra lumps of sugar, telling, as she did so, a droll little story about her first lesson in chocolate brewing from an old French soldier,--a friend of her father. Dolly listened and laughed, and felt more and more that she was being treated in a very grown-up way by a very grown-up young lady, and that she must be equal to the occasion; so she sat up in her chair with a great deal of dignity, and endeavored to say the proper things in the proper places, with a delightful sense that she was doing the thing as well as Mary. It was at this moment that some one knocked at the door; and at Miss Marr's "Come in," there appeared a tall youth, who cried out as he entered,-- "Well, Aunt Angel!" "What! Victor?" Then followed embraces and inquiries; and Dolly began to feel out of place, and the stranger that she was, when Miss Marr turned, smiled, begged her pardon, and introduced her to her nephew,--Victor Graham, who was just back from his vacation at Moosehead Lake. With the grace and tact that people called "that French way" of hers, Miss Marr managed to include Dolly in the conversation, and, finding that she had spent several summers at Kineo, the Moosehead Lake region, drew her out by clever questions to tell what she knew about it. And Dolly knew a great deal about it; she had paddled a canoe on the lake, she had caught fish and helped cook them on the shore, and she had camped out in the Kineo woods. Victor Graham, tall as he was, was only sixteen,--a real boy who loved out-of-door sports,--and, delighted to find somebody who was so familiar with the charmed region he had just reluctantly left, was soon in the full swing of reminiscences and questions. Had she been to this place, did she know that point, etc., etc.? In short, he felt as if he had met a comrade, and he treated her as such,--as a boy like himself; and Dolly for the moment responded in the same spirit, and forgot her stiff dignity and young lady manners, patterned after her sister Mary's. Miss Marr sat back in her chair, looking and listening and smiling. Dolly had not the least idea that she was reading, as one would read in a book, a little page of Dorothea Dering. But she was. Dolly, in talking to Victor, forgot, as I have said, her dignity and young-lady manners, and was the Dolly Dering who romped and raced and paddled and cooked at Moosehead Lake. "Not so very awkward, and not shy at all, but a big overgrown girl, who may one day be an attractive woman, when she is toned down and less crude and hoydenish." This was part of Miss Marr's reading as she looked and listened; and as Dolly, getting more excited with her subject, went on more glibly, her silent smiling listener thought,-- "A good deal of a spoiled child evidently, who has been used to having her own way and been laughed at for her smart sayings until she is quite capable, I fear, of being rude and overbearing, if not unfeeling on occasions. But I think there is good material underneath. We'll see, we'll see." What would Dolly have said if she could have heard this criticism of Dorothea Dering? What would Mrs. Dering have said if she could have heard her daughter called capable of being rude and overbearing? What would Mary have said to the whole summing up,--Mary, who was not of the kind ever to have been spoiled by indulgence, who was finer and had better instincts than Dolly? Mary would have said, "Oh, Dolly, Dolly, what have I always told you?" Just as Miss Marr came to the conclusion of these reflections, she looked up at the clock on the mantel, and gave a quick start. Victor, following the direction of her eyes, stopped the story of camp-life that he was telling, and jumped to his feet, saying,-- "Do excuse me, Aunt Angel; I'd no idea it was so late." Dolly's face fell like a disappointed child, and she burst out impatiently,-- "Oh, finish the story, finish the story!" Victor Graham gave her a glance of surprise; then, flushing a little, said gently,-- "This is Aunt Angel's busy hour; I'll finish the story some other time." The blood mounted to Dolly's forehead. That glance of surprise pricked her sharply. It angered her too. Who was this boy to set his priggish manners above hers? And in hot rebellion, she cried out flippantly,-- "No, no, tell it now, tell it now! Ten minutes longer can't make much difference." She had been accustomed to persist in this fashion at home; and beyond a "Dolly, how impolite!" or "Be quiet, Dolly!" spoken at the moment by father or mother or Mary, not much further notice was taken of her offence. But neither Miss Marr nor Victor made the slightest suggestion of a reproving comment now. They made no comment whatever. The boy simply stared at her a second, then lowered his eyes, showing clearly that he was embarrassed by the girl's rudeness. Miss Marr looked at her with an expression of wondering astonishment that was in itself a shock and a revelation to Dolly. There was not a particle of personal resentment in this expression; it was the wondering astonishment of a person who is regarding for the first time some strange new species of development. Dolly had hitherto gloried in her impertinence, as something witty and audacious. Now all at once she was made to see that to another person, and that person this "stylish girl in a stunning plain gown," this audacious impertinence looked vulgar. The shock of this revelation was so sudden to Miss Dolly that all self-possession deserted her, and again Miss Marr saw her apparently shy and awkward and speechless. The deep red flush that overspread her face at the same time added to the appearance of shyness, and pleaded for her more than words would have done. "She'd be a jolly girl, if she didn't break up into such Hottentot ways. I wonder where she came from?" was Victor's inward reflection. His concluding reflection, as he went out of the house, was, "Wonder what Aunt Angel will do with her." Aunt Angel wondered, too, as she accompanied Dolly up to the room that had been arranged for her; and as she wondered, she could not help thinking, "How glad I am the girl is going to have a room to herself, and not with any one of the other girls!" The room was small, but it was charmingly furnished,--a little pink and white chamber, with all sorts of pretty contrivances for comfort and convenience. As Dolly looked about her, when Miss Marr closed the door upon her, she thought of what her mother had said, after inspecting the room the day before: "It isn't in the least like a boarding-school,--it is like a visitor's room, Dolly, as you will see." And Dolly did see, but she was in no mood to enjoy the pretty details just then, for the sense of humiliation was weighing heavily upon her. In vain she tried to blow it away with the breath of anger,--to call Miss Marr "old Madam Prim," and Victor "that prig of a boy." Nothing of this kind availed to relieve her. Never in her life had she been so impressed by anybody as by Miss Marr, and she was also sure that she had also begun to impress Miss Marr, in her turn. And now and now!--and down on the pink and white bed Dolly flung herself in a paroxysm of mingled regret, rage, mortification, and disappointment, and, like the big, overgrown, undisciplined child that she was, sobbed herself to sleep. The short October afternoon had come nearly to an end when she woke; and she looked about her in dismay. It must be late; and, springing up, she glanced at her watch. It was half-past four. At this moment she heard, in the hall outside, a murmur of girls' voices. One called, "Miss Marr;" and another said, "The Boston train was delayed, or I should have been here earlier." Then followed a soft tinkle of laughter, a little tap of heels, and an opening and shutting of doors. Dolly, listening, knew what this meant,--knew that these girls were the late arrivals, the returning pupils. "And they all know each other," she commented rather lonesomely and enviously, "and I shall dress myself and get down before them. I'm not going to enter a room full of strange girls, if I know it!" Dolly's taste was generally excellent. She knew what to wear and when to wear it; but some mistaken idea of outshining those strange girls at the start took possession of her, and instead of putting on a gown suited to the occasion, she donned a fine affair,--a combination of old-rose cashmere and velvet, with rose ribbons at her throat. As she left the room in this finery, she saw a door farther down the hall open, and a tall slender girl, dressed with the severest simplicity, come forth. One of those strange girls! And Dolly, as they met, stared at her, with her head in the air. But the strange girl, with a matter of course manner, gave a little courteous inclination of greeting as she passed, whereat Dolly grew rather red. "I wonder if that is the girl who talked about 'my train,'" thought Dolly. "I'll bet it is. She has a look like that girl I saw one day last spring with the Edlicotts at Papanti's dancing-school. I wonder what her name is." As the girl ran lightly down the stairs, one of the maids came up. Dolly stopped her and asked, "Is that one of the pupils?" "Yes, miss." "What is her name?" "Miss Hope Benham." CHAPTER VIII. Miss Hope Benham! It was five years since Dolly's encounter with Hope in the Brookside station, and four years since she had heard her or the name of Benham referred to. This later reference was made by Mr. Dering one morning at the breakfast-table. "Well, Dolly," he had suddenly said, glancing up from his newspaper, "that little flower-girl who got the better of you last season is in luck." Dolly looked up with a puzzled expression. "What! you've forgotten the little girl at the Brookside station who told you how ignorant and bad-mannered you were?" "Oh, Ten-cents-a-bunch!" shouted Dolly. "Yes, little Ten-cents-a-bunch. Well, her father, the engineer, is on the high road to fortune by a certain successful invention of his. Now, what do you say to that?" "Ten-cents-a-bunch," repeated Dolly, laughing. "Oh, that Mr. Benham, the engineer you told us of last season?" asked Mary, with interest. "Yes, that's the man. He has procured a patent on a valuable invention of his, and is going to be a rich man by means of it. He's a much cleverer fellow than I thought. I heard him speak the other night before the Scientific Mechanics' Association, and it was a very intelligent speech, full of scientific knowledge, and showing a great deal of ability." "And last year, father, you laughed at me for asking you if he had this ability." Mr. Dering shook his head with a comic smile. "Oh, well, Mary, we are all liable to mistakes. I've seen so much of this inventive ambition that came to nothing, I've grown to be cautious in my judgments." "Of course he isn't running an engine now?" "Bless you, no. He's off to Europe this month. He's made some contract with a firm in France for the use of his invention. They had heard of it through a former fellow-workman of Benham's,--another clever fellow, yet not a genius like Benham, though he has gained for himself quite an important position as an inspector of locomotives abroad; but there is an account of the whole thing in the morning's paper." Dolly listened to this talk with a very divided attention. She had a big picnic on her mind, and all other matters were of very little importance beside that. It was thus that Ten-cents-a-bunch and the name of Benham were quite overborne for the time by this interest. After four years more of picnics and other pleasurings, Dolly heard the name again without the slightest recognition, and in the tall young girl of fifteen, with her womanly face and her hair wound into a knot at the back of her head, she received no suggestion of little Ten-cents-a-bunch. And how was it with Hope? Hope remembered. The last four years of her life had been passed abroad, most of them in France, where she had been at school in Paris, while her father and mother were established near by,--her father taking advantage of the great opportunities Paris offered him for scientific study. It was a happy time for all of them, and in this happy time Hope forgot some earlier deprivations and discomforts, or at least forgot the smart of them; but she never forgot that encounter at the Brookside station, which was to her her first close experience of the world's class distinctions. Neither had she ever forgotten the face of "that girl;" and when, coming out of her room at Miss Marr's, she looked down the hall and saw those big black eyes and that confident expression, she at once, in spite of the change in Dolly's height and breadth, recognized her. But the five years had matured and educated Hope so much that the thrill which accompanied this recognition was not that shrinking of fear and dislike which had once overcome her. It was now the ordinary pang of repulsion that one feels in meeting something or somebody connected with what was once painful; and there was an expression of this feeling in her face, as she entered the library downstairs. Two or three girls were already assembled there; and as Hope responded warmly to their affectionate greetings, one of them exclaimed,-- "There! now you look like yourself. When you came in, you had a stand-off sort of air, and a little hard pucker between your eyes, as if you were expecting to confront an army of enemies." Hope laughed; and presently the whole group were off on a regular girl chat, telling the story of their long summer vacation in the most animated manner. They were in the thick of this, when some one pushed the portière aside, with the uncertain touch of a strange hand, and a strange voice asked constrainedly,-- "Is this a private sitting-room?" The girls all turned to look at the speaker, and there was a half moment of silence. Then Kate Van der Berg answered politely,-- "Oh, no; it is the library, where we all come when we like." "Oh, I didn't know where to go;" and Dolly came forward, trying to look indifferent and at her ease, and succeeding only in looking rather huffy and uncomfortable. The first glance she had received was not reassuring. The four girls whose chat she had interrupted were all dressed in the simplest manner, with no frills and furbelows anywhere; and that first glance of theirs at the new-comer's fine gown was a glance of surprise that there was no mistaking. The fact of it was, every girl of them, as she caught sight of Dolly, supposed for the moment that she was a guest of Miss Marr's; and when enlightened to the contrary by Dolly's own words, every girl of them involuntarily gave another glance of surprise. They were well trained, however, and presently endeavored to make the new pupil feel at home; but it was rather up-hill work naturally. Luckily at this crisis, Miss Marr appeared, to adjust matters. "Oh!" she exclaimed, glancing brightly at Dolly, "you found your way down all alone. I went to your room a little while ago; and as you were asleep, I didn't disturb you." Then, with the same bright look and manner, she introduced the girls to Dolly, and stood talking with them all for a few minutes. When she turned to leave them, a general protest arose, Kate Van der Berg crying out,-- "Oh, no, no! don't go yet, Miss Marr! Just think, we haven't had a sight of you for three months, and we are positively hungry for you, aren't we, Hope?" appealing to Hope Benham, who was standing near her. Hope made no reply in words, but she gave a quick upward look and smile which spoke more eloquently than any words. Dolly, observant of everything, saw not only this look and smile, but the answering look and smile in Miss Marr's eloquent face; and instantly a little sharp feeling of something akin to both jealousy and envy disturbed her. Not to lead off and take a first place was a new experience to Dolly, and she did not enjoy it. At home in Brookside or Boston she had always easily led off in this way, partly on account of her belonging to a family whose acquaintance was large, and partly on account of her dominant desire. But here she found herself for the first time amongst strangers, who knew nothing about her, and to whom she was of no importance. An uneasy sense of all this had begun to assail her before she left Miss Marr's little parlor. It deepened as she entered the library and met the three pairs of eyes turned upon her and her fine gown. It deepened still more as she saw that swift exchange of tender glances between Miss Marr and Hope; and the little imp of jealousy straightway sprang up with its unreasonable suggestions that she was not treated with sufficient consideration, that she was, in fact, neglected, and left out in the cold, when she should, as the new-comer, have received assiduous attention. That she, the daughter of the Hon. James Dering, should be thus coolly set aside! It was at this climax of her resentful feeling that Miss Marr happened to look across at her. She caught at once something of the true state of things,--not everything, but enough to show her that the girl felt awkward and uncomfortable. "Poor thing!" she thought; "she doesn't get on well at all. I must ask Hope to help me with her. She, if anybody, will be able to make her feel easier and more at home." There was no opportunity to speak with Hope then, for down the hall came tap, tapping, another little company of heels, and presently the portière was flung aside, and a troop of girls entered, and rushing up to Miss Marr, claimed her attention, with their gay and affectionate greetings. No, no time then to speak to any one privately and specially, only time to mention Dolly's name,--"Miss Dorothea Dering, girls,"--only time for this before the clock rung out the hour of six; and at the last stroke Miss Marr turned her head from the girls, who were flocking about her, and looked back at Hope Benham. "Hope, will you take Dorothea--Miss Dering--in to dinner?" Miss Marr did not see the change in Hope's face,--the sudden stiffening, as it were, of every feature; but Kate Van der Berg saw it. It was the same kind of stiffness that she had noticed when Hope came into the library,--the rigid stiffness that she had called a "stand-off sort of air," and there was that little hard pucker again between the eyes. "Hope will take her in to dinner and be as polite to her as a Chinese mandarin, but she won't 'take' to her in any other way," was Miss Kate's shrewd reflection. The position was not an agreeable one to Hope, but she bethought herself that it might have been much more disagreeable if Dorothea had remembered. That she did not, was perfectly apparent. But if she had remembered! Hope shuddered to think of what might have happened if this had been the case. How, with that incapacity for understanding sensitive natures unlike her own, this girl would in some abrupt way have referred to that past painful encounter,--painful, not because of the different conditions of things at that time, but painful because of that first cruel knowledge of the world that had come through it. Kate Van der Berg was not far wrong when she prophesied that Hope would be as polite as a Chinese mandarin to the new-comer. Hope was very polite. You could not have found fault with a single word or action. Even Dolly saw nothing to find fault with; but all this politeness did not warm and cheer her, did not make her feel any easier or more at home. In sitting there at the dinner-table in the bright light she felt more uncomfortable than ever, for by this searching light she saw now very clearly the extreme plainness of each girl's attire; and as she caught every now and then the quick observing glance of one and another, she saw that she had made a great mistake,--that, instead of producing a fine impression by her fine dress, she had produced an unfavorable one, and was being silently criticised as rather loud and--oh, horror!--vulgar. Miss Marr, looking across the table, did not fail to see that Hope was not so successful as usual in charming away the awkwardness and discomfort of a stranger. Presently she caught two or three little set speeches of Hope's,--polite little speeches, but perfectly mechanical,--and said to herself as Kate Van der Berg had said, "Hope doesn't take to her." It was generally the custom for the girls to meet in the library before and after dinner for a few minutes' social chat; but on this night most of the girls, having just arrived, excused themselves, and went directly upstairs to unpack their trunks and settle their various belongings. Hope was very glad to make her excuses with the others, and escape to her room, that for a few days she was to occupy alone. She was busily engaged in putting the last things in their places, when there came a light tap on the door, and to her "Come in," Miss Marr entered, with a little apology for the lateness of her call, and an admiring exclamation for Hope's quick dexterity in arranging her belongings. After this she sat a moment in silence, with rather a perplexed look on her face; then suddenly she broke the silence. "Hope," she said, "I am afraid I gave you an unpleasant task to perform to-night." Hope reddened. "You didn't find it easy, I perceived, to talk with the new pupil." "N--o, I didn't," faltered Hope. "She was hard to get on with, wasn't she?" "I--I don't know. I--talked to her--I paid her what attention I could." "But she was disagreeable to you?" "She didn't intend to be--I--I didn't fancy her, Miss Marr." Miss Marr looked the surprise she felt. She had never known Hope to take such a sudden dislike. "I didn't fancy her, and I suppose I was stiff with her; but I tried--I tried to be polite to her." "Of course you did. I'm not finding fault with you, dear. You did what you could to help me, and it was kind of you. I'm sorry you feel as you do, but don't trouble any more about it; it will wear off, I dare say; and now make haste and go to bed,--you look tired." "Miss Marr," and Hope put a detaining hand on Miss Marr's arm. "What is it--what else is it you were thinking of--of asking me to do?" "Never mind, dear." "Tell me, please, Miss Marr." "I was going to ask you to let Miss Dering occupy the other bed in your room to-night. Some one left the water running before dinner in the room over hers, and the bed and carpet are drenched; but I will make some other arrangement for her now,--you sha'n't be troubled with her." "But the other rooms are full." "Yes, but I will have a cot put up in the little parlor. Good-night;" and with a soft touch of her hand on Hope's cheek, Miss Marr left the room. She was half-way down the hall when Hope ran after her. "Miss Marr, Miss Marr, don't--don't put up the bed in the little parlor. It is nine o'clock. Let her come to my room." "My dear, go back; don't think any more about the matter." "No, no, let her come to my room, _please_, Miss Marr." Miss Marr looked at the pleading face uplifted to hers, and understood. At least she understood enough to see that Hope was already accusing herself of being disobliging and selfish, and that she would be far more uncomfortable now if left alone than she would be in sharing her room with the obnoxious new comer; and so without more hesitation she yielded the point, with a "Very well, dear; it shall be as you say," and went on down the hall to Dorothea. CHAPTER IX. "I am very sorry to have intruded upon you," said Dolly, as Hope met her at the door of her room. Dolly meant to be very dignified and rather haughty, but she behaved instead like what she was,--a cross, tired, homesick girl. Hope, seeing the red, swollen eyelids, forgave the crossness, and saying something pleasant about its being no intrusion, pointed out the little bed behind the screen that Dolly was to occupy, and went on with the work of regulating her bureau drawers, that Miss Marr had interrupted, begging to be excused as she did so. If Dolly had done the proper thing, the thing that was expected of her, she would have retired behind the screen and gone to bed then and there. But she had no idea of going to bed, so long as there was a light burning, and anybody was stirring; so she dropped down into an easy-chair that stood near the door, and took up a book that was lying on the table. It was a copy of "Le Luthier de Crémone,"--a charming little play by Francois Coppée. Miss Dolly turned the leaves over a moment, then put the volume down, and cast an interested, curious look at Hope, who at that moment was busy arranging her boxes. Dolly had studied French sufficiently to enable her to read some very simple stories, but "Le Luthier de Crémone" was quite beyond her power, and her glance at Hope was compounded of envy and admiration. Hope, without apparently observing her, was yet nervously conscious of every movement, and thought to herself,-- "Oh, dear! why _doesn't_ she go to bed?" Putting down the book, Dolly's eyes next turned to a certain oblong case that was lying upon a chair near her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "do you play the violin?" "Yes, a little," answered Hope. "So do I. May I look at your violin?" Hope hesitated a second, then lifted the instrument from its case. It was not the good little fiddle that she had earned for herself five years ago. That was safely packed away. This was a much more costly fiddle, and had been purchased in Paris for her by a brother of Mr. Kolb, who was an extensive dealer in violins Dolly had taken lessons of an excellent teacher, who was also an excellent judge of a violin, and had chosen hers for her. She had at various times heard him talk about some of the famous old violin-makers, and recognized their names when she heard them spoken. As she took Hope's violin from her hands, she said,-- "Oh, yours is about the size of mine. Mine is English, but it is modelled on the famous old Stradivari pattern of Cremona, my teacher said. You know Stradivari was one of the most famous of the Cremona makers," looking up at Hope with an air of wisdom. [Illustration: "SHE TOOK HOPE'S VIOLIN FROM HER HANDS"] Hope nodded. "But this is a pretty little violin,--sort of quaint-looking," went on Dolly, amiably. She was fast recovering her spirits, forgetting her grievances and homesickness in her present interest, with her accustomed alacrity. "Yes, I think it is pretty," Hope answered quietly. "Very pretty; I really think it is prettier than mine, and what a nice red color it has! Who made it, do you know?" "An Italian named Montagnana." "Oh! does he have a shop in London? Did your teacher get it for you there?" "No, I don't think he was ever in London, even when he was living. But he died a great while ago. He lived in Cremona first, then in Venice." "In Cremona! How long ago?" "Well, he was a pupil of Stradivari, and he lived in Cremona in the year 1740, and after he had studied for a time with Stradivari, he went to Venice, where the manufacture of violins was very flourishing." "What! this is a real Cremona violin?" cried Dolly. "Why--why, Mr. Andrews, my teacher, said that they were very rare, and when you did succeed in getting hold of one that it took a lot of money to buy it." Hope made no response to this speech; and Dolly, looking up at her, caught the expression of her face, and hastened to say,-- "I didn't mean that I didn't believe it was a Cremona violin; but I was so astonished, you know, because I'd heard Mr. Andrews go on so about Cremona violins." Hope was old enough now to see that Dolly was honest in her excuse,--that she had really meant no offence,--and, relenting a little, replied,-- "Yes, I suppose it _is_ hard to find a genuine old Cremona; but my first teacher was an old German musician, and his brother, who is a dealer in violins in Paris, procured this for me." "But didn't it cost a lot of money?" "It was expensive." Dolly would have given a great deal to know just how expensive was that beautiful little instrument, with its nice red color; but even she couldn't bring herself to ask the question outright of that tall, reserved girl, who was so perfectly polite and yet so far off from her. Who was this girl, anyway, she thought,--this girl, no older than herself, whose father could and would buy a Cremona violin for her? Her own father--the Hon. James Dering--was a rich man, and a generous one, but he would have laughed at the proposition of buying a Cremona violin for his daughter. Why, Cremona violins were for professionals--when they could get them--and enthusiastic collectors. But perhaps--perhaps this girl was going to be a professional. With this new idea in her mind, Dolly gave another glance at Hope. A professional? No, that could not be. A girl who was preparing to be a professional wouldn't be here at Miss Marr's school. But a Cremona violin! Dolly wouldn't have been at all astonished if a girl had shown her a fine watch-case set about with diamonds. Mary had a very valuable watch of that kind, and she herself had the promise of one like it when she was as old as Mary. It didn't occur to her that a Cremona violin was a piece of property that was yearly advancing in value; that it was, in fact, a better investment, as the phrase is, than diamonds even. She had heard her father say often that diamonds would always bring their market value, and that they were therefore very safe property to hold, though not bringing in any interest. That a violin of any kind could have this property value did not enter her head, and Hope's possession grew more and more puzzling to her. Hope all the time had a keen sense of her companion's wonder and curiosity, and was half amused, half irritated by it. But she succeeded very well in concealing the state of her feelings, and was as polite as ever, even when Dolly nearly dropped the precious Cremona, only giving utterance to a little gasping "Oh!" Dolly herself was rather frightened at the possible accident, and was glad to hand the instrument back to its owner. As she did so, she asked suddenly,-- "Have you lived abroad? Did you take lessons abroad?" "Yes, I have lived abroad, and I took lessons nearly all the time I was away." "Where were you,--in Germany?" "No, in Paris part of the time and part of the time in London." "How jolly!" "Yes, it was rather jolly sometimes, though both my French and English teachers were very exacting, and made me work hard." "Oh! I don't mean the work,--the violin lessons; I mean the living in London and Paris," answered Dolly, frankly. Hope couldn't help laughing at this frankness. Dolly laughed a little too, but she was quite in earnest, nevertheless, and began another string of questions,--what Hope saw, where she went, what she bought, etc. Hope's answers did not open the field of entertainment that Dolly expected, for galleries and museums and music and quiet pleasures of that kind were not what Dolly was thinking of in connection with Paris and London. "But didn't you visit people, and go to theatres and things, and have fun?" she asked at length. Hope smiled a queer, amused smile that Dolly didn't understand, as she answered: "I didn't go abroad to have fun of that sort, but I had a beautiful time." "I suppose you had a beautiful time slaving away at that violin." "I did, indeed," answered Hope, laughing outright. "What a lot you must know about a violin!" "I? Oh, no, no!" Hope at that instant was putting a pile of music upon a little music-rack. Dolly caught sight of the upper sheet. "What! you play those things of Bach? Well, you _must_ know a lot!" "No, I _love_ a lot, and I've studied hard, that's all." "I should say so; and here," turning over the pages, "are Mendelssohn and Beethoven and Chopin. Why, I should think you were studying to play in public. Oh! but here is something more frivolous, more in my style," pouncing upon a waltz. "Oh, I just dote on waltzes; try this now, do." "Oh, no, not now; it is too late. We must have our lights out by ten, and it is fifteen minutes to ten this moment." "Oh, bother!" and Dolly wrinkled up her forehead. "I hate to go to bed." Hope's only reply to this remark was, "Then, if you'll excuse me and turn out the gas when you are ready, I'll say good-night, for I'm very tired;" and hastily retreating behind her screen, she left Dolly to her own devices. Tired as she was, however, it was a long time before Hope could sleep. Dolly, too, lay awake for a while, thinking over the many incidents of the day. But her thoughts were not perplexed thoughts like Hope's. She had no hurt remembrance of the past to perplex her. She had not by any means entirely forgotten the little flower-girl, though she had forgotten her name; but the memory of her was a latent one, and was not for an instant stirred by her present companion's personality. Hope was quite a new acquaintance to her. It never occurred to Dolly that she had ever seen her before, unless she was really that girl whom she had seen with the Edlicotts last spring. It was one of Dolly's characteristics not to brood long over anything disagreeable; and lying there in the still darkness, and reflecting upon the incidents of the day, the little surprises and mortifications began to give way to a sense of interest and anticipation, the principal point of interest at the moment being Hope and her violin. Oddly enough, from the time that Dolly had seen Hope coming down the hall, and had received that courteous little greeting from her, she had been attracted towards her. The rather stiff politeness that had followed, if disappointing, had not been repelling, and the subsequent bedroom chat, with its revelation of musical accomplishments and foreign experiences, to say nothing of that wonderful Cremona violin, had made a fresh impression upon Dolly of such power that even Miss Marr's attractiveness became quite secondary in her mind. Hope could not but see something of this. She was not flattered by it, however, for as she thought over it, she said to herself,-- "It is not the real Hope Benham who attracts her, but a young lady who has lived abroad, and who is rich enough to own a Cremona violin, and to play Bach and Beethoven studies upon it. If she knew that I was the girl who sold her the flowers at the Brookside station, things would be quite different." CHAPTER X. It was the next morning just after breakfast that Miss Marr, coming out of her little parlor, met Hope in the hall, and said to her,-- "I'm afraid you did not sleep well, my dear; you look heavy-eyed." "No, I didn't sleep very well," answered Hope, coloring slightly. "Did Miss Dering keep you awake?" "Y--es, I suppose so--but--it wasn't so bad as I expected." Miss Marr laughed. "Oh! it was not so bad as you expected. She wears better on further acquaintance. I'm glad to hear that, but I am afraid she's a great chatterer. However, her room will be in order to-night, so you won't be together again." Hope drew a deep breath of satisfaction, and her face showed unmistakable signs of relief. Miss Marr took note of these signs, and thought,-- "It is not like Hope to take prejudices against people. I wonder what it is that she finds so unbearable in this girl. It might help me a good deal if I knew." A few guarded questions at once revealed Miss Marr's state of mind to Hope, and she immediately hastened to say,-- "I'm afraid I've given you a wrong impression; it is only a personal feeling with me, Miss Marr. I--I met this girl, Dorothea,--they called her 'Dolly' then,--five years ago, when I was only ten years old. She has forgotten me, but I never forgot her, for she spoke so rudely, so unkindly to me at the time, that I can't get over it. That's all. I dare say the other girls will like her, and I--I've nothing else against her." Miss Marr touched Hope's cheek with her finger,--a caressing way she had at times, and said gently,-- "Thank you, Hope, for being so honest; I can always trust you." Hope had been with Miss Marr for the past year, and had won her confidence and love by the fine sweet strain of her character. "She's such an upright, sympathetic little soul, I can trust her with anything," the Frenchwoman had said to her friends. It was one of these friends,--the wife of a scientific man,--that the Benhams had become acquainted with in Paris, who had suggested Hope as a pupil to Miss Marr, and told her something of John Benham's career. "Such an interesting man," the friend had said, in summing up her account of him,--"what we call a self-made man, because he has had to cultivate his tastes by books and private study unhelped by the schools; but God-made after the finest pattern if ever a man was, and with a nice sensible wife and this dearest little daughter, whom they have so wisely determined to send home to their own country to complete her education." Angelique Marr recalled these words as she looked at Hope. It was just at that moment that a door farther down the corridor was energetically flung open, and Miss Dorothea Dering appeared with her arms full of books. Hope started, and was turning away in the other direction, when Dolly called out,-- "Oh! Miss--Miss--er--er--Benham, wait a minute; I want to ask you something." Hope waited, putting a detaining hand at the same time upon Miss Marr, who made a movement to step back into her parlor. "I wanted to ask you," said Dolly, as she hurried up, "if you would let me practise with you sometimes. You play a great deal higher kind of music than I do, but I _can_ play better things, and I've got a lovely violin duet that I want awfully to practise with somebody; and if you only _would_!" with an appealing glance at Hope. There was a slight pause, in which Miss Marr regarded Hope with a little curiosity. Hope Benham's violin-playing was known throughout the school as something out of the common, and the best of the piano pupils felt that they were hardly up to playing her accompaniments; and here was this new-comer proposing a violin duet with her! What would be Hope's answer to this proposition? There was only the slightest possible pause; then came this answer,-- "My violin practice is very rigidly confined to the studies that my teacher gives me, and he is very unwilling that I should play anything else." "Oh, music-teachers are always that way! _I_ don't mind 'em," cried Dolly, airily; "and anyway, you can try some things with me in off times, can't she, Miss Marr?" "Oh, I never encourage pupils to disobey a teacher," answered Miss Marr, a little amused at Dolly's density in appealing thus to her. "Of course not. I forgot; you don't seem like a teacher or anything of that sort yourself to me; you seem somehow like one of us," said Dolly. Then turning again to Hope, with a confident nod,-- "You just ask your teacher if you can't play with me at off times, won't you?" Hope murmured something vague in the way of reply, but Dolly had no doubt that her proposition would be carried into effect in due season. In the mean time, as it had not yet been decided about her own violin lessons, she determined to practise what she could by herself, and at odd intervals after this there was heard issuing from her room a variety of shrill scrapings, at which the girls would shrug their shoulders, and shake their heads at one another. One day Kate Van der Berg accosted Hope with this question,-- "When do you begin practising that duet with Miss Dering?" "Oh, how did you hear about that?" "Not from you, Miss Closemouth." "But Miss Marr, I know, didn't speak of it." "No, Miss Dorothea Dering herself told us that when things were all settled, the classes arranged, etc., you were going to practise a violin duet with her." "She spoke to Miss Marr and to me about it," answered Hope, evasively. "Oh, she spoke to Miss Marr and you about it, and Miss Marr and you didn't say 'Yes,' and you thought that would be enough of an answer; and it would, ordinarily, but it won't in this case, you'll see, my dear. Miss Dorothea Dering is used to having her own way, and, Hope, I'm of the opinion she'll have it now." Hope straightened her slim figure, and that little pucker came into her forehead that Kate Van der Berg knew so well, whereat Kate laughed, and said gayly,-- "How ungrateful you are, Hope!" "Ungrateful! how am I ungrateful?" "Not to embrace your opportunities and respond to such overtures. Hope, what is it that you dislike about Dorothea Dering? I saw from the first that you had taken a dislike to her." Hope flushed uncomfortably. "And she seems to admire you immensely. What is it? What have you seen in her? what do you know about her?" "I don't know anything about her for anybody else, only I--It is entirely my feeling; it needn't prejudice anybody else," cried Hope, dismayed. Kate Van der Berg was a warm-hearted, demonstrative girl, and at the trouble in Hope's voice and in her face she flung her arms around her, and said,-- "There, there, never mind about her or what I said. It's all right; or _you_ are all right, whatever she may be." Hope put her cheek down upon Kate's shoulder for a moment; then suddenly lifting her head, she burst out,-- "No, no, you mustn't think as you do, that there's anything very bad that I'm holding back. I mustn't let you think so; it would be wicked in me. It is only just about myself,--something that she said to me long ago,--five years ago. She's forgotten it; she's forgotten me. I only met her for a few minutes, two or three times." "The disagreeable thing! I shall hate her!" Kate cried impulsively. "No, no, don't say so. I dare say you would have liked her if I--if I could have kept what I felt to myself, and I thought I did, I thought I did. Oh, dear!" and Hope stopped abruptly, as she realized that her own excitement was making matters worse. "Liked her! Not if she could have said anything bad enough to hurt you like this,--to have hurt you for five years." "It doesn't hurt me as it did then, but I remember it." "Well, that shows what a hurt it must have been." "What she said was out of ignorance. She didn't know any better," Hope went on, determined to do the honorable thing by her childish enemy. "I don't believe she knows much better now. Oh, you needn't try to smooth it all over to me, you little conscientious thing; it's of no use." "But, Kate, promise me one thing,--that you won't--you won't talk to the other girls about it." "Yes, I'll promise you that I'll be as mum as an oyster." "And you won't--you won't be--" "Disagreeable to her?" interrupted Kate, laughing. "Well, I'll try not to be; I'll take pattern by you, and be so politely fascinating that she'll ask me to play duets with her." Hope could not help laughing at this, but all the time she felt disturbed and troubled. Kate Van der Berg had playfully jibed at her for her conscientiousness. Kate thought she was over-conscientious, and she might have been sometimes, for she was a sensitive creature, with high notions and ideas of truth and justice and honor, and her father had developed these ideas by his advice and counsel. One of the things that he had impressed upon her was never to take advantage of any one, especially any one that you had had a quarrel with. "Fair play, my dear, always; remember that, and so you must remember to be open and above board after you've had any differences with people, and never let yourself say or hint damaging things about them, to prejudice others," was one of his favorite pieces of counsel, put in one form and another, at various times. Hope thought of these words even when she joined in Kate Van der Berg's laughter. She thought of them after Kate had left her, and all through the rest of the day they would start up to torment her. At last she said to herself: "This is over-conscientious, for _I didn't mean_ to prejudice any one against Dolly Dering. I tried not to show how I felt, and if I didn't succeed, it isn't my fault; but I'm a great goose to fuss so. Kate will keep her promise, I know, and Miss Dorothea Dering won't be unpopular because of anything I have said." So the matter rested, and the days went on, the school arrangements settling into order, and the school companionships falling into the usual adjustment by personal choice. When everything seemed to be running smoothly, Dolly came forward again with her proposition. It was one afternoon when she heard the sound of a violin floating down from the music-room. It was the first time she had heard it, and obeying her headlong impulse, she ran swiftly up the stairs and knocked at the door. A voice called out, "Come in;" and obeying it, she found herself not only in the presence of Hope, but of Kate Van der Berg, Myra Donaldson,--Hope's lately returned room-mate,--and Anna Fleming. Myra was seated at the piano, a sheet of music before her, waiting for Hope to signal to her. All the girls looked up and bowed as Dolly entered, but no one spoke. They were intent upon watching Hope, who, bow in hand, was carefully testing the strings that she had just tightened. Dolly came round and stood beside Kate Van der Berg at the back of the piano, which was a parlor grand placed half-way down the room. She started to whisper, "What is it they--" but was checked by Kate's "Hush! hush!" and just then the bow was brought to bear softly upon the strings, as Hope began playing the sonata in F major by Beethoven. Once or twice as the music progressed, Kate glanced at Dolly with a new interest. What was this cool intruder--for such Kate dubbed her--thinking as she listened to these exquisitely rendered strains? Was she properly astonished and ashamed of herself for proposing to join such a performer in a violin duet? Dolly's face betrayed nothing, however. She simply stood perfectly still, leaning a little forward against the piano, her big black eyes fixed in a steady gaze, now upon Hope's violin bow, and now upon Hope herself. She stood thus until near the close, when the difficult and delightful passages approach the climax. Then her eyes wandered, her features relaxed, and when the end came, she was ready with a little outburst of vigorous applause, which she followed up with,-- "You ought to play in public at concerts. But how you _must_ have worked! I'm not up to the classic, and I can't play like you, anyway. What I like, what I _love_, is dance music,--waltzes,--and I've got the loveliest duet in that time. It'll be as easy as A B C too. I'll run and get it now, and my violin, and you just try it with me, and--oh, say, have you asked your teacher what I told you to? You haven't? Well, never mind for anybody's permission. 'T won't take you long; I'll--" "You really must excuse me, but I can't play any more now," interrupted Hope's voice, as Dolly turned to go for her violin. "Oh, dear, I wish I'd come sooner, before you had started off on that long thing. But will you play with me to-morrow about this time? Or why not to-night after dinner?" "But," with a queer little smile, "I haven't asked my teacher's permission yet." "No, and I don't believe you care two pins about that," answered Dolly. "Well, I don't believe it would be of any use," responded Hope, guardedly. "Then say to-night after dinner." "To-night after dinner I had promised to read French with Kate Van der Berg." "Oh, well, there'll be time enough for that too; and you won't mind, will you, if she plays with me first?" addressing Kate. "Mind? I shall mind a great deal," Kate made haste to reply. "I know how it is when these musical people get started; they never know when to stop. No, she's promised to me to-night, and I'm not going to let her off." All this was said in a bright, laughing way, that hadn't an atom of unfriendliness in the tone of it; and Dolly had not the faintest idea that her proposition was being decidedly snubbed, as she listened. The other girls were wiser. The moment that Hope refused to play in the way she did, they knew that the proposition was distasteful to her; and when Kate Van der Berg came to the support of this refusal with that quick, bright decision, they knew that _she_ knew more than they did why the proposition was distasteful. Anna Fleming, who was Kate's room-mate, said to her a little later,-- "Kate, didn't you think it was rather disobliging of Hope Benham not to play that duet with Dorothea Dering?" "Disobliging! Well, that is a way to put it. I think it was the most forward, presuming--what my brother Schuyler would call 'the cheekiest thing' for that girl to take it for granted that such a violinist as Hope Benham would want to practise her little rubbishy waltzes with her." "But she didn't know probably what a splendid player Hope was, when she first asked her." "She knew, didn't she, after she had heard the sonata?" "Yes, I suppose she had some idea, but she might not have been a very good judge. She said, you know, at once that she couldn't play like Hope, anyway." "Yes, I heard her; so kind of her to say that," cried Kate, sarcastically. Anna laughed. Then, "What's the matter with 'that girl,' as you call her?" she asked. "Matter! well, I should think you could see as well as I that she is a forward sort of thing; that's all I've got against her," Kate concluded hastily, remembering her promise to Hope. "Hope must have taken a great dislike to her." "Why should you think that?" "Because I never knew Hope Benham to set herself up on her violin-playing before, and refuse to play with anybody." "Nobody has ever asked her to play a violin duet. It is she who has asked one of us to play an accompaniment for her now and then. You know that _we_ should never have thought of going forward and offering to play for her." "Oh, well, we knew all about her playing from Miss Marr. But you say nobody has ever asked her to play a violin duet. How about that little Vernon girl who left last term? Hope used to play with _her_ a great deal, and Milly used to ask her too. Hope didn't care particularly for Milly Vernon." "But she wanted to help her." "And she wanted to be obliging too. Hope Benham has always been one of the kindest and most obliging girls in school." "And she is now, but she has some sense and spirit, and probably doesn't mean to have a new-comer like Dorothea Dering take full possession of her on short acquaintance." "Yes, it _is_ a pretty short acquaintance," responded Anna, thoughtfully. "That last remark of mine was a happy hit," thought Kate, triumphantly. "It has disposed of all the surmises about Hope's dislike, but," she further thought, "I wonder how this violin business is going to end. I prophesy that Miss Dorothea Dering will carry the day, and Hope will play that duet with her yet." CHAPTER XI. The first two months at school generally pass very quickly; after that, the time is apt to move a little slower. The first two months at Miss Marr's school passed so quickly that the girls all confessed themselves "so surprised" when December came with Christmas scarcely more than three weeks away. Miss Marr gave a vacation on Christmas week, when the boarding-girls, as those who were inmates of her house were called, could go to their homes, if not too far off, and return by New Year's eve, for it was a fixed rule that they must all be back by that time, and not one of them but was delighted to obey this rule, for not one of them would have lost Miss Marr's New Year's party, which, according to Kate Van der Berg, was the best fun of the year. "But what do you do, what _is_ the fun?" inquired Dolly Dering, who was present when Kate made the above statement. "What do we do?" answered Kate. "Well, in the first place, on New Year's eve, we have a jolly little party of just ourselves,--we girls in the house, none of the outside girls, the day pupils,--and we play games, sing songs, tell stories, do anything, in fact, that we want to do, and at half-past ten there is a little light supper served, such as ices, and the most delicious frosted sponge-cakes, and seed-cakes, and then there is bread and butter, and hot cocoa for those that want it. After this we feel as fresh and rested as possible, and all ready to sit the old year out and the new year in." "Oh, you _don't_ do that?" cried Dolly, delightedly, for to sit up late was one of her ideas of happiness. "We do just that" "Well, and then?" "Then," went on Kate, laughing, "we begin to grow a little quieter. We tell stories in lower voices; we watch the clock, and as it strikes twelve, we jump to our feet and all break out singing a New Year's song or hymn. Sometimes it is one thing and sometimes it is another. Last year it was Tennyson's "Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky: The year is dying; let him die." "And Hope's violin playing," exclaimed Myra Donaldson here. "Don't you remember how Hope played the violin last year? She just made it talk; don't you remember?" "Oh, yes," went on Kate, hurriedly. "Hope played, and then we all wished each other a 'Happy New Year,' and went to bed. The next day--" "What did she play?" asked Dolly, breaking in upon Kate here. "Oh, she played--she played--" "Robert Franz's 'Good-night' song and Behr's 'Good-morning,'" struck in Myra again, impatient at Kate's hesitation. "Oh, I know Franz's 'Good-night,' and doesn't the 'Good morning' go like this?" asked Dolly, beginning to whistle the air of Behr's. "Yes, that is it, and I played the accompaniment," answered Myra. "It was just delicious. We all cried, for it seemed as if the violin sang the very words." "I never heard either of them on the violin, but my sister sings them both," said Dolly. "I think these were arranged for the violin by Hope's teacher, specially for Hope," exclaimed Myra. "I think Hope--" "Don't you want to hear what we did the next day and the next evening?" called out Kate, exasperated at Myra's harping on Hope and her violin to Dolly. "Oh, yes;" and Dolly brightened up expectantly. Myra, at that moment receiving a sharp little reminder under the table from Kate's foot, and another reminder from Kate's warning look, subsided into silence, while Kate took up her story of New Year's day and evening. "Of course, after that midnight watch, we breakfasted late,--oh, so late! and the best part of it was, we breakfasted in our rooms." "In your rooms?" exclaimed Dolly. "Yes, at ten o'clock, tap, tap, came on our doors, and enter Susette with a tray, on which was a delicious breakfast for two, and a dear little bouquet of flowers for each of us. Isn't Miss Marr a dear to think of such things?" "Will she do the same this year?" questioned Dolly, eagerly. "Oh, yes; she has always done the same in the main things,--the evening luncheon or little supper on New Year's eve, the sitting out, then the breakfast, and the reception party New Year's night. She only varies some of the details." "Oh, you have an evening party New Year's night?" "Yes, indeed." "Who is invited? Who comes?" "Well, I can tell you one thing,--that everybody comes who is lucky enough to be invited, and the invited are all the outside girls and one friend of each; that is, each girl can invite one friend. We boarding-girls have the same privilege. I always invite one of my relations, and isn't there a scramble amongst them to see which it shall be?" "And what do you do at the party?" Kate looked a little disgusted at this question. "What do we do? We do what most people do at a party," she answered rather tartly. "Well, what I meant was, do you dance?" asked Dolly, in a half-apologetic tone. "Dance? I should think we did, and we have music, and at the very end the best fun of all." "I shouldn't think it would be such great fun, just to dance with girls." "You are not obliged to dance with girls." "What! You don't mean--that there are young fellows--men?" "There are _boys_,--that's what I call them,--boys like my brother Schuyler. Schuyler is seventeen." Dolly gave a long drawn "Oh!" It was evidently an "Oh" of relief; but directly she asked, with demure mischief,-- "Can't you have 'em over seventeen?" Kate laughed. "Well, we can't have regular grown-ups, you know, and we don't want them. But we can have them all the way from fifteen to eighteen, I believe." "How odd! Doesn't Miss Marr think we are up to conversation with grown-up young gentlemen?" "She thinks probably that 'grown-up gentlemen,' as you call them,--gentlemen out in society,--wouldn't care to come to a school-girl party, and that it is much more suitable to have boys of our own age,--boys we all know, or most of us know, at any rate, and who have something the same interests that we have,--school interests, and things of that kind. For my part, I shouldn't know what to say to gentlemen so much older than myself." "Oh, wouldn't you?" cried Dolly, with an air--a knowing sort of air--that exasperated Kate. "I have a grown-up sister, and I've seen a good many of her gentlemen visitors. I never found it hard to talk to them," went on Dolly, with a still more knowing air. "And I have a grown-up brother," retorted Kate, "and I've heard him tell how men go on about half-grown girls and their forwardness and boldness and pertness, and how they--the young men--disliked that kind of thing, or else amused themselves with it for a little while, and then made fun of it." Dolly's face had flushed scarlet at these words, and at the end she burst forth angrily,-- "I suppose you mean that when I talked with my sister's, I must have been forward and bold and pert." It was Kate's turn now to flush. She saw that in her irritation--Dolly was apt to irritate her--she had been unwarrantably rude, and swallowing her mortification, she at once made haste to say,-- "I beg your pardon, I--I shouldn't have spoken as I did. I am very sorry." Dolly gave a quick glance at the speaker, hesitated a moment, as if waiting for something further, then jumped up and flounced out of the room with an angry impetus that there was no mistaking. "Well, that is interesting, I must confess," ejaculated Kate. "I begged her pardon; what more did she want?" "She wanted you to say that you hadn't the least idea of _her_ in your mind,--that you didn't mean that _she_ was forward or pert, and you said nothing of the sort; you only begged her pardon for having _spoken_ as you did," explained Myra Donaldson, giggling a little. "And that is what I meant,--just that,--that I was sorry for having spoken--" "Your thoughts," said Myra, giggling again. "Dorothea is generally a good-natured girl," spoke up Anna Fleming here, with a kind impulse to be just. "Oh, _I_ like Dorothea very well. I should like her better if she didn't bounce and flounce so. You can't say that her manners are as nice as they might be, can you?" said Myra, looking appealingly at Anna. "N--o, I can't say that her manners are really nice," answered Anna. "_I_ think she is vulgar!" Kate suddenly snapped out, with a vehemence that quite startled the other two girls. "Vulgar! why, Kate, she's one of the Boston Derings." Kate made a little face, and then in a sarcastic voice, "Who are the Boston Derings?" she asked. "Now, Kate, you know perfectly well that the Boston Derings belong to the best society in Massachusetts, and that they have always belonged to it from the first," protested Anna, getting things rather mixed in her eagerness. "From the first!" repeated Kate, laughing derisively. "I suppose you mean from the time of Adam." "Now, Kate, you know perfectly well what I mean. The Derings came from an old family." "Like Sandy MacDougal." "Eh--what--who is Sandy MacDougal?" "Our gardener. He came straight to us from Scotland, and he's as proud as a peacock of his family. He says the MacDougals have been first-class gardeners for generations." Myra Donaldson gave another of her giggles, but Anna did not join in her levity. Instead of that she said with dignity,-- "What _I_ mean is an old family like the Van der Bergs." Kate flushed rosy red. This was "a retort courteous," and for a moment she was dumb; but a moment after, she sat up in her chair, and cried laughingly,-- "The Van der Bergs are not proud, except of one thing in their family history." "What's that?" inquired Anna, quickly. Kate laughed again. "It is the performance of a long-ago ancestor,--a Dutch boatman named Van der Berg. It was in that early time when the Netherlanders were struggling against Spain to establish their own liberty and independence. William the Silent, Prince of Orange, you know, who had been the Netherlanders' best friend when he was at the head of their commonwealth, was dead, and his son, Maurice, Prince of Nassau, was working with John of olden Barneveld to help the Netherlanders, as his father had been doing, to become strong enough to get altogether out of the clutches of Spain. But how ridiculous of me to talk history to you like this, just because of that old story! To change the conversation, what is it you are knitting, Anna,--a shawl or a cape?" "No, no, we don't want to change the conversation," protested Anna and Myra, who knew quite well what a delightful story-teller Kate was, and never more delightful than when she was "talking history,"--telling "true stories," as they expressed it. Neither of the girls was very fond of _studying_ history, but they were very fond of listening to Kate whenever she would "talk it," or whenever she would pick out of it its--to them--labyrinthine mazes some stirring incident, and read it to them. So their protest now was very decisive against any change of conversation; and thus urged to go back to her subject, Kate went on with the story of her ancestor. She had not gone far, however, when she stopped short again, saying,-- "But wait! Motley tells the story so beautifully in his 'United Netherlands;' let me read it to you in his own words. It's too bad to try to tell it in _my_ words; and here's the book right on this lower library shelf." [Illustration: "IT WAS THE WORK OF A MOMENT TO POSSESS HERSELF OF THE BOOK"] It was the work of a moment to possess herself of the book; and the girls, settling themselves comfortably in their chairs, gave themselves up to the pleasure of listening to the following spirited narrative:-- CHAPTER XII. "The fair and pleasant city of Breda lies on the Merk,--a slender stream navigable for small vessels, which finds its way to the sea through the great canal of the Dental. It had been the property of the Princes of Orange, Barons of Breda, and had passed with the other possessions of the family to the house of Châlons-Nassau. Henry of Nassau had, half a century before, adorned and strengthened it by a splendid palace-fortress, which, surrounded by a deep and double moat, thoroughly commanded the town. A garrison of five companies of Italian infantry and one of cavalry lay in this castle, which was under the command of Edward Lanzavecchia, governor both of Breda and of the neighboring Gertruydenberg. Breda was an important strategical position. It was, moreover, the feudal superior of a large number of adjacent villages, as well as of the cities of Osterhout, Steenberg, and Rosendaal. It was obviously not more desirable for Maurice of Nassau to recover his patrimonial city than it was for the States-General to drive the Spaniards from so important a position. "In the month of February, 1590, Maurice, being then at the castle of Voorn, in Zeeland, received a secret visit from a boatman,--Adrian Van der Berg by name,--who lived at the village of Leur, eight or ten miles from Breda, and who had been in the habit of supplying the castle with turf. In the absence of wood and coal-mines, the habitual fuel of the country was furnished by those vast relics of the antediluvian forests, which abounded in the still partially submerged soil. The skipper represented that his vessel had passed so often into and out of the castle as to be hardly liable to search by the guard on its entrance. He suggested a stratagem by which it might be possible to surprise the stronghold. The prince approved of the scheme, and immediately consulted with Barneveld. That statesman at once proposed, as a suitable man to carry out the daring venture, Captain Charles de Heraugiere,--a nobleman of Cambray,--who had been long in the service of the States, had distinguished himself at Sluys and on other occasions, but who had been implicated in Leicester's nefarious plot to gain possession of the city of Leyden, a few years before. The advocate expressed confidence that he would be grateful for so signal an opportunity of retrieving a somewhat damaged reputation. Heraugiere, who was with his company in Voorn at the moment, eagerly signified his desire to attempt the enterprise as soon as the matter was communicated to him, avowing the deepest devotion to the House of William the Silent, and perfect willingness to sacrifice his life, if necessary, in its cause and that of the country. Philip Nassau, cousin of Prince Maurice, and brother of Lewis William, Governor of Gorcum Dorcum and Lowenstein Castle, and colonel of a regiment of cavalry, was also taken into the secret, as well as Count Hohenlo, President Van der Myle, and a few others; but a mystery was carefully spread and maintained over the undertaking. Heraugiere selected sixty-eight men, on whose personal daring and patience he knew that he could rely, from the regiments of Philip Nassau and Famars, governor of the neighboring city of Hensden, and from his own company. Besides himself, the officers to command the party were Captains Lozier and Fervet, and Lieutenant Matthew Held. The names of such devoted soldiers deserve to be commemorated, and are still freshly remembered by their countrymen. "On the 25th of February, Maurice and his staff went to Willemstad, on the isle of Klundert, it having been given out on his departure from the Hague that his destination was Dort. On the same night, at about eleven o'clock, by the feeble light of a waning moon, Heraugiere and his band came to the Swertsenburg ferry, as agreed upon, to meet the boatman. They found neither him nor his vessel, and they wandered about half the night, very cold, very indignant, much perplexed. At last, on their way back, they came upon the skipper at the village of Terheyde, who made the extraordinary excuse that he had overslept himself, and that he feared the plot had been discovered. It being too late to make any attempt that night, a meeting was arranged for the following evening. No suspicion of treachery occurred to any of the party, although it became obvious that the skipper had grown faint-hearted. He did not come on the next night to the appointed place, but he sent two nephews, boatmen like himself, whom he described as dare-devils. "On Monday night, the 26th of February, the seventy went on board the vessel, which was apparently filled with blocks of turf, and packed themselves closely in the hold. They moved slowly during a little time on their perilous voyage, for the winter wind, thick with fog and sleet, blew directly down the river, bringing along with it huge blocks of ice, and scooping the water out of the dangerous shallows, so as to render the vessel at any moment liable to be stranded. At last the navigation became impossible, and they came to a standstill. From Monday night till Thursday morning those seventy Hollanders lay packed like herrings in the hold of their little vessel, suffering from hunger, thirst, and deadly cold; yet not one of them attempted to escape or murmured a wish to abandon the enterprise. Even when the third morning dawned, there was no better prospect of proceeding, for the remorseless east wind still blew a gale against them, and the shoals which beset their path had become more dangerous than ever. It was, however, absolutely necessary to recruit exhausted nature, unless the adventurers were to drop powerless on the threshold when they should at last arrive at their destination. In all secrecy they went ashore at a lonely castle called Nordam, where they remained to refresh themselves until about eleven at night, when one of the boatmen came to them with the intelligence that the wind had changed and was now blowing freshly from the sea. Yet the voyage of a few leagues, on which they were embarked, lasted nearly two whole days longer; on Saturday afternoon they passed through the last sluice, and at about three o'clock the last boom was shut behind them. There was no retreat possible for them now. The seventy were to take the strong castle and city of Breda or to lay down their lives every man of them. No quarter and short shrift,--such was their certain destiny, should that crippled, half-frozen little band not succeed in their task before another sunrise. "They were now in the outer harbor, and not far from the water-gate which led into the inner castle-haven. Presently an officer of the guard put off in a skiff and came on board the vessel. Those inside could see and hear his every movement. Had there been a single cough or sneeze from within, the true character of the cargo, then making its way into the castle, would have been discovered, and every man would, within ten minutes, have been butchered. But the officer, unsuspecting, soon took his departure, saying that he would send some men to warp the vessel into the castle dock. "Meantime, as the adventurers were making their way slowly towards the water-gate, they struck upon a hidden obstruction in the river, and the deeply laden vessel sprang a leak. In a few minutes those inside were sitting up to their knees in water,--a circumstance which scarcely improved their already sufficiently dismal condition. The boatmen vigorously plied the pumps to save the vessel from sinking outright; a party of Italian soldiers soon arrived on the shore, and in the course of a couple of hours they had laboriously dragged the concealed Hollanders into the inner harbor and made their vessel fast, close to the guard-house of the castle. And now a crowd of all sorts came on board. The winter nights had been long and fearfully cold, and there was almost a dearth of fuel both in town and fortress. A gang of laborers set to work discharging the turf from the vessel with such rapidity that the departing daylight began to shine in upon the prisoners much sooner than they wished. Moreover the thorough wetting to which, after all their other inconveniences they had just been exposed, in their narrow escape from foundering, had set the whole party sneezing and coughing. Never was a catarrh so sudden, so universal, or ill-timed. Lieutenant Held, unable to control the violence of his cough, drew his dagger and eagerly implored his next neighbor to stab him to the heart, lest his infirmity should lead to the discovery of the whole party. But the calm and wary skipper who stood on the deck instantly commanded his companion to work at the pump with as much chatter as possible, assuring the persons present that the hold was nearly full of water. By this means the noise of the coughing was effectually drowned. Most thoroughly did the bold boatman deserve the title of "dare-devil" bestowed by his more faint-hearted uncle. Calmly looking death in the face, he stood there, quite at his ease, exchanging jokes with his old acquaintances, chaffering with the eager purchasers of peat, shouting most noisy and superfluous orders to the one man who composed his crew, doing his utmost, in short, to get rid of his customers and to keep enough of the turf on board to conceal the conspirators. At last, when the case seemed almost desperate, he loudly declared that sufficient had been unladen for that evening and that it was too dark and he was too tired for further work. So giving a handful of stivers among the workmen, he bade them go ashore at once and have some beer, and come next morning for the rest of the cargo. Fortunately, they accepted his hospitable proposition and took their departure; only the servant of the captain of the guard lingered behind, complaining that the turf was not as good as usual, and that his master would never be satisfied with it. "'Ah!' returned the cool skipper, '_the best part of the cargo is underneath. This is expressly reserved for the captain. He is sure to get enough of it to-morrow_.' "Thus admonished, the servant departed, and the boatman was left to himself. His companion had gone on shore with secret orders to make the best of his way to Prince Maurice, to inform him of the arrival of the ship within the fortress, and of the important fact which they had just learned that Governor Lanzavecchia, who had heard rumors of some projected enterprise, and who suspected that the object aimed at was Gertruydenberg, had suddenly taken his departure from that city, leaving as his lieutenant his nephew Paola, a raw lad, quite incompetent to provide for the safety of Breda. A little before midnight, Captain Heraugiere made a brief address to his comrades in the vessel, telling them that the hour for carrying out their undertaking had at length arrived. Retreat was impossible, defeat was certain death; only in complete victory lay their own safety and a great advantage for the Commonwealth. It was an honor for them to be selected for such an enterprise. To show cowardice now would be an eternal shame for them, and he would be the man to strike dead with his own hand any traitor or poltroon. But if, as he doubted not, every one was prepared to do his duty, their success was assured, and he was himself ready to take the lead in confronting every danger. He then divided the little band into two companies,--one under himself to attack the main guard-house, the other under Fernet to seize the arsenal of the fortress. Noiselessly they stole out of the ship where they had so long been confined, and stood at last on the ground within the precincts of the castle. Heraugiere marched straight to the guard-house. "'Who goes there?' cried a sentinel, hearing some movement in the darkness. "'A friend,' replied the captain, seizing him by the throat, and commanding him, as he valued his life, to keep silence except when addressed, and then to speak in a whisper. "'How many are there in the garrison?' muttered Heraugiere. "'Three hundred and fifty,' whispered the sentinel. "'How many?' eagerly demanded the nearest followers, not hearing the reply. "'He says there are but fifty of them,' said Heraugiere, prudently suppressing the three hundred, in order to encourage his comrades. "Quietly as they had made their approach, there was nevertheless a stir in the guard-house. The captain of the watch sprang into the courtyard. "'Who goes?' he demanded in his turn. "'A friend,' again replied Heraugiere, striking him dead with a single blow as he spoke. "Others emerged with torches. Heraugiere was slightly wounded, but succeeded, after a brief struggle, in killing a second assailant. His followers set upon the watch, who retreated into the guard-house. Heraugiere commanded his men to fire through the doors and windows, and in a few minutes every one of the enemy lay dead. It was not a moment for making prisoners or speaking of quarter. Meantime Fervet and his band had not been idle. The magazine house of the castle was seized, its defenders slain. Young Lanzavecchia made a sally from the palace, was wounded, and driven back with a few of his adherents. The rest of the garrison fled helter-skelter into the town. Never had the musketeers of Italy--for they all belonged to Spinola's famous Sicilian Legion--behaved so badly. They did not even take the precaution to destroy the bridge between the castle and the town, as they fled panic-stricken before seventy Hollanders. Instead of encouraging the burghers to their support, they spread dismay as they ran through every street. Young Lanzavecchia, penned into a corner of the castle, began to parley, hoping for a rally before a surrender should be necessary. In the midst of the negotiation, and a couple of hours before dawn, Hohenlo, duly apprised by the boatman, arrived with the vanguard of Maurice's troops before the field-gate of the fort. A vain attempt was made to force this portal open, but the winter's ice had fixed it fast. Hohenlo was obliged to batter down the palisade near the water-gate, and enter by the same road through which the fatal turf-boat had passed. Soon after he had marched into the town at the head of a strong detachment, Prince Maurice himself arrived in great haste, attended by Philip Nassau, the Admiral Justinus Nassau, Count Solms, Peter Van der Does, and Sir Francis Vere, and followed by another body of picked troops; the musicians playing merrily that national air, then, as now, so dear to Netherlanders,-- 'Wilhelmus van Nassonwen Ben ick van Duytsem bloed.' "The fight was over. Some forty of the garrison had been killed, but not a man of the attacking party. The burgomaster sent a trumpet to the prince, asking permission to come to the castle to arrange a capitulation; and before sunrise the city and fortress of Breda had surrendered to the authority of the States-General and of his Excellency. "There, I ought not to have read all that long story,--I've tired you out, I know," exclaimed Kate, apologetically, as she closed her book. CHAPTER XIII. "Tired us out? No, indeed, you haven't," cried the girls in a breath; and one of the girls was Hope, who had come in softly just as Kate had begun to read, and who now added,-- "It's lovely to listen to anything when you read it, Kate." "Isn't it!" took up Myra. "Miss Marr ought to pay Kate a salary for the good she does in this history business. I hate to _study_ it; I always get all in a wabble with the dates and the names and the places, and by and by, when I try to tell about it or think about it, I get a fifteenth-century king into the sixteenth century just as likely as not. But when Kate picks out her little nuggets of gold from the mass, and sets them before me, I begin to see daylight." "So do I, so do I!" cried Anna Fleming; "and another thing,--I am not ashamed to ask Kate ignorant questions." "Nor I," declared Myra; and then they all laughed, and Myra followed up the laugh by immediately proceeding to ask two or three of these "ignorant questions,"--the first being, "If Spain had possession of Breda, what does it mean by the Italian infantry and cavalry being there to defend it?" "It means that at that time," answered Kate, "Philip II., called Philip the Prudent, had possession of the better portion of Italy, with other territory that he had gobbled up, and so, of course, he made use of Italian soldiers." "Who was Lewis William?" "He was the stadt of Friesland,--Friesland was part of the Netherlands." "Oh, and what became of the dare-devil skipper,--Van der Berg,--your ancestor?" "Oh, he didn't come to anything wonderful,--he 'fought and bled' in freedom's cause like most of those Dutchmen, I suppose." "But there was a family of Van _den_ Bergs who were cousins to Maurice," here spoke up Hope. "Were these any relations to Van der Berg, the skipper?" "Oh, no,--we didn't descend from princes and counts," laughed Kate. "I don't believe but that it _is_ the Van den you belong to, anyway," said Anna. "Nonsense," cried Kate; "if we 'belong,' as you say, to a family of that early day, it is to the dare-devil Van der Bergs, and that's good enough for me. My brother Schuyler ought to hear you give preference to the Van _den_ Bergs. He would be ready to fight a duel with you; for, from a little boy, he has been perfectly enchanted with that story of the dare-devil, and when we were all at home five years ago,--little things of ten and eleven and twelve,--we used to play the story, and we called it 'The Siege of Breda.' It was when we were up at our summer place on the Hudson. It was such fun. We had a queer little cottage on the place, that had a lot of gables and turrets. It was unoccupied, except as a sort of storehouse for fruit; and this cottage we called 'the castle.' A rather wide stream of water runs through the grounds, and broadens out into a sort of miniature lake at the foot of the garden. It was just across this broader part, where it was also quite deep, that the cottage showed its turrets and gables, and we got the gardener and one of the stable men to build up a sort of palisade of bricks and stones and boards all about it. Inside this we made a guard-house, and the arsenal was in the castle itself. Then we knew an old sailor who fixed up our little yacht, made a cabin and hold, where the boys crept in,--the boys who represented the attacking party, the seventy Hollanders,--and we packed around them a lot of dry moss we had prepared, to represent turf. Mr. Brown--our old sailor--also fixed up something that did duty for a water-gate. Well, when we had got everything as near to our minds as possible, we dressed ourselves up in our costumes,--oh, yes, we had regular costumes. My uncle Schuyler said it was a real history lesson for us, and he should do all he could to help it along; and so he hunted up some books that had the illustrations of the costumes of that time, and we got mamma and a seamstress we had to help us make up suits for us." "And did _you_ take part?" asked Myra. "Did _I_ take part? Well, I should think I did. _I_ was Captain Charles de Heraugiere, if you please. And oh, the cunning little suit I had,--a regular fighting suit of imitation leather and a rough-looking sort of stuff like frieze, and a sort of waistcoat of chamois skin, and then a dear little hat with a feather;--oh, and boots with tops that came 'way up to the knee-bend. We made the tops ourselves of mock leather, russet color, and sewed them to our russet shoes. Oh, it was _such_ fun!" "But your brother--what character did he take?" "Oh, there was but one character that _he_ would take, and that was the dare-devil boatman who stood on the deck and joked with the purchasers of the peat. You should have seen Schuyler as he did it. It was moonlight, for mamma and papa wouldn't let us play it as we wanted to on a dark night, for there might be an accident; but we ran the boat down by some sheltering bushes, and the boys who took the part of the purchasers from the castle stood in the lighter place where the moonlight fell, and that left the place where our hidden soldiers were quite dusky and mysterious. But Schuyler stood in the light, the moon shining straight in his face. His suit was a good deal rougher than mine, but a good deal like it; only he had a cap on, and that was pushed back, and he looked so handsome and bold when he joked and laughed and answered the purchasers. Then when we soldiers stole out of the ship where we were in hiding--What! how could I see Schuyler when I was hidden? Oh, I peeped through the moss. And how many boys had we? Oh, twenty in all,--about eight in the boat,--it wouldn't hold any more; but the eight of them made _such_ a show in their costumes. They were all our neighbors and close friends, the whole twenty of them. Four were the Dyker brothers, and the Burton boys with _their_ cousins who had come up a-visiting them from Philadelphia; and there were our boys and the Van Loons and Delmars to make up the twenty. But, as I was saying, when we soldiers stole up out of the vessel, and I marched at the head of my band, the dare-devil _would_ lead the way. I told him it was all out of order, but he declared that Captain Heraugiere _couldn't_ know the way as the dare-devil who had carried the peat so often must know it, and that of course he must be guided; so I had to give in. "We started our play at the point where the officer of the guard puts off from the castle in a skiff, and comes on board our vessel; then, after that, we slip down through the water-gate,--of course we don't have any leak,--the Burton boys and the Van Loons come to the shore and drag us into the harbor and make the vessel fast, close to the guard-house. It was just after that, you know, that the dare-devil receives the purchasers, and goes through all that joking and sending the people off, saying that he was tired. And then I followed as Captain Heraugiere; and what do you think!--Schuyler at first wanted to be Captain Heraugiere too. He said he could easily manage it; but it was when he found he wouldn't be allowed to gobble up the two characters, he insisted upon showing the captain the way, and so he stuck to me all through, flourishing his wooden sword on the slightest excuse. But how we did lay about us! Whack, whack, we knocked over the Burtons, and all the rest of the Italians, with the young Lanzavecchia at their head; and then came the great end of the victory, the arrival of Hohenlo with the vanguard of Maurice's troops, and then Prince Maurice himself with his fine attendants,--his counts and admirals, and these were the Van Loons and the Burtons again, who had rigged themselves up in other clothes,--nice honest Dutch clothes to play the Netherlander parts. So we turned and twisted our twenty boys, just as they do on the stage, and you'd have thought there were a host of them. Well, when the vanguard arrived, we all joined together and marched into the town--that is, around our grounds and into the castle, the Dyker brothers, who are musical, playing the national air with a drum and fife and cornet, and some of the rest of us, breaking out now and then at the top of our voices into the chorus,-- 'Wilhelmus van Nassouwen Ben ick van Duytsem bloed,' which means, 'William from Nassau, I am from German blood.' William from Nassau, you know, was the great Prince of Orange. "And marching to this playing and singing, we entered the castle,--our cottage,--where a table had been set with a lot of Dutch dainties, made by our German cook, Wilhelmina, who had lived in Holland and knew everything about the dear little Dutch cakes and things they eat there. Then, after we had partaken of the feast, the table was carried out, and we danced to our heart's content. Oh, we did have such a good time, and we kept it up every year until we got too old for it." "What fun it _must_ have been!" cried Myra. "I wish I could have been there; but didn't you have any other girl but yourself in the play with those twenty boys?" "No, not in the play; but we had plenty of girls as spectators and at the feast and dancing." "And did you ever make a play out of any other historical incident?" asked Anna Fleming. "Yes, several; and I think that is the reason why historical events became so fixed in my mind, and I got so interested in reading history. It began by accident, as you might say,--that is, by Schuyler's delight in the Van der Berg story, and insisting on playing it. It's the best way in the world, let me tell you, to play history like this,--it teaches you more than any ordinary study possibly can, and you find that through it you get events and epochs perfectly clear in your mind, and everything by and by spreads out before you like reality." "I wish Miss Marr would let us have history lessons this way," said Myra. "Perhaps she will, some time, if Kate tells her what she has told us," said Anna, hopefully; "and you _will_ tell her some time, won't you, Kate?" "Yes, I'll tell her, but I don't think it is the thing to do in school days; you ought to get it up in the summer, during vacations. It would interfere with other studies to go into all the preparation and work of such performances in school." "Did you ever like any other of your plays as well as the Siege?" asked Hope. "No, never; but what made you ask that, Hope?" "Because it was so stirring and out-door-sy, and the boatman was so jolly and brave, I thought it wasn't possible that there could have been another story quite so playable as that." "I said the Van der Bergs were proud of only one thing,--this performance of the boatman; but there was another of our ancestors of a later day who is very interesting, I think, and just as plucky and brave in another way." "Oh!" ejaculated Anna Fleming, with such an air of anticipation that they all laughed, for they all knew Anna's weakness for ancestors; and this "Oh," said very plainly, "Now we are to hear of something more worth while than an old boatman, something probably about those aristocratic Knickerbocker ancestors of Kate's." Kate herself, thoroughly appreciating Anna's state of mind, went on demurely: "This ancestor was my mother's great-great-grandfather. He was the son of a small farmer in England, and he came to New York a poor boy, with only a few shillings in his pocket; and with these few shillings he started, and, working at all sorts of things,--as a stevedore, and anything else he could find to do,--he at last worked his way up to a little clerkship in a little mercantile house, and from there he climbed step by step into a bigger clerkship, in the same little house, and then step by step into a clerkship in a big house, until after a while, after all sorts of working and waiting and hardships, he came to be at the head of the big house, and one of the first merchants of the day in New York. We have in our family now one of those English shillings that he brought over and saved for luck when he was working on the wharves, and we keep it for luck; and there is a packet of old letters and a diary he kept, telling the whole story, that we have too. Oh, yes, we are very proud of our great-great-great-grandfather, I can tell you," smiling up at the girls. "But where did those lovely old shoe-buckles and gold buttons, and that old silver with the V. der B. engraved on it, that I saw when I visited you,--where did those come from, if that boatman was the only Dutch ancestor you had that you were proud of?" anxiously and disappointedly asked Anna here. "Oh, they came from some of the later V. der B.'s; some descendants that had nothing specially interesting about them,--were not heroes of any kind, but just rich old burghers." "But weren't they what are called the Knickerbocker families?" "Yes; but you know how that name came to be given to them, don't you?" "No, not exactly," answered Anna, shamefacedly. "And _I_ haven't the least idea. I know I ought to know, but I don't," burst out Myra, blithely and boldly; "so do tell us." "Well, it came about in this way. Washington Irving wrote a burlesque history of New York,--that is, it was a burlesque on a pompous handbook of the city, that had just been published. He called it 'A History of New York from the beginning of the world to the end of the Dutch Dynasty, by Diedrich Knickerbocker.' "He made up the name of Knickerbocker probably, as people now make up a name for a _nom de plume_. But at the time by a facetious advertisement, such as Hawthorne might have written at a later day,--an advertisement 'inquiring for a small, elderly gentleman, dressed in an old black coat and cocked hat, by the name of Knickerbocker, who was said to have disappeared from the Columbus Hotel in Mulberry Street, and left behind a very curious kind of a written book,'--he fooled some of those Dutch ancestors of mine into thinking that this was a veritable Dutch name, and that this old gentleman was a veritable owner of the name, and writer of the History of New York, which they thought was meant for a veritable history. Then some of them finding it was a burlesque were seriously offended, and made a great fuss about it; but in spite of all this, the name stuck, and as it was really meant as a sort of interpretation of the aristocratic Dutch character, it was after a while accepted as a title for the descendants of the old Dutch burghers, and so grew into a term for the gentry or aristocratic class. That is all there is to it." "Well, then, that proves that you _are_ from the Dutch gentry,--an old Knickerbocker family!" exclaimed Anna, in a tone of satisfaction, that brought forth a perfect shout of laughter from Kate, and after the laughter the immediate answer, "Oh, yes; and the New York head of this old Knickerbocker family of mine kept a shop down near the wharves, where he bought and sold flour and molasses, just as that dear old Joris Van Heemskirk did in Mrs. Barr's dear, delightful story, 'The Bow of Orange Ribbon.' In trade, you see,--shopkeepers!" and Kate nodded her head and laughed again, as she looked at Anna, who had a silly way sometimes of talking as she had heard some English people talk of "people in trade." But Anna, who did not like to be laughed at, any more than the rest of us, retorted here: "It will do for you to go on in this way about family, and ancestors, and all that. _You_ can afford to tell the truth because you _do_ belong and _have_ belonged, or your family has belonged, for years to the upper class; but if you had only just come up from--from--" "Selling flour and molasses," struck in Kate, mischievously. "No, I did not mean that, for I suppose things were different then; but if you belonged to new rich people,--people who had just made money, people who had been common working-people, mechanics, or something of that sort,--you wouldn't talk like this, you'd keep still." "Yes, if I belonged to common working-people, people whose minds were common and vulgar; but how if I belonged to working-people like George Stephenson, the father of English railways, and the locomotive? Oh, Anna, _don't_ you remember we had to study up about Watt and Boulton and the Stephensons last term in connection with our applied-science lessons?" "Last term!" cried Anna; "you can't expect _me_ to remember everything I studied up on, last term. Things like that don't stick in my mind as they do in yours." "Well, you ought to remember about George Stephenson, who was the son of a fireman of a colliery engine in England, and how he worked up, and educated himself, and finally constructed the steam locomotive that made him famous, and led to his being employed in the construction of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway. And there was his son Robert, who followed in his father's footsteps and became an authority on everything connected with railways and engines; and then there was James Watt, who preceded them as the inventor of the condensing steam-engine for manufacturing purposes, which led the way to Stephenson's locomotive. Watt was only a poor boy, the son of a small trader in Scotland, and was an apprentice to a philosophical-instrument maker, where he worked so hard and lived so poorly that he nearly lost his health. Do you think that men like these wouldn't dare to talk about their humble beginnings? Do you think _they_ would keep still, or do you think their families would keep still, because they were ashamed of the humble beginnings? No, no, not unless they were miserable cowards and didn't know what to be proud of, and that indeed would make them dirt common and vulgar, and not deserving their good fortune." "Well, I wasn't thinking of geniuses, of course. I don't suppose that anybody who was connected with such people as you speak of would be ashamed exactly of the 'humble beginnings,' as you call them,--the people _I_ mean are the ordinary people, who have just come up from nowhere, with a lot of money made out of--" "Flour and molasses; yes, I see--you think the molasses sticks to them, and they pretend to ignore it. Well, all I've got to say is that I do so hate cowardice, I think, if I were in their places, with the molasses so new and sticky, that I should blurt out, 'Molasses! molasses!' if anybody so much as _looked_ at me attentively. But goodness, girls, do you know what time it is?" "Half-past eight," guessed Myra and Anna, confidently. "Half-past eight! you geese, it's half-past nine." There was a chorus of "Oh's" and "Ah's," and then a general good-night and scampering off to bed. CHAPTER XIV. It was very late before Hope fell asleep that night. Generally sleep came to her quickly while Myra dawdled and pottered about, until the lights were put out. But on this night Myra, from her little bed in the opposite corner of the room, heard her usually quiet room-mate tossing and turning in a very restless fashion. "What in the world is the matter with you, Hope?" she asked her at length. "Are you ill?" "Ill? Oh, no; I'm only a little restless," Hope answered. "I am sorry I disturbed you,--I'll try to be quieter." "Oh, you didn't disturb me, Hope,--such a little thing as that wouldn't disturb me,--but I thought you must have something the matter with you, you are such a mouse generally. You're sure there isn't anything the matter?" "Yes, quite sure." "Not even Dorothea?" "Not even Dorothea? What do you mean?" "Well, I didn't know but you had Dorothea on your mind,--that you might be worrying over her persecution of you,--her determination to make you play that duet with her," said Myra, laughing. "Oh, no, I don't worry over Dorothea," answered Hope, laughing a little herself at this suggestion. "How Kate _does_ dislike her!" exclaimed Myra. "Dislike Dorothea?" cried Hope, startled at this strong assertion. "Well, I should say so; and you don't like her any better, either, Hope-y dear. _I_ think that you and Kate know something about her that the rest of us don't, for I've noticed from the very first that you were very distant to her." "'Know something about her!' Now, Myra, just because I was not pleased with Dorothea's ways and have held off from playing duets with her, you take that extraordinary notion into your head. 'Know something about her!' Of course, you mean by that, something to her disadvantage. I know just what you all know, that she is the daughter of the Hon. Mr. Dering of Boston. What I know to her disadvantage is her lack of good manners, and that you all know. There, if that isn't enough--" "Oh, it is, it is, Hope-y, do forgive me, that's a dear; I was only half in fun, anyway. I feel just as you and Kate do about Dorothea; her manners are horrid, horrid,--so forward and consequential." "But I do hope _I_ haven't influenced you to feel in this way, Myra; that is, that my manner--" "No, no, I didn't like her ways at the very first,--they are so domineering. I dare say the outside is the worst of her, though, and that very likely she may be good-hearted. But there's Kate Van der Berg, _she's_ good-hearted, and has good manners too; and isn't she jolly, Hope? Wasn't it fun to hear her go on with Anna about the flour and molasses? And, Hope, I do believe that she would do just as she said, if _she_ were a new rich person,--that is, if she were the kind of girl she is now. She would just come right out with the flour and molasses,--talk about everything perfectly frankly, because she hates anything that looks like being ashamed, anything that looks like cowardice. Yes, I do believe she would. But _I_ couldn't, could you?" There was no answer to this question; and after a moment or two, Myra looked across at the motionless figure clearly outlined in the moonlight, and thought, "She's gone to sleep." But Hope had not gone to sleep. She was never more widely awake in her life than she was when Myra asked her question,--never more widely awake and never more unhappy; for as she lay there motionless and silent, she knew that she was acting a lie because she did not want to answer that question,--a question that was almost the same that she had been asking herself ever since she had listened to Kate's emphatic arraignment of cowards; for from that moment she had said to herself: "I wonder if I am not just this kind of a coward, because I have kept silent before these girls,--have not told them that I belonged to the new rich people,--that my father was a poor mechanic, and that I--had sold mayflowers at the Brookside station? Kate would have told them long ago, I suppose, if she had been in my place. She'd say I was 'dirt common' and vulgar not to speak of father,--that I ought to be so proud of him that I couldn't help speaking. And I _am_ proud of him,--I am, I am, nobody could be prouder,--it isn't that I'm in any way ashamed of anything,--of _anything_,--the engineer cab, the workman's clothes, or the flower-selling; but--but, oh, I couldn't talk about it to those girls,--they have never known what it was to live differently from the way they live now, and they would stare at me, as if I were a curiosity, something unlike themselves, and they'd have so many questions to ask, because it would all be so odd to them; and then there is Dorothea now, to make it worse,--Dorothea would take all the dignity out of anything; and how she would go on about the mayflowers and our quarrel, and exclaim and wonder and laugh! No, no, I can't bring all this on myself,--it may be very cowardly of me, but I can't, I can't." Agitated by thoughts like these, it was not strange that sleep failed to come quickly to Hope that night, and that, in consequence, she should look heavy-eyed and pale the next morning, and that, in further consequence, Miss Marr, who was very observant, should say: "What is the matter, Hope? You don't look well." And when Hope had no answer to give but that she was restless and didn't sleep very well, Miss Marr glanced at her rather anxiously, and said admonishingly, "I'm afraid you've been studying too hard, Hope. You haven't? Then you must be homesick." But when Hope assured her that she couldn't be homesick in _her_ house, Miss Marr, laughingly declaring that she was a little flatterer, came to the conclusion that there was nothing amiss that the week's vacation so near at hand and the New Year festivities would not rectify. Where Hope was to spend her week's vacation had been a matter of some consideration. She would have gone to her grandmother Benham up in the New Hampshire hills if the distance at that season of the year had not been an objection. Miss Marr, too, would gladly have kept her little favorite with her; and there was Kate Van der Berg pining for her company, backed by Mrs. Van der Berg's cordial note of invitation; and the Sibleys also--the friends whom the Benhams had met abroad, and who had spoken to Miss Marr so admiringly of John Benham's "dearest little daughter"--had entreated her to come to them. Another invitation was from the Benhams' old neighbors and friends,--the Kolbs. All these invitations had been received by Hope early in November, and she had immediately sent them to her parents in Paris, with a little note of her own, that simply said, without a word of her own personal preference: "I want you to tell me which place you would rather I would choose. _I_ like them all." Mr. and Mrs. Benham laughed as they read these words. They laughed because this was so like Hope. When she was quite a little girl, her mother had thought it would be a good plan to teach her to be careful in her selections, by making her choose entirely for herself what she would like, and abiding by that choice for the time being. Hope was delighted with this plan at first. She fancied that with such liberty she was going to have a very happy time; but after she had made several mistakes, had chosen what had brought her, if not serious disappointment and discomfort, a knowledge that she had much better have chosen differently, she hit upon a little change of plan; and this was to submit to her mother and father whatever was set before her for her choosing, with the provision that they should give her the benefit of their opinions, while still leaving her her own liberty of choice. They were very much amused at this proposed change, but readily consented to its being tried; and the trial, on the whole, had turned out very satisfactorily, the child only upon rare occasions, when greatly tempted by some special predilection, going against the parental opinion. The odd plan thus childishly begun had settled into a fixed habit, though as Hope had grown older it had become little more than an interchange of opinions. On the present occasion, however, the girl had very evidently gone back to her first idea, for it was quite plain to both father and mother that while she had some special predilection for _one_ of these invitations, she did not want to betray it, as she wanted a perfectly unbiassed opinion from them,--or, in other words, wanted to know _their_ preference before she acknowledged her own; and this Mr. Benham decided at once not to give. "I will write to her that she must make her choice quite independent of us," he said to his wife. "There can be no harm in her accepting any one of these invitations, but what we want to know now is the bias of her own mind." John Benham, as well as his wife, had tried, from the very first of their change of fortunes, to keep Hope untouched by the temptations of sudden wealth; and one of their fears in regard to the New York school had been that Hope would meet there girls whose influence might be of a worldly and fashionable nature. But Miss Marr's reputation for right thinking and right doing had carried the day over all these fears, and they had seen no reason from term to term to regret this decision. It was with no little curiosity, then, coupled with some anxiety, that she and her husband awaited Hope's choice of invitations. She had now been a pupil of Miss Marr's a year, a year in close association with the young people in the school. The parents had seen her twice in this time, and she had seemed to them the same child Hope. Her letters, too, gave them very satisfactory accounts of her school life and companions. In all these accounts the name of Kate Van der Berg held a prominent place, and they could see that this friend was of more importance to Hope than any of the other girls. When, therefore, they pondered over Mrs. Van der Berg's invitation, with its hints of luxurious entertainment, they thought it quite natural that any girl should choose to accept it. Then, too, there was Mrs. Sibley, with _her_ offer of hospitality in a fine house where the visitor would be petted and made much of. If not to the Van der Bergs', would not any ordinary girl choose to go to this delightsome place? The Kolbs could offer nothing like this hospitality. Their house at Riverview was small, their means not large, and their acquaintance, outside the musicians with whom the old violinist was brought in contact, very limited, and in this limited acquaintance there were no young people, except Mr. Kolb's nephew and his little German wife. But the old violinist's heart was full of warm regard for the little mädchen whom he had taught for love five years ago, and what he did offer was out of the fulness of this regard, as the following quaint letter will show:-- MY DEAR LITTLE MÄDCHEN,--The good frau and myself have wondered for long time if the little mädchen remembers the Christmas Day when she stood beside Papa Kolb, to help him strip the Christmas tree; and if she remembers, the good frau and myself wonders if she would not like to stand by Papa Kolb again and strip a Christmas Tree that shall grow up purposely for her if she will come to Papa Kolb's house for the holiday week that is near at hand. The good frau will take best care of the little mädchen. She shall have the blue and white chamber with the little porcelain stove, and the good frau will herself make for her the little cakes she likes so well, and Papa Kolb will make his violin sing the music that they both love. "How _can_ the child resist this letter?" exclaimed Mr. Benham, as he laid it down after reading it twice over. "Yes; but you might have asked the same question after reading Mrs. Sibley's and Mrs. Van der Berg's, with their cordial offers of Christmas dances and performances," said Mrs. Benham. "Yes, I might, but I didn't," replied Mr. Benham, with a smile. "No, you didn't; but you must remember though, John, that to Hope, Christmas dances and matinée performances in a big city must naturally be more attractive than they are to you." "Oh, yes, yes, of course; and it's of course, I suppose, that any young girl would naturally prefer the fine gay things that fine gay people can offer to the more humdrum things that the Kolbs can give." It will readily be seen, from this little conversation, where John Benham's preference lay in this question of invitations; and as a matter of fact, Mrs. Benham's interests were in the same quarter. They both leaned very strongly to Papa Kolb's affectionate home offer, but they were both agreed in their resolve that they would say nothing to Hope of their feeling. In this way they looked to find out the natural bias of the girl's mind, and ascertain exactly the direction that her tastes and inclinations were now taking. But as Mrs. Benham read over again the notes from the Van der Bergs and Sibleys, she felt that it was absurd for her to expect that a young creature like Hope would turn from such attractions to the Kolbs, and she told her husband so. Like the man of sense that he was, Mr. Benham admitted the truth of his wife's conclusions. It was but a step from this admission to a final agreement that Hope of course, thus left to herself, would choose the New York gayeties, like any other girl; and when her next letter arrived, Mrs. Benham ran her little pearl paper-cutter through the envelope, with the remark, "Now we shall hear all about the fine preparations for the fine doings at the Van der Bergs', for I am quite sure it will be to Kate Van der Berg and not to Mrs. Sibley that the child has chosen to go; and I do hope that Miss Marr has seen to her preparations, and helped her to choose some new things, if she needs them. And she must need a new gown or two, and gloves, and perhaps a fresh wrap, going about as she will with the Van der Bergs to the holiday entertainments. I told Miss Marr when we came away, to order anything that Hope needed, if at any time--" There was a sudden cessation of Mrs. Benham's voice; then after a moment: "John, John, what do you think!--" Mr. Benham looked up from his desk, where he was busy studying the plan of a new French locomotive. "What do you think, John? She isn't going to the Van der Bergs'!" "She prefers the Sibleys, then; well, they'll be very good to her." "No, she doesn't prefer the Sibleys,--it's the Kolbs, after all. Do listen to her letter!" and Mrs. Benham read aloud:-- DEAR PAPA AND MAMMA,--I'm going to the Kolbs'. I wanted to go the minute I got Papa Kolb's dear kind invitation; but when on the very same morning I received the two others, I thought I would send them all off to you, hoping that you would say that you would like to have me go to the Kolbs'. But when your answer came, and I knew that I must make my own choice quite independently of you, I wrote at once to Mrs. Van der Berg and to Mrs. Sibley, that I had had an invitation from some old friends who had known me from a little child and been very kind to me, and I loved them very much, and felt that I must go to them. I told Kate what I had written, and I told her something about the Kolbs, and that Papa Kolb had been my first teacher; and she laughed, and said that nobody need expect to get me away from a fiddler. And she is quite right when the fiddler is Mr. Kolb. I love Kate Van der Berg dearly, and so would you if you knew her; and if you had heard her talk the other day about the right and the wrong kind of pride of ancestry, you would admire her very much. And I love Mrs. Sibley too, and if there had been no invitation from the Kolbs, I should have been very glad to have gone to her or to Kate. But the Kolbs are like--well, like--like my very own. They have known me so long and I have known them so long that I feel at home with them all the time; and then the fiddles and the music and the Christmas Tree--everything there is what I love best. Mr. Benham forgot for the moment the locomotive plan that lay before him, as he listened to this portion of his daughter's letter; and when his wife put the letter down and said, "We needn't be afraid of Hope's being spoiled by these fine people, John," his eyes lighted up, as he replied smilingly,-- "Hope is set to a home tune, Martha, that she is never going to forget." CHAPTER XV. Dolly Dering was beating time with her fan to the closing passages of the Mendelssohn concerto, when she suddenly caught sight of Hope Benham, three seats before her. Dolly's quick start, and a smothered "Oh!" excited the curiosity of her companion,--a young cousin of hers,--Jimmy Dering, who, following the direction and expression of her eyes, whispered,-- "What's the matter with her, Dolly?" Dolly made no reply, but continued to stare, and, Jimmy repeating his question, Dolly whispered back: "'Matter with her'? That girl I was looking at? Nothing; what do you mean?" "You looked so astonished I thought she was a ghost, or that something was the matter with her." Dolly giggled under her breath, and whispered: "No, it's only that I was so surprised to see her here in Music Hall. She is one of the girls from my school,--Hope Benham. I thought she was going to stay in New York this week with the Van der Bergs,--awful swells! I wonder who she's visiting here." "Some other 'awful swells,'--Boston swells, I suppose. She looks that way herself. Why didn't you invite her to stay with you, Dolly?" "I should as soon have thought of inviting Bunker Hill Monument,--though I like her,--sort of--she's stiffish, but fascinating, and plays the violin like--_Oh_!" with an emphatic emphasis, to convey the inexpressible. "Like 'Oh'! You must waylay her and introduce me to her, Dolly. I want to know any girl who plays the violin like 'Oh.' I never heard it played like that. Say, Dolly--" "H--ush!" breathed Jimmy's mother, Mrs. Mark Dering, shaking her head at the two whisperers, as the violin solo began. Jimmy, who was enthusiastically fond of the music of the violin, was now quite willing to be hushed, and, leaning back, gave himself up to silent enjoyment. Toward the close of the exquisite strains he happened to glance at the girl three seats in front of him. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes were shining, her whole attitude expressive of the deepest delight. "How she _does_ like it, and how she knows music!" thought Jimmy. "I'd like to hear _her_ play the violin. I wonder if I can't manage it. I mean to make Dolly introduce me to her." Hope was pulling up her little sealskin cloak at the end of the concert, when she heard a voice say: "How de do, Hope? I never was so surprised in my life as when I saw you here. I thought Kate Van der Berg had invited you to stay with her through the vacation." [Illustration: "HOW DE DO, HOPE?"] The "deep delight" on Hope's face vanished as if by magic as she heard this; and as she turned to the speaker, Jimmy said to himself: "My! how she _does_ dislike Dolly!" When, in the next breath, Dolly repeated, "I thought Kate Van der Berg invited you to stay with her," Jimmy, who was a little gentleman with much tact and taste, groaned in spirit: "How could she; oh, how _could_ Dolly put the thing in that way? As if--as if a girl had only to be invited by a Kate Van der Berg to accept! As if she couldn't refuse a Kate Van der Berg, or anybody--such a girl as this!" But the next instant Jimmy's groan had become a chuckle as he heard this girl say: "Yes, Kate invited me to spend my vacation with her, but I had older friends than the Van der Bergs." Not much in the words, but, oh, the way they were spoken,--the tone, the little straight stare at Dolly! Jimmy, little gentleman though he was, had a wild desire to throw up his cap and "hurrah" as he looked and listened. "It was all such a set-down for Dolly," as he told his mother later. But Dolly didn't seem to mind it much. She colored a bit, and then she laughed, and then before Hope could make a move away from her, she was introducing her to "my cousin, Jimmy Dering;" and Jimmy, tactful little fellow, began to speak in his soft, sweet voice that was like the G string of a violin, of the music they had been listening to; and he spoke so intelligently and appreciatively that Hope could not but be interested; and when, by the greatest good luck in the world for him, he asked her if she had noticed the beautiful expression on the face of the first violinist when he played, and then proceeded to tell her that this violinist was a German, and that his name was Kolb, and that he was a real genius, Hope turned such a radiant face towards the boy that he was quite taken aback at the first start; then he thought to himself, "She appreciates old Kolb as well as we do;" and delighted at this, was going on to say more, when Dolly's voice again broke in with,-- "Hope, I want to introduce you to my aunt, Mrs. Dering. This is Miss Hope Benham, auntie, one of the girls at my school." "_My school!_" Jimmy groaned again when he heard this; and as he observed Hope's sudden stiffening and coolness, he inwardly exclaimed: "I shall never hear this girl play if Dolly goes on like this, with '_my_ school,' and that my-everything-way of hers!" But when Mrs. Dering came up with that pretty manner, and said that she was always glad to meet one of Miss Marr's girls, Jimmy breathed easier; and when she asked Hope if she was fond of music, and Dolly burst out, "Fond? You wouldn't ask that question if you could hear Hope play the violin," Jimmy took courage and said,-- "Mother, if Miss Benham would only come to our Monday night musicale!" "Yes, to be sure," cried Mrs. Dering, delighted at the suggestion. If Hope was a musical genius, she might perhaps be interested to help them, for the musicale was for a charity. That she was one of Miss Marr's girls spoke for her desirability in all other ways. It had got to be a sort of voucher to be one of Miss Marr's girls. "And if you have your violin with you--she's got a wonderful violin, auntie--and will bring it, and play something for us--it's for a charity, you know--" "Yes, if you would, it would be so kind of you; the charity is such a worthy one,--a little kindergarten bed at the children's hospital," took up Mrs. Dering, persuasively. "I haven't my violin with me; and--" "Oh, well, that needn't make any difference. I have two, and you can have one of mine," interrupted Dolly, with perfect confidence. "And I have an engagement on Wednesday to another musicale, or rather a concert," said Hope, finishing the answer that Dolly had so confidently interrupted. "But can't you come and see _me_ some day and--if you'll tell me where you're staying I'll call on you--I'll call and fetch you any day you'll say, and Jimmy'll come, and we'll all play together--Jimmy plays very well." Dolly, with this, pulled out a little tablet, and fixing her eyes on it in a business-like way, said, "Now, then, give me your address; and--" "It would be of no use, I cannot come to you, for I return to New York Thursday morning." "But it's only Saturday now--there's four days to Thursday--if you'd say Monday or Tuesday." "I am engaged Monday and Tuesday,--you must excuse me--Ah!" with an air of relief, "there's Mr. Kolb, I must bid you good-by;" and with a very polite bow, including the three,--Mrs. Dering, her son, and Dolly,--and with a very small smile, Hope made her escape, and hastened towards Mr. Kolb. "She _knows_ old Kolb, after all," exclaimed Jimmy, in astonishment. "She knows all the musical people that were ever born, _I_ believe," snapped out Dolly; "stiff as she is, she's just crazy over musical folks. But did you ever see anybody so stiff and offish as she was?" "I never saw anybody so persistent as _you_ were, Dolly; you fairly pushed her into stiffness and offishness. You asked her to help in the musicale as if it would be simply a privilege for _her_, and then, when anybody could see with half an eye she didn't want to come and didn't mean to come, you went at her in the same way about coming to _you_, whipping out that tablet with a 'Now, then, give an account of yourself' air that was--that was--" But Jimmy could find no words to express adequately his feelings on this point, and finished up suddenly in his wrath and disappointment, "Dolly, you are the biggest bully I ever met. If you were a boy amongst boys, you'd get a licking!" "Children, children, stop quarrelling, right here in public!" admonished Mrs. Dering, in a low, shocked tone. "'Tisn't me that's quarrelling," said Dolly, regardless of grammar and in a tearful sniffle. "Jimmy's always setting me up to do things for him, and then he's al-al-always finding fault with the way I do 'em," Dolly went on, in a still more tearful sniffle. "Setting you up to do things for him? What did he set you up to do now?" asked her aunt. "To introduce him to Hope. He wanted to know her, he wanted to hear her play; and I"--sniff, sniff, sniff--"I--" "Well, there, never mind; tell me when we get into the carriage," broke in Mrs. Dering, mindful of the proprieties, as she saw several persons observing Dolly. "Yes, don't cry on the street,--you might get taken up for a nuisance, Dol; a policeman's got his eye on you now," growled Jimmy, with a savage little grin. Dolly had a queer, childish way of accepting everything seriously sometimes; and the startled seriousness of her face at this was too much for Jimmy's gravity, and he burst into a fit of laughter that cleared the atmosphere not a little, and made Dolly herself forget to sniffle. She forgot also to air her grievance against Jimmy, when, as they were seated in the carriage, her aunt said animatedly,-- "Benham--I wonder if this girl is the daughter of a Mr. and Mrs. Benham I met when I was in Paris." "Her father and mother are in Paris now; that is the reason why Hope doesn't spend her vacations with them," said Dolly. "This Mr. Benham was a distinguished scientific man of some sort, I believe. He was distinguished for _something_, I know, and he was with scientific men. I met him at Professor Hervey's, and he came into the room, I remember, with two or three English gentlemen of note. I recollect it, because I know I felt quite proud at the time that he was an American,--he looked so manly and earnest,--and some one told me he had just had a fortune come to him." "Well, Hope's father must have a lot of money, for she's got a violin that cost enough. It's a regular Cremona." "No!" exclaimed Jimmy, incredulously. "Yes; she told me it was made by an Italian who was a pupil of Stradivari and lived in Cremona." "You don't say so!" cried Jimmy, excitedly. "How I should like to see it, for I tell you to see a real old Cremona would be worth while. Lots of people think they've got a Cremona, when it's only an imitation. Karl Myerwitz, who makes violins, and knows all about them, told me that if everybody who claims to have a Cremona violin, _really_ had one, the number of them would count up to twice as many as had ever been made." "Well, all I know is that Hope told me that her violin was made in seventeen hundred and something by a pupil of Stradivari." "Where did her father get it, do you know,--did she tell you that?" "An old teacher of hers got it,--a German who has a brother who deals in rare violins in Paris." "How soon did she begin to take lessons?" "Oh, when she was quite a little girl." "What kind of music--whose compositions, I mean, does she play?" Dolly rattled off what she knew of Hope's repertoire. "Well, she _must_ have been at it from a small youngster," ejaculated Jimmy, emphatically, at the list Dolly gave. "And she must have a great--a _great_ taste for music. The idea of your thinking I would play with any one who was up to what she is!" "But you play very well,--you play better than I do." "What's that to do with it? You don't mean to say that you think--that you propose--" But Jimmy stopped short, remembering the recent outbreak of sniffles and tears. But he had gone far enough for Dolly to understand, and she took up his words, not tearfully, but indignantly, as she replied,-- "I do mean to say that I propose to play a duet with Hope at school this very winter." "Is it a school arrangement,--Miss Marr's plan? I didn't know that you studied the violin at Miss Marr's." "Well, we do, if we wish to. There is a teacher, a very fine teacher, who comes in from the outside for that, as there is for the harp, or any other special accomplishment." "Oh! and Miss Benham wants you to practise with her,--I suppose you can help each other,--I see," remarked Jimmy, demurely. "I didn't say she wanted me to _practise_ with her. I said that I proposed to play a duet with Hope sometime this winter." Jimmy made no further remark concerning the matter, but he said to himself: "Yes, that's it; Dolly has had the nerve to _propose_ to play a duet with that girl, and my opinion is that she'll get snubbed. Miss Hope Benham isn't going to stand Dolly's impudence,--not a bit of it." "What concert is it, Jimmy, that comes off on Wednesday?" suddenly asked Mrs. Dering here. "I don't know of any except that affair at the Somersets'." "Oh, that for Mr. Kolb! I wish I had been told of that earlier. I only heard about it at the last minute, and then I couldn't get any ticket for love or money." "Mamma tried to get tickets too," said Dolly, "but they seemed to be all snapped up at the very start by that Somerset clique. I think it was real mean. There are other people in Boston, besides the Somersets, that know about music, and can appreciate--" "But there was a limit of tickets,--there had to be; for Mrs. Somerset's parlors, big as they are, can only hold just so many," put in Jimmy, in explanation. "Your young friend may be going to this concert," suggested Mrs. Dering, reflectively. Dolly bounced up like an India-rubber ball at this suggestion, and cried out,-- "Why, of course that's where she's going, I might have known it." And then Dolly leaned back discontentedly, and reflected upon the good fortune that seemed to attend Hope Benham at every step. There was Kate Van der Berg lavishing all sorts of attentions upon her; and here was this testimonial concert that the Somersets had got up for Mr. Kolb, and that everybody was pining to go to, open to her! "Wonder who she is visiting, anyway," Dolly pondered, in the course of these reflections,--"perhaps the Somersets themselves,--'twould be just like her luck." And while Dolly pondered these things, Mrs. Dering mused with regret of what her musicale had lost, and Jimmy chuckled anew as he recalled "that girl's" high and mighty manner with Dolly. But his chuckle ended in a sigh, as he thought: "It's of no use for me to expect to hear that girl play; Dolly has spoilt all that." CHAPTER XVI. It was "New Year's night" at Miss Marr's, and every girl was as bright and fresh as if the night before she had not watched the old year out and the new year in; for the happiness of it all, and the long morning rest had been like a tonic. "_Didn't_ we have a good time last night!" exclaimed Myra Donaldson, in a sort of general questioning tone, as she stood with a group of the girls by the big hall-fire, just before the hour appointed for the guests to assemble. "A tip-top time, for that kind of a time," answered Dolly, speaking first, in her usual forward fashion. "What do you mean by 'that kind of a time'?" asked Myra. "I mean a girl-party. It was the best girl-party I ever went to; but I like parties best with boys in 'em, just as I like cake best with currants or raisins in it." The girls all laughed; and Kate Van der Berg called out: "The boys then stand for the currants and raisins with you, Dorothea?" "Of course they do. I hate to dance with a girl; that's one reason I don't like a girl-party. I never can remember which I am, the boy or the girl, when the figures are called, and I'm just as likely to prance out in the square dances as a girl when I'm taking the boy's place, and to set off in a waltz with the wrong foot, and muddle things generally. Then we girls see girls all the time, or we see so much more of girls than we do of boys that we like a change, or _I_ do. I dare say the rest of you," making up a defiant little face, "don't feel like this at all. I dare say you had just as lief dance with girls, and wouldn't care if you never had boys at _your_ parties." "Oh, yes, we would; _we_ like currants and raisins in our cake, too, don't we, Hope?" "Yes, indeed," laughed Hope. "You'd have thought so last year if you could have seen Hope with my youngest brother, my little eleven-year-old," continued Kate, merrily. "He thought Hope was just perfect, and the way he followed her up! He wasn't in the least bashful, like some of the older boys, and he didn't have the slightest hesitation in trotting after her. _I_ believe he asked her to dance every dance with him. I know I had to interfere and curb his ardor, or Hope wouldn't have danced with anybody else, for she really encouraged him in his attentions in the most decided manner." "He was such a dear little fellow," said Hope,--"he told me I was just as good company as a boy." When the laugh that this called forth had subsided, Dorothea said rather soberly, "I didn't know that you had such _young_ boys." "Look at her, look at her!" cried Kate. "Did you ever see such a worried, disappointed face? But cheer up, Dorothea, cheer up; we _do_ have a few older ones. My brother Schuyler will be here this year." "Oh!" exclaimed Hope, with a falling inflection to her voice, "and not Johnny?" "And not Johnny," laughed Kate; "one at a time, you know." "How old did you say your brother Schuyler is?" asked Dorothea. "Seventeen,--quite old, you see, for a boy. He'll do for you to dance with, won't he?" "Johnny dances beautifully; one couldn't have a better partner," said Hope. "Oh, 'tisn't only a dancing partner Dorothea wants," spoke up Bessie Armitage, a keen-eyed, keen-witted girl, whose quiet observation was never very much at fault. "Dorothea wants a talking partner as well." Dolly gave a little conscious giggle, and simperingly declared, with a toss of her head: "Oh, I know what you mean. You mean that I want a flirting partner; people are always accusing me of that, and I--" "Flirting! how I hate that word, and how I hate the thing itself!" burst out Kate Van der Berg. "It's the cheapest word, and the cheapest thing to do; and for girls like us to put on such airs, and think we are doing something fine and grown-up. My brother Maurice, my oldest brother, has told me enough what young men think of half-grown girls who do such things." "Oh, yes, I know; you told me, before I went away, how your brother made fun of young girls," cried Dorothea, angrily. The hot color rose to Kate's very forehead, in her sudden shock of indignation. Then, as it slowly ebbed away, she said in a low, intense tone: "I told you that I had heard my brother tell how men either disliked the pertness of young girls, or else amused themselves by it for a little while, and then made fun of it,--that was what I said to you. He did not say that _he_ made fun of them,--he couldn't do such a thing; and the reason he told me what others did, was to show me how such things were looked upon." "And you told _me_ because you thought _I_ was one of those pert, forward, bold girls!" snapped out Dorothea. "I was not telling _you_ what he said, any more than the rest of the girls who were present; and what I told was brought out by something that was said at the time." "Something that _I_ said, _I_ know. I was talking about my sister's gentlemen friends, and I said that I never found it hard to talk to _them_; and then you--" "Hush, girls, there's the bell; the company is coming," broke in Myra Donaldson, "and we must get back into the 'drorrin'-room,' as Patrick calls it." "Yes, it is high time we were all there," said some one here who was coming up from the lower end of the hall. It was Miss Marr. "I wonder if she has heard any of this talk, and how much of it?" thought Hope. But Miss Marr gave no sign of having heard anything of it. She came forward brightly, smiled on this one and that with equal sweetness, and playfully drove them all before her into the long flower-scented room. The guests were all received in this room; then by twos and threes and fours, after a little interchange of greetings and introductions, they were conducted to the elevator and taken up to the great hall at the top of the house. It was an immense room that Miss Marr had had built several years ago, when her school plan had grown from its first modest limit to a promise of its present more liberal dimensions, and was intended at the start for a gymnasium and play-room. Later it was fitted up so that the gymnastic appliances could be easily removed, and a dance-room or recital-hall made of it upon short notice. On the night of the New Year's parties it always presented a most enchanting aspect, with its flower and fern and palm decorations, and its soft yet brilliant lights. Dolly, to whom it was all new and fresh, cried out enthusiastically as she entered, "Oh, how perfectly beautiful!" "Isn't it?" agreed another new-comer, a visitor, who was following close upon Dolly's heels; and this visitor was no less a person than our friend Jimmy Dering, who had come on from Boston at Dolly's particular request and to his own particular satisfaction; for now, he argued, "I _may_ stand a chance of hearing 'that girl' play on that Cremona violin." It was Jimmy's ring at the door-bell that had interrupted that gusty little conversation in the hall. He was the first guest; and as he came into the drawing-room quite alone, and heralded portentously by the solemn butler's loudly spoken "Mr. James Dering," he might have been expected to flinch a little, especially under the battery of all those girls' glances; but Jimmy was not a self-conscious youth, and he had a happy knack of always adjusting himself to circumstances, and making the best of a trying situation. So now he came forward in his own modest, pleasant way, without a bit of awkwardness; and though he blushed a little, it was with such a confiding sort of manner,--a manner that seemed to say, "Now do be friendly to me,"--that every girl there, including Miss Marr herself, was his friend at once. "He is charming," thought Miss Marr, "so modest and well-mannered, and with such a bright merry boyishness about him." Even Dolly couldn't spoil the impression he made, as she put up her head and looked about her with a self-congratulatory air, that said plainly,-- "Now, this is _my_ guest and _my_ cousin!" No, even Dolly couldn't spoil Jimmy Dering's popularity. People liked him in spite of Dolly, and oftentimes they softened towards Dolly herself, and forgave her her blundering, domineering tactlessness, because she was Jimmy's cousin, as these girls did on this occasion, before the evening was over. Kate Van der Berg, who had been very wroth at the start, very much disgusted with Miss Dolly, who had felt as if she never wanted to have anything more to do with her, before the evening was over began to say to herself,-- "Dorothea must have some good in her, and must belong to nice people--_really_ nice, well-bred people--to have such a cousin." And then when the other boy visitors appeared,--when Schuyler Van der Berg, Raymond Armitage, Peter Van Loon, and others of the New York youngsters were in full force,--it was found that they too were taken captive by Jimmy's pleasant ways. "Nice little chap!" said Schuyler to his great friend, Peter Van Loon. "Yes," responded Peter; "nicest _Boston_ fellow I've ever seen. Don't like Boston fellows generally, they're so cocky." "And this little chap _might_ be cocky, easy. What do you think,--he's the quarter-back in the Puritan eleven!" "No!" and Peter looked up with greater animation than he had shown since he came into the house. "And he's coxswain in the Charlesgate boat-crew." "I say now!" ejaculated Peter, with increased animation. "Yes, and he plays the fiddle too,--knows all about music." Peter rounded his lips into a whistling shape. Then, "How'd you find all this out?" "His cousin--that big, handsome, black-eyed girl over there, I've just been dancing with--told me." "That girl with the yellow gown and all those daffodils?" "Yes." "She _is_ handsome, and she knows how to dance." "Yes, she knows how to dance, but she rattles too much." "But she knows how to dance," repeated Peter, "and I'm going to ask her to dance with me in the Virginia reel. I always get mixed up in those old-fashioned things; but this girl will fetch me through, I know." And Peter was right. Dorothea fetched him through beautifully, and Peter didn't in the least mind her rattling. Indeed, he seemed to encourage it and to be amused by it; for Peter, I am afraid, was that kind of young man that Kate Van der Berg declared that her brother was _not_,--the young man who encourages rattling, to make fun of it. But whatever Peter did was very lazily done, and his fun-making was confined mostly to his own inward reflections, with now and then the dropping of a humorous word to some favorite companion. To be sure, this humorous word of Peter's had its full effect, for Peter was not a great talker, and as he was known to be a keen-witted fellow, whatever he did say was made much of. But Peter himself hadn't a bit of malice in him, and if he had his laugh now and then at some foolish rattler, I, for one, think the rattler deserved the laugh, and came off very easily at that; for, as Jimmy Dering said once of his cousin,-- "Girls of Dolly's sort have got to learn that people are not going to be careful of them and their feelings, unless _they_ are careful, to begin with." And I will add that girls of Dolly's sort teach all girls how _not_ to do it,--how not to romp and rush and rattle, and make themselves objects of ridicule, in the fond delusion that they are objects of admiration, as Dolly did on this very night. She began her rattle with Schuyler Van der Berg; she kept it up with Peter Van Loon and fine handsome Victor Graham, and concluded it at the end of the evening with Raymond Armitage, who was of a very different fibre from the others,--a harder, coarser fibre altogether. But Dolly found Raymond Armitage the most interesting of the four, for it was Raymond who to her mind was the most polite, the most attractive in his way of doing and saying things,--his way of listening admiringly to everything she said, of laughing and applauding all her blunt speeches and frisky ways. If Jimmy had not been so popular, and consequently so necessarily engaged in responding to this popularity, he would have noticed how Dolly was "carrying on," and have tried at least to check her; but when Jimmy was not talking with a little knot of boys and girls about boat-crews and foot-ball and the coming season's races, he was dancing with Hope, and in every pause of the dance he talked about music; and that entirely absorbed both of them. But there came at last the grand concluding dance that brought them all more closely together. It was that concluding dance that Kate Van der Berg had spoken of as the best fun of all. This dance had been introduced and taught by Miss Marr herself at the very start of her school, and was by this time perfectly well known to all her girls, and readily understood by any new guest of the evening under the guidance of his partner. It was an old French dance,--a "gavotte," so called. Miss Marr had told them its history. It was a kind of minuet that Marie Antoinette had introduced as a pendant to the minuet proper, adding other steps, and renaming it. She told them that another point in its history was, that the name was said to be derived from the town of Gap, whose inhabitants were called "Gavots" and "Gavottes," and that it was not unlikely that it was an old country dance of that region, and that Marie Antoinette made use of it in her re-arrangement, and also called it a _minuet de la cour_. But wherever it had its origin, it was a charming dance, and Miss Marr had been taught it thoroughly in her early youth when she visited her French relations in France as a pretty French costume-party dance; and she in her turn had introduced various pretty changes, the prettiest and most novel being at the very end, where, swinging all around together, they pair off at last in regular appointed order, and pass through an archway of flowers, each pair receiving in this passing a beautiful little basket, its woven cover of flowers concealing two New Year's gifts,--one a pretty trinket, a ring or brooch or bracelet, sent by some member of the pupil's family for the pupil herself; the other a comic accompaniment in the way of a gay mirth-provoking toy, to be bestowed upon the partner,--the guest of the pupil on this occasion,--these latter being furnished by Miss Marr, and most choicely selected, some of them coming from Paris and Vienna. The girls were quite as much interested in these funny toys as in their own trinkets; and when all had passed the archway, there was a gathering together of the whole party, and a great frolic over the examination of the basket's contents; Kate almost forgetting the glow and sparkle of her new amethyst ring in the fun of the little gutta-percha man, who was made to wink and laugh and shake his fist at Victor when it was presented to him by Kate. And when Hope lifted her basket-cover and found beside the tiny Geneva watch sent to her by her father, the merry little figure of a girl playing a violin, while a woolly bear danced before her on a wooden stand, Jimmy, who was Hope's partner, with gay mimicry began to imitate the bear, and Kate cried out,-- "Wouldn't you, _wouldn't_ you though, _really_ like to dance to Hope's playing?" and quick as a flash, Jimmy answered, with a gallant little bow,-- "I'd like better to _listen_." "You'd like to listen and to dance, too, if you could hear Hope play the Gungl' waltzes; you couldn't keep your feet still," added Kate. "Oh, if I _could_ hear you play, Miss Benham!" and Jimmy turned eagerly to Hope. "There are _no_ waltzes I like so well as those. I'm coming in to-morrow afternoon to bring my cousin some music that I've brought on for her from her old teacher in Boston, and she is going to try it with me in the music-room here at half-past three o'clock. Miss Marr has kindly given us permission, and oh, would you, _could_ you, Miss Benham, join us at four o'clock and play _one_ of the Gungl' waltzes, just one? It would give me such pleasure." "I--I don't know that Miss Marr would--" "Oh, I am sure she would; I'll ask her.--Miss Marr," and Jimmy put out a detaining hand, as Miss Marr at that moment was passing, and in three minutes more his request was made and granted. Hope had her full permission to join the two in the music-room the next afternoon and play the Gungl' waltzes if she would like to do so. "And you _will_ like, won't you?" pleaded Jimmy, in his _naive_ boyish way. Hope hesitated a second; then, with a little laugh, assented to his pleading. All this had been a little aside, in the midst of the hum and buzz of the frolic; and then, just then, it was, that suddenly, over the ordinary clamor, Dorothea's voice rose in a noisy laugh above everything, and her exclamation, "I told you I'd get even with you!" was heard from end to end of the hall. Jimmy started as he heard it. "What _is_ Dolly carrying on like that for?" he thought. Miss Marr, too, started forward, with the same thought. And there was Dolly, still laughing loudly, and shaking a carnival figure of paper, free of the last scrap of its contents of sugary snow, over the person of Mr. Raymond Armitage, her gay threat of getting even with him the culmination of some joke that had passed between them. Miss Marr, as she started forward, had evidently an intention of putting a decided check upon Miss Dorothea then and there; but a look at Jimmy's face, and his half-uttered "Oh, if Dolly _would_ think what she's about!" seemed to change Miss Marr's intention somewhat, as it tempered her feeling; for as she caught sight of the boy's face, she said to herself,-- "Poor little fellow, I won't add to his discomfort by speaking now." And so Dolly went on in her wild way unchecked except by Jimmy's, "Don't, Dolly, don't! You 're making _such_ a noise, and everybody's looking at you." But Dolly only laughed at this. She was having a very jolly time. She fancied it was a very successful time, and that she was really the belle of the evening, because Raymond Armitage plied her with flattery, and because a good many of the others watched her with what she supposed were entirely admiring glances. Getting glimpses of herself, too, in a large long mirror occasionally, she saw that she had never looked better; and, in fact, she did look very handsome, with her clear, bright complexion, her silky black hair and brilliant eyes, framed in golden yellow, and "all those daffodils," as Peter Van Loon had said. Yes, she was looking very handsome; they all recognized this,--all these young fellows who looked at her, and laughed and chatted with her, and criticised her as "a rattler." CHAPTER XVII. The next afternoon at half-past three o'clock Jimmy made his appearance punctually at Miss Marr's, and was received with great satisfaction by his cousin. "It's such luck that you got Hope to come and play with us. I must say you know how to manage people, Jimmy," cried Dolly, gleefully, after she had greeted him. "Play _with_ us! She's coming to play _for_ us, or for me, the Gungl' waltzes." "Oh, well, she'll play that duet with me now, and you'll play our accompaniment." "I shall do no such thing. I am going to play _your_ accompaniment now. Miss Benham isn't coming in until four, and after she plays the waltzes I shall go away. As if I should take advantage of her kindness in such a manner! And how _you_ can think of doing it, I can't understand, Dolly." "Yes, now begin to find fault with me!" "Find fault with you! I should think I might. You do such things, Dolly. Last night, now, everybody was looking at you." "Why shouldn't they? A cat may look at a king, and I had an awfully pretty gown, Jimmy;" and Dolly began to hum the closing bars of the gavotte. Jimmy saw how she understood, or _mis_understood things, and burst out,-- "Look here, Dolly, don't you fancy now that those fellows were thinking of your good looks and nothing else all the time they watched you. I know fellows better than you do. I don't say they didn't _like_ your looks, that they didn't admire you, but I _do_ say they didn't admire the way you went on." "'The way I went on'? What do you mean?" "_You_ know,--the way you giggled, and tossed your head, and 'made eyes,' as the French people say, at that Armitage fellow. I didn't happen to be near you to notice what you were doing until the last of the evening, but that was enough. I knew, by what I _did_ see, how you'd been going on, for I've seen you at a party before, Dolly." "Oh, I know what you mean; you mean that I flirt. I've heard that before, Jimmy. _I_ can't help it if I have more attention than other girls, just because I'm lively, and know how to talk." "Flirt! yes, that's what you call it,--that giggling, and tossing your head, and saying pert things. It's like a girl at a Park Beach picnic,--what you call 'flirting.' It is vulgar, and that's what all the fellows I know think of it; and while _you_ think they are paying you admiring attentions, they're just having fun at your expense; and it makes me ashamed, for you are my cousin, and--" "And you are the most conceited boy that ever lived. You think you know _everything_, and you don't know _any_thing about society. A girl is always older than a boy in all society matters; everybody says so; and though you're sixteen, and I'm only fifteen, I'm a whole year ahead of you,--you're just a _little boy_ to _me_. One of my sister's friends, a _man_ who knows, said to me, _this_ vacation, that I seemed to be eighteen rather than fifteen." Jimmy stared at his cousin for a moment in sheer astonishment; then he exclaimed,-- "Dolly! what _are_ you thinking of, not to see--" "Oh, I know what you're going to say,--not to see that it is I who am conceited." "And where did you get all that stuff in your head about society; and what idiot told you you seemed to be eighteen rather than fifteen?" "It was no idiot," triumphantly; "it was Mr. George Atherton." "George Atherton. Oh, then it is you who are the idiot not to see that Mr. Atherton was poking fun at you, or else he meant that you _looked_ eighteen with your height and size altogether. But it is of no use talking to you, I see that." "No, it isn't of the slightest use. We've wasted time now,--the time we ought to be trying this nocturne; and, if you please, Master Jimmy," and Dolly bowed, with a patronizing air, "we'll begin to play, or we sha'n't get through before Hope comes in." Jimmy stared again. He was seeing Dolly in a new phase. Instead of flying into a passion, instead of turning upon him with tears and reproaches, she stood her ground with a semblance of cool superiority that astonished him. What did it mean? Was she getting so spoiled and puffed up by her vanity that the truths he had placed before her went for nothing against the flattery that she provoked? He knew that Dolly was not very finely sensitive, was what he called "dense;" but he had never thought that her good sense could be obscured by this density to the extent of making her positively impervious to criticism, as she seemed to be now. But such really was the fact. Not finely sensitive at the start, as I have endeavored to show, Dolly was full of self-confidence, and also full of animal spirits. With such a combination of qualities, it was not strange that she should be convinced that her own way was the only right way, and when led by her vanity through a little additional flattery, this conviction became so strong that no amount of criticism or opposition could move her. It would be only through some individual experience, some suffering in connection with this experience of having her own way, that Dolly would be likely to have her eyes opened to her own mistakes, and be able to see where she had blundered and what her blunders meant to others, as well as herself. Fresh, however, from what she thought her success of the night before, even Jimmy's words of protest, which usually moved her either to anger or tears, had no effect upon her. For the time she felt herself vastly superior to Jimmy in years and judgment, and from this standpoint she had met his criticism with a calmness that he could not at first understand. Of course this assumption of superiority was not a little irritating to Jimmy, modest though he was; and as he sat there playing the accompaniment to the nocturne, and pausing at almost every bar to correct Dolly's false notes, he was also pondering over her false notes in more important directions, and puzzling himself with suppositions as to her present attitude. They were in the last passages of the piece, and Dolly was listening to his corrections in an absent-minded way that exasperated him, when the door opened, and there was Hope, with her violin, followed by Myra Donaldson, who was to play her accompaniment. Dolly did not wait to finish the bar she was scraping at, but jumped up at sight of Hope, with a "Oh, there you are, and you've got that dear little violin. Isn't it a beauty, Jimmy? See here!" and with one of her quick, confident movements, she took the instrument--one could almost say she snatched it--from Hope's hands, and held it out to her cousin, pointing to the shape and the beautiful red coloring with its dark veining, repeating, as she did so,-- "See! isn't it beautiful?" She was turning it over, when Jimmy said, with a certain quick, sharp note in his voice,-- "I hope you'll excuse my cousin, Miss Benham; she has been so used to handling her own violin carelessly she forgets that other people may feel differently with regard to their instruments; and--" "Jimmy is as cross as two sticks this morning, Hope; he's done nothing but lecture me ever since he came in," Dolly declared airily; but at the same moment she gave the violin back into its owner's hands, to the owner's great relief, who could not help glancing gratefully at Jimmy as she received it. This glance of gratitude did more to restore Jimmy's good-humor, that had been so sorely disturbed, than anything else could have done; "for," he said to himself, "she doesn't think I'm exactly like Dolly if I _am_ her cousin, and, in spite of Dolly, I believe we should be first-rate friends if we saw more of each other." He was still more convinced of this possible friendliness as he listened to Hope's playing,--as he saw how thorough an artist she was, how she loved and lived in her music, when the violin was in her hands. No silly little tricks about her, no showing off in her pose and expression like some girl-players he had seen,--like Dolly, for instance,--and yet how pretty she was, with that smooth, brown hair ruffling out around her forehead, and the color coming and going, and the brown eyes, too, coming and going, as it were, in their expression, as she played. As pretty as Dolly _and not thinking_ about it,--not thinking about it a bit, as she stood there, an image of grace, her chin bent lovingly down to her violin, her skilful hands evoking such exquisite strains. And those waltzes! Were there any that were ever written fuller of perfect melody? So absorbed was Jimmy in all this listening and looking, he quite forgot that he had meant to run away directly after Hope had played. Dolly saw that he had forgotten; and while he was yet in the tide of his enthusiastic thanks for the Gungl' waltzes, she slipped the duet she had brought down with her on the music-rack, and said,-- [Illustration: "SHE STOOD THERE AN IMAGE OF GRACE, HER CHIN BENT LOVINGLY DOWN TO HER VIOLIN"] "Now, Hope, do just try this with me." "Dolly--Miss Benham must be tired; she must want to rest," broke in Jimmy, his face flushing, his tone revealing his mortification. Hope saw the flush, and noted the tone. She could not add to his mortification, and going back to the music-stand, she said quietly,-- "Oh, it is one of those pretty folk-songs. Yes, I'll try it with you; I'm not tired." And so it was in this way that Kate Van der Berg's prophecy was fulfilled. "I knew it would come about, I knew it, I knew it!" cried Kate, triumphantly, when Myra Donaldson told her what had happened, "for I never saw such a persistent girl in my life as Dorothea,--so persistent and so thick-skinned." "But Hope couldn't help giving in to her," explained Myra; "she was so sorry for Dorothea's cousin." "Of course. I do wonder if Dorothea was clever enough to see that,--to plan it, perhaps." "No, I don't think she planned it, and I don't think she saw in the least why Hope gave in to her. She probably thought Hope had the leisure just then, and felt like it." "Well, she _is_ the queerest girl; but her cousin is a dear little fellow. My brother Schuyler and Peter Van Loon like him immensely. Schuyler likes him so much he wants to get him to come up and visit us this summer. I hope he will; he knows everything about a boat, and that means a great deal in the way of a good time with us." "Why don't _you_ invite Dorothea to come up with him?" "Yes, why don't I?" and Kate laughed. Then all at once she burst out seriously: "How she _did_ go on at the party; and look here, Myra, I'll tell you something if you won't speak of it to any one,--any one but Hope,--I've told Hope." "No, I won't say a word about it." "Well, you saw how she carried on,--flirted in that silly, loud way with Raymond Armitage?" "Yes." "Well, what do you think? She--she's carrying on the flirtation still." "No--no, you don't mean it!" "I do." "_How_ is she carrying it on?" "The next day after the party, the next morning,--that's day before yesterday,--I was down early, hunting for my carnelian pin; I'd dropped it somewhere, and I thought it might be in the reception-room, as I missed it soon after I had left the room to go upstairs the night before. I found it at last under a chair by the window. It was a little bent, and I stood at the window trying to straighten it, when I saw three or four of the Institute boys coming along on their way to school. One of them was Raymond Armitage; and as he passed by, I heard him say to the others,-- "'I have a note from my sister that I've got to leave here. Walk on slowly, and I'll catch up with you.' "Ann was in the hall dusting, and so his ring was answered immediately; and as the reception-room door was ajar, I heard him say to her,-- "'Will you give this note to Miss Dorothea Dering?' "Then I knew that he dropped something, some piece of money, into the girl's hand, for I could hear her say,-- "'Oh, thank you, sir, I'll go right up with it now,' which she did the instant she had closed the door." "Well, if I ever!" "Wait a minute; this isn't all. Just after luncheon that very day, mamma called and took me down town to be measured for my new jacket. After that was over, I sat waiting in the carriage, while mamma went into a shop to give an order. Michael drew up just beyond to make room for another carriage, and that brought us right in front of Huyler's; and there, through the clear glass of the door, I saw Dorothea Dering and Raymond Armitage laughing and talking together at the ice-cream soda counter." "Of all--" "But wait again; this isn't all. At the same hour after luncheon to-day, as I came along the corridor past Dorothea's room, I saw Ann standing at the open door, and whipping out from under her apron what I knew at once was a box of candy, and I heard her say, 'The same young gentleman as sent the note, miss.' Now, what do you think of all this?" "I think it is perfectly disgusting. What are you going to do about it? Something ought to be done to stop it." "What _can_ I do?" "Oughtn't you to tell Miss Marr?" "Yes, I suppose I ought, if nothing else will do; but I hate to be a tell-tale. Boys never tell tales of each other. I've got brothers, you know, and I've heard them talk so much about that. I've heard Schuyler say that girls grew up to be women gossips because they tattle so much at school. If I thought it would do any good, I would speak to Dorothea; but she would resent it, and would very likely tell me, in her blunt way, that she could manage her own affairs, and that I'd better mind my own business, or something of that kind." "Yes, I suppose that she would; but it _is_ our business as well as hers, when she is doing something that is going to hurt the school. What did Hope say when you told her about it?" "She said it ought to be stopped some way, just for that reason,--that it would hurt the school dreadfully, as well as Dorothea, and nearly kill Miss Marr." "Of course it would; it's so vulgar and cheap. When did that cousin of Dorothea's go back?" "Yesterday." "He was staying with some relatives, wasn't he?" "Yes, cousins, I believe." "Why couldn't somebody tell _them_? They might stop it; and it must be stopped, or--you know what Miss Marr _might_ do? She might, you know, send her home,--expel her at once." "Yes, I thought of that; and that was one reason I had for not telling her." "Oh, it's all so silly! What fun could there be in sneaking off to drink ice-cream soda with Raymond Armitage?" "No particular fun in the soda itself. The fun to Dorothea was just the sneaking off. You can see she thinks she's having 'great larks,' as she'd call it,--is being independent and having adventures and being a great flirt, and that Raymond Armitage admires her for it. And Raymond Armitage is simply laughing in his sleeve at her. Oh, I should think any girl would have better sense, better taste; and Anna Fleming talks about her family." "But she isn't the only one of her family. There's her cousin; look at him: he's a little gentleman if ever there was one. What would he say to her if he knew? And just think! there she was back again, playing on her violin with him as cool as you please, directly after her lark, and no doubt pluming herself on it." "I wonder what excuse she made to get off as she did?" "Excuse? You don't suppose she made any excuse? Not she. She just skipped out, in the rest hour, when Miss Marr and the other teachers were off duty; and she managed to come back at the right time. Oh, it makes me more and more indignant the longer I think of it, for it's a bigger shame because Miss Marr is so nice about our school parties and our receptions, and treats us like ladies, and trusts us to _be_ ladies, and not to deceive her. But hark! it's striking six, and I must get ready for dinner." CHAPTER XVIII. "Yes, I suppose that is the best thing for me to do; but oh, Hope! you don't know, you can't think how I dread it." "Yes, I can _think_;" and Hope laughed a little. "She'll be so angry she'll say horrid things to me." "Yes, you may count on that." "_When_ would you tell her?" "I'd go now and tell her this very minute, it ought to be done at once." "Oh, dear! well, I'll take your advice, and you'll wait for me here, won't you?" "Yes, I'll wait for you here and study up my history lesson." "All right; and wish me courage and success." Then, with a little nod and a rueful smile, Kate Van der Berg went on her mission to Dorothea; for it had finally, after much consultation between the three friends, been thought best for Kate to go straight to Dorothea and appeal to her. Dorothea was at the desk in her room writing a note as Kate entered,--a note she hastily turned over blank side up as she saw her visitor. There was a rather flurried look on her face, as Kate said, "Am I interrupting you?" though she answered readily enough, "Oh, no; I thought it was one of the servants when you knocked, that's all." Then, not very cordially, "Won't you sit down?" This was not a very promising beginning, and Kate's heart began to fail her. At this point, however, she caught sight of a photograph. It was the photograph of Raymond Armitage, and her courage returned. Dorothea had seen her glance of recognition, and remarked coolly: "Isn't it like him? He's very handsome, I think, don't you?" "I--I don't know," stammered Kate; then, throwing all hesitation to the winds, she began to speak, and this she did at the start in the kindest, gentlest way in the world, telling of what she had seen and heard, as she had told Hope and Myra, and winding up with: "I felt that I ought to speak to you--to tell you what you might not know--how much all this would affect Miss Marr and injure yourself; that if--if she heard--if she knew--she might--might write to your parents, and ask them--to--to take you home." "Oh, I see--expel me, that's what you mean. The old cat, she won't do any such thing! I never saw anything like the way you all go on over that woman. I like her well enough. I was tremendously taken with her and her tailor gowns when I first came, but I didn't bow down before her as the rest of you did, and I have never believed she was of so much consequence as she was set up to be; and as for her throwing away a lot of money by sending a girl off for being a little independent and having a little fun in her own way, she's too smart to do any such thing. My gracious! I should think I had tried to set the house on fire by the fuss you make! And what have I done? Just had a little sociable time with an acquaintance without asking leave of her High-and-Mightiness." Kate had hard work to control herself. At the phrase "old cat," her very soul had risen up in revolt. To speak in such terms of Miss Marr!--Miss Marr, who was so fine and sweet, so considerate and sympathetic, who was indeed like an older girl friend to them all. And then, "What have I done? Just had a little sociable time with an acquaintance, without asking leave of her High-and-Mightiness." Kate lifted up her chin suddenly, as she recalled these words, and as coolly as she could, said,-- "I suppose you know that if you _had_ asked for leave to write notes to Raymond Armitage, and to receive them from him, and to make appointments with him to go down town, and all that, it would have done no good,--that, of course, Miss Marr, or any head of a school, would not have given you permission." "No, of course they wouldn't; but that's only one of the stiff little bars that boarding-schools set up." "And you wouldn't want to do such things half as much if there were no bars against them." "But what harm is there in 'such things,' as you call them? Suppose my cousin Jimmy was at boarding-school, and took a notion to write a note to a girl, and to meet her down town and drink ice-cream soda with her, would any teacher think he had done such a dreadful thing,--a thing for which he deserved to be expelled?" "They'd think he had done wrong in going against the laws of the school, but it _wouldn't_ do him the harm that it would a girl, because a girl is supposed to be a little differently situated from a boy. If she has been brought up like a lady, she isn't expected to be planning meetings with young men on the sly. She is supposed to have a little dignity; and as everybody knows that no boy would think of proposing such silly out-of-the-way things to a girl unless he had been encouraged by her to dare them, so the girl who is found to have gone on in such silly ways is talked about as bold and unladylike, and that is an injury that may leave a black and blue spot on her forever; and you must see, if you will stop to think about it a minute, that such a girl would injure the school she happened to be in,--would leave a black and blue spot on that." Kate had tried to be very forbearing at the start; but as she was confronted by Dorothea's density, as she saw how vain and foolish, not to say ignorant, were her estimates, her patience gave way, and she spoke the whole of her mind then and there, without reserve and without softening her words. It is needless to say that Dorothea was furious to be called by implication bold and unladylike, and a possible injury to the school. Out of this fury she burst forth,-- "I never, never in all my life heard of such impudence! _You_ to talk of being brought up like a lady! You are the most conceited, meddling, _un_ladylike girl I ever met! What business is it of yours, anyway? Who set you up to manage this school? You think you can manage everybody, and that you know more about society and propriety than anybody else. You're nothing but a Dutch girl, anyway; and as for being expelled from this school, I'll expel myself if this kind of interference is to be allowed. I'm about tired, anyhow, of such a peeking, prying, puss-puss-in-the-corner place. Miss Marr is making you into a little lot of primmy old maids just as fast as she can; and I for one--" But Kate did not wait to hear any more of this outburst. She did not dare, in fact, to trust herself to reply. Hope, who was sitting curled up in the library waiting, as she had promised, heard the quick, flying footsteps, as they came along, and said to herself, "She's had a horrid time, I know." But _how_ horrid she had not imagined until poor Kate poured forth the story. It was a very honestly told story,--not a word of her own part in it omitted in the whole detail. But as she thus honestly, and with just her own peculiar lift of the head and emphatic way, repeated all she had said, Hope's lips began to twitch, and at last she began to laugh. "How mean of you!" cried Kate. Then she joined in the laugh, as she realized how little adapted her words had been to soften Dorothea, and how fully adapted to rousing her resentment and rebellion. "But I began beautifully, Hope. I was as mild and persuasive as possible; but when she called Miss Marr 'an old cat,' I _couldn't_ keep on being mild and persuasive. How could I?" "I think it must have been hard work, and I don't wonder you said just what you did; and perhaps, after all, the plain truth, though it makes her so angry now, will have the most effect in the end." "Yes, in the end; but--but, Hope, what I've been afraid of is that she'll do something right away,--something reckless and daring, just to show she isn't afraid of anything and doesn't care." "Oh, I didn't think of that; but I don't believe she will. She'll remember what you said about Miss Marr's writing to her parents, and that will stop her." "I don't know," responded Kate, doubtfully. "She looked to me as if she would brave anything, she was so angry." For a day or two the three--Hope and Myra and Kate--were on the _qui vive_, expecting some catastrophe; but as at the close of the second day everything seemed to go on as usual, and Dorothea, with the exception of holding aloof from them, was the same as ever, they relaxed a little of their apprehension. Once or twice in these days they had noticed that Bessie Armitage had regarded Dorothea with a queer, quizzical sort of look,--"Just as if she knew something was or had been going on," Myra declared. Hope laughed at this declaration. What could Bessie know? She was not a boarding-pupil, only "an outsider," as they called the girls who were the day pupils; and the outsiders never knew what was going on in the house unless some one of the boarding-girls told them, and there was certainly no one to tell Bessie about this affair. "Perhaps Raymond may have told his sister," suggested Myra. "Raymond Armitage!" exclaimed Kate. "Not he; there are brothers and brothers. Raymond Armitage is not one of the brothers who are confidential with their sisters. It would be much more his way to tell a boy friend,--to tell him and brag about it to him. That's just the kind of boy Raymond Armitage is, in my opinion. I like Bessie, but I never liked that brother of hers. I never like boys who have such awfully flattering ways with girls. Raymond Armitage is always paying compliments to girls, always agreeing with everything they say, or pretending to. He--he's--I don't know just how to put it--but he's too conscious all the time. Now, there's Peter Van Loon and Victor Graham and that nice Jimmy Dering, they're polite enough for anybody; but they treat me as if I was a human being like themselves, and agree with me or disagree with me as they do with each other. They're honest, and that's the kind I like and trust, and I don't trust the other kind. I always feel as if these smiling, smirking, constantly agreeing kind were making fun of me." "So do I," "And so do I," exclaimed Hope and Myra, in a breath. CHAPTER XIX. The next day was Saturday, and directly after a very early twelve-o'clock luncheon the girls were all going to the Park to skate. Miss Marr had a cold, and was not able to accompany them, as she usually did on these outings. She sent, in her stead, two of the under teachers,--Miss Stephens and Miss Thompson. "And if we _can't_ have Miss Marr, Stevey and Tommy are not bad," Kate Van der Berg declared, rather irreverently, as she ran up to her room to make herself ready. Several girls were following in her wake; amongst them was Dorothea, who suddenly retorted to Kate's words,-- "Perhaps _some_ of us had quite as lief have Stevey and Tommy as Miss Marr." It was the first time that Dorothea had responded even indirectly to any remarks of Kate's since their stormy interview; and though there was a sharp flavor in what was said, Kate held herself in, and did not reply to it. But one of the younger girls called out in protest,-- "Oh, how can you say that! There's nobody like Miss Marr. I never skate half so well with any one else as I do with her." "Yes, but you are contented to skate _her way_, I suppose," flung back Dorothea, with a little disagreeable laugh. "Course I am, because she knows just how; and so her way's better than mine," was the innocent answer to this. "And I like _my_ way best sometimes, and take it," returned Dorothea, with another disagreeable laugh. Kate understood perfectly well that these flings were aimed at her, and not at little Lily Chester; but she was determined to take no notice of them. Dorothea, however, in spite of this sudden outburst of rancor, seemed to be in excellent spirits, and laughed and talked with one and another of the girls with even more than her usual volubility. Arrived at the Park, however, her spirits seemed to flag. Kate, who had caught her quick, searching glance across the pond, thought at once: "She is disappointed in not finding somebody here that she expected. I wonder if it is Raymond Armitage?" But just at that moment a shrill halloo reached Kate, and wheeling about she saw Peter Van Loon, with her brother Schuyler and little Johnny, skating down the ice towards her, and Dorothea and her affairs vanished from her mind. It was some time later that she was curiously recalled to her, by Peter Van Loon suddenly exclaiming, "Hello, there's Armitage now, going off with the daffodil girl!" "The daffodil girl!" What did he mean? Kate followed the direction of Peter's eyes, and saw Raymond Armitage with Dorothea, who had a lot of daffodils stuck in her belt,--a fresh offering, evidently, from her escort. "But why do you call her the 'daffodil girl?'" asked Kate, wonderingly. "Oh, you know she had such a lot of them when I first saw her--and with the yellow gown--she looked all daffodils, and I didn't know her name then." "And so you called her 'the daffodil girl;'" and Kate laughed: this was so like Peter. "Yes; so I called her the 'daffodil girl,'" assented Peter, smiling a little at Kate's laugh. The pond by this time had become pretty well covered with skaters, and it was not easy to keep any one in view; but Dorothea was tall, and for a while the nodding plumes in her hat were distinctly visible to Kate and her companion, as they held on their way; but presently the nodding plumes turned in another direction, and they lost sight of them, and out of sight was out of mind again. In the mean time Hope, with Schuyler Van der Berg and little Johnny, was coursing about in the merriest manner, little Johnny proudly showing Hope how to use a hocky stick on the ice. In this absorbing occupation the two approached the spot where some of the attendants and chaperons of the different parties were made comfortable; and as they did so, Hope, to her surprise, saw Dorothea Dering leaving the ice in company with Raymond Armitage. What did this mean? Dorothea was always the last one to leave the ice. But there was Miss Stephens--Miss Stephens would know what it meant; and skating up to her, Hope asked the question, and was told, in Miss Stephens's placid, easy way, that Miss Dering had got tired of skating, and Miss Bessie Armitage and her brother, who were just leaving, had taken charge of her to Miss Marr's. Dorothea tired of skating at this early hour? Why, they had but just begun! And where was Bessie? Miss Stephens had said, "Miss Bessie Armitage and her brother;" and she, Hope, had only seen the brother, Raymond Armitage. Perhaps, however, Bessie had gone on ahead; but--but--and a whole host of suppositions came crowding into Hope's mind. If it had been any other of the girls, none of these suppositions would have arisen. If Myra Donaldson or Anna Fleming had confessed to being tired, and had given out that she was going home under the escort of Bessie Armitage and her brother, who would have thought but that it was the most natural and proper thing in the world, and who--_who_ would have thought of questioning the statement as it stood? But Dorothea, with her little plots and plans, had clearly shown herself another person entirely, and it was little wonder that Hope, under the circumstances, should suspect further plotting and planning. "What is it,--what's up?" asked ten-year-old Johnny, as his companion suddenly forgot all interest in the hockey stick, and stood balancing herself on her skates, with a puzzled frown drawing her brows together. For answer, Hope turned about with a "I don't know, Johnny, but we'll go and find Kate. I want to ask her something." "All right;" and Johnny struck out to the left, where he saw his sister's Scotch skating-cap, with its glittering aigrette, shining in the sun. "Tired of skating? Gone home?" cried Kate, when Hope told her story. "I don't believe it! Schuyler!" "Oh, I wouldn't!" expostulated Hope. "Yes, I'm going to ask Schuyler--I want to know--Schuyler, did Raymond Armitage come out in the same car with you?" "Part way, but he left the car at Madison Square; he had ordered some theatre seats, and he stopped at the theatre to see if they were all right." "Oh, and then he came on here to meet Bessie?" "Bessie?" "Yes; funny, though, I haven't seen her. Have _you_ seen her?" "No." "And yet Hope says that Miss Stephens told her that Dorothea had got tired of skating, and gone home under the escort of Bessie Armitage and her brother." "Miss Stephens?" "Yes, Miss Stephens, one of the under-teachers, who is blind and deaf about some things,--a good, dear stupid, who thinks everybody is a lamb, and Raymond Armitage the Prince of Lambs, I suppose, and like the father of his country, and cannot tell a lie, and--" "But perhaps Bessie was just ahead, and Miss Stephens _did_ see her," put in Hope. "And didn't take her for granted," scoffed Kate. Then, as she caught a look that her brother and Peter exchanged, she cried,-- "What is it? Peter!" bringing one little skate-clad foot down on the ice with an emphasis that sent out a shower of sparkles, "tell me instantly what you know. Don't you see, you two boys, that it's for the credit of the school,--of dear Miss Marr, of Dorothea (silly goose that she is), and all the rest of us,--that this kind of thing shall be nipped in the bud? Don't you see that you _ought_ to tell what you know, that some of us can stop the foolishness, and save Dorothea from being sent home?" "Come now, you don't mean that;" and Peter stopped short in that odd way of his. "Yes, I do mean that Miss Marr would send Dorothea straight home if she heard of her going off for a lark with Raymond Armitage. She says at the start that her school is neither an infant school nor a reform school, and if she finds that girls of fifteen and sixteen don't know how to behave like ladies in the ordinary ways of good manners, they are not the kind of girls she wants in her house, and so she sends them out of it. There isn't any nagging or any little punishments. She advises us and talks to us in a nice friendly way at the beginning, and sometimes later; but she lets a girl alone enough to find out just what she is, and _then_, when she finds out that the girl has faults and habits that may injure the other girls, she won't have her in her school; and so now I want you to tell us--Hope and me--what you know about this going off with Raymond Armitage, so that--" "You may go and tell Miss Marr, and have her pack the girl off home." "Schuyler!" "Oh, well, I didn't mean exactly that, of course; but what _do_ you propose to do?" "Stop the foolishness, whatever it is, that may be going on." "Well, after what you told me the other day of your undertaking in that line with this particular party, I shouldn't think you'd attempt anything further with her." "But somebody must do it. I don't like Dorothea, I didn't from the first; but I want her to have another chance, and I do so hate to have things come to the pass of her being expelled; it would be perfectly horrid for all of us. But we're only wasting time if you won't help us by telling--" "But what is it you want to know?" "What _you_ know; in the first place, if Ray Armitage said that he was coming here to meet his sister, and if he _expected_ her to be here?" "Well, no; he didn't say anything about his sister." "Did he say anything about Dorothea?" "Yes." "That he was coming here to meet _her_?" "Yes." "And that he was going to take _her_ with him this afternoon to the matinée?" "Yes." "Then, oh, Schuyler, you _must_ come with me down to the Madison Square Theatre and head them off!" "Head them off! They've got there by this time." "No; they were going out on the other side, where they had just left Miss Stephens, because _that_ was the way they would take to go straight to Miss Marr's. Don't you see? Ray Armitage's cunning! Now, if _we_ go out on this side, and take the elevated, we shall get ahead of them, and--" "Well, I just sha'n't do anything of the kind! I'd like to see myself playing private policeman like that! If the girl is such a blooming idiot as this, she won't pay any attention to you! No, I guess I don't try any such missionary work, to be laughed at by all the fellows in town." "Laughed at!" A glance upward as she said this, and Kate caught the grin on Peter Van Loon's face, and burst forth: "Oh, that's all your manliness is worth! You're afraid,--afraid some other selfish fellows will laugh at you for doing your duty." "'Tisn't _my duty_!" "No, it isn't, Kate; he's right." Kate turned about in astonishment, for it was Hope who had spoken, and Hope who went on speaking,-- "And _you_--_you_ ought not to go, Kate; Dorothea would--would--" "Be madder than ever. But what _can_ be done?" "_I'll_ go." "_You?_" "Yes, with Mrs. Sibley. I've just caught sight of her; see, she is over there talking to Johnny. If I tell her how it is--what I want to do, she'll understand, she'll be glad to help; and Dorothea will listen to her, when she wouldn't to you or to me, I dare say." "Well, that's a much more sensible plan than yours, Kate," commented Schuyler Van der Berg, as Hope darted off; "but all the same it's my opinion that Miss Dorothea Dering isn't going to be kept from that matinée performance, even if they catch her in time." "Which they won't," spoke up Peter, as he looked at his watch. CHAPTER XX. And Peter was right; for, as Mrs. Sibley and Hope neared the theatre, they saw Dorothea's nodding plumes just disappearing through the wide open doorway. "And we're too late," cried Hope,--"too late, after all." "Too late to try to prevent the girl from going into the theatre,--yes, and I thought we should be when we started; there had been too much time lost before you spoke to me. We should have taken the car that preceded the one that we came in; but I doubt if it would have done any good if we _had_ been earlier. But I'll tell you what we'll do now. We'll go in to the matinée ourselves. Miss Marr," smiling down at Hope, "would be perfectly willing that you should go under my chaperonage." "Oh, yes, yes, of course." "You see, in doing this, we may be able to help this foolish girl, after all, by taking her home under our escort, after the matinée is over. She will hurry out, naturally, to get home before dark, and I am sure even such a harum-scarum creature will see that it is wiser for her to go back to Miss Marr's in our company than with young Armitage." "Mrs. Sibley, you don't think it is wrong, do you, for us to keep all this from Miss Marr,--to go on covering everything up from her while we try to get Dorothea out--out of all these queer ways of hers? It makes me feel as if--as if there might be something sly and underhand in going on like this,--something like being disloyal to Miss Marr, and deceiving her." "You needn't worry about that, my dear. I know Angelique Marr, and I am sure it would be a relief to her to have Dorothea helped out of her queer ways, as you put it, by girls like you and Kate. Miss Marr knows perfectly well that a _teacher's_ opposition wouldn't influence a girl like Dorothea favorably,--that it would be more likely to rouse a counter opposition. It is only girls of her own age who would be likely to influence her; and so, knowing this, the teacher has to be silent a good many times when she may suspect things that she would _like_ to oppose; then, when the flagrant offence is forced upon her, there would be no alternative but to see that the offender was punished according to the stated rules of the school government, if the school itself was to be respected and to maintain its position." Greatly comforted by these words, Hope followed Mrs. Sibley into the theatre. There had been no difficulty, even at this late moment, in obtaining very good back seats,--seats from which one could command an excellent view of the audience, if not of the stage; and Hope at once began a careful survey of this audience, her far-seeing young eyes roving rapidly from section to section in keen investigation. She was suddenly interrupted in this investigation by a whisper from Mrs. Sibley. "Aren't you looking too far down in front? Isn't that the girl?" "Where?" "Two rows in front of us, to the right." Hope looked in the direction indicated; and there, two rows in front, to the right, sure enough, was Dorothea. She was laughing and whispering with her companion, evidently in the gayest spirits; and Hope's heart sank within her at the thought of what she had undertaken, as she caught sight of her. Why, oh, why, had she been so rash as to think of interfering with this girl in any way? For, as she regarded her there, she felt sure that she would look upon their suggestion of taking her home as an interference, to be resented and rejected. "Even such a harum-scarum creature will see that it is wiser for her to go back to Miss Marr in our company than with young Armitage," Mrs. Sibley had confidently declared. But Mrs. Sibley didn't know Dorothea, Hope now reflected, as there came crowding up to her, at the sight of that handsome, arrogant face, all her own bitter knowledge of her. And with this knowledge, why--why had she been so rash? And to have brought kind, sweet Mrs. Sibley here to be, perhaps, insulted; for if Dorothea _did_ resent their suggestion, she wouldn't hesitate to express herself with her usual freedom. For a moment, overcome by all these thoughts, poor Hope had a mind to say to Mrs. Sibley: "Our plan won't be of the slightest use. Dorothea won't accept our offer, and we might as well give it up." The next moment, ashamed of her cowardice, she said to herself: "How can I be so mean? It's my duty to go ahead and try to carry out what I've undertaken. If I fail--if Dorothea does turn upon me, I must bear it,--that's all." And with this resolve, she directed her attention to the stage. It was only when the curtain fell after the first act that she glanced again towards the pair to the right. She was just in time to see Mr. Raymond Armitage bowing with effusion to a party of ladies several seats in front; and then, evidently with a word of explanation and excuse to Dorothea, he jumped up and went forward to speak to them. The youngest of the party was a very elegant young woman, whose notice seemed to be much appreciated by Mr. Raymond Armitage, as he bent before her. The other ladies, too, were apparently of consequence to him. But when Hope saw him linger beyond the moment of greeting, her glance wandered back to Dorothea. What did Dorothea think of being left to herself like this by her fine escort? There might be the excuse of some message or other, for his leaving her for a moment, but to linger moment by moment _for his own pleasure_,--yes, that was it,--how would Miss Dorothea take this? A sudden turn of her head showed Hope pretty plainly how she took it, for in place of the gay satisfaction that had made her face radiant, there was a very unmistakable look of astonishment and mortification. Mrs. Sibley, who had also been observant of this little by-play, here whispered to Hope,-- "How rude to leave her like that!" "And how mortified she is--look!" responded Hope. Several times after this they saw him make a movement as if to return to his place, but each time some word addressed to him by one of the ladies would be enough to detain him. When finally he did return, the orchestra was playing the last of its selections before the rising of the curtain again. That he was profuse in his apologies, the two interested observers could plainly perceive. They could also perceive that Dorothea was by no means disposed to accept these apologies in a benignant spirit. At last, however, he seemed to make his peace in a measure, for a half smile began to hover about Dorothea's lips, and by the time the curtain had risen again, and the merry little play that was on the boards was again making everybody laugh, Dorothea was joining in the laugh as heartily as any one. The play ended in a little whirlwind of applause. In the midst of this, Mrs. Sibley noticed that young Armitage was hurrying his companion off in great haste, and whispered to Hope,-- "They are hurrying probably to catch the next car; and if we go put at once by the right aisle, we shall meet them face to face, and it will be quite easy for you then to propose to take Dorothea with us. She _must_ see the point,--that it is much better for her to go back to Miss Marr's in our company, and be glad of the opportunity we offer her." Hope nodded assent; but her heart quaked, as she followed Mrs. Sibley through the passages between the seats, and fancied that moment when she should meet Dorothea face to face and see her stare of astonishment, and then, oh, then, hear, perhaps, her scornful rejection of the opportunity offered her! But they were not to meet Dorothea face to face as they came out on that right aisle. A little delay in pushing through brought them behind instead of in front of the pair, and-- "No, I thank you, I can find the car by myself!" were the words that they heard on that instant; and the tone in which these words were delivered was sharp and angry, not the tone of friendly agreement. Evidently young Armitage had not waited for his companion to suggest that she had better return without his escort to Miss Marr's door, and evidently Dorothea had resented the fact that the suggestion had come from him. "But you ought not to be angry with me," they heard him protest. "I shouldn't think of letting you go alone if it wasn't better for you. The car is on the line of your street, and you might meet--might meet--one of your teachers, you know, and that would make trouble for you. It's just to help you that I--" "Oh, really, it's a pity you didn't think of this earlier before you said we would go back by the other line, where we shouldn't run the risk of meeting the teachers." "Yes, I know; but as I have come to think it over, I see that the other cars will keep you out so much longer, I thought you would rather--" "As you have come to think it over _since you met your friends_, you see that it will be more convenient for you not to take up the time by going round by the other line. Perhaps your friends want you to find _their_ car for them. Anyway, whatever engagement you've made with them, don't keep them waiting for _me_; I can find _my_ car by myself, as I said." "Miss Dering!" in an expostulating tone, "I haven't made any engagement to hurry me away; I'm only going to dine at the Waldorf by and by with these friends,--they're Washington friends of my mother and Bessie,--but I needn't hurry, not the least, and of course I shall take you home by the other line if you like that best." "But I don't like it best--_now_. I--I--" Hope here caught sight of Dorothea's face,--the quivering lips, the eyes that were striving against tears,--and obeying a swift, warm impulse of pity and sympathy, forgot her fears in it, and called out softly,-- "Dorothea! Dorothea!" Dorothea turned a startled glance behind her at this call. Then, "What! _you_ here, Hope?" she exclaimed. "Yes, with Mrs. Sibley." "Oh, and you're going straight home--to Miss Marr's? Mrs. Sibley is to take you?" stepping back to Hope's side. "Yes." "And may I--will you let me come with you?" in a whisper, and clutching Hope's wrist nervously. "Yes, oh, yes; I was going to ask you if you wouldn't like to come with us." "Were you?" A quick glance at Hope from the black eyes still struggling against tears, a closer clutch upon Hope's wrist, then a sudden conquering of the quivering lips, and, "I needn't keep you waiting any longer, I have found friends who will take me home," Mr. Raymond Armitage was told with a dignity that surprised and rather abashed him. Hope, too, was surprised at the real dignity displayed, and slid her hand into the hand that was clutching her wrist, with a sudden movement of approbation and sympathy. Dorothea gave a quick start, and turned an inquiring look upon Hope's face at this movement,--a look that seemed to ask, "Do you really feel like this toward me?" With wise forethought, Mrs. Sibley, on leaving the Park, had directed her coachman, who was awaiting her with the carriage at that point to drive round to the theatre and await her there. If he did not find her ready for him at once, he was to return at four o'clock. She had thus provided for either result of her expedition. If the elevated, swift though it was, did not enable them to reach the theatre in time to interview Dorothea as she arrived, the carriage would be on hand at four to take her back with them after the play, for Mrs. Sibley had no manner of doubt from the first that the girl would go with them, though she little thought it would be under the present conditions. Indeed, she had looked forward to a very different state of things; and sure though she felt of ultimate success, she fully expected to bring it about by adroit management. Instead of this, however, here was this difficult-to-be-dealt-with Dorothea not only willing, but gratefully glad, to avail herself of the opportunity offered her. CHAPTER XXI. "And you mean that you _won't_ tell her about Ray Armitage's rudeness?" "No, I won't tell her if you feel like this,--if you don't want me to tell her." "Of course I don't want you to, but of course I expected that you _would_ tell her; she's such a chum of yours. I know it would have been the first thing _I_ should have done with a chum of mine." "Well, _I_ should have spoken of it to Kate, naturally, but for your feeling; and she would have been very nice about it, just as indignant and disgusted with him as I am." "Perhaps so; but she's tried to do me good and failed too much to be very sorry for anything that would mortify me; and I _know_ if she heard of this rudeness to me, she'd think it served me right,--would teach me a lesson." Hope couldn't help laughing a little at this. Then she said suddenly, "How do you know that I don't feel just the same?" "Oh, I know you don't exactly approve of me; but you haven't cut me up as she has, and then tried to set me right in that superior way; and you haven't meddled with me or my affairs." "You don't know what I have done. You took it for granted that I happened to go to the theatre with Mrs. Sibley to please myself, that I happened to be behind you, and so happened to hear your talk with Raymond Armitage. But I _didn't_ go there to please myself. I went there on purpose to--to meddle with you and your affairs!" "What in the world _do_ you mean?" "I'll tell you." And then and there Hope told the whole story of her meddling, and why she did it,--the whole story, from the moment she had observed Dorothea leaving the Park with Raymond Armitage to her own departure with Mrs. Sibley; and this, of course, included the consultation with Kate, and the information regarding Raymond Armitage's movements that was wrung from Schuyler Van der Berg. As she neared the end of this story, Hope rose from her chair. Dorothea would not now desire her presence, as she had desired it a few minutes ago when they entered the house together after Mrs. Sibley had left them, and when, full of relief and gratitude, she had said: "Oh, do come up to my room for a few minutes! I want to ask you something." No, she would no longer desire her presence, even with the added relief,--the added debt of gratitude for Hope's voluntary offer to say nothing of Raymond Armitage's rudeness. She would not only no longer desire her presence, but she would doubtless turn upon her with hot resentment, as she had turned upon Kate on a previous occasion; and it was to avoid the outburst of this resentment that Hope rose to make herself ready to leave the room when she had come to the end of her story. But as she said her last word, as she turned to go,-- "Don't, don't go!" was called after her, in a queer stifled voice, not at all like Dorothea's usual high loud tones when she was protesting against anything,--a queer stifled voice that had--could it be possible?--a sound of tears in it? and--and there was a look in Dorothea's eyes,--yes, a look, as if the tears were there too, were almost ready to fall. [Illustration: "DON'T, DON'T GO"] A lump began to rise in Hope's throat. Had she been too harsh in what she had told, or in the way she had told it? Had they all been too harsh, too cold in their treatment of this girl's offences? It was true that they were all against her,--the "all" who comprised the little set of the older girls, and perhaps--perhaps--But what was that that Dorothea was saying? "I think you've been awfully kind to take all this trouble for me; and I've always thought you were so indifferent,--that you didn't in the least care what became of me." "Kind? indifferent? I don't understand," faltered Hope, staring blankly in her amazement at Dorothea. "Yes, I should never have thought of your taking the least trouble, putting yourself out for me. I knew you didn't approve of me very much, but I supposed that you were so indifferent that it didn't matter to you. I don't half believe, and I never have, that such dreadful consequences would come of going against Miss Marr's rules; but _you_ do, I see, and it was awfully kind of you to take all this trouble to pull me out of the danger you thought I was in,--awfully kind, and I sha'n't forget it; and if you call this meddling, it's a very different sort of meddling from some other people's. It's easy enough for some folks to _talk_ and criticise everything you do, telling you what you ought and what you ought not to do, as if you were a mere ignoramus. I never would stand that kind of thing. Yes, it's a very different sort of thing that you've done, to put yourself out, and maybe run a risk yourself in doing it; and then to promise, as you have, not to say anything about that horrid part of the whole affair,--Raymond Armitage's hateful impoliteness! Well, I don't think there are many girls that would hold their tongues like that; and I--I--I just--just--love you for it!" wound up Dorothea, her voice breaking in a sudden little tempest of tears. "Oh, but I--I--I'm not what you--what you think--I'm not--I don't deserve--you don't know me," stammered Hope, astonished and embarrassed beyond words. "I knew you from the first, the very first," went on Dorothea. Hope started. "From the very first, when I saw you coming down the corridor that afternoon I arrived, as the kind of girl I'd like,--a girl who wouldn't be mean and meddlesome; and I knew you were a lady of the real stuff, and you _are_--a long shot ahead of most of 'em here; and oh, I say--" Dorothea had now conquered her tears,--"aren't you the girl I saw last year at Papanti's with the Edlicotts?" "No." "Well, you look so like her I thought you might be, or some relation of hers maybe. You're just of her stamp, any way. Anna Fleming is always talking about those Knickerbocker Van der Bergs as if they were ahead of everybody else, and she is always quoting Kate Van der Berg as being so swell in her looks and her manners. Looks and manners! I told Anna the last time she said this to me, that _you_ were a great sight _more_ swell. And you are. Oh, I know who's who; there can't anybody tell _me_! Manners! I don't call it very good manners to talk _at_ people as Kate Van der Berg has talked at me, with all that stuff of what her brother Schuyler says about girls. She never liked me from the start, and she did what she could to set you, and, for that matter, the rest of the girls against me. I soon caught on to that. If it hadn't been for her--" "Oh, Dorothea! Dorothea!" burst in Hope at this point, "I can't let you go on any more like this,--it would be mean and cowardly and dishonorable in me. You're all wrong, all wrong! Kate hasn't set me or any one else against you. You don't know, you don't remember--you think I--I would have been more--more sociable--more friendly, if it hadn't been for Kate, but--but it is--it is Kate who would have been more sociable, more friendly perhaps, if it hadn't been for me! _You_ have forgotten _me_--you have forgotten that we have ever met before, but we have, and _I_ have never forgotten, for you--you hurt me horribly--horribly at that time. I remember everything about it--every word; and when I met you in the corridor, the day you arrived here in the autumn, I knew you at once, but I saw that you had forgotten me, and I--" "But when--where--how long ago was it--that time we met first--and what in the world did I say to hurt you so?" interrupted Dorothea with wide-open eyes of amazement. "It was at Brookside, years ago." "At Brookside? I never knew a girl like you at Brookside." "Not like me now. I was only ten years old then, and I--was selling mayflowers in the Brookside station." "Oh, I remember! I remember!" cried Dorothea, leaping down from the bed where she was sitting. "And you--you are that girl?" "Yes, my father was an engineer on that road, and couldn't afford to buy me what I wanted more than anything in the world--a violin, and I thought I would have to give it up--to go without it, until one day on the street I heard a boy with a basket of mayflowers crying 'Ten cents a bunch,' and then I saw how I might earn the money that I wanted so much, and buy my violin myself." "And you--_you_ are that little girl--that little 'Ten-cents-a-bunch,' as I called you afterward to my father! Oh, oh, it all comes to me now; how mad I got because you stood up to me, and talked back to me. I suppose I was a great inquisitive brat, and fired off a lot of inquisitive questions at you,--I was always asking questions,--and you got mad at 'em and went for me, and then _I_ got mad with you, and we had a regular squabble. I told my father about it, and he laughed and said, 'I don't think you had the best of it, Dolly;' and then I remember, too, something he said to Mary, my sister,--Mary had taken a great fancy to you,--something about your father knowing a lot about engines,--being a genius at that kind of thing; and then papa laughed again and asked me, if your father should turn out a millionaire some day, how'd I like my impudent little girl--that's _you_, you know--turning into a millionaire's daughter, and I said I'd say,'Ten cents a bunch to her,' and I have, I have! For your father _has_ turned into a millionaire, hasn't he? and that's what it means, your being here, and your having a Stradivari violin! Oh, oh, oh, it's just like a story, just like a play--a Cinderella play; but," catching a queer expression on Hope's face, "I'm awfully sorry I hurt your feelings as I did, but you mustn't lay it up against me,--nobody ever lays anything up against me. I didn't _mean_ to hurt your feelings, but I didn't know any better then, and anyhow, everything's come out all right for you now,--you've come up out of the soot and ashes just as Cinderella did, only _your_ soot was engine soot, and you've come up at the top of everything, and I _do_ say, _now_, that you are a great sight more swell in your looks and your manners and in _yourself_ than Kate Van der Berg, I don't care _what_ soot and ashes you came up from." The queer expression on Hope's face had by this time deepened into something that looked like a wondering smile, a smile that seemed to say, "How perfectly astonishing this girl is!" Dorothea saw the smile, and with a sudden acuteness that now and then came to her, hit upon its meaning, and cried out,-- "Oh, I see what you think,--I surprise you all round, I know, I'm so outspoken and blunt. Jimmy says I'm beastly blunt sometimes. I suppose in the first place that you expected me to have laid things up against you as you did against me; but, goody gracious, I never remember a quarter of what I say nor a quarter of what anybody else says after a while, and I'm always ready to make up, to jump over anything that's disagreeable if I'm met half-way; and you,--well, you've met me more than half-way in this business about Raymond Armitage, and if I _had_ laid up anything you'd ever said,--and I do remember," laughing, "you said I was the most ignorant girl you'd ever seen,--I couldn't be mad with you for it now. No, I couldn't be anything but friendly to you,--and it's such jolly fun, too, the whole story,--my not remembering you, and the way it's turned out, and all; but look here, what's that you said about Kate Van der Berg,--that she might have been more sociable if it hadn't been for you? Did you tell her--I suppose you did--of our first meeting in the Brookside station, and the scrimmage we had, and that I hurt your feelings so dreadfully?" "No; but after you had been here for a little time, Kate noticed that I--was rather stiff toward you." "Yes, stiff and offish, but dreadfully polite, and in spite of it--the offishness, I mean--I liked you. _Isn't_ it funny? But go on--Kate noticed that you were stiff toward me--" "And she asked me what it was that I disliked in you, and I told her just this,--that you and I had met long ago when we were little girls, and that you had said something then that had hurt me that I had never forgotten, but that you had forgotten it and forgotten _me_. That was all. I thought it was better to tell her what I did than to try to turn the subject, because if I tried to do that she would have thought the matter worse than it was." "Well, I suppose she told the girls what you said, and made much of it, and--" "She told no one. I asked her at once not to speak of it, and she promised that she wouldn't, and I know that she didn't." "But you--I don't see, when you have talked with her, as you must have done, you are so intimate with her--about your mayflower business and everything--how you could help mentioning our scrimmage." "I never have talked to her about the mayflower business, as you call it." "Do you mean to say that she doesn't know that you sold those flowers to buy a violin?" Hope colored painfully as she answered,-- "I--I have never said anything about those things to her." "You haven't? Well, now look here; you've been so nice keeping _my_ secret, I'll keep yours. The girls, not one of them, shall hear a word from me of that poor time and the flower-selling,--not one word; you can trust me." "Oh, no, no, Dorothea! You think I am ashamed of that 'poor time,' as you describe it,--that dear time, it ought to be described. No, no, it isn't because I was ashamed of that time that I haven't spoken to Kate or to the others, it is because I'm always shy of talking about myself, always, and I was more than ever shy of talking to girls about a way of living and doing that they knew nothing of, and that they would wonder at as I told of it,--wonder at and stare at me in their wonder, because they knew nothing only of one kind of living and doing,--_their_ kind. It would have been like what it is sometimes for a musician to play to an audience a new composition that is full of strange chords and harmonies. The audience listens and wonders but doesn't understand, and so is not in sympathy with the player, and the player is made to feel awkward and uncomfortable, and as if he had made a mistake in producing the composition at that time. That was what I knew that I should feel if I talked to these girls. Don't you see what I mean?" "Yes, I see, now that you've put it before me in this way, but I shouldn't, if you hadn't laid it out as you have; and--well, I suppose I might have felt just as you did in your place, only I shouldn't have known how to explain it to myself as you have." "And then after _you_ came," went on Hope, more as if she were relieving her own mind than addressing any particular person, "after that, it would have been more difficult to talk of that old time--" "Because you thought I'd stowed away in my mind that old squabble just as you had, and would jump on you, and say a lot of disagreeable things. Well, I might have burst out with a lot of remarks and exclamations and questions, and stared at you as you say you expected to be stared at, but I shouldn't have had any feeling of spite against you, any more than I have now this minute, for, as I tell you, I'd never laid up anything, but you're so sensitive, you wouldn't have liked my remarks and questions before all the girls, I dare say." "And I dare say this sensitiveness has made me cowardly. I thought one day last term when Kate Van der Berg was talking with Anna Fleming about people who had risen in the world by their own ability, and yet didn't like to refer to their early days of poverty and struggle, that I must be a great coward, and I was very unhappy over it for a while; but I know now that my cowardice isn't shame at all, but just that shrinking from talking to those who couldn't fully understand what I was talking of, and who would stare at me with wonder and curiosity _because_ they didn't understand. But now, now, I'm not going to shrink any longer, I'm not going to have anybody ever think for a single moment that I'm ashamed of that dear time when we lived in that tiny cottage at Riverview, where I first began to learn to play on the little violin I earned myself, and where my dear, dear father made the little model of the engine that made his fortune." "Oh, do you mean, then, that you are going to tell Kate now, right away,--Kate and the other girls,--what you've told me?" asked Dorothea eagerly, and with her usual blunt inquisitiveness. "Well, I don't know that I shall rush 'right away' now, this minute, and tell them; it isn't exactly a matter of such importance as that," answered Hope, with a laugh that was half amused and half annoyed. "I think I shall dress for dinner first, and I _may_ sleep on it." "Oh, now you're snubbing my inquisitiveness, I know! But, Hope, see here a minute. I--I want to say that I'm not going to talk to the girls about you. Of course, you expected that I would--would go on over that Brookside station squabble, and I might, if things hadn't turned out as they have--if I--I didn't feel as I do--as if I knew you better now, and knew how you felt about being made a show of." Hope winced a little at this presumption on Dorothea's part that there was still a secret between them,--a secret dependent on Dorothea's own good will,--and she made haste to say,-- "It is very nice of you, I'm sure, Dorothea, to want to consult my feelings, but it isn't necessary for you to think that you must keep silent on my account." Dorothea looked a little disappointed, and Hope felt a twinge of self-reproach as she glanced at her; but it was impossible for her to accept the attitude of indebtedness that seemed about to be thrust upon her. As she turned to leave the room, however, she said more warmly than she had yet spoken,-- "I think you have been very good-natured, Dorothea, to have taken everything that I have said so nicely--and--and"--smiling a little--"you are better-natured than I am, because you don't lay things up as I do." "No, I don't lay up grudges, but I can lay up a little gratitude, I hope, and that helps me to be good-natured sometimes." As she said this, Dorothea showed all her milk-white teeth in a frank laugh; and Hope, regarding her, thought to herself: "She _is_ better natured than I am about some things, and she _can_ be generous." CHAPTER XXII. "And she didn't make any objection to going with you?" "No, not the slightest. Indeed she seemed glad to go with us." Hope flushed a little, as she said this in answer to Kate's question that night, as the two sat talking over the day and its exciting events. The flush was the result of that pang of tender conscience that springs up in revolt at even a momentary want of candor. "And Ray Armitage,--how did he take it?" "Oh, quite easily!" "And you didn't have--either you or Mrs. Sibley--to argue with her; you didn't have to tell her that the only thing to save her from the consequences of her silliness was to go home in a proper way under proper chaperonage?" "No, we didn't have to knock her down with that bludgeon," laughed Hope. "Well, I suppose she had begun to _think_! I'm glad she had so much sense. Schuyler made all manner of fun of me after you and Mrs. Sibley left. He said, in the first place, that he didn't believe you'd be in time to see them before they entered the theatre, and if you did, you wouldn't stop them." "Mrs. Sibley was of the same opinion exactly." "How clever it was of her to do the next thing,--take you into the theatre, and then manage the whole thing so perfectly!" "Yes, wasn't it clever, and so kind." "When you drove up did you see any of the teachers?" "We met Miss Stephens as we entered the hall." "You don't mean it? What did she say at seeing Dorothea with you?" "Mrs. Sibley came in with us for a moment, and Miss Stephens looked at the three of us with some surprise, and then said,-- "'I thought Dorothea was coming home long ago under the escort of Bessie Armitage and her brother.' "At that, Mrs. Sibley answered at once, 'We met Dorothea, and took her with _us_.' "Oh! and when Miss Stephens saw Mrs. Sibley and heard her say that, she felt that everything was all right, I suppose. She ought to have been sure of that before, and then you wouldn't have lost your afternoon's skating, and had such a lot of bother." "Oh, well, it's all turned out satisfactorily." Hope couldn't tell Kate _how_ satisfactorily,--couldn't tell her that if Miss Stephens _had_ been sure that everything was right at an earlier hour and Dorothea had thus been hindered from doing what she did, she would also have missed that mortifying experience, that might do more to shake her unlimited confidence in her own estimates and opinions than anything else could possibly do. No, Hope couldn't tell Kate of this, for her lips were sealed. But if she could not express herself freely in this direction, she could, and she would, say something to show Dorothea as she had just seen her,--at her best; and so she held forth, with what amplitude was possible within the limit of her promise, on the girl's surprising gentleness and reasonableness. Dorothea had really behaved exceedingly well, she told Kate, and was not only appreciative of what had been done for her, but of the good intention that prompted the doing. And here Hope could not help repeating this characteristic speech of Dorothea's,-- "I don't half believe, and I never have, that such dreadful consequences would come of going against Miss Marr's rules; but _you_ do, I see, and so it was awfully kind of you to take all this trouble to pull me out of the danger you thought I was in." "She said that? Well, I must say, she's got more sense and feeling than I gave her credit for; and to think of her flying at _me_ as she did. _My_ intentions were as good as yours." "Yes, but you gave her advice, and she hates advice. What seemed to impress her was our--Mrs. Sibley and my--taking the trouble to leave the Park, and actually going in to the matinée and waiting to do her the service we did." "Well, I hope her gratitude and appreciation will last long enough to keep her out of any more silly scrapes for a while." "I don't believe she will want to get into any more such scrapes. I--I think she feels sort of ashamed of what she has done. And, Kate, couldn't we--wouldn't it be a good plan if we tried to help her to keep out of such things?" "Help her--how?" "Well, I--I feel as if I may have been too hard on her. I have cherished my feeling of dislike constantly, and have done her an injury all round--with you, and the other girls by the way I have held off from her. She feels that the girls don't like her, and thinks that _you_ were the first to dislike her, and that it was you who had influenced me. I told her what a mistake that was,--that it was _I_ who had influenced you--by my manner at the start; and then, then I recalled myself to her mind. I told her what she had forgotten,--that I was the little girl she had met five years ago,--the little girl she had had a quarrel with at the Brookside station, and that I had always remembered what she had said to me there,--always remembered and resented it, and that it was that that had affected my manner towards her, had made me stiff and offish to her." "Oh, Hope, do, do tell me about that time! I've never liked before to urge you to tell me the whole story, but I wish now that you _would_ tell me." There was a moment of hesitation,--just a moment; then with a little rising of color, a little tremulousness of voice, Hope said,-- "Kate, do you remember that piece of music that I brought back from Boston,--that 'Idyl of the Spring' that Mr. Kolb had composed for me to play at our coming May festival?" "That piece dedicated to you, and so oddly named 'Mayflowers: Ten Cents a Bunch'?" "Yes, and do you remember, when you asked me how he came to give it such an odd title, that I told you he had known a little girl once that he was very fond of, who had sold mayflowers at ten cents a bunch?" "Yes." "Well, _I_ was that little girl." "You! you! When--where--how did you come to sell them?" "I'll tell you;" and then, for the second time that night, Hope told her story of that 'poor time,' as Dorothea had blunderingly called it,--that dear time, as she herself rightly and happily called it,--when she lived with her father and mother in the little cottage at Riverview, and carried out her joyous plan of earning that wonderful twenty-five dollars to buy the good little fiddle. As she told the story now, as she went back to the details of her plan, with Kate for audience, and described the little fiddle in the shop-window as she had first seen it, and the sinking of her heart as she was told the price, and then the happy relief of her inspiration when she heard the boy on the street call out "Ten cents a bunch," she began to lose her shyness in the warmth of her recollection,--to lose her shyness and to forget her shrinking from a possible auditor who _wouldn't understand_. Wouldn't understand! As she neared the end, as she came to her meeting with Dorothea in the Brookside station, and said, "It was there that I first met Dorothea," Kate burst in,-- "And she insulted you, she insulted you in her ignorance and stupidity! I can see it all,--all. She couldn't comprehend such a dear darling brave little thing as you. She took you for an ordinary little street huckster,--the horrid thick-headed, thick-skinned creature,--and sneered and jeered at you, and very likely called you names, or did other dreadful things." "Oh, no, no, Kate! she wasn't malicious. She didn't _mean_ to hurt me; but she was ignorant of any way of living but her own way, and she thought that anybody who sold things on the street must be one of those very poor people who lived anyhow, like the people at the North End, and so she asked me questions,--questions that hurt me, because they showed that she thought I was so different from herself. No, it wasn't malice that made her ask these questions, it was simply ignorance; and I--I told her so at last." "You did? Hurrah! Tell me--tell me exactly what you said," cried Kate, laughing delightedly. "Well, I said exactly that,--that she must be very ignorant or she would know more about the difference in people, that she would _see_ the difference; and then I told her that my father was an engineer on the road, and that we had a nice home and plenty to eat and to drink and to wear, and books and magazines and papers, and then she asked me what I sold flowers on the street for, if we were as nice as that, and I told her that I wanted to buy something for myself that my father couldn't afford to buy for me; and then I remember"--and a little dimpling smile came over Hope's face here--"I asked her, 'Don't you ever want anything that your father doesn't feel as if he could buy for you just when you want him to?' and she was so irritated at my accusing her of being ignorant that she answered, 'Well, if I did, I shouldn't be let to go out on the street and peddle flowers to earn the money.'" "The hateful, impudent--" "But wait, wait! I was as bad as she was here, because I answered back, 'And _I_ shouldn't be _allowed_ to say "let to go," like ignorant North Enders.'" "Oh, Hope, Hope, this is beautiful, beautiful!" and Kate began to dance wildly around the room, thrumming an imaginary pair of castanets as she danced. "I don't think it was very beautiful," protested Hope; "but you can see by this speech that I was as bad as she after I got my temper up." "Bad! it was beautiful, beautiful,--just the best thing I ever heard. Bad! well, I should say not." "But _she_ didn't _mean_ to hurt me, to begin with, and I--I _meant_ to hurt her in everything I said. Remember that." "You meant to enlighten her, and I fancy you did, and you certainly got the better of her." "Yes, and her father told her so, she said, when I recalled the 'scrimmage,' as she termed it, to her mind; and yet in spite of that she didn't lay up anything against me. She had forgotten my face, and was fast forgetting the whole affair when I brought things back to her. She had never had a bit of grudge against me, and she only laughed when she recalled some of the things I had said. I'm glad now to tell you the whole story, for you must see by what I have told you, that she isn't in the least malicious, and you must see, too, that she is really much better natured than we have thought her, not to have laid up anything; yes, much better natured than I am." "Well, she was the attacking party. You were only on the defensive, and you knocked her down with the truth. Of course you would remember the kind of things she said to you more than she would remember your replies; and then you are much finer and more sensitive than she, anyway. But I will allow that she has turned out better in the end than I would have expected. That telling you what her father said wasn't bad. But, Hope dear, sensitive as you are, how could you recall yourself and that old time to her?" "I told you how I came to do it; it was because she had got it into her head that it was you who had made me stiff and offish, and I had to tell her then just how it was." "Oh, yes; and you sacrificed yourself in that way for me. You hated to tell her, Hope, I know you did,--you are such a sensitive, shrinking creature." "Yes, that is just my fault,--a cowardly shrinking, that makes me keep silent sometimes when I ought to speak. Oh, Kate, Kate, I dare say now, this minute, you are thinking how strange it is,--my not having spoken to you before, of all this old life of mine, when I lived so differently from the way I live now. I dare say you think I--I was ashamed to talk about it, because my father was a working-man, a poor locomotive engineer. Oh, I shall never forget how I felt that day last term when you talked about the people who kept still and never spoke of their humble beginnings; and when you brought up the Stephensons and said, 'Do you think _they'd_ keep still, because they were ashamed of their humble beginnings, after they had worked out of them and become prosperous?' and then when you went on and declared how you hated the cowardice of those people who didn't dare to speak of these things, and what _you_ would do under such circumstances, I felt that _I_ was the most miserable coward, and that you would despise me forever if you knew what I was keeping to myself. But I knew--I knew all the time, that I wasn't ashamed of _anything_,--of the little home without a servant or of the engine-cab and my dear, dear father. I knew I was proud of him and what he had done, and yet I knew that I couldn't bear to think of telling all these things to girls who had never known what it was to live as we had. I felt that you wouldn't, that you couldn't understand; that you would take it all something as Dorothea had, years ago, though you wouldn't _say_ a word of how you felt, but you would look it. You would stare at me with wonder and curiosity,--that you--you--" "Oh, Hope, Hope, my dear, I do understand it all--all--everything. I _know_ that you couldn't be ashamed of that old time, and I understand just how you felt about us, how and why you shrank from telling us. One such experience as that with Dorothea was enough to make you shrink from all girls like us. You were a dear delicate little child, and you had never known that there was such ignorance as Dorothea's, and that you _could_ be so misunderstood, and it has made a great bruise on you that you have never got over. Oh, Hope, this is all Dorothea's doing. She _meant_ no harm, but she has done the harm nevertheless, for she has taken away your belief and trust and confidence. To think that you couldn't trust _me_, after all you've known of me, to understand just a difference in the way of living! Why, the life you've just told me of--that little home where you were so close to each other, where you lived so near to all your father's hopes and plans--seems to me beautiful, something to be envied. And to think _you_ should think I shouldn't understand, shouldn't appreciate it--should look at it with--with such eyes as--as Dorothea's! Oh, Hope! Hope! doesn't this prove what harm Dorothea has done you?" "And if it does, Kate, and I don't deny that it does, I say again that she didn't _mean_ to do any harm,--I see that now as clear as can be,--and that ought to make all the difference; and then when I think what _I_ have done--" "You! what have you done but to forgive her ninety-and-nine times?" "Oh, no, no, Kate, I've--I've dis--no, I've _hated_ her all these years, and this hate has affected my manner towards her so much that it influenced you and all the other girls against her; and as she has been harmed through that, I don't see but that I ought to cry quits." "Yes, five months against five years. Do you call that quits?" "Yes, and maybe more than quits, because I've made enemies for her, or at least influenced people against her, while she had no feeling to prejudice people against me. She has liked me all this time that we've been here at school together, spite of my being so stiff; and when she came to find out who I was,--the little girl who got the best of her in that childish quarrel, she hadn't the least ill will towards me. Quits? Yes, I say it's more than quits for me. Oh, Kate, I can't tell you everything she said to me just now, but she did show herself generous and grateful; and even when I confessed that it was I who had prejudiced you, even then she had no ill will. Yes, yes, I agree that I was harmed and hurt by what happened five years ago; but, Kate, I've been thinking very fast and very hard for the last hour or two, and I've come to believe that if I had known nothing of Dorothea before she came here--if I and you had started without any prejudice, things might have been different, we might have been easier and pleasanter with her, and that might have brought her out in pleasanter ways. But instead of that, we picked up every little thing, and, well, she _was_ cold-shouldered awfully by all of us at times; and we can't tell--we don't know what we might have done, if we had tried to make her _one of us_ more. We might have kept her from doing such foolish reckless things as she has; and so, as I think that I am to blame for the beginning of this prejudice that has hurt her, I think that I may have been the means of doing her greater harm than she has ever done me; for think, _think_, Kate, _what_ harm it must be to a girl to have Raymond Armitage able to boast about her accepting his attentions, and for your brother and Peter Van Loon, and nobody knows who else, getting such a cheap opinion of her through these things." "Yes, I see. But what do you propose to do about it?" "Well, I think--I ought to do or try to do what I can now, to help her _not_ to hurt herself any more by these pranks." "How are you going to work to make her over like this?" "I--I don't expect to make her over, Kate, but I think she may get a different idea of having a good time if we are very friendly to her, and bring her into _our_ good times, and she sees that the girls, and the boys too, that she really wants to associate with, really and truly look down on these pranks that she has thought were only 'good fun,'--look down upon them and think them vulgar." "And you want me to help in this missionary work?" asked Kate, half laughing. "Yes, I--I want you to be nice to her, Kate. When you meet her to-morrow morning, now, I want you to give her something more than a stiff nod; I want you to smile a little,--not too much, or she'll think I've been talking to you about her." "A little, but not too much," laughed Kate, "Oh, Hope, Hope, you dear delightful darling you, this is too funny, too funny!" "But won't you try--won't you try, Kate, to--" "To smile upon her a little but not too much? Yes, yes, I'll try, I'll try," still laughing. "And, Kate dear," suddenly enfolding the laughing girl in a close embrace, "will you try to do something else for me,--will you try to forgive me for--for being so stupid as not to trust you to--to understand? Will you try to forgive me, and to--to love me as well--as you did before?" "Try to forgive you--to love you as well as I did before," cried Kate, pressing Hope's cheek against her own. "I've nothing to forgive; and as for loving you as well as I did before, I love you better, if that were possible, for before, though I thought I knew you pretty well, I didn't know how more than generous you could be. Love you? I love and admire you beyond anybody; I--" "Girls, girls, it's after talking hours," whispered Anna Fleming, as she pushed open the door. "I've just come from your room, Hope, where I've been with Myra, and the lights are all being turned down in the halls, and so we _must_ say good-night and scatter to bed." "Oh, yes, I ought not to have stayed so long," whispered back Hope, apologetically. "Good-night!" and "Good-night!" "Good-night" responded Anna and Kate in chorus; but Kate managed to add slyly in a lower whisper to Hope,-- "I'll smile upon her a little, but not too much, Hope dear." CHAPTER XXIII. The next morning was rather dreaded by Dorothea. She had really suffered from a headache the night before, and with that excuse had been allowed to keep her room, and have a light supper sent up to her. "But I wish I hadn't--I wish to goodness I'd gone down last night!" she said petulantly to herself, as she faced the morning's sunshine. She had full faith in Hope and her promise, and was therefore quite secure that not one of the girls would know of that mortifying little episode at the end of yesterday's escapade; and this was the most that she cared for. But yet, in spite of this, she had a certain very uncomfortable feeling about meeting Kate Van der Berg and "that set," as she called the little group of girls of which Kate seemed the natural head and leader. A very uncomfortable feeling; for though that mortifying episode was a safe secret, the rest of the escapade was the common property of Kate and Hope; "and of course," argued Dorothea, "Kate Van der Berg has told all _she_ knows to the others, and they'll just take her little pattern of things, and set up and look at me, and think how the naughty girl was taken care of by Mrs. Sibley and Hope. Oh, oh, if it hadn't been for that horrid Raymond Armitage's being so mean and selfish at the end,--well, I've found _him_ out!--I shouldn't have _had_ to accept Hope's offer,--though it was awfully good of her, and I was awfully glad to accept, as things turned out. But if things _hadn't_ turned out as they did,--if Ray Armitage had behaved himself, I _needn't_ have accepted, and then if I had come back in the cars, as I went, I should have taken the risks and they'd have known that I was independent. But now, though thank Heaven they won't know _why_ I accepted Hope's offer, they'll know that I _did_ accept it, and so they'll stare at me as the naughty little girl who _had to_ give in!" It will be seen by this argument that Dorothea's state of mind was not yet what it should be. It will also be seen that, harboring such a state of mind, it was quite natural that she should find herself decidedly uncomfortable at the prospect of facing "that set." But it had to be done, however. There was no use in putting it off; and with a final glance at the mirror, a final pat to her smooth shining hair, Dorothea started off toward the dining-room. As she gained the lower hall, she heard a mingled sound of various voices issuing from the room, and ruefully thought: "Late as it is, they're all there! _Why_ didn't I get up earlier? I might have known they'd be late Sunday morning. Now all eyes will be glaring at me when I open the door!" But as she opened the door, beyond one or two of the girls looking up with a preoccupied air and a hasty good-morning, no notice was taken of her. "That set" and indeed the whole assembled company were in the very thick of an animated talk concerning the origin and observance of Saint Valentine's Day. "Of course we have kept up the Valentine fun year after year, because there's such a lot of children in our family. I don't suppose that grown up people nowadays would make anything of it, if it wasn't for children,--except maybe vulgar people who use those horrid comic valentines to play a vulgar joke on some one," Kate Van der Berg was saying just as Dorothea stepped over the threshold. A little nod and smile was given to Dorothea the next moment,--a little easy nod and that happy half-smile that was "not too much," recommended by Hope. "It says in Chambers' Book of Days," here spoke up Anna Fleming, "that Valentine's Day is now almost everywhere a much degenerated festival, but that it was once a very general custom with everybody--grown-up-people as well as children--to send valentines to each other; and it says, too, that the origin of this custom is a subject of some obscurity. Those are the very words; I read them last night to Myra, didn't I, Myra?" "Yes; and you read too that the Saint Valentine who was a priest of Rome and martyred in the third century seems to have nothing to do with the matter beyond the accident of his day being used for the festival purpose." "Then, if that is true, the whole thing is a sentimental muddle of nonsense, starting off with the mating of birds for origin, as some of the old writers seem to believe," cried Kate, in a disgusted tone. "But _I'm_ not going to believe any such thing. I'm going to believe what Bishop Wheatley says about it. He says that Saint Valentine was a man so famous for his love and charity that the custom of choosing valentines upon his festival took its rise from a desire to commemorate that very love and charity by choosing a special friend on his day,--I suppose his birthday,--which was, as nearly as can be reckoned, the fourteenth of February. Now, I shall stick to this explanation of the day. Bishop Wheatley's authority is good enough for me, and I shall choose _my_ valentine on his lines this year as I did last." "Oh, _who_ was your Valentine last year?" cried little Lily Chester, with eager curiosity. "My aunt Katrine,--a great-aunt whom I had never seen until last year, when she came over from Germany to visit us." "An old aunt,--how funny!" exclaimed Lily. "Why funny?" "Why? Because--because whoever heard of anybody choosing an old aunt for a valentine?" "Whom do _you_ choose, Lily?" "I? Oh, _I_ choose children I know,--boys, always." An outburst of laughter greeted this declaration; and in the midst of it Kate said gayly, with a little confidential nod to Dorothea, "It's currants and raisins again, Dorothea." The gay tone of good-fellowship, the confidential nod and smile took Dorothea so by surprise that for the moment her ready speech failed her. What she had _thought_, what she might have _said_ if she had not thus been surprised into silence, was something in her usual truculent vein, with a very decided declaration of sympathy with Lily's choice. But surprised and silent for the moment, she was all ready to agree with Myra Donaldson, who followed Kate's remark with a laughing confession that she too had chosen "boys always,"--that she thought that was the customary, the proper valentine way. And agreeing with Myra in an emphatic "It _is_--it always _has_ been the proper valentine way," Dorothea was again surprised at the gentleness of Kate's tone as she disagreed,--as she said: "Oh, no, no, Dorothea; the good old Bishop Wheatley didn't mean that it was _nothing_ but a sweethearting custom, for there is another record that says distinctly that the early Church looked upon that custom as one of the pagan practices, and observed the day as a real Saint's Day, when one chose a particular patron saint for the year and called him, or her, my 'valentine.' And it was in that way that I chose dear old Aunt Katrine for _my_ valentine last year." "And _I_ chose my dear Mr. Kolb, my first music-teacher," said Hope, looking up brightly. "He taught me to play on that little violin I was telling you about," glancing at Kate with a significant smile. Dorothea saw the smile, and instantly said to herself: "She's told her,--she's told her all that Mayflower and fiddle story, every word of it, I can see by their looks. I wonder if she's told the other girls?" But what was that that Myra Donaldson was referring to?--something that had evidently brought up all this talk. Dorothea had lost a sentence or two in her momentary preoccupation over Hope and Kate; but now catching the words "It's to be a valentine party as usual," she asked eagerly,-- "Whose party is it,--who gives it?" "Bessie Armitage. The fourteenth of February is her birthday, and she always has a party on that day, or on the evening of the day. She hasn't sent her invitations out yet, but she will next week. I went to her last year's party, and it was such a pretty party, wasn't it?" looking at Kate and Hope, who at once gave cordial agreement that it was a _very_ pretty party. "But you'll see for yourself this year, Dorothea," Myra went on, "for I suppose Miss Marr will let us go, as she did last winter, though it _is_ stretching a point to go to any party outside; but Bessie has been here so long--she was only ten when she first came to Miss Marr's--that she has exceptions made in her favor; and then these birthday-parties of hers are always early parties, and that makes a great difference." A party,--a Valentine party at Bessie Armitage's! Dorothea couldn't, for the life of her, keep the hot angry color from rushing to her face as she heard the name of Armitage; and her first thought was: "Catch me going to a party at _his_ home, where I've got to be polite to _him_!" At the next thought,--the thought that her refusal to go would be thoroughly understood by Raymond himself, would be taken by him as a direct cut and snub, her spirits rose, and a little triumphant smile began to curl her lips. "Look at Dorothea! She's planning _some_ mischief," laughed Myra, who had noted the sudden change in her opposite neighbor's face. All eyes were now indeed turned upon Dorothea. "Yes, you look like yourself again," spoke up Anna Fleming, "you were quite pale when you first came in. Has your headache all gone?" "My headache?" "Yes; they said you didn't come down to dinner last night on account of a headache." "Oh yes, I forgot to ask you how you were, we were so full of Bessie's Valentine party when you came in," said Myra, apologetically. Then, politely: "You had to leave the Park yesterday almost directly after you arrived there, some one said. 'Twas too bad. I didn't see you at all after we entered, for I went at once over on the other side of the pond with Anna and some of her friends. What a scattered party we were,--Anna and I on one side and Kate and Hope on the other, and the rest I don't know where: and how we straggled home,--Anna's friends in charge of us, while Miss Thompson had another party and Miss Stephens still another." Dorothea forgot her embarrassment, forgot everything, as she listened to these words, but the amazing fact that Kate had told neither Anna nor Myra the story of yesterday's escapade,--and Anna was Kate's room-mate! Could it be that Kate Van der Berg,--who had always been so ready to find fault, to say disagreeable things, to put her--Dorothea--in the wrong,--could it be possible that of her own will, her own thought, she had refrained from repeating what she knew? And if she had, what was her motive? Dorothea asked herself suspiciously, for she could not understand how one so outspoken and lavish in her fault-finding could suddenly put such restraint upon her tongue; for she could not comprehend, this quick-tempered yet obtuse Dorothea, that a nature which might be lavish of fault-finding and criticism upon certain occasions, upon certain other occasions, from a nice sense of honor and generosity, might also be able to keep a golden silence. Yet this was just what Kate Van der Berg had done. She had had the impulse at the first to rush at once to Myra, to whom she had already told so much, with this amazing story of Dorothea's latest exploit. But a second impulse came to her,--a kindly impulse of restraint, wherein she said to herself: "No, I won't prejudice Myra any further, perhaps I've prejudiced her too much already by what I've told her; at any rate, I'll keep silent about this affair." How more than glad she was that she had thus kept silent when Myra's innocently betrayed ignorance brought that look of surprise and relief into Dorothea's face. And Dorothea, presently turning her gaze from Myra to Kate herself, caught on the latter's face something of the expression of this gladness, and experienced a fresh surprise thereat; but in this surprise was mixed a little feeling of self-gratulation that matters were turning out so easily and happily; and then her volatile spirits began to rebound again, and her thoughts to run in this way,-- "How silly I've been to get so nervous and fidgety; but it's all owing to Ray Armitage's behavior. I haven't done anything to be ashamed of anyhow, and I dare say in her secret heart Kate Van der Berg _thinks_ I haven't. Any way everything is blowing over beautifully now, and I'm not going to bother about things another bit, not even about that horrid Ray Armitage,--though I'll manage to get even with him yet!" And so solacing herself, in this fashion, Dorothea's spirits continued to rise higher and higher, and by Monday she was in her usual mental as well as bodily condition, her headache and her heartache--if the latter term could be employed to describe her pangs of sore mortification--no longer conquering her. Indeed, so jubilant was the reactionary state of mind following upon her depression, that she at once set about readjusting various little plans to suit her present mood. One of these plans was the determination she had made to refuse Bessie Armitage's invitation to the birthday valentine party. It would only make the girls talk for her to stay away, she concluded. It would be a great deal better plan to go to the party, and show Ray Armitage that he wasn't of enough consequence to keep her away. And when there she could manage to snub him beautifully in a dozen different ways, though it _was_ in his own house,--oh yes, in a dozen different ways, and be outwardly very polite too; yes, indeed, _she_ knew how to do it! In thoughts and plans like these, the days flew swiftly by. "Next week," Myra had informed them, the invitations were to be sent out, and she had had _her_ information from Bessie herself, who was at that time confined at home with a severe cold. Next week, and then another week would bring the anticipated fourteenth. CHAPTER XXIV. "But there must be some mistake, some accident, that has delayed yours, for all the other girls received theirs yesterday," exclaimed Myra Donaldson in surprise, when Dorothea mentioned the fact to her on Tuesday of that following week, that she had not received her invitation. "Yes, there must be some accident," reiterated Myra; "it no doubt slipped out in some way, and you'll get it to-morrow." But "to-morrow" came and went and Dorothea failed to receive the invitation. "Of course there must be some mistake," Anna Fleming also declared, when _she_ was told of the fact; and then one and another echoed the same declaration as they heard of the circumstance. Of course there was some mistake! By Thursday, certainly, everybody thought the "mistake" would be discovered and rectified; but Thursday too came and went, and Friday passed by without the desired result. On Saturday morning Dorothea said to Hope,-- "I--I wish you would do something for me, Hope." "Yes, certainly I will if I can," returned Hope. "Well, it's just this: I heard that you were going out to drive with Kate Van der Berg this afternoon, and I wondered if you could--if you _would_ call and see Bessie Armitage,--see how she is, you know--and then--and then you might ask her--you might tell her about the invitation,--that I hadn't received it. Of course _I_ don't want to speak to her about it, but somebody else might, and she would want to be told--she'd feel horribly--_I_ should, I'm sure, in her place if I _wasn't_ told--if the mistake _wasn't_ rectified; and so I thought if _you_ would just speak of it--" "Yes, indeed I will. I'm glad you asked me. I wonder I hadn't thought of it myself, but I'll go round directly the first thing this afternoon," responded Hope, cordially. * * * * * "Some mistake?" repeated Bessie Armitage, in a queer, hesitating, questioning way, as Hope sat before her, waiting for the explanation that she had expected would at once make everything right for Dorothea. "Yes, for she hasn't received her invitation at all, you understand," answered Hope, thinking that Bessie had _not_ understood. "Yes?" began Bessie, and then stopped, her eyes cast down and the color coming into her cheeks, while Hope and Kate glanced at each other in embarrassed silence. What _did_ it mean? What _could_ be the matter? They were wildly conjecturing all sorts of strange impossible things, and Hope was just determining to break the dreadful silence with these very questions, when Bessie looked up and said: "I'll tell you--I _must_ tell you; there wasn't any mistake--I knew that Dorothea had no invitation." "Oh!" breathed Hope, faintly; and "Oh!" echoed Kate, in the same tone. "No, it was meant that she shouldn't have one; but I had written one, and I was going to send it if--if my mother hadn't stopped it." "Your mother?" "Yes, my mother. I had already sent out quite a number of invitations, and had just got another lot ready, when my mother came in and saw Dorothea's name on one of the notes. The moment she saw it, she forbade me to send it. Mother was at the New Year's party,--perhaps you remember,--just at the last of it, when Dorothea was going on so, and she took a great dislike to Dorothea then. Dorothea _was_ noisy, you know. Mother thought she was very loud and underbred. But that--that wasn't all. A little while ago some acquaintances of ours from Philadelphia--the Cargills--were staying at the Waldorf. The next day after they arrived, they went to a matinée at the Madison Square Theatre, and saw there my brother Raymond, and with him a young girl. Of course they thought the girl was some member of our family; and when he went to speak to them, they asked him if that was another sister he had with him, and he told them no; that it was only an acquaintance,--a girl who was in a boarding-school in the city. Mrs. Cargill thought this was very odd; and as Raymond was so young, she spoke about it to mamma. Mamma was astonished, and she went straight to Raymond and asked him what it all meant, and who the girl was; and Raymond had to tell the whole story then,--that it was Dorothea Dering, from Miss Marr's school; that he had invited her to go to the matinée with him, and that she had accepted the invitation; and then that he had met her at the skating-pond in Central Park, and had gone from there with her to the theatre, unsuspected by any of the teachers. The minute mamma heard the name, 'Dorothea Dering,' she recalled the New Year's party and Dorothea's behavior there; and so, and so, don't you see, when she saw Dorothea's name on the envelope, the other day, she thought of all these things, and--and forbade my sending the note. I tried my best to get her to let me send it; I told her what Anna Fleming had said to me,--that Dorothea came from one of the first families of Massachusetts; that her father was the Hon. James Dering, and all her people were in the very best society. But the more I tried to talk Dorothea up in this way, the more decided mamma grew; until, at last, she said that there had been too much of this falling back upon one's family nowadays; that bad, loud manners and rude behavior were not to be overlooked and excused on that account, and that she didn't propose to overlook Dorothea's by having her invited to her house. And when I said I thought that Raymond was as much to blame, in _asking_ her to go to the matinée, as Dorothea was in going, mamma said that that didn't help her case at all; that Raymond's invitation was only the result of her own loud, free ways; that he would never have thought of inviting her like that, if she had been a different kind of girl. Oh,"--with a quick look at Hope and Kate,--"mamma didn't altogether exonerate Raymond; she didn't think he was altogether right, by any means; but then she does think--and so do I, girls--that boys and young men are apt to treat a girl a good deal as the girl treats them; and--and--Dorothea _was_ too forward with Raymond. I saw it myself from the first; and she led him on,--she encouraged him to treat her as he wouldn't have treated either of you two. She thought he admired just those free, foolish ways of hers; but he didn't,--he was only amused by them. Oh, I know Raymond; and I know if he had seen _me_ going on with any one as Dorothea did, he would have scolded me well. It wouldn't have amused him to have seen his sister going on so, to have seen _me_ amusing any one like that. But, Hope, Kate, all the same, I felt dreadfully at leaving Dorothea out,--dreadfully, for there I'd sent off almost all the school invitations; there was no getting them back. If I could have got them back, I would; and--yes, truly, I wouldn't have sent any invitations to any one at Miss Marr's, if I had known I had got to cut Dorothea. No; I wouldn't have sent one, and then I could have explained it to the rest of you privately, or I could have said I couldn't make so large a party this year. Yes, I would certainly have done this if it hadn't been too late,--if mamma had only seen and stopped Dorothea's invitation before the other school notes had been sent. Yes, I would have done just that; and not because I'm at all fond of Dorothea, but because I hate to hurt anybody's feelings, and to--to make such a time. I should have gone back to school this week if it hadn't been for this happening; but I'm not going now until after the party, and I may not go until next term if my father will take me away with him to Florida, where he is going next month; and I hope, oh, I hope he will!" And here suddenly, to Hope and Kate's astonishment, this quiet, self-contained Bessie Armitage covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. "Oh, Bessie! Bessie!" broke forth Hope and Kate, with a warm outrushing of sympathy, and a desire to say something comforting,--"oh, Bessie, Bessie!" and then suddenly they both stopped, for what could they say further without saying something that would seem like a protest against Mrs. Armitage's decision,--that, in fact, _would_ be a protest, for both girls were protesting in their hearts at that moment, were saying something like this to themselves,-- "What harm could it have done to let _this_ invitation go,--just this one? They needn't ever have invited her again." And at that very moment, as they were thus thinking, they heard the rings of a portière slip aside, and there was Mrs. Armitage herself, entering from the next room with a kind look of concern on her face, and in another moment, after her friendly greeting, she was saying,-- "Bessie has told you my decision about the invitation to Miss Dering, and I dare say you think I am very stiff and hard, not to let the invitation go,--that it can't make much difference for this once; but, my dears, it is _this once_, this one party, where my little ten-year-old Amy and her little cousins will be in amongst the older ones, that _will_ make all the difference, for I don't want these little girls to see such an exhibition of loud manners, and those--I hate to say it--vulgar _flirting_ ways such as I saw New Year's evening. If it were any other party, a party where there were older girls only, I might have let the invitation go; but I have seen the ill effects of very young girls like my Amy and her cousins being brought into contact even for a short time with a handsome showy girl who does and says the kind of things that Miss Dering does, especially when that girl is accepted as a guest by their own friends; and so, if only for this one reason apart from any other, don't you see, my dears, that I _couldn't_ let this invitation go?" "Yes, I do see, I do see!" cried Kate, impulsively; "but--Mrs. Armitage, do you think she--Dorothea will understand--will know that it is her own fault?" "I--I think she will, I think she must," answered Mrs. Armitage. There were tears in her eyes as she said this; and as she bent down and kissed them good-by, both Hope and Kate felt the depth and sincerity of her purpose, and respected her for it. "She's right, she's right of course!" burst forth Kate, as the two girls were driving away together; "but, oh, I do wish she hadn't been quite so right, quite so high-minded just now; for _what_ an uncomfortable time is ahead of us! Oh, Hope, I pity you; what shall you--what _can_ you tell Dorothea?" "I don't see that I can tell her anything but the truth." "Not the whole truth?" "What else could I tell her?" "My! I wouldn't be in your shoes for something! She'll be so furious, she'll fall upon you,--you or anybody who is nearest,--and chew you into mince-meat! Oh, Hope, don't tell her! Tell her--tell her--oh, I have it--tell her that you spoke to Bessie about the invitation, and that there was none sent because Bessie is offended with her for some reason,--that you can't tell her what it is, but that she must go to Bessie herself for the reason. There! there you are all fixed up, and with the great high-minded muss shoved off on to the Armitage shoulders, where it ought to be. Houp la! I'd dance a jig if I were out of the carriage!" "But I--I sha'n't shove it off like that, Katy dear. I shall tell Dorothea everything,--it is the only way. I shall tell her as gently as I can, but I shall tell her. If I turn it off in the way you suggest, it will make more trouble. She'll go to Bessie the minute she gets back and say something disagreeable to her, or she'll treat her in an angry disagreeable manner, and just as like as not say something,--something purposely impertinent to irritate Bessie,--for she won't stop at anything then." "But do you think it will be any better--do you think she'll be any less angry if you tell her that it is Mrs. Armitage who is at the bottom of the business?" "Yes, I do; I think it will be a great deal better. She'll be angry,--she may be furious, as you say; but I shall tell her just how Bessie felt about _not_ sending the note,--how she cried over it, and how Mrs. Armitage felt; and Dorothea has too much sense not to see herself, after the first burst of temper, that the whole thing has been made too serious a matter for her to quarrel about it in a little petty way. And then--then I think, after she gets over the anger, that she is going to be helped by the whole experience, going to see what she has never seen before,--that she is all in the wrong in her way of doing and saying the things that she does, and that she will be left out of everything if she doesn't do differently; and nothing--no, nothing but something like this--would ever show her how she has been hurting herself." "Well, you _may_ be right, Hope; but _I_ believe this spoilt baby will scream and kick and bang her head in some sort of tantrum way, and then she'll pack up her clothes and rush off to Boston, shaking the wicked dirty dust of New York from her feet, and calling us all a lot of primmy old maids, or something worse." Hope laughed a little, but she was more than a little anxious and troubled; for, spite of her brave stand, she did have a very decided dread of applying that heroic treatment of the whole truth to Dorothea; and her dread by no means diminished as she went down the long corridor and saw at the end of it Dorothea's room-door standing open, and within the room Dorothea herself, humming a gay waltz as she shook out the folds of the yellow gown; and "Oh," groaned Hope, "she's getting it ready for the party; she thinks everything is all right, and she's so sure she's going. Oh, dear!" And then it was, when Hope's heart was quaking with fear and pity, that Dorothea glanced up from the yellow gown and cried out joyfully,-- "Oh, there you are! Come in, come in, and tell me all about it,--how the mistake was made; and where is it,--the invitation?--you brought it with you, didn't you?" "No--I--she--" "Thought it wasn't necessary,--that you could tell me? Was the note lost?" went on Dorothea, in her headlong way of anticipating everything as usual, and only brought up at last by Hope's faint, distressed cry of-- "Oh, Dorothea, there wasn't any invitation!" "Wasn't any? What--what do you mean?" exclaimed Dorothea, dropping her yellow gown to the floor, and staring with great dilating eyes at Hope. "I mean that Bessie--that Bessie didn't--that--that it was stopped--that her--" "Her brother stopped it? Raymond Armitage? He was so mean as that--because I resented the way he treated me there at the theatre? He--he has told her some lie, then, and I will tell _her_--" "Oh, Dorothea, Dorothea, wait, wait--listen to me! It is not--it was not her brother, not Raymond Armitage, who stopped it; it was--it was--their mother--it was Mrs. Armitage." "Mrs. Armitage! and Raymond went to her--he got her to stop it? Oh, how--" "No, no, he did not go to her. Oh, Dorothea," going forward and taking Dorothea's hand, "won't you wait, won't you listen to me?" The soft touch of Hope's hand, the soft tone, so full of pity it sounded like love, seemed to surprise Dorothea out of her gathering wrath for a moment, and her own fingers closing over Hope's with a sudden clinging movement, she answered hastily,-- "Yes, yes, I'll listen, I'll listen; go on, go on!" And Hope, holding the girl's hand with that soft, firm touch, went on to tell her the story that was so difficult for her to tell,--that "whole truth" that she had decided that Dorothea must now know once for all. As gently as possible, the talk with Bessie, the interview with Mrs. Armitage was given; nothing, not even the reference to the New Year's party episode and its prejudicial effect, being withheld; and yet through it all Dorothea made no interruption, made no sign to show her feeling, beyond now and then a convulsive clutch at the hand that was holding hers, and a gradual fading away of the hot red color that had suffused her face at the start. As Hope felt this clutch of her fingers now and then, as she saw toward the end of her story the increasing pallor of her companion's face, she could not help a thrill of apprehension, for these signs seemed to her the signs of a storm that would presently break forth; and as she came to the end, the very end of what she had to say, she had a feeling of trying to steady herself, to hold herself in readiness to argue or assert or soothe, whichever method might seem best suited to stem or stay the outbreak she expected. But what--what did this mean--this dead silence that followed, when she had ceased speaking? Was this the calm before the dreaded storm? And Hope, who had lowered her eyes toward the end of her story, instinctively looked up,--looked up to see great tears rolling down the colorless cheeks before her, and over all the face a pale passion of emotion that did not seem to be the passion of anger. Could it be the passion of pain only? Could it be that there was to be no storm of angry protest and defiance even at the very first? No, there was to be no storm of that kind. Dorothea had again surprised her! CHAPTER XXV. But as the fears and apprehensions that beset her began to lessen, Hope's pity and sympathy rose afresh, and with added vigor. She was thinking how best to express this pity and sympathy without striking a note of criticism that might injure the effect of what she had placed before Dorothea, when Dorothea herself showed the way, as she suddenly said,-- "There's no use for me to stay here any longer. I'd better go home, where people know me, and--and don't think my ways are so dreadful." There was no angry temper in this speech. Though the tone was rather morose and bitter, it seemed to spring from a sudden appalled sense of defeat and danger such as she had never heretofore experienced. And this was just the situation. Hope's tact and kindness had presented the whole truth so carefully that petty irritation was swallowed up in the something serious that Dorothea herself but half comprehended, but from which her first instinct was to flee,--to go home where people knew her and didn't think her ways so dreadful. But, "No, no," Hope urged against this desire. "You must stay, Dorothea,--stay and take a better place than you've ever taken before with us; for you can, oh, you can, Dorothea. You can make us all love and admire you if you have a mind to, if you won't--won't be _quite_ so headlong, so--so sure you are right in some things, so--childish in some ways." "_I_ childish! 'Tisn't childishness your Mrs. Armitage is finding fault with!" blurted out Dorothea, in a bitter yet broken tone. "But it is just that. If you were small for our age instead of so big, it would be called childishness; and as it is, I've heard you spoken of as 'a spoilt child.' But you are so tall, so big, so womanly, most people think you are a grown up young lady; and--and grown up young _ladies_ don't go on just in the way that you do, Dorothea." "'Just the way that I do!' Oh, I laugh, and I make too much noise in my fun, I suppose you think; but what's the reason the Brookside people and the lots of people we know all about Brookside,--what's the reason they don't find fault with my ways and leave me out of their parties?" "You are a stranger here, Dorothea. You must remember that we never have the same freedom, or are looked upon quite the same, in a place where we are strangers, as where we have always lived," answered Hope, gently. "Then it's all the more reason why I'd better go home, where people know me and don't think my ways so dreadful." "Dorothea, you have told me once or twice that your cousin found fault with your ways, and perhaps--if he had not been your cousin, have known you so well--if you had been a stranger to him, he might not have made a friendly allowance for you; and, Dorothea, tell me one thing: did you ever--ever go on there at home as you have here,--receiving gifts and attentions, and going to the theatre on the--on the sly?" "N--o." "If you had, and it had been found out, do you think it would have been passed over unnoticed?" "N--o, I don't suppose it would, but I shouldn't have been treated like this,--left out like this." "No; because--because, Dorothea, you and your family are not strangers,--because you are well known, and people forgive friends for a long time." "Then I'd better go back to them, I'd better go back to them, and I will, I will! Oh, I can't stay here, Hope, I can't, I can't! I see how you'll all feel, how you'll think that I've been a disgrace to the school, when this gets out that Mrs. Armitage wouldn't have me at the party, and I can't, I can't stay." "Dorothea, Dorothea!" and Hope knelt down by the couch where Dorothea had flung herself in an agony of tears,--knelt down, and putting her arms about the suffering girl begged her never for a moment to think that either she or Kate or Bessie would speak to the other girls about Mrs. Armitage's action in regard to the invitation. "No, they will never know from us, Dorothea,--never, never." [Illustration: "HOPE KNELT DOWN BY THE COUCH WHERE DOROTHEA HAD FLUNG HERSELF"] "But--but what wi--will they think whe--when I--I don't--go to the party?" sobbed Dorothea. "Of course they'll think there's been a falling out of some kind, and there has; but it isn't necessary that they should be told what it is, is it?" "N--o, n--o, but it wi--will ge--get out somehow. You--you'll see, Hope, and I--I can't--I can't stay, and have them talking about my--my being left out on--on purpose li--like this." "But even if the truth did get out, it would be a great deal worse for you to run away than to stay, for it would look--it would _be_--cowardly. No, no, Dorothea! you must stay, and I--I will help you all I can; I will be your friend, whatever happens, and so will Kate." "Whatever happens." When Hope said this, she had little thought that anything further in connection with the matter was to happen. She had spoken out of her deep pity and sympathy, to soothe and sustain Dorothea through a hard crisis,--to soothe and sustain and strengthen her to do the courageous thing. She was quite sure, as she had said, that neither Bessie nor Kate would tell the story of the arrested invitation; but she made it still surer by exacting a solemn promise from them not to do so,--a promise as solemnly kept as it was made. And yet, and yet, somehow and from somewhere--was it through Mrs. Armitage or Raymond, both of whom had given their word to Bessie to make no mention of the subject?--a whisper of the truth, found its way, before the week was over, into the schoolroom circle. And before the week was over, Dorothea knew it! She knew it by the suddenly withdrawn glances as she looked up; she knew it by the suddenly changed conversation as she approached; she knew it by numberless little signs and indications in all directions. And Hope, when she was presently beset by eager questions from one and another,--Had she heard? and what did she think? and could it be true?--poor Hope had hard work to fence and parry and hold her ground without violating the truth. She succeeded at last, however, in silencing her questioners; but she was perfectly well aware that she had _only_ silenced them as far as she herself was concerned. Kate Van der Berg also had a good deal of the same trying experience, and bore it less amiably. "I'm sick to death of the whole subject," she said at length to Hope. "I wish to mercy Dorothea Dering had never entered this house! But don't be alarmed!" as she caught a startled look from Hope; "I'm not going to back down. I'll be good to her, and I _do_ pity her." "Pity her! I should think anybody _might_ pity her," cried Hope, with almost a sob. "It simply breaks my heart to see her." And to Dorothea, who came to her with this further trouble,--who said to her, "You see, you see, it has all come out just as I thought it would,"--to Dorothea she was an angel indeed, this sweet-souled Hope,--an angel of real help in the stanch devotion of her companionship, and the constant influence it exerted in soothing and encouraging her to accept the condition of things as they were, and make the best of them by making no aggressive protest. It was not easy for Dorothea to pursue this course, and Hope could not help admiring the new spirit of dignity which she seemed to develop in sticking to it. But there was a new element of knowledge coming to Dorothea through her bitter experience. She had always heretofore been ready to fight against any and every opposition, as I have shown. Now, for the first time, she was beginning to feel the pressure of that great power of the great world which we call the sentiment of society, and dimly but surely to perceive that she must submit to it, or at least that, if she tried to fight against it, it would be to her own destruction. But this new sense of things, valuable though it was in its present restraining influence and its promise of right development, did not tend to make Dorothea feel easier or happier at the moment. Rather, the restraint chafed and depressed her. In spite of this depression, however, she said no more about going back to Brookside. She was discovering for herself that Hope was right,--that it would be not only cowardly for her to run away, but prejudicial to her interests in every direction. But how difficult it was for her to live through these days with apparent calmness, only Hope guessed. What Hope did not guess was the extent and power of her own helpfulness at this crisis. Dorothea, however, was fully aware of it; and one day,--it was the morning after the Valentine party,--when the girls had naturally been very voluble in their reminiscences of the evening, she said to Hope,-- "Hope, you've helped me to _live_ through this thing, and I shall always remember it, and always, always love you for it. But for you I could never have stayed here and stood things,--never, never, never!" Yet not then had she received the full measure of Hope's help. It was when the days went by, and she found that the curiosity about herself had subsided, she also found that in the indifference that had succeeded this curiosity there was a shadow of something that she could give no name to,--that she could not at once understand,--but that by and by she came to know was that shadow of the world's disapproval that she had been made acquainted with through Mrs. Armitage. It was then, when the girl felt herself in the settled atmosphere of this shadow, that Hope showed the full measure of her power to help. Not immediately realizing the condition of things, she could not comprehend what seemed to her Dorothea's persistent shrinking from the companionship of the others, and at last remonstrated with her in this wise:-- "Dorothea, you mustn't keep by yourself, and neglect the girls, as you do. It isn't right or sensible." And to this Dorothea had replied, with a mirthless laugh,-- "Neglect them! If there is any neglect going on, _I'm_ not guilty of it." "What do you mean?" "Just what I say. _I'm_ not neglecting anybody." "You mean--that--that they are neglecting _you_?" Dorothea nodded. She could not command her voice to speak further. Hope was about to protest,--to say that there must be a mistake,--that _she_ had seen nothing, when suddenly the meaning of certain little things, that she had but vaguely noticed at the time, flashed over her, bringing the instantaneous conviction that Dorothea was right. And with this conviction there sprung up in Hope's heart a hot flame of indignation, and she set herself to think what further she could do--what strong measure could be taken--to show these girls that they were not to sit in judgment in this wholesale fashion, and to show them, too, that Dorothea had stanch friends who believed in her virtues, even while they admitted her faults, and would stand by her through thick and thin. But what _could_ she do further? She had indicated to the girls how friendly she felt toward Dorothea, by bestowing upon her whatever kindly attentions she could,--had walked with her and talked with her, and made little visits to her room, which latter she had never been in the habit of doing before. She had also influenced Kate to join her in these attentions, and Kate had tried to do so,--not always successfully, however; and yet all this had seemed to go for nothing against the tide that had risen against the girl. What more _could_ be done? There was nothing, nothing more. Yes, yes, yes, there _was_--there _was_ something more, there _was_ something! And as this "something" flashed into Hope's mind, she seized Dorothea's hands in hers, and-- "Dorothea, Dorothea!" she cried, "I have a plan,--something I want you to do _for_ me and _with_ me. I am to play, you know, at the May festival,--first, something Mr. Kolb has written specially for me; then, later, a waltz also by Mr. Kolb. It is a duet, and Fraulein Schiller was to play it with me; but she has got news of the illness of her mother, and has gone home to Germany, and I have to choose some one to fill her place; and I choose you, if you will take it." "Choose me,--_me_? Oh, Hope, Hope, Hope, I don't care for anything else now,--not anything else! But, oh, _can_ I, _can_ I,--I'm afraid it's too hard, that it's beyond me." "No, it isn't too hard, but I'll give you lessons; I'll practise with you every day, if you'll study hard." "Study! I'll study every minute that I can get;" and then, quivering with excitement, Dorothea flung herself upon the floor, and, putting her head down on Hope's lap, cried brokenly,-- "Oh, Hope, Hope, how angelic of you to do this for me _now, now_!" It was the last of March when this proposition was made, and the festival was to come off the last of May, that being the end of the school year at Miss Marr's; the festival itself being a sort of celebration of the year's work,--a grand general class day. To have a special part assigned to one in the program of this day was to be specially honored, and great was the surprise when it was found that Dorothea had been thus honored. There were two or three others--outside pupils, to be sure, but Fraulein Schiller was an outside pupil--from whom it was expected that Hope would make her choice, as they were known to be, if not particularly brilliant, yet very faithful students of the violin; and to pass these by for Dorothea was surprising indeed, and not to be explained by any mere good-nature. Hope Benham _was_ a very good-natured girl, and had been very kind and polite to Dorothea, the little school circle decided; but they all knew how refined and fastidious and very, _very_ sensitive she was, and what she thought about things; and if she thought seriously that Dorothea had really--_really_ been so dreadfully loud and horrid as they had heard, she would never have chosen her to stand up there before all that festival audience with her. And arguing thus, this little world, so like the big world under like circumstances, began to re-consider things,--to think that perhaps--perhaps it might have made mistakes in ranging itself so decidedly, and that it might be well in that case to be a little less censorious in one's attitude. From this there arose a slight change of tactics,--slight, but significant enough if one were on the alert to take note of them; but Dorothea--Dorothea was no longer so sensitively alert in these directions,--for morning, noon, and night, at every regular practice hour, and sometimes at irregular ones, her fiddle bow could be heard diligently at work, under Hope's tutelage; and as she worked, as she surmounted difficulty after difficulty in the musical score, she became so absorbed in her occupation that she had little time to bestow upon other difficulties. And so, day after day, the weeks went by, and brought at last the great day they were all anticipating so anxiously,--the day of the May Festival. It looked like the very heart of summer in the great hall at the top of the house that festival morning, for it was literally made into a perfect bower of wood and garden glories; windows, dome, aisles, and stage wreathed and hung with forest growths, and set about with flowering plants. At the back of the stage the arched doorway that led into the anteroom was so skilfully decorated that it appeared like a natural opening into some woodland way; and as the audience began to fill the seats, and there came to them through this sylvan opening a soft overture from unseen violins and piano, there was at first a hush of delight and then a general burst of applause. The group of girls who were not to take special parts and who sat together well down in front, looked at each other inquiringly. The overture was a surprise to them, as it was to all but the two or three behind the scenes. "It is Hope's doing, of course," one girl whispered. "And of course the second violin is Dorothea!" whispered another, and then presently still another whisper arose. It was Hope's doing, of course--because--Dorothea probably had failed to perfect herself in the duet she had undertaken--or--or Hope herself perhaps had failed in her courage to--to stand up there before that festival-audience with Dorothea! This last suggestion was caught at and turned over and over, until at length it seemed to become a certainty. Yes, that was the only explanation of this little overture being sprung upon them without warning. Hope's courage had failed, and to console Dorothea in a measure, she had brought her into this new arrangement! The little group of girls would not have owned to the disappointment that they felt as they settled down upon this explanation; but with all the Armitages, except Raymond, present in full force, every girl of the group had somehow counted upon rather a sensation when Dorothea appeared. How Bessie would stare, they had thought--Bessie, who had not been back to school since her birthday party,--how she would stare and wonder, and how surprised Mrs. Armitage would look to see the girl that she had so disapproved of brought forward so conspicuously! But now--well, things began to fall a trifle flat in the failure of such a delectable sensation, and they gave a somewhat wavering attention to what immediately followed. They brightened up, however, as Hope played her "Mayflowers," and, applauding vigorously, found time to wonder what that queer sub-title, "Ten Cents a Bunch," meant, and resolved that they would ask her sometime; and then they yawned and fidgeted, and looked at their little chatelaine watches, and craned their necks to look at the people behind them, and nodded at this one and that one, and finally fell to studying their programs, and glanced significantly, and with a little air of "I told you so," at each other, as they saw that the duet number had just been passed over. After this they settled themselves comfortably back to wait for the close of the exercises, when the best of the festival to their thinking was to come,--the meeting with their friends, the introductions to the other girls' friends, the gay talking and walking about, and the merry end of it all, when, as if by magic, the pretty bowery stage was to be converted into a sylvan tea-room, presided over by a chosen number of the school-girls. Only two brief exercises,--a short essay by Anna Fleming and a little aria of Schumann's by Myra Donaldson, and then ho, for the anticipated festival fun, these waiting girls jubilantly thought; and so absorbed were they in this thought that their attention was only half given to Anna's clever little essay upon School Friendships, which had some sharp hits in it; but they nevertheless joined in the vigorous applause, though by that time their attention had entirely wandered from the stage to the movements of a new late arrival just outside the doorway,--a tall fine-looking man that Mrs. Sibley, Hope's friend, was smiling radiantly upon, and beckoning to her seat. Who _could_ he be? But hark! what--what sound was that? A violin? But Schumann's aria was a solo,--Hope was not to play with Myra! No, no, Hope was not to play with Myra, for there--there upon the stage, Hope in her white dress was standing beside--Dorothea! The duet had not been omitted then, only carried forward! No more yawning and fidgeting now from the group of girls; with eager interest they leaned forward to see the two white-robed figures as they stood there side by side,--one with her waving golden-brown hair, her golden-brown eyes, and fair soft coloring; the other with her shining black locks, her great sombre orbs,--for there was no light of laughter in them at this moment,--and the strange pallor of coloring that at that instant lent almost a tragic look to her face. No, no more yawning and fidgeting now, and no more doubt or question of Dorothea's ability to play her part, as the sweet full strains rose harmoniously together. Dorothea had studied, indeed,--had studied so ardently that she had greatly surprised Hope at the last by her accuracy and finish. But as she stood there before the festival audience, she surprised her still further by the something more than the accuracy and finish,--that something that every musical artist recognizes, that Hope at once recognized,--the touch of living, breathing, individual emotion, of passionate personal appeal. With a thrill of sympathy, Hope instinctively responded to this, and there arose a strain of such moving, melting power that the audience, listening in breathless delight, broke forth at the end in a little whirlwind of applause. The aria that followed was beautifully rendered, but the audience could not seem to fix its attention upon it as it should have done; and Myra had scarcely struck her last note when there was a general uprising, and hastening forward toward the little flock of girl-students who had taken part in the exercises. In the centre of this flock, standing together, were Hope and Dorothea, and there was a buzz of girl talk going on about them,--a buzz of congratulation, of enthusiasm, not one of the girls hanging back,--when over it all, Hope suddenly caught the sound of another voice,--a deep manly voice,--the voice of--of--oh, could it be? Yes, yes, it was; and starting forward, she cried joyfully, "Oh it _is_--it _is_ my father!" and the next instant her father's arms were round her, and his kisses on her cheek. Her father! Dorothea glanced up eagerly. _That_, that distinguished-looking man the man who was once a locomotive engineer! Had she heard aright? Yes, she had heard aright, for presently there was Mrs. Sibley saying in answer to some questioner,-- "It's her father, yes; he's the great inventor, you know. He came on unexpectedly, and is to take Hope back with him to spend the summer in the north of France." And presently, again, Dorothea saw Miss Marr and the Van Der Bergs and the Sibleys and--yes, the Armitages, looking up and listening with the most admiring interest to this man who was once a locomotive engineer! What would Dorothea have thought, how would she have felt, if she had heard Mrs. Armitage say to one of her acquaintances a little later,-- "There must be something fine and good, after all, in this Dorothea Dering, to attract to herself and make a friend of such a girl as Mr. Benham's daughter; and certainly she has shown a very refined taste in her manner of playing. I wonder if she hasn't been improved all round by Miss Benham's influence?" And what would she have thought if she had heard Miss Marr talking in somewhat the same strain to Mr. Benham,--telling him what a restraining, refining influence his dear little daughter had had over one of the most difficult of all her charges; and what would she have felt if she could have known all Mr. Benham's thoughts on this subject as he listened there with that rather grave smile of his? But Dorothea heard and knew nothing of all this. She only heard and felt the warmth of appreciation that had followed her violin performance. She only saw that the little world that had turned away from her was now turning toward her, and her spirits began to rise once more. But they did not overflow all reasonable bounds as before. There was a new reserve in her demeanor that certainly did not rob her of her attractiveness, if one could judge from the kindly looks cast upon her by some of the older people, as she helped in the tea-table hospitalities. Some of the younger people too seemed not to be blind to this new attractiveness. But it remained for Peter Van Loon to express the real effect produced, and he did it fully, as he suddenly turned to Hope from a long observation of Dorothea at her tea-table duties,--turned and said in that odd way of his,-- "I say, now, she'll get to be an awfully nice girl by and by, won't she, if she keeps on--on this track?" Hope felt a little startled, though she couldn't help being amused at this queer remark of Peter's; but she quite agreed with it, and told him so; and then Peter said in the same emphatic way,-- "I've heard all about it--how you've stuck to her--from Kate--Kate Van der Berg; and I'd--I'd like to say, if you don't mind, that you're a trump, Miss Benham; and the other fellows think so too." THE END. KATHARINE RUTH ELLIS WIDE AWAKE GIRLS SERIES THE WIDE AWAKE GIRLS Illustrated by Sears Gallagher. A book doubly remarkable because its excellent workmanship comes from a hand hitherto untried.--_New York Times._ Its excellent literary tone, simple, refined, and its frequent humor and fresh, strong interest commend it as a most promising first volume of "The Wide Awake Girls" series.--_Hartford Times._ The quiet and cultured home life presented forms a pleasing contrast to the more showy and hollow life of the wealthy and wins the reader by a strong and subtle spell. The whole story is fresh and bracing and full of good points and information as well.--_St. Louis Globe Democrat._ THE WIDE AWAKE GIRLS AT WINSTED Illustrated by Sears Gallagher. It is another charming book, without sentimentality or gush about the four girls who made such a jolly quartette in the preceding story.--_Philadelphia Press._ Incidents are many, and the story is vivaciously told. The tone throughout is refined and the spirit stimulating.--_Brooklyn Daily Times._ Those who read the first volume of Katharine Ruth Ellis' "Wide Awake Girls" series last year will welcome the second volume. They will encounter again the same four girls of the previous book, all at Catharine's home in Winsted, and they will find them just as vivacious and entertaining as ever.--_Chicago Tribune._ THE WIDE AWAKE GIRLS AT COLLEGE Illustrated by Sears Gallagher. The third volume in the "Wide Awake Girls" series finds the four friends at Dexter, where they live the happy, merry life of the modern college girl. Miss Ellis still maintains the atmosphere of quiet refinement, and has introduced an older element, which lends much to the interest of the book--the element of love and romance. The "Wide Awakes" are growing up and Catharine's love story delights her associates. ANNA HAMLIN WEIKEL'S BETTY BAIRD SERIES BETTY BAIRD Illustrated by Ethel Pennewill Brown. A boarding school story, with a charming heroine, delightfully narrated. The book is lively and breezy throughout.--_Philadelphia Press._ A true presentment of girl life.--_Chicago Evening Post._ Betty is a heroine so animated and charming that she wins the reader's affection at once. When she enters the boarding school she is shy, old-fashioned, and not quite so well-dressed as some of the other girls. It is not long, however, before her lovable character wins her many friends, and she becomes one of the most popular girls in the school.--_Brooklyn Eagle._ The illustrations, by Ethel Pennewill Brown, are remarkably successful in their portrayal of girlish spirit and charm.--_New York Times._ BETTY BAIRD'S VENTURES Illustrated by Ethel Pennewill Brown. Will please the girls who liked the piquant and original Betty, when she first appeared in the volume bearing her name.--_Hartford Times._ The very spirit of youth is in these entertaining pages.--_St. Paul Pioneer Press._ BETTY BAIRD'S GOLDEN YEAR Illustrated by Ethel Pennewill Brown. In the third and concluding volume of "The Betty Baird Series," Betty is shown happily at work in her profession, still earnest in her purpose to pay off the mortgage, and in the meantime to make her home a centre of useful interests. ANNA CHAPIN RAY'S "TEDDY" STORIES Miss Ray's work draws instant comparison with the best of Miss Alcott's: first, because she has the same genuine sympathy with boy and girl life; secondly, because she creates real characters, individual and natural, like the young people one knows, actually working out the same kind of problems; and, finally, because her style of writing is equally unaffected and straightforward.--_Christian Register_, Boston. TEDDY: HER BOOK. A Story of Sweet Sixteen Illustrated by Vesper L. George. This bewitching story of "Sweet Sixteen," with its earnestness, impetuosity, merry pranks, and unconscious love for her hero, has the same spring-like charm.--_Kate Sanborn._ PHEBE: HER PROFESSION. A Sequel to "Teddy: Her Book" Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. This is one of the few books written for young people in which there is to be found the same vigor and grace that one demands in a good story for older people.--_Worcester Spy._ TEDDY: HER DAUGHTER A Sequel to "Teddy: Her Book," and "Phebe: Her Profession" Illustrated by J. B. Graff. It is a human story, all the characters breathing life and activity.--_Buffalo Times._ NATHALIE'S CHUM Illustrated by Ellen Bernard Thompson. Nathalie is the sort of a young girl whom other girls like to read about.--_Hartford Courant._ URSULA'S FRESHMAN. A Sequel to "Nathalie's Chum" Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. The best of a series already the best of its kind.--_Boston Herald._ NATHALIE'S SISTER. A Sequel to "Ursula's Freshman" Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens. Peggy, the heroine, is a most original little lady who says and does all sorts of interesting things. She has pluck and spirit, and a temper, but she is very lovable, and girls will find her delightful to read about.--_Louisville Evening Post._ ANNA CHAPIN RAY'S "SIDNEY" STORIES SIDNEY: HER SUMMER ON THE ST. LAWRENCE Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens. The young heroine is a forceful little maiden of sweet sixteen. The description of picnics in the pretty Canadian country are very gay and enticing, and Sidney and her friends are a merry group of wholesome young people.--_Churchman_, New York. JANET: HER WINTER IN QUEBEC Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens. Gives a delightful picture of Canadian life, and introduces a group of young people who are bright and wholesome and good to read about.-_-New York Globe._ DAY: HER YEAR IN NEW YORK Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. A good story, bright, readable, cheerful, natural, free from sentimentality.--_New York Sun._ SIDNEY AT COLLEGE Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. The book is replete with entertaining incidents of a young woman who is passing through her freshman year at college.--_Brooklyn Eagle._ JANET AT ODDS Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. An ideal book for an American girl. It directs a girl's attention to something beside the mere conventional side of life. It teaches her to be self-reliant. Its atmosphere is hopeful and helpful.--_Boston Globe._ SIDNEY: HER SENIOR YEAR Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. This delightful story completes the author's charming and popular series of Sidney Books. Day, Janet, and a host of their bright friends meet again at Smith College, where Sidney is the President of the Senior Class, and their gayety fill the pages with spirited incidents. 
440	----	JUST DAVID BY ELEANOR H. (HODGMAN) PORTER AUTHOR POLLYANNA, MISS BILLY MARRIED, ETC. TO MY FRIEND Mrs. James Harness CONTENTS I. THE MOUNTAIN HOME II. THE TRAIL III. THE VALLEY IV. TWO LETTERS V. DISCORDS VI. NUISANCES, NECESSARY AND OTHERWISE VII. "YOU'RE WANTED--YOU'RE WANTED!" VIII. THE PUZZLING "DOS" AND "DON'TS" IX. JOE X. THE LADY OF THE ROSES XI. JACK AND JILL XII. ANSWERS THAT DID NOT ANSWER XIII. A SURPRISE FOR MR. JACK XIV. THE TOWER WINDOW XV. SECRETS XVI. DAVID'S CASTLE IN SPAIN XVII. "THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER" XVIII. DAVID TO THE RESCUE XIX. THE UNBEAUTIFUL WORLD XX. THE UNFAMILIAR WAY XXI. HEAVY HEARTS XXII. AS PERRY SAW IT XXIII. PUZZLES XXIV. A STORY REMODELED XXV. THE BEAUTIFUL WORLD CHAPTER I THE MOUNTAIN HOME Far up on the mountain-side the little shack stood alone in the clearing. It was roughly yet warmly built. Behind it jagged cliffs broke the north wind, and towered gray-white in the sunshine. Before it a tiny expanse of green sloped gently away to a point where the mountain dropped in another sharp descent, wooded with scrubby firs and pines. At the left a footpath led into the cool depths of the forest. But at the right the mountain fell away again and disclosed to view the picture David loved the best of all: the far-reaching valley; the silver pool of the lake with its ribbon of a river flung far out; and above it the grays and greens and purples of the mountains that climbed one upon another's shoulders until the topmost thrust their heads into the wide dome of the sky itself. There was no road, apparently, leading away from the cabin. There was only the footpath that disappeared into the forest. Neither, anywhere, was there a house in sight nearer than the white specks far down in the valley by the river. Within the shack a wide fireplace dominated one side of the main room. It was June now, and the ashes lay cold on the hearth; but from the tiny lean-to in the rear came the smell and the sputter of bacon sizzling over a blaze. The furnishings of the room were simple, yet, in a way, out of the common. There were two bunks, a few rude but comfortable chairs, a table, two music-racks, two violins with their cases, and everywhere books, and scattered sheets of music. Nowhere was there cushion, curtain, or knickknack that told of a woman's taste or touch. On the other hand, neither was there anywhere gun, pelt, or antlered head that spoke of a man's strength and skill. For decoration there were a beautiful copy of the Sistine Madonna, several photographs signed with names well known out in the great world beyond the mountains, and a festoon of pine cones such as a child might gather and hang. From the little lean-to kitchen the sound of the sputtering suddenly ceased, and at the door appeared a pair of dark, wistful eyes. "Daddy!" called the owner of the eyes. There was no answer. "Father, are you there?" called the voice, more insistently. From one of the bunks came a slight stir and a murmured word. At the sound the boy at the door leaped softly into the room and hurried to the bunk in the corner. He was a slender lad with short, crisp curls at his ears, and the red of perfect health in his cheeks. His hands, slim, long, and with tapering fingers like a girl's, reached forward eagerly. "Daddy, come! I've done the bacon all myself, and the potatoes and the coffee, too. Quick, it's all getting cold!" Slowly, with the aid of the boy's firm hands, the man pulled himself half to a sitting posture. His cheeks, like the boy's, were red--but not with health. His eyes were a little wild, but his voice was low and very tender, like a caress. "David--it's my little son David!" "Of course it's David! Who else should it be?" laughed the boy. "Come!" And he tugged at the man's hands. The man rose then, unsteadily, and by sheer will forced himself to stand upright. The wild look left his eyes, and the flush his cheeks. His face looked suddenly old and haggard. Yet with fairly sure steps he crossed the room and entered the little kitchen. Half of the bacon was black; the other half was transparent and like tough jelly. The potatoes were soggy, and had the unmistakable taste that comes from a dish that has boiled dry. The coffee was lukewarm and muddy. Even the milk was sour. David laughed a little ruefully. "Things aren't so nice as yours, father," he apologized. "I'm afraid I'm nothing but a discord in that orchestra to-day! Somehow, some of the stove was hotter than the rest, and burnt up the bacon in spots; and all the water got out of the potatoes, too,--though THAT didn't matter, for I just put more cold in. I forgot and left the milk in the sun, and it tastes bad now; but I'm sure next time it'll be better--all of it." The man smiled, but he shook his head sadly. "But there ought not to be any 'next time,' David." "Why not? What do you mean? Aren't you ever going to let me try again, father?" There was real distress in the boy's voice. The man hesitated. His lips parted with an indrawn breath, as if behind them lay a rush of words. But they closed abruptly, the words still unsaid. Then, very lightly, came these others:-- "Well, son, this isn't a very nice way to treat your supper, is it? Now, if you please, I'll take some of that bacon. I think I feel my appetite coming back." If the truant appetite "came back," however, it could not have stayed; for the man ate but little. He frowned, too, as he saw how little the boy ate. He sat silent while his son cleared the food and dishes away, and he was still silent when, with the boy, he passed out of the house and walked to the little bench facing the west. Unless it stormed very hard, David never went to bed without this last look at his "Silver Lake," as he called the little sheet of water far down in the valley. "Daddy, it's gold to-night--all gold with the sun!" he cried rapturously, as his eyes fell upon his treasure. "Oh, daddy!" It was a long-drawn cry of ecstasy, and hearing it, the man winced, as with sudden pain. "Daddy, I'm going to play it--I've got to play it!" cried the boy, bounding toward the cabin. In a moment he had returned, violin at his chin. The man watched and listened; and as he watched and listened, his face became a battle-ground whereon pride and fear, hope and despair, joy and sorrow, fought for the mastery. It was no new thing for David to "play" the sunset. Always, when he was moved, David turned to his violin. Always in its quivering strings he found the means to say that which his tongue could not express. Across the valley the grays and blues of the mountains had become all purples now. Above, the sky in one vast flame of crimson and gold, was a molten sea on which floated rose-pink cloud-boats. Below, the valley with its lake and river picked out in rose and gold against the shadowy greens of field and forest, seemed like some enchanted fairyland of loveliness. And all this was in David's violin, and all this, too, was on David's uplifted, rapturous face. As the last rose-glow turned to gray and the last strain quivered into silence, the man spoke. His voice was almost harsh with self-control. "David, the time has come. We'll have to give it up--you and I." The boy turned wonderingly, his face still softly luminous. "Give what up?" "This--all this." "This! Why, father, what do you mean? This is home!" The man nodded wearily. "I know. It has been home; but, David, you didn't think we could always live here, like this, did you?" David laughed softly, and turned his eyes once more to the distant sky-line. "Why not?" he asked dreamily. "What better place could there be? I like it, daddy." The man drew a troubled breath, and stirred restlessly. The teasing pain in his side was very bad to-night, and no change of position eased it. He was ill, very ill; and he knew it. Yet he also knew that, to David, sickness, pain, and death meant nothing--or, at most, words that had always been lightly, almost unconsciously passed over. For the first time he wondered if, after all, his training--some of it--had been wise. For six years he had had the boy under his exclusive care and guidance. For six years the boy had eaten the food, worn the clothing, and studied the books of his father's choosing. For six years that father had thought, planned, breathed, moved, lived for his son. There had been no others in the little cabin. There had been only the occasional trips through the woods to the little town on the mountain-side for food and clothing, to break the days of close companionship. All this the man had planned carefully. He had meant that only the good and beautiful should have place in David's youth. It was not that he intended that evil, unhappiness, and death should lack definition, only definiteness, in the boy's mind. It should be a case where the good and the beautiful should so fill the thoughts that there would be no room for anything else. This had been his plan. And thus far he had succeeded--succeeded so wonderfully that he began now, in the face of his own illness, and of what he feared would come of it, to doubt the wisdom of that planning. As he looked at the boy's rapt face, he remembered David's surprised questioning at the first dead squirrel he had found in the woods. David was six then. "Why, daddy, he's asleep, and he won't wake up!" he had cried. Then, after a gentle touch: "And he's cold--oh, so cold!" The father had hurried his son away at the time, and had evaded his questions; and David had seemed content. But the next day the boy had gone back to the subject. His eyes were wide then, and a little frightened. "Father, what is it to be--dead?" "What do you mean, David?" "The boy who brings the milk--he had the squirrel this morning. He said it was not asleep. It was--dead." "It means that the squirrel, the real squirrel under the fur, has gone away, David." "Where?" "To a far country, perhaps." "Will he come back?" "No." "Did he want to go?" "We'll hope so." "But he left his--his fur coat behind him. Didn't he need--that?" "No, or he'd have taken it with him." David had fallen silent at this. He had remained strangely silent indeed for some days; then, out in the woods with his father one morning, he gave a joyous shout. He was standing by the ice-covered brook, and looking at a little black hole through which the hurrying water could be plainly seen. "Daddy, oh, daddy, I know now how it is, about being--dead." "Why--David!" "It's like the water in the brook, you know; THAT'S going to a far country, and it isn't coming back. And it leaves its little cold ice-coat behind it just as the squirrel did, too. It does n't need it. It can go without it. Don't you see? And it's singing--listen!--it's singing as it goes. It WANTS to go!" "Yes, David." And David's father had sighed with relief that his son had found his own explanation of the mystery, and one that satisfied. Later, in his books, David found death again. It was a man, this time. The boy had looked up with startled eyes. "Do people, real people, like you and me, be dead, father? Do they go to a far country? "Yes, son in time--to a far country ruled over by a great and good King they tell us." David's father had trembled as he said it, and had waited fearfully for the result. But David had only smiled happily as he answered: "But they go singing, father, like the little brook. You know I heard it!" And there the matter had ended. David was ten now, and not yet for him did death spell terror. Because of this David's father was relieved; and yet--still because of this--he was afraid. "David," he said gently. "Listen to me." The boy turned with a long sigh. "Yes, father." "We must go away. Out in the great world there are men and women and children waiting for you. You've a beautiful work to do; and one can't do one's work on a mountain-top." "Why not? I like it here, and I've always been here." "Not always, David; six years. You were four when I brought you here. You don't remember, perhaps." David shook his head. His eyes were again dreamily fixed on the sky. "I think I'd like it--to go--if I could sail away on that little cloud-boat up there," he murmured. The man sighed and shook his head. "We can't go on cloud-boats. We must walk, David, for a way--and we must go soon--soon," he added feverishly. "I must get you back--back among friends, before--" He rose unsteadily, and tried to walk erect. His limbs shook, and the blood throbbed at his temples. He was appalled at his weakness. With a fierceness born of his terror he turned sharply to the boy at his side. "David, we've got to go! We've got to go--TO-MORROW!" "Father!" "Yes, yes, come!" He stumbled blindly, yet in some way he reached the cabin door. Behind him David still sat, inert, staring. The next minute the boy had sprung to his feet and was hurrying after his father. CHAPTER II THE TRAIL A curious strength seemed to have come to the man. With almost steady hands he took down the photographs and the Sistine Madonna, packing them neatly away in a box to be left. From beneath his bunk he dragged a large, dusty traveling-bag, and in this he stowed a little food, a few garments, and a great deal of the music scattered about the room. David, in the doorway, stared in dazed wonder. Gradually into his eyes crept a look never seen there before. "Father, where are we going?" he asked at last in a shaking voice, as he came slowly into the room. "Back, son; we're going back." "To the village, where we get our eggs and bacon?" "No, no, lad, not there. The other way. We go down into the valley this time." "The valley--MY valley, with the Silver Lake?" "Yes, my son; and beyond--far beyond." The man spoke dreamily. He was looking at a photograph in his hand. It had slipped in among the loose sheets of music, and had not been put away with the others. It was the likeness of a beautiful woman. For a moment David eyed him uncertainly; then he spoke. "Daddy, who is that? Who are all these people in the pictures? You've never told me about any of them except the little round one that you wear in your pocket. Who are they?" Instead of answering, the man turned faraway eyes on the boy and smiled wistfully. "Ah, David, lad, how they'll love you! How they will love you! But you mustn't let them spoil you, son. You must remember--remember all I've told you." Once again David asked his question, but this time the man only turned back to the photograph, muttering something the boy could not understand. After that David did not question any more. He was too amazed, too distressed. He had never before seen his father like this. With nervous haste the man was setting the little room to rights, crowding things into the bag, and packing other things away in an old trunk. His cheeks were very red, and his eyes very bright. He talked, too, almost constantly, though David could understand scarcely a word of what was said. Later, the man caught up his violin and played; and never before had David heard his father play like that. The boy's eyes filled, and his heart ached with a pain that choked and numbed--though why, David could not have told. Still later, the man dropped his violin and sank exhausted into a chair; and then David, worn and frightened with it all, crept to his bunk and fell asleep. In the gray dawn of the morning David awoke to a different world. His father, white-faced and gentle, was calling him to get ready for breakfast. The little room, dismantled of its decorations, was bare and cold. The bag, closed and strapped, rested on the floor by the door, together with the two violins in their cases, ready to carry. "We must hurry, son. It's a long tramp before we take the cars." "The cars--the real cars? Do we go in those?" David was fully awake now. "Yes." "And is that all we're to carry?" "Yes. Hurry, son." "But we come back--sometime?" There was no answer. "Father, we're coming back--sometime?" David's voice was insistent now. The man stooped and tightened a strap that was already quite tight enough. Then he laughed lightly. "Why, of course you're coming back sometime, David. Only think of all these things we're leaving!" When the last dish was put away, the last garment adjusted, and the last look given to the little room, the travelers picked up the bag and the violins, and went out into the sweet freshness of the morning. As he fastened the door the man sighed profoundly; but David did not notice this. His face was turned toward the east--always David looked toward the sun. "Daddy, let's not go, after all! Let's stay here," he cried ardently, drinking in the beauty of the morning. "We must go, David. Come, son." And the man led the way across the green slope to the west. It was a scarcely perceptible trail, but the man found it, and followed it with evident confidence. There was only the pause now and then to steady his none-too-sure step, or to ease the burden of the bag. Very soon the forest lay all about them, with the birds singing over their heads, and with numberless tiny feet scurrying through the underbrush on all sides. Just out of sight a brook babbled noisily of its delight in being alive; and away up in the treetops the morning sun played hide-and-seek among the dancing leaves. And David leaped, and laughed, and loved it all, nor was any of it strange to him. The birds, the trees, the sun, the brook, the scurrying little creatures of the forest, all were friends of his. But the man--the man did not leap or laugh, though he, too, loved it all. The man was afraid. He knew now that he had undertaken more than he could carry out. Step by step the bag had grown heavier, and hour by hour the insistent, teasing pain in his side had increased until now it was a torture. He had forgotten that the way to the valley was so long; he had not realized how nearly spent was his strength before he even started down the trail. Throbbing through his brain was the question, what if, after all, he could not--but even to himself he would not say the words. At noon they paused for luncheon, and at night they camped where the chattering brook had stopped to rest in a still, black pool. The next morning the man and the boy picked up the trail again, but without the bag. Under some leaves in a little hollow, the man had hidden the bag, and had then said, as if casually:-- "I believe, after all, I won't carry this along. There's nothing in it that we really need, you know, now that I've taken out the luncheon box, and by night we'll be down in the valley." "Of course!" laughed David. "We don't need that." And he laughed again, for pure joy. Little use had David for bags or baggage! They were more than halfway down the mountain now, and soon they reached a grass-grown road, little traveled, but yet a road. Still later they came to where four ways crossed, and two of them bore the marks of many wheels. By sundown the little brook at their side murmured softly of quiet fields and meadows, and David knew that the valley was reached. David was not laughing now. He was watching his father with startled eyes. David had not known what anxiety was. He was finding out now--though he but vaguely realized that something was not right. For some time his father had said but little, and that little had been in a voice that was thick and unnatural-sounding. He was walking fast, yet David noticed that every step seemed an effort, and that every breath came in short gasps. His eyes were very bright, and were fixedly bent on the road ahead, as if even the haste he was making was not haste enough. Twice David spoke to him, but he did not answer; and the boy could only trudge along on his weary little feet and sigh for the dear home on the mountain-top which they had left behind them the morning before. They met few fellow travelers, and those they did meet paid scant attention to the man and the boy carrying the violins. As it chanced, there was no one in sight when the man, walking in the grass at the side of the road, stumbled and fell heavily to the ground. David sprang quickly forward. "Father, what is it? WHAT IS IT?" There was no answer. "Daddy, why don't you speak to me? See, it's David!" With a painful effort the man roused himself and sat up. For a moment he gazed dully into the boy's face; then a half-forgotten something seemed to stir him into feverish action. With shaking fingers he handed David his watch and a small ivory miniature. Then he searched his pockets until on the ground before him lay a shining pile of gold-pieces--to David there seemed to be a hundred of them. "Take them--hide them--keep them. David, until you--need them," panted the man. "Then go--go on. I can't." "Alone? Without you?" demurred the boy, aghast. "Why, father, I couldn't! I don't know the way. Besides, I'd rather stay with you," he added soothingly, as he slipped the watch and the miniature into his pocket; "then we can both go." And he dropped himself down at his father's side. The man shook his head feebly, and pointed again to the gold-pieces. "Take them, David,--hide them," he chattered with pale lips. Almost impatiently the boy began picking up the money and tucking it into his pockets. "But, father, I'm not going without you," he declared stoutly, as the last bit of gold slipped out of sight, and a horse and wagon rattled around the turn of the road above. The driver of the horse glanced disapprovingly at the man and the boy by the roadside; but he did not stop. After he had passed, the boy turned again to his father. The man was fumbling once more in his pockets. This time from his coat he produced a pencil and a small notebook from which he tore a page, and began to write, laboriously, painfully. David sighed and looked about him. He was tired and hungry, and he did not understand things at all. Something very wrong, very terrible, must be the matter with his father. Here it was almost dark, yet they had no place to go, no supper to eat, while far, far up on the mountain-side was their own dear home sad and lonely without them. Up there, too, the sun still shone, doubtless,--at least there were the rose-glow and the Silver Lake to look at, while down here there was nothing, nothing but gray shadows, a long dreary road, and a straggling house or two in sight. From above, the valley might look to be a fairyland of loveliness, but in reality it was nothing but a dismal waste of gloom, decided David. David's father had torn a second page from his book and was beginning another note, when the boy suddenly jumped to his feet. One of the straggling houses was near the road where they sat, and its presence had given David an idea. With swift steps he hurried to the front door and knocked upon it. In answer a tall, unsmiling woman appeared, and said, "Well?" David removed his cap as his father had taught him to do when one of the mountain women spoke to him. "Good evening, lady; I'm David," he began frankly. "My father is so tired he fell down back there, and we should like very much to stay with you all night, if you don't mind." The woman in the doorway stared. For a moment she was dumb with amazement. Her eyes swept the plain, rather rough garments of the boy, then sought the half-recumbent figure of the man by the roadside. Her chin came up angrily. "Oh, would you, indeed! Well, upon my word!" she scouted. "Humph! We don't accommodate tramps, little boy." And she shut the door hard. It was David's turn to stare. Just what a tramp might be, he did not know; but never before had a request of his been so angrily refused. He knew that. A fierce something rose within him--a fierce new something that sent the swift red to his neck and brow. He raised a determined hand to the doorknob--he had something to say to that woman!--when the door suddenly opened again from the inside. "See here, boy," began the woman, looking out at him a little less unkindly, "if you're hungry I'll give you some milk and bread. Go around to the back porch and I'll get it for you." And she shut the door again. David's hand dropped to his side. The red still stayed on his face and neck, however, and that fierce new something within him bade him refuse to take food from this woman.... But there was his father--his poor father, who was so tired; and there was his own stomach clamoring to be fed. No, he could not refuse. And with slow steps and hanging head David went around the corner of the house to the rear. As the half-loaf of bread and the pail of milk were placed in his hands, David remembered suddenly that in the village store on the mountain, his father paid money for his food. David was glad, now, that he had those gold-pieces in his pocket, for he could pay money. Instantly his head came up. Once more erect with self-respect, he shifted his burdens to one hand and thrust the other into his pocket. A moment later he presented on his outstretched palm a shining disk of gold. "Will you take this, to pay, please, for the bread and milk?" he asked proudly. The woman began to shake her head; but, as her eyes fell on the money, she started, and bent closer to examine it. The next instant she jerked herself upright with an angry exclamation. "It's gold! A ten-dollar gold-piece! So you're a thief, too, are you, as well as a tramp? Humph! Well, I guess you don't need this then," she finished sharply, snatching the bread and the pail of milk from the boy's hand. The next moment David stood alone on the doorstep, with the sound of a quickly thrown bolt in his ears. A thief! David knew little of thieves, but he knew what they were. Only a month before a man had tried to steal the violins from the cabin; and he was a thief, the milk-boy said. David flushed now again, angrily, as he faced the closed door. But he did not tarry. He turned and ran to his father. "Father, come away, quick! You must come away," he choked. So urgent was the boy's voice that almost unconsciously the sick man got to his feet. With shaking hands he thrust the notes he had been writing into his pocket. The little book, from which he had torn the leaves for this purpose, had already dropped unheeded into the grass at his feet. "Yes, son, yes, we'll go," muttered the man. "I feel better now. I can--walk." And he did walk, though very slowly, ten, a dozen, twenty steps. From behind came the sound of wheels that stopped close beside them. "Hullo, there! Going to the village?" called a voice. "Yes, sir." David's answer was unhesitating. Where "the village" was, he did not know; he knew only that it must be somewhere away from the woman who had called him a thief. And that was all he cared to know. "I'm going 'most there myself. Want a lift?" asked the man, still kindly. "Yes, sir. Thank you!" cried the boy joyfully. And together they aided his father to climb into the roomy wagon-body. There were few words said. The man at the reins drove rapidly, and paid little attention to anything but his horses. The sick man dozed and rested. The boy sat, wistful-eyed and silent, watching the trees and houses flit by. The sun had long ago set, but it was not dark, for the moon was round and bright, and the sky was cloudless. Where the road forked sharply the man drew his horses to a stop. "Well, I'm sorry, but I guess I'll have to drop you here, friends. I turn off to the right; but 't ain't more 'n a quarter of a mile for you, now" he finished cheerily, pointing with his whip to a cluster of twinkling lights. "Thank you, sir, thank you," breathed David gratefully, steadying his father's steps. "You've helped us lots. Thank you!" In David's heart was a wild desire to lay at his good man's feet all of his shining gold-pieces as payment for this timely aid. But caution held him back: it seemed that only in stores did money pay; outside it branded one as a thief! Alone with his father, David faced once more his problem. Where should they go for the night? Plainly his father could not walk far. He had begun to talk again, too,--low, half-finished sentences that David could not understand, and that vaguely troubled him. There was a house near by, and several others down the road toward the village; but David had had all the experience he wanted that night with strange houses, and strange women. There was a barn, a big one, which was nearest of all; and it was toward this barn that David finally turned his father's steps. "We'll go there, daddy, if we can get in," he proposed softly. "And we'll stay all night and rest." CHAPTER III THE VALLEY The long twilight of the June day had changed into a night that was scarcely darker, so bright was the moonlight. Seen from the house, the barn and the low buildings beyond loomed shadowy and unreal, yet very beautiful. On the side porch of the house sat Simeon Holly and his wife, content to rest mind and body only because a full day's work lay well done behind them. It was just as Simeon rose to his feet to go indoors that a long note from a violin reached their ears. "Simeon!" cried the woman. "What was that?" The man did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the barn. "Simeon, it's a fiddle!" exclaimed Mrs. Holly, as a second tone quivered on the air "And it's in our barn!" Simeon's jaw set. With a stern ejaculation he crossed the porch and entered the kitchen. In another minute he had returned, a lighted lantern in his hand. "Simeon, d--don't go," begged the woman, tremulously. "You--you don't know what's there." "Fiddles are not played without hands, Ellen," retorted the man severely. "Would you have me go to bed and leave a half-drunken, ungodly minstrel fellow in possession of our barn? To-night, on my way home, I passed a pretty pair of them lying by the roadside--a man and a boy with two violins. They're the culprits, likely,--though how they got this far, I don't see. Do you think I want to leave my barn to tramps like them?" "N--no, I suppose not," faltered the woman, as she rose tremblingly to her feet, and followed her husband's shadow across the yard. Once inside the barn Simeon Holly and his wife paused involuntarily. The music was all about them now, filling the air with runs and trills and rollicking bits of melody. Giving an angry exclamation, the man turned then to the narrow stairway and climbed to the hayloft above. At his heels came his wife, and so her eyes, almost as soon as his fell upon the man lying back on the hay with the moonlight full upon his face. Instantly the music dropped to a whisper, and a low voice came out of the gloom beyond the square of moonlight which came from the window in the roof. "If you'll please be as still as you can, sir. You see he's asleep and he's so tired," said the voice. For a moment the man and the woman on the stairway paused in amazement, then the man lifted his lantern and strode toward the voice. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" he demanded sharply. A boy's face, round, tanned, and just now a bit anxious, flashed out of the dark. "Oh, please, sir, if you would speak lower," pleaded the boy. "He's so tired! I'm David, sir, and that's father. We came in here to rest and sleep." Simeon Holly's unrelenting gaze left the boy's face and swept that of the man lying back on the hay. The next instant he lowered the lantern and leaned nearer, putting forth a cautious hand. At once he straightened himself, muttering a brusque word under his breath. Then he turned with the angry question:-- "Boy, what do you mean by playing a jig on your fiddle at such a time as this?" "Why, father asked me to play" returned the boy cheerily. "He said he could walk through green forests then, with the ripple of brooks in his ears, and that the birds and the squirrels--" "See here, boy, who are you?" cut in Simeon Holly sternly. "Where did you come from?" "From home, sir." "Where is that?" "Why, home, sir, where I live. In the mountains, 'way up, up, up--oh, so far up! And there's such a big, big sky, so much nicer than down here." The boy's voice quivered, and almost broke, and his eyes constantly sought the white face on the hay. It was then that Simeon Holly awoke to the sudden realization that it was time for action. He turned to his wife. "Take the boy to the house," he directed incisively. "We'll have to keep him to-night, I suppose. I'll go for Higgins. Of course the whole thing will have to be put in his hands at once. You can't do anything here," he added, as he caught her questioning glance. "Leave everything just as it is. The man is dead." "Dead?" It was a sharp cry from the boy, yet there was more of wonder than of terror in it. "Do you mean that he has gone--like the water in the brook--to the far country?" he faltered. Simeon Holly stared. Then he said more distinctly:-- "Your father is dead, boy." "And he won't come back any more?" David's voice broke now. There was no answer. Mrs. Holly caught her breath convulsively and looked away. Even Simeon Holly refused to meet the boy's pleading eyes. With a quick cry David sprang to his father's side. "But he's here--right here," he challenged shrilly. "Daddy, daddy, speak to me! It's David!" Reaching out his hand, he gently touched his father's face. He drew back then, at once, his eyes distended with terror. "He isn't! He is--gone," he chattered frenziedly. "This isn't the father-part that KNOWS. It's the other--that they leave. He's left it behind him--like the squirrel, and the water in the brook." Suddenly the boy's face changed. It grew rapt and luminous as he leaped to his feet, crying joyously: "But he asked me to play, so he went singing--singing just as he said that they did. And I made him walk through green forests with the ripple of the brooks in his ears! Listen--like this!" And once more the boy raised the violin to his chin, and once more the music trilled and rippled about the shocked, amazed ears of Simeon Holly and his wife. For a time neither the man nor the woman could speak. There was nothing in their humdrum, habit-smoothed tilling of the soil and washing of pots and pans to prepare them for a scene like this--a moonlit barn, a strange dead man, and that dead man's son babbling of brooks and squirrels, and playing jigs on a fiddle for a dirge. At last, however, Simeon found his voice. "Boy, boy, stop that!" he thundered. "Are you mad--clean mad? Go into the house, I say!" And the boy, dazed but obedient, put up his violin, and followed the woman, who, with tear-blinded eyes, was leading the way down the stairs. Mrs. Holly was frightened, but she was also strangely moved. From the long ago the sound of another violin had come to her--a violin, too, played by a boy's hands. But of this, all this, Mrs. Holly did not like to think. In the kitchen now she turned and faced her young guest. "Are you hungry, little boy?" David hesitated; he had not forgotten the woman, the milk, and the gold-piece. "Are you hungry--dear?" stammered Mrs. Holly again; and this time David's clamorous stomach forced a "yes" from his unwilling lips; which sent Mrs. Holly at once into the pantry for bread and milk and a heaped-up plate of doughnuts such as David had never seen before. Like any hungry boy David ate his supper; and Mrs. Holly, in the face of this very ordinary sight of hunger being appeased at her table, breathed more freely, and ventured to think that perhaps this strange little boy was not so very strange, after all. "What is your name?" she found courage to ask then. "David." "David what?" "Just David." "But your father's name?" Mrs. Holly had almost asked, but stopped in time. She did not want to speak of him. "Where do you live?" she asked instead. "On the mountain, 'way up, up on the mountain where I can see my Silver Lake every day, you know." "But you didn't live there alone?" "Oh, no; with father--before he--went away" faltered the boy. The woman flushed red and bit her lip. "No, no, I mean--were there no other houses but yours?" she stammered. "No, ma'am." "But, wasn't your mother--anywhere?" "Oh, yes, in father's pocket." "Your MOTHER--in your father's POCKET!" So plainly aghast was the questioner that David looked not a little surprised as he explained. "You don't understand. She is an angel-mother, and angel-mothers don't have anything only their pictures down here with us. And that's what we have, and father always carried it in his pocket." "Oh----h," murmured Mrs. Holly, a quick mist in her eyes. Then, gently: "And did you always live there--on the mountain?" "Six years, father said." "But what did you do all day? Weren't you ever--lonesome?" "Lonesome?" The boy's eyes were puzzled. "Yes. Didn't you miss things--people, other houses, boys of your own age, and--and such things?" David's eyes widened. "Why, how could I?" he cried. "When I had daddy, and my violin, and my Silver Lake, and the whole of the great big woods with everything in them to talk to, and to talk to me?" "Woods, and things in them to--to TALK to you!" "Why, yes. It was the little brook, you know, after the squirrel, that told me about being dead, and--" "Yes, yes; but never mind, dear, now," stammered the woman, rising hurriedly to her feet--the boy was a little wild, after all, she thought. "You--you should go to bed. Haven't you a--a bag, or--or anything?" "No, ma'am; we left it," smiled David apologetically. "You see, we had so much in it that it got too heavy to carry. So we did n't bring it." "So much in it you didn't bring it, indeed!" repeated Mrs. Holly, under her breath, throwing up her hands with a gesture of despair. "Boy, what are you, anyway?" It was not meant for a question, but, to the woman's surprise, the boy answered, frankly, simply:-- "Father says that I'm one little instrument in the great Orchestra of Life, and that I must see to it that I'm always in tune, and don't drag or hit false notes." "My land!" breathed the woman, dropping back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the boy. Then, with an effort, she got to her feet. "Come, you must go to bed," she stammered. "I'm sure bed is--is the best place you. I think I can find what--what you need," she finished feebly. In a snug little room over the kitchen some minutes later, David found himself at last alone. The room, though it had once belonged to a boy of his own age, looked very strange to David. On the floor was a rag-carpet rug, the first he had ever seen. On the walls were a fishing-rod, a toy shotgun, and a case full of bugs and moths, each little body impaled on a pin, to David's shuddering horror. The bed had four tall posts at the corners, and a very puffy top that filled David with wonder as to how he was to reach it, or stay there if he did gain it. Across a chair lay a boy's long yellow-white nightshirt that the kind lady had left, after hurriedly wiping her eyes with the edge of its hem. In all the circle of the candlelight there was just one familiar object to David's homesick eyes--the long black violin case which he had brought in himself, and which held his beloved violin. With his back carefully turned toward the impaled bugs and moths on the wall, David undressed himself and slipped into the yellow-white nightshirt, which he sniffed at gratefully, so like pine woods was the perfume that hung about its folds. Then he blew out the candle and groped his way to the one window the little room contained. The moon still shone, but little could be seen through the thick green branches of the tree outside. From the yard below came the sound of wheels, and of men's excited voices. There came also the twinkle of lanterns borne by hurrying hands, and the tramp of shuffling feet. In the window David shivered. There were no wide sweep of mountain, hill, and valley, no Silver Lake, no restful hush, no daddy,--no beautiful Things that Were. There was only the dreary, hollow mockery of the Things they had Become. Long minutes later, David, with the violin in his arms, lay down upon the rug, and, for the first time since babyhood, sobbed himself to sleep--but it was a sleep that brought no rest; for in it he dreamed that he was a big, white-winged moth pinned with a star to an ink-black sky. CHAPTER IV TWO LETTERS In the early gray dawn David awoke. His first sensation was the physical numbness and stiffness that came from his hard bed on the floor. "Why, daddy," he began, pulling himself half-erect, "I slept all night on--" He stopped suddenly, brushing his eyes with the backs of his hands. "Why, daddy, where--" Then full consciousness came to him. With a low cry he sprang to his feet and ran to the window. Through the trees he could see the sunrise glow of the eastern sky. Down in the yard no one was in sight; but the barn door was open, and, with a quick indrawing of his breath, David turned back into the room and began to thrust himself into his clothing. The gold in his sagging pockets clinked and jingled musically; and once half a dozen pieces rolled out upon the floor. For a moment the boy looked as if he were going to let them remain where they were. But the next minute, with an impatient gesture, he had picked them up and thrust them deep into one of his pockets, silencing their jingling with his handkerchief. Once dressed, David picked up his violin and stepped softly into the hall. At first no sound reached his ears; then from the kitchen below came the clatter of brisk feet and the rattle of tins and crockery. Tightening his clasp on the violin, David slipped quietly down the back stairs and out to the yard. It was only a few seconds then before he was hurrying through the open doorway of the barn and up the narrow stairway to the loft above. At the top, however, he came to a sharp pause, with a low cry. The next moment he turned to see a kindly-faced man looking up at him from the foot of the stairs. "Oh, sir, please--please, where is he? What have you done with him?" appealed the boy, almost plunging headlong down the stairs in his haste to reach the bottom. Into the man's weather-beaten face came a look of sincere but awkward sympathy. "Oh, hullo, sonny! So you're the boy, are ye?" he began diffidently. "Yes, yes, I'm David. But where is he--my father, you know? I mean the--the part he--he left behind him?" choked the boy. "The part like--the ice-coat?" The man stared. Then, involuntarily, he began to back away. "Well, ye see, I--I--" "But, maybe you don't know," interrupted David feverishly. "You aren't the man I saw last night. Who are you? Where is he--the other one, please?" "No, I--I wa'n't here--that is, not at the first," spoke up the man quickly, still unconsciously backing away. "Me--I'm only Larson, Perry Larson, ye know. 'T was Mr. Holly you see last night--him that I works for." "Then, where is Mr. Holly, please?" faltered the boy, hurrying toward the barn door. "Maybe he would know--about father. Oh, there he is!" And David ran out of the barn and across the yard to the kitchen porch. It was an unhappy ten minutes that David spent then. Besides Mr. Holly, there were Mrs. Holly, and the man, Perry Larson. And they all talked. But little of what they said could David understand. To none of his questions could he obtain an answer that satisfied. Neither, on his part, could he seem to reply to their questions in a way that pleased them. They went in to breakfast then, Mr. and Mrs. Holly, and the man, Perry Larson. They asked David to go--at least, Mrs. Holly asked him. But David shook his head and said "No, no, thank you very much; I'd rather not, if you please--not now." Then he dropped himself down on the steps to think. As if he could EAT--with that great choking lump in his throat that refused to be swallowed! David was thoroughly dazed, frightened, and dismayed. He knew now that never again in this world would he see his dear father, or hear him speak. This much had been made very clear to him during the last ten minutes. Why this should be so, or what his father would want him to do, he could not seem to find out. Not until now had he realized at all what this going away of his father was to mean to him. And he told himself frantically that he could not have it so. HE COULD NOT HAVE IT SO! But even as he said the words, he knew that it was so--irrevocably so. David began then to long for his mountain home. There at least he would have his dear forest all about him, with the birds and the squirrels and the friendly little brooks. There he would have his Silver Lake to look at, too, and all of them would speak to him of his father. He believed, indeed, that up there it would almost seem as if his father were really with him. And, anyway, if his father ever should come back, it would be there that he would be sure to seek him--up there in the little mountain home so dear to them both. Back to the cabin he would go now, then. Yes; indeed he would! With a low word and a passionately intent expression, David got to his feet, picked up his violin, and hurried, firm-footed, down the driveway and out upon the main highway, turning in the direction from whence he had come with his father the night before. The Hollys had just finished breakfast when Higgins, the coroner, drove into the yard accompanied by William Streeter, the town's most prominent farmer,--and the most miserly one, if report was to be credited. "Well, could you get anything out of the boy?" demanded Higgins, without ceremony, as Simeon Holly and Larson appeared on the kitchen porch. "Very little. Really nothing of importance," answered Simeon Holly. "Where is he now?" "Why, he was here on the steps a few minutes ago." Simeon Holly looked about him a bit impatiently. "Well, I want to see him. I've got a letter for him." "A letter!" exclaimed Simeon Holly and Larson in amazed unison. "Yes. Found it in his father's pocket," nodded the coroner, with all the tantalizing brevity of a man who knows he has a choice morsel of information that is eagerly awaited. "It's addressed to 'My boy David,' so I calculated we'd better give it to him first without reading it, seeing it's his. After he reads it, though, I want to see it. I want to see if what it says is any nearer being horse-sense than the other one is." "The other one!" exclaimed the amazed chorus again. "Oh, yes, there's another one," spoke up William Streeter tersely. "And I've read it--all but the scrawl at the end. There couldn't anybody read that!" Higgins laughed. "Well, I'm free to confess 't is a sticker--that name," he admitted. "And it's the name we want, of course, to tell us who they are--since it seems the boy don't know, from what you said last night. I was in hopes, by this morning, you'd have found out more from him." Simeon Holly shook his head. "'T was impossible." "Gosh! I should say 't was," cut in Perry Larson, with emphasis. "An' queer ain't no name for it. One minute he'd be talkin' good common sense like anybody: an' the next he'd be chatterin' of coats made o' ice, an' birds an' squirrels an' babbling brooks. He sure is dippy! Listen. He actually don't seem ter know the diff'rence between himself an' his fiddle. We was tryin' ter find out this mornin' what he could do, an' what he wanted ter do, when if he didn't up an' say that his father told him it didn't make so much diff'rence WHAT he did so long as he kept hisself in tune an' didn't strike false notes. Now, what do yer think o' that?" "Yes, I, know" nodded Higgins musingly. "There WAS something queer about them, and they weren't just ordinary tramps. Did I tell you? I overtook them last night away up on the Fairbanks road by the Taylor place, and I gave 'em a lift. I particularly noticed what a decent sort they were. They were clean and quiet-spoken, and their clothes were good, even if they were rough. Yet they didn't have any baggage but them fiddles." "But what was that second letter you mentioned?" asked Simeon Holly. Higgins smiled oddly, and reached into his pocket. "The letter? Oh, you're welcome to read the letter," he said, as he handed over a bit of folded paper. Simeon took it gingerly and examined it. It was a leaf torn apparently from a note book. It was folded three times, and bore on the outside the superscription "To whom it may concern." The handwriting was peculiar, irregular, and not very legible. But as near as it could be deciphered, the note ran thus:-- Now that the time has come when I must give David back to the world, I have set out for that purpose. But I am ill--very ill, and should Death have swifter feet than I, I must leave my task for others to complete. Deal gently with him. He knows only that which is good and beautiful. He knows nothing of sin nor evil. Then followed the signature--a thing of scrawls and flourishes that conveyed no sort of meaning to Simeon Holly's puzzled eyes. "Well?" prompted Higgins expectantly. Simeon Holly shook his head. "I can make little of it. It certainly is a most remarkable note." "Could you read the name?" "No." "Well, I couldn't. Neither could half a dozen others that's seen it. But where's the boy? Mebbe his note'll talk sense." "I'll go find him," volunteered Larson. "He must be somewheres 'round." But David was very evidently not "somewheres 'round." At least he was not in the barn, the shed, the kitchen bedroom, nor anywhere else that Larson looked; and the man was just coming back with a crestfallen, perplexed frown, when Mrs. Holly hurried out on to the porch. "Mr. Higgins," she cried, in obvious excitement, "your wife has just telephoned that her sister Mollie has just telephoned HER that that little tramp boy with the violin is at her house." "At Mollie's!" exclaimed Higgins. "Why, that's a mile or more from here." "So that's where he is!" interposed Larson, hurrying forward. "Doggone the little rascal! He must 'a' slipped away while we was eatin' breakfast." "Yes. But, Simeon,--Mr. Higgins,--we hadn't ought to let him go like that," appealed Mrs. Holly tremulously. "Your wife said Mollie said she found him crying at the crossroads, because he didn't know which way to take. He said he was going back home. He means to that wretched cabin on the mountain, you know; and we can't let him do that alone--a child like that!" "Where is he now?" demanded Higgins. "In Mollie's kitchen eating bread and milk; but she said she had an awful time getting him to eat. And she wants to know what to do with him. That's why she telephoned your wife. She thought you ought to know he was there." "Yes, of course. Well, tell her to tell him to come back." "Mollie said she tried to have him come back, but that he said, no, thank you, he'd rather not. He was going home where his father could find him if he should ever want him. Mr. Higgins, we--we CAN'T let him go off like that. Why, the child would die up there alone in those dreadful woods, even if he could get there in the first place--which I very much doubt." "Yes, of course, of course," muttered Higgins, with a thoughtful frown. "There's his letter, too. Say!" he added, brightening, "what'll you bet that letter won't fetch him? He seems to think the world and all of his daddy. Here," he directed, turning to Mrs. Holly, "you tell my wife to tell--better yet, you telephone Mollie yourself, please, and tell her to tell the boy we've got a letter here for him from his father, and he can have it if he'll come back.". "I will, I will," called Mrs. Holly, over her shoulder, as she hurried into the house. In an unbelievably short time she was back, her face beaming. "He's started, so soon," she nodded. "He's crazy with joy, Mollie said. He even left part of his breakfast, he was in such a hurry. So I guess we'll see him all right." "Oh, yes, we'll see him all right," echoed Simeon Holly grimly. "But that isn't telling what we'll do with him when we do see him." "Oh, well, maybe this letter of his will help us out on that," suggested Higgins soothingly. "Anyhow, even if it doesn't, I'm not worrying any. I guess some one will want him--a good healthy boy like that." "Did you find any money on the body?" asked Streeter. "A little change--a few cents. Nothing to count. If the boy's letter doesn't tell us where any of their folks are, it'll be up to the town to bury him all right." "He had a fiddle, didn't he? And the boy had one, too. Wouldn't they bring anything?" Streeter's round blue eyes gleamed shrewdly. Higgins gave a slow shake of his head. "Maybe--if there was a market for 'em. But who'd buy 'em? There ain't a soul in town plays but Jack Gurnsey; and he's got one. Besides, he's sick, and got all he can do to buy bread and butter for him and his sister without taking in more fiddles, I guess. HE wouldn't buy 'em." "Hm--m; maybe not, maybe not," grunted Streeter. "An', as you say, he's the only one that's got any use for 'em here; an' like enough they ain't worth much, anyway. So I guess 't is up to the town all right." "Yes; but--if yer'll take it from me,"--interrupted Larson,--"you'll be wise if ye keep still before the boy. It's no use ASKIN' him anythin'. We've proved that fast enough. An' if he once turns 'round an' begins ter ask YOU questions, yer done for!" "I guess you're right," nodded Higgins, with a quizzical smile. "And as long as questioning CAN'T do any good, why, we'll just keep whist before the boy. Meanwhile I wish the little rascal would hurry up and get here. I want to see the inside of that letter to HIM. I'm relying on that being some help to unsnarl this tangle of telling who they are." "Well, he's started," reiterated Mrs. Holly, as she turned back into the house; "so I guess he'll get here if you wait long enough." "Oh, yes, he'll get here if we wait long enough," echoed Simeon Holly again, crustily. The two men in the wagon settled themselves more comfortably in their seats, and Perry Larson, after a half-uneasy, half-apologetic glance at his employer, dropped himself onto the bottom step. Simeon Holly had already sat down stiffly in one of the porch chairs. Simeon Holly never "dropped himself" anywhere. Indeed, according to Perry Larson, if there were a hard way to do a thing, Simeon Holly found it--and did it. The fact that, this morning, he had allowed, and was still allowing, the sacred routine of the day's work to be thus interrupted, for nothing more important than the expected arrival of a strolling urchin, was something Larson would not have believed had he not seen it. Even now he was conscious once or twice of an involuntary desire to rub his eyes to make sure they were not deceiving him. Impatient as the waiting men were for the arrival of David, they were yet almost surprised, so soon did he appear, running up the driveway. "Oh, where is it, please?" he panted. "They said you had a letter for me from daddy!" "You're right, sonny; we have. And here it is," answered Higgins promptly, holding out the folded paper. Plainly eager as he was, David did not open the note till he had first carefully set down the case holding his violin; then he devoured it with eager eyes. As he read, the four men watched his face. They saw first the quick tears that had to be blinked away. Then they saw the radiant glow that grew and deepened until the whole boyish face was aflame with the splendor of it. They saw the shining wonder of his eyes, too, as he looked up from the letter. "And daddy wrote this to me from the far country?" he breathed. Simeon Holly scowled. Larson choked over a stifled chuckle. William Streeter stared and shrugged his shoulders; but Higgins flushed a dull red. "No, sonny," he stammered. "We found it on the--er--I mean, it--er--your father left it in his pocket for you," finished the man, a little explosively. A swift shadow crossed the boy's face. "Oh, I hoped I'd heard--" he began. Then suddenly he stopped, his face once more alight. "But it's 'most the same as if he wrote it from there, isn't it? He left it for me, and he told me what to do." "What's that, what's that?" cried Higgins, instantly alert. "DID he tell you what to do? Then, let's have it, so WE'LL know. You will let us read it, won't you, boy?" "Why, y--yes," stammered David, holding it out politely, but with evident reluctance. "Thank you," nodded Higgins, as he reached for the note. David's letter was very different from the other one. It was longer, but it did not help much, though it was easily read. In his letter, in spite of the wavering lines, each word was formed with a care that told of a father's thought for the young eyes that would read it. It was written on two of the notebook's leaves, and at the end came the single word "Daddy." David, my boy [read Higgins aloud], in the far country I am waiting for you. Do not grieve, for that will grieve me. I shall not return, but some day you will come to me, your violin at your chin, and the bow drawn across the strings to greet me. See that it tells me of the beautiful world you have left--for it is a beautiful world, David; never forget that. And if sometime you are tempted to think it is not a beautiful world, just remember that you yourself can make it beautiful if you will. You are among new faces, surrounded by things and people that are strange to you. Some of them you will not understand; some of them you may not like. But do not fear, David, and do not plead to go back to the hills. Remember this, my boy,--in your violin lie all the things you long for. You have only to play, and the broad skies of your mountain home will be over you, and the dear friends and comrades of your mountain forests will be about you. DADDY. "Gorry! that's worse than the other," groaned Higgins, when he had finished the note. "There's actually nothing in it! Wouldn't you think--if a man wrote anything at such a time--that he'd 'a' wrote something that had some sense to it--something that one could get hold of, and find out who the boy is?" There was no answering this. The assembled men could only grunt and nod in agreement, which, after all, was no real help. CHAPTER V DISCORDS The dead man found in Farmer Holly's barn created a decided stir in the village of Hinsdale. The case was a peculiar one for many reasons. First, because of the boy--Hinsdale supposed it knew boys, but it felt inclined to change its mind after seeing this one. Second, because of the circumstances. The boy and his father had entered the town like tramps, yet Higgins, who talked freely of his having given the pair a "lift" on that very evening, did not hesitate to declare that he did not believe them to be ordinary tramps at all. As there had been little found in the dead man's pockets, save the two notes, and as nobody could be found who wanted the violins, there seemed to be nothing to do but to turn the body over to the town for burial. Nothing was said of this to David; indeed, as little as possible was said to David about anything after that morning when Higgins had given him his father's letter. At that time the men had made one more effort to "get track of SOMETHING," as Higgins had despairingly put it. But the boy's answers to their questions were anything but satisfying, anything but helpful, and were often most disconcerting. The boy was, in fact, regarded by most of the men, after that morning, as being "a little off"; and was hence let severely alone. Who the man was the town authorities certainly did not know, neither could they apparently find out. His name, as written by himself, was unreadable. His notes told nothing; his son could tell little more--of consequence. A report, to be sure, did come from the village, far up the mountain, that such a man and boy had lived in a hut that was almost inaccessible; but even this did not help solve the mystery. David was left at the Holly farmhouse, though Simeon Holly mentally declared that he should lose no time in looking about for some one to take the boy away. On that first day Higgins, picking up the reins preparatory to driving from the yard, had said, with a nod of his head toward David:-- "Well, how about it, Holly? Shall we leave him here till we find somebody that wants him?" "Why, y--yes, I suppose so," hesitated Simeon Holly, with uncordial accent. But his wife, hovering in the background, hastened forward at once. "Oh, yes; yes, indeed," she urged. "I'm sure he--he won't be a mite of trouble, Simeon." "Perhaps not," conceded Simeon Holly darkly. "Neither, it is safe to say, will he be anything else--worth anything." "That's it exactly," spoke up Streeter, from his seat in the wagon. "If I thought he'd be worth his salt, now, I'd take him myself; but--well, look at him this minute," he finished, with a disdainful shrug. David, on the lowest step, was very evidently not hearing a word of what was being said. With his sensitive face illumined, he was again poring over his father's letter. Something in the sudden quiet cut through his absorption as the noisy hum of voices had not been able to do, and he raised his head. His eyes were starlike. "I'm so glad father told me what to do," he breathed. "It'll be easier now." Receiving no answer from the somewhat awkwardly silent men, he went on, as if in explanation:-- "You know he's waiting for me--in the far country, I mean. He said he was. And when you've got somebody waiting, you don't mind staying behind yourself for a little while. Besides, I've GOT to stay to find out about the beautiful world, you know, so I can tell him, when _I_ go. That's the way I used to do back home on the mountain, you see,--tell him about things. Lots of days we'd go to walk; then, when we got home, he'd have me tell him, with my violin, what I'd seen. And now he says I'm to stay here." "Here!" It was the quick, stern voice of Simeon Holly. "Yes," nodded David earnestly; "to learn about the beautiful world. Don't you remember? And he said I was not to want to go back to my mountains; that I would not need to, anyway, because the mountains, and the sky, and the birds and squirrels and brooks are really in my violin, you know. And--" But with an angry frown Simeon Holly stalked away, motioning Larson to follow him; and with a merry glance and a low chuckle Higgins turned his horse about and drove from the yard. A moment later David found himself alone with Mrs. Holly, who was looking at him with wistful, though slightly fearful eyes. "Did you have all the breakfast you wanted?" she asked timidly, resorting, as she had resorted the night before, to the everyday things of her world in the hope that they might make this strange little boy seem less wild, and more nearly human. "Oh, yes, thank you." David's eyes had strayed back to the note in his hand. Suddenly he looked up, a new something in his eyes. "What is it to be a--a tramp?" he asked. "Those men said daddy and I were tramps." "A tramp? Oh--er--why, just a--a tramp," stammered Mrs. Holly. "But never mind that, David. I--I wouldn't think any more about it." "But what is a tramp?" persisted David, a smouldering fire beginning to show in his eyes. "Because if they meant THIEVES--" "No, no, David," interrupted Mrs. Holly soothingly. "They never meant thieves at all." "Then, what is it to be a tramp?" "Why, it's just to--to tramp," explained Mrs. Holly desperately;--"walk along the road from one town to another, and--and not live in a house at all." "Oh!" David's face cleared. "That's all right, then. I'd love to be a tramp, and so'd father. And we were tramps, sometimes, too, 'cause lots of times, in the summer, we didn't stay in the cabin hardly any--just lived out of doors all day and all night. Why, I never knew really what the pine trees were saying till I heard them at night, lying under them. You know what I mean. You've heard them, haven't you?" "At night? Pine trees?" stammered Mrs. Holly helplessly. "Yes. Oh, haven't you ever heard them at night?" cried the boy, in his voice a very genuine sympathy as for a grievous loss. "Why, then, if you've only heard them daytimes, you don't know a bit what pine trees really are. But I can tell you. Listen! This is what they say," finished the boy, whipping his violin from its case, and, after a swift testing of the strings, plunging into a weird, haunting little melody. In the doorway, Mrs. Holly, bewildered, yet bewitched, stood motionless, her eyes half-fearfully, half-longingly fixed on David's glorified face. She was still in the same position when Simeon Holly came around the corner of the house. "Well, Ellen," he began, with quiet scorn, after a moment's stern watching of the scene before him, "have you nothing better to do this morning than to listen to this minstrel fellow?" "Oh, Simeon! Why, yes, of course. I--I forgot--what I was doing," faltered Mrs. Holly, flushing guiltily from neck to brow as she turned and hurried into the house. David, on the porch steps, seemed to have heard nothing. He was still playing, his rapt gaze on the distant sky-line, when Simeon Holly turned upon him with disapproving eyes. "See here, boy, can't you do anything but fiddle?" he demanded. Then, as David still continued to play, he added sharply: "Did n't you hear me, boy?" The music stopped abruptly. David looked up with the slightly dazed air of one who has been summoned as from another world. "Did you speak to me, sir?" he asked. "I did--twice. I asked if you never did anything but play that fiddle." "You mean at home?" David's face expressed mild wonder without a trace of anger or resentment. "Why, yes, of course. I couldn't play ALL the time, you know. I had to eat and sleep and study my books; and every day we went to walk--like tramps, as you call them," he elucidated, his face brightening with obvious delight at being able, for once, to explain matters in terms that he felt sure would be understood. "Tramps, indeed!" muttered Simeon Holly, under his breath. Then, sharply: "Did you never perform any useful labor, boy? Were your days always spent in this ungodly idleness?" Again David frowned in mild wonder. "Oh, I wasn't idle, sir. Father said I must never be that. He said every instrument was needed in the great Orchestra of Life; and that I was one, you know, even if I was only a little boy. And he said if I kept still and didn't do my part, the harmony wouldn't be complete, and--" "Yes, yes, but never mind that now, boy," interrupted Simeon Holly, with harsh impatience. "I mean, did he never set you to work--real work?" "Work?" David meditated again. Then suddenly his face cleared. "Oh, yes, sir, he said I had a beautiful work to do, and that it was waiting for me out in the world. That's why we came down from the mountain, you know, to find it. Is that what you mean?" "Well, no," retorted the man, "I can't say that it was. I was referring to work--real work about the house. Did you never do any of that?" David gave a relieved laugh. "Oh, you mean getting the meals and tidying up the house," he replied. "Oh, yes, I did that with father, only"--his face grew wistful--"I'm afraid I didn't do it very well. My bacon was never as nice and crisp as father's, and the fire was always spoiling my potatoes." "Humph! bacon and potatoes, indeed!" scorned Simeon Holly. "Well, boy, we call that women's work down here. We set men to something else. Do you see that woodpile by the shed door?" "Yes, sir." "Very good. In the kitchen you'll find an empty woodbox. Do you think you could fill it with wood from that woodpile? You'll find plenty of short, small sticks already chopped." "Oh, yes, sir, I'd like to," nodded David, hastily but carefully tucking his violin into its case. A minute later he had attacked the woodpile with a will; and Simeon Holly, after a sharply watchful glance, had turned away. But the woodbox, after all, was not filled. At least, it was not filled immediately, for at the very beginning of gathering the second armful of wood, David picked up a stick that had long lain in one position on the ground, thereby disclosing sundry and diverse crawling things of many legs, which filled David's soul with delight, and drove away every thought of the empty woodbox. It was only a matter of some strength and more patience, and still more time, to overturn other and bigger sticks, to find other and bigger of the many-legged, many-jointed creatures. One, indeed, was so very wonderful that David, with a whoop of glee, summoned Mrs. Holly from the shed doorway to come and see. So urgent was his plea that Mrs. Holly came with hurried steps--but she went away with steps even more hurried; and David, sitting back on his woodpile seat, was left to wonder why she should scream and shudder and say "Ugh-h-h!" at such a beautiful, interesting thing as was this little creature who lived in her woodpile. Even then David did not think of that empty woodbox waiting behind the kitchen stove. This time it was a butterfly, a big black butterfly banded with gold; and it danced and fluttered all through the back yard and out into the garden, David delightedly following with soft-treading steps, and movements that would not startle. From the garden to the orchard, and from the orchard back to the garden danced the butterfly--and David; and in the garden, near the house, David came upon Mrs. Holly's pansy-bed. Even the butterfly was forgotten then, for down in the path by the pansy-bed David dropped to his knees in veritable worship. "Why, you're just like little people," he cried softly. "You've got faces; and some of you are happy, and some of you are sad. And you--you big spotted yellow one--you're laughing at me. Oh, I'm going to play you--all of you. You'll make such a pretty song, you're so different from each other!" And David leaped lightly to his feet and ran around to the side porch for his violin. Five minutes later, Simeon Holly, coming into the kitchen, heard the sound of a violin through the open window. At the same moment his eyes fell on the woodbox, empty save for a few small sticks at the bottom. With an angry frown he strode through the outer door and around the corner of the house to the garden. At once then he came upon David, sitting Turk-fashion in the middle of the path before the pansy-bed, his violin at his chin, and his whole face aglow. "Well, boy, is this the way you fill the woodbox?" demanded the man crisply. David shook his head. "Oh, no, sir, this isn't filling the woodbox," he laughed, softening his music, but not stopping it. "Did you think that was what I was playing? It's the flowers here that I'm playing--the little faces, like people, you know. See, this is that big yellow one over there that's laughing," he finished, letting the music under his fingers burst into a gay little melody. Simeon Holly raised an imperious hand; and at the gesture David stopped his melody in the middle of a run, his eyes flying wide open in plain wonderment. "You mean--I'm not playing--right?" he asked. "I'm not talking of your playing," retorted Simeon Holly severely. "I'm talking of that woodbox I asked you to fill." David's face cleared. "Oh, yes, sir. I'll go and do it," he nodded, getting cheerfully to his feet. "But I told you to do it before." David's eyes grew puzzled again. "I know, sir, and I started to," he answered, with the obvious patience of one who finds himself obliged to explain what should be a self-evident fact; "but I saw so many beautiful things, one after another, and when I found these funny little flower-people I just had to play them. Don't you see?" "No, I can't say that I do, when I'd already told you to fill the woodbox," rejoined the man, with uncompromising coldness. "You mean--even then that I ought to have filled the woodbox first?" "I certainly do." David's eyes flew wide open again. "But my song--I'd have lost it!" he exclaimed. "And father said always when a song came to me to play it at once. Songs are like the mists of the morning and the rainbows, you know, and they don't stay with you long. You just have to catch them quick, before they go. Now, don't you see?" But Simeon Holly, with a despairingly scornful gesture, had turned away; and David, after a moment's following him with wistful eyes, soberly walked toward the kitchen door. Two minutes later he was industriously working at his task of filling the woodbox. That for David the affair was not satisfactorily settled was evidenced by his thoughtful countenance and preoccupied air, however; nor were matters helped any by the question David put to Mr. Holly just before dinner. "Do you mean," he asked, "that because I didn't fill the woodbox right away, I was being a discord?" "You were what?" demanded the amazed Simeon Holly. "Being a discord--playing out of tune, you know," explained David, with patient earnestness. "Father said--" But again Simeon Holly had turned irritably away; and David was left with his perplexed questions still unanswered. CHAPTER VI NUISANCES, NECESSARY AND OTHERWISE For some time after dinner, that first day, David watched Mrs. Holly in silence while she cleared the table and began to wash the dishes. "Do you want me to--help?" he asked at last, a little wistfully. Mrs. Holly, with a dubious glance at the boy's brown little hands, shook her head. "No, I don't. No, thank you," she amended her answer. For another sixty seconds David was silent; then, still more wistfully, he asked:-- "Are all these things you've been doing all day 'useful labor'?" Mrs. Holly lifted dripping hands from the dishpan and held them suspended for an amazed instant. "Are they--Why, of course they are! What a silly question! What put that idea into your head, child?" "Mr. Holly; and you see it's so different from what father used to call them." "Different?" "Yes. He said they were a necessary nuisance,--dishes, and getting meals, and clearing up,--and he didn't do half as many of them as you do, either." "Nuisance, indeed!" Mrs. Holly resumed her dishwashing with some asperity. "Well, I should think that might have been just about like him." "Yes, it was. He was always that way," nodded David pleasantly. Then, after a moment, he queried: "But aren't you going to walk at all to-day?" "To walk? Where?" "Why, through the woods and fields--anywhere." "Walking in the woods, NOW--JUST WALKING? Land's sake, boy, I've got something else to do!" "Oh, that's too bad, isn't it?" David's face expressed sympathetic regret. "And it's such a nice day! Maybe it'll rain by tomorrow." "Maybe it will," retorted Mrs. Holly, with slightly uplifted eyebrows and an expressive glance. "But whether it does or does n't won't make any difference in my going to walk, I guess." "Oh, won't it?" beamed David, his face changing. "I'm so glad! I don't mind the rain, either. Father and I used to go in the rain lots of times, only, of course, we couldn't take our violins then, so we used to like the pleasant days better. But there are some things you find on rainy days that you couldn't find any other time, aren't there? The dance of the drops on the leaves, and the rush of the rain when the wind gets behind it. Don't you love to feel it, out in the open spaces, where the wind just gets a good chance to push?" Mrs. Holly stared. Then she shivered and threw up her hands with a gesture of hopeless abandonment. "Land's sake, boy!" she ejaculated feebly, as she turned back to her work. From dishes to sweeping, and from sweeping to dusting, hurried Mrs. Holly, going at last into the somber parlor, always carefully guarded from sun and air. Watching her, mutely, David trailed behind, his eyes staring a little as they fell upon the multitude of objects that parlor contained: the haircloth chairs, the long sofa, the marble-topped table, the curtains, cushions, spreads, and "throws," the innumerable mats and tidies, the hair-wreath, the wax flowers under their glass dome, the dried grasses, the marvelous bouquets of scarlet, green, and purple everlastings, the stones and shells and many-sized, many-shaped vases arranged as if in line of battle along the corner shelves. "Y--yes, you may come in," called Mrs. Holly, glancing back at the hesitating boy in the doorway. "But you mustn't touch anything. I'm going to dust." "But I haven't seen this room before," ruminated David. "Well, no," deigned Mrs. Holly, with just a touch of superiority. "We don't use this room common, little boy, nor the bedroom there, either. This is the company room, for ministers and funerals, and--" She stopped hastily, with a quick look at David; but the boy did not seem to have heard. "And doesn't anybody live here in this house, but just you and Mr. Holly, and Mr. Perry Larson?" he asked, still looking wonderingly about him. "No, not--now." Mrs. Holly drew in her breath with a little catch, and glanced at the framed portrait of a little boy on the wall. "But you've got such a lot of rooms and--and things," remarked David. "Why, daddy and I only had two rooms, and not hardly any THINGS. It was so--different, you know, in my home." "I should say it might have been!" Mrs. Holly began to dust hurriedly, but carefully. Her voice still carried its hint of superiority. "Oh, yes," smiled David. "But you say you don't use this room much, so that helps." "Helps!" In her stupefaction Mrs. Holly stopped her work and stared. "Why, yes. I mean, you've got so many other rooms you can live in those. You don't HAVE to live in here." "'Have to live in here'!" ejaculated the woman, still too uncomprehending to be anything but amazed. "Yes. But do you have to KEEP all these things, and clean them and clean them, like this, every day? Couldn't you give them to somebody, or throw them away?" "Throw--these--things--away!" With a wild sweep of her arms, the horrified woman seemed to be trying to encompass in a protective embrace each last endangered treasure of mat and tidy. "Boy, are you crazy? These things are--are valuable. They cost money, and time and--and labor. Don't you know beautiful things when you see them?" "Oh, yes, I love BEAUTIFUL things," smiled David, with unconsciously rude emphasis. "And up on the mountain I had them always. There was the sunrise, and the sunset, and the moon and the stars, and my Silver Lake, and the cloud-boats that sailed--" But Mrs. Holly, with a vexed gesture, stopped him. "Never mind, little boy. I might have known--brought up as you have been. Of course you could not appreciate such things as these. Throw them away, indeed!" And she fell to work again; but this time her fingers carried a something in their touch that was almost like the caress a mother might bestow upon an aggrieved child. David, vaguely disturbed and uncomfortable, watched her with troubled eyes; then, apologetically, he explained:-- "It was only that I thought if you didn't have to clean so many of these things, you could maybe go to walk more--to-day, and other days, you know. You said--you didn't have time," he reminded her. But Mrs. Holly only shook her head and sighed:-- "Well, well, never mind, little boy. I dare say you meant all right. You couldn't understand, of course." And David, after another moment's wistful eyeing of the caressing fingers, turned about and wandered out onto the side porch. A minute later, having seated himself on the porch steps, he had taken from his pocket two small pieces of folded paper. And then, through tear-dimmed eyes, he read once more his father's letter. "He said I mustn't grieve, for that would grieve him," murmured the boy, after a time, his eyes on the far-away hills. "And he said if I'd play, my mountains would come to me here, and I'd really be at home up there. He said in my violin were all those things I'm wanting--so bad!" With a little choking breath, David tucked the note back into his pocket and reached for his violin. Some time later, Mrs. Holly, dusting the chairs in the parlor, stopped her work, tiptoed to the door, and listened breathlessly. When she turned back, still later, to her work, her eyes were wet. "I wonder why, when he plays, I always get to thinking of--John," she sighed to herself, as she picked up her dusting-cloth. After supper that night, Simeon Holly and his wife again sat on the kitchen porch, resting from the labor of the day. Simeon's eyes were closed. His wife's were on the dim outlines of the shed, the barn, the road, or a passing horse and wagon. David, sitting on the steps, was watching the moon climb higher and higher above the tree-tops. After a time he slipped into the house and came out with his violin. At the first long-drawn note of sweetness, Simeon Holly opened his eyes and sat up, stern-lipped. But his wife laid a timid hand on his arm. "Don't say anything, please," she entreated softly. "Let him play, just for to-night. He's lonesome--poor little fellow." And Simeon Holly, with a frowning shrug of his shoulders, sat back in his chair. Later, it was Mrs. Holly herself who stopped the music by saying: "Come, David, it's bedtime for little boys. I'll go upstairs with you." And she led the way into the house and lighted the candle for him. Upstairs, in the little room over the kitchen, David found himself once more alone. As before, the little yellow-white nightshirt lay over the chair-back; and as before, Mrs. Holly had brushed away a tear as she had placed it there. As before, too, the big four-posted bed loomed tall and formidable in the corner. But this time the coverlet and sheet were turned back invitingly--Mrs. Holly had been much disturbed to find that David had slept on the floor the night before. Once more, with his back carefully turned toward the impaled bugs and moths on the wall, David undressed himself. Then, before blowing out the candle, he went to the window kneeled down, and looked up at the moon through the trees. David was sorely puzzled. He was beginning to wonder just what was to become of himself. His father had said that out in the world there was a beautiful work for him to do; but what was it? How was he to find it? Or how was he to do it if he did find it? And another thing; where was he to live? Could he stay where he was? It was not home, to be sure; but there was the little room over the kitchen where he might sleep, and there was the kind woman who smiled at him sometimes with the sad, far-away look in her eyes that somehow hurt. He would not like, now, to leave her--with daddy gone. There were the gold-pieces, too; and concerning these David was equally puzzled. What should he do with them? He did not need them--the kind woman was giving him plenty of food, so that he did not have to go to the store and buy; and there was nothing else, apparently, that he could use them for. They were heavy, and disagreeable to carry; yet he did not like to throw them away, nor to let anybody know that he had them: he had been called a thief just for one little piece, and what would they say if they knew he had all those others? David remembered now, suddenly, that his father had said to hide them--to hide them until he needed them. David was relieved at once. Why had he not thought of it before? He knew just the place, too,--the little cupboard behind the chimney there in this very room! And with a satisfied sigh, David got to his feet, gathered all the little yellow disks from his pockets, and tucked them well out of sight behind the piles of books on the cupboard shelves. There, too, he hid the watch; but the little miniature of the angel-mother he slipped back into one of his pockets. David's second morning at the farmhouse was not unlike the first, except that this time, when Simeon Holly asked him to fill the woodbox, David resolutely ignored every enticing bug and butterfly, and kept rigorously to the task before him until it was done. He was in the kitchen when, just before dinner, Perry Larson came into the room with a worried frown on his face. "Mis' Holly, would ye mind just steppin' to the side door? There's a woman an' a little boy there, an' somethin' ails 'em. She can't talk English, an' I'm blest if I can make head nor tail out of the lingo she DOES talk. But maybe you can." "Why, Perry, I don't know--" began Mrs. Holly. But she turned at once toward the door. On the porch steps stood a very pretty, but frightened-looking young woman with a boy perhaps ten years old at her side. Upon catching sight of Mrs. Holly she burst into a torrent of unintelligible words, supplemented by numerous and vehement gestures. Mrs. Holly shrank back, and cast appealing eyes toward her husband who at that moment had come across the yard from the barn. "Simeon, can you tell what she wants?" At sight of the newcomer on the scene, the strange woman began again, with even more volubility. "No," said Simeon Holly, after a moment's scowling scrutiny of the gesticulating woman. "She's talking French, I think. And she wants--something." "Gosh! I should say she did," muttered Perry Larson. "An' whatever 't is, she wants it powerful bad." "Are you hungry?" questioned Mrs. Holly timidly. "Can't you speak English at all?" demanded Simeon Holly. The woman looked from one to the other with the piteous, pleading eyes of the stranger in the strange land who cannot understand or make others understand. She had turned away with a despairing shake of her head, when suddenly she gave a wild cry of joy and wheeled about, her whole face alight. The Hollys and Perry Larson saw then that David had come out onto the porch and was speaking to the woman--and his words were just as unintelligible as the woman's had been. Mrs. Holly and Perry Larson stared. Simeon Holly interrupted David with a sharp:-- "Do you, then, understand this woman, boy?" "Why, yes! Didn't you? She's lost her way, and--" But the woman had hurried forward and was pouring her story into David's ears. At its conclusion David turned to find the look of stupefaction still on the others' faces. "Well, what does she want?" asked Simeon Holly crisply. "She wants to find the way to Francois Lavelle's house. He's her husband's brother. She came in on the train this morning. Her husband stopped off a minute somewhere, she says, and got left behind. He could talk English, but she can't. She's only been in this country a week. She came from France." "Gorry! Won't ye listen ter that, now?" cried Perry Larson admiringly. "Reads her just like a book, don't he? There's a French family over in West Hinsdale--two of 'em, I think. What'll ye bet 't ain't one o' them?" "Very likely," acceded Simeon Holly, his eyes bent disapprovingly on David's face. It was plain to be seen that Simeon Holly's attention was occupied by David, not the woman. "An', say, Mr. Holly," resumed Perry Larson, a little excitedly, "you know I was goin' over ter West Hinsdale in a day or two ter see Harlow about them steers. Why can't I go this afternoon an' tote her an' the kid along?" "Very well," nodded Simeon Holly curtly, his eyes still on David's face. Perry Larson turned to the woman, and by a flourish of his arms and a jumble of broken English attempted to make her understand that he was to take her where she undoubtedly wished to go. The woman still looked uncomprehending, however, and David promptly came to the rescue, saying a few rapid words that quickly brought a flood of delighted understanding to the woman's face. "Can't you ask her if she's hungry?" ventured Mrs. Holly, then. "She says no, thank you," translated David, with a smile, when he had received his answer. "But the boy says he is, if you please." "Then, tell them to come into the kitchen," directed Mrs. Holly, hurrying into the house. "So you're French, are you?" said Simeon Holly to David. "French? Oh, no, sir," smiled David, proudly. "I'm an American. Father said I was. He said I was born in this country." "But how comes it you can speak French like that?" "Why, I learned it." Then, divining that his words were still unconvincing, he added: "Same as I learned German and other things with father, out of books, you know. Didn't you learn French when you were a little boy?" "Humph!" vouchsafed Simeon Holly, stalking away without answering the question. Immediately after dinner Perry Larson drove away with the woman and the little boy. The woman's face was wreathed with smiles, and her last adoring glance was for David, waving his hand to her from the porch steps. In the afternoon David took his violin and went off toward the hill behind the house for a walk. He had asked Mrs. Holly to accompany him, but she had refused, though she was not sweeping or dusting at the time. She was doing nothing more important, apparently, than making holes in a piece of white cloth, and sewing them up again with a needle and thread. David had then asked Mr. Holly to go; but his refusal was even more strangely impatient than his wife's had been. "And why, pray, should I go for a useless walk now--or any time, for that matter?" he demanded sharply. David had shrunk back unconsciously, though he had still smiled. "Oh, but it wouldn't be a useless walk, sir. Father said nothing was useless that helped to keep us in tune, you know." "In tune!" "I mean, you looked as father used to look sometimes, when he felt out of tune. And he always said there was nothing like a walk to put him back again. I--I was feeling a little out of tune myself to-day, and I thought, by the way you looked, that you were, too. So I asked you to go to walk." "Humph! Well, I--That will do, boy. No impertinence, you understand!" And he had turned away in very obvious anger. David, with a puzzled sorrow in his heart had started alone then, on his walk. CHAPTER VII "YOU'RE WANTED--YOU'RE WANTED!" It was Saturday night, and the end of David's third day at the farmhouse. Upstairs, in the hot little room over the kitchen, the boy knelt at the window and tried to find a breath of cool air from the hills. Downstairs on the porch Simeon Holly and his wife discussed the events of the past few days, and talked of what should be done with David. "But what shall we do with him?" moaned Mrs. Holly at last, breaking a long silence that had fallen between them. "What can we do with him? Doesn't anybody want him?" "No, of course, nobody wants him," retorted her husband relentlessly. And at the words a small figure in a yellow-white nightshirt stopped short. David, violin in hand, had fled from the little hot room, and stood now just inside the kitchen door. "Who can want a child that has been brought up in that heathenish fashion?" continued Simeon Holly. "According to his own story, even his father did nothing but play the fiddle and tramp through the woods day in and day out, with an occasional trip to the mountain village to get food and clothing when they had absolutely nothing to eat and wear. Of course nobody wants him!" David, at the kitchen door, caught his breath chokingly. Then he sped across the floor to the back hall, and on through the long sheds to the hayloft in the barn--the place where his father seemed always nearest. David was frightened and heartsick. NOBODY WANTED HIM. He had heard it with his own ears, so there was no mistake. What now about all those long days and nights ahead before he might go, violin in hand, to meet his father in that far-away country? How was he to live those days and nights if nobody wanted him? How was his violin to speak in a voice that was true and pure and full, and tell of the beautiful world, as his father had said that it must do? David quite cried aloud at the thought. Then he thought of something else that his father had said: "Remember this, my boy,--in your violin lie all the things you long for. You have only to play, and the broad skies of your mountain home will be over you, and the dear friends and comrades of your mountain forests will be all about you." With a quick cry David raised his violin and drew the bow across the strings. Back on the porch at that moment Mrs. Holly was saying:-- "Of course there's the orphan asylum, or maybe the poorhouse--if they'd take him; but--Simeon," she broke off sharply, "where's that child playing now?" Simeon listened with intent ears. "In the barn, I should say." "But he'd gone to bed!" "And he'll go to bed again," asserted Simeon Holly grimly, as he rose to his feet and stalked across the moonlit yard to the barn. As before, Mrs. Holly followed him, and as before, both involuntarily paused just inside the barn door to listen. No runs and trills and rollicking bits of melody floated down the stairway to-night. The notes were long-drawn, and plaintively sweet; and they rose and swelled and died almost into silence while the man and the woman by the door stood listening. They were back in the long ago--Simeon Holly and his wife--back with a boy of their own who had made those same rafters ring with shouts of laughter, and who, also, had played the violin--though not like this; and the same thought had come to each: "What if, after all, it were John playing all alone in the moonlight!" It had not been the violin, in the end, that had driven John Holly from home. It had been the possibilities in a piece of crayon. All through childhood the boy had drawn his beloved "pictures" on every inviting space that offered,--whether it were the "best-room" wall-paper, or the fly leaf of the big plush album,--and at eighteen he had announced his determination to be an artist. For a year after that Simeon Holly fought with all the strength of a stubborn will, banished chalk and crayon from the house, and set the boy to homely tasks that left no time for anything but food and sleep--then John ran away. That was fifteen years ago, and they had not seen him since; though two unanswered letters in Simeon Holly's desk testified that perhaps this, at least, was not the boy's fault. It was not of the grown-up John, the willful boy and runaway son, however, that Simeon Holly and his wife were thinking, as they stood just inside the barn door; it was of Baby John, the little curly-headed fellow that had played at their knees, frolicked in this very barn, and nestled in their arms when the day was done. Mrs. Holly spoke first--and it was not as she had spoken on the porch. "Simeon," she began tremulously, "that dear child must go to bed!" And she hurried across the floor and up the stairs, followed by her husband. "Come, David," she said, as she reached the top; "it's time little boys were asleep! Come!" Her voice was low, and not quite steady. To David her voice sounded as her eyes looked when there was in them the far-away something that hurt. Very slowly he came forward into the moonlight, his gaze searching the woman's face long and earnestly. "And do you--want me?" he faltered. The woman drew in her breath with a little sob. Before her stood the slender figure in the yellow-white gown--John's gown. Into her eyes looked those other eyes, dark and wistful,--like John's eyes. And her arms ached with emptiness. "Yes, yes, for my very own--and for always!" she cried with sudden passion, clasping the little form close. "For always!" And David sighed his content. Simeon Holly's lips parted, but they closed again with no words said. The man turned then, with a curiously baffled look, and stalked down the stairs. On the porch long minutes later, when once more David had gone to bed, Simeon Holly said coldly to his wife:-- "I suppose you realize, Ellen, just what you've pledged yourself to, by that absurd outburst of yours in the barn to-night--and all because that ungodly music and the moonshine had gone to your head!" "But I want the boy, Simeon. He--he makes me think of--John." Harsh lines came to the man's mouth, but there was a perceptible shake in his voice as he answered:-- "We're not talking of John, Ellen. We're talking of this irresponsible, hardly sane boy upstairs. He can work, I suppose, if he's taught, and in that way he won't perhaps be a dead loss. Still, he's another mouth to feed, and that counts now. There's the note, you know,--it's due in August." "But you say there's money--almost enough for it--in the bank." Mrs. Holly's voice was anxiously apologetic. "Yes, I know" vouchsafed the man. "But almost enough is not quite enough." "But there's time--more than two months. It isn't due till the last of August, Simeon." "I know, I know. Meanwhile, there's the boy. What are you going to do with him?" "Why, can't you use him--on the farm--a little?" "Perhaps. I doubt it, though," gloomed the man. "One can't hoe corn nor pull weeds with a fiddle-bow--and that's all he seems to know how to handle." "But he can learn--and he does play beautifully," murmured the woman; whenever before had Ellen Holly ventured to use words of argument with her husband, and in extenuation, too, of an act of her own! There was no reply except a muttered "Humph!" under the breath. Then Simeon Holly rose and stalked into the house. The next day was Sunday, and Sunday at the farmhouse was a thing of stern repression and solemn silence. In Simeon Holly's veins ran the blood of the Puritans, and he was more than strict as to what he considered right and wrong. When half-trained for the ministry, ill-health had forced him to resort to a less confining life, though never had it taken from him the uncompromising rigor of his views. It was a distinct shock to him, therefore, on this Sunday morning to be awakened by a peal of music such as the little house had never known before. All the while that he was thrusting his indignant self into his clothing, the runs and turns and crashing chords whirled about him until it seemed that a whole orchestra must be imprisoned in the little room over the kitchen, so skillful was the boy's double stopping. Simeon Holly was white with anger when he finally hurried down the hall and threw open David's bedroom door. "Boy, what do you mean by this?" he demanded. David laughed gleefully. "And didn't you know?" he asked. "Why, I thought my music would tell you. I was so happy, so glad! The birds in the trees woke me up singing, 'You're wanted--you're wanted;' and the sun came over the hill there and said, 'You're wanted--you're wanted;' and the little tree-branch tapped on my window pane and said 'You're wanted--you're wanted!' And I just had to take up my violin and tell you about it!" "But it's Sunday--the Lord's Day," remonstrated the man sternly. David stood motionless, his eyes questioning. "Are you quite a heathen, then?" catechised the man sharply. "Have they never told you anything about God, boy?" "Oh, 'God'?--of course," smiled David, in open relief. "God wraps up the buds in their little brown blankets, and covers the roots with--" "I am not talking about brown blankets nor roots," interrupted the man severely. "This is God's day, and as such should be kept holy." "'Holy'?" "Yes. You should not fiddle nor laugh nor sing." "But those are good things, and beautiful things," defended David, his eyes wide and puzzled. "In their place, perhaps," conceded the man, stiffly, "but not on God's day." "You mean--He wouldn't like them?" "Yes." "Oh!"--and David's face cleared. "That's all right, then. Your God isn't the same one, sir, for mine loves all beautiful things every day in the year." There was a moment's silence. For the first time in his life Simeon Holly found himself without words. "We won't talk of this any more, David," he said at last; "but we'll put it another way--I don't wish you to play your fiddle on Sunday. Now, put it up till to-morrow." And he turned and went down the hall. Breakfast was a very quiet meal that morning. Meals were never things of hilarious joy at the Holly farmhouse, as David had already found out; but he had not seen one before quite so somber as this. It was followed immediately by a half-hour of Scripture-reading and prayer, with Mrs. Holly and Perry Larson sitting very stiff and solemn in their chairs, while Mr. Holly read. David tried to sit very stiff and solemn in his chair, also; but the roses at the window were nodding their heads and beckoning; and the birds in the bushes beyond were sending to him coaxing little chirps of "Come out, come out!" And how could one expect to sit stiff and solemn in the face of all that, particularly when one's fingers were tingling to take up the interrupted song of the morning and tell the whole world how beautiful it was to be wanted! Yet David sat very still,--or as still as he could sit,--and only the tapping of his foot, and the roving of his wistful eyes told that his mind was not with Farmer Holly and the Children of Israel in their wanderings in the wilderness. After the devotions came an hour of subdued haste and confusion while the family prepared for church. David had never been to church. He asked Perry Larson what it was like; but Perry only shrugged his shoulders and said, to nobody, apparently:-- "Sugar! Won't ye hear that, now?"--which to David was certainly no answer at all. That one must be spick and span to go to church, David soon found out--never before had he been so scrubbed and brushed and combed. There was, too, brought out for him to wear a little clean white blouse and a red tie, over which Mrs. Holly cried a little as she had over the nightshirt that first evening. The church was in the village only a quarter of a mile away; and in due time David, open-eyed and interested, was following Mr. and Mrs. Holly down its long center aisle. The Hollys were early as usual, and service had not begun. Even the organist had not taken his seat beneath the great pipes of blue and gold that towered to the ceiling. It was the pride of the town--that organ. It had been given by a great man (out in the world) whose birthplace the town was. More than that, a yearly donation from this same great man paid for the skilled organist who came every Sunday from the city to play it. To-day, as the organist took his seat, he noticed a new face in the Holly pew, and he almost gave a friendly smile as he met the wondering gaze of the small boy there; then he lost himself, as usual, in the music before him. Down in the Holly pew the small boy held his breath. A score of violins were singing in his ears; and a score of other instruments that he could not name, crashed over his head, and brought him to his feet in ecstasy. Before a detaining hand could stop him, he was out in the aisle, his eyes on the blue-and-gold pipes from which seemed to come those wondrous sounds. Then his gaze fell on the man and on the banks of keys; and with soft steps he crept along the aisle and up the stairs to the organ-loft. For long minutes he stood motionless, listening; then the music died into silence and the minister rose for the invocation. It was a boy's voice, and not a man's, however, that broke the pause. "Oh, sir, please," it said, "would you--could you teach ME to do that?" The organist choked over a cough, and the soprano reached out and drew David to her side, whispering something in his ear. The minister, after a dazed silence, bowed his head; while down in the Holly pew an angry man and a sorely mortified woman vowed that, before David came to church again, he should have learned some things. CHAPTER VIII THE PUZZLING "DOS" AND "DON'TS" With the coming of Monday arrived a new life for David--a curious life full of "don'ts" and "dos." David wondered sometimes why all the pleasant things were "don'ts" and all the unpleasant ones "dos." Corn to be hoed, weeds to be pulled, woodboxes to be filled; with all these it was "do this, do this, do this." But when it came to lying under the apple trees, exploring the brook that ran by the field, or even watching the bugs and worms that one found in the earth--all these were "don'ts." As to Farmer Holly--Farmer Holly himself awoke to some new experiences that Monday morning. One of them was the difficulty in successfully combating the cheerfully expressed opinion that weeds were so pretty growing that it was a pity to pull them up and let them all wither and die. Another was the equally great difficulty of keeping a small boy at useful labor of any sort in the face of the attractions displayed by a passing cloud, a blossoming shrub, or a bird singing on a tree-branch. In spite of all this, however, David so evidently did his best to carry out the "dos" and avoid the "don'ts," that at four o'clock that first Monday he won from the stern but would-be-just Farmer Holly his freedom for the rest of the day; and very gayly he set off for a walk. He went without his violin, as there was the smell of rain in the air; but his face and his step and the very swing of his arms were singing (to David) the joyous song of the morning before. Even yet, in spite of the vicissitudes of the day's work, the whole world, to David's homesick, lonely little heart, was still caroling that blessed "You're wanted, you're wanted, you're wanted!" And then he saw the crow. David knew crows. In his home on the mountain he had had several of them for friends. He had learned to know and answer their calls. He had learned to admire their wisdom and to respect their moods and tempers. He loved to watch them. Especially he loved to see the great birds cut through the air with a wide sweep of wings, so alive, so gloriously free! But this crow-- This crow was not cutting through the air with a wide sweep of wing. It was in the middle of a cornfield, and it was rising and falling and flopping about in a most extraordinary fashion. Very soon David, running toward it, saw why. By a long leather strip it was fastened securely to a stake in the ground. "Oh, oh, oh!" exclaimed David, in sympathetic consternation. "Here, you just wait a minute. I'll fix it." With confident celerity David whipped out his jackknife to cut the thong; but he found then that to "fix it" and to say he would "fix it" were two different matters. The crow did not seem to recognize in David a friend. He saw in him, apparently, but another of the stone-throwing, gun-shooting, torturing humans who were responsible for his present hateful captivity. With beak and claw and wing, therefore, he fought this new evil that had come presumedly to torment; and not until David had hit upon the expedient of taking off his blouse, and throwing it over the angry bird, could the boy get near enough to accomplish his purpose. Even then David had to leave upon the slender leg a twist of leather. A moment later, with a whir of wings and a frightened squawk that quickly turned into a surprised caw of triumphant rejoicing, the crow soared into the air and made straight for a distant tree-top. David, after a minute's glad surveying of his work, donned his blouse again and resumed his walk. It was almost six o'clock when David got back to the Holly farmhouse. In the barn doorway sat Perry Larson. "Well, sonny," the man greeted him cheerily, "did ye get yer weedin' done?" "Y--yes," hesitated David. "I got it done; but I didn't like it." "'T is kinder hot work." "Oh, I didn't mind that part," returned David. "What I didn't like was pulling up all those pretty little plants and letting them die." "Weeds--'pretty little plants'!" ejaculated the man. "Well, I'll be jiggered!" "But they WERE pretty," defended David, reading aright the scorn in Perry Larson's voice. "The very prettiest and biggest there were, always. Mr. Holly showed me, you know,--and I had to pull them up." "Well, I'll be jiggered!" muttered Perry Larson again. "But I've been to walk since. I feel better now." "Oh, ye do!" "Oh, yes. I had a splendid walk. I went 'way up in the woods on the hill there. I was singing all the time--inside, you know. I was so glad Mrs. Holly--wanted me. You know what it is, when you sing inside." Perry Larson scratched his head. "Well, no, sonny, I can't really say I do," he retorted. "I ain't much on singin'." "Oh, but I don't mean aloud. I mean inside. When you're happy, you know." "When I'm--oh!" The man stopped and stared, his mouth falling open. Suddenly his face changed, and he grinned appreciatively. "Well, if you ain't the beat 'em, boy! 'T is kinder like singin'--the way ye feel inside, when yer 'specially happy, ain't it? But I never thought of it before." "Oh, yes. Why, that's where I get my songs--inside of me, you know--that I play on my violin. And I made a crow sing, too. Only HE sang outside." "SING--A CROW!" scoffed the man. "Shucks! It'll take more 'n you ter make me think a crow can sing, my lad." "But they do, when they're happy," maintained the boy. "Anyhow, it doesn't sound the same as it does when they're cross, or plagued over something. You ought to have heard this one to-day. He sang. He was so glad to get away. I let him loose, you see." "You mean, you CAUGHT a crow up there in them woods?" The man's voice was skeptical. "Oh, no, I didn't catch it. But somebody had, and tied him up. And he was so unhappy!" "A crow tied up in the woods!" "Oh, I didn't find THAT in the woods. It was before I went up the hill at all." "A crow tied up--Look a-here, boy, what are you talkin' about? Where was that crow?" Perry Larson's whole self had become suddenly alert. "In the field 'Way over there. And somebody--" "The cornfield! Jingo! Boy, you don't mean you touched THAT crow?" "Well, he wouldn't let me TOUCH him," half-apologized David. "He was so afraid, you see. Why, I had to put my blouse over his head before he'd let me cut him loose at all." "Cut him loose!" Perry Larson sprang to his feet. "You did n't--you DIDn't let that crow go!" David shrank back. "Why, yes; he WANTED to go. He--" But the man before him had fallen back despairingly to his old position. "Well, sir, you've done it now. What the boss'll say, I don't know; but I know what I'd like ter say to ye. I was a whole week, off an' on, gettin' hold of that crow, an' I wouldn't have got him at all if I hadn't hid half the night an' all the mornin' in that clump o' bushes, watchin' a chance ter wing him, jest enough an' not too much. An' even then the job wa'n't done. Let me tell yer, 't wa'n't no small thing ter get him hitched. I'm wearin' the marks of the rascal's beak yet. An' now you've gone an' let him go--just like that," he finished, snapping his fingers angrily. In David's face there was no contrition. There was only incredulous horror. "You mean, YOU tied him there, on purpose?" "Sure I did!" "But he didn't like it. Couldn't you see he didn't like it?" cried David. "Like it! What if he didn't? I didn't like ter have my corn pulled up, either. See here, sonny, you no need ter look at me in that tone o' voice. I didn't hurt the varmint none ter speak of--ye see he could fly, didn't ye?--an' he wa'n't starvin'. I saw to it that he had enough ter eat an' a dish o' water handy. An' if he didn't flop an' pull an' try ter get away he needn't 'a' hurt hisself never. I ain't ter blame for what pullin' he done." "But wouldn't you pull if you had two big wings that could carry you to the top of that big tree there, and away up, up in the sky, where you could talk to the stars?--wouldn't you pull if somebody a hundred times bigger'n you came along and tied your leg to that post there?" The man, Perry, flushed an angry red. "See here, sonny, I wa'n't askin' you ter do no preachin'. What I did ain't no more'n any man 'round here does--if he's smart enough ter catch one. Rigged-up broomsticks ain't in it with a live bird when it comes ter drivin' away them pesky, thievin' crows. There ain't a farmer 'round here that hain't been green with envy, ever since I caught the critter. An' now ter have you come along an' with one flip o'yer knife spile it all, I--Well, it jest makes me mad, clean through! That's all." "You mean, you tied him there to frighten away the other crows?" "Sure! There ain't nothin' like it." "Oh, I'm so sorry!" "Well, you'd better be. But that won't bring back my crow!" David's face brightened. "No, that's so, isn't it? I'm glad of that. I was thinking of the crows, you see. I'm so sorry for them! Only think how we'd hate to be tied like that--" But Perry Larson, with a stare and an indignant snort, had got to his feet, and was rapidly walking toward the house. Very plainly, that evening, David was in disgrace, and it took all of Mrs. Holly's tact and patience, and some private pleading, to keep a general explosion from wrecking all chances of his staying longer at the farmhouse. Even as it was, David was sorrowfully aware that he was proving to be a great disappointment so soon, and his violin playing that evening carried a moaning plaintiveness that would have been very significant to one who knew David well. Very faithfully, the next day, the boy tried to carry out all the "dos," and though he did not always succeed, yet his efforts were so obvious, that even the indignant owner of the liberated crow was somewhat mollified; and again Simeon Holly released David from work at four o'clock. Alas, for David's peace of mind, however; for on his walk to-day, though he found no captive crow to demand his sympathy, he found something else quite as heartrending, and as incomprehensible. It was on the edge of the woods that he came upon two boys, each carrying a rifle, a dead squirrel, and a dead rabbit. The threatened rain of the day before had not materialized, and David had his violin. He had been playing softly when he came upon the boys where the path entered the woods. "Oh!" At sight of the boys and their burden David gave an involuntary cry, and stopped playing. The boys, scarcely less surprised at sight of David and his violin, paused and stared frankly. "It's the tramp kid with his fiddle," whispered one to the other huskily. David, his grieved eyes on the motionless little bodies in the boys' hands, shuddered. "Are they--dead, too?" The bigger boy nodded self-importantly. "Sure. We just shot 'em--the squirrels. Ben here trapped the rabbits." He paused, manifestly waiting for the proper awed admiration to come into David's face. But in David's startled eyes there was no awed admiration, there was only disbelieving horror. "You mean, you SENT them to the far country?" "We--what?" "Sent them. Made them go yourselves--to the far country?" The younger boy still stared. The older one grinned disagreeably. "Sure," he answered with laconic indifference. "We sent 'em to the far country, all right." "But--how did you know they WANTED to go?" "Wanted--Eh?" exploded the big boy. Then he grinned again, still more disagreeably. "Well, you see, my dear, we didn't ask 'em," he gibed. Real distress came into David's face. "Then you don't know at all. And maybe they DIDn't want to go. And if they didn't, how COULD they go singing, as father said? Father wasn't sent. He WENT. And he went singing. He said he did. But these--How would YOU like to have somebody come along and send YOU to the far country, without even knowing if you wanted to go?" There was no answer. The boys, with a growing fear in their eyes, as at sight of something inexplicable and uncanny, were sidling away; and in a moment they were hurrying down the hill, not, however, without a backward glance or two, of something very like terror. David, left alone, went on his way with troubled eyes and a thoughtful frown. David often wore, during those first few days at the Holly farmhouse, a thoughtful face and a troubled frown. There were so many, many things that were different from his mountain home. Over and over, as those first long days passed, he read his letter until he knew it by heart--and he had need to. Was he not already surrounded by things and people that were strange to him? And they were so very strange--these people! There were the boys and men who rose at dawn--yet never paused to watch the sun flood the world with light; who stayed in the fields all day--yet never raised their eyes to the big fleecy clouds overhead; who knew birds only as thieves after fruit and grain, and squirrels and rabbits only as creatures to be trapped or shot. The women--they were even more incomprehensible. They spent the long hours behind screened doors and windows, washing the same dishes and sweeping the same floors day after day. They, too, never raised their eyes to the blue sky outside, nor even to the crimson roses that peeped in at the window. They seemed rather to be looking always for dirt, yet not pleased when they found it--especially if it had been tracked in on the heel of a small boy's shoe! More extraordinary than all this to David, however, was the fact that these people regarded HIM, not themselves, as being strange. As if it were not the most natural thing in the world to live with one's father in one's home on the mountain-top, and spend one's days trailing through the forest paths, or lying with a book beside some babbling little stream! As if it were not equally natural to take one's violin with one at times, and learn to catch upon the quivering strings the whisper of the winds through the trees! Even in winter, when the clouds themselves came down from the sky and covered the earth with their soft whiteness,--even then the forest was beautiful; and the song of the brook under its icy coat carried a charm and mystery that were quite wanting in the chattering freedom of summer. Surely there was nothing strange in all this, and yet these people seemed to think there was! CHAPTER IX JOE Day by day, however, as time passed, David diligently tried to perform the "dos" and avoid the "don'ts"; and day by day he came to realize how important weeds and woodboxes were, if he were to conform to what was evidently Farmer Holly's idea of "playing in, tune" in this strange new Orchestra of Life in which he found himself. But, try as he would, there was yet an unreality about it all, a persistent feeling of uselessness and waste, that would not be set aside. So that, after all, the only part of this strange new life of his that seemed real to him was the time that came after four o'clock each day, when he was released from work. And how full he filled those hours! There was so much to see, so much to do. For sunny days there were field and stream and pasture land and the whole wide town to explore. For rainy days, if he did not care to go to walk, there was his room with the books in the chimney cupboard. Some of them David had read before, but many of them he had not. One or two were old friends; but not so "Dare Devil Dick," and "The Pirates of Pigeon Cove" (which he found hidden in an obscure corner behind a loose board). Side by side stood "The Lady of the Lake," "Treasure Island," and "David Copperfield"; and coverless and dogeared lay "Robinson Crusoe," "The Arabian Nights," and "Grimm's Fairy Tales." There were more, many more, and David devoured them all with eager eyes. The good in them he absorbed as he absorbed the sunshine; the evil he cast aside unconsciously--it rolled off, indeed, like the proverbial water from the duck's back. David hardly knew sometimes which he liked the better, his imaginative adventures between the covers of his books or his real adventures in his daily strolls. True, it was not his mountain home--this place in which he found himself; neither was there anywhere his Silver Lake with its far, far-reaching sky above. More deplorable yet, nowhere was there the dear father he loved so well. But the sun still set in rose and gold, and the sky, though small, still carried the snowy sails of its cloud-boats; while as to his father--his father had told him not to grieve, and David was trying very hard to obey. With his violin for company David started out each day, unless he elected to stay indoors with his books. Sometimes it was toward the village that he turned his steps; sometimes it was toward the hills back of the town. Whichever way it was, there was always sure to be something waiting at the end for him and his violin to discover, if it was nothing more than a big white rose in bloom, or a squirrel sitting by the roadside. Very soon, however, David discovered that there was something to be found in his wanderings besides squirrels and roses; and that was--people. In spite of the strangeness of these people, they were wonderfully interesting, David thought. And after that he turned his steps more and more frequently toward the village when four o'clock released him from the day's work. At first David did not talk much to these people. He shrank sensitively from their bold stares and unpleasantly audible comments. He watched them with round eyes of wonder and interest, however,--when he did not think they were watching him. And in time he came to know not a little about them and about the strange ways in which they passed their time. There was the greenhouse man. It would be pleasant to spend one's day growing plants and flowers--but not under that hot, stifling glass roof, decided David. Besides, he would not want always to pick and send away the very prettiest ones to the city every morning, as the greenhouse man did. There was the doctor who rode all day long behind the gray mare, making sick folks well. David liked him, and mentally vowed that he himself would be a doctor sometime. Still, there was the stage-driver--David was not sure but he would prefer to follow this man's profession for a life-work; for in his, one could still have the freedom of long days in the open, and yet not be saddened by the sight of the sick before they had been made well--which was where the stage-driver had the better of the doctor, in David's opinion. There were the blacksmith and the storekeepers, too, but to these David gave little thought or attention. Though he might not know what he did want to do, he knew very well what he did not. All of which merely goes to prove that David was still on the lookout for that great work which his father had said was waiting for him out in the world. Meanwhile David played his violin. If he found a crimson rambler in bloom in a door-yard, he put it into a little melody of pure delight--that a woman in the house behind the rambler heard the music and was cheered at her task, David did not know. If he found a kitten at play in the sunshine, he put it into a riotous abandonment of tumbling turns and trills--that a fretful baby heard and stopped its wailing, David also did not know. And once, just because the sky was blue and the air was sweet, and it was so good to be alive, David lifted his bow and put it all into a rapturous paean of ringing exultation--that a sick man in a darkened chamber above the street lifted his head, drew in his breath, and took suddenly a new lease of life, David still again did not know. All of which merely goes to prove that David had perhaps found his work and was doing it--although yet still again David did not know. It was in the cemetery one afternoon that David came upon the Lady in Black. She was on her knees putting flowers on a little mound before her. She looked up as David approached. For a moment she gazed wistfully at him; then as if impelled by a hidden force, she spoke. "Little boy, who are you?" "I'm David." "David! David who? Do you live here? I've seen you here before." "Oh, yes, I've been here quite a lot of times." Purposely the boy evaded the questions. David was getting tired of questions--especially these questions. "And have you--lost one dear to you, little boy?" "Lost some one?" "I mean--is your father or mother--here?" "Here? Oh, no, they aren't here. My mother is an angel-mother, and my father has gone to the far country. He is waiting for me there, you know." "But, that's the same--that is--" She stopped helplessly, bewildered eyes on David's serene face. Then suddenly a great light came to her own. "Oh, little boy, I wish I could understand that--just that," she breathed. "It would make it so much easier--if I could just remember that they aren't here--that they're WAITING--over there!" But David apparently did not hear. He had turned and was playing softly as he walked away. Silently the Lady in Black knelt, listening, looking after him. When she rose some time later and left the cemetery, the light on her face was still there, deeper, more glorified. Toward boys and girls--especially boys--of his own age, David frequently turned wistful eyes. David wanted a friend, a friend who would know and understand; a friend who would see things as he saw them, who would understand what he was saying when he played. It seemed to David that in some boy of his own age he ought to find such a friend. He had seen many boys--but he had not yet found the friend. David had begun to think, indeed, that of all these strange beings in this new life of his, boys were the strangest. They stared and nudged each other unpleasantly when they came upon him playing. They jeered when he tried to tell them what he had been playing. They had never heard of the great Orchestra of Life, and they fell into most disconcerting fits of laughter, or else backed away as if afraid, when he told them that they themselves were instruments in it, and that if they did not keep themselves in tune, there was sure to be a discord somewhere. Then there were their games and frolics. Such as were played with balls, bats, and bags of beans, David thought he would like very much. But the boys only scoffed when he asked them to teach him how to play. They laughed when a dog chased a cat, and they thought it very, very funny when Tony, the old black man, tripped on the string they drew across his path. They liked to throw stones and shoot guns, and the more creeping, crawling, or flying creatures that they could send to the far country, the happier they were, apparently. Nor did they like it at all when he asked them if they were sure all these creeping, crawling, flying creatures wanted to leave this beautiful world and to be made dead. They sneered and called him a sissy. David did not know what a sissy was; but from the way they said it, he judged it must be even worse to be a sissy than to be a thief. And then he discovered Joe. David had found himself in a very strange, very unlovely neighborhood that afternoon. The street was full of papers and tin cans, the houses were unspeakably forlorn with sagging blinds and lack of paint. Untidy women and blear-eyed men leaned over the dilapidated fences, or lolled on mud-tracked doorsteps. David, his shrinking eyes turning from one side to the other, passed slowly through the street, his violin under his arm. Nowhere could David find here the tiniest spot of beauty to "play." He had reached quite the most forlorn little shanty on the street when the promise in his father's letter occurred to him. With a suddenly illumined face, he raised his violin to position and plunged into a veritable whirl of trills and runs and tripping melodies. "If I didn't just entirely forget that I didn't NEED to SEE anything beautiful to play," laughed David softly to himself. "Why, it's already right here in my violin!" David had passed the tumble-down shanty, and was hesitating where two streets crossed, when he felt a light touch on his arm. He turned to confront a small girl in a patched and faded calico dress, obviously outgrown. Her eyes were wide and frightened. In the middle of her outstretched dirty little palm was a copper cent. "If you please, Joe sent this--to you," she faltered. "To me? What for?" David stopped playing and lowered his violin. The little girl backed away perceptibly, though she still held out the coin. "He wanted you to stay and play some more. He said to tell you he'd 'a' sent more money if he could. But he didn't have it. He just had this cent." David's eyes flew wide open. "You mean he WANTS me to play? He likes it?" he asked joyfully. "Yes. He said he knew 't wa'n't much--the cent. But he thought maybe you'd play a LITTLE for it." "Play? Of course I'll play" cried David. "Oh, no, I don't want the money," he added, waving the again-proffered coin aside. "I don't need money where I'm living now. Where is he--the one that wanted me to play?" he finished eagerly. "In there by the window. It's Joe. He's my brother." The little girl, in spite of her evident satisfaction at the accomplishment of her purpose, yet kept quite aloof from the boy. Nor did the fact that he refused the money appear to bring her anything but uneasy surprise. In the window David saw a boy apparently about his own age, a boy with sandy hair, pale cheeks, and wide-open, curiously intent blue eyes. "Is he coming? Did you get him? Will he play?" called the boy at the window eagerly. "Yes, I'm right here. I'm the one. Can't you see the violin? Shall I play here or come in?" answered David, not one whit less eagerly. The small girl opened her lips as if to explain something; but the boy in the window did not wait. "Oh, come in. WILL you come in?" he cried unbelievingly. "And will you just let me touch it--the fiddle? Come! You WILL come? See, there isn't anybody home, only just Betty and me." "Of course I will!" David fairly stumbled up the broken steps in his impatience to reach the wide-open door. "Did you like it--what I played? And did you know what I was playing? Did you understand? Could you see the cloud-boats up in the sky, and my Silver Lake down in the valley? And could you hear the birds, and the winds in the trees, and the little brooks? Could you? Oh, did you understand? I've so wanted to find some one that could! But I wouldn't think that YOU--HERE--" With a gesture, and an expression on his face that were unmistakable, David came to a helpless pause. "There, Joe, what'd I tell you," cried the little girl, in a husky whisper, darting to her brother's side. "Oh, why did you make me get him here? Everybody says he's crazy as a loon, and--" But the boy reached out a quickly silencing hand. His face was curiously alight, as if from an inward glow. His eyes, still widely intent, were staring straight ahead. "Stop, Betty, wait," he hushed her. "Maybe--I think I DO understand. Boy, you mean--INSIDE of you, you see those things, and then you try to make your fiddle tell what you are seeing. Is that it?" "Yes, yes," cried David. "Oh, you DO understand. And I never thought you could. I never thought that anybody could that did n't have anything to look at but him--but these things." "'Anything but these to look at'!" echoed the boy, with a sudden anguish in his voice. "Anything but these! I guess if I could see ANYTHING, I wouldn't mind WHAT I see! An' you wouldn't, neither, if you was--blind, like me." "Blind!" David fell back. Face and voice were full of horror. "You mean you can't see--anything, with your eyes?" "Nothin'." "Oh! I never saw any one blind before. There was one in a book--but father took it away. Since then, in books down here, I've found others--but--" "Yes, yes. Well, never mind that," cut in the blind boy, growing restive under the pity in the other's voice. "Play. Won't you?" "But how are you EVER going to know what a beautiful world it is?" shuddered David. "How can you know? And how can you ever play in tune? You're one of the instruments. Father said everybody was. And he said everybody was playing SOMETHING all the time; and if you didn't play in tune--" "Joe, Joe, please," begged the little girl "Won't you let him go? I'm afraid. I told you--" "Shucks, Betty! He won't hurt ye," laughed Joe, a little irritably. Then to David he turned again with some sharpness. "Play, won't ye? You SAID you'd play!" "Yes, oh, yes, I'll play," faltered David, bringing his violin hastily to position, and testing the strings with fingers that shook a little. "There!" breathed Joe, settling back in his chair with a contented sigh. "Now, play it again--what you did before." But David did not play what he did before--at first. There were no airy cloud-boats, no far-reaching sky, no birds, or murmuring forest brooks in his music this time. There were only the poverty-stricken room, the dirty street, the boy alone at the window, with his sightless eyes--the boy who never, never would know what a beautiful world he lived in. Then suddenly to David came a new thought. This boy, Joe, had said before that he understood. He had seemed to know that he was being told of the sunny skies and the forest winds, the singing birds and the babbling brooks. Perhaps again now he would understand. What if, for those sightless eyes, one could create a world? Possibly never before had David played as he played then. It was as if upon those four quivering strings, he was laying the purple and gold of a thousand sunsets, the rose and amber of a thousand sunrises, the green of a boundless earth, the blue of a sky that reached to heaven itself--to make Joe understand. "Gee!" breathed Joe, when the music came to an end with a crashing chord. "Say, wa'n't that just great? Won't you let me, please, just touch that fiddle?" And David, looking into the blind boy's exalted face, knew that Joe had indeed--understood. CHAPTER X THE LADY OF THE ROSES It was a new world, indeed, that David created for Joe after that--a world that had to do with entrancing music where once was silence; delightful companionship where once was loneliness; and toothsome cookies and doughnuts where once was hunger. The Widow Glaspell, Joe's mother, worked out by the day, scrubbing and washing; and Joe, perforce, was left to the somewhat erratic and decidedly unskillful ministrations of Betty. Betty was no worse, and no better, than any other untaught, irresponsible twelve-year-old girl, and it was not to be expected, perhaps, that she would care to spend all the bright sunny hours shut up with her sorely afflicted and somewhat fretful brother. True, at noon she never failed to appear and prepare something that passed for a dinner for herself and Joe. But the Glaspell larder was frequently almost as empty as were the hungry stomachs that looked to it for refreshment; and it would have taken a far more skillful cook than was the fly-away Betty to evolve anything from it that was either palatable or satisfying. With the coming of David into Joe's life all this was changed. First, there were the music and the companionship. Joe's father had "played in the band" in his youth, and (according to the Widow Glaspell) had been a "powerful hand for music." It was from him, presumably, that Joe had inherited his passion for melody and harmony; and it was no wonder that David recognized so soon in the blind boy the spirit that made them kin. At the first stroke of David's bow, indeed, the dingy walls about them would crumble into nothingness, and together the two boys were off in a fairy world of loveliness and joy. Nor was listening always Joe's part. From "just touching" the violin--his first longing plea--he came to drawing a timid bow across the strings. In an incredibly short time, then, he was picking out bits of melody; and by the end of a fortnight David had brought his father's violin for Joe to practice on. "I can't GIVE it to you--not for keeps," David had explained, a bit tremulously, "because it was daddy's, you know; and when I see it, it seems almost as if I was seeing him. But you may take it. Then you can have it here to play on whenever you like." After that, in Joe's own hands lay the power to transport himself into another world, for with the violin for company he knew no loneliness. Nor was the violin all that David brought to the house. There were the doughnuts and the cookies. Very early in his visits David had discovered, much to his surprise, that Joe and Betty were often hungry. "But why don't you go down to the store and buy something?" he had queried at once. Upon being told that there was no money to buy with, David's first impulse had been to bring several of the gold-pieces the next time he came; but upon second thoughts David decided that he did not dare. He was not wishing to be called a thief a second time. It would be better, he concluded, to bring some food from the house instead. In his mountain home everything the house afforded in the way of food had always been freely given to the few strangers that found their way to the cabin door. So now David had no hesitation in going to Mrs. Holly's pantry for supplies, upon the occasion of his next visit to Joe Glaspell's. Mrs. Holly, coming into the kitchen, found him merging from the pantry with both hands full of cookies and doughnuts. "Why, David, what in the world does this mean?" she demanded. "They're for Joe and Betty," smiled David happily. "For Joe and--But those doughnuts and cookies don't belong to you. They're mine!" "Yes, I know they are. I told them you had plenty," nodded David. "Plenty! What if I have?" remonstrated Mrs. Holly, in growing indignation. "That doesn't mean that you can take--" Something in David's face stopped the words half-spoken. "You don't mean that I CAN'T take them to Joe and Betty, do you? Why, Mrs. Holly, they're hungry! Joe and Betty are. They don't have half enough to eat. Betty said so. And we've got more than we want. There's food left on the table every day. Why, if YOU were hungry, wouldn't you want somebody to bring--" But Mrs. Holly stopped him with a despairing gesture. "There, there, never mind. Run along. Of course you can take them. I'm--I'm GLAD to have you," she finished, in a desperate attempt to drive from David's face that look of shocked incredulity with which he was still regarding her. Never again did Mrs. Holly attempt to thwart David's generosity to the Glaspells; but she did try to regulate it. She saw to it that thereafter, upon his visits to the house, he took only certain things and a certain amount, and invariably things of her own choosing. But not always toward the Glaspell shanty did David turn his steps. Very frequently it was in quite another direction. He had been at the Holly farmhouse three weeks when he found his Lady of the Roses. He had passed quite through the village that day, and had come to a road that was new to him. It was a beautiful road, smooth, white, and firm. Two huge granite posts topped with flaming nasturtiums marked the point where it turned off from the main highway. Beyond these, as David soon found, it ran between wide-spreading lawns and flowering shrubs, leading up the gentle slope of a hill. Where it led to, David did not know, but he proceeded unhesitatingly to try to find out. For some time he climbed the slope in silence, his violin, mute, under his arm; but the white road still lay in tantalizing mystery before him when a by-path offered the greater temptation, and lured him to explore its cool shadowy depths instead. Had David but known it, he was at Sunny-crest, Hinsdale's one "show place," the country home of its one really rich resident, Miss Barbara Holbrook. Had he also but known it, Miss Holbrook was not celebrated for her graciousness to any visitors, certainly not to those who ventured to approach her otherwise than by a conventional ring at her front doorbell. But David did not know all this; and he therefore very happily followed the shady path until he came to the Wonder at the end of it. The Wonder, in Hinsdale parlance, was only Miss Holbrook's garden, but in David's eyes it was fairyland come true. For one whole minute he could only stand like a very ordinary little boy and stare. At the end of the minute he became himself once more; and being himself, he expressed his delight at once in the only way he knew how to do--by raising his violin and beginning to play. He had meant to tell of the limpid pool and of the arch of the bridge it reflected; of the terraced lawns and marble steps, and of the gleaming white of the sculptured nymphs and fauns; of the splashes of glorious crimson, yellow, blush-pink, and snowy white against the green, where the roses rioted in luxurious bloom. He had meant, also, to tell of the Queen Rose of them all--the beauteous lady with hair like the gold of sunrise, and a gown like the shimmer of the moon on water--of all this he had meant to tell; but he had scarcely begun to tell it at all when the Beauteous Lady of the Roses sprang to her feet and became so very much like an angry young woman who is seriously displeased that David could only lower his violin in dismay. "Why, boy, what does this mean?" she demanded. David sighed a little impatiently as he came forward into the sunlight. "But I was just telling you," he remonstrated, "and you would not let me finish." "Telling me!" "Yes, with my violin. COULDn't you understand?" appealed the boy wistfully. "You looked as if you could!" "Looked as if I could!" "Yes. Joe understood, you see, and I was surprised when HE did. But I was just sure you could--with all this to look at." The lady frowned. Half-unconsciously she glanced about her as if contemplating flight. Then she turned back to the boy. "But how came you here? Who are you?" she cried. "I'm David. I walked here through the little path back there. I didn't know where it went to, but I'm so glad now I found out!" "Oh, are you!" murmured the lady, with slightly uplifted brows. She was about to tell him very coldly that now that he had found his way there he might occupy himself in finding it home again, when the boy interposed rapturously, his eyes sweeping the scene before him:-- "Yes. I didn't suppose, anywhere, down here, there was a place one half so beautiful!" An odd feeling of uncanniness sent a swift exclamation to the lady's lips. "'Down here'! What do you mean by that? You speak as if you came from--above," she almost laughed. "I did," returned David simply. "But even up there I never found anything quite like this,"--with a sweep of his hands,--"nor like you, O Lady of the Roses," he finished with an admiration that was as open as it was ardent. This time the lady laughed outright. She even blushed a little. "Very prettily put, Sir Flatterer" she retorted; "but when you are older, young man, you won't make your compliments quite so broad. I am no Lady of the Roses. I am Miss Holbrook; and--and I am not in the habit of receiving gentlemen callers who are uninvited and--unannounced," she concluded, a little sharply. Pointless the shaft fell at David's feet. He had turned again to the beauties about him, and at that moment he spied the sundial--something he had never seen before. "What is it?" he cried eagerly, hurrying forward. "It isn't exactly pretty, and yet it looks as if 't were meant for--something." "It is. It is a sundial. It marks the time by the sun." Even as she spoke, Miss Holbrook wondered why she answered the question at all; why she did not send this small piece of nonchalant impertinence about his business, as he so richly deserved. The next instant she found herself staring at the boy in amazement. With unmistakable ease, and with the trained accent of the scholar, he was reading aloud the Latin inscription on the dial: "'Horas non numero nisi serenas,' 'I count--no--hours but--unclouded ones,'" he translated then, slowly, though with confidence. "That's pretty; but what does it mean--about 'counting'?" Miss Holbrook rose to her feet. "For Heaven's sake, boy, who, and what are you?" she demanded. "Can YOU read Latin?" "Why, of course! Can't you?" With a disdainful gesture Miss Holbrook swept this aside. "Boy, who are you?" she demanded again imperatively. "I'm David. I told you." "But David who? Where do you live?" The boy's face clouded. "I'm David--just David. I live at Farmer Holly's now; but I did live on the mountain with--father, you know." A great light of understanding broke over Miss Holbrook's face. She dropped back into her seat. "Oh, I remember," she murmured. "You're the little--er--boy whom he took. I have heard the story. So THAT is who you are," she added, the old look of aversion coming back to her eyes. She had almost said "the little tramp boy"--but she had stopped in time. "Yes. And now what do they mean, please,--those words,--'I count no hours but unclouded ones'?" Miss Holbrook stirred in her seat and frowned. "Why, it means what it says, of course, boy. A sundial counts its hours by the shadow the sun throws, and when there is no sun there is no shadow; hence it's only the sunny hours that are counted by the dial," she explained a little fretfully. David's face radiated delight. "Oh, but I like that!" he exclaimed. "You like it!" "Yes. I should like to be one myself, you know." "Well, really! And how, pray?" In spite of herself a faint gleam of interest came into Miss Holbrook's eyes. David laughed and dropped himself easily to the ground at her feet. He was holding his violin on his knees now. "Why, it would be such fun," he chuckled, "to just forget all about the hours when the sun didn't shine, and remember only the nice, pleasant ones. Now for me, there wouldn't be any hours, really, until after four o'clock, except little specks of minutes that I'd get in between when I DID see something interesting." Miss Holbrook stared frankly. "What an extraordinary boy you are, to be sure," she murmured. "And what, may I ask, is it that you do every day until four o'clock, that you wish to forget?" David sighed. "Well, there are lots of things. I hoed potatoes and corn, first, but they're too big now, mostly; and I pulled up weeds, too, till they were gone. I've been picking up stones, lately, and clearing up the yard. Then, of course, there's always the woodbox to fill, and the eggs to hunt, besides the chickens to feed,--though I don't mind THEM so much; but I do the other things, 'specially the weeds. They were so much prettier than the things I had to let grow, 'most always." Miss Holbrook laughed. "Well, they were; and really" persisted the boy, in answer to the merriment in her eyes; "now wouldn't it be nice to be like the sundial, and forget everything the sun didn't shine on? Would n't you like it? Isn't there anything YOU want to forget?" Miss Holbrook sobered instantly. The change in her face was so very marked, indeed, that involuntarily David looked about for something that might have cast upon it so great a shadow. For a long minute she did not speak; then very slowly, very bitterly, she said aloud--yet as if to herself:-- "Yes. If I had my way I'd forget them every one--these hours; every single one!" "Oh, Lady of the Roses!" expostulated David in a voice quivering with shocked dismay. "You don't mean--you can't mean that you don't have ANY--sun!" "I mean just that," bowed Miss Holbrook wearily, her eyes on the somber shadows of the pool; "just that!" David sat stunned, confounded. Across the marble steps and the terraces the shadows lengthened, and David watched them as the sun dipped behind the tree-tops. They seemed to make more vivid the chill and the gloom of the lady's words--more real the day that had no sun. After a time the boy picked up his violin and began to play, softly, and at first with evident hesitation. Even when his touch became more confident, there was still in the music a questioning appeal that seemed to find no answer--an appeal that even the player himself could not have explained. For long minutes the young woman and the boy sat thus in the twilight. Then suddenly the woman got to her feet. "Come, come, boy, what can I be thinking of?" she cried sharply. "I must go in and you must go home. Good-night." And she swept across the grass to the path that led toward the house. CHAPTER XI JACK AND JILL David was tempted to go for a second visit to his Lady of the Roses, but something he could not define held him back. The lady was in his mind almost constantly, however; and very vivid to him was the picture of the garden, though always it was as he had seen it last with the hush and shadow of twilight, and with the lady's face gloomily turned toward the sunless pool. David could not forget that for her there were no hours to count; she had said it herself. He could not understand how this could be so; and the thought filled him with vague unrest and pain. Perhaps it was this restlessness that drove David to explore even more persistently the village itself, sending him into new streets in search of something strange and interesting. One day the sound of shouts and laughter drew him to an open lot back of the church where some boys were at play. David still knew very little of boys. In his mountain home he had never had them for playmates, and he had not seen much of them when he went with his father to the mountain village for supplies. There had been, it is true, the boy who frequently brought milk and eggs to the cabin; but he had been very quiet and shy, appearing always afraid and anxious to get away, as if he had been told not to stay. More recently, since David had been at the Holly farmhouse, his experience with boys had been even less satisfying. The boys--with the exception of blind Joe--had very clearly let it be understood that they had little use for a youth who could find nothing better to do than to tramp through the woods and the streets with a fiddle under his arm. To-day, however, there came a change. Perhaps they were more used to him; or perhaps they had decided suddenly that it might be good fun to satisfy their curiosity, anyway, regardless of consequences. Whatever it was, the lads hailed his appearance with wild shouts of glee. "Golly, boys, look! Here's the fiddlin' kid," yelled one; and the others joined in the "Hurrah!" he gave. David smiled delightedly; once more he had found some one who wanted him--and it was so nice to be wanted! Truth to tell, David had felt not a little hurt at the persistent avoidance of all those boys and girls of his own age. "How--how do you do?" he said diffidently, but still with that beaming smile. Again the boys shouted gleefully as they hurried forward. Several had short sticks in their hands. One had an old tomato can with a string tied to it. The tallest boy had something that he was trying to hold beneath his coat. "'H--how do you do?'" they mimicked. "How do you do, fiddlin' kid?" "I'm David; my name is David." The reminder was graciously given, with a smile. "David! David! His name is David," chanted the boys, as if they were a comic-opera chorus. David laughed outright. "Oh, sing it again, sing it again!" he crowed. "That sounded fine!" The boys stared, then sniffed disdainfully, and cast derisive glances into each other's eyes--it appeared that this little sissy tramp boy did not even know enough to discover when he was being laughed at! "David! David! His name is David," they jeered into his face again. "Come on, tune her up! We want ter dance." "Play? Of course I'll play," cried David joyously, raising his violin and testing a string for its tone. "Here, hold on," yelled the tallest boy. "The Queen o' the Ballet ain't ready". And he cautiously pulled from beneath his coat a struggling kitten with a perforated bag tied over its head. "Sure! We want her in the middle," grinned the boy with the tin can. "Hold on till I get her train tied to her," he finished, trying to capture the swishing, fluffy tail of the frightened little cat. David had begun to play, but he stopped his music with a discordant stroke of the bow. "What are you doing? What is the matter with that cat?" he demanded. "'Matter'!" called a derisive voice. "Sure, nothin' 's the matter with her. She's the Queen o' the Ballet--she is!" "What do you mean?" cried David. At that moment the string bit hard into the captured tail, and the kitten cried out with the pain. "Look out! You're hurting her," cautioned David sharply. Only a laugh and a jeering word answered. Then the kitten, with the bag on its head and the tin can tied to its tail, was let warily to the ground, the tall boy still holding its back with both hands. "Ready, now! Come on, play," he ordered; "then we'll set her dancing." David's eyes flashed. "I will not play--for that." The boys stopped laughing suddenly. "Eh? What?" They could scarcely have been more surprised if the kitten itself had said the words. "I say I won't play--I can't play--unless you let that cat go." "Hoity-toity! Won't ye hear that now?" laughed a mocking voice. "And what if we say we won't let her go, eh?" "Then I'll make you," vowed David, aflame with a newborn something that seemed to have sprung full-grown into being. "Yow!" hooted the tallest boy, removing both hands from the captive kitten. The kitten, released, began to back frantically. The can, dangling at its heels, rattled and banged and thumped, until the frightened little creature, crazed with terror, became nothing but a whirling mass of misery. The boys, formed now into a crowing circle of delight, kept the kitten within bounds, and flouted David mercilessly. "Ah, ha!--stop us, will ye? Why don't ye stop us?" they gibed. For a moment David stood without movement, his eyes staring. The next instant he turned and ran. The jeers became a chorus of triumphant shouts then--but not for long. David had only hurried to the woodpile to lay down his violin. He came back then, on the run--and before the tallest boy could catch his breath he was felled by a stinging blow on the jaw. Over by the church a small girl, red-haired and red-eyed, clambered hastily over the fence behind which for long minutes she had been crying and wringing her hands. "He'll be killed, he'll be killed," she moaned. "And it's my fault, 'cause it's my kitty--it's my kitty," she sobbed, straining her eyes to catch a glimpse of the kitten's protector in the squirming mass of legs and arms. The kitten, unheeded now by the boys, was pursuing its backward whirl to destruction some distance away, and very soon the little girl discovered her. With a bound and a choking cry she reached the kitten, removed the bag and unbound the cruel string. Then, sitting on the ground, a safe distance away, she soothed the palpitating little bunch of gray fur, and watched with fearful eyes the fight. And what a fight it was! There was no question, of course, as to its final outcome, with six against one; but meanwhile the one was giving the six the surprise of their lives in the shape of well-dealt blows and skillful twists and turns that caused their own strength and weight to react upon themselves in a most astonishing fashion. The one unmistakably was getting the worst of it, however, when the little girl, after a hurried dash to the street, brought back with her to the rescue a tall, smooth-shaven young man whom she had hailed from afar as "Jack." Jack put a stop to things at once. With vigorous jerks and pulls he unsnarled the writhing mass, boy by boy, each one of whom, upon catching sight of his face, slunk hurriedly away, as if glad to escape so lightly. There was left finally upon the ground only David alone. But when David did at last appear, the little girl burst into tears anew. "Oh, Jack, he's killed--I know he's killed," she wailed. "And he was so nice and--and pretty. And now--look at him! Ain't he a sight?" David was not killed, but he was--a sight. His blouse was torn, his tie was gone, and his face and hands were covered with dirt and blood. Above one eye was an ugly-looking lump, and below the other was a red bruise. Somewhat dazedly he responded to the man's helpful hand, pulled himself upright, and looked about him. He did not see the little girl behind him. "Where's the cat?" he asked anxiously. The unexpected happened then. With a sobbing cry the little girl flung herself upon him, cat and all. "Here, right here," she choked. "And it was you who saved her--my Juliette! And I'll love you, love you, love you always for it!" "There, there, Jill," interposed the man a little hurriedly. "Suppose we first show our gratitude by seeing if we can't do something to make our young warrior here more comfortable." And he began to brush off with his handkerchief some of the accumulated dirt. "Why can't we take him home, Jack, and clean him up 'fore other folks see him?" suggested the girl. The boy turned quickly. "Did you call him 'Jack'?" "Yes." "And he called you, Jill'?" "Yes." "The real 'Jack and Jill' that 'went up the hill'?" The man and the girl laughed; but the girl shook her head as she answered,-- "Not really--though we do go up a hill, all right, every day. But those aren't even our own names. We just call each other that for fun. Don't YOU ever call things--for fun?" David's face lighted up in spite of the dirt, the lump, and the bruise. "Oh, do you do that?" he breathed. "Say, I just know I'd like to play to you! You'd understand!" "Oh, yes, and he plays, too," explained the little girl, turning to the man rapturously. "On a fiddle, you know, like you." She had not finished her sentence before David was away, hurrying a little unsteadily across the lot for his violin. When he came back the man was looking at him with an anxious frown. "Suppose you come home with us, boy," he said. "It isn't far--through the hill pasture, 'cross lots,--and we'll look you over a bit. That lump over your eye needs attention." "Thank you," beamed David. "I'd like to go, and--I'm glad you want me!" He spoke to the man, but he looked at the little red-headed girl, who still held the gray kitten in her arms. CHAPTER XII ANSWERS THAT DID NOT ANSWER "Jack and Jill," it appeared, were a brother and sister who lived in a tiny house on a hill directly across the creek from Sunnycrest. Beyond this David learned little until after bumps and bruises and dirt had been carefully attended to. He had then, too, some questions to answer concerning himself. "And now, if you please," began the man smilingly, as he surveyed the boy with an eye that could see no further service to be rendered, "do you mind telling me who you are, and how you came to be the center of attraction for the blows and cuffs of six boys?" "I'm David, and I wanted the cat," returned the boy simply. "Well, that's direct and to the point, to say the least," laughed the man. "Evidently, however, you're in the habit of being that. But, David, there were six of them,--those boys,--and some of them were larger than you." "Yes, sir." "And they were so bad and cruel," chimed in the little girl. The man hesitated, then questioned slowly. "And may I ask you where you--er--learned to--fight like that?" "I used to box with father. He said I must first be well and strong. He taught me jiujitsu, too, a little; but I couldn't make it work very well--with so many." "I should say not," adjudged the man grimly. "But you gave them a surprise or two, I'll warrant," he added, his eyes on the cause of the trouble, now curled in a little gray bunch of content on the window sill. "But I don't know yet who you are. Who is your father? Where does he live?" David shook his head. As was always the case when his father was mentioned, his face grew wistful and his eyes dreamy. "He doesn't live here anywhere," murmured the boy. "In the far country he is waiting for me to come to him and tell him of the beautiful world I have found, you know." "Eh? What?" stammered the man, not knowing whether to believe his eyes, or his ears. This boy who fought like a demon and talked like a saint, and who, though battered and bruised, prattled of the "beautiful world" he had found, was most disconcerting. "Why, Jack, don't you know?" whispered the little girl agitatedly. "He's the boy at Mr. Holly's that they took." Then, still more softly: "He's the little tramp boy. His father died in the barn." "Oh," said the man, his face clearing, and his eyes showing a quick sympathy. "You're the boy at the Holly farmhouse, are you?" "Yes, sir." "And he plays the fiddle everywhere," volunteered the little girl, with ardent admiration. "If you hadn't been shut up sick just now, you'd have heard him yourself. He plays everywhere--everywhere he goes." "Is that so?" murmured Jack politely, shuddering a little at what he fancied would come from a violin played by a boy like the one before him. (Jack could play the violin himself a little--enough to know it some, and love it more.) "Hm-m; well, and what else do you do?" "Nothing, except to go for walks and read." "Nothing!--a big boy like you--and on Simeon Holly's farm?" Voice and manner showed that Jack was not unacquainted with Simeon Holly and his methods and opinions. David laughed gleefully. "Oh, of course, REALLY I do lots of things, only I don't count those any more. 'Horas non numero nisi serenas,' you knew," he quoted pleasantly, smiling into the man's astonished eyes. "Jack, what was that--what he said?" whispered the little girl. "It sounded foreign. IS he foreign?" "You've got me, Jill," retorted the man, with a laughing grimace. "Heaven only knows what he is--I don't. What he SAID was Latin; I do happen to know that. Still"--he turned to the boy ironically--"of course you know the translation of that," he said. "Oh, yes. 'I count no hours but unclouded ones'--and I liked that. 'T was on a sundial, you know; and I'M going to be a sundial, and not count, the hours I don't like--while I'm pulling up weeds, and hoeing potatoes, and picking up stones, and all that. Don't you see?" For a moment the man stared dumbly. Then he threw back his head and laughed. "Well, by George!" he muttered. "By George!" And he laughed again. Then: "And did your father teach you that, too?" he asked. "Oh, no,--well, he taught me Latin, and so of course I could read it when I found it. But those 'special words I got off the sundial where my Lady of the Roses lives." "Your--Lady of the Roses! And who is she?" "Why, don't you know? You live right in sight of her house," cried David, pointing to the towers of Sunnycrest that showed above the trees. "It's over there she lives. I know those towers now, and I look for them wherever I go. I love them. It makes me see all over again the roses--and her." "You mean--Miss Holbrook?" The voice was so different from the genial tones that he had heard before that David looked up in surprise. "Yes; she said that was her name," he answered, wondering at the indefinable change that had come to the man's face. There was a moment's pause, then the man rose to his feet. "How's your head? Does it ache?" he asked briskly. "Not much--some. I--I think I'll be going," replied David, a little awkwardly, reaching for his violin, and unconsciously showing by his manner the sudden chill in the atmosphere. The little girl spoke then. She overwhelmed him again with thanks, and pointed to the contented kitten on the window sill. True, she did not tell him this time that she would love, love, love him always; but she beamed upon him gratefully and she urged him to come soon again, and often. David bowed himself off, with many a backward wave of the hand, and many a promise to come again. Not until he had quite reached the bottom of the hill did he remember that the man, "Jack," had said almost nothing at the last. As David recollected him, indeed, he had last been seen standing beside one of the veranda posts, with gloomy eyes fixed on the towers of Sunnycrest that showed red-gold above the tree-tops in the last rays of the setting sun. It was a bad half-hour that David spent at the Holly farmhouse in explanation of his torn blouse and bruised face. Farmer Holly did not approve of fights, and he said so, very sternly indeed. Even Mrs. Holly, who was usually so kind to him, let David understand that he was in deep disgrace, though she was very tender to his wounds. David did venture to ask her, however, before he went upstairs to bed:-- "Mrs. Holly, who are those people--Jack and Jill--that were so good to me this afternoon?" "They are John Gurnsey and his sister, Julia; but the whole town knows them by the names they long ago gave themselves, 'Jack' and 'Jill.'" "And do they live all alone in the little house?" "Yes, except for the Widow Glaspell, who comes in several times a week, I believe, to cook and wash and sweep. They aren't very happy, I'm afraid, David, and I'm glad you could rescue the little girl's kitten for her--but you mustn't fight. No good can come of fighting!" "I got the cat--by fighting." "Yes, yes, I know; but--" She did not finish her sentence, and David was only waiting for a pause to ask another question. "Why aren't they happy, Mrs. Holly?" "Tut, tut, David, it's a long story, and you wouldn't understand it if I told it. It's only that they're all alone in the world, and Jack Gurnsey isn't well. He must be thirty years old now. He had bright hopes not so long ago studying law, or something of the sort, in the city. Then his father died, and his mother, and he lost his health. Something ails his lungs, and the doctors sent him here to be out of doors. He even sleeps out of doors, they say. Anyway, he's here, and he's making a home for his sister; but, of course, with his hopes and ambitions--But there, David, you don't understand, of course!" "Oh, yes, I do," breathed David, his eyes pensively turned toward a shadowy corner. "He found his work out in the world, and then he had to stop and couldn't do it. Poor Mr. Jack!" CHAPTER XIII A SURPRISE FOR MR. JACK Life at the Holly farmhouse was not what it had been. The coming of David had introduced new elements that promised complications. Not because he was another mouth to feed--Simeon Holly was not worrying about that part any longer. Crops showed good promise, and all ready in the bank even now was the necessary money to cover the dreaded note, due the last of August. The complicating elements in regard to David were of quite another nature. To Simeon Holly the boy was a riddle to be sternly solved. To Ellen Holly he was an everpresent reminder of the little boy of long ago, and as such was to be loved and trained into a semblance of what that boy might have become. To Perry Larson, David was the "derndest checkerboard of sense an' nonsense goin'"--a game over which to chuckle. At the Holly farmhouse they could not understand a boy who would leave a supper for a sunset, or who preferred a book to a toy pistol--as Perry Larson found out was the case on the Fourth of July; who picked flowers, like a girl, for the table, yet who unhesitatingly struck the first blow in a fight with six antagonists: who would not go fishing because the fishes would not like it, nor hunting for any sort of wild thing that had life; who hung entranced for an hour over the "millions of lovely striped bugs" in a field of early potatoes, and who promptly and stubbornly refused to sprinkle those same "lovely bugs" with Paris green when discovered at his worship. All this was most perplexing, to say the least. Yet David worked, and worked well, and in most cases he obeyed orders willingly. He learned much, too, that was interesting and profitable; nor was he the only one that made strange discoveries during those July days. The Hollys themselves learned much. They learned that the rose of sunset and the gold of sunrise were worth looking at; and that the massing of the thunderheads in the west meant more than just a shower. They learned, too, that the green of the hilltop and of the far-reaching meadow was more than grass, and that the purple haze along the horizon was more than the mountains that lay between them and the next State. They were beginning to see the world with David's eyes. There were, too, the long twilights and evenings when David, on the wings of his violin, would speed away to his mountain home, leaving behind him a man and a woman who seemed to themselves to be listening to the voice of a curly-headed, rosy-cheeked lad who once played at their knees and nestled in their arms when the day was done. And here, too, the Hollys were learning; though the thing thus learned was hidden deep in their hearts. It was not long after David's first visit that the boy went again to "The House that Jack Built," as the Gurnseys called their tiny home. (Though in reality it had been Jack's father who had built the house. Jack and Jill, however, did not always deal with realities.) It was not a pleasant afternoon. There was a light mist in the air, and David was without his violin. "I came to--to inquire for the cat--Juliette," he began, a little bashfully. "I thought I'd rather do that than read to-day," he explained to Jill in the doorway. "Good! I'm so glad! I hoped you'd come," the little girl welcomed him. "Come in and--and see Juliette," she added hastily, remembering at the last moment that her brother had not looked with entire favor on her avowed admiration for this strange little boy. Juliette, roused from her nap, was at first inclined to resent her visitor's presence. In five minutes, however, she was purring in his lap. The conquest of the kitten once accomplished, David looked about him a little restlessly. He began to wonder why he had come. He wished he had gone to see Joe Glaspell instead. He wished that Jill would not sit and stare at him like that. He wished that she would say something--anything. But Jill, apparently struck dumb with embarrassment, was nervously twisting the corner of her apron into a little knot. David tried to recollect what he had talked about a few days before, and he wondered why he had so enjoyed himself then. He wished that something would happen--anything!--and then from an inner room came the sound of a violin. David raised his head. "It's Jack," stammered the little girl--who also had been wishing something would happen. "He plays, same as you do, on the violin." "Does he?" beamed David. "But--" He paused, listening, a quick frown on his face. Over and over the violin was playing a single phrase--and the variations in the phrase showed the indecision of the fingers and of the mind that controlled them. Again and again with irritating sameness, yet with a still more irritating difference, came the succession of notes. And then David sprang to his feet, placing Juliette somewhat unceremoniously on the floor, much to that petted young autocrat's disgust. "Here, where is he? Let me show him," cried the boy, and at the note of command in his voice, Jill involuntarily rose and opened the door to Jack's den. "Oh, please, Mr. Jack," burst out David, hurrying into the room. "Don't you see? You don't go at that thing right. If you'll just let me show you a minute, we'll have it fixed in no time!" The man with the violin stared, and lowered his bow. A slow red came to his face. The phrase was peculiarly a difficult one, and beyond him, as he knew; but that did not make the present intrusion into his privacy any the more welcome. "Oh, will we, indeed!" he retorted, a little sharply. "Don't trouble yourself, I beg of you, boy." "But it isn't a mite of trouble, truly," urged David, with an ardor that ignored the sarcasm in the other's words. "I WANT to do it." Despite his annoyance, the man gave a short laugh. "Well, David, I believe you. And I'll warrant you'd tackle this Brahms concerto as nonchalantly as you did those six hoodlums with the cat the other day--and expect to win out, too!" "But, truly, this is easy, when you know how," laughed the boy. "See!" To his surprise, the man found himself relinquishing the violin and bow into the slim, eager hands that reached for them. The next moment he fell back in amazement. Clear, distinct, yet connected like a string of rounded pearls fell the troublesome notes from David's bow. "You see," smiled the boy again, and played the phrase a second time, more slowly, and with deliberate emphasis at the difficult part. Then, as if in answer to some irresistible summons within him, he dashed into the next phrase and, with marvelous technique, played quite through the rippling cadenza that completed the movement. "Well, by George!" breathed the man dazedly, as he took the offered violin. The next moment he had demanded vehemently: "For Heaven's sake, who ARE you, boy?" David's face wrinkled in grieved surprise. "Why, I'm David. Don't you remember? I was here just the other day!" "Yes, yes; but who taught you to play like that?" "Father." "'Father'!" The man echoed the word with a gesture of comic despair. "First Latin, then jiujitsu, and now the violin! Boy, who was your father?" David lifted his head and frowned a little. He had been questioned so often, and so unsympathetically, about his father that he was beginning to resent it. "He was daddy--just daddy; and I loved him dearly." "But what was his name?" "I don't know. We didn't seem to have a name like--like yours down here. Anyway, if we did, I didn't know what it was." "But, David,"--the man was speaking very gently now. He had motioned the boy to a low seat by his side. The little girl was standing near, her eyes alight with wondering interest. "He must have had a name, you know, just the same. Didn't you ever hear any one call him anything? Think, now." "No." David said the single word, and turned his eyes away. It had occurred to him, since he had come to live in the valley, that perhaps his father did not want to have his name known. He remembered that once the milk-and-eggs boy had asked what to call him; and his father had laughed and answered: "I don't see but you'll have to call me 'The Old Man of the Mountain,' as they do down in the village." That was the only time David could recollect hearing his father say anything about his name. At the time David had not thought much about it. But since then, down here where they appeared to think a name was so important, he had wondered if possibly his father had not preferred to keep his to himself. If such were the case, he was glad now that he did not know this name, so that he might not have to tell all these inquisitive people who asked so many questions about it. He was glad, too, that those men had not been able to read his father's name at the end of his other note that first morning--if his father really did not wish his name to be known. "But, David, think. Where you lived, wasn't there ever anybody who called him by name?" David shook his head. "I told you. We were all alone, father and I, in the little house far up on the mountain." "And--your mother?" Again David shook his head. "She is an angel-mother, and angel-mothers don't live in houses, you know." There was a moment's pause; then gently the man asked:-- "And you always lived there?" "Six years, father said." "And before that?" "I don't remember." There was a touch of injured reserve in the boy's voice which the man was quick to perceive. He took the hint at once. "He must have been a wonderful man--your father!" he exclaimed. The boy turned, his eyes luminous with feeling. "He was--he was perfect! But they--down here--don't seem to know--or care," he choked. "Oh, but that's because they don't understand," soothed the man. "Now, tell me--you must have practiced a lot to play like that." "I did--but I liked it." "And what else did you do? and how did you happen to come--down here?" Once again David told his story, more fully, perhaps, this time than ever before, because of the sympathetic ears that were listening. "But now" he finished wistfully, "it's all, so different, and I'm down here alone. Daddy went, you know, to the far country; and he can't come back from there." "Who told you--that?" "Daddy himself. He wrote it to me." "Wrote it to you!" cried the man, sitting suddenly erect. "Yes. It was in his pocket, you see. They--found it." David's voice was very low, and not quite steady. "David, may I see--that letter?" The boy hesitated; then slowly he drew it from his pocket. "Yes, Mr. Jack. I'll let YOU see it." Reverently, tenderly, but very eagerly the man took the note and read it through, hoping somewhere to find a name that would help solve the mystery. With a sigh he handed it back. His eyes were wet. "Thank you, David. That is a beautiful letter," he said softly. "And I believe you'll do it some day, too. You'll go to him with your violin at your chin and the bow drawn across the strings to tell him of the beautiful world you have found." "Yes, sir," said David simply. Then, with a suddenly radiant smile: "And NOW I can't help finding it a beautiful world, you know, 'cause I don't count the hours I don't like." "You don't what?--oh, I remember," returned Mr. Jack, a quick change coming to his face. "Yes, the sundial, you know, where my Lady of the Roses lives." "Jack, what is a sundial?" broke in Jill eagerly. Jack turned, as if in relief. "Hullo, girlie, you there?--and so still all this time? Ask David. He'll tell you what a sundial is. Suppose, anyhow, that you two go out on the piazza now. I've got--er-some work to do. And the sun itself is out; see?--through the trees there. It came out just to say 'good-night,' I'm sure. Run along, quick!" And he playfully drove them from the room. Alone, he turned and sat down at his desk. His work was before him, but he did not do it. His eyes were out of the window on the golden tops of the towers of Sunnycrest. Motionless, he watched them until they turned gray-white in the twilight. Then he picked up his pencil and began to write feverishly. He went to the window, however, as David stepped off the veranda, and called merrily:-- "Remember, boy, that when there's another note that baffles me, I'm going to send for you." "He's coming anyhow. I asked him," announced Jill. And David laughed back a happy "Of course I am!" CHAPTER XIV THE TOWER WINDOW It is not to be expected that when one's thoughts lead so persistently to a certain place, one's feet will not follow, if they can; and David's could--so he went to seek his Lady of the Roses. At four o'clock one afternoon, with his violin under his arm, he traveled the firm white road until he came to the shadowed path that led to the garden. He had decided that he would go exactly as he went before. He expected, in consequence, to find his Lady exactly as he had found her before, sitting reading under the roses. Great was his surprise and disappointment, therefore, to find the garden with no one in it. He had told himself that it was the sundial, the roses, the shimmering pool, the garden itself that he wanted to see; but he knew now that it was the lady--his Lady of the Roses. He did not even care to play, though all around him was the beauty that had at first so charmed his eye. Very slowly he walked across the sunlit, empty space, and entered the path that led to the house. In his mind was no definite plan; yet he walked on and on, until he came to the wide lawns surrounding the house itself. He stopped then, entranced. Stone upon stone the majestic pile raised itself until it was etched, clean-cut, against the deep blue of the sky. The towers--his towers--brought to David's lips a cry of delight. They were even more enchanting here than when seen from afar over the tree-tops, and David gazed up at them in awed wonder. From somewhere came the sound of music--a curious sort of music that David had never heard before. He listened intently, trying to place it; then slowly he crossed the lawn, ascended the imposing stone steps, and softly opened one of the narrow screen doors before the wide-open French window. Once within the room David drew a long breath of ecstasy. Beneath his feet he felt the velvet softness of the green moss of the woods. Above his head he saw a sky-like canopy of blue carrying fleecy clouds on which floated little pink-and-white children with wings, just as David himself had so often wished that he could float. On all sides silken hangings, like the green of swaying vines, half-hid other hangings of feathery, snowflake lace. Everywhere mirrored walls caught the light and reflected the potted ferns and palms so that David looked down endless vistas of loveliness that seemed for all the world like the long sunflecked aisles beneath the tall pines of his mountain home. The music that David had heard at first had long since stopped; but David had not noticed that. He stood now in the center of the room, awed, and trembling, but enraptured. Then from somewhere came a voice--a voice so cold that it sounded as if it had swept across a field of ice. "Well, boy, when you have quite finished your inspection, perhaps you will tell me to what I am indebted for THIS visit," it said. David turned abruptly. "O Lady of the Roses, why didn't you tell me it was like this--in here?" he breathed. "Well, really," murmured the lady in the doorway, stiffly, "it had not occurred to me that that was hardly--necessary." "But it was!--don't you see? This is new, all new. I never saw anything like it before; and I do so love new things. It gives me something new to play; don't you understand?" "New--to play?" "Yes--on my violin," explained David, a little breathlessly, softly testing his violin. "There's always something new in this, you know," he hurried on, as he tightened one of the strings, "when there's anything new outside. Now, listen! You see I don't know myself just how it's going to sound, and I'm always so anxious to find out." And with a joyously rapt face he began to play. "But, see here, boy,--you mustn't! You--" The words died on her lips; and, to her unbounded amazement, Miss Barbara Holbrook, who had intended peremptorily to send this persistent little tramp boy about his business, found herself listening to a melody so compelling in its sonorous beauty that she was left almost speechless at its close. It was the boy who spoke. "There, I told you my violin would know what to say!" "'What to say'!--well, that's more than I do" laughed Miss Holbrook, a little hysterically. "Boy, come here and tell me who you are." And she led the way to a low divan that stood near a harp at the far end of the room. It was the same story, told as David had told it to Jack and Jill a few days before, only this time David's eyes were roving admiringly all about the room, resting oftenest on the harp so near him. "Did that make the music that I heard?" he asked eagerly, as soon as Miss Holbrook's questions gave him opportunity. "It's got strings." "Yes. I was playing when you came in. I saw you enter the window. Really, David, are you in the habit of walking into people's houses like this? It is most disconcerting--to their owners." "Yes--no--well, sometimes." David's eyes were still on the harp. "Lady of the Roses, won't you please play again--on that?" "David, you are incorrigible! Why did you come into my house like this?" "The music said 'come'; and the towers, too. You see, I KNOW the towers." "You KNOW them!" "Yes. I can see them from so many places, and I always watch for them. They show best of anywhere, though, from Jack and Jill's. And now won't you play?" Miss Holbrook had almost risen to her feet when she turned abruptly. "From--where?" she asked. "From Jack and Jill's--the House that Jack Built, you know." "You mean--Mr. John Gurnsey's house?" A deeper color had come into Miss Holbrook's cheeks. "Yes. Over there at the top of the little hill across the brook, you know. You can't see THEIR house from here, but from over there we can see the towers finely, and the little window--Oh, Lady of the Roses," he broke off excitedly, at the new thought that had come to him, "if we, now, were in that little window, we COULD see their house. Let's go up. Can't we?" Explicit as this was, Miss Holbrook evidently did not hear, or at least did not understand, this request. She settled back on the divan, indeed, almost determinedly. Her cheeks were very red now. "And do you know--this Mr. Jack?" she asked lightly. "Yes, and Jill, too. Don't you? I like them, too. DO you know them?" Again Miss Holbrook ignored the question put to her. "And did you walk into their house, unannounced and uninvited, like this?" she queried. "No. He asked me. You see he wanted to get off some of the dirt and blood before other folks saw me." "The dirt and--and--why, David, what do you mean? What was it--an accident?" David frowned and reflected a moment. "No. I did it on purpose. I HAD to, you see," he finally elucidated. "But there were six of them, and I got the worst of it." "David!" Miss Holbrook's voice was horrified. "You don't mean--a fight!" "Yes'm. I wanted the cat--and I got it, but I wouldn't have if Mr. Jack hadn't come to help me." "Oh! So Mr. Jack--fought, too?" "Well, he pulled the others off, and of course that helped me," explained David truthfully. "And then he took me home--he and Jill." "Jill! Was she in it?" "No, only her cat. They had tied a bag over its head and a tin can to its tail, and of course I couldn't let them do that. They were hurting her. And now, Lady of the Roses, won't you please play?" For a moment Miss Holbrook did not speak. She was gazing at David with an odd look in her eyes. At last she drew a long sigh. "David, you are the--the LIMIT!" she breathed, as she rose and seated herself at the harp. David was manifestly delighted with her playing, and begged for more when she had finished; but Miss Holbrook shook her head. She seemed to have grown suddenly restless, and she moved about the room calling David's attention to something new each moment. Then, very abruptly, she suggested that they go upstairs. From room to room she hurried the boy, scarcely listening to his ardent comments, or answering his still more ardent questions. Not until they reached the highest tower room, indeed, did she sink wearily into a chair, and seem for a moment at rest. David looked about him in surprise. Even his untrained eye could see that he had entered a different world. There were no sumptuous rugs, no silken hangings; no mirrors, no snowflake curtains. There were books, to be sure, but besides those there were only a plain low table, a work-basket, and three or four wooden-seated though comfortable chairs. With increasing wonder he looked into Miss Holbrook's eyes. "Is it here that you stay--all day?" he asked diffidently. Miss Holbrook's face turned a vivid scarlet. "Why, David, what a question! Of course not! Why should you think I did?" "Nothing; only I've been wondering all the time I've been here how you could--with all those beautiful things around you downstairs--say what you did." "Say what?--when?" "That other day in the garden--about ALL your hours being cloudy ones. So I didn't know to-day but what you LIVED up here, same as Mrs. Holly doesn't use her best rooms; and that was why your hours were all cloudy ones." With a sudden movement Miss Holbrook rose to her feet. "Nonsense, David! You shouldn't always remember everything that people say to you. Come, you haven't seen one of the views from the windows yet. We are in the larger tower, you know. You can see Hinsdale village on this side, and there's a fine view of the mountains over there. Oh yes, and from the other side there's your friend's house--Mr. Jack's. By the way, how is Mr. Jack these days?" Miss Holbrook stooped as she asked the question and picked up a bit of thread from the rug. David ran at once to the window that looked toward the House that Jack Built. From the tower the little house appeared to be smaller than ever. It was in the shadow, too, and looked strangely alone and forlorn. Unconsciously, as he gazed at it, David compared it with the magnificence he had just seen. His voice choked as he answered. "He isn't well, Lady of the Roses, and he's unhappy. He's awfully unhappy." Miss Holbrook's slender figure came up with a jerk. "What do you mean, boy? How do you know he's unhappy? Has he said so?" "No; but Mrs. Holly told me about him. He's sick; and he'd just found his work to do out in the world when he had to stop and come home. But--oh, quick, there he is! See?" Instead of coming nearer Miss Holbrook fell back to the center of the room; but her eyes were still turned toward the little house. "Yes, I see," she murmured. The next instant she had snatched a handkerchief from David's outstretched hand. "No--no--I wouldn't wave," she remonstrated hurriedly. "Come--come downstairs with me." "But I thought--I was sure he was looking this way," asserted David, turning reluctantly from the window. "And if he HAD seen me wave to him, he'd have been so glad; now, wouldn't he?" There was no answer. The Lady of the Roses did not apparently hear. She had gone on down the stairway. CHAPTER XV SECRETS David had so much to tell Jack and Jill that he went to see them the very next day after his second visit to Sunnycrest. He carried his violin with him. He found, however, only Jill at home. She was sitting on the veranda steps. There was not so much embarrassment between them this time, perhaps because they were in the freedom of the wide out-of-doors, and David felt more at ease. He was plainly disappointed, however, that Mr. Jack was not there. "But I wanted to see him! I wanted to see him 'specially," he lamented. "You'd better stay, then. He'll be home by and by," comforted Jill. "He's gone pot-boiling." "Pot-boiling! What's that?" Jill chuckled. "Well, you see, really it's this way: he sells something to boil in other people's pots so he can have something to boil in ours, he says. It's stuff from the garden, you know. We raise it to sell. Poor Jack--and he does hate it so!" David nodded sympathetically. "I know--and it must be awful, just hoeing and weeding all the time." "Still, of course he knows he's got to do it, because it's out of doors, and he just has to be out of doors all he can," rejoined the girl. "He's sick, you know, and sometimes he's so unhappy! He doesn't say much. Jack never says much--only with his face. But I know, and it--it just makes me want to cry." At David's dismayed exclamation Jill jumped to her feet. It owned to her suddenly that she was telling this unknown boy altogether too many of the family secrets. She proposed at once a race to the foot of the hill; and then, to drive David's mind still farther away from the subject under recent consideration, she deliberately lost, and proclaimed him the victor. Very soon, however, there arose new complications in the shape of a little gate that led to a path which, in its turn, led to a footbridge across the narrow span of the little stream. Above the trees on the other side peeped the top of Sunnycrest's highest tower. "To the Lady of the Roses!" cried David eagerly. "I know it goes there. Come, let's see!" The little girl shook her head. "I can't." "Why not?" "Jack won't let me." "But it goes to a beautiful place; I was there yesterday," argued David. "And I was up in the tower and almost waved to Mr. Jack on the piazza back there. I saw him. And maybe she'd let you and me go up there again to-day." "But I can't, I say," repeated Jill, a little impatiently. "Jack won't let me even start." "Why not? Maybe he doesn't know where it goes to." Jill hung her head. Then she raised it defiantly. "Oh, yes, he does, 'cause I told him. I used to go when I was littler and he wasn't here. I went once, after he came,--halfway,--and he saw me and called to me. I had got halfway across the bridge, but I had to come back. He was very angry, yet sort of--queer, too. His face was all stern and white, and his lips snapped tight shut after every word. He said never, never, never to let him find me the other side of that gate." David frowned as they turned to go up the hill. Unhesitatingly he determined to instruct Mr. Jack in this little matter. He would tell him what a beautiful place Sunnycrest was, and he would try to convince him how very desirable it was that he and Jill, and even Mr. Jack himself, should go across the bridge at the very first opportunity that offered. Mr. Jack came home before long, but David quite forgot to speak of the footbridge just then, chiefly because Mr. Jack got out his violin and asked David to come in and play a duet with him. The duet, however, soon became a solo, for so great was Mr. Jack's delight in David's playing that he placed before the boy one sheet of music after another, begging and still begging for more. David, nothing loath, played on and on. Most of the music he knew, having already learned it in his mountain home. Like old friends the melodies seemed, and so glad was David to see their notes again that he finished each production with a little improvised cadenza of ecstatic welcome--to Mr. Jack's increasing surprise and delight. "Great Scott! you're a wonder, David," he exclaimed, at last. "Pooh! as if that was anything wonderful," laughed the boy. "Why, I knew those ages ago, Mr. Jack. It's only that I'm so glad to see them again--the notes, you know. You see, I haven't any music now. It was all in the bag (what we brought), and we left that on the way." "You left it!" "Yes, 't was so, heavy" murmured David abstractedly, his fingers busy with the pile of music before him. "Oh, and here's another one," he cried exultingly. "This is where the wind sighs, 'oou--OOU--OOU' through the pines. Listen!" And he was away again on the wings of his violin. When he had returned Mr. Jack drew a long breath. "David, you are a wonder," he declared again. "And that violin of yours is a wonder, too, if I'm not mistaken,--though I don't know enough to tell whether it's really a rare one or not. Was it your father's?" "Oh, no. He had one, too, and they both are good ones. Father said so. Joe's got father's now." "Joe?" "Joe Glaspell." "You don't mean Widow Glaspell's Joe, the blind boy? I didn't know he could play." "He couldn't till I showed him. But he likes to hear me play. And he understood--right away, I mean." "UNDERSTOOD!" "What I was playing, you know. And he was almost the first one that did--since father went away. And now I play every time I go there. Joe says he never knew before how trees and grass and sunsets and sunrises and birds and little brooks did look, till I told him with my violin. Now he says he thinks he can see them better than I can, because as long as his OUTSIDE eyes can't see anything, they can't see those ugly things all around him, and so he can just make his INSIDE eyes see only the beautiful things that he'd LIKE to see. And that's the kind he does see when I play. That's why I said he understood." For a moment there was silence. In Mr. Jack's eyes there was an odd look as they rested on David's face. Then, abruptly, he spoke. "David, I wish I had money. I'd put you then where you belonged," he sighed. "Do you mean--where I'd find my work to do?" asked the boy softly. "Well--yes; you might say it that way," smiled the man, after a moment's hesitation--not yet was Mr. Jack quite used to this boy who was at times so very un-boylike. "Father told me 't was waiting for me--somewhere." Mr. Jack frowned thoughtfully. "And he was right, David. The only trouble is, we like to pick it out for ourselves, pretty well,--too well, as we find out sometimes, when we're called off--for another job." "I know, Mr. Jack, I know," breathed David. And the man, looking into the glowing dark eyes, wondered at what he found there. It was almost as if the boy really understood about his own life's disappointment--and cared; though that, of course, could not be! "And it's all the harder to keep ourselves in tune then, too, is n't it?" went on David, a little wistfully. "In tune?" "With the rest of the Orchestra." "Oh!" And Mr. Jack, who had already heard about the "Orchestra of Life," smiled a bit sadly. "That's just it, my boy. And if we're handed another instrument to play on than the one we WANT to play on, we're apt to--to let fly a discord. Anyhow, I am. But"--he went on more lightly--"now, in your case, David, little as I know about the violin, I know enough to understand that you ought to be where you can take up your study of it again; where you can hear good music, and where you can be among those who know enough to appreciate what you do." David's eyes sparkled. "And where there wouldn't be any pulling weeds or hoeing dirt?" "Well, I hadn't thought of including either of those pastimes." "My, but I would like that, Mr. Jack!--but THAT wouldn't be WORK, so that couldn't be what father meant." David's face fell. "Hm-m; well, I wouldn't worry about the 'work' part," laughed Mr. Jack, "particularly as you aren't going to do it just now. There's the money, you know,--and we haven't got that." "And it takes money?" "Well--yes. You can't get those things here in Hinsdale, you know; and it takes money, to get away, and to live away after you get there." A sudden light transfigured David's face. "Mr. Jack, would gold do it?--lots of little round gold-pieces?" "I think it would, David, if there were enough of them." "Many as a hundred?" "Sure--if they were big enough. Anyway, David, they'd start you, and I'm thinking you wouldn't need but a start before you'd be coining gold-pieces of your own out of that violin of yours. But why? Anybody you know got as 'many as a hundred' gold-pieces he wants to get rid of?" For a moment David, his delighted thoughts flying to the gold-pieces in the chimney cupboard of his room, was tempted to tell his secret. Then he remembered the woman with the bread and the pail of milk, and decided not to. He would wait. When he knew Mr. Jack better--perhaps then he would tell; but not now. NOW Mr. Jack might think he was a thief, and that he could not bear. So he took up his violin and began to play; and in the charm of the music Mr. Jack seemed to forget the gold-pieces--which was exactly what David had intended should happen. Not until David had said good-bye some time later, did he remember the purpose--the special purpose--for which he had come. He turned back with a radiant face. "Oh, and Mr. Jack, I 'most forgot," he cried. "I was going to tell you. I saw you yesterday--I did, and I almost waved to you." "Did you? Where were you?" "Over there in the window--the tower window" he crowed jubilantly. "Oh, you went again, then, I suppose, to see Miss Holbrook." The man's voice sounded so oddly cold and distant that David noticed it at once. He was reminded suddenly of the gate and the footbridge which Jill was forbidden to cross; but he dared not speak of it then--not when Mr. Jack looked like that. He did say, however:-- "Oh, but, Mr. Jack, it's such a beautiful place! You don't know what a beautiful place it is." "Is it? Then, you like it so much?" "Oh, so much! But--didn't you ever--see it?" "Why, yes, I believe I did, David, long ago," murmured Mr. Jack with what seemed to David amazing indifference. "And did you see HER--my Lady of the Roses?" "Why, y--yes--I believe so." "And is THAT all you remember about it?" resented David, highly offended. The man gave a laugh--a little short, hard laugh that David did not like. "But, let me see; you said you almost waved, didn't you? Why did n't you, quite?" asked the man. David drew himself suddenly erect. Instinctively he felt that his Lady of the Roses needed defense. "Because SHE didn't want me to; so I didn't, of course," he rejoined with dignity. "She took away my handkerchief." "I'll warrant she did," muttered the man, behind his teeth. Aloud he only laughed again, as he turned away. David went on down the steps, dissatisfied vaguely with himself, with Mr. Jack, and even with the Lady of the Roses. CHAPTER XVI DAVID'S CASTLE IN SPAIN On his return from the House that Jack Built, David decided to count his gold-pieces. He got them out at once from behind the books, and stacked them up in little shining rows. As he had surmised, there were a hundred of them. There were, indeed, a hundred and six. He was pleased at that. One hundred and six were surely enough to give him a "start." A start! David closed his eyes and pictured it. To go on with his violin, to hear good music, to be with people who understood what he said when he played! That was what Mr. Jack had said a "start" was. And this gold--these round shining bits of gold--could bring him this! David swept the little piles into a jingling heap, and sprang to his feet with both fists full of his suddenly beloved wealth. With boyish glee he capered about the room, jingling the coins in his hands. Then, very soberly, he sat down again, and began to gather the gold to put away. He would be wise--he would be sensible. He would watch his chance, and when it came he would go away. First, however, he would tell Mr. Jack and Joe, and the Lady of the Roses; yes, and the Hollys, too. Just now there seemed to be work, real work that he could do to help Mr. Holly. But later, possibly when September came and school,--they had said he must go to school,--he would tell them then, and go away instead. He would see. By that time they would believe him, perhaps, when he showed the gold-pieces. They would not think he had--STOLEN them. It was August now; he would wait. But meanwhile he could think--he could always be thinking of the wonderful thing that this gold was one day to bring to him. Even work, to David, did not seem work now. In the morning he was to rake hay behind the men with the cart. Yesterday he had not liked it very well; but now--nothing mattered now. And with a satisfied sigh David put his precious gold away again behind the books in the cupboard. David found a new song in his violin the next morning. To be sure, he could not play it--much of it--until four o'clock in the afternoon came; for Mr. Holly did not like violins to be played in the morning, even on days that were not especially the Lord's. There was too much work to do. So David could only snatch a strain or two very, very softly, while he was dressing; but that was enough to show him what a beautiful song it was going to be. He knew what it was, at once, too. It was the gold-pieces, and what they would bring. All through the day it tripped through his consciousness, and danced tantalizingly just out of reach. Yet he was wonderfully happy, and the day seemed short in spite of the heat and the weariness. At four o'clock he hurried home and put his violin quickly in tune. It came then--that dancing sprite of tantalization--and joyously abandoned itself to the strings of the violin, so that David knew, of a surety, what a beautiful song it was. It was this song that sent him the next afternoon to see his Lady of the Roses. He found her this time out of doors in her garden. Unceremoniously, as usual, he rushed headlong into her presence. "Oh, Lady--Lady of the Roses," he panted. "I've found out, and I came quickly to tell you." "Why, David, what--what do you mean?" Miss Holbrook looked unmistakably startled. "About the hours, you know,--the unclouded ones," explained David eagerly. "You know you said they were ALL cloudy to you." Miss Holbrook's face grew very white. "You mean--you've found out WHY my hours are--are all cloudy ones?" she stammered. "No, oh, no. I can't imagine why they are," returned David, with an emphatic shake of his head. "It's just that I've found a way to make all my hours sunny ones, and you can do it, too. So I came to tell you. You know you said yours were all cloudy." "Oh," ejaculated Miss Holbrook, falling back into her old listless attitude. Then, with some asperity: "Dear me, David! Did n't I tell you not to be remembering that all the time?" "Yes, I know, but I've LEARNED something," urged the boy; "something that you ought to know. You see, I did think, once, that because you had all these beautiful things around you, the hours ought to be all sunny ones. But now I know it isn't what's around you; it's what is IN you!" "Oh, David, David, you curious boy!" "No, but really! Let me tell you," pleaded David. "You know I haven't liked them,--all those hours till four o'clock came,--and I was so glad, after I saw the sundial, to find out that they didn't count, anyhow. But to-day they HAVE counted--they've all counted, Lady of the Roses; and it's just because there was something inside of me that shone and shone, and made them all sunny--those hours." "Dear me! And what was this wonderful thing?" David smiled, but he shook his head. "I can't tell you that yet--in words; but I'll play it. You see, I can't always play them twice alike,--those little songs that I find,--but this one I can. It sang so long in my head, before my violin had a chance to tell me what it really was, that I sort of learned it. Now, listen!" And he began to play. It was, indeed, a beautiful song, and Miss Holbrook said so with promptness and enthusiasm; yet still David frowned. "Yes, yes," he answered, "but don't you see? That was telling you about something inside of me that made all my hours sunshiny ones. Now, what you want is something inside of you to make yours sunshiny, too. Don't you see?" An odd look came into Miss Holbrook's eyes. "That's all very well for you to say, David, but you haven't told me yet, you know, just what it is that's made all this brightness for you." The boy changed his position, and puckered his forehead into a deeper frown. "I don't seem to explain so you can understand," he sighed. "It isn't the SPECIAL thing. It's only that it's SOMETHING. And it's thinking about it that does it. Now, mine wouldn't make yours shine, but--still,"--he broke off, a happy relief in his eyes,--"yours could be LIKE mine, in one way. Mine is something that is going to happen to me--something just beautiful; and you could have that, you know,--something that was going to happen to you, to think about." Miss Holbrook smiled, but only with her lips, Her eyes had grown somber. "But there isn't anything 'just beautiful' going to happen to me, David," she demurred. "There could, couldn't there?" Miss Holbrook bit, her lip; then she gave an odd little laugh that seemed, in some way, to go with the swift red that had come to her cheeks. "I used to think there could--once," she admitted; "but I've given that up long ago. It--it didn't happen." "But couldn't you just THINK it was going to?" persisted the boy. "You see I found out yesterday that it's the THINKING that does it. All day long I was thinking--only thinking. I wasn't DOING it, at all. I was really raking behind the cart; but the hours all were sunny." Miss Holbrook laughed now outright. "What a persistent little mental-science preacher you are!" she exclaimed. "And there's truth--more truth than you know--in it all, too. But I can't do it, David,--not that--not that. 'T would take more than THINKING--to bring that," she added, under her breath, as if to herself. "But thinking does bring things," maintained David earnestly. "There's Joe--Joe Glaspell. His mother works out all day; and he's blind." "Blind? Oh-h!" shuddered Miss Holbrook. "Yes; and he has to stay all alone, except for Betty, and she is n't there much. He THINKS ALL his things. He has to. He can't SEE anything with his outside eyes. But he sees everything with his inside eyes--everything that I play. Why, Lady of the Roses, he's even seen this--all this here. I told him about it, you know, right away after I'd found you that first day: the big trees and the long shadows across the grass, and the roses, and the shining water, and the lovely marble people peeping through the green leaves; and the sundial, and you so beautiful sitting here in the middle of it all. Then I played it for him; and he said he could see it all just as plain! And THAT was with his inside eyes! And so, if Joe, shut up there in his dark little room, can make his THINK bring him all that, I should think that YOU, here in this beautiful, beautiful place, could make your think bring you anything you wanted it to." But Miss Holbrook sighed again and shook her head. "Not that, David, not that," she murmured. "It would take more than thinking to bring--that." Then, with a quick change of manner, she cried: "Come, come, suppose we don't worry any more about MY hours. Let's think of yours. Tell me, what have you been doing since I saw you last? Perhaps you have been again to--to see Mr. Jack, for instance." "I have; but I saw Jill mostly, till the last." David hesitated, then he blurted it out: "Lady of the Roses, do you know about the gate and the footbridge?" Miss Holbrook looked up quickly. "Know--what, David?" "Know about them--that they're there?" "Why--yes, of course; at least, I suppose you mean the footbridge that crosses the little stream at the foot of the hill over there." "That's the one." Again David hesitated, and again he blurted out the burden of his thoughts. "Lady of the Roses, did you ever--cross that bridge?" Miss Holbrook stirred uneasily. "Not--recently." "But you don't MIND folks crossing it?" "Certainly not--if they wish to." "There! I knew 't wasn't your blame," triumphed David. "MY blame!" "Yes; that Mr. Jack wouldn't let Jill come across, you know. He called her back when she'd got halfway over once." Miss Holbrook's face changed color. "But I do object," she cried sharply, "to their crossing it when they DON'T want to! Don't forget that, please." "But Jill did want to." "How about her brother--did he want her to?" "N--no." "Very well, then. I didn't, either." David frowned. Never had he seen his beloved Lady of the Roses look like this before. He was reminded of what Jill had said about Jack: "His face was all stern and white, and his lips snapped tight shut after every word." So, too, looked Miss Holbrook's face; so, too, had her lips snapped tight shut after her last words. David could not understand it. He said nothing more, however; but, as was usually the case when he was perplexed, he picked up his violin and began to play. And as he played, there gradually came to Miss Holbrook's eyes a softer light, and to her lips lines less tightly drawn. Neither the footbridge nor Mr. Jack, however, was mentioned again that afternoon. CHAPTER XVII "THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER" It was in the early twilight that Mr. Jack told the story. He, Jill, and David were on the veranda, as usual watching the towers of Sunnycrest turn from gold to silver as the sun dropped behind the hills. It was Jill who had asked for the story. "About fairies and princesses, you know," she had ordered. "But how will David like that?" Mr. Jack had demurred. "Maybe he doesn't care for fairies and princesses." "I read one once about a prince--'t was 'The Prince and the Pauper,' and I liked that," averred David stoutly. Mr. Jack smiled; then his brows drew together in a frown. His eyes were moodily fixed on the towers. "Hm-m; well," he said, "I might, I suppose, tell you a story about a PRINCESS and--a Pauper. I--know one well enough." "Good!--then tell it," cried both Jill and David. And Mr. Jack began his story. "She was not always a Princess, and he was not always a Pauper,--and that's where the story came in, I suppose," sighed the man. "She was just a girl, once, and he was a boy; and they played together and--liked each other. He lived in a little house on a hill." "Like this?" demanded Jill. "Eh? Oh--er--yes, SOMETHING like this," returned Mr. Jack, with an odd half-smile. "And she lived in another bit of a house in a town far away from the boy." "Then how could they play together?" questioned David. "They couldn't, ALWAYS. It was only summers when she came to visit in the boy's town. She was very near him then, for the old aunt whom she visited lived in a big stone house with towers, on another hill, in plain sight from the boy's home." "Towers like those--where the Lady of the Roses lives?" asked David. "Eh? What? Oh--er--yes," murmured Mr. Jack. "We'll say the towers were something like those over there." He paused, then went on musingly: "The girl used to signal, sometimes, from one of the tower windows. One wave of the handkerchief meant, 'I'm coming, over'; two waves, with a little pause between, meant, 'You are to come over here.' So the boy used to wait always, after that first wave to see if another followed; so that he might know whether he were to be host or guest that day. The waves always came at eight o'clock in the morning, and very eagerly the boy used to watch for them all through the summer when the girl was there." "Did they always come, every morning?" Asked Jill. "No; sometimes the girl had other things to do. Her aunt would want her to go somewhere with her, or other cousins were expected whom the girl must entertain; and she knew the boy did not like other guests to be there when he was, so she never asked him to come over at such times. On such occasions she did sometimes run up to the tower at eight o'clock and wave three times, and that meant, 'Dead Day.' So the boy, after all, never drew a real breath of relief until he made sure that no dreaded third wave was to follow the one or the two." "Seems to me," observed David, "that all this was sort of one-sided. Didn't the boy say anything?" "Oh, yes," smiled Mr. Jack. "But the boy did not have any tower to wave from, you must remember. He had only the little piazza on his tiny bit of a house. But he rigged up a pole, and he asked his mother to make him two little flags, a red and a blue one. The red meant 'All right'; and the blue meant 'Got to work'; and these he used to run up on his pole in answer to her waving 'I'm coming over,' or 'You are to come over here.' So, you see, occasionally it was the boy who had to bring the 'Dead Day,' as there were times when he had to work. And, by the way, perhaps you would be interested to know that after a while he thought up a third flag to answer her three waves. He found an old black silk handkerchief of his father's, and he made that into a flag. He told the girl it meant 'I'm heartbroken,' and he said it was a sign of the deepest mourning. The girl laughed and tipped her head saucily to one side, and said, 'Pooh! as if you really cared!' But the boy stoutly maintained his position, and it was that, perhaps, which made her play the little joke one day. "The boy was fourteen that summer, and the girl thirteen. They had begun their signals years before, but they had not had the black one so long. On this day that I tell you of, the girl waved three waves, which meant, 'Dead Day,' you remember, and watched until the boy had hoisted his black flag which said, 'I'm heart-broken,' in response. Then, as fast as her mischievous little feet could carry her, she raced down one hill and across to the other. Very stealthily she advanced till she found the boy bent over a puzzle on the back stoop, and--and he was whistling merrily. "How she teased him then! How she taunted him with 'Heart-broken, indeed--and whistling like that!' In vain he blushed and stammered, and protested that his whistling was only to keep up his spirits. The girl only laughed and tossed her yellow curls; then she hunted till she found some little jingling bells, and these she tied to the black badge of mourning and pulled it high up on the flagpole. The next instant she was off with a run and a skip, and a saucy wave of her hand; and the boy was left all alone with an hour's work ahead of him to untie the knots from his desecrated badge of mourning. "And yet they were wonderfully good friends--this boy and girl. From the very first, when they were seven and eight, they had said that they would marry each other when they grew up, and always they spoke of it as the expected thing, and laid many happy plans for the time when it should come. To be sure, as they grew older, it was not mentioned quite so often, perhaps; but the boy at least thought--if he thought of it all--that that was only because it was already so well understood." "What did the girl think?" It was Jill who asked the question. "Eh? The girl? Oh," answered Mr. Jack, a little bitterly, "I'm afraid I don't know exactly what the girl did think, but--it was n't that, anyhow--that is, judging from what followed." "What did follow?" "Well, to begin with, the old aunt died. The girl was sixteen then. It was in the winter that this happened, and the girl was far away at school. She came to the funeral, however, but the boy did not see her, save in the distance; and then he hardly knew her, so strange did she look in her black dress and hat. She was there only two days, and though he gazed wistfully up at the gray tower, he knew well enough that of course she could not wave to him at such a time as that. Yet he had hoped--almost believed that she would wave two waves that last day, and let him go over to see her. "But she didn't wave, and he didn't go over. She went away. And then the town learned a wonderful thing. The old lady, her aunt, who had been considered just fairly rich, turned out to be the possessor of almost fabulous wealth, owing to her great holdings of stock in a Western gold mine which had suddenly struck it rich. And to the girl she willed it all. It was then, of course, that the girl became the Princess, but the boy did not realize that--just then. To him she was still 'the girl.' "For three years he did not see her. She was at school, or traveling abroad, he heard. He, too, had been away to school, and was, indeed, just ready to enter college. Then, that summer, he heard that she was coming to the old home, and his heart sang within him. Remember, to him she was still the girl. He knew, of course, that she was not the LITTLE girl who had promised to marry him. But he was sure she was the merry comrade, the true-hearted young girl who used to smile frankly into his eyes, and whom he was now to win for his wife. You see he had forgotten--quite forgotten about the Princess and the money. Such a foolish, foolish boy as he was! "So he got out his flags gleefully, and one day, when his mother wasn't in the kitchen, he ironed out the wrinkles and smoothed them all ready to be raised on the pole. He would be ready when the girl waved--for of course she would wave; he would show her that he had not forgotten. He could see just how the sparkle would come to her eyes, and just how the little fine lines of mischief would crinkle around her nose when she was ready to give that first wave. He could imagine that she would like to find him napping; that she would like to take him by surprise, and make him scurry around for his flags to answer her. "But he would show her! As if she, a girl, were to beat him at their old game! He wondered which it would be: 'I'm coming over,' or, 'You are to come over here.' Whichever it was, he would answer, of course, with the red 'All right.' Still, it WOULD be a joke to run up the blue 'Got to work,' and then slip across to see her, just as she, so long ago, had played the joke on him! On the whole, however, he thought the red flag would be better. And it was that one which he laid uppermost ready to his hand, when he arranged them. "At last she came. He heard of it at once. It was already past four o'clock, but he could not forbear, even then, to look toward the tower. It would be like her, after all, to wave then, that very night, just so as to catch him napping, he thought. She did not wave, however. The boy was sure of that, for he watched the tower till dark. "In the morning, long before eight o'clock, the boy was ready. He debated for some time whether to stand out of doors on the piazza, or to hide behind the screened window, where he could still watch the tower. He decided at last that it would be better not to let her see him when she looked toward the house; then his triumph would be all the more complete when he dashed out to run up his answer. "Eight o'clock came and passed. The boy waited until nine, but there was no sign of life from the tower. The boy was angry then, at himself. He called himself, indeed, a fool, to hide as he did. Of course she wouldn't wave when he was nowhere in sight--when he had apparently forgotten! And here was a whole precious day wasted! "The next morning, long before eight, the boy stood in plain sight on the piazza. As before he waited until nine; and as before there was no sign of life at the tower window. The next morning he was there again, and the next, and the next. It took just five days, indeed, to convince the boy--as he was convinced at last--that the girl did not intend to wave at all." "But how unkind of her!" exclaimed David. "She couldn't have been nice one bit!" decided Jill. "You forget," said Mr. Jack. "She was the Princess." "Huh!" grunted Jill and David in unison. "The boy remembered it then," went on Mr. Jack, after a pause,--"about the money, and that she was a Princess. And of course he knew--when he thought of it--that he could not expect that a Princess would wave like a girl--just a girl. Besides, very likely she did not care particularly about seeing him. Princesses did forget, he fancied,--they had so much, so very much to fill their lives. It was this thought that kept him from going to see her--this, and the recollection that, after all, if she really HAD wanted to see him, she could have waved. "There came a day, however, when another youth, who did not dare to go alone, persuaded him, and together they paid her a call. The boy understood, then, many things. He found the Princess; there was no sign of the girl. The Princess was tall and dignified, with a cold little hand and a smooth, sweet voice. There was no frank smile in her eyes, neither were there any mischievous crinkles about her nose and lips. There was no mention of towers or flags; no reference to wavings or to childhood's days. There was only a stiffly polite little conversation about colleges and travels, with a word or two about books and plays. Then the callers went home. On the way the boy smiled scornfully to himself. He was trying to picture the beauteous vision he had seen, this unapproachable Princess in her filmy lace gown,--standing in the tower window and waving--waving to a bit of a house on the opposite hill. As if that could happen! "The boy, during those last three years, had known only books. He knew little of girls--only one girl--and he knew still less of Princesses. So when, three days after the call, there came a chance to join a summer camp with a man who loved books even better than did the boy himself, he went gladly. Once he had refused to go on this very trip; but then there had been the girl. Now there was only the Princess--and the Princess didn't count." "Like the hours that aren't sunshiny," interpreted David. "Yes," corroborated Mr. Jack. "Like the hours when the sun does n't shine." "And then?" prompted Jill. "Well, then,--there wasn't much worth telling," rejoined Mr. Jack gloomily. "Two more years passed, and the Princess grew to be twenty-one. She came into full control of her property then, and after a while she came back to the old stone house with the towers and turned it into a fairyland of beauty. She spent money like water. All manner of artists, from the man who painted her ceilings to the man who planted her seeds, came and bowed to her will. From the four corners of the earth she brought her treasures and lavished them through the house and grounds. Then, every summer, she came herself, and lived among them, a very Princess indeed." "And the boy?--what became of the boy?" demanded David. "Didn't he see her--ever?" Mr. Jack shook his head. "Not often, David; and when he did, it did not make him any--happier. You see, the boy had become the Pauper; you must n't forget that." "But he wasn't a Pauper when you left him last." "Wasn't he? Well, then, I'll tell you about that. You see, the boy, even though he did go away, soon found out that in his heart the Princess was still the girl, just the same. He loved her, and he wanted her to be his wife; so for a little--for a very little--he was wild enough to think that he might work and study and do great things in the world until he was even a Prince himself, and then he could marry the Princess." "Well, couldn't he?" "No. To begin with, he lost his health. Then, away back in the little house on the hill something happened--a something that left a very precious charge for him to keep; and he had to go back and keep it, and to try to see if he couldn't find that lost health, as well. And that is all." "All! You don't mean that that is the end!" exclaimed Jill. "That's the end." "But that isn't a mite of a nice end," complained David. "They always get married and live happy ever after--in stories." "Do they?" Mr. Jack smiled a little sadly. "Perhaps they do, David,--in stories." "Well, can't they in this one?" "I don't see how." "Why can't he go to her and ask her to marry him?" Mr. Jack drew himself up proudly. "The Pauper and the Princess? Never! Paupers don't go to Princesses, David, and say, 'I love you.'" David frowned. "Why not? I don't see why--if they want to do it. Seems as if somehow it might be fixed." "It can't be," returned Mr. Jack, his gaze on the towers that crowned the opposite hill; "not so long as always before the Pauper's eyes there are those gray walls behind which he pictures the Princess in the midst of her golden luxury." To neither David nor Jill did the change to the present tense seem strange. The story was much too real to them for that. "Well, anyhow, I think it ought to be fixed," declared David, as he rose to his feet. "So do I--but we can't fix it," laughed Jill. "And I'm hungry. Let's see what there is to eat!" CHAPTER XVIII DAVID TO THE RESCUE It was a beautiful moonlight night, but for once David was not thinking of the moon. All the way to the Holly farmhouse he was thinking of Mr. Jack's story, "The Princess and the Pauper." It held him strangely. He felt that he never could forget it. For some reason that he could not have explained, it made him sad, too, and his step was very quiet as he went up the walk toward the kitchen door. It was after eight o'clock. David had taken supper with Mr. Jack and Jill, and not for some hours had he been at the farmhouse. In the doorway now he stopped short; then instinctively he stepped back into the shadow. In the kitchen a kerosene light was burning. It showed Mrs. Holly crying at the table, and Mr. Holly, white-faced and stern-lipped, staring at nothing. Then Mrs. Holly raised her face, drawn and tear-stained, and asked a trembling question. "Simeon, have you thought? We might go--to John--for--help." David was frightened then, so angry was the look that came into Simeon Holly's face. "Ellen, we'll have no more of this," said the man harshly. "Understand, I'd rather lose the whole thing and--and starve, than go to--John." David fled then. Up the back stairs he crept to his room and left his violin. A moment later he stole down again and sought Perry Larson whom he had seen smoking in the barn doorway. "Perry, what is it?" he asked in a trembling voice. "What has happened--in there?" He pointed toward the house. The man puffed for a moment in silence before he took his pipe from his mouth. "Well, sonny, I s'pose I may as well tell ye. You'll have ter know it sometime, seein' as 't won't be no secret long. They've had a stroke o' bad luck--Mr. an' Mis' Holly has." "What is it?" The man hitched in his seat. "By sugar, boy, I s'pose if I tell ye, there ain't no sartinty that you'll sense it at all. I reckon it ain't in your class." "But what is it?" "Well, it's money--and one might as well talk moonshine to you as money, I s'pose; but here goes it. It's a thousand dollars, boy, that they owed. Here, like this," he explained, rummaging his pockets until he had found a silver dollar to lay on his open palm. "Now, jest imagine a thousand of them; that's heaps an' heaps--more 'n I ever see in my life." "Like the stars?" guessed David. The man nodded. "Ex-ACTLY! Well, they owed this--Mr. an' Mis' Holly did--and they had agreed ter pay it next Sat'day. And they was all right, too. They had it plum saved in the bank, an' was goin' ter draw it Thursday, ter make sure. An' they was feelin' mighty pert over it, too, when ter-day along comes the news that somethin's broke kersmash in that bank, an' they've shet it up. An' nary a cent can the Hollys git now--an' maybe never. Anyhow, not 'fore it's too late for this job." "But won't he wait?--that man they owe it to? I should think he'd have to, if they didn't have it to pay." "Not much he will, when it's old Streeter that's got the mortgage on a good fat farm like this!" David drew his brows together perplexedly. "What is a--a mortgage?" he asked. "Is it anything like a porte-cochere? I KNOW what that is, 'cause my Lady of the Roses has one; but we haven't got that--down here." Perry Larson sighed in exasperation. "Gosh, if that ain't 'bout what I expected of ye! No, it ain't even second cousin to a--a-that thing you're a-talkin' of. In plain wordin', it's jest this: Mr. Holly, he says ter Streeter: 'You give me a thousand dollars and I'll pay ye back on a sartin day; if I don't pay, you can sell my farm fur what it'll bring, an' TAKE yer pay. Well, now here 't is. Mr. Holly can't pay, an' so Streeter will put up the farm fur sale." "What, with Mr. and Mrs. Holly LIVING here?" "Sure! Only they'll have ter git out, ye know." "Where'll they go?" "The Lord knows; I don't." "And is THAT what they're crying for--in there?--because they've got to go?" "Sure!" "But isn't there anything, anywhere, that can be done to--stop it?" "I don't see how, kid,--not unless some one ponies up with the money 'fore next Sat'day,--an' a thousand o' them things don't grow on ev'ry bush," he finished, gently patting the coin in his hand. At the words a swift change came to David's face. His cheeks paled and his eyes dilated in terror. It was as if ahead of him he saw a yawning abyss, eager to engulf him. "And you say--MONEY would--fix it?" he asked thickly. "Ex-ACT-ly!--a thousand o' them, though, 't would take." A dawning relief came into David's eyes--it was as if he saw a bridge across the abyss. "You mean--that there wouldn't ANYTHING do, only silver pieces--like those?" he questioned hopefully. "Sugar, kid, 'course there would! Gosh, but you BE a checkerboard o' sense an' nonsense, an' no mistake! Any money would do the job--any money! Don't ye see? Anything that's money." "Would g-gold do it?" David's voice was very faint now. "Sure!--gold, or silver, or greenbacks, or--or a check, if it had the dough behind it." David did not appear to hear the last. With an oddly strained look he had hung upon the man's first words; but at the end of the sentence he only murmured, "Oh, thank you," and turned away. He was walking slowly now toward the house. His head was bowed. His step lagged. "Now, ain't that jest like that chap," muttered the man, "ter slink off like that as if he was a whipped cur. I'll bet two cents an' a doughnut, too, that in five minutes he'll be what he calls 'playin' it' on that 'ere fiddle o' his. An' I'll be derned, too, if I ain't curious ter see what he WILL make of it. It strikes me this ought ter fetch somethin' first cousin to a dirge!" On the porch steps David paused a breathless instant. From the kitchen came the sound of Mrs. Holly's sobs and of a stern voice praying. With a shudder and a little choking cry the boy turned then and crept softly upstairs to his room. He played, too, as Perry Larson had wagered. But it was not the tragedy of the closed bank, nor the honor of the threatened farm-selling that fell from his violin. It was, instead, the swan song of a little pile of gold--gold which lay now in a chimney cupboard, but which was soon to be placed at the feet of the mourning man and woman downstairs. And in the song was the sob of a boy who sees his house of dreams burn to ashes; who sees his wonderful life and work out in the wide world turn to endless days of weed-pulling and dirt-digging in a narrow valley. There was in the song, too, something of the struggle, the fierce yea and nay of the conflict. But, at the end, there was the wild burst of exaltation of renunciation, so that the man in the barn door below fairly sprang to his feet with an angry:-- "Gosh! if he hain't turned the thing into a jig--durn him! Don't he know more'n that at such a time as this?" Later, a very little later, the shadowy figure of the boy stood before him. "I've been thinking," stammered David, "that maybe I--could help, about that money, you know." "Now, look a-here, boy," exploded Perry, in open exasperation, "as I said in the first place, this ain't in your class. 'T ain't no pink cloud sailin' in the sky, nor a bluebird singin' in a blackb'rry bush. An' you might 'play it'--as you call it--till doomsday, an' 't wouldn't do no good--though I'm free ter confess that your playin' of them 'ere other things sounds real pert an' chirky at times; but 't won't do no good here." David stepped forward, bringing his small, anxious face full into the moonlight. "But 't was the money, Perry; I meant about, the money," he explained. "They were good to me and wanted me when there wasn't any one else that did; and now I'd like to do something for them. There aren't so MANY pieces, and they aren't silver. There's only one hundred and six of them; I counted. But maybe they 'd help some. It--it would be a--start." His voice broke over the once beloved word, then went on with renewed strength. "There, see! Would these do?" And with both hands he held up to view his cap sagging under its weight of gold. Perry Larson's jaw fell open. His eyes bulged. Dazedly he reached out and touched with trembling fingers the heap of shining disks that seemed in the mellow light like little earth-born children of the moon itself. The next instant he recoiled sharply. "Great snakes, boy, where'd you git that money?" he demanded. "Of father. He went to the far country, you know." Perry Larson snorted angrily. "See here, boy, for once, if ye can, talk horse-sense! Surely, even YOU don't expect me ter believe that he's sent you that money from--from where he's gone to!" "Oh, no. He left it." "Left it! Why, boy, you know better! There wa'n't a cent--hardly--found on him." "He gave it to me before--by the roadside." "Gave it to you! Where in the name of goodness has it been since?" "In the little cupboard in my room, behind the books." "Great snakes!" muttered Perry Larson, reaching out his hand and gingerly picking up one of the gold-pieces. David eyed him anxiously. "Won't they--do?" he faltered. "There aren't a thousand; there's only a hundred and six; but--" "Do!" cut in the man, excitedly. He had been examining the gold-piece at close range. "Do! Well, I reckon they'll do. By Jiminy!--and ter think you've had this up yer sleeve all this time! Well, I'll believe anythin' of yer now--anythin'! You can't stump me with nuthin'! Come on." And he hurriedly led the way toward the house. "But they weren't up my sleeve," corrected David, as he tried to keep up with the long strides of the man. "I SAID they were in the cupboard in my room." There was no answer. Larson had reached the porch steps, and had paused there hesitatingly. From the kitchen still came the sound of sobs. Aside from that there was silence. The boy, however, did not hesitate. He went straight up the steps and through the open kitchen door. At the table sat the man and the woman, their eyes covered with their hands. With a swift overturning of his cap, David dumped his burden onto the table, and stepped back respectfully. "If you please, sir, would this--help any?" he asked. At the jingle of the coins Simeon Holly and his wife lifted their heads abruptly. A half-uttered sob died on the woman's lips. A quick cry came from the man's. He reached forth an eager hand and had almost clutched the gold when a sudden change came to his face. With a stern ejaculation he drew back. "Boy, where did that money come from?" he challenged. David sighed in a discouraged way. It seemed that, always, the showing of this gold mean't questioning--eternal questioning. "Surely," continued Simeon Holly, "you did not--" With the boy's frank gaze upturned to his, the man could not finish his sentence. Before David could answer came the voice of Perry Larson from the kitchen doorway. "No, sir, he didn't, Mr. Holly; an' it's all straight, I'm thinkin'--though I'm free ter confess it does sound nutty. His dad give it to him." "His--father! But where--where has it been ever since?" "In the chimney cupboard in his room, he says, sir." Simeon Holly turned in frowning amazement. "David, what does this mean? Why have you kept this gold in a place like that?" "Why, there wasn't anything else to do with it," answered the boy perplexedly. "I hadn't any use for it, you know, and father said to keep it till I needed it." "'Hadn't any use for it'!" blustered Larson from the doorway. "Jiminy! Now, ain't that jest like that boy?" But David hurried on with his explanation. "We never used to use them--father and I--except to buy things to eat and wear; and down here YOU give me those, you know." "Gorry!" interjected Perry Larson. "Do you reckon, boy, that Mr. Holly himself was give them things he gives ter you?" The boy turned sharply, a startled question in his eyes. "What do you mean? Do you mean that--" His face changed suddenly. His cheeks turned a shamed red. "Why, he did--he did have to buy them, of course, just as father did. And I never even thought of it before! Then, it's yours, anyway--it belongs to you," he argued, turning to Farmer Holly, and shoving the gold nearer to his hands. "There isn't enough, maybe--but 't will help!" "They're ten-dollar gold pieces, sir," spoke up Larson importantly; "an' there's a hundred an' six of them. That's jest one thousand an' sixty dollars, as I make it." Simeon Holly, self-controlled man that he was, almost leaped from his chair. "One thousand and sixty dollars!" he gasped. Then, to David: "Boy, in Heaven's name, who are you?" "I don't know--only David." The boy spoke wearily, with a grieved sob in his voice. He was very tired, a good deal perplexed, and a little angry. He wished, if no one wanted this gold, that he could take it upstairs again to the chimney cupboard; or, if they objected to that, that they would at least give it to him, and let him go away now to that beautiful music he was to hear, and to those kind people who were always to understand what he said when he played. "Of course," ventured Perry Larson diffidently, "I ain't professin' ter know any great shakes about the hand of the Lord, Mr. Holly, but it do strike me that this 'ere gold comes mighty near bein' proverdential--fur you." Simeon Holly fell back in his seat. His eyes clung to the gold, but his lips set into rigid lines. "That money is the boy's, Larson. It isn't mine," he said. "He's give it to ye." Simeon Holly shook his head. "David is nothing but a child, Perry. He doesn't realize at all what he is doing, nor how valuable his gift is." "I know, sir, but you DID take him in, when there wouldn't nobody else do it," argued Larson. "An', anyhow, couldn't you make a kind of an I O U of it, even if he is a kid? Then, some day you could pay him back. Meanwhile you'd be a-keepin' him, an' a-schoolin' him; an' that's somethin'." "I know, I know," nodded Simeon Holly thoughtfully, his eyes going from the gold to David's face. Then, aloud, yet as if to himself, he breathed: "Boy, boy, who was your father? How came he by all that gold--and he--a tramp!" David drew himself suddenly erect. His eyes flashed. "I don't know, sir. But I do know this: he didn't STEAL it!" Across the table Mrs. Holly drew a quick breath, but she did not speak--save with her pleading eyes. Mrs. Holly seldom spoke--save with her eyes--when her husband was solving a knotty problem. She was dumfounded now that he should listen so patiently to the man, Larson,--though she was not more surprised than was Larson himself. For both of them, however, there came at this moment a still greater surprise. Simeon Holly leaned forward suddenly, the stern lines quite gone from his lips, and his face working with emotion as he drew David toward him. "You're a good son, boy,--a good loyal son; and--and I wish you were mine! I believe you. He didn't steal it, and I won't steal it, either. But I will use it, since you are so good as to offer it. But it shall be a loan, David, and some day, God helping me, you shall have it back. Meanwhile, you're my boy, David,--my boy!" "Oh, thank you, sir," rejoiced David. "And, really, you know, being wanted like that is better than the start would be, isn't it?" "Better than--what?" David shifted his position. He had not meant to say just that. "N--nothing," he stammered, looking about for a means of quick escape. "I--I was just talking," he finished. And he was immeasurably relieved to find that Mr. Holly did not press the matter further. CHAPTER XIX THE UNBEAUTIFUL WORLD In spite of the exaltation of renunciation, and in spite of the joy of being newly and especially "wanted," those early September days were sometimes hard for David. Not until he had relinquished all hope of his "start" did he fully realize what that hope had meant to him. There were times, to be sure, when there was nothing but rejoicing within him that he was able thus to aid the Hollys. There were other times when there was nothing but the sore heartache because of the great work out in the beautiful world that could now never be done; and because of the unlovely work at hand that must be done. To tell the truth, indeed, David's entire conception of life had become suddenly a chaos of puzzling contradictions. To Mr. Jack, one day, David went with his perplexities. Not that he told him of the gold-pieces and of the unexpected use to which they had been put--indeed, no. David had made up his mind never, if he could help himself, to mention those gold-pieces to any one who did not already know of them. They meant questions, and the questions, explanations. And he had had enough of both on that particular subject. But to Mr. Jack he said one day, when they were alone together:-- "Mr. Jack, how many folks have you got inside of your head?" "Eh--what, David?" David repeated his question and attached an explanation. "I mean, the folks that--that make you do things." Mr. Jack laughed. "Well," he said, "I believe some people make claims to quite a number, and perhaps almost every one owns to a Dr. Jekyll and a Mr. Hyde." "Who are they?" "Never mind, David. I don't think you know the gentlemen, anyhow. They're only something like the little girl with a curl. One is very, very good, indeed, and the other is horrid." "Oh, yes, I know them; they're the ones that come to me," returned David, with a sigh. "I've had them a lot, lately." Mr. Jack stared. "Oh, have you?" "Yes; and that's what's the trouble. How can you drive them off--the one that is bad, I mean?" "Well, really," confessed Mr. Jack, "I'm not sure I can tell. You see--the gentlemen visit me sometimes." "Oh, do they?" "Yes." "I'm so glad--that is, I mean," amended David, in answer to Mr. Jack's uplifted eyebrows, "I'm glad that you understand what I'm talking about. You see, I tried Perry Larson last night on it, to get him to tell me what to do. But he only stared and laughed. He didn't know the names of 'em, anyhow, as you do, and at last he got really almost angry and said I made him feel so 'buggy' and 'creepy' that he wouldn't dare look at himself in the glass if I kept on, for fear some one he'd never known was there should jump out at him." Mr. Jack chuckled. "Well, I suspect, David, that Perry knew one of your gentlemen by the name of 'conscience,' perhaps; and I also suspect that maybe conscience does pretty nearly fill the bill, and that you've been having a bout with that. Eh? Now, what is the trouble? Tell me about it." David stirred uneasily. Instead of answering, he asked another question. "Mr. Jack, it is a beautiful world, isn't it?" For a moment there was no, answer; then a low voice replied:-- "Your father said it was, David." Again David moved restlessly. "Yes; but father was on the mountain. And down here--well, down here there are lots of things that I don't believe he knew about." "What, for instance?" "Why, lots of things--too many to tell. Of course there are things like catching fish, and killing birds and squirrels and other things to eat, and plaguing cats and dogs. Father never would have called those beautiful. Then there are others like little Jimmy Clark who can't walk, and the man at the Marstons' who's sick, and Joe Glaspell who is blind. Then there are still different ones like Mr. Holly's little boy. Perry says he ran away years and years ago, and made his people very unhappy. Father wouldn't call that a beautiful world, would he? And how can people like that always play in tune? And there are the Princess and the Pauper that you told about." "Oh, the story?" "Yes; and people like them can't be happy and think the world is beautiful, of course." "Why not?" "Because they didn't end right. They didn't get married and live happy ever after, you know." "Well, I don't think I'd worry about that, David,--at least, not about the Princess. I fancy the world was very beautiful to her, all right. The Pauper--well, perhaps he wasn't very happy. But, after all, David, you know happiness is something inside of yourself. Perhaps half of these people are happy, in their way." "There! and that's another thing," sighed David. "You see, I found that out--that it was inside of yourself--quite a while ago, and I told the Lady of the Roses. But now I--can't make it work myself." "What's the matter?" "Well, you see then something was going to happen--something that I liked; and I found that just thinking of it made it so that I didn't mind raking or hoeing, or anything like that; and I told the Lady of the Roses. And I told her that even if it wasn't going to happen she could THINK it was going to, and that that would be just the same, because 't was the thinking that made my hours sunny ones. It wasn't the DOING at all. I said I knew because I hadn't DONE it yet. See?" "I--think so, David." "Well, I've found out that it isn't the same at all; for now that I KNOW that this beautiful thing isn't ever going to happen to me, I can think and think all day, and it doesn't do a mite of good. The sun is just as hot, and my back aches just as hard, and the field is just as big and endless as it used to be when I had to call it that those hours didn't count. Now, what is the matter?" Mr. Jack laughed, but he shook his head a little sadly. "You're getting into too deep waters for me, David. I suspect you're floundering in a sea that has upset the boats of sages since the world began. But what is it that was so nice, and that isn't going to happen? Perhaps I MIGHT help on that." "No, you couldn't," frowned David; "and there couldn't anybody, either, you see, because I wouldn't go back now and LET it happen, anyhow, as long as I know what I do. Why, if I did, there wouldn't be ANY hours that were sunny then--not even the ones after four o'clock; I--I'd feel so mean! But what I don't see is just how I can fix it up with the Lady of the Roses." "What has she to do with it?" "Why, at the very first, when she said she didn't have ANY sunshiny hours, I told her--" "When she said what?" interposed Mr. Jack, coming suddenly erect in his chair. "That she didn't have any hours to count, you know." "To--COUNT?" "Yes; it was the sundial. Didn't I tell you? Yes, I know I did--about the words on it--not counting any hours that weren't sunny, you know. And she said she wouldn't have ANY hours to count; that the sun never shone for her." "Why, David," demurred Mr. Jack in a voice that shook a little, "are you sure? Did she say just that? You--you must be mistaken--when she has--has everything to make her happy." "I wasn't, because I said that same thing to her myself--afterwards. And then I told her--when I found out myself, you know--about its being what was inside of you, after all, that counted; and then is when I asked her if she couldn't think of something nice that was going to happen to her sometime." "Well, what did she say?" "She shook her head, and said 'No.' Then she looked away, and her eyes got soft and dark like little pools in the brook where the water stops to rest. And she said she had hoped once that this something would happen; but that it hadn't, and that it would take something more than thinking to bring it. And I know now what she meant, because thinking isn't all that counts, is it?" Mr. Jack did not answer. He had risen to his feet, and was pacing restlessly up and down the veranda. Once or twice he turned his eyes toward the towers of Sunnycrest, and David noticed that there was a new look on his face. Very soon, however, the old tiredness came back to his eyes, and he dropped into his seat again, muttering "Fool! of course it couldn't be--that!" "Be what?" asked David. Mr. Jack started. "Er--nothing; nothing that you would understand, David. Go on--with what you were saying." "There isn't any more. It's all done. It's only that I'm wondering how I'm going to learn here that it's a beautiful world, so that I can--tell father." Mr. Jack roused himself. He had the air of a man who determinedly throws to one side a heavy burden. "Well, David," he smiled, "as I said before, you are still out on that sea where there are so many little upturned boats. There might be a good many ways of answering that question." "Mr. Holly says," mused the boy, aloud, a little gloomily, "that it doesn't make any difference whether we find things beautiful or not; that we're here to do something serious in the world." "That is about what I should have expected of Mr. Holly" retorted Mr. Jack grimly. "He acts it--and looks it. But--I don't believe you are going to tell your father just that." "No, sir, I don't believe I am," accorded David soberly. "I have an idea that you're going to find that answer just where your father said you would--in your violin. See if you don't. Things that aren't beautiful you'll make beautiful--because we find what we are looking for, and you're looking for beautiful things. After all, boy, if we march straight ahead, chin up, and sing our own little song with all our might and main, we shan't come so far amiss from the goal, I'm thinking. There! that's preaching, and I didn't mean to preach; but--well, to tell the truth, that was meant for myself, for--I'm hunting for the beautiful world, too." "Yes, sir, I know," returned David fervently. And again Mr. Jack, looking into the sympathetic, glowing dark eyes, wondered if, after all, David really could--know. Even yet Mr. Jack was not used to David; there were "so many of him," he told himself. There were the boy, the artist, and a third personality so evanescent that it defied being named. The boy was jolly, impetuous, confidential, and delightful--plainly reveling in all manner of fun and frolic. The artist was nothing but a bunch of nervous alertness, ready to find melody and rhythm in every passing thought or flying cloud. The third--that baffling third that defied the naming--was a dreamy, visionary, untouchable creature who floated so far above one's head that one's hand could never pull him down to get a good square chance to see what he did look like. All this thought Mr. Jack as he gazed into David's luminous eyes. CHAPTER XX THE UNFAMILIAR WAY In September David entered the village school. School and David did not assimilate at once. Very confidently the teacher set to work to grade her new pupil; but she was not so confident when she found that while in Latin he was perilously near herself (and in French--which she was not required to teach--disastrously beyond her!), in United States history he knew only the barest outlines of certain portions, and could not name a single battle in any of its wars. In most studies he was far beyond boys of his own age, yet at every turn she encountered these puzzling spots of discrepancy, which rendered grading in the ordinary way out of the question. David's methods of recitation, too, were peculiar, and somewhat disconcerting. He also did not hesitate to speak aloud when he chose, nor to rise from his seat and move to any part of the room as the whim seized him. In time, of course, all this was changed; but it was several days before the boy learned so to conduct himself that he did not shatter to atoms the peace and propriety of the schoolroom. Outside of school David had little work to do now, though there were still left a few light tasks about the house. Home life at the Holly farmhouse was the same for David, yet with a difference--the difference that comes from being really wanted instead of being merely dutifully kept. There were other differences, too, subtle differences that did not show, perhaps, but that still were there. Mr. and Mrs. Holly, more than ever now, were learning to look at the world through David's eyes. One day--one wonderful day--they even went to walk in the woods with the boy; and whenever before had Simeon Holly left his work for so frivolous a thing as a walk in the woods! It was not accomplished, however, without a struggle, as David could have told. The day was a Saturday, clear, crisp, and beautiful, with a promise of October in the air; and David fairly tingled to be free and away. Mrs. Holly was baking--and the birds sang unheard outside her pantry window. Mr. Holly was digging potatoes--and the clouds sailed unnoticed above his head. All the morning David urged and begged. If for once, just this once, they would leave everything and come, they would not regret it, he was sure. But they shook their heads and said, "No, no, impossible!" In the afternoon the pies were done and the potatoes dug, and David urged and pleaded again. If once, only this once, they would go to walk with him in the woods, he would be so happy, so very happy! And to please the boy--they went. It was a curious walk. Ellen Holly trod softly, with timid feet. She threw hurried, frightened glances from side to side. It was plain that Ellen Holly did not know how to play. Simeon Holly stalked at her elbow, stern, silent, and preoccupied. It was plain that Simeon Holly not only did not know how to play, but did not even care to find out. The boy tripped ahead and talked. He had the air of a monarch displaying his kingdom. On one side was a bit of moss worthy of the closest attention; on another, a vine that carried allurement in every tendril. Here was a flower that was like a story for interest, and there was a bush that bore a secret worth the telling. Even Simeon Holly glowed into a semblance of life when David had unerringly picked out and called by name the spruce, and fir, and pine, and larch, and then, in answer to Mrs. Holly's murmured: "But, David, where's the difference? They look so much alike!" he had said:-- "Oh, but they aren't, you know. Just see how much more pointed at the top that fir is than that spruce back there; and the branches grow straight out, too, like arms, and they're all smooth and tapering at the ends like a pussy-cat's tail. But the spruce back there--ITS branches turned down and out--didn't you notice?--and they're all bushy at the ends like a squirrel's tail. Oh, they're lots different! That's a larch 'way ahead--that one with the branches all scraggly and close down to the ground. I could start to climb that easy; but I couldn't that pine over there. See, it's 'way up, up, before there's a place for your foot! But I love pines. Up there on the mountains where I lived, the pines were so tall that it seemed as if God used them sometimes to hold up the sky." And Simeon Holly heard, and said nothing; and that he did say nothing--especially nothing in answer to David's confident assertions concerning celestial and terrestrial architecture--only goes to show how well, indeed, the man was learning to look at the world through David's eyes. Nor were these all of David's friends to whom Mr. and Mrs. Holly were introduced on that memorable walk. There were the birds, and the squirrels, and, in fact, everything that had life. And each one he greeted joyously by name, as he would greet a friend whose home and habits he knew. Here was a wonderful woodpecker, there was a beautiful bluejay. Ahead, that brilliant bit of color that flashed across their path was a tanager. Once, far up in the sky, as they crossed an open space, David spied a long black streak moving southward. "Oh, see!" he exclaimed. "The crows! See them?--'way up there? Wouldn't it be fun if we could do that, and fly hundreds and hundreds of miles, maybe a thousand?" "Oh, David," remonstrated Mrs. Holly, unbelievingly. "But they do! These look as if they'd started on their winter journey South, too; but if they have, they're early. Most of them don't go till October. They come back in March, you know. Though I've had them, on the mountain, that stayed all the year with me." "My! but I love to watch them go," murmured David, his eyes following the rapidly disappearing blackline. "Lots of birds you can't see, you know, when they start for the South. They fly at night--the woodpeckers and orioles and cuckoos, and lots of others. They're afraid, I guess, don't you? But I've seen them. I've watched them. They tell each other when they're going to start." "Oh, David," remonstrated Mrs. Holly, again, her eyes reproving, but plainly enthralled. "But they do tell each other," claimed the boy, with sparkling eyes. "They must! For, all of a sudden, some night, you'll hear the signal, and then they'll begin to gather from all directions. I've seen them. Then, suddenly, they're all up and off to the South--not in one big flock, but broken up into little flocks, following one after another, with such a beautiful whir of wings. Oof--OOF--OOF!--and they're gone! And I don't see them again till next year. But you've seen the swallows, haven't you? They go in the daytime, and they're the easiest to tell of any of them. They fly so swift and straight. Haven't you seen the swallows go?" "Why, I--I don't know, David," murmured Mrs. Holly, with a helpless glance at her husband stalking on ahead. "I--I didn't know there were such things to--to know." There was more, much more, that David said before the walk came to an end. And though, when it did end, neither Simeon Holly nor his wife said a word of its having been a pleasure or a profit, there was yet on their faces something of the peace and rest and quietness that belonged to the woods they had left. It was a beautiful month--that September, and David made the most of it. Out of school meant out of doors for him. He saw Mr. Jack and Jill often. He spent much time, too, with the Lady of the Roses. She was still the Lady of the ROSES to David, though in the garden now were the purple and scarlet and yellow of the asters, salvia, and golden glow, instead of the blush and perfume of the roses. David was very much at home at Sunnycrest. He was welcome, he knew, to go where he pleased. Even the servants were kind to him, as well as was the elderly cousin whom he seldom saw, but who, he knew, lived there as company for his Lady of the Roses. Perhaps best, next to the garden, David loved the tower room; possibly because Miss Holbrook herself so often suggested that they go there. And it was there that they were when he said, dreamily, one day:-- "I like this place--up here so high, only sometimes it does make me think of that Princess, because it was in a tower like this that she was, you know." "Fairy stories, David?" asked Miss Holbrook lightly. "No, not exactly, though there was a Princess in it. Mr. Jack told it." David's eyes were still out of the window. "Oh, Mr. Jack! And does Mr. Jack often tell you stories?" "No. He never told only this one--and maybe that's why I remember it so." "Well, and what did the Princess do?" Miss Holbrook's voice was still light, still carelessly preoccupied. Her attention, plainly, was given to the sewing in her hand. "She didn't do and that's what was the trouble," sighed I David. "She didn't wave, you know." The needle in Miss Holbrook's fingers stopped short in mid-air, the thread half-drawn. "Didn't--wave!" she stammered. "What do you--mean?" "Nothing," laughed the boy, turning away from the window. "I forgot that you didn't know the story." "But maybe I do--that is--what was the story?" asked Miss Holbrook, wetting her lips as if they had grown suddenly very dry. "Oh, do you? I wonder now! It wasn't 'The PRINCE and the Pauper,' but the PRINCESS and the Pauper," cited David; "and they used to wave signals, and answer with flags. Do you know the story?" There was no answer. Miss Holbrook was putting away her work, hurriedly, and with hands that shook. David noticed that she even pricked herself in her anxiety to get the needle tucked away. Then she drew him to a low stool at her side. "David, I want you to tell me that story, please," she said, "just as Mr. Jack told it to you. Now, be careful and put it all in, because I--I want to hear it," she finished, with an odd little laugh that seemed to bring two bright red spots to her cheeks. "Oh, do you want to hear it? Then I will tell it," cried David joyfully. To David, almost as delightful as to hear a story was to tell one himself. "You see, first--" And he plunged headlong into the introduction. David knew it well--that story: and there was, perhaps, little that he forgot. It might not have been always told in Mr. Jack's language; but his meaning was there, and very intently Miss Holbrook listened while David told of the boy and the girl, the wavings, and the flags that were blue, black, and red. She laughed once,--that was at the little joke with the bells that the girl played,--but she did not speak until sometime later when David was telling of the first home-coming of the Princess, and of the time when the boy on his tiny piazza watched and watched in vain for a waving white signal from the tower. "Do you mean to say," interposed Miss Holbrook then, almost starting to her feet, "that that boy expected--" She stopped suddenly, and fell back in her chair. The two red spots on her cheeks had become a rosy glow now, all over her face. "Expected what?" asked David. "N--nothing. Go on. I was so--so interested," explained Miss Holbrook faintly. "Go on." And David did go on; nor did the story lose by his telling. It gained, indeed, something, for now it had woven through it the very strong sympathy of a boy who loved the Pauper for his sorrow and hated the Princess for causing that sorrow. "And so," he concluded mournfully, "you see it isn't a very nice story, after all, for it didn't end well a bit. They ought to have got married and lived happy ever after. But they didn't." Miss Holbrook drew in her breath a little uncertainly, and put her hand to her throat. Her face now, instead of being red, was very white. "But, David," she faltered, after a moment, "perhaps he--the--Pauper--did not--not love the Princess any longer." "Mr. Jack said that he did." The white face went suddenly pink again. "Then, why didn't he go to her and--and--tell her?" David lifted his chin. With all his dignity he answered, and his words and accent were Mr. Jack's. "Paupers don't go to Princesses, and say 'I love you.'" "But perhaps if they did--that is--if--" Miss Holbrook bit her lips and did not finish her sentence. She did not, indeed, say anything more for a long time. But she had not forgotten the story. David knew that, because later she began to question him carefully about many little points--points that he was very sure he had already made quite plain. She talked about it, indeed, until he wondered if perhaps she were going to tell it to some one else sometime. He asked her if she were; but she only shook her head. And after that she did not question him any more. And a little later David went home. CHAPTER XXI HEAVY HEARTS For a week David had not been near the House that Jack Built, and that, too, when Jill had been confined within doors for several days with a cold. Jill, indeed, was inclined to be grieved at this apparent lack of interest on the part of her favorite playfellow; but upon her return from her first day of school, after her recovery, she met her brother with startled eyes. "Jack, it hasn't been David's fault at all," she cried remorsefully. "He's sick." "Sick!" "Yes; awfully sick. They've had to send away for doctors and everything." "Why, Jill, are you sure? Where did you hear this?" "At school to-day. Every one was talking about it." "But what is the matter?" "Fever--some sort. Some say it's typhoid, and some scarlet, and some say another kind that I can't remember; but everybody says he's awfully sick. He got it down to Glaspell's, some say,--and some say he didn't. But, anyhow, Betty Glaspell has been sick with something, and they haven't let folks in there this week," finished Jill, her eyes big with terror. "The Glaspells? But what was David doing down there?" "Why, you know,--he told us once,--teaching Joe to play. He's been there lots. Joe is blind, you know, and can't see, but he just loves music, and was crazy over David's violin; so David took down his other one--the one that was his father's, you know--and showed him how to pick out little tunes, just to take up his time so he wouldn't mind so much that he couldn't see. Now, Jack, wasn't that just like David? Jack, I can't have anything happen to David!" "No, dear, no; of course not! I'm afraid we can't any of us, for that matter," sighed Jack, his forehead drawn into anxious lines. "I'll go down to the Hollys', Jill, the first thing tomorrow morning, and see how he is and if there's anything we can do. Meanwhile, don't take it too much to heart, dear. It may not be half so bad as you think. School-children always get things like that exaggerated, you must remember," he finished, speaking with a lightness that he did not feel. To himself the man owned that he was troubled, seriously troubled. He had to admit that Jill's story bore the earmarks of truth; and overwhelmingly he realized now just how big a place this somewhat puzzling small boy had come to fill in his own heart. He did not need Jill's anxious "Now, hurry, Jack," the next morning to start him off in all haste for the Holly farmhouse. A dozen rods from the driveway he met Perry Larson and stopped him abruptly. "Good morning, Larson; I hope this isn't true--what I hear--that David is very ill." Larson pulled off his hat and with his free hand sought the one particular spot on his head to which he always appealed when he was very much troubled. "Well, yes, sir, I'm afraid 't is, Mr. Jack--er--Mr. Gurnsey, I mean. He is turrible sick, poor little chap, an' it's too bad--that's what it is--too bad!" "Oh, I'm sorry! I hoped the report was exaggerated. I came down to see if--if there wasn't something I could do." "Well, 'course you can ask--there ain't no law ag'in' that; an' ye needn't be afraid, neither. The report has got 'round that it's ketchin'--what he's got, and that he got it down to the Glaspells'; but 't ain't so. The doctor says he didn't ketch nothin', an' he can't give nothin'. It's his head an' brain that ain't right, an' he's got a mighty bad fever. He's been kind of flighty an' nervous, anyhow, lately. "As I was sayin', 'course you can ask, but I'm thinkin' there won't be nothin' you can do ter help. Ev'rythin' that can be done is bein' done. In fact, there ain't much of anythin' else that is bein' done down there jest now but, tendin' ter him. They've got one o' them 'ere edyercated nurses from the Junction--what wears caps, ye know, an' makes yer feel as if they knew it all, an' you didn't know nothin'. An' then there's Mr. an' Mis' Holly besides. If they had THEIR way, there wouldn't neither of, em let him out o' their sight fur a minute, they're that cut up about it." "I fancy they think a good deal of the boy--as we all do," murmured the younger man, a little unsteadily. Larson winkled his forehead in deep thought. "Yes; an' that's what beats me," he answered slowly; "'bout HIM,--Mr. Holly, I mean. 'Course we'd 'a' expected it of HER--losin' her own boy as she did, an' bein' jest naturally so sweet an' lovin'-hearted. But HIM--that's diff'rent. Now, you know jest as well as I do what Mr. Holly is--every one does, so I ain't sayin' nothin' sland'rous. He's a good man--a powerful good man; an' there ain't a squarer man goin' ter work fur. But the fact is, he was made up wrong side out, an' the seams has always showed bad--turrible bad, with ravelin's all stickin' out every which way ter ketch an' pull. But, gosh! I'm blamed if that, ere boy ain't got him so smoothed down, you wouldn't know, scursely, that he had a seam on him, sometimes; though how he's done it beats me. Now, there's Mis' Holly--she's tried ter smooth 'em, I'll warrant, lots of times. But I'm free ter say she hain't never so much as clipped a ravelin' in all them forty years they've lived tergether. Fact is, it's worked the other way with her. All that HER rubbin' up ag'in' them seams has amounted to is ter git herself so smoothed down that she don't never dare ter say her soul's her own, most generally,--anyhow, not if he happens ter intermate it belongs ter anybody else!" Jack Gurnsey suddenly choked over a cough. "I wish I could--do something," he murmured uncertainly. "'T ain't likely ye can--not so long as Mr. an' Mis' Holly is on their two feet. Why, there ain't nothin' they won't do, an' you'll believe it, maybe, when I tell you that yesterday Mr. Holly, he tramped all through Sawyer's woods in the rain, jest ter find a little bit of moss that the boy was callin' for. Think o' that, will ye? Simeon Holly huntin' moss! An' he got it, too, an' brung it home, an' they say it cut him up somethin' turrible when the boy jest turned away, and didn't take no notice. You understand, 'course, sir, the little chap ain't right in his head, an' so half the time he don't know what he says." "Oh, I'm sorry, sorry!" exclaimed Gurnsey, as he turned away, and hurried toward the farmhouse. Mrs. Holly herself answered his low knock. She looked worn and pale. "Thank you, sir," she said gratefully, in reply to his offer of assistance, "but there isn't anything you can do, Mr. Gurnsey. We're having everything done that can be, and every one is very kind. We have a very good nurse, and Dr. Kennedy has had consultation with Dr. Benson from the Junction. They are doing all in their power, of course, but they say that--that it's going to be the nursing that will count now." "Then I don't fear for him, surely" declared the man, with fervor. "I know, but--well, he shall have the very best possible--of that." "I know he will; but isn't there anything--anything that I can do?" She shook her head. "No. Of course, if he gets better--" She hesitated; then lifted her chin a little higher; "WHEN he gets better," she corrected with courageous emphasis, "he will want to see you." "And he shall see me," asserted Gurnsey. "And he will be better, Mrs. Holly,--I'm sure he will." "Yes, yes, of course, only--oh, Mr. Jack, he's so sick--so very sick! The doctor says he's a peculiarly sensitive nature, and that he thinks something's been troubling him lately." Her voice broke. "Poor little chap!" Mr. Jack's voice, too, was husky. She looked up with swift gratefulness for his sympathy. "And you loved him, too, I know" she choked. "He talks of you often--very often." "Indeed I love him! Who could help it?" "There couldn't anybody, Mr. Jack,--and that's just it. Now, since he's been sick, we've wondered more than ever who he is. You see, I can't help thinking that somewhere he's got friends who ought to know about him--now." "Yes, I see," nodded the man. "He isn't an ordinary boy, Mr. Jack. He's been trained in lots of ways--about his manners, and at the table, and all that. And lots of things his father has told him are beautiful, just beautiful! He isn't a tramp. He never was one. And there's his playing. YOU know how he can play." "Indeed I do! You must miss his playing, too." "I do; he talks of that, also," she hurried on, working her fingers nervously together; "but oftenest he--he speaks of singing, and I can't quite understand that, for he didn't ever sing, you know." "Singing? What does he say?" The man asked the question because he saw that it was affording the overwrought little woman real relief to free her mind; but at the first words of her reply he became suddenly alert. "It's 'his song,' as he calls it, that he talks about, always. It isn't much--what he says--but I noticed it because he always says the same thing, like this: I'll just hold up my chin and march straight on and on, and I'll sing it with all my might and main.' And when I ask him what he's going to sing, he always says, 'My song--my song,' just like that. Do you think, Mr. Jack, he did have--a song?" For a moment the man did not answer. Something in his throat tightened, and held the words. Then, in a low voice he managed to stammer:-- "I think he did, Mrs. Holly, and--I think he sang it, too." The next moment, with a quick lifting of his hat and a murmured "I'll call again soon," he turned and walked swiftly down the driveway. So very swiftly, indeed, was Mr. Jack walking, and so self-absorbed was he, that he did not see the carriage until it was almost upon him; then he stepped aside to let it pass. What he saw as he gravely raised his hat was a handsome span of black horses, a liveried coachman, and a pair of startled eyes looking straight into his. What he did not see was the quick gesture with which Miss Holbrook almost ordered her carriage stopped the minute it had passed him by. CHAPTER XXII AS PERRY SAW IT One by one the days passed, and there came from the anxious watchers at David's bedside only the words, "There's very little change." Often Jack Gurnsey went to the farmhouse to inquire for the boy. Often, too, he saw Perry Larson; and Perry was never loath to talk of David. It was from Perry, indeed, that Gurnsey began to learn some things of David that he had never known before. "It does beat all," Perry Larson said to him one day, "how many folks asks me how that boy is--folks that you'd never think knew him, anyhow, ter say nothin' of carin' whether he lived or died. Now, there's old Mis' Somers, fur instance. YOU know what she is--sour as a lemon an' puckery as a chokecherry. Well, if she didn't give me yesterday a great bo-kay o' posies she'd growed herself, an' said they was fur him--that they berlonged ter him, anyhow. "'Course, I didn't exactly sense what she meant by that, so I asked her straight out; an' it seems that somehow, when the boy first come, he struck her place one day an' spied a great big red rose on one of her bushes. It seems he had his fiddle, an' he, played it,--that rose a-growin' (you know his way!), an' she heard an' spoke up pretty sharp an' asked him what in time he was doin'. Well, most kids would 'a' run,--knowin' her temper as they does,--but not much David. He stands up as pert as ye please, an' tells her how happy that red rose must be ter make all that dreary garden look so pretty; an' then he goes on, merry as a lark, a-playin' down the hill. "Well, Mis' Somers owned up ter me that she was pretty mad at the time, 'cause her garden did look like tunket, an' she knew it. She said she hadn't cared ter do a thing with it since her Bessie died that thought so much of it. But after what David had said, even mad as she was, the thing kind o' got on her nerves, an' she couldn't see a thing, day or night, but that red rose a-growin' there so pert an' courageous-like, until at last, jest ter quiet herself, she fairly had ter set to an' slick that garden up! She said she raked an' weeded, an' fixed up all the plants there was, in good shape, an' then she sent down to the Junction fur some all growed in pots, 'cause 't was too late ter plant seeds. An, now it's doin' beautiful, so she jest could n't help sendin' them posies ter David. When I told Mis' Holly, she said she was glad it happened, 'cause what Mis' Somers needed was somethin' ter git her out of herself--an' I'm free ter say she did look better-natured, an' no mistake,--kind o' like a chokecherry in blossom, ye might say." "An' then there's the Widder Glaspell," continued Perry, after a pause. "'Course, any one would expect she'd feel bad, seein' as how good David was ter her boy--teachin' him ter play, ye know. But Mis' Glaspell says Joe jest does take on somethin' turrible, an' he won't tech the fiddle, though he was plum carried away with it when David was well an' teachin' of him. An' there's the Clark kid. He's lame, ye know, an' he thought the world an' all of David's playin'. "'Course, there's you an' Miss Holbrook, always askin' an' sendin' things--but that ain't so strange, 'cause you was 'specially his friends. But it's them others what beats me. Why, some days it's 'most ev'ry soul I meet, jest askin' how he is, an' sayin' they hopes he'll git well. Sometimes it's kids that he's played to, an' I'll be triggered if one of 'em one day didn't have no excuse to offer except that David had fit him--'bout a cat, or somethin'--an' that ever since then he'd thought a heap of him--though he guessed David didn't know it. Listen ter that, will ye! "An' once a woman held me up, an' took on turrible, but all I could git from her was that he'd sat on her doorstep an' played ter her baby once or twice;--as if that was anythin'! But one of the derndest funny ones was the woman who said she could wash her dishes a sight easier after she'd a-seen him go by playin'. There was Bill Dowd, too. You know he really HAS got a screw loose in his head somewheres, an' there ain't any one but what says he's the town fool, all right. Well, what do ye think HE said?" Mr. Jack shook his head. "Well, he said he did hope as how nothin' would happen ter that boy cause he did so like ter see him smile, an' that he always did smile every time he met him! There, what do ye think o' that?" "Well, I think, Perry," returned Mr. Jack soberly, "that Bill Dowd wasn't playing the fool, when he said that, quite so much as he sometimes is, perhaps." "Hm-m, maybe not," murmured Perry Larson perplexedly. "Still, I'm free ter say I do think 't was kind o' queer." He paused, then slapped his knee suddenly. "Say, did I tell ye about Streeter--Old Bill Streeter an' the pear tree?" Again Mr. Jack shook his head. "Well, then, I'm goin' to," declared the other, with gleeful emphasis. "An', say, I don't believe even YOU can explain this--I don't! Well, you know Streeter--ev'ry one does, so I ain't sayin' nothin' sland'rous. He was cut on a bias, an' that bias runs ter money every time. You know as well as I do that he won't lift his finger unless there's a dollar stickin' to it, an' that he hain't no use fur anythin' nor anybody unless there's money in it for him. I'm blamed if I don't think that if he ever gits ter heaven, he'll pluck his own wings an' sell the feathers fur what they'll bring." "Oh, Perry!" remonstrated Mr. Jack, in a half-stifled voice. Perry Larson only grinned and went on imperturbably. "Well, seein' as we both understand what he is, I'll tell ye what he DONE. He called me up ter his fence one day, big as life, an' says he, 'How's the boy?' An' you could 'a' knocked me down with a feather. Streeter--a-askin' how a boy was that was sick! An' he seemed ter care, too. I hain't seen him look so longfaced since--since he was paid up on a sartin note I knows of, jest as he was smackin' his lips over a nice fat farm that was comin' to him! "Well, I was that plum puzzled that I meant ter find out why Streeter was takin' sech notice, if I hung fur it. So I set to on a little detective work of my own, knowin', of course, that 't wa'n't no use askin' of him himself. Well, an' what do you s'pose I found out? If that little scamp of a boy hadn't even got round him--Streeter, the skinflint! He had--an' he went there often, the neighbors said; an' Streeter doted on him. They declared that actually he give him a cent once--though THAT part I ain't swallerin' yet. "They said--the neighbors did--that it all started from the pear tree--that big one ter the left of his house. Maybe you remember it. Well, anyhow, it seems that it's old, an' through bearin' any fruit, though it still blossoms fit ter kill, every year, only a little late 'most always, an' the blossoms stay on longer'n common, as if they knew there wa'n't nothin' doin' later. Well, old Streeter said it had got ter come down. I reckon he suspected it of swipin' some of the sunshine, or maybe a little rain that belonged ter the tree t'other side of the road what did bear fruit an' was worth somethin'! Anyhow, he got his man an' his axe, an' was plum ready ter start in when he sees David an' David sees him. "'T was when the boy first come. He'd gone ter walk an' had struck this pear tree, all in bloom,--an' 'course, YOU know how the boy would act--a pear tree, bloomin', is a likely sight, I'll own. He danced and laughed and clapped his hands,--he didn't have his fiddle with him,--an' carried on like all possessed. Then he sees the man with the axe, an' Streeter an' Streeter sees him. "They said it was rich then--Bill Warner heard it all from t'other side of the fence. He said that David, when he found out what was goin' ter happen, went clean crazy, an' rampaged on at such a rate that old Streeter couldn't do nothin' but stand an' stare, until he finally managed ter growl out: 'But I tell ye, boy, the tree ain't no use no more!' "Bill says the boy flew all to pieces then. 'No use--no use!' he cries; 'such a perfectly beautiful thing as that no use! Why, it don't have ter be any use when it's so pretty. It's jest ter look at an' love, an' be happy with!' Fancy sayin' that ter old Streeter! I'd like ter seen his face. But Bill says that wa'n't half what the boy said. He declared that 't was God's present, anyhow, that trees was; an' that the things He give us ter look at was jest as much use as the things He give us ter eat; an' that the stars an' the sunsets an' the snowflakes an' the little white cloud-boats, an' I don't know what-all, was jest as important in the Orchestra of Life as turnips an' squashes. An' then, Billy says, he ended by jest flingin' himself on ter Streeter an' beggin' him ter wait till he could go back an' git his fiddle so he could tell him what a beautiful thing that tree was. "Well, if you'll believe it, old Streeter was so plum befuzzled he sent the man an' the axe away--an' that tree's a-livin' ter-day--'t is!" he finished; then, with a sudden gloom on his face, Larson added, huskily: "An' I only hope I'll be sayin' the same thing of that boy--come next month at this time!" "We'll hope you will," sighed the other fervently. And so one by one the days passed, while the whole town waited and while in the great airy "parlor bedroom" of the Holly farmhouse one small boy fought his battle for life. Then came the blackest day and night of all when the town could only wait and watch--it had lost its hope; when the doctors shook their heads and refused to meet Mrs. Holly's eyes; when the pulse in the slim wrist outside the coverlet played hide-and-seek with the cool, persistent fingers that sought so earnestly for it; when Perry Larson sat for uncounted sleepless hours by the kitchen stove, and fearfully listened for a step crossing the hallway; when Mr. Jack on his porch, and Miss Holbrook in her tower widow, went with David down into the dark valley, and came so near the rushing river that life, with its petty prides and prejudices, could never seem quite the same to them again. Then, after that blackest day and night, came the dawn--as the dawns do come after the blackest of days and nights. In the slender wrist outside the coverlet the pulse gained and steadied. On the forehead beneath the nurse's fingers, a moisture came. The doctors nodded their heads now, and looked every one straight in the eye. "He will live," they said. "The crisis is passed." Out by the kitchen stove Perry Larson heard the step cross the hall and sprang upright; but at the first glimpse of Mrs. Holly's tear-wet, yet radiant face, he collapsed limply. "Gosh!" he muttered. "Say, do you know, I didn't s'pose I did care so much! I reckon I'll go an' tell Mr. Jack. He'll want ter hear." CHAPTER XXIII PUZZLES David's convalescence was picturesque, in a way. As soon as he was able, like a king he sat upon his throne and received his subjects; and a very gracious king he was, indeed. His room overflowed with flowers and fruit, and his bed quite groaned with the toys and books and games brought for his diversion, each one of which he hailed with delight, from Miss Holbrook's sumptuously bound "Waverley Novels" to little crippled Jimmy Clark's bag of marbles. Only two things puzzled David: one was why everybody was so good to him; and the other was why he never could have the pleasure of both Mr. Jack's and Miss Holbrook's company at the same time. David discovered this last curious circumstance concerning Mr. Jack and Miss Holbrook very early in his convalescence. It was on the second afternoon that Mr. Jack had been admitted to the sick-room. David had been hearing all the latest news of Jill and Joe, when suddenly he noticed an odd change come to his visitor's face. The windows of the Holly "parlor bedroom" commanded a fine view of the road, and it was toward one of these windows that Mr. Jack's eyes were directed. David, sitting up in bed, saw then that down the road was approaching very swiftly a handsome span of black horses and an open carriage which he had come to recognize as belonging to Miss Holbrook. He watched it eagerly now till he saw the horses turn in at the Holly driveway. Then he gave a low cry of delight. "It's my Lady of the Roses! She's coming to see me. Look! Oh, I'm so glad! Now you'll see her, and just KNOW how lovely she is. Why, Mr. Jack, you aren't going NOW!" he broke off in manifest disappointment, as Mr. Jack leaped to his feet. "I think I'll have to, if you don't mind, David," returned the man, an oddly nervous haste in his manner. "And YOU won't mind, now that you'll have Miss Holbrook. I want to speak to Larson. I saw him in the field out there a minute ago. And I guess I'll slip right through this window here, too, David. I don't want to lose him; and I can catch him quicker this way than any other," he finished, throwing up the sash. "Oh, but Mr. Jack, please just wait a minute," begged David. "I wanted you to see my Lady of the Roses, and--" But Mr. Jack was already on the ground outside the low window, and the next minute, with a merry nod and smile, he had pulled the sash down after him and was hurrying away. Almost at once, then, Miss Holbrook appeared at the bedroom door. "Mrs. Holly said I was to walk right in, David, so here I am," she began, in a cheery voice. "Oh, you're looking lots better than when I saw you Monday, young man!" "I am better," caroled David; "and to-day I'm 'specially better, because Mr. Jack has been here." "Oh, has Mr. Jack been to see you to-day?" There was an indefinable change in Miss Holbrook's voice. "Yes, right now. Why, he was here when you were driving into the yard." Miss Holbrook gave a perceptible start and looked about her a little wildly. "Here when--But I didn't meet him anywhere--in the hall." "He didn't go through the hall," laughed David gleefully. "He went right through that window there." "The window!" An angry flush mounted to Miss Holbrook's forehead. "Indeed, did he have to resort to that to escape--" She bit her lip and stopped abruptly. David's eyes widened a little. "Escape? Oh, HE wasn't the one that was escaping. It was Perry. Mr. Jack was afraid he'd lose him. He saw him out the window there, right after he'd seen you, and he said he wanted to speak to him and he was afraid he'd get away. So he jumped right through that window there. See?" "Oh, yes, I--see," murmured Miss Holbrook, in a voice David thought was a little queer. "I wanted him to stay," frowned David uncertainly. "I wanted him to see you." "Dear me, David, I hope you didn't tell him so." "Oh, yes, I did. But he couldn't stay, even then. You see, he wanted to catch Perry Larson." "I've no doubt of it," retorted Miss Holbrook, with so much emphasis that David again looked at her with a slightly disturbed frown. "But he'll come again soon, I'm sure, and then maybe you'll be here, too. I do so want him to see you, Lady of the Roses!" "Nonsense, David!" laughed Miss Holbrook a little nervously. "Mr.--Mr. Gurnsey doesn't want to see me. He's seen me dozens of times." "Oh, yes, he told me he'd seen you long ago," nodded David gravely; "but he didn't act as if he remembered it much." "Didn't he, indeed!" laughed Miss Holbrook, again flushing a little. "Well, I'm sure, dear, we wouldn't want to tax the poor gentleman's memory too much, you know. Come, suppose you see what I've brought you," she finished gayly. "Oh, what is it?" cried David, as, under Miss Holbrook's swift fingers, the wrappings fell away and disclosed a box which, upon being opened, was found to be filled with quantities of oddly shaped bits of pictured wood--a jumble of confusion. "It's a jig-saw puzzle, David. All these little pieces fitted together make a picture, you see. I tried last night and I could n't do it. I brought it down to see if you could." "Oh, thank you! I'd love to," rejoiced the boy. And in the fascination of the marvel of finding one fantastic bit that fitted another, David apparently forgot all about Mr. Jack--which seemed not unpleasing to his Lady of the Roses. It was not until nearly a week later that David had his wish of seeing his Mr. Jack and his Lady of the Roses meet at his bedside. It was the day Miss Holbrook brought to him the wonderful set of handsomely bound "Waverley Novels." He was still glorying in his new possession, in fact, when Mr. Jack appeared suddenly in the doorway. "Hullo my boy, I just--Oh, I beg your pardon. I supposed you were--alone," he stammered, looking very red indeed. "He is--that is, he will be, soon--except for you, Mr. Gurnsey," smiled Miss Holbrook, very brightly. She was already on her feet. "No, no, I beg of you," stammered Mr. Jack, growing still more red. "Don't let me drive--that is, I mean, don't go, please. I didn't know. I had no warning--I didn't see--Your carriage was not at the door to-day." Miss Holbrook's eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch. "I sent it home. I am planning to walk back. I have several calls to make on the way; and it's high time I was starting. Good-bye, David." "But, Lady, of the Roses, please, please, don't go," besought David, who had been looking from one to the other in worried dismay. "Why, you've just come!" But neither coaxing nor argument availed; and before David really knew just what had happened, he found himself alone with Mr. Jack. Even then disappointment was piled on disappointment, for Mr. Jack's visit was not the unalloyed happiness it usually was. Mr. Jack himself was almost cross at first, and then he was silent and restless, moving jerkily about the room in a way that disturbed David very much. Mr. Jack had brought with him a book; but even that only made matters worse, for when he saw the beautifully bound volumes that Miss Holbrook had just left, he frowned, and told David that he guessed he did not need his gift at all, with all those other fine books. And David could not seem to make him understand that the one book from him was just exactly as dear as were the whole set of books that his Lady of the Roses brought. Certainly it was not a satisfactory visit at all, and for the first time David was almost glad to have Mr. Jack go and leave him with his books. The BOOKS, David told himself, he could understand; Mr. Jack he could not--to-day. Several times after this David's Lady of the Roses and Mr. Jack happened to call at the same hour; but never could David persuade these two friends of his to stay together. Always, if one came and the other was there, the other went away, in spite of David's protestations that two people did not tire him at all and his assertions that he often entertained as many as that at once. Tractable as they were in all other ways, anxious as they seemed to please him, on this one point they were obdurate: never would they stay together. They were not angry with each other--David was sure of that, for they were always very especially polite, and rose, and stood, and bowed in a most delightful fashion. Still, he sometimes thought that they did not quite like each other, for always, after the one went away, the other, left behind, was silent and almost stern--if it was Mr. Jack; and flushed-faced and nervous--if it was Miss Holbrook. But why this was so David could not understand. The span of handsome black horses came very frequently to the Holly farmhouse now, and as time passed they often bore away behind them a white-faced but happy-eyed boy on the seat beside Miss Holbrook. "My, but I don't see how every one can be so good to me!" exclaimed the boy, one day, to his Lady of the Roses. "Oh, that's easy, David," she smiled. "The only trouble is to find out what you want--you ask for so little." "But I don't need to ask--you do it all beforehand," asserted the boy, "you and Mr. Jack, and everybody." "Really? That's good." For a brief moment Miss Holbrook hesitated; then, as if casually, she asked: "And he tells you stories, too, I suppose,--this Mr. Jack,--just as he used to, doesn't he?" "Well, he never did tell me but one, you know, before; but he's told me more now, since I've been sick." "Oh, yes, I remember, and that one was 'The Princess and the Pauper,' wasn't it? Well, has he told you any more--like--that?" The boy shook his head with decision. "No, he doesn't tell me any more like that, and--and I don't want him to, either." Miss Holbrook laughed a little oddly. "Why, David, what is the matter with that?" she queried. "The ending; it wasn't nice, you know." "Oh, yes, I--I remember." "I've asked him to change it," went on David, in a grieved voice. "I asked him just the other day, but he wouldn't." "Perhaps he--he didn't want to." Miss Holbrook spoke very quickly, but so low that David barely heard the words. "Didn't want to? Oh, yes, he did! He looked awful sober, and as if he really cared, you know. And he said he'd give all he had in the world if he really could change it, but he couldn't." "Did he say--just that?" Miss Holbrook was leaning forward a little breathlessly now. "Yes--just that; and that's the part I couldn't understand," commented David. "For I don't see why a story--just a story made up out of somebody's head--can't be changed any way you want it. And I told him so." "Well, and what did he say to that?" "He didn't say anything for a minute, and I had to ask him again. Then he sat up suddenly, just as if he'd been asleep, you know, and said, 'Eh, what, David?' And then I told him again what I'd said. This time he shook his head, and smiled that kind of a smile that isn't really a smile, you know, and said something about a real, true-to-life story's never having but one ending, and that was a logical ending. Lady of the Roses, what is a logical ending?" The Lady of the Roses laughed unexpectedly. The two little red spots, that David always loved to see, flamed into her cheeks, and her eyes showed a sudden sparkle. When she answered, her words came disconnectedly, with little laughing breaths between. "Well, David, I--I'm not sure I can--tell you. But perhaps I--can find out. This much, however, I am sure of: Mr. Jack's logical ending wouldn't be--mine!" What she meant David did not know; nor would she tell him when he asked; but a few days later she sent for him, and very gladly David--able now to go where he pleased--obeyed the summons. It was November, and the garden was bleak and cold; but in the library a bright fire danced on the hearth, and before this Miss Holbrook drew up two low chairs. She looked particularly pretty, David thought. The rich red of her dress had apparently brought out an answering red in her cheeks. Her eyes were very bright and her lips smiled; yet she seemed oddly nervous and restless. She sewed a little, with a bit of yellow silk on white--but not for long. She knitted with two long ivory needles flashing in and out of a silky mesh of blue--but this, too, she soon ceased doing. On a low stand at David's side she had placed books and pictures, and for a time she talked of those. Then very abruptly she asked:-- "David, when will you see--Mr. Jack again--do you suppose?" "Tomorrow. I'm going up to the House that Jack Built to tea, and I'm to stay all night. It's Halloween--that is, it isn't really Halloween, because it's too late. I lost that, being sick, you know. So we're going to pretend, and Mr. Jack is going to show me what it is like. That is what Mr. Jack and Jill always do; when something ails the real thing, they just pretend with the make-believe one. He's planned lots of things for Jill and me to do; with nuts and apples and candles, you know. It's to-morrow night, so I'll see him then." "To-morrow? So--so soon?" faltered Miss Holbrook. And to David, gazing at her with wondering eyes, it seemed for a moment almost as if she were looking about for a place to which she might run and hide. Then determinedly, as if she were taking hold of something with both hands, she leaned forward, looked David squarely in the eyes, and began to talk hurriedly, yet very distinctly. "David, listen. I've something I want you to say to Mr. Jack, and I want you to be sure and get it just right. It's about the--the story, 'The Princess and the Pauper,' you know. You can remember, I think, for you remembered that so well. Will you say it to him--what I'm going to tell you--just as I say it?" "Why, of course I will!" David's promise was unhesitating, though his eyes were still puzzled. "It's about the--the ending," stammered Miss Holbrook. "That is, it may--it may have something to do with the ending--perhaps," she finished lamely. And again David noticed that odd shifting of Miss Holbrook's gaze as if she were searching for some means of escape. Then, as before, he saw her chin lift determinedly, as she began to talk faster than ever. "Now, listen," she admonished him, earnestly. And David listened. CHAPTER XXIV A STORY REMODELED The pretended Halloween was a great success. So very excited, indeed, did David become over the swinging apples and popping nuts that he quite forgot to tell Mr. Jack what the Lady of the Roses had said until Jill had gone up to bed and he himself was about to take from Mr. Jack's hand the little lighted lamp. "Oh, Mr. Jack, I forgot," he cried then. "There was something I was going to tell you." "Never mind to-night, David; it's so late. Suppose we leave it until to-morrow," suggested Mr. Jack, still with the lamp extended in his hand. "But I promised the Lady of the Roses that I'd say it to-night," demurred the boy, in a troubled voice. The man drew his lamp halfway back suddenly. "The Lady of the Roses! Do you mean--she sent a message--to ME?" he demanded. "Yes; about the story, 'The Princess and the Pauper,' you know." With an abrupt exclamation Mr. Jack set the lamp on the table and turned to a chair. He had apparently lost his haste to go to bed. "See here, David, suppose you come and sit down, and tell me just what you're talking about. And first--just what does the Lady of the Roses know about that--that 'Princess and the Pauper'?" "Why, she knows it all, of course," returned the boy in surprise. "I told it to her." "You--told--it--to her!" Mr. Jack relaxed in his chair. "David!" "Yes. And she was just as interested as could be." "I don't doubt it!" Mr. Jack's lips snapped together a little grimly. "Only she didn't like the ending, either." Mr. Jack sat up suddenly. "She didn't like--David, are you sure? Did she SAY that?" David frowned in thought. "Well, I don't know as I can tell, exactly, but I'm sure she did n't like it, because just before she told me WHAT to say to you, she said that--that what she was going to say would probably have something to do with the ending, anyway. Still--" David paused in yet deeper thought. "Come to think of it, there really isn't anything--not in what she said--that CHANGED that ending, as I can see. They didn't get married and live happy ever after, anyhow." "Yes, but what did she say?" asked Mr. Jack in a voice that was not quite steady. "Now, be careful, David, and tell it just as she said it." "Oh, I will," nodded David. "SHE said to do that, too." "Did she?" Mr. Jack leaned farther forward in his chair. "But tell me, how did she happen to--to say anything about it? Suppose you begin at the beginning--away back, David. I want to hear it all--all!" David gave a contented sigh, and settled himself more comfortably. "Well, to begin with, you see, I told her the story long ago, before I was sick, and she was ever so interested then, and asked lots of questions. Then the other day something came up--I've forgotten how--about the ending, and I told her how hard I'd tried to have you change it, but you wouldn't. And she spoke right up quick and said probably you didn't want to change it, anyhow. But of course I settled THAT question without any trouble," went on David confidently, "by just telling her how you said you'd give anything in the world to change it." "And you told her that--just that, David?" cried the man. "Why, yes, I had to," answered David, in surprise, "else she wouldn't have known that you DID want to change it. Don't you see?" "Oh, yes! I--see--a good deal that I'm thinking you don't," muttered Mr. Jack, falling back in his chair. "Well, then is when I told her about the logical ending--what you said, you know,--oh, yes! and that was when I found out she did n't like the ending, because she laughed such a funny little laugh and colored up, and said that she wasn't sure she could tell me what a logical ending was, but that she would try to find out, and that, anyhow, YOUR ending wouldn't be hers--she was sure of that." "David, did she say that--really?" Mr. Jack was on his feet now. "She did; and then yesterday she asked me to come over, and she said some more things,--about the story, I mean,--but she didn't say another thing about the ending. She didn't ever say anything about that except that little bit I told you of a minute ago." "Yes, yes, but what did she say?" demanded Mr. Jack, stopping short in his walk up and down the room. "She said: 'You tell Mr. Jack that I know something about that story of his that perhaps he doesn't. In the first place, I know the Princess a lot better than he does, and she isn't a bit the kind of girl he's pictured her." "Yes! Go on--go on!" "'Now, for instance,' she says, 'when the boy made that call, after the girl first came back, and when the boy didn't like it because they talked of colleges and travels, and such things, you tell him that I happen to know that that girl was just hoping and hoping he'd speak of the old days and games; but that she could n't speak, of course, when he hadn't been even once to see her during all those weeks, and when he'd acted in every way just as if he'd forgotten.'" "But she hadn't waved--that Princess hadn't waved--once!" argued Mr. Jack; "and he looked and looked for it." "Yes, SHE spoke of that," returned David. "But SHE said she shouldn't think the Princess would have waved, when she'd got to be such a great big girl as that--WAVING to a BOY! She said that for her part she should have been ashamed of her if she had!" "Oh, did she!" murmured Mr. Jack blankly, dropping suddenly into his chair. "Yes, she did," repeated David, with a little virtuous uplifting of his chin. It was plain to be seen that David's sympathies had unaccountably met with a change of heart. "But--the Pauper--" "Oh, yes, and that's another thing," interrupted David. "The Lady of the Roses said that she didn't like that name one bit; that it wasn't true, anyway, because he wasn't a pauper. And she said, too, that as for his picturing the Princess as being perfectly happy in all that magnificence, he didn't get it right at all. For SHE knew that the Princess wasn't one bit happy, because she was so lonesome for things and people she had known when she was just the girl." Again Mr. Jack sprang to his feet. For a minute he strode up and down the room in silence; then in a shaking voice he asked:-- "David, you--you aren't making all this up, are you? You're saying just what--what Miss Holbrook told you to?" "Why, of course, I'm not making it up," protested the boy aggrievedly. "This is the Lady of the Roses' story--SHE made it up--only she talked it as if 't was real, of course, just as you did. She said another thing, too. She said that she happened to know that the Princess had got all that magnificence around her in the first place just to see if it wouldn't make her happy, but that it hadn't, and that now she had one place--a little room--that was left just as it used to be when she was the girl, and that she went there and sat very often. And she said it was right in sight of where the boy lived, too, where he could see it every day; and that if he hadn't been so blind he could have looked right through those gray walls and seen that, and seen lots of other things. And what did she mean by that, Mr. Jack?" "I don't know--I don't know, David," half-groaned Mr. Jack. "Sometimes I think she means--and then I think that can't be--true." "But do you think it's helped it any--the story?" persisted the boy. "She's only talked a little about the Princess. She didn't really change things any--not the ending." "But she said it might, David--she said it might! Don't you remember?" cried the man eagerly. And to David, his eagerness did not seem at all strange. Mr. Jack had said before--long ago--that he would be very glad indeed to have a happier ending to this tale. "Think now," continued the man. "Perhaps she said something else, too. Did she say anything else, David?" David shook his head slowly. "No, only--yes, there was a little something, but it doesn't CHANGE things any, for it was only a 'supposing.' She said: 'Just supposing, after long years, that the Princess found out about how the boy felt long ago, and suppose he should look up at the tower some day, at the old time, and see a ONE--TWO wave, which meant, "Come over to see me." Just what do you suppose he would do?' But of course, THAT can't do any good," finished David gloomily, as he rose to go to bed, "for that was only a 'supposing.'" "Of course," agreed Mr. Jack steadily; and David did not know that only stern self-control had forced the steadiness into that voice, nor that, for Mr. Jack, the whole world had burst suddenly into song. Neither did David, the next morning, know that long before eight o'clock Mr. Jack stood at a certain window, his eyes unswervingly fixed on the gray towers of Sunnycrest. What David did know, however, was that just after eight, Mr. Jack strode through the room where he and Jill were playing checkers, flung himself into his hat and coat, and then fairly leaped down the steps toward the path that led to the footbridge at the bottom of the hill. "Why, whatever in the world ails Jack?" gasped Jill. Then, after a startled pause, she asked. "David, do folks ever go crazy for joy? Yesterday, you see, Jack got two splendid pieces of news. One was from his doctor. He was examined, and he's fine, the doctor says; all well, so he can go back, now any time, to the city and work. I shall go to school then, you know,--a young ladies' school," she finished, a little importantly. "He's well? How splendid! But what was the other news? You said there were two; only it couldn't have been nicer than that was; to be well--all well!" "The other? Well, that was only that his old place in the city was waiting for him. He was with a firm of big lawyers, you know, and of course it is nice to have a place all waiting. But I can't see anything in those things to make him act like this, now. Can you?" "Why, yes, maybe," declared David. "He's found his work--don't you see?--out in the world, and he's going to do it. I know how I'd feel if I had found mine that father told me of! Only what I can't understand is, if Mr. Jack knew all this yesterday, why did n't he act like this then, instead of waiting till to-day?" "I wonder," said Jill. CHAPTER XXV THE BEAUTIFUL WORLD David found many new songs in his violin those early winter days, and they were very beautiful ones. To begin with, there were all the kindly looks and deeds that were showered upon him from every side. There was the first snowstorm, too, with the feathery flakes turning all the world to fairy whiteness. This song David played to Mr. Streeter, one day, and great was his disappointment that the man could not seem to understand what the song said. "But don't you see?" pleaded David. "I'm telling you that it's your pear-tree blossoms come back to say how glad they are that you didn't kill them that day." "Pear-tree blossoms--come back!" ejaculated the old man. "Well, no, I can't see. Where's yer pear-tree blossoms?" "Why, there--out of the window--everywhere," urged the boy. "THERE! By ginger! boy--ye don't mean--ye CAN'T mean the SNOW!" "Of course I do! Now, can't you see it? Why, the whole tree was just a great big cloud of snowflakes. Don't you remember? Well, now it's gone away and got a whole lot more trees, and all the little white petals have come dancing down to celebrate, and to tell you they sure are coming back next year." "Well, by ginger!" exclaimed the man again. Then, suddenly, he threw back his head with a hearty laugh. David did not quite like the laugh, neither did he care for the five-cent piece that the man thrust into his fingers a little later; though--had David but known it--both the laugh and the five-cent piece gift were--for the uncomprehending man who gave them--white milestones along an unfamiliar way. It was soon after this that there came to David the great surprise--his beloved Lady of the Roses and his no less beloved Mr. Jack were to be married at the beginning of the New Year. So very surprised, indeed, was David at this, that even his violin was mute, and had nothing, at first, to say about it. But to Mr. Jack, as man to man, David said one day:-- "I thought men, when they married women, went courting. In story-books they do. And you--you hardly ever said a word to my beautiful Lady of the Roses; and you spoke once--long ago--as if you scarcely remembered her at all. Now, what do you mean by that?" And Mr. Jack laughed, but he grew red, too,--and then he told it all,--that it was just the story of "The Princess and the Pauper," and that he, David, had been the one, as it happened, to do part of their courting for them. And how David had laughed then, and how he had fairly hugged himself for joy! And when next he had picked up his violin, what a beautiful, beautiful song he had found about it in the vibrant strings! It was this same song, as it chanced, that he was playing in his room that Saturday afternoon when the letter from Simeon Holly's long-lost son John came to the Holly farmhouse. Downstairs in the kitchen, Simeon Holly stood, with the letter in his hand. "Ellen, we've got a letter from--John," he said. That Simeon Holly spoke of it at all showed how very far along HIS unfamiliar way he had come since the last letter from John had arrived. "From--John? Oh, Simeon! From John?" "Yes." Simeon sat down and tried to hide the shaking of his hand as he ran the point of his knife under the flap of the envelope. "We'll see what--he says." And to hear him, one might have thought that letters from John were everyday occurrences. DEAR FATHER: Twice before I have written [ran the letter], and received no answer. But I'm going to make one more effort for forgiveness. May I not come to you this Christmas? I have a little boy of my own now, and my heart aches for you. I know how I should feel, should he, in years to come, do as I did. I'll not deceive you--I have not given up my art. You told me once to choose between you and it--and I chose, I suppose; at least, I ran away. Yet in the face of all that, I ask you again, may I not come to you at Christmas? I want you, father, and I want mother. And I want you to see my boy. "Well?" said Simeon Holly, trying to speak with a steady coldness that would not show how deeply moved he was. "Well, Ellen?" "Yes, Simeon, yes!" choked his wife, a world of mother-love and longing in her pleading eyes and voice. "Yes--you'll let it be--'Yes'!" "Uncle Simeon, Aunt Ellen," called David, clattering down the stairs from his room, "I've found such a beautiful song in my violin, and I'm going to play it over and over so as to be sure and remember it for father--for it is a beautiful world, Uncle Simeon, isn't it? Now, listen!" And Simeon Holly listened--but it was not the violin that he heard. It was the voice of a little curly-headed boy out of the past. When David stopped playing some time later, only the woman sat watching him--the man was over at his desk, pen in hand. John, John's wife, and John's boy came the day before Christmas, and great was the excitement in the Holly farmhouse. John was found to be big, strong, and bronzed with the outdoor life of many a sketching trip--a son to be proud of, and to be leaned upon in one's old age. Mrs. John, according to Perry Larson, was "the slickest little woman goin'." According to John's mother, she was an almost unbelievable incarnation of a long-dreamed-of, long-despaired-of daughter--sweet, lovable, and charmingly beautiful. Little John--little John was himself; and he could not have been more had he been an angel-cherub straight from heaven--which, in fact, he was, in his doting grandparents' eyes. John Holly had been at his old home less than four hours when he chanced upon David's violin. He was with his father and mother at the time. There was no one else in the room. With a sidelong glance at his parents, he picked up the instrument--John Holly had not forgotten his own youth. His violin-playing in the old days had not been welcome, he remembered. "A fiddle! Who plays?" he asked. "David." "Oh, the boy. You say you--took him in? By the way, what an odd little shaver he is! Never did I see a BOY like HIM." Simeon Holly's head came up almost aggressively. "David is a good boy--a very good boy, indeed, John. We think a great deal of him." John Holly laughed lightly, yet his brow carried a puzzled frown. Two things John Holly had not been able thus far to understand: an indefinable change in his father, and the position of the boy David, in the household--John Holly was still remembering his own repressed youth. "Hm-m," he murmured, softly picking the strings, then drawing across them a tentative bow. "I've a fiddle at home that I play sometimes. Do you mind if I--tune her up?" A flicker of something that was very near to humor flashed from his father's eyes. "Oh, no. We are used to that--now." And again John Holly remembered his youth. "Jove! but he's got the dandy instrument here," cried the player, dropping his bow after the first half-dozen superbly vibrant tones, and carrying the violin to the window. A moment later he gave an amazed ejaculation and turned on his father a dumfounded face. "Great Scott, father! Where did that boy get this instrument? I KNOW something of violins, if I can't play them much; and this--! Where DID he get it?" "Of his father, I suppose. He had it when he came here, anyway." "'Had it when he came'! But, father, you said he was a tramp, and--oh, come, tell me, what is the secret behind this? Here I come home and find calmly reposing on my father's sitting-room table a violin that's priceless, for all I know. Anyhow, I do know that its value is reckoned in the thousands, not hundreds: and yet you, with equal calmness, tell me it's owned by this boy who, it's safe to say, doesn't know how to play sixteen notes on it correctly, to say nothing of appreciating those he does play; and who, by your own account, is nothing but--" A swiftly uplifted hand of warning stayed the words on his lips. He turned to see David himself in the doorway. "Come in, David," said Simeon Holly quietly. "My son wants to hear you play. I don't think he has heard you." And again there flashed from Simeon Holly's eyes a something very much like humor. With obvious hesitation John Holly relinquished the violin. From the expression on his face it was plain to be seen the sort of torture he deemed was before him. But, as if constrained to ask the question, he did say:-- "Where did you get this violin, boy?" "I don't know. We've always had it, ever since I could remember--this and the other one." "The OTHER one!" "Father's." "Oh!" He hesitated; then, a little severely, he observed: "This is a fine instrument, boy,--a very fine instrument." "Yes," nodded David, with a cheerful smile. "Father said it was. I like it, too. This is an Amati, but the other is a Stradivarius. I don't know which I do like best, sometimes, only this is mine." With a half-smothered ejaculation John Holly fell back limply. "Then you--do--know?" he challenged. "Know--what?" "The value of that violin in your hands." There was no answer. The boy's eyes were questioning. "The worth, I mean,--what it's worth." "Why, no--yes--that is, it's worth everything--to me," answered David, in a puzzled voice. With an impatient gesture John Holly brushed this aside. "But the other one--where is that?" "At Joe Glaspell's. I gave it to him to play on, because he had n't any, and he liked to play so well." "You GAVE it to him--a Stradivarius!" "I loaned it to him," corrected David, in a troubled voice. "Being father's, I couldn't bear to give it away. But Joe--Joe had to have something to play on." "'Something to play on'! Father, he doesn't mean the River Street Glaspells?" cried John Holly. "I think he does. Joe is old Peleg Glaspell's grandson." John Holly threw up both his hands. "A Stradivarius--to old Peleg's grandson! Oh, ye gods!" he muttered. "Well, I'll be--" He did not finish his sentence. At another word from Simeon Holly, David had begun to play. From his seat by the stove Simeon Holly watched his son's face--and smiled. He saw amazement, unbelief, and delight struggle for the mastery; but before the playing had ceased, he was summoned by Perry Larson to the kitchen on a matter of business. So it was into the kitchen that John Holly burst a little later, eyes and cheek aflame. "Father, where in Heaven's name DID you get that boy?" he demanded. "Who taught him to play like that? I've been trying to find out from him, but I'd defy Sherlock Holmes himself to make head or tail of the sort of lingo he talks, about mountain homes and the Orchestra of Life! Father, what DOES it mean?" Obediently Simeon Holly told the story then, more fully than he had told it before. He brought forward the letter, too, with its mysterious signature. "Perhaps you can make it out, son," he laughed. "None of the rest of us can, though I haven't shown it to anybody now for a long time. I got discouraged long ago of anybody's ever making it out." "Make it out--make it out!" cried John Holly excitedly; "I should say I could! It's a name known the world over. It's the name of one of the greatest violinists that ever lived." "But how--what--how came he in my barn?" demanded Simeon Holly. "Easily guessed, from the letter, and from what the world knows," returned John, his voice still shaking with excitement. "He was always a queer chap, they say, and full of his notions. Six or eight years ago his wife died. They say he worshiped her, and for weeks refused even to touch his violin. Then, very suddenly, he, with his four-year-old son, disappeared--dropped quite out of sight. Some people guessed the reason. I knew a man who was well acquainted with him, and at the time of the disappearance he told me quite a lot about him. He said he was n't a bit surprised at what had happened. That already half a dozen relatives were interfering with the way he wanted to bring the boy up, and that David was in a fair way to be spoiled, even then, with so much attention and flattery. The father had determined to make a wonderful artist of his son, and he was known to have said that he believed--as do so many others--that the first dozen years of a child's life are the making of the man, and that if he could have the boy to himself that long he would risk the rest. So it seems he carried out his notion until he was taken sick, and had to quit--poor chap!" "But why didn't he tell us plainly in that note who he was, then?" fumed Simeon Holly, in manifest irritation. "He did, he thought," laughed the other. "He signed his name, and he supposed that was so well known that just to mention it would be enough. That's why he kept it so secret while he was living on the mountain, you see, and that's why even David himself didn't know it. Of course, if anybody found out who he was, that ended his scheme, and he knew it. So he supposed all he had to do at the last was to sign his name to that note, and everybody would know who he was, and David would at once be sent to his own people. (There's an aunt and some cousins, I believe.) You see he didn't reckon on nobody's being able to READ his name! Besides, being so ill, he probably wasn't quite sane, anyway." "I see, I see," nodded Simeon Holly, frowning a little. "And of course if we had made it out, some of us here would have known it, probably. Now that you call it to mind I think I have heard it myself in days gone by--though such names mean little to me. But doubtless somebody would have known. However, that is all past and gone now." "Oh, yes, and no harm done. He fell into good hands, luckily. You'll soon see the last of him now, of course." "Last of him? Oh, no, I shall keep David," said Simeon Holly, with decision. "Keep him! Why, father, you forget who he is! There are friends, relatives, an adoring public, and a mint of money awaiting that boy. You can't keep him. You could never have kept him this long if this little town of yours hadn't been buried in this forgotten valley up among these hills. You'll have the whole world at your doors the minute they find out he is here--hills or no hills! Besides, there are his people; they have some claim." There was no answer. With a suddenly old, drawn look on his face, the elder man had turned away. Half an hour later Simeon Holly climbed the stairs to David's room, and as gently and plainly as he could told the boy of this great, good thing that had come to him. David was amazed, but overjoyed. That he was found to be the son of a famous man affected him not at all, only so far as it seemed to set his father right in other eyes--in David's own, the man had always been supreme. But the going away--the marvelous going away--filled him with excited wonder. "You mean, I shall go away and study--practice--learn more of my violin?" "Yes, David." "And hear beautiful music like the organ in church, only more--bigger--better?" "I suppose so.". "And know people--dear people--who will understand what I say when I play?" Simeon Holly's face paled a little; still, he knew David had not meant to make it so hard. "Yes." "Why, it's my 'start'--just what I was going to have with the gold-pieces," cried David joyously. Then, uttering a sharp cry of consternation, he clapped his fingers to his lips. "Your--what?" asked the man. "N--nothing, really, Mr. Holly,--Uncle Simeon,--n--nothing." Something, either the boy's agitation, or the luckless mention of the gold-pieces sent a sudden dismayed suspicion into Simeon Holly's eyes. "Your 'start'?--the 'gold-pieces'? David, what do you mean?" David shook his head. He did not intend to tell. But gently, persistently, Simeon Holly questioned until the whole piteous little tale lay bare before him: the hopes, the house of dreams, the sacrifice. David saw then what it means when a strong man is shaken by an emotion that has mastered him; and the sight awed and frightened the boy. "Mr. Holly, is it because I'm--going--that you care--so much? I never thought--or supposed--you'd--CARE," he faltered. There was no answer. Simeon Holly's eyes were turned quite away. "Uncle Simeon--PLEASE! I--I think I don't want to go, anyway. I--I'm sure I don't want to go--and leave YOU!" Simeon Holly turned then, and spoke. "Go? Of course you'll go, David. Do you think I'd tie you here to me--NOW?" he choked. "What don't I owe to you--home, son, happiness! Go?--of course you'll go. I wonder if you really think I'd let you stay! Come, we'll go down to mother and tell her. I suspect she'll want to start in to-night to get your socks all mended up!" And with head erect and a determined step, Simeon Holly faced the mighty sacrifice in his turn, and led the way downstairs. * * * * * The friends, the relatives, the adoring public, the mint of money--they are all David's now. But once each year, man grown though he is, he picks up his violin and journeys to a little village far up among the hills. There in a quiet kitchen he plays to an old man and an old woman; and always to himself he says that he is practicing against the time when, his violin at his chin and the bow drawn across the strings, he shall go to meet his father in the far-away land, and tell him of the beautiful world he has left. 
45842	----	THE ERRATIC FLAME by YSABEL DE TERESA New York The Macaulay Company ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright, 1926, by The Macaulay Company Printed in the United States of America ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS I THE SCORCHING LIMELIGHT II ESCAPADE III LIFE'S GLAMOUR IV THE PAWN V CLAIRE'S RENUNCIATION VI DARK DESPAIR VII THE LOST GIRL VIII MORTAL SIN IX YOUTH'S TEMPEST X MERRY-GO-ROUND XI ANNE'S VIGIL XII THE HEALING VISION XIII BALM XIV RAPTURE XV "DUG DEEP INTO MY HEART--" XVI IRREVOCABLE XVII STRANGE AND SINISTER XVIII DISCORD XIX A CRESCENDO XX OFFERINGS TO THE GOD OF GENIUS XXI TRIUMPH XXII ANTI-CLIMAX XXIII DISSONANCE XXIV TRICKERY XXV SACRIFICIAL XXVI "WILL YOU TAKE ME--" XXVII CLAIRE'S CHILD XXVIII "PITY THAT PAINS" EPILOGUE: PURPLE AND GOLD ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE ERRATIC FLAME CHAPTER I THE SCORCHING LIMELIGHT As the mountain mist, caressing and desultory, resolved into a steady downpour, Anne glimpsed just above her the outlines of a hut. Crouched behind sodden boughs, decrepit, ramshackle, it tottered upon the lip of the ravine. With an amused sense of relief she trudged up towards it, her feet sinking amongst a welter of brown leaves, her whole being cleansed within the gray mantle of the rain. After a hectic summer of bridge and dancing this solitude of dripping trees and drenched leaves, fell upon her bruised spirit like a benediction. Anne thanked her very modern and somewhat pagan gods for having inspired her to escape from the inglorious rut. To-day, the New York season ahead of her, shone meretricious in the face of the crystal cleanliness of bathing woods. Perhaps she would give it all up and open the villa in Florence immediately instead of waiting until after Christmas. The very thought rested her. She attained the top of the ravine with renewed serenity. Its gaunt outlines blurred by rain, the hut stood before her. Assailed by a feeling of almost girlish excitement she smiled with inward amusement. Surfeited, world-weary, surely she was not foolish enough to expect a thrill lurking within the walls of a dilapidated mountain cabin? The careless little smile on her lips, she stepped upon the crazy porch and tried the door. Obstinate in mood it resisted her onslaught with almost personal violence. But she braced her back upon its gray stubbornness, and giving a vigorous push, burst into the room. Dim, inhospitable, alien, its opaque shadows menaced vaguely. Still smiling, Anne ventured boldly forward. Then, as her eyes fell upon the hearth, hesitated, for from the embers rose a nebulous tube of smoke. Its faint, acrid tang rode the stale air challengingly. Anne darted a keen glance about her, focusing upon the extreme corner of the room where a denser blackness prevailed, which as she approached resolved itself into a couch and a mass of tossed blankets from which emerged a head; a tumbled, lolling head, which drooped towards the floor as if in pursuit of its own heavy, trailing hand. Pathetic, remote behind closed lids, it carried to Anne a summons both tragic and impelling. She drew nearer and peered down into the pallid features. It was the face of a dissipated young god, glistening with a pallor of unhealth, beautiful in its decadence, with the pagan beauty of a Praxiteles. A wave of pity and excitement surged over her. A boy, ill and alone; a boy with the face of a fallen Lucifer! She leaned over and placed her hand upon the pale forehead. It was cold and moist beneath a tangle of tumbled curls. She shivered slightly at the contact. Ephemeral as was her touch, the leaden lids rose beneath it, and she found herself gazing down into a pair of weary, indifferent young eyes. She backed away hastily. The boy intercepted her recoil with a harsh laugh. Sitting up, he clasped his head, and gazed at her from under long and pallid fingers. "Did you think I was dead?" he said with a mocking air. "And what would you have done if I had been?" He shot her a look of impish hostility. Anne assumed an air of indifference. "There would have been a lot of red tape, I suppose," she said curtly over her shoulder. She turned and walked slowly toward the door. Arms clasped about his knees, he looked after her with dawning interest. "Where are you going?" he said brusquely. "You can't leave now in this rain." He looked up at the roof against which rushing waters beat a thunderous tattoo. Scrambling to his feet, he started towards her. She met the haggard young eyes with composure. "When I came in here, I thought the place was deserted," she said simply, "and then, when I saw you----" "You thought I was dead!" he interposed with a repetition of the short, dry laugh. "No such luck!" He checked himself. "Seriously, you won't be so foolish as to go out again until the rain stops, will you? Just because you find me offensive? I'll make up the fire, and you must dry yourself." As he said this, a sudden child-like smile lighted up the somber face. Anne decided it would be ridiculous not to stay. After all, the young brute could not eat her. It was only a few weeks since she had recovered from summer flu and she shrank from inviting another attack of the insidious enemy. Besides, in spite or perhaps because of his haggard young impudence, there welled up from her subconscious a primitive desire to see the adventure to the finish. And as she watched the slight figure busying itself at the hearth, she was smitten with a vague sense of familiarity. Where had she seen that pale face, those uptilted, faunlike eyebrows? That classic throat, which rose columnar from the négligée shirt? And above all, those hands, those square, elongated fingers? In some ancient bronze or marble? She took the chair nearest the hearth and stretching her hands to the blaze, watched his impassive features as the firelight played upon them. "That's right," he said non-committally, "better take off your sweater, it's dripping. I'll lend you one in the meanwhile." With a quick gesture, he lighted the lamp upon the table, and opening a drawer in the ramshackle bureau, drew out a heavy wool sweater, and with a casual gesture, threw it about her shoulders. "What a beauty!" She met his indifference with an amused smile as she caressed the smooth texture. The eyes beneath the heavy lids mocked her. She realized with amused dismay that he evidently thought she was trying to flirt with him. "I'm going to make tea," he said abruptly. "All women like tea." His voice was contemptuous. The callow brutality roused her sense of humor. She removed her hat and ran her hands through hair which glistened like burnished chestnuts in the firelight. She smiled as she caught his eyes resting upon it unwillingly. "What have women done to you?" she inquired softly. He gave her a quick, menacing look. "You are tyrants, all of you," he sneered savagely. "Greedy for everything. For money, flattery, love, especially love. Insatiable! Demanding, always demanding but--I promised you tea, I believe." He finished somewhat lamely, and striding to the cupboard produced a tin, a loaf of bread and some butter. She looked at him from beneath inscrutable lashes. "I'm sorry you're unhappy," she said simply. "We are all unhappy," he evaded. He poured water into the dingy kettle hanging over the fire. "You are unhappy because you are wet, and like a civilized lady want your tea. I am unhappy because my head aches most damnably! For me there is no help but time, but for you there is orange pekoe." She laughed. "For a soulless creature like a woman there is always food, eh?" she teased. "But a masculine intellect demands only spiritual sustenance?" He laughed more naturally, as he met her mocking glance. "I must seem an awful fool to you," he said somewhat sheepishly. She shook her head, still smiling. "Oh, no, I was merely thinking what a mixture of sullen boy and embittered cynic you are. Do you know you are a very odd person, indeed?" He looked at once flattered and woebegone. "I suppose it's this damned forcing-house I've lived in." He muttered as he sliced the bread rather clumsily, with his most unclumsy-looking hands. "Limelight doesn't mellow, it scorches!" Then as he met her astonished gaze, he checked himself abruptly. "Bread and butter and cigarettes are all I can offer, unless the storm has whetted you sufficiently for bacon and eggs?" She laughed a denial, and springing up, lifted the chuckling kettle off the hearth. The boy hurried to her assistance and their flesh met over the handle. "So you're a celebrity?" she thrust at him, as he took the kettle from her and placed it on a table. Beneath her scrutiny his features again became a mask, except for the eyes, which gleamed liquid in the firelight. "You flatter me," he laughed with forced lightness. "Must I decrease my importance and the romance of the occasion by revealing my humble identity?" "No indeed!" exclaimed Anne, "that would spoil everything." But the odd little speech about the limelight had challenged her curiosity, and as she continued to observe him, that strange sense of familiarity which the first impression of his face had given, insinuated itself into her consciousness more securely. "No," she murmured without an appreciable pause. "Let's just be two stray cats crawling into shelter from the rain." An expression of relief thawed his frozen young face. "But the Persian must not be shocked if the alley-cat does not know how to behave and laps up his milk rudely." He laughed as he poured out her tea, and handed her the bread and butter. For the moment he looked almost happy, altogether boyish. He seated himself on the other side of the table, and gazed into the fire, which crackled up into their faces with the officiousness of an elderly chaperon. Its self-conscious sputter neutralized the clamor of the rain and somehow pleased him. "How elemental," he threw out his hands in an expressive gesture. "A storm, a fire, and a cave," he looked about the shadowy room whimsically. "A man and a woman--food--. We might be in the Stone Age." His cynical gaze probed her. Anne's laugh was a rippling murmur. "A moment ago we were cats. Our evolution has been rapid!" She pushed aside her chair, rose, and walking quickly to the window, peered through the crooked panes, at the dusky woods beyond. "The rain is letting up," she announced briefly. "I must go home, or Regina will worry herself into a fever." His somber laugh rang harshly. "So you prefer cats to cavemen?" He joined her in a couple of lazy strides. "That isn't at all up to date! May I inquire who is Regina, and still preserve our charming incognito?" "She is my Italian maid. We are alone here this fall and she will be wild if I don't hurry. She has been with me since I was a child and I'm scarcely allowed to breathe without her permission," she replied rather more expansively than she had intended. "Well, if you must!" he shrugged. "I suppose I ought to say something romantic about 'ships that pass in the night,' etc. But as I am a misogynist"--he hesitated, looking at her with a sarcastic smile. She took him up gaily. "You merely hand me my hat, and tell me I look old enough to take care of myself!" She drew the flabby object down over her head, and met his smouldering gaze with a smile. "You're really not so glad to have me go as you pretend," she challenged. Then she caught her breath, for he had thrown out his arms with a savage look, and for a moment she thought he was going to crush her within them. But, letting them drop abruptly, he turned, and pulling his mackintosh off the wall, thrust it about her shoulders. "Let's go, since you wish it," he said shortly. A moment later they were stumbling down the mountainside. Almost obliterated by rain the path had become precipitous. Masses of dead leaves choked their progress. At every step they slid and waded, ankle-deep in scaly moisture, until Anne wanted to scream at the reptilian contact. "There's something corpse-like about them," she said, as she stumbled along behind the blinding rays of the lantern. "Why not? That's exactly what they are," he replied grimly. He held aside a sodden branch for her to pass under. "Corpses, heaped victims of the storm, as dead as you and I shall be some day, as dead as I wish I were myself this moment!" He laughed harshly. Then as her hand touched his arm, added more gently, "Surely, you are not afraid of death." "No, of course not." She huddled more closely to his side, "Only you're so young it seems a shame----" He interrupted her savagely. "All the better! Life is sufficiently drab without having to pass through the horrors of decrepitude and senility. Death is the only apology the gods can offer, for having thrust us into it." As he spoke they emerged from the dripping woods on to the road, and the walking became easier. "Don't you want to get somewhere, to do something worthwhile before you die?" she asked looking pityingly into the young face so white and set in the lantern rays. His lips curled. "Get somewhere! Do something! That is meaningless jargon. There is really no goal, no destination. We merely fool ourselves into thinking there is. Work is only a drug, a means of forgetting. A good drug, I admit, and at times even heady, but a drug, nevertheless!" Her hold upon his arm tightened. "Oh, how unhappy you must be! How sorry I am for you!" she cried with unmistakable sincerity. "Do tell me what is the matter. I am sure I could help you. You're so young, you probably exaggerate." She caught herself up for fear of wounding him. "I mean I'm older than you." She held her hand out pleadingly towards him. He clasped it in his long fingers. "Thank you," he replied more quietly, "I believe you mean it, but I cannot, indeed I cannot!" She did not urge, and they walked on in silence. The rain had stopped so gradually, that neither of them remembered when it had ceased to fall. Presently, they turned a bend in the road and came upon lights close at hand. "Here's my cottage," said Anne, in a slightly surprised tone. "I didn't know we were so near. Come in and Regina will get us some supper. Then you can rest awhile before returning home." One foot on the step, he looked up at her, as she stood on the porch above him. "No, the play is over, the lights are out. I must return to my hut and--" beneath his breath--"my devils." Although he had already turned about, Anne heard. "Your devils can get along perfectly well without you. Besides I have one myself. Let us share them together. Come, I see we need each other badly tonight." Compassionate beneath her light manner, she caught him by the back of the coat with both hands, and pulled him forcibly about. "Besides, I have your mackintosh and your sweater. You mustn't be so reckless with your property." He followed her up the steps with obvious reluctance. She opened the door and drew him in through the glowing aperture. "See, there's a fire," she cried gaily. "And after supper I'll play to you." She pointed to an upright in the corner. "I can play even on an old country piano," she boasted. And then she saw his face. It was paler than the hands which sought to conceal it. "No, no music! Never again!" he muttered. He fell weakly into the nearest chair, and with a low moan laid his head on the arm. Sudden intuition flooded Anne's being. How blind she had been! How was it possible that she had not recognized him sooner? A figure so well known, seen and listened to by her so many times? She approached and laid her hand on the bowed head. "I know you now, Mr. Petrovskey. It was very stupid of me not to have guessed before, only the light in the hut was so very poor. But please don't be worried," she added gently, as his drawn young face looked up into hers. "I can keep a secret very well indeed, and my one desire is to help you. You are not fit to go back to that lonely cabin to-night. You must stay here, and we will see how you are in the morning." He cast a wild glance about the rustic little room, as if he feared someone might spring out upon him from behind the pretty chintz curtains. "You cannot know how terrible this is," he said. "It is only a few weeks now--since it happened." He choked over the words. "And I feel as if I should like to hide forever." "But there is nothing to be ashamed of--" she commenced. "Ashamed," he cried, savagely. "I'm not ashamed! Only I'm full of hatred, of disgust for everyone and everything. I wish I could die!" The tortured voice sent a lump into Anne's throat. She knelt beside the chair and laid a compassionate arm about the shaking shoulders. "Come," said she. "You are ill and over-wrought. We will go upstairs and Regina and I will help you to bed. There's a good boy!" The protective gesture, the kind words were too much. Utterly beside himself, he turned and laid his head upon the refuge of her breast. "You are good, good," he whispered. "You are not disappointed in me because I'm a failure. You are not greedy like the others, who only want what they can get out of me. Yes, I will trust you and I will stay." As he raised his head, she felt her neck was moistened with his tears. CHAPTER II ESCAPADE After a sleepless night, Anne dozed late. So when Regina brought in her coffee about nine o'clock as usual, she awakened gropingly to fog. Fog, which filtered in at the windows in layers of pale moonlight, and wreathed about the house an ectoplasmic shroud until for a long moment Anne had the illusion of floating through clouds in a dreamship. Then Regina spoke. "Dio mio, it's as chill as the finger of death in here!" She closed the windows violently. "When will you learn to take care of yourself, carina?" Anne smiled. She was accustomed to these wild admonitions. She sat up in bed and slipped into the green silk kimono which Regina was holding out to her. The contrast between her own slim white arms and the woman's knotted brown hands pleased her impersonally. She allowed her fingers to rest upon Regina's sleeve. Relaxed and peaceful, the enshrouding fog rose like a protecting wall between her and an irksome world. She sighed luxuriantly at the thought of having left it all behind her. Then the memory of last night swooped down upon her with the clamorous beat of wings and sleep departed. She clasped Regina's wrist with tense fingers. "Regina, how is he? Where is he this morning?" she exclaimed wide awake and anxious. "I had forgotten all about him, poor boy!" The woman smiled benevolently. She placed the tray upon a table beside the bed. "He sleeps, cara, he sleeps. I but this moment popped my head in at the door and he was lying there as still and quiet as a child, poverino. So don't worry your little head about him, but eat your breakfast before it freezes to a jelly." But Anne did not hesitate. With a lithe movement she was out of bed. Twisting the brazen rope of hair about her small head, she fastened it with a massive gold hairpin. Then, a mediæval princess, in trailing green draperies, she swept from the room. Left alone, Regina thrust hands and eyes to heaven and called out upon her picturesque God. Then she shrugged with Italian fatalism and despair. What else could she have expected? It had been so from the very first. Anne had always had her own way, ever since she herself had gone to her as nurse when as a little girl they had lived in the palazzo in Florence and her father had been the American consul. Married and a widow, she still remained the same wilful child in the eyes of the faithful, long-suffering, old woman. With a shake of the white head, she followed her mistress out into the narrow hallway and watched disapprovingly, as she disappeared into the opposite room. It was cold in there and Anne shivered a little as she entered. The fog shimmered in from the open window, writhing itself between her and the recumbent figure on the bed. Like Regina, she closed the window, although less violently, smiling the while to herself at the similarity of their action. Approaching the bed, she looked down upon the sleeper. He was flushed and breathing irregularly, and Anne was glad she had not trusted to Regina's optimistic inspection. For his hand and forehead were burning and her touch did not arouse him. Rather alarmed, she took him by the shoulders and shook him gently. He muttered, and opening his eyes, gazed up at her, at first vacantly, then with dawning dread. Although her heart beat a little faster, she smiled serenely down upon him. "Well?" He turned his head away quickly, and for a moment the unnatural flush was replaced by the glistening pallor of the day before. "I must get up. I must go back," he said self-consciously. "I have trespassed upon you most shamefully. What can you think of me?" Still avoiding her eye, he sat up in bed and ran an unsteady hand through his tumbled hair. The serene smile upon her lips, she shook her head. "Do you really want to know what I think? I think you are going to stay right here, young man, for unless I am much mistaken, you have fever, and if that is the case, I shall not permit you to get up at all!" He tossed his blonde mane impatiently. "Fever? Nonsense! I'm perfectly all right. There's nothing the matter with me at all, and I am going to get up!" Flushed and unsteady, he stared at her defiantly, prepared to throw off the clothes and jump out of bed. Then remembered with horror that he was attired in one of Regina's ample and unpoetic nightrobes, and inhibited the impulse with a groan. Repressing her amusement, Anne approached and took his wrist in cool, silken fingers. "I'm going to take your temperature, and if you have any fever, I shall send for a doctor at once," she announced composedly. Horror stalked across the young face. "No, no, you mustn't do that!" he exclaimed. "Nobody must see me, nobody must know where I am! I'll do anything you want, if only you won't send for a doctor, or let anyone know I am here!" His feverish clasp about her hands, Anne encountered his imploring look with gravity. "Very well, I have your promise. I don't know just how much it is worth, of course, it is up to you to show me. Now lie down again, and be a good patient while I get the thermometer and change my dress." Head obediently on the pillow, his eyes rested upon her wistfully as she moved toward the door. "Must you change, you look so beautiful like that," he said simply. "Your lines are so flowing, so fluid, like music. A Débussy prelude." Her hand on the knob, she laughed a little tremulously. "Your temperature must be even higher than I feared," she said lightly; looking at him rather shyly over her shoulder, she left the room. The next two days she and Regina were in constant attendance. His fever had risen rapidly at first and Anne had feared that after all she might have to break her word and call in a doctor. She could even have done so without his knowledge, for most of the time he had lain in a heavy slumber, from which she and Regina had difficulty in arousing him for his medicine. But she resisted the temptation. And when the fever finally commenced to drop, experienced a triumph disproportionately disturbing, which she explained to herself as relief from the intolerable responsibility of her position. The afternoon of the second day, as she sat beside the window the sense of relief filtering through her, Regina came into the room, and with a great show of excitement and mystery, handed her the New York paper. She pointed to a picture on the second page, with excitement. "Ecco lo, there he is!" she exclaimed in a whisper. "And I guessed it the moment I set eyes on him. For haven't I sat a dozen times in the gallery and listened to him while he played, poor angel!" She approached and looked down at the boy with a mixture of compassion and adoration. "Poverino, how he has suffered," she added, as she smoothed the bedclothes beneath the unshaven young chin. Anne took the paper and looked at the photograph. It was indeed he, violin under one arm, who looked at her with cryptic eyes, eyes laden with all the tragedy of genius. She sighed. A little shiver passed through her, as she glanced toward the bed. Why was genius inevitably companioned by suffering? Why did those who possess it harbor such strange magnetism, even when their personalities were often repellent and ugly? And as she looked upon the sleeping boy, an emotion to which she was not accustomed stole upon Anne and kindled a flame, which scorched as well as warmed. An embryonic temperament, drugged with artificial activities, somnolent from ennui, stirred within her. With a flutter of self-ridicule she focussed her attention upon the newspaper in her hand, and read through the headlines mechanically. FAMOUS YOUNG MUSICIAN STILL MISSING IN SPITE OF FRANTIC SEARCH BY ANXIOUS RELATIVES Alexis Petrovskey, who escaped ten days ago from the sanitarium where he had gone to recuperate from nervous shock following upon his unfortunate breakdown in Carnegie Hall last April, is still missing, and a lake near the sanitarium is being dragged for his body, as it is feared that in his state of acute melancholia he may have made away with himself. Etc., etc. There followed encomiums upon his art and the great loss his death would be to the musical world in general. So he had relatives, mused Anne, and for some cryptic reason was unpleasantly stirred by the fact. That ought to have occurred to her in the beginning and they were--how had the newspaper put it?--frantic? Yes, that was it. They would be, of course. And she was aiding and abetting this unnatural young man to make them so. Put in that way, the fact sounded very disagreeable, and yet--? She finished the article with an impatient sigh, and turning her head, saw that the mysterious object of her speculation was awake and looking at her. There was an odd little smile upon his lips and his eyes were very lucid. Conscious of a flaming and obnoxiously juvenile blush, she folded the paper quickly and threw it aside. "Too late!" he exclaimed in a rather weak voice. "I have caught a glimpse of my beauteous self and know the worst. So they haven't been able to keep it out of the papers, after all? Please show it to me." He held out a long thin hand and she gave him the paper without further parley. He sat up in bed and read the article from start to finish. "Damn it!" he exclaimed, but rather placidly she thought. Somehow he had the air of a naughty and triumphant small boy. "This is an awful bore. What can I do to stop this parrots' talk?" "Let them know of your whereabouts, I suppose," she replied laconically. She walked to the window and looked out through the vista of trees. "It is quite natural they should be worried," she added non-committally. "I suppose you think I'm a brute." His eyes lingered upon the pearly nape of neck, where the copper tendrils coiled so densely. "But if you knew all the circumstances, I believe you would understand." The effort at self-command, the something piteous in his voice thawed her superficial coldness. A gentle rush of emotion coursed through her. She turned toward him impulsively. "Of course I don't think you're a brute! What right would I have to do that, when I am ignorant of the facts? Only I do think you ought to let them know----" He sat up in bed interrupting her savagely. "I can't go back--I won't go back!" he cried in a desperate voice. "You don't know what you are asking of me!" A pang of curiosity shot through Anne against her will. Why and of what was he so full of hatred and fear? But her manner was calm and impersonal as she approached him. "Perhaps you might let them know that you are safe and with friends, and let it go at that?" she suggested soothingly. He shot her a strange look. "Much she cares about my safety!" he muttered under his breath. Anne heard with an unacknowledged but irritating pang. So there was a wife, after all, in spite of his almost adolescent appearance! "Shall I send your wife a telegram?" she inquired in a matter-of-fact tone. "My wife!" he stared at her in surprise. "My mother, you mean!" Relief welled up in Anne's heart, but she chose to ignore its humiliating presence. "Your mother, then?" she pursued evenly. "Yes I suppose we had better," he acknowledged grudgingly. "But she is absolutely not to know where I am, or to try to communicate with me until I myself make the first move. That is to be understood." "Very well," said Anne with composure. "I'm sure we can manage that. It might be a good idea to write a letter and have my chauffeur take it down to New York and mail it from there? Or perhaps it would be even better if he took it to your house and left it there. Then there would be no postmark." "You're wonderful," he cried enthusiastically. "I never would have thought of that!" She met his look of admiration demurely. "Oh no, it is really a very simple idea. I'll go and get some notepaper and you had better write it yourself, so that your mother can be sure that the letter is absolutely genuine." Acting as curb to his impetuosity and anger, she helped him to concoct one of the strangest letters that a mother ever received. Such a glacial letter, in spite of her own compassionate tempering, that at the end Anne was loath to send it at all. "It will break her heart," she said sorrowfully. But he laughed at her with bitter emphasis. "Heart? She doesn't possess one! All she cares about is what she can get out of me, not only in money, but in vicarious fame, as the fond mother of a musical prodigy!" Shocked and pitiful, Anne regarded him. His flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes warned of the ever-present danger of recurring fever. She spoke kindly as if to a sick child. "I'm sure you're exciting yourself unnecessarily. This will never do. You're not at all well, and things appear exaggeratedly awful. I'm sure your mother loves you, how could she help it?" "Loves me? That is good! Why, she has bled me since I was seven years old. She has sometimes kept me at my violin until I have fainted from exhaustion. She has purposely isolated me from all friends and interests so that I might have no outside influences to distract me. Because of her, my life has been as narrow and as bleak as that of a Trappist Monk. We have never had any home, any ties. We have traveled from city to city, like a couple of strolling players, and lived almost as poorly, although ever since my twelfth year I have brought in thousands. But she wanted to hoard. It is her passion. She's very greedy. In fact, she's insatiable. She has always insisted upon being my business manager, and it wasn't until a couple of years ago when I was twenty-one that I was allowed the use of some of my own money. And then it was only because the doctors frightened her!" Anne met the triumph in his eyes with an inward shiver. "Were you so ill?" she inquired, curiosity struggling with repugnance. "No, but I was so damned neurotic and unsociable and had acquired so many complexes that they were afraid I would develop dementia praecox if my chains weren't slackened up a bit." "Poor boy, what happened then?" Anne seated herself on the foot of his bed and prepared to listen to the end. Very possibly, mental catharsis might succeed where the rest-cure had failed. He continued vehemently. "What happened? I took a three months' vacation from my music, which I had begun to detest in a furtive, unacknowledged, sort of way, and for a time ran completely wild. I was like an animal let out of a cage. I ran around with a pack of fools who took me into every sort of imaginable den and got me into every kind of imaginable scrape. In fact, it was only the force of money and my mother's constant watchfulness which kept me out of the newspapers at least a dozen times." "But--but didn't she try to interfere? To reason with you?" Anne was remotely angry at herself for being offended by this recital. His laugh was sinister. The expression on his young face mephistophelian. "Interfere? Why no, of course not. This fling was part of her own plans, and according to the psycho-analyst for whom she was going in heavily at the time, I would come out a better money-making proposition. In other words, she expected to reap from my wild oats a bounteous harvest for the future!" Amused at Anne's horrified expression, he chuckled sardonically. "Motherly of her, don't you think? But unfortunately, for her tender intentions, the experiment was an awful fluke. I came out of it as suddenly as I went in, only more melancholy, more morose than before, utterly disgusted and sickened with the whole scheme of creation. I wouldn't touch my violin for days, and for similar periods they couldn't get me away from it long enough to eat or sleep. I gave a few recitals, brilliant but uneven, and the critics were less kind than usual. My mother was in a perfect funk, but I was utterly indifferent. Nothing interested me at all. It was too much trouble even to live, and if I had condescended to anything so positive as a wish, it would have been for death." He paused, and threw himself back wearily upon the pillow. "In fact, that is the way I am now, only the longing is intense instead of indifferent." He closed his eyes. An expression of fatigue and disdain brooded over his drawn features. Anne leaned forward impulsively and took his long, hot hand in both of hers. "Don't," she begged, "I cannot bear to hear you speak so. It wrings something in my soul. Surely, you will not remain so unhappy always. Your music, your beautiful music will console you. It cannot fail!" His fingers twined about hers almost painfully. "My music, my beautiful music," he murmured. He turned his head on the pillow restlessly. "I shall not make it any more. I'm not fit, I have dishonored it, and it will not come to me any more. That night--" he faltered and turned his head away from her pitying eyes. "When I failed, you know?" His voice demanded her help. "Yes, yes, I know," she whispered. "I was not there, but I read about it in the paper. I felt so sorry, so heartbroken for you. I had heard you so often, and with such joy." Tears in his eyes, he looked up at her gratefully and continued, "That night I was playing as usual, in fact a little better than usual, when all of a sudden every note went out of my head completely, and left nothing but a blank. It was as if music had ceased to exist. I wasn't frightened or ill, I simply couldn't play the violin any more. That was all. Since then I haven't touched it." Drawing his hand abruptly out of hers, he turned on his side and hid his face in the pillow. She rose, and standing by the head of the bed, put her fingers on his tumbled, blonde head. "Poor boy, how horribly you have suffered! But I know you are going to come out of it better and stronger than ever. You are so young! The saying ought to be, 'Where there is youth there is hope.'" She sighed inaudibly, remembering her thirty-three years with a pang. "Besides, you are really lucky to have gone through your hell so early, while you can still reap the benefits from it. For most of us it comes too late and we retire defeated into middle age and spiritual death. But," she patted his head lightly, "I don't want to preach. It isn't my métier at all! I'm supposed to be frivolous! However, tell me, I simply must know before I leave you, why did you run away from the sanitarium like that without letting anyone know, and how did you ever find the hut?" Beneath his laughter there lay an undercurrent of almost fierce despair. "Because I should have gone completely mad if I had stayed another minute. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I was scarcely capable of thought, and yet they tried to cheer me up as if I were an automaton, and all they had to do was to turn a crank. I was supposed to sit on the lawn and drink iced postum and be sociable with my fellow pariahs. Then the radio was turned on every night and those who could still hobble were expected to dance. So wholesome, you know. Half crazed already, the canned music and canned joviality finished me. The jazz sounded in my ears all night. I felt as if my soul were being pounded into a jelly. I couldn't sleep a wink. So I packed my things and stole away without saying a word. I think I had some delirious idea of losing myself and my identity forever. I hiked for the first few days, keeping to the woods for fear of being found. I got my meals at stray farmhouses and slept once or twice in a barn. When I came to the hut I was pretty well exhausted and decided to rest up for a day or two. That's all," he sighed wearily. Anne's eyes were full of compassionate horror. "Poor boy, it must have been ghastly. I scarcely wonder you wanted to end it all. And it was I who awakened you from your first good sleep. Will you ever forgive me for bringing you back to this sordid old world?" He looked up at her with worshipping eyes. "Not sordid with you in it," he caught at her hand and retained it. "You are the fairy princess, you know, who broke the evil spell. To-day I feel--almost healed." The mournful young voice went to her heart. With an assumption of gayety she ran to the window and pulled down the shade. "Very pretty indeed from a sick child. But now I am really going. You must sleep. Later on I will bring you a little supper, your first real meal under my roof, and we will discuss the future. Meanwhile I will give your letter to my chauffeur, who is going into New York anyway, to bring back some necessary things for the house. And now, sweet dreams." She turned to leave the room, but before she could stop him he drew her hand to his lips and kissed the palm passionately and with reverence. The next day he was so much better that he was allowed to sit up in bed and dictate to Regina as to the proper disposal of the contents of his suitcase which Anne's chauffeur had packed and brought down from the hut before leaving for New York. Attired in a pair of his own pajamas, hair brushed, face and hands washed by the delighted and flustered old woman, Alexis was seriously contemplating a shave, when at the bottom of the suitcase beneath some silk socks he came upon Claire's picture. He drew it out slowly, an expression of shrinking upon his face. Where had it come from? He certainly would never consciously have packed it among his things. And neither would his mother have done so. The girl herself, pitiful, sentimental little fool must have secreted it among his things hoping that he would come upon it, and perhaps cast her a random thought, as one throws a bone to a dog. For Claire was like a dog, with the same beseeching, tragic gaze that looked up at him now from the photograph so reproachfully. A tremor of rage swept over him as he met those wistful eyes. Damn it, what right had she to reproach him and to look so woebegone! As if he, Alexis, were to blame for everything. Hadn't she fallen in with his mother's plans with alacrity, with indecency even? Yes, they had tricked him nicely between them. Claire's visit to his room in the dead of night and his mother's neatly-timed discovery, and accusations. What else had there been to do after that, but to marry the girl though they were both innocent even in thought? No, Claire had no right to reproach him, for she had deceived him, too. His mother, for her own cryptic purposes and Claire in self-deluded passion. He had done the only thing possible under the circumstances. Was it his fault that he had never been able to love her? He had told her so from the beginning, hadn't he? She had nothing to complain of. If he had neglected her, he at least had been faithful in a technical sense. What mattered it if the faithfulness had proceeded from indifference, rather than from a sense of strict virtue? The fact remained, he had been faithful. And to what? A tool of his insatiable mother; a toy thrown to serve as outlet for hitherto-repressed physical desires; a stuffed doll to appease nascent passion. He threw the picture from him with a savage gesture and laughed aloud, much to Regina's alarm. She hastened to his side. "The signorino is feeling gay?" she said hopefully, but with a tinge of suspicion. The young man's expression was anything but gay! "Shall I call my signora?" He looked at the woman oddly. "Please do," he mocked. "I want her to laugh with me!" His wild look frightened the woman, she ran out of the room, and presently Anne came in. "Do you want me?" she asked quietly, with a quick glance at his excited face. He nodded grimly. "I want to show you something. Do you see this picture?" He held out the photograph. Anne approached the bed. "Is it your sister?" she noted the trembling fingers with apprehension. A sudden knife-like foreboding pierced her. "My sister!" he laughed. "No, unfortunately, no. This," he pointed a trembling, contemptuous finger at the small tragic face, "this is a photograph of my wife." Anne's smile was a triumph of indifference. "Indeed?" she said coolly. "She looks like quite a child, doesn't she?" She sat down calmly upon the chair beside the bed. Angered by her serenity, he flung her a look of mingled hatred and remorse. "I suppose you are wondering why I didn't tell you about her yesterday?" he grumbled. She lifted her brows in astonishment, her green eyes met his coolly beneath unfathomable lashes. "Not at all, it is your own affair, isn't it?" her voice was icy. "Ah, you are angry!" he exclaimed with satisfaction. "I can see you are. I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you that I completely forgot all about her?" "Hardly!" Anne's lips tightened unconsciously. "Well, believe it or not, that is the truth! My so-called wife counts for so little in my life, I seldom even think of her, and when you asked to whom we should write yesterday, she never entered my head. That is the only explanation I have to offer." Anne returned his pleading glance with perfect composure. She took the photograph out of his hand and gazed at it. As she met the girl's eyes, a tremor of sympathy quivered through her. "She seems a pitiful little creature," she murmured almost against her will. "Why are you so hard on her?" She avoided his eyes. "Because I don't love her, I suppose!" he exclaimed harshly. "And when one doesn't love a woman, one hates her. It is her own fault. She thrust herself into my life of her own accord when my will was crushed and almost dead, and I never shall forgive her for it. That is all." Once more Anne interposed in the other woman's behalf. "How pitiless you are! I don't believe you understand her at all. Perhaps she loves you? Indeed I am sure she must love you." "Loves me," he jeered, "she thinks she does, she is a born satellite. Her docility fills me with hatred, lowers me. When I am with her I feel that I am having intercourse with a slave, a chattel." He flung his hands out before him, in excess of emotion, then added more quietly, "but that is all over now. For weeks I have barely spoken to her, and it is my intention never to see her again if possible." Anne shook her head gently. "Unfortunately, one cannot end things like that." He looked at her angrily. "Why not? If she is such a fool as to refuse to divorce me, at least I can refuse to see her!" "Have you spoken to her of divorce?" "Of course. But she will not listen. You see she is a Roman Catholic and something of a mystic to boot. But why do we bother about her so much?" He shrugged cynically. "She is negligible. I have often forgotten her existence for weeks at a time. That is why I don't understand why the very thought of her can upset me so." There was something uncanny in the comprehending look which Anne cast at him. "That is because you cannot forgive her the injury you have done her. It is her pain and not her love which bores you. It is the memory of your own suffering and debased self which you hate in her. She is so associated with your weakness that the very mention of her name fills you with hatred and humiliation. It is not her fault at all." The calm voice ceased. Alexis faced the compassionate eyes with horror in his own. "No, you are wrong, you are wrong. You do not understand." Then, as she continued to look at him as from a great distance, "Don't make me loathe myself more than I do already!" he pleaded. With an odd little smile she turned to leave the room. "Perhaps I am mistaken," she said softly, her hand on the knob. "But somehow I don't believe I am. Think it over." The odd smile lingering about her lips, she pulled the door slowly between them and was gone. A sense of void surged over him, in a sickening sweep. He fell back upon the pillow with a suppressed groan. She had gone, misunderstanding in her heart. To explain fully and in detail would be the act of a cad, an act of which even he was incapable. For a moment his very center of gravity seemed to disintegrate. Then came the familiar blankness of despair. CHAPTER III LIFE'S GLAMOUR With the death of her husband, freedom had descended upon Anne like a gift of the gods. A divine ointment, it penetrated her bruised spirit, allaying the stored-up bitterness of years. Her heart emptied itself of poison and welled with compassion for the pitiful ending of a futile life. As her husband lay back upon the pillows, broken beyond all aid, unbelievably aged, she almost forgave the insult to her youth that their common life had proved. If it had only been a case of disparity of age, no question of forgiveness would have existed at all. The twenty odd years between them might have been forged into the strongest instead of the weakest link that bound them together. It was this very disparity, in fact, which at first had attracted her to him, with the enormous flattery it implied. Her immaturity had thrilled to the condescension as it could never thrill for the horde of barbaric youngsters who formed the guard-gallant of her first New York season. Emerging from an environment entirely continental, she was accustomed to the attentions of men belonging to an older race, whose suave courtesy had its roots in the antique. From the consulates in Rome and Florence which her father had occupied ingloriously but with utter content, she had brought an old-world respect and appreciation for maturity utterly foreign to young America of even fifteen years ago. And in these respects Julius Schuyler had satisfied her entirely. In her eyes he was not only a polished, traveled and well-read man of the world, he was brilliant. He dominated. His sketches were not the mere fads of a supremely idle and blasé man. They flamed with talent. Their very unfinished condition proved it. When so much can be suggested by the mere sweep of a line, why satiate the spectator further? So she had accepted him at her own adolescent valuation, glowing dewily beneath his tired, vivacious gaze. For it was his forte to be sprightly. The ready repartee was ever on his lips, nor was the pun scorned. No matter how trite, how forced the shaft, it played the most important rôle in his armory. To the ears of eighteen the pompous straining was inaudible, the weary dissatisfaction which it served to conceal, practically invisible. It was not until the forcing-house of marriage, the constant companionship, had opened her eyes that she glimpsed the actual man through the shallow smoke-screen behind which he strove to cover an aching ennui, an intolerable insufficiency. Meanwhile his admiration had gone completely to her young head. The fumes of it were sweet to her unaccustomed nostrils. Almost before she was aware of it, she had consented to marry him. So it came about that before the end of her first season she had acquired a husband twenty-five years her senior, still active, distinguished in appearance, although already gray, and incidentally wealthy, besides whose fortune her father's very comfortable means dwindled ludicrously. And yet perhaps it had not been so bad in the long run. After all, Julius Schuyler had been a gentleman and always acquitted himself as such. For Anne there had been no brutality, no animalism to encounter. Only the monotony of an endless and artificial vivacity, the ever forcing of herself to keep up her rôle of amused and humble spectator and playmate. He was so small, so finicky, with his endless devices for passing the time. His double solitaire, his dominoes, his checkers which he would always produce at the hint of an empty half hour. Multi-subterfuges for cheating the gnawing ennui which with the years had fastened itself upon him like a cancer. Disliking all games intensely, Anne had at first absolutely refused to share in these puerile feints against time. But, after a while, when all effort at conversation languished in the anæmic soil of his irritating triteness, she had capitulated. They played checkers in Amalfi, his back turned to the glorious bay, her subconscious bathing in its blue flame; dominoes in Luxor with the Tombs of the Kings beckoning on the glamorous horizon line; two-handed bridge on the terrace of their villa in Florence, while the setting sun tinted the Arno and set afire the mammoth dome of the old cathedral. However, there had been compensations. The silver lining to her cloud had provided a background of decided luxury. Travel brought contact with a cosmopolitan, ever-changing, group who gave the beautiful American that delicate homage, tinged with desire, which is stimulating to a feminine ego, dissatisfied and unawakened. Intervals between tête-à-tête games were sometimes brilliant and prolonged. The buying of the villa in Florence was a joy, almost unmitigated by the fussy alterations of Julius who imagined he understood old furniture, and the Cinque-Cento. It was sheer rapture to return to Florence, to resume old friendships, revisit in stealth old haunts. But her vitality was sapped by Julius' greedy monopoly. He clung with the persistency of an âme damnée. He accompanied her to the dressmaker, where she was draped according to his finicky conception of her type. He chose her hats. He bought her underwear, all of the very finest, of course. But when she wore it beneath his complacent eyes, self-consciousness became an agony which habit refused to dull. If passion had underlain the complacence, she would not have minded even this. But Julius never forgot himself in his love for her. His natural diffidence was a perpetual audience, the unwelcome third in all their intercourse. Never impulsive, his caresses lacked the white heat of passion which is clean because spontaneous. Beneath his touch, Anne felt herself perpetually under the microscope. It seemed as if he were vain, not of his prowess, but of still being capable of harboring sensation at all. And habit made her quick to notice that these lapses into anæmic appetite usually followed the prodding of some erotic book or play, and were seldom occasioned by her own desirability. She became practiced in the art of retreat and withdrawal, so that the whole nature of love was distorted. Still, a sort of pity for his maimed spirit kept her silent. She closed her eyes and tried deliberately to become callous. However, she made up her mind that if so precious a commodity as freedom ever came within her grasp again, she would never permit it to escape. And now that this freedom had been hers for almost five years, its realization had exceeded her keenest expectations. Evading every opportunity of remarriage, she had skilfully apportioned her seasons between the United States and Europe. The New York season was invariably followed by a few weeks in Egypt or the Riviera and capped by three sensuous months in the Florentine villa. And this was the best-loved time of all, in which she renewed body and soul, absorbing peace and serenity from the olive-crusted hills upon whose sides multi-colored villas gleamed like jewels in dark tresses. Within her small but cherished garden, rose a terrace paved with bricks. One attained it by a narrow flight of moss-grown steps. Here she would sit for hours, basking beneath the sun which rode the heavens like an impartial god, while beyond the pallid balustrade, cypress-studded hills merged into the horizontal purple. Here it was that she received her friends for tea, listening indulgently to lascivious, Tuscan, gossip. Then, alone once more, after her late dinner, or companioned by the man of the hour, it was here she would pace up and down in the sweet-scented dusk while myriads of fireflies like a flaming milky way disbanded at her approach. And high above the swarthy cypresses the sun's paramour, the moon, shamelessly flaunted in his reflected rays. Those were enchanted nights into which Julius's memory intruded like the sordid wraith from another existence; a warning wraith with finger on lips, whose image tempered Anne's blood. Not that she was discreet, for that was a quality Anne had never troubled to acquire. In fact, her dealings were so recklessly above-board that she was suspected of untold depths of wickedness. A beautiful woman who paces under the stars at midnight with now one man, now another, cannot hope to escape slander. Although perfectly aware of this fact, Anne chose to ignore it. Even the nominal chaperonage of some poor, but genteel, relative seemed insupportable to the fierce and rapturous reaction through which she was passing. She remained defiantly alone. Her charm, her elegance, and most certainly her wealth (in that way Florentines are most human) carried her through. But rumor was building a wall of eccentricity about her and she was rapidly becoming known, both on the Continent and in America, as rather terrifyingly individual, and an image-breaker. The most conservative began to drop off almost imperceptibly, leaving a large circle of spirits who prided themselves upon a freedom akin to looseness, and a small band of intimates too close to be affected by the whispers of the scurrilous. Among the latter, the Marchese Torrigiani and his mother refused steadfastly to believe anything but the best of Anne. Their friendship of years continued undisrupted, and both mother and son looked forward with eagerness to the day when Anne would weary of her precarious liberty, and consent to become Vittorio's wife. But although she admitted to an affection for Vittorio which at times flickered into transient tenderness, her marriage with Julius had developed a complex which made it impossible for her to contemplate the subject without a shrinking horror. Meanwhile the Marchese waited, hoping almost against hope, that with the passing of time the lacerating memory would fade away. But so far it had refused to do so and there were hours when it seemed to the steadfast man as if the scar were branded into Anne's very soul. Accepting his homage as a matter of course, she had continued to drift along the path of least resistance. But latterly, a new restlessness was creeping in, and life had somehow lost its savour. The New York season was becoming a grind. Her friends were either blatantly rich, meretricious and over-fed, mere excitement chasers, or else pretenders, art fainéants, who dabbled in cubes and sex. Neurotic composers who dribbled mediocrities over the piano keys. Pseudo writers who reveled in the drab, perhaps because any further flight was beyond their stunted wings. Anne was growing to hate them all, and herself the most, because she had remained too indolent or too powerless to rise above their level. There were superior beings, of course, who were achieving the real thing somewhere. But they dwelt on a different plane, in a workers' world of their own, whose fastnesses she had never as yet been able to scale. Her music was good, even excellent, almost professional, but that irritating adverb "almost" rose like an impassable Chinese wall, thrusting her forever into the destinationless region of the dilettantes. Beautiful, brilliant, talented, she remained negligible in her own hypercritical eyes. To oust this growing dissatisfaction which had sifted into the indolent drift of her life and was gradually embittering it, Anne had literally taken to her heels. Two weeks alone with the mountains had brought a certain serenity. Already the miserly future looked less blank. Soothed by solitudes and distance, her inflamed ego was content to sink into the great whole. After all, there were compensations. She might not be a genius, but that did not prevent genius from existing! And personality was only an illusion after all, a hollow shell, within which the Great Spirit differentiated. Who was she to grumble in the the face of this universal oneness, into which her littleness merged so superbly? The healing breath of the forest swept her clean of vanity. Her soul rejoiced in the vigor of its new-found simplicity. She spent her days roaming in the woods, or paddling about in a canoe on the unrippled waters of the chaste little lake. She re-read one or two favorite books, but all the time her mind remained contentedly empty and receptive, like an airing room whose windows are unclosed to the winds of heaven. It was in this mood she had come upon the hut and Alexis. Her sleeping self had reawakened and once more taken her into possession. But it was a rested and less inverted self, a younger and more ingenuous self, who still admitted the futility of happiness but dimly craved it. In her present chastened mood she was determined to oust the personal factor. There had been too much of that in all her previous dealings with men. It had always been to that quality of pervasive femininity to which they had succumbed, and consciously or unconsciously, she had never failed to assert it. She was going to change all that. Here was a boy, probably ten years her junior, whose plight would arouse the sympathy of the veriest egotist. Whose unhappiness, combined with his genius, stirred the stagnant pool of her soul. Her quickened spirit responded to his need with almost complete self-forgetfulness. That genius should come to her door in the guise of a postulant, just as she herself had become resigned to her own lack of it, seemed the culminating miracle to her new-found peace of mind. To heal this bruised spirit and send it back to the world in the glory of renewed splendor was her job. And nothing less than success would satisfy her. For once she would step out of the amateur class and prove that she could do one thing thoroughly and well, even if it were so infinitesimal a thing as the rescue of a soul. CHAPTER IV THE PAWN It was one of those crystal October days, when the air is crisp and clean, tempered by a kindly sun and Central Park is etched in russet and gold against a sky of opalescent clouds. Huddled against the cushions of a high window seat, Claire gazed down upon it all from the eleventh story of the huge apartment building in 59th Street where she and Mme. Petrovskey had been installed for the last year. It was the customary, rather sumptuous, decidedly characteristic studio apartment which they had been in the habit of occupying for the last five or six years, ever since Alexis had commenced to be known. Walnut paneling, canopied bed, old blue brocade covers and hangings, reeked of the interior decorator; the only personal touches which had survived Claire's listlessness being a carved ivory rosary hanging over the bedpost, a few French and Italian novels of the emotional school, and a large photograph of Alexis which scowled out upon the world from the dressing table. At first glance, the crouching girl upon the window seat seemed as nondescript as the room. Almost frighteningly fragile in her dark street dress, she would have been entirely insignificant if it had not been for the appalling misery of her eyes. They brimmed with the sorrowfulness of a kicked puppy. In their heavy-lidded gaze was mirrored the atavistic agony of womankind. Weary, all-revealing, they stared down upon the brilliant park below, while she listlessly stroked the bizarre head of a Brussels Griffon curled upon her skirts. It was the creature next to Alexis which she loved the best in the world, both because Alexis had bought it for her himself on a sudden boyish impulse, and because it loved her with all the devotion in its tiny body. And love was to Claire the food and drink for which her soul was starving. Not that she had ever been cruelly treated. Hers had been a negative sort of misery. When she was a child of six, her mother had died, leaving her in the charge of her aunt, Mme. Petrovskey, in whose boarding house they were then living. Of her father she knew nothing. But sometimes she suspected his official existence. All she knew was that her name was the same as that of her aunt before she had married Nicholas Petrovskey, that strange and exotic Russian musician, who had invaded the boarding house one day before she herself was born, and had never left it until his death several years later. How well she remembered that boarding house in old London. How scrupulously clean and unutterably dreary it had all been! And how well she remembered her aunt's foreign husband who filled the house from morning till night with the weird sobbings of his violin, until it almost seemed to her child's understanding that one were not in a London boarding house at all, but in an enchanted castle which continually bewailed its pristine glories. It was this music and the author of it which had supplied the only romance of a childhood singularly dull and colorless. And strange to say, the frail, emaciated figure of the musician stood out more clearly in her memory than that of his little boy Alexis, who had been her playmate ever since the beginning of things. It was not until several years later, when his father had died and Alexis was almost ten years old, that he had become the greatest interest and only affection of her lonely little life. And then the music had come between them. He was always at his violin and the old house echoed plaintively as in the years gone by; only as Claire grew older the wailing ceased to be fairy strains and seemed to be flowing from her own over-charged heart. Then they had suddenly sold the boarding house and gone to Berlin, where Alexis' ambitious mother had put him under one of the best masters. Followed years of traveling and recitals while the boy's fame grew and spread until the outbreak of the great war, when Alexis was fourteen and she a few months younger. They had come to the United States and made it more or less their headquarters while they toured South America, Mexico, and the West Indies. Now, at the age of twenty-three, Alexis was an idol, not only in every large city of the United States, but in Paris and London as well. Since the end of the war they had returned to the Continent several times and it was while on a visit to Paris, five or six years before, that Alexis had bought Bébé for her. How well Claire remembered it all. He had been away almost all day, playing for the wounded soldiers in Auteuil and had returned to the hotel downcast and tragic, as always after the sight of the brave poilus. She had induced him to go for a walk and had led him along the arcade in the Rue de Rivoli as people and shops always amused and distracted him. They had passed by a dog-fancier's and he had insisted upon going in and buying for her the small Brussels Griffon which stared at them with bulging and egocentric eyes from the shop window. They had been quite gay when they returned to the hotel with the new member of the family, saying they had been married and acquired progeny in the short space of an hour and a half. Mme. Petrovskey had watched them grimly, a strange look in her small eyes, and perhaps, who knows, at least Claire had always imagined that it was then that she conceived the idea of their marriage? But it was not until years after, six months ago in fact, that it had actually occurred, and then so quietly, so almost clandestinely, that it had hardly seemed like a marriage at all. Except for necessary witnesses, the small chapel had been deserted, the priest a stranger. Claire had timidly requested for old Father Gregory to officiate. But her aunt's manner had been so unapproachable that she had not dared to insist. And Alexis so unlike himself that he had scarcely spoken to her for days, barely said more than a few words, in fact, since the night she had gone to his room and Mme. Petrovskey had found her there and acted so strangely. And yet there had been nothing wrong in her going to Alexis like that. She had often done so in the years gone by, especially after a concert, when she knew it would be hours before his tension could relax into sleep. She would sit beside the bed and rub his burning forehead, and they would talk a little in soft whispers, not because they feared his mother might hear, but so as not to break the calm which was stealing over him. Time and time again Alexis had fallen asleep beneath her fingers. And so, on this particular night, when she heard the restless pacing in the room near hers, it had been purely instinctive to get up and go to his aid. And indeed he had seemed glad to see her as usual, that is until her aunt had come in upon them and ordered her out so peremptorily. She never knew exactly what passed between them, although the sound of their muffled voices had penetrated to her room for almost an hour, and she herself had not been able to sleep all night for sheer bewilderment. The next day Alexis had come to her and asked her to marry him. His face was very pale and his manner more distant than she had ever known it, not with the familiar absent-minded air behind which she knew lurked affection and kindness, but vested with a new hostile courtesy that would have struck her as sinister if she had not been too utterly dazed with joy to be analytical. Since then she had often wondered in secret, and an icy fear had invaded her at times. Could Mme. Petrovskey have had anything to do with it? Was it possible that she had forced Alexis to ask her to marry him, because she had discovered them together in his room? But if that was the case, would he not have told her about it in one of those unguarded moments when it seemed as if her love had suddenly struck flint to his steel? One of those abandoned moments when he lay in her arms with closed eyes, identity swamped in a vast surge of primitive passion? Ah, yes, he would have told her then. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate. She shuddered. The months passed like a delirious moment. Perched on a see-saw of rapture and terror, she had been flung to the heavens and then plunged into the abyss according to Alexis' moods. And he had become more eccentric every day. His passion, spasmodic from the first, had quickly degenerated into the old absent-minded kindliness at best. At times, his irritability had been frightful, but she had always excused it, attributing everything to nerves, constantly strained from excitement and overwork. Then had come his breakdown in Carnegie Hall and the collapse of the world. The doctors had sent him to a sanitarium in the mountains and all had gone well for a few weeks. Until about ten days ago when Alexis had disappeared suddenly off the face of the earth, since when Claire and his mother had existed on the verge of despair. Of course, Mme. Petrovskey had tried to keep it quiet, but it had leaked out as things always do, and the newspapers had been headlining it for the last week. Thus it was that Claire's eyes, always plaintive at best, brimmed with the age-old sorrow of the world, and she lay upon the window-sill, heavy with misery, recalling the scenes of childhood, clinging pitifully to their memory like an old woman for whom life has already withdrawn all hope of a future. While at her side, his small soul vaguely troubled, the Griffon whined and tugged at her skirts. Her weary eyes falling upon him presently, a sudden pity seized her for his helplessness. Her hand closed fondly upon his small head. "Poor Bébé," she murmured, following the little dog's longing glance into the street below. "Shall I take you for a walk?" At her words, he leaped up into her face rapturously, his furry body vibrant with joyful tail-waggings. She smiled wanly at his eagerness. "Poor Bébé, I've neglected you, haven't I? But I'm so miserable, so miserable!" She caught him up in her arms and hugged him to her so tightly that he yelped in shrill remonstrance. Setting him down with a patient smile she sat down at her toilet table and put on her hat, an uninteresting dark blue turban which emphasized disastrously her insignificance. As she met her weary eyes in the mirror, her pallor deepened. "No wonder Alexis couldn't love me," she exclaimed in a bitter whisper. "I am ugly, no----" she paused, beating her little fist upon the toilet table. "I am worse than ugly, I am nothing, nobody! How could I expect to hold a genius, a man of fire? And now," she bent her head upon her arms and burst into low, suppressed weeping, "he is lost, perhaps dead! But I can't believe it," she raised her head and gazed at her reflection savagely. "He is not dead, he is only hiding somewhere--from her," she added in a tense whisper. "From us both! Perhaps he has met another woman whom he can really love. If that should happen I wonder what I would do? Kill her? God knows I would want to!" The clenched fists rose to her mouth in a passionate gesture. The little dog tugged at her skirts. An odd smile upon her lips, she controlled herself with an effort, caught up gloves and bag and led him out of the room. As they reached the entrance-hall, the doorbell whirred noisily. Claire's heart leaped, and then fell leadenly. Could it, might it be Alexis, at last? Ito opened the door. A chauffeur was standing there, a letter in his hand. With a gasp of disappointment Claire signed to the Jap to give it to her. It was from Alexis. The beloved hieroglyphics sprawled before her eyes in a happy mist. Addressed not to herself but to Mme. Petrovskey, they gave her a momentary pang, that vanished quickly beneath the certainty of Alexis' safety. She spoke to the man as steadily as she could. "Is there--any answer?" He hesitated. "I don't think so, but I can wait if you like." He stepped through a doorway and sat down gingerly upon a chair which Claire pointed out to him. A joyful tattoo beating against her ribs, Claire ran down the long vaulted corridor and knocked upon the door of Mme. Petrovskey's study. A deep voice boomed permission to enter. Claire burst into the room almost violently. "It's a letter from Alexis, Aunt. Do please read it and tell me what he says!" "Give it to me!" A large woman, seated at a roll-top desk, revolved round in her chair, took the letter without a word and started to read it. Hands clasped tightly together, Claire watched her eagerly. It was one of those bland, non-committal faces, full and inclined to be weather-beaten, which are often called motherly because they top a large motherly body, and have the smooth expressionless surface of a rag doll. But Claire knew the face very well indeed, had studied it since childhood, so that the minutest pinching of the puckered lips, the slightest increase in color, spoke volumes. And the letter was evidently disturbing indeed, judging from the mottled purple on her aunt's cheeks, the angry clutch of the broad fingers upon the crumpled sheets. As Mme. Petrovskey turned the last page she laid the letter deliberately upon the desk, and turned her back upon Claire. "Well," faltered the girl. "Is Alexis all right and is--is he coming back soon? Shall I tell the chauffeur to wait for your answer?" "There is no answer!" The voice was harsh and self-contained. For the first time she looked at Claire, who shrank beneath the stare of the small glassy eyes. "What are you doing in here?" she asked, pinching her lips. "Where you know you are not permitted, you and your dog?" she added with a contemptuous glare, at the microscopic Griffon. Claire stooped and gathered Bébé up in her arms. "The--the letter, it is from Alexis!" she stammered. "Please--please read it to me, Aunt!" She trembled visibly at her own boldness. Her evident fear irritated Mme. Petrovskey. "Yes, it is from Alexis," she replied glacially, "but there is no message in it for you." She revolved once more in her chair, and commenced to write again fast and furiously. A low cry of despair and rage escaped Claire. "You are cruel," she cried chokingly. "I have a right to know! Am I not his wife!" The revolving chair remained immovable. Mme. Petrovskey bent a purple face over her writing. "He says he is better, but is taking a further rest-cure, and doesn't wish us to know his address. He will communicate with us later," she replied in suppressed and uneven tones, her obstinate back still turned upon the girl. Claire gasped with relief. "Then when he is better, he will come back?" she insisted in a firmer voice. Mme. Petrovskey threw her pen from her in a violent gesture. The face she turned upon her niece was pale and convulsed. "He is never coming back!" she cried with suppressed fury. "He is going to manage his own life after this. He says now that he cannot play the violin any more, he is free to live as he likes!" She rose to her feet, shadowing the stricken girl with her enormous bulk. Her face stared stonily in front of her. "This is what it has come to," she muttered. "This is his gratitude for a lifetime of devotion and sacrifice. I have worked myself to the bone that his genius might have every chance to develop. Now he throws me aside, as if I were an outgrown toy, and tells me he is going to manage his own life. He who couldn't even make out a check for himself or remember his own address!" Paralyzed with misery, Claire watched her aunt in a stupor of surprise. This was the first time she had ever known her to reveal any emotion stronger than contempt or a cold sort of anger. And the sight was shattering. Gathering herself together through sheer force of will, she helped her aunt back into the chair and patted the large veined hand timidly. "He can't mean it," she murmured. "He has been like this before, you know. He really couldn't leave you. Why, he'd be helpless all alone, and without his music." She choked back a sob. Alexis without his violin would be like another man bereft of all five senses. "No, no, he'll come back," she faltered pluckily. "Not for me. He doesn't need me, but for you, his mother." Mme. Petrovskey looked up into the piteous little face with a sort of hard compassion. "Poor Claire," she said more gently than she had spoken to her for years, "I sacrificed you for nothing, didn't I?" A slow blush spread over the girl's transparent features. She raised her head. "It was no sacrifice," she whispered. "It was my joy, my glory. I--I have always loved him so!" Then suddenly her eyes flashed. "If only we could write to him. If only we could get hold of him and tell him how broken you are. It was cruel of him not to leave us his address. Do you think we might inveigle it out of the chauffeur? What do you think, Aunt?" "That would be a confession of failure," answered the older woman. "Besides, you may be sure he was bound to secrecy. Now, leave me, Claire. I must be alone. I want to think. Take your dog and go out in the park. It will do you good. Perhaps, who knows, things aren't as hopeless as they look?" With a sudden return of her imperious manner, she waved Claire away. Heavy with dread, the girl put down Bébé, fastened the leash on to his bright collar and left the room. The strange chauffeur was still waiting by the hall door. He seemed her only hope now. She approached him with trembling knees. "If--if you will tell me where Mr. Petrovskey is I will make it worth your while," she said with a pathetic assumption of firmness. He stood up as she spoke. His nice blue eyes evaded hers apologetically. "I'm sorry, miss, but my orders were not to say anything. If there is no answer I must be going." He fidgeted, one hand on the door-knob. "Very well," she turned away to hide trembling lips. "There is no answer. You may go." "Very well, miss." He opened the door and going out into the hall, rang for the elevator. She looked after him hopelessly. Then a sudden idea flashed like a ray of lightning into the black confusion of her mind. She followed him out into the hall quickly. "Wait a minute, I am going too." He stood aside, as she entered the elevator in front of him. They emerged into the pretentious entrance-hall and Claire, still preceding him with Bébé in her arms went out into the sun-lit street. Hand to his cap, the chauffeur jumped nimbly into a large Cadillac by the curb and drove away. Claire looked after him with an air of frightened triumph. A small pad in her hand, she had hastily scrawled down the license number. CHAPTER V CLAIRE'S RENUNCIATION For days the sun had shone brilliantly upon the mountainside, and the lodge had long since emerged from its heavy swathing of fog. No longer a boat floating through mystic seas, it was divested of a certain glamour. But remained, nevertheless, a very comfortable and picturesque shelter. Perched pertly beside the road that overhung the valley, it afforded a bird's-eye view of checkered fields and a winding river, that gleamed like a silver girdle about the base of purple hills. Alexis revelled in the glorious sunshine. Weak, but quiescent after his fever, he was content to sit on the rustic porch, a rug about his knees, and gaze through the brilliant foliage at the vivid valley, which sparkled in the thin autumn air with all the detailed perfection of a mosaic. This particular morning was the most perfect of them all. With a sigh of enjoyment Alexis stretched his limbs in a perfection of relaxation which he had not known for years. "It is strange," he said, "how rested and peaceful I feel. All the terrible irritability seems to have left me entirely." "It went away with the fever-devil," laughed Anne, who was sketching a stunted pine beside the roadway. "A most suitable match, don't you think?" Alexis laughed uncertainly. "I only hope it never returns," he said, somewhat uneasily. "Nerves have as many lives as a cat, you know, and an unerring instinct for home. One never can tell when they will spring upon one again from the dark." "I suppose the moral of that is to always keep a light handy," said Anne gaily, but with a quick glance of pity for the worn boyish face. "That's all very well, but what if your stock of matches has run out and you're groping about in the dark?" he exclaimed whimsically, but with a significant tightening of the lips. Anne leaned over and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Then you must ask someone else to give you a light," she said softly. He caught her fingers in his and pressed them. "Some good Samaritan like you," he cried. His eyes filled with nervous tears. Anne drew her hand away quietly. This sort of thing was not to be encouraged if she were to obtain the impersonal influence over him which she had intended from the first. "That is very pretty, but I don't deserve it," she said lightly. "Come, tell me more about yourself. I want to know all about your life. It must be thrilling to be a genius!" He smiled mournfully. "Thrilling, I should say not! It is the most narrow life possible. At least mine has been so. Merely a record of travel and hard work. When I was a child we were never long enough in any one place to make any friends, besides my mother always feared they would interfere with my practicing, and later, I had become so pent-up within myself and my music that I had no further desire for them. Claire was the only person I ever saw, outside of my mother, and most of the time I was practically unconscious of her existence." "Claire--is that your wife?" inquired Anne in spite of herself. She blocked in the background of her sketch with nervous strokes. "Yes," he cast her a quick, guilty glance. Then, after a pause, "You mustn't think I meant all the rotten things I said about her the other night. I've always been very fond of the poor little thing, only as a wife she meant nothing to me. I suppose you wonder why I married her, and I admit it must seem pitiably weak, only I was in such a state at the time that I really wasn't responsible. Everything was a nightmare of jangled nerves." The vision of his mother threatening to put Claire out upon the streets if he refused to marry her, came before him. An uneven flush spread over his face. His hands clenched the arms of the chair. "Sometimes I wonder if there isn't a taint of madness in me somewhere, a rotten spot in my brain that is spreading----" He threw out his hands in a gesture of despair. She met the frantic appeal in his eyes with firm denial. "You're talking introspective drivel. Summoning prehistoric monsters out of your subconscious cavern. Don't let yourself be frightened by a few dead bones. There is neither madness nor method about you. You are simply too highly organized for your own comfort. In other words, you are a genius and must pay the penalty." He laughed more naturally. "So in your opinion every genius must be a poor fool?" "According to some standards, yes. He was made to walk on the heights, and when he is forced to descend to the valley and mingle with the rest of us his head often remains in the clouds, and he stumbles woefully." "Don't count yourself in with the rest of them, for heaven's sakes!" exclaimed Alexis, his eyes hypnotized by the bronze aureole of her hair. She encountered his gaze with a poised smile which for some inexplicable reason, angered him. "But unfortunately, or fortunately, that is precisely where I belong," she said without a tinge of her old bitterness. "You may not have any talent for doing any one special thing," he interrupted hotly, "but you, yourself, are so perfect, such a work of art. It must take genius to be just you. Let us say you are genius in the abstract." He smiled at her in sheer pleasure at his own happy phrase. She rose and putting her sketch on the table, smiled down upon him. "You're only a baby, after all, aren't you? I think I shall call you my changeling. Come, changeling, how would you like to take a little stroll down to the lake? It is only a moment's walk from here. We will take some cushions and you can lie back in my canoe and I'll paddle you about for a while." He stood up eagerly and held out his arms for the gay cushions which she threw at him from the chaise-longue. "I shall have to learn how to walk all over again," he laughed as they started down the steps. "Didn't I say you were a baby?" She took his arm with a protecting gesture. They strolled slowly forward while the brilliant foliage flaunted high overhead and formed an exotic carpet beneath their feet. From an upper window Regina looked after them and shook a disapproving head. "Dio mio, it begins all over again," she sighed, "and this time with a babe! Will she never be content to settle down? And I who had such fine hopes for the Signor Marchese, so rich and so very respectable!" * * * * * There's an intimacy about a canoe which once shared, can change a slight acquaintance into something warm and perhaps enduring. Anne and Alexis had reached a focus where it seemed to fuse their points of contact perilously. Not that either of them had analyzed it as yet. Alexis as he lay back upon his cushions, was conscious only of the beauty of burnished hair, glamorous eyes and skin, of the god-like frame of trees and lake and sky; the unutterable bliss of such companionship in such surroundings. To him it was like a divine interlude from Purgatory. Anne was more experienced in such affairs. Her instinct had long ago hinted of danger. But she chose to ignore it, trusting to practice and savoir faire to avoid forthcoming pitfalls. As before, she determined to remain mistress of the situation. But it was only natural that the boy's budding worship should stir her. After all, he was no ordinary young man but a genius with a power to move thousands, and had, moreover, a compelling, if somewhat neurotic, personal appeal. And he possessed one quality which Anne had never been able to resist. That of physical beauty. With the classical features of a Greek faun, he combined a fragility, a certain decadent charm, which intrigued her fatigued senses. And the morning flew by with flashing swiftness. All too soon, they were crunching back over the regal carpet of tinted leaves which showered down upon their heads from the trees like a flock of brittle butterflies. "I feel like Danae," laughed Anne, as she shook down a golden cluster from a branch above her head. Alexis regarded her ecstatically. "They match your hair exactly. But alas, I am not Jupiter. I cannot pour myself upon you in a golden rain." His eyes met hers with a new audacity. "But I'll dissolve into tears, which will amount to the same thing, if you look at me like that!" he added hastily. Anne hated herself for flushing. She averted her head. "You absurd boy! Come, we must hurry, or Regina's lunch will be spoiled. It's so nice and warm today, she promised to serve it on the porch. Won't that be jolly? It's supposed to be a great surprise, but I suspect a risotto à la Milanese." She led the way to the house. A puzzled frown between his straight brows, Alexis followed. "You are in a great hurry," he said, in hurt tones. "You forget the baby is still learning to walk!" His voice was plaintive in the extreme. She turned about in quick repentance. His laughing eyes were roguish. "Changeling!" she murmured. She disdained the arm he held out in feigned weakness. "What shall I do with you, you are incorrigible!" There was a note of triumph in his laugh. Taking her arm masterfully in his, he looked down upon her teasingly. "The lady lion-tamer mustn't mind a scratch or two, especially in the beginning, before the animals learn how to behave nicely." He mocked, but the light in his eyes was tender. Annoyed and amused, Anne laughed in spite of herself. "Touchée," she admitted gaily, "I see the cub is developing teeth and a mane, and I'd better look out for myself." Alexis tightened her arm against his side. He emitted a low, but ferocious growl. With a laugh and a delicate shiver, she freed herself deftly and ran up the cottage steps. "Why, lunch isn't ready after all----" she commenced, and then stopped short, for finger on lips, like a sibyl, Regina stood in the doorway and pointed mysteriously towards the end of the porch. Astonished and amused, Anne's eyes followed the melodramatic finger. At the end of the verandah sat a small limp figure. What a bore, who could it possibly be? She had not given her address to a soul, and not even her mail was being forwarded. Couldn't people ever leave one alone? But she moved forward graciously as usual. The small figure rose at her approach. A pale face, a pair of enormous haunted eyes, confronted Anne. An inexplicable spasm contracted Anne's heart. She concealed sudden apprehension beneath a formal nod, and waited for the other to speak. The girl commenced timidly. "Is this Mrs. Schuyler?" she inquired in a low, uneven voice. The soft brown eyes met Anne's. "I came to----" then she stopped short, with a breathless gasp. Her glance had swept beyond Anne and lighted upon Alexis, just as he stepped on to the porch. A sudden flush beautified the wan little face. "Alexis!" she cried and brushed past Anne tempestuously. "Alexis," she repeated. "I had to come. Please forgive me!" "Claire!" Alexis gazed at her stormily. She approached him pleadingly. "Is that all you have to say to me, Alexis?" "What do you expect me to say?" he braced himself visibly, "except that I am speechless with surprise?" Drawing forward a porch chair, he motioned her toward it. "Won't you sit down? It is a long journey from New York and you must be tired." His voice was cold with restrained anger. Her knees bent beneath her, and she sank into the chair with a tired sigh. "Thank you, Alexis," the small voice was pathetic. "But I forget," Alexis added as Anne approached them rather hesitatingly, "this is my hostess, Mrs. Schuyler. Mrs. Schuyler, my wife." The girl rose and bowed formally. Then fell back into her chair. Anne came to her side. With quick pity, saying the first thing that came into her head. "It's a frightful trip up here, isn't it? You must be simply starving, I will order luncheon immediately." She was about to enter the house, but Claire stopped her with a quick little gesture of refusal. "Thank you, that is very kind. But I really couldn't eat anything--that is-----" she faltered bravely. "I had a sandwich on the train." Her pathetic attempt at dignity went to Anne's heart. "Oh, yes, of course," she said, "and now if you will excuse me, I will leave you two alone. I'm sure you have a great deal to talk about." With a nod and a kind little smile, she disappeared into the house. Her perfect exit irritated Claire. With a sudden excess of pride, she turned to Alexis and looked at him coldly. "You're very fortunate in your hostess," she said with unexpected poise. "How did you happen to meet her?" Alexis sat down on the railing and faced his wife. "It's a long story, Claire, but not so strange as you probably imagine. I was ill when Mrs. Schuyler found me, and she was good enough to take me in. She is a charming woman," he continued tactlessly. "And very comme il faut." "Oh, I have no doubt about that," Claire interrupted bitterly. "Very comme il vous faut, I am sure." Her emphasis of the "vous" was both angry and insulting. Alexis sprang to his feet with an exclamation of rage. "How dare you insinuate such a thing, Claire?" he darted an angry glance toward the doorway. "Mrs. Schuyler is an angel!" he finished with emphasis. Claire winced beneath the adoration in his tone. "You love her, don't you?" she said wistfully. Her great hopeless eyes rested on his flushed face. Completely startled, he rose to his feet and stood over her almost menacingly. "Five minutes ago I didn't know it," he announced brutally, "it remained for you to teach me." "I!" The cry was wrung from blanched lips. He met her anguished eyes with insolence. "And now, if you will be so good as to tell me what you came for," he began, "and how you discovered my whereabouts. Did the chauffeur----?" "Oh, no. He didn't say a word. I took down the number of the car, and then, it was fairly easy for your mother to discover the rest." "And so she sent you after me?" She shook her head, miserably. "Oh, no. She really didn't want me to come. But I had to. I felt I must talk to you once more. But please don't think I have come for myself, I haven't. I don't want you to come back to me if--if you don't wish to. I know you have never loved me." She paused, then continued, "It is only for your mother's sake that I am here. She is entirely broken up since your letter. Please, please." She got up and coming close to him, clasped his arm. "Please return to her! If you don't, I'm sure something dreadful will happen. I never saw her so upset in my life. She is really ill, Alexis." He withdrew his arm, but not ungently. The girl's unselfishness had touched him in spite of himself. "I simply cannot return, Claire. My mother has dominated me too long, and my soul aches for freedom. After this I must be my own master. It's not as if she really cared for me personally. All I meant to her was my career and what it brought in!" he ended bitterly. "Tell her that is finished forever, and she will be quite satisfied to do without me. For of what use is a dry cow?" He laughed sardonically. Tears streaming down her face, Claire answered brokenly. "It breaks my heart to hear you speak so about your music, you who lived for nothing else. Oh, my poor Alexis, what madness has come over you?" He looked before him with bewildered eyes. "It is gone, gone forever," he muttered. "Can't you see it is torturing me, too?" His shattered look lurked so near to madness that once more Claire forgot herself. She started up with a cry and threw her arms about him. "Oh, Alexis, don't give up like that. Go back. Try once more. If you find yourself again in your old surroundings, it may all return to you. I'm sure you will be able to come to some arrangement with your mother, which will leave you more independent, and as for me I promise to do anything you ask. If it will make you happier, and make you feel less tied, I'll go away somewhere, and you need never see me again!" A cry of pity broke from his lips. He placed her back in her chair. "Poor little Claire, it hurts to hear you talk like that. Did you think it was you who had driven me from home? Why, I shall remember your affection and sweetness always." A flash of joy irradiated her face as he spoke. He continued with an effort. "But even you, whom I have always loved as a little sister," he emphasized the last word, "even you couldn't bring me home. Do you understand, Claire?" She nodded slowly. Her pallor, if possible, increased. "Do you wish a separation?" she asked quietly. His heart contracted at her lifeless tone. He evaded her eyes. "Yes, Claire. I think it would be best. I must be free. And you'll admit our marriage was rather a farce, wasn't it?" He tried to speak lightly, but the effort was palpable even to Claire. "I didn't know that it was, but perhaps you are right," she assented with a sort of deathly quiet. Her veins seemed to be suddenly sucked dry of blood, her limbs became reed-like. After a dragging moment she spoke. Her mouth was dry, and it was difficult to enunciate. "It must be time to go back to the station," she said somewhat thickly. "My taxi is waiting around at the back of the house. Will you please call it, Alexis?" "But you can't go like this, without talking things over. Besides, you're not fit to go back yet. You look done up. You ought really to spend the night here!" His tone was full of compunction. The words sent a quick revulsion through her. An indignant strength flowed through her weakened limbs. She rose to her feet almost violently. "Oh no, Alexis. You can't mean what you are saying. I must return at once. I couldn't bear to stay another minute. If there's anything to talk over, any arrangements to make, you can write me. Please, please call my car at once!" But Alexis still hesitated. "I do not want to part in anger and I can't bear to have you not understand----" he glanced deprecatingly towards the house. She forced herself to smile at him valiantly. "It is all right, Alexis. I quite understand. She is both good and lovely." She faltered pitifully. "Be happy if you can. I want you to be!" She held out a tiny, trembling hand and he kissed it with affection and regret. A moment more, and the dust from her taxi rose in a white cloud between the gleaming valley and his smarting eyes. CHAPTER VI DARK DESPAIR It was a six mile drive to the station. Cleaving to the lip of the precipice, the road wound into the cup of the valley, where toy-like houses gleamed white from out checkered fields, and the serpentine river writhed sinuously. Heedless of stones and ruts, Claire's taxi swayed recklessly onward. Wan, drawn, she huddled in the back seat, clinging mechanically whenever a bump threatened to precipitate her into the ravine below. Clinging mechanically and instinctively only, for lurking destruction held no terror now. Indeed, had she been conscious of the dangerous opportunity, she would probably have permitted herself to be flung to death several hundred feet below. But she was as impervious to her peril as to the beauty about her. And every turn of the road revealed the valley in a new vista. Unseen hills and forests emerged magically, casting gorgeous patches of purple shadow before them. Incense of balsam and fir rose to the heavens in heady draughts like distilled sunshine. But Claire, swathed in her garment of misery, saw, felt nothing. With Alexis lost to her forever, life offered a terrifying nothingness. She realized perhaps for the first time what he had meant to her ever since she could remember. Without him, existence would be a nightmare of emptiness, and yet with every revolution of the wheels she was leaving him further and further behind, progressing into the wintry region of exile where lay her bleak future. And her days and years had been so filled with his presence that it was almost impossible for her to believe that this could be so. It was as if some vital organ had been torn out of her living body and she was expected to go on without it. It was humanly impossible! In another moment she must speak to the driver, tell him to turn back up the mountain before it was too late. Back to Alexis and the beautiful, hateful woman, whom he had grown to love--this superior goddess, this Brunhilde of burnished tresses, who would have it all her own way on her mountain top, above the clouds, while she herself rode down into the dark valley. But she could not bring herself to utter the necessary word. And she knew that it would never be spoken, trifle as she might with the illusion. The unalterable had occurred. She would make no further effort to mend the shattered pieces. But how to face the lacerated future? To resume a negative existence with a contemptuous aunt who had never loved her and whom she had failed, would be beyond bearing. To accept her charity and Alexis' had not been difficult before because she had made herself indispensable, and she knew that she had more than earned her keep. Besides, she had been Alexis' only companion in his leisure moments and he had depended upon her more than anyone realized. But everything was changed. To continue to eat his bread and salt would be unspeakable now that he loved another woman. She had not only failed miserably as a wife, but he loved another woman. Looking blindly into the forest on either side, Claire repeated the words to herself below her breath. "He loves another woman." They dinned into her soul with a persistency that maddened, with the relentless monotony of the drop of water which tortures the Chinese criminal. She crouched further back into the seat and covered her ears. If the repetition continued much longer, she would surely go mad, if she had not done so already. The wheels took up the rhythm and creaked it mockingly. As they rattled over the wooden bridge and entered the village it rose to a hoarse shout. Then with a jerk, stopped as suddenly and ominously as it had commenced. Claire looked up startled, and saw they were at the station. The New York train was already there, snorting impatiently. She came to her senses with a bound, paid her driver, got aboard the Pullman and in less than a minute was leaving the country station and Alexis, as she told herself, forever. Numbed by fatigue and suffering, the trip soon became a nightmare of swift darkness. Heavy stupor descended upon her. It was not until hours later, when skirting along the shores of the Hudson, that she emerged to full consciousness. Night had already fallen and the river heaved black and silver, like a huge snake beneath the pale light of the stars. They were stopping at a station near the water's edge, and as Claire peered out of the window, there came to her a violent temptation to run down the corridor and leap out into the inky, rippleless, depths. Why not? It would be the best thing that could happen for everybody as well as for herself. Life was hateful, bitter, terrifying. Here was, if not rest and peace, at least cessation of agony. Her aunt would hardly feel the difference and as for Alexis? He would be free to marry again, and this time not blunderingly, like a dazed unhappy child, but with his senses awakened, and for love. A lump stabbed her in the throat like a dagger-thrust. She staggered to her feet and started to lurch out into the aisle. There came a sudden roaring as of a high wind and darkness fell upon her. When consciousness returned, the train was entering the Grand Central station. Life still clung heavily upon her weary soul, but she was too torn, too utterly distraught to think of any new means of self-destruction. She took a taxi to the apartment in 59th Street and with the connivance of Ito gained her room without her aunt's knowledge. Welcomed rapturously by the disconsolate Bébé, she fell upon the bed fully clothed, and into the deep, dreamless, sleep of utter exhaustion. * * * * * She awakened towards morning, shocked into consciousness by the upward surge of a hitherto suppressed and unbelievable fear. Could it be possible that the uneasy suspicion which had vaguely disturbed her for weeks, and which she had entirely forgotten in the last twenty-four hours, was to be realized after all? That would indeed be the climax of irony. But it seemed to be the only explanation of the physical state through which she was struggling. Nerves and anxiety might account for general malaise and headaches. Fatigue and an empty stomach for the faint on the train, but that was not the first time she had lost consciousness in the last three months, and she had other reasons besides to fear the worst. The worst! To think that it should have to be called that, when it should have proved so beautiful. To be the mother of Alexis' child, and to have to look forward to the fact with shrinking and with shame. What could be more bitterly ridiculous than that? And what would become of the baby if it lived? Unwanted, unloved, it would probably lead the same negative existence as she herself with all its joy dependent upon one being, who would undoubtedly betray it in the end. The thought brought scalding tears. Claire beat her pillow with tiny fists. It was too much! She refused to give birth to such ignominy. With a bound, she sprang from the bed and ran across the room to the open window. Crouching upon the window seat, she gazed down, wide-eyed and trembling, to where, eleven stories below yawned the cavernous street. Her stomach turned at the sight. But creeping flesh commanded by indomitable spirit, she stumbled to her feet and stood upon the sill. However, as soon as she did so, she realized her mistake. To jump out, she would have to bend over almost double, as the opening was not sufficiently high. It would be necessary to sit and dangle her feet into the chasm. Somehow, the idea seemed terrifying. Once more mastering her shrinking body, she crumpled down upon the sill and thrust one foot and leg through the aperture. With a long shudder she closed her eyes and cautiously lowered the other leg. For an endless moment she sat suspended between heaven and earth. There came a feeble tug at her skirt from behind, a plaintive cry. And Claire's swooning senses were aware of interruption. With a flash of lucidity she realized that Bébé had awakened and was trying in dumb fashion to attract her attention. A new fear seized her. Suppose the little dog were to see her fall and jump out after her? She leaned back into the room perilously, and tried to push him from her. But as if he realized her purpose, he only whined more loudly and crawling up her skirts, crept around into her lap. Claire found herself gazing into the eyes of the only being who had ever loved her. Horror in her heart, she clutched the little creature to her breast. For a nightmare moment, they rocked on the rim of annihilation. Then with a groan of relinquishment, she fell back into the room. As soon as her trembling limbs would permit, she crawled back on to the bed and lay sleepless until morning. But the sun, although brilliant and mocking, brought counsel. She arose and tidied herself. It was not a long process, as she had gone to bed fully dressed. Ringing for Ito, she ordered coffee and a taxi. Then in the face of his obvious disapproval, she gulped down a few swallows, ate a roll, and patting Bébé lingeringly, left the apartment. CHAPTER VII THE LOST GIRL Cold rain fell in leaden streaks. Clouds, black and wind-swollen, encircled the mountain-top. A ferocious wind shrieked and whistled about the lodge like an unleashed demon. Crouched over the fire, Alexis gazed at Anne. Relaxed, slim, on the chaise-longue by the hearth, she was looking into the flames with an inscrutable expression. Alexis stirred uneasily. What was she thinking of, behind those drooping lids? What inimical thought stirred beneath those silken coils which shone like burnished metal in the firelight? He sighed. Was she criticizing him for the way in which he had parted from Claire the day before yesterday? She doubtless considered him a blackguard. And was he very far removed from one, after all? Emphatically no! And yet things like this happened every day. Other men were being separated from wives whom they had once professed to cherish. Surely, there was more excuse for him? His own case was so different, he who had been practically tricked into matrimony? Yet, ever since yesterday constraint had fallen between him and this woman, whose personality obsessed him. Constraint, of which they had never been conscious in those first feverish days of illness. It must be that Anne had become suddenly antagonistic towards him. At any rate, it was plainly to be seen that he had outstayed his welcome, that she no longer desired his presence. He must go away immediately, to-morrow, perhaps. But where? Certainly not to the cabin. A refuge at first, it had soon become a prison of maddened and inarticulate fears. To return would be unthinkable. Yet to go back to civilization would be almost equally difficult. He was so tired, so unutterably soul-weary that the very idea of having to meet people and cope with their curiosity turned him cold. He shivered and drew his breath with a hissing sound. "What is the matter, Alexis?" Anne's tones fell upon the silence like the ringing of a bell. He started uncontrollably. "What did you say?" She looked at him pityingly. His egotistical young misery at once touched and annoyed her. To-night she was a little weary, a trifle bored with both him and the situation. "I merely asked what was the matter," she repeated gently enough. "A silly question, as it is self-evident. You have been miserable ever since yesterday. I think you regret the parting from your wife more than you realize. It has made me very unhappy, too. I hope you were not harsh, and that you said nothing final. Please forgive me for interfering!" She smiled apologetically into his glum face and held out her hand. Bridging the distance in one stride, he bent over the proffered hand and kissed it with an intensity that took Anne off her guard. "As if you could ever interfere!" he exclaimed forcibly. "You are an angel for bearing with me and my boorish moods! It is a debt I never can repay," he concluded rather formally. "Nonsense," Anne laughed with less constraint. "I have done nothing. But if you insist upon an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, you can repay me by doing nothing rash just at present. You see I worry about you terribly, don't I?" She smiled up at him with disengaging frankness. "You are so good, so wise." He sat down upon the floor at her feet. "I am not worth all your trouble." He tried unsuccessfully to regain possession of her hand. "Indeed you are," she interposed, "and even if you were not, your art is!" she added significantly. His eyes, which had been fixed worshippingly on her face, hardened. "My art! And I flattered myself that you took a personal interest in me. You're just like the others, after all!" He rose angrily, and began to pace up and down the room. Both hurt and amused, she watched him with an indulgent smile. "It is naturally the artist in you which interests me the most," she replied quietly. "Anything further would be an impertinence," she finished rather cruelly. The furious pacing stopped. He glared down upon her. "Then you are impertinent!" he cried brutally. "For unless you are a consummate actress, you are beginning to care for me, me personally, more than for any fiddling I ever have or am ever likely to do!" A marble goddess looked suddenly forth from Anne's stony face. "If you were not ill, and only a boy, I would send you away for saying that!" Her voice was metallic. The icy tones congealed his blood. In an excess of remorse, he fell down at her feet and hid his face on the chaise-longue. "Forgive me," he muttered. "But if you only knew how much it means to have someone take an interest in me outside of my music! To feel that I myself mean something to someone! My music has always been first with everyone. I have been like a rich man's son, who is afraid to believe that anyone cares for anything except his millions." Raising his face, he looked pleadingly into her eyes. His misery melted her heart, but her tone remained cold. "I think you are forgetting your wife," she said quietly. "Surely you cannot believe that your music came first with her!" He evaded her reproachful gaze. "Poor Claire, yes she did care!" His voice was at once reassured and remorseful. Anne smiled down upon him ironically. The colossal egotism of these geniuses! But her voice was unruffled as she proceeded. "Does care, you mean! Alexis, look at me." She sat up and took his reluctant face into her hands. "I want you to go back to Claire. I want you to make up to her for all your past unkindness. Will you do it to please me?" He jerked his head away violently and rose to his feet. "No, ten thousand times no," he cried. "Does a prisoner ever return to his dungeon? How can you ask such a thing? It is only because you are tired of me. Want to get rid of me. Well, I am going any time you say. This minute, if you wish!" She shook her head with a low laugh. "What, in all this rain?" she asked, as a sudden gust of wind tore at the windows. "You are so excitable, my poor Alexis! Come, you know I don't want you to go. I shall miss you sadly. But I can't help thinking how much happier you might be if you only would." She looked wistfully into the angry face. He returned her glance with scorn. "Happier? There's no such thing as happiness. At least for me; I'm not so exacting as to demand it! But at least I can be free, and I shall!" "There is nothing to prevent you, poor Alexis," she replied gently. He hung his head and the light suddenly went out of his face. "You are offended with me? I don't blame you----" his voice was low and broken. "I suppose this is good-bye?" A new pain bit into Anne's heart. "Oh no, Alexis, no! How can you say so?" she broke in contritely. "If you don't feel you can go back to the others"--she hesitated uncertainly for a moment, "you may remain here with me. I have taken the lodge until the first of November. There still remain almost ten days. Do you think you could bear it?" She looked at him less frankly. Her flush and the new uncertainty of her voice enraptured Alexis. "Anne, Anne," he cried impetuously, calling her by her name for the first time. "Why, being with you is the only happiness I have ever had! It was the terrible fear of losing it that has upset me so tonight." His face was radiant. In another moment, Anne feared he might become demonstrative. With a slight flutter of regret and excitement, she rose and ran to the piano. "I insist upon playing!" She ran her fingers over the keys lightly, avoiding his tortured expression. "I've restrained myself for ten days on your account, and now that it is decided you are remaining, I refuse to go without my piano any longer! Besides, I simply must drown out this wind if I can. It is getting on my nerves!" Too astonished to remonstrate, slightly sick at his stomach, Alexis fell into the nearest chair and steeled himself to listen. From the corner of her eye, Anne admired his unexpected control. Nothing in his polite attitude betrayed the nervous torture she knew he was undergoing. But she chose to ignore it. She broke into one of Chopin's preludes and continued to watch him furtively. His pallor turned a sickly gray. Small beads of moisture stood out upon his forehead. The clenched hands, the twisted lips, made Anne feel like an executioner. But still she continued playing. And as she had hoped, the ruse proved successful. After a few minutes, the nervous hands relaxed. A smile loosened the tension of his lips. For a while he listened in seeming content. Then evidently he could contain himself no longer. Still pale, but no longer in agony, he was obviously in the throes of a new and more vital emotion. With an awakened, exultant expression, he sprang out of the chair and striding over behind her, swept her off the piano stool and into the armchair. "Very good indeed!" he cried with unconscious condescension. "But let me show you how it ought to be done." He gave the stool a professional twist or two, and sat down and commenced to play. Slightly crestfallen, Anne composed herself to listen. He took up the prelude where she had left off. She had not known that he had it in him. Acknowledged master of the violin, he was a pianist of undoubted technique and power as well. A month ago, such a performance from a mere boy would have racked and humiliated, but now it was sheer, unadulterated, pleasure. "Why didn't you tell me you could play the piano like that?" she exclaimed almost peevishly. He wheeled about on the piano-stool and smiled at her rather sheepishly. "I can't," he said simply. "It is merely a side issue, a relaxation." Anne came and stood beside him. "I could slap you!" she retorted with mock anger. "The idea of calling a talent like that a side issue! Why you could make a career for yourself as a pianist if you wished." He laughed almost light-heartedly. "Oh no, you are making too much allowance for the country piano. I'm afraid the small career I've had already will have to last me the rest of my life!" Anne sighed. "And you want me to believe that you've forgotten how to play the violin after this exhibition?" she asked crossly. He gave her a startled look. "You think I've been trying to deceive you? You believe that of me? Oh Anne!" he cried in anguished tones. She leaned over him remorsefully and patted the weary-looking shoulder. "Poor Alexis," she murmured. "I didn't mean to hurt you! Of course I know you wouldn't deceive me intentionally." He glanced up at her through grateful tears. "Poor useless Alexis," he replied under his breath, "who cumbers the earth with his wasteful presence. What are you going to do with him?" His eyes held the plaintive appeal of a lost child. Anne moved away hastily. "Spank him and send him to bed," she laughed, uneasy at his tone. A sudden and more angry blast shook the house. Anne went to the window and drew up the shade. She looked out into the uproarious night. The rain beat against the panes like waves washing over a porthole. Anne shivered. "I had almost forgotten the storm while you were playing, hadn't you? Come, see how weirdly the trees are behaving!" He strolled up behind her and they stood, looking out into the blackness. Beaten beneath leaden shafts of rain, torn by a diabolic wind, the placid forest had become an inferno of twisting branches. Tossing limbs writhed in seeming agony under each shrieking gust. "They look like a company of maddened demons," Anne shuddered and pulled down the shade. "I could almost believe it is they and not the wind, which whistle and scream. It reminds one of a witch's Sabbath!" She went to the table, gathered up a book or two, and prepared to go upstairs, when the brusque whirr of the telephone stopped her. "What can that be?" she cried completely startled. She ran across the room and took down the receiver. "Yes, this is Mrs. Schuyler. Who is this? Oh--a telegram?" As she waited for the message, she encountered Alexis' eyes with a startled inquiry in her own. "It is for you, Alexis," she whispered. She held out the receiver and moved aside. He backed away with nervous horror. "Please take the message for me, Anne!" She nodded curtly and resumed her listening. A moment passed before she spoke. "Oh, yes, I'm responsible," she said shortly, evidently in answer to some remonstrance from the other end. "You may give me the message quite safely. I'll write it down word for word." She held out an imperious hand. Alexis rushed across the room to the desk, secured pencil and paper and prepared to write at her dictation. When she spoke her voice seemed strangely flat and monotonous. "Claire missing since yesterday morning. Traced to St. Patrick's by Ito. Then clue lost. Fear worst. Return immediately. Your Mother" Anne replaced the receiver in silence and she and Alexis looked into each other's faces. "You must go back at once," she whispered finally. "And leave you?" he exclaimed huskily. "Never! Besides I don't believe a word. It is merely a hoax, a clever trick of my mother's to get me back into her clutches. She's quite capable of it! But she can't fool me so easily. I'll not go!" Anne met his wild young eyes with something akin to horror. "Oh no, Alexis, you are deceiving yourself! This message rings only too true, and I should never forgive myself if I didn't urge you to go, especially after what happened yesterday." He shook his head stubbornly. "You don't know my mother!" She placed her hand upon his arm with an urgent gesture. "Alexis, you are behaving like a spoiled child! You would never forgive yourself if something happened to Claire because of you. The least you can do is to return immediately. If it should turn out to be a hoax, which is unbelievable, why you can come back again. Nobody can force you to stay, you know!" At her appeal, a sudden sense of shame flooded him. He nodded his head in bitter acquiescence. "Yes, I suppose I must go," he said slowly. "But how can I leave you, how can I live without you?" His eyes devoured her. She turned away to hide sudden tears. "Hush, Alexis, you must not think of yourself now. Remember poor Claire. Come, you must be brave." Her voice was gentle. "You make me ashamed!" he cried. "But I love you so. I don't know what would become of me if I should have to lose you, Anne!" He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them over and over. "Promise that you will not forsake me, that you will let me remain your friend." Tears trembling on her lids, she looked down upon his bent head. "I promise," she murmured. With a smothered cry he released her. He turned his back abruptly and strode across the room. "What time does the early train leave?" he inquired huskily from the doorway. "At six, I believe," responded Anne faintly. "Regina will pack for you and of course Howard will drive you down to the village," she continued more firmly. "Thank you." His despairing eyes caught the regret in hers. "You will let me hear from you?" his voice was full of suppressed suffering. "Of course," she replied. "Please telegraph if there is any news. I'll be going down myself in a few days probably. It is becoming rather cheerless here now." She cast a nervous glance towards the windows against which the rain continued to pound relentlessly. Her unconcealed trouble kindled a light in Alexis' eyes. "She is beginning to love me," he thought. A sense of fear and joy permeated him, but he continued speaking calmly. "I shall say good-bye to-night, then, so as not to disturb you so early in the morning. Good-bye, Anne--thank you." His voice broke. He turned and escaped up the stairs. Pale, a little wistful, Anne watched the boyish figure disappear around the landing. CHAPTER VIII MORTAL SIN Joy irradiating the small, wan features, Claire looked up into Alexis' face. At the pathetic bewilderment in her eyes, a spasm of contrition shot through him. He sat down beside the bed and took her hand in his. Dim and bare, the hospital room was stereotyped but comfortable. However, it struck a chill to Alexis' heart and he shuddered a little, as he returned the feeble pressure of the cold fingers. "Poor Claire, what a horrible time you've had!" he whispered. She shook her head and smiled up at him faintly. "Oh, no, Alexis, it might have been so much worse. Everybody has been so good to me here. The sisters are wonderful!" Her eyes left his face for a moment and travelled to the window where a nun was sitting. The flaring coif, the white kerchief, framed a beautiful serenity and Claire sighed as her gaze rested upon the folded hands. Would such peace ever be hers? she wondered enviously. Alexis' eyes, following hers, flashed sudden distaste. To him the serenity spelt stupidity; the folded hands, laziness. Hatred of all dogma had obsessed him since childhood, and was still one of the few prejudices which had survived his habitual indifference. It had always proved a bone of contention between him and Claire, who during a three-year sojourn in a French convent, had become an ardent, if somewhat spasmodic, convert. Swift as was the expression of antagonism, Claire perceived it. She clasped his fingers nervously and sought to distract his attention. "But, Alexis, how did you ever find me? You must think I am crazy not to have asked you immediately!" He smiled down upon her. "Oh no, I knew you would come to it eventually," he paused. "Well, how did you?" she insisted. "You see I didn't really come to myself until yesterday, and early this morning when I told them to notify Aunt, they said that my family already knew where I was and had ordered me to be put in a private room. I was in the ward before." She looked at him gravely. Alexis regarded her with pity. "Yes, poor little girl, I know. It must have been awful. I never can forgive myself for all you've suffered." He stooped suddenly and kissed her on the cheek. Tears streaming down her face, she turned her head away. "You don't have to do that, Alexis," she whispered. His lips salty with her tears, he continued somewhat unsteadily. "Do you want to know how I found you, little cousin? It was really very simple although long drawn out. Ito watched you from the window as you left the house. He saw you enter a taxi. (Something odd in your appearance and manner had frightened him. Let me see, that was three days ago, wasn't it?)" She nodded mutely, and he continued. "When you didn't arrive home that night, he called up the taxi company and they traced you to the church door. Knowing your religious proclivities," they smiled tremulously at each other, "I interviewed several of the priests and finally found the one to whom you had confessed." "That must have been horrible!" Claire interrupted with forced levity. A growing fear was in her eyes. "What did he tell you?" She sat up in bed. A deep flush suddenly replaced her former pallor. Her agonized embarrassment did not escape Alexis. He broke in quickly, "Nothing at all, of course. Secrecy of the confessional and all that, you know." She collapsed upon the pillows. Disregarding her obvious agitation, Alexis went on quietly. "He merely told me that you seemed ill. That perhaps you had fainted in the street and been taken to some hospital. I thought it an excellent suggestion, and after calling up about four or five hospitals and describing you and your clothes (you can thank Ito for that--he knew what you had on to the last detail), we finally succeeded in discovering you here. That is all." Releasing her hand, which he had held in his all this time, he patted it gently. She looked up into his face with grateful eyes. "Oh Alexis, how good of you to take so much trouble for me. How can I ever thank you?" "It wasn't good of me, and you know it. I've been a brute all along. But if you want to please me you must take care of yourself. As soon as you are able to leave the hospital and go back to the apartment you must take one of these sisters home with you and keep her as long as necessary. But I will consult the doctor about that," he added with a business-like air, which contrasted oddly with his usual lack of responsibility. Claire sat up suddenly and clasped his arm. "That won't be necessary at all. Please don't consult the doctor about me. I'm perfectly well, only a little tired and not quite myself since----since you went to the sanitarium. Now that you are all right, I shall pick up quickly and--and Alexis," she continued bravely, "whenever you want the separation you can have it, of course!" She spoke in a low voice so that the nun might not hear. He flushed painfully. "We won't think about that now, Claire. I want you to get well before we decide upon anything. Who knows, we may change our minds?" he added with a weak desire to please her. She winced. When she replied her voice was still low, but almost hard. "Please don't try to deceive me, Alexis. I know you too well. You are sorry for me now. But you don't love me any more than you did a week ago. I am willing to go back to your mother if you desire it. You are my husband and I must obey you. But I beg of you not to pretend--that is more than I can bear!" With a stifled sob she fell back upon the pillow. Torn with shame and pity, Alexis started to speak, but before he could say a word, the sister rose from her seat in the window and approached the bed. "I'm afraid you are exciting my patient," she said pleasantly. Alexis met her gentle gaze with a guilty expression. "I'm afraid I am, but I didn't mean to," he stammered contritely. "Perhaps I'd better go?" The sister nodded. "It would be best, but I'll give you a minute or two to say goodbye in," she added with a lenient smile. The young couple interested her, and her old maid's heart was gripped by their very evident problem. With punctilious courtesy, she turned and walked back to the window. Alexis knelt quickly beside the bed and laid his face against Claire's head. His lips upon the thick, black hair, he whispered in the averted ear. "Can you ever forgive me, Claire? I must have been born an utter cad. I just can't seem to help it!" She turned her face towards him indignantly and put her hand upon his lips. "Don't say such a thing," she murmured beneath her breath, but with startling intensity. "You are Alexis, and that is all I ask. And now go, my dear, I am tired." She pushed him away feebly. He rose to his feet and kissed remorsefully the little hand she extended. "I am not fit to live!" he exclaimed, unconsciously expounding man's most stereotyped phrase, and filling her woman's soul thereby with the usual illogical pity. When he had left and the nun had gone to her supper, she broke down completely. Poor Alexis, poor Claire, she thought bitterly, into what a miserable tangle they had blundered. And what a wretched fool she herself had been. Such a beautiful bond had existed between them, and in her greedy effort to draw it still closer, she had snapped it asunder. For her aunt, the real instigator of it all, she had scarcely a thought of blame. Even if she had known the entire truth, she probably would not have reproached her. Her instinct told her that it was her own blissful acquiescence by which she had been betrayed. She accepted her responsibility very simply and without thought of contradiction. It was with this idea uppermost in her mind that she had gone to St. Patrick's, instead of her own little chapel, in the hope of finding a priest to whom she would not have to reveal her identity. It had been easy enough to find him and to recount her simple tragedy as briefly as possible. But the verdict had not been the one for which she had hoped, although the adviser had proved more gentle and more wise than the average haphazard priest upon whom she and her problem might have fallen. And she had kept nothing back, from the casual nature of the marriage itself, to the unforeseen but natural and physical consequences buried deep within her body. Even when she came to the pitiful attempt at suicide she had drawn forth scarcely a reproach from the other side of the confessional. The old man had listened to similar stories so often. His heart had been bruised by a thousand vicarious sorrows. It was not until she hinted at her desire for escape that he raised a protest. She had whispered brokenly of Alexis' love for another woman and had ventured to ask if it wouldn't be possible for the church to grant a divorce, or even to annul the marriage. The old man had told her very sternly that that would be a sin almost as mortal as suicide, in the face of the life which she was carrying. Did she want to add another fatherless waif to the unnamed legions already encumbering the world? Her duty was to the new life, to make its inception as happy as possible, and through it to bring her mistaken young husband back into the pathway of duty. At those last words, Claire recalled that she had almost smiled. Alexis and the pathway of duty had seemed so ludicruously unakin, somehow! No, the only thing to do, the priest had continued somewhat droningly, was to take up her life again as she had left it. If her husband did not wish to live with her, that was not her fault. Probably when the child was born, he would have a change of heart, etc., etc. Only partly convinced, but too weary to resist the age-old arguments, she had left the confessional with a half-formulated resolve of drifting for a while and seeing whether time might not alter the situation. But out on the church steps the brilliant sunshine seemed to pierce into her brain. She had been seized with familiar giddiness. A merciful veil of blackness suddenly obscured her vision, and she knew no more until yesterday afternoon when she had awakened to find herself in a hospital ward. It had been a rather horrifying sensation to lose an entire day and night out of existence. To suddenly discover oneself in the public ward of a great hospital! A horror mitigated by the kindness of the sisters and the concern of the visiting young doctor, who had taken it for granted that Claire had realized the exact nature of her condition. Since then, before seeing Alexis, she had had time to think. She had lain awake all night over her problem. In spite of the frightful wrench to spirit and pride, she had come to the same inevitable conclusion as the day before. Because of the child that was coming she would sacrifice her own desires and return to Alexis' mother. However, she allowed herself one reservation, of which she knew the old priest would not approve, but to which pride obstinately clung. Neither Alexis nor his mother should be told of her "hopes" as the sister so chastely put it, until it was no longer possible to conceal it from anyone. As soon as she heard that Alexis was coming to the hospital, she had made both the doctor and the nurse promise solemnly not to divulge her secret. A request acceded to with small reluctance, as similar whims constantly arose within their province. How devoutly she hoped they were keeping their word! For probably at this very moment Alexis was interviewing the doctor on her behalf and making arrangements for the return to the apartment. That return which she dreaded from the bottom of her soul. That apartment where her aunt, Mme. Petrovskey held sway and was waiting to encompass her with the cold and bland silence which was hers habitually, and which, characteristically, she had not broken since Claire's disappearance. She had not dared to ask Alexis if he would be there, too. She hardly knew whether she desired it. An appalling weariness warned her that she would be unable to cope with the emotions his presence involved. Yet without him life was void, the future a terrifying blank. Too spent for tears, she turned her leaden body and burying her face against the pillow, sank into a lethargy as deep and almost as peaceful as the elusive death which had failed her. CHAPTER IX YOUTH'S TEMPEST Anne looked up into the Marchese's face with a quizzical smile. Beneath the staccato uproar of piano and laughter his voice flowed liquid and unbroken. Interesting and even thrilling as were his recent adventures, somehow his account lacked the usual fire. It was difficult to focus her attention. The fervid charm of their intercourse seemed to have vanished. Anne's smile stiffened upon her lips. Her eyes wandered rather vaguely about the crowded room. It was the usual olla podrida of mixed professions and nationalities that had gathered in her drawing room for the last four or five years. One or two genuine artists and musicians, a writer of indubitable distinction, an actress of greater renown than ability, several clever pretenders, and the man at her side, whose fame as an archæologist, stood undisputed, and whose dignity and charm were a byword on two continents. A man whose friendship had gratified her for years and whose attentions had more than satisfied a fastidious and pampered vanity. But somehow, he failed to thrill her to-night. His virile and rather grave personality was overshadowed by one weaker, yet more compelling. Between her and the dark, high-bred face, intruded a pale, sensitive silhouette; the memory of burning, youthful words. Not accustomed to float upon the tide of emotions, Anne was conscious of a bewildered self-contempt. With a determined effort she shepherded her truant thoughts and turned to the Marchese just as the boy at the piano had banged the last smashing cord of a Sowerby Medley. "Rather relentless, wasn't it?" she laughed above the raucous applause. "Blasphemy, pure and simple," shuddered the Marchese. "Like a visit to the dentist. The buzzer, you know?" He rolled his r's and waved a graphic hand. "It sets my teeth on edge completely. How can you bear it, carissima?" She laughed again. "It's rather amusing, don't you think? Poor Vittorio, are you so old-fashioned as to enjoy a perpetual Celeste Aïda?" "Yes, thank God," he exclaimed fervently. "Do you suppose Orpheus would ever have rescued his Eurydice by playing jazz? No, no, the old guardian beasts were too artistic for that!" She waved her fan gaily. "But nowadays we don't even believe in Hades!" "Ah, but it is always Paradise when with you, Cara Anna," he murmured somewhat bromidically. She looked up into his face. "You are always so good, Vittorio! I--I'm afraid I don't deserve it." She paled a little beneath the earnest gaze of the red-brown eyes. He laughed indulgently beneath his breath. "How is that, don't deserve it? But what has entered into you, dear lady, since your return from the mountain? Have you met a god that you are so uncharacteristically humble?" Failing to meet her eyes, his own became suddenly troubled. Had Anne perhaps indeed received the coup de foudre which he had been dreading all these years? "Do fallen gods dwell upon the mountain-tops?" There was a trace of uncertainty in Anne's smile. Her eyes grew misty as the pale obsessive silhouette rose once more between them. "And if I had?" she challenged. His lids veiled sudden apprehension. "Met a fallen god?" he inquired lightly. She nodded, meeting his searching gaze with an innocent stare. "Then, unconquered lady, beware!" he shook a solemn finger, not at all reassured by the innocent stare. Experience had taught him that even the best of women lie when occasion demands it. "The fallen god is the most dangerous of all. His halo may be crooked, but it dazzles. His poor, stumbling feet of clay inspire that pity which poets claim is akin to love." He finished with a mock heroic flourish. They both laughed aloud. "Don't be niggards. Share the joke," came a husky drawl from behind them, as the long, but prodigious, Ellen Barnes sank into the nearest chair. An actress of the foremost rank, of greater personal than artistic appeal, her ample shoulders had assumed the regal mantle of Broadway. Her reign undisputed, her manner was more royal than the queen's. The Marchese smiled upon the intruder suavely. He thought her acting execrable, and knew she would be hissed off any worth-while French or Italian stage, but her regular, well-nourished beauty was reposeful, her languid air tickled his humor. "The Marchese was discussing feet," said Anne slyly, rather relieved at the interruption. The other woman stared incredulously. "Feet? Metrical or unpoetic like mine?" she threw out a large, but shapely foot, and regarded it with satisfaction. "Ellen, your vanity is incorrigible!" laughed Anne lightly as she rose. "But if you promise to be a good girl and not corrupt the Marchese I'll trust you alone with him for a while. They are waving to me from the piano." The Marchese surveyed her retreat with a whimsical smile. "I am very much frightened," he said, turning towards the delighted Ellen, who sprawled largely nonchalant upon her cushions. "Was it not Hedda Gabler to-night?" "Oh yes, a revival," exclaimed Ellen eagerly. "Do you think the part suits me?" The Marchese's reply was more than satisfactory. But his eyes followed the figure of the other woman. Her apple green dress, clinging closely about her, Anne was crossing the room. They will want me to dance, I suppose, she thought, looking about her with dissatisfaction. She felt suddenly un-at-home, almost ill at ease. The familiar surroundings still appealed with the claim of long association. The tempera walls still soothed, the carved Florentine furniture had lost no dignity, but somehow tonight the carefully chosen austerity rang false. Or was it merely that she was bored? Yes, bored almost to tears by the deafening prattle of the puppets she had gathered together? Yes, that was it. Why had she never sensed their incongruity so strongly before? She approached the multi-colored group at the piano and looked down into the face of the boy seated at the keyboard. Brilliant, degenerate, his playing just escaped the professional. As he returned her gaze, something wistful and defiant within the tired eyes suddenly struck at Anne's heart. Something that seemed to cry: "there is a devil within me, but I did not put him there. Besides, who cares?" Anne leaned over him. Her emerald earrings tinkled gaily in his face. A faint perfume swept his façile senses. "How goes it, Gerald?" she said quietly. "Oh, life's a dirge, as usual." A smile painted upon the wistfulness, he flung back his head and with distended nostrils seemed to inhale her into his consciousness. Then springing up, he held out his arms. "Let us drown sorrow in a dance," he begged. Pushing a rather naked and wild-eyed young woman into his seat he commanded her to play. "A waltz, anything so long as it is immediate!" With a toss of the bobbed-head and a mechanical grab at a recalcitrant shoulder-strap, the girl broke into a grotesque cancan. Rather wearily, Anne permitted herself to be swept into Gerald's arms. Joined by six or seven other couples they wheeled around the room, like a flock of gaily-feathered pigeons. Anne felt herself studied by the weary young eyes. "What is the matter?" she said a little peevishly. "Have you discovered a wrinkle?" The boy pressed her to him with spasmodic strength. She marvelled at the force of the doll-like creature, and at herself for ever having been, even momentarily, swayed by his puerile passion. "Don't be foolish, Gerald," she added crossly, as he continued to crush her against him. The music stopped with a staccato crash. They circled to a finish near the alcove where Ellen Barnes and the Marchese were bolstering a dwindling conversation by forced inanities. Anne accepted the Marchese's chair with gratitude. Vittorio was a real man and a relief after the hectic Gerald. She looked up at the latter with a rather tired smile. "Do get yourself a drink, Gerald, you look so hot. Thompson is serving them in the library, I believe. You may bring me one, too, if you like," she added to mitigate the rather abrupt dismissal. Personally, she loathed cocktails. Ellen was looking almost animated. "The Marchese has been showing me a chain he dug up somewhere in Persia," she drawled between puffs of a scented cigarette. "He tells me I may wear it in my next play, which is taken from the Arabian nights or the Bible, I never can remember exactly which. At any rate, it's antique and oriental!" She held the chain up for Anne's approval. It was of hammered gold, studded at intervals with monstrous uncut turquoise. A flush rising in her pale face, Anne fingered it lovingly. "How unbelievably beautiful," she murmured, almost reproachfully. What could have come over Vittorio? He did not usually juggle his treasures promiscuously. Could he have become infatuated with Ellen? "I'm sure it must have a story. Do tell it to us, Vittorio." He met her uncertain smile with concealed amusement. How could he tell her how openly the woman had angled for the bauble? "It's rather a long story, I'm afraid," he commenced with his usual amiability. "However, if you command-----" But at this moment Gerald appeared with a small tray of cocktails and as they helped themselves the doorbell pealed shrilly. A glass raised halfway to her lips, Anne paused almost imperceptibly, while the butler strode solemnly down the hall, and opening the street door, indulged in a prolonged but discreet parley. Gerald noted Anne's abstraction with malicious curiosity. "Is any of the gang missing?" he said. "Shall I go and see who it is, Anne?" But Anne had risen. With a disconcerting little smile she swept by him; as he started to follow she looked back over her shoulder and laughed softly. "No, you can't come with me, Gerald. You mustn't be so curious! Perhaps I have a mystery in my life, who knows? At any rate, I promise to call for help if it's a burglar!" As she swept out of the arched doorway, the boy looked after her in chagrined anger. Heart knocking against her side, she emerged into the high narrow hall. Thompson was at the door, and as she had surmised, the tall stranger with whom he was discreetly parleying was Alexis. Muffled in a great coat, a soft hat pulled over his eyes, he presented the appearance of a conspirator in the movies, and Anne did not wonder that Thompson had hesitated to permit him to enter. Suppressing a hysterical desire to laugh, she interposed herself between the two men. "It's quite all right, Thompson," she said in a low voice, "you may go." As the surprised man disappeared down the corridor, she held out her hands to Alexis. He seized and covered them with kisses. "Be careful." A pulse hammering faintly in her throat, she drew him swiftly into the house. "The house is full of people and someone may come out here at any moment!" He cast a hunted look about him. A sudden shriek of laughter rose shrilly above the rest. "Isn't there any place where we can be undisturbed?" His lowering gaze rested upon her angrily. But it was the first time he had seen her in evening dress and as her beauty penetrated through his irritation, his expression melted suddenly. "You are like an alabaster lamp!" he exclaimed. "Your skin is luminous, as if a light were glowing from within. I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen!" She gave a husky little laugh and catching hold of his hand, pulled him after her up the stairs. "We will go to my sitting-room, which Thompson insists upon calling the 'budwar,' and Regina the salotino," she whispered gaily. She led the way up the curved, stone, stairway. He followed submissively, an absent eye upon the tapestries that covered the stone walls. They entered the sitting-room at the top of the stairs and Anne closed the door firmly. "Enfin seuls!" she exclaimed sinking with a comic little air into a chair before the fire. Throwing aside his hat and coat, Alexis glowered somberly down upon her. "It is a week since we parted, and I've been starving for the sight of you," he cried with a catch in his voice. "Why didn't you let me know that you had returned?" His agitated face reproached her. She laughed rather nervously. "I only arrived yesterday afternoon, impatient one. Besides, I had received your telegram and knew that everything was all right. I was going to call you up to-morrow morning. But now I shan't have to, shall I?" She drew herself up briskly. "Come, don't stand there glowering at me. Sit down, tell me your news." Wounded at her sudden change of tone, Alexis sank upon a stool at her feet. Putting his arms about his knees, he stared gloomily into the flames. "What do you want to know?" he inquired sullenly. Anne repressed an impatient sigh. "Tell me about Claire," she said quietly. "Will she be able to leave the hospital soon?" "She seems to be perfectly all right, now, and expects to return home in a few days," he replied. Anne leaned forward tensely. "Shall you be there, Alexis?" she inquired. He looked up into her face with utter surprise. "I? Of course not. I've already taken an apartment on Gramercy Park, and shall probably go away as soon as my affairs are settled." Anne nodded. "Where are you thinking of going?" she murmured conversationally. At her indifferent tone, he shrugged nonchalantly. "Anywhere, nowhere! The South Sea Islands--Russia, perhaps!" Anne nodded again. "A little touch of Bolshevism would be akin at present," she commented drily. He crimsoned. "You think I'm impossible, don't you, Anne?" Encountering his angry, pleading gaze, she laughed uncertainly. "I think you make life impossible for yourself--and others!" He wheeled about and faced the fire with tragic, sullen eyes. "You are right. I'm a curse to myself and everyone else. The sooner I am out of it the better for all." A tug of pain at her heart, Anne leaned forward and laid her hand upon his thick, blonde hair. "My dear, my poor dear," her voice was compassionate and caressing. With a guttural cry, Alexis turned, and flinging himself at Anne's feet, buried his face in her lap. "Don't hate me! If you do, I shall kill myself. Say you won't hate me. Say it!" Tears welled up into Anne's eyes. Taking his face in her hands, she raised it to her own. "My poor Alexis, my poor boy!" "Why, you are crying, you love me!" he exclaimed naïvely. She shook her head. A faint smile traversed her quivering lips. "I don't know. I'm afraid not." Seizing her hands, he showered kisses into the upturned palms. "Anne, Anne, I love you." The tremulous smile still lifting her lips, she pushed him from her, and rose to her feet. "No, Alexis, this won't do. We must pull ourselves together, or you will have to go." He faced her incredulously, as she leaned, pale and enigmatic, against the mantel. "You wouldn't send me away now?" She nodded. "You would ruin our lives for the sake of a convention?" He strode towards her menacingly. But his melodramatic manner had stirred her dormant cynicism. She laughed. "Poor Alexis, don't take it so seriously. We would be utterly miserable together. You know it. Come, let us be content to be friends." She held out her hand, but he backed away angrily. "You are heartless--cruel." He threw himself down upon the small divan before the fire, flinging his head back amongst the cushions. "You know that you are the only thing in the world that makes life worth living for me, and yet you deny yourself to me, just because you are afraid of what people will say. Of what that cackling crowd of snickerers downstairs might think of you. I thought you were bigger than that, Anne." She looked down into the wrathful face with recovered self-possession. "That crowd of snickerers, as you so politely call them, means very little in my life. But my own self-respect happens to mean a great deal. If you expect me to become your mistress just because you appeal to my compassion, you are doomed to disappointment! If my friendship will content you, that is another thing." Her coldness fell upon him like a revivifying shower. The apathetic young figure sprang from the divan with a bound. "What an ass I've made of myself! Just because you were kind, I was fool enough to imagine you loved me. I suppose it didn't seem possible that I could feel about you the way I do without any return from you. I--I think I'd better go." "No, no, Alexis, you don't understand." He ignored her imploring gesture, and taking up his hat and coat, started for the door. But it was too late. A languid footfall fell outside in the corridor. Before Anne could reach the door, it opened to admit Ellen Barnes, a rising wave of voices mounting in her wake. With a swift movement, Anne sprang forward and closed the door behind the other woman. Standing with her back against it, she looked at Ellen with a mixture of command and appeal. "Did you think I was never coming?" she asked. "Do go downstairs again and tell the others I'll be there directly. I'll explain later." With a keen glance into Alexis' face, a lazy smile upon her lips, Ellen lounged into the room. "Won't you introduce us first? Don't worry, I won't give you away!" she purred. She sat down, prepared to light a cigarette. Anne concealed her anger beneath a casual smile. "There's nothing to give away, as you call it, Ellen. This gentleman is calling upon me on private matters. If you will excuse us, I'll come down as soon as he has finished telling me what he came to say." Ellen rose, a quizzical gleam in her eye. "Sorry to have interrupted a business conference," she waved her unlighted cigarette languidly. "Since when has Mr. Petrovskey given up music for stocks and bonds? Mr. Petrovskey, won't you please become my adviser, too?" She turned towards Alexis, good-natured mockery in her large, infantile gaze. He stepped forward with a rueful laugh. "I'm afraid I'm not qualified. You see, poor Mrs. Schuyler was only trying to shield me. Since--since my illness," he choked a little and then continued swiftly, "it has been very difficult for me to meet people, and so she was kind enough to bring me up here. I--I didn't know she was receiving tonight." Ellen's eyes softened. Her façile sympathy was touched by the haggard young face, the pitiful and manly attempt at explanation. "I understand perfectly, and I'm sorry I blundered in upon you like the great cow in a China shop that I am. But now that I'm here, won't you let me say that I hope you'll soon be better, and giving us some more of your wonderful music. I've heard you so many times, and of course I couldn't help recognizing you the minute I saw your face." Going to the door, she put her hand on the knob. "I guess I'll be going now. Stay as long as you like, Anne. I'll tell them you're dead, or have acquired a sick headache from the Bacardi." Anne moved forward swiftly and joined her. "Oh, no, don't make things out quite so black as that. I'll come with you. And we'll see if we can't get rid of them. It is almost two o'clock and they ought to be leaving any minute? Then, we can return and visit with Mr. Petrovskey again. How about it?" "Great!" said Ellen. "I want to know just how you met 'an' everythin',' as Briggs says." Anne looked back at Alexis pleadingly. "Will you wait for us? I'm sure we shan't be long. Just make yourself comfortable." "Thank you, I shall be all right." He bowed stiffly as they left the room. For a moment his hatred of the world almost included Anne. Did she think he was going to remain placidly by while she and this handsome, hulking, creature discussed his affairs? No, that was too much to ask him as yet. He must get out of here at once. When Anne did not find him she would understand. Yes, he must leave at once. But how? The front stairs were impossible, judging from the voices and laughter below. To sneak down the back way like a thief, even if he knew the way, would be utterly detestable. But what else could he do? Snatching up hat and coat, he once more muffled himself to unrecognition and was starting for the door when his eye fell upon the bell-rope. The idea of summoning Thompson to show him out the back way proved a comfortable compromise to his ruffled dignity. He pulled at the pretty tasseled vanity, and awaited the outcome with inward trepidation. But it was Regina, not Thompson, who answered the summons. At sight of the muffled figure the old woman nearly screamed. But before she could utter a sound Alexis seized her by the arm. "Don't you know me, Regina?" he whispered. "The signorino Alexis!" exclaimed the old woman softly. "Does the signora know?" Alexis nodded. "I have just seen her, Regina, it's all right. She has gone downstairs again. And now I must go. Will you--will you please show me the back stairs and help me to get out without being seen? You,--you know----" Distressed at his confusion, the old woman broke in eagerly. "Si, si, Signorino, of course I understand. The signorino is not well, he does not wish to see a lot of strangers! If he will follow me?" Running lightly down the corridor, she preceded him to a green baize door and held it open while he passed within. Ill at ease, raw from the recent encounter, he followed her down the back stairs and out to the side entrance. "I hope the signorino is better?" queried Regina, as he passed by her into the areaway. "Shall he be making the music again soon?" she added eagerly. As her meaning penetrated his misery, Alexis started, as if she had inadvertently touched some spiritual reflex. With a muttered excuse he strode out on to the sidewalk in front of the house. The air had suddenly become raw and damp, and a blustering wind raged down the narrow street, tearing away in its passage the few last leaves from the small, sickly trees. Rain had commenced to fall in large, scattered drops. Alexis shivered. He cast a reluctant look up at the luminous windows of the house. Voices and laughter floated out into the empty street. Shadows flitted and mingled, behind the opaque shades. He lingered uncertainly for a moment, the prey of undefinable desires. Suddenly an excess of hilarity burst from the open door and the figure of a man and woman emerged on to the sidewalk. They passed Alexis and he instinctively crouched against the shadow of the house. "Anne is becoming secretive in her dangerous thirties," the woman was murmuring as they made their way towards a motor brougham that stood waiting by the curb. "You'll have to be careful, Marchese. You know they say she's had quite a vampish past." The man laughed politely. "I'm afraid I'm too old a friend to be frightened off as easily as that, Miss Barnes. As Mrs. Schuyler knows, I am one of those tiresome fellows who never listens to scandal. It has been a pleasant evening, hasn't it?" The man deposited the discomfited lady within the brougham and watched the car drive off. Then, turning on his heel, he reëntered the house. Before the door closed behind him Alexis heard Anne's voice plaintively playful. "Was she maligning me, Vittorio?" But the man's answer, caressing, muffled, was lost within the house. Shivering and dazed, Alexis pulled his collar up about his throat. Lowering his head against the rain, in a bull-like, butting gesture, he strode toward Fifth Avenue. What a fool he had been to imagine he could interest a woman like Anne, an idolized doll, surrounded by male and female sycophants, who probably took advantage of her wealth and loneliness. A woman, whimsical as a pet kitten, who had enjoyed him like a new toy for a while, but as soon as he became hackneyed, would drop him as casually as she had taken him up. Really, it would be too callow of him to expect more! In her eyes he was only a thwarted musician who had enjoyed a flashing, comet-like success, only to be swallowed once more into the nethermost void. It was not that he grudged her elegant and expensive surroundings. He could not conceive of her in any other milieu (for instance, how uncomfortable she would be in the gorgeous, ready-made, apartment on 59th Street!) But it had all frightened him a little. He had missed the leveling camaraderie of the mountain lodge. The contrast had proved too glaring for his flimsy nerves, and he had swaggered before her like a bully. What must she think of him? What an ill-bred pup he must appear in contrast with this Marchese, this stalwart, suave man of the world who had known how to put a gossiping woman in her place without loss of temper or dignity, who had hinted of his friendship with Anne as of something too solid and enduring to be shaken by trivialities. Who was this man? What place did he occupy in Anne's life? Was he an unacknowledged lover, or a future husband? And what chance had he, Alexis Petrovskey, the musical waif, against a man of her own caste, who not only could give her the position suited to her, but the honor which it is in the power of the poorest to bestow? While he himself had actually had the temerity to offer the ironic gift of a broken life and an illicit love. The wonder was not that she had laughed at his egotistical insanity, but that she had tempered her refusal with kindliness. Invaded by a desolate humility, he strode out from the ravine-like street on to the avenue. Disregarding a taxi which like a benevolent but unwieldy carrier-pigeon would have taken him safely home to Gramercy Square, he hurried across the wet and glistening pavement to where the park, naked, shorn, welcomed him drearily. Entering one of the windswept paths, he sank heavily on to a bench. This was the end. He would not try to see Anne any more. He refused to draw her down into the slough of his misery again. He would finish up his affairs, settle a certain sum upon his mother and Claire, as much as he could afford, leaving only a meager allowance for his own future. Then he would go abroad and drag out the bathos of his days in some obscure corner of the old world, where his face and name had not penetrated. And perhaps the end would not be long in coming. For he had always felt that his would not be a long life. For the candle to blow out before it had spluttered to its ignominious finish, seemed suddenly both beautiful and fitting. The thought soothed his whirling senses like a promise of peace; a colossal lullaby from the infinite. Enfolded within its majestic irony, he drifted into a reverie in which all sense of time and space was lost. Chin sunk into the clammy collar of his overcoat, he gazed before him into the dripping branches of the trees. Gazed so long and remained so motionless that he did not notice when the rain ceased to fall. Nor observed that it had gradually solidified into a jelly-like fog which coiled about the trees in sickly wreaths. He did not even look up when a hulking shadow moved between him and the enswathed world. It was not until a mechanical "move along, move along, man, the park ain't no dormitory," penetrated his dull senses, that he became aware of his chilled and paralyzed body. Looking stupidly up into the dim round face of the policeman, he broke into a short, hysterical laugh, rose unsteadily to his feet and laughing and coughing, wended his way down the wind-swept path in the wake of the scattering leaves. CHAPTER X MERRY-GO-ROUND "Confess it, Anne. You are bored unspeakably, is it not so?" exclaimed the Marchese, as he poured a few drops of Bacardi into a cup of tea, before handing it to Anne. "As for me, who have only been in New York for two weeks, I am a ruin! Not a reposeful ruin like those I am digging up in Sicily, but rather like those of Pompeii, racked by earthquake and volcanic eruptions. How can you stand it?" Anne smiled indulgently. The Marchese's symbolic hyperboles always amused her. Nestling into her cushions, she sipped her doctored tea. "I am tired, Vittorio! But what else is there to do? One has got to go through the gestures, you know." "Gestures? Contortions, you mean! The life you are leading is about as restful, not to say dignified, as that of a trapeze performer or an animal trainer. You will break down if you don't look out. And it doesn't suit you, carissima, this perpetual chasing. You were intended to be a grande dame, a----" "A Florentine Marchesa?" broke in Anne maliciously. "I believe you would like to see me, old and settled with a flock of bambini clustered about my gouty knees, and a mustache bristling above my dewy lips!" Not at all crestfallen, the Marchese gazed merrily into her stormy eyes. "How we hate to be tied up!" he laughed. "And how we loathe the idea of being respectable and dowagerly. The bambini, of course, I couldn't answer for, but as to the mustache, there is always Zip!" "Wretch!" she laughed. The firelight played upon her pale features, as she returned his gaze. A tea-gown of claret-colored velvet clung to her relaxed body in suave folds, emphasizing the gardenia pallor of throat and arms, the russet splendor of her hair. He gave vent to his adoration. "If you were not so slim, you'd make a gorgeous Titian as you lie there, Anne. There's something Sixteenth Century and magnificent about you. A Bianca Cappello smiling over the rim of a poisoned goblet. There's nothing modern about you, except your mode of life, which is as lurid and reposeful as a cubist daub. Let's see, what was to-day's hectic program?" Anne laughed and reached for a crumpet. "Dressmaker's this morning and hats. Lunch with Gerald and a matinée. Inquisitorial tea at present. Later, dinner at the Ritz with you and Ellen and that new Hindoo of hers, the theater again and the new dance club. That's all. A nice little merry-go-round, warranted to keep on whirling forever, to the same tenpenny tune. With no disconcerting progress whatsoever. What more can you ask of life?" she added with a cynical little laugh. His compassionate eyes embarrassed her, but she shrugged disdainfully. "I admit I would have liked to do nothing to-night but sit before the fire and read one of my memoirs. But what can I do? The tickets were bought, the party arranged, so I suppose I must sip the bitter dregs of anti-climax philosophically." "And so unfortunately must I," he sighed resignedly. "But the dance club, to watch you being ogled by an amorous Hindoo! I shudder. Anne, Anne, when will you put an end to my misery? Leave this, what do you call it, half-baked existence. Come with me to Florence, to Sicily. Let us lead a fuller life. A life of travel and repose, with a horizon wide enough for study and meditation, and an occasional oasis, if you desire, of theaters and dance clubs. Let our friends be those who dare to think and to do, who have learned to appreciate the exquisiteness of leisure, and not to fritter it away. You Americans treat an idle hour as if it were a horrible void that might engulf you if you didn't diligently fill it in with little nothings." Much amused, Anne lit a cigarette. "A proposal and a sermon in one breath! Really, Vittorio, you are certainly an original. You come all the way from Italy to drag me back to your prehistoric caves and then preach to me in a thoroughly mediæval and unprehistoric manner. You spoil your own effects. I had almost made up my mind to return to Florence before Christmas--but now!" She rolled her eyes and gestured comically. "Don't be capricious, Anne darling. You know I'm no preacher. And you would look adorable attired in white linen knickerbockers, riding on the back of a donkey----" "Supporting a heavy white umbrella with one hand, and brushing off a horde of cannibalistic flies with the other--so restful and inspiring!" Anne blew smoke rings into his eager, dark face. "There are no flies in winter, and where I've been working it is sometimes very cold. The white umbrella would be entirely unnecessary. My villa is an antique dream of old-rose marble and its terrace and garden seem to sweep right out into the ardent blue of the sea." "What about modern improvements?" inquired Anne flippantly. But at his description her pupils had expanded, her whole face had taken on a softer, more rested, expression. "There is a bath," he replied simply. "But of course no electricity. Hanging lamps and an army of candles shed a soft benediction over the old walls. I promise you, you will be very comfortable. It is a foolish gardener who transplants an exotic into the soil of unprotected fields." He leaned forward earnestly. Her eyes cloudy with feeling, she laid her hand upon his. "You are so adorably literal, Vittorio. Such a boy in spite of all your experience! Any woman who couldn't trust herself to go with you to the ends of the earth, would be a blind fool." "Then you will make up your mind? You will come?" he cried eagerly. She shook her head with a maternal smile. "Who knows, Vittorio? My emotions seem to be as unstable as the weather. I'm about as reliable as a will-o'-the-wisp. Better place your allegiance elsewhere, dear friend. I have kept you waiting too long already." He rose to his feet and stood over her vehemently. "Never, never. There's no woman who can compare with you, bellissima donna. And if there is, I do not want her!" Anne's eyes twinkled. "How about the statuesque Ellen? One doesn't shed turquoise necklaces for nothing." He blushed like a guilty school boy. "Were you jealous, Anne?" His eyes were uncontrollably eager. "Perhaps a little. If it would please you, Vittorio?" she teased. He threw back his head, laughing ruefully. "It is impossible to get the better of you. I retire defeated, as usual." He pointed with an expressive forefinger at the clock. "I imagine Regina is fuming outside in the corridor, waiting to slip some new magnificence upon you, to dazzle us all with to-night. But she cannot improve upon perfection." Indicating the claret velvet with a quick gesture, he bent over her hand and kissed it lightly. As the door closed behind him, Anne's smile faded. She dropped back onto the chaise-longue and closed her eyes. The last ten days had been horrible. A kaleidoscopic nightmare with about as much plot and sequence as a Broadway revue. The only consoling factor being the large and sane devotion of Vittorio. Gerald had made an amorous bore of himself, and she had had to snub him. And Ellen, well it had been too detestable of her to recognize Alexis at sight like that. And her way of accepting Anne's explanation, more than irritating. Indulging in one or two lovers a year, she was delighted to catch Anne in what she transparently considered a similar frailty. It had been still more humiliating to have to demand secrecy. But in order to protect Alexis, it had been the only thing to do. And although Ellen's good nature was proverbial, so was her indiscretion. To expect her to keep eternal silence upon her discovery of the return of Alexis Petrovskey, over whom the entire musical world was agog, would be demanding a stoical repression of which the woman was incapable. It was only a question of time before Alexis' secret would be common property. Meanwhile the only thing to do was to keep Ellen in a good humor and watch her like a hawk, which was more difficult than usual, as she was resting between plays and insisted upon attending every show and dance club in New York, until Anne's nerves were frayed and existence had become a monotonous nightmare of jazz and naked shoulders. And the worst of it was that Anne had neither seen nor heard from Alexis since he had disappeared from the house on that ghastly night of his coming. She had returned to her sitting room after the others had all gone, to find it empty except for Regina, whose explanation of his hurried flight had not proved very comforting. Evidently, he had been wounded to the quick, not only by her coldness, but by the entire ignominious situation. Her offer of a tepid friendship had driven him away perhaps forever. Otherwise how could his continued silence be accounted for? He had mistaken hesitation for anger, ridicule as dismissal. Although he must have been exposed for years, ever since adolescence, to that greedy feminine horde who prey upon the matinée idol, he had remained almost virginal. Even marriage had not destroyed a certain quality of innocence, at once boyish and pathetic. A quality which appealed to Anne's disillusionment more strongly than any amount of savoir faire. And she knew instinctively that his love for her, although young as yet, was genuine. Yes, he loved her, and yet, he had found the courage not to break silence for ten days. And she, herself, had permitted matters to drag along, expecting a message from him any moment. But if the silence continued much longer, she would have to do something. Gramercy Park is limited after all, and she would find him if she had to canvass every house on the Square. Meanwhile, what had happened to him? Had her defection driven him back to the old misery and despair? Was he lonely and hag-ridden, in a music-less hell that might peradventure drive him to suicide? Or had he perhaps come to his senses and returned to his wife in sheer cynical weariness? Of course, that would be the best thing that could happen to him and she, Anne, sincerely tried to hope that it had. Probably at this moment, while she was worrying herself almost sick over him, he was partaking of the fatted calf at the family board. The thought set her suddenly upon her feet. She stood and looked down into the flames moodily. Why had she permitted herself to get into such a state of nerves? Why worry about a neurotic, love-sick boy whom, a few weeks ago, she had never even met? Why not take the whole thing as an incident, interesting no doubt while it lasted, but now closed? She shrugged. She knew all the time that she was desperately unhappy, and would remain so until she was sure of Alexis' whereabouts. Meanwhile, life must go on, and if she did not dress immediately she would hold up the whole party. While she had been mooning over Alexis like a love-sick school-girl, the time had flown by relentlessly, and soon poor Vittorio would be back to take up the weary grind once more. A smile of self-ridicule upon her lips, she went into the adjoining bedroom and submitted herself to the impatient ministrations of Regina. "I know I am late," she admitted impenitently. "But I had my bath before tea and there isn't really much to do." She slipped out of the tea-gown and handed it to the woman. "I know just how cross you are. Just how much you hate New York, and all the rest of it. So do cheer up, there's a dear!" Sitting on the edge of the white bed, she held out a long, slim leg which Regina vested with stocking and slipper the ripe hue of old gold. "The signora will be sick if she goes on like this!" muttered the old woman. "And the poor Signor Marchese looks like death!" Anne rose and looked at herself in the cheval-glass with a laugh. Slim and boyish in her silken slip-ons, gold stockings glimmering on rounded calves, she was particularly alluring. How absurd to indulge in melodramatics when one was looking exactly like a glove-silk undervest advertisement in Vogue or Harper's Bazaar! "Poor Regina, how she loves her Marchese," she teased. She threw a négligée over polished shoulders and sat down before the gay little toilet table. "Do my hair as quickly as you can," she added. "The poor man will be back for me within the half hour." Regina sighed pleasurably. "He's a gallantuomo," she murmured. Pulling out the large shell pins, she allowed Anne's hair to fall over her shoulders in a copper cascade. "Is the signora thinking of returning to Florence before Christmas this year?" she hinted, brush in hand. Anne laughed again. "What a shameless propagandist you are, Regina! Would it please you if I did?" she added, avoiding the eyes in the mirror almost shyly. Her cherished hopes for the Marchese flaming upwards, the Italian manipulated the golden coils deftly. "The signora knows only too well!" she replied with naïve dignity. She placed a jeweled bandeau about Anne's head. "The hair is a marvel to-night, and in the gown of gold brocade the Signora will be magnificent. She should be going to Court and not wasting herself upon Broadway." Her characteristic snort of contempt delighted Anne. She led her on to more flagrant abuse, wriggling into the golden gown in high amusement. Then very regal in a Kolinsky evening coat, she swept down upon the waiting Marchese. "Regina has been so funny," she said. He took her hand and looked down into her mocking face with renewed enchantment. "The poor thing will never rest until she sees your coronet pressing down my auburn locks." His laugh was tender. "I shall have to pension her handsomely, shall I not?" he said lightly, as the butler opened the door for them to pass out. The night was clear but unexpectedly cold. Over the tops of the high, narrow houses a hard heaven was studded with metallic stars. Anne shivered and drew closer to the Marchese. "This hateful cold, it chills me to the marrow," she murmured, between chattering teeth, as they went towards the car. He stopped in his tracks, and bent over her. "Let us leave it all behind us, Anne. Come with me to Italy!" The entreaty was almost a command. Anne looked up into his face with growing decision. After all,--why not? She had kept him waiting long enough. She was about to speak, to put an end to his doubts, when a yellow taxi grazed the corner and stopped noisily back of Anne's motor. A slight figure jumped out and hurried across the sidewalk towards them. "Is this Mrs. Schuyler?" inquired an eager young voice. Anne turned about in surprise. Where had she heard that intense voice, those words before? Apprehension descended upon her. She drew still closer to Vittorio. "Yes, this is Mrs. Schuyler," she answered mechanically. "What is it, what is the matter?" An insistent hand was laid upon Anne's sleeve. "This is Claire Petrovskey. I have come to tell you that Alexis is very ill, and to ask if you will come to him at once. He wants you." The voice faltered. Then as Anne continued to look down at her in a daze, continued harshly, "Oh, don't you understand? Alexis is ill and he needs you!" She shook Anne by the arm. A sudden light came into Anne's clouded eyes. A spasm of fear gripped her. She threw an arm about the girl's shoulders and hurried her towards the motor. "Of course I will come," she cried unevenly. "Here, get into the car. Where to?" She pushed the girl into the limousine and paused a moment beside Vittorio to collect herself. "I'm so sorry, Vittorio," she said hurriedly. "But you see I cannot possibly go with you to-night. A--a friend of mine is very ill and I must go to him at once. I'm sure you understand. I hate to drop you this way, but you'll take the taxi? Won't you? And go without me?" A quiver passed over the Marchese's face. He bowed rather stiffly. "Of course, Anne. You must do what is right. But it will be a great disappointment to us all." He hesitated. "Shall I see you again soon?" Compunction seized her. "Come to tea with me to-morrow," she said with renewed composure. "I wish I could explain all this to you now, but I simply haven't the time." She touched him lightly on the arm and then stepped into the car. A moment later she and Claire Petrovskey were whisked around the corner and into Park Avenue. The Italian stared after them with a strange expression. He settled with the taxi-driver, then turned to reënter the house. He would telephone immediately to Ellen and tell her to procure another couple for the night's festivities. A walk down the length of Fifth Avenue, a solitary tâble d'hôte at some obscure Italian restaurant were more to his mood. CHAPTER XI ANNE'S VIGIL As the car swerved from the curb, Anne sank against the cushions. Turning to the immobile figure at her side, she questioned anxiously. "Is Alexis--is Mr. Petrovskey very ill?" The shadowy form retained its frozen quiescence. "He is perhaps dying," said the light, harsh voice. "Oh!" Anne's cry was involuntary. Conscious of the flood of hatred beating against her, she steeled herself. When she spoke her voice was well under control. "Surely you can't mean that! Why, what is the matter?" The delicate profile beside her, momentarily illuminated by a street lamp, acquired the translucent hardness of carved, white jade. "He has pneumonia." Once more in shadow, the mask turned towards Anne. A pair of eyes gleamed from out of dark caverns. "It developed several days ago. He had had a bad cough for about two weeks, and of course had taken no care of it." The dull voice ceased. Beneath her fur cape, Anne clasped gloved hands convulsively together. "Oh, poor boy, and he never let me know!" she murmured contritely. She faced with shame a thrill of relief. So Alexis had not neglected her wilfully after all. "Where is he now? Is he--alone?" The answer came deliberately, from averted lips. "Yes, he is in his apartment in Gramercy Park. He is alone with the exception of a day and night nurse. He--he prefers it that way." She faltered for the first time, then continued with a resumption of hardness. "Women have always been superfluous to Alexis. I have heard all geniuses are the same." The sheer, foolish bravado of it pierced Anne's heart. The impulse to put her arms about the proud, suffering, little creature was almost irresistible, but she repelled it scornfully. Why cheapen the child's dignity by histrionics? This was obviously neither the time nor place for explanations. Let those come later. The important thing at present was to get to Alexis as quickly as possible, and with as little friction. So she said nothing, but gazed steadily at the stream of motors which glutted Park Avenue like an endless chain of monster glowworms. Without turning perceptibly, Claire cast a surreptitious glance in her direction. In the constant glare from passing motors, Anne emerged, doubly magnificent in regal furs, and jeweled band glowing within the copper meshes of her hair, the proud face of a patrician, charmingly insolent, utterly non-committal. Beside her, Claire felt smitten with mediocrity as with a hopeless disease. And yet it was she herself who was bringing this woman to Alexis. Why not? He desired her. Perhaps his very life depended upon her presence. When existence narrowed down to a primal factor such as death, one shed all fears except one. Her eyes fixed upon Anne, she suddenly laughed aloud. "I startled you, didn't I?" she said harshly, in response to Anne's look of surprise, "but the mirthfulness of the occasion suddenly overcame me. It--it is funny, isn't it? Just----" her voice faltered ever so slightly, "just like the movies?" Anne looked back at her gently. "I doubt if real life could ever be as complicated as Hollywood imagines, don't you?" she replied impersonally. Bitterly ashamed of her outburst, Claire was about to reply with the same aloofness, when the motor turned into 21st Street and glided toward Gramercy Square. It stopped before a tall, narrow house with an English basement. "Are we there?" asked Anne. Her face fiery with chagrin, Claire nodded laconically. They mounted in the elevator and were admitted into the studio by Mme. Petrovskey. "This is very good of you to take pity upon my poor boy," said a suave voice. Anne felt herself drawn swiftly into the room. An inscrutable China-doll face gazed blankly into her own. "Not at all," she replied quietly. "I am distressed to hear of your son's illness and only hope I shall be of some use." The small, blue eyes urbanely veiled, were fixed upon Anne's face. "I'm afraid you're too modest," continued the bland voice. Dislike, tinged with a hint of curiosity lurked beneath the perfect manner. "The doctor seems to think you are necessary for my son's recovery, and we, his wife and mother," the eyes ceased to bore through Anne momentarily and swept ironically over Claire's shrinking figure, "are only too grateful." She came a little nearer and laid a massive hand on Anne's cloak. "Perhaps you'd better keep your wrap on. The sick-room is very cold, and you're not exactly dressed for the occasion, are you, dear lady?" "Perhaps not," replied Anne, a frozen anger accumulating in her voice. "You see I was on my way to the theater. But isn't this delay unnecessary, Mme. Petrovskey? Won't you please take me in to your son? That is, if the doctor permits?" Perfect urbanity descended once more upon Mme. Petrovskey. "Certainly," she said in brisk, business-like tones. "Just wait a minute and I'll call the nurse." She crossed the large studio with ponderous agility and tapped upon a glass paneled door. It opened just enough to permit the emerging of a white-capped head. Whispered words were exchanged, and Anne was beckoned forward. With a glance of commiseration for Claire, who had sunk into a chair next the wall and was leaning forward like a broken thing, Anne passed by her swiftly. The next moment she knelt at Alexis's bedside. Emaciated, a spot of crimson beneath each glowing eye, his labored breathing filled the room with tragic effort. Suppressing a cry of pity, Anne took one of the burning hands and held it between her cool palms, as if to quench the inward fire. But the glittering eyes, as they fell upon her, held no gleam of recognition. The monotonous agony of ingoing and outgoing breath continued as before. "Will he die?" she whispered to the nurse who had closed the door upon Mme. Petrovskey, and tiptoed back again to the bedside. The woman looked non-committal. In the shaded glare from the night light, green rings about her eyes cut into her face like spherical eclipses. "If the fever goes down he ought to live," she said. "The congestion in the lung is bad, but so far has not spread to the other. If the cause of cerebral excitement can be removed"--her eyes rested upon Anne curiously--"he will probably get well." "He doesn't seem to be particularly excited? I understood that----" Anne broke off in some confusion, and then continued sturdily, "that he had been asking for me?" The nurse nodded. "Oh, he has asked for you! That is, he has asked for some lady named 'Anne' almost constantly, and I suppose that means you? You see he has his quiet moments, and this is one of them. A sort of unconsciousness, you know. I guess it's Nature's way of giving him a rest." "How long do these periods usually last?" "Anywhere from ten minutes to an hour. You'd better stay all night. I'll make up the daybed for you in the studio. The doctor will be here soon again and will probably want to talk things over with you. If you can only be here when one of his spells comes on, it may make all the difference!" "Very well." Anne put Alexis' hand back on to the cover and rose to her feet. "I will stay, of course. If you'll show me where the telephone is, I'll call up my maid and have her send me a few necessary things for the night. By the way," she hesitated a moment as she reached the door, "are the other two ladies spending the night here also?" The nurse looked surprised. "Oh no, ma'am. They always go home at night. They've probably left already. The telephone's right in the studio by the front door. Yes, that's it." So they had gone! With a sensation of reprieve, Anne crossed the empty room quickly and got into communication with Regina. Half an hour later she was installed in the raised alcove off the studio. But it would be days before Anne would see her own house again. Days in which she and the doctor and the nurse would wrestle with fiery death for the life of Alexis Petrovskey. CHAPTER XII THE HEALING VISION The heavy glass door rang beneath the tap of impatient knuckles. Aroused abruptly from fitful unconsciousness into which she had drifted unawares, Anne sat up in bed and pressed both hands to her pounding heart. "Yes, yes, what is it?" she cried in muffled terror. Was Alexis perhaps dying? "Don't be scared. It's only me, Miss Wilson," replied the nurse's rather uncouth voice. "Mr. Petrovskey is conscious and I thought you'd better come." Anne sprang out of bed and donned slippers and dressing gown. "Is he asking for me?" Her voice was unsteady, as she opened the door and went out into the studio. "No ma'am, he seems quite rational for the moment. Asked for a drink of water. But I thought----" "Yes, yes," whispered Anne. She brushed by the woman impatiently. "You were quite right to call me." She stumbled across the shadowy studio and entered the dimly-lit bedroom beyond. Hair ruffled above the unshaven young face, Alexis' eyes stared into vacancy. Gliding forward, Anne slipped on to her knees by the bed. "Alexis," she murmured beneath her breath. "Alexis," she repeated barely louder than the pounding of her own heart. The sunken eyes turned slowly and met hers in a blur of bewilderment. "Anne?" he whispered, above his rough breathing. "Anne?" Blinded by a mist of tears, she nodded at him reassuringly. "Yes, dear, it is I. It is Anne." The sound of her voice seemed to puzzle him. He frowned helplessly. The uneven breathing broke suddenly, then became more clamorous than before. "Strange, you have never spoken before? And your hair--your hair?" He leaned towards her abruptly, and placed his hand upon the hair which streamed about her shoulders in a golden rain. "Your hair--I have never dreamed of it like this before to-night!" His fingers plunged into the gleaming tendrils. "It actually feels alive." He shuddered violently and closed his eyes. Anne feared he was losing consciousness again. Loosening the clutching fingers from her hair, she placed his hand upon her face. "This is not a dream, Alexis," she murmured, lips against his parched palm. "Am I not real? Can you not feel as well as hear me speak to you?" At the moist pressure of Anne's lips, a second shudder coursed through Alexis. "No, no," he pleaded hoarsely. "I must not awaken. I shall not awaken. I want to go on dreaming--dreaming forever." His voice trailed into a husky murmur. Then ceased. His head fell back heavily upon the pillow. Terror tugged at Anne's heartstrings. She called into the other room for Miss Wilson. "Oh come, quickly, I'm afraid he has fainted." Her sobbing cry brought the nurse in immediately. She bent over the bed, then turned a reassuring smile upon Anne. "He is asleep," she whispered, finger upon lips. "The best sleep he has had, poor young man, since I've been here. See, his forehead is moist. He will get well now. Aren't you glad you stayed?" She looked at Anne meaningly. Anne smiled back at her with quivering lips. "But had we not better call up the doctor, just to be on the safe side?" she whispered, hesitant in spite of the woman's evident confidence. The nurse looked at her with condescension. She pursed her lips. "Not at all, ma'am. Don't worry. All Mr. Petrovskey needs now is sleep. No doctor could do as much for him. And it looks as if he'd sleep for hours now. Poor boy, he surely needs it." Then noting Anne's pallor and look of fatigue, "You look as if you needed it, too. Come right back to bed now and I'll tuck you up. Shall I make you a cup of tea?" Anne shook her head, smiling faintly. "Oh no, thank you, Miss Wilson. You have enough to do without taking care of me. But don't you think I ought to stay up in case he should awaken again?" She shivered slightly as she spoke. And the nurse led her out of the room and closed the door gently. "You're catching cold in this icebox," she said peremptorily. "We have to keep the sick room quite cold, you know. But I'm dressed suitably and you're not." She touched the silken négligée with a mixture of scorn and longing. "Better get yourself a flannel wrapper like mine." She smiled grimly. "Not beautiful, but useful, you know." With an undefined feeling of shame, Anne trotted obediently back to bed, accepting thankfully a cup of tea and the hot water bag insisted upon by Miss Wilson. "You can't afford to take any risk, and pneumonia is contagious, you know." She tucked the blankets about Anne almost caressingly. "You make me feel so useless and foolish going back to bed, when you're preparing to stay up all night!" protested Anne. Miss Wilson's smile seemed oddly motherly upon her spinster-like face. "That's my business. We all have our duties, you know. And I guess you have more than done yours to-night." One more pat to the bedclothes, and she was gone. As the door closed behind her, Anne's eyelids drooped. In a moment she was drifting on the same uncharted sea as Alexis Petrovskey. In the morning Alexis was rational for the first time in days and his fever had gone down several degrees. Anne heard the joyful news from Miss Wilson just as the day-nurse was preparing to take the other's place. "All the same, you had better not go in to see him until after you have asked the doctor's advice. Last night was the psychological moment, and it would be a shame for you to undo all your good work," whispered Miss Wilson, her hand on the front door. "You haven't long to wait, the doctor will be here any minute now. Bye-by until to-night." Anne stationed herself at the window, and looked down into Gramercy Park. A mantle of snow overlay everything. And in the carefully dug-out paths children were playing. They had erected a snow fort, over which the statue of Edwin Booth brooded like an austere and arctic angel. A hail of snowballs from which arose shrill cries and laughter showered about the statue furiously. Anne smiled. What a picture the children made, with their rosy faces and brilliant-colored sweaters, against the blue-shadowed snow! She saw a nurse-girl approach and open the iron gate with a large key. How small the paradise! How carefully guarded! How long before these very children would be thrust forth from the gates into the sordid business of living? As if to reassure her, the big clock in the Madison Square tower boomed goldenly. Nine o'clock, and the doctor had not arrived yet. Anne sighed impatiently. She was not looking forward to her interview with the doctor. The situation was awkward. The more she thought about it, the more ill at ease she became. The febrile excitement of the past night, under control, she faced the situation dispassionately. Where was she drifting, and into what? In coming to Alexis' rescue, was she perhaps jeopardizing against the rocks her own hitherto well-steered little bark? Perhaps! She shrugged fatalistically, and going to the table, was about to take up a book when the door-bell rang. It was the doctor. The day-nurse, a plump and pleasant little person, let him in. Casting one penetrating glance at Anne, he passed through the studio hurriedly and entered the bedroom. With a feeling of relief, Anne reopened her book and tried not to listen. But Alexis' voice, though hoarse and weak, reached her plainly. It somehow conveyed a message of peace, as if its owner had attained some unhoped-for refuge. He is really better. He is going to live, she thought, exultantly. Oh, I only hope it keeps up. She clasped her hands in her lap feverishly, letting the three voices in the next room sweep over her. The dreaded interview proved absurdly simple after all. Brusquely uninterested in Anne, except for the effect he hoped she would have on his patient, the little doctor barked his orders without ceremony. The patient was decidedly better, but not yet out of danger. All unhappy excitement must be avoided. His mother and wife were not to see him until further orders, and, Anne herself, only for five minutes at a time. And at that as seldom as possible. However, she was to remain within call, as her presence was obviously of benefit to the case. Anne listened in acquiescent silence, her manner dry as the doctor's own. When the door closed upon his plump assurance, she smiled rather wryly. So she was to remain virtually a prisoner for days! What would people think? What could she say to put them off the track? She would have to invent some tale of having been called out of town, down to Virginia perhaps, to see her ailing, old aunt? She did not like it at all, this having to lie! With a helpless little shake of the head she walked over to the oval mirror and gazed rather cynically at her own reflection. She was glad Regina had sent the green jersey dress. It was becoming and informal, and brought out the russet tints in her hair. What a pity she was so pale this morning! It would have pleased her to look her most beautiful for Alexis' sake, but perhaps he wouldn't even notice? She patted her hair into order, a new and searching humility in her eyes. The door opened and the nurse stood upon the threshold. "Mr. Petrovskey is ready to see you," she said, her admiring gaze upon Anne's hair. "You don't mind if I time you? The doctor's orders were for five minutes only." Anne turned and faced the girl, outwardly serene, but her heart was knocking against her side. "Of course not. Please consider me absolutely under your orders, nurse. Shall I go in?" With a regal inclination of the head and shaky knees she swept by into the sick-room. Alexis greeted her from amidst freshened pillows. "I had a dream last night," he whispered huskily. His eyes leapt to hers like wind-blown flames. "They tell me it was true?" She approached the bed and stood looking down upon him. "If your dream was of me, I was here," she said simply, almost shyly. They continued to look at each other in silence. He put forth a thin hand and fingered her dress. "Anne--Anne?" he queried weakly. "Can I believe my eyes?" "Is it so difficult?" she replied. "My dear, they told me you were ill, and so I came." Sinking down into the chair next the bed, she took his groping fingers and stroked them gently. "Poor dear, poor dear." The fingers crept about her slender wrist and clung feebly. "I thought I'd lost you forever," he muttered. The gentle stroke continued. "That was foolish, Alexis." Her voice was barely audible. "You sent me from you in anger," he insisted mournfully. Anne shook her head, smiling at him with reproach. "Oh no, you were mistaken. I never sent you away. It was you who never came to see me again, or called me up! What was I to think or do? In a case like that a woman cannot, does not, want to take the initiative. Besides, I didn't even have your address." The searching eyes had not left her face for a moment, and as she concluded, they kindled hungrily. "Did you really want me to come back?" The question was an entreaty. "Of course, foolish one. I was awfully worried about you." She laughed softly. "But now I must go. Your nurse will be dragging me out in another minute. And we must obey orders." "Oh, don't go, don't go!" He flushed deeply. "Promise me you will stay?" Sitting up in bed, he clasped both arms about her shoulders and buried his burning face in her neck. Anne disentangled herself. "I shall be in the next room, within call," she said rather breathlessly. "You must be good and do as the doctor says, or you won't get well." He fell back upon the pillow and looked up at her. "Is it as bad as that?" he whispered with a wry smile. "Six weeks ago I would have welcomed the tidings, but now, that you are here, that you have forgiven me, I am afraid. Promise, promise you will not leave me?" A lump in Anne's throat, she nodded. "I will not leave the apartment until you are entirely out of danger, Alexis," she whispered, her hand on his tumbled hair. He heaved a sigh of satisfaction, and drawing her fingers to his fever-smitten lips, kissed them pleadingly. "Now you may go. If it is only into the other room? But first prove that you were really here last night." She knitted her brows. "But how can I, Alexis, if you won't take my word?" "Take down your hair," was his whispered command. "Let me see if it looks the same as in my dream." She blushed. "No, no, I cannot. What would the nurse think?" She hesitated a moment with puzzled brows. "But yes, I'll tell you what I will do." Her eyes laughed down at him reassuringly. "What?" he whispered joyously. "I can show you the dressing-gown I had on. Do you remember what it looked like?" "Golden as honey," he murmured, his eyes upon her hair. "Yes, 'seeing is believing.'" She laughed, and running out of the room, returned with the négligée on her arm. At the sight his smouldering eyes flared anew. "Yes, that is it," he whispered. "Will you put it on for me to-night, dear Anne?" The flush still upon her cheeks, Anne nodded weakly. After all, had not the doctor said he must be humored? "And now good-bye for the present, Alexis. See, here's your nurse waiting to drag me out by the hair." She tried to laugh. The nurse appeared on the threshold, coughing apologetically. "I do hope you'll excuse me for disturbing you, but you see it has really been seven minutes, instead of five." The ghost of a twinkle in her eye, she approached them gingerly. "All right, Anne, go if you must," Alexis sighed mournfully. "But please, please, won't you kiss me first, just to prove you're really here?" Anne stooped over him, laughing unsteadily. "I, don't usually have to answer to roll-call like this." She pressed her lips lightly upon the hot forehead, beneath the towseled, fair hair. "There, will you be good now!" The touch of her lips flamed through Alexis's body. He closed his eyes in sheer ecstasy. When he opened them Anne had disappeared. The remainder of the day passed in rapid monotony, fevered, unreal as a dream, which though sweet, borders upon the edge of nightmare. After having watched Alexis sip at a little warm milk, (he was not permitted to talk this time, only to look into her face and hold her hand), she went to a nearby tea-room for lunch. Then strolled briskly about the enclosed park, before returning to the studio, quite like a professional nurse, as she told herself. Alexis was asleep when she came in. She threw herself upon the couch with a book and a cigarette. Gradually, the white-gold noon of December faded into violet. Dusk crept through the curtained windows, stole up the walls, swathing the room in heavy, somber folds until it became a dim cavern. The book slipped from Anne's fingers. She dozed. It was not until after six o'clock that she remembered having invited the Marchese to tea that very afternoon. Conscience-smitten, she rose, and stumbling across the shadowy studio, took up the telephone and called up her house. Regina answered volubly, Yes, the Signor Marchese had been there and left. She had told him the Signora had been called away to see a sick friend and had not returned as yet. Had she, Regina, done right? Yes, Anne supposed she had (with a little private grimace). Had the Marchese seemed hurt? Regina's respectful voice became lugubrious. Yes, he had! He had gone away with an air of great sorrow! Anne sighed. "Please call him up and say that I am writing, Regina, that's a dear!" "Benissimo, all shall be as the Signora declares," came in relieved tones over the wire. Anne hung up the receiver with a fatalistic shrug. Poor Vittorio, he was faring rather badly. Was he not? She would have to make it up to him in the future! CHAPTER XIII BALM Clear and still as one of those miniature landscapes enclosed in a crystal ball, Central Park shimmered all snow and sunshine. Goaded by torturing thoughts, Claire trudged stoically forward. Behind her, mincing carefully upon the crisp carpet of snow followed Bébé, shivering but dutiful. It was Sunday and the path was crowded by eager people; skates clanging metallically from their arms, faces rosy from the cold. Unmindful of the titters called forth by Bébé's diminutive size and enormous dignity, Claire passed through the throng unawares. It seemed scarcely possible that it was only last night she had taken Mrs. Schuyler to Alexis. So endless had seemed the intervening hours, so weighted with tragedy. Then this morning had come the ultimatum from the doctor, communicated briskly over the telephone by the cool voice of the nurse. Mr. Petrovskey was decidedly better, but she and his mother were requested not to attempt to see him for several days, as all undue excitement would be extremely bad, not to say dangerous to the patient in his present condition. That was all. Not a word had been said about Mrs. Schuyler or whether Alexis was yet aware of her presence. And Claire had not cared to ask. Bitter intuition flooded her, creating a succession of images, distorted, exaggerated, but fundamentally true. Anne sitting by Alexis, smoothing his pillow; holding his hand, flooding his being with the subtle magnetism of her beauty. Images constantly unwinding themselves, like the reels in a cinematic film. Until Claire's nerves were raw and writhing. Half-maddened, she had thrown on hat and coat, and with Bébé in her stormy wake, had gone to the park. It was the stereotyped, daily walk, and yet as usual the crisp air, the glittering sunshine undefinably assuaged her shrieking nerves. "Hey, lady, stop a minute!" Heedless of the peremptory voice at her elbow, Claire walked on. "Say, stop there, you lady with the pup!" The finger of authority upon her arm, Claire turned about in astonishment. "Were you speaking to me?" she inquired in amazement of the burly policeman at her side. "I wuz!" The tone was highly ironic. "How about the muzzle?" "Oh," Claire suddenly understood. "Why, I thought he was too small to need a muzzle. Besides, he has hardly any teeth left anyhow!" The policeman smiled sarcastically. "That's the same old gag! They never has any teeth. Not till they bite some uppish old geezer, and a feller like me loses his job for lettin' 'em loose on the street! Name? Address?" He took out a small book and looked at Claire ferociously. Her indifference scarcely rippled, Claire was about to comply, when a man crossed the street and interposed himself between them. "What's the matter, Bill? Afraid the flea'll bite you?" exclaimed a jocular voice. "Here, take this, that's good medicine for flea bites. I ought to know, I'm a doctor. Am I not, Mrs. Petrovskey?" The man wheeled and Claire found herself looking up into the amused face of Dr. Elliott. "Why, it's you!" Her eyes were wide with surprise. "You thought I was trying to pick you up, didn't you?" laughed the young doctor. "Well, I am! My car is across the street. Come on, it's a perfect day for a drive!" He nodded gayly to the policeman, who was pocketing his medicine in mollified silence. A hand beneath Claire's arm, he started to pilot her through the traffic. She hesitated on the curb, looking up at him in plaintive terror. His professional eye noted her pallor and the wistful rings about the dark eyes. "But I don't think I'd better," stammered Claire. "I--I came out for a walk, you know. You--you wanted me to walk!" "What a timid little lady! I shan't run away with you. Won't you change your mind, please? It's such a wonderful day and I'm all alone in the big city. I promise not to be ogreish!" The dawn of a smile broke the tightened line of her lips. "Well, if you're lonely?" she conceded. "It would be selfish of me not to, wouldn't it?" He looked down upon her in surprise. Why, the girl looked almost pretty. If she wouldn't wear such awful hats, and had a little color in her cheeks, she wouldn't be bad at all. At any rate, she was the most pathetic little creature he had seen in a dog's age. And a fellow's heart warmed to her most unprofessionally. "Good for you!" He picked up Bébé with one hand, and piloting Claire with the other, threaded the way carefully through the holiday traffic. "I wish we had a sleigh and a pair of horses." He helped her into the Buick coupé and got in beside her. The machine started. "It's a perfect day for the country. What do you say to driving out into Westchester?" Claire flushed joyfully. "Oh, I'd love it," she cried, off her guard. "I'm so tired of Riverside Drive and the Park. It's my daily penance, you know." Her smile faded. He nodded sympathetically. "Yes, I know." They joined the northward traffic. With joyful tail-wagging Bébé leaped to the window and stared out ecstatically. "He loves it," said Claire, and smiled her tired little smile. "He goes out in the car with me every day, and never seems to get tired of it as I do." "Do you always go alone?" asked the doctor shortly. She turned her face away from the searching gray eyes. "Yes, but I don't mind. It--it's a good time to think, you know." "Yes," his searching eyes explored the averted cheek, upon which her lashes fluttered nervously. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mrs. Petrovskey?" She turned apprehensive eyes upon him. "Oh, no, Dr. Elliott, of course not." "Isn't your husband the famous Mr. Petrovskey, the well-known pianist or something?" "The violinist," she corrected quietly. "Yes, Dr. Elliott." "So I thought. Didn't he have a breakdown of some sort last summer? I don't keep up much with artists and people like that, I haven't time, but I seem to remember having read something about it in the papers." Claire's voice faltered. She answered somewhat shortly. "Yes, he was very ill, almost all summer. And now he has pneumonia." Dr. Elliott looked startled. "Pneumonia? But that is a shame, Mrs. Petrovskey. Is he in the hospital?" She hesitated visibly. "No, he is in his studio at Gramercy Park." He mastered a twinge of compunction, and persisted. It was absolutely necessary that the girl should relieve her over-charged heart. That she was apparently in bitter trouble of some sort had been palpable to him ever since he first visited her in the hospital. Now that she was home again and he had met that amiably sinister aunt, he felt more strongly than ever her crying need of help. "Taken ill while practicing, I suppose?" he continued casually. With a useless effort to control her convulsed face, Claire met his eyes reproachfully. Why could he not accept her subterfuge? "Mr. Petrovskey and I are not living together," she said quickly, mustering a few pitiful shreds of dignity. The doctor looked ahead at the gleaming snow-covered road in front of them. "Does he know you are pregnant?" he asked curtly. "Oh no, no! He doesn't even suspect." She clasped and unclasped her hands in utter distress. "Please, please, Dr. Elliott!" But the voice went on grimly. "I think he ought to be told, that is--as soon as he is well enough to hear it." She uttered a stifled cry. Then gathered her forces together with hysterical strength. "You don't understand the circumstances! I simply could not tell him now," she cried with suppressed passion. "Don't you love him?" probed the voice. Head sunk upon her chest, a tempestuous wave of scarlet flooded Claire's face and neck. "Yes." The word was barely audible. The doctor's eyes rested upon her with veiled pity. So there was another woman, was there? "Would you like me to tell him for you?" he persisted more gently. Regardless of the wheel, Claire grasped his arm convulsively. "I cannot bear this," she moaned. "Dr. Elliott, I don't want to go any further. Will you please take me home?" He drove to the side of the road and stopped the car. Eyes averted from her tortured face, he spoke gravely. "Mrs. Petrovskey, I hope you will forgive me for being so rough. But I am only trying to help you, in my clumsy way. I have seen from the first that things were not right with you, and I thought that if you could bring yourself to speak out, it would help you. I am your doctor, you know. And a doctor is in his own manner a species of father confessor. But I see that I have made a mistake, and a perfect brute of myself besides. If I promise not to mention the subject again, will you try to forgive me?" His sincerity touched her. With an attempt at a smile, she laid her hand upon his sleeve. "Of course, I will! I realized all along that you were trying to help me, that it wasn't just idle curiosity on your part." "I should hope not," he muttered fervently. "But I just couldn't act any differently. I seem to be tied up in double bow-knots. You understand, don't you?" Her ardent little face pleaded. The wistful eyes sought his evasive gaze. As he met them his heart contracted. An amazing childish desire to cry suddenly came over him. Damn it, the girl had no business to be so pathetic! He caught the groping hand and squeezed it fraternally. "Let's let bygones be bygones," he replied. "But if you still wish it, I'll drive you directly home. However, the Gramatan Inn is much nearer and I'm a starving man. Won't you change your mind and have lunch with me?" He looked so eager and boyish that she hated to refuse him. "I'm not very hungry," she ventured doubtfully. "Oh, but you will be! I'll wrap the rug about you tightly and open the window, and by the time we get there you'll be ready to eat shoe leather." "Very well," she smiled at him faintly, as he opened the window and tucked the bearskin robe about her. "But will they allow Bébé in the dining room?" She clutched weakly at a last hope. "We'll smuggle him under my coat, that'll be half the fun! And if they put us out, that will be still more fun!" His unaffected gayety was contagious. "You are grimly determined to have a good time, whatever happens, aren't you?" she said with an ironic lift of the delicate brows. They glided back on to the road. "It isn't every day I have lunch with a pretty girl. My Sundays are lonesome and monotonous," replied the doctor simply. Claire looked at him in amazement. "A pretty girl!" she stammered almost indignantly. That was trying to humor her a little too far! His eyes met her hurt gaze with unfeigned astonishment. "What's the matter? Have I offended again?" he asked quietly. "I'd like you better if you didn't pretend that I was pretty, that's all," said Claire somberly. "Nobody knows better than I what a plain, insignificant creature I am." "You are neither plain nor insignificant," he replied crossly. "And I'm not the kind of man to say what I don't mean." Claire flushed painfully at her lack of savoir faire. "Please forgive me, Dr. Elliott. I don't seem to know how to take things lightly any more." He smiled sideways at her. "We seem to do nothing but quarrel and make up like a pair of kids! But how about the appetite? For here we are!" They had entered Bronxville, and the Gramatan Inn loomed benevolently over them from the top of its comfortable little hill. "How pretty!" exclaimed Claire, jumping out of the car almost briskly. "Quite English, isn't it?" He noticed her animated face with secret pleasure. "Tries to be," laughed he. "Where's the flea? Let's hide him under my coat." Claire looked surprised, then nodded understanding. "Oh, you mean Bébé!" She handed him the little dog laughingly. "Remember, if the flea bites, you mustn't scratch!" But the waiter was kind, and as the dining-room was almost empty, permitted the beastie a chair between them. At lunch the gayety was somewhat forced. Claire ate as much as she could of the beefsteak and baked potatoes upon which the doctor insisted. (Her tentative order of chicken-pattie and tea had been vigorously pooh-poohed. Why did women persist in poisoning themselves?) But the food choked her as usual, and her pretense at appetite was only too transparent. The man watched her beneath thoughtful brows. What sort of a brute could Petrovskey be to neglect a pathetic creature like that? He ought to be kicked. He, Robert Elliott, would like to do the kicking. These artists were all damned neurotics anyway. No healthy, red blood in 'em. He'd like to show him! Yes, by Jove, he'd like to--but what was the use of ranting around like a movie hero? The girl was evidently infatuated, and no amount of kicking, metaphorical or physical, would alter the fact. Meanwhile, her need of distraction and companionship was imperative. She was obviously suffering from an inferiority complex of long standing. A complex probably based on the small nothings which sometimes take so deep a root in sensitive natures. Perhaps with gayety and self-confidence and a knowledge of dress she might have held even the odious Petrovskey. But was such a man worth holding? And why did women cling so rapaciously to men like that? He shrugged mentally. (Anything so Continental as a physical shrug would have been impossible for Robert Elliott). Claire made a feeble effort to talk. One must be polite to one's host. But she was wondering if she should not offer to pay for her own lunch. She did not know how to broach the subject without hurting Dr. Elliott's feelings. He looked so young, she was sure he must be poor. Young doctors were always poor, and equally sensitive. "Are you a New York man?" she inquired diffidently. He shook his head. "I should say not. These Easterners get my goat. No, I'm from what the novelists call the Great Middlewest, Main Street and all that bunk, you know. Some time I intend going back to practice in Chicago." Claire nodded politely. "Did you go to medical school here in the East?" Dr. Elliott nodded. "Yes, you see I was lucky enough to win a scholarship. That led to an internship, too, and then I decided to stay on for a while. But I hope to clean up in about a year." "Clean up?" Claire looked surprised. He laughed. "Finish. You don't understand my argot, do you? I must seem an awful roughneck to you." Claire smiled delightedly. "Roughneck? No, indeed you don't! You see I know what that means! I like the way you talk. It sounds so eager and interested and young. Most of the people I see are a good deal older. You are very refreshing." "You are quaint," he laughed. "One would think you were an old lady instead of a baby! Why, you look so young you ought to have a wet nurse." She turned scarlet at his unconscious reminder of her state. How beautifully simple the man was! "I'm not very old," she said hastily, in order to cover her confusion. "Only twenty-two. But it feels like a thousand." Her involuntary sigh was full of weariness. He patted her hand, as it idly crumbled the bread upon her plate. "Poor kid!" Then his eyes lighted daringly. "Don't you think you'd feel less aged if you wore a more youthful hat?" She looked at him in utter surprise. "Don't you like my hat?" Her tone was wistful. "Isn't it a trifle middle-aged?" he replied cautiously. "Your face is so small and pale, it sort of broods over it, like a hen sitting on an egg. Why don't you get yourself something flapperish with a little color in it?" Claire drew a puzzled breath. "Somehow I never thought that was my style. And color makes me look paler than ever." "That's easily remedied. Plenty of good food, fresh air, sleep, and no worry." Claire's smile was a trifle rueful. "Haven't I heard that prescription before, Dr. Elliott?" she inquired somewhat dryly. His brilliant teeth flashed out from out the dark face. "I'll admit it's a bromide. But just to prove I'm not an old fogey, I'll give you a prescription after lunch which will work wonders before your very eyes. No--it's not a flask." He laughed as her puzzled gaze rested upon his hip pocket. "Although I've been known to recommend that at times. And now, how about some ice-cream?" Claire shook her head decidedly. "Oh, no, I couldn't, Dr. Elliot. I feel like a Strassbourg goose, as it is." "About as crowded as the corner of Fifth Avenue and 42d Street? Well, I won't insist. You've been a pretty good little lady. But remember, no tea, no coffee, no chicken patties when I'm not around. Beefsteak, baked potatoes, spinach, etc. Is it a promise?" He held out a solemn hand across the table. "Yes," she placed her fingers in his somewhat timidly. "I promise. And now how about the prescription?" He released her and rising to his feet helped her on with her coat, a long, expensive moleskin, which accentuated the slight sallowness of her complexion. "Promise to take it, no matter how obnoxious?" he admonished, finger in the air. "Is it castor-oil?" Her smile was almost roguish. "No, I'm not as cold blooded as you think!" he replied with mock gravity. "Follow me down to the drug store and you'll see." Picking up Bébé, who had fed bountifully off the scraps, he led the way downstairs. The prescription was contained in a tiny red leather box. "Why, it looks like rouge!" exclaimed Claire in a horrified tone. "Some call it so," said the doctor gayly. "But it would smell as sweet under any other name." He sniffed at it appreciatively. "Come now," he continued, utterly regardless of the clerk's amused eyes. "Come over to the light and we will proceed with the operation. Shall I have to use an anæsthetic?" "But I've never done such a thing in my life!" protested Claire vigorously. "It's not at all difficult," he replied. "It only requires a delicate touch like mine (am I not a surgeon?) and presto! my lady blooms like a wild rose." He brushed Claire's cheekbones lightly with the puff, adding a touch to the small pointed chin. Her lashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly, Claire let him have his way. He stepped back and looked at her admiringly. "Did I say wild rose? It should have been tea rose. I am indeed an artist," he said softly, a new expression creeping into his honest eyes. Claire gazed at herself in the tiny mirror. The change both frightened and delighted her. "Don't you think it's wicked?--why, you'd never know it wasn't real!" she cried femininely. "Of course not. But like all prescriptions it mustn't be overdone. It should be taken homeopathically, in microscopic doses." "It makes me feel so daring," said Claire, as they emerged on to the street. "That's just what you need," he replied promptly. "Audacity, more audacity, and still more audacity, as Balzac or some other old French geezer said." The drive home was almost too short. Dr. Elliott talked of himself and his ambition, and Claire listened with real interest. It seemed obstetrics was to be his specialty, as it was obviously his god. "You have no idea what a need there is for it in small towns," he told her enthusiastically. "The countless farmers' wives that could be saved if they had the proper attention! Pregnancy should be treated as a real sickness. If you leave it all to nature, the old lady goes about it in her usual, sloppy, destructive way. But give it the proper attention and it responds like a flash." He gave her a quick, piercing look. "Child-birth is no longer a bugaboo of the Old Testament, thanks to science, and I'm going to make it my business to prove it." A little tremulous and self-conscious, Claire looked at him with trepidation. Would he be mentioning her own condition soon? But he knew better than to do that. Gradually, the conversation became frivolous. Before she arrived home, Claire had not only promised to buy a new hat, but to buy it in his company. "We will go to one of those places on 57th Street--you don't care what you pay, do you? They'll sting you, of course, but you'll get something snappy. Then we'll have lunch somewhere and if I can get off from the hospital, go to the matinée. How about it?" Claire smiled happily. Then her expression became dubious. She was evidently screwing herself up to say something very difficult indeed. "What's the matter? Shoot," said the doctor with twinkling eyes. "Shoot? Oh, I see! Well, as a matter of fact, Dr. Elliott, I will go with you under one condition only." "Name it." "That you will allow me to pay my own way. I wouldn't enjoy it otherwise." Her eyes pleaded with him not to be offended. He looked nonplussed for a moment, then nodded at her gravely. "Very well, Mrs. Petrovskey, if it would make you happier, we'll have it Dutch treat. But I'm not really quite as hard up as all that, you know." They had arrived at her apartment, and he was helping her out of the car with his usual impersonal courtesy. She flushed salmon pink beneath the touch of rouge. "Please don't be hurt," she begged. He smiled down at her. "No one could be offended with a Greuze," he replied softly. "And you look just like one at this moment. How's that for highbrow?" he finished, with a faint attempt at lightness. But the words sank deep, carrying balm, into Claire's wounded heart. When Mme. Petrovskey encountered her a few moments later as she entered the apartment, she could hardly believe her eyes. "The cold air has given you quite a flush," she said graciously for her. "Where have you been? Ito was worried because you didn't return for lunch." (Ito had worried! Claire shrugged with amusement, and yet how that remark might have hurt a few short hours ago!) "I met Dr. Elliott in the park, and he took me to the Gramatan Inn in Bronxville for lunch." Mme. Petrovskey raised dumbfounded brows. Then her expression changed suddenly. The small eyes became non-committal slits. She smiled suavely. "Dr. Elliott? How nice! Do you like him?" She watched Claire narrowly as she spoke. "Yes, very much," said the girl naïvely. "I promised to go out to the theater with him next week." "That's right. You might as well amuse yourself," said her mother-in-law carelessly, "seeing Alexis is taken care of. By the way, has Mrs. Schuyler a husband?" Claire turned away to hide her smitten face. "No, I believe she's a widow." Her voice was harsh. "Ah!" Mme. Petrovskey drew a long, hissing breath. "She seems to be very well off, doesn't she?" she persisted. "Very," said Claire shortly. A vision of Anne, jeweled and sumptuous in the Kolinsky evening wrap rose before her aching eyes. "I think if you don't mind. I'll go to my room and lie down a little while." She turned and walked down the long hall. Mme. Petrovskey's voice followed her almost caressingly. "Of course not, dear child. That's right, take care of yourself. You're looking so much better already. I think Dr. Elliott (is that the young man's name?) is quite a treasure. We must cultivate him, my dear." CHAPTER XIV RAPTURE Mac Dougal Alley on a black, starless night was quite Hogarthian, decided the Marchese, as he pressed Ellen's doorbell, the ultra-chic in slums! He encountered the fathomless black eyes of the Chinese girl who admitted him, with a smile. What a white, round face, like an enigmatic moon. Did it conceal a personality as void as that lifeless planet? The gorgeous little figure preceded him into the house. He looked about him with amusement. A diminutive hall had been rendered significant, not to say sinister, by being lined to the ceiling by large black and white tiles, and encircled by a Gauguinesque frieze, negroid and undefinably lecherous. By the door, two grinning sable cats supported a black marble bench. Leaving hat and coat in their guardianship, the Marchese entered the drawing room. It was like going into a twilight grotto. Everything from heavy brocaded hangings to the deep pile carpet, dripped lavender. One felt as if one were treading upon crushed violets. Torrigiani sank down upon a lavender sofa and stared aghast into the expressionless eyes of a slightly soiled nude over the black marble fireplace. Her eyes look like tired oysters, he thought, his mind wandering emptily. And the room about as cheerful as the inside of a casket, done by an expensive and lady-like undertaker. The candle in the tall bracket by his side guttered audibly. He started. Where the devil was everybody? He had understood it was to be a large party. Surely he was not ahead of time? No, for the large black clock was tolling a quarter past eight, and was not that the voice of his hostess? He rose and walked towards the door. Somber draperies hanging from white shoulders, Ellen strolled into the room elaborately languid, as usual. "Ah, Marchese, I see you are admiring my little nest," she drawled. He bent over her hand. "I am speechless," he murmured. "It is utterly beyond my poor comprehension. I feel like the intruding cuckoo." With a purring laugh, she laid her hand upon his arm and led him back to the sofa. "You are a flatterer, like all foreigners. That is why we adore you so. But confess, it's not much like your palaces?" She leaned forward. Her heavy perfume swept over him with the intimacy of a caress. He recoiled imperceptibly. "My dear lady, our palaces are only called so by courtesy. Compared to your American houses, they are barracks. We may have a few treasures, but"--he hesitated, his eyes twinkling enigmatically. "No such taste, I assure you." Ellen laughed. "Confess you think it is all atrocious? But it is only a fad. You mustn't take this too seriously. A year from now the whole thing will probably be done over in flaming scarlet, festooned with monkeys and cocoanuts." "In a species of inverse evolution, I suppose?" His comical expression sat upon him gayly. The exotic little Chinese entered with cocktails. Torrigiani noted with dismay that there were only two glasses. Was the tête-à-tête to endure all evening? His raised eyebrows piqued Ellen. She answered his unspoken question with gay malice. "Yes, we are to be alone. I wanted to have you all to myself. Am I not selfish?" She handed him his cocktail with a queenly gesture and smiled languidly into his noncommittal eyes. "Delightfully so!" he bowed ceremoniously over the small jade cup. "Quel beau geste! Confess you were expecting to meet Anne here!" Below their somnolent surface, her eyes searched him. He laughed warily. "I'll confess my expectations did not rise to a tête-à-tête. I feel decidedly flattered." His ironic gaze mocked her politely over the rim of the cocktail. She swept to her feet and led him toward the Gothic archway at the end of the room. "The beautiful solitude will only last during dinner." She smiled at him over a massive shoulder. "After that, the usual horde will probably invade. So we must make the most of our time." Torrigiani's heart leapt upwards once more. So there was to be a crowd after all? Was Anne to make one of them? Or would she disappoint him again, as she had this afternoon? It was the first time she had ever broken an engagement, and his spirit still smarted from the defection. With a lighter step he followed his hostess. Stopping at the threshold of the dining room, he exclaimed with involuntary admiration. The white-washed walls of the small square room were covered with varicolored caricatures of Ellen and the numberless notorieties who formed the horde. They sprawled from paneled baseboard to black oaken ceiling, lurid and ludicrous. Intimate smile and gesture captured in ruthless hyperbole. "I never saw anything so original in my life! It makes one think of a curtain from the Chauve Souris!" The Marchese went close to the wall and scanned it eagerly. Although his knowledge of New York celebrities was limited, he found several whom he recognized. Their names fell off his lips with a small fanfare of triumph. His childish pleasure amused Ellen. She stepped to his side and pointed out several more, including herself as Juliet. "I was dismal in that," she remarked plaintively. "Even the Shakespearian flapper doesn't suit my style." Running her finger along the painted faces, she let it rest upon a gorgeous blonde with Titian hair and a glassy eye and smile. "Who's that?" she queried, with a mocking air. For a moment he looked incredulous. "Not--not Anne?" he begged. The ghastly similitude smote ludicrously. "You have said it. Isn't she dazzling, like a Pepsodent advertisement, or the 'only one out of five' who escaped pyorrhea?" Ellen laughed loudly. "It's blasphemy, pure and simple! And neither simple nor pure. Your artist ought to be hung for libel." They went to the table and he seated her. It was one of those narrow, casket-like affairs with large candles at the head and foot and an artificial spray of diseased-looking orchids sprawling over the center. The Chinese girl, supplemented by an equally-gorgeous twin, passed hors d'oeuvres. He helped himself to truffles in aspic and caught Ellen's gaze resting upon him maliciously from the other end of the table. "Where did you and Anne go last night?" she flashed. He returned her stare blankly. "Why, nowhere, of course," he replied. "Why do you ask?" Ellen's eyes glowed in the candle-light. "You needn't expect me to believe that! Gerald and I knew you were up to something. But it was a dirty trick to desert us like that at the last minute! The evening was a mess." She glared at him rapaciously, as if she were trying to suck his secret from him with her eyes. Almost too astonished to speak, he returned her strange look unflinchingly. "Didn't you get my telephone message?" "Oh, that! Of course. But it's such an old trick! A sick friend wanting Anne at the last minute. It was so very transparent. Things simply don't happen like that!" He contained his anger with difficulty. "You are a very astute lady, but this time a mistaken one, as well," he replied quietly. "Mrs. Schuyler actually did go to a sick friend, and I myself put her into her car and saw her off before telephoning you." Ellen opened sleepy eyes. So it was true, after all? "But who was it? Who is ill?" she inquired eagerly. One of the exotic twins removed the hors d'oeuvres. "I don't know," replied the Marchese curtly. "But as we were about to get into Mrs. Schuyler's car to join you" (he emphasized the last three words with a little bow), "a taxi drove up to the curb and a young girl jumped out, ran up to Anne, and said something I did not quite catch about somebody being very ill and calling for her constantly. So Anne went with her, of course. What else could she do?" "And left you on the curb? Chewing your mustache in a properly thwarted manner!" capped Ellen, exhibiting a masterly knowledge of histrionics. "Exactly." His smile was rueful. Ellen's expression became rapt. Lighting a cigarette, she leaned back and puffed at it furiously. "Who could it have been?" she helped herself to the artichokes. Then her whole face lightened with the dawn of a sudden idea. "I have it!" She looked at Torrigiani gleefully. "I tell you I have it!" His composed face betrayed small interest. Holding his glass of Château Yquem up against the light he studied it intently. "What a marvelous wine." His hand trembled as he let the glass down again with a slight jar. Ellen interrupted him ruthlessly. "It must have been Alexis Petrovskey," she cried triumphantly. His olive skin paled a trifle. "Alexis Petrovskey, the violinist?" His voice was studiously calm. "But weren't the papers full of his disappearance a while ago?" She nodded joyfully. "The same! And thereby hangs the tale! As a matter of fact, he did run away from his sanitarium, but he is back again now, hiding behind Anne's skirts." The Marchese winced. He was a little off his guard. "But I don't understand. When did Anne meet this--person? She has never mentioned him to me." She nodded wisely. "Of course not. Why should she mention him? The whole thing was rather an adventure, you know, for a white, woolly lamb like Anne!" "Are you insinuating anything?" His tone was cold. Ellen leaned her elbows comfortably upon the table, while she munched at an olive. "Now don't get cross," she said smoothly. "I'm only repeating what Anne told me herself. And you can hardly call that gossip, can you?" He shook his head. "Hardly." "Well, it seems that this Autumn, when she was up in the Adirondacks alone with Regina, she came upon Petrovskey one day in the woods. He was wandering about, half out of his mind with fatigue. (He had escaped from the sanitarium, or was it the lunatic asylum?) She felt so sorry for him that she took him back with her to the lodge and they spent the next ten days there together." His pale face became crimson. "How did Anne happen to tell you this?" The sight of the food on his plate suddenly nauseated him. He pushed it a little to one side. Ellen looked at him with gentle reproach. "You don't trust me, do you?" she wailed. "Well, if you want to know the truth----" (What else should I want to know, he thought savagely?) "I found him up in her sitting-room the night she arrived home. The first time you and I met each other, do you remember?" Her eyes pleaded in vain. He nodded shortly. "I have not forgotten." Ellen's tongue passed over encrimsoned lips. "Well, she tried to pass him off as a legal adviser or something. But I knew better. I recognized him the minute I entered the room! So of course I told them so! Later, when we were alone I wormed it all out of Anne. It's quite simple, you see." "Quite! What sort of fellow is this Petrovskey? I've never had the pleasure of hearing him play." Ellen smiled reminiscently. "Perfectly fascinating, in a haggard way! And the rudest thing! He would have enjoyed killing me, I know!" "How can you say such a thing!" Torrigiani laughed wryly. "The fellow is probably in love with you like all the rest of us." She shook a finger at him. "You're an insinuating wretch! I only wish you were right. I'd adore to have a genius like that in love with me, even if he is a nut. But he's so crazy about Anne that he can't see straight. I'm sure I don't know what's going to happen!" Vittorio's heart skipped a beat. "Is this interesting affection mutual?" "Oh, I hope not. He would make a terrible husband. So egotistical, you know." Husband! The Marchese's knuckles showed white about his wine-glass. "And he is much younger than she!" Ellen's eyes rested upon him blandly. "At least ten years. But you never can tell what a woman will do when she is infatuated!" He gathered himself together. "Aren't you exaggerating a little? Mrs. Schuyler has hardly reached the foolish age as yet. I'm positive she wouldn't dream of marrying a man younger than herself!" "Such things have happened!" Ellen's shrug was eloquent. "Shall we take our coffee in the other room? I believe I hear voices." He followed her trailing draperies out of the room with unutterable relief. Escape was imperative. He would seize the first opportunity that offered. In the drawing room several men were already grouped before the lugubrious mantel and Ellen's entrance was greeted vociferously. Sucking her into their midst, they circled about her like a black whirlpool. Torrigiani was accosted by Gerald. "Hello, Marchese, what are you doing in this galère?" His tired eyes expressed surprise at seeing Vittorio without Anne. Torrigiani smiled politely. "I don't belong, do I? As a matter of fact, I'm going on elsewhere immediately." He looked guiltily towards Ellen. Gerald laughed. "Meditating escape? Well, I won't give you away." They smoked in silence for a few moments. "What do you think of the house?" Gerald waved a languid hand at the lavender walls. "Remarkable!" "But you ought to see the bathroom!" The tired eyes grinned salaciously. "Done in gold leaf with black frieze representing scenes from 'Le Roi Pausole.' Hot tamale! Shall I show it to you?" The Marchese declined hastily. Another time he would be only too pleased! At present he must make his adieux. Threading his way through the small room, which was crowding rapidly, he bent over Ellen's large, white hand. "Must you leave?" she laughed lazily, "and just as we are going to play Baccarat? What a shame. Give her my love!" Torrigiani smiled back with well-bred insolence. "I prefer to keep it all myself!" Outside, MacDougal's Alley was filled with quite un-Hogarthian motors. The air felt cold and sweet after the heavily perfumed house. And although his hotel was well up in the Fifties, Torrigiani decided to walk. * * * * * "Just one more spoonful. There, that's a good boy!" With a pleased expression, Anne laid the empty cup upon the night table. "Hot milk isn't so ghastly, after all, is it?" Alexis shook his head. Upon his lips rode the ecstatic smile of a two-year old whose mother has just returned from the great unknown. "Nectar," he whispered, above still-painful breathing. She raised an admonishing finger. But her smile was compassionate. "Don't talk. Remember your promise? If you break it, I shall have to go. Miss Wilson has come back for the night and she is very severe, you know." He caught the reproving finger and pressed it against his cheek, where the bristly down of a new beard was forming. His eyes gleamed above the crimson cheek-bones. "Anne, you are beautiful," he disobeyed. "Anne, I worship you." She drew away her hand, and laid it reprovingly upon his laboring chest. "I shall have to go, I see. Good-night, Alexis." She bent over him and brushed her lips across his forehead. "May your sleep bring health!" Unshed tears glittered upon her lashes. He clutched at her skirts baby-wise. "Don't forget your promise," he whispered. "To come back when you are ready for bed with your hair down, just like last night?" A flush swept over the ivory face, leaving it paler than before. "Oh, Alexis, must I?" she pleaded. His nod was tyrannical. She returned a few minutes later, swathed in the old-gold saut-de-lit. "Well, here I am," she murmured from the threshold, feeling strangely brazen. His arms leapt out to meet her, then fell disappointedly. "But your hair," he muttered. "You haven't taken down your hair!" "It occurred to me that you might like to do that yourself." She advanced and knelt beside the bed. "Oh, yes--yes!" For an ecstatic moment his trembling hands fumbled with the heavy pins. Then her hair, a rippling shower of perfumed copper, fell between them. With a gasp, Alexis laid his hands in it. Twisting a clinging lock about his fingers, he kissed it wildly. The tears starting beneath closed lids he fell back limply upon the bed. A lump in her throat, Anne shook her head. "Alexis, this is bad for you. Let me go," she whispered in a frightened voice. Beneath the laboring chest his heart leapt up at her like a caged, thing. It made her afraid. "I must go." "No, no," he whispered, "don't leave me, Anne. Let me die like this. It is too beautiful!" With a smothered sob, she laid her wet cheek against his. "No, no, you must live Alexis--you must live--for me." He opened his eyes for the sheer wonder of it. "Anne, do you mean it? Is it a promise?" "Yes," her lips mumbled softly against his unshaven cheek. "It is a promise, my poor Alexis." She unwound the lock from about his fingers. He did not protest, but only gazed up into her face pleadingly, like a sick child. "Must you go, Anne?" She nodded speechlessly. "Will you kiss me?" With a little stifled cry of pity, she sank into the outstretched arms. His scorched lips drank of her cool, soft mouth. She staggered to her feet and stood looking down upon him, encountering the dilated, rapturous gaze. Had she allowed him to become so excited that he might not sleep? She struggled gently to free her hands. "Good-night, Alexis," she insisted. But he retained her hands with a new, convulsive force. "No, no. You mustn't go," he reiterated. "Not now!" He sat up in bed, and releasing her, pointed toward the studio. "My violin--get it for me!" he whispered. She stood aghast, feet glued to the floor. "Your violin?" she muttered stupidly. His quick gesture was full of anger. "Yes, yes. Be quick before the music leaves me again! The violin's in the corner by the piano." Her heart beating in great bounds, she brought him the instrument, and watched with brimming eyes while he placed it beneath his chin, and drew the bow in a great sweep over the strings. It had all come back with new and overwhelming radiance. As he broke into the Canzonetta from Tchaikowsky's concerto, Anne sank on to the foot of the bed with trembling knees. When Miss Wilson, frightened, protesting, ran to the door, she stopped her with almost a disdainful gesture. It was her turn to command now. Let professional quibbling wait. The music soared a rapturous, throbbing melody, then quavered suddenly into echoing silence--a silence that vibrated as if from invisible strings. The violin slipped from Alexis' fingers on to the bed. He fell back against his pillows and Anne thought that he had fainted. But it was only a deep sleep into which the overwhelming wave of joy had suddenly plunged him. At least that was what Miss Wilson said, as she tucked the clothes up around the thin shoulders. Rare tears coursing down her cheeks, Anne looked down upon Alexis. She lifted the violin from the bed, and putting it reverently into its case, tiptoed out of the room. As she laid it upon the piano, she sank on to the bench with a little sobbing cry, her face buried in her hands. "Thank God," she sobbed. "Thank God!" Later, back in her alcove, she realized that mortal fatigue had suddenly fallen upon her. She crept wearily into the little day-bed and lay prostrate between marble-cool sheets. Would the tomb feel as cold, she wondered idly. If Alexis recovers I am pledged. Dawn thrust an ashen face against the window and found Anne milk-white, wide-eyed, lying within the brazen mantle of her hair. CHAPTER XV "DUG DEEP INTO MY HEART--" The sun was golden upon the paneled walls of Anne's gay little sitting room. In its uncompromising rays, Torrigiani's face shown drawn. Anne looked at him remorsefully. "Poor Vittorio, I'm not worth all this agony. Indeed, I'm not!" "And I know I should not inflict it upon you." His troubled brown eyes rested upon her. "But if you knew what a horror I have gone through this week! Never in all the years that we have known each other have I doubted you, Anne. In spite of what people said (you yourself know only too well how you have always been talked about) my mother and I never have listened. You have always been my Donna Immaculata and always will remain so. Nobody but yourself could dispel my faith, and even then I should feel there had been a mistake somewhere. But this talk, this terrible talk of Ellen, even your letter doesn't explain it away entirely. I have come to you for the truth. Who is this man with whom you have been staying, Anne? And what is he to you?" "He is Alexis Petrovskey, the violinist, and--and he is nothing to me--at present. He was very ill and I have been taking care of him. That is all." She avoided the earnest, seeking eyes. A vivid crimson stained her cheek. In a tea-gown of peacock blue chiffon with transparent black lace sleeves, she was infinitely desirable. Torrigiani drew his chair closer to hers. He searched her face wistfully. "What do you mean he is nothing to you at present? Don't try to spare me, carissima. I want to know the truth." She averted her head, and played nervously with the ends of her turquoise girdle. "I scarcely know what I mean myself, Vittorio. It is impossible to foresee the future, you know. But--but as I said in my letter, he is very dependent upon my--my friendship. He says that it is I who have brought back his music. Did you know about his misfortune, his breakdown?" Vittorio nodded. "Yes, I read about it in the papers. So the music has come back to him, has it? Well, that is not so extraordinary, is it?" He felt his way. "Things like that usually do come back to one, after a certain time." "Are you trying to say that I had nothing to do with it?" "No, cara, of course not. Only I don't want you to feel too strong a responsibility for this young man. He is probably very much indebted to you, and without doubt very much in love. But are you positive that he needs you as much as he would like you to think?" Anne's anger melted into unexpected amusement. She gestured with her cigarette. "How can I tell, Vittorio? But it really looks that way. If I don't go to see him twice a day, his fever rises and he refuses to eat. And when I first met him on the mountain, his condition was really pitiable. I know that I helped him then." Her look of unconscious triumph wounded him to the marrow. "Tell me about it, Anne. Is it true that he stayed ten days with you in the lodge?" She met his eyes with renewed serenity. "Yes, why not? He was alone and ill, and Regina and I took care of him. He didn't want to return to New York, as he was afraid the newspapers might get hold of it. So I let him stay with me,--tout simplement." He looked as if a weight had been taken off his heart. "But why did you not tell me, cara? That night when I teased you about fallen gods, I little guessed that you were concealing one up in your sitting room. That at that very moment he was toasting those feet of clay at your fireplace. If any one had told me so, I would have laughed in his face. I always thought you scorned underhand methods. It was not like you at all!" "Of course it wasn't. But how could I help it? It was his secret, not mine. As a matter of fact, he didn't arrive until long after our conversation took place. He didn't want to be seen, so I had to hide him. I didn't enjoy it. I hate subterfuge, as you know. If I hadn't always been so aboveboard, there would have been less talk about me. No one knows it better than I do! And now the first time that I have stooped to such methods, everybody puts a false construction upon it." "Except myself, Anne. I know you too well. You would never do anything beneath you." She flicked her ashes into the grate rather nervously. "Then you know me better than I do myself!" He leaned towards her, deeply troubled. "What is the matter, Anne? Won't you tell me, dear? You're so different from your former self, so unapproachable. So almost irritable. Are you unhappy about this man? Do you care for him, perhaps? Has love finally come to you after all these years?" Again she avoided the earnest gaze. "I don't know. I--I'm afraid not." "You don't know?" he stammered. "No." The word came draggingly from pale lips. "But what is it, dear one? Do you intend to marry this boy? Is that why you say you are afraid?" "No." Once more the monosyllable was barely audible. Then she turned and faced the honest eyes squarely. "I cannot marry Alexis even if I want to. He has a wife already!" "Ah!" he breathed painfully. "I understand. And yet you love him, my poor Anne? He--he is your lover?" She shook her head. The firelight leapt up the ivory column of her throat, tinting her hair with living gold. "No--not yet, Vittorio." He uttered a low cry almost of joy. "Thank God! Then it's not too late. Ah, Anne, think what it would mean to you to take a lover, you to whom marriage was a crucifixion! Have you forgotten our long talks in the garden? How often you have confided to me your horror of contact? That is why you have always refused to marry again? Even me, your very oldest friend! How could you bear it, then, to have a lover?" Her face cupped within her hands, Anne gazed into the fire. "Don't make it too hard for me, Vittorio. Let me explain." He broke in quickly. "No explanation is necessary. You love at last. And when a woman like you loves, she surrenders all. But think well. The ignoble does not suit you. Your love will not survive it. You will lose caste in your own eyes--you will be talked about--whispered about----" Anne laughed grimly. "Talked about, whispered about! Am I not accustomed to that!" "Ah, that was different, beneath your notice. Only the truth can sting a woman like you. Anne, believe me, if you take a lover you will be very unhappy, I--I dread to think of it." He bowed his head upon the mantel. She rose, and approaching him, laid her hand upon his thick, black hair. "Poor Vittorio, how good you are to me. Much, much too good!" "I good to you?" he turned beneath the caressing fingers and looked at her in surprise. "But I love you. I would do anything to prevent your suffering. If you will only marry me now, before it is too late, I promise never to demand anything for myself. We will go first to Mexico if you like, and then back home to Italy. It will be just the same as ever between us, only I shall be there to protect you. And with change of scene and distance you will forget all this madness." She shook her head dully. "Oh, no, it is impossible, dear. But why Mexico?" she asked, momentarily diverted. "Because I want to explore some of the ruins down there. And it is another Egypt, you know, as the idyllic guide books put it. It seems to me that a honeymoon in Mexico, even only a fraternal one," he added hastily, "would be heavenly." With a little moan she turned away and sank into a chair. "But I can't. You don't understand. I'm no longer free. I have promised. If I break my word now I don't know what will happen to Alexis. He is still very ill. He might lose his music forever, or even die." Torrigiani turned about slowly and looked down upon her bowed head. "Do you love this man, Anne?" he inquired with a commanding note in his voice. Her head thrown wearily against the chair-back, she shook it dully. "I told you before that I didn't know, Vittorio." He mused down upon her darkly. "Then it is even worse than I feared. If you had loved him, a certain rapture might have repaid the sacrifice. But if it is only pity! Why, Anne, if it is merely pity, why don't you take it out on me? Surely, I deserve it after all these years. Am I not equally an object for charity?" He knelt beside the chair and grasped her hands. "Ah, but you are a man, Vittorio. Able to stand upon your own feet. He is only a sick boy, an artist, whose art, his only reason for living, had deserted him until only the other day. And I--I seem to be able to help. If I stay by him, it may never leave him again." He dropped her hands and rose. His face took on a hard expression, utterly foreign to him. He laughed shortly. "I see he has appealed to the maternal, the protective instinct. He is clever, if weak. But is the game worth the candle?" She sighed, and spread her hands in a weary, undecided gesture. "Is any game worth the candle, Vittorio, if you weigh the wax? But if I can help him to get on his feet again, if I can bring his art back again, I shall feel as if I had been of some use in the world at last." Vittorio's expression became almost a grimace. The curt laugh rang out harshly. "Aha, it is the old music complex, is it? So we have put our finger upon the little, hungry place that shrieks for fame. Anne, the most exquisite amateur in the world, prefers vicarious success to none at all!" Her anger melted as she met his suffering eyes. "That is rather brutal, Vittorio, but very possibly true. Whatever my motive is, the fact remains that I am pledged." Her weary candor disarmed him. He stooped and placed his hand upon hers. "Carissima, it is not yet too late. No man, especially no genius, is worth the sacrifice you intend making. Let him go his own way. After all, one musician more or less will make no great difference to the world, which is well stocked with such as he. But women like you are rare." She looked up at him impatiently. "Oh, Vittorio, why do you insist upon placing me on a pedestal? If I am chaste, it is not from principle, but from--repulsion." She shivered a little. "After all, I'm not a virgin being thrown to the minotaur, you know." Her laugh was unsteady. She clasped her hands more firmly. "But what is there about this man which persuades you against your shrinking flesh? What spell has he cast over you that the rest of us have neglected?" Anne removed her hands from his hold and pressed them to her breast, in a dramatic gesture, unlike herself. "It is here that he gets me. His pitifulness has dug deep into my heart. To cast him away would be like refusing to suckle a starving baby when one's breast was swollen with milk." She suddenly raised her hands to her face and Torrigiani saw that she was weeping. He cried out in dismay. "Anne, Anne, don't cry like that, carissima! Why, I've never seen you cry before! If I have offended, please forgive me. I will go away. I will do anything in the world if only you will stop crying!" Tears trickling through the slim, white fingers, she nodded her head. "Yes, go, Vittorio, dear Vittorio. You can do nothing to change me now, and I cannot bear to hurt you so. Perhaps it would be better if we should never see each other again." Her voice broke. She turned away her head. He put his arms about her trembling shoulders and pressed her to his heart. "No, Anne, that could never be. It is meant that I should love you forever. I will go away--but I shall return. If everything has become too much for you, let me know, and I will come. No matter if it is from Africa. And never forget Anna mia, that my offer holds good forever!" Her head against his shoulder, she stirred uneasily. "Forever? But you forget, Vittorio, that--that I--that things will not be the same?" He trembled as the copper tendrils of her hair swept against his cheek. "I forget--nothing. In the things of the body, it is only the spirit which counts." She raised her head from his shoulder and looked at him from under heavy lids. "How good you are, Vittorio!" she repeated chokingly. Taking his head between her hands, she pressed her lips upon his. "And now, good-by." He held her away from him, and looked lingeringly into her face. A cry escaped him. "Good-by, my Anne, good-by." He released her, and without turning his head, walked swiftly towards the door and closed it quietly behind him. Anne looked after him dully. An odd pain tugged at her heart. The room became strangely vacant. Deserted by the winter sun, paneled walls gleamed wanly. Upon the hearth, the fire lay smothered within its own embers. What had she done? A landmark had been reached and passed; a turning taken. The homely, the familiar highroad lay behind. The perilous forest closed in upon her darkly. With a weary movement she raised her bare arms above her head, and let them fall heavily against her sides. The ivory clock upon the mantel chanted five mellow notes. Anne started up from her chair. It was the hour for the daily visit to Alexis. CHAPTER XVI IRREVOCABLE Heart thudding against her ribs, Claire advanced into the room. Ever since she had received Alexis' letter asking her to come and see him she had lived for this moment alone. And yet, now that it was upon her, she was conscious only of a cold dread, a dreary fear. Her last glimpse of Alexis had been in the clutches of delirium. He had then been calling frantically upon the name of another woman. Much water had passed beneath the bridges since, congealed, stagnant water, bitter as the unshed tears lying so heavily upon her heart. She advanced timidly into the room and Alexis rose to greet her. A wine-colored lounging robe enhanced his fairness. The smile upon his lips was both pathetic and perfunctory. Taking her proffered hand, he led Claire to a chair. For a moment they gazed at each other self-consciously. "This is good of you, Claire, I know I don't deserve it," he said finally. She smiled sturdily beneath her tears. "You asked me to come, didn't you? That is why I am here. I am glad you are better, Alexis." "Oh, I'm practically well now. I expect to go out again in a few days." She noticed that he ignored the beginning of her sentence and his embarrassment touched her. She looked about the room in search of a topic of conversation. Her absent eyes fell upon several large jars filled with flowers. "What lovely roses, and what masses of them!" she exclaimed impulsively. Then could have bitten out her tongue. Had they perhaps been sent by Mrs. Schuyler? A triumphant gleam swept over his face. He forgot to be self-conscious. "Yes, aren't they wonderful! It's quite like the old days, isn't it? You see, Claire, I--I am discovered!" "You are discovered?" she stammered. He ran a hand through his tumbled hair with the old arrogant gesture. "Yes, my return has leaked out somehow the last few days, and although it hasn't appeared in the papers as yet, the exciting fact seems to have spread rather swiftly." Within her lap Claire's gloved hands tightened upon each other. "Are--are you glad, Alexis?" her voice faltered. He laughed oddly. "Am I human, Claire?" "Yes, yes, I know! But don't you dread having them find out?" He looked at her in angry bewilderment. "Find out what?" Could she be alluding to Anne? "Why, that you have forgotten how to play," she murmured almost in tears. He sprang up and loomed over her with the air of a young god. His hands upon her slight shoulders, he shook her gently. "Ah, but it has come back, Claire. It came back like a flash, just as suddenly as it left me. Listen!" He strode over to the piano, and taking his violin out of the case, fingered it caressingly. "Of course, they won't let me practice yet. And I am all thumbs. But listen!" Violin nestled beneath his chin, he began to play. Superlatively toned, the instrument hummed beneath his sweeping bow like a human thing. The penetrating sweetness pierced Claire's heart. It sang a plaintive melody, simple as an ancient love song. The mellow tones rose higher and higher, finally repeating themselves in head notes clear and brittle as crystal. As the last note shrilled lingeringly upon the air, Claire smiled through tears into Alexis' exalted face. "Oh, Alexis, how happy I am for you! Shall you play in public again soon?" He replaced the violin within its case, and crossing the room sat down beside her. "I hope to be ready for a recital the middle of January. From now on I shall practice every moment. Do you remember my old manager, Rosenfield? I've engaged him again. Funny fellow, but enthusiastic as ever." "Have you made any special plans?" Claire's voice was strained. Would he never come to the point? "Well," he hesitated a moment, dreading how she might take what he was going to say, "Yes, I have. The doctors wanted me to go South for the rest of the winter, but I couldn't bear to go away so far from" he faltered a little--"so far from New York and Rosenfield. I'm so anxious to get to work again. So we compromised on Long Island. The air is wonderful there. I have taken Karzimova's house, the Russian actress, you know, until the first of May. It is an Italian villa, and rather gorgeous. She didn't want to rent it, although she is in Europe, but when they cabled her who I was and that I had been ill, she gave in rather graciously, and let me have it for a ridiculous price. They say she is mad about music." So this was what she had come to hear? She was to lose Alexis entirely, then? "When are you moving out?" "In about a week, I believe. Don't you think it is the best thing I can do?" "Oh, Alexis, if you are happy, what more can I ask?" Her brimming eyes touched him to the quick. "Little Claire, what a gentle thing you are. Far too dear for an egotistical brute like me." He touched her gloved hand, and gazed down at her stormily. He noted with surprise that she was looking almost pretty. Her hat was actually becoming, and the long earrings lent her an elfin charm. What had she been doing to herself? Was the pathetic desire to attract him at the root of the change? The tragedy of it! Was it possible that he had ever possessed this girl, of whose body he retained scarcely a recollection? The very thought seemed incestuous. She was not a woman but a sister. The little Claire of nursery days, the older Claire of flushed cheeks and timid ardors, yes, her image was still vivid, and even dear, so intermingled with her companionship were his earliest recollections. But Claire, the wife of a few hectic months, the submissive puppet of rare and intermittent contacts, was unthinkable. She had existed only within the hideous confines of his disordered brain. His silence, his gaze filled Claire with horrible confusion. She blushed crimson. Within the hurricane of his glance her soul shivered, exposed, naked. What blasting thought, what ignoble memory lurked behind those stormy eyes? Shame seared her as with a hot iron. Yet her surrender had been as pure as it had been entire. Was she not Alexis' wife? Bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh? Did not she carry within her body his seed? With a heroic effort, she raised her head and their eyes clashed. "What are you thinking of?" she inquired with a quiet hauteur, which surprised him. His answer skirted the truth warily. "That you should never have married me, Claire. We shall never be happy together. It was all a horrible mistake. Let us undo it, dear." "I cannot divorce you, if that is what you mean." Her hands were clasped convulsively upon each other. "But, Claire, we do not love each other. I--I----" he faltered. "Yes, I know, you love another woman. You don't have to tell me that, Alexis." Her smile was grim. "But, I want to marry her," he blurted cruelly. "You must divorce me, Claire." The searing crimson drained from her face, leaving it the livid hue of marble. "We are husband and wife, Alexis. No human being can undo that now." He sprang out of the chair and strode up and down the room. "That toqué idea of yours! The idea is mediæval and has died out like a thousand other superstitions." "Not among the Roman Catholics, Alexis!" Her eyes begged for mercy. "Oh, Claire, be reasonable. Be up to date. These aren't the Dark Ages!" "Oh, poor Alexis." Claire covered her face with trembling fingers. "Is it as bad as all that? But you know I have already told you, you can have a separation any time you wish. I will go away, far away. You need never see me again!" Her voice ended with a sob. Struck with remorse, he looked down upon her haggardly. "What an utter brute I am. But don't you see? It is partly for your sake, too. Suppose you should meet some one else who could really make you happy? Some one good, some one entirely different from me. Wouldn't it be a tragedy if just because a few words had been mumbled over us by an unknown priest, you couldn't marry this other man more suited to you in every way than I am?" "But it isn't the priest who mumbles the formula that counts. He is only an instrument. It is the spirit behind it all. We swore before God in his house to remain together until death us do part. It was a sacred oath. Nothing but death can dissolve it." "If you swore to remain with me until death, why are you willing to have a separation? Isn't that against your principles, too?" His irony cut her to the quick. "I cannot remain with a man who does not love me," she replied quietly, "any more than I could live with any other." "And supposing I love some one else and want to marry her?" "It would be impossible. It wouldn't be legal." "But I am neither Roman Catholic, nor Unitarian. I wear no label or tag of any sort, thank the pagan gods. And as I do happen to want to marry another woman, I warn you now that if you refuse to get a divorce against me, I shall do something desperate." "Alexis, Alexis!" The tortured cry sprang from her involuntarily. "What can I do? I am ready to die to make you happy, but I cannot consent to a divorce. It would be a sin. A living lie!" "A sin! A living lie! That is all cant and gibberish. I was sorry for you a while ago, Claire. I pitied you from the bottom of my heart. But you are hard as stone. If you had consented to do what I asked I would have been happy to settle half of my future income upon you, as I am taking up my violin again. But you are like a rock, as fixed in your mold as a fossil in its shelf of prehistoric stone." She wrung her hands. "Oh, Alexis, don't speak to me of money! I'd rather kill myself than to take a penny from you under such conditions." He eyed her wrathfully. "But even that satisfaction is denied you by your church!" "How you hate me!" She rose to her feet and faced him drearily. His expression softened. "No, Claire. I never have hated you. You are mistaken. I even loved you once--as a sister." "As a sister!" She flung her hands out before her blindly. "My God, what a fool, what an ignoble fool you must think me! And I did it all for the best. You were so ill, so distraught. So unlike yourself. The doctors advised me to do it. And you asked me, yourself. There was no other woman! I was so young, I loved you. I had always loved you, Alexis. The gift of myself seemed small in comparison with your need. I never thought it would bring unhappiness to you. Women seemed to mean so little in your life." He stepped towards her uncertainly, a horrified question back of the anger in his eyes. "But didn't you know, didn't you understand why I asked you?" Cold perspiration broke over her quivering body. The claw-like dread clutched once more at her heart. "What do you mean, Alexis?" He laughed cruelly. "The interesting little scene in my room, so beautifully stage-managed by my dear mother?" She rose with a cry. "Alexis! You think I did--that?" "Why not?" he shrugged. "The doctor said I needed a wife. That was a good way to provide me with one. When a child refuses to take medicine, it must be forced down his throat." He laughed excitedly. "But Alexis, how? Why?" She fell limply into a chair and he saw by her stricken face that she was innocent. He was seized by devastating remorse. He ceased his pacing abruptly. "But Claire, this is terrible! I have been judging you all this time when you were innocent. I might have known better!" Claire looked at him in amazement. "So you think I arranged with your mother to have her find me in your room?" A slow anger flamed in her pale cheeks. "I may be a fool, but I'm not vile. I--I think I will go now." She drew herself out of the chair and started for the door. He followed her in a few swift strides. "Claire, this is horrible. You must let me explain." She avoided his touch with a visible shiver. "It isn't necessary. I understand only too well. I think I knew it all from the first, only I refused to let myself. I suppose my aunt threatened to put me out of the house if you didn't marry me?" "Yes," he hung his head. "But I really didn't mind, Claire. I didn't care what happened to me, and I'd always been fonder of you than any one else. Only it--it disgusted me to think you were not quite--straight." She looked at him beneath heavy lids. Her bruised eyes hurt him. "Why didn't you ask me, Alexis?" she said, simply. "How could I? I was afraid you couldn't deny it." He stepped towards her. "Oh, Claire, please forgive me if you can!" He seized her hand, but she drew it away quickly. "There's nothing to forgive, Alexis. It was quite natural that you should think as you did. And I--I was an infatuated fool. Oh, it is all a horrible muddle!" she wailed. (Tied to the body of a festering love was what he had said!) Hands to her lips to stifle a rising cry, she staggered towards the door. With a remorseful gesture, he put her cape about her shoulders. His hands where they grazed her neck were icy. (The festering body of a dead love!) The old dizziness suddenly seized her. "I must go!" she exclaimed wildly. She must not faint, she would not faint! He took her outflung hands and pressed them repentantly. "Is your taxi waiting for you?" His voice was husky. "Yes, oh yes." "Try to forgive me." As she entered the elevator his voice echoed hollowly down the hall, "Good-by." CHAPTER XVII STRANGE AND SINISTER Dr. Elliott walked over to the window and raised the sash. "There, that will do, Ito. Thank you. You may go now. Mrs. Petrovskey is coming to. If Mrs. Petrovskey, senior, should come in, please tell her I am here." He took the hot water bottle from the little Jap and placed it at Claire's feet. "If I need anything more, I'll call you." "Yes, sir." With a solicitous look towards the motionless figure on the bed, Ito trotted out of the room. Claire stirred uneasily. A moan broke from the white lips. The great sunken eyes opened slowly and rested in wonder upon the face of Dr. Elliott. "Did I faint?" He nodded. "You gave poor Ito quite a fright. Fortunately I was able to come at once. Don't worry, you'll be all right in a few minutes. Here, take this." He held a spoon to her lips and she swallowed the cloudy liquid obediently. "That's a good girl. Now don't talk. Just lie back quietly and see if you can sleep. I shan't leave you till you're able to fend for yourself." He sat down beside the bed and took her wrist in sturdy brown fingers. "You're so good," she whispered tremulously. "And I'm such a nuisance." "Didn't I say not to talk?" The tone was gruff, but his fingers tightened about the frail wrist. "I'll--be good." The low voice broke. A moan issued from quivering lips. "Oh, oh, I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it," she sobbed. Her breast rose and fell in stormy gasps. The young doctor leaned over her. "Don't, don't, you will hurt yourself! What is the matter? Tell me about it, perhaps I can help!" "I cannot bear it!" The sobs rose wildly. Brown face drained of color, he put his arms about the slight body and pillowed her head on his breast. "There, there, cry it out if you must. There's no one but me to hear you." "Oh, oh, oh!" The slight body writhed in a renewed gust. "What shall I do? What will become of us all?" "There, there." He stroked the convulsed forehead with cool fingers. "Things can't be as bad as all that. Tell me about it. That's what I'm here for, you know." The cyclonic sobs increased. He cradled the small tortured body within his arms and rocked it to and fro like a baby. "I wish I were dead. I ought never to have been born!" The man was frightened. If this were to last much longer, there was no telling what would happen. When he spoke his voice was purposely abrupt. "This must stop at once. Do you want to kill your child?" "It would be better for him if he never were born." But his tone of command had calmed her. The sobs died down into a whimper. He followed up his advantage sternly. "You must not say such things nor think them." She stirred in his arms and he laid her back upon the pillow. "But it is true. Nobody wants either of us. Nobody ever has wanted us." "That is because you don't give them a chance. You are so shy. You always run away. Nobody could help loving you if they really knew you." She hid her pallid young face. "Alexis doesn't. He wants me to get a divorce." He reddened with anger. "That doesn't prove anything! These artistic people must be the devil to live with. Why don't you give him a divorce if he wants one? What is the use of staying together if you aren't happy?" "I can't--you don't understand----" her voice came muffled from within the pillow. He looked down upon the small dark head with compassion. "Oh, yes, I understand all right. You think you love him and all that. Women like you always fall for the brutes. But it really isn't love, you know. An obvious case of masochism. My advice is to divorce and forget him. He isn't worth all these tears. There are plenty of men in the world who would be proud and happy in your love. I'm sorry this had to come up when you're not in the best condition for it. But now that it has, you might as well face the music." Her great eyes chided him reproachfully. "He is not bad, poor Alexis. You misjudge him. It is not his fault that he doesn't love me." He looked incredulous. "Why did he marry you, then? Isn't he responsible for his actions?" She shook her head. "He couldn't help himself. I was literally thrust down his throat!" "You can't make me believe that he didn't know what he was doing! Of course he is obviously a neurotic. An arrant egotist. The sooner you're rid of him the better. He is taking advantage of your inexperience. And now you think you've got to pay for it the rest of your life. Why, you haven't lived one-third of it yet. Give him up. Let him go to the devil his own way. Don't allow him to drag you down with him. You are beautiful, appealing----" "No, no!" "I think so! Give some other chap the chance to make you happy." The blanched lips twisted into a wry smile. "You are only trying to be kind. I wish you wouldn't. I like you better when you're honest. Nobody has ever been in love with me in all my life. Nobody has even thought about me like that." "I have," he replied simply. Dumbfounded, she sat up in bed and leaned towards him uncomprehendingly. "You have?" "Yes," he reiterated sturdily. "I have. Ever since our drive to Bronxville. And you've been happy with me, too. Didn't we have a good time when we bought the hat and the earrings? Haven't our little supper parties been fun?" A wave of scarlet flooded her face and neck. "You don't know what you are saying. Yes, of course I've been happy with you. But that doesn't mean we love each other! Perhaps you pity me. But the other is--is absurd." Her shaky tones contained both a question and a longing. "Why will you persist in depreciating yourself? Has nobody ever told you how sweet you are?" He bent over her and grasped the tiny hands in his. "Claire, I love you and I want you to divorce this man and marry me. I know I can make you happy. I will live only for that. I'll take you to Chicago and in new surroundings you will forget all that you have had to suffer. Listen, darling, won't you believe me?" She drew her hands away with a little sob. "But you don't understand. You forget----" "The baby, you mean? Why, no, I haven't forgotten him at all. I want him too. 'The more, the merrier!'" He laughed unsteadily. Tears gushing from beneath the heavy lids, she looked up at him. "Oh, you are a dear, and I cannot bear to hurt you. But it is all impossible. Even if I didn't love Alexis it would be impossible. I could never consent to a divorce. You see, I'm a Catholic!" "A Catholic!" His startled gaze rested for a moment upon the ivory rosary at the head of the bed. "Yes," she whispered, "now you understand, don't you? And you won't think I'm ungrateful? Say you understand?" His set face retained its look of determination. "I suppose so! But it seems too awful. Don't spoil both our lives." Hands upon her ears, Claire looked at him beseechingly. "Stop, you have said enough. If I had met you a year ago, perhaps things might have been different, although I doubt it, for I've loved Alexis ever since I was old enough to know what love meant. Now that he is my husband, I never could live with another man. It would be shameful. I never could hold my head up again. But please say you understand?" Sudden pallor upon his square young face, he walked over to the open window. "I believe I am beginning to," he said huskily. "I didn't realize that women like you still existed. I--I am defeated. If you wish, I will not come here again." "Oh, oh," Claire gazed after him wanly. "I was afraid you would say that! Why, you're the only real friend I have. If you desert me, I don't know what I shall do. Won't you please forgive me?" He hesitated a moment. His averted face worked oddly. Then he turned and walked back to the bed. "What are you talking about?" The warm voice was a trifle unsteady. "Of course, I forgive you. We'll never mention the subject again. I want you to consult me just as if this had never happened. Promise?" He held out his hand and she laid hers in it thankfully. Once more the tears were very close. "Of course, I promise. What could I do without you?" "That's right." He cleared his throat. "Now lie down again. I want you to stay in bed for a day or two, until your nerves get rested. I'll send you around a nurse. A nice, fat, little girl who will cheer you up. You need companionship. This colossal brute," he stooped quickly and picked up the diminutive Griffon from out his basket, "is not particularly diverting, except to look at." He met Claire's clouded eyes with a smile, and bag in hand, started for the door. "So long, until to-morrow. Don't you dare be gloomy!" As he reached the large square entrance hall, the front door opened and admitted Mme. Petrovskey. Swathed in sealskin, wreathed with smiles, a coquettish hippopotamus, she approached him. "Oh, Dr. Elliott, you here? How charming! But perhaps I shouldn't be pleased? Is my dear daughter ill again? Or is this merely the sad return from one of your delightful little jaunts?" He bowed awkwardly over the fat, white hand. "Unfortunately, this visit is purely professional. Mrs. Petrovskey was taken ill quite unexpectedly, and Ito had the presence of mind to call me up." She simpered. "Dear Ito. He's quite invaluable, isn't he? Poor Claire, so she is ill again? Quite a tissue-paper little person, I'm afraid. What is the matter this time?" "She must have been over-tired when she came in. She fainted and was unconscious for at least half an hour. I have told her to remain in bed for several days and I'm sending a nurse. Not that I think it's serious," he added hastily. Claire wouldn't want her mother-in-law to suspect anything. "But she needs a rest." "Another fainting fit? Surely, there must be something seriously wrong? Are you keeping anything from me?" "She is very anæmic and her heart isn't quite what it ought to be, perhaps." "Isn't it? Dear me! So her heart is affected, you say? But surely you can cure it, can't you, Doctor?" The large face simpered childishly. He glared at her with undisguised dislike. "Please take me seriously, Mme. Petrovskey. There is nothing comical about the situation." "Unless you except the secrecy," she rejoined with unexpected dryness. He bristled perceptibly. "Secrecy?" "I don't know what else to call it." The coquettish manner had disappeared. "It is quite obvious that my daughter-in-law is going to have a child, although of course she hardly shows it as yet. But what I cannot understand is why she has not told me about it. It seems very underhanded and strange, to say the least, decidedly unethical, not to say suspicious on your part." "Unethical? Suspicious? What do you mean?" he cried, taken unawares, and conscious of rising fury. The guileless China-blue eyes opened wide. "Why, nothing, of course, against you! Only I thought that perhaps there might be some reason for all this secrecy." "What reason should there be?" he exclaimed irritably. "Mrs. Petrovskey, like many other young women in her situation, has had an urgent desire to keep her condition to herself as long as possible. I assure you it is quite an ordinary phase in pregnancy." "Oh, is that so? How very quaint. I'm such a very simple person myself that it strikes me as very strange that a young woman should not want to tell her husband of an expected child, that is, of course, supposing it to be legitimate." Dr. Elliott's lips grew white. What in hell was the old she-devil driving at? "It might seem strange to a casual observer," he said, very much on his guard. "But to a doctor it is very ordinary. Quite a normal idiosyncrasy, I assure you." Her manner changed, became charged once more with heavy coquetry. "I'm so relieved to hear you say so. Of course I was not insinuating anything."--(So she had been, after all!)--"But it is so comforting to be reassured. I have so much confidence in you, Dr. Elliott. You cannot imagine what a pleasure it is to me to see the delightful friendship between you and my frail, little daughter-in-law, poor, dear child. Let me see, you have been friends for over a year, have you not?" She encountered the murderous gleam in his eye with a bland smile. "You are mistaken," he said curtly. "It is not quite four months since I attended Mrs. Petrovskey for the first time!" "Oh, dear me! I had imagined you had met long before that. How could I have made such a mistake?" "I'm sure I have no idea." A frown between his heavy brows, he regarded her gravely. "Well, well, it has all been very sudden, hasn't it? You seem like an old friend to us all. Why, Claire positively raves over you." "I cannot imagine Mrs. Petrovskey raving over anything or anybody, least of all a prosaic doctor like myself." "Are you prosaic? Oh, I cannot believe that." She laid a heavy hand on his reluctant arm. "You haven't those romantic brown eyes for nothing. Oh, must you be going?" He had edged gradually over to the door and stood with one hand placed upon the knob. "I'm afraid I must." "I am so sorry. I hope my idle chatter hasn't detained you from your duties?" Her bland, pussy-cat smile pursued him to the hospital. It haunted the remainder of his day, and later invaded his sleep. He dreamed that Claire was a canary and Mme. Petrovskey, in the form of a Cheshire cat, had devoured her. The smile was outlined with blood. CHAPTER XVIII DISCORD Above a livid line of snow the villa Sirena loomed brilliantly like some huge ocean liner, against the night. A shiver of excitement ran up Anne's spine. So they had arrived at last! "How large it looks," she said rather breathlessly. In spite of herself a slight tremor crept into her voice. Alexis turned towards her passionately. Under cover of the darkness his face was puzzled, triumphant. This new, virginal Anne, was at once mysterious and adorable. "It is rather deceptive at night," he replied quietly, ignoring her confusion. "Not really large at all, but I know it will please you because it's modeled exactly after the Florentine villas you love so much. Once inside, you scarcely dream you are only in Long Island." With a skillful twist of the wrist, he turned the car in at the gates and entered the driveway. "Of course I shall love it!" He took a hand off the wheel and laid it on hers. "Silly boy! Look out or you will run into the terrace." They had stopped in front of the doorway. Bathed in the golden rays from the entrance-hall, they stared at each other in startled silence. "Anne, Anne," Alexis' voice was broken. He started to put his arms about her. She pushed him away gently. "Be careful, Alexis. The servants are at the door. And don't forget I am your cousin, Mme. Simone." He got out of the car with a groan. "What a farce. I hate it, Anne." "Not any more than I do!" she accepted his aid. Her eyes hovered over his miserable face comprehendingly, as she swept past him up the shallow steps. "Madame est la bienvenue!" A broad smile upon his ruddy face, Jules bowed low. He took Anne's suitcase from Alexis with an air of tragedy. "Monsieur should 'ave call me! Shall I take the box of Madame to 'er room?" "If you please, Jules." Alexis' eyes were fixed upon Anne's face. "Do you like it?" She sat down upon a marble bench looking about her with genuine admiration. "It is beautiful, Alexis." The small round hall was paved with large black and white marble slabs. In the center was a fountain over which presided the green bronze of a nude girl. Exquisitely slender, her arms were thrown above her head to support the masses of hair from whence water spouted. It trickled over face and breast, over delicate, rounded thighs, polishing them into black marble, but leaving the slender, curved back bare and lusterless. The gurgle and splash filled the room with liquid music, as thirst-assuaging as a mountain brook. "What a lovely creature!" Anne encircled the fountain dreamily. "But doesn't her back ever get wet?" "No, she is like an ostrich. What she doesn't see simply doesn't exist. I find her very irritating. I often splash her in revenge." "How ungentlemanly!" Anne laughed. She moved away aimlessly. He put his arm through hers almost timidly. "Would you like to see your room?" "Why not?" Her voice was deliberately careless. They mounted the curving, marble stairs, arm in arm. "I hope you will like it. It is a bit rococo." "Oh, I shan't mind. I know Karzimova's taste is supposed to be somewhat barbaric. It will be quite amusing to occupy her room. But weren't you in luck to get hold of her villa?" "Yes, wasn't I?" he said simply. They had reached the large landing. Turning to the right, they entered a Gothic corridor. "Here you are." He stopped before an open door and stood aside for her to precede him. "Remember, I warned you," he finished apologetically. The entire room was done in old gold and turquoise brocade. A narrow, Empire bed, with a canopy, stood lengthwise against the wall. Large, French windows outlined by turquoise hangings, and swathed in heavy lace, opened out on to an iron balcony. A few French prints perched naughtily upon the walls. On the Buhl dressing table was a large Tiffany bowl filled with gardenias. Their amorous scent rose upon the air triumphantly. Anne stooped over them, and inhaled the heady fragrance. It penetrated and warmed her brain like old wine. "Well, what do you think of it?" She started slightly at the sound of his voice directly behind her. "A temple of love--but not at all respectable, my friend." Her laugh was both cynical and uncertain. She seated herself on the edge of the bed rather gingerly. The turquoise satin cover rustled voluptuously beneath her. "I feel like Zola's Nana, or what's her name in Pierre Louys' 'Aphrodite'." He laughed angrily. "I know it is in atrocious taste." She held out her hand with a pretty, contrite gesture. "Don't worry, dear. After all, we are ourselves, aren't we? Our surroundings can't change that. And I shall certainly be very comfortable." Once more her laugh rippled out uncontrollably. "Did you get the gardenias because the room shrieked for them, or because you really like them?" she demanded. Crouched at her feet, he leaned his cheek against her outstretched hand. "I love them," he confessed. "Is it low-brow of me? But their whiteness and fragrance remind me of you. And they are mysterious and exotic, which is another point of resemblance." She laughed tenderly, her hand nestled against his blonde mane. "Why will men always call me mysterious? Is it because, although I have red hair, my lashes and brows happen to be black instead of white like a guinea pig's?" "Perhaps that is one reason. And then you are so very white and slim, a tower of ivory!" He turned his head lazily and brushed her palm with his lips. "But your flesh isn't cold like ivory, it is as white and warm as new milk. Anne, kiss me!" He threw back his head, exposing the full young throat that always fascinated her. She bent low and their lips crushed against each other. A flush spreading beneath her smooth pallor, she raised her head and looked down at him. "What time is it?" she inquired abruptly. "It must be quite late. I ought to be dressing for dinner, you know." "Oh no, stay just as you are, dearest. You look beautiful. Besides, I can't bear to lose the time!" "Crazy boy!" She removed him gently and rose to her feet. "What time do you dine?" "Eight o'clock, I suppose." He looked abused. "I must hurry then. It is long after seven. Come now, be good and run away." She patted his cheek. "Would you have me a Cinderella in such gorgeousness as this?" She waved a dramatic hand towards the hangings. Her lips curved mockingly. "Very well," he shrugged. "Shall I send Elvira to help you? That is Jules' wife, and the only female in the house. She is probably dying of curiosity to see you." "Well, I hate to commit murder, but as I haven't Regina with me, I'd rather get along by myself. I shall manage somehow." He strolled regretfully towards the door. "Well, if you need help, just stamp on the floor. My rooms are directly beneath these, in the bachelor suite. It would be so heavenly to have to hook you up, or something. As if we were really married?" His eyes were wistful. "Dear boy!" She smiled at him between raised arms. She was removing her hat. Her long slim body, thrown slightly backwards, reminded him of the bronze in the fountain below. "I am wearing a tea-gown and there will be no hooks." "'There ain't goin' to be no core.'" His little, rueful laugh rang down the hall behind him. A little later, in the bath-room, she gazed about her in amusement and despair. Oh, for the cool, white tiles of her own chaste, little sanctuary! This one was Moorish in style, with a shallow bench running all around the sunken bath of turquoise tiles. A huge dolphin's head served as a faucet. As she turned the tap it spouted a crystal stream. She slid down into the water with a laugh. The glistening of goldfish outlined in mosaic upon the bottom of the tub had caught her eye. But her body, luminous in the bluish tint cast by the tiles, elongated beneath the rippled surface of the water, gave her a sensuous pleasure. Pink-tipped, the ivory hillocks of her breast thrust upwards. Slim flanks melted into shadow. She sighed luxuriantly. Dinner was served in the large, lunetted dining room. The refectory table was drawn up against the frescoed wall, and Anne and Alexis sat side by side upon a long bench. In a clinging, sleeveless gown of white velvet, a small knot of gardenias pinned against the red-gold of her hair, Anne's beauty made Alexis' brain reel. He longed for the meal to be over, so that he might have her all to himself. The gallant subservience of old Jules irritated him almost to a frenzy. This woman was his. The firm column of her throat, the gleaming pilasters of her arms. She was a temple, he the high priest. His alone the inner shrine. After an interminable agony, Jules brought coffee and left them. Anne was laughing softly. "I was remembering the bathroom," she said, in answer to his look of inquiry. "It demoralized me completely. Even to the stealing of some of Karzimova's bath salts. I usually hate a perfumed bath, but the mise en scène fairly shrieked for it. I hope I don't smell too strong?" He leaned so close that his flaring nostrils grazed her hair. "It is hard to tell where the gardenias begin and you end," he laughed excitedly. She encountered his flaming eyes with a little thrill of fear. "I felt more than ever like the heroine of 'Aphrodite,'" she continued moving away rather nervously. "Do you remember the famous bath?" His tension relaxed. "I hope the resemblance was not too accurate?" He laughed daringly. She blushed, and bending forward, chose a peach from the amber bowl in front of them. "What gorgeous fruit for December! You're an extravagant creature!" He helped himself to a sprawling bunch of black grapes. "Why shouldn't I be? I sold a bond the other day, and in six weeks I give my first recital. After that, as you know, my time is completely booked. Rosenfield is a slave-driver." "But he is a good manager. He's so enthusiastic about you." He shrugged indifferently. "I suppose so." "And do you really find it easier to practice here than in New York?" "Oh, yes. It is so divinely quiet. And then the air is so good. I walk two hours a day, as the doctor told me to do. It would have been an awful bore to have had to go South. You couldn't have come with me and I should have gone mad. As it is--I am in heaven!" Anne paled. His fervor always frightened her. How could such happiness last? "But I can only come occasionally, you know, dear. It is difficult for me to get away. I have to make excuses," she faltered. "Excuses, even to Regina. I feel sure she suspects something. Subterfuge is horrible. I loathe it." Head drooping upon its slender stem, she looked like a chidden child. A spasm of fear swept over his face. Anne was suffering. Was it all too much for her? God, if he were only free to marry! Hatred for Claire gripped his vitals like a vise. He rose and stood over her trembling. "Anne, you will not give me up? It would kill me!" The stiletto anguish of his cry tore her soul. "No, no, my poor Alexis." She stood up and laid her hands on his shaking shoulders. "Come, you are over-excited. Let's go into the other room. I want you to play for me. But only a little, for I know you are tired." "Yes, of course, I will play to you, but first I have something to show you." His young voice was excited. He slipped his hand into the warm crook of her elbow and led her into the salon. The many vases and jars were filled with dark red, almost black, roses, Anne's favorite flowers. She smiled. The boy had forgotten nothing. Sinking into a small sofa before the large, hooded fireplace, she looked up at him. "This reminds me of my villa in Florence. Only more gorgeous, of course. I love the carved ceiling and the stone floors. The tapestries look quite genuine, too." "I believe they are supposed to be." His tone was absent. He took a small package from the table and brought it to her almost shyly. "Is this for me?" She glanced up in surprise. He nodded. "Open it." The intense face bent over her eagerly, while she removed the paper wrapping. "How exquisite!" It was a small wooden coffer such as Florentine women had used to contain jewelry. The lid was rounded and on it was painted a replica in miniature of Botticelli's Venus rising from the sea. The lovely faded colors were like a greeting. "I never saw anything so lovely! Where did you get it?" "I've had it for years. But I thought you'd like it. But aren't you going to open it?" "Is there anything in it?" "Look and see." A green velvet jewel-case lay ensconced within the polished interior. "Oh!" Anne's heart sank. She opened the case with a feeling of cold apprehension. Livid flashes of emeralds. White fire of diamonds. Anne turned away dazzled eyes. "Alexis, how could you?" He lifted the bracelet and held it out to her coaxingly. "Do you like it, dear?" His voice was infinitely tender. "Let me put it on for you." "It is beautiful, but I cannot take it, Alexis. Please put it away." "You cannot take it? Why not?" His voice was desperate. "I cannot accept such a valuable gift, dear." "Not from me?" "Especially not from you." "Oh my God, are you going to be conventional, Anne?" "You should not be the one to accuse me of that, Alexis!" She had risen and they were staring at each other angrily. "If you loved me, you'd take it!" "You don't understand," she said more gently. "I should feel as if I had lost caste. And besides, you ought not to afford it. Dearest, can't you see I don't want to be an expense, or drag on you in any way?" "Expense! Drag! If you were my wife you'd take it, wouldn't you?" "That is a different story." "Well, it's not my fault you are not, is it? I wish to heaven you were. Then I could be sure of you. This incompleteness is killing me." He flung himself face downwards upon the sofa. "Alexis, be reasonable!" "I wish I were dead! You have never loved me. All you have ever given me was in pity. If you cared for me, you'd take my gift and wear it." An expression of abnegation upon her face, she stooped and picked up the bracelet from where he had flung it on the rug between them. "Alexis, look. See? It is on!" "Anne, you darling!" He sprang to his feet, and catching her in his arms, carried her to the sofa. "Be careful. You will hurt yourself," she cried breathlessly. "Remember, I am as tall as you are." His arms about her, he laughed crazily. "Ah, but you are light, light as a moonbeam, and as luminous. Light as my heart!" With a gesture, maternal in its compassion, she wound her arms about his neck, and drawing his face down to hers, offered him her mouth. Teeth pressed against the fruit-like flesh, he ran his lips along her chin and bare shoulder. "Anne, I am hungry and thirsty for you!" With a sigh of relinquishment, she relaxed in his arms. A bell pealed derisively through the house. Alexis sprung to his feet with an impatient exclamation. Anne sat up hastily and smoothed her hair with nervous fingers. "What is it?" "The door bell." He was pale from the sudden recoil. "But does any one know you are here? Who can it be at this hour?" "God knows." Their eyes met in sudden confusion, a sweet secret shame, then scattered self-consciously. Came a discreet knock on the door, and Jules entered. "Excuse it, Monsieur, but zere is a lady who desires to speak to Monsieur." His air of apology was comical. "Did she say who she was?" Alexis' voice was elaborately careless. "Yes, Monsieur. She say she good friend of Monsieur. 'Er name ees Miss Ellen Barnes. Er automobile is--vot you call it--stalled in ze snow." Alexis nodded briefly. "Very well, Jules. Tell her I will be right down. You may go." The little man trotted out hastily. "Ellen!" Alexis' expression was murderous. "She has been on our trail ever since you had her to tea with us before I left New York!" Anne's hand went to her mouth. "She must not see me!" Her distress put him on his metal. He laid his arm about her shoulders. "Don't be frightened, dear. She won't discover a thing. Run to your rooms. I will go down and see the comedy through." "Yes, yes, I know I can rely upon you." He opened the door and she slipped out upon the landing and up the stairs. As she disappeared around the bend, Alexis started downwards. Accompanied by Gerald Boynton and two strangers, Ellen was waiting in the octagonal hall. They were giggling so hard at the fountain that Alexis had to cough twice before they became aware of his presence. Upon catching sight of him Ellen swept forward gayly. "We were admiring your companion," she drawled with a little dry laugh. "She is hardly entertaining," replied Alexis. "But I hear you are in trouble. What can I do to help?" "Oh, nothing, thank you. I guess the chauffeur can manage by himself. Our wheel came off just as we were passing your driveway. Wasn't it too providential? It might have happened out in the open country." "Very providential." Alexis's brows were quizzical. "Won't you come upstairs while you are waiting? I'll send my chauffeur out to help your man." He nodded to Jules. "We'd love to. But I forgot to introduce my friends. What must you think of me?" She was already half way up the flight of stairs. "This beautiful little person is Miss Olive Fay of the 'Cloggers.'" She pushed forward a fluffy little blonde with large, ingenuous eyes. "You have heard of her, I am sure. Her fame has gone abroad." "I have seen your photograph in the Sunday papers. Miss Fay." Alexis bowed formally over the tiny paw. "I am much nicer, aren't I?" She pouted pretty painted lips, and looked up at him beneath darkened lashes. "Much!" His ironic inflection piqued her. "And this is Señor Caldenas. He paints portraits of society ladies. He is rapidly acquiring a fortune because he insists upon their posing in mediæval costumes and compares their souls to the Mona Lisa." "That is because I believe in reincarnation," the little man smiled affably up at Alexis, who warmed up to him most unexpectedly. "And this is Mr. Boynton. He was at Anne's for tea. Do you remember?" Ellen's eyes were amused. "Of course, how could I forget an occasion like that?" Alexis' voice was cool. They had reached the landing and he stood aside as they entered the large salon. "Why, it is the old world!" exclaimed the Spaniard, advancing into the room with small prancing steps. "Quite vieux monde. I congratulate you. Absolutely authentic, although a little new and smelling of varnish, if one may say it?" Ellen sank into a highbacked chair, laughing. "Even Florentine villas were young once! Pedro would like to have everything covered with dry rot. He doesn't enjoy sitting in a chair unless it is ready to break under him. He won't even come to see me any more, because he says my house upsets his functional system." "It's true. It does." Caldenas nodded like a serious baby. "I notice he doesn't object to musical comedy, and that's pretty up to date," giggled the fluffy one. The Spaniard shrugged up to his ears. "But, my dear lady, musical comedy is as old as woman's oldest profession!" "Lewd creature!" "Apropos of that, as Lord Dundreary would remark, have you seen Anne lately, Petrovskey?" Gerald's drawl drove the blood into Alexis' face. He saw Ellen's eyes encounter Gerald's with a significant smile. "I have not seen Mrs. Schuyler," Alexis emphasized the prefix, "for at least a week. You see, my doctor recommended country air and quiet. So I'm following his orders. And incidentally, preparing for my recital in January." He strolled over to Ellen and seated himself on a carved stool at her side. "But how did you happen to be out in these wilds, in this wintry weather?" His eyes probed her ironically. Her poise remained unshaken. "Well, you see, we were all dining with some friends in Glen Cove. Fortunately, it was Sunday night and Olive and I were free. We passed right by here on the way. You know the rest." She smiled challengingly into his angry eyes. "You must be tired," he said, forcing himself to be courteous. He rose and pulled the crimson bell-rope. "What will you have? Cocktails or whisky and soda?" "Whisky and soda. That'll suit us all right, won't it, children?" They all agreed except Caldenas, who demanded cognac. "That is, if you have it, in this thirst-beridden country?" "I'll bet he has with the rum runners not two miles from his windows!" said Gerald. "I think there is a bottle or two," Alexis smiled almost genially. The Spaniard, under other circumstances, would have been quite endurable. There was something naïvely wise about him that appealed to one. Jules entered and took Alexis' order. A cigarette between her lips, Ellen strolled about the large room. She leaned across a table and sniffed at the red roses. "You do yourself well, Mr. Petrovskey, 'roses in December!' Isn't that the title of a song? Sent by some admirer, I suppose?" "Or did we come in upon a party?" Olive's ingenuous eyes were fixed upon Alexis. "What is this?" exclaimed Ellen before he could reply. She held up the empty jewel case. "Have you been giving yourself presents?" Alexis' hands clenched. His nails bit into the palms savagely. "Not guilty, Miss Barnes. That box must have been left by the former owner. Let me see it." He took the box from Ellen's fingers and pocketed it quietly. The fluffy one danced up to Alexis. "I don't believe him. It's a present from some woman. Show me your wrist, Mr. Petrovskey. I want to see your mascot." He raised his hands and shook them above his head. "Now will you believe me!" "Be careful. Jewelry isn't safe when Olive is around," warned Ellen. "Oh, what wonderful hands you have, Mr. Petrovskey. Are they insured?" Alexis laughed. "Yes, but my temper isn't, Miss Fay." "Ooh! Snubbed!" She pretended to cry. Jules came in with the drinks and passed them around. The ice in the tall glasses clinked invitingly. "To our host," said the Spaniard, returning from a tour about the room. He held up his cognac and bowed ceremoniously. "And his invisible guest," muttered Gerald, gulping down his whisky. Alexis did not drink. Anne loathed a whisky-laden breath. He sat down at the piano and allowed his fingers to wander over the keys. "Oh, do play, Mr. Petrovskey. I'm just crazy to hear you!" The fluffy one pirouetted up to the piano. Jules reëntered the room, accompanied by Ellen's chauffeur. She beckoned him across the room. "What's the matter, George? Can't you fix the car?" "No ma'am, I can't. The key to the wheel is lost, and there ain't a garage open anywheres. I've been all over the country with Mr. what's his name's chauffeur." Ellen's eyes were glued expectantly upon Alexis. "What shall we do?" she wailed. He looked at her and then at the others, with an amused expression. Their air of open-mouthed expectancy was ludicrous, and reminded him of a lot of goldfish waiting to be fed. "I'm afraid you will have to resign yourselves to spending the night," he said suavely. "I can easily put you up." (Far more easily than I can put up with you). "How delightful of you. It will be quite an adventure." Ellen rolled her eyes. "I'm simply crazy about the idea. You know, I've fallen dreadfully in love with you, Mr. Petrovskey." Olive laid her hand upon the keyboard, ingratiatingly. He shook it off lightly and rose from the piano. "I'm sure you're all worn out," he said, longing to be rid of the pack of them. "I'll go and see about your rooms at once." "Quite the châtelain," drawled Gerald, throwing himself down beside Ellen. He lowered his voice suddenly. "Well, you lost! She is not here!" A sluggish gleam of triumph flickered in his eyes. Ellen laughed. "Don't you fool yourself. Everything points to it. From the condition of Petrovskey's hair when we arrived, to the jewel case. Besides, I smell her perfume." She sniffed audibly. "It's the mixture Bazani put up for her, himself. Very faint, but gets there, my boy." He laughed disagreeably. "So do you, Ellen. You make me feel like Dr. Watson. You win the gold needled hypodermic." "What are you sniffling about? Have you, too, caught cold?" Olive sat down on the sofa opposite. "Isn't it too exciting to be laid up here all night? I just adore Petrovskey! He is so cold and wonderful-looking, so distingay!" "Almost as 'aughty as an English butler," snarled Gerald, his eyes upon the other end of the room, where Caldenas was examining a portrait with the aid of a small magnifying glass. Alexis returned. "Your rooms are ready." His eyes darted from one face to the other. "Would you like to go to bed?" Ellen rose with a yawn, her hand clapped against her mouth rhythmically. "Do show us the house first." "Yes, please." Olive's fingers closed upon his arm. "Lead me to it," she screamed. He took them into the dining room. Caldenas was in an ecstasy, but Ellen interrupted impatiently. She pushed by the others, passed through the salon again and out into the hall. "It's the bedrooms I want to see." She hurried up the stairs, with a malicious look at Alexis. Olive, clinging to his arm like a sack of potatoes, he followed as swiftly as possible, Gerald and the puzzled Spaniard brought up the rear. Ellen turned into the corridor and stopped before Anne's door. She tried the knob. "It's locked!" she exclaimed, challenging Alexis with her eyes. "I'm sure this must have been Karzimova's room. Do let us in. I'm crazy to see it." Very pale, Alexis disentangled himself from Olive and stepped forward quickly. "I haven't the key." He leaned against the wall to conceal trembling knees. "Karzimova stipulated it should not be used in her absence." "Bluebeard, give us the key! Whom are you concealing in there?" "I think you're mean," broke in Olive. "I want to go in, too. They say she is so wicked, you know. Full of secret vices." She opened empty eyes at the group to inquire plaintively, "What are secret vices?" "There is nothing concealed that shall not be revealed," quoted Gerald sanctimoniously. "You Americans!" laughed Caldenas. "How you love the stolen jam! Is it not so, poor children?" Under cover of the laughter, Gerald drew nearer to Ellen. "Come on, let's go," he whispered. "You can't expect a fellow to unlock his own doors if he doesn't want to. Besides, we've seen enough!" "Very well," Ellen raised her voice. "You're a tightwad, Mr. Petrovskey, but we give in. You may spank us and put us to bed, like the old woman in the shoe if you want to." They trooped back noisily down the hall. Elvira appeared at the other end of the corridor. Her plump figure looked beautiful to Alexis. "The rooms are ready, Monsieur." He sighed with relief. Leading them down another hallway, he entered a distant wing. "Here you are. Good-night, I hope you'll be comfortable!" He struggled to conceal his delight. They parted from him with effusion. Much later, a solitary figure in a wine-colored dressing gown crept up the stairs and stopped in front of Anne's door. It scratched at the panel delicately, but received no response. Wintry dawn, gray, disconsolate, filtered in at Alexis' window. The dressing gown still about him, he lay face downward upon his solitary bed. CHAPTER XIX A CRESCENDO Anne stirred uneasily. One slim, bare arm emerged from beneath the satin coverlet and wavered towards her face. The depths of her exhausted sleep, suddenly violated, rippled and broke. Returning consciousness beat against her like a gusty wave. She sat up in bed and looked towards the open window in puzzled astonishment. To her amazement, it was already daylight, and the raucous cry of a motor siren was shrilling stridently. With a sickening thud, recollection fell upon her. She sprang out of bed and ran towards the open window. Hiding behind the heavy curtains, she gazed down onto the snow-covered driveway below. As she had expected, there was Ellen's car, and in a little group on the terrace above it, was Ellen, herself, surrounded by the others. They were bidding an effusive farewell to Alexis, who, with his back turned toward the house, stood hatless and coatless at the top of the steps. He will catch cold again, thought Anne, as with chattering teeth she wound the heavy curtain about her. Oh, why don't they hurry? Her eyes fell upon the thick-set figure of the Spaniard. Caldenas! She shook with inward amusement. What is he doing in this galère? Hat jammed over his face, Gerald Boynton leaned close to Ellen's massive shoulders, whispering in her ear. They turned, and raking the far side of the house, eyed Anne's balconied window. Beneath the vulture-like stare, Anne shivered and concealed herself more closely within the enfolding curtain. Olive Fay, small, fur-clad, clung limply to Alexis' arm. "Bye-bye, Mr. Petrovskey, I'm just furious we've got to beat it so early. Bother these rehearsals, anyway!" Her tone shrilled up to Anne on the icy air. "You won't forget that box you promised me for your concert, will you? I'm not strong for the high-brow stuff, but I've certainly fallen for you, and it'll give the dear public a shock to see me in Carnegie Hall." She sprang nimbly down the steps and hopped into the motor. Flesh-colored stockings gleamed upon rounded calves. "Yes, we shall all be there, en masse," drawled Ellen, one foot upon the running-board. "You may count upon us!" Her voice raised maliciously, she fastened her eyes upon Anne's windows. As the car swung around the driveway, Caldenas, a cherubic smile upon his round face, leaned out recklessly. His eyes were fixed ecstatically upon the house. "It is a gem," he was shouting lustily. "Un pocito palacio." An odd smile upon her face, Anne closed the window softly. She envied the little Spaniard his absent-minded imperviousness. What a boon! Would the gods had seen fit to grant it to her also! With a shrug she went into the bathroom and turned on the faucet behind the dolphin's head. Like a shower of gleaming crystal the water spouted on to the tiles. Chilled to the marrow, a hot bath would send the generous blood once more flowing in her congealed veins. The steam encircled her, with its warm, comforting breath. Her sheer nightgown fell around her feet like a discarded sheath. She sank slowly into the frothing stream. It lapped against her chin like the warm tongue of an affectionate dog. As she went through the mechanical ritual, her thoughts perused the events of the past night. It was sheer madness for Alexis to have come to her door. Disregarding entirely the danger from eavesdroppers, the action had been in atrocious taste. Had he expected her to receive him as if nothing had happened? The very idea was a degradation. It made her feel soiled, ill at ease, galled with the entire situation. He had shown no sense of delicacy whatsoever. And yet--was she perhaps being a little hard on him? After all, he was very young and very much in love? But he ought to have known better, and she would have to teach him. She stepped out of the bath and started to rub herself briskly. The exhilarating glow of her blood coursed through her comfortingly. Nevertheless, she decided to go home that very morning, instead of waiting until the following day as she had planned. After all, she was no longer in the mood to stay. Her nerves were irritable, frayed. The fine ecstasy of sacrifice entirely gone. She thrust her head deftly through the elliptical opening of a négligée. It fell in caressing folds to her feet. An underglow of turquoise chiffon showed against the sheer black, through which her skin gleamed like alabaster. With a feminine glance into the mirror, she reëntered the bedroom and ordered her breakfast over the house wire. "Yes, please, coffee, fruit and toast." Her tones were briskly business-like. Then she slipped back into bed. A few minutes later a clatter of dishes approached down the hall, followed by a knock. "Come in," called Anne languidly. The door broke open unceremoniously and Alexis burst in with the breakfast tray. "Alexis!" Completely off her guard, Anne blushed crimson. He pranced over to the table and deposited the tray upon it. "'Enfin seuls!'" His face was radiant. "Thank God, they had rehearsals and had to rush off early." "Yes, I know," said Anne. "I watched them leave from the window." He laughed excitedly. "Wouldn't they have been furious if they had guessed?" "But they did! I saw them looking up to my opened windows and whispering." He sat down upon the bed and falling upon her hands covered them with kisses. "What do we care?" Her laugh was angry. She happened to care a great deal. "Insane boy, what possessed you to bring up my breakfast? What will Jules think?" "That you have a devoted cousin!" His joyous laugh rang out again. He cupped her face in his long fingers and leaned over her hotly. "What do we care what he thinks? He is a good old soul, and well paid to keep his mouth shut. Besides, after your sudden disappearance of last night, he probably suspects the beautiful worst." Anne's face clouded. She drew away from the caressing fingers. "Yes, probably, unless he's a complete fool," she commented dryly. The tide of irritation flowed over her. Alexis sensed her frigid mood. His face became suddenly miserable. He went over to the table, picked up the tray and laid it across her knees. "Here, dearest. Drink your coffee before it gets cold. Shall I pour it for you?" "No, thank you." She tipped the pot and the brown liquid issued into the cup in a tubular stream. Its fragrance permeated the room. "Alexis?" "Yes, darling?" There was apprehension in his voice. She sipped her coffee slowly. "I've decided to go back to New York this morning." A dark flush tinted his pale cheeks. "So you are angry!" He walked over to the window and looked out upon the whitened lawns. Her eyes followed him coldly. "Oh, no, I'm not angry, only shall we say, a little out of mood?" He turned and faced her. He looked pitiful, an animal at bay. "But Anne, is that reasonable? Is that fair? Was it my fault last night? The intrusion was abominable and probably premeditated. I loathed it as much as you. I did my best to shield you, and, after all, they went away without discovering anything, didn't they?" Her lips curled mockingly. "They may not have actually caught a glimpse of me in the flesh, but their suspicions were practically confirmed." She bit savagely into a piece of toast. "So you are going to make me suffer?" He strode back from the window and threw himself into a chair beside the bed. "Not at all. Only, as I said before, I'm no longer in the mood to stay. Surely, I have the privilege of changing my mind?" Putting aside the tray, she thrust her bare arms behind her gleaming head. Her beauty was insolent. A flame of desire, of hatred, and of anguish, scorched him. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "You are cruel. I could almost hate you! Why do you want to torture me? Wasn't last night enough?" "Last night?" He raised his head and looked into her eyes. "Yes, last night. When you refused to let me in I returned to my room and threw myself upon the bed and lay there all night. I went through hell. Unsatisfied, burning for you in every fiber of my body. All the old madness, the dread, the fear, came back upon me like a nightmare, and for a week, ever since I saw you last, I had dreamed of something so different." A gleam of pity crept into Anne's eyes. She averted them quickly. "You certainly did not expect me to receive you here with those people in the house?" she said less coldly. "I could not understand your coming to me that way. It offended me, Alexis." "If you really loved me, you never would have thought of that. You would have forgotten those others as quickly as I did. The moment I left them in their rooms I thought only of you, my Anne, my beautiful one. But even then I waited for what seemed like an eternity." He flung himself upon his knees and buried his face in the coverlet. "Oh, Anne, it never occurred to me that you would feel that way. You had already given yourself to me, dearest, and we had both so looked forward to being together in this house. Our love was so hemmed in, so incomplete in New York. This was to be our refuge, where we could enjoy a security almost as wonderful as if we were married." A smile twisted Anne's lips into a downward curve. "It was very secure, wasn't it?" "Don't be cruel. Last night was only an incident. It won't occur again. Not a soul except Rosenfield knows where I am. He even forwards my mail." "I wonder how Ellen discovered us, then? Is Rosenfield bribeable?" "Of course not! Perhaps Karzimova's press agent gave it away. Any way, let's forget it. I'm sure they would never dare to come out again. You're too valuable a friend for Ellen to risk when her blood is cooled off!" His sudden astuteness amused her. "Perhaps you are right." He pursued his advantage hastily. "We could be so happy, if you would only let us. If you don't love me I simply don't want to go on living. I was literally in hell when you discovered me, I am your creature. Even my music came back only because of you. And now you want to destroy me!" The little, wry smile once more curved her lips. She laid her hand upon the rumpled head lying so close to her breast. "You demand a great deal, my Alexis," she murmured. He raised his head and met her quizzical eyes proudly. "I demand only what I supposed you were willing to give! If you don't want to stay I shall not keep you against your will. I suppose I can go back to the devil again after all. I ought to know the way!" he finished with boyish fury and despair. Anne capitulated, with amusement and despair. Taking his hand in hers, she pressed it softly. Her eyes were maternal. "What a baby you are, Alexis." "You are going to stay!" He sat down upon the bed and fell upon her with ravenous kisses. His arms closed about her. "Yes, I am going to stay," she gasped, breathless from the onslaught. She suddenly felt old and worn. Tired to the core. Would he always wear down her resistance like this? She pushed him away almost feebly. "And now, will you let me get up, please? It is too beautiful a day to remain in bed." "I don't want to go out. I want to stay here," he whispered, his rebellious lips upon her neck. A little tremor thrilled through her tired body. "No, Alexis, you don't understand. Not in this room. Not here," she pleaded against his ear. "I--I can't bear this room." Taken by surprise, he released her and regarded her in dejected astonishment. "Why, Anne, do you dislike it as much as all that? Does it really make you unhappy?" She nodded. "Why, darling, if I had only known that, I should never have put you here. Of course, it's a bit rococo, I admit, but on the other hand, I didn't feel any of the others were good enough for you." "Oh, yes, they are." She nodded with renewed vigor. "If you want me to forget last night, give me another room, Alexis. Something wholesome and simple. Free of associations with Karzimova. Is there anything in the house like that?" He looked at her with reverence. Beneath each new leaf that this woman unfolded her heart showed more undefiled. Bursting with tenderness, he touched his lips to her hand like a worshipper. "Of course there is a room like that, dearest and best. A room that will just suit you. Its walls are painted a soft yellow. The chintzes are gay, and the sun pours in at the windows all day long. With it goes a white tiled bathroom of impeccable respectability." They laughed gayly. She sat up and clapped her hands. "Just what I want. The chaste, white tiles of the great American middle classes are good enough for me. I will get up immediately and dress, and then you can help me move my things." He looked at her with passionate protest. "Must you dress?" "Of course!" She slipped a slim white leg out of the bed and pulled the sheer black negligee down over it quickly. With the swiftness of a hawk, he swooped down upon her foot and kissed it. His lips brushed across the curving instep, the adorable little hollow of the arch. Then he placed it upon his head with a flourish. "A slave passes beneath the triumphal arch, oh Queen!" "Stop it this minute! You are tickling me, monster!" She drew her foot put of the curly hair with a slight shiver, only to have him snatch it once more to his lips. "What makes your heel so pink? Do you rouge it?" He looked up at her with an impertinent grin. A twinkle in her eye, she shook her head vigorously. "Of course not." "Is it just natural for it to be so wonderful? And the little toes so pink and cunning, too?" Her polished toe-nails gleamed rosily up at him. He put on her black satin mule lingeringly. "Now give me the other foot." She held it out with a low laugh. "Same ceremony, lest it should feel slighted!" "Now you must go this minute," she stood up and gave him a little push. He adopted an injured air. "I'm going to stay and help you dress." "No you're not, my friend." Her smile was determined. "Out you go this moment." Slipping her arm in his, she led him to the door. His cheeks flushed hotly, he made a desperate attempt to embrace her, but she eluded him nimbly. "No, no, bad one! I don't intend to spend an exotic, temperamental morning. I want to go out and take a walk or something. The snow and the sunshine make me think of the Engadine." He sighed loudly, and then brightened. After all, Anne was here, and she had promised to stay until to-morrow, at least. It was hardly decent to hurry her. "Very well, we'll do anything you wish. How would you like to toboggan? There's a splendid hill right here in the grounds and I came upon an old sled in the basement the other day." "Oh, I should love that!" She clasped her hands with genuine enthusiasm. He smiled delightedly. "And then there is an old inn, I believe it was a mill once, where we might lunch or tea. It is very out of the way and quite safe." "That sounds very gay. Hurry up and go, dear. I just can't wait to toboggan. Do you suppose we'll kill ourselves?" She pushed him out into the hall and continued laughingly: "I'll leave my door open while I dress and you can play to me, will you? You know you won't have another chance to practice to-day." "Slave driver! Female Svengali!" he chuckled happily. "Trilby hastens to obey." A few moments later the exquisite wail of the violin drifted up the stairs. A contented smile upon her lips, Anne slipped hastily into her lingerie. The joy of the creator pulsed within her. The day proved a huge success. Smooth as an uncrumpled rose-leaf, it unfolded itself for the lovers without a hint of the hectic jealousy, the frenzied bickering that Anne had learned to dread. The hills were steep and possessed of a real thrill. Their happy shrieks rang out as they tumbled over each other on to the crisp, blue-shadowed snow. Followed a quiet lunch at home, ensparkled by a bubbling old red wine, which Anne had brought on purpose from her own cellar. Then a drive over glistening roads under the snow-hung trees, after which they partook of tea at the quaint, deserted old inn, where Anne extravagantly purchased the entire stock of Spanish pottery and other useless, but amusing trifles. After dinner, Alexis played and Anne accompanied him at the piano. The music rose, a frenzied crescendo. It strung their quivering senses higher and ever higher to a bliss almost unbearable, a culmination of rapture that was pain. Their souls blent in a single ecstasy. As the last quivering notes died into silence, Anne rose from the piano. "That is enough," she whispered hoarsely. "I cannot bear any more." Alexis laid his violin in the case with his usual mechanical care. He approached Anne slowly. Their glances mingled like two fires. Extending their arms in a single gesture, they melted against each other in a violent embrace. In her new chaste, little room, Anne undressed with trembling fingers. The virginal panic which renewed itself at each contact with Alexis seized upon her like a species of stage-fright. But when he came, it vanished beneath the fervor of his kisses. They shared a communion so perfect, an ecstasy so deep that it resembled death. When they recovered from the swoon, Alexis laid his head upon Anne's shoulder like a weary child. "I want to sleep with my head upon your breast. I want to lie beside you all night, just as if we were married, just as if I had the right," he sobbed. Anne soothed him, as a woman soothes the child at her breast, and presently he slept. But she lay awake beside him for a long time, staring out into the moonlit night, savoring her love, her compassion, her sacrifice. CHAPTER XX OFFERINGS TO THE GOD OF GENIUS The holiday season parted the lovers temporarily. Alexis' Christmas gift, a carved emerald, about her neck, like a symbol of slavery, Anne went to Virginia to visit her aunt. She was gone two weeks and the change did her good. An invalid, her aunt saw almost no one, and the blessed sunny monotony of the days fell like balm upon Anne's irked spirit. Wrapped in rugs, for the air was keen, she sat with the old lady in the frost-touched garden and read aloud to her from gentle, time-worn books, which they both loved. Stevenson and Thackeray, and once or twice Jane Austen. Or, if they felt particularly devilish, Bourget, or even Prévost. Well-bred salacities, as mild and unfleshly as a Watteau screen. Meanwhile, Anne's soul basked in the radiant peace. The winter had not proved an easy one, so far, and as the time approached for Alexis' concert, Anne welcomed his increased absorption. His accompanist, Paul Leon, spent the greater part of the week at the house in Long Island, leaving Saturdays and Sundays as the only free days, and the greater part of these were spent either in practicing, or in talking over with Anne the programs for his coming season. Following his recital in Carnegie Hall, at the end of January, there were to be several appearances with different orchestras, including the Philharmonic. After that the projected tour of the principal cities would come. All this required a very careful and varied choice of program. And Alexis was both painstaking and meticulous. As he was temperamental as well, it naturally followed that he often changed his mind. One day, a Tchaikowsky Concerto would obsess him to the point of rapture. The next he would develop a Beethoven complex. Some waltz of Wienawski, a serenade of Kreisler would fling him into Paradise for a week. The Serenade Melancolique rode him for days like a subconscious sorrow. He would get out of bed, and still half asleep, take out his violin and play it until exhaustion overcame him. "It is the song of a fallen angel," he cried one night, tears falling down his working face. "The agony of lost glory, the utter hopelessness are all there." Her own eyes overflowing, Anne pillowed his head on her shoulder, and murmured comfort until he fell into a sorrowful slumber. Frequently she lay awake beside him for hours. These days filled with a continuous wave of sound, left her storm-tossed and weary. Fragments of concertos thundered through her tired brain. Mingled with a sonata, the piercing sweetness of a Berçeuse; the monotonous, but beautiful precision of an exercise, until her head hummed like the inside of a seashell, and her spirit felt as void. She envied Alexis his ability to throw off a mood at will. To forget the labors of the day in the transports of the night. And yet it was this very quality which she dreaded. After hours of planning programs and listening to excerpts from problematical choices, she was expected to play the grande amoureuse, to respond with ardor to Alexis' quenchless thirst. If Anne's embraces were tepid, her smile a little absent, her echoing and aching head was heaped with reproaches. She did not love him any more. She never had loved him. She was fickle as the new moon, and as cold. She was thinking of marrying some one else. Yes, yes, that must be it. Who was it? That snobbish fool of a Gerald Boynton, who thought he could play the piano? (The cheek of these amateurs was amusing.) Or that Marchese, of whom Ellen was constantly hinting? Why didn't she tell him and put him out of his agony immediately? She knew he was not able to marry her, himself. He was tied hand and foot to a fond fool, who would not give him his freedom. Yes, but he would take it just the same, this precious freedom, if it tore Claire into little pieces, to wrest it from her! And so on, sometimes for an hour. Until Anne's nerves shrieked for peace, and her tongue was numb from reiterated denials. Until exhausted, Alexis would cease as suddenly as he had begun, and laying his head upon her knees, beg for the forgiveness which was so ungrudgingly granted. The humility of his joy always aroused Anne's compassion. Heavy with fatigue, sorrowful for his shame, she would allow Alexis to have his way. It was not strange that Anne welcomed the peace of her aunt's Southern household, and basked wistfully within its sunny garden. And yet her memories, of course, were not all irksome. There had been hours of splendid companionship, moments of exquisite communion, and it was upon these that her thoughts preferred to dwell. Alexis absent was so much more comfortable than in the flesh. Safe from his fatiguing intensity, Anne wondered how she ever could have taken his moods so seriously. And his letters were so pathetic. Incoherent, ridiculously young, they poured forth an incense of supplication that was lyrical and even beautiful. Almost biblically flowery, Anne called them her 'Songs of Alexis,' and laughed softly over their pages. However, the situation was becoming more difficult to handle every day. Alexis' passion, increased by possession, tantalized by infrequent and stolen meetings, had become an obsession both rapturous and tragic. The thought that he had no claim upon Anne beyond that of tenderness, tortured him. Although he was careful not to mention it to her as a definite fact, Anne felt that he was doing all in his power to bring about an annulment of his marriage to Claire, and she secretly hoped that he would be unsuccessful. At his vague hints, she always laughed and told him she was not a marrying woman. That if he wanted a wife, he must look elsewhere. But she could see that it made almost no impression upon him at all. He desired their union so ardently himself that it was impossible for him to believe that Anne could refuse to marry him, once he were free. He even went so far as to depict their future life in terms both ecstatic and impractical. A patient smile upon her lips, Anne would shudder inwardly. She had neither the desire nor the intention of becoming Alexis' wife. There were almost ten years between their ages and she could imagine nothing more tragic, nor more difficult, than to be the elderly wife of a young genius. It would take endless courage to live up to his exactions, to respond to his demand. She would have to be eternally beautiful, a very river of sympathy and understanding, upon whose bosom he could float in perfect serenity and peace. In other words, mother as well as companion, not to mention accompanist, fellow traveler, and perfect hostess. If she were sufficiently unfortunate to continue to love him, there would be scores of other women to combat, especially after the first glamour had worn off, and he had commenced to realize the difference in their ages. Even now, when he was supposedly in retirement, he received countless letters from hysterical women and girls, endless demands for interviews and photographs, which kept his newly-acquired secretary occupied most of the day. No, marriage with Alexis would not only be unspeakably wearing, but very probably spell tragedy for them both. Meanwhile, there were precious moments to be garnered. With renewed serenity and rested nerves, she bade farewell to the gentle little aunt, who would probably have succumbed if she had suspected to what Anne was returning. Reluctantly, but with suppressed excitement, Anne wended her way northwards. There were only ten days left before the first recital, and she found Alexis more engrossed in his work than ever. Her little absence had in some measure restored his former independence. Almost automatically, the situation adjusted itself. They saw less and less of each other, meeting sometimes for lunch, sometimes for tea at a quiet restaurant. Anne made only one trip to Long Island. She found Alexis absent-minded, more erratic than ever. His eyes, brilliantly hard, seemed to be focussed entirely upon the future. His manner toward herself was less apologetic, more assured. Anne took up her customary life with indifference. Seeing as little as possible of Ellen and her friends, she treated the former with a cold cordiality which if not an actual declaration of war, constituted a challenge. Gerald Boynton frequented the house as usual, however. A tame cat is a great convenience to a woman like Anne. A necessary escort, he was at her beck and call at all moments, to secure theater tickets, and even to run errands. Caldenas came to see her once or twice, and Anne found herself liking him well enough to promise to sit for her portrait. But all this was merely artificial, a stuffing of cotton into the void of time. Weary of New York as never before, Anne longed for her villa in Florence, her sun-baked terrace, the pungent smell of the black earth awakening in anticipation of spring. Nothing but Alexis and his need could have kept her in New York another day. Later, when the New York concerts would be over, and Alexis had gone on tour, she, too, would flit. Then he could follow her if he desired, and they might meet somewhere on the Continent. But not in Florence. No, not there, where her memories were all of Vittorio. She could not receive Alexis within a stone's throw of Vittorio's mother, that beautiful old lady, who had so often joined her pleas to his. Indeed, she could not find it in her heart to return to Florence at all, if it were not that she was so sure that Vittorio would be in Sicily. Ah, Vittorio! There was a man, if you please! A Grand Seigneur, and yet a worker. One of the best. Where was he now? Still in Mexico digging up Aztec relics, or had the ocean already separated them? Arrived here, Anne would sigh and push the rebellious thought back into her teeming subconscious, much as a careless housemaid sweeps undesirables beneath the bed. By her own action, she had closed the door between Vittorio and all of his forever. Was she not above peeking through the keyhole? She fixed her eyes resolutely upon the actualities of the present. CHAPTER XXI TRIUMPH Carnegie Hall gaped before Anne's eyes, like the yawning jaws of some prehistoric monster. Knees quaking beneath her, she seated herself in the front of the box and motioned to her two companions to do likewise. The crimson of excitement on her cheeks, emphasizing her creamy pallor, she rose from her sheath of almond-green velvet like a flame-crowned flower upon its stem. A cluster of gardenias fastened upon one shoulder, nestled against the warmer tints of her flesh. "Anne, confess that you are nervous as the devil," giggled Gerald, slipping into a seat behind her. "You look more like an American beauty than the gardenias you affect of late." He glanced jealously at the flowers she was wearing. Her flush deepened. Gardenias were Alexis' favorite flower and he sent them to her daily. If she failed to wear them he was heart-broken. "It is natural for Madame to be nervous to-night." Caldenas interposed his plump person soothingly. "Mr. Petrovskey is her friend, is he not? And in a sense her protégé. It is only human to be a little excited now." Anne forced a grateful smile. But his reminder had increased her apprehension to the point of terror. As she looked over the packed house she shuddered involuntarily. Before just such an audience as this had Alexis failed, an eager, anticipatory audience, filling every seat, overflowing into the foyer, into a standing mob. Only then it had been as soloist with the Philharmonic. To-night he was alone, unsupported except by his accompanist. And he had chosen to begin his recital with the very concerto upon which he had broken down, that haunting, melodious, most sensuous of concertos by Lalo, known as the Spanish. True, he had played it magnificently before her many times in the last few weeks. But she had always recoiled with instinctive superstition as his audacity in repeating it upon his very first reappearance before the public. Alexis had laughed at her fear scornfully. Without the concerto, his triumph would be only half a triumph, an admission of weakness, both to himself and to the public, and a very poor tribute to Anne who had given him back to the world. As she recalled these words, she clenched her icy hands. A thrill of exultation coursed through her stage-fright. Yes, she was giving Alexis Petrovskey back to the world. Would the gift prove worthy? But meanwhile there was a heightened stir in the audience; a rising murmur as of new-born and rushing wind in a dense forest. The next moment, volcanic applause shook the house. Applause full of enthusiasm and tribute, containing an undercurrent of sympathy which filled Anne's eyes with a mist of tears. Alexis and his accompanist had come on to the stage, and the American public was evincing not only its love of art, but its unconquerable tenderness of heart. Through the mist of tears, Anne caught the brilliant gleam of Alexis' eyes, as they eagerly sought her own. Now he was bowing to the vociferous house. Looking swiftly towards Anne's box, he repeated his bow. The personal intent was unmistakable. As he turned to take the key from Paul Leon, a veritable battalion of opera-glasses was leveled upon Anne and her companions. Faintness dragged her momentarily beneath the waves of consciousness. Her soul shrank within her. The picture of their entire intimacy from the first meeting in the hut to the present moment of exquisite apprehension flashed before her like a vision of the drowning. When she came to, the house lay silent beneath the first notes of the concerto. All Anne's fear had been for nothing. Alexis was playing as she had never heard him play before. The golden notes lingered upon the air, round with substance, light as a sunbeam dancing upon the wall. They soared toward the sky like iridescent birds, then swooped earthwards with the beat of celestial wings. Motionless, the life concentrated in his eyes and the rhythm of his bow, his chin caressing his violin as if it were a human thing, Alexis played with all the fire, the eloquence of a modern Orpheus waiting at the gates of Hades. His features slightly haggard from emotion and over-work, were Greek. The slim body as full of grace as the faun of Praxiteles. The drooping lids seemed to conceal a very fury of genius and inspiration. The end of the first movement was met with clamorous applause. Staid old Carnegie Hall pulled its one foot out of the grave and donned the enthusiasm of youth. Nerves relaxed in happy abandon, Anne leaned back in her chair. A flood of joyous relief swept over her from head to foot. Yes, it had not been in vain. Alexis was truly great. She felt herself a creator. At last there was a reason for her having been born. As Alexis flung himself into the next movement, she awakened to the house about her. She glanced at the nearest boxes and had a glimpse of Ellen and Olive, surrounded by black coats and gleaming shirt-fronts. Meeting Ellen's eyes, she nodded gayly, then swept her opera-glasses across the house. A familiar face, surmounting a large and unwieldy body, caught her glance. It was Mme. Petrovskey. Although they had only met once, Anne would never forget that bland, doll-like countenance, with its cruelly undoll-like eyes. With an imperceptible shudder, she dropped her glasses into her lap. Mme. Petrovskey was unaccompanied by Claire. Was the girl ill? Or was it her own, Anne's, presence which had kept her away? A familiar sensation of guilt overwhelmed her. She felt like a child-murderer, a trampler upon flowers. She had helped to ruin Claire's life. An involuntary instrument of torture, the gods had manipulated her to the accompaniment of ironic laughter. The useless, the senseless tragedy of it all! If Alexis had only loved Claire, how different it would have been for them all. And yet would she, Anne, change it if she could? Would she be willing to relinquish into Claire's feeble fingers the rapturous moments of the last few months, this present triumph? She believed she would. But who knows, least of all himself, what tenacious devil of jealousy and lust may not be lurking within his own subconscious fastness? Leveling inscrutable eyes upon Mme. Petrovskey, she caught a return flash from the babyish blue orbs. They both bowed constrainedly. From her refuge in the back row, Claire grasped Dr. Elliott's arm. Her gaze, never long withdrawn from Anne's box, had intercepted the bow between the two women on opposite sides of the house. Her cheeks, hitherto pale, flamed crimson. The man beside her cursed inwardly. As he had feared, the whole thing was proving too much for the poor child. He was glad that he had insisted upon accompanying her. It would have been abominable to have permitted her to come alone. She ought not to be here as it was. The glamour of Petrovskey's music was sufficient to unnerve her, let alone his triumph. As the magic notes floated out upon the air in a very fury of perfection, Claire's companion wondered no longer at the hold that the player had obtained over her. He was just the sort of man that a woman would fall for. And having fallen, remain prostrate to be trampled upon at his will. And the creature had charm (damned if he hadn't) a sort of melancholy charm--the charm that conceals discrepancies as a tropical vine flowers about a rotten stump. No, he did not blame Claire for being infatuated with the fellow. Settling back into his seat, he sighed resignedly. The concerto ended upon a dramatic silence. It seemed as if the whole world were holding its breath. Then a storm of applause broke out. With a shock, shattering as thunder, rhythmic as the roll of gigantic drums, Alexis was recalled over and over again. Upon one of his returns a woman in the front row threw her bunch of violets on to the stage. They dropped at Alexis' feet. He stooped, and picking them up, pressed them to his lips. The applause rose to a deafening crescendo. Cries of "bravo" punctuated the clamor shrilly. With a smile, Alexis placed the violets upon the piano, where he characteristically forgot them. As Alexis made his last exit before the intermission, Dr. Elliott turned towards Claire. About to express enthusiastic, if unwilling praise of the performance, he stopped short at sight of her face. The small features were convulsed into a mask of agony. She was weeping softly, weakly, as if her very blood were seeping out with her tears. "You must let me take you home at once," he exclaimed under the general uproar. Without a protest she followed him out into the aisle, "Yes," she whispered, "I didn't think that I would disgrace myself like this. I suppose I ought to have taken your advice and not come. But oh, I wanted to so much. I was so afraid for him, you know. I had a silly feeling that my love might help him, even if he didn't care or know that I was there!" She sobbed beneath her breath. "But I see he didn't need me after all," she added, as they fought their way out into the lobby. Anne's impressions of the intermission were hazy. Barely conscious of the inroad of visitors upon her box, she answered their sallies with the mechanical ease of long habit. To Ellen's repeated pleas that she should come down to MacDougal Alley and play poker after the concert, she was amiably curt. She had a headache. Ellen knew she detested cards. If Ellen suspected a reason for Anne's refusal, she gave no hint. But her eyes rested upon the emerald pendant maliciously. She is going to meet him afterwards, she mused. The last half of the program met with as vociferous an approval. The Préludium and Allegro of Pugnani, a serenade by Kreisler, some of Brahm's Hungarian Dances were played as only a few can play them. A sonata of Schumann breathed exquisite tears. After the concert was over, there was a clamor for encores. Pale, but exultant, Alexis was generous, and gave of his best. Laughing, dancing tunes, that sent everybody home happy. As the last notes of a Wienawski waltz died away, he left the stage for the last time and the audience rose en masse and made for the exit. A chattering, excited throng, Anne regarded it through grateful tears. "Well, shall we go? Or do you intend to spend all night in the sanctuary?" Gerald held out Anne's chinchilla cape with a mocking glance. "Did the little tin god perform satisfactorily, or was she disappointed?" She slipped into her cape with a nonchalant air. "The little tin god is solid gold all the way through, I'm inclined to believe. But as he has descended from the altar, we might as well move along." "If you are not coming to MacDougal Alley, may I not see you home, Madame?" Caldenas bowed like a dignified cherub. "Oh, no, thank you, Caldenas, please don't trouble. After music like this I prefer to be alone. I'm sure you understand?" She stepped to the railing and picked up her gloves and her opera glasses. As she did so, her eyes swept absently over the dispersing crowd and lighted upon a tall man almost directly beneath her. Something familiar about the cut of his head, the slope of his broad shoulders, penetrated her to the core. She leaned over the railing in sudden apprehension. As if in response, the man turned and their glances flamed to a focus. With a confusion at once sickening and sweet, Anne found herself looking into the eyes of Vittorio Torrigiani. For a second, she felt as if all the blood in her body had seeped to her heart. Then it poured back in a crimson stream from her feet to the roots of her hair. An instinctive desire for flight overcame her. She turned and made for the back of the box, where Gerald was patiently waiting. Vittorio, how ghastly! How could she ever face him? And yet after that flaming interchange of glances, how could she let him go? She returned to the railing and called after the retreating figure softly. From the back of the box Gerald watched her in amazement. "Vittorio?" "Anne!" A moment later and he stood within the box. He took her icy fingers in his and pressed them to his lips. "I had not intended to have you see me," he said quietly. "Please don't think that I meant to intrude, cara. Only as I was passing by Carnegie Hall I saw the announcement of the concert. I couldn't resist coming in, and perhaps catching a farewell glimpse of you." "A farewell glimpse?" Her voice faltered. He looked down at her longingly. "Yes, I am sailing for Sicily in the morning." "So soon! Without even letting me know! How long have you been in New York?" "I arrived from Mexico this morning. I didn't think you would want to see me, cara. That is why I didn't let you know. Besides--there are some things a man cannot bear," he added beneath his breath so that Gerald wouldn't hear. "Vittorio!" Her whisper was broken. "I must see you before you go." His downcast face suddenly became eager. "May I go home with you now, then?" The crimson stain filtered back into her pale cheeks. "No, Vittorio. I'm afraid not. I--shall not be free," she finished with a little agonized rush. The new radiance drained from his face as suddenly as it had come. "Then we shall have to wait for another trip. Until you come to Florence perhaps?" Repressed suffering harshened his voice. Humiliated to the point of anguish, she was about to acquiesce, when she encountered his tragic eyes. "Why can't you drive home with me? We will take a turn about the park and have a little talk. I--I have a message for your mother." His features relaxed a trifle. "Not the message she is hoping for, I fear," he sighed. In the corridor behind the box he greeted Gerald, who had retired there with unusual tact. "I warn you, I'm eloping with the Marchese," laughed Anne nervously. "He is sailing in the morning and it is our only chance for a chat. We're going for a turn around the park. Isn't it devilish of us?" "Devilish selfish," Gerald's laugh rang forced. He followed them out into the lobby with sulky dignity. As they threaded their way through the dwindling crowd upon the sidewalk, Anne met the imperturbable stare of a pair of China-blue eyes. A basilisk stare that fastened itself upon them as she and Vittorio entered her motor and drove away. CHAPTER XXII ANTI-CLIMAX After Anne dropped Vittorio at his hotel blankness fell upon her; the limitless blankness of a solitary planet whirling in space. A loneliness devastating as the fear of death. What a strange, uncompanioned thing the soul was. How horribly alone. How impossible for it to merge with another. Not a weeping woman, Anne was conscious of an intolerable ache in her throat, an intolerable emptiness in the heart. She and Vittorio had parted once again, and this time it had hurt, as if her very flesh had been riven apart. And yet, so alone is the soul, so dumb in its self-expression, that the short drive had appeared neither tragic nor momentous. Merely unfruitful and incomplete. A malaise had lain upon them from the very beginning. A creeping paralysis had bound their tongues to trivialities, their souls to silence and constraint. And yet Anne felt as if neither of them would ever forget this night. Nor how beautiful the park had looked, like a scene in a Russian opera, with the snow blossoming upon the trees like gigantic flowers. Skyscrapers, luminous against the heavens, impregnable castles of supermen, had flung a challenge into space. Their diamond-studded windows were more brilliant than the stars. But inside the car it had been warm, even cozy. Vittorio's shoulder had brushed against hers. His profile only half visible, had leaned towards her. The scent of his cigarettes still lingered upon the air with a hint of comfort. She stretched out her hand and touched the place where he had sat. It was still warm. Some of his vitality remained as if to console her. He had actually sat there a few moments ago in the flesh. And now there was only a vague hint of warmth,--and emptiness. How could a thing be one moment, and yet not only vanish the next, but even seem as if it had never existed? Was it possible that nothing was real, after all? How strange a thing is the fluidity of time. The past flowed into the present. The present welled into the future, and swept onwards like a mighty river, towards the ocean of eternity, whence came its source. Encircling the globe in its rushing current, it carried one upon its bosom, helpless but protesting from the vast gray sea of birth to the vast gray sea of death, which in the end are one and the same. What a mystery it all was, a problem. Heavy with weariness, Anne's smile showed drearily from beneath a passing arc light. Protest, rebellion? What was the use of either, if one were only a leaf upon the swirl of heavy waters? To stay the flow for the fraction of a second was an impossibility denied even to the gods. Things were like that. A little while ago she and Vittorio had sat here, side by side, and uttered trivialities. The moment was gone forever and he with it. Carried upon it as if by a substance more powerful than flesh and blood. And now that he was no longer there, that he no longer existed In time, it seemed, she could think of a thousand things that they might have said to each other. As it was, she scarcely remembered that they had exchanged more than a few phrases. Yet of course that could have been hardly possible. She recalled asking him how he had enjoyed his stay in Mexico, and scarcely listening for the reply. She had a vague impression that he had found it interesting. He had spoken at some length about a friend of his, a Spaniard, whose diggings he had visited near Mexico City, where the remains of an ancient civilization, entirely concealed by lava, were in the process of discovery. Bodies had been found, almost perfectly preserved in the positions in which the fiery death had caught them. The very utensils in their hands were unbroken. Some of the bodies were being placed in glass cases, to be exhibited in the Museum in Mexico City. Anne had laughed foolishly at this point, making some banal remark about how embarrassing it must have been for the poor creatures, as if one were caught with one's hair in curl-papers. But her ridiculous laughter had helped, if only momentarily, to break through the crust of constraint which lay upon them both like the coating of lava upon the little city he was telling her of. Vittorio had turned to her abruptly, and asked if she were happy. The tremor in his voice had startled her. "Is any one ever happy?" she had evaded. But he had insisted upon knowing the truth. "For God's sake, tell me Anne. It can't hurt me half as much as to feel that you are suffering or have made a frightful mistake. I don't think I could quite bear that!" "I suppose I am happy," her reply had been somewhat uncertain. "I didn't expect to be happy, you know." But her answer had not pleased him. Perhaps he had considered it both priggish and insincere. For his voice was incredulous and slightly mocking as he had proceeded. "Oh, Anne, admit it. You are madly in love with him? What woman wouldn't be? He is a genius. This evening proved that if nothing else. As I listened to him, chills coursed up my spine. Chills of admiration, and yes, I might as well own up to it, chills of hatred and of jealousy. I am a man, and I suffered. He is too beautiful, Anne. He reminds me of a small statuette I once dug up near Messina, and which was since destroyed in the earthquake. Of course you love him, Anne. It goes without saying. And I prefer to have you honest about it." His tone had both distressed and annoyed her. Why did men always take things for granted? Even Vittorio, who had known her for the last ten years could not seem to understand the many-faceted urge which impelled her actions. "But Vittorio, I don't think I do love him," she had remonstrated patiently. "That is, I'm not in love with him. He is really more like a child than a man in some ways. A fascinating, precocious child, of course, but sometimes a very naughty one!" And then she was sorry to have admitted so much, for she sensed that her words had resounded upon Vittorio's heart like a blow. "Not that he's not good to me," she hastened to add, impelled by pride and pity. "A bit difficult at times, because he knows that he cannot make me his wife. But I don't really mind. For I'm so sorry for him." The rest of the drive had proceeded in stark silence, punctuated at intervals by those scattered inanities by which one strives to cover the nakedness of the soul. As he sat beside her to-night, Anne surmised the torture that Vittorio had undergone. Her knowledge of his character was founded upon years of comradeship. A proud man, it must have been sheer agony for him to realize her anomalous position. To feel that she had been content to take second best when he had offered her his all so many times and been rejected. And yet although it was inevitable that he should suffer, not once had he made her feel any lessening of his respect, or even of his love. He had understood so much better than most men the impulse of pity that lay back of her surrender. He had seemed to comprehend, too, the temporal quality of it all. Anne knew that if she would leave Alexis and go to Vittorio some day he would not only consider her as unsmirched as before, but possibly better for the experience. He was unique among men in that he realized the sacrificial quality of her action. The only thing that he would not forgive would be hypocrisy. Of that she was aware, to her despair. For it was this very thing that had severed them like a sword when they parted. Vittorio believed that out of some motive of pity, and possibly of modesty, Anne was deceiving him about her feeling for Alexis. She knew he believed this and yet she was as powerless to undeceive him as she was to take up the imaginary sword that lay between them and thrust it into her living breast. Oh, why had she not obeyed her instinct for flight, and avoided this perilous encounter? What a tragedy of errors they had all drifted into. What a farce it was. A trick of the ironical gods who dig colossal fingers into one's ribs and expect one to laugh like a babe being tickled. Why had Vittorio returned to-night of all nights? To-night when she had been riding upon the pinnacle? Why had their eyes encountered in that shattering glance, which had flung her once more into the abyss of doubt and fear? She had felt so exultant in Alexis' triumph. So eager to pour renewed radiance upon his victory and his fatigue. And now the desire had completely departed, sucked into the mud of anti-climax. But this mood was not only foolish, but dangerous. To-night was big with significance. She must retain the glamor at all costs. To-night belonged to Alexis. It was his triumph and re-entry into his birthright. Upon it, his genius had emerged, new-born and greater than ever before, as if in temporary recoil it had acquired impetus. Yes, to-night was Alexis' and hers, for was it not her love that had re-created him? Was not his inspiration begotten of their passion as truly as if it had been a child of flesh and blood? No, Alexis must never suspect the still-born quality of her joy. Nor that she was relying upon his living blaze to rekindle her own flame. To-night had a special significance too, in the fact that she was permitting him to come to her in her own house for the first time since they had become lovers. Fear that the servants, those ancient slave-drivers of convention, might talk, had hitherto rendered her cautious. But this was a special occasion for which she had decided to break all rules. It would have been intolerable not to have rejoiced together to-night. And sacrilege to have done so in public. Even now she had been discreet and arranged for most of her household to be out. Regina alone, had prepared the little supper, which was to be served before the fire in the upstairs sitting-room. Regina, who would have returned from the concert herself, and who had probably shed tears of joy over Alexis' triumph. Dear old Regina of the keen eyes and wise heart, who, suspecting all, had never let fall a hint or a reproach. Poor Regina, who had not permitted herself to speak of the Marchese since his departure, and whose plucky spirit was, as Anne knew, heavy with nostalgia for Florence and the beloved villa. CHAPTER XXIII DISSONANCE The car had turned an abrupt corner and stopped before the house. Regina opened the door, a metamorphosed Regina clad in concert regalia, very respectable and solid. Upon her face an expression of exaltation was overlaid by one of anxiety. Anne attributed the exaltation to the concert. Regina had all the Latin's adoration for music. But the anxiety was somewhat puzzling. "Has Mr. Petrovskey arrived?" Regina nodded. The black brows knitted themselves above troubled eyes. "He awaits in the sitting-room, Signora." Something was very much the matter. Had Alexis been snubbing the poor old dear? Anne assumed a gay nonchalance. "Well, was it not a concert after your own heart, Regina? A triumph and a marvel?" The woman raised knotted hands to heaven. "He is an angel, Signora! Inspired by the Madonna and all the saints. He could melt the heart of the devil himself, not to speak of poor old Regina!" Her face fell suddenly. "After a trionfo like that, he should be gay as the bird. But he is not, Signora mia. He walk up the stairs with a face like one black cloud. He never say a word to poor Regina!" "He is tired. You must excuse him. He is usually so nice to you, you know." "Ah, si, si!" Anne proceeded slowly up the stairs. So she would have to cope with a mood! Ennui surged over her. In that moment she understood fully the weary distaste of a man who has to deal with a hysterical woman. Oh, why was Alexis so temperamental? She shrugged, and turning the knob of the sitting room door, entered. Apparently unoccupied, the only light came from the cheerful fire which chuckling upon the hearth like a contented hen, lent an amber glow to the paneled walls where Sargent's portrait of Anne's mother smiled gently in its antiquated garb. Anne pressed her finger on the electric button by the door. A golden stream flooded the shadowy corners. Upon a sofa at the extreme end of the room lay Alexis. At her approach, he drew an audible, almost sobbing breath, and sat up and faced her. The thick hair rumpled into a comb over knotted brows, his eyes were somber. "Where have you been? I thought you would never come!" He walked swiftly towards her. As Anne heard the stricken note in his voice, her heart melted into a pool of tears. She ran forward and encircled him with her arms, as one would a sorrowful child. "I didn't think you would be here so soon," she exclaimed contritely. "I imagined there would be a swarm of people waiting to fall upon you with congratulations. Was I wrong?" He trembled beneath her hold. She released him with a weary little sigh. Her doubt had evidently ruffled his vanity. "Of course there was a crowd. But I only spoke to a few personal friends, and one or two reporters. Rosenfield told the rest I was too exhausted to speak to them, which, was a lie, God knows, for I never felt less tired in all my life. You see, I was thinking of you and this meeting." He laughed loudly. She ignored his angry eyes with a feeling of guilt. "But Alexis, what a triumph! How proud you have made me!" She caressed his shoulders with gentle hands. He flung himself from her hold. "Then why, if you are so proud and happy, have you kept me waiting while you go motoring with another man?" A milk-white pallor overspread Anne's cheeks. She flung off her coat and seated herself before the fire. "So that is what is the matter?" In the glow of the flames her hair encircled her face like a brazen nimbus. Alabaster skin shone luminous against the opaque white of the gardenias upon her shoulder. Alexis' gaze bit into her beauty angrily. "Isn't that enough? Isn't it enough that you should leave me to-night for another man? To-night which was mine by right? Desert me for a stranger at the very doors of Carnegie Hall?" The clenched hands became livid. "But Alexis, give me a chance to explain. It was all an accident. Entirely unpremeditated." "An accident! I shouldn't call it exactly that! Who was this man with whom a tête-à-tête was so necessary that you couldn't wait until to-morrow?" "It was the Marchese Torrigiani, since you ask. I would have told you before if your torrential abuse had permitted." She replied quietly. "But I thought he was in Italy!" "So he will be in another week. He is sailing to-morrow." The regret in her tone angered Alexis. "But what is he doing in New York again? Or has he been here all the time?" He inquired with quick suspicion. "I am not in the habit of lying, Alexis." Her composure frightened him. He threw out his arms in a beseeching gesture. "Have pity on me, Anne. I don't mean to hurt you. But I'm so unhappy!" The cold light died out of her eyes. "There's nothing to be so miserable about, Alexis. Torrigiani has been in Mexico all this time. He merely stopped on his way back to Italy. He hadn't even let me know that he was here. He happened to be passing by Carnegie Hall to-night and saw the notices of your concert. Our meeting was entirely accidental, and nothing to torture yourself about. As it seemed to be our only chance for a talk, I drove him around the park and left him at his hotel." He flung himself at her feet in his customary gesture of penitence. "Oh, Anne, forgive me if I seem cruel and suspicious. But are you in love with this man?" She laid her hand on the tumbled fair hair. "No, dear, of course not. But I do care for and respect him almost more than any one I know. No one, not even you could ever come between us, and I don't want you to try." He looked at her with tragedy-ridden eyes. "I have a terrible premonition that you are going to marry Torrigiani some time, and I am ready to kill him when I think of it." "Don't commit any murders as yet!" Her laugh sounded forced. "I am not going to marry him or any other man, yourself included!" He rose to his feet with the cry of a wounded animal. "You do love him. You cannot hide it from me any longer, Anne. As soon as I leave New York you are going to Italy to meet him. Deny it if you can!" "Of course I'm going to Italy, Alexis. There could be nothing to keep me here after you go. I am homesick for Florence and my garden. But I'm not going there to meet Vittorio." "Yes, you are. And you are afraid to tell me for fear my music will suffer. But it won't. Nothing can ever take it from me now. Least of all a woman's whim!" A grim smile sketched itself upon Anne's lips. Alexis' temper she had borne with before. But his ingratitude was new, and wounded. "If I'm not necessary to you, perhaps it is just as well that we are separating so soon!" "So I was right, after all!" he exclaimed with a certain tragic satisfaction. She determined to punish him. "Perhaps, who knows? Life with Vittorio would at least be peaceful. He is neither temperamental nor a genius. Just a mere man who believes in me. His bruised feelings wouldn't have to be perpetually coddled!" "If that is the way you feel about me, Anne, I had better go!" Beads of moisture about his temples, Alexis made for the door. She followed him, and drew him back into the room. "Don't be silly, dearest. You know I don't want you to go!" He wheeled in her arms, and kissed her with tragic passion. His face was wet with tears. "Oh, Anne, if I should lose you!" "You won't, poor dear, you won't!" she cried brokenly. She drew him down on to the chaise-longue beside her. He laid his head upon her shoulder. "Torrigiani will not be in Florence," she explained, leaning her cheek against the thick, soft hair. "He expects to go direct to Sicily. If he were to be there I should not want to go. It would be too humiliating." "Does he know? Have you told him about us?" There was a throb of incredulous joy in Alexis' voice. "Yes." Her head drooped beneath the crimson stain that surged up to her forehead. "Oh, Anne, can you ever forgive me?" "Yes, dear. Only don't try me too often. Just take me for granted sometimes." "Oh, I mean to, God knows. Only I'm so afraid of losing you. There are so many men in your life. And I am tied." She laid commanding fingers upon his lips. "That subject is taboo! Don't you dare bring it up again! But tell me how did you know about Torrigiani!" she inquired with a certain curiosity. Had the probing blue orbs belonged to Mme. Petrovskey after all? "My mother told me," he replied simply. "She saw you go out together. She came behind to see me afterward. However, I scarcely believed her. I thought she must have mistaken some one else for you. She had only seen you once, you know. But when I arrived, and you hadn't come, I suddenly knew it was all true. I wanted to strangle poor old Regina and her congratulations. That was almost an hour ago. I was just thinking of going when you came." She pressed his head against her slim bosom. "Poor darling, it must have been awful. But you didn't suppose I could forget that I had invited you to supper to-night of all nights?" "I'm a fool, I realize it. But I'm so mad about you, I'm really not sane," he whispered, his lips against the satin of her throat. "You're an angel to put up with me." She laughed and put him aside. Springing to her feet she gave the bell-rope a vigorous pull. "Nonsense! No angel could possibly be as hungry as I am at present. Let us see what Regina can do for us." But the appetite was rather a pretense on both sides. They were too excited to eat. With a discreet smile, Regina wheeled in the supper on a tea wagon, and insisted upon leaving them immediately, in spite of Alexis' efforts to make up for his former unamiability. "The Signorino must eat. Even music must die on the empty stomach." There were oysters on the half-shell, cold duck and a varicolored salad that rivaled a Neapolitan sunset. Alexis opened the champagne himself. "It was awfully banal to have it," laughed Anne. "But we simply had to to-night, you know." She raised her glass and smiled at him, over its miniature golden cauldron. "To Alexis Petrovskey and his triumph!" "To the power behind the throne," he countered. The seething wine whipped their spirits. Between parted lips, their teeth gleamed like crescent moons. "Oh, Alexis, you don't know what to-night has meant to me. Your success was as intoxicating as a personal triumph." "It was one, wasn't it? Since I owe every bit of it to you?" His eyes were full of worship. "Don't say that. The power was within yourself. I merely set it in motion again. I fully believe it would have returned to you eventually." "I'm not so sure of that. I was pretty nearly done for, when you retrieved me. How can I ever thank you enough?" He got up from the table, and running around to her side, threw his arms about her shoulders. She tossed back her head and their lips met. "Don't think of that now," she murmured, as he dropped to his knees beside her. Conscious of the pathetic weariness in her voice, an icy band tightened about his heart. He must be more careful, or he would lose her entirely. Ah, how clumsy he had been! What a fool to let her slip through his fingers in that mad fashion. Like a woman who fears to lose her lover, he must exert all his charm, every vestige of personality he possessed in order to retain her. The band tightening about his heart, he smiled up at her with pathetic blandishment. "You are so beautiful to-night in your gown of palest green," he whispered. "Like Venus rising from the waves. I adore you more every minute." She laughed softly in her throat. "You are an incorrigible baby, Alexis. Come, get up and eat a little more supper, or Regina will be disappointed." "I will, if I can put my chair next to yours." "Of course, foolish one!" She watched with a tender, rather tired little smile, while he moved his chair from across the table. "Tell me, were you frightened to-night?" He laughed happily. "Not for a moment. It seemed as if I had the confidence of a thousand devils!" "That is more than I can say for myself. I had an awful attack of stage-fright. My knees rattled beneath me!" "You do care, don't you?" His voice was exultant. "Very much more than you will ever guess, Alexis!" "Darling!" He squeezed her hand ecstatically. "When you play at the Philharmonic on Friday I'll not be afraid at all." He looked at her tenderly. "Why should you be if I'm not, sweetheart? You mustn't make yourself ill over me. You've heard me play the Brahm's Concerto many times, and you know that it is mine, or rather that I am its!" They laughed at his comical way of putting it. "I intend to play it in Boston next week, too," he continued. "How I loathe these trips that take me away from you! When the ocean separates us I shall be wild. But you will join me as soon as you can on the Continent? If you don't want me to come to Florence we can meet in Venice, perhaps. I have set my heart on Venice. Think of us in a palazzo over the pole-shadowed waters. We will wind in and out of the tiny canals, in a gondola beneath a golden moon, and I will play to you." "You would take all the trade from the Grand Canal, and we should be solitary for about half a second!" They laughed. "Come, is it a bargain?" "Of course," she was a little breathless. "And in the mornings we can bathe at the Lido." "The mornings! They can take care of themselves! It is the nights, the glorious, moon-ridden nights that I am thinking of. I will hold you in my arms on a dim, star-lit balcony, while the gondolas swish by below and the water laps against the base of our walls." "And tourists rend the heavens with raucous laughter!" He swept her into his arms impetuously. "Anne, let me stay to-night. Don't send me back to Gramercy Park alone." His heart-beats against her cheek, she demurred faintly. "Impossible, darling. You must go. Indeed, you ought to be going now. The servants may return at any moment." "And what difference does that make? Pray, do they invade your sitting room at this hour of the night?" "No--but Regina----" "Can put you to bed, as usual. I shall have gone, you see. But I can come back. There are such things as latch-keys, aren't there?" "If you should be caught!" Her heart swooped in delightful fear. "But I shan't," he countered triumphantly. "In the morning I shall creep out long before your lordly butler is awake. Surely, you can't refuse me anything to-night?" Her laugh was smothered against his breast. She could feel his heart knocking against her lips. "Romeo and Juliet all over again, without even omitting the nurse!" she murmured. "It is really awfully unoriginal of us, you know." His lips within the brazen gold of her hair, he laughed exultantly. A few minutes later the street door closed with rather unnecessary emphasis. Roused from her doze in Anne's bedroom, Regina started up thankfully. The Signorino was gone. That was good. That was as it should be. Now her lady could have a reposeful night. She had looked so weary this evening! CHAPTER XXIV TRICKERY The conventional living room was rendered gay by masses of spring flowers. Padding from vase to vase, Mme. Petrovskey inhaled their fragrance with triumphant nostrils. A tribute to her motherhood from some of Alexis' admirers, she breathed them in luxuriantly. Now that Alexis had become a personage again, there was no telling what the future might contain. Visions of reconciliation loomed enticingly before her. If he came to-night, and he would surely come (she had worded her letter with guile) she had that to suggest which ought to render him eternally grateful. The hated stumbling block, once removed from his path, he would turn to her again and she would bask not only in the vicarious sunshine of his fame, but in those benign social rays shed by his pinnacle amongst the élite. And it would be she, his mother, who had thrust him there. Not that she really hated Claire. Poor, dear child, she had been very useful up to the time of the marriage, and even afterwards--for a while! But now she was no longer desirable. The other woman could do so much more for Alexis. Abetted by fortune and prestige, his genius would soar untrammeled. Claire must be forced to see reason. Gently, of course, if possible. But if she refused (Mme. Petrovskey shrugged) drastic measures must be applied. Besides, she was sick of the very sight of the girl. Heavy-bodied and heavy-eyed, she crept about the rooms like a doomed Madonna. Her idle days seemed to pass in a dread anticipation, as if the horizon were stunted, the whole future cramped into the next few weeks. That her thoughts did not progress beyond the birth of the child, Mme. Petrovskey was almost certain, although a deep-seated joy over Alexis' success shone from the somber eyes, when she read the criticisms in the papers. After a concert, she would sometimes sit for hours, the articles crumpled in ardent hands, only showing animation when Dr. Elliott came around. Then she would dress with unusual care, and covering her clumsy little figure with a heavy coat, sally forth to dinner or the theater with a grateful air, very irritating to a bored mother-in-law. At such times, Mme. Petrovskey suspected Claire of using rouge. For the small face bloomed into unexpected beauty. That Dr. Elliott found it so, was amusingly apparent to the watchful older woman, whose eyes, more subtle than those of Claire, pierced his armor to the palpitating, defenseless flesh. Decidedly, the man was in love with Claire. Whether this love had been declared was problematical and immaterial. It suited Mme. Petrovskey's purpose, and provided her with a weapon almost invincible. That the weapon was poisoned, contrary to the laws of honorable warfare, troubled her not one whit. And to-night the stage was set, the scene garnished for the blow. The time itself nicely calculated. To insure her tête-à-tête, Mme. Petrovskey had chosen an evening when she knew that Claire expected to go to the movies with the doctor. She had even taken the precaution to send Ito out. His stolid devotion to the girl might prove a nuisance. And she did not intend to risk any eavesdropping from behind pantry doors. As the time approached for Alexis to come, her calm, superficially stolid, was agitated to the depths. Beyond a few words, after his recital, this was the first opportunity she had had for an interview, and the very utmost must be gleaned from it. There was no telling when another would be forthcoming; so unfilial had Alexis become. Perhaps when the fear of encountering Claire had been removed, his visits might become more frequent. Of the absurdity of hoping that he ever would live with her again, she was not guilty. When the bird has once flown, the nest soon becomes outgrown. It would not even be desirable. In the dazzling future, Alexis would necessarily reside (her own pompous word) elsewhere. The weaving of these half-poetic, entirely vulgar dreams filled the woman with anticipatory satisfaction. When the door-bell shrilled, it surprised her. She responded in dignified leisure that belied the turmoil within. "It's Ito's evening out," she explained rather effusively. Stiff, very correct, Alexis answered her smile with constraint. As he hung his hat and coat upon the rack, a wave of nausea sickened him; an influx of memories not to be borne. Not for anything in the world, except the veiled promise contained in his mother's letter, would he have entered here again. He followed her into the living room, glancing about him apprehensively. "You said Claire would not be at home," he articulated thickly. "And so she isn't!" Mme. Petrovskey plumped herself into a large tapestry chair and motioned him to do likewise. "She and Dr. Elliott have gone out on one of their little sprees." Her sprightly manner irritated Alexis unbearably, and he was silent. "I thought it would be nice for us to be alone. Don't you think so?" "I have no desire to see Claire, as you know." "So I imagine, dear boy. But don't let us speak of that now. First I want to congratulate you upon your success. It simply delights me. You're twice as good as ever. More assured, more mature. Your rendering of the Brahm's Concerto was perfection. Lauer was transported by it. He said you were the best pupil he had ever had." Alexis's eyes lighted momentarily at the mention of his old master. "He came around to see me afterwards and was--very kind," he said almost eagerly. "He ought to be pleased! Even Sascha doesn't do him more credit!" she exclaimed with complacence. But the glow had departed from Alexis' face. He had not come to discuss music, and he wished she would get to the point. Although she could not always comprehend his moods, his impatience did not escape her now. "I suppose you are wondering why I wrote you to come to-night?" "Frankly, yes." "May I speak plainly?" "Why not?" "It has not taken much intuition on my part to know that you would like to divorce Claire." He avoided the over-eager gaze. His mother's attitude towards Claire had always filled him with distaste. "I think a divorce would be better for us both." His obvious reluctance made her impatient. "What have you done about it?" she asked with a return of the imperious manner. He raised offended brows, but replied quietly enough. "I have applied to Rome for an annulment." She laughed curtly. "Do you think there is a chance of its being granted?" "Perhaps not. But I have stated the facts and hope to get justice." Her lips curled disdainfully. "There isn't the slightest chance for you, Alexis. Claire is a devoted daughter of the Church, and they won't risk losing her for an agnostic like yourself. If I were you, I shouldn't lay any hopes upon it, but put all my energy into procuring a divorce." "But Claire refuses to divorce me. It would be easy enough for her, God knows, if she wanted to!" "On the charge of desertion, I suppose!" A smile played about the tiny mouth. His anger disdained subterfuge. "On the charge of infidelity." She shook her head, mandarin-wise. "But that would ruin your career." "Why should it? People don't go to hear an artist because he's a woolly lamb. Music isn't dependent upon the blue laws. If Puritans were able to interpret it, I know many a Symphony that would have to be discarded." Her laugh was full of camaraderie. "You are right. But suppose you should want to marry again? The scandal might prove a detriment to the lady." He looked disconcerted. It had never occurred to him that Anne's reputation might suffer if his freedom came as the result of scandal. It had been abominably careless of him. But why worry since Claire refused to divorce him? His mother noted his discomfiture with amusement. When she considered that he had sufficiently digested it, she tackled him once again. "It is you who must do the divorcing," she announced judicially. "I?" He stared at her in bewilderment. "But that would be impossible. In the first place it would be dastardly. In the second, there are no grounds, as you know." "Are there not?" Her smile angered him. "I'm sure I don't know what we are talking about. We are getting nowhere. If you have any communication to make, please do so at once, as I have an engagement." The baby-blue stare narrowed into a slit. "Wasn't it natural that I should desire to see my own son again?" she asked sweetly. He looked sulky. "If you are anxious about money, arrangements are being made for both you and Claire, which ought to secure you an ample income. That is, if my strong right arm continues to wield the bow." "That is generous of you, my son." She waved a gracious hand. A dissatisfied look crept into her eyes. "But since you insist upon being so frank, I may as well tell you that money has nothing to do with my invitation. I asked you to come because I can help you, if not in your career, at least in your happiness." "My happiness? I don't understand you!" She continued to smile blandly. "I think I can show you a way out of your marriage." "How?" His scornful eyes were incredulous. Mme. Petrovskey smoothed her silken lap, as a cat smoothes its fur. "There is a man in Claire's life, Alexis." "I don't believe you!" She nodded ponderously. "She is out with him now." "Oh, you mean the doctor?" There was comical relief in his voice. "What harm is there in that?" "Much harm could be construed from it. Besides, the man is in love with her." Alexis stared. The idea of any one being in love with Claire seemed both preposterous and impertinent. "What makes you think so?" "He is here almost every day. They go out together at least one night a week." "He is probably sorry for her, or lonesome, or both! You're not trying to insinuate there is anything wrong!" The male's hatred of being betrayed, even when it affords him a loophole for escape rang in his voice. "One must avoid the appearance of evil," she said sanctimoniously. "Nonsense. What are you driving at? If you don't approve of what they are doing, why do you permit it, as Claire is presumably under your protection?" "Sometimes it is better to let matters run their course." She fixed her eyes upon him cunningly. A flicker of comprehension twisted his features. "So you were willing to abet them?" he retorted with contempt. "'Adultery made easy for beginners,' or 'Homely Hints from a Fond Mother-in-law!' Oh, this is detestable! I am going!" He flung his hair out of his eyes and started towards the hall. "I merely tried to help you," she followed him with ponderous lightness. "You may be sorry that you didn't take advantage of my advice." He started to put on his coat. "But I don't believe any of this, mother. It is all such utter rot. Claire is incapable of such a thing." "Perhaps she is, and perhaps she isn't! At any rate, how could she prove her innocence?" She laid a heavy hand upon Alexis's arm. He shrank away. "Do you imagine I would ruin an innocent woman? What kind of a man do you think I am?" She shrugged fat shoulders. "Not if it were avoidable, of course. But how do you know she is innocent? She has had every opportunity to deceive you. A lonely woman will do desperate things, Alexis. Love is a great temptation to a girl like Claire, and half a loaf is better than none!" "But Claire! I can't imagine Claire being unfaithful. She is the most loyal creature alive." "She may be loyal, but she is also passionate. You at least should retain some memory of that." The innocent eyes concealed amusement. He flushed. The memory of Claire's surrenders was like a vague but abject nightmare. Yes, the girl possessed a lurid kind of passivity, a submission as unlike Anne's goddess-like generosity as night from day. Mme. Petrovskey pursued her advantage. "It remains to be seen which of the two traits is the stronger." "I believe I know. It would take Claire's own words to convince me to the contrary." But his manner was less ironical, almost receptive. Mme. Petrovskey took up her theme complacently. "Think it over, Alexis. Don't permit an obstinate girl to ruin your life. You love another woman----" A dangerous gleam in his eye, he checked her quickly. "We will not speak of that!" "Very well. Only, as I was going to say before, it is not as if you loved Claire and she could keep you. By clinging stubbornly to you, she is merely ruining her own life as well. I believe Dr. Elliott would marry her if she were free." A new eagerness flitted over Alexis' face. "If I thought there was a chance of that!" "She would have to be forced into it, of course. She is as obstinate about her religion as she is weak about you." "I don't intend to force her! I'm sorry I came. When I received your letter I thought you would have something tangible to suggest. Something beside these brutalities." "I offer you freedom and you call me names!" The tiny mouth pursed with rage. "But wait a moment, I'm afraid you can't go now. They're back from the movies. Isn't that the elevator?" The blood receded from Alexis's face. Yes, surely that was Claire's voice approaching the door. Would to God he had never come! A key clicked in the lock and Claire stood upon the threshold. Behind her Dr. Elliott turned white as he saw Alexis. Placing a mechanical arm about Claire, he piloted her in. She fell into a chair beside the door. "Alexis!" Tears streamed from her eyes. Her voice was feeble. He sprang forward with a cry of pity and bent over her. "I'm sorry I frightened you, Claire." "I'm so silly," she murmured. "Only last night I dreamed that you had returned again!" "Poor child!" His face contracted in a spasm of pain. "I--I want to tell you how happy I am over your success! I heard you at the Philharmonic yesterday and--and it was glorious!" "You are always so generous," he felt broken with shame. "Generous! You call it that?" she retorted scornfully. Drawing her cape about her carefully, she preceded them into the living room. "Come in, Robert, I want you to meet my--my husband," she added, with a pathetic assumption of ease. A grim expression on his face, the young doctor broke his silence. "I can only stay a few minutes. I ought to go back to the hospital," he said gruffly. But if Claire needed him, he would not fail her. Mme. Petrovskey smiled, as she caught his belligerent eye. "Do stay, we will have a nice little chat." "I hear you have been to the movies," said Alexis, after they had settled themselves more or less stiffly about the room. Why in hell didn't the man get out? "Dr. Elliott is very good to me," broke in Claire naïvely. Alexis cursed inwardly. Did she expect him to thank the man for taking her off his hands? "It is Mrs. Petrovskey who has been good," retorted Elliott more gently. "I shouldn't place the guilt entirely upon her shoulders!" laughed Mme. Petrovskey with a kittenish air. "I have often feared that Dr. Elliott in his kindness of heart, must be neglecting his work. I assure you he and Claire have been inseparable all winter." Dr. Elliott glared. "I'm afraid you are exaggerating. But Mrs. Petrovskey's occasional company has proved a great boon to a lonely chap like myself." "Occasional!" exclaimed Mme. Petrovskey. "I should hardly call it that, dear Dr. Elliott!" "It has seemed so to me." "Ah, the young are so impetuous!" She raised innocent eyes to the ceiling. "They are never contented with less than all." "You choose to be playful," said the doctor, with a guarded little smile. Alexis admired the man's restraint. He, himself, fidgeted uneasily. Did his mother have no decency at all? "Aren't we getting rather serious?" he demanded. What a ghastly scene! Why couldn't the fellow go home? Perhaps he was in love with Claire, after all? "It's a serious subject." Mme. Petrovskey was still sprightly. "Repressed desires are almost as serious as unrepressed." The doctor laughed. "Ah, now you are getting on familiar ground. When it comes to Freud, or his fellow Paul Prys," his eye gleamed dangerously, "I can argue with the best of you." Mme. Petrovskey nodded gayly. "Do you follow the new method of free expression?" "I believe that one's desires, if decent, should be gratified." He fixed his eyes upon Claire's face with an expression at once baffling and affectionate. Mme. Petrovskey bridled. "There are so many standards of decency, aren't there? And that of a young doctor might be considered lax by an old fogy like myself." Alexis shot her a tortured glance. "Since when have you become so interested in Psycho-Analysis? This is getting too high-brow for Claire and me, isn't it, Claire?" She met his harried gaze with an apologetic smile at once pleading and listless. "I'm afraid I wasn't paying much attention." Mme. Petrovskey turned towards her punctiliously. Her eyes beneath the smile seemed to strip the girl to the bone, and Claire cowered away as from a limelight. "You had better listen, dear child. For the matter concerns you profoundly." "Concerns me?" she muttered inexplicably uneasy. "Yes, indeed," playfully. "We're talking about the doctor's repressed and unrepressed desires." "What have I to do with them?" Her voice was cold with dawning fear. "We are trying to discover in which of the two pigeon-holes you belong." "Ah!" Claire's pale lips parted on a cry. She half rose from her chair. Alexis sprang across the room to her side. "This is too much!" he exclaimed. "Why do you torture the child?" "Because Mme. Petrovskey wants me to confess that I love Claire!" Dr. Elliott's tones rang clear. They all looked at him in amazement. A calm exultation in his eyes, he faced them squarely. "Can you deny it?" A smile of triumph played about the older woman's mouth. "I can. But I will not!" Claire hid her face in shaking hands. "Oh, Robert," she sobbed, "please don't." He approached and stood over her with quiet strength. "Why should I deny the most beautiful thing in my life? That would be to lower it to the level of Mme. Petrovskey's insinuations." The latter started up from her chair with a cry of suppressed fury. The baby-blue orbs flashed hell-fire. "You--you----!" she commenced. Then turned to Alexis with a resumption of her habitual sweetness. "What did I tell you? Was I not right?" "Keep quiet," he commanded. "You have made trouble enough for one evening!" He turned to Dr. Elliott. "So you are in love with my wife?" The other man looked down upon him from his greater height. "I have done you no wrong, Petrovskey." Claire raised a white and streaming face. "Oh Alexis, you do believe him, don't you?" He patted her trembling hand, with absent-minded kindliness. "Don't worry, child. Of course I believe him." Robert Elliott grasped him by the shoulder. "You are a real man, Petrovskey. I didn't know you had it in you!" he exclaimed naïvely. Alexis' smile was a trifle awry. "You are wrong, Elliott. If I were a real man, all this would never have occurred." His mother interposed herself between them almost savagely. "All this magnanimity looks very pretty. But what proof have you that they are not lying? I, for one, don't believe in this blessed innocence. Many a divorce has been granted on less substantial grounds than these!" Claire stumbled to her feet, and stood swaying against the table. "You are a wicked woman! How dare you lie about me and Dr. Elliott? I shall not stay under the same roof with you for another night!" She moved blindly forward towards the corridor. Alexis pursued her. "Where are you going? What are you going to do?" She turned upon him like a hounded creature. "Let me alone, I am going to pack," she cried at bay. "I am going to pack," she repeated wildly. She stumbled down the corridor towards her room. Mme. Petrovskey reseated herself. "Running away is hardly the action of an innocent woman!" she remarked. "Be silent!" exclaimed Elliott sternly. But he was too late for Claire had heard. "Oh!" With a gasping cry she faced them. Then crashed forward like a felled tree. "You have killed her!" Alexis ran down the corridor, and knelt beside the small, prostrate figure. He was about to lift it in his arms when the doctor interfered. "Put her down on her back. Here, let me do it." He shifted Claire expertly. "Don't you know that a fainting patient must never be lifted? It sometimes kills them, especially in her condition." "In her condition?" Alexis looked up from rubbing Claire's hands. "What do you mean? Is her heart affected?" Squatting upon his haunches the doctor uncorked his brandy flask. As he leaned over to pour the liquid between Claire's teeth, he looked Alexis squarely in the eyes. "Your wife is pregnant," he said shortly. "It is time you knew it." An ashy pallor overspread Alexis' face. His heart leaped sickeningly. Then tolled against his ribs like a knell. It tolled so raspingly--it tolled so loudly that all the world--that Anne herself must hear it. "Why didn't you let me know?" he demanded softly. Was he never to cease paying for the feeble nightmare which had made Claire his? "Why was I not told?" he repeated with the same irate quiet. Robert Elliott looked at him with grudging compassion. So the fellow could feel after all? Well, it was time he did! A throb of hatred seared him. "She did not wish to have you know. It was a matter of pride. She had no use for your pity, she only wanted you----" he hesitated over the word, "your love." Before the suffering in the man's eyes, Alexis lowered his own. They fell upon the pinched features of the swooning girl. "She is coming to," he whispered, between dry lips. Like folded pansies, the dark eyes slowly unfurled. Into their shadowed depths Alexis plunged his agony and his shame. "Claire, what have I done to you?" he groaned. The pansies opened wide. Terror crept into their wounded depths. The pale lips twisted. "You have told him?" She looked up at Robert Elliott reproachfully. He nodded. "Yes." His voice died into a hoarse murmur. "How dared you when I'd forbidden it?" she cried weakly. Great tears slid down the hollow cheeks. She suddenly burst into uncontrollable, frenzied sobs that shook the feeble body. Fear gripped Alexis as he watched her writhe in a vain effort to control herself. "Don't, dear Claire," he cried, touching with clumsy fingers a lock of hair which clung against the drenched cheek. "I wanted to spare you this," she gasped, raising drowned eyes to his. A flood of shame swept over Alexis, together with an unbearable, wrenching pity. Pity for the suffering he had inflicted. Shame for the unheeded seed sowed so wantonly and without love. Despair that his heart should be empty of all save compassion. Futile, shameful anger against Claire that it was she, the unloved, and not Anne, who was to mother his first-born. Face drawn and gray, he bent over Claire in an agony of contrition. "Don't, Claire, don't. You will hurt yourself!" He looked up at the doctor, who had risen and was trying to appear unconscious of a scene which was literally tearing at his very marrow. "Hadn't we better carry her into her room and put her to bed, Elliott?" The power of speech had deserted Elliott. He nodded. They were about to gather her up in their arms, but Claire pushed them away, almost with violence. "No, I will not stop here another night, with Aunt. I couldn't bear it!" Alexis shot a desperate look at the other man, who shook his head gravely. "She had better be humored," he said decisively. Claire's sobs grew fainter. She looked up at Dr. Elliott gratefully. Alexis forced himself to a bitter decision. "How would you like to go to my apartment in Gramercy Park?" he asked with dreadful reluctance. Surprise choked back Claire's sobs. "Do you mean it? Wouldn't I be awfully in your way?" "Of course not. There is a day-bed in the studio where I can sleep. I have often used it." That was true enough. A burning mist clouded his eyes. He turned away to conceal it. With what memories of Anne was the alcove not hallowed? Eyes upon his averted face, Claire's lips quivered. "Have you given up your house in Long Island?" He avoided her glance with a sense of pity. "I still have it until the first of April. However, I always sleep in town on concert days, and very often at other times. But you needn't worry about being a nuisance, for I am leaving on tour the day after to-morrow." "Ah, yes, I had forgotten." Claire's voice sounded dreary. "There was something in the paper about it. If you will help me up, I think I'll go and dress." Their arms beneath hers, she struggled to her feet. "Do you feel able to dress?" asked Elliott as she swayed a little. "Why do you hurry?" "Yes, oh yes," she pushed the hair back from her damp brow. "I must go at once." She walked slowly towards her bedroom. The clumsy gait, the fragile, swollen body struck Alexis for the first time. Filled with compassion and a sick sort of repulsion of which he was fiercely ashamed, he turned to Dr. Elliott. "Will you please see that Claire has a nurse? A nice, cheerful one. I don't want her to be lonely. There is a cleaning woman who comes in by the day who will cook for them until we can procure some one better." "I'll telephone for one." Elliott shot a glance charged with meaning after the tragic figure retreating up the hall. "For God's sake be kind to her, Petrovskey!" He whispered huskily, as Claire's door closed behind her. Alexis passed a hand over his trembling mouth. "I'll try to, God knows! But you ought to have married her, Elliott. You could have made her happy!" he replied with aching humility. They walked slowly back to the living room. Elliott slipped into the ante-room to telephone. As he waited for his number there was a stoic, Indian savagery about his face. Wild, unbidden thoughts rose like green scum to the clear surface of his mind. If Claire's child should die, all might yet be well. The last link between her and Alexis sundered, she might possibly be induced to give him up forever. But if--it lived----! With a knowing leer, temptation nudged his elbow, puffing its vile breath into his clean nostrils. He shook the beast off angrily and responded to the operator's voice when it came with detached calm. Meanwhile, Alexis had flung himself into a chair beside the living-room table, burying his face upon its surface. For him the radiant dream was over. He had awakened to the same grim and joyless world which had once before tried to slay him. Mme. Petrovskey had come out from her room at the sound of their return. She approached Alexis stealthily. Her bulk cast a bloated shadow on the wall. It crouched over him like a beast of prey. "So you have let yourself be conquered by a nobody, an unloved waif? Fie, you are weak! You are allowing yourself to be dragged into a mediocrity more loathsome than death. That is not for you. You are a genius. Spread your wings, fly away before you lose all capacity to soar. Fly away! Your bird of paradise awaits you. Do such as you mate with the sparrows?" His mother's words, or his own subconscious mind? What matter? It voiced his weeping soul. CHAPTER XXV SACRIFICIAL The city was muffled in fog. It brooded over Fifth Avenue, oozing rain like an enormous sponge. Beneath its clammy drip, dirty snow melted into unwholesome puddles, street lamps haloed goldenly. It was after midnight and the broad, deserted pavement glistened like some dark river upon which a few rare craft slid by in ghostly procession. Occasional passers-by, beneath outspreading umbrellas, looked strangely fungoid. Their breath issuing in small clouds, seemed to congeal and solidify upon reaching the air as if the fog itself were composed of the warm emanations of mankind. Alexis hurried drearily up the avenue. With Claire safely installed in the apartment and companioned by a nurse, there was nothing further for him to do. He was free momentarily. Free to savor to the full the bitterness of the cup he had set to his lips. But the evening had left him numb as well as distraught. He was conscious only of an overmastering impulse to rush out into the streets, to drown identity in fog, lose self in some demoniac outburst. Huge gulps of the chill air in his lungs, he staggered forward as if propelled by a monster wind, eyes fixed in front of him, burning a path through the drizzling mist. An empty taxi glided close to the curb. He hailed it mechanically and gave the man Anne's address. A moment later they had joined the current on the black and glistening river. Of course, he would not disturb Anne. That would be sheer cruelty. But he must be near to her somehow. That was an exquisite torture which he was too weak to forego. Once there, he would dismiss his taxi and hug close to the wall which sheltered her. After that he had no plans. The future was not more dark nor indefinite than the immediate night before him. There was only one thing certain in his mind. He could not return to Gramercy Park. That was a grinning horror which his embryonic Quixotry was too feeble to face. A rapid transit up the avenue brought them to the shrouded park. They skirted its graveyard shore to the Seventies, and then swerved into Anne's street. As they neared the house Alexis smothered a cry of irritation. The façade was brilliant with lights. It shone luminous through the fog like the golden exit from a tunnel. Of course, how foolish to have forgotten! This was Anne's night at the opera, and she was having some people in afterwards. He had been invited to join them but had refused as usual. The hilarious horde was his particular abomination, and it was seldom that Anne could persuade him into one of these parties. She did not try very hard, for as the season progressed she herself had become utterly wearied with it all. It was only fear of appearing both snobbish and unkind which prevented her from breaking away altogether. And Alexis knew his presence made it more difficult. The malice of Ellen, who could not forgive Anne for not confiding in her, the jealousy of Gerald, created a tension. So, although always invited, Alexis' absence had evolved into a kind of unwritten law. But to-night was different. A desperate night, created for the breaking of all rules. A frantic, lawless night, lying between the boundaries of time like a savage bandit-ridden tract, dividing two civilized states. To-night all forms of excitement were unabhorrent, even the ribald efforts of the horde. At any rate, their presence would afford an opportunity to see Anne, to be near her, to breathe in the beloved atmosphere while she still remained unconscious of the barrier which had fallen between them forever. Fever surging in his veins, Alexis dismissed his taxi. Inside the house, there was the usual uproar of music and dancing. Unperceived for the moment, Alexis stood upon the threshold of the huge living room. His eyes flashed through the swirling couples, searching for Anne. But she was not upon the floor. Seated at the Steinway, Gerald was playing with delicate ferocity. His young, almost beautiful face, glowered cynically as he glanced at the dancers. Grotesque syncopations dripped from his swooping fingertips. Alexis started to wedge his way to the other end of the room. The eyes of the two men met with a shock. A smile distorted Gerald's lips. The music ceased almost discordantly. Everybody stopped dancing. For a moment the world stood still. "Look who's here!" In a flame-colored chiffon frock, Olive Fay darted up to Alexis. "Please dance with me, Mr. Petrovskey?" "Of course, that's what I came for!" His hard gaze hovered over her naked young shoulders. "But first, where is my hostess?" She pouted. "How old-fashioned of you to remember your hostess! But come along, Old Ironsides, if you must." The dancing had recommenced. They dashed through revolving couples to the sofa in front of the fire, where Anne was sitting with a large, dark man, whom Alexis recognized as Del Re, the South American opera singer. In a dream-like dance dress of sapphire tulle over pale-green chiffon, the emerald pendant upon her breast, Anne watched their approach with concealed astonishment. So Alexis had come after all! Why? The brilliant eyes, the twisted smile puzzled her. Had he been listening to some rumor about Del Re? Was the old serpent of jealousy once more coiling to strike her long-suffering head? "How nice of you to change your mind!" she murmured, a question beneath her composure, "Have you met Señor Del Re? Mr. Petrovskey." The familiar pang gnawing at his vitals, Alexis suppressed it savagely. "Who does not know the celebrated Mephisto? You have given me many a thrill, Señor." "Is there a thrill left in New York?" Del Re's crooked eyebrow curved whimsically. "I thought they were all in your violin, Petrovskey! Thrills? You are the master there!" There was genuine admiration in the cello-like tones. "Yes, isn't he wonderful?" shrilled Olive. "I am going to dance with him this very minute. I've simply got to be seen in his company, that's all!" "Very flattering, isn't she!" Flashing a blazing glance into Anne's face, Alexis laughed loudly, then turned to Olive. "Did you bring your press-agent along?" "Mean thing!" She dragged him on to the floor with another shrill squeal. They danced away. Her mocking eyes on his face, she cackled gayly. "No use in looking at Anne like that, Mr. Petrovskey. Might as well make up your mind to lose her. He can get 'em whenever he wants to." Dragging his eyes from Anne's face, Alexis hid his crimson anger like a wound. "He has a record, has he?" He crushed Olive to him savagely. "Oh yes," she gasped, mistaking his clasp for ardor. "And what he hasn't been through! Thrust in the stomach with bayonets. Scarred with shrapnel. Face lifted at least twice. You know they say he is almost seventy. But what with Steinach and surgery, you'd never dream it, would you?" "Never!" They circled the room in abandoned unison. As they reached the sofa again, Alexis rudely relaxed his hold and sank into the couch upon the other side of Anne. With a chagrined laugh, Olive fell into a chair next to Del Re. "He doesn't seem to appreciate me, does he?" "Will you dance with me?" Alexis whispered into Anne's ear. "Of course!" She did not know Alexis in this reckless, Byronical mood. Could he have had a little too much to drink? She watched him down the whisky and soda just passed by the footman. Alexis caught her troubled glance. He nodded gayly. "It's all right. Don't be frightened. I'm not drunk with anything except you. You are crème de Menthe in a dark-blue glass, and very intoxicating." He pointed to the green lining of the sapphire gown. Laughingly, they started to dance. Almost of equal height, faces on a level, their breath mingled in a single stream. Their bodies swayed to the rhythmic breeze of a waltz. Radio music this time. Dance orchestra from the Drake Hotel, Chicago. And although unromantically canned, most peppy and enticing; vitamins intact. As she and Alexis swung by Ellen, Anne caught her amused smile. Sitting between Gerald, who was smoking furiously, and Caldenas, doing nothing at all in his usual cherubic fashion, she appeared serenely malicious, like some complaisant goddess of the senses. Anne shivered and drew closer to Alexis. His clasp tightened tempestuously about the slim, ungirdled body. He danced her out into the hall. Swooping into a remote corner, he stopped abruptly, and pressed his lips upon hers. The Sparkling eyes were so close that she felt as if she were being sucked into the expanded pupils, as into a bottomless whirlpool. She went pale and a little giddy. "What is the matter with you to-night, Alexis?" she whispered as they started to dance again. His lashes swept her forehead like a caress. He did not reply but continued to look into her eyes with the same disturbing gaze. Holding her as in a vise, their limbs interlocked, merged, in rapturous fusion. Stabbing weakness pierced Anne. "Don't," she supplicated faintly. Muffled against her hair, his laugh rumbled dizzily through her head. His lips brushed her cheek, mumbling softly at the pink lobe of her ear. "I don't think I like you to-night!" Her whisper was breathless. The sardonic laughter was repeated. The eyes fixed upon hers flared hotly. Anne was afraid. As they whirled giddily back into the noisy room, she welcomed with relief the announcement of supper. They all trooped into the dining room and seated themselves as they pleased at small tables, which lent the vast room the festive air of a récherché little restaurant. Varicolored bowls of copper-hued tulips with glass candlesticks to match adorned each table, sounding a rich note against the gray tempera walls. Adroitly shed by Anne, Alexis discovered himself between a young Roumanian noblewoman, almost as beautiful as Queen Marie in her prime, and a well-known authoress, whose Savonarola profile stared austerely beneath close-cropped hair. Opposite sat a young nondescript, one of those indispensable stop-gaps whose white shirt-fronts fill the social vacuum so perfectly. The young countess was, according to the society column, decidedly vivacious. This was her first visit to the United States, and she was collecting scalps as well as impressions. Alexis' golden mane was not to be disdained. She courted him assiduously all through supper and he made contemptuously free response. The honey-colored hair, the sweet-scented body intrigued him very little. He knew that he could have her with a single gesture from his famous fingers. He had met her kind before, a little less beautiful perhaps, certainly more blatant, but equally voracious of sensation. A liaison with Alexis Petrovskey or any other famous artist would furnish welcome tidbit for dainty jaws. A hectic spot upon each cheek, he ate his supper in a sort of petrified excitement, scarcely aware of the audacious words his lips were uttering; absolutely ignorant of the food he put between them. He drank the sparkling wine feverishly. It spread through his body and was absorbed like spilled ink upon a blotter. Beyond the saturnine profile of the authoress, he occasionally caught Anne's eyes fixed upon him from a neighboring table. Beneath their serene surface he glimpsed a troubled question. Was she, too, suffering? Did she sense his pain? His unutterable, stupefying torture? Or did she merely find him volatile and unstable? Well, she would understand it all soon enough, God knows! What a nightmare! Supper over, the crowd overflowed into the living room. Seated at the piano, Del Re was preparing to sing. Her hand upon his arm, his beautiful neighbor lured Alexis into a remote window-seat. "Now, we can listen in comfort," she murmured, approaching felinely. Her bare flesh grazed his shoulder. He lighted his cigarette from hers, leaning unnecessarily close. It amused him to whet her genteel nymphomania. Del Re sang an aria from Mephisto with diabolic grandeur. Then broke into a series of Spanish folk songs. The vibrating, cello-like tones, the lilting accompaniment, were replete with magnetism and created a furore. Close upon his triumphant heels, followed Olive Fay, who executed a kicking dance to Gerald's devilishly clever improvisation. Rosy, rouged knees emerging impudently from slit draperies, she was the incarnation of Gerald's heady and insinuating jazz. There was an unsteady silence, a self-conscious, tightened silence. Lips parted feverishly, the wine-warmed crowd was momentarily uneasy. Then it relaxed into uproarious applause. Olive was lost amongst a bevy of shirt-fronts as indispensable to her being as lipstick or rouge, and about as impersonal. Later, they called upon Alexis. He came out from his corner smiling and unexpectedly amiable. To Anne's surprise, he consented to contribute to the entertainment. "But you haven't your violin!" "I don't need it," he replied, laughing lightly. "I intend to be low-brow." Running his fingers over the piano keys, he clashed into a disturbing medley, Chopin, Stravinsky, Mendelssohn and Sowerby, Ornstein and Tchaikowsky, with a dash of MacDowell as leaven. The audience howled approbation. "What do you call it?" He looked up demurely from the keys. "The Petrovskey Blues!" He broke into a revised version of the popular negro melody, transforming its plaintive simplicity into symphonic proportions. Then with a swift transition, he began to ragtime an old Italian opera. With a broad smile, Del Re strode to the piano and sang an accompaniment, in the nasal drone of the cabaret favorite. Negroid and scintillating, the parody ceased upon a plaintive chord, reminiscent of some southern spiritual. Listeners crowded about the piano, jaded senses stirred to the shallow depths. From the background, Anne watched in fascinated silence. She did not dream Alexis had it in him, and as she looked at the flushed face an undercurrent of apprehension flowed like an icy stream below the surface of her pleasure. What could have excited him so to-night that he had ventured forth from his shell with such uncharacteristic fireworks? At Anne's elbow, Caldenas grunted appreciatively. He was putting the last touches to a caricature of the two celebrities at the piano, which, as he quaintly put it, would immortalize their genius as well as his own. The little Roumanian leaned over Alexis. Her perfume weighed on his irritated nerves, nauseatingly heavy. "When are you coming to see me?" He laughed loudly. His eyes stripped her. "Never!" She flushed and bit her naturally red lips. "You are detestable. I am mad about you," she whispered. "You are maddeningly pretty, but I am immune," he retorted, smiling up into the flower-like face with curved, saturnine lips. She rested her hand upon the keyboard next to his. "Your music makes me feel positively wanton!" The blue eyes swam amorously. He flung her hand away, with casual fingers. His glance rent her unmercifully. "You are wasting your time!" She crumbled as if struck by lightning. Tears of mortification rose to the lovely eyes. She stammered in utter rout, "You are a fiend!" He rose from the piano and looked about him smilingly. "The end of a perfect day," he remarked in a loud voice. He shook hands with Del Re and retreated towards Anne. With meaning looks the group began to break up. Their guard of honor ranged about them, Ellen and Olive flitted away to the accompaniment of knowing smiles. An obscure and taciturn husband was claimed by the authoress and led triumphantly home. The countess, a little pale, accepted the escort of Gerald and Caldenas. Alexis waited flagrantly, while Del Re completed ceremonious adieus. As the door closed upon them all, Anne turned towards Alexis with an inquiring, slightly apprehensive air. "Are you going to stay, Alexis? It is very late." For response he drew her to him in an abrupt convulsive gesture. Leading her to the sofa, he knelt and buried his head on her lap. She brushed the hair back from his forehead nervously. It was indiscreet of him to have remained after the others had gone. She had caught interchanged glances and knew that the worst interpretation would be made of the situation. As he remained motionless, she spoke a little wearily. "What is the matter, dear? Why are you so excited to-night?" He raised a bloodless face, and she saw that his eyes were swimming in tears. "Oh Anne, it is all over. This is the end." With a smothered sob, he dropped his head back upon her knees. "What do you mean?" Her voice was shocked. A premonitory thrill sent a shiver over her body. "I have taken Claire back again," he gasped. She uttered a cry and recoiled instinctively. "I understand and--and I suppose I am glad," she faltered, with quick pride. She tried to remove his hold but his arms tightened about her convulsively. "Oh no, you don't understand at all. I don't love her. It isn't that. It's----" his eyes widened with horror, "Claire is going to have a child," he finished brokenly. "Ah!" Anne's face became suddenly ashen. "I suppose I should have foreseen this," she murmured, pushing him away from her almost roughly. "Oh, poor Claire, how she must have suffered! How can I ever forgive myself?" She wrung her hands in an unfamiliar gesture. He stumbled to his feet and stood over her. "I didn't know it, Anne. I never dreamed of such a thing." "No, I suppose not, but that doesn't make it any easier for Claire, does it?" Her voice was dry and expressionless. "When--when is it to be?" He shot her a tortured glance. "Very soon, I am afraid." He averted his working face. "Oh Anne, don't despise me. I was mad, beside myself when it all happened. It is blurred, fantastic, like the memory of some confused dream." His miserable voice pierced Anne's pride. She put her arms about him and drew him down on to the couch beside her. "Poor Alexis, my poor, poor boy," she crooned sorrowfully. He hid his face against the back of the sofa. "I am cursed, I seem to blast all those who love me," he choked. "Oh, Anne, if you had seen her pitiful little face! I am not fit to live!" "Hush, it is terrible for her, of course. But it was not your fault. You were horribly unfortunate, that is all." She stroked his shoulder, all the aching tenderness of her heart in her finger-tips. "And now you are going to make it all up to her." He returned her look with dumb, suffering eyes. "How the gods must hate me!" A little shudder ran through her. What was the adage? "Whom the gods destroy, they first make mad"? She placed her hand upon his lips. "Don't say that. I can't bear to hear you. Nobody hates you, least of all the gods. It is only that you are not as other men. Suffering seems to be the price exacted of genius." "I wish I were a clerk, tied to a desk in some rich man's office. I might have had some chance at happiness then!" She shook her head pityingly. "Oh no, that would never do. That life would kill you. Your wings are powerful. You must soar higher than the rest of us, even if it means aching loneliness and solitude." His mother's words on Anne's lips! There must be truth in them, indeed! He uttered a sorrowful cry. "Oh Anne, I simply cannot believe that this is the end. Tell me, must it be so?" She nodded. Great tears coursed down her face. "Yes Alexis, this is the end. You must stand by Claire now. I shall love you more than ever for doing it." "It will kill me to part from you." He pressed a tear-wet cheek against hers. For an anguished moment, they rocked to and fro in silent grief. She spoke at last, in a weak little voice, unlike her own. "Better perhaps that we should part while we still love each other. Then--then we shall always remember it so." A bitter-sweet smile twisted his lips. "Were you afraid my love would get tepid? You were mistaken. If I didn't love you so consumingly, I couldn't part with you now. If this were only passion," his voice broke, "I might have been tempted to let things drift as they were until, until you discovered." A beautiful look of comprehension crossed her face. She pressed Alexis' head to her bosom in a passion of tenderness. "You are more noble than I dreamed." He groaned. "Not noble at all, only suffering, Anne." "Tell me what you intend to do? Of course you will go on your tour?" "Don't ask me, I hardly know as yet, what I shall do on my return. I will make the best arrangements for Claire that I can. But I will never live with her as my wife, and perhaps not even under the same roof." "Poor Alexis, poor boy," Anne felt him shudder as he lay against her. "Does it hurt you to say good-by?" The whisper was dragged from the anguish in his heart. A lump in her throat, she clasped him to her without a word, and their lips met and clung in sorrowful communion. He bent over her and touched the emerald pendant about her throat. "Keep it always in memory of me," he whispered. "Promise?" She nodded. A rending pain, as of disruption racked her to the bone. "I promise." Her voice broke. She turned away and flung herself face downwards on to the pillows. "Go, please go, I cannot bear any more." He stumbled to his feet and looked down upon her for the final time, a lingering look, as if he were trying to quench the thirst of the years to come in one consuming glance. "Good-by, my very, my only dearest. Try to forgive me if you can. Remember that I love you, and always shall love you to the very end." Then he went away. The door closed behind him with a soft, insistent finality that resounded against Anne's heart like the first clod of earth upon a beloved coffin. She suddenly felt old and inexpressibly weary, as if he had taken her youth away with him forever. She broke into a fit of passionate weeping. CHAPTER XXVI "WILL YOU TAKE ME--" Spring had taken possession of Florence. Its glamour, its dewy freshness, lay over all. The pregnant earth intoxicated with incense of new-born life. On the hillside, Anne's garden was abloom. Hyacinths and lilies, daffodils, jonquils and pansies, bordered the graveled paths. Morning-glories crept along the rose-tinted walls. In intricate designs, orderly brigades of tulips, flung heavenwards their gorgeous cups. Lilac bushes showered fragrance from all sides. The fountain, silent all winter, gushed forth in renewed lilt. In its center, a marble cupid, scarred and darkened with years, dimpled, perennially roguish. On the raised terrace, overlooking the valley, Anne was pouring tea for Vittorio's mother. Petite, grande dame, the short snow-white hair curling tightly all over her head, the Marchesa looked like an Eighteenth Century porcelain. About the delicately wrinkled old throat coiled a necklace of pearls as large and round as peas. A Chinese shawl, youthfully gay and exotic, draped the frail shoulders. She was talking, as usual, with great animation. A little pale in her yellow crèpe gown, Anne leaned back in the Manila chair and listened. A subdued, rather weary, little smile played about her lips. The old lady stopped her chatter and scanned Anne's face affectionately. The large black eyes were very bright and uncannily piercing. "What is the matter, Anne? You aren't a bit like yourself this spring. You seem a little fagged. Are you sure that everything is right with you, dear child?" Anne's smile brightened. "Cara Marchesa, of course I'm all right. Why shouldn't I be? Am I not always happy to get back to my beloved Florence?" The Marchesa laughed happily, like a reassured child. "You do love it, don't you? You are a true daughter of the Lily like myself. Just think, Anne, I haven't been back to America for almost forty years. And after Vittorio's hectic description of New York, I have no desire to go." "What a naughty lady," Anne laughed. "An unpatriotic little fraud! Nobody would dream you were an old New Yorker, yourself, before your marriage." "No," the Marchesa smiled complacently. "They tell me I am thoroughly Italianized. Frankly, the new America would kill me." Anne laughed again. The Marchesa's little affectation was rather endearing. "I believe it would, Marchesa. You belong in a garden like this, against a background of Tuscan hills." She waved her hand towards the terraced hillsides. The Marchesa nodded, pleased at the delicate compliment. "But Vittorio really likes New York, that is, some aspects of it," she said courteously. Anne shook her head with a dry little laugh. "Don't try to spare my feelings. He hated it. He was horribly bored with us all." The Marchesa's eyes twinkled. She shook a coquettish finger slightly crooked from rheumatism in Anne's face. "Not bored with you, my dear. You cannot make me believe that. You are the apple of his eye." Anne helped herself hastily to a buttered scone. "I'm afraid the apple stuck in his throat more than once," she murmured with a nervous laugh. The old woman looked at her wistfully. No, certainly, Anne was not herself. What could be the matter? Some love affair, perhaps? "When are you going to make us both happy?" The old voice was very gentle. "Do you still want me?" With averted head Anne fingered the teacups. "More than ever, sweet child! I cannot bear to think of poor Vittorio spending the rest of his life pottering about musty old ruins. And that is what he will do if you won't have him, my dear. He refuses to look at any one else!" "But he loves ruins, doesn't he?" Anne teased, her equanimity somewhat restored. The Marchesa laughed ruefully. "Yes, he seems to have an inextinguishable fondness for antiques, including his mother." "Perhaps then, if I wait a little longer, I shall acquire more value in his eyes, become more mellow, you know." "Wicked child! You speak of yourself as if you were a cheese!" "Speaking of cheese, that reminds me. I golfed with the Principe this morning. You know he is in very bad odor here at present? I felt quite devilish being seen with him." "Some new scandal?" The black eyes twinkled. Anne shrugged. "A cinema actress, I believe." She lighted a cigarette and puffed at it delicately. "He had the temerity to propose to me again." The Marchesa's foot tapped upon the bricks. "Impoverished old wretch! I can't bear to have you exposed to such things, Anne. Why don't you marry us, and protect yourself against these adventurers?" Secure in her own immense fortune, the Marchesa serenely felt her son to be above suspicion. Anne pretended to be immensely shocked. "The idea of calling the Principe an adventurer. Why, his one foot in the grave would break off if he could hear you. He is count of this, marchese of that," she flicked her ashes flippantly, "and a Spanish Grandee to boot. I ought to know, he has enumerated his titles to me often enough." The Marchesa cackled merrily. "I suggest his getting out a catalogue for the benefit of American heiresses. Old braggart! Why doesn't he ask me? I'm nearer his age!" "He is going to invite you to his tennis tea on Sunday," giggled Anne. "Perhaps you can catch him on the rebound." "Never say die! If I can't have a daughter-in-law, I might as well get me a husband!" The Marchesa rose to her feet rheumatically. "But I must limp along now dear. The sun is beginning to sink behind the Duomo and my old bones will creak if I linger." Anne moved towards her quickly. "I hate to have you go, dear lady." Arm in arm, they strolled towards the balustrade and leaned there silently. Dotted with occasional villas, the terraced hillsides glowed russet. Dusky cypresses towered beside stone walls. Olive trees, in gray-green uniforms elbowed gayly-blossoming fruit trees, "Like soldiers out with their sweethearts," murmured Anne. "How Florence grows upon one. What a personality she has! There is something chaste and virginal about her, which is strange when you consider her history. She is as unlike Rome or Venice as Botticelli is different from Michael Angelo and Titian. But I put it so badly!" "I see what you mean," broke in the Marchesa. "Florence will always be pre-Raphaelite. She is the Blonde Princess, while Rome and Venice----" she hesitated. "Are the wicked brunettes--the red-haired villainesses like myself," finished Anne with a laugh. "But it is beautiful. I never get tired of the Duomo, especially from this distance, do you? Near to, it resembles a mah jong set a little too closely to suit me in flippant moods." "Blasphemer!" In spite of the rheumatism, they lingered while the setting sun cast a ruddy glow over roofs and buildings and stained the Arno pink, as it crawled beneath its bridges, and here and there a window gleamed rose-colored. The crimson dome of the cathedral resembled a mammoth ruby, its columnar campanile soaring ethereally beside it. Still arm in arm, the two women sauntered away from the scene regretfully, and descended the short flight of steps into the garden. "What are you doing with yourself to-night?" asked Anne as they strolled down one of the graveled paths. "I'm looking forward to a perfect evening, child. Dinner by the fire in the saloto, the companionship of Saint Simon, unexpurgated. And you?" Anne sighed. "Nothing. I refused a bridge. I wasn't in the mood." Her sad face fretted the old Marchesa. What ailed the girl? She certainly must be love-sick. Had Vittorio lost out after all? Her son, she shrewdly suspected, was remaining in Sicily at Anne's request, for she had never known him to miss a Florentine spring before. About to invite Anne to join forces for the evening, she changed her mind abruptly. If the child wished to work out her problem in solitude, she herself ought to be the last to prevent her, especially if some good should come out of it for Vittorio. They continued in silence to the end of the garden, where a postern gate in the pink-tinted wall opened on to the Torrigiani property. As the Marchesa passed through she turned and gazed up into the other's face. Tall and slim as a jonquil in her yellow crêpe dress, Anne's hair flamed in the setting sun. The old woman's eyes looked troubled as they rested upon it. "My dear, how beautiful you are! I love to look at you! If I were the typical old lady I'd be telling what a beauty I was myself in my palmy days. I don't seem to know my cues at all. But as a matter of fact, I'm a better looking ruin than I ever was girl! If I were more wily, too, and less wise, I probably wouldn't urge you quite so heartily, to marry my only son. For there is danger in your beauty, child. But years have taught me to appreciate danger. And I couldn't be so unkind as to deprive a son of mine of such a precious stimulant." With an enigmatic smile she raised herself on tiptoe and pecked daintily at Anne's chin. The younger woman gathered her impulsively into her arms and squeezed her. "You delicious old cynic! No wonder Vittorio adores you. I do myself!" A wistful expression crossed the delicate old face. "Be good to us, my dear," she whispered. "We need you terribly in our house." She turned gayly-shawled shoulders, and trotted up the long avenue towards her villa. Anne gazed after the small figure affectionately. Her absent eyes swept the familiar gardens whose famous boxwood hedges defined the paths with fantastic precision. Here a strange, antediluvian beast, there a gigantic globe, so that to the bird's-eye view the gardens appeared like an enormous chessboard with pawns at play. In the distance, from behind a mass of towering cypresses, gleamed the villa, its splendid façade flanked by a long flight of marble steps. Anne closed the gate and walked back through her own simple garden. She was anxious to reach the terrace again before all vestige of the sunset should have disappeared, and she mounted the steps with rapid feet. A cape over her shoulders, she drew a chair up by the balustrade and sat there while the henna-colored hills darkened to purple, then faded into lavender, and a mist rolled up from the valley and curled about the city like a smoking halo. Pretty soon a few lights gradually emerged with the evanescent gleam of a flock of fireflies. Fireflies! Anne's lips curled downward. She closed her eyes behind smarting tears. Soon would return the season of fireflies and roses. Would Vittorio be there to wander arm in arm as of old in the Viale, beneath a golden moon, while swarms of fireflies danced about them and the scent of roses and verbena ascended to the stars? Anne did not know. She had not been able to bring herself to the point of meeting him again, although she had written of her definite rupture with Alexis only a few weeks after it had taken place. But her heart was still sore from the uprooting, and the necessity for solitude was urgent as the primitive instinct of a wounded animal. So she had begged Vittorio to be patient a little while longer, to give her time to readjust herself to the old life. And he had been generous as usual, with an ecstatic undercurrent coursing beneath the sacrifice; a feeling as of crisis reached and nearly overcome; a premonition of future joys. Anne had been quick to read this joy concealed between the lines of his letters. But she had not had either the desire or the heart to quench it. Her own unhappiness had made her heart very tender towards Vittorio and she was inexpressibly tired of struggling against the tide. Why not drift into haven at last? If she were good for nothing else, at least, she could make Vittorio happy. Alexis had taught her that, and much besides. No longer the inhibited creature of her first marriage, love and all it implied, no longer repelled her. She had looked upon its naked beauty unashamed. The first bitterness of parting over, she scarcely knew in what mood she found herself. A great lassitude had fallen upon her. A weariness almost mortal. Although she had realized from the beginning that rupture was inevitable, she had not looked for it so soon, and when the blow fell it stunned her. For days she had gone about her packing numbly, and it was not until after her arrival in Florence that she had been able to think about Alexis without tears, she to whom weeping was strange and almost monstrous. And yet she had never really loved him as a woman loves a man upon whom she depends for her daily strength. He had been like a dearly loved, temperamental child. Torn from her arms, her tenderness was lost without him. Her heart yearned to mother his sorrow. At times her need of him was so desperate that she would have even welcomed a scene. To feel the eager arms about her, to look upon the beautiful, willful face, would have made up for all. However, in the darkest hour, when the void he had left ached most intolerably, Anne knew that their parting had all been for the best. Their chances of enduring happiness had been so infinitesimal compared to the odds against them. No, even now, hungry for love and solitary as never before, she could still face facts with a certain sturdy wisdom, a cynicism that amazed her, and of which she was even a trifle ashamed. She found herself reading Vittorio's letters with a growing nostalgia for his comforting presence. His poise, his masculinity, appealed to her more than ever before. Weary of leaning upon herself, she longed to take refuge behind his strength. How soothing, how comfortable, his untemperamental simplicity, how genuinely lovable his personality. And besides those qualities for which her fatigue yearned, he possessed rare ability, brains, and a growing reputation that was rapidly making him an outstanding figure amongst his colleagues. Anne rose from her chair by the balustrade and groped her way down into the garden. Yes, she mused, Vittorio was a remarkable man. He deserved a better woman than herself. She ought to be ashamed for having kept him waiting so long. She strolled towards the house, whose lighted windows flickered welcome from behind closed shutters. Should she write to Vittorio to come at once? Perhaps? How happy it would make the dear little Marchesa. Yes, she would write to him now, at once, before the mood passed. With a resolute step she walked up to the terrace and entered the villa, going directly to her desk in the library. It was perhaps an evasive little letter, after all, she thought, as she stamped and gave it to the contadine's boy to mail. But it would fetch Vittorio, of that she was sure. Allowing three or four days for it to reach him (it might just miss the boat from Naples) she ought to be able to count upon seeing him within ten days or perhaps even sooner. She went upstairs and with the help of Regina changed into a loose, peplum-like tea-gown. Supremely happy in her beloved Firenze, the woman chattered volubly and flew about the large, austere room, like a bright-eyed magpie. Amusement curved Anne's lips as she watched her. What boundless joy it would give Regina when she herself became a Marchesa. Gleaming hair wound about her head like a copper helmet, amber draperies clinging to the long, slim body, she wended her way downstairs and into the dining room. After dinner she sat before the fire in the library, whose crowded bookshelves gleamed like jewels in the light of the flames. A volume of memoirs upon her knees, she gazed into the blaze absently. About ten o'clock the gate-bell rang and she heard a car drive into the courtyard. Perhaps the Principe, or some young officer whom she was in the habit of meeting at the Tennis Club in the Cascine. Not in the mood for visitors, she rose and made for the stairs. "Give my excuses, Sandro," she commenced, as the old butler appeared in the doorway. But she was too late, for the visitor had followed close upon the man's heels. Decidedly annoyed, she turned and faced the intruder, a courteous smile upon her lips. If Anne had been a frail woman, she might have fainted. As she was, she came nearer to it than ever in her life before. The color drained from her face. She stared with dilated eyes, as a slim, tall man traversed the distance between them in a few short strides. "Anne, I have come back. Will you take me?" Falling at her feet, Alexis encircled her knees with relentless young arms. CHAPTER XXVII CLAIRE'S CHILD Anne led Alexis into the library, and fell into a chair before the fire. "What does this mean? Have you left Claire after all?" Her widened eyes stared at Alexis coldly. So all his good resolutions had meant just nothing? The weakling strain would out. She might have guessed it. But his gaze met hers unflinchingly. "Claire is dead," he whispered. The words issued from pale lips almost inaudibly. Hands pressed against the arms of her chair, Anne started up. Her rising scream was subdued to a whisper. "Claire dead!" He nodded dumbly. Throwing himself into a chair, he cupped his face in trembling fingers. "Yes, Anne, Claire is dead. And I have killed her as surely as if I'd stuck a knife into her, or put poison into her food." Anne's hands flew instinctly to her mouth to check a cry. "What do you mean?" Was it possible that----? His misery-laden eyes encountered the question in hers without comprehending its horrible significance. "The child. My child," he replied with tragic simplicity. "Ah!" Anne leaned her head against the chair-back. She closed her eyes while a species of lucid swoon swept over her. So Claire was dead. They had killed her between them. She and Alexis had killed a woman. For if Alexis was guilty, so was she. Was she not the indirect cause of the girl's misery? Might not Alexis have gone back to Claire if it had not been for herself? That was problematical and open to doubt, so her uncanny lucidity informed her. But the fact remained they had killed her between them. And yet the very first time that Anne had seen Claire she already bore within herself the seeds of death. Tragic germ of life, that contains death! Poor, poor Claire! "Poor Claire," she moaned beneath her breath almost unconsciously. "And--the child?" she faltered, sturdily defiant of her fear. "Lives." "Thank God." Anne's face was suddenly wet with tears. "Tell me about it." From a gulf of despair, Anne's voice smote upon his misery. "It was horrible. Her face, her poor little dead face! I cannot sleep at night for seeing it." He wrung tortured hands. Anne shuddered. "Tell me about it," she whispered relentlessly. He fixed his eyes upon her petrified face with a groan. "Oh, Anne, must I tell you everything? Can't I spare you anything at all?" "Tell me everything. I can bear it if you can." Her pupils narrowed in an agony of pity, as they fell upon his white face. He continued in a monotonous voice that muffled his suffering as a heavy mist conceals the lip of a chasm. "I was in Chicago when I received the telegram. I cancelled my engagements and rushed back to New York on the next train. But it was too late--Claire was dead." Head heavy on his chest, his lids drooped leadenly over a waxy face. "Go on." Anne's voice was thick with tears. "I went to the apartment. Dr. Elliott met me at the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves." His voice choked and he was silent for a moment. "You don't know Dr. Elliott, but he was Claire's friend as well as her doctor. He--he loved Claire." Anne showed her astonishment. Was it possible that between them they had driven the child to such cheap consolation? He sensed her terror. "No, Anne, Elliott was not Claire's lover. He merely loved her. He would have liked to marry her if she had been willing to divorce me." "I see. Poor man!" Anne's lips grew paler. Alexis continued in the same emotionless tones. "Yes, poor wretch. He is a fine fellow, and would have made her happy if it hadn't been for me. So you understand, of course, how much he hates me, don't you?" "Of course, it is only natural." Her voice was warm with pity. Alexis glanced up at her with pathetic gratitude. "He met me at the door. He gave me one terrible look, a look that I shall never forget, and said, 'Your wife is dead.' I--I don't know exactly what I did, but I think I leaned against the wall and I must have looked odd, for he cried out, 'Christ, this is no time to faint, man. Your wife is dead, I tell you, and you've got to face it. It's your own neglect that has killed her!' Those are the very words he used. They are branded into my brain." He stopped short with a moan. Anne uttered a cry of pity. "Poor boy, how you have suffered! But go on, I must know it all. That is the only way I can help you." Dark with pain and compassion, her eyes endowed him with renewed force. "He told me horrors, Anne, but I deserved them all. He said there was no reason why it should not have been a normal birth, except that Claire had been so weakened by unhappiness that she simply didn't have the physical stamina to pull her through. And he added that she didn't want to live, that she felt all along that she wouldn't. That's why she refused to go to the hospital. She couldn't bear the thought of dying there. Anne, think of it. Think of poor Claire, knowing she was going to die, and planning for it like that. Isn't it too pitiful?" "Yes, it is horrible," Anne whispered, "and that is probably what killed her. She was so sure she was going to die, that she made no effort to help herself." "That is what Elliott said. There wasn't much he didn't say. When he had finished, he swept by me and out of the house and I haven't seen him since, excepting----" he hesitated painfully, "at the funeral." Anne winced. The funeral, how heartrending! She had never thought of that, somehow. But of course there had had to be one. She avoided his eyes that brimmed with knowledge of such horrors. "I shall not speak of that." His voice fluted dangerously. "After Elliott left I--I almost ran away myself. But the nurse came into the hall and seemed to expect me to go in and see Claire. I didn't want to, Anne. It was the most difficult thing I ever did in my life. I somehow felt as if I hadn't the right to take advantage of her helplessness. But the nurse couldn't know that, of course, so I followed her into the room." He paused and shaded his eyes with quivering fingers. "Anne, she was beautiful. She looked rested as she used to when we were children together. Her hair was braided in two plaits on either side of her face. On one of her tiny hands gleamed the wedding ring. After that first glimpse I couldn't take my eyes off it. It seemed so pathetic, somehow. So tragic to have her wear it to the very end--and after. It wrenched at my heart. I fell down by the bedside and cried. Afterwards," he faltered. Anne prompted him tenderly. "Afterwards?" "Afterwards, when I was in the hall again, the nurse asked me if I didn't want to see the child. I--I had forgotten all about it! Just to think of it, Anne, I hadn't even remembered to ask if it had lived. My own child! What kind of a brute do you think I am?" "Merely a puzzled and a frightened one, poor Alexis. Certainly not the monster you imagine. Come, tell me about the baby, dear." Her compassion fell like oil upon his wounded soul. He loved her for it and for the beautiful calm with which she suppressed her own sorrow, which he sensed strongly beneath his own piercing misery. "She left me for a moment and returned with a bundle in her arms. The bundle whimpered a little like--like a sick kitten. I was afraid to look, but the nurse thrust it under my eyes and I had to. It was a very ugly baby, Anne. The little face was all screwed up. Pale and puny, not fat and red like the babies in pictures. It made me a little sick at first. I didn't want to touch it. It was sort of uncanny with its great, hazy eyes staring out at me. However, she laid it in my arms and I had to hold it, for fear it might fall on the ground and break if I didn't." As he stopped for a moment, Anne smiled through tears. How very masculine, even the most feminine of men can be under certain conditions. A new and softer expression spread over his tired face. The eyes acquired an exalted expression. He continued. "Then an odd thing happened, Anne, a very odd thing! As I held him away from me, he stirred in my arms. I could feel his little feet kick my side, and a tiny fist, like an unopened bud suddenly beat against my breast. A hand, knocking at my heart, the hand of my son! It sent a thrill coursing all over me, Anne. I bent over and kissed the pale, pathetic forehead. And as I met the cloudy eyes, so full of sadness and mystery, I knew that I loved him. And I vowed that I would make it all up to him, cherish him, bring him up to be as different from myself as possible, that he might be both happy and sane. Then, immediately, while he was still in my arms and I could feel him stir against my heart, I thought of you, Anne. I thought of you and knew that you would help us. You, who are so strong, so beautifully sane yourself!" Alexis rose and threw himself at Anne's feet. He seized her unresisting hands and covered them with kisses. "Oh, Anne, take pity on us! Love us if you can. We need you so terribly!" She caressed his head with compassionate hands. "Yes, dearest, yes." Her eyes were tragic as she listened. "We need you so terribly." The words of the Marchesa! She had used them eons ago, when this self-same afternoon was young. Poor Marchesa! Poor Vittorio! They would suffer if they were to lose her. But not like Alexis. Alexis and a baby! Combination of helplessness! If she, Anne, were to forsake them, what would become of them at all? And she owed it to Claire. It was the only reparation she could make for the injuries she had been forced to inflict upon her. To look after Alexis, to cherish him as the dead girl had longed to do herself so that his marvelous art might not be stilled by sorrow, to give her child, poor mite, the love and happiness its mother had craved and never received. Anne's path seemed to lie clear before her tear-washed eyes. Once more, Vittorio would have to be sacrificed. This time forever. But he was strong. His grief would never break him. He would make of it a staff to further progress. But Alexis--for Alexis, her refusal might mean return to that dark Limbo from which she had rescued him once before. And to that fate, so much more bitter than death, Anne could never condemn him. She pressed her cheek against the head that lay so humbly upon her knees. She raised his face and looked down into the tragic young eyes. A long look, a giving look, a look that poured divine essence of compassion from her very soul, in a sort of spiritual transfusion, until the face between her hands became suffused with rapture. "No Alexis, do not be afraid, I shall not desert you now. Nothing but your own will can ever separate us." He looked up at her with the humility of a dumb beast. "Does this mean you are really going to marry me, Anne?" he asked in hushed tones. She nodded gravely. "If you wish it." The rapture on his face brimmed over into tremulous laughter. "Anne, Anne!" He was about to take her in his arms, but she repulsed him with gentle dignity. "No, Alexis, not now dear." He understood. A subdued expression veiling his joy, he sat down quietly at a little distance. Anne looked at him gratefully. After all, she could always count upon his delicacy, which was a great comfort. "Where is the child?" she inquired, making an effort to shoulder her new responsibilities. He looked pleased. "In the apartment in Gramercy Park. He has a trained nurse, and is getting along very well. I had a cable yesterday. Oh, Anne, will you try to love him?" Anne smiled through the leaden lassitude that had suddenly fallen upon her. "I shan't have to try. He is little and helpless and yours." "Anne, my beautiful one, my angel!" This time she did not evade the effusion, but resigned herself to the hungry young arms. Much later, after Alexis had gone, and the fire had smouldered into a mound of white dust, Anne went to the telephone, and sent Vittorio the wire which was to nullify so completely her summons of a few short hours ago. CHAPTER XXVIII "PITY THAT PAINS" Anne's villa delighted Alexis, especially the small music room with its frescoed walls and paucity of furniture. It was, he said, the ideal room for music, and they spent their evenings there and many afternoons. To-day, an outburst of spring rain had driven them gustily indoors. It fell from the skies like a sable veil through which smiling hillsides showed ashen like a woman in mourning. In the garden the cypresses dripped heavily. Water foamed down the gutters in amber cataracts. A shower of slanting missiles, the rain hurled itself against the windows, drumming upon the panes with the beat of a thousand nervous fingers. Anne shivered a little. From a stool at her side Alexis looked up into her face anxiously. It was pale, and the large eyes gleamed from out dark circles. He took her relaxed hand and stroked it tenderly. "You look tired, dearest one. Aren't you well this afternoon?" "My head aches a little." It was palpable to Alexis that her smile came with an effort. He laid his cheek against her hand with a low, crooning caress. "Poor darling! What could have caused it? I've never known you to have one before." She passed a hand over her forehead in the futile gesture that accompanies headache. "I have only had one or two in my whole life." Her tired smile went to his heart. "What do you think brought it on?" he persisted. "Have I worn you completely out?" "Of course not, silly boy!" The over-brilliant eyes hovered upon him restlessly. "Well, what is it then?" Anxiety rendered him brusque. "I suppose it was my visit to the Marchesa this morning. It wasn't an easy thing to do, Alexis." "Telling her about us, you mean?" She nodded wearily. "You see, she has hoped for years that I would marry her son, and it was rather a blow." "Poor old lady, of course it was. But didn't she know that you had no intention of marrying him anyway?" Anne avoided the searching eyes, with elaborate carelessness. "Yes, but so long as I remained single, she always felt there was a chance of my changing my mind." "Ah, poor old thing! I don't blame her for being upset at losing you. If I were she, I'd want to commit murder. Was she nasty?" "No-o." Anne frowned a little. In her delicate way the Marchesa had certainly been a trifle ironic. But you couldn't blame her for that, as Anne had not felt it incumbent upon herself to tell the truth in its entirety. Yes, she had been a little cutting and the sting of her words lingered in Anne's heart. Particularly the inference about the nursemaid wives of erratic geniuses. But the pinched look about her mouth, the added pallor upon the frail ivory face had more than excused her. If one chose to wound one's dearest friends by indulging in what must seem like inexplicable freaks, one must suffer the consequences. "You seem a little uncertain?" During Anne's silence, Alexis' eyes had darkened with renewed suspicion. His persistence troubled her. She shrugged fatigued shoulders. "Let's forget it, dear. What's the good of rubbing it in? The Marchesa took my news a little harder than necessary perhaps. Our conversation was a very unhappy, miserable affair. You see, I couldn't tell her everything. And so she doesn't quite understand. She merely thinks I've lost my silly old head over a handsome violinist who will some day leave me high and dry for a fresher and prettier woman. Her point of view is natural, quite refreshingly cynical in fact. She suggested I indulge my infatuation by a temporary liaison rather than in marriage, which couldn't fail to be fatal!" She burst into a hysterical little laugh, which Alexis resented furiously. "Wicked old witch! And I was sorry for her a little while ago!" He drew the stool to Anne's knees, and leaned his weight against her. "You do love and trust me don't you, dearest?" "Of course. Why not?" She used a light tone purposely. Her fatigue would permit of no other. "I've never looked at any other woman but you, Anne. I never even notice women on the street. In my audiences they are just so many blank discs that come to life under my music, and then melt back again into the common mass. No, I shall never be a woman-chasing man. You and my music and the poor little child whom between us, we're going to make a happy little child, will more than fill my life." His enraptured expression struck Anne with a pang. Poor Alexis, there was so much more good in him than he had ever been given credit for. That he was neither light nor sensual she had surmised from the beginning. But even she had never plumbed the depths of nobility that lay concealed beneath the child-like and difficult temperament. Perhaps, after all, the future might turn out to be less dark than she feared. She threw her arms about his shoulders. "We're going to be happy, aren't we?" Her voice unconsciously pleaded. Eyes closed, he snuggled against her. "Happy? I shall be exultant as a god. As for you, you're such an angel that my joy may be enough for you! But I shall try, how I shall try to make you happy, too. How proud I shall be of my wife. When people see you sitting in a box at my concerts, they will ask who is that radiant creature? And the answer will be 'Mme. Alexis Petrovskey.' 'Is she not wonderful?' Men will go mad over you. They will want to fight duels over you with me. But I shall laugh in their faces. For you will be mine." "Silly boy!" Her hand caressed his shoulder. "In another six weeks we will be in Paris together. Anne and music and Paris! I don't dare think of it! I'm afraid something will happen, that I'll burst of joy perhaps first!" "You ought to be able to count on lasting through the next few weeks without asking too much of the gods," laughed Anne. "I don't know. They are said to be jealous! But enough gloom! Do you still like your ring dear?" "I'm crazy about it. It's the most beautiful I have ever seen!" She held out her hand and they admired the ring with rather comical gravity. An enormous emerald cut square and set in a delicate lacework of diamonds and platinum, it etherealized the white hand to the point of fragility. "My collection of emeralds ought to be complete. First my bracelet, then the pendant, and now my ring." He protested scornfully. "Complete, I should say not! I intend to hang ropes of emeralds all over you yet, when I'm really famous," he boasted with boyish glee. "Until I fall dead beneath their weight, like the princess in the fairy tale!" Her arm dropped from about his shoulder wearily. With a remorseful look at her pale face, he left her and walked to the window. "Look, the rain has stopped. It was only a shower after all. The hillsides are smiling again. And the garden is as fresh and dewy as a pretty woman after her bath. Shall we go out?" He opened the French window and they stepped out on to the flagged terrace. Polished by rain, diamond-studded, in the late afternoon sun, the garden sent up renewed incense, a symphony of rare fragrance, that mounted into the air like music. "It reminds me of one of Liszt's rhapsodies," said Alexis, his fingers wielding an imaginary bow. "Some day I shall compose a rhapsody of my own and call it, 'To a Tuscan Garden.'" "Ah, but next month when the roses are out, that is the most enchanting of all," sighed Anne dreamily. "But we shall not be here then," he retorted. "We shall already be on our way to Paris--I mean to Paradise!" He laughed unsteadily. "Anne, think of it. Think of you and me alone in the wagon-lit. Won't it be deliciously improper? I shall boast before the guards. It will be my wife desires this, and that. 'Please close the window. My wife doesn't like a draught!'" He was so comic in his pantomime that Anne laughed until the tears came. "You young rogue!" He pressed her arm against his side. "How is the poor head, dear? How would you like to lie down in the hammock and let me play to you, while the sun sinks back of the city, and sets the old Duomo on fire!" "What a Neronic inspiration!" She smiled with an effort. "But dear, would you think it beastly of me if I sent you home now? My head is really rather bad and if I don't make an effort to get rid of it, it may get the better of me." Immediately, he was full of remorse. "Of course not. Why didn't you send me packing a long time ago? I'll run right along and you go to bed like a good girl. Shall I see you in the morning?" "Weren't we going to the Uffizi? I know you detest sightseeing as much as I do. But there are some things you simply mustn't miss." He looked doubtful. "But are you fit to go, darling?" "Indeed I am. All I need to put me on my feet is a good night's rest. To-morrow I shall be right as rain." "Well, if you aren't, I'll come up and nurse you myself. Shall I take my violin back with me, or leave it here as usual?" "Oh, leave it. You won't need it to-night. And it's safer here than at the hotel. Well, good-by. You're a dear to put up with all my pains and aches." "Such dear aches and pains, all caused by my own brutal self!" She held out her hands. He kissed the palms lingeringly, and then swung down the terrace towards the courtyard, where his car was waiting by the tall iron gates. Slim, flexible as a steel blade, small shapely head, aureoled in the setting sun, he trod the air like a young god. Anne looked after him wistfully. As he disappeared around the angle of the house, fatigue mounted about her in dizzy waves, sucked her down, engulfed her in a dark, pulsating embrace, like the swirl of black waters. * * * * * Brilliant afternoon faded into dark, moonless night. Gun-metal clouds obscured, one by one, the beckoning stars. A breeze, warm and sweet-smelling as the breath of cattle, stirred in the tops of the trees. From her deck upon the garden terrace, Anne watched the clouds as, with swollen sails, they scurried like miraged galleons upon an inverted sea. Her headache eased, it had left behind a trail of lassitude. She lay back in her chair, too weary for thought, spent to the point of serenity, at truce with an unsubstantial world. When footsteps cut crisply upon the brick stairway, she did not even trouble to turn her head. "Is that you, Alexis?" she called languidly. Vittorio's voice broke upon her lethargy with the abruptness of a stone thrown into a stagnant pool. "No, it is I, Vittorio." Pierced as by a blade, her numbness fell from her like a mantle. She rose, and leaning against the balustrade, gave vent to a thin cry. "I told you not to come!" "But surely, you didn't expect to be obeyed?" Etched against the sombre heavens, Vittorio loomed disproportionately large. He approached and seized her hands almost roughly. "My mother says you are going to marry this Petrovskey. Tell me it isn't true, Anna mia?" "Yes." She made a feeble effort to withdraw her hands. "But I thought he had a wife already." "She--she died a few weeks ago. Won't you please let go my hands?" His grasp tightened. "How do you know he is telling you the truth?" She threw back her head proudly. The curve of her throat shone through the dusk like a white pillar. "Alexis is not a liar!" Vittorio laughed grimly. It was worse than he had feared. "But you cannot mean to marry him. He is entirely out of your class, an artist, a Bohemian. If you cannot protect yourself from such people, I must do it for you." Anne succeeded in wrenching away her hands. "I have not asked for your protection, Vittorio Torrigiani." "No, madonna mia, but you need it. You suddenly decide to throw away your life and expect me to sit calmly by. I warn you I am desperate. I cannot permit this sacrilege." "Sacrilege? You call this sacrilege? If you had used that word a few months ago you might have come nearer to the truth. But now----!" He broke in quickly. "Ah, that was different. That was only for the time being. This is for life. That was a whim, a condescension. Not to be taken seriously like marriage." "I took it seriously," her voice was quick with reproach. "I know you did, and I loved you for it, although it nearly broke my heart. To feel that you belonged to another man, that you had given yourself of your own free will was the most fearful hell I hope to ever have to undergo. But this is ten times worse. It isn't only that I am going to lose you forever, that is bad enough, God knows, but to know that you will be miserable, unhappy, completely out of your sphere. Ah, that is more than I can bear." She laid her hand upon his sleeve pleadingly. "But if I can bear it, if I feel that it is the right thing to do? Won't that help at all, Vittorio?" "But how can I know that you are not sacrificing yourself again? There is something mysterious about this. You are keeping something back, Anne." She turned from him with a hopeless shrug and leaned her elbows on the balustrade. "There's nothing mysterious about it, Vittorio. Alexis is alone in the world. He needs me and I am fond of him." He went towards her impulsively. "Fond of him! You call that love? Fond, is that a word to build a marriage upon?" "I'm only quoting you. Haven't you told me many times that love wasn't necessary to a happy marriage?" "If I did I was lying and you knew it, my Anne, or you would have taken me a dozen times over. And I was always patient because I felt that love would come to you finally. And lately, I was so happy, happier than for years. Your letters were so wonderful. I could hear you calling to me between the lines. I felt the time was rapidly approaching when you would awaken to your need of me. Oh, Anne, you're not a capricious woman. You couldn't have written to me like that just out of caprice. I feel I have the right to ask for an explanation." She turned towards him blindly as he leaned beside her on the parapet. Their groping hands met and clung. "You have a right to all I can tell you, Vittorio." Her fingers trembled in his strong clasp. "But there isn't much to say. When I wrote you I thought I was free. And--then he came--and I discovered that I had made a mistake. So I telegraphed to you not to come." The grasp upon her hand tightened nervously. "You mean you discovered that it was he and not I whom you loved after all?" "Perhaps," her voice came muffled. "But don't you know, dear heart?" The fingers in his fluttered. "Yes--I know." The words were almost inaudible. And he was forced to lean close in order to hear them at all. Then almost before she knew it, his arms were about her. His lips rained kisses upon her averted face. "Carissima, it is I whom you love. I, Vittorio! How many times shall I have to tell it to you?" The exultant voice deafened her. Giddy, on the point of defeat, she pushed him away with the palms of her hands, and fell into a chair. "Don't. Don't." Face hidden in her fingers, she began to sob weakly. "Yes, yes. It is the only way to save you from yourself." Falling on his knees beside the chair, he removed the hands from her tear-wet face. "Now--tell me all," he commanded. She faltered out the pitiful story of Claire's death and Alexis's remorse. "So you see how he needs me," she ended. "But I--I need you too," he insisted desperately, crushed by the tragedy of it all. "Not the way he does," she interposed. "Oh, Vittorio, I have promised. I cannot break my word even----" her voice faltered--"even for you! Nothing but Alexis' own will can ever separate us now!" He groaned. "But you are not happy. You do not love him. You love me. Even he wouldn't ask you to keep your word if he knew that," he said miserably. "But he doesn't know. He doesn't dream that I don't love him, poor boy. I'd rather tear myself in pieces than have him guess. He has been so unhappy, so miserable!" "But Anne, doesn't my unhappiness, my misery, mean as much to you as his?" She turned an anguished face towards him, laying her hands upon his shoulders. "You know what it means to me," she gasped. "I--I love you, Vittorio." His arms closed about her frantically. "This is horrible. You say you love me and yet you are going to marry another man." "I have given my word," she whispered, against his heart. They were silent for a moment, while the perfumed breeze rustled in the tree-tops and played with the vines upon the wall. "What was that?" exclaimed Anne, starting up nervously. A new sound, like a stealthy footstep had risen from the path beneath them. "Nothing, dearest." Vittorio rose and peered over the parapet, into the black pit that was the garden, "Nothing at all. It must have been a fallen branch." "For a moment I thought it was Alexis," she breathed, hand on bounding heart. He strolled back to her. "Ah, you see, he frightens you already. He is in the back of your mind constantly. Give him up before it is too late, cara. If you don't, I shall have to go to him myself and tell him the truth. If he doesn't release you then, he is a cad." She stood up and faced him. "If you do that, I shall never see you again. It would be the act of a fiend. It would kill every spark of love that I ever felt for you." "Anne, Anne, are you asking me to give you up again?" He stretched famished arms towards her. She wrung her hands against a sudden, smiting anguish, that left her weak and trembling. "Yes----" she whispered. "Vittorio!" She slipped into his outstretched arms with a strangled cry. Their lips met, lingered, then parted unsatisfied. * * * * * Only a few words, a woman's smothered cry, but sufficient to quench forever Alexis' joy. Only a few words in fewer moments, but enough to send tottering the entire foundation of his being, which less than a minute before had towered to the limitless heavens. A pæan upon the lips, nectar in his veins, he had approached the terrace as if on air. Anne's head was better, so Regina had told him. She had gone out into the garden, was sitting alone under the scattered stars. How surprised she would be when the notes of his violin stole upon her through the night! He would play the Canzonetta from Tchaikowsky's Concerto, the one they both loved the best. It was just the thing for a night like this. A heavy, mysterious night. A night weighted with warm perfume and the promise of hidden rapture. A quivering, mischievous smile upon his lips, he had tiptoed to the bottom of the terrace. Violin tucked beneath his chin, bow raised, ready to sweep the strings, he had suddenly paused. From the terrace above a man's voice had cut into the silence. Alexis held his breath. So Anne was not alone after all? A caller, some unknown man had chosen to-night of all nights to make her a visit. How annoying! And yet how absurd of him to be upset. Why shouldn't Anne have a visitor? It was the most natural thing in the world. Only a monopolist like himself could possibly grudge it her. Besides, it would be a good opportunity to become acquainted with one of Anne's friends. He decided to mount the steps and meet the intruder as cordially as possible, when the sound of Anne's voice, vibrant and agitated, had reached his ears, and he had listened in spite of himself. "But he doesn't know, he doesn't dream that I don't love him, poor boy!" Then the man's voice, pleading, but masterful. "But, Anne, doesn't my unhappiness mean as much to you as his?" That answer of Anne's! Those flaying words that laid bare Alexis' soul! That confession of love, which had undermined his whole structure of being! And the entire horror had passed within the space of a moment. The air still vibrated with Anne's words, was heavy with their import. Stunned, Alexis had crawled out of hearing and leaned against the base of the terrace. Dismembered, leaden, his limbs rocked beneath him sickeningly. Presently, when the strength flowed back into them again, he would creep away to the gates where his car was waiting. Meanwhile, he must be very silent. A single, uneven breath, a smothered sob might betray him. And they must not guess his presence until he was beyond reach or recall. To steal away was the least he could do. He would steal away out of Anne's life, like a thief who has stolen another man's treasure, and then come back surreptitiously, to return it. He, Alexis, was a thief. He had tried to take what did not belong to him. He was an unsuccessful thief, moreover, for Anne's love had never been his. From the bottomless abyss, he knew it now if never before. The woman who had lain in his arms, whose body he had called his own, had never belonged to him at all. She had remained remote as a condescending goddess. Pitiful, without doubt, but fundamentally untouched. "And yet it is her pity that pains me most." Anne, his Anne, he had made her suffer! She was suffering at this moment, only a few feet away. God, how he hated himself! He must get away immediately, before the sight of her weakened him, the beloved voice shattered his resolution to tatters. Violin clasped mechanically to his breast, he crept along the wall and cut across the grass to the gates. They were still ajar and he slipped through to his car unnoticed. Haggard, unkempt, he entered his hotel and regardless of curious glances, strode to the bureau and secured his berth on the midnight express for Paris. Two hours later he was on his way. But he had left behind him a letter for Anne. A taciturn, incoherent letter that strove to conceal the pain that he knew would wound her so cruelly. She must not be sad for him. She must not blame herself at all. It was not her fault that he had overheard her confession. Above all, she must not be afraid that he would do anything desperate like killing himself. Those old, unbalanced days were gone forever. He must live for his child now and his music. He prayed her not to write or to follow him, as out of her immense pity and charity he was afraid she might be tempted to do. But to give him this chance to prove himself a man to them both. He had played with her magnanimity for the last time. He hoped that she would forgive him all the suffering he had so stupidly caused her. And finally, he begged her to think of him sometimes and to keep his gifts for the sake of the great love he would always bear her. An incoherent letter, every word of which revealed to Anne his bleeding hurt. With anguished eyes, she visualized, relived his agony. Saw him as he crouched beneath the terrace and overheard her confess her love to Vittorio. Followed on his mad ride back to the city. Stood behind him while he labored over the scrawl which was to conceal from her his pain, his utter desolation. Accompanied and sat beside him in the wagon-lit as he steamed put of Florence, out of her life. That same wagon-lit of which he had spoken so joyously only yesterday. That wagon-lit he had hoped to share with her as his companion, but in which he had been destined to ride alone. Behind scalding tears, she saw him throw himself onto his berth, watched him as he lay wide-eyed and motionless into the dawn. Passed with him into the future, as exalted, fawned-upon, his child and his violin by his side, he disappeared over the horizon and out of her sight, a pathetic, solitary figure. EPILOGUE PURPLE AND GOLD Urged by a placid breeze, the small boat sped forward with the graceful glide of a swan, its henna-sail reflected in the rippleless waters like tarnish on green bronze. Almost grazing the lush banks it passed the large hotels on the mainland and skirted the island, where the gardens of the villas sprawl luxuriantly down to the Nile. Anne settled herself in the stern with a sigh of sheer joy. Beneath a large sun hat, her shadowed eyes looked like shining green pools in a dark forest. "Wail of shadoof, song of sakieh, how I love it," she murmured. She gazed upon the shore, where polished brown bodies bent rhythmically over their world-old task. "If you hadn't taken a holiday this year, Vittorio, I don't know how I should ever have borne it. Let me see, it's three years since we were last in Assuan, isn't it?" "Yes, but you know you hated to leave the boys, Anne. As for me, I wouldn't have enjoyed it without you." His eyes rested upon her fondly. "How are you enjoying your second honeymoon, cara?" He slipped a proprietary arm about her slim waist. Anne laughed happily and looked askance at the gorgeously-appareled dragoman sitting in the bow with the two sailors. "Really, Vittorio, after ten years of the matrimonial yoke, your devotion deserves honorable mention." One eye still upon the dragoman, she squeezed his hand surreptitiously. "Will you never remember you're married to an old woman? I'll be forty-three in a few months. Heigh-ho!" Above the mock-tragic sigh her smile was divinely careless, divinely assured. The smile of a woman who knows in every fiber of her being that she is loved. And indeed the years had changed Anne almost not at all. A trifle less slim, her beauty had deepened and perfected in the mold. Brilliant, undimmed, her hair shone like beaten copper beneath the drooping brim of the leghorn. A little lined, quite gray, certainly more distinguished than before, Vittorio pressed against her side. "Forty-three! Do you call that a great age, foolish one? You are fishing! You know perfectly well that you are as beautiful as ever. If I were jealous, I shouldn't have a moment's peace with the raft of men you always have about you, at home in Florence--and the idle brutes at the hotel here, who seem to have nothing to do but to ogle you from the time you appear in the morning until you disappear at night with my most fortunate self. Some day I expect to be murdered by one of your miserable victims!" "Old villain, if one of your revered colleagues could hear you now! The celebrated Torrigiani, discoverer of famous relics of infamous royalties, making love to his own wife as they float along the Nile. Why, even the Pharaohs would laugh at you for an old-fashioned frump, although it couldn't have been such a terrible task to be faithful to as many wives as they had!" As they neared the end of the long island, the branching Nile curved broadly. Myriads of tiny islands like diving seals glutted the waters. Beyond on the shore, the green stopped abruptly, and rolling amber sands stretched palely golden beneath a sky of melted turquoise. Girdled by palms, shod with roses, a pink villa nestled within its garden. From the awninged terrace the sound of faint music wafted upon the scented air, rose above the wail of the shadoof. Anne and Vittorio looked at each other in surprise. "A violin," Anne murmured, and listened. The exquisite tones hummed an air unfamiliar to her ears, an air at once heart-breaking and unspeakably beautiful. "How lovely!" A shade of sadness crept over her face. "The man certainly knows how to play," she clasped her hands closely. The sound of a violin still moved her to the marrow. The gorgeous dragoman turned about abruptly. "Ah, Madame, ze music please 'er? Zat ees ze mad Englissman." "The mad Englishman?" "Ah, yes. 'E is great artiste. But 'e is seek, very seek. He 'ave ze consump', you know. Eet ees very bad. 'E spit zee blood. 'E seet all day outside 'e's 'ouse and play ze veolon, and never speak to no ones. 'E's man, 'e good friend mine, 'e tell me." Hands still clasped together nervously, Anne leaned forward. "What is his name?" "'Ees name? I forget eet. Very strange for Englis name. More like ze Russie. Pe, Pet, but I forgot how eet finis!" Pale beneath her large hat, Anne prodded him almost angrily. "Try to think, Abdul. Is--is it Petrovskey?" The dragoman beamed. "Ah, yes, zat ees eet. Per'aps Madame, she 'ave 'eard of 'eem?" Speechless, Anne nodded. Her long white throat worked spasmodically. Vittorio put an arm about her quivering shoulders. "Cara mia, perhaps it is not the same man at all. Do not grieve, dearest." She shook her head, while the music rose to a crescendo, and stopped momentarily. "I'm almost sure it must be, Vittorio. Don't you remember reading in the paper over a year ago that he had retired from the concert stage on account of ill health? And that I wanted to write to him, but decided that after all these years it would be better not to?" Vittorio nodded. A look of suffering crept into his eyes. "Perhaps you are right, Anne. Maybe it is Petrovskey. What do you want to do? Would you like to get off and see him?" She looked at her husband with startled eyes. Was she to see Alexis again after all these years? Did she have the courage to reopen old wounds? He might be horribly changed from the boy she had known. Illness plays such cruel tricks with one. And she wanted so frightfully to remember him as she had seen him last, when he left her garden over ten years ago. Then his beauty had been triumphant. Aureoled by setting sun, his indelible image had stamped itself upon her memory. Vittorio's eyes rested upon her pityingly. "Darling, I know it will be hard. If you don't feel able to face it, you mustn't force yourself." "But if he is ill and lonely?" Her eyes wandered up the garden bank almost fearfully. She turned a pleading face toward her husband. "Vittorio, help me! What shall I do? Do you think seeing me again might do him harm if he is not well?" Honesty conquering fear, he shook his head. "Why should it? It may even be good for him. Come coraggio, Anne!" His noble simplicity shamed her. A lump in her throat, she nodded dumbly. Vittorio signed to the delighted dragoman. They swung about and put in at the small landing place. Knees trembling beneath her, Anne disembarked, and she and Vittorio strolled up the grassy bank towards the villa. The music, stilled for the last few minutes, smote the air once more with a tragic, persistent monotony. The player was evidently improvising upon some doleful, Arabic theme, perhaps a song of the boatmen. Anne pressed against Vittorio. "It makes my very soul shed tears," she murmured. They had neared the house. Low, rectangular, surrounded by palms and rosebushes, it rose directly in front of them. Upon the awninged terrace, iron chair tip-tilted against the pinkish walls, the violinist suddenly ceased playing. He laid his instrument upon the table next to him and looked idly into the distance. Although unspeakably altered, it was undoubtedly Alexis. Two great tears gliding down her cheeks, Anne signed to Vittorio to wait for her. She mounted the shallow steps alone and approached Alexis, touching him lightly where the slim shoulders showed gaunt beneath the loose linen coat. "Alexis?" As if galvanized by the sound of her voice, the motionless figure sprang suddenly to life. The sunken eyes leaped to Anne's, widened, then remained fixed. She came a little closer. "It is I, Anne. Don't you know me, Alexis?" she murmured very gently. The dilated eyes traveled over her face. He passed an emaciated hand over his forehead, beneath dampened locks. "Have I the delirium again?" His voice was hoarse, almost toneless, not the boyish voice she remembered so well. More altered, in fact, than the poor face which, at a distance, still appeared youthful, although near to, it showed lined and haggard, dry skin stretched taut over hectic cheek-bones. Anne's heart yearned over him sorrowfully. She sat down beside him, and took one of the feverish hands between her cool palms. "No, no, don't be frightened, dear. You are not dreaming. It is really Anne in the flesh. We--that is to say I, was passing by on the water. I heard your violin and stopped to listen. From what my dragoman told me, I guessed it must be you. So I came. Will you forgive me?" "Forgive you?" The altered voice was full of wonder. He still looked at her as if he scarcely believed in her reality. The great suffering eyes, like those of a stray dog who has found a master, wrung her heart. "Forgive you?" he repeated monotonously. "Yes. For disobeying you and coming to you after all these years?" Her voice was tremulous. As he listened the stiff figure suddenly relaxed, leaned forward with a choked, comprehending cry. "Anne, Anne, it is really you! Thank God! I have prayed that I might see you once more before I died. God is merciful after all!" He grasped her hands, at first timidly, then eagerly with hungry insatiability. Ran feverish fingers up her arms to her shoulders, attained her face, caressed it with the groping, seeking gestures of a blind man. Then, with a smothered cry, he fell back limply in his chair. "Alexis, my poor boy!" The gaunt, dry hands in hers, Anne pressed them to her heart. Cracked lips parted over set teeth, he leaned back, gasping a little. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I am still rather weak." She was frightened. "Isn't there something I can do for you? Some medicine you can take?" With a feeble movement of the still-graceful hands, he brushed the idea aside. "The sight of you--is all--I want to cure me completely," he articulated between difficult, hissing breaths. "You are more beautiful than ever, Anne." Her smile was wistful. "Dear Alexis, I am getting old now." "Old?" He looked genuinely surprised. "I see no difference," he added with no attempt at compliment. "Oh, Anne, the years, how long they have been in passing!" She choked back a sob. "And yet you shouldn't be too unkind to them, dear Alexis, for they have brought you fame." A wan smile rode the gaunt face. "Fame? What is that? A bubble which dissipates as you grasp it," he snatched at the air. "A flower in your buttonhole that smells sweet at first, but becomes rank before nightfall. A nothing for which you pay with your heart's sweat." He paused and the thin fingers drummed rhythmically on the iron table. "But you mustn't think I am ungrateful, Anne. The work itself, I love, but only for itself. It has kept me sane. That--and the boy." His face brightened. He turned eagerly towards Anne. "Tell me about him," she whispered. "He must be a big boy by now." "Almost eleven." The hoarse voice was full of pride. "He is in school in England--I don't dare to keep him with me now." He pointed to his chest. "I miss him every minute, Anne. He has always spent his vacations with me ever since he started going away to school. Before that, we were together constantly. When he was a baby the little beggar would go to sleep for my violin, when his nurse could do nothing with him." Anne smiled through tears. "You must love each other very much." "Oh, we do. He went with me on all my long tours. We have been inseparable ever since----" he choked. She nodded. "Yes, Alexis, I know." He looked at her somberly. The pent-up tragedy of the years passed by in his dilated pupils. "We will not speak of that," he whispered. She shook her head. "No, Alexis, but it was ghastly for me, too. I feel I must tell you that, at least. I was ill, not myself, for months. I was on the point of writing you many times but----" she stopped while the crimson spread to her forehead. It seemed too brutal to tell him about Vittorio and the children. He understood her hesitation and smiled bravely. "So I did the right thing after all! Anne, dearest, don't be afraid to tell me the truth. Are you happy at last?" Words were beyond her for the moment. She nodded. He sighed contentedly. "I am glad--so glad," he breathed. "Are you married and have you children?" he continued with eager simplicity. "Vittorio and I have been married for almost ten years," she replied brokenly. "We have two little boys," she added quickly. Longing swept the drawn features. "How I should love to see them," he sighed wearily. "When you are better you must come to Florence and pay us a long visit," she replied, trying to speak brightly. He spread his hands, in careless fatalism. He smiled oddly. "When I am better? Yes, when I am better, I'll come." "And bring the boy," she continued, sturdily ignoring his implication. "What is his name?" A light dawned back of the misery in his eyes. "Jack. Just a simple English name, as unlike his father's as possible. And oh, Anne, he is unlike me. He cannot play a single musical instrument, although he has been surrounded by musicians all his life. He has no temperament at all. And he loves sports. He has won a lot of medals already. He isn't even very good in his studies." His naïve pleasure in the latter fact struck Anne as so comical that she actually laughed. "Funny Alexis!" she said tenderly. "You certainly make an odd father. But tell me, what school is Jack in? You must give me his address. Do you think he would like to come to us for the holidays? That is----" she added hastily, Alexis was sensitive over receiving favors--"if he has made no other plans?" His face was almost radiant. "He is at Eton. He would love to go to you, I know. If you really want him. I can't have him here----" the smile faded. "And I was worrying about where to send him. But--are you sure your husband wouldn't mind?" "Vittorio? Never," said Anne confidently. "He loves children. And--and he admires you tremendously, Alexis. There is no, no hard feeling in his heart for you. Vittorio is a very noble man and he appreciates nobility in others!" Alexis bowed his head upon his chest. "Thank you, my Anne. May I call you that?" "Oh, yes, of course, Alexis," she patted the hand near hers. She hesitated a moment. "Vittorio is here with me now. Would you like to see him, dear? Or would it be too much for you?" Alexis' face paled. The dry lips quivered. There was a pause before he replied. "I should like to see him," he said firmly. "I want to thank him for--for making you so happy." "You are sure?" she insisted, a little frightened at her temerity in bringing the two men together. The two men whose lives had crossed so fatally, and yet who had never, in the course of events, actually met face to face. Yet, if she were really to help Alexis during the next few weeks of their stay, the meeting was inevitable. Her hesitation was palpable. Alexis reassured her, with pathetic vehemence. "Of course I am sure. Please call him, Anne darling. Can't you see I've passed beyond all stage of jealousy? My illness seems to have extinguished the evil fire forever." She smiled at him tenderly. "I'll call him, then." She walked to the edge of the terrace and beckoned towards the garden. "Vittorio!" The crystalline tones resounded purely. A tall figure rose from a bench back of the palms and approached them. "This is my husband, Alexis." Anne's voice rang slightly tremulous. Alexis got to his feet rather feebly and the two men clasped hands. Vittorio was the first to speak. "I am sorry you are not well," he said gently, as they all sat down. Alexis smiled. "That is good of you, Marchese. And it is doubly good of you to permit the Marchesa to see me. I--I am very grateful." The smiling lips quivered. Vittorio was touched. The stooping figure, the prematurely haggard young face filled him with pity. He made an effort to speak casually. "I hope you will let us both come to see you very often. We shall be here for at least six weeks." "You don't know what it will mean to me," said Alexis eagerly. "I've hardly seen a soul for months," he caught himself up sharply, "but I'm sure you must be thirsty. I'll order something to drink at once." "Please don't bother," cried Anne. With a smiling shake of the head, he struck an iridescent little gong on the table beside him. Very correct in semitropical livery, an English servant appeared in the doorway. "What would you like?" said Alexis, turning to his guests. "Some whisky and soda, Marchese? Or would you prefer iced sherbet? Hopkins keeps some on hand for me all the time, as I find it very soothing. Then there is always Turkish coffee, for which we are famous, aren't we, Hopkins?" "Yes, sir." The man bowed with the flicker of a pleased smile. They chose the sherbet. Little spiced cakes from the bazaar were passed with it. The conversation became light and unstrained. Since the old days, Alexis had mixed much with the world. Had been a big figure and had progressed beyond ill-ease. After they finished the sherbet, he looked longingly at Anne, and asked if she would not like to try some Slovakian dances with him. She looked doubtful. "Do you think you ought to to-day, Alexis? Haven't we tired you sufficiently?" He shook his head gayly. "Oh, no, I haven't felt so fit for ages. Have I, Hopkins?" "No, sir." Sherbet cups in his hands, Hopkins coughed discreetly. His mild eyes met Anne's full of respectful warning. She nodded at him behind Alexis' shoulder. "I think you've had enough excitement for this afternoon," she said firmly. "Suppose I come to-morrow for a little while?" He looked radiant. "To-morrow, and every day while you are here!" he said with the tyrannical air of a spoiled child. "But you must play with me now, this minute. The music only arrived yesterday and I haven't tried it yet." He looked at once so wistful and so happy that Anne relented. "Very well, but only for a little while, mind!" They entered the house. Rather over-elaborate, the long drawing room was furnished in the French Algerian style with several large divans and an immense Bokhara rug that covered the entire floor. In the corner stood a grand piano brought by Alexis from Cairo. Anne seated herself before it and gave Alexis the key. Hopkins brought up a chair and placed it by the piano for Alexis. He dropped into it with a sulky little air, and commenced to tune up. "Hopkins thinks it tires me to stand," he apologized crossly. Then he broke into the dance, ancient fire unquenched, technique magnificently perfected. Plying the keyboard mechanically, Anne listened, shaken to the very marrow. For a moment it seemed as if time had never existed and she was back again in Long Island, young lover by her side, their souls welded in an ecstasy of sound. Then Alexis stopped suddenly. He reeled in his chair. "I'm--a bit giddy," he gasped. The violin dropped on to the floor from inert fingers. Then came the cough, the racking typhoon of a cough that shattered the frail body in its gust. Speechless with terror, Anne and Vittorio looked at each other helplessly. Hopkins poured some medicine into a wine-glass and held it ready. He shook his head sorrowfully. "He shouldn't 'ave done it, ma'am. 'Is cough do be cruel such times." A stained handkerchief to his lips, Alexis lay back in his chair. Anne's eyes fixed themselves upon the blood with a shudder of pity. The medicine administered, she took Hopkins aside. "Tell me the worst," she said below her breath. "Is--is he dying?" Tears gathered in the man's eyes. "Oh, yes, ma'am. 'Es very bad. The doctor says 'e can't last six months." "Ah!" Anne stifled a cry, "Have you been with him long?" The puckered lips trembled. "Hit'll be goin' on seven years, ma'am. H'im sure hi don't know 'at'll become of me when 'es gone. Hi'll feel kinder lost-like." Anne looked at him gratefully. "Hadn't you better get the doctor now?" she whispered above the lump in her throat. He shook his head sadly. "Oh, no, ma'am. There h'ain't nothin' 'e could do for 'im. Jest to lay down and be quiet like is what 'e needs, ma'am." Anne took the hint meekly. She went up to the two men, and took hold of Vittorio's arm where he stood leaning over Alexis. "We must go now, Vittorio. Alexis needs rest. I'm afraid we should never have come!" Her sorrowful eyes met Alexis' apologetic gaze. "Oh, don't say that," he pleaded weakly. "I have an attack like this very often now." She held out her hand and he grasped it with feeble fingers. "It has been heaven to see you again," he whispered. "Now I can die happy." Anne knelt down by the chair. From her aching eyes brimmed scalding tears. "You are going to get well, dear," she murmured, "we are going to make him, aren't we, Vittorio?" But the end was not yet. Several weeks were to pass first. Meanwhile, Anne went to the villa every day. Once or twice, when Alexis felt stronger, they played a little. But he tired almost immediately. After a while they gave it up tragically, tacitly. She read to him instead. And they talked a little. But day by day he grew perceptibly weaker, and the coughing spells racked him with greater ferocity. One day a letter came from Jack at Eton, accepting with glee Anne's invitation for the holidays. And Alexis, realizing that the end was near, listened with joy as Anne read it to him, and added of her own accord that she and Vittorio wanted to look after the boy in the future. "In that way," she added almost timidly, "I can be a mother to him after all." Alexis made no reply. He merely raised emaciated hands to his face, and Anne saw that he wept. * * * * * That afternoon the sunset was unusually resplendent. Purple and gold, it spread to the horizon where rolling, amber sands merged into saffron skies. Anne's boat, its henna sail lurid against heaven, floated upon a sheet of solid gold. Solid gold, Anne's gleaming hair as, hatless, she crouched weeping in the stern beside Vittorio. While purple clouds faded into black and black and gold fused into lacquer. That afternoon the sunset was unusually resplendent, but Anne wept because Alexis was no longer there to see. 
39571	----	Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. NICOLO PAGANINI: HIS LIFE AND WORK. PRINTED BY E. SHORE AND CO., 3, GREEN TERRACE, ROSEBERY AVENUE, LONDON, E.C. [Illustration: _Plate I.--See Appendix._ PORTRAIT OF NICOLO PAGANINI BY MAURIN.] _"THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. XVII._ NICOLO PAGANINI: HIS LIFE AND WORK, BY STEPHEN S. STRATTON. "_Natura il fece, e poi ruppe la stampa._" ARIOSTO. _WITH TWENTY-SEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS._ London: "THE STRAD" OFFICE, 3, GREEN TERRACE, ROSEBERY AVENUE, E.C. J. LENG & CO., 186, FLEET STREET, E.C. New York: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 153-157, FIFTH AVENUE. 1907. PREFACE. The author of this work did not live to see the final sheets in print. Although it has not received his revision, yet the book has had careful editing. Mr. Stratton did not undertake the Life of Paganini without adequate preparation. He had during many years thoughtfully studied the artist and his attributes, and became an acknowledged authority on the subject. He gathered from all available sources the most reliable information. Almost his last journey was a pilgrimage to Paganini's birthplace. This volume will exhibit his versatility, particularly the chapter giving the analyses of Paganini's compositions. It is therefore the most complete account of the greatest virtuoso recorded in the annals of music. Those who peruse this most interesting biography of Paganini, will naturally desire to learn something of the writer. Stephen Samuel Stratton was born in London on December 19th, 1840. He began his career as a chorister of St. Mary's Church, Ealing. He studied harmony and composition under Charles Lucas. As an organist, he held these appointments--St. Mary the Virgin, Soho; and St. James's Church, Friern Barnet. On his removal to Birmingham in 1866, he was organist at St. Barnabas Church; Edgbaston Old Parish Church; St. John's, Harborne; and the Church of the Saviour (1878-1882). In 1879 he commenced a series of chamber concerts in Birmingham. From 1877 until the day of his death, Mr. Stratton was the musical critic of the "Birmingham Daily Post." In that position his influence was decidedly beneficial. He was also a contributor to the London Musical Press. He will be remembered as the joint author (with Mr. James D. Brown) of "British Musical Biography." His "Life of Mendelssohn" was written for Messrs. Dent's "Master Musicians." Among other items may be mentioned "Musical Curiosities," and valuable papers read before the "Incorporated Society of Musicians." In private life he was highly esteemed--an honorable citizen--a genial, kind hearted man, with a genuine love of his profession. He died, after a short illness, in Birmingham, on June 25th, 1906. R. H. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE BOYHOOD 1 CHAPTER II. EARLY TRIUMPHS 9 CHAPTER III. ITALIAN TOURS 22 CHAPTER IV. TOURS ON THE CONTINENT 35 CHAPTER V. FIRST VISIT TO ENGLAND 50 CHAPTER VI. FINAL TOUR 61 CHAPTER VII. DEATH 73 CHAPTER VIII. PAGANINI, THE MAN 85 CHAPTER IX. THE ARTIST AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES 107 CHAPTER X. HIS METHODS IN PLAYING 128 CHAPTER XI. HIS COMPOSITIONS 148 CHAPTER XII. MEMORIALS 191 APPENDIX.--NOTES ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS 195 BIBLIOGRAPHY 201 NICOLO PAGANINI: HIS LIFE AND WORK. CHAPTER I. There are some names, the mere mention or thought of which conjure up distinct personalities; such are Handel, Bach, Beethoven, Wagner; but not one has the extraordinary individuality of that of Paganini. Though few can be living who ever saw the man, though his portraits are not now commonly to be met with, the name of Paganini at once calls up a picture--weird, uncanny, demoniacal; brings back the faint echo of performances long lost in the corridors of time; and excites the imagination in a manner altogether unique. The last few years have witnessed the appearance of an unprecedented number of wonderful young violinists, whose achievements culminate in the marvellous playing of the boy Franz von Vecsey. These manifestations are almost enough to induce belief in the theory or doctrine of reincarnation, and to make one fancy that the great Genoese is once again in the flesh. These violinists, too, are all playing Paganini's music; they seem to glory in it, and so do the audiences, although to many serious and worthy folk it is mere clap-trap stuff. This revived interest in Paganini and his music seems to render the present an appropriate time to restate the case of the man and the artist, notwithstanding the extensive literature already associated with his name. It is a curious fact that nearly every distinguished musician, composer or executant, has his namesakes. There was a constant succession of Bachs in Thuringia for nearly two centuries; Beethoven's father and grand-father were musicians; there were four Mozarts, musicians; and more than twenty Wagners of some standing in the musical world. No one seems to have traced the pedigree of Paganini, but he was preceded and followed by others bearing the same name, and such particulars as can be gleaned concerning these Paganinis may not be without interest, and at least may serve by way of introduction to the greatest of them all. Dr. Burney, in his account of Italian Opera in London during the last half of the eighteenth century, names a Signor and Signora Paganini as engaged for the season of 1760-61. They came from Berlin, and the Doctor is ungallant enough to say that the lady, known as "The Paganini," was not young. She made her _début_ on November 22, 1760, in Galuppi's "Il Mondo della Luna," in a _buffa_ part, and was very captivating. At her benefit, when another opera by Galuppi was given--"Il Filosofo di Campagna,"--such a crowd assembled as had never been seen on any other occasion. Not one third of those who presented themselves at the Opera-house were able to obtain admission. "Caps were lost, and gowns torn to pieces, without number or mercy, in the struggle to get in. Ladies in full dress, who had sent away their carriages, were obliged to appear in the streets and walk home without caps or attendants." "Luckily the weather was fine," adds the Doctor, who witnessed this uncommon spectacle. "The Paganini" thus anticipated the extraordinary triumphs of the more famous artist of half a century later. Signor Paganini, the husband, was only "a coarse first man," and sang almost without a voice. Next comes Ercole Paganini, born at Ferrara, about 1770, the composer of several operas, produced at La Scala, Milan, and at Florence, from 1804 to 1810. A tenor singer named Paganini appeared in opera at Florence in 1830, was decidedly successful and became highly popular in Genoa in 1836. After Francesco Lamperti was appointed (in 1850) professor of singing at the Conservatorio, Milan, among the good pupils he turned out was one named Paganini, of whom, however, no particulars are forthcoming. In 1865, Cesare Paganini, a theoretical writer, published a treatise at Florence; and in November, 1898, Signora Franceschati-Paganini was the Brünnhilde in a performance of "Götterdämmerung," at Bologna. Then there was Dr. Paganini, who was perhaps the brother in whose charge young Nicolo was allowed to go to Lucca in 1798. Whomsoever he may have been, this Dr. Paganini died in 1835, which event gave rise to a rumour that the great violinist was dead--a rumour happily untrue. This Dr. Paganini was not a fiddle-player, but a fiddle-fancier. He possessed a violin ornamented with mother-o'-pearl and ebony, which had belonged to a Shah of Persia, the favourite violin of Lord Byron (so it was said), one that had belonged to Stanislaus of Poland, father-in-law of Louis XV., one that had been played upon by Charles IV. of Spain (the enthusiast who had quartet performances at six in the morning, and who scorned to "keep time,") and another, once the property of that monarch's favourite, Don Manuel de Godoy, Duke of Alcudia. All the Paganinis mentioned above were eclipsed by _the_ Paganini (_pace_ Dr. Burney), the artist who stood alone, whose life was full of strange vicissitudes, who was worshipped and calumniated, who was applauded as perhaps never artist was before nor since, yet who was laughed at, hissed--only once--brought before the law-courts--threatened with imprisonment and mobbed within an ace of being lynched. As a child of four, Paganini narrowly escaped being buried alive; from youth up he was a constant sufferer from physical disorders; he had no real home till he was fifty-two; after death his remains were refused burial for five years; and when his body had rested in the grave for half a century it was exhumed, apparently in order that his features might once more be gazed upon. Truly, Paganini's story is a romance, a drama, a tragedy. We may not look upon his like again, nor is it desirable that we should; for his life conveys a moral that few can fail to discern. The artist is the child of his age. What kind of age was it that produced Paganini? A few years before he was born there came into the world one who was to set Europe aflame. The age was the age of revolution. Thrones tottered; armies devastated the Continent, and Italy became a mere appanage of the French Empire. The political upheaval was accompanied by a revolution in art. The romantic school in music arose, and Beethoven, Schubert, Berlioz, Chopin, Schumann, Liszt, and Wagner, were the psychic results of the turmoil into which the world was thrown. Into such a world, already feeling the premonitory tremors of the great Revolution, was Nicolo Paganini born, at Genoa, on October 27th, 1782.[1] [Illustration: _Plate II.--See Appendix._ THE BIRTHPLACE OF PAGANINI.] The Genoese--thrifty and industrious--bore no very good moral character at that time; but they were then perhaps not alone in that respect. Little information is available concerning the family of Paganini. The father, Antonio Paganini, kept a small shop in the vicinity of the port; he is described as a man of extraordinarily avaricious character, hard and brutal, but possessing the redeeming quality of a love for music, and showing some skill in the art; his instrument was the mandoline, though Laphaléque says he was a violinist. The mother must have been of a lovable disposition, from what little has been recorded of her. The family consisted of two sons and two daughters. Of the elder son, mention is made but once; of the daughters, nothing seems to be known. Little Nicolo must have given evidence of musical talent very early, but ere he was put to his studies he was attacked by the measles, and that so severely that he remained for a whole day in a state of catalepsy. He was given up for dead and was wrapped in a shroud, and only a slight movement at the last, showing symptoms of life, saved him from the horror of premature burial. Scarcely had he recovered, when his father began his lessons in violin playing. The child's evident disposition for the art excited the father's avarice, which found little scope for gratification in his small business undertakings. He indulged in golden dreams of the future, and to hasten their realisation was unremitting in his work of instruction. His method was cruel in the extreme. The poor child was kept to his task from morn till night; slight faults were punished with rigour, even blows and starvation being resorted to in order to force the talent which nature had bestowed. This unnatural treatment must have wrung the heart of the gentle mother, and doubtless by way of encouragement she told the poor little fellow of her wonderful dream. An Angel had appeared to her, and promised her the fulfilment of any desire. She asked that her son might become the greatest of violinists, and her prayer was to be granted. This disclosure may have fired the ambition of the child, for he was the hardest of workers, and needed no spur. Already, at six years of age, he was a tolerable player, and was even beginning to find out new paths. His performances excited the admiration and amazement of the neighbours, and even the Maestro Francesco Gnecco visited the little house by the harbour to listen to the wonder-child. He introduced the boy to the circle of his own friends, and made the father understand that he had long outgrown his training. In short, the germ of the _virtuoso_ of later days was already manifesting itself. Nicolo was now placed under Giovanni Servetto, leader of the theatre band--a man of slight attainments, with whom the boy did not stay long. His next master was Giacomo Costa, the foremost violinist in Genoa and maestro di capella of the Cathedral, a genial man, who took a lively interest in the boy. Under Costa, Nicolo made rapid progress, and was introduced to a new world, though the pedantry of the master frequently came into collision with the peculiarities of the pupil. Young Paganini now had to play a new concerto each week at one of the churches: that was one of the conditions Costa imposed when taking him as a pupil. Paganini's extraordinary powers as a player at sight were in great measure due to this early experience. The father still exercised stern oversight, and there was little relaxation or youthful pleasure for Nicolo. His health was already undermined, and, as Dubourg touchingly puts it:--"the sickly child, incapable of attaining a healthy maturity, was merged into the suffering man." In his eighth year Nicolo composed a sonata for the violin--since, with other works, lost. About that time a very vivid, almost shamefaced, impression was made upon him by hearing that Mozart, at the age of six, had composed a pianoforte concerto, with parts for orchestra, and so difficult that only a _virtuoso_ could execute it. For long Nicolo tormented himself with the thought of this musical superiority, and strove day and night to remedy his own imperfection in the art. FOOTNOTE: [1] All biographical notices of Paganini, with the exception of that in Riemann's "Dictionary of Music," give February 18th, 1784, as the date of birth. The correct date seems to have been established when the centenary celebration took place, in 1882. CHAPTER II. In 1793 Paganini made his _début_ in the great Theatre of Genoa (the Carlo Felice?). He was in his eleventh year, and his reputation must have been considerable, for the occasion was of some importance, being the benefit concert of two singers of repute, Luigi Marchesi and Teresa Bertinotti.[2] Marchesi was second only to Pacchierotti among the male _soprani_ of the time, and sang at the King's Theatre, London, during the season of 1788; in the "Musical Reminiscences" of the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe he is highly praised as the most brilliant singer of his day. It was a great compliment to the talent of the young Nicolo that these singers should apply for his assistance. Moreover, they promised to sing for him when he should give a concert. Both functions duly took place, and the boy-artist at each played a set of variations of his own composition on "La Carmagnole"; an air then greatly in vogue. That old melody "Malbrough s'en-va-t-en guerre," pressed into the service of the French Revolution, was appropriately associated with the young artist, himself a revolutionist. His success was phenomenal, performers and audience being thrown into transports of admiration. It would appear that young Paganini studied with Giacomo Costa for a period of six months only. He must then have continued to work by himself, for it was not until about 1795 that his father took him to Parma, to place him under the "Pride of Italy," Alessandro Rolla, to whom the boy had been recommended by Costa. There was an affecting farewell between Nicolo and his mother, for they were tenderly attached to each other. Paganini has himself related the story of his interview with Rolla, which, for the sake of completeness, must be summarised here. When Nicolo with his father arrived at Rolla's house, the famous violinist was ill in bed. His wife showed the visitors into an apartment adjoining, and went to inform her husband of their arrival, but he was disinclined to receive the strangers. On a table in the room where they were waiting lay a violin, and a composition in manuscript--Rolla's latest concerto. Paganini, prompted by his father, took up the violin, and played the concerto through. Astonished at the performance, Rolla asked what _virtuoso_ was in the next room, and on being told it was only a boy he had heard, would not credit the statement without the evidence of his own eyes. To the father's entreaty Rolla replied that he could teach the boy nothing; it would waste his time to remain with him. He must go to Ferdinando Paer, who would teach him composition. There are several versions of this story, and much uncertainty respecting some points. Rolla was chamber _virtuoso_, and director of the concerts at the Court of Parma. Paer, whose first opera was produced in 1789, was at this time in great request at Venice, where he brought out a succession of operas. In 1796 he may have been in Parma, for his "Griselda" was produced there that year. Paganini, at some time or other, doubtless did profit by Paer's friendly assistance; but his real teacher was Gasparo Ghiretti, chamber musician to Prince Ferdinand of Parma, and the master of Paer. Ghiretti was a violinist, as were nearly all the Italian composers of that period. Under Ghiretti, Paganini went through a systematic course of study in counterpoint and composition, devoting himself to the instrumental style. He must, about the same time, have received violin lessons from Rolla, though he afterwards refused to acknowledge that he had been his pupil. Fétis tells of discussions between Rolla and Paganini concerning the innovations the latter was attempting, for he was always striving after new effects. As he could but imperfectly execute what he aimed at, these eccentric flights did not commend themselves to Rolla, whose taste and style were of a more severe order. Of Paganini's work in composition little appears to be known. Anders states that Paer when in Parma devoted several hours daily to Paganini; and at the end of the fourth month entrusted him with a composition of a _duo_, in which Nicolo succeeded to the complete satisfaction of his master. Paganini may also at that time have sketched, if he did not complete, the Studies, or Caprices, Op. 1. In 1797 the father took the boy from Parma, and set out with him on a tour through Lombardy. Concerts were given in Milan, Bologna, Florence, Pisa, and Leghorn. The young artist achieved an extraordinary reputation; the father took possession of the more material rewards of art. The "golden dreams" were in process of realisation! Returning to Genoa, young Paganini finished the composition of his Twenty-four Studies, which were of such excessive difficulty that he could not play them. He would try a single passage over in a hundred ways, working for ten or eleven hours at a stretch, and then would come the inevitable collapse. He was still under the stern domination of his father, and his spirit must have chafed under the bondage. His own ardour was sufficient to carry his labours to the verge of exhaustion, and he needed no spur as an incentive to exertion. In all directions save that of music his education was utterly neglected. The moral side of his nature was allowed to grow wild. There was the restraining influence of a mother's love, but there was little else. It might indeed be said that, musically, Paganini was self-educated; but that one of the world's great geniuses should lack the intellectual and moral training that go to make the complete man was sad in the extreme. Paganini's was a nature warped; on the one side phenomenal power, on the other bodily suffering, intellectual and spiritual atrophy. But more of this when we turn from his career to the man himself. As the youth grew older the spirit of revolt arose. He must and would escape from the tyranny of his avaricious father. But how? A way soon offered itself. At Lucca, the festival of St. Martin, held each November, was an event of such importance, musically, that it drew visitors from all parts of Italy. As the November of 1798 drew near, young Paganini besought his father's permission to attend the festival, but his request was met by a point-blank refusal. The importunities of the youth, aided by the prayers of the mother, at length prevailed, and in care of the elder brother afterwards Dr. Paganini (?)--Nicolo was allowed to leave home. Free at last, the youth, now in his seventeenth year, went on his way, his whole being thrilled with dreams of success and happiness. At Lucca he was most enthusiastically received, and, elated by his good fortune, Paganini extended his tour, playing in Pisa and other towns. Enabled now to earn his own living, Paganini determined never to return to the home where he had suffered so much. His father must have obtained information as to the youth's whereabouts, for it has been stated that he managed to obtain a large part of the young artist's earnings. The money was freely yielded to a certain extent, and the residue was obtained by threats. But no threat or entreaty could induce Nicolo to return to his paternal home. The bird had escaped, and liberty was sweet. But young Paganini was scarcely fitted for an independent, uncontrolled career. He had no moral ballast, and much would depend upon what kind of company he kept. One has to bear in mind that at the period now under notice--1798--Europe was in a very unsettled state. The very pillars of society were shaken, and there were many dangers in the path of the young and inexperienced. But that is a very trite observation, for it applies to all times and places. However, Paganini seems to have become acquainted with what Fétis terms "artists of another kind," who encouraged "play" of a more exciting, if less exalted order, than the young musician had hitherto devoted himself to. With his ardent southern temperament Paganini threw himself with the greatest zest into the vortex of gambling, and frequently lost at a sitting the earnings of several concerts and was reduced to the greatest embarrassment. Soon his talent provided fresh resources, and his days ran on in alternations of good and evil fortune. Tall, slight, delicate and handsome,[3] Paganini, despite his frail constitution, was an object of attraction to the fair sex. Incidents in his early manhood probably formed the foundation for some of the stories told of him later. As Fétis puts it; the enthusiasm for art, love and "play," reigned by turns in his soul. He ought to have been careful of himself, but he went to excess in everything. Then came a period of enforced repose, of absolute exhaustion, lasting sometimes for weeks. This would be followed by a display of extraordinary energy, when his marvellous talent took its highest flights, and he plunged once more into the wildest bohemianism. Such a course of life was enough to wreck the artist, and no friend seemed to be at hand to save him from himself. Frequently he had to part with his violin in order to raise money to pay his debts of honour, and it was upon one such occasion that he met with the greatest good fortune he had yet experienced, and acquired a violin which became the instrument of his conversion from the fatal passion for gambling. [Illustration: _Plate III.--See Appendix._ PAGANINI'S VIOLIN IN THE MUNICIPAL MUSEUM AT GENOA.] Arriving at Leghorn, where he was to give a concert, Paganini yielded to his weakness for the other kind of play and lost his money and his violin. He was in a dilemma indeed, but was fortunate in meeting with an enthusiastic musical amateur, M. Livron, a French merchant, the owner of a superb Guarnerius violin. This instrument M. Livron lent to the young artist, and attended the concert. When Paganini went to return the violin to its owner, M. Livron at once exclaimed, "I shall take care never to profane the strings your fingers have touched. It is to you now that my violin belongs." A noble benefactor, that M. Livron. The Guarnerius became Paganini's inseparable companion; he played upon it throughout all his tours, and its subsequent history will be duly related. Paganini acquired another instrument on the same easy terms, but attended by different circumstances. Signor Pasini, of Parma, a painter of some distinction, and an amateur violinist, had heard of Paganini's wonderful powers as a reader of music at sight, but refused to credit the statements. Pasini one day placed before Paganini a manuscript concerto, in which difficulties of all kinds were brought together, and putting into the artist's hands a splendid Stradivari violin, said: "This instrument is yours if you can play that at sight, like a master, without studying its difficulties in advance." "If that is so," replied Paganini, "You may bid farewell to it at once." His terrific[4] execution made the music seem as if it played itself as his eye fell upon it. Pasini was petrified with astonishment. The abandonment of the vice of gambling came about in this way, his own words being quoted. "I shall never forget," said he, "one day placing myself in a position which was to decide my whole career. The Prince De * * * * * had long desired to possess my excellent violin (the Guarnerius), the only one I then had, and which I still possess. One day he desired me to fix a price; but, unwilling to part from my instrument, I declared I would not sell it for less than 250 gold Napoleons. A short time after, the Prince remarked that I was probably indulging in banter in asking so high a price, and added that he was disposed to give 2,000 francs for it. Precisely that very day I found myself in great want of money, in consequence of a heavy loss at play, and I almost resolved to yield my violin for the sum he had offered, when a friend came in to invite me to a party that evening. My capital then consisted of thirty francs, and I had already deprived myself of my jewels, watch, rings, pins, etc. I instantly formed the resolve to risk this last resource, and if fortune went against me, to sell the violin and to set out for St. Petersburg, without instrument and without funds, with the object of retrieving my position. Soon my thirty francs were reduced to three, and I saw myself on the road to the great city, when fortune, changing in the twinkling of an eye, gained me one hundred francs with the little that yet remained. That moment saved my violin and set me up again. From that day I withdrew from play, to which I had sacrificed a portion of my youth: and convinced that a gambler is universally despised, I renounced for ever that fatal passion." It would be interesting to know when these things occurred, but dates are wanting; it is sufficient to find the artist triumphant in one great crisis in his life. Gambling, to which, however, he was not a party, was destined to trouble the last years of his life, as will be seen further on. Paganini's career, gambling apart, was by no means of a conventional character. His irregular habits, fits of extraordinary energy followed by langour and depression, led to frequent disappearances from public view. One such disappearance lasted for about four years, and only the romantic aspect of it has been described; the prime cause may have been overlooked. Here is one view of the matter. Enter Napoleon; exit Paganini. In 1800 Napoleon crossed the Alps; in 1804, he proclaimed himself Emperor. He parcelled out Europe, providing for his brothers and sisters, creating sovereigns at his own sweet will. Italy, invaded by a foreign foe, shaken with wars, "alarums and excursions," was not a happy hunting ground for a travelling virtuoso. Paganini vanished from view. In absolute retirement he lived for over three years at the chateau of a Tuscan lady of rank, who was a performer upon the guitar. Paganini threw himself with ardour into the study of that instrument, and became as great a virtuoso upon it as upon the violin. He composed a number of pieces for guitar and violin. According to Fétis, Paganini also devoted himself to the study of agriculture. But eventually he tired of a life of indolence and dalliance, and in 1804--the country settled now under French government--Paganini returned to Genoa, but whether to the paternal roof is not clear. He was doubtless invigorated by his long rest, and now resumed his arduous course of study. It has been remarked that it was only after Paganini had attained an almost perfect mastery over his instrument that he began to investigate the methods of other virtuosi[5]; even so, he had formed his own style of composition before studying the works of others. Now, he busied himself with the studies of Locatelli, whose extravagances almost equalled his own. It is said that he even gave lessons while in Genoa, and mention is made of one pupil, Catarina Calcagno, who had a brilliant, but brief career. In 1805, Paganini resumed his artistic tours, and arriving at Lucca, played a concerto at an evening festival in a convent church. So great was the enthusiasm of the audience (or congregation), that the monks had to leave their stalls to put a stop to the applause. At that time, Maria Anna (Elise), sister of Napoleon, was Princess of Lucca, and the Tuscan court was held in that Capital. The fame of Paganini could not fail to have reached the ears of the Princess, and it was but natural that the first _virtuoso_ of Italy should receive an official appointment. So it happened that in the year 1805 he was offered, and accepted, the post of leader of the Court orchestra, and solo violinist. He also gave violin lessons to Prince Bacciochi, the husband of Maria Anna. It was during this period that Paganini began his experiments of employing less than the four strings of his violin. He gave an account of the origin of the practice to a friend at Prague many years later.[6] "It fell to my lot," he said, "to direct the opera whenever the reigning family visited it, as well as to perform at Court three times a week, and to get up a public concert for the higher circles every fortnight. Whenever these were visited by the Princess, she never remained to the close, because the flageolet tones of my violin were too much for her nerves. On the other hand there was another fascinating creature ... who, I flattered myself, felt a penchant for me, and was never absent from my performances; on my own side, I had long been her admirer (Paganini was now twenty-three years of age, susceptible, and possibly himself fascinating.) Our mutual fondness became gradually stronger and stronger; but we were forced to conceal it, and by this means its strength and fervour were sensibly enhanced. One day I promised to surprise her at the next concert, with a musical joke, which should convey an allusion to our attachment; and I accordingly gave notice at Court that I should bring forward a musical novelty, under the title of 'A Love Scene.' The whole world was on tiptoe at the tidings; and on the evening appointed, I made my appearance, violin in hand; I had previously robbed it of the two middle strings, so that none but E and G remained. The first string being designed to play the maiden's part, and the second (fourth) the youth's, I began with a species of dialogue, in which I attempted to introduce movements analogous to transient bickerings and reconciliations between the lovers. Now my strings growled, and then sighed; and anon they lisped, hesitated, joked and joyed, till at last they sported with merry jubilee. In the course of time, both souls joined once more in harmony, and the appeased lovers' quarrel led to a _pas de deux_, which terminated in a brilliant _coda_. This musical fantasia of mine was greeted with loud applause. The lady, to whom every scene referred, rewarded me by looks full of delight and sweetness, and the Princess was charmed into such amiable condescension, that she loaded me with encomiums--asking me, whether, since I could produce so much with _two_ strings, it would not be possible for me to gratify them by playing on _one_. I yielded instant assent--the idea tickled my fancy--and, as the Emperor's birthday occurred some weeks afterwards (August 15th,) I composed a sonata for the G string, which I entitled 'Napoleon,' and played before the Court to so much effect, that a cantata, by Cimarosa, given the same evening, fell through without producing any impression on its hearers.[7] This is the genuine and original cause of my prejudice in favour for the G string. People were afterwards importunate to hear more of this performance, and in this way I became day by day a greater adept at it, and acquired constantly increasing confidence in this peculiar mystery of handling the bow." More of the "Napoleon Sonata" later. [Illustration: _Plate IV.--See Appendix._ CARICATURE PUBLISHED 1831.] When the Princess became Grand Duchess of Tuscany, the Court removed to Florence, and Paganini, as a matter of course, was in the retinue. His official career, however, came to an abrupt termination in the early part of 1813. When appointed Court Musical Director, Paganini was accorded the rank of Captain in the Royal Guard, and, as such, was permitted to wear a brilliant uniform. Appearing in this garb at a State function at Florence, in 1813, the artist was "commanded" to change it for the ordinary dress suit. This request Paganini construed as an insult, and refused compliance; whereupon there was a sudden rupture, and instant resignation of office. Paganini, at different times, obtained leave of absence, and undertook various professional tours; and as he met with some strange experiences, we will follow him in his wanderings. FOOTNOTES: [2] Anders, and others after him, give the name of the second singer as Albertinotti. No such name can be traced, and it is probable that it was the young Bertinotti, who was a juvenile prodigy, appearing in opera at the age of twelve. She sang in London about the year 1812. [3] William Gardiner many years later spoke of the transparent delicacy of Paganini's complexion, and said of his little son Achille that he was the handsomest boy he had ever seen. [4] Fétis calls it "Foudroyante exécution." [5] Naumann, "History of Music," p. 1140 (English Edition.) [6] Professor Julius Schottky. [7] Cimarosa, who died in 1801, espoused the revolutionary cause when the French army entered Italy, and was imprisoned and condemned to death when the reaction came, but was restored to liberty on condition of leaving Naples. He would, naturally, have been popular with the Bonapartists, and it was rather ungenerous vanity on the part of Paganini to have exulted over this particular success. CHAPTER III. In 1808 occurred the first of these excursions. Paganini went to Leghorn, the scene of his early triumphs. He had not been there for seven years, but his first concert, this visit, was attended with some unpleasant mishaps. He had run a nail into his heel, and came limping on the stage, whereupon the audience set up a titter--an incident quite enough to upset a sensitive artist. Then, just as he was commencing his concerto, the candles fell from his music-stand, and the laughter was unrestrained; after a few bars of his solo, the first string of his violin snapped, and the merriment became uproarious; but he finished the performance upon the three strings, and the artist soon converted the audience to a demonstration of a more grateful character. Thus his "one string" experience served him in good stead. At Ferrara something worse befell. For his concert there, Paganini had engaged a vocalist, Signora Marietta Marcolini; but at the last moment, the lady, either from indisposition or caprice, refused to sing. Paganini went to his hostel boiling with rage, but was somewhat mollified on being told there was a lady occupying an apartment in the same house, who might perhaps take the place of the recalcitrant singer. This was Signora Pallerini, the principal dancer at the theatre, who had a very agreeable voice, but who made no pretension to being a singer, although she was not without training and talent. Paganini lost no time in seeking the young dancer, and by dint of perseverance obtained her consent to his wish. But when the Signora came on to sing she was seized with stage-fright. Her voice failed her, and her song produced no effect. Paganini offered his arm to conduct her behind the scenes, but just before they reached the wing, a shrill whistle was heard--equivalent to a hiss in England. This was too much; the poor _débutante_ lost consciousness, and fell into the arms of her friend. Pale with rage, Paganini promised himself a signal vengeance. The concert was drawing to a close when the angry artist whispered to Signora Pallerini, "Come! Listen!" He rushed on the stage, and announcing to the audience that he would conclude the concert with a musical jest, proceeded to imitate the cries of various animals, the chirping of birds, the howling of dogs, and the crowing of cocks; then, with a stolen glance towards the wing, as if to make known the carrying out of his revenge, he advanced to the footlights, rested his bow on the "chanterelle," close to the bridge, and with a single stroke brought it violently on the "G," producing distinctly the sound of the donkey's hee-haw! "This is for the man who whistled," he exclaimed, with an air of triumph, and for the second time gave his imitation--with added energy. Then he awaited the shouts of laughter that should assail the poor whistler, but something quite different happened. The pit rose to a man, and howling, whistling, and stamping, the audience proceeded to storm the stage; and only precipitate flight by means of a private door, saved the unlucky artist's life. The explanation came to Paganini later. The inhabitants of the villages around Ferrara had from time immemorial a strong prejudice against their Capital. The citizens they alleged were stupid in their nature, and deserved the sobriquet "hee-haw." If a countryman, returning from Ferrara, were asked where he came from, he replied by throwing back his head and braying like an ass! Paganini had no knowledge of local history; he was not a reader, he never even glanced at the papers, except when they contained something concerning himself. His revenge caused quite a tumult, in what way can be well perceived: and the magistrate, to restore quiet, advised Paganini not to give his second concert in the town, so that the offenders were really punished all round. It is not necessary to enter into details concerning all Paganini's tours. It appears to have been in 1810 that he wrote the "Napoleon Sonata," and he performed it in public at a concert given by him at Parma, August 18th, 1811. His fame was spreading beyond his own country, and Schilling states that from 1812 the German musical journals bestowed much attention upon him. He was at Milan in 1813, and his success there was greater than ever. For that city he appeared to have a predilection, for he was there, with the exception of a short stay at Genoa, until the autumn of 1814. At that time he was by no means a recluse. He visited the theatre, La Scala, and witnessed a performance of Vigano's ballet, "Il Noce di Benevento," to which Süssmayer wrote the music; and from a certain scene he took the theme of his variations known as "Le Streghe." At a theatre he was inspired to write one of his finest movements. He went to hear Demarini, Italy's greatest tragedian, and was so affected by one scene that he could not sleep, and his emotion ultimately found expression in music. This will be dealt with when noticing his compositions. In October, 1814, Paganini went to Bologna, and there met Rossini for the first time. Rossini, nine years the junior of Paganini, had already produced a dozen operas--two in Milan that year. By Court favour Rossini had just escaped the conscription, and had hastened away to Bologna. The meeting of these artists was of importance to both. Meyerbeer went to Italy in 1815, and was there for some years, producing several operas. Laphaléque tells a story to this effect: Meyerbeer was on the eve of leaving Florence to proceed to Naples to bring out one of his works. He did not yet know that place, and it offered a double attraction; he wanted to enjoy the beautiful blue sky as well as his artistic triumph. But he went to hear Paganini, and dreamt no more of Naples, nor of his opera. Paganini travelled all through Tuscany, and Meyerbeer followed; and not until he had heard Paganini eighteen times could he tear himself away from him. Within the period of five years, Paganini returned to Milan five times, making a long stay on each occasion, and giving a great number of concerts. He played at Verona, Padua--where the "prison" stories seem to have originated--returned to Milan early in 1816, when he met the French violinist, Charles Lafont, with whom he played and of whom more will be said. Then to Venice, Trieste, and back to Venice in time to hear Spohr (October 18th), on whom he called both before and after the concert. Spohr greatly desired to hear Paganini play, but the latter excused himself. Paganini must ere this have received invitations to visit other countries, for Spohr in his diary remarks, when referring to Paganini's first visit, that he had apparently abandoned his project of going to Vienna. In 1817, Paganini visited Piacenza, where he met the Polish violinist, Karl Joseph von Lipinski, who had gone to Italy expressly to hear Paganini. The Italian treated his Polish brother artist generously, and played with him at two concerts. Paganini was also again at Milan that year and paid a visit to his mother at Genoa. According to Anders, his father died in 1817. At the close of the same year Paganini was in Rome, where Rossini's opera "La Cenerentola" was produced at the opening of the Carnival season, December 26th. It is related that Meyerbeer was also in Rome at this time, and that Rossini's "Carnovale" was sung in the streets by the composer, Meyerbeer, and Paganini, who disguised themselves for the frolic. Paganini in the Palace of Prince von Kaunitz, the Austrian Ambassador, was introduced to Prince Metternich, who, charmed with his talent, pressed him to visit Vienna. But the violinist's health was in a precarious state. He suffered from an intestinal disorder, aggravated by his addiction to some quack remedy. He gave concerts in Rome, of which Schilling, who gives the date, however, as 1827, gives a very curious account. The first concert, though held in a Palace--such buildings being met with at every step--was in a room like a hay-loft. The orchestra consisted of some half-dozen shabbily dressed players, the singers were mechanics, members of the chorus of the Teatro Argentina, and the audience scarcely numbered fifty. Rome, professedly the first musical city of Italy, and of Europe, was ignorant of Paganini, the greatest violin virtuoso of Italy and the world. But his extraordinary genius kindled coldness into enthusiasm. At his second concert the attendance increased tenfold; at the third the success was even greater. In 1818, and the following year, he gave concerts at Verona, Turin, Florence, and other towns. At Verona, the conductor of the theatre orchestra, one Valdabrini, persuaded himself that Paganini was little else than a charlatan, one who might play the pieces of his own repertory very well, but who could not execute a work such as a concerto of his, Valdabrini's, composition. Paganini was informed of this estimate of his abilities, and hastened to assure Valdabrini that he would be happy to reproduce the inspirations of the _chef d'orchestre_ of Verona; and as this trial would be a powerful attraction, he would reserve it for his last concert. The day of rehearsal arrived, and Paganini was in his place. Instead of the music of the concerto, however, the artist improvised all kinds of fanciful passages, insomuch that the astonished orchestral players, lost in admiration, forgot to go on with their own work. The disappointed Valdabrini exclaimed: "My friend, this is not my concerto you are playing, I can recognise nothing of what I have written." "Don't distress yourself," replied Paganini, "at the concert you will recognise your work well enough, only now I claim a little indulgence." The concert night arrived, and Paganini commenced with pieces of his own choice, reserving the concerto for the end. All were attention for the great event. Paganini came on at last, holding in his hand a Malacca walking cane. Everyone asked himself: What will he do with that? Suddenly he seized his violin, and, employing the cane as a bow, played the concerto (thought by the composer to be practicable only after long study) from beginning to end, not only rendering the most difficult passages, but introducing charming variations, never failing for an instant to display the purity, grace and verve that characterised his art.[8] This pleasantry was not to the taste of Valdabrini, we may be sure; but it was a rebuke to his presumption. Such amenities are scarcely possible now-a-days. Paganini visited Naples in 1819 for the first time. When he arrived he found the local musicians badly disposed towards him, and he had something like a repetition of his experience at Verona, only he used the cane no more! These musicians affected to doubt the reality of the marvels fame attributed to Paganini, and proposed to amuse themselves at his expense. They engaged a young composer, Danna (Dana?)[9] fresh from the Conservatorio, to write a string quartet, filled with difficulties of every kind--for the first violin--persuading themselves that the great violinist could not overcome them. When all was ready--no doubt the other parts had been well practised--Paganini was invited to a musical réunion, where he found the violinists Onorio de Vito, Giuseppe Mario Festa, the violoncellist Ciandelli, and the composer Danna. Hardly had he arrived, when they placed the music before him, and invited him to play it at sight. Perceiving that they had set a trap for him, Paganini cast a hurried glance at the music, and played it off as though it had long been familiar to him. Confounded by what they heard, his assistants were prodigal in their admiration, and declared him incomparable. Paganini's health now gave way to an alarming degree, and his landlord, fearing the malady was consumption--infectious, according to current opinion--proceeded to turn the violinist and his belongings into the street. Medical science has confirmed the views of the Neapolitans in respect to the contagious character of consumption, and the open-air treatment is now considered the proper method to adopt; but the landlord's rough and ready application of the remedy was highly objectionable, and so thought Ciandelli, who chanced to be passing at the time. He gave the landlord a severe thrashing, and conveyed Paganini to more comfortable lodgings, where he was carefully tended. Paganini repaid this act of kindness, as will be seen. These little scenes throw curious side-lights on life in Naples at that period. In 1820, Paganini returned to Milan, where he founded an Amateur Society, _Gli Orfei_, and conducted its concerts for a time; but the roving habits he had acquired rendered a settled life irksome, and he was soon again on the move. The winter found him once more in Rome, where he must have stayed on and off for another year; for he was there in December, 1821, when Rossini was about to produce his opera, "Matilda di Sabran," at the opening of the Carnival season. On the day of the last rehearsal the conductor fell ill, and Rossini was in despair to replace him. Paganini, hearing of his friend's dilemma, offered to conduct the rehearsal and the first performance--his operatic experience at Lucca must not be forgotten--an offer Rossini gratefully accepted. Without a moment's preparation, Paganini set to work to communicate to an unskilled orchestra--it was at the _Teatro d'Apollone_--the composer's intentions and the manner in which they should be interpreted. Having no time for verbal explanation, he did everything by example, playing the first violin part an octave higher than it was written, and making himself heard above the strongest _fortissimo_. At a glance he penetrated the meaning of every movement, and he so worked upon the executants that they obeyed him as if by enchantment. This single rehearsal sufficed to bring about an irreproachable performance, the orchestra undergoing a veritable metamorphosis, to the astonishment of everyone, Rossini included. So far Laphaléque. Sutherland Edwards[10] says Paganini conducted the first three performances, adding, "Never, it is said, did the band of the 'Apollo' play with so much spirit before." For the next two years Paganini was constantly travelling, and in the year 1823 we have the first glimpse of him through the medium of an English musical journal.[11] This first reference is quite incidental. Giuseppe Rastrelli was playing in Naples in 1822 (or 1823), and was well received, "although his predecessor, the celebrated Paganini," was still fresh in the public remembrance. This assumes that Paganini was well known to English readers. He had indeed been mentioned in books published before this date. On his way to Pavia in 1823, Paganini was attacked with illness, and his life was despaired of. At that time he had again intended going to Austria, but a long rest was needed to restore his health. This repose he enjoyed at Genoa, and recovered sufficiently to give two concerts in the _Teatro da Sant'Agostino_, in 1824. The second concert introduced two youthful claimants to public favour. The first was a Signora Bianchi, under twenty years of age, who was characterised in the bills as the little _virtuosa forestiera_, and who sang three airs; the other was a Signora Barette, who played a _Pezzo Cantabile_ and a _Sonatina_ upon the violoncello. They both experienced a flattering reception.[12] The young violoncellist was not more than fourteen years old, and there is no reason to suppose that she was the first of her sex to appear in public as a violoncellist. The other "little guest" or stranger was to play an important part in Paganini's history. This concert afforded another proof of Paganini's power of attraction. A certain M. Bergman, a (Swedish?) traveller and passionate lover of music, reading accidentally the evening before in the journal at Leghorn, an announcement of Paganini's concert, lost no time, but instantly set out for Genoa, a distance of a hundred miles, and luckily reached the spot just half an hour before the concert began. He went with his expectations raised to the utmost, but, to use his own expression, the reality was as far above his anticipations as the heavens are above the earth. Nor could this enthusiastic amateur rest content with once hearing Paganini, but actually followed him to Milan, in order to hear him exercise his talents a second time. Now-a-days the enthusiasts are young ladies, who mob their favourites in the artists' room! In 1824 Paganini gave two concerts in _La Scala_, Milan, which was crowded to excess. At the first he played a concerto, and three airs with variations--all on the fourth string, so said the report. A surfeit, this, even for his fervent admirers. In the same year at Pavia, he gave two concerts, the bills being headed: PAGANINI _Farà sentire il suo Violino._ (Paganini will cause his violin to be heard.) He was received with no less enthusiasm than at Milan. Paganini then returned to Genoa, but soon left for Venice. There he formed an union with Antonia Bianchi, the young singer he introduced at Genoa, who became his companion, sang at his concerts, and shared his triumphs. In 1825, Paganini was again at Naples, where he gave a concert, causing his name to be announced in the bills as-- _Filarmonico_, a term which gave rise to much discussion, some considering it as indicating modesty, others just the reverse; but at all events it savoured of affectation. In the summer of 1825, Paganini went to Palermo, where he also gave a concert. The delicious climate of Sicily had a great charm for him, and he remained there for nearly a year, giving concerts at different places, but enjoying prolonged intervals of repose. His health strengthened, Paganini again entertained the idea of leaving Italy, but determined upon one more tour before carrying out his intention. In 1826, he visited Trieste, Venice, and finally Rome, where he gave five concerts. In April, 1827, Pope Leo XII. invested Paganini with the order of the Golden Spur, a distinction so rare that it afforded a topic for conversation for some time. From Rome Paganini went to Florence, and as "Il Cavaliere Paganini" gave a concert at the _Teatro Pergola_, which was attended by all the rank and fashion of the place. He was detained for some time at Florence owing to a disease breaking out in one of his legs. As soon as he was able to travel he set out for Milan, where he was received with every demonstration of affection. He gave four musical soirées at the close of 1827, and in the early part of 1828, two concerts in _La Scala_, when he appears to have played for the first time the concerto with the "Rondo ad un Campanello;" the piece created a great effect. Paganini had now traversed the whole of Italy at least three times, giving hundreds of concerts, building up an ever growing reputation and exciting universal admiration, despite those detractors whose machinations have been exposed. At last, on the 2nd of March, 1828, Paganini started on his long projected visit to Vienna. FOOTNOTES: [8] Laphaléque. [9] Son of Giuseppe Dana, of Naples? [10] The Life of Rossini, p. 226. [11] With the exception of a Literary Supplement to the "New Musical and Universal Magazine," 1774, there was no publication devoted to Music until the year 1818, when "The Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review" appeared, edited by Robert Mackenzie Bacon. This was followed in 1823 by "The Harmonicon," edited by William Ayrton. [12] Harmonicon, Vol. III., p. 37. CHAPTER IV. Paganini arrived at Vienna, March 16th, 1828, and gave his first concert in the Redouten-Saal[13] on the 29th of the same month, creating a _furore_ the like of which had never been witnessed. It must be borne in mind that Paganini was now no romantic-looking youth to move the feelings of sentimental or hysterical young ladies. He was in his forty-sixth year, and his face bore the marks of suffering; he wore his long hair in ringlets falling over his shoulders, but physically he was a wreck. Yet no youthful artist of to-day has made a more sensational _début_ than that of Paganini in the Austrian Capital in 1828. To repeat the oft-quoted account given by Schilling: "At the first stroke of the bow on his Guarnerius, one might almost say at the first step he took into the hall, his reputation was decided in Germany. Kindled as by an electric flash, he suddenly shone and sparkled like a miraculous apparition in the domain of art." Another account, if less familiar, is equally interesting. In a letter from Vienna, addressed to the _Literary Gazette_, the writer says:--"The great novelty and prodigy of the day is one M. Paganini, an Italian performer on the violin. "This is the first time he has left Italy; but I heard him previously, about five years ago, at Milan, in competition with M. Lafont, whom he beat fairly.[14] He is, without contradiction, not only the finest player on the violin, but no other performer, upon what instrument soever, can be styled his equal: Kalkbrenner, Rode, Romberg, Moscheles, Jew and Gentile, are his inferiors by at least some thousand degrees; they are not fit, as we say in Germany, to _reach him water_. He is Mathews of the violin, performs a whole concert on a single string, where you are sure to hear, besides his own instrument, a harp, a guitar, and a flute. In one word, he is a necromancer, and bids fair to beat _la Giraffe_. We have here hats, shawls, gloves and nonsense of every description, _à la Giraffe_; but yesterday I actually ate _Auflaufy_--a very innocent, rather insipid sweetmeat--_à la Paganini_.... He has already performed twice to crowded houses in our great masquerade-hall. The beginning of the concert was, as usual, advertised for half-past eleven [in the morning]: at eleven o'clock not a pin dropping from the roof would have reached the ground; people were already there at nine o'clock. He came hither with six florins in his pocket; now you may style him a warm man. From Vienna he intends to proceed to Paris, and thence to London."[15] Here a brief digression is pardonable. The Pasha of Egypt, a short time before Paganini's visit, had presented to the Emperor of Austria a Giraffe, an animal then new to Europe. That interesting quadruped, a superb specimen of its kind, created such a sensation, and so completely absorbed public attention, that as seen in the letter just quoted, everything was _à la Giraffe_.[16] Paganini's phenomenal success gained him a popularity that quite eclipsed the poor Giraffe, and now the mode was _à la Paganini_. All kinds of articles were named after him; a good stroke at billiards was a _coup à la Paganini_; his bust in butter and crystallised sugar figured on every banquet table; and portraits, more or less faithful, adorned snuff-boxes, cigar-boxes, or were carved on the canes carried by the fops. Paganini himself went into a shop one day to buy gloves. "_A la Giraffe?_" asked the salesman. "No, no, some other animal," said the _maestro_, whereupon he was handed a pair _à la Paganini_! It is said that a certain driver, whom Paganini had once engaged, obtained permission to paint on his vehicle the words _Cabriolet de Paganini_, by which means he gained notoriety and enough money to set up as a hotel-keeper. Paganini was much sought after by the leaders of society and fashion; but Prince Metternich alone received the favour of a visit. It may be remembered that Franz Schubert gave his first, and as it turned out, his only concert, in the hall of the Musik-Verein, Vienna, on the 26th of March, three days before that of Paganini. Schubert cleared over £30--the first piece of luck that came to the poor composer. The money flowed freely; he paid his five Gulden (something over six shillings) to hear Paganini, and went a second time, not so much for his own sake, as to take his friend Bauernfeld,[17] who had not five farthings, while with him (Schubert) "money was as plentiful as black-berries." Generous, simple Schubert! Did he and Paganini ever meet? What a pair they would have made! Paganini's Vienna concerts were so successful that he increased the number from six to twelve. It is said that poor musicians actually sold their clothes to raise the needful in order to hear him; and that no halls were large enough to contain all who wished to attend his concerts. Paganini's last concert was given by express command of the Emperor of Austria, who honoured the occasion by his presence. Among other things, Paganini introduced the National hymn "God preserve the Emperor," which he performed with a truth and fervour of expression that seemed to impart a novelty even to so familiar a theme. He did some wonderful things on the G string, astonishing and delighting all present, especially rivetting the attention of the Emperor, who led the applause. The Court Gazette announced that His Majesty, as a testimony of his admiration, had sent Paganini a diploma, appointing him one of the Emperor's chamber musicians, and exempting him from the usual fees of office; this was accompanied by a splendid gold snuff-box set with brilliants. The chief magistrate of Vienna presented Paganini with the gold medal of San Salvador; and, to crown all, a medal was struck in Paganini's honour. This, the work of J. Lang, has on the face a portrait in relief of the violinist, with the inscription:-- NICOLAO PAGANINI VINDOBONA MDCCCXXVIII. and on the back the words:-- PERITURIS SONIS NON PERITURA GLORIA. surrounding an open music book with the theme of the "Bell Rondo," upon which lies the famous Guarnerius wreathed with laurel. This was the city's parting gift to the great artist. These doings were too good to escape the notice of the caricaturist, and a two-act piece was produced at the _Theater an der Wien_, entitled "The Counterfeit Virtuoso; or, the Concerto on the G string," the music by Kapellmeister Franz Gläser. The overture was ingeniously made up of the principal subjects of Paganini's concertos, ludicrously contrasted with counter subjects of a popular kind. Several of the _quodlibets_ were full of humour, and, with the _bon mots_ and anecdotes, tended to make it a very amusing production for the moment. It was at Vienna that the rumour spread abroad of Paganini being in league with the Devil, which accounted for his marvellous performances. The great violinist was much disturbed and annoyed by these calumnies, and had to appeal to the press for aid in refuting them. It may be that his estrangement from the world, his love of solitude, morose temper, and the avarice which displayed itself, all had their origin in the hostile attitude assumed by a section of the public during his foreign tours, for when in Italy Paganini seems to have lived much as others did. Paganini was accompanied by his companion Signora Bianchi, and the son born to them, when he visited Vienna. It was in May the little party left Vienna. The concerts had quite prostrated Paganini, and the family went to Carlsbad. After resting there some time Paganini departed for Prague, but an abscess in the face kept him a prisoner for three weeks. Here is a contemporary account which is interesting. Paganini was obliged to place himself under the care of two celebrated medical men, Krumblholz and Nusshardt, and they were the only visitors he received during his lonely residence up three pair of stairs. After a successful operation on the jaw-bone, one of his physicians expressed a desire which was cherished in vain by the whole city--that of hearing some notes from the hitherto silent instrument of the great master; and he entreated him to try if he could rest his violin on his hardly healed chin. Paganini confirmed what has long been said, that even before friends he was very niggardly in the display of his talents. He took his instrument, played one stroke with his bow, and said, "_Es geht schon_" (that will do). "For eight days before the first concert," continues the writer, "every place was engaged. When I reached the theatre at four o'clock in the afternoon, it appeared as if the house was about to be stormed, so great was the throng on the outside. Many magistrates and people of the first rank were amongst the crowd, and shared my anxious expectation. At last I found myself, I scarcely know how, in the pit, and there awaited for two hours and a half the opening of the concert." The writer then goes on to describe the violinist, his appearance, his smile that made everyone shudder, and the extraordinary performance which roused the audience to the wildest enthusiasm. He then quotes the saying of a Vienna critic: "Paganini has nothing in common with other players but the violin and the bow," and regrets that his friend will not for some time have the opportunity of hearing the superb performer, for he learns that Paganini does not yet intend to visit Paris or London.[18] [Illustration: _Plate V.--See Appendix._ FROM A CONTEMPORARY GERMAN PICTURE.] Paganini's first concert only was well attended. There was then a reaction. Some attributed the falling off to the high prices charged for admission, but there was, in fact, a traditional hostility in art matters between Prague and Vienna; that which was praised in Vienna must be condemned in Prague, and what was approved in Prague must not be tolerated in Vienna. It was at Prague that Paganini actually published this letter from his mother as proof that he was not the son of the devil! DEAREST SON,--At last, after seven months have elapsed since I wrote to you at Milan, I had the happiness of receiving your letter of the 9th current, through the intermediary of Signor Agnino, and was much rejoiced to find that you were in the enjoyment of good health. I am also delighted to find that, after your travels to Paris and London, you purpose visiting Genoa expressly to embrace me. I assure you, my prayers are daily offered up to the Most High, that my health may be sustained, also yours, so that my desire may be realised. My dream has been fulfilled, and that which God promised me has been accomplished. Your name is great, and art, with the help of God, has placed you in a position of independence. Beloved, esteemed by your fellow citizens, you will find in my bosom and those of your friends, that repose which your health demands. The portraits which accompanied your letter have given me great pleasure. I had seen in the papers all the accounts you give me of yourself. You may imagine, as your mother, what an infinite source of joy it was to me. Dear son, I entreat you to continue to inform me of all that concerns you, for with this assurance I shall feel that it will prolong my days, and be convinced that I shall still have the happiness of embracing you. We are all well. In the name of your relations, I thank you for the sums of money you have sent. Omit nothing that will render your name immortal. Eschew the vices of great cities, remembering that you have a mother who loves you affectionately, and whose fondest aspirations are your health and happiness. She will never cease her supplications to the All-powerful for your preservation. Embrace your amiable companion for me, and kiss little Achille. Love me as I love you. Your ever affectionate mother, _21st July, 1828_. TERESA PAGANINI. From Prague, Paganini went to Berlin, where he remained four months. He was received with the utmost enthusiasm, and on the evening of his first concert he exclaimed: "I have found my Vienna public again." Wherever Paganini stayed for any length of time it suddenly became the fashion to learn to play the violin; and the fair members of the aristocratic families were among the most eager to become pupils of the famous man. Paganini made a great deal of money in Berlin. The critics were divided in opinion as to his merits; but Rellstab, whom Schumann once called "Wretched Berlinese reviewer," was favourably impressed. Paganini is said to have received a challenge from Baron Sigismond von Praun, to a public contest for supremacy in performance, but as the would-be opponent was a youth of seventeen, Paganini disdained him. Perhaps he thought of his own presumption in his young days! Paganini's tour was one continual triumphal progress. At Königsberg his first concert realised about £330, an unprecedented sum in that place; at Frankfort his four concerts produced something like £1,000. A critic wrote of him: "One striking peculiarity of his playing is the extraordinary effect it produces on persons wholly devoid of musical cultivation. Most _virtuosi_ play only for the learned; not so Paganini. His performance is alike appreciated by men of business and connoisseurs, by children and grown persons--it is felt and understood by all. This is the distinctive characteristic of all that is great in art." He was at Leipzig in 1829, and was among the visitors at the house of Abraham Mendelssohn--the pleasant garden-house in the Leipziger Strasse--and his portrait figures in Hensel's collection. In June, 1830, Paganini was in Cassel, when Spohr heard him for the first time--of which more later. In Hamburg the same year Heine heard him, and his vivid and extraordinary notice of the artist must be briefly quoted. "I believe," said Heine, "that only one man has succeeded in putting Paganini's true physiognomy upon paper--a deaf painter, Lyser by name, who in a frenzy full of genius has with a few strokes of chalk so well hit the great violinist's head that one is at the same time amused and terrified at the truth of the drawing. 'The devil guided my hand,' the deaf painter said to me, chuckling mysteriously, and nodding his head with a good-natured irony in the way he generally accompanied his genial witticisms.... The Hamburg Opera House was the scene of this concert, and the art-loving public had flocked there so early, and in such numbers, that I only just succeeded in obtaining a little place in the orchestra." Then he goes on to describe the audience and the entrance of Paganini. "Is that a man brought into the arena at the moment of death, like a dying gladiator, to delight the public with his convulsions? Or is it one risen from the dead, a vampire with a violin, who, if not the blood out of our hearts, at any rate sucks the gold out of our pockets? Such questions crossed our minds while Paganini was performing his strange bows, but all those thoughts were at once still when the wonderful master placed his violin under his chin and began to play. As for me, you already know my musical second-sight, my gift of seeing at each tone a figure equivalent to the sound, and so Paganini with each stroke of his bow brought visible forms and situations before my eyes; he told me in melodious hieroglyphics all kinds of brilliant tales; he, as it were, made a magic lantern play its coloured antics before me, he himself being chief actor.... A holy, ineffable ardour dwelt in the sounds, which often trembled, scarce audibly, in mysterious whisper on the water, then swelled out again with a shuddering sweetness, like a bugle's notes heard by moonlight, and then finally poured forth in unrestrained jubilee, as if a thousand bards had struck their harps and raised their voices in a song of victory." Thus, a poet on a poet in tones. In 1829 Paganini was in Warsaw, and Chopin was among those who heard him. As he was leaving, in July, he was stopped some distance from the city by a numerous company who had met together in a garden. They drank the health of the artist, and Joseph Xaver Elsner, Director of the Conservatoire, handed him a costly snuff box, bearing this inscription: "Al Cavaliere Nicolo Paganini, gli ammiratori del suo talento, Varsovia 19 Luglio 1829." Paganini pressed it to his lips, speechless with surprise, and affected almost to tears. At Munich he gave three concerts in November of the same year; and at the close of the last _soirée_ the artist was crowned by Stunz, the Kapellmeister, while thousands of laudatory poems were showered from different parts of the hall. At Stuttgart, the King of Würtemberg presented him with 100 _louis d'or_, and it is said that before leaving Germany Paganini sent over £6,000 to the Bank of England for safe custody, a proceeding which showed his good sense, and perhaps revealed a mistrust of his continental friends. Paganini's tours, extending over three years, embraced Bohemia, Poland, Saxony, Bavaria, Prussia, and the Rhine provinces. Many more details might be given, but they are really needless: it was always the same story of the artist's success, excepting, indeed, at Augsburg, where the criticisms were adverse, as at Prague. An anecdote may fitly close the narration of Paganini's long stay in Germany, as it reveals an interesting trait in the character of the peasantry. Paganini, in the autumn of 1829, was summoned to appear before the Queen Dowager of Bavaria, at the Castle of Tegernsee, a magnificent residence of the Kings of Bavaria, situated on the banks of a lake of the same name. At the moment the concert was about to begin, a great bustle was heard outside. The Queen, having enquired the cause, was informed that about sixty of the neighbouring peasantry, having been told of the arrival of the famous Italian violinist, were come with the hope of hearing some of his notes, and requested that the windows should be opened, in order that they also might enjoy his talent. The Queen went beyond their wishes, and with truly Royal good-nature, gave orders that they should all be admitted into the saloon, where she had the pleasure of remarking their discernment, and the judicious manner in which they applauded the most striking parts of the distinguished artist's performance. Frankfort seems to have been a favourite stopping place with Paganini, and from there, at last, he quitted the fatherland, and arrived at Strasburg, where he gave two concerts, and thence proceeded direct to Paris. It has to be observed that France had just been through another Revolution, and the turmoil, social and political, had not subsided. To a populace seething in this fevered atmosphere anything by way of diversion would be welcome. The man of the hour was Paganini, for in a sense he combined within himself the surrounding elements and influences. At the moment the public was just in the mood for Paganini, and the artist met the craving for excitement. He gave his first concert in the Opera House on March 9th, 1831, and notwithstanding that the prices of admission were tripled, the house was crammed. It would be impossible, says Fétis, to describe the enthusiasm with which the audience were seized when listening to the extraordinary artist, an enthusiasm approaching delirium, frenzy. Paganini's Studies had long been known to Parisian violinists, but they remained enigmas impossible of solution. At his third concert, March 25th, Paganini introduced a new concerto, in D minor, which, like so much of his music, is lost. In Paris the infamous persecution of the artist seems to have reached its climax. Fétis states that Paris was above all places hostile to Paganini, although that city had contributed more than any other place to the _éclat_ of his success. His portrait was on every wall, and exhibited in the windows of print shops. Paganini himself stopped to look at one representing him in prison; and while scanning it with some amusement, found he was being surrounded by a crowd who were scrutinising him with close interest, evidently comparing his features with those of the lithograph. This was too much, and Paganini sought his friend Fétis, and confided to him his troubles, seeking his aid for their amelioration. Fétis requested Paganini to supply him with particulars, and then indited a long epistle, which, signed by Paganini, appeared in the _Revue Musicale_. Quotation may be deferred until the narration of Paganini's public career is completed, and a more detailed consideration of the character of the man and the artist is entered upon. One incident that occurred during Paganini's visit to Paris may be related. The officers of the different legions of the National Guard combined to organise a grand ball to be held in the Opera House for the benefit of the poor. They thought it would add greatly to the attractions of the function if they could prevail upon Paganini to attend and play a few pieces. To ask for violin solos in a place prepared for a ball, and among an assemblage met for dancing, argued a very curious taste, or want of it. Paganini owed it to his dignity as an artist to refuse the invitation, which he did. For this he was bitterly assailed by a section of the press, and was compelled to publish a letter justifying himself.[19] He explained that he had already given up the Opera House, which was at his disposal, for the preparations for the ball, and that involved the loss of receipts for one concert--from 15,000 to 20,000 francs. He added that in Berlin, Vienna, and all the towns where he had continued any time, he made it a duty to perform for the benefit of the unfortunate; and he certainly should not leave Paris without devoting the proceeds of one of his _soirées_ to the relief of the poor of that capital. He kept his word; gave the promised concert, and the poor profited by a refusal that was attributed to him as a crime. Berlioz, then in Italy--he had just won the Grand Prix de Rome--passing through a crisis in his life, stayed a few days in Genoa. In his autobiography he wrote: "All Paris was raving about Paganini, while I, with my usual luck, was kicking my heels in his native town instead of listening to him. I tried to gather some information about their distinguished townsman from the Genoese, but found that, like other people engaged in commerce, they cared little for the fine arts, and spoke quite indifferently of the genius whom Germany, France and England had received with open arms. They could not even show me his father's house." So quickly and easily can one be forgotten! England had not yet received Paganini, but it was many years after this time that Berlioz penned his autobiography. Liszt, in Paris, his first dream of love cruelly dispelled, shunned the world and buried himself in seclusion. For the time the artist within him was dead, and his thoughts turned to the priesthood. The revolution of 1830 awoke him. The Magyar blood was aroused, and sympathising with the people's struggles Liszt planned a _Symphonie révolutionnaire_. But it was Paganini who, the next year, touched Liszt as it were with a magic wand, and gave the direction to the genius and energy of the young artist. Of this more in its proper place. Early in May, 1831, Paganini left Paris for London. FOOTNOTES: [13] Where Beethoven gave his concerts in 1814. [14] The writer's memory played him false. The meeting with Lafont took place in 1816; or, according to some, in 1812! [15] This letter was reproduced in the "Harmonicon." [16] Lady Morgan, in her book, "France in 1829-30," gives an account of the Giraffe just then arrived in Paris. The animal was added to the collection in the London Zoological Gardens in 1836. [17] Litterateur, of Vienna: writer of comedies, etc. [18] This letter was published in _The Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review_. [19] Addressed to _Le Corsaire_, and reproduced (in English) in _The Globe_. CHAPTER V. Fétis stated that Paganini's visit to London excited the most lively curiosity, but did not awake that intelligent interest which welcomed him in the Capital of France. This does not sound complimentary to London, but perhaps Fétis read some of the introductory comments of the press when Paganini was about to reach our shores. This is a specimen: "We shall talk of Paganini very much till he comes. When he arrives nobody will speak or think of anything else for nine, perhaps eighteen, days: he will be everywhere: all other violinists will be utterly forgotten: it will be agreed that the instrument was never before heard; that his predecessors were all tyros; all other fiddles mere kits. There will be Paganini rondos and waltzes; variations, long, short, hard, easy, all _à la Paganini_. We shall have Paganini hats, caps, etc., and the hair of all the beaux patronised by beauty, will be after his curious pattern. His influence will extend to our tables, and there will be Paganini puffs served up daily. Then, all at once, his very name will cease to be pronounced by persons of _ton_; and, as a matter of course, people not of _ton_--not of the Devonshire circle, not of Almack's--will imitate those who are: and the Italian player, like the penultimate fashion, will be utterly forgotten!--_in good society_. I will even allow him to flourish here two whole months, provided no new chin-chopper[20] arrive in the interim, no _danseuse_ with a miraculous toe, to contest the supremacy of his wonderful bow: should any such rival enter the lists with him, his glory will set in less than a moon, and never blaze again above our fashionable horizon."[21] [Illustration: _Plate VI.--See Appendix._--TITLE-PAGE OF COMIC SONG, 1831.] Here is another from _The Examiner_:--"There cannot be a more inoffensive creature. His sole propensity is to gain money by his art, and his passion to lose it at the gambling table. Paganini's bow (_Scotticé_, boo) is almost as wonderful as his bow (_Anglicé_, fiddle-stick)--the craw-fish would attempt something like it were he on the stage, but not so well." Well, we've improved in manners somewhat since 1831. No respectable paper would publish now such notices in advance of any distinguished artist, however eccentric he might be. Paganini duly arrived in London in May, 1831. His first concert was announced for the 21st in this manner: THE KING'S THEATRE. SIGNOR PAGANINI respectfully informs the Nobility, Subscribers, and Frequenters of the Opera, and the public, that he will give a GRAND MISCELLANEOUS CONCERT of VOCAL and INSTRUMEMTAL MUSIC, at this theatre, TO-MORROW EVENING. _Prices of Boxes_:--Pit Tier, 8 Guineas; Grand Tier, 10 Guineas; One Pair, 9 Guineas; Two Pair, 6 Guineas; Three Pair, 4 Guineas; Stalls, 2 Guineas; Orchestra, 1-1/2 Guineas; Admission to the Pit, 1 Guinea; Ditto to the Gallery, Half a Guinea. This announcement produced a storm of indignation. Articles appeared in _The Times_, _The Courier_, _The Observer_, _The Chronicle_, and correspondence of a heated character was carried on. The editor of _The Harmonicon_, calculated that a full house at the prices would realise more than 3,000 guineas, and M. Laporte, the manager of the King's Theatre, was virtually accused of conspiring to rob the public. It must be explained that Laporte "farmed" Paganini; and as the latter invariably doubled the ordinary prices of admission, his impressario naturally desired to share in the golden harvest. Laporte wrote to _The Times_ a hurried note on May 19th, at eleven p.m., stating that at some future time he would refute the charges brought against him; and the next day a letter from Paganini to Laporte, and advertised in the newspaper, gave pause to the wordy warfare. It was as follows:-- Sir, _Friday_, 29th May. Finding myself too unwell, I request you will respectfully inform the public that the Concert announced for to-morrow will not take place. Your obedient Servant, To M. Laporte. NICOLO PAGANINI. Paganini was in a wretched state of health when he reached London, and his condition was not improved by the turmoil his announcement had created. The terms of his contract with Laporte were published in _The Observer_, and it was shown that Paganini had practically surrendered his freedom of action. This may be illustrated by a story that I have not met with in any English publication, though it may be true all the same. It is from the notice of Paganini in Mendel's "Musikalisches Conversations-Lexikon." His Majesty William IV. sent to enquire what honorarium Paganini required to play at the Court. Paganini answered: £100, a mere bagatelle. As the messenger tendered him one half that sum, Paganini haughtily replied, "His Majesty can hear me at a much cheaper rate if he will attend my concert. But my terms are not left for me to settle." The concert postponed from May 21st was then announced for June 3rd, but the question of the high prices had yet to be disposed of. Conflicting statements were made--one to the effect that Paganini expressed his regret that they had not been fixed still higher! Be that as it may, that was not the time to trifle with an angry public. There was not a moment to be lost, and some one must give way. The matter was soon decided. On June 2nd, appeared in _The Courier_ and _The Globe_ the translation of a letter from Paganini, which may be reproduced for the sake of its contents: "The time appointed for my first Concert at the King's Theatre so nearly approaches, that I feel it my duty to announce it myself, and to claim the favour of the English nation, which honours the arts as much as I respect her. Having been accustomed in all the towns of the Continent to double the usual prices at the theatres where I have given my Concerts, and, but little acquainted with the customs of this Capital, where I present myself for the first time, I thought I might do the same here. But having been informed by several papers that the existing prices here are higher than those on the Continent, and having myself ascertained that the statement was correct, I willingly second the wish of a public whose esteem and protection I desire as my greatest recompense. (Signed) NICOLO PAGANINI. London, June 1st, 1831." At last the concert took place in the King's Theatre, June 3rd, 1831. There was an orchestra erected on the stage. Many musicians have left a record of the extraordinary impression made by Paganini on that occasion, and have attempted to describe the man. In the present place quotation may be limited to the remarks of the editor of _The Harmonicon_, William Ayrton, a cultivated musician, and a sober-minded critic. He wrote thus: "The long, laboured, reiterated articles relative to Paganini, in all the foreign journals for years past, have spoken of his powers as so astonishing, that we were quite prepared to find them fall far short of report; but his performances at his first concert, on the 3rd of last month, convinced us that it is possible to exceed the most sanguine expectation, and to surpass what the most eulogistic writers have asserted. We speak, however, let it be understood, in reference to his powers of execution solely. These are little less than marvellous, and such as we could only have believed on the evidence of our own senses; they imply a strong natural propensity to music, with an industry, a perseverance, a devotedness, and also a skill in inventing means, without any parallel in the history of his instrument." [Illustration: _Plate VII.--See Appendix._ SKETCH BY D. MACLISE, R.A.] So far, the musician. The critics on the press may also have been musicians, though at that time it was not usual to have a musical department, if such a term may pass, in the daily or weekly papers. _The Athenæum_, in its notice, does not reveal the polished style of a high-class literary journal. This is how it deals with the concert:--"At length all differences have been arranged, and the _mighty wonder_ has come forth--a very Zamiel in appearance, and certainly a very devil in performance! He is, beyond rivalry, the _bow_ ideal of fiddling faculty! He possesses a demon-like influence over his instrument, and makes it utter sounds almost superhuman.... The arrival of this magician is quite enough to make the greater part of the fiddling tribe commit suicide." And now let us turn to the concert itself. The fashionable world did not rush to the theatre, and only two boxes were let. The stalls and orchestra were full, and also the pit, but not crowded. The audience consisted in great part of musicians; and even those engaged in the orchestra were listeners for the first time, as Paganini at rehearsal only played such passages as served for "cues," and in nowise revealed his powers. The object of a great _virtuoso_ would naturally be an exhibition of his own talent, but Paganini was not prodigal of his playing at the first concert. He had engaged the orchestra of the Philharmonic Society, then probably the finest in Europe, and his programme opened with Beethoven's Symphony, No. 2, in D. It will be shown later that Paganini had a great veneration for Beethoven. Then Signor Lablache was the solo vocalist, so Paganini was in the best of company. His first piece was the Concerto in E flat[22], and his second solo the Military Sonata for the G string, the theme being Mozart's "Non più andrai." The receipts were £700. Paganini had a most flattering reception, and his performances were greeted with acclamations, and waving of hats and handkerchiefs. The members of the orchestra were astounded. Mori avowed that if he could not sell, he would at least burn, his fiddle; Lindley, who stammered terribly, said that "it was the d-d-devil"; and Dragonetti (whose "he's were she's") growled out, "She's mighty esprit!" Cramer thanked heaven that he was not a violinist. A striking feature of Paganini's performance was his playing from memory. The _Athenæum_ remarked, "He plays without a reading desk or book stand; this gives an air of _improvising_ to his performance, which we hope to see imitated, if any one be found hardy enough to undertake a violin solo for the next seven years." No violinist would venture to play a concerto now with the music before him, but he may not be aware that it was Paganini who set the fashion of playing without book. The public now forgot all about the trouble of the high prices, and the second concert, given in the same place on the 10th, was so well attended that the receipts were about £1,200. On this occasion Paganini played his Concerto in B minor, and Lablache struck the little silver bell in the Rondo. He also gave his variations on "The Carnival of Venice," and a Sonata on the fourth string, in which the Prayer from _Mosé in Egitto_ was introduced. The third concert took place on the 13th, when Paganini brought out another new Concerto. Something like £900 was realised. At the fourth concert, on the 16th, Paganini played a _Cantabile_ on two strings, a _Rondo Scherzoso_, by Rodolphe Kreutzer--a detail to be noticed,--a _Larghetto gajo_, the Military Sonata, and the variations on "Non più mesta," from Rossini's _La Cenerentola_. The fifth and last Concert was on the 22nd, when the house was crowded to excess, and the enthusiasm greater than ever. But Paganini, or his astute manager, began to presume a little too much on the good nature of the public. Parting was "such sweet sorrow," that, like another Juliet, Paganini was inclined to prolong that process as long as possible. Final concerts succeeded each other--much like the "Farewells" of popular singers--until the audiences began to dwindle. At one, at the King's Theatre on July 4th, Paganini played a new Concerto in E major, "all expression and grace," and by far the best proof given of his talent since his arrival in London. Paganini gave two concerts at the London Tavern in July. The first was well attended, but at the second there was no orchestra. The concert was a failure--"and no wonder, for the Signor tried an experiment on the forbearance of the citizens, and actually took only a pianist and one or two second-rate singers with him to make up a half-guinea concert! This was too much even for John Bull to submit to."[23] What a curious side-light this shows upon concert matters in the first half of the nineteenth century! Now-a-days the "experiment" is for the _virtuoso_ to engage an orchestra.[24] Paganini played at some of the benefit concerts during the season, taking one-third of the gross receipts. There was evidently ill-feeling on this point, for Lablache and Rubini now refused to sing where Paganini played. It was said, even, that the leader of his orchestra had to sue Paganini for recovery of his fees, but the artist in question, Spagnoletti, put the matter right by publicly stating that his action was against M. Laporte, and that against Signor Paganini he had never had the slightest cause of complaint. Time was found for a few provincial visits. In July Paganini gave two concerts at Cheltenham, and there he got into trouble. It was announced that his engagements would not permit his remaining beyond the second day. His concerts were well supported, and one of the Subscription Balls, at the Rotunda, was relinquished in order that no hindrance should stand in the way of those desirous of hearing the violinist. But when it was given out that Paganini would give a third performance, there was a disturbance. Some leading residents had a handbill printed calling upon the "nobility and gentry" to support the established amusements of the town, by patronizing the Ball, if only as an act of justice to the proprietor. The effect was to secure a thronged attendance at the Rotunda, and so poor an assemblage at the theatre, that Paganini refused to perform. Of course the manager had to communicate this unpleasant piece of information to the audience, at the same time offering to return the admission money; but the people were in no pacific frame of mind, and they marched straightway to the hotel where Paganini was staying, and demanded the fulfilment of his engagement. A mob soon collected, and their demeanour became so threatening that there was nothing left but compliance with their demand. Paganini went to the theatre, played two of his most favourite pieces with great success, and at midnight posted off for London. It appeared that he had agreed to perform for two-thirds of the receipts, but finding the house not half full, demanded two hundred guineas in advance. This the local manager refused, and informed the audience of the fact; and the outbreak was the natural result. The local paper remarked: "We believe this is the only instance as yet upon record of Paganini's playing to empty benches, and himself unpaid." Paganini addressed a letter to the _Times_, giving another version of the incident, but he did not appear to have come out of the affair very well. His manager's share in the business may be left to conjecture. One other little circumstance seems to have caused a certain amount of irritation. Paganini was engaged for the Lord Mayor's banquet at the Mansion House on July 9th. When the Lord Mayor proposed the toast of the Lord Chancellor, before Lord Brougham's rising to return thanks, Paganini played a solo. He evidently displaced the usual glee party, but in any case it was not the most artistic function to assist at, and money must have been the chief consideration. Paganini carried his London concerts into August, and visited Norwich, where again a third performance took place when only two were announced. The local manager was a heavy loser, as Paganini (or his agent) had arranged for a specific sum, and there was very little in excess for the payment of vocalists, and general expenses. There was also a clashing with an important fixture at the theatre, and feeling ran high, though there was no violent demonstration as at Cheltenham. Towards the end of August, Paganini set out for Dublin, being engaged for the first Musical Festival held in that city. [Illustration: _Plate VIII.--See Appendix._ THE CELEBRATED STATUETTE (CARICATURE), BY DAINTON.] FOOTNOTES: [20] An allusion to Michael Boai, whose performances in London, in 1830, were of a curious description,--producing tones by merely striking his chin! [21] The Dilettante, in _The Harmonicon_, VIII, 479. [22] Now played in D. [23] Harmonicon, IX. p. 190. [24] At that time concert givers always engaged an orchestra, but the gigantic combinations of the present day were, of course, unknown, and unnecessary. CHAPTER VI. Dublin held her first Musical Festival from August 30th to September 3rd, 1831, and in connection with this event, it is interesting to note, Henry Fothergill Chorley contributed his first musical criticism to the _Athenæum_.[25] There was very little about Paganini, but much about the oratorio, "The Triumph of Faith," of Ferdinand Ries. It may be observed, in passing, that in the first half of the nineteenth century musical festivals were more numerous than they are now--there were five in 1831. With the exception of those given in York Minster (1823-1835), they were not on the large scale of the principal present day celebrations; but they were relatively of more importance, inasmuch as there were then fewer musical centres beyond the metropolis, and small towns would have had little music but for those periodic gatherings. Dublin's scheme was ambitious; for Paganini's fees for the three evening concerts was 500 guineas. Braham and Henry Phillips were among the vocalists engaged, and the latter, in his "Musical Recollections," gives a very interesting and amusing account of Paganini at the festival. No one seemed to know how Paganini arrived in Dublin, which gave rise to a vague idea that he was wafted across by the _Flying Dutchman_. Where he lodged was equally a mystery. He arrived at the stage door of the Theatre Royal on the evening of the first concert, and immediately ordered an apartment to be got ready, and the room to be perfectly darkened. There he paced up and down, playing snatches of his music until the time for his _début_ before a Dublin audience. The Theatre was crammed to suffocation. The Lord Lieutenant and his Suite attended in State, and all the _élite_ of Dublin were in the dress tier. When the Conductor, Sir George Smart, led Paganini to the centre of the stage there was a terrific outburst of applause, followed by breathless silence, as the great artist went through his deliberate process of adjusting his violin, raising his bow, and letting it rest upon the strings before commencing. This was too trying to the mercurial temperament of the occupants of the gallery, and before many seconds there was a stentorian shout, "Well! we're all ready!" The house was convulsed with laughter, peal after peal rang through the theatre. Paganini, stamping with rage, turned to Sir George Smart, and cried, "_Qu'est ce que c'est?_" The explanation seemed to make matters worse, and Paganini left the orchestra. Some time elapsed before he could be induced to return; but when he did so, and began to play, he created the same effect as elsewhere. The next day everybody was exclaiming: "Ah! sure, have you heard the Paganini; och murther! and his fiddle?" Such is the account Henry Phillips gives, but it is not easy to attach credence to all he has put in his book. At one of the concerts Paganini played the concerto in B minor, with the Rondo _à la clochette_, when an excited Hibernian shouted above the storm of applause, "Arrah now, Signor Paganini, have a drop of whiskey, darling, and ring the bell again!" Paganini's departure from Dublin was as mysterious as his arrival. On his return to London he failed to attract much attention, and seems to have been mostly on tour in the provinces and in Scotland. One incident in London was so singular that it deserves mention. Carlyle was supposed to have taken a walk with Paganini. Fancy "the Sage of Chelsea" in company with "the magician of the bow"! Thomas Carlyle was in London in 1831 vainly negotiating for the publication of "Sartor Resartus." One day his friend, Edward Irving, took him to Belgrave Square to dine with Henry Drummond. They walked along Piccadilly, thronged with fashionable promenaders; and as both men were of pecular personal appearance, they doubtless attracted some attention. This is what Carlyle subsequently wrote:--"Irving, I heard afterward, was judged, from the broad hat, brown skin, and flowing black hair, to be in all probability the one-string fiddler, Paganini--a tall, lean, taciturn abstruse-looking figure--who was then, after his sort, astonishing the idle of mankind."[26] Carlyle has said many true, and many beautiful things about music, but one may search his writings in vain for a good word about musicians! In December of this year (1831) Paganini was announced to play in Bristol. The following "squib" or lampoon was issued:-- PAGANINI. TO THE CITIZENS OF BRISTOL. FELLOW CITIZENS,--It is with feelings of unqualified disgust that I witness the announcement of SIGNOR PAGANINI'S Performance to take place in this City: Why at this period of Distress? With the recollection of so many scenes of misery still fresh in our minds, and whilst SUBSCRIPTIONS are required to the extent of our means in order to FEED and CLOTHE the POOR: why is this FOREIGN FIDDLER now to appear? for the purpose of draining those resources which would be infinitely better applied in the exercise of the best feeling of man--CHARITY. Do not suffer yourselves to be imposed upon by the Payment of Charges which are well worthy the name of extortion; rather suffer under the imputation of a want of TASTE than support any of the tribe of Foreign MUSIC-MONSTERS, who collect the Cash of this Country and waft it to their own shores, laughing at the infatuation of John Bull. _December 10th, 1831._ PHILADELPHUS. A. SAINT. TYP. CASTLE PRINTING OFFICE, 54, Castle Street, Bristol. Paganini's concerts at Leeds, early in 1832, were so well managed that, out of the profits, a liberal donation was presented to the fund for the relief of the poor. At Birmingham, in February of that year, his visit caused such an influx of strangers to the town, that neither lodgings nor stabling could meet the demand made upon them. A popular song was written for the occasion, and the streets rang with it long after the violinist had left the place. Two lines ran thus:-- "It's well worth a guinea to see Paganini, To see how he curls his hair." At Brighton some time earlier, the high prices were nearly causing a riot, through the issue of an inflammatory placard against them. Mr. William Gutteridge, a well-known musician of that place, who had arranged for the concerts, had to ask the protection of the magistrates, but fortunately no outbreak occurred. The squabbles about prices, the charges of avarice brought against Paganini, and the acrimonious tone of part of the press, afford melancholy reading. His gains were said to reach £20,000. In March, 1832, he left London for Paris. There, he gave a concert for the poor on March 18th. He did not stay very long in France, and on his way again to this country, occurred the incident referred to as one of the indignities to which he was subjected. This is the story. Paganini having to pass through Boulogne on his way to England, decided to give a concert in that town, which boasted of a Philharmonic Society. Paganini deputed a friend to arrange for that Society to assist at the concert. All seemed going well until Paganini arrived on the scene, when the amateurs stipulated for a certain number of free admissions for their friends and families, as a recognition for their assistance. Paganini represented to them that in a small concert room so many free admissions would leave little room for the paying public, and he could not accede to their demand. However, they would not give way, so Paganini declared his intention to engage a professional band. This did not suit the views of the amateurs, and they threatened the professional players with the loss of patronage and pupils if they dared assist Paganini; and the unfortunate artists, dependent as they were upon that support, had to refuse the offer made them. But Paganini was not to be baffled; he determined to give the concert, and to perform without any accompaniment at all. This he did; and now came the ludicrous sequel. A number of those amateurs actually paid for admission to the concert, on purpose to hiss the independent artist. This they did as soon as he entered the concert-room. Despising such petty spite, Paganini entrusted his revenge to his art, and the rapturous plaudits of the audience proper soon reduced to a pitiable silence those who had offered so gross an insult. As a writer said at the time: "The amateurs of Boulogne have earned for themselves a niche in the history of the art--they have _hissed_ Paganini." To digress, for a moment. Paganini's performance, solus, was a recital pure and simple; perhaps the first ever given in a concert room. In Grove's "Dictionary of Music and Musicians" there is this definition: "Recital, a term which has come into use in England to signify a performance of solo music by one instrument and one performer." It was probably first used by Liszt, in 1840, when he advertised his performances as "Recitals." The first was given at the Hanover Square Rooms, on June 9th, and was called by the _Musical World_ a curious exhibition. The "one man show," as the recital has been irreverently termed, may not conduce to the highest interest of art, but Paganini--not Liszt--was its inventor. [Illustration: PLATE 9. (_See Appendix._)] Paganini made his _rentrée_ at Covent Garden Theatre on July 6th, but he did not appear to have played anything new. Neither did he attract much attention, and little need be said respecting his visit. He was back again in London in 1833, but was out of favour, and was advised to postpone his concerts until the public anger, caused by his refusal to play for the distressed English actors in Paris, had subsided. His first concert was given in the King's Theatre, on June 21st, when apparently he played nothing new, and had but a small audience. The press in general appeared to be hostile--the _Athenæum_ did not notice him at all--and it is probable that his stay was not prolonged. He was in Paris later in the year, and was present at the concert given by Berlioz on the 22nd of December, when he heard the _Symphonie Fantastique_, and was so impressed that he wished Berlioz to write a solo for the wonderful Stradivari viola he possessed.[27] Between Paganini and Berlioz there was a mutual attraction. Both had something of the volcanic in their nature; both did much battling with the hostile outer world. But more of their friendship later. Paganini was in London once more in 1834, and gave a concert at the Adelphi Theatre on April 7th. Again nothing new, according to report. The next morning he gave a second concert at the Hanover Square Rooms, at which it was said not more than one hundred persons were present, and half of those went in with free tickets. The erstwhile popular idol was now dethroned. Paganini fell ill after this, and postponed his third concert. The _Athenæum_ referred to Paganini's playing to crowded houses at the Adelphi, and empty benches at the Hanover Square Rooms, and then went on to say: "His performance on the _Viol di Gamba_,[28] or some such instrument, is yet to come as is also a duet with Dragonetti, which, we are told, is to be the _ne plus ultra_ of what is beautiful and amazing. He has, hitherto, only repeated his best compositions, and, as before, left every other violinist, ancient and modern, at an inconceivable distance behind him." This concert was to be the last, which induced the writer of the _Athenæum_ notice to attend it. He found the "new instrument" nothing but a full-sized viola, tuned in the ordinary way. "Considering the difference of stop between this and the violin, his precision and brilliancy upon the former, as displayed in double stop passages, harmonics, and _arpeggi_, of extraordinary difficulty, were most amazing.... In his grand concerto in E flat, his cadenza was one of the most wonderful combinations of novel harmony, and passages of execution, we ever heard." Apparently the duet with Dragonetti was not played, as nothing was said of it. The directors of the music at the Oxford Commemoration week, May, 1834, were anxious to add Paganini's name to the attractions offered. He was approached, accordingly, and, through his manager, announced his terms--one thousand pounds. Astounded by the answer, the Oxford Delegate desired that it might be committed to writing. This was done, but when shown to Paganini, he directed that guineas should be substituted for pounds. He knew that art was not commerce! There is no record of his playing at Oxford. This last visit of Paganini to England had a romantic termination. He had separated from Signora Bianca on account of her jealous temper, and had fallen in love with a young English girl--that is if current report may be trusted. He proposed, for the purpose of securing her a proper legal settlement, that the marriage should take place in Paris, and he left London on June 26th, arranging for her to follow him to Boulogne. The young lady secretly left her home, but her father had his suspicions, and apparently arrived at Boulogne first, for the daughter, instead of meeting Paganini, was confronted, on landing, by her father, with whom she returned home. There is no doubt as to the occurrence, for it was "in the papers," and names were given. Schilling, whose _Encyclopædia_ was published in 1837, gives a long account of the affair, which he would not have done had there been no truth in it, even though the law of libel was not then very stringent. Here it will suffice to say that the young lady was the daughter of a man with whom Paganini lodged, and who was associated with the concert work of the artist. Moreover, the girl herself had, it would seem, sung at some of the concerts, and had become fascinated with the great violinist. The incident might be passed over, only for the fact that to it was owing the impression that Paganini visited America before returning to Italy. Dubourg, in the later editions of his work "The Violin," states that Paganini spent part of his time in America, previous to his return to Italy in 1834. Now George Dubourg was a contemporary of Paganini, and his statement is not to be dismissed lightly, though he offers no evidence in support of it. At the present time it is difficult to find proof, one way or the other. The American papers in 1835 were speculating as to the birthplace of Paganini, and some of the explanations were meant to be funny, but are too vapid for repetition now. The _Musical World_ for August 4th, 1837, in quoting an anecdote concerning Paganini's kindness to a poor musician, ends by saying Paganini took the poor man with him to America. The question was raised in the _Musical World_ for January the 9th, 1886, and decided in the negative. The legend had this slender foundation. In the early part of 1835, the young lady whom Paganini wished to marry, went to the United States--she was an actress and vocalist of moderate ability--but her stay was brief. Still, everybody wished to see her, for wherever she went she was looked upon as the heroine of a romantic episode, and her name was always coupled with Paganini's. The story of the elopement had been carried across the Atlantic by scandal's winged feet; and it was said that Paganini sent a special messenger to America to reopen negotiations on the delicate subject--arrangements that came to nothing. The agent might have been taken, by Dubourg, for the principal--hence the mistake. Paganini never went to America, neither did he again return to the shores of Albion. FOOTNOTES: [25] Chorley, then living in Liverpool, had previously sent some short pieces in verse to that paper, but did not become a member of its staff until 1833. [26] "Reminiscences," by Thomas Carlyle, I., 311. [27] Which resulted in the Symphony, "Harold in Italy," with a solo part for the viola. [28] The spelling betrays an ignorance of the instrument, though the writer must have been Chorley himself. Interest in those antique instruments had not then been revived, nor were there artists to play upon them. CHAPTER VII. In the summer of 1834, Paganini, after an absence of six years, returned to his native land. He was now a rich man, and he invested part of his fortune in landed property, purchasing, among others, the Villa Gajona, near Parma, which he made his home--the first he could really call his own, and he was in his fifty-second year! His health was irretrievably broken down; he suffered from consumption of the larynx, and was losing the power of speech. He now sought peace and quiet, and thought of preparing for publication a complete edition of his compositions, which, if he had accomplished it, might have led to the explanation of his alleged secret. In November, or December, Paganini gave a concert at Piacenza--on the very same boards where he almost began his brilliant career--for the benefit of the poor; this was the first time he had been heard in Italy since 1828. The year 1835, Paganini passed alternately at Genoa, Milan, and his villa near Parma. The cholera then raging at Genoa was the cause of the rumour of Paganini's death. The dread scourge had claimed him for a victim, it was said, and the Continental journals devoted columns to him in the form of obituary notices. The only English contribution to the necrology of Paganini known to me was written by Chorley in the _Athenæum_. It is both interesting and curious: for Chorley manages to squeeze in his account of Paganini at the Dublin festival, which the editor evidently cut out in 1831. That scarcely concerns us now, though it relates that the _furore_ caused by Paganini's performance could not be appeased until he had mounted the grand pianoforte, in order that the audience might obtain a better view of his lank proportions! An extract from his notice must be given. It begins thus:--"_E Morto!_--the words which the silent and absorbed man murmured to himself, in a tone of deep feeling, after listening to one of Beethoven's magnificent symphonies, are now--alas!--to be uttered sadly for their speaker--Paganini is dead! "We would fain believe that the newspaper reports are in error.... Let us hope that the intelligence from Genoa, received this week [September], that the artist had been carried off by the sudden and fearful death of cholera, may, by some happy chance, prove one of those 'mistakes which it gives them pleasure to contradict.' But, should it not then, indeed, may Music put on sackcloth and sit in ashes for her High Priest!" Then follows an "appreciation," to use a modern expression, to which reference may be made later. Chorley was an impressionable young man, in his twenty-third year, when he attended the Dublin festival, and so excited did he become over Paganini's performances, that he gave vent to his feelings in verse. That poem he now inserted in the _Athenæum_, "as a farewell to one whose like we shall never hear again!" There are really fine thoughts in the poem, and, though too long to quote in its entirety, a few stanzas may well be rescued from the periodical in which they are buried. O Paganini!--most undoubted king Of St. Cecilia's flock, alive or dead, Whether their pasture be of pipe, or string, Or mighty organ, which doth overspread Ancient Cathedral aisles with flood of sound,-- In all the wizard craft, matured by labour, That doth the spirit move, delight, astound, Thou hast no peer--thou hast not even a neighbour, In the long lapse of years from Tubal Cain to Weber. Sages have said, who read the book of night, That once each hundred years some meteor flares Across the startled heavens with brilliant flight, Making strange tumults in the land of stars; And, 'mid the realm of constellations vast, In steady splendour ever rolling on, Sweeps far and wide with fierce and furious haste, Rushing from pole to distant pole anon; And, like the monarch's ghost--"'Tis here--'tis there--'tis gone!" Thou dost to these, the meteor-born, belong, O mighty monarch of the strings and bow! And though it were to do sweet Cupid wrong To call thee else like him--yet on thy brow, And in thy curved lips and flashing eyes, His clearest seal hath god-like Genius set, Who bade thee from the common herd arise And win thyself a crown--nor ever yet Hath Art her votary graced with brighter coronet. O that a stately temple might be reared On some wide plain--and open to the sky-- Where all the great, the gifted, the revered Side close to side, ensepulchred might lie! And there, where many a breeze at evening's close In solemn dirge around their tomb should sweep, Should all the sons of melody repose, That pilgrims from afar might come and weep, And by their sainted dust a silent vigil keep! And there together in renown should rest, The Italian minstrel of the broken heart![29] And he whose Requiem for a spirit blest Was his own dirge--too early lost Mozart! And he of the Messiah--and the flight Of Israel's children from their bonds abhorred, When God was cloud by day, and fire by night! And he, who sung of darkness, at one word Bursting to light--and Earth created by its Lord! And many more--with whom ungentle Time Forbids my weak and wandering verse to say; Save one great master-spirit, whom my rhyme _Must_ pause to honour--for the meteor ray Burnt with intensest radiance o'er his head; Albeit too soon within his eager ear The realm of sound deep silence overspread, Whom yet the world is learning to revere-- Beethoven! he should sleep with thee--the Wizard--near! There's left a space, beside his hallowed dust, For thee with whom began my feeble song; But be it long before the encroaching rust Of Time wear out thy energies--and long Ere the grim Tyrant with resistless call Beckon thee hence--before thy bow be hung In some gray chapel--and thy brethren all Strive for thy magic instruments unstrung; If Heaven were kind to man, thou shouldst be ever young! A fortnight later, Chorley was able to reassure his readers by contradicting the report. It seems that the rumour was started through the death of Dr. Paganini (referred to at the beginning of this essay), and there seems little doubt but that he was the brother of the violinist. [Illustration: _Plate X.--See Appendix._ COPY OF OIL PAINTING OF PAGANINI IN THE MUNICIPAL MUSEUM AT GENOA.] In 1836, some speculators applied to Paganini to give the support of his name and his talent to the founding of a Casino in Paris, of which the ostensible object was music, the real end, gambling. It has been suggested that the project appealed to Paganini's avarice, which caused him to lend himself to the accomplishment of the undertaking. On the other hand, it is fair to assume that the artist was in ignorance of the true motive of the promoters of the scheme; and the fact that certain instructions to the trustees of the fortune settled on his son had been made public some four years earlier lends countenance to the impression that he was disgusted with gambling, and had long ceased to indulge in the vicious pastime. In the early summer of 1837, Paganini's health having improved, he gave several concerts in Turin, both for the benefit of the poor, and on his own behalf. Later in the year, however, he was in Paris, living in the greatest seclusion. The CASINO PAGANINI was opened, apparently in October, 1837. The building was situated in the Rue Mont Blanc, and was supposed to be a kind of Club of Art and Literature. An orchestra of some fifty performers was engaged for concerts, which were open to subscribers only. In the grounds a brass band played to those assembled, and admission there apparently was free to the public. The object of the undertaking was not made known. A French paper stated by way of a joke that Paganini's part in the proceedings was to walk round the garden when the weather was fine. The Government refused to license the place as a gambling-house, and the management had to rely upon the concerts alone. It would appear that Paganini had signed a contract to play at the concerts, but the wretched state of his health was the excuse for his not doing so. He had been in Paris off and on from 1837 to some time in 1839. In 1838, certainly before April, he was there, and went to hear a newly invented instrument termed the Harmoniphone. This was the work of an ingenious musician, Jacques Reine Paris. It was a small key-board instrument designed to imitate the oboe, and intended as a substitute for it, in places where oboe players were not available. A distinguished company was invited to meet Paganini, who was greatly interested and pleased with the invention. Then, in December, Paganini witnessed what Berlioz described as the massacre of his "Benvenuto Cellini" at the opera. In the same month was inaugurated a society for the production of classical compositions, and for the encouragement of musical artists, and at this brilliant function, held in the Salle Erard, Paganini was present, with Meyerbeer, Auber, De Beriot, Donizetti, and a host of other celebrities. On the 16th of the month Paganini attended the concert given by Berlioz at the Conservatoire, when the symphony, "Harold," was performed. Paganini heard it for the first time, and at the close of the concert occurred the affecting incident of Paganini kneeling on the stage and kissing the hand of Berlioz, the demonstration being followed by a magnificent donation of 20,000 francs. Paganini seems to have had a transient recovery, for the papers spoke of his becoming corpulent. Still, he did not play at the Casino Concerts, and a crisis soon arose. Early in 1839, the directors of the Casino brought an action against Paganini for breach of contract, and he was decreed to pay damages to the amount of 20,000 francs. This decision so much displeased both plaintiffs and defendant that they appealed against it. The case did not come on again for some time, and Paganini sought rest and change in the south of France. He stayed for some time at Marseilles, where, at the house of a friend, he once more abandoned himself to his art, devoting his time alternately to his violin and his guitar. Fétis states that notwithstanding his feeble health, Paganini attended a performance of Cherubini's _Requiem_ for men's voices; and on June 21st went to one of the churches to take part in the performance of Beethoven's Mass in C. But his malady could only be alleviated by frequent change of clime. Accordingly, in October we find him at Genoa, in the vain hope that his native air would prove beneficial; but he was prostrated by a violent nervous attack almost immediately following his arrival. He must, soon after, have left for Nice, which he never quitted alive. Nice, though a pleasant place, was not regarded as at all a favourable retreat for persons suffering from pulmonary or bronchial affections, and it proved fatal to the great artist. But we must, for the moment, return to Paris. The rehearing of the Casino case came before the _Cour Royale_, Paris, on January 3rd, 1840. Paganini could not, of course, attend in person, but he was represented by Counsel, and it may be of interest to name the man who was entrusted with his defence. It was a certain Mons. Chaix-d'Est-Ange. From accounts of the proceedings, this legal luminary addressed the Court at great length. He described the prayers and entreaties of the proprietors of what he termed "this catchpenny establishment" to induce the grand _Maestro_ to lend his mighty arm and name to their speculation. He had promised, in writing, to play nowhere but at their concerts; but as he had played nowhere else, the proprietors could have no legal right to such excessive damages. The counsel for the plaintiff, Mons. Barillon, declared that as Paganini's defection had ruined the speculation, the damages ought to be proportionate to his transcendent talent. Going into details, he stated that Paganini was installed in a splendid suite of apartments at the Casino, one boudoir being lined with flannel expressly for him; and that when he was complaining of his wretched health, he accepted a dinner offered him by the musicians of the orchestra, and gave toasts in both French and Italian. After that, he allowed bills to be printed, announcing that he would play at the Casino concert. Hundreds of tickets were eagerly bought at twenty francs each, when suddenly Paganini refused to play. Entreaties were in vain; Paganini, in his own room, with closed doors, would practise, but would not play at the concert. Recourse was had to the musicians of the Grand Opera, so as not to disappoint the audience, but the prefect of police would not allow the _employés_ of the opera to be taken from their theatre, and ordered the Casino to be closed. Ruin stared the proprietors in the face, and 20,000 francs was no adequate compensation. The former decision was reversed, and Paganini was condemned by the Court in 50,000 francs[30] damages, and ten years imprisonment in default of payment. [Illustration: _Plate XI.--See Appendix._ THE HOUSE IN WHICH PAGANINI DIED.] Whether the fine was actually paid, I have found no evidence to prove, but the imprisonment was certainly not enforced. In a few months' time, the gaoler whom none can deny, touched Paganini with his icy hand, and the troubled spirit left its frail earthly tenement on May 27th, 1840. [Illustration: _Plate XII.--See Appendix._ TABLET ON HOUSE IN WHICH PAGANINI DIED.] But not to rest were the mortal remains consigned. No peaceful grave for the wandering, restless being whose fitful fever of life was over at last. Paganini died without receiving the last Sacrament of the Church. He had indeed been visited by a priest, sent by the Bishop of Nice; but not deeming his end so near, made no confession, nor prepared himself for death according to the rite of the Church of Rome. The doubt as to his faith caused the Bishop of Nice to refuse burial in consecrated ground. The son, the friends of Paganini, and the principal artists of the place solicited the authorisation of a solemn service for his eternal repose, but in vain; all that was conceded was the offer of an authentic record of death, with leave to transport the corpse whither they might wish. This compromise was not accepted, and the matter came before the Court of Justice, when the decision was in favour of the Bishop. There was no alternative but to appeal to Rome, when the Bishop's decree was annulled, and the Archbishop of Turin was charged, conjointly with the Canons of the Cathedral of Genoa, to institute an inquiry into the Catholicism of Paganini. Meanwhile the remains--stated by the _Athenæum_ to have been embalmed for interment at Genoa--were subjected to shocking indignities. The landlord wanted to let the house where the artist had died, and the corpse was laid in the cellar until a more fitting resting-place was found. Then it is said to have been moved to the hospital of Nice, thence by sea to the _Lazzaretto_ of Villa Franca, and finally to a country house Polcevera, near Genoa, part of the property of the heir of the illustrious artist. There the body remained four years. Rumours spread abroad of piteous moans and other lamentable noises being heard at night. To put a stop to these unpleasant reports, the young Baron Achille made an application for permission for a solemn service to be celebrated at Parma, in virtue of Paganini having been a knight of St. George. This was not fruitless. The service was celebrated in the church of _La Steccata_, appropriated to that order of chivalry. After the solemnity the friends of the deceased obtained the permission of the Bishop of Parma to bring the body within the boundary of the Duchy, when it was transferred to the _Villa Gajona_, for interment in the Communal cemetery. So, at last, in May, 1845, the mortal remains of the illustrious violinist were laid in the grave; by order of the government, there was no display of any kind, no outward symbol of homage. The mourners might, however, hope at least for the repose of the casket that once enclosed the fiery, turbulent, soaring spirit of one who knew no rest in life. But, alas! even that was not the end. In the letter addressed by Paganini to the Editor of the Paris _Révue Musicale_, the closing sentence breathed a prayer that, however calumniated he might be in life, the world would at least allow his ashes to repose in peace. That appeal was not granted. It has been shown that five years elapsed between his death and his burial; fifty years more, and the repose of the grave was broken. The _Athenæum_ of September 7th, 1895, contained this paragraph:-- "In the Communal Cemetery of Parma the mortal remains of the great violin player, Paganini, have just been exhumed. The violinist was buried there fifty-five years ago, nevertheless his face has been found to be well preserved and easily recognizable. It is proposed to show the body to the public before it is re-interred." Horrible! But first note the mistake. The body was buried fifty, not fifty-five, years before. Those terrible five years seem to have been unnoticed in this country, and I have been unable to find any reference to the mournful function of May, 1845.[31] Now, what was the reason for exhuming the remains? For the purpose of removal to a more prominent site! Thus is homage paid to genius! Such, too, was the fate of Beethoven. His remains were removed in 1888 to the Central Cemetery at Vienna, and lamentable incidents attended the exhumation. Schubert, who, by his own desire, was buried by the side of the great master, did not escape the doom; but Mozart was mercifully spared; he was buried in a pauper's grave, and his body has remained undiscovered. The story of the preservation of his skull may be dismissed as apocryphal. But what are gorgeous monuments? Does the true artist value the case more than the instrument? Why seek ye the living among the dead? The artist does not die--he puts off the "muddy vesture of decay"; he lives in his art-work. [Illustration: _Plate XIII.--See Appendix._ THE TOMB OF PAGANINI AT PARMA.] FOOTNOTES: [29] Pergolesi. [30] The _Athenæum_ puts the amount at 52,000 francs. [31] In the _Musical World_ of February 16th, 1843, there is a paragraph stating that Paganini's remains were still unsepulchred, the corpse lying in an uninhabited house. CHAPTER VIII. Having traced the career of Paganini "from the cradle to the grave," let us now look a little more closely at the man, the artist. Glimpses of his character have already been revealed, but so curiously interesting a personality will repay further study. Totally uneducated, he yet made himself so much a man of the world, as to enjoy the personal friendship of such notabilities as Lord Byron, Sir Thomas Clifford Constable, Lord Holland, Prince Metternich and others. In his official positions at Court he comported himself with dignity. He had the pride of the artist, and would not play if the conditions were not suitable. One instance has already been given. Here is another, which also occurred in Paris. Paganini was asked to play at a Court concert at the Tuilleries. He went the day before to inspect the _salon_ where the function was to take place, and found the heavy draperies so numerous that the tones of his violin would be deadened, and the effect of his playing would be lost unless the curtains were removed or rearranged; he acquainted an official with his wish to alter them. To that august personage a "fiddler" was a mere nobody, and Paganini was given to understand his proper place. Highly offended with the manner of the official, Paganini resolved not to play. The Court was assembled for the concert, but the great violinist was absent. A messenger was sent to his hotel, and was informed that the Signor had retired to rest very early. Mobbed by ill-mannered crowds whenever he appeared in the streets, (and this especially in London, when strangers not only spoke to him, but even felt him, to ascertain if he was really flesh and blood), Paganini, with his sensitive nature, shrank more and more from contact with the outer world. He was not a Milton, "whose soul was like a star, and dwelt apart," but he was essentially a solitary, a recluse. His character was the result of his environment. Accustomed to brutal treatment in his childhood, he became hardened; set free from restraint, he tasted the wild joys of youth, only to find them turn to Dead Sea apples. Schumann, in his "Advice to young musicians," wrote: "The laws of morality are also the laws of art." But Paganini had no mentor, and learnt by bitter experience the lesson of life. He was accused of avarice, and many ridiculous stories were told of him. When at Prague, it is said that even the members of the theatre were struck off the free list, and he was annoyed that the police who watched the upper galleries could not be made to pay for their places! He beat down a London laundress a halfpenny in her charge for washing his shirts, and Moscheles gives currency to the story, though he cannot vouch for its truth, that Paganini gave his servant a gallery ticket for one of his concerts on condition that the man served him gratuitously for one day! All these wretched things may have been true, more's the pity. But there is one little story that appears to have been overlooked. The father of Nicolo Paganini was avaricious, and compelled his son to minister to his avarice, even robbing him of the first-fruits of his own earnings; Nicolo in turn became avaricious, but it was for the sake of his little son, whose life he desired might be better than his own. "He saves for his yet uneducated child," wrote Guhr, in 1829. Yes, this man, proud, scornful, despising the crowds whose money made him rich, in the recesses of his heart nourished a love, pure and unselfish. That was the fine gold; his wealth was dross. His affection for the child was boundless, and he allowed the little fellow to tyrannise over him completely. There are pretty stories of his playing with the boy, but there is nothing about teaching the boy to play--the violin. The memory of his own childhood was quite sufficient to deter him from any attempt to force instruction on his boy, and cloud the sunshine of his young life. The world gave Paganini its plaudits and its money; but there never seemed to be any bond of sympathy between the artist and the public. Yet Paganini could appreciate kindness. Moscheles relates that the father of his wife rendered Paganini some important service before the visit to England. When Paganini first called upon Moscheles he was profuse in expressions of gratitude, and taking down a miniature portrait of his benefactor he covered it with kisses. "Meantime," Moscheles writes, "we had leisure to study those olive-tinted, sharply defined features, the glowing eyes, the scanty, but long black hair, and the thin, gaunt figure, upon which the clothes hung loosely, the deep sunken cheeks, and those long, bony fingers." Moscheles was of service to Paganini during his first days in London, and, to use his own words, he was paid with quite as many honied epithets as his father-in-law received. But he suspected the Italian to be rather too sweet to be genuine. Indeed, the friendship was too fervent to last long, and money was the cause of the rupture. Mori commissioned Moscheles to write a piece "Gems à la Paganini," taking the precaution of obtaining the violinist's consent. His style is imitated, and he expresses his admiration of the piece. A second and third book of "Gems" are published, and down comes Paganini with the charge of musical piracy. His permission extended only to the first book. A lawsuit was commenced, but Paganini effected a compromise with Moscheles, conceding the free sale of the three books of "Gems" in return for pianoforte accompaniments to twelve small violin pieces. Moscheles reluctantly consented to write the accompaniments, but refused to allow his name (which Paganini wanted) to appear on the title-page. Mori had to pay something by way of damages, and Moscheles at last rejoiced at being quit of an episode so little worthy of an artist, and at having done with those dreadful lawyers.[32] But quite enough has been said in reference to Paganini's avarice: it has been shown that he had a motive for saving money. Is it as easy to account for other traits of his character? That aloofness, that scorn of the world, that hard bargaining: "Take me or leave me," revealing callous indifference, was there no cause for all that? There is a very graphic, and at the same time, appalling, account of the impression produced by Paganini among the Parisians, which is translated at length in Dubourg's "The Violin." Berlioz wrote of the weird genius making his appearance in France during the uproar of the collapse of a dynasty, and arriving in Paris--with the cholera. The terrors of the scourge were powerless to check the tide of curiosity: the people were mad for the time being. This is the conclusion of the notice just mentioned: "Of such a public, and such an artist, how saddening is the sight!... The public, made up of idlers--of beings isolated, cold, corrupt--must be _amused_, forsooth! and the artist exhausts his taste and his sentiment, and well nigh perspires blood and water, to comply with their exactions--to _amuse_ them! and if he attain this end, the public clap their hands, the manager of the theatre counts out to him a heap of gold, and he goes away, with his ears deafened at the noise which has surrounded him, and which, for a moment, it may be, has made his heart beat high;--he goes away, with a loving grasp tightened over the coin he has so hardly won; and now inwardly exclaims, with a smile of pity, 'The blockheads--the barbarians! who is there among them that can comprehend me--that can _feel_ my intentions!' and then the home-returning public, selfish to the very soul, indemnify themselves for their finger's-end applause by sottish contempt, by remarks that are empty, or worse--that are scornful, bitter, shocking, disgusting even--such as those which may have been buzzed into one's ears in Italy or in Paris, but varied in a hundred ways, and aggravated at will, just as _he_ varies and enlarges, twists and turns, beneath his magic bow, a subject of apparently the most simple and insignificant kind. And now the voices most distinguishable among the ebbing crowd murmur out the words, 'Gambler, Libertine'! or worse.... And the privileged public resort again to the theatre, to admire the talent of him who they comprehend not; and the artist returns, in like manner, to _amuse_ those who provoke his pity, and whom he beholds so far below him! Thus we have contempt on one side, compassion on the other; applause from hands chilled with the touch of gold, on the one part,--on the other, sounds that borrow their animation from no social sympathy! Such are the relations between the public and the professor--such the bonds that connect them!" Unhappy artist; miserable public! How shall we account for this pitiful state of things, this gulf between the performer and the auditor? We must seek the explanation in the letter to the _Revue_, referred to more than once, but now claiming our attention more directly. [Illustration: _Plate XIV.--See Appendix._ PAGANINI IN PRISON.] The pictures of "Paganini in Prison," exhibited so lavishly while the artist was in Paris in 1831, provoked him to remark that there were some "honest fellows" making money of a calumny that had pursued his steps for the last fifteen years. He then referred to the different versions of the crime imputed to him: that he killed a rival whom he found in company with his mistress; or that it was his mistress who had been the victim of his jealous fury; the only point of agreement was the imprisonment. "Let me tell you," the letter continued, "what happened to myself in Padua about fifteen years ago (1816), on this very subject. I had given a concert with some success: the next day I went to a table-d'hôte; I entered the room late; was, perhaps, the sixtieth guest, and took my seat unnoticed. One of the company expressed himself in flattering terms of the effect produced by my performance the evening before. His next neighbour agreed in the praises bestowed on me, but added, 'Nobody ought to be surprised at Paganini's ability: he owes it all to an eight years' solitary imprisonment in a dungeon, with nothing but his violin to occupy his time, or soften the rigours of his confinement. He was condemned to this long incarceration for having assassinated a friend of _mine_, who was unfortunate enough to be his rival.' As you may easily believe, every one was loud in denouncing the enormity of my crime; when I addressed myself to the speaker, begging him to inform me where and when this tragical adventure had occurred. All eyes were in an instant turned upon me, and you may judge the astonishment of the company at finding the hero of this tale of murder and imprisonment one amongst them. The relater of the story was not a little embarrassed. 'It was not a friend of his own that had fallen--he had heard--he had been told--he believed--but after all it was very possible he might have been deceived,' etc. Now see, Sir, how easy it is to play with the reputation of an artist merely because men, inclined to indulge in idleness themselves, cannot conceive it possible that he may have studied as closely in his own chamber and in full possession of his liberty, as he would if he had been chained up in a dungeon." There was an occurrence that gave rise to these reports, and which Paganini related in the same letter. "A violin player, named D----i,[33] who was at Milan in 1798, associated himself with two other men of bad character, and engaged with them in a plot to assassinate, by night, the curate of a neighbouring village, supposed to be in possession of much wealth. Luckily for the curate the heart of one of the conspirators failed him, and he denounced his companions. The gendarmes watched the spot, and took D----i and his accomplice into custody at the moment they arrived at the curate's dwelling. They were condemned to twenty years' confinement in irons, but General Menou, after he had been appointed governor of Milan, at the end of two years restored the violinist to liberty. Would you believe it, Sir? this is the sole foundation upon which the whole history of my incarceration has been erected. A violin player, whose name ended in _i_, had been engaged in a murder and imprisoned--it could only be _Paganini_--the assassinated party was converted into either my rival or my mistress, and it was I, _Paganini_, who had been so many years loaded with chains, and immured in a dungeon. Solely with the view of wringing from me the secret of my new system, have they complimented me with fetters, whose only effect would have been to paralyze my arms." Paganini further stated that he called on the Italian ambassador resident in Vienna, to testify that he had known the artist for nearly twenty years, during all which time his conduct has been that of an honest man. He also pointed out that having been constantly before the public from the age of fourteen, he must have had a mistress and a rival when he was seven! for there was no room for an interval of eight years afterwards. It was at Vienna that one of the audience, while Paganini was playing "The Witches' Dance," distinctly saw the devil close to the violinist, guiding his fingers and directing his bow; the said devil was dressed in red and had horns and a tail, and the striking likeness of the countenances of the two, plainly proved the relationship between them. That pretty story followed Paganini everywhere: and, as has been seen, in Prague he had to publish a letter from his mother disproving the rumour of his Satanic parentage. There is something intensely pathetic in Paganini's conclusion: "I see nothing else for it but to leave malignity at liberty to disport itself at my expense." In this prosaic, materialistic twentieth century, which believes in little besides money, there is no fear of any of our violin wonders being associated with the arch-fiend. They may be regarded as physic problems, but the supernatural is eliminated from the study. But Paganini did not live in the twentieth century, and in his day the devil was a very real personage, notwithstanding the temporary overthrow of much belief through the French Revolution, and the enthronement of the "Goddess of Reason" in the Church of Notre Dame, Paris. It may seem absurd, now, even to recall these calumnies; but we have to deal with the environment of a great genius, to study the cause of his failing to become great as a man; for surely he had the making of a fine character. That he should traverse the greater part of Europe, pursued by tales of devilry and murder, is one of the saddest comments on that period; that the "iron entered into his soul," and the man capable of affection became a miser and a misanthrope, is more mournful still. He was the "Flying Dutchman" of the violin. How was it that the devil and the violin came into relationship? We have it on the authority of Martin Luther that the devil hates music. Luther not only believed in the devil, but he fancied he saw him: and in the room of the Castle of Wartburg may still be seen the mark on the wall, where he threw his inkpot at the fiend, who tried to thwart his work of translating the Bible. It is curious that the only instrument which, to the present writer's knowledge, Satan has been represented as playing upon, is one of the precursors of the violin. There is a piece of sculpture in the Cathedral of Amiens, depicting Satan playing on an oval three-stringed Vielle, of the thirteenth century.[34] The story of Tartini and his dream, when the devil played so marvellously on the violin, is known to everyone, and is, moreover, perpetuated in the sonata _Il Trillo del Diavolo_. It is related of Thomas Baltzar, the first great violinist ever heard in England, that when he played at Oxford he astonished everyone by "running up his fingers to the end of the finger-board." John Wilson, the Oxford Professor of Music, "the greatest judge of musick that ever was," according to Anthony à Wood, "did, after his humoursome way, stoop down to Baltzar's feet, to see whether he had a huff on, that is to say, whether he was a devil or not, because he acted beyond the parts of man." As this took place in 1658 there was some excuse for the grim pleasantry; moreover music had suffered an eclipse, and performers in this country were comparatively few. Even the gentle and polite Corelli forgot himself so far as to apply the term, devil, to another violinist. As the story may not be so well known as the foregoing, I shall briefly repeat it. Nicolaus Adam Strungk (or Strunck), violinist to Ernest Augustus, Elector of Hanover, when in Rome (_circa_ 1684) made it his business to see Corelli. Introducing himself to the Italian master as a musician, Corelli asked what was his instrument. Strungk replied that he could play upon the harpsichord, and a little upon the violin; but he particularly wished to hear Corelli on the latter instrument, his fame being widely known. Corelli obligingly consented, and played a piece to the harpsichord accompaniment of Strungk. Strungk afterwards played a toccata, with which Corelli was so much taken that he laid aside his instrument in his transport of admiration. When Strungk had finished at the harpsichord, he took up the violin, and began handling it in a careless manner, whereupon Corelli remarked that he had a good bow-hand, and wanted nothing but practice to become a master of his instrument. At that moment Strungk put the violin out of tune, and played on with such dexterity, attempering the dissonances occasioned by the mistuning with such amazing skill, that Corelli cried out in broken German: "I am called Arcangelo, a name that in the language of my country signifies an Archangel; but let me tell you, that you, Sir, are an Arch-devil!" There is nothing malicious in these stories of the devil and the fiddler; and if Paganini had experienced nothing worse than what has just been related, he might have treated the matter as a joke. But that which malice or envy originated, a "reptile press" promulgated. Innocent of crime, Paganini was branded as a felon; gifted with genius of the rarest order, cultivated to a perfection absolutely unique, his skill was attributed to the aid received from the devil. Add to this his wretched health, and there is both mental and bodily suffering. In his later years he was cut off from intercourse with others, like Beethoven--but with this difference: Beethoven employed a tablet or note-book for his friends to convey their words to him; Paganini transmitted, through a similar medium, his thoughts to others. He was dumb! Is there no brighter side to this picture? If there be, let us turn to it. It is, perhaps, fortunate that no man can be consistent throughout his life; the morose must smile at times, and the misanthrope mitigate his hatred of mankind. Paganini was but human, and his life was not all shadow. Though his intimate friends were few, there were some who were able to place on record details of the private life of the great violinist. Of such, the most useful to biographers was George Harris. He was an Englishman, attached to the Court at Hanover then connected with Britain; a dramatist of a certain order, he accompanied Paganini on his tours in Germany, acting for a time as his secretary, and apparently he was with him when in England. From him we learn a good deal. Paganini was always on the move, and travelling in his day was not the rapid, comfortable, even luxurious process it is now. In the post-chaise Paganini stowed his luggage, which was of the simplest--and shabbiest--description. A dilapidated box held his beloved violin, his linen, cash and jewellery; a carpet-bag and a hat-box completed his outfit. He was philosophically indifferent to comfort, but in his later years he always had the windows of his carriage closed. When he arrived at his quarters, the windows of his room were thrown open, and he indulged in a sun-bath--again anticipating modern medical advice. Paganini, when travelling, was fond of taking a stroll when the horses were changed. It was a relief to stretch his legs after the close confinement of the post-chaise, but sometimes his rambles were so prolonged that there was weary waiting for him when all was ready to resume the journey, and drivers became exasperated. Paganini was made to suffer on one occasion. That was when travelling from London to Birmingham. He had already tried the patience of his coachman by causing loss of time, and the man declared he would drive on without him, rather than wait again. At the next stopping place Paganini walked off as usual, leaving Harris asleep in the vehicle. The horses being changed, the driver started, leaving Paganini behind. This caused some trouble, for a post-chaise had to be sent from the next station in search of the derelict, and Paganini in his rage refused to pay the extra expense. He was summoned before the Birmingham magistrates, and the case going against him he was compelled to discharge the debt. Poor Paganini, he always suffered when he came into contact with the law. [Illustration: PLATE 15. (_See Appendix._)] [Illustration: PLATE 16. (_See Appendix._)] [Illustration: PLATE 17. (_See Appendix._)] In his personal habits Paganini was simplicity itself. Frugal to a degree in his repasts, a cup of chocolate sufficed for a meal when starting early on a journey, and often he would fast until evening. When in a happy mood after a concert, he would join the table d'hôte and do as others did, but the slightest indulgence was punished the next day. He preferred solitude, but when he mixed with others he would join freely in the conversation; if music were touched upon he became silent, or left the room. So long as he could find accommodation that was quiet, he cared little for its quality. Scenery had no charms for him, and all climates but his own were equally indifferent to him. His accounts were kept in a little red pocket-book (found under his pillow after his death), in a kind of arithmetical shorthand only decipherable by himself. He never had been taught the science of numbers, or he might have been made a first-rate mathematician. Harris stated that all the time he was with Paganini he never heard him play a single note except before an audience. That may have been correct so far as Germany was concerned, but the Rev. John Edmund Cox, in his "Musical Recollections," has something very different to say about Paganini. "During his career he visited my native town,[35] and as I had the good fortune then to be able to converse in French, the friends who had engaged him for a round of concerts in that place and its vicinity placed me in direct communication with him somewhat in the capacity of a secretary; so that I not only travelled in his company and heard him at every concert at which he appeared, but I lived in the same hotels and lodgings which had been secured for him. This kind of semi-official position necessitated my seeing much of him during his leisure hours, when he threw off the suspicious restraint which was always apparent in his manner when he was among strangers, whom he imagined were bent upon getting as much as possible out of him for their own advantage. Then, indeed, he would evince anything but a hard and ungenerous nature, his manner being not only kind but courteous; whilst any attention that was afforded to his wants or to his comforts was sure to elicit not only looks but words of gratitude. In public he confined himself almost exclusively to the performance of his own music,--... but in private--for he had his violin constantly in his hand--he would sit and dash off by the hour together snatches from the compositions of the best masters, and give readings of such originality to passages that had been heard again and again, as apparently have never been supposed to be possible by any other player. As an instance in point, he one morning, whilst I was writing several notes for him, commenced the first _motivo_ of Beethoven's magnificent violin concerto. To write was then impossible; and he, perceiving how entranced I seemed, asked whether I knew what it was. On my replying in the negative, he promised, if it could be managed, that I should hear the whole of that movement before we separated." The promise was redeemed. The above is valuable as showing that Paganini was not quite so wanting in knowledge as was generally supposed. He could converse in French, though at that time--1831--he had only spent a few weeks in France. Education, proper, he had none; but the statement that he could speak no language but his own, is evidently incorrect. The allusion to strangers bent upon getting as much as possible out of him for their own advantage, finds an illustration in the story of the Englishman who is said to have followed Paganini for some six months, watching his every movement, lodging at the same hotels, and employing every means to get at the great secret of the violinist's art. At last his perseverance seemed about to be rewarded. Looking through the keyhole of Paganini's door, the Englishman saw the violinist take his instrument from its case--raise it to his shoulder, even shift the left hand up and down the neck; but not the ghost of a sound. It was just a study of positions, and the violin was then restored to its place. In despair, the inquisitive amateur gave up the quest. The concerts Paganini gave for the poor were evidence of his natural goodness of heart. It is true, such efforts cost him little; he gave a few hours' time: the public found the money. One day, when walking in Vienna, he saw a poor little Italian boy playing the violin in front of a large house. He drew from him a touching story of poverty, and a sick mother; and emptying his pockets into the boy's hands, he took from him his violin and began to play. He was soon recognised, and a crowd assembled; the people were immensely diverted, and gave a generous response when the hat was handed round. With "Take that to your mother," Paganini sent the boy off rejoicing, and turning to the companion of his walk, he remarked, "I hope I've done a good turn to that little animal." He was fond of applying the word "animal" to those sometimes spoken of as "the lower classes," but was not altogether singular in that respect. At the anniversary dinner of the Royal Society of Musicians, in 1832, among the donations announced was one of ten guineas from Paganini. This was thought so excessively mean an acknowledgment of the generosity of the English nation, that the announcement was received with groans and hisses. That was distinctly rude on the part of those who, having dined well, ought to have been in a genial state of mind. At least one generous action must be placed on record. It was told by George Augustus Sala many years ago.[36] The mother of that voluminous writer was a vocalist, and made her _début_ at Covent Garden Theatre in 1827, as the Countess in Bishop's version (or perversion) of Mozart's "Marriage of Figaro." In 1828 she became a widow, and supported her family by teaching singing and giving annual concerts, chiefly at Brighton, where she lived. For one of her benefit concerts she engaged Paganini. The most distinguished artists of her day had gladly given their gratuitous assistance at similar functions, and Paganini accepted the small fee of twenty-five guineas. Sala was a very small boy at that time (born in 1828), and possibly drew upon his imagination when recounting the event so many years later. This is what he wrote:--"'Take your little boy with you, Madame Sala,' was the shrewd counsel of ----, a valued friend of my mother; 'take the boy with you when you pay Pag.; perhaps _that_ will soften him a little.' I was the smallest and chubbiest of the tribe; then, duly washed, combed and made spruce, my parent took me in her hand, and led me to the Old Ship, where Paganini was staying. We were ushered, not without fear and trembling on my part, into the presence of the mighty musician, who was at breakfast. Then my mother, alluding as far as she in delicacy could to her large family and small means, proceeded to count out--sovereign by sovereign, shilling by shilling--Paganini's fee of five and twenty guineas. I can see with the eye of memory the whole man before me now, his gaunt angular form, his black elf-like locks falling in weird confusion over his neck and shoulders, his cadaverous face and shaggy brows, his long bony hands with the veins standing out like cordage, his amazingly large feet, and especially his neck, disproportionately long, scraggy, and corrugated. I can see the glare--so it seemed to me--which, when he raised his bent brows, darted upon the pile of money, and the spasmodic avidity with which he extended his hand and swept the pile towards him.... 'A very nice little boy,' he was good enough to say, alluding to myself; 'but time is bad, and there is no monish in de vorld: no, never no monish at all.' My mother rose with a heavy heart to depart. 'Stop, little boy,' said the great violinist, and he beckoned to me with a skinny finger, which any of the witches in Macbeth would have been proud to own; 'stop, take this, it will buy you a cake.' He thrust a crumpled piece of paper into my hand, rose from his chair, and, without more ado 'bolted'--that is the only word suited to the action--into his bedroom. He had given me a bank note for fifty pounds! Superstitious people used to whisper that Paganini had sold himself to the enemy of mankind; spiteful people used to draw him as a greedy, flint-hearted miser.... I only know how he acted towards my mother." FOOTNOTES: [32] Life of Moscheles (English Edition), I., p. 252-7. [33] Duranowski, a talented Polish violinist. He entered the French army and was _aide-de-camp_ to a General. He lost his rank when released; returned to his violin, and was living at Strassburg up to 1834. [34] An engraving of it is in Naumann's "History of Music" (English Edition), p. 255. [35] Norwich. [36] In the "Bow Bell's Annual" for 1878 (?) CHAPTER IX. From the man we now turn to the artist. Schiller wrote: "The artist is the son of his age, but pity for him if he is its pupil or even its favourite." It has been shown how truly Paganini was the child of his age; the pity was that he became its pupil and its favourite; in consequence he failed to attain the supreme height where dwell the spirits of the greatest. But he was a great artist, in spite of his concessions to the public taste; and he held in reverence that which he found great in others. When in Vienna in 1828, exactly a year after the death of Beethoven, Paganini attended a concert, and heard a performance of the great master's Symphony, No. 7, in A. Profoundly moved by that sublime composition, he remained mute, his gaze fixed and mournful; suddenly the tears rolled from his eyes; his grief and emotion wrung from him the words: _E morto!_ Anders, who relates the incident, adds: "Never was the immortal author of _Fidelio_ more worthily extolled than by those tears, by that simple word. The day may come when some disciple, some friend of the Genoese artist, will say in his turn, seized with bitter sadness, _E morto!_" Strange, that Chorley should have employed the very words, in the premature obituary notice which has been already referred to. When in Paris, Paganini once visited the Institution for the Blind. He was so much struck with the beauty and purity of intonation that characterised the singing of the pupils, that he declared that never before had he an adequate notion of what harmony was. The artist, as well as the art, claimed his respect. There seems to have been no artistic jealousy about him, and to the young performer he was invariably kind, whilst to the established professor he was just. It is said that when Paganini's concerts took place at the King's Theatre, it was proposed to dispense with the services of the "leader" at the Opera. When Paganini heard of this, he paid a well-merited compliment to the abilities of Signor Spagnoletti, and insisted upon his engagement at all the concerts, he, Paganini, might give at the Theatre. It is true, at rehearsal, Paganini never gratified the members of the orchestra as to what the concert performances were likely to be; but he was careful to have the accompaniments well prepared. Quick-tempered, he was irritated at any faulty work, but when all went well he expressed his approbation by exclaiming, "_Bravissimi! Siete tutti virtuosi!_" ("You are all artists!") Paganini brought the orchestral parts with him to rehearsal, and took them away afterwards; as to the solo part, no one had a chance of looking at that, for Paganini played everything from memory. His kindness to brother-artists has been placed on record. The young violoncellist Ciandelli, who rendered such service to Paganini when he was turned into the street by the brutal landlord, was afterwards well repaid by the instruction Paganini gave him. The great violinist told Schottky, his biographer, that he took a lively interest in young Ciandelli, and that he imparted to him his secret. He gave him lessons, and at the end of three days so transformed his playing, that from being a mediocre performer, he became the first violoncellist at the Theatre Royal, Naples, with a possibility of becoming the first in the world. However, as history is silent respecting the subsequent achievements of Gaetano Ciandelli, he need not claim further attention. The Bohemian violinist, Joseph Slavik, appeared at Vienna in 1826, when he was twenty years of age. Moscheles heard him play, and said he was considered in Vienna as the second Paganini. Of course that was hearsay; _the_ Paganini had not then been heard outside Italy. When Paganini was in Vienna, in 1828, he become acquainted with young Slavik, and held him in affectionate regard. At all hours the young student had access to the idol of his worship, and received many valuable hints and ideas upon fingering, etc., and friendly encouragement to pursue his daring course with unwearying application. He spent two years in retirement, zealously studying the Paganini method, and when he reappeared in Vienna, he was spoken of as no petty imitator, but a second original. A contemporary notice, comparing Slavik with Paganini, states:--"The only difference between the two at present is, that the pupil, carried away by the ardour of youth, often suffers himself to be seduced into the most gigantic attempts, the success of which on every occasion no mortal can with certainty rely upon; while the other, possessing the plaintive and deeply pathetic tones of a singer, at the same time resembles a consummate piece of musical mechanism, which accomplishes the most extraordinary feats quietly and without effort." Slavik died at Pesth, in 1833, at the early age of twenty-seven; what he might have become his actual achievements plainly indicated. In his later years, Paganini appears to have had great delight in listening to young artists. In 1836, Antonio Bazzini, then a youth of eighteen, played to Paganini, who was enraptured with his performance. A year later, in Paris, Paganini heard a much younger violinist, the boy Apollinaire de Kontski, and actually went so far as to give him a testimonial. Articles in the musical dictionaries all state that Paganini gave some lessons to the child; some say that the friendship between the two resulted in Paganini bequeathing to De Kontski his violins and compositions. Grove, in quoting Mendel, says this statement requires confirmation. When Apollinaire de Kontski died, in 1879, nothing, so far as I have been able to ascertain, transpired concerning the alleged bequest. But the testimonial seems to have escaped the notice of dictionary compilers, so, as a curiosity, I reproduce it from the _Musical World_, of June 21st, 1838:-- "Having heard M. de Kontski, aged eleven years, perform several pieces of music on the violin, and having found him worthy of being ranked among the most celebrated artists of the present day, permit me to say, that if he continues his studies in this fine art, he will, in course of time, surpass the most distinguished performers of the age. (Signed) PAGANINI." But if Paganini was fond of hearing and encouraging other artists, he was averse to anything like competitive display. When he met Lafont at Milan in 1816, as already related, he played at the concert given by that artist. The function came to be regarded as a contest, and an account of it appears in Laphaléque's pamphlet. Some paper, early in 1830, having quoted this notice, Lafont wrote a letter of protest, which is interesting enough to reproduce in part. He wrote:-- "Sir, I have just read, in your journal of the 2nd of Feb., an extract from the Notice published on the celebrated violinist, Paganini. As this notice contains statements utterly erroneous, as regards me, I owe it to truth, to the advice of my friends, and to the favour with which the public has been pleased to honour me during twenty-five years, to give an exact statement of the facts of the case. The following is a narration of what occurred. In the month of March, 1816, I gave in conjunction with M. Paganini, a concert in the great theatre, La Scala, at Milan, and, far from making a cruel trial of the powers of my adversary, or of being beaten by him, as is pretended by the author of the Notice, I obtained a success the more flattering, as I was a stranger in the country and had no other support than my talent. "I played, with M. Paganini, the concerted symphony of Kreutzer, in _fa_ major. For several days previously to the concert we rehearsed this symphony together, and with the greatest care. On the day of the concert it was performed by us as it had been rehearsed, with no change whatever; and we both obtained an equal success in the passages executed together or separately. On coming to the _phrase de chant_ in _fa_ minor, in the second solo of the first part, there was a decided advantage for one of us. This passage is of a deep and melancholy expression. M. Paganini performed it first. Whether the strong and pathetic character of the piece was ill-suited to the ornaments and brilliant notes which he gave in it, or whatever else was the cause, his _solo_ produced but little effect. Immediately after him, I repeated the same passage, and treated it differently. It seems that the emotion by which I was then agitated, caused me to give an expression more effective, though more simple, and it was so felt by the audience, that I was overwhelmed with plaudits from all parts of the house. During fourteen years I have been silent on this trifling advantage obtained over M. Paganini in this instance, only in the symphony, and probably rather by the superiority of the school than by that of talent. It is painful to me to speak of myself; nothing short of the misrepresentation of the article in question could have provoked me to reply. I was not beaten by M. Paganini, nor was he by me. On all occasions, I have taken pleasure in rendering homage to his great talent; but I have never said that he was the first violinist in the world; I have not done such injustice to the celebrated men--Kreutzer, Rode, Baillot, and Habeneck, and I declare now, as I have always done, that the French school is the first in the world for the violin." After this modest assertion Lafont concludes with an expression of rejoicing in the opportunity of praising a talent of which he felt it an honour to be the rival, but of which no one could make him the adversary. This epistle provoked a rejoinder from Francesco Cianchettini[37] who wrote:--"As I was present at that contest, I do assert that the account given by Mr. Imbert is not erroneous, but correct. The public decision was in favour of Paganini; Mr. Lafont having acquiesced in silence to such a decision, does not diminish one iota of his acquired fame: as not only himself, but every living violinist who dares to enter into rivalry with Paganini, will be prostrated, although the Signor has not had the advantage of being a pupil of the _super-excellent Parisian Violin School_. In Paris, I have heard how the talented violinists, mentioned in Mr. Lafont's letter, speak of Paganini. The _Coriosi_ gladiators of the Neronian age spoke with the same freedom of Hercules. Had this demigod suddenly appeared on the arena with his club, all of them would instantly have shrunk into pigmies." In a footnote Cianchettini added that whatever excellence the Parisian Violin School might lay claim to, was derived from Italians; from Viotti, through Pugnani and Tartini, to Corelli, "the father of the violin." But the genius of Paganini was fully understood and appreciated by a far greater Frenchman than Charles Lafont:--Hector Berlioz. The friendship between Paganini and Berlioz has been briefly referred to, but it is a subject for further consideration, as it reveals the influence that the one artist wielded over the other. The first meeting of the two men must be told in the words of Berlioz himself. A few remarks are needed by way of preface. In the summer of 1833, Berlioz married the English actress Miss Smithson, who, still weak from her carriage accident, had, on her wedding day, "nothing in the world but debts, and the fear of never again being able to appear to advantage on the stage." To pay off these debts Berlioz organized a benefit entertainment, beginning with drama and ending with a concert. But his programme was too long, and he had forgotten something--_the claque_. His poor wife could not conceal her lameness, and though talented as ever, she failed to obtain a recall. Another actress, having taken precautions, had an ovation. Then at midnight the band of the _Théâtre Italien_, not being obliged to play after that hour, left the place, and the _Symphonie Fantastique_ could not be played. Liszt assisted, and the affair was not quite a failure, financially, though the promoter came in for bitter attacks. Poor Berlioz was in despair, but he took his courage in both hands, and announced a concert at the _Conservatoire_. He took care to engage artists he could trust, and with his friend Girard as conductor everything went well, the _Symphonie Fantastique_ taking the room by storm. Now let Berlioz speak: "My success was complete, and the former judgment on me was reversed. My musicians looked radiant with delight as they left the orchestra. Lastly, my happiness was completed when the public had all gone, and a man stopped me in the passage--a man with long hair, piercing eyes, a strange and haggard face--a genius, a Titan among the giants, whom I had never seen before, and at first sight of whom I was deeply moved; this man pressed my hand, and overwhelmed me with burning eulogies, which literally set both my heart and brain on fire. It _was Paganini_ (22nd December, 1833). From that date my relations with that great artist, who exercised such a happy influence upon my destiny, and whose noble generosity has given birth to such absurd and malicious comments." It was some time in January, 1834, that Paganini called upon Berlioz and said he had a wonderful viola, a Stradivari, upon which he should much like to play in public, but he had no music for it. Would Berlioz write a solo for him? Berlioz was flattered by the proposal, but replied that in order to produce a composition sufficiently brilliant to suit such a virtuoso, he--Berlioz--ought to be able to play the viola, and that he could not do. So he thought Paganini alone could meet his own wishes. Paganini, however, pressed his own point, adding that he himself was too unwell to compose anything. Berlioz then set to work. To quote his own words: "In order to please the illustrious virtuoso, I then endeavoured to write a solo for the viola, but so combined with the orchestra as not to diminish the importance of the latter, feeling sure that Paganini's incomparable execution would enable him to give the solo instrument all its due prominence. The proposition was a new one. A happy idea soon occurred to me, and I became intensely eager to carry it out." Paganini was impatient to see the music, and as soon as the first movement was finished, it was shown to him. He did not like the long silences. "That is not at all what I want," he said; "I must be playing the whole time." "You really want a _concerto_ for the tenor," Berlioz replied, "and you are the only man who can write it." Paganini said no more, and soon afterwards left for Nice. Berlioz then gave free play to his fancy, and wrote the series of scenes for the orchestra, the background formed from the recollections of his wanderings in the Abruzzi, the viola introduced as a sort of melancholy dreamer, in the style of Byron's "Childe Harold." Hence the title "Harold in Italy." Now, this is the point: "Harold" was inspired by Paganini, who indirectly gave a new art-form to the world. The piece was produced on November 23rd, 1834, but Paganini was then in Italy, and he did not hear it until four years later. But Paganini was destined to inspire something greater still. He was again in Paris in 1838, and, as before related, was present at the "horrible performance" of Berlioz' "Benvenuto Cellini." Sad at heart Paganini said: "If I were manager of the _Opéra_, I would at once engage that young man[38] to write me three such operas: I would pay him in advance, and should make a capital bargain by it." The failure of the opera threw Berlioz on a bed of sickness. But he had to live, and was soon arranging to give concerts at the _Conservatoire_. The first barely paid expenses, but the second, at which both the _Symphonie Fantastique_ and _Harold en Italie_ were performed, was more successful, and at this Paganini was present. This has also been incidentally mentioned, but further notice is required on account of the sequel. Again we must allow Berlioz to speak for himself. "The concert was just over; I was in a profuse perspiration, and trembling with exhaustion, when Paganini, followed by his son Achilles, came up to me at the orchestra door, gesticulating violently. Owing to the throat affection of which he ultimately died, he had already completely lost his voice, and unless everything was perfectly quiet, no one but his son could hear or even guess what he was saying. He made a sign to the child, who got up on a chair, put his ear close to his father's mouth and listened attentively. Achilles then got down, and turning to me, said, 'My father desires me to assure you, sir, that he has never in his life been so powerfully impressed at a concert; that your music has quite upset him, and that if he did not restrain himself he should go down on his knees to thank you for it.' I made a movement of incredulous embarrassment at these strange words, but Paganini seizing my arm, and rattling out 'Yes, yes!' with the little voice he had left, dragged me up on the stage, where there were still a good many of the performers, knelt down, and kissed my hand. I need not describe my stupefaction; I relate the facts, that is all." In his frenzied state Berlioz went out into the bitter cold, met Armand Bertin on the boulevard, told him what had occurred, caught a chill, and again had to keep his bed. Two days later, the little Achilles called, the bearer of a letter, and of a message to the effect that his father would himself have paid the visit, but was too ill to do so. The letter ran as follows:-- "MY DEAR FRIEND, Beethoven dead, only Berlioz now can revive him; and I, who have enjoyed your divine compositions, worthy of the genius which you are, entreat you to accept, in token of my homage, twenty thousand francs, which will be remitted you by the Baron de Rothschild on presentation of the enclosed. Believe me always your most affectionate friend, NICOLO PAGANINI. Paris, December 18th, 1838." Picture the scene! Berlioz, pale with excitement; his wife, entering the room, imagines some new misfortune has befallen them. Told of what has happened, she calls her son Louis. Berlioz' words again: "And my wife and child ran back together, and fell on their knees beside my bed, the mother praying, the child in astonishment joining his little hands beside her. O Paganini! what a sight! Would that he could have seen it!" The news soon spread abroad, and there were mixed feelings with regard to Berlioz; delight on the one hand, detractions on the other, and "scandalous insinuations" against Paganini. It was some six days before Berlioz recovered sufficiently to visit and thank Paganini. The latter would not hear a word; it was the greatest pleasure he had ever felt in his life, he said; adding, "Ah! now none of the people who cabal against you will dare to say another word, for they know that I am a good judge, and that I am not easy" the last clause bearing two meanings: "I am not in easy circumstances," or, "I do not part with money easily." I know that this gift of Paganini to Berlioz is now regarded as a myth. One version of the story is that Paganini was merely the agent, the real donor being Armand Bertin, the great friend of Berlioz, who wished to remain in the background. Another version is to the effect that Jules Janin, editor of the _Journal des Débats_, compelled Paganini to make the gift to Berlioz, who was the musical critic on that paper; and that Paganini, fearing to lose his prestige with the public if Berlioz turned against him, yielded to the pressure put upon him. I am going to give chapter and verse for all this, for it is a matter that should be put at rest. But first, what a condition is revealed of the press in relation to art. Berlioz in money matters was incorruptable, though he was often poor enough; therefore I leave him out of the discussion. But think of the possibility of the transaction! Janin, years before, had written bitter things of Paganini--things I have declined to quote in this memoir; but Janin must have been quite as bad as he asserted Paganini to have been, if he was capable of this monstrous proposition. There are two details to be considered, and the first is the date. In 1838, the public career of Paganini was at an end. There was the wretched Casino business, it is true, but there was no performance by Paganini. In the second place, supposing for a moment that Berlioz could or would employ his pen in disparagement of the great violinist, could he have written anything more violent, more depreciatory, than critics had been writing for the previous twenty years, criticisms which Paganini had survived, and grown rich upon? Besides, if the Janin story be true, the Bertin must be false. Where then is the authority for the former? In 1840, Liszt wrote a memorial notice of Paganini. In it passing reference is made to some deeds of benevolence. Lina Ramann, in her "Life of Liszt," of which the first part was published in 1880, prints this essay, and at the point above mentioned adds a long foot note[39] giving the Janin story, which she averred Liszt knew through Janin himself. That was a safe story to reproduce, though it might have been contradicted by Liszt if he ever saw the book. Now for the Bertin version. The authority quoted for that is always Ferdinand Hiller. In 1868, Hiller published his work "On the Musical Life of our Time," in which he relates some gossiping with Rossini, in 1856. The conversation turned upon Paganini on one occasion, and Hiller asked about the kingly gift to Berlioz. Rossini replied that all Paris knew it, and he must needs believe it, but at bottom he held the thing impossible. Nothing more definite is there recorded. In 1871, Hiller published a new series of similar papers or essays, but of this work I know nothing. Rossini was a raconteur, and fond of saying good things. There is no reason to doubt the good faith of Ferdinand Hiller; he set down what Rossini said, which, after all, was only the expression of a doubt. This reticence was perhaps owing to the fact that Berlioz was still living. But how was Rossini likely to know the facts of the case? He went to Italy in 1836, and returned to Paris about the end of May, 1855; consequently he knew nothing of the alleged gift at the time, and as Armand Bertin died in 1854, Rossini could not have heard the story from him. So far, one would be justified in attaching little credence to Hiller's gossip with Rossini. But there was a sequel. Rossini died in November, 1868, and Berlioz passed away in March, 1869. His Autobiography was published in 1870, with the Paganini incident as it has already been related. To the last, Berlioz believed that the money came from Paganini. In 1880, Hiller published a work entitled "Künstlerleben," in which a chapter was devoted to Berlioz. Again reference is made to the princely gift, incredible from so mean a man as Paganini. "Rossini gave me the key to this enigma," writes Hiller, "and I do not hesitate to communicate the same, as it can no longer be unpleasant to anyone concerned in the matter." He then goes on to say that Paganini consented to be the agent of Armand Bertin, who really found the money. "Are you sure that this was true?" asked Hiller; "I _know_ it," replied Rossini, seriously. Hiller then states his conviction that Rossini's account must be correct.[40] Now was this the outcome of a subsequent conversation with Rossini, or an amplification of the "gossip" at Trouville? Hiller is candid enough to say that some may doubt, and I should confess to being among the doubters if his evidence was the sole support of the story. But in 1896, appeared the evidence of one whose testimony was unimpeachable. The late Sir Charles Hallé went to Paris in 1836, when a youth of seventeen. In 1838, he was introduced to Paganini, was invited to visit him, and often played to him; and, once, nearly heard Paganini play! An extract from Hallé's "Autobiography" will show what he thought of the great violinist: "From my earliest childhood I had heard of Paganini and his art as of something supernatural, and there I actually sat opposite to the man himself, but only looking at the hands that had created such wonders. On one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, after I had played and we had enjoyed a long silence, Paganini rose and approached his violin case. What then passed in me can hardly be imagined; I was all in a tremble, and my heart thumped as if it would burst my chest; in fact, no young swain going to the first rendezvous with his beloved could possible feel more violent emotions. Paganini opened the case, took the violin out, and began to tune it carefully with his fingers without using the bow; my agitation became almost intolerable. When he was satisfied, and I said to myself, with a lump in my throat, 'Now, now, he'll take the bow!' he carefully put the violin back and shut the case. And this is how I heard Paganini." Hallé also became acquainted with Berlioz and acquaintance ripened into a close friendship. He saw the change worked in Berlioz through the Paganini incident; how his courage was strengthened, and from a morose, he became a cheerful companion. Then he divulges what had been a life-secret: "Armand Bertin, the wealthy and distinguished proprietor of the _Journal des Débats_, had a high regard for Berlioz and knew of all his struggles, which he, Bertin, was anxious to lighten. He resolved therefore to make him a present of 20,000 fr., and in order to enhance the moral effect of this gift he persuaded Paganini to appear as the donor of the money. How well Bertin had judged was proved immediately; what would have been a simple _gracieuseté_ from a rich and powerful editor towards one of his staff became a significant tribute from one genius to another, and had a colossal _retentissement_. The secret was well kept and never divulged to Berlioz. It was known, I believe, to but two of Bertin's friends besides myself, one of whom is (Victor) Mottez, the celebrated painter; I learned it about seven years later when I had become an intimate friend of the house, and Madame Armand Bertin had been for years one of my best pupils."[41] This must be accepted as a true statement of the case, but it proves no more than that Paganini became a party to a benevolent conspiracy; he never boasted of the gift, nor claimed any credit for it. Even when Berlioz, relieved of his financial troubles, set to work with a light heart at the composition which was to be worthy of dedication to the illustrious artist to whom he owed so much (his own words), even when he wrote to Paganini about a subject, all the answer he could get was: "I can give you no advice." He chose Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet" as a theme, worked at it for seven months, and produced a masterpiece. Paganini inspired him, but never heard the work "undertaken chiefly to please him." To Paganini the world owes still more. It has been already stated that Paganini's playing when in Paris in 1831 exerted an extraordinary influence over Franz Liszt, and gave the direction to his genius. I use the word "genius" advisedly, believing that Liszt is one of that sacred band to whom the term belongs of right. This is not the place to discuss the position Liszt occupies among composers; nor is this country yet qualified properly to judge him. Wagner, Schumann and Chopin have passed the ordeal; from persecution they have arrived at deification, so to speak, and even their faults are regarded as merits. But prejudice dies hard, and Liszt has yet to suffer. His earnest disciple Walter Bache sacrificed time and means in his Liszt propaganda, but with scant success. My point here is to try and show that Paganini, despite all shortcomings as a man and as an artist, had a mission--whether he knew it or not--and fulfilled it through others. Beethoven's pianoforte playing, and pianoforte compositions, led makers of that instrument to extend its compass; Liszt led the way to a new system for the pianoforte, with effects hitherto undreamt of, and the impulse came from Paganini. No other instance is on record of an instrument like the violin absolutely revolutionising the treatment of the pianoforte. I have already referred to Liszt in Paris, how, depressed and suffering, he withdrew from art and buried himself in solitude. The revolution of 1830 aroused him, but it was Paganini who rekindled the flame of art. Here I must have recourse to Lina Ramann's "Franz Liszt." Liszt went to hear Paganini: "Charmed, stunned, yet seeing clearly at the same time, he could have cried out for sorrow and exultation. This playing! it was the vision of his soul, after which he had sought and grasped and yet could never find or seize. Now here he felt it realised before him. With kindling power it seized his artistic will. Until then Liszt had groped and sought without any conscious aim; following the hidden impulse of his spirit, he had given place to all kinds of whims.... Now, all at once, he was led by Paganini into fixed paths and the lost thread of his development was found again. By Paganini's playing the veil had been torn away which lay between him and his artistic will.... Paganini's playing had fanned the Promethean spark of his genius to a brilliant flame. That for which the poets of the time strove in their literary productions--freedom of form and of subject--he saw here in the domain of reproducing music. With all this the serious defects and onesidedness of the great violinist's capabilities and genius did not escape the youthful pianist. He measured him by the ideals of artistic culture which shone before his own eyes.... He recognised plainly the limits of the influence which Paganini exercised over him, and saw how human was the mission of the artist--a consciousness was awakened that _artistic culture is inseparable from human sympathies, that only a great man can become a great artist_. This conviction drew from his lips the proud but noble words 'Génie oblige.'[42] With indescribable eagerness, and at the same time with exulting triumph, Liszt, after having heard Paganini, turned again to his instrument. He was seldom seen; in public, as a pianist, never. His mother alone was the silent witness of his perseverance and restless working. As Wieland, he hammered at his piano. He, who, already as a boy, had climbed the Parnassus of study, now sat at the instrument often six hours a day and practised; yes, he exercised the language of his spirit, and created for it an organ of expression." The author then goes on to describe the new ideas that came to Liszt when studying the Twenty-four Capricii of Paganini, and how he discovered new combinations, and also that the hand of the pianist had yet much to learn. "With this perception a bridge was built to new technical triumphs in the art of pianoforte playing.... On the one hand he increased the beauty and breadth of sound of this instrument in a marvellous degree, while on the other, he gave at the same time a fatal blow to the modern pianoforte music of his day. This was the new discovery which Liszt made through Paganini, and on the foundation of which he has created an extension of the arena of sound.... Thus Paganini's capriccios gave Liszt the first impulse towards the modern system for the pianoforte, and at the same time prompted him to enter on the territory till then unknown of transferring effects."[43] What the influence of Liszt has been, is beyond the present purpose to inquire. But, blot out Paganini and every note he has written, and he reappears in the art work of at least one great French composer, and in that of the greatest pianist the world has yet seen--one to whom the high compliment has been paid in the epithet--"The Paganini of the Pianoforte." FOOTNOTES: [37] Little is now known of this artist. He married Veronica, sister of the pianist and composer J. L. Dussek, and was the father of Pio Cianchettini, composer, who died at Cheltenham in 1851. [38] Berlioz was then thirty-five, Paganini, fifty-six years of age. [39] Aus dem Tonleben unserer Zeit, Vol. II., p. 55. [40] Künstlerleben, p. 88. [41] Life and Letters of Sir Charles Hallé, p. 69. [42] The last words of Liszt's article "Sur Paganini, A Propos de Sa Mort," published in the "Revue et Gazette Musicale de Paris," December 23, 1840. [43] Franz Liszt, Artist and Man, Vol. I., pp. 258-65. CHAPTER X. Is it worth while at this distance of time to refer to the actual playing of Paganini? Can one recall "the touch of a vanished hand?" This memoir would not be complete without some account of Paganini's art beyond that given in the story of his life. Here I do not venture to write as a violin expert, and I shall only quote from Guhr's "On Paganini's Art of Playing the Violin"--which is presumably still accessible to students--in so far as it may be serviceable to the general reader. Leaving æsthetic, and higher considerations generally, out of count for the moment and limiting our attention to matters technical, we find much that was absolutely new. As regards mere extravagance and eccentricity of execution, Paganini was surpassed by Locatelli. We have to take into consideration the concert-pitch in use at the time of Paganini's public career. That, I take it, corresponded very closely with the Diapason normal now coming into general use. Paganini employed thin strings, and, for purposes to be named presently, often tuned his violin a semitone higher than the pitch of the band which accompanied him--equivalent to the English pitch, or high pitch still in use in some places. These thin strings served another purpose--the easy production of harmonics. If there was one thing more novel than any other in Paganini's playing it was the introduction of harmonics, melodies, double notes, and double shakes in harmonics. The natural harmonics were of course known to all violinists, but the artificial harmonics, if not the invention of Paganini, were first employed by him as integral features of his compositions as well as of his performances. Then there was his particular kind of _staccato_, produced by throwing his bow forcibly on the string, "letting it spring while he runs through the scales with incredible rapidity, the tones rolling like pearls" (Guhr). The Rev. Dr. Fox said the bow seemed to act with the elasticity of a spring fixed at one end, and made to vibrate. The combination of bowing, with _pizzicato_ by the left hand, if not new, was employed by Paganini to a degree never attempted before. Lastly, there was his wonderful performance on the fourth string, which he tuned up to B flat, and sometimes even a semitone higher. Much of his use of these devices is put down as clap-trap, yet since his day many violinists have employed the same means, if they have not achieved the same result. [Illustration: PLATE 18. (_See Appendix._)] [Illustration: PLATE 19. (_See Appendix._)] [Illustration: PLATE 20. (_See Appendix._)] [Illustration: PLATE 21. (_See Appendix._)] [Illustration: PLATE 22. (_See Appendix._)] Let us consider, for a moment, the performances on the G string. It is certain that Paganini was not the originator of that manner of playing, for Leopold Mozart wrote of Esser[44] as playing on the G string alone with the greatest ease. Compositions for a single string were also written before Paganini's day, for Friedrich Wilhelm Rust (1739-1796) composed a violin sonata for the E string. But Paganini made such a feature of this species of performance because it pleased the public, and, in giving the audiences that which they preferred rather than that which his artistic conscience should have prompted, he became the pupil of his age, and fell from his high estate. On the other hand, he may be said to have discovered the powers of the fourth string, to which, by the employment of harmonics, he gave a compass of three octaves. He was censured for his partiality in this direction, but in these days every violinist plays a solo on the G string. Is not Bach's "Aria" played everywhere as a fourth string solo? Yet, as musicians know, it was not written for that string, nor as a solo, forming, as it does, the theme of the slow movement of the "Overture in D," for strings, two oboes, three trumpets, and drums. Moreover, in Mozart's Violin Concerto in E flat, No. 6, composed in 1766, there is in the slow movement, an eight-bar period for the G string, and also one of the same length in the Finale. In Beethoven's Violin Concerto the principal theme of the Rondo is assigned to the G string, and also when it recurs after the second subject. This work was composed in 1806, a short time after Paganini wrote his "Napoleon Sonata," but was heard in public years before Paganini's was so performed. These two compositions are mentioned merely to show that the charm of the fourth string was not unknown in early days; to refer to later works would be superfluous. Now, as to Paganini's tuning his instrument a semitone higher than the ordinary pitch. It will be conceded that the different keys have distinctive qualities, to which some musicians are more sensitive than others. Some term it key-colour: I prefer the expression key-character. On the violin some keys are more sonorous than others. The effect may be partly mental, and I believe--though I may be wrong--that a violinist plays with a different feeling in the key of E, to that which would be excited by the key of E flat, and this apart from the æsthetic import of the composition itself.[45] In many concertos the chorus violins--if I may so call them--sometimes play the same notes with the soloist, and so absorb the tone of the latter that the listener can only hear the mass of violin tone. It is on record that Paganini was never overpowered by the _tutti_ in any of the pieces he played, though some writers say his tone was not remarkable for volume. The explanation may be found in what follows. Paganini had an almost morbidly keen musical organisation, an acute sense of hearing, in which he resembled Mozart and Berlioz. Paganini wrote the solo part of his first concerto in D (tuning his violin a semitone higher), and the orchestral parts in E flat. Why? Not because D was an easier key to play in, nor because some passages if viewed as in E flat were marvels of execution; but because he felt the difference in the "power" of the two keys. Mozart's Concertante for violin and viola, with orchestra, is in E flat, but the viola part is in D, and the instrument was to be tuned a semitone higher. This was done "both to give it a clear sound and to make the execution easier."[46] Mozart's piece was probably written in 1780, so here is one of the expedients ascribed to Paganini as a trick made use of by a great master before the famous violinist was born. Berlioz never heard Paganini play, but he was the first among his contemporaries to understand and appreciate Paganini's intention in this respect. In his _Soirées de l'Orchestre_ he wrote: "He (Paganini) has known how to render distinct and dominating the tones of a solo violin by tuning its four strings a semitone above those of the orchestra; which enabled him to play in the brilliant keys of D and A, while the orchestra accompanied him in the less sonorous keys of E flat and B flat." Berlioz knew, if any one did, what was the distinctive character of a key. It is highly improbable that either he or Paganini ever heard, or even knew anything of Mozart's "Concertante" just mentioned. So much by way of clearing Paganini from the charge of charlatanry. Artistic faults and failings he had, and these no attempt has been made to conceal; but every succeeding generation of violinists has been deeply indebted to the great Genoese for opening up new possibilities, by the way in which he advanced the character and power of the violin. Leaving now the technical side of his art, let us hear what his great contemporaries have to say of his playing from the æsthetic standpoint. We need not refer again to Lafont and Lipinski, but will begin with Spohr. It has been mentioned that Spohr met Paganini at Venice, in 1816. Spohr wished to hear the great Italian play something, but the latter declined. He afterwards explained to Spohr that his style of playing was calculated for the great public only; and that if he were to play to Spohr he must play in a different manner, for which he was not then inclined. So it was not until 1830 that Spohr heard Paganini at Cassel. This is what he wrote: "In June, 1830, Paganini came to Cassel and gave two concerts in the theatre, which I heard with great interest. His left hand, and his constantly pure intonation were to me astonishing. But in his compositions and his execution, I found a strange mixture of the highly genial and childishly tasteless, by which one felt alternately charmed and disappointed, so that the impression left as a whole was, after frequent hearing, by no means satisfactory to me." Paganini was playing to his "great public," and in that respect lost Spohr's esteem; but can a great violinist, of strong personality, be perfectly just to a contemporary of a different temperament? Schumann, as a composer, could look upon Paganini from a different point of view. This is what he says: "When I heard him for the first time, I expected him to begin with a tone such as had never been heard before. But with how small, how thin a tone he commenced! Then he began to weave his spells; invisibly he threw out his magnetic chains among the public; they oscillated above and around. And then the rings became more and more intricate; even the audience seemed to contract, while he interlaced his tones until they seemed melted into one--one with the master himself, all counterbalancing each other with sympathetic influence." This is not criticism; it is scarcely description: it is as fanciful as Heinrich Heine's description, but it is a proof of the great violinist's power to touch the imagination. Ignaz Moscheles, a virtuoso pianist, complains of his utter inability to find language capable of conveying a description of Paganini's wonderful performance. "Had that long-drawn, soul-searching tone lost for a single second its balance, it would have lapsed into a discordant cat's-mew; but it never did so, and Paganini's tone was always his own, and unique of its kind. The thin strings of his instrument--on which alone it was possible to conjure forth those myriads of notes and thrills and cadenzas would have been fatal in the hands of any other violin player, but with him they were indispensable adjuncts." Again: "Nothing could exceed my surprise and admiration; his constant and venturesome flights, his newly discovered source of flageolet tones, his gift of fusing and beautifying subjects of the most heterogeneous kind; all these phases of genius so completely bewildered my musical perceptions, that for several days afterwards my head seemed on fire and my brain reeled. I never wearied of the intense expression, soft and melting like that of an Italian singer, which he could draw from his violin." Yet, later, Moscheles had to say: "I find both his style and manner of playing monotonous." Liszt, many years later said: "No one who has not heard him can form the least idea of his playing." Paganini indeed could soar to the Empyrean, but he had not the Peri's pure gift which would open the gate of Paradise! [Illustration: PLATE 23. (_See Appendix._)] François Joseph Fétis, who befriended Paganini when first he visited Paris, certainly held no brief for the celebrated artist, but rather presided over him as judge. He stated that the art of Paganini was an art apart, which was born with him, and of which he carried the secret to the grave. He further stated that Paganini often assured him that his talent was the result of a secret discovered by himself, a secret he intended to reveal, before his death, in a method for the violin, which should have but few pages, but which should throw all violinists into confusion. Fétis questions the existence of the secret, and thinks the great artist was labouring under a delusion. Yet he has to acknowledge that there was something extraordinary and mysterious in the power that Paganini possessed in the execution of unheard of difficulties in an infallible manner. His intonation was always perfect.[47] William Gardiner, the Leicester amateur, who became acquainted with Paganini, wrote: "There was no trick in his playing; it was all fair, scientific execution, opening to us a new order of sounds, the highest of which ascended two octaves above C in alt." An Italian physician, Francesco Bennati,[48] made a physiological study of Paganini, accounting for his wonderful executive powers as due not so much to his musical genius as to his peculiar physical formation. In particular, the flexibility of his wrist, and the great lateral extension of his finger joints, enabled him to execute passages impossible to others. But there must have been something beyond technique. I have heard many persons, professional and amateur, speak of his playing as something beyond conception, not only in regard to execution, but in the power of swaying an audience, playing upon their emotions; the whole man was an instrument. No other artist was so widely quoted by his contemporaries. Mendelssohn, Chopin, and others make reference to Paganini whenever anything wonderful is spoken of. Chopin was a great admirer of Slavik, and considered him only second to Paganini. Every volume of reminiscences down to the present day includes the name of Paganini, if only to relate that somebody once heard him play. But not only musicians, poets also sang his praises. Is there anything more beautiful than the tribute paid him by Leigh Hunt? A few lines may be quoted: So played of late to every passing thought With finest change (might I but half as well So write!) the pale magician of the bow, Who brought from Italy the tales made true, Of Grecian lyres, and on his sphery hand, Loading the air with dumb expectancy, Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath. He smote--and clinging to the serious chords With godlike ravishment, drew forth a breath, So deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love, Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers, That Juno yearn'd with no diviner soul To the first burthen of the lips of Jove. The exceeding mystery of the loveliness Sadden'd delight; and with his mournful look, Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face 'Twixt his dark and flowing locks, he almost seem'd, To feeble or to melancholy eyes, One that had parted with his soul for pride, And in the sable secret liv'd forlorn. But true and earnest, all too happily That skill dwelt in him, serious with its joy; For noble now he smote the exulting strings, And bade them march before his stately will; And now he lov'd them like a cheek, and laid Endearment on them, and took pity sweet; And now he was all mirth, or all for sense And reason, carving out his thoughts like prose After his poetry; or else he laid His own soul prostrate at the feet of love, And with a full and trembling fervour deep, In kneeling and close-creeping urgency, Implored some mistress with hot tears; which past, And after patience had brought right of peace, He drew as if from thoughts finer than hope Comfort around him in ear-soothing strains And elegant composure; or he turn'd To heaven instead of earth, and raise a prayer So earnest-vehement, yet so lowly sad, Mighty with want and all poor human tears, That never saint, wrestling with earthly love, And in mid-age unable to get free, Tore down from heaven such pity. It was urged against Paganini as a fault, that he rarely played any other music than his own. Paganini was one of the latter-day examples of the virtuoso and the composer represented by one and the same person. From the days of Handel to the time of Beethoven, the composer was his own interpreter, and never gave concerts with compositions by others. But Paganini did at times play concertos by Rode and Kreutzer, though it was said that in these he was less successful than in his own. The Rev. Dr. Cox heard Paganini play the first movement of Beethoven's Concerto--in fact it was performed for his special edification. This is what he said of it: "Never shall I forget the smile on that sad, pale, wan, and haggard face, upon every lineament of which intense pain was written in the deepest lines, when I caught his eye, or the playing, into which a spirit and sympathy were thrown that carried one wholly away. As soon as he had concluded, and before I could rush up to him to express my thanks, he glided away. I never saw him afterwards." It was also stated that Paganini failed as a quartet player. His strong individuality might have been an obstacle in the way of securing the perfect unanimity of feeling and expression that characterise fine quartet playing; but to imply that he could not perform the music was absurd. As an executant, pure and simple, Paganini never had, and possibly never may have, a compeer. But the question remains: did Paganini's playing result in any permanent benefit to the art? Had he a permanent influence, and if so, was it for good? To take a material aspect, it was owing to Paganini that the fame of Joseph Guarnerius was published beyond Italy. "The names of Amati and Stradivarius became familiar to the musical world gradually, but Guarnerius, in the hands of a Paganini, came forth at a bound. This illustrious violin was often credited with the charm which belonged to the performer; the magical effects and sublime strains that he drew forth from it, must, it was thought, rest in the violin. Every would-be violinist, whose means permitted him to indulge in the luxury, endeavoured to secure an instrument by the great Guarnerius. The demand thus raised brought forth those gems of the violin maker's art now in the possession of wealthy amateurs and a few professors. When the various works of the gifted Guarnerius were brought to light, much surprise was felt that such treasures should have been known only to a handful of obscure players, chiefly in the churches of Italy."[49] [Illustration: _Plate XXIV.--See Appendix._ A SEMI-CARICATURE OF PAGANINI, 1831.] It has been shown that Paganini's performances caused a revolution in the style of composition and execution in pianoforte music, as exemplified in the works of Liszt. But did violin playing benefit? As Paganini belonged to no school, so he founded no school. He had his imitators, but he had few pupils, and no absolute successor. Camillo Sivori is generally put forth as his only pupil. I have heard that great artist, but--I say it with diffidence--I could never consider him the equal of what I imagined Paganini to have been. According to William Gardiner, Paganini was accompanied by Antonio Oury when he first went to London. It was Oury who introduced Gardiner to Paganini, and the former stated that Oury was Paganini's favourite pupil.[50] Then the Chevalier Robbio, who appeared at Jullien's concerts at Drury Lane Theatre in 1854, claimed to have been a pupil of Paganini. Acknowledged pupils were Teresa Ottavio, who was playing in Vienna, in 1835, and Mlle. Neumann, who gave concerts in Venice and elsewhere, in 1838. But all these were of small account. The question remains. Did Paganini influence the art of violin playing, and in what direction? Let a very recent writer contribute an answer. "We would not miss this greatest of fiddlers in the annals of violin playing--no, not for a Spohr or any other great modern violin master; but his influence can hardly be called beneficial. It forced violin playing into a Procrustean bed unsuited to its true nature and mission. Paganini had temporarily transformed the angel into a devil, and the angel did not escape unscathed--Lucifer burned his wings. Violin-playing will never be quite what it was before Paganini. He helped to hurry the growing old process--brought out the lines, the spots, and the wrinkles on the once fair face. He, before all others, established the iron rule of technique, with its train of other evils, in the place of the gentler reign of charming naiveté of the elder master."[51] There is truth here, and cause for sadness; but can the hand of time be turned back, and music regain the artless joy of the seventeenth century, when technique was unknown? Paganini, after all, was only one of the forces that effected the revolution that produced the music of the last half of the nineteenth century. It is not too much to say that the technique of the modern orchestra, in regard to the string section, is due to Paganini. Compare the scores of the classical composers with those of the most modern writers, and see what an enormous difference there is in the work for the strings--from the violins to the double-basses. The orchestral player of to-day is a virtuoso. For good or evil, music has entered upon a phase that has raised executive skill to a pinnacle never attained before: and this it owes to Paganini: may it be the prelude to higher achievements in the spiritual domain of art! FOOTNOTES: [44] Karl Michael Esser, born about 1736, date of death unknown. [45] In the Tonic Sol-fa method great stress is laid upon the mental effect of each note of the scale, altogether apart from pitch. [46] Life of Mozart, Otto Jhan, English Edition, I., 319. [47] In 1883, several musical papers stated that a certain amateur collector of violins, during a tour in Italy, visited the little Sardinian village, Ameglia, and purchased a collection of instruments used by Paganini, which were at that time in the possession of the widow of L. M. Germi, the intimate friend of Paganini. The said amateur also became possessed of "the secret," but what he did with it has never transpired. [48] Born at Mantua, 1798; died at Paris, 1834. [49] "The Violin," by George Hart. Popular Edition, 1880, p. 202. [50] It is strange that the Biographical Dictionaries are silent concerning Oury, who must have been a man of some note. He is merely named as the husband of Anna Caroline de Belleville, the once famous pianist (1806-1880), who made her début in London at a Paganini concert in 1831. [51] The Story of the Violin by Paul Stoeving, p. 208. CHAPTER XI. There remains the consideration of Paganini as a composer. It is a truism to say that a composition has primarily to be judged from the standpoint of the age in which it was written. A Genius, we are told, is not only before his own age, but before all ages. All the same, the great Geniuses come into the world precisely at the right moment. To some music one may fitly apply the epithet "Immortal"; for it seems to be written, "not for an age, but for all time." That title is not claimed for the music of Paganini, but, in view of what has been written for the violin, it is necessary to take into consideration the date of Paganini's compositions. Take the two greatest surviving forms--the symphony and the concerto--and compare works in those forms, belonging to different periods. Mendelssohn and Schumann were innovators, so it was said, in regard to symphonic form. Both wrote symphonies of which the movements were connected, and Schumann by the recurrence of themes anticipated the "organic whole" of the symphonic poem. But in 1776, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach composed symphonies in the modern one-movement style. This is not the time to discuss them, but just taking the first, in D, I may point to the coda of the opening movement, which effects a modulation to E flat, the key of the slow movement. In this the subject enters, for the second time, in B flat; and a deceptive cadence is followed by a passage ending on the dominant of D, and so returning to the primary key for the last movement. The score is for flutes, oboes, one bassoon, horns, first and second violins, viola, violoncello, violone, and cembalo. Now, here is a work quite modern in its disregard of key relationship, and in the linking together of the different movements. Yet it would not be right to judge it by comparison with the symphonies of the last half century. With regard to the concerto, take that form for the violin only. To go no further back than the works of the great Leipzig Cantor, Johann Sebastian Bach, we find his two concertos, in A minor, and E major, are scored only for strings, though the "continuo" implies the harpsichord. The concerto in D minor for two violins is scored in the same manner; and in all there is evidence that the soloist took part in the _tutti_ sections. Then there is the Symphony movement, from an unknown church cantata, for violin concertante, with accompaniment of two oboes, three trumpets, drums, two violins, viola and continuo. In all these the basic principle is the contrasting of the _tutti_ and _solo_ sections, which sustain a kind of dialogue. Much the same form is observed in Mozart's violin concertos, which, with one exception, are scored for oboes, horns and strings. The exception is the sixth, in E flat, which is scored for one flute, two oboes, bassoons, and horns. In this the form approaches that of the sonata, though the _tutti_ and _solo_ contrasts still remain, and evidently the soloist played in the _tutti_ sections. To Viotti, born in 1753, three years before Mozart, must be assigned the honour of giving the violin concerto its fullest classical form. His orchestral background was rich in colour, he having adopted the complete Haydn Combination; and his solo parts were of prime importance. Beethoven's concerto (1806), and Mendelssohn's (finished in 1844), employ the same orchestra. Beethoven links the slow movement to the Finale, and Mendelssohn connects the whole. The latest concerto form is in part a reversion to the earliest type. The solo part is but a more elaborate line in the orchestral column, and the soloist is scarcely distinguishable from his orchestral colleagues. In view of the question I wish to raise, I hope the reader will pardon this digression. Paganini sometimes played pieces by Kreutzer and Rode, but I have not been able to find evidence of his acquaintance with the concertos of Viotti. The reason may not be far to seek. Paganini remained in Italy until 1828; Viotti, born in Italy, left his country, and only once returned to it--in 1783, and that for a very short time. His long residence in Paris led to his being identified with the French School of violinists. His works were played by other performers during his life-time, but it is questionable whether they were known to Paganini. What I want to ask is simply this:--upon what work, or whose work, was Paganini's first concerto modelled? It was written in 1811, according to the _Musical World_ (Vol. for 1851, p. 822), or in 1820 according to the "Oxford History of Music" (Vol. VI., p. 225). The form of the work will be dealt with later; here the question is one of instrumentation. Berlioz wrote: "It was said of Weber, 'He is a meteor!' With equal justice it may be said of Paganini, 'He is a comet!'" I would paraphrase Berlioz and say Paganini's First Concerto came upon the world as a comet--a comet with a most portentous tail! Paganini was the Richard Strauss of his day. Fancy, in the scoring of a concerto, trombones, double-bassoon, cymbals, and bass-drum! and that in the year 1811, possibly. Why, it only requires a few more horns and trumpets, some tubas, a rattle and other percussion instruments, to come up to the latest twentieth century scoring. But a truce to badinage. A big score, of itself, is not necessarily a thing to be praised; however, Paganini's full scoring never obscured the solo part, and that is more than can be said of some violin concertos of later date. I do not pretend to a knowledge of the whole of the literature for the violin, but I have heard much of it; yet I can recall no violin concerto going beyond the orchestral resources adopted by Beethoven in his work, of earlier date than Paganini's first concerto. I have further to confess that I have never seen an original score of any of Paganini's works, but I have written out a score from what I believe to be authentic band parts. I have heard the First Concerto, "reduced to one act," with the exordium cut out; and however much such a rendering may be in accordance with modern taste, I can only regard it as unjust to the composer. In the present day Paganini's music is looked upon with pity not far removed from scorn; how did his contemporaries esteem it? Rossini is reported to have said: "Truly, it is fortunate that Paganini did not devote himself exclusively to lyric composition; he would have become a very dangerous rival."[52] Moscheles wrote: "His concertos are beautiful, and have even their grand moments; but they remind me of a brilliant firework on a summer's eve, one flash succeeding the other--effective, admirable--but always the same. His 'Sonate Militaire,' and other pieces, have a southern glow about them, but this hero of the violin cannot dispense with the roll of the drum; and completely as he may annihilate his less showy colleagues, I long for a little of Spohr's earnestness, Baillot's power, and even Mayseder's piquancy." Very little was said of Paganini's compositions--I mean by way of description, orchestration, or even criticism--when the composer was in England. The writers seemed always engrossed and absorbed by the performance and personality of the man. Schumann repeats what was said of Paganini; that he, himself, rated his merit as a composer more highly than his talent as a _virtuoso_. We know that Rubinstein desired to have his name handed down to posterity as a composer rather than as a pianist. The fates have been unkind to both. To return to Schumann. He remarks that "if general opinion has not, until now, agreed with him (Paganini), it must at least be allowed that his compositions contain many pure and precious qualities, worthy of being firmly fixed in the richer setting required by the pianoforte." This of course referred to the caprices, Op. 1, but the observation is a curious illustration of the way in which individual minds regard things from their own standpoint. Paganini's music appealed to Liszt as a means of creating a new school of pianoforte technique, as well as composition; very little can be gleaned from Liszt as to his æsthetic views regarding it. Fétis says great worth is revealed in the compositions of Paganini, as much by the novelty of the ideas as by the elegance of the form, the richness of the harmony, and the effects of the instrumentation. These qualities shine above all in the concertos; but, he adds, these works require the magic of his talent to produce the effect he intended. Berlioz was, perhaps, the most appreciative of Paganini's contemporaries. In his _Soirées de l'Orchestre_ he says: "A volume might be written in telling all that Paganini has created in his works of novel effect, ingenious contrivances, noble and grandiose forms, and orchestral combinations unknown before his time. His melodies are broad Italian melodies, but full of a passionate ardour seldom found in the best pages of dramatic composers of his country. His harmonics are always clear, simple, and of extraordinary sonorousness. His orchestration is brilliant and energetic, without being noisy. He often introduces the bass drum into his _tutti_ with unusual intelligence." During Paganini's lifetime no one else seems to have played his music, although one of his imitators is said to have reproduced some pieces from memory. After Paganini's death, the propagandist of his works was his nephew and pupil, Ernesto Camillo Sivori. He made his début at the Leipzig Gewandhaus Concerts, October 3, 1841, and a week later introduced there Paganini's Variations on the Prayer from _Mosé in Egitto_. In all, some dozen pieces by Paganini were given at those famous concerts from 1841 to 1876. Sivori also introduced Paganini to the then very conservative concerts of the Philharmonic Society, London, in 1844. But they did strange things in those days. The first movement of the Concerto in B minor was included in the first part of the concert on April 29, 1844; the Adagio and Rondo coming in the middle of the second part! Poor Sivori had to submit to similar treatment of his own concerto at the Society's concerts in 1845. It would be interesting to know how Paganini's music fared at the concerts of the Paris Conservatoire, but I have not been able to procure any reliable data relating to the subject. Rumour was long busy with the project entertained by Paganini's son, the Baron Achilles, of publishing a complete edition of the compositions of the great violinist; and in 1887 a paragraph in the _Athenæum_ announced on apparently good authority that the Baron was preparing for immediate publication the whole of the works of his father which still remained in manuscript. Several of those were named, but nothing more has been heard of the undertaking. I have scrutinised the musical press from that date to the present time, and have failed to gather any further information on the subject. From every available source I have compiled the following list of Paganini's compositions:-- Op. 1. Twenty-four Capriccios, for violin alone. Op. 2. Six Sonatas, for violin and guitar. Op. 3. Six Sonatas, for violin and guitar. Op. 4. Three Grand Quartets, for violin, viola, violoncello and guitar. Op. 5. Three Grand Quartets, for the same. Op. 6. Concerto, No. 1, in E flat (D), for violin and orchestra. Op. 7. Concerto, No. 2, in B minor, for the same. Op. 8. "Le Streghe." Introduction and Variations. Op. 9. "God Save the King." Variations. Op. 10. "Carnaval de Venise." Variations. Op. 11. "Allegro de Concert." "Moto Perpetuo." Op. 12. "Non più mesta." Introduction and Variations. Op. 13. "Di tanti palpiti." Introduction and Variations. _All for violin and orchestra._ Op. 14. Sixty Studies in Variation form, on the Air "Barucaba," for violin alone. _Works without Opus number._ Sonata in A, for violin, with accompaniment of violin and violoncello. Bravura Variations on a theme from Rossini's "Moses in Egypt," for violin and string quartet, or pianoforte. Bravura Variations on an Original Theme, for violin and guitar, or pianoforte. Introduction and Variations on the Theme, "Nel cor più non mi sento," for violin alone. Duo in C major, for one violin. Solo. Recitative and Variations, on Three Airs, for the fourth string. "Le Charme de Padua," Divertissement, for violin and pianoforte. _Works that are unpublished, or that have been lost._ Concertos in D minor, E minor, E major. Concerto in two movements. Violin and orchestra. Four Concertos, the scoring unfinished. Concerto, for bassoon, with string trio accompaniment. Nine Quartets, for violin, viola, violoncello and guitar. Fantasia. Violin and orchestra. Dramatic Sonata, "The Storm," for the same. Military Sonata on Mozart's "Non più andrai." Napoleon Sonata for the fourth string. Sonata on a Theme by Haydn. Ditto. Sonata di un Canto Appassionata, e variazioni sopra un Tema Marziale. Ditto. Sonata with variations on a Theme from Jos. Weigl's "L'Amor Marinaro." Sonata Amorosa Galante, e Tema con variazioni. Sonata for viola and orchestra. Sonata Sentimentale. Sonata, "Varsovie." Sonata for violin alone. Preludio e Rondo brilliant, violin and orchestra. Chant of the Monks of the Monastery of St. Bernard. "La Primavera," Sonata for violin alone. Preludio e Fandango, con Variazioni. "La ci darem la Mano," Variations. Cantabile, violin and pianoforte. Polonaise avec variations. Cantabile e Valse. Cantabile, for two strings. Three duos, violin and violoncello. Duets and small pieces for guitar. Variations sur un thème comique. "The Vagaries of a Farm Yard." Romance pour le Chant. Fantasie Vocale. WORKS WITH OPUS NUMBER. Op. 1. The full title reads:--_Ventiquattro Caprici per Violino solo, dedicati agli artisti; Opera prima._ It is not necessary to refer to these pieces in detail; they are in the repertory of the leading violinists, and have been played by Joachim and many others. They embrace almost every kind of violin technique, and have merits apart from that standpoint. Schumann in his _Etudés d'apres les Caprices de Paganini_, Op. 3, has transcribed for the pianoforte six numbers. They are, No. 5, Agitato, in A minor, without the alteration of a single note; No. 9, Allegretto in E, quite as closely; the Andante of No. 11, in C; No. 13, Allegro, in B flat, beautifully harmonized; No. 19, Lento, Allegro assai, in E flat, more freely treated; and No. 16, Presto, in G minor, the melody assigned to the left hand, and written two octaves lower. These studies were the result of Schumann's hearing Paganini at Frankfort in 1830. The impression the great violinist made on the susceptible youth was so deep, that Wasielewski stated that it was more than probable Schumann's decision to devote himself to music dated from that experience. So here is another debt the musical world owes to Paganini. Schumann's Op. 3 bears the date of 1832. The next year he returned to the Italian master, and his Six Studies, Op. 10, are further transcriptions of the Capriccios. The first is a very free arrangement of No. 12, Allegro molto, in A flat; next is a paraphrase of No. 6, Adagio, in G minor, in which different figuration was absolutely necessary for the keyboard instrument. In No. 10, Vivace, in G minor, he divides the melody for the two hands, and accompanies with bold harmonies. The transcription of No. 4, Maestoso, in C, is almost literal, but there are "cuts," as also in No. 12. No. 2, Moderato, in B minor, with its "leaps and bounds," is altered to bring the intervals more within reach of the hand. The bare octaves which form the opening of No. 3, have been filled in with rich harmonies, and to the Presto movement a counterpoint in semiquavers has been added, making it a very attractive piece of the Tocatta order. It will be remembered that one short movement of Schumann's "Carnival" is entitled Paganini, but it is a reflexion of his style rather than an adaptation of his music. Liszt has borrowed much, in regard to form and melodic outline, from the Capriccios, in his _Etudés d'exécution transcendante_. Of his _Grandes Etudes de Paganini_ notice will be taken later. Brahms has written two sets of variations on the theme of the Capriccio, No. 24, Quasi presto, in A minor. These are extraordinarily difficult and brilliant. They were published in 1866, and Carl Tausig was fond of playing them. Paganini's Op. 1, was published by Ricordi about the year 1820. Op. 2, and Op. 3. The house of Ricordi publish the Twelve Sonatas for violin and guitar, and Breitkopf and Härtel publish an edition for violin and pianoforte, edited by Ferdinand David. There is no clue as to the arranger of the pianoforte part, but it may be the work of Moscheles, who, it will be remembered, was induced "to make a pianoforte accompaniment for twelve small violin pieces," but who refused to have his name affixed to the title-page. Anyway, the pianoforte accompaniment is the work of a good musician. The title page of Op. 2 runs thus: _Sei Sonate per Violino e chitarra, Composte e Dedicate Al Signor Dellepiane, Da Nicolo Paganini_. The pieces are sonatas in the primitive sense of the term. Each contains two movements only. No. 1, Minuetto, Adagio in A, three-four, the violin part in the nature of a florid _cadenza_ but very clear in rhythm, the guitar accompaniment in semiquaver groups of broken chords. Second movement, Polonese, Quasi allegro, A major, three-four, tuneful, all derived from a short motive, not difficult. No. 2, Larghetto expressivo, C major, six-eight, lyrical, melody highly embellished after the first phrase, varied bowing. Allegro spiritoso, same key and measure, in the style of a _Canto popolare_. No. 3, Adagio maestoso, D minor, two-four, principal motive of a dramatic kind, with brilliant passages intervening. Andantino gallantement, a crisp, staccato melody, with middle section in D major. No. 4, Andante calcando, A major, four-two, theme, in sixths, thirds and octaves. The movement is entitled _La Sinagoga_, but I can trace no Jewish melody corresponding to its subject. The second movement, Andantino con brio, in two-four measure is as bright and sparkling as the corresponding movement in No. 3. No. 5, Andante moderato, D major, two-four, two strains of eight bars, with a lyrical theme. The second movement in six-eight rhythm, is another specimen of the Italian _Cantilena_. No. 6, Largo, A minor, six-eight, a combination of recitative and Cadenza passages. Tempo di Valse, in three-eight measure, a tripping, fluent theme, for light bowing. The music altogether is light and pleasing, abounding in showy passages, and with the real Italian gift of melody. The accompaniments are in no way difficult. The Six Sonatas, Op. 3, have rather a curious dedication: _Alla Ragazza Eleonora_. "Ragazza" is a familiar term for a girl, and may be translated as "lass," or even "wench." The Eleonora it may be impossible now to identify, though the lady possibly was connected with the period of Paganini's disappearance when Napoleon invaded Italy. Sonata, No. 1, is in two movements, as are all the others. The first, Larghetto, A major, six-eight measure, has a theme resembling a popular melody, the close of each strain being highly embellished. Ricordi's edition gives an alternative reading of the penultimate bar, in the style of a cadenza. The second movement, Presto variato, in two-four rhythm, has a dance-like theme, with one variation. The two bars preceding the final cadence have semiquaver groups to be played pizzicato, each note with right and left hand alternately. No. 2, Adagio, con dolcezza, G major, three-eight, theme, pure Italian cantilena, in thirds or sixths throughout. Andantino scherzoso, two-four, crisp, tripping melody, chiefly for staccato bowing, ending with arpeggios extending to four octaves. No. 3, Andante sostenuto, D major, two-four, theme for six bars to be played on the second string. Rondo, Molto allegro, six-eight, bright and spirited; the opening might have been inspired by the Irish air "Garyone"--the lilt is so much the same. The movement ends with a rapid descending chromatic scale of three octaves. No. 4, Andante largo, A minor, two-two, the opening bars of the theme for the third string, declamatory, sad. Allegretto mottegiando, two-four, light, tripping melody, to be delivered in a spirit of banter. No. 5, Adagio amorosa, A major, two-four, theme, Italian melody embellished, in thirds throughout, with some semi-staccato bowing. Allegretto energicamente, two-four, a merry, quick-step movement of two eight-bar periods. The second part, in the tonic minor, has the theme divided equally for guitar and violin, in each strain. A coda of four bars, major, is added by way of close. In the arrangement for pianoforte, the violin has the theme throughout. No. 6, Andante innocentemente, E minor, four-four, a pathetic melody, simple, but touching. Allegro vivo e spiritoso, six-eight. One could imagine an Italian peasant singing this melody; it has all the characteristics of a folk-song. It is written throughout in double-notes, mostly thirds. The second part, in the minor, is in a different manner to the first part, which is repeated after it. The guitar accompaniments, with the exception named, are all in chords or arpeggios. The pianoforte part has more variety. It may be observed that the movements in two-four measure have much of the spirit of Haydn's Allegros. Op. 4, Three Quartets for violin, viola, violoncello and guitar. These were once in the Circulating Music Libraries of the firms of Novello and Augener, but are no longer to be met with. I have failed to obtain copies elsewhere. Op. 5, _Tre Quartetti a Violino, Viola, Chitarra e Violoncello. Composti e Dedicati Alle Amatrici Da Nicolò Paganini. Milano. Presso Gio. Ricordi._ By the courtesy of the firm of Novello, I have been enabled to examine this set, the title page of which I quote. The copy I examined is evidently of the original edition. Each quartet is in four movements. No. 1, Presto, D major, sixteen-eight, a peculiar signature, but apparently adopted by reason of the "figures" in quavers. This movement is very much in Rossini Overture form. Andante sotto voce e staccato, D minor, three-four, Canone a tre. The violin begins, the viola answers one bar later, an octave lower, and the violoncello follows in like manner. The guitar is silent. The Canon is kept up strictly to the end. The Trio--not in Canon--is in B flat major, and the guitar supports the strings with full chords. Tema con variazioni, Cantabile quasi Larghetto, D major, two-four, two strains of eight bars, the theme in each begun by the viola, and repeated by the violoncello. Three variations follow, the theme being allotted to each instrument in turn, the guitar included. Finale, Prestissimo, D major, three-eight, a brilliant, showy movement. No. 2, Allegro, C major, four-four measure, in binary form, the subjects given to the violin and violoncello. Minuetto, Allegretto, A minor, three-four, with Trio in two sections, F major and D minor. The violin has the theme, the others accompany with chords. Cantabile, Larghetto, A major, six-eight, the melody, floridly embellished, for violin, the other instruments accompanying. Polacca, Quasi presto, C major, six-four. The violin has the chief melody, subordinate parts being given to the viola and violoncello. The guitar has full chords throughout. No. 3, Allegro, D minor, four-four rhythm, Coda in D major, principal themes for the violin, the viola and violoncello taking up portions here and there with chords and arpeggios for the guitar. Allegro moderato, D minor, three-four, Canone a tre, theme for violin, answered by viola and violoncello at one bar interval, an octave below, as in No. 1. Guitar tacet. Tema Cantabile, Quasi adagio, B flat major, two-four. The movement consists of two periods, the theme for viola and violin alternately, in each. Variation I., florid, violoncello and violin in response; II., in G minor, more elaborate, theme for violoncello and violin, rapid arpeggios for guitar; III., in B flat major, theme for viola and violin, alternately, and finally for guitar. Polacchetta, Allegro con brio, D minor, three-four, a brilliant movement, with themes for the violin; the viola and violoncello share in the figurated passages, and the guitar has an accompaniment in chords and arpeggios. Paganini is said to have repudiated this work, although according to Fétis, the quartets were published at Genoa under his very eyes. I should rather say that the Milan edition was the first, and perhaps the only one. Paganini's assertion was that some one had taken a few of his themes, and badly arranged them. Fétis further states that various pieces published before, and up to, 1851, must be considered as "commercial frauds." Some of them are named, and will be referred to in due course. The music of Op. 5 cannot be regarded as in any way great, but there are graceful melodies, and the movements in Canon form are ingeniously worked out. Op. 6, _Premier Concerto (Mi Bémol), pour le violin avec accomp. de l'orchestrè._ This was the first of the posthumous works, published by the firm of Schott and Co., Paris, in 1851. It is scored for two flutes, oboes, clarinets, bassoon, double bassoon, two horns, trumpets, three trombones, kettle drums, bass drum, cymbals, and the usual quintet of strings. The solo violin is tuned a semitone higher, and the part is in D, while the orchestra plays in E flat. Breitkopf and Härtel publish the orchestral parts in the key of D. There is an arrangement of the first movement, by August Wilhelmj, but with that I have nothing to do here. First movement, Allegro maestoso, E flat, four-four. The orchestral exordium extends to ninety-four bars, six more than in the introduction of Beethoven's Concerto. The movement--so it may be termed--is symphonic in form, with second subject in the dominant, and it is richly scored. The exception I take to it is the persistent employment of the cymbals with the bass drum. There is a delightful little touch in the canonic imitation for first violins and violoncellos. The solo has a principal theme scarcely indicated in the introduction, and also several important episodes. The slow movement, Adagio, C minor, four-four, was inspired, as already mentioned, by the Italian tragedian, Demarini. Paganini witnessed his performance in a prison scene, where, after recapitulating his misfortunes, he supplicated Providence to relieve him of the burden of his life. Paganini retired to rest still under the influence of the emotions excited by the actor. He could not sleep: he rose and sought through his violin a means of expression by which he could pour out the feelings that consumed his soul. Thus, genius tortures and produces. It must have been this movement in which William Gardiner heard "tones more than human, which seemed to be wrung from the deepest anguish of a broken heart." Observe, especially, the recitative passages that close the movement. Finale, Rondo, Allegro spiritoso, E flat, two-four. This is the longest concerto movement known to me, running on to four hundred and eighty-three bars, but the "measure" is short. The concerto is not so long as that of Beethoven, the first and second movements containing fewer bars. It may be noted that in the first and last movements Paganini introduces harmonics, and passages in tenths, most probably for the first time in a concerto. In the slow movement there is no double stopping. The Cadenzas were improvised, and Paganini, like Beethoven, in his improvisations surpassed anything he ever committed to paper. Op. 7, Concerto No. 2, in B minor. Allegro maestoso, B minor, twelve-eight. Adagio, D major, two-two. Rondo, Andantino allegretto moderato, B minor, six-eight. This is not so long as the first concerto by some two hundred bars, and is not so fine a work, but it is a piece worthy of being occasionally heard. In the principal theme of the Rondo occur the passages where the silver bell three times echoes the violin note--the top F sharp of the pianoforte keyboard. Failing the bell, the violinist produces the sound by an artificial harmonic. It is this Rondo that Liszt has included in his _Grosse Etüden von Paganini_. His treatment of Paganini must be briefly described. There are six "studies," the first a transcription of Paganini's Caprice, No. 6, Adagio, G minor. To this Liszt adds a prefix, the arpeggio prelude of No. 5. The Caprice itself is very literally copied, the whole being an octave lower, and at first assigned to the left hand alone. After the sixteenth bar the treatment becomes more free, while the figuration is much the same. The study ends with the arpeggio passage as at the beginning. The second takes for subject No. 17, Andante, E flat. Scarcely a note is omitted, but the passages are placed higher or lower, and the runs given to either hand. This is a marvel of ingenuity, forming a most brilliant pianoforte solo. It is followed, as by a second sonata movement, by the "Campanella" Rondo, the two being intended to be performed in succession. For this purpose the Rondo from the Concerto is transposed to G sharp minor, the closing E flat of the previous movement changing enharmonically to D sharp. The first exposition of the subject follows Paganini very closely, but in the development and further progress of the movement Liszt follows his own bent, repeating the principal theme again and again with ever varying treatment. This is a piece for the _virtuoso_, and one of the most showy in the pianist's repertory. The fourth study is an extremely clever transcription of the Caprice No. 1, Andante, E major. Not a note of Paganini's piece is left out, and the arpeggios are ingeniously set out for interwoven fingering, causing the performance to be something to look at as well as to hear. It is nearly all cross-handed work. The fifth study is an arrangement of the Caprice No. 9, Allegretto, E major. On paper it appears easier than the setting by Schumann, but it is more difficult to play. Here, again, the phrases are divided for both hands. The _glissando_ passages in sixths are impossible on modern instruments. The sixth and last study, on the Caprice, No. 24, Tema, con variazioni, A minor, is the most ingenious of all. The theme is simply harmonised at first, then used as a counterpoint to the arpeggios in the first variation. The next is more simply treated, and in the third variation Paganini's theme forms the bass upon which the figuration of the initial motive is superposed. To the end Liszt shows what possibilities in keyboard execution were latent in Paganini's violin figures; and if the latter had written only these Capriccios he would survive as the cause of the most original inventions in pianoforte technique that have yet seen the light. Op. 8, _Le Streghe._ Variations on the "Witches' Dance," theme from the Ballet, "Le Nozze di Benevento," by Vigano, music by Süssmayer. It has already been stated that Paganini witnessed a performance of this ballet, at La Scala, Milan, in 1813. He took the theme from a fantastic scene where the witches appear. In his London programmes Paganini thus described the piece; "Variations on the Country Dance Della Streghe alla Noce di Benevento (or the comic dances of the Witches under the walnut tree of Benevento), composed and performed by Signor Paganini." The piece is in the key of E flat, and the violin is to be tuned a semitone higher, the soloist playing in D. There is an orchestral prelude of eighteen bars, Maestoso, followed by a solo, Larghetto, a beautiful Italian melody, embellished, in two short strains. The theme is simply set forth, and the variations serve for the display of bravura playing with pizzicato and harmonics in the second movement, fourth string melody, and double harmonics in the third, and with the Finale resembling a Galopade. Orchestral parts are published, as well as the arrangement with pianoforte. Op. 9, Variations on "God save the King." Théme, Andante, G major, with Six Variations. One principal feature is the intermingling of left hand staccato with bowed notes. At the close there are sustained open notes on the G and D strings, bowed, with double pizzicato, in sixths, above. Op. 10, Variations on "The Carnival of Venice." For this the violin is tuned a semitone higher, the solo being played in A, and the accompaniment in B flat. The theme is a popular Venetian air, "O Mamma!" Paganini heard it when in Venice in 1816, but whether he then composed the variations is not certain. It was not long, however, before Paganini made the air a favourite everywhere he went, and it is to him the melody owes its world-wide popularity. The composer of the air remains unknown. Joseph Ghys published, at Paris and Berlin, what purported to be Paganini's variations; Ernst and Sivori played versions more or less exactly in accordance with the original; but the text was finally settled by the publication of the piece in 1851. There are twenty variations. The 9th and 14th are for the fourth string; the 11th has alternate bowed and pizzicato notes; the 15th and 18th are pizzicato throughout; the 19th is in tenths and thirds; and the piece ends with a short brilliant coda. Op. 11, _Moto Perpetuo._ Allegro vivace, C major. Fétis terms this piece a movement from a Sonata for violin and orchestra. It is in the repertory for all violinists, and its running passages of staccato semiquavers need no description. Op. 12, Introduction and Variations on the air "Non più mesta accanto al fuoco." The theme is from Rossini's opera "La Cenerentola" (Cinderella), produced at Rome during the Carnival season of 1817, and forms the concluding number of the work. Paganini again directs the violin to be tuned a semitone higher, writing the solo part in D, and the accompaniment in E flat. The Introduction, Adagio Cantabile, is another example of Paganini's pure Italian style of melody. The theme seems to have appealed to him--doubtless he witnessed the _première_ of the opera--for the variations have a spontaneity and brilliance of their own. There are four variations, and a Finale full of dashing _bravura_. Op. 13, Introduction and Variations on the air "Di tanti palpiti," from Rossini's first serious opera, "Tancredi," produced at Venice in 1813. Rossini is said to have taken the theme from a Greek Litany he heard sung in a church on one of the Islets of the Laguna, near Venice. A Signora Righetti, a singer, writing in 1823 (?), stated that there was no truth in the assertion. Be that as it may, "Di tanti palpiti" made the opera, and Paganini's variations extended its popularity. The introduction is an elaborate movement, the violin tuned a semitone higher, and the part written in A, with accompaniment in B flat. There are three variations, the second being almost throughout in harmonics, single and double, and excessively difficult. This piece is very rarely played. Op. 14, Sixty Studies in Variation form, on the air known at Genoa as "Barucabà," for violin alone. This is one of the composer's latest works, and was written at Genoa in February 1835, and dedicated to Paganini's friend the Advocate, L. G. Germi. The theme is short, in simple ternary form, the opening sentence of four bars being repeated after the middle period of eight bars. The theme is in A major, Maestoso. The variations are studies upon various species of difficulties, and a special feature is the order of keys. Of the fifteen possible major keys, Paganini employs thirteen, and he is quite modern in the way in which he causes the one to succeed the other. Thus the second variation is in D, the third in B flat, the fourth in F sharp, and the fifth in D--in each case the drop of a major third or its enharmonic equivalent. Then he starts a new series, from D to B, thence to G, E, C, A flat, F, D flat, back to A. In 1835 such a sequence was very uncommon; even Beethoven, in his Variations, only has one such, in the Variations in F, Op. 34. The Variation form is again in full vogue; at this distance we can afford to be just in our estimate of Paganini's achievements. He was not a Beethoven, but his Variations are not to be despised. WORKS WITHOUT OPUS NUMBER. Sonata in A major. As published in the collection of posthumous compositions, this Sonata is for violin, with pianoforte accompaniment. The piece consists of an Introduction, Theme, Three Variations and Coda, the term "Sonata" being employed quite in its primitive sense:--a piece to be played. The Introduction is only eight bars in length, ending with a short cadenza leading to the theme, Andantino, A major, two-four measure. The first part consists of two four-bar phrases, repeated; the second has a phrase extended, by a Codetta, to six bars, and ends with a repetition of the first phrase, with close in A. The first variation has a more florid version, in triplets, of the melody; the second begins with a simple form of the theme for the fourth string, and introduces harmonics; the third is a bravura movement, chiefly for staccato bowing in demisemiquaver passages. The coda, termed Finale, is made up of cadences, on a tonic pedal for eight bars. The accompaniment is easy. Messrs. Schott also publish the Sonata for violin, with accompaniment of violin and violoncello, very easy parts for these last. _Variazioni di bravura sopra Temi del Mosè di G. Rossini, per Violino sulla quanta corda, di Nicolo Paganini._ This was originally for violin and orchestra. Berlioz has a reference to this piece, in which he states that Paganini employed the bass-drum with better effect than did Rossini himself in the accompaniment to the prayer, "Del tuo stellato soglio." Paganini placed the stroke of the drum on the syncopated beat to which the verbal accent was assigned, whereas Rossini gave the drum stroke on the first beat of the bar. Some one, complimenting Paganini upon his composition, added; "It must be confessed that Rossini furnished you a very beautiful theme." "That's very true," replied Paganini, "but he didn't invent my bang of the big drum." It is said that in this piece Paganini produced a tone that dominated the whole orchestra even in fortissimo passages. The firm of Ricordi publish an arrangement, for string quintet, and for pianoforte accompaniment. The G string of the solo violin is raised to B flat, and the Adagio is played in C minor and major, while the accompaniment is in E flat minor and major. The strain in the minor key is played three times. The second time, the first eight bars are to be played an octave higher then the first time; the third in harmonics. The Introductory Adagio is the celebrated Prayer. Then follows a Tema, Tempo alla Marcia, E flat, four-four, the violin part in C. This is a different theme, and appears to be a paraphrase of part of the March and Chorus (in the Oratorio), "Hail, happy day!" There are three variations, and a short coda. Harmonics are sparingly introduced. Rossini's opera, "Mosè in Egitto," was produced at Naples in 1818, and was remodelled by the composer some years later, for performance at the Grand Opera, Paris (1827). It is not known when Paganini wrote his variations, but his themes were most probably taken from the first version of the opera. _Variazioni di Bravura per Violino sopra un tema originale con accompagnamento di Piano o Chitarra._ The theme is that of the Twenty-fourth Caprice, from Op. 1, and the variations are the same, only the notation of the eighth is different. The accompaniment, for either guitar or pianoforte, is extremely simple. There is a short interlude (called _Tutti_ in Ricordi's edition) of six bars to be played between the variations. _Introduzione e Variazioni sul Tema nel cor più mi sento per Violino solo di Nicolò Paganini._ So runs the title in the edition published by Ricordi and Co. The theme is the duet in Paisiello's opera, _La Molinara_, which Beethoven also took as a subject for variations (in 1795). Ricordi's publication agrees in every particular with the version to be found in Guhr's treatise on Paganini's "Art of Playing the Violin," published in 1831--preface dated Frankfurt, November, 1829. Guhr[53] heard Paganini many times, closely watched his playing, and frequently conversed with him on the subject. This piece was written from memory, and is certainly a great accomplishment; but it can scarcely be regarded as an authentic version. The introduction is brilliant, the theme, Andante, G major, six-eight measure, is profusely ornamented, and each of the seven variations--No. 6 is in G minor, the others in G major--has some special form of virtuosity. In the third there are double shakes in harmonics, which Guhr explains. The last is in widespread ascending and descending arpeggios throughout. The theme and third variation are written on two staves, one for bowed melody, the other for left hand pizzicato. That Paganini did not always play the piece in the form in which Guhr wrote it down, is proved by the existence of another manuscript, which is, perhaps, very little known. It was written by the late Mrs. Tom Taylor, who gave it to Mr. Alfred Burnett many years ago, and that gentleman has kindly permitted me to examine it. For this the violin is tuned a whole tone higher. The Introduction is altogether different, and the theme much less floridly embellished. The first variation corresponds to Guhr's No. 2, but the harmonics are not quite the same. In this the melody floats above tremolando chords. The second, in outline, resembles Guhr's No. 4, but whereas the latter has alternate natural notes and harmonics, Mrs. Taylor gives alternations of detached bowed notes and pizzicati. The third is like Guhr's No. 3, in that it has short figures in double notes, alternately for fundamental and harmonic sounds. Guhr's variation consists of twenty-five bars; Mrs. Taylor's of thirty-one, there being a short cadenza. The fourth resembles Guhr's No. 7 in the wide-spread arpeggios, but the harmonics are differently distributed, and the coda is not the same as in Guhr.[54] [Illustration: PLATE 25. (_See Appendix._)] [Illustration: PLATE 26. (_See Appendix._)] In the Imperial Library, Berlin, there is a manuscript by Paganini, inscribed "Capriccio a Violino Solo di Nicolo Paganini In cor più non mi sento," in which the embellished theme differs from both those already described. The first page is reproduced in facsimile in Paul Stoeving's "Story of the Violin," p. 213. Then there is an autograph copy in the British Museum with this inscription: "In cuor più non mi sento, Thema con variazioni per Violino, con Accompagnementi di Violino e Violoncello Composta da Niccolo Paganini." The piece consists of an Introduction, Theme and four Variations, and, so far, agrees with Mrs. Taylor's copy. Finally, Paganini played the piece with the orchestra, as will be seen from this extract from a programme: "Prelude and Variations on the Tema, 'Nel cor più non missento,' with orchestral accompaniment, by Signor Paganini." This was played at the concert of June 27th, 1831, at the King's Theatre, and the programme from which this extract is taken is in possession of Mr. Richard Harrison, of Brighton, who most obligingly copied it for me. Duo pour le violon seul. This begins with an Adagio, C major, three-four measure, with a melody for the bow, and left hand pizzicato accompaniment. A short Allegro molto follows, in square time, the pizzicato accompaniment being chiefly in double notes, with occasional chromatic harmonics. This little piece must have been on sale in London a year before Paganini arrived, for the following anecdote was in print in May, 1830. "A few days since, a footman went into Mori's music shop to buy a fiddle string. While he was making his choice a gentleman entered the shop, and began to examine various compositions for the violin. Among the rest he found Paganini's celebrated _Merveille--duo pour un seul Violon_ and, perceiving the difficulties in which it abounded, asked the shopman if he thought that Mori himself could play it. The young man, a little perplexed and unwilling to imply that his master's powers had any limits, at length replied, that he had no doubt he could perform it, provided he practised it for a week. Upon which the footman, who stood intent upon the conversation, broke in on the discourse and swore that Mori could do no such thing, for that he himself had been practising the piece for three weeks and could not play it yet." Trois Airs Variés pour le Violon, pour étre éxécutes sur la Quatrieme Corda seulement, avec accompagnement de Piano par Gustavo Carulli. Fétis says these are merely souvenirs arranged by the author of the accompaniments.[55] Antonio Minasi includes them in the lists of works performed by Paganini in England. The fourth string is to be raised to A, for all three. The first is in C, with two easy variations; the second, in G, resembles a folk song, and has three variations; the third, in C, also has three variations. The first two are marked Andante; the third, Andantino. The accompaniments are of the easiest song kind. Le Charme de Padua, Divertimento pour Violon et Piano concertant, composé par Nicolo Paganini. This piece was published in London before the date of Paganini's first concert, and possibly before the arrival of that artist in England. It was issued by a firm of repute, Wessel and Stodar, who were the first publishers in England of the works of Chopin. The music was reviewed in _The Harmonicon_, June 1831, the notice concluding thus: "It perhaps is a bagatelle on which he (Paganini) has bestowed little time and less thought. It certainly is a flimsy affair, and might have been produced by the dullest and most mechanical _repieno_ in the band of a suburb (_sic_) theatre." The piece consists of a Larghetto and Presto, in C major, the slow introduction being in six-eight rhythm, the Presto in six-four. There is one principal theme in the first part, given out by the violin and repeated by the pianoforte, a simple melody, with embellishments. The Presto is in Rondo form, with leading theme for pianoforte, continued by violin, and relieved by an episode contrasted in character. The music is not great, but unprejudiced musicians will scarcely endorse the captious remarks of the reviewer. The firm of Edwin Ashdown (successor to Wessel) publish the composition, also a version by S. Godbé for viola and pianoforte. In this the themes are written an octave lower, and modifications occur in double-stops, and so forth, to suit the viola. There is likewise an arrangement for flute and pianoforte, by J. Sedlazek. It is not stated by whom the pianoforte part was written, but it is very well done, and is not a mere accompaniment. WORKS UNPUBLISHED, OR LOST. Concerto in D minor. Fétis terms this a magnificent concerto; it was performed by Paganini at the first concert he gave in Paris, March 25th, 1831, and that seems to be all that is known about the piece. Concerto in E minor. This was in three movements; Allegro maestoso; Adagio flebile, con sentimento; Rondo, Andantino Gàjo, "with a triangle accompaniment." It was played by Paganini at the King's Theatre, June 13th, 1831. Concerto in E major. The three movements of this piece were; Allegro Marziale; Cantabile Spianato; and Polacca brillante. Paganini played this concerto at his concert, July 4th, 1831. Concerto in two movements. This was a medley. The one movement, Cantabile a doppie corde, was by Paganini; the other, Ronda scherzoso, by Rodolphe Kreutzer. Played, August 17th, 1831. Four Concertos, of which the instrumentation was not written. Of these nothing seems now to be known. Fétis says that the last of the four was composed at Nice a short time before the death of Paganini. Concerto for bassoon, with string trio accompaniment. This was discovered at Stockholm in 1890, and the manuscript was said to be in the composer's hand-writing. The announcement of the discovery will be found in _The Musical Times_, of November, 1890, page 681. I have found no further reference to the subject. Nine Quartets for Violin, Viola, Violoncello and Guitar. These are in the list drawn up by Constabile as being among the manuscripts preserved by the son of the composer. It is impossible now to say where these manuscripts are; the first three seem completely lost. A copy, probably unique, of the Quartets, Nos. 10 to 15, is among the treasures in the possession of Mr. Alfred Burnett, and by his kindness I am enabled to give a description of the music. Five of the Quartets, Nos. 10 to 14, were composed and dedicated "Al suo Amico Il Sig. Avvocato Luigi Guglièlmo Germi." No. 14 was composed "expressly" for that friend. The Quartets dedicated to Germi might be designated "house music," for though they are difficult, they do not seem to have been written for the "great public." They contain the most lovely music Paganini ever penned. If only the guitar were once more in fashion, these pieces might be heard, and I feel certain they would charm lovers of pure melody.[56] But this is to anticipate. Quartet, No. 10, in A major, in four movements (as indeed are five out of the six). Allegro, A major, four-four rhythm, in free sonata form, with first and second subject--both lyrical--middle modulatory section, and recapitulation. The violin has the melody, the other instruments accompanying. Minuetto Scherzo, Allegretto, A major, three-four measure, with first short strain on a figure in triplets. Trio in D major, Cantabile theme for violin, doubled by the viola in the octave below. Adagio Cantabile, D major, two-four rhythm. A melody that might be signed Haydn or Mozart, but embellished with a grace peculiar to Italian art. Here the violin is the solo instrument, the others supporting with rich harmonies, the 'cello emphasising the rhythm with frequent pizzicato notes. Rondo Andantino con brio, A major, two-four measure, a bright, sparkling principal theme, staccato, with contrasting episodes, one in D, with fourth string phrases, also with brilliant passages in thirds for the violin, which again has all the thematic work. This is a well developed movement. Quartet, No. 11, in B major. For this the guitar is tuned a tone higher, the _capo tasto_ raising the E strings to F sharp, and the guitar part is written in the open key of A. The first movement, Allegro moderato, B major, four-four rhythm is free in form, with repeat of the first part. The thematic material is assigned chiefly to the violin, but in the second part there is an episode, a sort of folk-tune, given to the violoncello. Minuetto, Allegretto, B major, three-four, with Trio in G major. The melodies are fresh, and move step-wise, very much like those in the Minuet of Beethoven's first Symphony. They are in scale formation, up and down, and there is only one skip of a third in the first sixteen bars. Again the violin takes all the themes. Larghetto con passione, F sharp minor, six-eight measure, a Lament, a fine expressive theme, opening nobly, but with the elevated style not maintained throughout. The viola and violoncello parts are in keeping with the pathetic feeling of the movement, but the rhythmic figure of the guitar part detracts from its dignity. Polacca, Andantino mosso, B major, three-four measure, a well-written movement, with three clearly defined subjects, two of which are taken up by the viola and violoncello. The violin part in this quartet is brilliant, but not particularly difficult; there is no double-stopping, excepting in chords of accompaniment. Quartet, No. 12, in A minor. This number is in three movements only. The first, Allegro giusto, A minor, four-four rhythm, is quite orchestral in character, and opens with a theme of symphonic breadth. There is science displayed in the development of this movement. In the first part the second subject is in C major, and in the recapitulation in A major. The slow movement, Adagio tenuto, con precisione, C major, three-four measure, has at first a very broad and declamatory theme for the violin. The writing becomes very elaborate, and the rhythmic figuration complex, passages with four and five-stroke notes occurring. The Finale, Minuetto, Allegretto mosso, is a fully developed movement quite in sonata form, with first part repeated. The exposition has a first subject of two extended members, the second in the major mode. The second subject, in E, is well contrasted. There is a long working out section, with episodial matter, and the recapitulation is very happily led up to. The music has a lilt that is irresistible, and the writing is interesting for each instrument. Quartet, No. 13, in F. The first movement, Allegro con brio, F major, four-four time, opens with a theme of a declamatory type, and the expression is dramatic. The second subject in C, is in the style of the Italian _aria_, concluding with the lively _Cabaletta_ strain. A short _Coda_ ends the first part. In the working out section there is an important episodial theme for the violoncello, and in the recapitulation the second subject, now in F, is allotted to the viola, the violin taking up the _Cabaletta_. Both parts are marked for repetition. Minuetto, Allegretto, F major, three-four measure. The violin has the theme of the first strain of eight bars repeated; the violoncello responds with the subject of the next strain of twenty-five bars, one phrase lengthened to five bars. The Trio in B flat has a tripping theme for the viola, legato and staccato bowing in the same "figure." Later the phrases are broken into dialogue for violin and viola. In the Minuet the guitar has a "second" to the violin melody. Larghetto tenuto, con anima, D flat major, six-eight rhythm, a broad, cantabile theme for the violin, with spare embellishment. The movement must be slow, for there are arpeggios of eight notes to the quaver beat in the guitar part. Finale, Prestissimo, F major, two-two measure. The theme for the violin resembles very much some of those merry "tributary" motives found in Mozart's symphonies towards the close of the first part of a movement--the "Jupiter," first movement for instance. The second subject affords contrast. The whole is most spirited and light-hearted. Paganini must have been in a happy mood when he wrote this quartet. Quartet, No. 14, in A major. The first movement, Allegro maestoso, A major, four-four measure, is very brilliant, opening with a theme in which arpeggio and scale figures abound. This closes in B, and the second subject begins in E. Here occurs some very free chromatic writing, suggestive of Richard Strauss, as, for instance, D sharp for violoncello against E flat for guitar and viola; and C natural opposed to B sharp. But it is a mere matter of spelling. The first part ends in E, and is marked for repetition. Then, with a single prefatory chord of E minor, the working out section begins in C, with a new motive, which passes through a number of keys, the primary returning with the second subject. Minuetto, Scherzo affettuoso, A major, three-four. The subject is based on a three-note figure, giving, by cross accents, to the four-bar phrase the effect of a six-bar phrase in duple measure--Tempo rubato. The Trio, in D, has a theme in triple measure, but the middle sentence has the displaced accents of the Minuet. Largo, con sentimento, G flat major, four-four measure. For this the pitch of the guitar is raised a tone, and the part written in E major. The movement is in song form, the melody opening in stately fashion, but the writing soon becomes florid. At the second entry the theme begins in A major, the return to G flat being ingeniously effected. There are some rapid pizzicato passages for the violoncello. Finale, Allegro vivace, A major, four-four rhythm. This is a moto perpetuo, sempre staccato, for the violin. The theme is quite unlike that of the movement known as Op. 11. After the exposition of the subject, the violin has figure-playing of an easy kind, while the violoncello has a Cantabile theme. This recurs, and snatches of it are heard in the brief coda. The other instruments merely accompany. This quartet has distinct character. Quartet, No. 15. The title simply runs: "Composto da Nicola Paganini," without any dedication. Note the copyist's spelling of the Christian name. In the first movement, Maestoso, A minor, four-four measure, the first subject is given out by the viola. It begins with a mournful, somewhat stern motive, bold, and with an embellished subordinate theme. The second subject, also assigned to the viola, is an impassioned lyrical theme in C major. In the working out section, the violin takes the first subject, and joins the violoncello in an episodial theme, the viola contributing a florid counterpoint. There are modifications in the recapitulation, but the viola again has the second subject now in the tonic major. The guitar is busy throughout the movement, with full chords and extended arpeggios. Minuetto a Canone, Andantino, A major, three-four measure. The Canon is confined to the violin and viola, the latter starting with a theme in short, detached figures, the violin following, an octave higher, one beat later. Guitar and violoncello give supporting harmonies. In the Trio, in D major, the melody is given to the guitar, with a pizzicato accompaniment for the other instruments. At the seventeenth bar, there are again four bars of canon, this time in the unison, staccato bowing. The Minuet, abbreviated, is then repeated. The canon is not continuous, a cadence occurring at the end of each eight bars. Next comes an Interlude, Recitative, Andante sostenuto, con sentimento, D major. This is for the viola, and extends to twenty-one bars, the expression being dramatic. The other instruments have a rather elaborate accompaniment. The slow movement immediately ensues, Adagio Cantabile, D major, two-four rhythm. The viola has the melody, in the form of the Italian aria, embellished with prima donna fioriture. The movement is short, only running to forty-six bars. Rondo, Allegretto, A minor, two-four. The leading theme, marked by syncopations, is given to the viola, the violin joining in the repetition. The tonality is constantly changing from the minor to the major and back again. There is a new theme in the middle section, and some elaboration before the first subject returns. The close is abrupt. The viola has the chief part in this quartet, which is quite different to the others. I have only a few notes concerning some of the works yet to be considered. Dramatic Sonata, "The Storm," for violin and orchestra. This was evidently a piece of programme music, for it was thus described:--Part I., the approach of the storm; II., the commencement of the tempest; III., the prayer; IV., the fury of the sea; V., the hurricane; VI., the tumult at its height; VII., the stilling of the tempest; VIII., an outburst of the most lively joy. It was played at Paganini's third and last concert at Prague, December 20th, 1828, and one account refers to it as a "dramatic sonata for a full orchestra, with analogous embellishments and solos and variations, by Paganini on the fourth string."[57] "Sonata Militaire," in G, for the fourth string, theme, the air "Non più andrai," from Mozart's opera "Le Nozze di Figaro." This piece was composed expressly for the second of the two concerts Paganini gave in Genoa in 1824, when the young singer, Antonia Bianchi, made her début. The Sonata was played by Paganini at his first concert in London. All traces of it appear to have been lost. "Napoleon Sonata," for the fourth string. Paganini gave an account of the origin of this piece to his friend, Julius Schottky, and to what has already been related in connection therewith may now be added the further statement he made. Paganini sang to his friend the first movement of this Sonata "in an animated though feeble tone," and said that Rossini transferred the theme into one of his earlier operas. It would be interesting to know the opera in question, but the early works of Rossini would be searched in vain without the clue afforded by the Sonata, which appears to have vanished completely. "Sonata Maestosa Sentimentale," with variations on a theme by Haydn, for the fourth string. It is probable that the theme for these variations was the well-known Emperor's Hymn, and that this Sonata was performed by Paganini before the Austrian Court in 1828. Sonata with variations on a theme from the opera "L'Amor Marinaro." Nothing is now known of this Sonata, nor of the particular theme chosen from the opera. "L'Amor Marinaro" (the Corsair in Love) was one of the early productions of Joseph Weigl, being written in 1798. An opera buffa, it was distinguished by natural charm, freshness of colouring and beauty of melody, and to the latter quality Paganini's choice of it must doubtless be attributed. "Chant of the Monks of the Monastery of St. Bernard." This was the title given to a piece in the programme of a concert at Covent Garden Theatre. It was performed on a darkened stage and the solemn character of its music was emphasized by a beautiful scene representing a monastery with stained glass windows. The introduction, a movement of some length of the basses in unison, was followed by a chant "of lovely harmonies, performed in harmonics (I believe, on the fourth strings) in combination with the wood instruments." Minasi, who gives this account of the piece, states that he believes it to be merely the second movement of the Concerto in B minor, Op. 7. Cantabile for two strings. This piece was performed at the King's Theatre, on June 13th, 1831. Possibly it was the same as the musical fantasia already referred to as played at Lucca under the title of "A Love Scene." Of the remaining pieces, except the one mentioned below, nothing seems now to be known save the names. The one exception is the piece entitled "The Vagaries of a Farmyard," which contained a wonderful series of imitations of farmyard sounds. In this connection the following anecdote, illustrating Paganini's extraordinary power of portraying curious sounds on his violin, may be worth repeating. One fine night, when staying at a little inn just outside Frankfort, he was sitting at his window lost in the contemplation of the glorious heavens. The striking of a clock broke through his reverie and called back to his mind an occurrence of which he had but recently been an ear-witness. He seized his violin, and there arose on the stillness of the night the moans and cries of a mother and her new-born babe. The landlord of the inn, awakened by the unusual sounds and wondering how such visitors had found their way into his house without his knowledge, called his son and hastened to the room whence the plaintive cries proceeded; and he found Paganini, too deep in thought to perceive his entrance, making his violin bring forth these human sounds. It is stated of Paganini that he was wont to produce his animal cries under the stress of special excitement or during an access of fever, and that with his farmyard piece he electrified the audience at one of the last of his concerts in London. FOOTNOTES: [52] Lapheléque, p. 45. [53] Carl F. W. Guhr, born at Militsch, Silesia, October 30th, 1787, violinist, pianist and composer, became Director of the Museum Concerts and Conductor of the Opera at Frankfort-on-the-Main, in which city he died July 22nd, 1848. [54] Mrs. Tom Taylor (_née_ Laura Wilson Barker) was a fine musician, a composer, and almost phenomenal performer on the pianoforte and the violin. She played with both Spohr and Paganini, and took down this set of variations after hearing Paganini play them twice. She died at Coleshill, Bucks, May 22nd, 1905, at the advanced age of eighty-six. [55] Gustavo Carulli was the son of the celebrated guitarrist, Ferdinando Carulli, and was born at Leghorn in 1801. [56] They were performed at the private quartet concerts given by Mr. Burnett in the Art Club, Blackheath, from about the year 1893 onward. [57] _The Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review_, Vol. X., p. 205. CHAPTER XII. This may have been the concert at which, according to a lithograph,[58] Paganini received "the homage of five thousand persons after having pocketed £2,000 for two hours' performance." While the great world showed their appreciation of his playing in this way, and Royal patrons delighted to invest him with noble orders, the more humble admirers of Paganini caused medals to be struck in his honour. One of these, a tribute from the city of Vienna, has already been referred to; another very fine medal, struck in Paris during Paganini's first visit there in 1831 is reproduced here. The inscription round Paganini's head fills one with a strangely ironical feeling, when one remembers that the fame of Paganini did but survive to lead to the homage of exhumation. [Illustration: _Plate 27.--See Appendix._ MEDAL STRUCK IN PAGANINI'S HONOUR IN 1831.] True, the world has remembered him sufficiently to place memorial tablets on the houses where he was born and died. Fifty years after his death a tablet was affixed to the house wherein he breathed his last, and at the centenary celebration of his birth the following inscription was placed on the house wherein he first saw the light: "A great honour fell to the lot of this modest house, in which, on the 27th October, 1782, Nicolo Paganini, unsurpassed in the divine art of tone, was born, to the glory of Genoa and to the delight of the world." At present one may enquire in vain of most Genoese people as to the position of Paganini's birthplace, and chance alone will direct one, who trusts to them for the information, to the slum quarter and the narrow street where the building stands. Difficult though it may be, however, to find this spot, it is an easy task to find the Palazzo Municipale where reposes the famous Guarnerius violin of Paganini. This superb instrument, bequeathed to the city of Genoa by Paganini himself, has been most carefully preserved by the civic authorities. It has only twice been heard in public--once at the 1882 celebrations--since Paganini's death, and on both occasions it was played by his favourite pupil Sivori. It was carefully examined and photographed by Mr. Edward Heron-Allen in 1885, and a very interesting account was given by him[59] of the manner in which the violin was worn away by Paganini's peculiar method of playing. After describing its general condition he says, "The patch by the side of the tailpiece and the large wear on the back tell of the force with which he held the instrument in those high and pizzicato passages, which account for the long groove down the side of the fingerboard and the broad patch at the side of the neck, on the table of the instrument. The wearing away of the edges in the curves of the instrument bear a striking testimony to the force with which he sawed the gut in his bravura passages on the first and fourth strings." In the same glass case as the violin is placed the medal presented to Paganini by the Decurional Council of Genoa in 1834. On the reverse it bears this inscription:-- Nic. Paganino, Fidicini, cui nemo par fuit civique bene mecrenti A.D. MDCCCXXXIIII. Such outward honours as the world gives to its dead have indeed been offered to the memory of Paganini; but it is doubtful whether the higher honour of a frank recognition by the musical world of the work that he did for it, has ever been his. Unlike the great composer the instrumentalist leaves behind him no visible proof of the part he has played in the development of his art. And the world has easily forgotten that from the day of Paganini not only was the violin transformed into a new instrument, not only were its capabilities, previously undreamt of, newly revealed, but also in other branches of musical art, in orchestral music especially, a fresh field was opened up before the composer. It is scarcely too much to say that the scores of Tchaikovsky and Richard Strauss could not have been written, had Paganini never lived. We do not desire to see another Paganini, so complete a slave to his instrument, albeit its master; we do not desire to see another such life, with bodily health and moral vigour sacrificed to so absorbing a devotion to one single end. We would fain believe that Nicolo Paganini did not live in vain, that like a real artist he had and fulfilled his mission, that the evil he did died with him and that the good lives on to benefit the world. THE END. FOOTNOTES: [58] Reproduced on page 144. [59] _The Musical Times_, May 1st, 1886. APPENDIX. NOTES ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS IN THIS VOLUME. _Plate 1_--Frontispiece. Portrait of NICOLÒ PAGANINI, by Maurin, a French Artist. Free from caricature, it is probably the most authentic picture of the great virtuoso. It appeared in the seventh volume of the "Revue Musicale." _Plate 2_--Facing page 4. THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CELEBRATED PAGANINI in the Passo di Gatto Moro, Genoa, Italy. The house is in a squalid neighbourhood--a dirty, narrow alley now occupied by the poorest of the city. Probably no worse than at the time of Paganini's birth. There is a tablet which reads as follows:-- Alta ventura sortita ad umile luogo in questa casa il giorno XXVII di Ottobre dell' anno MDCCLXXXII Nacque a decoro di Genova a delizia del mondo Nicolò Paganini nella divina arte dei suoni insuperato maestro. The date 1782 given here confirms the latest research that Paganini was born in that year and not in 1784 so usually quoted. _Plate 3_--Facing page 14. PAGANINI'S VIOLIN, BOW, CASE, ETC., in the Municipal Museum at Genoa. This is the celebrated Joseph Guarnerius on which the great virtuoso invariably performed. The instrument is under a glass shade, and with other relics of Paganini, preserved in a strong safe. It is stated that £5,000 has, in vain, been offered for the violin. _Plate 4_--Facing page 20. THIS IS ANOTHER CARICATURE--Paganini performing on a tight rope--under which is printed "Exercices sur une seule corde,"--in reference to his one string solos. This was published by Mori and Lavenu, London, circa 1831. _Plate 5_--Facing page 40. This is, we believe, from a contemporary German picture. _Plate 6_--Facing page 50. This humorous picture is on the title-page of a comic song, "The wonderful Paganini, or London fiddling mad." The poetry by W. T. Moncrieff, Esq., and the melody by one of the first composers of the day! London, published by Leoni Lee, circa 1831. The "poetry" is not of a classical standard. "What a hubbub! what a fuss! all London sure are frantic Sirs, The Prince of Fiddlers has arriv'd, great Paganini has come. So wonderful, exorbitant, so frightful, so romantic, Sirs, the world of Music at his mighty presence are struck dumb. So firm his touch, so fine his stop, everyone must own his sway, Great King King of Catgut! Agitato! presto! Who but he Sirs, Mori, Spagnoletti, now must second fiddle play, Sirs-- Glory be to Tweedle dum! Success to Tweedle dee! Sirs-- Such golden sounds, he from one string can draw, no sum can pay him, Sirs, Germany, France, Italy, combined his fame to puff The prices must be doubled, all the world crowd to survey him, Sirs, Four thousand pounds a night to pay him is not half enough, Sixpences, none, after this, must dare call fiddlers' money Sirs. Thousands, tens of thousands, must the wondrous man reward," etc., etc., and so on for five verses! _Plate 7_--Facing page 54. SIGR. PAGANINI. During one of his performances at the King's Theatre, June, 1831. From a contemporary lithograph of the celebrated sketch by D. Maclise, R.A., now in the Foster Collection, South Kensington Museum. In the background are J. B. Cramer, Lindley, Dragonetti, Mori, etc. This is, perhaps, the most interesting print of the great violinist. It was published on July 12th, 1831, by W. Spooner, 259, Regent Street, London. _Plate 8_--Facing page 60. Reproduction of the celebrated Statuette (caricature), by Dainton. _Plate 9_--Facing page 66. PAGANINI WITH THE VIOLIN, Rossini at the pianoforte and the celebrated prima-donna Pasta. (Jos. McGuire, delt., printed by Englemann & Co.), circa 1832. _Plate 10_--Facing page 76. A COPY OF THE ORIGINAL OIL PAINTING OF PAGANINI in the Municipal Museum at Genoa. The face full of intellect, shows the ravages of the disease which was so soon to terminate his existence. _Plate 11_--Facing page 80. THE HOUSE AT NICE IN WHICH PAGANINI DIED on the 27th May, 1840. It was formerly the residence of the Count de Sessol. The lower part has been converted into shops. _Plate 12_--Facing page 80. THE TABLET, with inscription, fixed on the front of the house, Rue de la Prefecture, Nice, France. _Plate 13_--Facing page 84. THE TOMB OF PAGANINI AT PARMA. Neither religious nor political martyr ever had so many objections made to his obsequies. To the cemetery, near Parma, in November, 1876, the embalmed remains of Paganini were transposed from the family villa at Gaione, by order of his son, the Baron Achille (who died in December, 1895). The funeral was held at night by torchlight. A nephew, the Baron Attila Paganini, followed, and crowds of curious sightseers joined the procession. In 1893 there was erected the beautiful mausoleum which is now depicted from the only known photograph, taken expressly for THE STRAD. It bears this inscription:-- Qui riposano le ceneri di Nicolò Paganini Che traendo dal violino armonie divine Scosse genio insuperabile tutta Europa e cinse all'Italia, Nuova sfolgorante corona. Mente elettissima Compose stupendamente in musica Ammirato dai piu illustri maestri. Cuore oltremodo generoso donò largamente ai parenti, agli artisti ai poveri. Beneath this cupola of white marble, with its granite columns, may the ashes of Paganini rest in peace. His true remains--his reputation, his influence, his music, are with us for ever. _Plate 14_--Facing page 90. PAGANINI IN PRISON. One of the many scandals which is contradicted in the text. (See page 90.) There is another prison story that during Paganini's incarceration, he was reduced to the G, in consequence of the other strings having broken--hence his wonderful development of the fourth. This is again apocryphal. Paganini has greater claim to a scientific knowledge of the acoustical property of strings. _Plates 15, 16, and 17_, see pages 101, 102, and 103, are reproductions of Paganini's MSS. in the British Museum. No. 15, a letter (dated April 16th, 1832, and in French) thanking the person addressed, for kindness shown to his "cher fils Achille," Nos. 16 (dated February 19th, 1835) and 17 (dated May 5th, 1838); short notes (in Italian) are interesting autographs. Paganini was proverbially a "silent man"--his epistles are very rare. _Plates 18, 19, 20, 21, and 22_--Pages 129-133. These reproductions of rare programmes tell their own tales--they are interesting, because there are seen the items and the arrangement of concerts, also the prices, for admission, etc.--in those years. _Plate 23_--Facing page 136. FACSIMILE OF A LETTER BY PAGANINI, dated 1829. It was formerly in the possession of the late Mr. Carrodus, the great English violinist. _Plate 24_--Facing page 144. A SEMI-CARICATURE OF PAGANINI with the inscription. The Modern Apollo (not Belvedere) Receiving the homage of 5,000 persons, after having pocketed £2,000 for two hours' performance. Sketched at his last Concert at the King's Theatre. Published by G. Madeley, Wellington Street, Strand, 1831. _Plates 25 and 26_, see pages 176 and 177. Reproductions of music MS. in British Museum. A Theme, with variations for violin, with accompaniment, is a curious example of the great master's compositions. _Plate 27_--Facing page 190. COPY OF A RARE COPPER MEDAL struck in Paganini's honor in 1831. BIBLIOGRAPHY. The extraordinary career of Paganini has received more attention than the life of any other instrumentalist. Of these biographies, it is impossible to give a complete list. The following may, however, be commended. "Paganini in seinem Reisewagen und Zimmer, in seinen redseligen Stunden, in gesellsschaftlichen Kirkeln, und seinen Concerten." Brunswick, Vieweg, 1830. Mr. George Harris, the writer of this pamphlet, was an Englishman, who in order to study Paganini, became the Violinist's secretary and interpreter. "Leben, Charakter und Kunst N. Paganini's--Eine Skizze,"--by M. F. Shütz, a Professor at Halle. Leipzig, 1830. "Paganini's Leben und Treiben als Künstler und als Mensch." Prague, 1830. Written by Professor Schottky. "Paganini's Leben und Charakter," by M. L. Vinela. Hamburg, 1830. "Notice sur le célèbre violoniste Nicolò Paganini," by M. J. Imbert de Laphaléque. Paris. "Paganini et de Bériot, ou Avis aux artistes qui se destinent à l'enseignement du Violon," by F. Fayolle. Paris, 1831. "Paganini, his life, his person, and a few words upon his secret," by J. L. Anders. Paris, 1831. "Vita di Nicolò Paganini di Genova, scritta ed illustrata da Giancarlo Conestabile, socio di varie Academie." Perugia, 1831. "Nicolo Paganini," by F. J. Fétis. Published by Schott and Co. "L'Album." "Paganini." Rome, 1840. "Good Words." Three articles by Rev. H. R. Haweis, M.A. "Musical Gem." "Paganini." Portrait by R. J. Hamerton. London, 1832. "The Violin," with some account of that leading instrument and its most eminent professors, by George Dubourg, 1836 and 1878. This interesting book contains a long account of Paganini (illustrated.) "Life of Moscheles." Two vols. 1873. In Vol. I., chapters 13 and 14, "Paganini." "Louis Spohr's Autobiography," _vide_ "Paganini," Vol. I., page 279, and Vol. II., page 168. Spohr says: "His (Paganini's) left hand and his constantly pure intonation were to me astonishing." "Dictionary of Music and Musicians," by Sir George Grove, D.C.L., _vide_ article Paganini. "Encyclopädie der gesammten musicalischen Wissenschaften," by Dr. Gustav Schilling. Article Paganini. Dr. Riemann's "Dictionary of Music," article Paganini. "The Strad," various articles and paragraphs in the series of this journal. "The Violin," by George Hart. Engravings of Paganini's Violin. "Old Violins and their Makers," by James M. Fleming. "Ole Bull," by Sara C. Bull. Various notices of Paganini. "Musical Opinion," July, August, and September, 1888. A renowned fiddler (Paganini.) Three articles by Richard Harrison. "Musical News," 1903. "A Wooden Shoe" (Story of Paganini) by M. P. Audebrand. "Paganiniana," (circa 1865.) "Troubadour," August, 1899. Paganini, by Richard Harrison. "The Athenæum," 1831. Critiques on Paganini. "The Tatler," 1831. "An account of Paganini's début in London," June 3rd, 1831, by Mr. Gardner of Leicester, appears in Dubourg's "Violin." "Paganini's Concerts in Paris." A clever description was published in "Le Globe." "Foreign Quarterly Review" (circa 1832). "Catalogue of Paganini's compositions," by M. Conestabile. Paganini's works are published by Ricordi and Co., of Milan, and Schott and Co., of Mayence and London. "Revue et Gazette Musicale de Paris," December 23rd, 1840. Article Paganini. "Story of the Violin," by Paul Stoeving. "The Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review," Vol. X. "Ueber Paganini's Kunst, die Violine zu spielen," by Carl F. W. Guhr, original edition 1831. Modern. Schott and Co. "Biographical Sketches of Celebrated Violinists." London: Bentley, publisher. "Celebrated Violinists, Past and Present." Translated from the German of A. Ehrlich, and edited with notes and additions by Robin H. Legge (eighteen pages devoted to Paganini). Portraits. STRAD Office, London. "Notice of Antony Stradivari," by F. J. Fétis. Translated by John Bishop. London, 1864. "The Harmonicon." An excellent musical journal. Published in London (contemporary with Paganini). "The Life of Rossini," by Sutherland Edwards. "History of Music," by Emil Naumann. 2 vols. Cassell and Co., London, 1886. "Life and Letters of Sir Charles Hallé." Paganini is mentioned by a musical amateur (Count de Stendhal), 1814 and 1817. "Diary of an Invalid," by Mathews, 1818. "History of the Violin," by William Sandys and S. A. Forster, 1864. "Old Violins," by Rev. H. R. Haweis, M.A. 1898. "Researches into the History of the Violin Family," by Carl Engel. 1883. "Musical World." 1836. "Musical and Personal Recollections," by Henry Phillips, 1864. "Music and Manners in France and Germany," by Henry F. Chorley. 1841. "The Student's History of Music," by F. L. Ritter. 1880. Collectors will be interested in the Medals and Busts of Paganini. The English and Continental contemporary Press notices, etc., would alone make a Paganini volume. Of Paganini, there are many portraits, though too generally caricatures. M. Fétis, in his Life of Paganini, gives a short but incomplete catalogue. Those included in this volume have been carefully selected from contemporary prints, etc. ADVERTISEMENTS "THE STRAD" LIBRARY No. I. _Crown 8vo., Cloth, 2/6, Post Free, 2/9._ _"THE STRAD" LIBRARY EDITION is the only Authorised Edition of_ Technics of Violin Playing ON JOACHIM'S METHOD BY CARL COURVOISIER, With Folding Plates, containing Fifteen Illustrations. LETTER FROM DR. JOACHIM. [COPY.] MY DEAR MR. COURVOISIER: I have read the book on Violin Playing you have sent me, and have to congratulate you sincerely on the manner in which you have performed a most difficult task, _i.e._, to describe the best way of arriving at a correct manner of playing the violin. It cannot but be welcome to thoughtful teachers, who reflect on the method of our art, and I hope that your work will prove useful to many students. Believe me, my dear Mr. Courvoisier, to be most faithfully yours, JOSEPH JOACHIM. Berlin, November 3rd, 1894. The New and Revised Edition of "Technics of Violin Playing," issued by THE STRAD, is the only authorised edition of my work. The several English Editions which have all appeared without my knowledge are _incomplete_ and _faulty_. CARL COURVOISIER. "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. II. _Crown 8vo., Cloth, 2/6, Post Free, 2/9._ HOW TO STUDY THE VIOLIN By J. T. CARRODUS. CONTENTS. Strings and Tuning. The Bow and Bowing. Faults and their Correction. Scales and their Importance. Course of Study. Advice on Elementary Matters. Concerning Harmonics, Octaves, etc. Orchestral Playing. Some Experiences as a Soloist. With full page portraits of Carrodus, Molique, Paganini, Spohr, Sivori, De Beriot, Blagrove and Sainton, and a photo-reproduction of Dr. Spohr's testimonial to Carrodus. "An interesting series of articles 'How to Study the Violin,' which Carrodus contributed to THE STRAD, and completed only a week or two before his death, have now been collected in cheap book form. The technical hints to violin students, which are practical, plainly worded, and from such a pen most valuable."--_Daily News._ "But a few weeks before his sudden death the most distinguished of native violinists completed in THE STRAD a series of chats to students of the instrument associated with his name. These chats are now re-issued, with a sympathetic preface and instructive annotations. All who care to listen to what were virtually the last words of such a conscientious teacher will recognise the pains taken by Carrodus to render every detail as clear to the novice as to the advanced pupil. Pleasant gossip concerning provincial festivals at which Carrodus was for many years 'leader' of the orchestra, ends a little volume worthy a place in musical libraries both for its practical value and as a memento of the life-work of an artist universally esteemed."--_Daily Chronicle._ "It is surely, hardly necessary to direct the attention of students to the unique value of the hints and advice given by so experienced and accomplished a virtuoso as the late Mr. Carrodus, so that it only remains to state that the 'Recollections' make delightful reading, and that the book, as a whole, is as entertaining as it is instructive. The value of the _brochure_ is enhanced by an excellent portrait of Mr. Carrodus, as well as of a number of other violin worthies, and the printing, paper, and get up generally are good as could possibly be."--_Musical Answers._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. III. _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 2/6, Post Free, 2/9._ THE BOW Its History, Manufacture and Use BY HENRY SAINT-GEORGE. With Full Page Illustrations (exact size) by Photo Process. MONS. EMILE SAURET writes--"I have read it with great interest, and think that it supplies a real want in giving musicians such an excellent description of all matters referring to this important instrument." SIGNOR GUIDO PAPINI writes--"Thanks so much for your splendid and interesting book. You are quite successful and all the artists and amateurs are indebted to you for so exact and correct a '_Texte_' on the subject." ADOLF BRODSKY writes--"I am delighted with the book and find it very instructive, even for those who think to know everything about the bow. It is very original and at times very amusing. No violinist should miss the opportunity to buy it." THE TIMES--"A useful treatise on the Bow, in which the history, manufacture and use of the bow are discussed with considerable technical knowledge." DAILY TELEGRAPH--"To the student there is much of interest in the work, which has the advantage of being copiously illustrated." DAILY NEWS--"This book seems practically to exhaust its subject." _"THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. IV._ _Crown 8vo., Cloth, 5/-, Post Free, 5/4._ CELEBRATED VIOLINISTS: PAST AND PRESENT, _Translated from the German of_ A. EHRLICH, _And Edited with Notes and Additions by_ ROBIN H. LEGGE. _WITH EIGHTY-NINE PORTRAITS._ PRESS NOTICES. "Those who love their fiddles better than their fellows, and who treasure up every detail that can be found and recorded about their favourite and cherished players, will not fail to provide themselves with a copy of this book."--_Musical Opinion._ "This book of 280 pages is a most interesting and valuable addition to the violinist's library. It contains 89 biographical sketches of well-known artists, ancient and modern, of all nations. This is not intended to be a perfect dictionary of violinists; the aim of the Editor of the present volume being merely to give a few more up-to-date details concerning some of the greatest of stringed instrument players, and we must concede that no name of the first importance has been omitted. Germany is represented by 21 names, Italy by 13, France by 10, England by 4, Bohemia by 8, Belgium by 7, and the fair sex by seven well-known ladies, such as Teresina Tua, Therése and Marie Milanollo, Lady Hallé, Marie Soldat, Gabrielle Wietrowetz, and Arma Senkrah. Altogether this is most agreeable reading to the numerous army of violinists, both professionals and amateurs, and after careful examination we can find nothing but praise for this translation into English of a book well known on the Continent."--_The Piano, Organ and Music Trades Journal._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. V. _Crown 8vo., Cloth, 2/6, Post Free, 2/9._ TECHNICS OF VIOLONCELLO PLAYING BY E. VAN DER STRAETEN. COPIOUSLY ILLUSTRATED. _Copy of Letter received by the Author from the great 'cellist, SIGNOR ALFRED PIATTI._ Cadenabbia, Lake of Como, March 9th, 1898. DEAR SIR,--I received the book you kindly sent me on "The Technics of Violoncello Playing," which I found excellent, particularly for beginners, which naturally was your scope. With many thanks for kindly remembering an old ex-violoncello player. Believe me, yours sincerely, ALFRED PIATTI. _Copy of Letter received by the Author from the eminent 'cellist, HERR DAVID POPPER._ Budapest, February 22nd, 1898. DEAR SIR,--In sending me your book on "The Technics of Violoncello Playing" you have given me a real and true pleasure. I know of no work, tutors and studies not excepted, which presents so much valuable material, so much that is absolutely to the point, avoiding--I might say, on principle--all that is superfluous and dispensable. Every earnest thinking violoncello student will in future make your book his own and thereby receive hints which will further and complete the instructions of his master. I congratulate you and ourselves most heartily on the new violoncello book. With kind regards, Yours most sincerely, DAVID POPPER. "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. VI. _Crown 8vo., Cloth, 2/6, Post Free, 2/9._ VIOLIN PLAYING BY JOHN DUNN. CONTENTS INTRODUCTORY--Qualities indispensable to the ideal Violinist--Hints on the Choice of a Teacher--Some Tricks of pretending professors exposed. ON THE CHOICE OF A VIOLIN AND BOW--Advice regarding general adjustment and repairs. ON THE CHOICE OF STRINGS--Stringing the Instrument and keeping the Pegs in Order. ON THE GENERAL POSTURE--The manner of holding the Violin and Bow as accepted by the leading artists of the day. ON FINGERING GENERALLY--The various positions--Scales recommended--The Modern Orchestral "Principal" or (so-called) Leader. ON GLIDING--Special Characteristics of some of the most Eminent Players. DOUBLE STOPPING--The main difficulty in Double Stopping--How to gain Independence of Finger. BOWINGS--Smooth Bowings--Solid Staccato--Spiccato--Spring Bow--Mixed Bowings. TONE PRODUCTION--Character of Tone--Rules and Conditions necessary to produce a good tone--Style and Expression. "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. VII. _Crown 8vo., Cloth, 2/6, Post Free, 2/9._ Chats to 'Cello Students BY ARTHUR BROADLEY. "Musicians, devotees of the 'cello in particular, will welcome the latest volume of THE 'STRAD Library,' 'Chats to 'Cello Students,' by Arthur Broadley.... Mr. Broadley not only knows what he is talking about, but has practised what he says. From the choice of an instrument to finished delivery and orchestral playing, 'Chats to 'Cello Students' leaves nothing undiscussed. The treatment is simple and practical. The exhaustive chapter on 'bowing' should be an invaluable aid to students. In the last chapter of his book, 'On Delivery and Style' Mr. Broadley has given a lucid expression to a subject which has sadly needed voicing."--_The Tribune, Nuneaton._ "Is a brightly written little volume filled with practical information for those who seek to bring out the wealth of expression of which the violoncello is capable. The instruction is presented in homely, common-sense fashion, and there are upwards of fifty examples in music type to illustrate the author's meaning."--_Lloyd's Weekly._ "Every kind of bowing and fingering, the portamento, harmonic effects, arpeggios and their evolution from various chords, are all ably treated, and the work concludes with a few remarks on orchestral playing which are of especial interest."--_Musical News._ "As a writer on the technique of his instrument Mr. Broadley is known all over the world, perhaps his most successful work being a little book published by THE STRAD, 'Chats to 'Cello Students.'"--_The Violinist._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. VIII. _Crown 8vo., Cloth, 2/6, Post Free, 2/9._ ANTONIO STRADIVARI BY HORACE PETHERICK. _Of the Music Jury, International Inventions Exhibition, South Kensington, 1885; International Exhibition, Edinburgh, 1890; Expert in Law Courts, 1891; President of the Cremona Society._ ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR. "This is the history of the life-work of the great Italian stringed musical instrument maker.... There is a most interesting analysis of Stradivari's method of mechanical construction which again is illustrated by original drawings from the many Strads which it has been Mr. Petherick's privilege to examine. All lovers of the king of instruments will read this delightful little volume."--_Reynolds._ "Among makers of violins Stradivari perhaps occupies the premier position, and this account of his work, designs, and variations in finish of details will afford pleasure to many readers."--_Morning Post._ "This is a monograph which all students of the violin will be happy to possess. The author is a connoisseur and expert, and his account of the great Cremonese master and his life-work, is singularly well and clearly told, whilst the technical descriptions and diagrams cannot fail to interest everyone who has fallen under the spell of the violin.... Mr. Petherick traces the career of Stradivari from his earliest insight into the mysteries of the craft to his highest achievements. Numerous illustrations lend attraction to the volume, not the least being a view of Stradivari's atelier, from a painting by Rinaldi, the sketch of which was made on the premises."--_Music._ "Mr. Petherick is well known in the musical world as a violin expert with a special knowledge of the instruments made by the Cremonese master, whose biography he has here given us. He tells us how the master worked, what his pupils did, and where their work differs from that of their preceptor. In fact, the volume is as much a dissertation on the violins of Stradivari as a biography of the master, and is full of deeply interesting matter."--_Lloyds._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. IX. _Crown 8vo., Cloth, 5/-, Post Free, 5/4._ VIOLIN MAKING BY WALTER H. MAYSON, With Thirty-one Full-page PHOTO ETCHINGS, Illustrating the process of Violin-making in every stage--from the rough slab of wood to the finished Instrument. The text is written by an =Actual Violin Maker=, in a very clear and lucid style. "'Popular lecture' style, with photographic illustrations."--_The Times._ "A feature of the book is the clearness of the illustrations."--_Morning Post._ "Describes a very fascinating art from start to finish."--_Morning Leader._ "This new booklet, on how to make a violin, is an admirable exposition of methods. Mr. Mayson avoids learned terminology. He uses the simplest English, and goes straight to the point. He begins by showing the young learner how to choose the best wood for the violin that is to be. Throughout a whole chatty, perfectly simple chapter, he discourses on the back. A separate chapter is devoted to the modelling of the back, and a third to its 'working out.' The art of sound-holes, ribs, neck, fingerboard, the scroll, the belly. Among the illustrations is one showing the tools which the author himself uses in the making of his instruments. To learners of the well-known Manchester maker's delicate art we commend this little volume."--_Daily News._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. X. _Crown 8vo., Cloth, 2/6, Post Free, 2/9._ (DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO DR. JOSEPH JOACHIM) THE VIOLIN MUSIC OF BEETHOVEN, Critically discussed, and Illustrated with over FIFTY MUSICAL EXAMPLES, BY J. MATTHEWS. The book contains analytical and historical notes upon the Chamber Music of Beethoven, in which the violin takes part as a solo instrument, with some account of the various editions of the principal works; Beethoven's method of working, as shown by his Sketch Books, etc. It is dedicated to Dr. JOACHIM, who has furnished some notes respecting the stringed instruments possessed by Beethoven. _Extract from Author's Preface_:-- "Young students often suppose that they ought to admire every work which proceeds from a great genius; an attempt therefore has been made to convey some idea of the relative art-value and importance of the various compositions discussed in these pages. For between the best work of any man and his least inspired, there is a wide difference. Certainly nothing annoyed the great master more than to hear his least mature works praised, especially at a time when many of his greatest creations were too little studied to be understood save by a few." "Mr. John Matthews--dealing with Beethoven's music in pleasant fashion, and at not too great length--gives an historical account, and in many instances short analyses, with illustrations in music type of Beethoven's works for this instrument, and particularly the sonatas (to which considerable space is devoted), the trios, the quartets, and other compositions in which the master employed the violin. The book will be found by amateurs both interesting and instructive."--_Daily News._ LONDON: "STRAD" OFFICE, 3, GREEN TERRACE, ROSEBERY AVENUE, E.C. "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. I. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. _"THE STRAD" LIBRARY EDITION is the only Authorised Edition of_ Technics of Violin Playing ON JOACHIM'S METHOD BY CARL COURVOISIER, With Folding Plates, containing Fifteen Illustrations. LETTER FROM DR. JOACHIM. [COPY.] MY DEAR MR. COURVOISIER: I have read the book on Violin Playing you have sent me, and have to congratulate you sincerely on the manner in which you have performed a most difficult task, _i.e._, to describe the best way of arriving at a correct manner of playing the violin. It cannot but be welcome to thoughtful teachers, who reflect on the method of our art, and I hope that your work will prove useful to many students. Believe me, my dear Mr. Courvoisier, to be most faithfully yours, JOSEPH JOACHIM. Berlin, November 3rd, 1894. The New and Revised Edition of "Technics of Violin Playing," issued by THE STRAD, is the only authorised edition of my work. The several English Editions which have all appeared without my knowledge are _incomplete_ and _faulty_. CARL COURVOISIER. "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. II. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. HOW TO STUDY THE VIOLIN By J. T. CARRODUS. CONTENTS. Strings and Tuning. The Bow and Bowing. Faults and their Correction. Scales and their Importance. Course of Study. Advice on Elementary Matters. Concerning Harmonics, Octaves, etc. Orchestral Playing. Some Experiences as a Soloist. With full page portraits of Carrodus, Molique, Paganini, Spohr, Sivori, De Beriot, Blagrove and Sainton, and a photo-reproduction of Dr. Spohr's testimonial to Carrodus. "An interesting series of articles 'How to Study the Violin,' which Carrodus contributed to THE STRAD, and completed only a week or two before his death, have now been collected in cheap book form. The technical hints to violin students, which are practical, plainly worded, and from such a pen most valuable."--_Daily News._ "But a few weeks before his sudden death the most distinguished of native violinists completed in THE STRAD a series of chats to students of the instrument associated with his name. These chats are now re-issued, with a sympathetic preface and instructive annotations. All who care to listen to what were virtually the last words of such a conscientious teacher will recognise the pains taken by Carrodus to render every detail as clear to the novice as to the advanced pupil. Pleasant gossip concerning provincial festivals at which Carrodus was for many years 'leader' of the orchestra, ends a little volume worthy a place in musical libraries both for its practical value and as a memento of the life-work of an artist universally esteemed."--_Daily Chronicle._ "It is surely, hardly necessary to direct the attention of students to the unique value of the hints and advice given by so experienced and accomplished a virtuoso as the late Mr. Carrodus, so that it only remains to state that the 'Recollections' make delightful reading, and that the book, as a whole, is as entertaining as it is instructive. The value of the _brochure_ is enhanced by an excellent portrait of Mr. Carrodus, as well as of a number of other violin worthies, and the printing, paper, and get up generally are good as could possibly be."--_Musical Answers._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. III. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. THE BOW Its History, Manufacture and Use BY HENRY SAINT-GEORGE. With Full Page Illustrations (exact size) by Photo Process. MONS. EMILE SAURET writes--"I have read it with great interest, and think that it supplies a real want in giving musicians such an excellent description of all matters referring to this important instrument." SIGNOR GUIDO PAPINI writes--"Thanks so much for your splendid and interesting book. You are quite successful and all the artists and amateurs are indebted to you for so exact and correct a '_Texte_' on the subject." ADOLF BRODSKY writes--"I am delighted with the book and find it very instructive, even for those who think to know everything about the bow. It is very original and at times very amusing. No violinist should miss the opportunity to buy it." THE TIMES--"A useful treatise on the Bow, in which the history, manufacture and use of the bow are discussed with considerable technical knowledge." DAILY TELEGRAPH--"To the student there is much of interest in the work, which has the advantage of being copiously illustrated." DAILY NEWS--"This book seems practically to exhaust its subject." "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. IV. 12MO., CLOTH, 2.00. CELEBRATED VIOLINISTS: PAST AND PRESENT, _Translated from the German of_ A. EHRLICH, _And Edited with Notes and Additions by_ ROBIN H. LEGGE. _WITH EIGHTY-NINE PORTRAITS._ PRESS NOTICES. "Those who love their fiddles better than their fellows, and who treasure up every detail that can be found and recorded about their favourite and cherished players, will not fail to provide themselves with a copy of this book."--_Musical Opinion._ "This book of 280 pages is a most interesting and valuable addition to the violinist's library. It contains 89 biographical sketches of well-known artists, ancient and modern, of all nations. This is not intended to be a perfect dictionary of violinists; the aim of the Editor of the present volume being merely to give a few more up-to-date details concerning some of the greatest of stringed instrument players, and we must concede that no name of the first importance has been omitted. Germany is represented by 21 names, Italy by 13, France by 10, England by 4, Bohemia by 8, Belgium by 7, and the fair sex by seven well-known ladies, such as Teresina Tua, Therése and Marie Milanollo, Lady Hallé, Marie Soldat, Gabrielle Wietrowetz, and Arma Senkrah. Altogether this is most agreeable reading to the numerous army of violinists, both professionals and amateurs, and after careful examination we can find nothing but praise for this translation into English of a book well known on the Continent."--_The Piano, Organ and Music Trades Journal._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. V. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. TECHNICS OF VIOLONCELLO PLAYING BY E. VAN DER STRAETEN. COPIOUSLY ILLUSTRATED. _Copy of Letter received by the Author from the great 'cellist, SIGNOR ALFRED PIATTI._ Cadenabbia, Lake of Como, March 9th, 1898. DEAR SIR,--I received the book you kindly sent me on "The Technics of Violoncello Playing," which I found excellent, particularly for beginners, which naturally was your scope. With many thanks for kindly remembering an old ex-violoncello player. Believe me, yours sincerely, ALFRED PIATTI. _Copy of Letter received by the Author from the eminent 'cellist, HERR DAVID POPPER._ Budapest, February 22nd, 1898. DEAR SIR,--In sending me your book on "The Technics of Violoncello Playing" you have given me a real and true pleasure. I know of no work, tutors and studies not excepted, which presents so much valuable material, so much that is absolutely to the point, avoiding--I might say, on principle--all that is superfluous and dispensable. Every earnest thinking violoncello student will in future make your book his own and thereby receive hints which will further and complete the instructions of his master. I congratulate you and ourselves most heartily on the new violoncello book. With kind regards, Yours most sincerely, DAVID POPPER. "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. VI. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00 VIOLIN PLAYING BY JOHN DUNN. CONTENTS INTRODUCTORY--Qualities indispensable to the ideal Violinist--Hints on the Choice of a Teacher--Some Tricks of pretending professors exposed. ON THE CHOICE OF A VIOLIN AND BOW--Advice regarding general adjustment and repairs. ON THE CHOICE OF STRINGS--Stringing the Instrument and keeping the Pegs in Order. ON THE GENERAL POSTURE--The manner of holding the Violin and Bow as accepted by the leading artists of the day. ON FINGERING GENERALLY--The various positions--Scales recommended--The Modern Orchestral "Principal" or (so-called) Leader. ON GLIDING--Special Characteristics of some of the most Eminent Players. DOUBLE STOPPING--The main difficulty in Double Stopping--How to gain Independence of Finger. BOWINGS--Smooth Bowings--Solid Staccato--Spiccato--Spring Bow--Mixed Bowings. TONE PRODUCTION--Character of Tone--Rules and Conditions necessary to produce a good tone--Style and Expression. "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, NO. VII. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. Chats to 'Cello Students BY ARTHUR BROADLEY. "Musicians, devotees of the 'cello in particular, will welcome the latest volume of THE 'STRAD Library,' 'Chats to 'Cello Students,' by Arthur Broadley.... Mr. Broadley not only knows what he is talking about, but has practised what he says. From the choice of an instrument to finished delivery and orchestral playing, 'Chats to 'Cello Students' leaves nothing undiscussed. The treatment is simple and practical. The exhaustive chapter on 'bowing' should be an invaluable aid to students. In the last chapter of his book, 'On Delivery and Style' Mr. Broadley has given a lucid expression to a subject which has sadly needed voicing."--_The Tribune, Nuneaton._ "Is a brightly written little volume filled with practical information for those who seek to bring out the wealth of expression of which the violoncello is capable. The instruction is presented in homely, common-sense fashion, and there are upwards of fifty examples in music type to illustrate the author's meaning."--_Lloyd's Weekly._ "Every kind of bowing and fingering, the portamento, harmonic effects, arpeggios and their evolution from various chords, are all ably treated, and the work concludes with a few remarks on orchestral playing which are of especial interest."--_Musical News._ "As a writer on the technique of his instrument Mr. Broadley is known all over the world, perhaps his most successful work being a little book published by THE STRAD, 'Chats to 'Cello Students.'"--_The Violinist._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. VIII. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. ANTONIO STRADIVARI BY HORACE PETHERICK. _Of the Music Jury, International Inventions Exhibition, South Kensington, 1885; International Exhibition, Edinburgh, 1890; Expert in Law Courts, 1891; President of the Cremona Society._ ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR. "This is the history of the life-work of the great Italian stringed musical instrument maker.... There is a most interesting analysis of Stradivari's method of mechanical construction which again is illustrated by original drawings from the many Strads which it has been Mr. Petherick's privilege to examine. All lovers of the king of instruments will read this delightful little volume."--_Reynolds._ "Among makers of violins Stradivari perhaps occupies the premier position, and this account of his work, designs, and variations in finish of details will afford pleasure to many readers."--_Morning Post._ "This is a monograph which all students of the violin will be happy to possess. The author is a connoisseur and expert, and his account of the great Cremonese master and his life-work, is singularly well and clearly told, whilst the technical descriptions and diagrams cannot fail to interest everyone who has fallen under the spell of the violin.... Mr. Petherick traces the career of Stradivari from his earliest insight into the mysteries of the craft to his highest achievements. Numerous illustrations lend attraction to the volume, not the least being a view of Stradivari's atelier, from a painting by Rinaldi, the sketch of which was made on the premises."--_Music._ "Mr. Petherick is well known in the musical world as a violin expert with a special knowledge of the instruments made by the Cremonese master, whose biography he has here given us. He tells us how the master worked, what his pupils did, and where their work differs from that of their preceptor. In fact, the volume is as much a dissertation on the violins of Stradivari as a biography of the master, and is full of deeply interesting matter."--_Lloyds._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. IX. 12MO., CLOTH, 2.00. VIOLIN MAKING BY WALTER H. MAYSON, With Thirty-one Full-page PHOTO ETCHINGS, Illustrating the process of Violin-making in every stage--from the rough slab of wood to the finished Instrument. The text is written by an =Actual Violin Maker=, in a very clear and lucid style. "'Popular lecture' style, with photographic illustrations."--_The Times._ "A feature of the book is the clearness of the illustrations."--_Morning Post._ "Describes a very fascinating art from start to finish."--_Morning Leader._ "This new booklet, on how to make a violin, is an admirable exposition of methods. Mr. Mayson avoids learned terminology. He uses the simplest English, and goes straight to the point. He begins by showing the young learner how to choose the best wood for the violin that is to be. Throughout a whole chatty, perfectly simple chapter, he discourses on the back. A separate chapter is devoted to the modelling of the back, and a third to its 'working out.' The art of sound-holes, ribs, neck, fingerboard, the scroll, the belly. Among the illustrations is one showing the tools which the author himself uses in the making of his instruments. To learners of the well-known Manchester maker's delicate art we commend this little volume."--_Daily News._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. X. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. (DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO DR. JOSEPH JOACHIM) THE VIOLIN MUSIC OF BEETHOVEN, Critically discussed, and Illustrated with over FIFTY MUSICAL EXAMPLES, BY J. MATTHEWS. The book contains analytical and historical notes upon the Chamber Music of Beethoven, in which the violin takes part as a solo instrument, with some account of the various editions of the principal works; Beethoven's method of working, as shown by his Sketch Books, etc. It is dedicated to Dr. JOACHIM, who has furnished some notes respecting the stringed instruments possessed by Beethoven. _Extract from Author's Preface_:-- "Young students often suppose that they ought to admire every work which proceeds from a great genius; an attempt therefore has been made to convey some idea of the relative art-value and importance of the various compositions discussed in these pages. For between the best work of any man and his least inspired, there is a wide difference. Certainly nothing annoyed the great master more than to hear his least mature works praised, especially at a time when many of his greatest creations were too little studied to be understood save by a few." "Mr. John Matthews--dealing with Beethoven's music in pleasant fashion, and at not too great length--gives an historical account, and in many instances short analyses, with illustrations in music type of Beethoven's works for this instrument, and particularly the sonatas (to which considerable space is devoted), the trios, the quartets, and other compositions in which the master employed the violin. The book will be found by amateurs both interesting and instructive."--_Daily News._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, NO. XI. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. Advice to Pupils & Teachers of the Violin, BY BASIL ALTHAUS. _Strongly recommended by_ =AUGUST WILHELMJ= & =GUIDO PAPINI=. _London, March 18th, 1903._ DEAR MR. ALTHAUS, I read your book, "Advice to Pupils and Teachers of the Violin," with great interest, and find it very useful. Hoping your book will meet with the success it deserves. I am, yours sincerely, AUGUST WILHELMJ. _London, Feb. 19th, 1903._ DEAR MR. ALTHAUS, I have read with interest your admirable book, "Advice to Pupils and Teachers of the Violin." I have no hesitation in recommending it as an indispensable work to all aspiring violinists and teachers. Your remarks on the acquirement of the various bowings, with the many musical examples, are excellent. I know of no work on this important subject so explicit and exhaustive. Wishing your book the great success it deserves, Believe me, yours sincerely, GUIDO PAPINI. "I have read the 157 pages that go to form the book in question, and can say, without any misgiving, that Mr. Althaus has successfully achieved what he set out to do."--_Musical Standard._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. XII. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. THE Repairing and Restoration of Violins, BY HORACE PETHERICK. _Of the Music Jury, International Inventions Exhibition, South Kensington, 1885; International Exhibition, Edinburgh, 1890; Expert in Law Courts, 1891; President of the Cremona Society._ WITH FIFTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. The proper sort of glue--Its preparation and use--Loose fingerboards--Injuries to the scroll--Insertion of fresh wood--Fracture of peg-box and shell--Worn peg-holes--Refilling or boring same--Grafting--Lengthening the neck--Treatment of worm-holes--Fixing on graft on neck--Ways of removing the upper table and the neck--Cleansing the interior--Closing of cracks in upper table--Getting parts together that apparently do not fit--Treatment of warped lower table--Repairing old end blocks by new ones--Matching wood for large cracks--Replacing lost portions--Repairs to purfling--Removal of a fixed sound-post--Fitting a fresh part of worm-eaten rib--Lining a thin back--Fixing the bar--Varnishing, etc., etc. "The author is a man of wide experience, and with him it is a labour of love, so that few more suitable hands could be found for the task. To him fiddles are quite human in their characteristics, needing a 'physician within beck and call,' and developing symptoms capable of temporary alleviation or permanent cure, as the case may be, and no remedial measures are left undescribed."--_Musical News._ "Mr. Petherick is a man of wide experience in violins, so his hints about the treatment and care of the instrument are invaluable. His imaginary interviews are both clever and amusing, and, moreover, contain useful information of what to do, and avoid, in the treatment of violins."--_Hereford Times._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. XIII. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. THE VIOLIN: Solo Playing, Soloists and Solos, BY WILLIAM HENLEY. "Mr. William Henley is an excellent performer, and his book, 'The Violin: Solo Playing, Soloists and Solos,' is the result of considerable practice in the art he discusses.... The opening advice to violin students, the insistence on tune first and then on tone, the latter depending greatly for its excellence upon the correctness of the former, is not only worth saying, but is said well, and with conviction. Mr. Henley discriminates well between violinists: Joachim, the classic; Carrodus, the plain; Sarasate, the neat and elegant; and Wilhelmj, the fiery and bold.... The list of violin concertos, given in the last chapter but one of the book, seems a very complete one, and should be useful for purposes of reference."--_The London and Provincial Music Trades Review._ "For the student whose intention it is to make the violin a means of livelihood--the professional soloist or orchestral player in embryo--this little work, written in a spirit of obvious sincerity, is well-nigh invaluable.... The chapters on 'Teaching and Studies,' 'The Artist,' 'Phrasing,' 'Conception,' and 'True Feeling,' are very well written, and the whole work is worth careful and diligent perusal."--_The Musical World._ "The author of this book has thought much and deeply on the fascinating subject of which he treats, and is entitled to a hearing.... The author's remarks on 'Tone' are excellently conceived, and of no small interest, the subject being less hackneyed than that of ordinary technique. In his chapter on 'Style' he reminds the readers of the many factors which go to the making of a fine violinist, among which Style--which is the outcome of the imagination and the sensibility of the player--is one of the most important. The fine executant is common enough now-a-days, but the fine stylist as rare as ever."--_Musical News._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. XIV. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. SELECTED VIOLIN SOLOS, AND HOW TO PLAY THEM, BY BASIL ALTHAUS (_Author of "Advice to Pupils and Teachers of the Violin."_) With 283 Musical Examples. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION. SECTION I. GRADE A.--Elementary Pieces. GRADE B.--Easy, not exceeding First Position. GRADE C.--Easy, using First and Third Position. SECTION II. GRADE D.--Moderately Difficult, not exceeding the Third Position. GRADE E.--Moderately Difficult, as far as the Fifth Position. GRADE F.--Difficult, especially as regards Sentiment and Expression. SECTION III. GRADE G.--Difficult, using all Positions. GRADE H.--Very Difficult, including Standard Concertos and Concert Pieces. GRADE I.--For Virtuosi. "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. XV. 12MO., CLOTH, 1.00. THE VIOLIN AND ITS STORY: OR THE HISTORY AND CONSTRUCTION OF THE VIOLIN. _Translated and Adapted from the German of_ HYACINTH ABELE BY GEOFFREY ALWYN. _WITH TWENTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS._ "The school of Cremona is dealt with at great length, but in the most interesting way. Short biographical sketches are given of the great exponents of this school, which was founded by Andreas Amati. To it belonged Antonio Stradivari, who is said to be the greatest of all violin makers, and Joseph Guarnerius. The pupils of the Amati and the others mentioned are duly tabulated before the schools of Milan and Venice are discussed. Following these we have the German school, etc., etc. Part III. of the book under notice deals with the constituent parts of the violin, and there is nothing that the seeker after knowledge cannot find here, even to the number of hairs which should go to the making of a bow. Strings, bridges, sound-posts, bass-bars, nuts, pegs--indeed, everything about a violin is treated in an authoritative way. Not for a very long time have we been so interested in a book, and for that reason we wish our violin players to share that pleasure by getting a copy."--_The Cumnock Chronicle._ "THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. XVI. 12MO., CLOTH, 2.00. JOSEPH GUARNERIUS, HIS WORK & HIS MASTER, BY HORACE PETHERICK (_Of the Music Jury, International Inventions Exhibition, South Kensington, 1885; International Exhibition, Edinburgh, 1890; Expert in Law Courts, 1891; President of the Cremona Society_). With numerous Illustrations by the Author, 41 full-page Reproductions of Photographs, AND 220 pages of Letterpress. "Mr. Petherick is well known in the musical world as a violin expert with a special knowledge of the instruments made by the Cremonese master."--_Lloyds._ This is the only exhaustive work published on JOSEPH GUARNERIUS, and the Author claims to have discovered his Teacher in Andreas Gisalberti, whose name is here mentioned for the first time as a maker of renown. NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 153-157, FIFTH AVENUE. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: "Nicolò" and "Nicolo" were both used in the text. Many other variant and alternative spellings have been preserved, except where obviously misspelled in the original. Obvious punctuation errors have also been corrected. The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next the text they illustrate. Thus the location of an illustration may not match the references to it in the text. The printed text was followed by two series of advertisements. The first series was reproduced in the second, except with American rather than British pricing. The first series bore a header "Advertisements." on each page; this has been replaced by a heading preceding the advertisements. Only the second series had page numbers. 
28462	----	[Illustration: VIRGINA LEFT THE FARMHOUSE, CARRYING HER FIDDLE AND THE PAIL OF CATS, AND THE BLIZZARD SWALLOWED HER UP.] ROSE O' PARADISE BY GRACE MILLER WHITE AUTHOR OF TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY, ETC. ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. J. SHETTSLINE [Illustration] NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY THE H. K. FLY COMPANY I lovingly dedicate this book to Rose and Will Scott CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Father and Daughter 9 II. A White Presence 28 III. Jinnie's Farewell to Molly the Merry 35 IV. Jinnie Travels 42 V. Like Unto Like Attracted 49 VI. Peg's Bark 57 VII. Just a Jew 62 VIII. "Every Hand Shall Do Its Share," Quoth Peg. 70 IX. By the Sweat of Her Brow 79 X. On the Broad Bosom of the "Happy in Spite" 83 XI. What Happened to Jinnie 89 XII. Watching 95 XIII. What Jinnie Found on the Hill 98 XIV. "He's Come to Live With Us, Peggy" 105 XV. "Who Says the Kid Can't Stay?" 110 XVI. Jinnie's Ear Gets a Tweak 116 XVII. Jinnie Discovers Her King's Throne 122 XVIII. Red Roses and Yellow 129 XIX. The Little Fiddler 136 XX. The Cobbler's Secret 145 XXI. The Coming of the Angels 152 XXII. Molly's Discovery 163 XXIII. Nobody's Cat 171 XXIV. "He Might Even Marry Her" 179 XXV. When Theodore Forgot 185 XXVI. Molly Asks to Be Forgiven 192 XXVII. "Haven't You Any Soul?" 196 XXVIII. Jinnie Decides Against Theodore 201 XXIX. Peg's Visit 207 XXX. What the Fiddle Told Theodore 214 XXXI. What Theodore Told His Friend 221 XXXII. Jordan Morse's Plan 227 XXXIII. The Murder 233 XXXIV. The Cobbler's Arrest 240 XXXV. Alone in the Shop 248 XXXVI. Jinnie Explains the Death Chair to Bobbie 253 XXXVII. What the Thunder Storm Brought 262 XXXVIII. The Story of a Bird 268 XXXIX. Jinnie's Visit to Theodore 274 XL. An Appeal to Jinnie's Heart 281 XLI. Jinnie's Plea 285 XLII. Bobbie Takes a Trip 294 XLIII. Theodore Sends for Molly 299 XLIV. Molly Gives an Order to Jinnie 304 XLV. Writing a Letter to Theodore 309 XLVI. "Bust 'Em Out" 316 XLVII. Bobbie's Stars Renew Their Shining 327 XLVIII. For Bobbie's Sake 334 XLIX. Back Home 341 L. "God Made You Mine" 346 ILLUSTRATIONS Virgina left the farmhouse, carrying her fiddle and the pail of cats, and the blizzard swallowed her up. _Frontispiece_ "I guess they won't eat much, because Milly Ann catches all kind of live things. I don't like her to do that, but I heard she was born that way and can't help it." 56 "You needn't feel so glad nor look as if you was goin' to tumble over. It ain't no credit to anyone them curtains was on the shelf waitin' to be cut up in a dress for you to fiddle in." 136 "Play for me," Theodore said. "Stand by that big tree so I can look at you." 216 ROSE O' PARADISE CHAPTER I FATHER AND DAUGHTER On a hill, reared back from a northern lake, stood a weather-beaten farmhouse, creaking in a heavy winter blizzard. It was an old-fashioned, many-pillared structure. The earmarks of hard winters and the fierce suns of summer were upon it. From the main road it was scarcely discernible, settled, as it was, behind a row of pine trees, which in the night wind beat and tossed mournfully. In the front room, which faced the porch, sat a man,--a tall, thin man, with straight, long jaws, and heavy overhanging brows. With moody eyes he was staring into the grate fire, a fearful expression upon his face. He straightened his shoulders, got up, and paced the floor back and forth, stopping now and then to listen expectantly. Then again he seated himself to wait. Several times, passionately insistent, he shook his head, and it was as if the refusal were being made to an invisible presence. Suddenly he lifted his face as the sound of a weird, wild wail was borne to him, mingling with the elf-like moaning of the wind. He leaned forward slightly, listening intently. From somewhere above him pleading notes from a violin were making the night even more mournful. A change came over the thin face. "My God!" he exclaimed aloud. "Who's playing like that?" He crossed the room and jerked the bell-rope roughly. In a few moments the head of a middle-aged colored woman appeared at the door. "Did you tell my daughter I wanted to see her?" questioned the man. "No, sah, I didn't. When you got here she wasn't in. Then she slid to the garret afore I saw 'er. Now she's got to finish her fiddlin' afore I tell 'er you're here. I never bother Miss Jinnie when she's fiddlin', sah." The old woman bowed obsequiously, as if pleading pardon. The man made a threatening gesture. "Go immediately and send her to me," said he. For perhaps twenty minutes he sat there, his ears straining to catch, through the whistling wind, the sounds of that wild, unearthly tune,--a tune different from any he had ever heard. Then at length it stopped, and he sank back into his chair. He turned expectantly toward the door. Footsteps, bounding with life, with strength, were bearing down upon him. Suddenly a girl's face,--a rosy, lovely face,--with rapturous eyes, was turned up to his. At the sight of her stern father, the girl stopped, bringing her feet together at the heels, and bowed. Then they two,--Thomas Singleton the second and Virginia, his daughter,--looked at each other squarely. "Ah, come in!" said the man. "I want to talk with you. I believe you're called Virginia." "Yes, sir; Jinnie, for short, sir," answered the girl, with a slight inclination of her head. Awkwardly, and with almost an embarrassed manner, she walked in front of the grate to the chair pointed out to her. The man glanced sharply at the strongly-knit young figure, vibrant with that vital thing called "life." He sighed and dropped back limply. There followed a lengthy silence, until at last Thomas Singleton shifted his feet and spoke slowly, with a grim setting of his teeth. "I have much to say to you. Sit back farther in your chair and don't stare at me so." His tones were fretful, like those of a man sick of living, yet trying to live. He dropped his chin into the palm of his hand and lapsed into a meditative gloom. Virginia leaned back, but only in this did she obey, for her eyes were still centered on the man in silent attention. She had little awe of him within her buoyant young soul, but much curiosity lay under the level, penetrating glance she bent upon her father. Here was a man who, according to all the human laws of which Virginia had ever heard, belonged to her, and to her alone. There were no other children and no mother. Yet so little did she know of him that she wouldn't have recognized him had she met him in the road. Singleton's uneasy glance, seeking the yellow, licking flames in the grate, crossed hers. "I told you not to stare at me so, child!" he repeated. This time the violet eyes wavered just for an instant, then fastened their gaze once more upon the speaker. "I don't remember how you look," she stammered, "and I'd like to know. I can't tell if I don't look, can I?" Her grave words, and possibly the steady, piercing gaze, brought a twitch to the father's lips. Surely his child had spoken the truth. He himself had almost forgotten he had a girl; that she was the only living creature who had a call upon the slender thread of his life. Had he lived differently, the girl in front of him would have been watching him for some other reason than curiosity. "That's why I'm looking at you, sir," she explained. "If any one on the hills'd say, 'How's your father looking, Jinnie?' if I hadn't looked at you sharp, sir, how'd I know?" She sighed as her eyes roved the length of the man once more. The ashes in the grate were no grayer than his face. "You're awful thin and white," she observed. "I'm sick," replied Singleton in excuse. "Oh, I'm sorry!" answered Virginia. "You're quite grown up now," remarked the man presently, with a meditative air. "Oh, yes, sir!" she agreed. "I'm a woman now. I'm fifteen years old." "I see! Well, well, you _are_ quite grown up! I heard you playing just now. Where did you ever learn such music?" Jinnie placed her hand on her heart. "I got it out of here, sir," she replied simply. Involuntarily Singleton straightened his rounded shoulders, and a smile touched the corners of his mouth. Even his own desperate condition for the moment was erased from his mind in the pride he felt in his daughter. Then over him swept a great regret. He had missed more than he had gained in his travels abroad, in not living with and for the little creature before him. Her eyes were filled with contemplation; then the lovely face, in its exquisite purity, saddened for a moment. "Matty isn't going to take me across her knee never any more," she vouchsafed, a smile breaking like a ray of sunshine. The blouse slipped away from her slender throat, and she made a picture, vivid and beautiful. The fatherhood within Thomas Singleton bounded in appreciation as he contemplated his daughter for a short space, measuring accurately the worth within her. He caught the wonderful appeal in the violet eyes, and wished to live. God, how he wanted to live! He would! He would! It meant gathering his supremest strength, to be put forth in efforts of mere existing. Something out of an unknown somewhere, brought to him through the stormy, wonderful music he had heard, made the longing to live so vehement that it hurt. Then the horror of Virginia's words drifted through his tortured brain. "What?" he ejaculated. "Now I'm fifteen," explained the girl, "I get a woman's beating with a strap, you see. A while ago I got one that near killed me, but I never cried a tear. Matty was almost scared to death; she thought I was dead. Matty can lick hard, Matty can." Virginia sighed in recollection. "You don't mean to say the nigger whipped you?" The girl shook her curly head. "Whipped me! No! Matty don't whip; she just licks with all her muscle.... Matty's muscle's as strong as a tree limb." Mr. Singleton bowed his head. It had never occurred to him in all those absent years that the child was being abused. How simply she had told her tale of suffering! "But I'm fifteen now," she repeated gladly, "so I stand up, spread my feet like this"--she rose and suited the action to the words--"and Matty lays her on damn hard, too." He covered his mouth with one thin hand, choked down a cough, and endeavored to change the subject. "And school? Have you been to school?" "Oh, yes!" assured the girl, sitting down again. "I went to school back in the hills. There were only five boys and me. There wasn't any girls. I wish there had been." "You like girls, I imagine, then," said her father. "Oh, yes, sir! Yes, indeed, sir! I often walk five miles to play a while with one. None of the mothers around Mottville Corners'll let their girls be with me. You see, this house has a bad name." A deep crimson dyed the man's ashen skin. He made as if to speak, but Jinnie went on. "Over in the Willow Creek settlement the kids are awful bad, but I get along with 'em fine, because I love 'em right out of being hellish." She was gazing straight into her father's face in all sincerity, with no trace of embarrassment. "You know Mrs. Barker, the housekeeper you left me with?" she demanded a little later. "Well, she died when I was ten. Matty stayed, thinking every day you'd come home. I suppose mebbe I did grow up sort of cussed, and I suppose everybody thinks I'm bad because I've only a nigger to live with, and no mother, not--not even _you_." Singleton partly smothered an oath which lengthened itself into a groan, looked long at the slim young figure, then at the piquant face. "Just lately I've been wanting some one of my own to love," she pursued. "I only had Milly and her cats. Then the letter come saying you'd be here--and I'm very glad." The smile lighting her face and playing with the dimples in her cheeks made Thomas Singleton feel as if Heaven's breath had touched him. "Do you care at all for me?" he asked gloomily. There had come over him a desire that this winsome girl,--winsome in spite of her crudity,--would say she did. Wonder, love, sympathy, were alive in her eyes. Jinnie nodded her head. "Oh, yes, sir!" she murmured. "Of course I love you! I couldn't tell you how much.... I love--why, I even love Mose. Mose's Matty's man. He stole and et up all our chickens--but I love him just the same. I felt sorry about his killing the hens, because I loved them too." "I see," sighed the father. "Now there's Molly--I call her Molly the Merry----" "Who's Molly the Merry?" interrupted Singleton. "Old Merriweather's daughter. She's prettier than the summer roses, and they're pretty, believe me. Her smiles're warmer'n the sun." "Ah, yes! I remember the Merriweathers. Is the old man still alive?" "Well, yes, but he's as good as dead, though. Ain't walked in three years. And Matty's man, Mose, told Matty, and Matty told me, he's meaner'n forty damn devils." "So you swear, too?" asked the father, breathing deeply. Virginia opened wide and wider two sparkling blue eyes. "Swear, sir?" she protested. "I didn't swear." "Pardon me," replied Singleton, laconically. "I thought I heard you say 'damn' several times." Virginia's smile showed two rows of white teeth. "Oh, so you did!" she laughed, rising. "But 'damn' isn't swearing. You ought to hear me really swear sometimes. Shall I show you how I--I can swear?" Singleton shook his head. "I'd rather you wouldn't!... Sit down again, please." The man at intervals turned a pair of burning bright eyes upon her. They weren't unlike her own eyes, only their expression puzzled Virginia. She could not understand the rapid changes in her father. He wasn't the man she had mentally known all these years. But then, all she had had by which to visualize him was an old torn picture, turned face to the wall in the garret. He didn't look at all like the painting--he was thinner, older, and instead of the tender expression on the handsome, boyish face, time had placed one of bitterness, anxiety, and dread. He sat, crouched forward, stirring the grate fire, seemingly lost in thought. Virginia remained quiet until he was ready to speak. "I'm going to die soon,--very soon." It was only natural that Virginia should show how his statement shocked her. She grew deathly white, and an expression of misery knit the lovely young face. "How soon?" she shivered, drawing back. "Perhaps to-night--perhaps not for weeks, but I must tell you something before then." "All right," agreed Virginia, "all right.... I'm here." "I haven't been a good father to you," the man began after a pause, "and I'm not sure I could do better if I should stay on here with you. So I might as well go now as any time! Your mother would've done differently if she'd lived. You look some like her." "I'm sorry I don't remember her," remarked Virginia apologetically. "She went away when you were too little even to know her. Then I left you, too, though I don't suppose any one but her could have made you happy." "Oh, I've been happy!" Jinnie asserted. "Old Aunt Matty and the cats're all I need around, and I always have my fiddle. I found it in the garret." It was easy to believe that she was telling the truth, for to all appearances she looked happy and healthy. However, Mr. Singleton's eyes darkened and saddened under the words. Nothing, perhaps, had ever touched him so deeply. "It's no life for a girl of fifteen years to live with cats and niggers," he muttered. One less firmly faithful to conscience would have acquiesced in this truthful statement; not so Virginia. "Matty's a good nigger!" she insisted, passionately. "She'd do anything she could for me!" Seemingly the man was not impressed by this, for his strong jaws were set and unyielding upon the unlighted cigar clenched between his teeth. "I might as well tell you to-night as to-morrow," he concluded, dropping the cigar on the table. "Your mother left you her money and property when she died." "I know it, sir, and it's a lot, too! Matty told me about it one night along with 'er ghost stories, sir.... Ever heard Matty's ghost stories, sir?" "No, but I didn't bring you here to talk about Matty. And tell me, what makes you say 'sir' to me all the time?" His impatient tone, his sharp, rasping voice, didn't change Virginia's respectful attitude. She only bent her head a trifle and replied: "Anybody must always say 'sir' to another body when she's kind of half afraid of him, sir." She was composed for a moment, then went on: "It isn't every day your father comes home, sir, and I've waited a long, long time. I'd be a hell of a kid if I couldn't muster up a 'sir' for you." Singleton glanced sidewise at his young daughter, bending his brows together in a frown. "You're a queer sort of a girl, but I suppose it's to be expected when you've only lived with niggers.... Now will you remember something if I tell it to you?" "Yes, sir," breathed Virginia, drawing back a little from his strong emotion. "Well, this! Don't ever say 'sir' to any human being living! Don't ever! Do you understand me? What I mean is, when you say 'sir,' it's as if you were--as if you were a servant or afraid--you make yourself menial. Can you remember, child?" "Yes, sir,--yes, I'll remember.... I _think_ I'll remember." "If you're going to accomplish anything in the world, don't be afraid of any one." A dozen explanations, like so many birds, fluttered through Virginia's mind. Before her rose her world of yesterday, and a sudden apology leapt to her lips. She turned on her father a wondering, sober glance. "I've never said 'sir' or 'ma'am' before in all my life--never!" she remarked. "So you're afraid of me?" "A little," she sighed. "Ah, don't be, child! I'm your father. Will you keep that in mind?" "I'll try to; I will, sure." Mr. Singleton shifted uneasily, as if in pain. "This money is coming to you when you're eighteen years old," explained Mr. Singleton. "My dying will throw you into an ocean of difficulties. I guess the only service I've ever done you has been to keep your Uncle Jordan from you." "Matty told me about him, too," she offered. "He's a damn bad duffer, isn't he, mister?" "Yes, and I'm going to ask you not to call me 'mister,' either. Look here!... I'm your father! Can't anything get that into your head?" "I keep forgetting it," answered the girl sadly. "And you're so big and thin and different from any man I know. You look as weak as a--as a cat." She stretched forth her two strong legs, but sank back. "Yes, your Uncle Jordan is bad," proceeded Singleton, presently, "bad enough to want to get us both out of the way, and he wouldn't find much of an obstacle in you." A clammy chill clutched at Virginia's heart like tightening fingers. The import of his words burned deep within her. She got to her feet--but reseated herself at once at a wave of her father's hand. The thought of death always had a sobering effect upon her--it filled her with longing, yet dread. The beautiful young mother, whose picture hung in the best room, and whose eyes followed her in every direction, was dead. Matty had told her many times just how her mother had gone, and how often the gentle spirit had returned to hover over the beloved young daughter. Now the memory of it was enhanced by the roar of the wind and the dismal moaning of the tall pines. Virginia firmly believed that her mother, among other unearthly visitants, walked in the night when the blizzard kept up its incessant beating. She also believed that the sound through the pines--that roaring, ever-changing, unhuman sound--was not of the wind's making. It was voices,--spirit voices,--voices of the dead, of those who had gone down into the small cemetery beyond the road. Only the day before Matty had told her how, one night, a tall, wandering white thing had walked in silence across the fields to Jonathan Woggles' house. In the story, Jonathan's grandpa was about to pass away. The glittering spirit stalked around and around the house, waiting for the old man's soul. She was about to relate the tale when her father repeated: "Your uncle is bad enough to want us out of the way." The shuddering chill again possessed her. She was torn between horror and eagerness--horror of what might be and eagerness to escape it. "But he can't get us out, can he?" she questioned. "Yes, I'm afraid he can and will! Your Uncle Jordan is your mother's stepbrother, no direct relation to you, but the only one left to look after you in the world but me. If you've any desire to live, you must leave here after I've gone, and that's all there is to it!" Virginia then understood, for the first time, something of the danger menacing her. Her heart beat and pounded like an engine ploughing up hill. From sheer human desire of self-preservation, she partly rose from the chair, with the idea of immediate departure. "I could go with Matty, couldn't I?" she suggested. Mr. Singleton made a negative gesture with his head, flinging himself down again. "Matty? Matty, the nigger? No, of course not. Matty is nothing to any one who hasn't money, and you'll have none to pay her, or any one else, after I'm gone. You must eat and live for three long years. Do you understand that?... Sit back in your chair and don't fidget," he concluded. The girl obeyed, and a silence fell between them. The thought of the wonderful white presence of which Matty had told her faded from her mind. Her heart lay stone-like below her tightening throat, for her former world and all the dear familiar things it held were to be dashed from her, as a rose jar is broken on a marble floor, by a single decision of the thin, tall father whom yesterday she had not known. She understood that if her uncle succeeded in his wicked plans, she, too, would join that small number of people, dead and buried, under the pines. Her father's words brought the cemetery, with its broken cross and headstones, its low toolhouse, and the restless night spirits, closer than Matty, with her vivid, ghastly tales, had ever done. In the past, Matty had stood between her and her fears; in the future, there would be only a stranger, her uncle, the man her father had just warned her against. At length Mr. Singleton coughed painfully, and spoke with evident effort. "The doctor told me not long ago I might die at any moment. That's what made me escape--I mean, what drove me home." He rose and walked nervously up and down the room. "The doctor made me think of you. I can't live long." "It's awful bad," answered the girl, sighing. "I wouldn't know where to go if there wasn't any Matty--or--you." Her voice lowered on the last word, and she continued: "I wish I had my mother. Matty says mothers kiss their girls and make over 'em like Milly Ann does with her kittens--do they? Some of 'em?" The father glanced curiously into the small, earnest, uplifted face. "I couldn't help being your girl," pursued Virginia. "I'd have had another father if I could, one who'd 've loved me. Matty says even fathers like their kids sometimes--a little." She paused a minute, a wan, sweet smile passing over her lips. "But I've got Milly Ann and her kittens, and they're soft and warm and wriggley." What a strange child was this daughter of his! She spoke of cats as if they were babies; of loving as if it were universal. Each moment, in her presence, he realized more and more what he had missed in thus neglecting her. But he had hurried to Mottville from foreign lands to perform one duty, at least,--to save her, if possible. So he returned to his vital subject. "Your Uncle Jordan's coming, perhaps this week. He's found out I'm here! That's why you must go away." "Shall I--just go?" queried Virginia. "I don't know of any special place--do you?" and she shivered again as the wind, in a fierce gust, blew out from the slumbering fire a wreath of smoke that encircled the room and hung grey-blue about the ceiling. "I only know one man," reflected Mr. Singleton, presently, "and you'll have to find him yourself--after I've gone, of course; but if Jordan Morse should come, you'd have to go quickly." "I'd go faster'n anything," decided the girl, throwing up her head. "Your mother's father used to have a family in his tenement house on this place, and they were all very fond of her when she was a girl. One of the sons moved to Bellaire. He's the only one left, and would help you, I know." "Mebbe if you'd talk to my uncle----" Virginia cut in. An emphatic negative gesture frightened her. "You don't know him," said Singleton, biting his lips. "He's nearer being a devil than any other human being." It was a feeling of bitterness, of the deadly wrong done him, that forced him to sarcasm. "The great--the good Jordan Morse--bah!" he sneered. "If he's 'good,' so are fiends from perdition." He sent the last words out between his teeth as if he loathed the idea expressed in them. If they brought a sombre red to the girl's cheeks, it was not because she did not have sympathy with him. Sudden leaping flames of passion yellowed the man's eyes, and he staggered up. "May God damn the best in him! May all he loves wither and blight! May black Heaven break his heart----" Jinnie sprang forward and clutched him fiercely by the arm. "Don't! Don't!" she implored. "That's awful, awful!" Singleton sank back, brushing his foaming lips with the back of his hand. "Well," he muttered, "he followed me abroad and did for me over there!" "Did for you?" Virginia repeated after him, parrot-like, gazing at him in a puzzled way as she sat down again. "Yes, me! If I'd had any sense, I might have known his game. In the state of his finances he'd no business to come over at all. But I didn't know until he got there how evil he was. Oh, God! I wish I had--but I didn't, and now my only work left is to send you somewhere----Oh, why didn't I know?" The deep sadness, the longing in his voice brought Virginia to her feet once more. She wanted to do something for the thin, sick man because she loved him--just that! Years of neglect had failed to kill in the young heart the cherished affection for her absent parent, and in some subtle way he now appealed to the mother within her, as all sick men do to all heart-women. "I'd like to help you if I could, father," she said. The man, with a quick, spasmodic action, drew her to him. Never had he seen such a pair of eyes! They reminded him of Italian skies under which he had dreamed brave dreams--dreamed dreams which would ever be dreams. The end of them now was the grave. "Little girl! My little girl!" he murmured, caressing her shoulders. Then he caught himself sharply, crushing the sentiment from his voice. "Hide yourself; change your name; do anything to keep from your uncle. When you're old enough to handle your own affairs, you can come out of your hiding-place--do you understand me?" "I think I do," she said, tears gathering under her lids. "I don't know of any one I could trust in this county. Jordan Morse would get 'em all under his spell. That would be the last of you. For your mother's sake----" His lips quivered, but he went on with a masterful effort to choke down a sob,--"I may honestly say, for your own sake, I want you to live and do well." There was some strain in his passionate voice that stirred terrific emotion in the girl, awakening new, tumultuous impulses. It gave her a mad desire to do something, something for her father, something for herself. At that moment she loved him very much indeed and was ready to go to any length to help him. He had told her she must leave. Perhaps---- Virginia glanced through the window into the darkness. Through the falling snow she could see a giant pine throw out appealing arms. They were like beckoning, sentient beings to the girl, who loved nature with all the passionate strength of her young being. Yet to-night they filled her with new wonder,--an awe she had never felt before. Despite her onrushing thoughts, she tried to calm her mind, to say with eager emphasis: "Shall I run to-night--now?" "No, not to-night; don't leave me yet. Sit down in the chair again; stay until I tell you." "All right," murmured Virginia, walking away. The father watched the fire a few minutes. "I'll give you a letter to Grandoken, Lafe Grandoken," he said presently, looking up. "For your mother's sake he'll take you, and some day you can repay him. You see it's this way: Your mother trusted your uncle more than she did me, or she'd never have given you into his care in case of my death. Well, he's got me, and he'll get you." With no thought of disobedience, Virginia slipped from the chair to her feet. "He won't get me if I run now, will he?" she questioned breathlessly; "not if I go to--what'd you say his name was?" She was all excitement, ready to do whatever she was bidden. Slowly, as she stood there, the tremendous suspense left her. "Why couldn't we both go, you and me?" she entreated eagerly. "Let's both go to-night. I'll take care of you. I'll see you don't get wet." Her glance met and held his for a few seconds. The vibrant voice thrilled and stirred the father as if he had been dead and suddenly slipped back to life again. A brave smile, tenderly sweet, broke over Virginia's lips. "Come," she said, holding out her hands. "Come, I'll get my fiddle and we'll go." He was struck by the vehemence of her appeal. He allowed himself to listen for a moment--to overbalance all his preconceived plans, but just then his past life, Jordan Morse, his own near approaching end, sank into his mind, and the fire in his eyes went out. There was finality in the shake of his shoulders. "No, no," he murmured, sinking back. "It's too late for me. I couldn't earn money enough to feed a pup. I'm all to pieces--no more good to any one. No, you'll have to go alone." "I'm sorry." The girl caught her breath in disappointment. She was crying softly and made no effort to wipe away her tears. The silent restraint was broken only by the ticking of the shadowy clock on the mantel and Virginia's broken sobs. She stifled them back as her father spoke comfortingly. "Well, well, there, don't cry! If your mother'd lived, we'd all 've been better." "I wish she had," gasped the girl, making a dash at her eyes. "I wish she'd stayed so I'd 've had her to love. Perhaps I'd 've had you, too, then." "There's no telling," answered Singleton, drawing up to his desk and beginning to write. Virginia watched the pen move over the white page for a space, her mind filled with mixed emotions. Then she turned her eyes from her father to the grate as a whirl of ashes and smoke came out. Matty's story came back to her mind, and she glanced toward the window, but back to the fire quickly. The blizzard seemed to rage in sympathy with her own riotous thoughts. As another gust of wind rattled the casements and shook down showers of soot from the chimney, Virginia turned back to the writer. "It's the ghosts of my mother's folks that make that noise," she confided gently. "Keep quiet!" ordered Singleton, frowning. After the letters were finished and sealed, Mr. Singleton spoke. "There! I've done the best I can for you under the circumstances. Now on this,"--he held up a piece of paper--"I've written just how you're to reach Grandoken's in Bellaire. These letters you're to give to him. This one let him open and read." Mr. Singleton tapped a letter he held up. "In this one, I've written what your uncle did to me. Give it to Grandoken, telling him I said to let it remain sealed unless Jordan Morse claims you. If you reach eighteen safely, burn the letter." He paused and took out a pocketbook. "Money is scarce these days, but take this and it'll get you to Grandoken's. It's all I have, anyway. Now go along to bed." He handed the envelopes to her, and his hand came in contact with hers. The very touch of it, the warmth and life surging through her, gave a keener edge to his misery. Virginia took the letters and money. She walked slowly to the door. At the threshold she halted, turning to her father. "May I take the cats with me?" she called back to him. She started to explain, but he cut her words off with a fierce ejaculation. "Hell, yes!" he snapped. "Damn the cats! Get out!" Once in the hall, Virginia stood and looked back upon the closed door. "I guess he don't need me to teach him swear words," she told herself in a whisper. Then she went down to the kitchen, where Matty sat dreaming over a wood fire. CHAPTER II A WHITE PRESENCE "Does yer pa want me?" grunted Matty, lifting a tousled black head. Virginia made a gesture of negation. "No, he told me to get the hell out," she answered. "So I got! He's awful sick! I guess mebbe he'll die!" Matty nodded meaningly. "Some folks might better 'a' stayed to hum for the past ten years than be runnin' wild over the country like mad," she observed. Virginia reached behind the stove and drew Milly Ann from her bed. "Father"--Jinnie enjoyed using the word and spoke it lingeringly--"says he wishes he'd stayed here now. You know, my Uncle Jordan, Matty----" She hesitated to confide in the negro woman what her father had told her. So she contented herself with: "He's coming here soon." Matty rolled her eyes toward the girl. "I'se sorry for that, honey bunch." Then, without explaining her words, asked: "Want me to finish about Jonathan Woggles' grandpa dyin'?" But Virginia's mind was traveling in another channel. "Where's Bellaire, Matty?" she demanded. "Off south," replied the woman, "right bearin' south." "By train?" "Yes, the same's walkin' or flying'," confirmed Matty. "Jest the same." "Then you can finish the story now, Matty," said Virginia presently. Matty settled back in her chair, closed her eyes, and began to hum. "How far'd I tell last night?" she queried, blinking. "Just to where the white thing was waiting for Grandpa Woggles' spirit," explained Virginia. "Oh, yas. Well, round and round that house the white shadder swep', keepin' time to the howlin' of other spirits in the pine trees----" "But there aren't any pine trees at Woggles'," objected Virginia. "Well, they'd be pines if they wasn't oaks," assured Matty. "Oaks or pines, the spirits live in 'em jest the same." "I 'spose so," agreed Virginia. "Go on!" "An' round and round he went, meltin' the snow with his hot feet," mused Matty, sniffing the air. "And in the house Betty Woggles set beside the old man, holdin' his hand, askin' him to promise he wouldn't die.... Hum! As if a human bein' could keep from the stalkin' whiteness beckonin' from the graveyard. 'Tain't in human power." "Can't anybody keep death away, Matty?" inquired Virginia, an expression of awe clouding her eyes. She was thinking of the man upstairs whom she but twice had called "father." "Nope, not after the warnin' comes to him. Now Grandad Woggles had that warnin' as much as three days afore the angel clim' the fence and flopped about his house. But don't keep breakin' in on me, little missy, 'cause I cain't finish if ye do, and I'se jest reachin' the thrillin' part." "Oh, then hurry," urged Jinnie. "Well, as I was sayin', Betty set by the ole man, starin' into his yeller face; 'twas as yeller as Milly Ann's back, his face was." "Some yeller," murmured Virginia, fondling Milly Ann. "Sure! Everybody dyin' gets yeller," informed Matty. Virginia thought again of the sick man upstairs. His face was white, not yellow, and her heart bounded with great hope. He might live yet a little while. Yes, he surely would! Matty was an authority when she told of the dead and dying, of the spirits which filled the pine trees, and it seldom occurred to Virginia to doubt the black woman's knowledge. She wanted her father to live! Life seemed so dizzily upset with no Matty, with no Milly Ann, and no--father, somewhere in the world. Matty's next words, spoken in a sepulchral whisper, bore down on her with emphasis. "Then what do ye think, honey bunch?" "I don't know!" Virginia leaned forward expectantly. "Jest as Betty was hangin' fast onto her grandpa's spirit, another ghost, some spots of black on him, come right longside the white one, wavin' his hands's if he was goin' to fly." Virginia sat up very straight. Two spirits on the scene of Grandpa Woggles' passing made the story more interesting, more thrilling. Her sparkling eyes gave a new impetus to the colored woman's wagging tongue. "The white spirit, he sez, 'What _you_ hangin' round here fer?'" Matty rolled her eyes upward. "This he sez to the black one, mind you!" Virginia nodded comprehendingly, keeping her eyes glued on the shining dark face in front of her. She always dreaded, during the exciting parts of Matty's nightly stories, to see, by chance, the garden, with its trees and the white, silent graveyard beyond. And, although she had no fear of tangible things, she seldom looked out of doors when Matty crooned over her ghost stories. Just then a bell pealed through the house. Matty rose heavily. "It's yer pa," she grumbled. "I'll finish when I git back." Through the door the woman hobbled, while Virginia bent over Milly Ann, stroking her softly with a new expression of gravity on the young face. Many a day, in fancy, she had dreamed of her father's homecoming. He was very different than her dreams. Still she hoped the doctor might have made a mistake about his dying. A smile came to the corners of her mouth, touched the dimples in her cheek, but did not wipe the tragedy from her eyes. She was planning how tenderly she would care for him, how cheerful he'd be when she played her fiddle for him. She heard Matty groping up the stairs--heard her pass down the hall and open the door. Then suddenly she caught the sound of hurried steps and the woman coming down again. Matty had crawled up, but was almost falling down in her frantic haste to reach the kitchen. Something unusual had happened. Virginia shoved Milly Ann to the floor and stood up. Matty's appearance, with chattering teeth and bulging eyes, brought Jinnie forward a few steps. "He's daid! Yer pa's daid!" shivered Matty. "And the house is full of spirits. They're standin' grinnin' in the corners. I'm goin' hum now, little missy. I'm goin' to my ole man. You'd better come along fer to-night." Jinnie heard the moaning call of the pine trees as the winter's voice swept through them,--the familiar sound she loved, yet at which she trembled. Confused thoughts rolled through her mind; her father's fear for her; his desire that she should seek another home. She could not stay in Mottville Corners; she could not go with Matty. No, of course not! Yet her throat filled with longing sobs, for the old colored woman had been with her many years. By this time Matty had tied on her scarf, opened the door, and as Virginia saw her disappear, she sank limply to the floor. Milly Ann rubbed her yellow back against her young mistress's dress. Virginia caught her in her arms and drew her close. "Kitty, kitty," she sobbed, "I've got to go! He said I could take you and your babies, and I will, I will! I won't leave you here with the spirits." She rose unsteadily to her feet and went to the cupboard, where she found a large pail. Into this she folded a roller towel. She then lifted the kittens from the box behind the stove and placed them in the pail, first pressing her lips lovingly to each warm, wriggley little body. Milly Ann cuddled contentedly with her offspring as the girl covered them up. Jinnie had suddenly grown older, for a responsibility rested upon her which no one else could assume. To go forth into the blizzard meant she must wrap up warmly. This she did. Then she wrapped a small brown fiddle in her jacket, took the pail and went to the door. There she stood, considering a moment, with her hand on the knob. With no further hesitancy she placed the kittens and fiddle gently on the floor, and went to the stairs. The thought of the spirits made her shiver. She saw long shadows making lines here and there, and had no doubt but that these were the ghosts Matty had seen. She closed her eyes tightly and began to ascend the stairs, feeling her way along the wall. At the top she opened reluctant lids. The library door stood ajar as Matty had left it, and the room appeared quite the same as it had a few moments before, save for the long figure of a man lying full length before the grate. That eternal period, that awful stop which puts a check on human lives, had settled once and for all the earthly concerns of her father. The space between her and the body seemed peopled with spectral beings, which moved to and fro in the dimly lit room. Her father lay on his back, the flames from the fire making weird red and yellow twisting streaks on his white, upturned face. The taut muscles grew limp in the girl's body as she staggered forward and stood contemplating the wide-open, staring eyes. Then with a long sigh breathed between quivering lips, she dropped beside the lifeless man. The deadly forces eddying around her were not of her own making. With the going of this person, who was her father by nature, everything else had gone too. All her life's hopes had been dissolved in the crucible of death. She lay, with her hands to her mouth, pressing back the great sobs that came from the depths of her heart. She reached out and tentatively touched her father's cheek; without fear she moved his head a little to what she hoped would be a more comfortable position. "You told me to go," she whispered brokenly, "and I'm going now. You never liked me much, but I guess one of my kisses won't hurt you." Saying this, Jinnie pressed her lips twice to those of her dead father, and got to her feet quickly. She dared not leave the lamp burning, so within a short distance of the table she drew a long breath and blew toward the smoking light. The flame flared thrice like a torch, then spat out, leaving the shivering girl to feel her way around the room. To the sensitive young soul the dark was almost maddening. She only wanted to get back to Milly Ann, and she closed the door with no thought for what might become of the man inside. He was dead! A greater danger menaced her. He had warned her and she would heed. As she stumbled down the stairs, her memories came too swiftly to be precise and in order, and the weird moans of the night wind drifted intermittently through the wild maze of her thoughts. She would say good-bye to Molly the Merry, for Molly was the only person in all the country round who had ever spoken a kindly word to her. Their acquaintance had been slight, because Molly lived quite a distance away and the woman had never been to see her, but then of course no one in the neighborhood approved of the house of Singleton. Later by five minutes, Virginia left the dark farmhouse, carrying her fiddle and the pail of cats, and the blizzard swallowed her up. CHAPTER III JINNIE'S FAREWELL TO MOLLY THE MERRY Virginia turned into the Merriweather gate, went up the small path to the kitchen, and rapped on the door. There was no response, so she turned the handle and stepped into the room. It was warm and comfortable. A teakettle, singing on the back of the stove, threw out little jets of steam. Jinnie placed the pail on the floor and seated herself in a low chair with her fiddle on her lap. Molly would be back in a minute, she was sure. Just as she was wondering where the woman could be, she heard the sound of voices from the inner room. A swift sensation of coming evil swept over her, and without taking thought of consequences, she slipped under the kitchen table, drawing the pail after her. The long fringe from the red cloth hung down about her in small, even tassels. The dining room door opened and she tried to stifle her swiftly coming breaths. Virginia could see a pair of legs, man's legs, and they weren't country legs either. Following them were the light frillings of a woman's skirts. "It's warmer here," said Miss Merriweather's voice. Molly and the man took chairs. From her position Virginia could not see his face. "Your father's ill," he said in a voice rich and deep. "Yes," replied Molly. "He's been near death for a long time. We've had to give him the greatest care. That's why I haven't told him anything." The man bent over until Jinnie could see the point of his chin. "I see," said he.... "Well, Molly, are you glad to have me back?" Molly's face came plainly within Jinnie's view. At his question the woman went paler. Then the man leaned over and tried to take one of her hands. But she drew it away again and locked her fingers together in her lap. "Aren't you glad to see me back again?" he repeated. Molly's startled eyes came upward to his face. "I don't know--I can't tell--I'm so surprised and----" "And glad," laughed the stranger in a deep, mesmeric voice. "Glad to have your husband back once more, eh?" Virginia's start was followed quickly by an imploration from Molly. "Hush, hush, please don't speak of it!" "I certainly shall speak of it; I certainly shall. I came here for no other reason than that. And who would speak of it if I didn't?" Molly shivered. There was something about the man's low, modulated tones that repelled Virginia. She tried in vain to see his face. She was sure that nowhere in the hills was there such a man. "You've been gone so long I thought you'd forgotten or--or were dead," breathed Molly, covering her face with her hands. "Not forgotten, but I wasn't able to get back." "You could have written me." The man shrugged himself impatiently. "But I didn't. Don't rake up old things; please don't. Molly, look at me." Molly uncovered a pair of unwilling eyes and centered them upon his face. "What makes you act so? Are you afraid?" "I did not expect you back, that's all." "That's not it! Tell me what's on your mind.... Tell me." Molly's white lids fell, her fingers clenched and unclenched. "I didn't--I couldn't write," she whispered, "about the baby." "Baby!" The word burst out like a bomb. The man stood up. "Baby!" he repeated. "You mean my--our baby?" Molly swallowed and nodded. "A little boy," she said, in a low voice. "Where is he?" demanded the man. "Please, please don't ask me, I beg of you. I want to forget----" "But you can't forget you're married, that you've been the mother of a child and--and--that I'm its father." Molly's tears began to flow. Virginia had never seen a woman cry before in all her young life. It was a most distressing sight. Something within her leaped up and thundered at her brain. It ordered her to venture out and aid the pretty woman if she could. Jinnie was not an eavesdropper! She did not wish to hear any more. But fear kept her crouched in her awkward position. "I just want to forget if I can," Molly sobbed. "I don't know where the baby is. That's why I want to forget. I can't find him." "Can't find him? What do you mean by 'can't find him'?" Molly faced about squarely, suddenly. "I've asked you not to talk about it. I've been terribly unhappy and so miserable.... It's only lately I've begun to be at all reconciled." "Nevertheless, I _will_ hear," snapped the man angrily. "I _will_ hear! Begin back from the letter you wrote me." "Asking you to help me?" questioned the girl. "Yes, asking me to help you, if you want to be blunt. Molly, it won't make you any happier to hatch up old scores. I tell you I've come to make amends--to take you--if you will----" "And I repeat, I can't go with you!" "We'll leave that discussion until later. Begin back where I told you to." Molly's face was very white, and her lids drooped wearily. Virginia wanted so much to help her! She made a little uneasy movement under the table, but Molly's tragic voice was speaking again. "My father'd kill me if he knew about it, so I never told him or any one." "Including me," cut in the man sarcastically. "You didn't care," said Molly with asperity. "How do you know I didn't care? Did you tell me? Did you? Did I know?" Molly shook her head. "Then I insist upon knowing now, this moment!" "My father would have killed me----" "Well!" His voice rushed in upon her hesitancy. "When I couldn't stay home any longer, I went away to visit a cousin of my mother's. At least, my father thought I'd gone there. I only stayed with Bertha a little while and father never knew the truth of it." "And then after that?" "I didn't know what to do with my baby. I was afraid people'd say I wasn't married, and then father----" "Go on from the time you left your cousin's." Molly thought a minute and proceeded. "I looked in all the papers to find some one who wanted a baby----" "So you gave him away? Well, that's easy to overcome. You couldn't give my baby away, you know." "No, no, indeed! I didn't give him away.... I boarded him out and saved money to pay for him. I even took summer boarders. The woman who had him----" Molly's long wait prompted the man once more. "Well?" he said again. "The woman what?" "The woman began to love the baby very much, and she wasn't very poor, and didn't need the money. Lots of times I went with it to her, and she wouldn't take it." A thought connected with her story made Molly bury her face in her hands. The man touched her. "Go on," he said slowly. "Go on. And then?" "Then once when I went to her she said she was going to take the baby on a little visit to some relatives and would write me as soon as she got back." "Yes," encouraged the low voice. "She never wrote or came back. I couldn't find where she'd gone, and father was terribly ill, and I've hoped and hoped----" "How long since you last saw him?" Molly considered a moment. "A long time," she sighed. "How many years?" "One!" "Then he was almost seven years with the woman?" "Yes," breathed Molly, and they lapsed into silence. The man meditated a space and Jinnie heard a low, nervous cough come from his lips. "Molly," he said presently, "I'm going to have a lot of money soon. It won't be long, and then we'll find him and begin life all over." "Oh, I'd love to find him," moaned Molly, "but I couldn't begin over with you. It's all hateful and horrible now." The man leaned over and touched her, not too tenderly. When Molly's face was turned to him, he tilted her chin up. "You care for some one else?" he said abruptly. The droop of the girl's head was his answer. He stood up suddenly. "That's it! That's it! What's his name?" A shake of her head was all the answer Molly gave him. "I asked you his name. Get up! Stand up!" As if to force her to do his will, he took hold of her shoulders sharply and drew her upward. "What's his name?" "It doesn't matter." "What's his name?" Virginia did not catch Molly's whisper. A disbelieving grunt fell from the stranger's lips. "I remember him as a boy. Weren't they one summer at the Mottville Hotel? He's years younger than you." Molly gathered courage. "He doesn't know how old I am," she responded, "and his mother loves me, too. They were with me three summers." Then, remembering the man's statement, she added, "Ages don't count nowadays. And I _will_ be happy." "You'll get happiness with _me_, not with _him_," said an angry voice. "Has he ever told you he loved you?" "No, no, indeed not. But he was here to-day! His mother's ill and wanted me to come as her companion, but I couldn't leave father right now." "Does he know you love him?" An emphatic negative ejaculation from Molly brought a sigh of relief from the man. "Forget him!" said he. "Now I'm going. I shall come back to-night, and _remember_ this. I'll leave no stone unturned to find that boy. I've always longed for one, and I'll move Heaven and earth to find him." Virginia saw him whirl about, open the door, and stride out. Molly Merriweather stood for a few minutes in silence, trembling. "I didn't dare to tell him the baby was blind," she whispered, too low for Jinnie to hear. Then she slowly glided away, leaving the girl under the table, with her pail full of cats, and the fiddle. Presently Virginia crawled out cautiously, the pail on her arm, and hugging her fiddle, she opened the door swiftly, and disappeared down the road, running under the tall trees. CHAPTER IV JINNIE TRAVELS Virginia took the direction leading to the station. Many a time she had watched the trains rush by on their way to New York, but never in those multitudinous yesterdays had it entered her mind that some day she would go over that same way, to be gone possibly forever. The wind was blowing at such a terrific rate that Jinnie could scarcely walk. There was no fear in her heart, only deep solemnity and a sense of awe at the magnificence of a storm. She had left the farmhouse so suddenly that the loneliness of parting had not then been forced upon her as it was now; the realization was settling slowly upon the clouded young mind. She was a mere puppet in the hands of an inexorable fate, which had shown her little mercy or benevolence. Out of sight of the Merriweather homestead, she kept to the path along the highway, now and then shifting the pail from one hand to the other, and clasping the beloved fiddle to her breast. Once she looked down to find Milly Ann peeping above the rim of the pail. Jinnie could see the glint of her greenish eyes. She stopped and, with a tenderly spoken admonition, covered her more closely with the roller towel. When the lighted station-house glimmered through the falling snow, Jinnie sighed with relief. "I couldn't 've carried you and the fiddle much farther, Milly Ann," she murmured. At that moment a tall figure, herculean in size, loomed out of the night and advanced hastily. The man's head was bent forward against the storm. Virginia caught a glimpse of his face as he passed in the streak of light thrown out from the station. He sprang to the platform and disappeared in the doorway. Jinnie saw him plainly when she, too, entered, and her eyes followed him as he went out. She had never seen him before. Like the man in the Merriweather kitchen, he bore the stamp of the city upon him. Virginia bought her ticket as her father had directed, and while the pail was still on the floor, she bent to examine Milly Ann and the kittens. The latter were asleep, but the mother-cat lazily opened her eyes to greet, with a purr, the soft touch of Jinnie's fingers. The girl waited inside the room until the shriek of the engine's whistle told her of its approach; then, with the fiddle and the pail, she walked to the platform. The long, snakelike train was edging the hill, its headlight bearing down the track in one straight, glittering line. For the first time in her life, Jinnie felt really afraid. In other days, with beating heart, she had hugged close to the roadside as the monster slipped either into the station and stopped, or rushed around the curve. Tonight she was going aboard, over into a strange land among strange people. She tilted the pail lovingly and hugged a little more tightly the fiddle in her arm. Whatever happened, she had Milly, her little family, and the comforting music. Jinnie could never be quite alone with these. As the train slowed up, the conductor jumped down. It seemed to Virginia like a dream as she walked toward the steps at the end of the car. As she was about to lift her foot to climb up, she heard a voice say: "Let me help you, child. Here, I'll take the pail." Virginia looked upward into the face of a man,--the same face she had seen in the station a few moments before,--and around the handsome mouth was a smile of reassuring kindliness. She surrendered the pail with a burning blush, and felt, with a strange new thrill, a firm hand upon her arm. The next thing she knew she was in a seat, with the pail on the floor and the fiddle lying beside her. She gazed around wonderingly. There was no one in sight but the tall man who, across the aisle, was arranging his overcoat on the back of the seat. Jinnie looked at him with interest--he had been so kind to her--and noted his thick, blond hair, which had been cropped close to a massive head. She admired him, too. Suddenly he looked up, and the girl felt a clutch at her heart. Just why that happened she could not tell. Again came the charming smile, the parted lips showing a set of dazzling white teeth. Jinnie smiled back, responsively. The man came over. "May I sit beside you?" he asked. Jinnie moved the fiddle invitingly and huddled herself into the corner. When the man started to move the pail, Jinnie stayed him. "Oh, don't, please," she protested. "It's only Milly and----" "Milly and what?" quizzically came the question. "Her kitties--see?" She drew aside the towel and exposed the sleeping family. A broad smile lit up the man's face. "Oh, cats! I see! Where're you taking them?" "To Bellaire." "Ah, Bellaire; that's where I'm going. We'll have a nice ride together, almost two hours." "I'm glad." Jinnie leaned back, sighing contentedly. In those few minutes she had grown to have great faith in this stranger, the third of the puzzling trio that had come into her life that night. First her father, then the man with Molly the Merry, and now this brilliant new friend, who quite took away her breath as she peeped up at him. His smile seemed to be ever ready. It warmed her and made her glow with friendliness. She liked, too, the deep tones in his voice and the sight of his strong hands as they gestured during his speeches. "Where are you going in Bellaire?" he questioned. Virginia cogitated for a moment. She couldn't tell the story her father had told her, yet she must answer his kindly question. At length, "The cats and I are going to live with my uncle," said she. "He lives in Bellaire?" "Yes, but I've never seen him. I'll find him, though, when I get there." It didn't occur to the man to ask the name of her relatives, and Jinnie was glad he did not. "Perhaps I shall see you some time in the city," he responded to her statement. Jinnie hoped so; oh, how she hoped she might see him again! "Mebbe," was all she said. "You see I live there with my mother," continued the man. "Our home is called Kinglaire. My name is King." Virginia lifted her head with a queer little start. "I've read about your people," she said. "I've got a book in our garret that tells all about Kings." "That's very nice," answered Mr. King. "I won't have to explain anything about us, then." "No, I know," said Jinnie in satisfaction. At least she thought she knew. Hadn't she read over and over, when seated in the garret, the story of the old and new kings, how they sat on their thrones, and ruled their people sometimes with a rod of iron? Jinnie brought to mind some of the vivid pictures, and shyly lifted a pair of violet eyes to scan the face above her. Surely this King was handsomer than any in the book. She tried to imagine him on his throne, and wondered if he were always smiling as now. "You're quite different from your relations," she observed presently. Theodore King laughed aloud. The sound startled the girl into a straighter posture. It rang out so merrily that she laughed too after making up her mind that he was not ridiculing her. "Really you are!" she exclaimed. "I mean it. You know the picture of the King with a red suit on,--he doesn't look like you. His nose went sort of down over his mouth--I mean, well, yours don't." She stumbled through the last few words, intuitively realizing that she had been too personal. "You like to read, I gather," stated Mr. King. "Yes, but I like to fiddle better," said Jinnie. "Oh, you play, do you?" Jinnie's eyes fell upon the instrument standing in the corner of the opposite seat, wrapped in an old jacket. She nodded. "I play some. I love my fiddle almost as much as I do Milly Ann and her kitties." "Won't you play for me?" asked Mr. King, gravely putting forth his hand. Jinnie paused a moment. Then without further hesitancy she took up the violin and unfastened it. "I'll be glad to fiddle for a king," she said naïvely. She did not speak as she turned and twisted the small white keys. Outside the storm was still roaring over the hills, sweeping the lake into monstrous waves. The shriek of the wind mingled with the snap of the taut strings under the agile fingers of the hill girl. Then Jinnie began to play. Never in all his life had Theodore King seen a picture such as the girl before him made. The wondrous beauty of her, the marvelous fingers traveling over the strings, together with the moaning of the night wind, made an impression upon him he would never forget. Sometimes as her fingers sped on, her eyes were penetrating; sometimes they darkened almost to melancholy. When the last wailing note had finally died away, Jinnie dropped the instrument to her side. "It's lonely on nights like this when the ghosts howl about," she observed. "They love the fiddle, ghosts do." Theodore King came back to himself at the girl's words. He drew a long breath. "Child," he ejaculated, "whoever taught you to play like that?" "Why, I taught myself," answered Jinnie. "Please play again," entreated Mr. King, and once more he sat enthralled with the wonder of the girl's melodies. The last few soulful notes Mr. King likened to a sudden prayer, sent out with a sobbing breath. "It's wonderful," he murmured slowly. "What is the piece you've just played?" "It hasn't any name yet," replied the girl. "You see I only know pieces that're in my head." Then all the misery of the past few hours swept over her, and Jinnie began to cry. A burden of doubt had clouded the usually clear young mind. What if the man to whom she was going would not let her and the cats live with him? He might turn them away. Mr. King spoke softly to her. "Don't cry," said he. "You won't be lonely when you get to your uncle's." But she met his smiling glance with a feeling of constraint. He did not know the cause of her tears; she could not tell him. If she only knew,--if she only had one little inkling of the reception she would receive at the painter's home. However, she did cheer up a little when Mr. King, in evident desire to be of some service, began to tell her of the city to which she was going. In a short time he saw the dark head nodding, and he drew Jinnie down against his arm, whispering: "Sleep a while, child; I'll wake you up at Bellaire." CHAPTER V LIKE UNTO LIKE ATTRACTED Jinnie Singleton watched Theodore King leave the train at the little private station situated on his own estate. As she drew nearer the city depot, her heart beat with uncertainty, for that day would decide her fate, her future; she would know by night whether or not she possessed a friend in the world. For some hours she sat in the station on one of the hard benches, waiting for daylight, at which time she and Milly Ann would steal forth into the city to find Lafe Grandoken, her mother's friend. A reluctant, stormy dawn was pushing its way from the horizon as she picked up the pail and fiddle and stepped out into the falling snow. Stopping a moment, she asked the station master about the Grandokens, but as he had only that week arrived in Bellaire, he politely, with admiration in his eyes, told her he could not give her any information. But on the railroad tracks Virginia saw a man standing with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. "What'd you want of Lafe Grandoken?" asked the fellow in reply to her question. "I've come to see him," answered Jinnie evasively. "He's a cobbler and lives down with the shortwood gatherers there on Paradise Road. Littlest shack of the bunch! He ain't far from my folks. My name's Maudlin Bates." He went very near her. "Now I've told you, you c'n gimme a kiss," said he. "I'll give you a bat," flung back Jinnie, walking away. Some distance off she stood looking down the tracks, her blue eyes noting the row of huts strung along the road and extending toward the hills. At the back of them was a marshland, dense with trees and underbrush. "My father told me Mr. Grandoken was a painter of houses!" Jinnie ruminated: "But that damn duffer back there says he's changed his work to cobbling. I'll go and see! I hope it won't be long before I'm as warm as can be. Wonder if he'll be glad to see me!" "It's the smallest house among 'em," she cogitated further, walking very fast. "Well! There ain't any of 'em very big." She traveled on through heavy snow, glancing at every hut until, coming to a standstill, she read aloud: "Lafe Grandoken, Cobbler of Folks' and Children's Shoes and Boots." Jinnie turned and, going down a short flight of steps, hesitated a moment before she knocked timidly on the front door. During the moment of waiting she glanced over what she hoped was to be her future home. It was so small in comparison with the huge, lonely farmhouse she had left the night before that her heart grew warm in anticipation. Then in answer to a man's voice, calling "Come in!" she lifted the latch and opened the door. The room was small and cheerless, although a fire was struggling for life in a miniature stove. In one corner was a table strewn with papers. Back from the window which faced the tracks was a man, a kit of cobbler's tools, in the disarray of daily use, on the bench beside him. He halted, with his hammer in the air, at the sight of the newcomer. "Come in and shut the door," said he, and the girl did as she was bidden. "Cold, ain't it?" "Yes," replied Jinnie, placing the pail and fiddle on the floor. The girl looked the man over with her steady blue eyes. Then her heart gave one great bound. The grey face had lighted with a sweet, sad smile; the faded eyes, under the bushy brows, twinkled welcome. A sense of wonderful security and friendship rushed over her. "Well, what's your business? Got some shoes to mend?" asked the man. "Better sit down." Jinnie took a chair in silence, a passionate wish suffusing her being that this small home might be hers. She was so lonely, so homesick. The little room seemed radiant with the smile of the cobbler. She only felt the wonderful content that flowed from the man on the bench to herself; she wanted to stay with him; never before had she been face to face with a desire so great. "I've come to live with you," she gulped, at length. The cobbler gave a quick whack at the little shoe he held in the vise. "I'm Jinnie Singleton, kid of Thomas Singleton, the second," the girl explained, almost mechanically, "and I haven't any home, so I've come to you." During this statement the cobbler's hammer rattled to the floor, and he sat eyeing the speaker speechlessly. Then he slowly lifted his arms and held them forth. "Come here! Lass, come here!" he said huskily. "I'd come to you, but I can't." In her mental state it took Jinnie a few seconds to gather the import of the cobbler's words. Then she sprang up and went forward with parted, smiling lips, tears trembling thick on her dark lashes. When Jinnie felt a pair of warm, welcoming arms about her strong young shoulders, she shivered in sudden joy. The sensation was delightful, and while a thin hand patted her back, she choked down a hard sob. However, she pressed backward and looked down into Lafe Grandoken's eyes. "I thought I'd never cry again as long as I lived," she whispered, "but--but I guess it's your loving me that's done it." It came like a small confession--as a relief to the overburdened little soul. "I guess I've rode a hundred miles to get here," she went on, half sobbing, "and you're awful glad to see me, ain't you?" It didn't need Lafe's, "You bet your boots," to satisfy Jinnie. The warmth of his arms, the shining, misty eyes, set her to shivering convulsively and shaking with happiness. "Set here on the bench," invited the cobbler, softly, "an' tell me about your pa an' ma." "They're both dead," said Jinnie, sitting down, but she still kept her hand on the cobbler's arm as if she were afraid he would vanish from her sight. The man made a dash at his eyes with his free hand. "Both dead!" he repeated with effort, "an' you're their girl!" "Yes, and I've come to live with you, if you'll let me." She drew forth the letters written the night before. "Here's two letters," she ended, handing them over, and sinking down again into the chair. She sat very quietly as the cobbler stumbled through the finely written sheets. * * * * * "Mottville Corners, N. Y. "Dear Mr. Grandoken," whispered Lafe. "My girl will bring you this, and, in excuse for sending her, I will briefly state: I'm very near the grave, and she's in great danger. I want to tell you that her Uncle Jordan Morse has conquered me and will her, if she's not looked after. For her mother's sake, I ask you to take her if you can. She will repay you when she's of age, but until then, after I'm gone, she can't get any money unless through her uncle, and that would be too dangerous. When I say that my child's life isn't worth this paper if she is given over to Morse, you'll see the necessity of helping her. I don't know another soul I could trust as I am trusting you. The other letter Virginia will explain. Keep it to use against Morse if you need to. "I can't tell you whether my girl is good or not, but I hope so. I've woefully neglected her, but now I wish I had a chance to live the past few years over. She'll tell you all she knows, which isn't much. What you do for her will be greatly appreciated by me, and would be by her mother, too, if she could understand her daughter's danger. "Gratefully yours, "THOMAS G. SINGLETON." * * * * * The cobbler put down the paper, and the rattling of it made Jinnie raise her head. "Come over here again," said the shoemaker, kindly. "Now tell me all about it." "Didn't the letter tell you?" "Some of it, yes. But tell me about yourself." Lafe Grandoken listened as the girl recounted her past life with Matty, and when at the finish she remarked, "I had to bring Milly Ann----" Grandoken by a look interrupted her explanation. "Milly Ann?" he repeated. Then came the story of the mother-cat and her babies. Jinnie lifted the towel, and the almost smothered kittens scrambled over the top of the pail. Milly Ann stretched her cramped legs, then proceeded vigorously to wash the faces of her numerous children. "She wouldn't 've had a place to live if I hadn't brought her," explained Jinnie, looking at the kittens. "I guess they won't eat much, because Milly Ann catches all kinds of live things. I don't like 'er to do that, but I heard she was born that way and can't help it." "I guess she'll find enough to eat around here," he said softly. "I brought my fiddle, too," Jinnie went on lovingly. "I couldn't live without it any more'n I could without Milly Ann." The cobbler nodded. "You play?" he questioned. "A little," replied the girl. Mr. Grandoken eyed the instrument on the floor beside the pail. "You oughter have a box to put it in," he suggested. "It might get wet." Virginia acquiesced by bowing her head. "I know it," she assented, "but I carried it in that old wrap.... Did Father tell you about my uncle?" "Yes," replied the cobbler. "And that he was made to die for something my uncle did?" "Yes, an' that he might harm you.... I knew your mother well, lass, when she was young like you." An expression of sadness pursed Jinnie's pretty mouth. "I don't remember her, you see," she murmured sadly. "I wish I had her now." And she heard the cobbler murmur, "What must your uncle be to want to hurt a little, sweet girl like you?" They did not speak again for a few moments. "Go call Peg," the cobbler then said. At a loss, Virginia glanced about. "Peg's my woman--my wife," explained Lafe. "Go through that door there. Just call Peg an' she'll come." In answer to the summons a woman appeared, with hands on hips and arms akimbo. Her almost colorless hair, streaked a little with grey, was drawn back from a sallow, thin face out of which gleamed a pair of light blue eyes. Jinnie in one quick glance noted how tall and angular she was. The cobbler looked from his wife to her. "You've heard me speak about Singleton, who married Miss Virginia Burton in Mottville, Peggy, ain't you?" he asked. "Yes," answered the woman. "His kid's come to live with us. She calls herself Jinnie." He threw his eyes with a kindly smile to the girl, standing hesitant, longing for recognition from the tall, gaunt woman. "I guess she'd better go to the other room and warm her hands, eh?" Mrs. Grandoken, dark-faced, with drooping lips, ordered the girl into the kitchen. Alone with his wife, Lafe read Singleton's letter aloud. "I've heard as much of her yarn as I can get," he said, glancing up. "I just wanted to tell you she was here." "We ain't got a cent to bless ourselves with," grumbled Mrs. Grandoken, "an' times is so hard I can't get more work than what I'm doin'." A patient, resigned look crossed the cobbler's pain-worn face. "That's so, Peg, that's so," he agreed heartily. "But there's always to-morrow, an' after that another to-morrow. With every new day there's always a chance. We've got a chance, an' so's the girl." The woman dropped into a chair, noticing the cobbler's smile, which was born to give her hope. "There ain't much chance for a bit of a brat like her," she snarled crossly, and the man answered this statement with eagerness, because the rising inflection in his wife's voice made it a question. "Yes, there is, Peg," he insisted; "yes, there is! Didn't you say there was hope for me when my legs went bad--that I had a chance for a livin'? Now didn't you, Peggy? An' ain't I got the nattiest little shop this side of way up town?" Peg paused a moment. Then, "That you have, Lafe; you sure have," came slowly. "An' didn't I make full sixty cents yesterday?" "You did, Lafe; you sure did." "An' sixty cents is better'n nothin', ain't it, Peg?" Mrs. Grandoken arose hastily. "Course 'tis, Lafe! But don't brag 'cause you made sixty cents. You might a lost your hands same's your feet. 'Tain't no credit to you you didn't. Here, let me wrap you up better! You'll freeze all that's left of your legs, if you don't." "Them legs ain't much good," sighed the cobbler. "They might as well be off; mightn't they, Peg?" Peggy wrapped a worn blanket tightly about her husband. "You oughter be ashamed," she growled darkly. "Ain't you every day sayin' there's always to-morrow?" This time her voice was toned with finality, and she turned and went out. [Illustration: "I GUESS THEY WON'T EAT MUCH, BECAUSE MILLY ANN CATCHES ALL KIND OF LIVE THINGS. I DON'T LIKE HER TO DO THAT, BUT I HEARD SHE WAS BORN THAT WAY AND CAN'T HELP IT."] CHAPTER VI PEG'S BARK Virginia and Lafe Grandoken sat for some time with nothing but the tick-tack of the hammer to break the silence. "It bein' the first time you've visited us, kid," broke in the man, pausing, "you can't be knowin' just what's made us live this way." Virginia made a negative gesture and smiled, settling herself hopefully for a story, but Lafe brought a frightened expression quickly to her face by his low, even voice, and the ominous meaning of his words. "Me an' Peg's awful poor," said he. "Then mebbe I'd better not stay, Mr. Lafe," faltered Jinnie. The cobbler threaded his fingers through his hair. "The shanty's awful small," he interjected, thoughtfully. "I think it's awful nice, though," offered the girl. Some thought closed her blue eyes, but they flashed open instantly. "Cobbler," she faltered, "is Mrs. Peggy mad when she grits her teeth and wags her head?" As if by its own volition the cobbler's hammer stayed itself in the air. "No," he smiled, "just when she acts the worst is when she's likely to do her best ... I've knowed Peggy this many a year." "She was a wee little bit cross to me," commented the girl. "Was she? I didn't hear anything she said." "I'll tell you, then, Mr. Lafe," said Virginia. "When I was standing by the fire warming my hands, she come bustling out and looked awful mad. She said something about folks keeping their girls to home." "Well, what after that?" asked the cobbler, as Jinnie hesitated. "She said she could see me eating my head off, and as long as I had to hide from my uncle, I wouldn't be able to earn my salt." "Well, that's right," affirmed the cobbler, wagging his head. "You got to keep low for a while. Your Uncle Morse knows a lot of folks in this town." "But they don't know me," said Virginia. "That's good," remarked Lafe. As he said this, Peg opened the door roughly and ordered them in to breakfast. Virginia sat beside the cobbler at the meager meal. On the table were three bowls of hot mush. As the fragrant odor rose to her nostrils, waves of joy crept slowly through the young body. "Peggy 'lowed you'd be hungry, kid," said the cobbler, pushing a bowl in front of her. Mrs. Grandoken interrupted her husband with a growl. "If I've any mem'ry, you 'lowed it yourself, Lafe Grandoken," she muttered. A smile deepened on the cobbler's face and a slight flush rose to his forehead. "I 'lowed it, too, Peggy dear," he said. "Eat your mush," snapped the woman, "an', Lafe, don't 'Peggy dear' me. I hate it; see?" Virginia refused to believe the startling words. She would have adored being called "dear." In Lafe's voice, great love rang out; in the woman's, she scarcely knew what. She glanced from one to the other as the cobbler lifted his head. He was always thanking some one in some unknown place for the priceless gift of his woman. "I'll 'Peggy dear' you whenever I feel like it, wife," he said gravely, "for God knows you're awful dear to me, Peg." Mrs. Grandoken ignored his speech, but when she returned from the stove, her voice was a little more gentle. "You can both stuff your innards with hot mush. You can't starve on that.... Here, kid, sit a little nearer!" So Virginia Singleton, the lame cobbler, and Peggy began their first meal, facing a new day, which to Lafe was yesterday's to-morrow. A little later Virginia followed the wheel chair into the cobbler's shop. Peggy grumblingly left them to return to her duties in the kitchen. "Terrible cold day this," Lafe observed, picking up a shoe. "The wind's blowin' forty miles the hour." Virginia's next remark was quite irrelevant to the wind. "I'm hoping Mrs. Peggy'll get the money she was talking about." "Did she tell you she needed some?" Virginia nodded, and when she spoke again, her tongue was parched and dry. "She said she had to have money to-night. I hope she gets it; if she doesn't I can't stay and live with you." "I hope she gets it, too," sighed the cobbler. Of a sudden a thought seemed to strike him. The girl noticed it and looked a question. "Peggy's bark's worser'n her bite," Lafe explained in answer. "She's like a lot of them little pups that do a lot of barkin' but wouldn't set their teeth in a biscuit." "Does that mean," Jinnie asked eagerly, "if she don't get the two dollars to-night, Mrs. Peggy might let me stay?" "That's just what it means," replied Lafe, making loud whacks on the sole of a shoe. "You'll stay, all right." The depth of Virginia's gratitude just then could only be estimated by one who had passed through the same fires of deep uncertainty, and in the ardor of it she flung her arms around the cobbler's neck and kissed him. * * * * * When Lafe, with useless legs, had been brought home to his wife, she had stoically taken up the burden that had been his. At her husband's suggestion that he should cobble, Mrs. Grandoken had fitted up the little shop, telling him grimly that every hand in the world should do its share. And that was how Lafe Grandoken, laborer and optimist, began his life's great work--of cobbling a ray of comfort to every soul entering the shack. Sometimes he would insist that the sun shone brighter than the day before; then again that the clouds had a cooling effect. But if in the world outside Lafe found no comfort, he always spoke of to-morrow with a ring of hope in his voice. Hope for another day was all Lafe had save Peggy, and to him these two--hope and the woman--were Heaven's choicest gifts. Now Peggy didn't realize all these things, because the world, with its trials and vicissitudes, gave her a different aspect of life, and she was not in even her ordinary good humor this day as she prepared the midday meal. Her mind was busy with thoughts of the new burden which the morning had brought. Generally Lafe consulted her about any problem that presented itself before him, but, that day, he had taken a young stranger into their home, and Mrs. Grandoken had used all kinds of arguments to persuade him to send the girl away. Peggy didn't want another mouth to feed. She didn't care for any one in the world but Lafe anyway. When the dinner was on the table, she grimly brought her husband's wheel chair to the kitchen. Virginia, by the cobbler's invitation, followed. "Any money paid in to-day?" asked Peggy gruffly, drawing the cobbler to his place at the table. "No," he said, smiling up at her, "but there'll be a lot to-morrow.... Is there some bread for----for Jinnie, too?" Peggy replied by sticking her fork into a biscuit and pushing it off on Virginia's plate with her finger. Virginia acknowledged it with a shy upward glance. Peg's stolid face and quick, insistent movements filled her with vague discomfort. If the woman had tempered her harsh, "Take it, kid," with a smile, the little girl's heart might have ached less. Lafe nodded to her when his wife left the room for a moment. "That biscuit's Peg's bite," said he, "so she'll bark a lot the rest of the day, but don't you mind." CHAPTER VII JUST A JEW When the cobbler was at work again, Virginia, after picking up a few nails and tacks scattered on the floor, sat down. "Would you like to hear something about me and Peggy, lassie?" he inquired, "an' will you take my word for things?" Jinnie nodded trustfully. She had already grown to love the cobbler, and her affection grew stronger as she stated: "There isn't anything you'd tell me, cobbler, I wouldn't believe!" With slow importance Lafe put down his hammer. "I'm a Israelite," he announced. "What's that?" asked the girl, immediately interested. The cobbler looked over his spectacles and smiled. "A Jew, just a plain Jew." "I don't know what a Jew is either," confessed Jinnie. Lafe groped for words to explain his meaning. "A Jew," he ventured presently, "is one of God's----chosen----folks. I mean one of them chose by Him to believe." "Believe what?" "All that God said would be," explained Lafe, reverently. "And you believe it, cobbler?" "Sure, kid; sure." The shoemaker saw a question mirrored in the depths of the violet eyes. "And thinking that way makes you happy, eh, Mr. Lafe? Does it make you smile the way you do at girls without homes?" As she put this question sincerely to him, Jinnie reminded the cobbler of a beautiful flower lifting its proud head to the sun. In his experience with young people, he had never seen a girl like this one. "It makes me happier'n anything!" he replied, cheerfully. "The wonderful part is I wouldn't know about it if I hadn't lost my legs. I'll tell you about it, lass." Jinnie settled back contentedly. "A long time ago," began Mr. Grandoken, "God led a bunch of Jews out of a town where a king was torturin' 'em----" The listener's eyes darkened in sympathy. "They was made to do a lot of things that hurt 'em; their babies and women, too." Jinnie leaned forward and covered the horny hand with her slender fingers. "Have you ever had any babies, Lafe?" she ventured. A perceptible shadow crossed the man's face. "Yes," said he hesitatingly. "Me and Peggy had a boy--a little fellow with curly hair--a Jew baby. Peggy always let me call him a Jew baby, though he was part Irish." "Oh!" gasped Jinnie, radiantly. "I was a big fellow then, kid, with fine, strong legs, an' nights, when I'd come home, I'd carry the little chap about." The cobbler's eyes glistened with the memory, but shadowed almost instantly. "But one day----" he hesitated. The pause brought an exclamation from the girl. "And one day--what?" she demanded. "He died; that's all," and Lafe gazed unseeingly at the snow-covered tracks. "And you buried him?" asked Virginia, softly. "Yes, an' the fault was mostly mine, Jinnie. I ain't had no way to make it up to Peggy, but there's lots of to-morrows." "You'll make her happy then?" ejaculated the girl. "Yes," said Lafe, "an' I might a done it then, but I wouldn't listen to the voices." A look of bewildered surprise crossed the girl's face. Were they spirit voices, the voices in the pines, of which Lafe was speaking? She'd ask him. "God's voices out of Heaven," said he, in answer to her query. "They come every night, but I wouldn't listen, till one day my boy was took. Then I heard another voice, demandin' me to tell folks what was what about God. But I was afraid an' a--coward." The cobbler lapsed into serious thought, while Virginia moved a small nail back and forth on the floor with the toe of her shoe. She wouldn't cry again, but something in the low, sad voice made her throat ache. After the man had been quiet for a long time, she pressed him with: "After that, Lafe, what then?" "After that," repeated the cobbler, straightening his shoulders, "after that my legs went bad an' then--an' then----" Virginia, very pale, went to the cobbler, and laid her head against his shoulder. "An' then, child," he breathed huskily, "I believed, an' I know, as well as I'm livin', God sent his Christ for everybody; that in the lovin' father"--Lafe raised his eyes--"there's no line drawed 'tween Jews an' Gentiles. They're all alike to Him. Only some're goin' one road an' some another to get to Him, that's all." These were quite new ideas to Virginia. In all her young life no one had ever conversed with her of such things. True, from her hill home on clear Sunday mornings she could hear the church bells ding-dong their hoarse welcome to the farmers, but she had never been inside the church doors. Now she regretted the lost opportunity. She wished to grasp the cobbler's meaning. Noting her tense expression, Grandoken continued: "It was only a misunderstandin' 'tween a few Jews when they nailed the Christ to the cross. Why, a lot of Israelites back there believed in 'im. I'm one of them believin' Jews, Jinnie." "I wish I was a Jew, cobbler," sighed Jinnie. "I'd think the same as you then, wouldn't I?" "Oh, you don't have to be a Jew to believe," returned Lafe. "It's as easy to do as 'tis to roll off'n a log." This lame man filled her young heart with a deep longing to help him and to have him help her. "You're going to teach me all about it, ain't you, Lafe?" she entreated presently. "Sure! Sure! You see, it's this way: Common, everyday folks--them with narrer minds--ain't much use for my kind of Jews. I'm livin' here in a mess of 'em. Most of 'em's shortwood gatherers. When I found out about the man on the cross, I told it right out loud to 'em all. ... You're one of 'em. You're a Gentile, Jinnie." "I'm sorry," said the girl sadly. "Oh, you needn't be. Peg's one, too, but she's got God's mark on her soul as big as any of them women belongin' to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob----I ain't sure but it's a mite bigger." The speaker worked a while, bringing the nails from his lips in rapid, even succession. Peg was the one bright spot that shone out of his wonderful yesterdays. She was the one link that fastened him securely to a useful to-morrow. Virginia counted the nails mechanically as they were driven into the leather, and as the last one disappeared, she said: "Are you always happy, Lafe, when you're smiling? Why, you smile--when--even when--" she stammered, caught her breath, and finished, "even when Mrs. Peggy barks." An amused laugh came from the cobbler's lips. "That's 'cause I know her, lass," said he. "Why, when I first found out about the good God takin' charge of Jews an' Gentiles alike, I told it to Peg, an', my, how she did hop up an' down, right in the middle of the floor. She said I was meddlin' into things that had took men of brains a million years to fix up. "But I knew it as well as anything," he continued. "God's love is right in your heart, right there----" He bent over and gently touched the girl. She looked up surprised. "I heard He was setting on a great high throne up in Heaven," she whispered, glancing up, "and he scowled dead mad when folks were wicked." Lafe smiled, shook his head, and picked up his hammer. "No," said he. "No, no! He's right around me, an' He's right around you, an' everything a feller does or has comes from Him." Virginia's thoughts went back to an episode of the country. "Does He help a kid knock hell out of another kid when that kid is beating a littler kid?" Her eyes were so earnest, so deep in question, that the cobbler lowered his head. Not for the world would he have smiled at Virginia's original question. He scarcely knew how to answer, but presently said: "Well, I guess it's all right to help them who ain't as big as yourself, but it ain't the best thing in the world to gad any one." "Oh, I never licked any of 'em," Jinnie assured him. "I just wanted to find out, that's all." "What'd you do when other kids beat the littler ones?" demanded the cobbler. "Just shoved 'em down on the ground and set on 'em, damn 'em!" answered Jinnie. Lafe raised his eyes slowly. "I was wonderin' if I dared give you a lesson, lass," he began in a low voice. "I wish you would," replied Virginia, eagerly. "I'd love anything you'd tell me." "Well, I was wonderin' if you knew it was wicked to swear?" Like a shot came a pang through her breast. She had offended her friend. "Wicked? Wicked?" she gasped. "You say it's wicked to swear, cobbler?" Lafe nodded. "Sure, awful wicked," he affirmed. Virginia took a long breath. "I didn't know it," she murmured. "Father said it wasn't polite, but that's nothing. How is it wicked, cobbler?" Lafe put two nails into position in the leather sole and drove them deep; then he laid down the hammer again. "You remember my tellin' you this morning of the man with angels, white angels, hoverin' about the earth helpin' folks?" "Yes," answered Virginia. "Well, He said it was wicked." An awe-stricken glance fell upon the speaker. "Did He tell you so, Lafe?" "Yes," said Lafe. "It ain't a question of politeness at all, but just bein' downright wicked. See, kid?" "Yes, cobbler, I do now," Jinnie answered, hanging her head. "Nobody but Matty ever told me nothing before. I guess she didn't know much about angels, though." "Well," continued Lafe, going back to his story, "God give his little boy Jesus to a mighty good man an' a fine woman--as fine as Peg--to bring up. An' Joseph trundled the little feller about just as I did my little Lafe, an' bye-an'-bye when the boy grew, He worked as his Father in Heaven wanted him to. The good God helped Joseph an' Mary to bring the Christ down face to face with us--Jews an' Gentiles alike." "With you and me?" breathed Virginia, solemnly. "With you an' me, child," repeated the cobbler in subdued tones. Virginia walked to the window and drummed on the pane. Through mere force of habit the cobbler bent his head and caught the tacks between his teeth. He did it mechanically; he was thinking of the future. In the plan of events which Lafe had worked out for himself and Peg, there was but one helper, and each day some new demonstration came to make his faith the brighter. In the midst of his meditation, Jinnie returned to her seat. "Cobbler, will you do something I ask you?" "Sure," assented Lafe. "Get busy trusting Peg'll get the two dollars to-night." "I have long ago, child, an' she's goin' to get it, too. That's one blessin' about believin'. No one nor nobody can keep you from gettin' what's your own." "Mrs. Peggy doesn't think that way," remarked Virginia, with keen memories of Mrs. Grandoken's snapping teeth. "No, not yet, but I'm trustin' she will. You see how 'tis in this shop. Folks is poor around here. I trust 'em all, Jews and Gentiles alike, but Peg thinks I ought to have the money the minute the work's done. But I know no man can keep my money from me, so I soothe her down till she don't whine any more. That's how I know her bark's worser'n her bite. Didn't I tell you about the biscuit?" "Yes," replied Virginia, "and I hope it'll only be bark about the money; what if she didn't get it?" "She'll get it," assured Lafe, positively. Just before bed time Lafe whispered in Jinnie's ear, "Peggy got the two! I told you she would. God's good, child, and we've all got Him in us alike." And that night, as the air waxed colder and colder, Virginia Singleton, daughter of the rich, slept her tired sleep amid the fighters of the world. CHAPTER VIII "EVERY HAND SHALL DO ITS SHARE," QUOTH PEG. The fifth day of Jinnie's stay in the cobbler's home crept out of the cold night accompanied by the worst blizzard ever known along the lake. Many times, if it had not been for the protecting overhanging hills, the wood gatherers' huts would have been swept quite away. As it was, Jinnie felt the shack tremble and sway, and doubted its ability to withstand the onslaught. After breakfast found Lafe and Jinnie conversing interestedly in the shop. The cobbler allowed several bright nails to fall into his palm before he answered the question which was worrying the girl. "There ain't no use troublin' about it, child," commented he. "We can't starve." "If I could only work," said Jinnie gloomily, "I bet Peg'd soon like me, because she wouldn't have to go out in the cold at all. But you think it'd be bad for me, eh, Lafe?" "Well, you couldn't go around to the factories or stores very well," replied Lafe. "You see your uncle's tryin' to trace you. I showed you that this mornin' in the paper, didn't I, where he mourned over you as lost after findin' your father dead?" Jinnie nodded. "Yes, I read it," she said. "An' he can't get your money for seven years. That makes him madder'n a hatter, of course." "If he'd let me alone, I'd just as soon give him the money," Jinnie said mournfully. Lafe shook his head. "The law wouldn't let you, till you was of age. No, sir, you'd either have to die a natural death or--another kind, an' you're a pretty husky young kid to die natural." "I don't want to die at all," shivered Jinnie. Lafe encouraged her with a smile. "If he finds you," pursued Lafe, "I'd have to give you up. I couldn't do anything else. We might pray 'bout it." A wistful expression came over Jinnie's face. "Is praying anything like wishing, cobbler?" "Somethin' the same," replied Mr. Grandoken, "with this difference--wishin' is askin' somethin' out of somewhere of some one you don't know; prayin' is just talkin' to some one you're acquainted with! See?" "Yes, I think I do," responded the girl. "Your way is mostly praying, isn't it, Lafe?" "Prayin's more powerful than wishin', lass," said Lafe. "When I was first paralyzed, I done a lot of wishin'. I hadn't any acquaintance with anybody but Peggy. After that I took up with God, an' He's been awful good to me." "He's been good to me, too, Lafe, bringing me here." This seemed to be a discovery to Virginia, and for a few minutes her brain was alive with new hopes. Suddenly she drew her chair in front of Grandoken. "Will to-morrow ever be to-day, cobbler?" Lafe looked at the solemn-faced girl with smiling, kindly eyes. "Sure, kid, sure," he asserted. "When you get done wishin' an' there ain't nothin' left in the world to want, then to-morrow's to-day." Jinnie smiled dismally. "There'd never be a day, cobbler, that I couldn't think of something I'd like for you--and Peg." Lafe meditated an instant before replying. Then: "I've found out that we're always happier, kid, when we've got a to-morrow to look to," said he, "'cause when you're just satisfied, somethin's very apt to go smash. I was that way once." He paused for some seconds. "Jinnie," he murmured, "I haven't told you how I lost the use of my legs, have I?" "No, Lafe." "Well, as I was sayin', there didn't used to be any to-morrow for me. I always lived just for that one day. I had Peg an' the boy. I could work for 'm, an' that was enough. It's more'n lots of men get in this world." His voice trailed into a whisper and ceased. He was living for the moment in the glory of his past usefulness. The rapt, wrinkled face shone as if it had been touched by angel fingers. Virginia watched him reverently. "It's more'n two years ago, now," proceeded the cobbler presently, "an' I was workin' on one of them tall uptown buildin's. Jimmy Malligan worked right alongside of me. We was great chums, Jimmy an' me. One day the ropes broke on one of the scaffoldin's--at least, that's what folks said. When we was picked up, my legs wasn't worth the powder to blow 'em up--an' Jimmy was dead. ... But Peg says I'm just as good as ever." Here Mr. Grandoken took out his pipe and struck a match. "But I ain't. 'Cause them times Peg didn't have to work. We always had fires enough, an' didn't live like this. But, as I was sayin', me an' Peg just kinder lived in to-day. Now, when I hope that mebbe I'll walk again, I'm always measurin' up to-morrow----Peg's the best woman in the world." Jinnie shivered as a gust of wind rattled the window pane. "She makes awful good hot mush," she commented. "Anyhow," went on Lafe, "I was better off'n Jimmy, because he was stone dead. There wasn't any to-day or to-morrow for him, an' I've still got Peggy." "And this shop," supplemented the girl, glancing around admiringly. "Sure, this shop," assented Lafe. "I had clean plumb forgot this shop--I mean, for the minute--but I wouldn't a forgot it long." He knocked the ashes out of his pipe and set to work. Neither girl nor man spoke for a while, and it wasn't until Lafe heard Peg's voice growling at one of Milly's kittens that he ceased his tick-tack. "You wouldn't like to join my club, lass, would you?" he ventured. Jinnie looked up quickly. "Of course I would," she said eagerly. "What kind of a club is it?" The girl's faith in the cobbler was so great that if Lafe had commanded her to go into danger, she wouldn't have hesitated. "Tell me what the club is, Lafe," she repeated. "Sure," responded Lafe. "Come here an' shake hands! All you have to do to be a member of my club is to be 'Happy in Spite' an' believe everythin' happenin' is for the best." A mystified expression filled the girl's earnest blue eyes. "I'm awful happy," she sighed, "and I'm awful glad to come in your club, but I just don't understand what it means." The cobbler paid no attention for some moments. He was looking out of the window, in a far-away mood, dreaming of an active past, when Jinnie accidentally knocked a hammer from the bench. Lafe Grandoken glanced in the girl's direction. "I'm happy in spite--" he murmured. Then he stopped abruptly, and his hesitation made the girl repeat: "Happy in spite?" with a rising inflection. "What does that mean, Lafe?" Lafe began to work desperately. "It means just this, kid. I've got a little club all my own, an' I've named it 'Happy in Spite.'" His eyes gathered a mist as he whispered, "Happy in spite of everything that ain't just what I want it to be. Happy in spite of not walkin'--happy in spite of Peg's workin'." Virginia raised unsmiling, serious eyes to the speaker. "I want to come in your club, too, Lafe," she said slowly. "I need to be happy in spite of lots of things, just like you, cobbler." A long train steamed by. Jinnie went to the window, and looked out upon it. When the noise of the engine and the roar of the cars had ceased, she whirled around. "Cobbler," she said in a low voice, "I've been thinking a lot since yesterday." "Come on an' tell me about it, lassie," said Lafe. She sat down, hitching her chair a bit nearer him, leaned her elbow on her knee, and buried a dimpled chin in the palm of her hand. "Do you suppose, Lafe, if a girl believed in the angels, anybody could hurt her?" "I know they couldn't, kid, an' it's as true's Heaven." "Well, then, why can't I go out and work?" Lafe paused and looked over his spectacles. "Peggy says, 'Every hand should do its share'," he quoted. Jinnie winced miserably. She picked up several nails from the floor. It was a pretext for an activity to cover her embarrassment. The cobbler allowed her to busy herself a while in this way. Then he said: "Sit in the chair an' wrap up in the blankets, Jinnie. I want to talk with you." She did as she was bidden, sitting quietly until the man chose to speak. "I guess you're beginnin' to believe," said he, at length, "an' if you do, a world full of uncles couldn't hurt you. Peg says as how you got to work if you stay, an' if you have the faith----" Jinnie rose tremblingly. "I know I'll be all right," she cried. "I just know you and me believing would keep me safe." Her eagerness caused Lafe to draw the girl to him. "Can you holler good an' loud?" he asked. The girl shot him a curious glance. "Sure I can." "Can you walk on icy walks----" "Oh, I'm as strong as anything," Jinnie cut in, glancing downward at herself. "I know a lot of kids who earn money," said Lafe meditatively. "What do they do?" "Get wood out of the marsh behind the huts there. Some of 'em keeps families on it." "Sell wood! And there's lots of it, Lafe?" "Lots," replied Lafe. Sell wood! The very words, new, wonderful, and full of action, rang through Jinnie's soul like sweet sounding bells. Waves of unknown sensations beat delightfully upon her girlish heart. If she brought in a little money every day, Peggy would be kinder. She could; she was sure she could. She was drawn from her whirling thoughts by the cobbler's voice. "Could you do it, kid? People could think your name was Jinnie Grandoken." Jinnie choked out a reply. "And mebbe I could make ten cents a day." "I think you could, Jinnie, an' here's Lafe right ready to help you." Virginia Singleton felt quite faint. She sat down, her heart beating under her knit jacket twice as fast as a girl's heart ought to beat. Lafe had suddenly opened up a path to usefulness and glory which even in her youthful dreams had never appeared to her. "Call Peggy," said Lafe. Soon Peg stood before them, with a questioning face. "The kid's goin' to work," announced Lafe, "We've got a way of keepin' her uncle off'n her trail." Mrs. Grandoken looked from her husband to Virginia. "I want to work like other folks," the girl burst forth, looking pleadingly at the shoemaker's wife. Peggy wiped her arms violently upon her apron, and there flashed across her face an inscrutable expression that Lafe had learned to read, but which frightened the newcomer. Oh, how Jinnie wanted to do something to help them both! Now, at this moment, when there seemed a likelihood of being industriously useful, Jinnie loved them the more. She was going to work, and into her active little brain came the sound of pennies, and the glint of silver. "I want to work, Peggy," she beseeched, "and I'll make a lot of money for you." "Every hand ought to do its share," observed Peg, stolidly, glancing at the girl's slender fingers. They looked so small, so unused to hard work, that she turned away. An annoying, gripping sensation attacked her suddenly, but in another minute she faced the girl again. "If you do it, miss, don't flounce round's if you owned the hull of Paradise Road, 'cause it'll be nothin' to your credit, whatever you do. You didn't make yourself." At the door she turned and remarked, "You've got t'have a shoulder strap to hold the wood, an' you musn't carry too much to onct. It might hurt your back." "I'll be careful," gulped Jinnie, "and mebbe I could help make the strap, eh, Lafe?" An hour later Jinnie was running a long needle through a tough piece of leather. She was making the strap to peddle shortwood, and a happier girl never breathed. Peg watched her without comment as Lafe fitted the strap about her shoulders. In fact, there was nothing for the woman to say, when the violet eyes were fixed questioningly upon her. Peggy thought of the hunger which would be bound to come if any hands were idle, so she muttered in excuse, "There's nothin' like gettin' used to a thing." "It's a fine strap, isn't it, Lafe?" asked the girl, "It's almost as good as a cart." "You can't use a cart in the underbrush," explained Lafe. "That's why the twig gatherers use straps." "I see," murmured Jinnie. When the cobbler and girl were once more alone together, they had a serious confab. They decided that every penny Jinnie brought in should go to enriching the house, and the girl's eyes glistened as she heard the shoemaker list over the things that would make them comfortable. Most delightful thoughts came to endow the girl's mental world, which now reached from the cobbler's shop to the marsh, over a portion of the city, and back again. It was rosy-hued, bright, sparkling with the pennies and nickels she intended to earn. All her glory would come with the aid of that twig gatherer's leather strap. She looked down upon it with a proud toss of her head. Jinnie was recovering the independent spirit which had dominated her when she had wandered alone on the hills away to the north. "I wouldn't wonder if I'd make fifteen cents some days," she remarked later at the supper table. "If you make ten, you'll be doin' well, an' you and Lafe'll probably bust open with joy if you do," snapped Peg. "Oh, Lord, I'm gettin' sick to my stomick hearin' you folks brag. Go to bed now, kid, if you're to work to-morrow." Jinnie fell asleep to dream that her hand was full of pennies, and her pockets running over with nickels. She was just stooping to pick up some money from the sidewalk when Peg's voice pierced her ear, "Kid," said she, "it's mornin', an' your first workin' day. Now hurry your lazy bones an' get dressed." CHAPTER IX BY THE SWEAT OF HER BROW Over the bridge into Paradise Road went the lithe, buoyant figure of a girl, a loose strap hanging from one straight shoulder. Jinnie was radiantly happy, for her first day had netted the family twenty cents, and if Paradise Road had been covered with eggs, she would not have broken many in her flight homeward. If she had been more used to Mrs. Grandoken, she would have understood the peculiar tightening at the corners of the woman's thin lips when she delivered the precious pittance. Virginia searched the other's face for the least sign of approbation. She wished Peg would kiss her, but, of course, she dared not suggest it. To have a little show of affection seemed to Jinnie just then the most desirable thing in the world, but the cobbler's wife merely muttered as she went away to the kitchen, and Virginia, sighing, sat down. "Now suppose you tell me all about it, Jinnie," Lafe suggested smilingly; "just where you went an' how you earned all the money." Fatigued almost beyond the point of rehearsing her experiences, Jinnie took Milly Ann on her lap and curled up in the chair. "I guess I've walked fifteen miles," she began. "You know most folks don't want wood." Lafe took one sidewise glance at the beautiful face. He remembered a picture he had once seen of an angel. Jinnie's face was like that picture. "Well, first, Lafe," she recounted, "I gathered the wood in the marsh, then I went straight across the back field through the swamp. It's froze over harder'n hell----" Lafe uttered a little, "Sh!" and Jinnie, with scarlet face, supplemented, "I mean harder'n _anything_." "Sure," replied Lafe, nodding. "Mr. Bates and his kids were there, but he c'n carry a pile three times bigger'n I can!" "Well, you're only a child. Sometimes Bates can't sell all he gets, though." "I sold all mine," asserted Jinnie, brightening. The cobbler recalled the history of Jinnie's lonely little life--of how during those first fifteen years no kindly soul had given her counsel, and now his heart glowed with thanksgiving as he realized that she was growing in faith and womanliness. He wanted Jinnie to give credit where credit was due, so he said, "You sold your wood because you had a helpin' hand." Jinnie was about to protest. "I mean----" breathed Lafe. "Oh, angels! Eh?" interrupted the girl. "Yes, I sold my last two cents' worth by saying what you told me--'He gives His angels charge over thee'--and, zip! a woman bought the last bundle and gave me a cent more'n I charged her." "Good!" Lafe was highly pleased. "It'll work every time, an' to make a long story short, it works on boots an' shoes, too." "Wood's awful heavy," Jinnie decided, irrelevantly. "Sure," soothed Lafe again. He hesitated a minute, drew his hand across his eyes, and continued, "An', by the way, Jinnie----" Jinnie's receptive face caused the cobbler to proceed: "I wouldn't have nothin' to do with Bates' son Maudlin, if I was you.... He's a bad lot." Jinnie's head drooped. She flushed to her hair. "I saw him to-day," she replied. "He's got wicked eyes. I hate boys who wink!" A look of desperation clouded the fair young face, and the cobbler, looking at the slender girlish figure, and thinking the while of Maudlin Bates, suddenly put out his hand. "Come here, lassie," he said. Another flame of color mounted to Jinnie's tousled hair. With hanging head, she pushed Milly Ann from her lap and walked to the cobbler's side. "What did Maudlin say to you?" he demanded. "He said he'd--he'd crack my twigs for me if--if I'd kiss him, and he pinched me when I wouldn't." Anger and deep resentment displayed themselves on Lafe's pale face. "Jinnie, lass," he breathed. "I c'n trust you, child. Can't I trust you? You wouldn't----" Jinnie drew away from Lafe's embrace. "I guess I'd rather be killed'n have Maudlin kiss me," she cried passionately. Just then Peg came to the door. "Run to the butcher's for a bit of chopped steak, Jinnie," she ordered, "an' make your head save your heels by bringin' in some bread." Jinnie jumped up quickly. "Please use some of my money to buy 'em, Peggy," she begged. "Oh, please do." Peggy eyed her sternly. "Kid," she warned. "I want to tell you something before you go any farther in life. You may be smart, but 'tain't no credit to you, 'cause you didn't make yourself. I'm tellin' you this for fear makin' so much money'll turn your head.... Here's your ten cents.... Now go along." After Jinnie had gone, Mrs. Grandoken sat down opposite her husband. "The girl looks awful tired," she offered, after a moment's silence. "She's been earnin' her livin' by the sweat of her brow," replied Lafe, with a wan smile. "Mebbe she'll get used to it," growled Peg. "Of course I don't like her, but I don't want her hurt. 'Twon't make her sick, will it?" "No, she's as strong as a little ox. She's got enough strength in her body to work ten times harder, but Peg----" Here Lafe stopped and looked out to the hill beyond the tracks, "but, Peggy, perhaps we c'n find her somethin' else after a while, when there ain't so much fear of her uncle. To make a long story short, Peg, danger of him's the only thing that'll keep the kid luggin' wood." "I was wonderin'," returned Peg, "if we couldn't get some one interested in 'er--the Kings, mebbe. They're a good sort, with lots of money, an' are more'n smart." Lafe's eyes brightened visibly, but saddened again. He shook his head. "We can't get the Kings 'cause I read in the paper last night they're gone away West, to be gone for a year or more.... It's a good idea, though. Some one'll turn up, sure." "When they do, my man," Peg said quickly, "don't be takin' any credit to yourself, 'cause you hadn't ought to take credit for the plannin' your sharp brains do." As he shook his head, smiling, she left him quickly and shut the door. CHAPTER X ON THE BROAD BOSOM OF THE "HAPPY IN SPITE" Thus for one year Jinnie went forth in the morning to gather her shortwood, and to sell it in the afternoon. Peg always gave her a biscuit to eat during her forenoon's work, and Jinnie, going from house to house later, was often presented with a "hunk of pie," as she afterwards told Lafe. If a housewife gave her an apple, she would take it home to the cobbler and his wife. Late one afternoon, at the close of a bitter day, Jinnie had finished her work and was resting on the door sill of an empty house on an uptown corner. She drew forth her money in girlish pride. Twenty-seven cents was what she'd earned,--two cents more than any day since she began working. This money meant much to Jinnie. She hadn't yet received a kiss from Mrs. Grandoken, but was expecting it daily. Perhaps when two cents more were dropped into her hand, Peggy might, just for the moment, forget herself and unwittingly express some little affection for her. With this joyous anticipation the girl recounted her money, retained sufficient change for the dinner meat, and slipped the rest into her jacket pocket. She rose and had started in the direction of the market when a clamor near the bridge made her pause. A crowd of men and boys were running directly toward her. Above their wild shouts could be heard the orders of a policeman, and now and then the frightened cry of a small child. At first Jinnie noticed only the people. Then her eyes lowered and she saw, racing toward her, a small, black, woolly dog. The animal, making a wild dash for his life, had in his anguish lost his mental balance, for he took no heed as to where he ran nor what he struck. A louder cry of derision rose up from many throats as the small beast scuttled between the legs of a farmer's horse, which gave him a moment's respite from his tormentors. An instant later they were clamoring again for his unhappy little life. Suddenly he ran headlong into a tree, striking his shaggy head with terrific force. Then he curled up in a limp little heap, just as Jinnie reached him. Before Maudlin Bates, the leader of the crowd, arrived, the girl had picked up the insensible dog and thrust him under her jacket. "He's dead, I guess," she said, looking up into the boy's face, "I'll take him to the cobbler's shop and bury him.... He isn't any good when he's dead." Maudlin Bates grinned from ear to ear, put his hands behind his back, and allowed his eyes to rove over the girl's straight young figure. "Billy Maybee was tryin' to tie a tin can to his tail," he explained, stuttering, "and the cur snapped at him. We was goin' to hit his head against the wall." "He's dead now," assured Jinnie once more. "It isn't any use to smash dead dogs." This reasoning being unanswerable, Maudlin turned grumblingly away. Jinnie's heart beat loudly with living hope. Perhaps the little dog wasn't dead. Oh, how she hoped he'd live! She stopped half way home, and pushed aside her jacket and peeped down at him. He was still quite limp, and the girl hurried on. She did not even wait to buy the meat nor the bread Peg had asked her to bring in. As she hurried across the tracks, she saw Grandoken sitting in the window. He saluted her with one hand, but as she was using both of hers to hold the dog, she only smiled in return, with a bright nod of her head. Once in the shop, she looked about cautiously. "I've got something, Lafe," she whispered, "something you'll like." When she displayed the hurt dog, Lafe put out his hand. "Is the little critter dead?" he asked solemnly. "Oh, I hope not!" replied Jinnie, and excitedly explained the episode. "Lafe took the foundling in his hands, turning the limp body over and over. "Jinnie, go ask Peg to bring some hot water in a pan," he said. "We'll give the little feller a chanct to live." Peg came in with a basin of water, stared at the wide-eyed girl and her smiling husband, then down upon the dog. "Well, for Lord's sake, where'd you get that little beast?" she demanded. "'Tain't livin', is it? Might as well throw it in the garbage pail." Nevertheless, she put down the basin as she spoke, and took the puppy from her husband. At variance with her statement that the dog might as well be thrown out, she laid him in the hot water, rubbing the bruised body from the top of its head to the small stubby tail. During this process Lafe had unfastened Jinnie's shortwood strap, and the girl, free, dropped upon the floor beside Peg. Suddenly the submerged body of the pup began to move. "He's alive, Peg!" cried Jinnie. "Look at his legs a kicking!... Oh, Lafe, he's trying to get out of the water!" Peg turned sharply. "If he ain't dead already," she grunted, "you'll kill him hollerin' like that. Anyway, 'tain't no credit to hisself if he lives. He didn't have nothin' to do with his bein' born, an' he won't have nothin' to do with his goin' on livin'. Shut up, now!... There, massy me, he's coming to." Jinnie squatted upon her feet, while Lafe wheeled his chair a bit nearer. For some moments the trio watched the small dog, struggling to regain consciousness. Then Peggy took him from the water and wrapped him carefully in her apron. "Lordy, he's openin' his eyes," she grinned, "an' you, girl, you go in there by the fire an' just hold him in your arms. Mebbe he'll come round all right. You can't put him out in the street till he's better." For the larger part of an hour, Jinnie held the newcomer close to her thumping heart, and when a spasm of pain attacked the shaggy head resting on her arm, she wept in sympathetic agony. Could Peg be persuaded to allow the dog to stay? She would promise to earn an extra penny to buy food for this new friend. At this opportune moment Mrs. Grandoken arrived from the market. "How's he comin' on?" she asked, standing over them. "Fine!" replied Jinnie. "And, Peg, he wants to stay." "Did he tell y' that?" demanded Peg, grimly. "Well, he didn't say just those words," said the girl, "but, Peggy, if he could talk, he'd tell you how much he loved you----" "Look a here, kid," broke in Mrs. Grandoken, "that dog ain't goin' to stay around this house, an' you might as well understand it from the beginnin'. I've enough to do with you an' Lafe an' those cats, without fillin' my house with sick pups. So get that notion right out of your noddle!... See?" Jinnie bowed her head over the sick dog and made a respectful reply. "I'll try to get the notion out," said she, "but, Peggy, oh, Peggy dear, I love the poor little thing so _awful_ much that it'll be hard for me to throw him away. Will you send him off when he's better, and not ask me to do it?" Jinnie cocked her pretty head inquiringly on one side, closed one eye, and looked at Peg from the other. Peggy sniffed a ruse. She came forward, spread her feet a bit, rolling her hands nervously in her apron. She hated an everlasting show of feelings, but sometimes it was difficult for her to crush the emotions which had so often stirred in her breast since the girl came to live with them. "I might as well tell you one thing right now, Jinnie Grandoken," she said. "You brought that pup into this house an' you'll take him out, or he won't get took; see?" There was a certain tone in Peg's voice the girl had heard before. "Then he won't get kicked out 't all, Peg," she said, with a petulant, youthful smile. "I just won't do it! Lafe can't, and if you don't----" Mrs. Grandoken made a deep noise in her throat. "You're a sassy brat," said she, "that's what you are! An' if Lafe don't just about beat the life out of you when I tell him about this, I will, with my own hand, right before his eyes. That's what----" Jinnie interrupted her eagerly. "Lafe won't beat me," she answered, "but I'll let you make me black and blue, Peg, if I can keep the puppy. Matty used to beat me fine, and she was a good bit stronger'n you." Peggy's eyes drew down at the corners, and her lip quivered. "Keep him if you want to, imp of Satan, but some day----here, see if the beast'll eat this bit of meat." Jinnie placed the shivering dog on the floor, and Peg put a piece of meat under his nose. In her excitement, Jinnie rushed away to Lafe. Peg's mumble followed her even through the closed door. "Cobbler, oh, dear good Lafe," cried the girl, "the dog's living! Peg says I can keep 'im, and I'm goin' to fiddle for him to-night. Do you think he'll forget all about his hurt if I do that, Lafe?" At that moment, shamed that she had given in to the importunate Jinnie, Mrs. Grandoken opened the shop door, shoving the half wet dog inside. "Here's your pup, kid," she growled, "an' y'd best keep him from under my feet if you don't want him stepped on." The cobbler smiled his slow, sweet smile. "Peg's heart's bigger'n this house," he murmured. "Bring him here, lassie." The girl, dog in arms, stood at the cobbler's side. "What're you goin' to name him?" asked Lafe, tenderly. "I dunno, but he's awful happy, now he's going to stay with us." "Call 'im 'Happy Pete'," said the cobbler, smiling, "an' we'll take 'im into our club; shall we, kid?" So Happy Pete was gathered that day into the bosom of the "Happy in Spite." CHAPTER XI WHAT HAPPENED TO JINNIE With a sigh Jinnie allowed Lafe to buckle the shortwood strap to her shoulder. Oh, how many days she had gone through a similar operation with a similar little sigh! It was a trying ordeal, that of collecting and selling kindling wood, for the men of Paradise Road took the best of the shortwood to be found in the nearer swamp and marsh lands, and oftentimes it was nearly noon before the girl would begin her sale. But the one real happiness of her days lay in dropping the pennies she earned into Peg's hand. Now Peggy didn't believe in spoiling men or children, but one morning, as she tied a scarf about Jinnie's neck, she arranged the black curls with more than usual tenderness. Pausing at the door and looking back at the woman, Jinnie suddenly threw up her head in determination. "I love you, Peggy," she said, drawing in a long breath. "Give me a little kiss, will you?" There! The cat was out of the bag. In another instant Jinnie would know her fate. How she dared to ask such a thing the girl could never afterwards tell. If Peg kissed her, work would be easy. If she denied her----Peggy glanced at her, then away again, her eyes shifting uneasily. But after once taking a stand, Jinnie held her ground. Her mouth was pursed up as if she was going to whistle. Would Peg refuse such a little request? Evidently Peggy would, for she scoffingly ordered. "Go along with you, kid--go long, you flip little brat!" "I'd like a kiss awful much," repeated Jinnie, still standing. Her voice was low-toned and pleading, her blue eyes questioningly on Peg's face. Peg shook her head. "I won't kiss you 'cause I hate you," she sniffed. "I've always hated you." Jinnie's eyes filled with tears. "I know it," she replied sadly, "I know it, but I'd like a kiss just the same because--because I _do_ love _you_, Peg." A bit of the same sentiment that had worried her for over a year now attacked Mrs. Grandoken. Her common sense told her to dash away to the kitchen, but a tugging in her breast kept her anchored to the spot. Suddenly, without a word, she snatched the girl close to her broad breast and pressed her lips on Jinnie's with resounding smacks. "There! There! And _there_!" she cried, between the kisses. "An' if y' ever tell a soul I done it, I'll scrape every inch of skin off'n your flesh, an' mebbe I'll do something worse, I hate y' that bad." In less seconds than it takes to tell it, Peg let Jinnie go, and the girl went out of the door with a smiling sigh. "Kisses 're sweeter'n roses," she murmured, walking to the track. "I wish I'd get more of 'em." She turned back as she heard Peg's voice calling her. "You might toddle in an' bring home a bit of sausage," said the woman, indifferently, "an' five cents' worth of chopped steak." Mrs. Grandoken watched Jinnie until she turned the corner. She felt a strangling sensation in her throat. A little later she flung the kitchen utensils from place to place, and otherwise acted so ugly and out of temper that, had Lafe known the whole incident, he would have smiled knowingly at the far-off hill and held his peace. Late in the afternoon Jinnie counted seventeen pennies, one dime and a nickel. It was a fortune for any girl to make, and what was better yet, buckled to her young shoulders in the shortwood strap was almost her next day's supply. As she replaced the money in her pocket and walked toward the market, she murmured gravely, "Mebbe Peg's kisses helped me to get it, but--but I musn't forget Lafe's prayers." Her smile was radiant and self-possessed. She was one of the world's workers and loved Lafe and Peg and the world with her whole honest young heart. "Thirty-two cents," she whispered. "That's a pile of money. I wish I could buy Lafe a posy. He does love 'em so, and he can't get out like Peg and me to see beautiful things." She stopped before a window where brilliant blossoms were exhibited. Ever since she began to work, one of the desires of Jinnie's soul had been to purchase a flower. As she scrutinized the scarlet and white carnations, the deep red roses, and the twining green vines, she murmured. "Peg loves Lafe even if she does bark at him. She won't mind if I buy him one. I'll make more money to-morrow." She opened the door of the shop and drew her unwieldy burden carefully inside. A girl stood back of the counter. "How much're your roses?" asked Jinnie, nodding toward the window and jingling the pennies in her pocket. "The white ones're five cents a piece," said the clerk, "and the red ones're ten.... Do y' want one?" "I'll take a white one," replied the purchaser. "Shall I wrap it in paper?" asked the other. "No, I'll carry it this way. I'd like to look at it going home." The girl passed the rose to Jinnie. "It smells nice, too," she commented. "Yes," assented Jinnie, delightedly, taking a whiff. Then she went on to the meat market to buy the small amount of meat required for the three of them. One of the men grinned at her from the back of the store, calling, "Hello, kid!" and Maudlin Bates, swinging idly on a stool, shouted, "What's wanted now, Jinnie?" and still another man came forward with the question, "Where'd you get the flower, lass?" "Bought it," replied Jinnie, leaning against the counter. "I got it next door for the cobbler. He's lame and can't get out." The market man turned to wait upon her. "Five cents' worth of chopped meat," ordered Jinnie, "and four sausages." "Ain't you afraid you'll overload your stomachs over there at the cobbler's shop?" laughed one of the men. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Jinnie ... Do you see that ring of sausage hangin' on that hook?" The girl nodded wonderingly, looking sidewise at Maudlin. "Well, if you'll give us a dance, a good one, mind you, still keepin' the wood on your back, I'll buy you the hull string. It'll last a week the way you folks eat meat." Jinnie's face reddened painfully, but the words appealed to her money-earning spirit, and with a curious sensation she glanced around. Could she dance, with the wondering, laughing, admiring gaze of the men upon her? And Maudlin, too! How she detested his lustful, doltish eyes! She straightened her shoulders, considering. The wood was heavy, and the strap, bound tightly about her chest and arms, made her terribly tired. But a whole string of sausage was a temptation she could not withstand. In her fertile imagination she could see Lafe nod his approbation, and Peggy joyously frying her earnings in the pan. She might even get three more kisses when no one was looking. "I don't know what to dance," she said presently, studying the rose in her confusion. "Oh, just anything," encouraged the man on the stool. "I'll whistle a tune." "Hand her the sausage, butcher;" sniggered Maudlin, "then she'll be sure of it. The feel of it'll make her dance better." The speaker grinned as the butcher took the string from the hook. Jinnie slipped the stem of the cobbler's rose between her white teeth, grasped the sausage in one hand and gripped the shortwood strap with the other. Then the man started a rollicking whistle, and Jinnie took a step or two. Every one in the place drew nearer. Here was a sight they never had seen--a lovely, shy-eyed, rosy, embarrassed girl, with a load of kindling wood on the strong young shoulders, turning and turning in the center of the market. In one hand she held a ring of sausage, and between her lips a white rose. "If you'll give us a grand fine dance, lass," encouraged the butcher, "you c'n have the chopped meat, too." The man's offer sifted through Jinnie's tired brain and stimulated her to quicker action. She turned again, shifting the weight more squarely on her shoulders, her feet keeping perfect time with the shrill, whistling tune. "Faster! Faster!" taunted Maudlin. "Earn your meat, girl! Don't be a piker!" Faster and faster whirled Jinnie, the heft of the shortwood carrying her about in great circles. Her cap had fallen from her head, loosing the glorious curls, and her breath whistled past the stem of Lafe's white flower like night wind past a taut wire. Jinnie forgot everything but the delight of earning something for her loved ones--something that would bring a caress from Lafe. She was sure of Lafe, very sure! As voices called "Faster!" and still "Faster!" Jinnie let go the shortwood strap to fling aside her curls. Just at that moment she whirled nearer Maudlin Bates, who thrust forth his great foot and tripped her. As she staggered, not one of those watching had sense enough to catch her as she fell. At that moment the door swung open and Peg Grandoken's face appeared. She looked questioningly at the market man. "I thought I saw Jinnie come in," she hesitated---- Then realizing something was wrong, her eyes fell upon the stricken girl. "She was just earnin' a little sausage by dancin'," the butcher excused. Peggy stared and stared, stunned for the moment. The hangdog expression on Maudlin's face expressed his crime better than words would have done. Jinnie's little form was huddled against the counter, the shortwood scattered around her, and from her forehead blood was oozing. On the slender arm was the ring of sausage and between her set teeth was Lafe's pale rose. With her outraged soul shining in her eyes, Peggy gathered the unconscious girl in her two strong arms. "I bet _you_ done it, you damn Maudlin!" she gritted, and without another word, left the market. Within a few minutes she had laid Jinnie on her bed, and was telling Lafe the pathetic story. CHAPTER XII WATCHING There was absolute quiet in the home of the cobbler for over a week. The house hung heavy with gloom. Jinnie Grandoken was fighting a ghastlier monster than even old Matty had created for her amusement. Of course Jinnie didn't realize this, but two patient watchers knew, and so did a little black dog. To say that Lafe suffered, as Peggy repeated over and over to him the story of Jinnie's loving act, would be words of small import, and through the night hours, when the cobbler relieved his wife at the sick girl's bed, shapes black and forbidding rose before him, menacing the child he'd vowed to protect. Could it be that Maudlin Bates had anything to do with Jinnie's fall? Even so, he was powerless to shield her from the young wood gatherer. A more perplexing problem had never faced his paternal soul. After his little son had gone away, there had been no child to love until--and now as he looked at Jinnie, agony surged through him with the memory of that other agony--for she might go to little Lafe. There came again the stabbing pain born with Peg's tale of the dance. The white rose lay withered in the cobbler's bosom where it had been since his girl had been carried to what the doctor said would in all probability be her deathbed. It was on nights like this that dead memories, with solemn mien, raced from their graves, haunting the lame man. Even Lafe's wonderful portion of faith had diminished during the past few days. He found himself praying mighty prayers that Jinnie would be spared, yet in mental bitterness visualizing her death. Oh, to keep yet a while within the confines of his life the child he loved! "Let 'er stay, Lord dear, let my Rose o' Paradise stay," Lafe cried out into the shadowy night, time and time again. Peggy came, as she often did, to wheel him away and order him to bed, but this evening Lafe told Peg he'd rather stay with Jinnie. "She looks like death," he whispered unnerved. "She is almost dead," replied the woman grimly. The doctor entered with silent tread. Stealing to the bed, he put his hand on the girl's brow. "She's better," he whispered, smilingly. "Look! Damp! Nothing could be a surer sign!" "May the good God be praised!" moaned Lafe. Jinnie stirred, lifted her heavy lids, and surveyed the room vacantly. Her glance passed over the medical man as if he were not within the range of her vision. She gazed at Lafe only, with but a faint glimmer of recognition, then on to Peg wavered the sunken blue eyes. "Drink of water, Peggy dear," she whispered. Mrs. Grandoken dropped the fluid into the open, parched mouth from a spoon; then she bent low to catch the stammering words: "Did Lafe like the rose, Peggy, and did you get the ring of sausage?" Peg glanced at the doctor, a question struggling to her lips, but she could not frame the words. "Tell her 'yes'," said the man under his breath. "Lafe just doted on the flower, honey," acknowledged Peggy, bending over the bed, "and I cooked all the sausage, an' we two et 'em. They was finer'n silk.... Now go to sleep; will you?" "Sure," trembled Jinnie. "Put Happy Pete in my arms, dear." Mrs. Grandoken looked once more at the doctor. He nodded his head slightly. So with the dog clasped in her arms, Jinnie straightway fell asleep. Then Peggy wheeled Lafe away to bed, and as she helped him from the chair, she said: "I lied to her just now with my own mouth, Lafe. I told her we et them sausages. We couldn't eat 'em 'cause they was all mashed up an' covered with blood." The cobbler's eyes searched the mottled face of the speaker. "That kind of lies 're blessed by God in his Heaven, Peg," he breathed tenderly. "A lie lendin' a helpin' hand to a sick lass is better'n most truths." Before going to bed Peg peeped in at Jinnie. The girl still lay with her arm over the sleeping Pete, her eyes roving round the room. She caught sight of the silent woman, and a troubled line formed between her brows. "How're you going to get money to live, Peggy?" she wailed. "I'm just beginning to remember about the dance and getting hurt." Peggy stood a moment at the foot of the bed. "Lafe's got a whole pocket full o' money," she returned glibly. "That's nice," sighed the girl in relief. "Shut up now an' go to sleep! Lafe's got enough cash to last a month." And as the white lids drooped over the violet eyes, Peg Grandoken's guardian angel registered another lie to her credit in the life-book of her Heavenly Father. CHAPTER XIII WHAT JINNIE FOUND ON THE HILL The days rolled on and on, and the first warm impulses of spring brought Jinnie, pale and thin, back to Lafe's side. She was growing so strong that days when the weather permitted, Peg put a wrap on her, telling her to breathe some color into her cheeks. For a long time Jinnie was willing to remain quietly on the hut steps where she could see the cobbler whacking away on the torn footwear. She knew that if she looked long enough, he would glance up and smile the smile which always warmed the cockles of her loving heart. As she grew better, and therefore restless, she walked with Happy Pete along the cinder path beside the tracks. Each day she went a little further than the day before, the spirit of adventure beginning to live again within her. The confines of her narrow world were no longer kept taut by the necessity of selling wood, and to-day it seemed to broaden to the far-away hill from whence the numberless fingers of shadow and sunshine beckoned to the sentimental girl. She wandered through Paradise Road with the little dog as a companion, and finding her way to the board walk, strolled slowly along. Wandering up above the city, she discovered a lonely spot snuggled in the hills, and gathering Happy Pete into her arms, she lay down. Over her head countless birds sang in the sunshine, and just below, in the hollow, were squirrels, chattering out their happy existence. Dreamily, through the leaves of the trees, Jinnie watched the white clouds float across the sky like flocks of sheep, and soon the peace of the surrounding world lulled her to rest. When Happy Pete touched her with his slender tongue, Jinnie sat up, staring sleepily around. At a sound, she turned her head and caught sight of a little boy, whose tangled hair lay in yellow curls on his head. The sight of tears and boyish distress made Jinnie start quickly toward him, but he seemed so timid and afraid she did not speak. Suddenly, two slight, twig-scratched arms fluttered toward her, and still without a word Jinnie took the trembling hands into hers. Happy Pete crawled cautiously to the girl's side; then, realizing something unusual, he threw up his black-tipped nose and whined. At the faint howl, the boy's hands quivered violently in Jinnie's. He caught his breath painfully. "Oh, who're you? Are you a boy or a girl?" His eyes were touched with an indefinable expression. Jinnie flushed as she scanned for a moment her calico skirt and overhanging blouse. Then with a tragic expression she released her hands, and ran her fingers through her hair. With such long curls did she look like a boy? "I'm a girl," she said. "Can't you see I'm a girl?" "I'm blind," said the boy, "so--so I had to ask you." Jinnie leaned forward and scrutinized him intently. "You mean," she demanded brokenly, "that you can't see me, nor Happy Pete, nor the trees, nor the birds, nor the squirrels, skipping around?" The boy bowed his head in assent, but brightened almost instantly. "No, I can't see those things, but I've got lots of stars inside my head. They're as bright as anything, only sometimes my tears put 'em out." Then, as if he feared he would lose his new friend, he felt for her hand once more. Jinnie returned the clinging pressure. For the second time in her life her heart beat with that strange emotion--the protective instinct she had felt for her father. She knew at that moment she loved this little lad, with his wide-staring, unseeing eyes. "I'm lost," said the boy, sighing deeply, "and I cried ever so long, but nobody would come, and my stars all went out." "Tell me about your stars," she said eagerly. "Are they sky stars?" "I dunno what sky stars are. My stars shine in my head lovely and I get warm. I'm cold all over and my heart hurts when they go out." "Oh!" murmured Jinnie. "I wish they'd always shine." "So do I." Then lifting an eager, sparkling face, he continued, "They're shinin' now, 'cause I found you." "Where're your folks?" asked Jinnie, swallowing hard. "I dunno. I lost 'em a long time ago, and went to live with Mag. She licked me every day, so--I just runned away--I've been here a awful long time." Jinnie considered a moment before explaining an idea that had slipped into her mind as if it belonged there. She would take him home with her. "You're going to Lafe's house," she announced presently. "Happy Pete and me and Peg live at Lafe Grandoken's home. Peggy makes bully soup." "And I'm so hungry," sighed the boy. "Where's the dog I heard barking?" He withdrew his hands, moving them outward, searching for something. The girl tried to push Pete forward, but the dog only snuggled closer to her. "Petey, dear, I'm ashamed of you!" she chided lovingly. "Can't you see the little fellow's trying to feel you?" Then Happy Pete, as if he also were ashamed, came within reach of the wavering hands, and crouched low, to be looked over with ten slender finger tips. "He's awful beautiful!" exclaimed the boy. "His hair's softer'n silk, and his body's as warm as warm can be." Jinnie contemplated Happy Pete's points of beauty. Never before had she thought him anything more than a homely, lovable dog, with squat little legs, and a pointed nose. In lightninglike comparison she brought to her mind the things she always considered beautiful--the spring violets, the summer roses, that belt of wonderful color skirting the afternoon horizon, and all the wonders of nature of which her romantic world consisted. The contrast between these and the shaking black dog, with his smudge of tangled hair hanging over his eyes, shocked Jinnie's artistic sense. "If----if you say he's beautiful, then he is," she stammered almost inaudibly. "Of course he is! What's your name?" "Jinnie. Jinnie Grandoken... What's yours?" "Blind Bobbie, or sometimes just Bobbie." "Well, I'll call you Bobbie, if you want me to.... I like you awful well. I feel it right in here." She pressed the boy's fingers to her side. "Oh, that's your heart!" he exclaimed. "I got one too! Feel it jump!" Jinnie's fingers pressed the spot indicated by the little boy. "My goodness," she exclaimed, "it'll jump out of your mouth, won't it?" "Nope! It always beats like that!" "Where's your mother?" asked Jinnie after a space. "I suppose she's dead, or Mag wouldn't a had me. I don't know very much, but I 'member how my mother's hands feel. They were soft and warm. She used to come to see me at the woman's house who died--the one who give me to Mag." "She must have been a lovely mother," commented Jinnie. "She were! Mag tried to find her 'cause she said she was rich, and when she couldn't, she beat me. I thought mebbe I'd find mother out in the street. That's why I run away." Jinnie thought of her own dead father, and the child's halting tale brought back that one night of agony when Thomas Singleton died, alone and unloved, save for herself. She wanted to cry, but instead she murmured, "Happy in Spite," as Lafe had bidden her, and the melting mood vanished. The cobbler and his club were always wonderfully helpful to Jinnie. "My mother told me onct," Bobbie went on, "she didn't have nothin' to live for. I was blind, you see, and wasn't any good--was I?" The question, pathetically put, prompted Virginia to fling back a ready answer. "You're good 'nough for me and Happy Pete," she asserted, "and Lafe'll let you be his little boy too." The blind child gasped, and the girl continued assuringly, "Peg'll love you, too. She couldn't help it." "Peg?" queried Bobbie. "Oh, she's Lafe's wife. Happy Pete and me stay in her house." The blind eyes flashed with sudden hope. "Mebbe she'll love me a little! Will she?" "I hope so. Anyway, Lafe will. He loves everybody, even dogs. He'll love you; _sure_ he will!" The boy shook his head doubtfully. "Nobody but mothers are nice to blind kids. Well--well--'cept you. I'd like to go to Lafe's house, though, but mebbe the woman wouldn't want me." Jinnie had her own ideas about this, but because the child's tears fell hot upon her hands, the mother within her grew to greater proportions. Three times she repeated softly, "Happy in Spite." "Happy in Spite," she whispered again. Then she sat up with a brilliant smile. "Of course I'm going to take you to Lafe's. Here at Lafe's my heart's awful busy loving everybody. Now I've got you I'm going to take care of you, 'cause I love you just like the rest. Stand up and let me wipe your nose." "Let me see how you look, first," faltered the boy. "Where's your face?... I want to touch it!" His little hands reached and found Jinnie's shoulders. Then slowly the fingers moved upwards, pressing here and there upon the girl's skin, as they traveled in rhythmic motion over her cheeks. "Your hair's awful curly and long," said he. "What color is it?" "Color? Well, it's black with purple running through it, I guess. People say so anyway!" "Oh, yes, I know what black is. And your eyes're blue, ain't they?" "Yes, blue," assented Jinnie. "I see 'em when I slick my hair in the kitchen glass ... I don't think they're much like yours." Bobbie paid no heed to the allusion to himself. "Your forehead's smooth, too," he mused. "Your eyes are big, and the lashes round 'em 're long. You're much prettier'n your dog, but then girls 're always pretty." A flush of pleased vanity reddened Jinnie's skin to the tips of her ears, and she scrambled to her feet. Then she paused, a solemn expression shadowing her eyes. "Bobbie," she spoke soberly, "now I found you, you belong to me, don't you?" Bobbie thrust forth his hands. "Yes, yes," he breathed. "Then from now on, from this minute, I'm going to work for you." Jinnie's thoughts were on the shortwood strap, but she didn't mention it. Oh, how she would work for money to give Peg with which to buy food! How happy she would be in the absolute ownership of the boy she had discovered in the hills! Tenderly she drew him to her. He seemed so pitifully helpless. "How old 're you?" she demanded. "Nine years old." "You don't look over five," said Jinnie, surprised. "That's because I'm always sick," explained the boy. Jinnie threw up her head. "Well, a girl sixteen ought to be able to help an awful little boy, oughtn't she?... Here, I'll put my arm round you, right like this." But the boy made a backward step, so that Jinnie, thinking he was about to fall, caught him sharply by the arm. "I'll walk if you'll _lead_ me," Bobbie explained proudly. Thus rebuffed, Jinnie turned the blind face toward the east, and together they made their way slowly to the plank walk. CHAPTER XIV "HE'S COME TO LIVE WITH US, PEGGY" They trailed along in silence, the girl watching the birds as flock after flock disappeared in the north woods. Now and then, when Jinnie looked at the boy, she felt the pride which comes only with possession. She was going to work for him, to intercede with Peg, to allow the foundling to join that precious home circle where the cobbler and his wife reigned supreme. As they reached the plank walk, the boy lagged back. "I'm tired, girl," he panted. "I've walked till I'm just near dead." He cried quietly as Jinnie led him into the shadow of a tree. "Sit here with me," she invited. "Lay your head on my arm." And this time he snuggled to her till the blind eyes and the pursed delicate mouth were hidden against her arm. "I told you, Bobbie," Jinnie resumed presently, "I'd let you be Lafe's little boy, didn't I?" "Yes, girl," replied the boy, sleepily. "Now wasn't that awful good of me?" "Awful good," was the dreamy answer. "My stars're glory bright now." "And most likely Lafe'll help you see with your eyes, just like Happy Pete and me!" Jinnie went on eagerly. "All the trees and hundreds of birds, some of 'em yellow and some of 'em red, an' some of 'em so little and cunning they could jump through the knothole in Peg's kitchen.... Don't you wish to see all that?" The small face brightened and the unseeing eyes flashed upward. "I'd find my mother, then," breathed Bobbie. "And you'd see a big high tree, with a robin making his nest in it!... Have y' ever seen that?" Jinnie was becoming almost aggressive, for, womanlike, with a point to make, each argument was driven home with more power. "No," Bobbie admitted, and his voice held a certain tragic little note. "And you've never seen the red running along the edge of the sky, just when the sun's going down?" Again his answer was a simple negative. "And hasn't anybody tried to show you a cow and her calf in the country, nipping the grass all day, in the yellow sunshine?" Jinnie was waxing eloquent, and her words held high-sounding hope. The interest in the child's face invited her to go on. "Now I've said I'd let my folks be yours, and didn't I find you, and have you got any one else? If you don't let me help you to Lafe's, how you going to see any of 'em?" She paused before delivering her best point, which was addressed quite indifferently to the sky. "And just think of that hot soup!" This was enough. Bobbie struggled up, flushed and agitated. "Put your arm around me, girl," which invitation Jinnie quickly accepted. Then they two, so unlike, went slowly down the walk toward the tracks to Lafe Grandoken's home. Jinnie's heart vied with a trip-hammer as they turned into Paradise Road. She did not fear the cobbler, but the thought of Peggy's harsh voice, her ruthless catechizing, worried her not a little. Nevertheless, she kept her arm about the boy, steadily drawing him on. When they came to the side door of the house, the girl turned the handle and walked in, leading her weary companion. Resolutely she passed on to the kitchen, for she wanted the disagreeable part over first. She fumbled in hesitation with the knob of the door, and Peg, hearing her, opened it. At first, the woman saw only Jinnie, with Happy Pete by her side. Then her gaze fell upon the other child, whose blind, entreating eyes were turned upward in supplication. "This is Bobbie," announced Jinnie, "and he's come to live with us, Peggy." Poor Peggy stared, surprised to silence. She could find no words to fit the occasion. "He hasn't any home!" Jinnie gasped for breath in her excitement. "Mag, a woman somewhere, beat him and he ran away and I found 'im. So he belongs to us now." She was gaining assurance every moment. She hoped that Peggy was silently acquiescing, for the woman hadn't uttered a word; she was merely looking from one to the other with her characteristically blank expression. "I'm going to give him half of Lafe, too," confided Jinnie, nodding her head toward the waiting child. Then Peggy burst forth in righteous indignation. She demanded to know how another mouth was to be fed, and clothes washed and mended; where the brat was to sleep, and what good he was anyway. "Do you think, kid," she stormed at Jinnie, "you're so good yourself we're wantin' to take another one worser off'n you are? Don't believe it! He can't stay here!" Jinnie held her ground bravely. "Oh, I'll start right out and sell wood all day long, if you'll let him stay, Peg." A tousled lock of yellow hair hung over Bobbie's eyes. "Oh, Peggy, dear, Mrs. Good Peggy, let me stay!" he moaned, swaying. "I'm so tired, s'awful tired. I can't find my mother, nor no place, and my stars're all out!" Sobbing plaintively, he sank to the floor, and there the childish heart laid bare its misery. Then Jinnie, too, became quite limp, and forgetting all about "Happy in Spite," she knelt alongside of her newly acquired friend, and the two despairing young voices rose to the woman standing over them. Jinnie thrust her arms around the little boy. "Don't cry, my Bobbie," she sobbed. "I'll go back to the hills with you, because you need me. We'll live with the birds and squirrels, and I'll sell wood so we c'n eat." When she raised her reproachful eyes to Peg, and finished with a swipe at her offending nose with her sleeve, she had never looked more beautiful, and Peggy glanced away, fearing she might weaken. "Tell Lafe I love him, and I love you, too, Peggy. I'll come every day and see you both, and bring you some money." If she had been ten years older or had spent months framing a speech to fit the need of this occasion, Jinnie could not have been more effective, for Peg's rage entirely ebbed at these words. "Get up, you brats," she ordered grimly. "An' you listen to me, Jinnie Grandoken. Your Bobbie c'n stay, but if you ever, so long as you live, bring another maimed, lame or blind creature to this house, I'll kick it out in the street. Now both of you climb up to that table an' eat some hot soup." Jinnie drew a long breath of happiness. She had cried a little, she was sorry for that. She had broken her resolve always to smile--to be "Happy in Spite." "I'll _never_ bring any one else in, Peg," she averred gratefully. Then she remembered how sweeping was her promise and changed it a trifle. "Of course if a kid was awful sick in the street and didn't have a home, I'd have to fetch it in, wouldn't I?" Peggy flounced over to the table, speechless, followed by the two children. CHAPTER XV "WHO SAYS THE KID CAN'T STAY?" Twenty minutes later Mrs. Grandoken entered the shop and sat down opposite her husband. "Lafe," she began, clearing her throat. The cobbler questioned her with a glance. "That girl'll be the death of this hull shanty," she announced huskily. "I hate 'er more'n anything in the world." Lafe placed a half-mended shoe beside him on the bench. "What's ailin' 'er now, Peggy?" "Oh, she ain't sick," interrupted Peg, with curling lip. "She never looked better'n she does this minute, settin' in there huddlin' that pup, but she's brought home another kid, as bad off as a kid can be." "A what? What'd you say, Peg? You don't mean a youngster!" Mrs. Grandoken bobbed her head, her face stoically expressionless. "An' bad off," she repeated querulously. "The young 'un's blind." Before Lafe's mental vision rose Jinnie's lovely face, her parted lips and self-assured smile. "But where'd she get it? It must belong to some 'un." Mrs. Grandoken shook her head. "I dunno. It's a boy. He was with a woman--a bad 'un, I gather. She beat 'im until the little feller ran away to find his own folks, he says--and--Jinnie brought 'im home here. She says she's goin' to keep 'im." The speaker drew her brown skin into a network of wrinkles. "Where'd she find 'im?" Lafe burst forth, "Of course he can't stay----" Mrs. Grandoken checked the cobbler's words with a rough gesture. "Hush a minute! She got 'im over near the plank walk on the hill--he was cryin' for 'is ma." Lafe was plainly agitated. He felt a spasmodic clutch at his heart when he imagined the sorrow of a homeless, blind child, but thinking of Peg's struggle to make a little go a long way, he dashed his sympathy resolutely aside. "Of course he can't stay--he can't!" he murmured. "It ain't possible for you to keep 'im here." In his excitement Lafe bent forward and closed his hands over Peg's massive shoulder bones. Peggy coughed hoarsely and looked away. "Who says the kid can't stay?" she muttered roughly. "Who said he can't?" The words jumped off the woman's tongue in sullen defiance. "But you got too much to do now, Peg. We've made you a lot of trouble, woman dear, an' you sure don't want to take another----" Like a flash, Peg's features changed. She squinted sidewise as if a strong light suddenly hurt her sight. "Who said I didn't?" she drawled. "Some husbands do make me mad, when they're tellin' me what I want, an' what I don't want. I hate the blind brat like I do the girl, but he's goin' to stay just the same." A deep flush dyed Lafe's gray face. The intensity of his emotion was almost a pain. Life had ever vouchsafed Lafe Grandoken encouragement when the dawn was darkest. Now Peg's personal insult lined his clouds of fear with silver, and they sailed away in rapid succession as quickly as they had come; he saw them going like shadows under advancing sun rays. "Peggy," he said, touching her gently, "you've the biggest heart in all the world, and you're the very best woman; you be, sure! If you let the poor little kid stay, I'll make more money, if God gives me strength." Peggy pushed Lafe's hand from her arm. "I 'spose if you do happen to get five cents more, you'll puff out with pride till you most bust.... Anyway, it won't take much more to buy grub for a kid with an appetite like a bird.... Come on! I'll wheel you to the kitchen so you can have a look at 'im." Jinnie glanced around as the husband and wife entered the room. She pushed Happy Pete from her lap and got up. "Lafe," she exclaimed, "this is Bobbie--he's come to live with us." She drew the blind boy from his chair and went forward. "Bobbie," she explained, "this is the cobbler. I told you about him in the park. See 'im with your fingers once, and you'll know he's the best man ever." The small boy lifted two frail arms, his lips quivering in fright and homesickness. Some feeling created by God rose insistent within Lafe. It was a response from the heart of the Good Shepherd, who had always gathered into his fold the bruised ones of the world. Lafe drew the child to his lap. "Poor little thing!" he murmured sadly. With curling lips, his wife stood watching the pair. "You're a bigger fool'n I thought you was, Lafe Grandoken," she said, turning away sharply. "I wouldn't make such a fuss over no one livin'. That's just what I wouldn't." She threw the last remark over her shoulder as if it were something she spurned and wanted to be rid of. Bobbie slipped from Lafe's arms and described a zigzag course across the kitchen floor toward the place where Mrs. Grandoken stood. His hands fluttered over Peg's dress, as high as they could reach. "I like you awful well, Mrs. Peggy," he told her, "and I just love your kisses, too, Mrs. Peggy dear. They made my stars shine all over my head." The cobbler's wife started guiltily, casting her eyes upon Lafe. He was silent, his patient face expressing melancholy sweetness. As far as the woman could determine, he had not heard the boy's words. Relieved, she allowed her eyes to rest upon Jinnie. The girl was looking directly at her. Then Jinnie slowly dropped one white lid over a bright, gleeful blue eye in a wicked little wink. This was more than Peggy could endure. She _had_ kissed the little boy several times during the process of washing the tear-stained face and combing the tangled hair, but that any one should know it! Just then, Peggy secretly said to herself, "If uther one of them kids get any more kisses from me, it'll be when water runs uphill. I 'spose now I'll never hear the last of them smacks." "Let go my skirt! Get away, kid," she ordered Bobbie. The boy dropped his hands reluctantly. He had hoped for another kiss. "Peggy," said Lafe, "can I hold him? He seems so sad." Mrs. Grandoken, consciously grim, placed the boy in her husband's lap. "You see," philosophized Jinnie, when she and the blind child were with the cobbler, "if a blind kid hasn't any place to live, the girl who finds 'im has to bring him home! Huh, Lafe?" Then she whispered in his ear, "Couldn't Bobbie join the 'Happy in Spite'?" "Sure he can, lass; sure he can," assented Lafe. Jinnie whirled back to the little boy. "Bobbie, would you like to come in a club that'll make you happy as long's you live?" The bright blind eyes of the boy flashed from Jinnie to the man, and he got to his feet tremulously. In his little mind, out of which daylight was shut, Jinnie's words presaged great joy. The girl took his hand and led him to the cobbler. "You'll have to explain the club to 'im, Lafe," she said. "Yes, 'splain it to me, Lafe dearie," purred Bobbie. "It's just a club," began Lafe, "only good to keep a body happy. Now, me--well, I'm happy in spite a-havin' no legs; Jinnie there, she's happy in spite a-havin' no folks. Her and me's happy in spite a everything." Bobbie stood alongside Lafe's bench, one busy set of fingers picking rhythmically at the cobbler's coat, the other having sought and found his hand. "I want to be in the club, cobbler," he whispered. Mr. Grandoken stooped and kissed the quivering face. "An' you'll be happy in spite a havin' no eyes?" he questioned. The little boy, pressing his cheek against the man's arm, cooed in delight. "And happy in spite of not finding your mother right yet?" interjected Jinnie. "Yes, yes, 'cause I _am_ happy. I got my beautiful Peggy, ain't I? And don't she make me a hull lot of fine soup, and ain't I got Lafe, Happy Pete----" "You got me, too, Bobbie," Jinnie reminded him gently. Bobbie acquiesced by a quick bend of his head, and Lafe grasped his hand. "Now you're a member of the 'Happy in Spite', Bob," said he smiling. "This club is what I call a growin' affair. Four members----" "Everybody's in," burst forth Jinnie. "Except Peggy," sighed Lafe. "Some day something'll bring her in, too." CHAPTER XVI JINNIE'S EAR GETS A TWEAK Bobbie had been at the Grandoken home scarcely a week before Jinnie again got into difficulty. One morning, wide-awake, beside the blind boy, she happened to glance toward the door. There stood Peg, her face distorted by rage, staring at her with terrible eyes. Jinnie sat up in a twinkling. "What is it, Peggy, dear?" she faltered. "What have I done now?" Without reply, Peggy marched to the bed and took the girl by the ear. In this way she pulled her to the floor, walking her ahead of her to the kitchen. "I don't know what I've done, Peggy," repeated Jinnie, meekly. "I'll show you. You'll know, all right, miss! Now if you've eyes, squint down there!" She was pointing to the floor, and as the room was rather dark, Jinnie at first could discern nothing. Then as her eyes became accustomed to the shadows, she saw---- "Oh, what is it, Peggy? Oh, my! Oh, my!" Peggy gave her a rough little shake. "I'll tell you what, Jinnie Grandoken, without any more ado. Well, they're cats, just plain everyday cats! Another batch of Miss Milly Ann's kits, if y' want to know. They can't stay in this house, miss, an' when I say a thing, I mean it! My word's law in this shanty!" She was still holding the girl's ear, and suddenly gave it another tweak. Jinnie pulled this tender member from Peggy's fingers with a delighted little chuckle. "Peggy darling, aren't they sweet? Oh, Peggy----" "Ain't they sweet?" mimicked Peggy. "They're just sweet 'nough to get chucked out. Now, you get dressed, an' take 'em somewhere. D' you hear?" Jinnie wheeled about for another tug of war. It was dreadful how she had to fight with Peggy to get her own way about things like this. First with Happy Pete, then with Bobbie, and now--to-day--with five small kittens, not one of them larger than the blind child's hand. She looked into Mrs. Grandoken's face, which was still grim, but Jinnie decided not quite so grim as when the woman appeared at her bedroom door. "I suppose you'll go in an' honey round Lafe in a minute, thinkin' he'll help you keep 'em," said Mrs. Grandoken. "But this time it won't do no good." "Peggy!" blurted Jinnie. "Shut your mouth! An' don't be Peggyin' me, or I'll swat you," vowed Peg. The woman glared witheringly into a pair of beseeching blue eyes. "Get into your clothes, kid," she ordered immediately, "then you----" "Then I'll come back, dear," gurgled Jinnie, "and do just what you want me to." Then with subtle modification, she continued, "I mean, Peg, I'll do just what you want me to after I've talked about it a bit... Oh, please, let me give 'em one little kiss apiece." Peggy flounced to the stove. "Be a fool an' kiss 'em if you want to... I hate 'em." In the coarse nightdress Peggy had made for her, Jinnie sat down beside Milly Ann. The yellow mother purred in delight. She'd brought them five new babies, and no idea entered her mother heart that she would have to part with even one. Out came the kittens into the girl's lap, and one by one they were tenderly lifted to be kissed. Both Peggy and the kisser were silent while this loving operation was in process. Then Jinnie, still sitting, looked from Milly Ann to Peggy. "I guess she's awful fond of her children, don't you, Peg?" Peggy didn't answer. "You see it's like this, Peg----" "Didn't I tell you not to Peggy me?" "Then it's like this, darling," drawled Jinnie, trying to be obedient. "An' you needn't darlin' me nuther," snapped Peggy. Jinnie thought a minute. "Then it's like this, honey bunch," she smiled again. Peg whirled around on her. "Say, you kid----" "Wait, dearie!" implored Jinnie. "Don't you know mother cats always love their kitties just like live mothers do their babies?" Peggy rattled the stove lids outrageously. Hearing these words, she stopped abruptly. Who knows where her thoughts flew? Jinnie didn't, for sure, but she thought, by the sudden change of Mrs. Grandoken's expression, she could guess. The woman looked from Milly Ann to the wriggling kittens in Jinnie's lap, then she stooped down and again brought to view Jinnie's little ear tucked away under the black curls. "Get up out o' here an' dress; will you? I've said them cats've got to go, and go they will!" Jinnie returned the kittens to their mother, and when she got back to her room, Bobbie was sitting up in bed rubbing his eyes. "I couldn't find you, girl," he whimpered. "I felt the bed over and you was gone." Jinnie bent over him. "Peg took me out in the kitchen, dear... What do you think, Bobbie?" Bobbie began to tremble. "I got to go away from here ... eh?" "Mercy, no!" laughed Jinnie. "Milly Ann's got a lot of new babies." Bobbie gave a delighted squeal. "Now I'll have something else to love, won't I?" he gurgled. Jinnie hoped so! But she hadn't yet received Peg's consent to keep the family, so when the little boy was dressed and she had combed her hair and dressed herself, they went into the shop, where the cobbler met them with a smile. "Peg's mad," Jinnie observed with a comprehensive glance at Mr. Grandoken. "Quite so," replied Lafe, grinning over the bowl of his pipe. "She had frost on her face a inch thick when she discovered them cats. I thought she'd hop right out of the window." "She says I must throw 'em away," ventured Jinnie. "Cluck! Cluck!" struck Lafe's tongue against the roof of his mouth, and he smiled. Jinnie loved that cluck. It put her in mind of the Mottville mother hens scratching for their chickens. "Hain't she ever said anything like that to you before, lass?" the cobbler suggested presently. "She said it about me," piped in Bobbie. "An' about Happy Pete, too," added Lafe. "I bet I keep 'em," giggled Jinnie. "I'll bet with you, kid," said the cobbler gravely. "I want to see 'em!" Bobbie clamored with a squeak. But he'd no more than made the statement before the door burst violently open and Peg stood before them. Her apron was gathered together in front, held by one gripping hand; something moved against her knees as if it were alive. In the other hand was Milly Ann, carried by the nape of her neck, hanging straight down at the woman's side, her long yellow tail dragging on the floor. The woman looked like an avenging angel. "I've come to tell you folks something," she imparted in a very loud voice. "Here's this blasted ragtail, that's went an' had this batch of five cats. Now I'm goin' to warn y' all----" Bobbie interrupted her with a little yelp. "Let me love one, Peggy, dear," he begged. "I'm goin' to warn you folks," went on Peg, without heeding the child's interjection, "that--if--you don't want their necks wrung, you'd better keep 'em out of my way." Saying this, she dropped the mother cat with a soft thud, and without looking up, dumped the kittens on top of her, and stalked out of the room. When Jinnie appeared five minutes later in the kitchen with a small kitten in her hand, Peg was stirring the mush for breakfast. "You hate the kitties, eh, Peg?" asked Jinnie. The two tense wrinkles at the corners of Mrs. Grandoken's mouth didn't relax by so much as a hair's line. "Hate 'em!" she snapped, "I should say I do! I hate every one of them cats, and I hate you, too! An' if y' don't like it, y' can lump it. If the lumps is too big, smash 'em." "I know you hate us, darling," Jinnie admitted, "but, Peg, I want to tell you this: it's ever so much easier to love folks than to hate 'em, and as long as the kitties're going to stay, I thought mebbe if you kissed 'em once--" Then she extended the kitten. "I brought you one to try on." "Well, Lord-a-massy, the girl's crazy!" expostulated Peg. "Keep the cats if you're bound to, you kid, but get out of this kitchen or I'll kiss you both with the broom." Jinnie disappeared, and Peggy heard a gleeful laugh as the girl scurried back to the shop. CHAPTER XVII JINNIE DISCOVERS HER KING'S THRONE Two years and almost half of another had passed since Jinnie first came to live with Lafe and Peggy Grandoken. These two years had meant more to her than all the other fifteen in her life. Lafe, in his kindly, fatherly way, daily impressed upon her the need of her studying and no day passed without planting some knowledge in the eager young mind. Her mornings were spent gathering shortwood, her afternoons in selling it, but the hours outside these money-earning duties were passed between her fiddle and her books. The cobbler often remarked that her mumbling over those difficult lessons at his side taught him more than he'd ever learned in school. Sometimes when they were having heart-to-heart talks, Jinnie confided to him her ambitions. "I'd like to fiddle all my life, Lafe," she told him once. "I wonder if people ever made money fiddling; do they, Lafe?" "I'm afraid not, honey," he answered, sadly. "But you like it, eh, Lafe?" "Sure!... Better'n anything." One day in the early summer, when there was a touch of blue mist in the clear, warm air, Jinnie wandered into the wealthy section of the town, hoping thereby to establish a new customer or two. Maudlin Bates had warned her not to enter his territory or to trespass upon his part of the marshland, and for that reason she had in the past but turned longing eyes to the hillside besprinkled with handsome homes. But Lafe replied, when she told him this, "No section belongs to Maudlin alone, honey.... Just go where you like." She now entered a large open gate into which an automobile had just disappeared, and walked toward the house. She paused to admire the exterior of the mansion. On the front, the porches were furnished with rocking chairs and hammocks, but no person was in sight. She walked around to the back, but as she was about to knock, a voice arrested her action. "Do you want to see somebody?" She turned hastily. There before her was her King, the man she had met on that memorable night more than two years before. He doffed his cap smiling, recognizing her immediately, and Jinnie flushed to the roots of her hair, while the shortwood strap slipped slowly from her shoulders. "Ah, you have something to sell?" he interrogated. Jinnie's tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She had never completely forgotten him, and his smile was a delightful memory. Now as he watched her quizzically, all her former admiration returned. "Well, well," laughed the man, "if this isn't my little violin girl. It's a long time since I saw you last.... Do you love your music as much as ever?" Her first glance at him brought the flushing consciousness that she was but a shortwood gatherer; the strap and its burden placed a great barrier between them. But his question about the fiddle, her fiddle, placed her again on equal footing with him. She permitted herself to smile. "I play every day. My uncle loves it, but my aunt doesn't," she answered naïvely. "And you're selling wood?" "Yes, I must help a little." She made the assertion proudly, offering no excuse for her chosen trade. "And this is all for sale?" indicating the wood. "Yes," said Jinnie, looking down upon it. "I'll take it all," Theodore offered, putting his hand into his pocket. "How much do you want for it?" The girl gave him a puzzled glance. "I don't just know, but I wish----I wish I could give it to you without any pay." She moved a little closer and questioned eagerly: "Won't you please take it?" An amused expression crossed the man's handsome face. "Of course not, my child," he exclaimed. "That wouldn't be business. I want to buy it.... How about a dollar?" Jinnie gasped. A dollar, a whole dollar! She made but little more during an entire week; she had made less. A dollar would buy----Then a thought flashed across her mind. "I couldn't take a dollar," she refused, "it's too much. It's only worth about twenty cents." "But if I choose to give you a dollar?" pursued the man. Again the purple black curls shook decidedly. "I couldn't take more'n it's worth. My uncle wouldn't like me to. He says all we can expect in this world's our own and no more. Twenty cents is all." Mr. King studied her face, thoughtfully. "I've an idea, a good one. Now what do you say to furnishing me wood every morning, say at fifty cents a day. We use such a lot! You could bring a little more if you like or--or come twice." Jinnie could scarcely believe she'd heard aright. Unshed tears dimmed her eyes. "I wouldn't have to peddle to any one else, then, would I?" she stammered. "No! That's just what I meant." Then the tears welled over the drooping lids and a feeling of gratitude surged through the girl's whole being. Fifty cents a day! It was such a lot of money--as much as Lafe made five days out of six. Jinnie sent the man a fleeting glance, meeting his smiling eyes with pulsing blood. "I'd love to do it," she whispered gratefully. "Then I'd have a lot of time to--to--fiddle." Mr. King's hand slipped into his pocket. "I'll pay you fifty cents for to-day's wood," he decided, "and fifty for what you're going to bring to-morrow. Is that satisfactory?" As if in a dream, Jinnie tumbled out the contents of the shortwood strap. As she took the money from Mr. King's hand, his fingers touched hers; she thrilled to the tips of her curls. Then she ran hastily down the long road, only turning to glance back when she reached the gate. Mr. King stood just where she had left him, and was looking after her. He raised his cap, and Jinnie, with burning face, fled on again. She wondered what Lafe would say about her unexpected good fortune. She would tell _him_ first, before she saw Peggy. She imagined how the sweet smile would cross his lips, and how he would put his arm gently around her. Lafe heard her open the side door and called, "Come in, honey!... Come on in." She entered after one hasty glance proved the cobbler was alone. "You sold quick to-day, lass," said he, holding out his hand. Jinnie had planned on the way home to make great rehearsing of Theodore King's kindness, but in another instant she broke forth: "Lafe, Lafe! I've got something to tell you! Oh, a lovely something! I sold all the wood to one man, and I'm going to take him a load every day, and get fifty cents for it. Regular customer, Lafe!... Here's a dollar for Peg." Lafe did just what Jinnie expected he would, slipped an arm about her waist. "The good God be praised!" he ejaculated. "Stand here an' tell me all about it." "It was Mr. King----" "Theodore King?" asked Lafe. "Why, he's the richest man in town. He owns the iron works." Jinnie nodded. "Yes! He's the one I played for in the train when I first came here. You remember my telling you, Lafe? And he wants wood every day from me. Isn't it fine?" "'Tis so!" affirmed Lafe. "Jinnie, lass, them angels come in shapes of human bein's--mostly so. Now go tell Peggy. It'll take a load off'n her heart." As Jinnie told her story to Mrs. Grandoken and handed her the money, the woman's lips twitched at the corners, but she only said, warningly: "Don't get a swelled head over your doin's, lass, for a brat ain't responsible for her own smartness." One morning, about a week afterward, Jinnie rapped at the back door of the King mansion. "Is Mr. King in?" she asked timidly of the servant. The girl stared hard at the flushed, pretty face. "He's in, but you can leave the wood if you want to." "No," refused Jinnie. "I want to see him." The maid turned away, grumbling, and Jinnie backed from the door with bated breath. Mr. King appeared immediately, seemingly embarrassed. He took both her hands. "Why, my dear child!" he exclaimed. "I'd completely forgotten to leave the money for the wood, and you've been bringing it every day." "Peggy made the dollar go a long ways--that and Lafe's money. We didn't need any till to-day.... So--so I asked for you." "I'm glad you did," responded King, counting and giving her the money. Then his glance fell upon the bulging shortwood strap. "I'm afraid you carry too much at a time," he admonished, gravely. "You mustn't do that." Jinnie dropped her eyes. "I was talking to my uncle about it," she explained embarrassedly, "and he thought same's I, that you were paying too much for that little wood. I'm goin' to bring more after this." "I'm satisfied, though, and I can't have you hurting yourself by being too strenuously honest.... I might--yes, I will! I'll send for you every day or every other----" Jinnie's eyes lighted up with happiness. "Oh, sir,----" she began entreatingly. "Wait----" said Mr. King. "It's this way! If you brought it up here in one of my cars, it would save a lot of your time, and you wouldn't have to come every day." "I could fiddle more," Jinnie blurted radiantly. She remembered how sympathetically he had listened to her through the blizzard. He liked the fiddle! She went a little nearer him. "I'm trying to make a tune different from any I've ever done, and I can't always play well after lugging shortwood all day.... I'd love to deliver it the way you said." King stood gazing at her. How strangely beautiful she was! Something in the wind-browned face stirred his heart to its depths. "Then that's settled," he said kindly. "You tell me where to have my man and what time, and to-morrow he'll meet you." Jinnie thought a moment. "I wonder if he knows where Paradise Road ends near the edge of the marsh." "He could find it, of course." "There's a path going into the marsh right at the end of the road. I'll meet him there to-morrow at twelve o'clock, and--and I'm so much obliged to you." When Jinnie told Lafe of the new arrangement, she gurgled with joy. "Lafe, now I'll make that tune." "Yes, honey," murmured Lafe contentedly. "Now get your fiddle and practice; after that you c'n study a while out of that there grammar book." CHAPTER XVIII RED ROSES AND YELLOW The days went on peacefully after the new arrangements for the shortwood. Every other day, at twelve o'clock, one of Theodore King's cars waited for Jinnie at the head of the path leading into the marsh. When the weather was stormy, Bennett, the chauffeur, took the wood, telling Jinnie to run along home. All this made it possible for Jinnie to study profitably during the warm months, and by the last of August she had mastered many difficult subjects. Lafe helped her when he could, but often shook his head despondently as she sat down beside him on the bench, asking his advice. "The fact is, honey, I ain't got much brains," he said to her one afternoon. "If I hung by my neck till I could see through them figures, I'd be as dead as Moses." One Thursday morning, as she climbed into the big car with her load, Bennett said, "I ain't goin' to pay you this mornin'! The boss'll do it. Mr. King wants to see you." Jinnie nodded, her heart pounding. It was delightful to contemplate seeing him once more. She wondered where he had been all these days and if he had thought of her. Jinnie's pulses were galloping along like a race horse. She stood quietly until the master was called, and he came quickly without making her wait. "I'm going to ask you to do me a favor," he said, coming forward, holding out his hand. Now when Jinnie first heard that he wished to see her, she thought her heart could beat no faster, but his words made that small organ tattoo against her sides like the flutter of a bird's wing in fright. She could do something for him! Oh, what joy! What unutterable joy! "We're going to have some friends here Sunday evening----" The sudden upfling of Jinnie's head cut off his words. What difference would his having friends make to her? Oh, yes, they wanted more wood. How gladly she would get it for him; search all day for the driest pieces if he needed them! "I was wondering," proceeded Mr. King, "if you would come here with your violin and play for--for--us?" Jinnie's knees relaxed and she staggered back against the wall. "You musn't feel embarrassed about it," he hurried on. "I'd be very much indebted to you if you thought you could." Tears were so perilously near Jinnie's lids that some of them rolled into her throat. To regain her self-possession enough to speak, she swallowed several times in rapid succession. Such a compliment she'd never been paid before. She brought her hands together appealingly, and Mr. King noticed that his request had heightened her color. "I'd love to do it," she breathed. "Of course I'll pay you for it," he said, not able to think of anything else, "I couldn't take any money for fiddling," replied Jinnie. "But I'll come. Lafe says money can't be made that way." She turned to go, but Mr. King detained her. "Wait a minute," he insisted. "I want to tell you something! You've a great gift--a wonderful genius--and out of such genius much money _is_ made.... I couldn't think of letting you come here unless you allowed me to remunerate you." Jinnie listened attentively to all he said, but refusal was still in her steady gaze. Mr. King, seeing this, continued quickly: "I want you very much, but on that one point I must have my way. I shall give you twenty-five dollars for playing three pieces." Then Jinnie thought she was going to faint. Twenty-five dollars! It was a fortune--a huge fortune! But she couldn't take money for playing tunes that came from her heart--tunes that were a part of herself the same as her hands or feet. But before she could offer another argument, the man finished hurriedly: "It's settled now. You're to come here Sunday night at eight. I'll send for you." Lafe was sitting at the window as she ran through the shortcut along the tracks. Her curls were flying in the wind, her cheeks glowing with flaming color. Every day the cobbler loved her more, for in spite of the dark soil in which Jinnie thrived, she grew lovelier in spirit and face. He waved his hand to her, and both of her arms answered his salute. When the door burst open, Lafe put down his hammer expectantly. Before he could speak, she was down upon her knees at his side, her curly head buried in his loving arms, and tears were raining down her face. Lafe allowed her to cry a few moments. Then he said: "Something's hurt my lassie's heart.... Somebody!... Was it Maudlin?" Through the tears shone a radiant smile. "I'm crying for joy, Lafe," she sobbed. "I'm going to play my fiddle at Mr. King's house and make twenty-five dollars for three tunes." Lafe's jaws dropped apart incredulously. "Twenty-five dollars for playin' your fiddle, child?" Jinnie told all that had happened since leaving home. Then Peggy had to be told, and when the amount of money was mentioned and Jinnie said: "It'll all be yours, Peggy, when I get it," Mrs. Grandoken grunted: "You didn't make your insides, lassie. It ain't to your credit you can fiddle, so don't get stuck up." Jinnie laughed gaily and went to the kitchen, where for two hours, with Bobbie curled up in the chair holding Happy Pete, she brought from the strings of the instrument she loved, mournful tunes mingled with laughing songs, such as no one in Bellaire had ever heard. Over and over, as Lafe listened, he wondered where and how such music could be born in the child--for Jinnie, to the lame cobbler, would always be a little, little girl. Later Jinnie went to the store, and when Peggy had watched her cross the street, she sat down in front of her husband. "Lafe," she said, "what's the kid goin' to wear to King's?... She can't go in them clothes she's got on." Lafe looked up, startled. "Sure 'nough; I never thought of that," he answered. "An' I don't believe she has uther." It was the cobbler who spoke to Jinnie about it. "I suppose you hain't thought what you're going to wear Sunday night?" Jinnie whirled around upon him. "Oh, Lafe!" she faltered, sitting down quickly. "Peggy 'lowed you'd forgotten that part of it." "I did, Lafe; I did! Oh, I don't know what to do!" "I wisht I had somethin' for you, Jinnie dear," breathed Bobbie, touching her hand. Jinnie's only response was to put her fingers on the child's head--her eyes still on the cobbler. "What did Peggy say, Lafe?" "Nothin', only you couldn't go in the clothes you got." Jinnie changed her position that she might see to better advantage the plain little dress she was wearing. "But I've got to go, Lafe; oh, I've got to!" she insisted. "Mr. King wants me.... Please, Lafe, please!" "Call Peggy, Bobbie," said Lafe, in answer to Jinnie's impetuous speech. Bobbie felt his way to the door, and Peggy came in answer to the child's call. "I only thought of the twenty-five dollars and the fiddling, Peggy," said Jinnie as Mrs. Grandoken rolled her hands in her apron and sat down. "Did you say I couldn't go in these clothes?" "I did; I sure did. You can't go in them clothes, an' what you're goin' to wear is more'n I can make out. I'll have to think.... Just let me alone for a little while." It was after Jinnie had gone to bed with Bobbie that Peg spoke about it again to Lafe. "I've only got one thing I could rig her a dress out of," she said. "I don't want to do it because I hate her so! If I hated her any worse, I'd bust!" The cobbler raised his hand, making a gesture of denial. "Peggy, dear, you don't hate the poor little lass." "Yes, I do," said Peg. "I hate everybody in the world but you.... Everybody but you, Lafe." "What'd you think might make a dress for 'er?" asked Grandoken presently. Before answering, Peg brought her feet together and looked down at her toes. "There's them lace curtains ma give me when she died," she said. "Them that's wrapped up in paper on the shelf." Lafe uttered a surprised ejaculation. "I couldn't let you do that, Peg," he said, shaking his head. "Them's the last left over from your mother's stuff. Everything else's gone.... I couldn't let you, Peggy." Mrs. Grandoken gave a shake of defiance. "Whose curtains be they, Lafe?" she asked. "Be they mine or yourn?" "Yourn, Peggy dear, and may God bless you!" All through the night Jinnie had dreadful dreams. The thought of either not going to Mr. King's or that she might not have anything fit to wear filled the hours with nightmares and worryings. In the morning, after she crawled out of bed and was wearily dressing Bobbie, the little blind boy felt intuitively something was wrong with his friend. "Is Jinnie sick?" he whispered, feeling her face. "My stars ain't shinin' much." The girl kissed him. "No, honey," she said, "Jinnie's only sad, not sick." Together they went into the shop, where Peggy stood with the most gorgeous lacy stuff draped over her arms. Strewn here and there over the yards and yards of it were bright yellow and red roses. Nothing could have been more beautiful to the girl, as with widening eyes she gazed at it. Lafe's face was shining with happiness. Peggy didn't seem to notice the two as they entered, but she lifted the lace, displaying its length stolidly. Jinnie bounded forward. "What is it, Peg? What is it?" Lafe beamed through his spectacles. "A dress for you, girl dear. Peggy's givin' you the things she loves best. She's the only woman in the world, Jinnie." Reverently Jinnie went to Mrs. Grandoken's side. She felt abjectly humble in the presence of this great sacrifice. She looked up into the glum face of the cobbler's wife and waited in breathless hesitation. Peg permitted her eyes to fall upon the girl. "You needn't feel so glad nor look's if you was goin' to tumble over," she said. "It ain't no credit to any one them curtains was on the shelf waitin' to be cut up in a dress for you to fiddle in. Go put the mush on that there stove!" CHAPTER XIX THE LITTLE FIDDLER Jinnie's heart was skipping about like a silly little kitten as she sat watching Peg's stiff fingers making large stitches in the lace. "Oh, Peg, isn't it lovely? Perfectly beautiful! Nobody ever had a dress like that!... My, Peggy! How your fingers fly!" Peg's face was noncommittal to the point of blankness. "Tain't no credit to me what my hands do, Miss Jinnie," she said querulously. "I didn't make 'em." The girl's happiness was absolutely complete. The dress would be finished and Sunday evening----oh, Sunday evening! Then she walked restlessly to the window and studied the sky. "I hope it doesn't rain to-morrow!... Oh, Peggy, don't you hope so too?" Mrs. Grandoken glowered at her. "Kid," she said, "come away from that window. You been doin' nothin' but wishin' 'twon't rain all day. You'll wear out the patience of the Almighty; then he'll make it rain an' soak you through a-purpose." "I don't know which I like best, Lafe," the girl remarked presently, turning to the cobbler, "the red roses or the yellow." Bobbie came to Jinnie's side and fingered the lace. "Tell me how the dress looks, dear," he whispered, tugging at her sleeve. [Illustration: "YOU NEEDN'T FEEL SO GLAD NOR LOOK AS IF YOU WAS GOIN' TO TUMBLE OVER. IT AIN'T NO CREDIT TO ANYONE THEM CURTAINS WAS ON THE SHELF WAITIN' TO BE CUT UP IN A DRESS FOR YOU TO FIDDLE IN."] "Sure," agreed Jinnie. "Feel right here! Well, that's a beautiful red rose and here's a yellow one." She took his small finger and traced it over a yard of lace. "Feel that?" "Yes," murmured Bobbie. "Well, that's a green vine running up and down, and all around among the roses." "Oh, my!" gasped Bobbie. "Red and yellow. That's how the sun looks when it's goin' down, ain't it? And green's like the grass, eh?" "Just the same," replied Jinnie, laughing. "It's a beauty," supplemented Lafe, glowing with tenderness. "There won't be a dress at that party that'll beat it." Mrs. Grandoken shook out the voluminous folds of lace. "Anybody'd think to hear you folks talk that you'd made these rag tags with your toe nails," she observed dryly. "The smacking of some folks' lips over sugar they don't earn makes me tired! Laws me!... Now I'll try it on you, Jinnie," she ended. Jinnie turned around and around with slow precision as Mrs. Grandoken ascertained the correct hanging of the skirt. When the last stitches had been put in, and the dress lay in all its gorgeous splendor across the chair, Peg coughed awkwardly and spoke of shoes. "You can't wear them cowhides with lace," said she. "I might make a pair if I had a day and the stuff," suggested Lafe, looking around helplessly. "Ain't time," replied Peg. And of course it was she who gave Jinnie some money taken from a small bag around her neck and ordered her to the shop for shoes. "She ought to have a fiddle box," Lafe suggested. "There ain't 'nough money in the house for that," replied Peg--"but I'll give her a piece of the curtains to wrap it up in." "That'll look better'n a box," smiled Lafe. "I'm a happy cobbler, I am." When Jinnie returned with a pair of low black slippers, no one noticed that they weren't quite what should have been worn with a lace frock. Contentment reigned supreme in the Grandoken home that day. * * * * * Sunday evening at seven Jinnie displayed herself to Lafe. The cobbler gave a contented nod. "You and the dress're beautiful," he ruminated. "Wonderful!... Kiss me, Jinnie!" She not only kissed Lafe, but Bobbie, Happy Pete, and Milly Ann, too, came in for their share. Peg looked so sour, so forbidding, that Jinnie only faltered, "Much obliged, Peggy darling.... Oh, I'm so happy!" She stood directly in front of Mrs. Grandoken. "Aren't you, dear?" she besought. "We're all glad, lass," put in the cobbler. Jinnie's blue, blue eyes were seeking approbation from the gaunt, frowning woman. "None of you've got the sense of my bedpost," snapped Peg, sniffing the air. "Get along. They're waitin' for you." Jinnie arrived in great excitement at Theodore King's door. She stumbled up the stone steps of the mansion with the fiddle carefully wrapped under her arm. "Is Mr. King here?" she asked of the maid, hesitatingly. She stood very still, scarcely breathing, until they called the master of the house, and as Theodore's eyes fell upon the lace dress, with its red and yellow roses and green vines running the length of the slim young figure, he smoothed away a smile that forced itself to his lips. Out of gratitude to Peggy, Jinnie felt she ought to speak of the frock, so with an admiring glance downward, she confided: "Peggy made my dress out of her dead mother's curtains, and gave me this piece for my fiddle.... Wasn't it lovely of her?" The pleading, soulful, violet eyes stirred Theodore King with a new sensation. He had passed unscathed through the fires of imploring, inviting glances and sweet, tempting lips, nor yet realized that some day this black-haired girl would call him to a reckoning. "It's very pretty, very pretty," he affirmed hurriedly. "I'm glad you're here.... Just wait for a moment. I'll come back for you." There was a fixed line between his handsome eyes as he faced his guests. Theodore couldn't analyze his feelings toward Jinnie, but he was determined none should make sport of her. "I've prepared a great treat for you," he stated, smiling, "but I want to ask you to overlook anything that may seem incongruous, for the musician is very sensitive." Then he went back for Jinnie, and she followed him into the large room. The gorgeous red and yellow roses in the limply hanging blouse lent a color to her sunburned skin. "You may play anything you like," Theodore whispered. "All right," nodded Jinnie. She unwrapped the fiddle and tuned it with nimble fingers. Not until she placed the instrument under her chin did she raise her head. Her eyes went searchingly from face to face of the attentive assembly. It so happened that they fell upon a crown of golden hair above a pair of dark eyes she vividly remembered. The glance took her back to that night more than two years before--to the night when her father died. Molly Merriweather was seated in queenly fashion in one of the large chairs, a questioning look stealing over her countenance. Jinnie smiled at her and began to play. It might have been the beautiful woman opposite that brought forth the wild hill story, told in marvelous harmonies. The rapt young face gave no sign of embarrassment, for Jinnie was completely lost in her melodious task. Above the dimpled chin that hugged the brown fiddle, Theodore King could see the brooding genius of the girl, and longed to bring a passionate lovelight for himself into the glorious eyes. The intensity of the music established in him an unconquerable hope--a hope that could not die as long as life was in him, as long as life was in the little fiddler. As Jinnie finished with dramatic brilliancy, great applause and showers of congratulations fell upon her ears. Theodore went to her quickly. "Wonderful! Splendid, child!" he declared joyously. "You're a genius!" His words increased her joy--his compelling dark eyes added to her desire to do her best. She meditated one moment. Then thoroughly unconscious of herself, turned and spoke to the audience. "I'll play about fairies ... the ones who live in the woods and hide away in the flowers and under the leaves." Once more she began to play. She believed in fairies with all her heart and had no doubt but that every one else did. Under the spell of her music and her loveliness, imaginary elves stole from the solitude of the summer night, to join their tiny hands and dance to the rhythm of her song. As she lowered her violin and looked around, she saw astonishment on the faces of the strangers about her. A deathlike hush prevailed and Jinnie could hear the feverish blood as it struck at her temples. Into her eyes came an unfathomable expression, and Theodore King, attracted by their latent passion, went rapidly to her. "It's exquisite!" he said vehemently. "Can't you see how much every one likes it?" "Do you?" queried Jinnie, looking up at him. "I love it, child; I love it.... Will you play again, please?" A flame of joy suffused her as again she turned to the open-eyed crowd. "Once," she informed them, "a big lion was hurt in the forest by lightning.... This--is--how he died." She slowly raised the instrument, and sounded a vibrant, resonant, minor tone, measured, full and magnificent. Each listener sank back with a sigh. Jinnie knew the mysteries of the forest as well as a singer knows his song, and she had not presented ten notes to the imagination of Theodore's friends before they were carried away from the dainty room in which they sat--away into a dense woodland where, for a few minutes, she demonstrated the witching wonders of it. Then she slipped the bow between her teeth and struck the violin strings with the backs of her fingers. The vibrations of impetuous harmony swept softly through the lighted room. Louder and louder was heard the awful fury of approaching thunder, while twinkling string-touches flashed forth the lightning between the sonorous peals. Jinnie never knew how the fiddle was capable of expressing the cautious tread of the terrified king of beasts in his isolated kingdom, but her listeners beheld him steal cautiously from the underbrush. They saw him crouch in abject terror at the foot of a wide-spreading, gigantic tree, lashing his tail in elemental rage. Then another scintillating flash of lightning, and the beast caught it full in the face. The slender hand of the little player was poised above the strings for a single vibrating moment, during which she stood in a listening attitude. Then, with the sweep of three slender fingers, the lion's scream cut the air like a two-edged sword. Death came on rapidly in deep, resounding roars, and the misery of the cringing, suffering brute was unfolded--told in heart-rending intonations, until at last he gave up his breath in one terror-stricken cry. Jinnie dropped her hands suddenly. "He's dead," she said tremulously. "Poor, poor lion!" She turned tear-wet eyes to Theodore King. "Shall I play any more?" she asked, shyly. The man shook his head, not permitting himself to speak. "Miss Grandoken has given us a wonderful entertainment," said he to his friends; then turning to her, he held out his hand, "I want to thank you, Miss Grandoken." Many people crowded around her, asking where and how she had learned such music. Molly the Merry, the mystified expression still on her face, drew near. Again Jinnie smiled at her, hoping the lovely lips would acknowledge their former acquaintanceship. But as another person, a man, stepped between her and the woman, Jinnie glanced up at him. He was very handsome, but involuntarily the girl shuddered. There was something in the curling of his lips that was cruel, and the whiteness of his teeth accentuated the impression. His eyes filled her with dread. "Where did you learn that wonderful music?" he smiled.... "I mean the music itself." "Out of my heart," she said simply. "I couldn't get it anywhere else." "She's very delightful!" said the stranger, turning to Theodore. "I've forgotten her name?" He was so near her that Jinnie shrank back, and the master of the house noted her embarrassment. "Her name is Grandoken, Miss Grandoken.... Come," he said, holding out his hand to Jinnie, and as she placed her fingers in his, he led her away. A large car was waiting at the front door, and he held her hand in his for a few seconds. The touch of her fingers thrilled him through and through. He noticed her head just reached his shoulder and a conscious desire to draw her to him for one blessed moment surged insistent within him. He dropped her hand suddenly. "I wish now," he said, smiling, "I had sent for you to come here before. It was such a treat!" Jinnie shrank away as he offered her a roll of bills. An unutterable shyness crept over her. "I don't want it," she said, gulping hard. "I'd love to fiddle for you all day long." "But you must take it," insisted King. "Now then, I want to know where you live. I'm coming to see your uncle very, very soon." Lafe and his wife were waiting for the girl, and the cobbler noticed Peggy's eyes were misty as Jinnie gave her the money. Over and over she told them all about it. "And he's coming to see you, Lafe," she cried with a tremulous laugh. "Mr. King says some day I'll be a great player. Will I, Lafe? Will I, Peggy?" "You may," admitted Peggy, "but don't get a swelled head, 'cause you couldn't stop fiddlin' any more'n a bird could stop singin'.... Go to bed now, this minute." And as Jinnie slept her happy sleep in Paradise Road, another woman was walking to and fro with a tall man under the trees at Theodore King's home. "I thought I'd scream with laughter when she came in," said Molly the Merry. "If it hadn't been for Theo's warning, I'm sure most of us would.... Did you ever see such a ridiculous dress, Jordan?" The man was quiet for a meditative moment. "I forgot about the dress when she began to play," he mused. "The sight of her face would drive all thoughts of incongruity out of a man's mind." "Yes, she's very pretty," admitted Molly, reluctantly. "And Jordan, do you know there's something strangely familiar about her face?... I can't tell where I've seen her." "Never mind. The important thing to me is I must have money. Can't keep up appearances on air." "You know I'll always help you when I can, Jordan." "Yes, I know it, and I'll not let you forget it either." The woman gave him a puzzled look and the man caught her meaning. "You're wondering why I don't open offices here, aren't you? Well, a person can't do two things at once, and I've been pretty busy tracing Virginia Singleton. And when I find her, you know very well I will return every penny I've borrowed." And later, when Molly went to her room, she walked up and down thoughtfully, trying to bring to her mind the familiar violet eyes and the mass of purple black curls which were the crowning glory of Jinnie Grandoken. CHAPTER XX THE COBBLER'S SECRET One Sunday morning, Jinnie sat with Lafe in the shop. In hours like these they thoroughly enjoyed themselves. The quietude of these precious Sabbath moments made the week, with its arduous tasks, bearable to the sensitive girl. For several days past Jinnie had noticed Lafe had something on his mind, but she always allowed him to tell her everything in his own good time. Now she felt the time had come. His gray face, worn with suffering, was shining with a heavenly light as he read aloud from a little Bible in his hand. To-day he had chosen the story of Abraham and Sarah. When he came to the part where Abraham said: "Lord, if now I have found favor in Thy sight, pass not away, I pray Thee, from Thy servant," he pronounced the last word with sobbing breath. One quick glance was enough for Jinnie's comprehension. She leaned forward breathlessly. "What is it, Lafe?... Something great?" "Yes, something great, lassie, and in God's name most wonderful." Before Jinnie's world of imagery passed all the good she had desired for Lafe. His softly spoken, "In God's name most wonderful," thrilled her from head to foot. "And you've been keeping it from me, Lafe," she chided gently. "Please, please, tell me." Lafe sat back in the wheel chair and closed his eyes. "Wait, child," he breathed hesitatingly. "Wait a minute!" As Jinnie watched him, she tried to stifle the emotion tugging at her heart--to keep back the tears that welled into her eyes. Perhaps what he had to tell her _would_ make her cry. Jinnie hoped not, for she disliked to do that. It was so childlike, so like Blind Bobbie, who always had either a beatific smile on his pale lips, or a mist shining in his rock-gray eyes. At length Lafe sighed a long, deep-drawn sigh, and smiled. "Jinnie," he began---- "Yes, Lafe." "I've been wonderin' if you remember the story of the little feller God sent to Peg an' me--the one I told you would a been six years old." "Yes, I remember, Lafe." "An' how good Peggy was----" "Oh, how good Peggy always is!" interjected Jinnie. "Yes," breathed Lafe, dreamily. "May God bless my woman in all her trials!" Jinnie hitched her chair nearer his and slipped her arm about his neck soothingly. "She doesn't have trials you don't share, Lafe," she declared. Lafe straightened up. "Yes, Peg has many, lassie, I can't help 'er with, an' she'll have a many more. To get to tell you something, Jinnie, I asked Peg to take Bobbie out with 'er. We can't turn the little feller from the club room when he ain't out with Peg; can we, Jinnie?" "Of course not," agreed Jinnie, nodding. "So when Peg said she was goin' out," proceeded Lafe, gravely, "I says, thinkin' of the things I wanted to say to you, I said to Peggy, 'Take the little blind chap along with you, Peggy dear,' an' without a word she put the youngster into his clothes an' away they went." Jinnie's curiosity was growing by the minute. "And you're going to tell me now, Lafe?" "An' now I'm goin' to tell you, Jinnie." But he didn't tell her just then. Instead he sat looking at her with luminous eyes, and the expression in them--that heavenly expression--compelled Jinnie to kneel beside him, and for a little while they sat in silence. "Dear child," Lafe murmured, dropping a tender hand on her shining head, "dear, dear girl!" "It must be a joyful thing, Lafe, for your face shines as bright as Bobbie's stars." "I'm blessed happy to-day!" he sighed, with twitching lips. Jinnie took his hand in hers and smoothed it fondly. "What is it, Lafe, dear?" she asked. "Do you want to kneel while I tell you?" queried the cobbler. "Yes, right here." "Then look right at me, Jinnie lass!" Jinnie _was_ looking at him with her whole soul in her eyes. "I'm looking at you, Lafe," she said. "An' don't take your eyes from me; will you?" "Sure not!" It must be a great surprise for Lafe to act like this, thought the girl. "Lassie," commenced Lafe, "I want you to be awful good to Peggy.... It's about her I'm goin' to speak." Jinnie sank back on the tips of her toes. "What about Peg? There isn't----" "Dear Peggy," interrupted Lafe softly, his voice quick with tears, "dear, precious Peggy!" Then as he bent over Jinnie and Jinnie bent nearer him, Lafe placed his lips to her ear and whispered something. She struggled to her feet, strange and unknown emotions rising in her eyes. "Lafe!" she cried. "Lafe dear!" "Yes," nodded the cobbler. "Yes, if you want to know the truth, the good God's goin' to send me an' Peg another little Jew baby." Jinnie sat down in her chair quite dazed. Lafe's secret was much greater than she had expected! Much! "Tell me about it," she pleaded. Keen anxiety erased the cobbler's smiling expression. "Poor Peggy!" he groaned again. "She can't see where the bread's comin' from to feed another mouth, but as I says, 'Peggy, you said the same thing when Jinnie came, an' the blind child, an' this little one's straight from God's own tender breast.'" "That's so, Lafe," accorded Jinnie, "and, Oh, dearie, I'll work so hard, so awful hard to get in more wood, and tell me, tell me when, Lafe; when is he coming to us, the Jew baby?" Lafe smiled at her eagerness. "You feel the same way as I do, honey," he observed. "The very same way!... Why, girlie, when Peg first told me I thought I'd get up and fly!" "I should think so, but--but--I want to know how soon, Lafe, dear." "Oh, it's a long time, a whole lot of weeks!" "I wish it was to-morrow," lamented Jinnie, disappointedly. "I wonder if Peg'll let me hug and kiss him." "Sure," promised Lafe, and they lapsed into silence. At length, Jinnie stole to the kitchen. She returned with her violin box and Milly Ann in her arms. "Hold the kitty, darling," she said softly, placing the cat on his lap. "She'll be happy, too. Milly Ann loves us all, Milly Ann does." Then she took out the fiddle and thrummed the strings. "I'm going to play for you," she resumed, "while you think about Peggy and the--and--the baby." The cobbler nodded his head, and wheeled himself a bit nearer the window, from where he could see the hill rise upward to the blue, making a skyline of exquisite beauty. Jinnie began to play. What tones she drew from that small brown fiddle! The rapture depicted in her face was but a reflection of the cobbler's. And as he meditated and listened, Lafe felt that each tone of Jinnie's fiddle had a soul of its own--that the instrument was peopled with angel voices--voices that soothed him when he suffered beyond description--voices that now expressed in rhythmical harmony the peace within him. Jinnie was able to put an estimate on his moods, and knew just what comfort he needed most. Until that moment the cobbler's wife had seemed outside the charm of the beloved home circle. But to-day, ah, to-day!--Jinnie's bow raced over the strings like a mad thing. To-day Peggy Grandoken became in the girl's eyes a glorified woman, a woman set apart by God Himself to bring to the home a new baby. Jinnie played and played and played, and Theodore in spirit-fancy stood beside her. Lafe thought and thought and thought, while Peggy walked through his day dreams like some radiant being. "A baby----my baby, in the house," sang the cobbler's heart. "A baby, our baby, in the house," poured from Jinnie's soul, and "Baby, little baby," sprang from the fiddle over and over, as golden flashes of the sun warms the earth. Truly was Lafe being revivified; truly was Jinnie! Theodore King! How infinitely close he seemed to her! How the memory of his smile cheered and strengthened her! From the tip of the fiddle tucked under a rounded chin to the line of purple-black hair, the blood rushed in riotous confusion over the fiddler's lovely face. What was it in Lafe's story that had brought Theodore King so near? Jinnie couldn't have told, but she was sure the fiddle knew. It was intoning to Lafe--to her--the language of the birds and the mystery of the flower blossoms, the invisible riddles of Heaven and earth, of all the concealed secrets beyond the blue of the sky; all the panorama of Nature strung out in a wild, sweet forest song. Jinnie had backed against the wall as she played, and when out of her soul came the twitter of the morning birds, the babbling of the brook on its way to the sea, the scream of the owl in a high woodland tree, Lafe turned to watch her, and from that moment until she dropped exhausted into a chair, he did not take his eyes from her. "Jinnie!" he gasped, as he thrust forth his hand and took hers. "You've made me happier to-day'n I've been in many a week. Peg'll be all right.... Everybody'll be all right.... God bless us!" Jinnie sat up with bright, inquiring eyes. "Did you tell Peg I was to know about----" "About our baby?" intervened Lafe tenderly. He dwelt lovingly on those precious words. "Yes, about your baby," repeated Jinnie. "Yes, I told 'er, dear. I said you'd want to be happy too." "I'm so glad," sighed Jinnie, reverently. "Look!... Peg's coming now!" They both watched Mrs. Grandoken as she stolidly crossed the tracks, leading Bobbie by the hand. And later Jinnie hovered over Peggy in the kitchen. The woman had taken on such a new dignity. She must be treated with the greatest and most extra care. If Jinnie had done what she craved, she'd have bounded to Peg and kissed her heartily. Of course that wouldn't do, but talk to her she must, "Peggy," she said softly, tears lurking in her eyes. Peg looked at her without moving an eyelash. Jinnie wished she would say something; her task would be so much easier. "Peggy," she begged again. "Huh?" "Lafe told me, dear," and then she did something she hadn't done with Lafe; she began to cry, just why, Jinnie didn't know; Peg looked so sad, so distant, and so ill. It was probably Jinnie's tears that softened Peg, for she put her hand on the girl's shoulders and stood silent. After the first flood of tears Jinnie ventured: "I'm awful happy, Peggy dear, and I want you to know I'm going to work harder'n I even did for Blind Bobbie.... I will, Peg, I promise I will.... Kiss me, Oh, kiss me, dear!" Peggy bent over and kissed the upturned, tearful face solemnly. Then she turned her back, beginning to work vigorously, and Jinnie returned to the shop with the kiss warm on her cheek. CHAPTER XXI THE COMING OF THE ANGELS "You'd better make it a special prayer, Lafe," said Jinnie, a little pucker between her eyes. "Every day I'm more'n more afraid of Maudlin." "I will, honey, an' just pop into Bates' cottage an' tell Maudlin's pa to run in the shop.... Go long, lass, nobody'll hurt you." After leaving Lafe's message at the Bates' cottage, Jinnie stepped from the tracks to the marshes with a joyful heart. Of course nothing could harm her! Lafe's faith, mingled with her own, would save her from every evil in the world. When Bates opened the shop door, the cobbler looked up gravely. He nodded his head to Jasper's, "Howdy do, Grandoken?" "Sit down," said Lafe. "Jinnie says you wanted me." "Yes, a few minutes' chat; that's all!" "Spit it out," said Bates. Lafe put down his hammer with slow importance. "It's this way, Jasper. Maudlin's----" "What's Maudie done now?" demanded Bates, lighting his pipe. "He's been botherin' my girl, that's what," responded Lafe. "Jinnie?" "Sure. She's all the girl I got.... Maudlin's got to stop it, Bates." A cruel expression flitted over Jasper's face. "I ain't nothin' to do with Maudlin's love affairs," said he. "Jinnie could do worse'n get him, I'm a guessin'! Maudie adds up pretty good, Maudie does!" Lafe shook his head with a grim serenity that became the strained white face. "His addin' up ain't nothin' to his credit, Jasper," he protested. "He's as crooked as a ram's horn an' you know it. If you don't, take my word for it! There ain't nothin' doin' for him far's Jinnie's concerned!... I sent for you to bargain with you." Jasper pricked up his ears. The word "bargain" always attracted him. "Well?" he questioned. "You keep your boy from my girl and I'll do all your family cobblin' for nothin' till Jinnie's a woman." Bates leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "It's a bargain, all right. Them kids of mine do wear out the soles of their shoes some. But, Lafe, I can't tag Maudlin around all day." Lafe took up his hammer. "Lick him if he won't mind you, Bates. He's got to let my girl be, and that's all there is to it." Saying this, he started to work, giving the shortwood gatherer his dismissal. Bates left his chair thoughtfully. "I'll talk to Maudie," said he, "but he's an onery kid; has been ever since his mother died. He don't git along with his stepma very well, and she's got such a lot of little kids of 'er own she ain't time to train no hulk of a boy like Maudlin." Pausing a moment, he went on, "Maudlin's been madder'n hell because that duffer King's been haulin' Jinnie's wood. He says----" "It ain't any of Maudlin's business who helps Jinnie," interrupted Lafe. "If you got any shoes needin' fixin', tote 'em over, Jasper." Bates left the shop and Lafe fell to work vigorously. * * * * * Maudlin Bates stood at the path leading to the marshes. He was waiting for Jinnie to appear with her load of shortwood. To the young wood gatherer, a woman was created for man's special benefit, and a long time ago he had made up his mind that Jinnie should be his woman. He was leaning against a tree when the girl came in sight, with her wood-strap on her shoulders. She paid no attention to him, and was about to turn into Paradise Road when the man stepped in front of her. "Wait a minute, Jinnie," he wheedled. Jinnie threw him a disdainful glance. "I can't wait. I'm in a hurry," she replied, and she hoped the fellow would go on before the car arrived. Young Bates' face was crossed by an obstinate expression. "I'm goin' to find out," he said, gruffly, "why you're ridin' in rich folks' motor cars." "Isn't anything to you," snapped Jinnie. The wood gatherer came so close that he forced her back a step on the marsh path. Her disdainful eyes had drawn him to her, for, like all men, he could be drawn by the woman who scorned him, and mesmerized by the sheer repulse. By great effort, Jinnie had escaped from Maudlin's insults for many months, but he had never been quite so aggressive as this! Now she could see the dark blood in his passionate face mount even to the whites of his eyes, those eyes which coveted the youngness of her body, the vitality of her girl life, and all the good within her. "Get out of my way!" she said sharply. "You let me alone. I've got a right to get my wood hauled if I can." "Well, you don't do it any more," said Maudlin. "If you're too lazy to carry your own wood, I'll help you myself.... You can't go no more to King's in _his_ car." Jinnie turned a pair of glinting blue eyes upon him. "Who said I couldn't?" she demanded. "Uncle Lafe lets me." "Your Uncle Lafe said you could marry me," said Maudlin in slow, drawling tones. Jinnie's blood boiled up behind her ears. She was eyeing him in bewilderment. Maudlin's words made her more angry than she'd ever been in her life. "You lie, you damn fool!" she cried, and then caught her breath in consternation. It was the first oath that had escaped her lips in many a long day, and she felt truly sorry for it. She would tell Lafe of the provocation that caused it and beg to be forgiven. She moved back a step as Maudlin pinched her. "I don't lie," he growled. "You think because you can scrape on a fiddle you're better'n other folks. Pa an' me'll show you you ain't." "You and your pa don't know everything," answered Jinnie, wrathfully. "We know 'nough to see what King's doin' all right." He made a dive at the girl and laid a rough hand on the shortwood strap. "Here! Gimme that wood if you're too lazy to carry it." Jinnie turned her eyes up the road. It was time Bennett came. The sound of his motor would be like sweet music in her ears. She jerked the strap away from the man and turned furiously upon him. "Don't touch me again, Maudlin Bates.... I don't interfere with you. I'll--I'll----" But Maudlin paid no heed to her insistence. He was dragging the strap from her shoulders. Jinnie's face grew waxen white, but she held her own for a few minutes. Maudlin was big in proportion to her slenderness, and in another instant her shortwood lay on the ground, and she was standing panting before him. "Now, then, just to show what kind of a feller I be," said he, "I'm goin' to kiss you." Jinnie felt cold chills running up and down her back. "It's time you was kissed," went on Maudlin, "and after to-day I'm goin' to be your man.... You can bet on that." He was slowly forcing her backward along the narrow path that led into the marshes. Jinnie knew intuitively he wanted her to turn and run into the underbrush that he might have her alone in the great waste place. Like a mad creature, she fought every step of the way, Maudlin's anger rising at each cry the girl emitted. "I'll tell my uncle," she screamed, with sobbing breath. "You won't want to tell 'im when I get done with you," muttered the man. "Why don't you run? You c'n run, can't you?" Oh, if Bennett would only come! She was still near enough to Paradise Road for him to hear her calling. Maudlin reached out his hand and caught the long curls between his dirty fingers. "If you won't run," he said, "then, that for you!" and he gave a cruel twist to the shining hair, pulling Jinnie almost off her feet. Then the ruffian turned, slowly dragging her foot by foot into the marshland. She opened her lips, and gave one long scream; then another and another before Maudlin pulled her to him and closed her mouth with a large hand, and Jinnie grew faint with fright and terror. They were out of sight now of Paradise Road, still Jinnie struggled and struggled, gripping with both hands at Bates' fingers jerking at her curls. Suddenly Lafe's solemn words surged through her mind. "He has given His angels charge over thee." Oh God! Dear God! What glorious, blessed words! Lafe's angels, her angels--Jinnie's heart throbbed with faith. Once Lafe had told her no one, no, not even Maudlin Bates, could keep her own from her! Her honor and her very life were in the tender hands of the cobbler's angels. Suddenly in fancy Jinnie saw the whole world about teeming with bright ecstatic beings, and multitudes of them were hurrying through the warm summer air to the Bellaire marshes. They were coming--coming to help her, to save her from a fate worse than death! Her mind reeled under the terrible pain Maudlin was inflicting upon her, and she closed her eyes in agony. With one mighty effort, she dragged her face from the brown, hard hand and screamed at the top of her lungs. * * * * * Theodore King swung his car around into Paradise Road with busy thoughts. He had decided to go himself that morning to bring the little fiddler back to his home with the shortwood. He had a plan for Jinnie. Past the cobbler's shop sped the big motor, and as it drew up to the marshes, he heard a blood-curdling cry from the depths of the underbrush. In another instant he was out on the ground, dashing along the path. He saw Jinnie and Maudlin before either one of them knew he was near. He saw the fellow pulling the black curls, and saw a hand almost covering the fair young face. Then Jinnie saw him, and sent him one swift, terrified, appealing glance. In the smallest fraction of a second Maudlin was sprawling on the ground, and Theodore was soundly kicking him. Jinnie sank down on the damp moss and began to cry weakly. Her face was scratched from the man's fingers, her head aching from the strenuous pulling of her hair. Then she covered her eyes with her hands. God _had_ sent an angel--she was saved! When Mr. King touched her gently, she sat up, wiping away little streams of blood running down her face and neck. "Oh, you came," she sobbed, raising her head, "and oh, I needed you so!" Theodore lifted her to her feet. "I should say you did, you poor child! I should certainly think you did." Then he turned to Maudlin Bates. "What, in God's name, were you trying to do?" Maudlin, raging with anger, scrambled from the ground. "Get out o' here," he hissed, "an' mind your own business." "When I keep a bully away from a nice little girl, I'm minding my business all right.... What was he trying to do, Jinnie?" Maudlin walked backward until he was almost in the brush. "I'm goin' to marry her," he said, surlily. "He isn't," cried Jinnie. "Oh, don't believe him, Mr. King! He says Uncle Lafe said he can marry me, but he can't." Once more Theodore turned on Maudlin, threateningly, his anger riding down his gentleness to Jinnie. "Now get out of here," he exclaimed, "and don't ever let me hear of your even speaking to this child again." The shortwood gatherer stood his ground until Theodore, with raised fist, was almost upon him. "I said to get out!" thundered Mr. King. With a baffled cry, Bates turned, rushed back into the marsh, and for several seconds they heard him beating down the brushwood as he ran. Theodore tenderly drew the girl into Paradise Road. "I wanted to see your uncle to-day," he explained, without waiting for the question which he read in Jinnie's eyes, "so I came over myself instead of sending Bennett.... There, child! Don't tremble so! Never mind the wood." Jinnie hung back. "I've got to sell it to you this afternoon," she murmured brokenly. "Peg's got to have the money." "We've enough at home until to-morrow.... Wait until to-morrow." Jinnie looked longingly at the wood. "Somebody'll take it," she objected, "and it's awful hard to gather." A grip of pain stabbed Theodore's heart. This slender, beautiful girl, rosy with health and genius, should gather wood no more for any one in the world.... To soothe her, he said: "I'll come by and pick it up on my way back.... Come along." He lifted her into the car, and they moved slowly through Paradise Road, and drew up before the cobbler's shop. Lafe put down his hammer as they entered, and bade King take a chair. Jinnie sat weakly on the bench beside Mr. Grandoken. He took her hand, and the loving pressure brought forth a storm of outraged tears. "'Twas Maudlin, Lafe," she wept. Then her arms stole around the cobbler. "The angels sent Mr. King!... Lafe, Lafe, save me from Maudlin! He--he----" Theodore King rose to his feet, his face paling. Lafe, smoothing Jinnie's head now buried in his breast, lifted misty eyes to the young man. "My poor baby! My poor little girl!" he stammered. "She has much to stand, sir." The other man took several nervous turns around the shop. Presently he paused near the cobbler and coughed in embarrassment. "I'm interested in doing something for your niece, Mr. Grandoken," said he lamely. On hearing this, Jinnie lifted her head, and Lafe bowed. "Thank you, sir," said he. "I don't approve of her going into the marshes alone to gather wood," continued Mr. King. "She's too young, too----" "I don't uther, sir," interrupted Lafe sadly, "but we've got to live." Not heeding the cobbler's explanation, Theodore proceeded deliberately. "She plays too well on the violin not to have all the training that can be given her. Now let me be of some service until she is self-supporting." Again Lafe repeated, "Thank you, sir, but I don't think Jinnie could accept money from any one." "I don't see why not! It's quite customary when a young person is ambitious to receive----" "Is it, sir?" ejaculated Lafe. "Indeed yes, and I've been making inquiries, and I find there's a very good teacher on the hill who'll give her the rudiments.... After that, we'll see." Jinnie was breathing very fast. "Lessons cost lots of money," objected Lafe feebly, drawing the girl closer. "I know that," interposed Mr. King, "but I want to pay for them. She ought to take one every day, the teacher says, commencing to-morrow." Jinnie stood up. "I couldn't let you pay for 'em," she said quickly. "I----" She sat down again at a motion from Theodore. "Please don't object until I have finished," he smiled at her. "It's like this: If you study, you'll be able to earn a lot of money. Then you can return every dollar to me." Suddenly it came to her mind to tell him she would have all the money she needed when she should be eighteen. "I'll have----" she began, but Lafe, feeling what she was going to say, stopped her. It wasn't time to confide in any one about the danger hanging over her. He took the matter in his own hands with his usual melancholy dignity. "Jinnie'll be glad to let you help her, sir, providin' you keep track of the money you spend," he agreed. The girl could scarcely believe her ears. Suddenly her indignant sense of Maudlin's abuse faded away, leaving her encouraged and warm with ambition. Theodore took one more stride around the little room. "Now that's sensible, Mr. Grandoken," he said contentedly. "And before I go, I want you to promise me your niece won't go into the marshes even once more. I must have your word before I can be satisfied. As it is now, she earns three dollars a week bringing me wood. That I must add to the lesson money----" Lafe's dissenting gesture broke off Mr. King's statement, but he resumed immediately. "If you're sensitive on that point, I'll add it in with the other money. I think it wise to keep our arrangements to ourselves, though." He stopped, his face changing. "And I--I would like to make you more comfortable here." Lafe shook his head. "I couldn't take anything for me and Peggy," he announced decidedly, "but Jinnie'll give back all you let her have some day." Then Theodore King went away reluctantly. CHAPTER XXII MOLLY'S DISCOVERY Peggy had given Jinnie a violin box, and as the girlwalked rapidly homeward, she gazed at it with pride, and began to plan how the woman's burdens could be lightened a little--how she could bring a smile now and then to the sullen face. This had been discussed between Lafe and herself many times, and they had rejoiced that in a few months, when Jinnie was eighteen, Mrs. Grandoken's worries would be lessened. She reached the bottom of the hill just as a car dashed around the lower corner, a woman at the wheel. One glance at the occupant, and Jinnie recognized Molly Merriweather. The woman smiled sweetly and drove to the edge of the pavement. "Good afternoon," she greeted Jinnie. "Won't you take a little ride with me? I'll drive you home afterwards." Jinnie's heart bounded. As yet Molly had not discovered her identity, and the girl, in spite of Lafe's caution, wanted to know all that had passed in Mottville after she left. She wanted to hear about her dead father, of Matty, and the old home. She gave ready assent to Molly's invitation by climbing into the door opened for her. "You don't have to go home right away, do you?" asked Miss Merriweather pleasantly. "No, I suppose not," acceded Jinnie shyly. She connected Molly the Merry with all that was good. She remembered the woman's kindly smiles so long ago in Mottville, and--that she was a friend of Theodore King. She was startled, however, after they had ridden in silence a while, when the woman pronounced his name. "Have you seen Mr. King lately?" Jinnie shook her head. "I guess it's three days," she answered, low-voiced. Three days! Molly racked her brain during the few seconds before she spoke again to bring to mind when Theodore had been absent from home out of business hours. "He's a very nice man," she remarked disinterestedly. Jinnie's gratitude burst forth in youthful impetuosity. "He's more'n nice,--he's the best man in the world." "Yes, he is," murmured Molly. "Theo--I mean Mr. King," stammered Jinnie. Molly turned so quickly to look at the girl's reddening face that the car almost described a circle. "You call him by his first name, then?" she asked, with a sharp backward turn of the wheel. "No," denied Jinnie, extremely confused. "Oh, no! Only--only----" "Only what?" "When I think of him, then I do. Theodore's such a pretty name, isn't it?" Molly bit her lip. Here was the niece of a cobbler who dared to think familiarly of a man in high social position. She had tried to make herself believe Theo was simply philanthropic, but now the more closely she examined the beautiful face of the girl, the more she argued with herself, the greater grew her fear. "What does he call you?" Molly spoke amiably, as if discussing these unimportant little matters for mere politeness' sake. "Mostly Jinnie," was the prompt reply. "I'm just Jinnie to every one who loves me." She said this without thought of its import. Angrily Molly sent the motor spinning along at a higher rate. She was growing to hate the little person at her side. "Where are your own people?" she demanded, when they were on the road leading to the country. Jinnie glanced up. "Dead!" she answered. "And the cobbler, Mr. Grandoken, is he your father's or mother's brother?" Jinnie pondered a moment, undecided how to answer. "Why, you see it's like this----" Molly lessened the speed. Turning squarely around, she looked keenly at the scarlet, lovely face. "Why are you blushing?" she queried. Then like a flash she remembered. What a silly fool she had been! Jordan Morse would give his eyes almost to locate this girl. "I remember now who you are," she said, taking a long breath. "You're Virginia Singleton." Jinnie touched her arm appealingly. "You won't tell anybody, will you, please? Please don't.... There's a reason why." "Tell me the reason." "I couldn't now, not now. But I have to live with Lafe Grandoken quite a long time yet." "You ran away from your home?" "Yes." "Your father died the same night you came away." "Yes, and--please, what happened after I left?" "Oh, he was buried, and the house is empty." Molly forebore to mention Jordan Morse, and Jinnie's tongue refused to utter the terrifying name. Presently the girl, with tears in her eyes, said softly: "And Matty, old Matty?" "Who's Matty?" interjected Molly. "The black woman who took care of me. She lived with me for ever so long." Molly didn't reply for some time. Then: "I think she died; at least I heard she did." A cold shudder ran over Jinnie's body. Matty then had gone to join those who, when they were called, had no choice but to answer. She leaned against the soft cushions moodily. She was harking back to other days, and Molly permitted her to remain silent for some time. "You must have people of your own you could live with," she resumed presently. "It's wrong for a girl with your money----" Jinnie's lovely mouth set at the corners. "I wouldn't leave Lafe and Peggy for anybody in the world, not if I had relations, but I haven't." "I thought--I thought," began Molly, pretending to bring to mind something she'd forgotten. "You have an uncle," she burst forth. Jinnie grew cold from head to foot. Her father's words, "He won't find in you much of an obstacle," came to her distinctly. "Does your uncle know where you are?" This question brought the girl to the present. "No. I don't want him to know, either. Not till--not till I'm eighteen." "Why?" Molly's tone was so cold and unsympathetic Jinnie regretted she had accepted her invitation to ride. But she need not be afraid; Lafe would keep her safe from all harm. Had she not tried out his faith and the angels' care with Maudlin Bates? However, she felt she owed some explanation to the woman at her side. "My uncle doesn't like me," she stammered, calming her fear. "And Lafe loves me, Lafe does." "How do you know your uncle doesn't love you?" Thinking of Lafe's often repeated caution not to divulge her father's disclosure of Morse's perfidy, Jinnie remained quiet. The birds above their heads kept up a shrill chatter. On ordinary occasions Jinnie would have listened to mark down in her memory a few notes to draw from her fiddle, but at this moment she was too busy looking for a proper explanation. Glancing sidelong at the woman's face and noting the expression upon it, she grew cold and drew into the corner. She would not dare---- "I almost think it's my duty to write your uncle," said Molly deliberately. Jinnie gasped. She straightened and put forth an impetuous hand. "Please don't! I beg you not to. Some day, mebbe, some day----" "In the meantime you're living with people who can't take care of you." "Oh, but they do, and Mr. King's helping me," faltered Jinnie. "Why, he'd do anything for me he could. He loves my fiddle----" "Does he love you?" asked Molly, her heart beating swiftly. "I don't know, but he's very good to me." Molly with one hand carefully brushed a dead leaf from her skirt. "Do you love him?" she asked, forcing casuality into her tone. Did she love Theodore King? The question was flung at Jinnie so suddenly that the truth burst from her lips. "Oh, yes, I love him very, very much----" The machine started forward with a tremendous jerk. Jinnie gave a frightened little cry, but the woman did not heed her. The motor sped along at a terrific rate, and there just ahead Jinnie spied a lean barn-cat, crossing the road. She screamed again in terror. Still Molly sped on, driving the car straight over the thin, gaunt animal. Jinnie's heart leapt into her mouth. All her great love for living things rose in stout appeal against this ruthless deed. She lifted her slight body and sprang up and out, striking the hard ground with a sickening thud. She sat up, shaking from head to foot. A short distance ahead Molly Merriweather was turning her machine. Jinnie crawled to the middle of the road, still dizzy from her fall. There, struggling before her, was the object for which she had jumped. The cat was writhing in distracted misery, and Jinnie picked him up in her arms. She was sitting on the ground when Molly, very pale, rolled back. "You little fool! You silly little fool!" she exclaimed, leaping out. "You might have been killed doing such a thing." "You ran over the kitty," wept Jinnie, bowing her head. "And what if I did? It's only a cat. Throw it down and come with me immediately." Jinnie wasn't used to such sentiments. She got to her feet, a queer, rebellious feeling buzzing through her brain. "I'm going to walk home," she said brokenly, "and take the kitty with me." Saying this, she took off her jacket and wrapped it about the cat. Molly glared at her furiously. "You're the strangest little dunce I ever saw," she cried. "If you're determined to take the little beast, get in." Molly was sorry afterward she had not let Jinnie have her way, for they had driven homeward but a little distance when she saw Theodore's car coming toward them. He himself was at the wheel, and waved good-naturedly. Molly reluctantly stopped her machine. The man looked in astonishment from the girl to the woman. He noticed Jinnie's white face and the long blue mark running from her forehead to her chin. Molly, too, wore an expression which changed her materially. He stepped to the ground and leaned over the edge of their car. "Something happened?" he questioned, eyeing first one, then the other. Molly looked down upon the girl, who was staring at Mr. King. "I--I----" began Jinnie. Molly made a short explanation. "She jumped out of the car," she said. "I was just telling her she might have been killed." "Jumped out of the car?" repeated Theodore, aghast. "And we were going at a terrible rate," Molly went on. Her voice was toned with accusation, and Jinnie saw a reprimanding expression spread over the man's face. She didn't want him to think ill of her, yet she was not sorry she had jumped. He was kind and good; he would pity the hurt thing throbbing against her breast. "We--we--ran over a cat----" she said wretchedly. "A barn-cat," cut in Molly. "And he was awfully hurt," interpolated Jinnie. "I couldn't leave him in the road. I had to get him, didn't I?" Theodore King made a movement of surprise. "Did you notice it in the road?" he asked Miss Merriweather. The woman was thoroughly angry, so angry she could not guard her tongue. "Of course I saw him," she replied haughtily, "but I wouldn't stop for an old cat; I can tell you that much." "Miss Grandoken looks ill," Theodore answered slowly, "and as I am going her way, I think she'd better come with me." Molly was about to protest when two strong arms were thrust forth, and Jinnie with the cat was lifted out. Before the girl fully realized what had happened, she was sitting beside her friend, driving homeward. She could hear through her aching brain the chug-chug of Molly's motor following. It was not until they turned into Paradise Road that Mr. King spoke to her. Then he said gently: "It was a dreadful risk you took, child." "I didn't think about that," murmured Jinnie, closing her eyes. "No, I suppose not. Your heart's too tender to let anything be abused.... Is the cat dead?" Jinnie pulled aside her jacket. "No, but he's breathing awful hard. It hurts him to try to live. I want to get home quick so Peggy can do something for him." "I'll hurry, then," replied Mr. King, and when he saw Lafe's face in the window, he again addressed her: "You'd better try to smile a little, Miss Jinnie, or your uncle'll be frightened." Jinnie roused herself, but she was so weak when she tried to walk that Theodore picked her up in his arms and carried her into the shop. CHAPTER XXIII NOBODY'S CAT Lafe uttered a quick little prayer as the door opened. His glance through the window had shown him Jinnie's pale face and her dark head drooping against Mr. King's shoulder. Theodore smiled as he entered, which instantly eased the fear in the cobbler's heart and he waited for the other man to speak. "Jinnie had a fall," explained Mr. King, "so I drove her home." He placed the girl in a chair. She was still holding the mangled cat in her arms. "Is she much hurt?" questioned Lafe anxiously. "No, Lafe, I'm not hurt a bit. Miss Merriweather took me for a little ride. I jumped out to get this kitty because she ran over 'im." She displayed the quivering grey tiger cat. "Jumped out of a fast-goin' car, honey!" chided Lafe. "That was some dangerous." Jinnie's eyes were veiled with wonder. "But I couldn't let him stay and get run over again, could I, Lafe?" "No, darlin', of course you couldn't.... Are you pretty well broke up?" Mr. King explained the accident as best he could, and after he departed Mrs. Grandoken came in with Bobbie clinging to her skirts. Then the story was repeated. "Can't we do something for him, Peg?" pleaded Jinnie. Peg knelt down and examined the animal as it lay on the floor. She would not have admitted for anything that she was disturbed because of Jinnie's fall. She only said: "'Twasn't your fault, miss, that you ain't almost dead yourself.... I'll get a dish with some water.... You need it as much as the cat." It was Bobbie who brought from Peggy a fierce ejaculation. He was standing in the middle of the floor with fluttering hands, a woebegone expression on his upturned face. "My stars're goin' out," he whimpered. "I want to touch my Jinnie." "She ain't hurt much, kid," said Peg, hoarsely. "Don't be shakin' like a leaf, Bobbie! You'd think the girl was dead." Jinnie called the boy to her. "I'm here, honey," she soothed him, "and I'm all right. I got a little whack on the ground, that's all.... There, don't cry, dearie." Peg looked down on them frowningly. "You're both of you little fools," she muttered. "Get out of my way till I go to the kitchen, or I'll kick you out." When Mrs. Grandoken brought the water, they worked over the cat for a long time, and at length Peg carried the poor little mangled body to the kitchen, Bobbie following her. Jinnie sat down beside the cobbler on the bench. "There's something I don't know, Jinnie," he said. Fully and freely she told him all--all that had happened that day. She explained Molly's recognition of her and the terrors of the afternoon's ride. "She hates barn-cats," went on the girl, "and, Lafe, when the wheels gritted over him, I flew right out on the ground." Lafe's arms tightened about her. "You just couldn't help it," he murmured. "God bless my little girl!" "Then Mr. King took me with him," concluded Jinnie. Lafe had his own view of Molly the Merry, but he didn't tell the faint, white girl at his side that he thought the woman was jealous of her. As Jinnie again recounted nervously the conversation about her Uncle Jordan, the cobbler said softly: "It's all in the hands of the angels, pet! No harm'll come to you ever." * * * * * Jordan Morse answered Miss Merriweather's telephone call. "I want to talk with you," said she peremptorily. "I'll come right up," replied Morse. She stood on the porch with her hands tightly locked together when Jordan dashed up the roadway. She walked slowly down the steps. "What's up?" demanded Morse. Molly glanced backward at the quiet home. Theodore's mother was taking her afternoon siesta, and no one else was about. She slipped her hand into Morse's arm and led him under the trees. "Let's go to the summer house," she urged. Once seated, Morse looked at her curiously. "You're ill," he said, noting her distorted face. "No, only furious.... I've made a discovery." "Anything of value?" "Yes, to you--and to me." Morse bent a keen glance upon her. "Well?" was all he said. "I know where your niece, Virginia Singleton, is." She said this deliberately, realizing the while the worth of her words. Morse got to his feet unsteadily. "I don't believe it," he returned. "I knew you wouldn't, but I do just the same." "Where?" "In this town." "No!" "Yes." Morse dropped back on the seat once more. "For God's sake, don't play with me. Why don't you----" "I'm going to! Keep still, can't you?" "You're torturing me," muttered the man, mopping his brow. "She's--she's Jinnie Grandoken--the girl who played at Theo's party." "Good God!" and then through the silence came another muttered, "Great merciful God!" Molly allowed him to regain his self-control. "I told you that night, Jordan, I thought I remembered her," she then said. "To-day I found out it was she." "Tell me all you know," ordered Morse, with darkening brow. Molly openly admitted her jealousy of Jinnie. She had no shame because, long before, she had told her husband of her absorbing passion for Theodore King. "I discovered it purely by accident," she went on, relating the story. Morse chewed the end of his cigar. "Now what're you going to do?" demanded Molly presently. Jordan threw away his cigar and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, stretching out a pair of long legs. There he sat considering the tips of his boots in silence. "I've got to think, and think quick," he broke out suddenly. "My God! I might have known she didn't belong in that cobbler's shop.... I'll go now.... Don't mention this to Theo." As he was leaving, he said with curling lip: "I guess now you know my prospects you won't be so stingy. I'll have to have money to carry this through." "All right," said Molly. When she was alone, Molly's anger decreased. She had an ally now worth having. She smiled delicately as she passed up the stairs to her room, and the smile was brought to her lips because she remembered having begged Jordan to help her in this matter several times before. Then he had had no incentive, but to-day----Ah, now he would give her a divorce quietly! The social world in which she hoped to move would know nothing of her youthful indiscretion. * * * * * That night Jinnie and Peg were bending anxiously over a basket near the kitchen stove. All that human hands and hearts could do had been done for the suffering barn-cat. He had given no sign of consciousness, his breath coming and going in long, deep gasps. "He'll die, won't he, Peg?" asked Jinnie, sorrowfully. "Yes, sure. An' it'll be better for the beast, too." Peg said this tempestuously. "I'd like to have him live," replied Jinnie. "Milly Ann mightn't love him, but she got used to Happy Pete, didn't she?" "This feller," assured Peggy, wagging her head, "won't get used to anything more on this earth." "Poor kitty," mourned Jinnie. She was thinking of the beautiful world, the trees and the flowers, and the wonderful songs of nature amidst which the dying animal had existed. "I hope he'll go to some nice place," she observed sadly, walking away from Mrs. Grandoken. Later, after cogitating deeply, Jinnie expressed herself to the cobbler. "Lafe, Lafe dear," she said, "it's all true you told me, ain't it?... All about the angels and God?... The poor kitty's suffering awful. He's got the Christ too, hasn't he, Lafe?" The man looked into the agonized young face. "Yes, child," he replied reverently, "he's got the Christ too, same's you an' me. God's in everything. He loves 'em all." That night the girl sat unusually long with paper and pencil. Just before going to bed she placed a paper on the cobbler's knee. "I wrote that hurt kitty some poetry," she said shyly. Lafe settled his spectacles on his nose, picked up the sheet, and read: "I'm nobody's cat and I've been here so long, In this world of sorrow and pain, I've no father nor mother nor home in this place, And must always stay out in the rain. "Hot dish water, stones at me have been thrown, And one of my hind legs is lame; No wonder I run when I know the boys Come to see if I'm tame. "I've a friend in the country, and he's nobody's dog, And his burdens're heavy as mine, He told me one day the boys had once tied A tin can to his tail with a line. "Now they talk in the churches of God and his Son, Of Paradise, Heaven and Hell; Of a Savior who came on earth for mankind, And for His children all should be well. "Now I'd like to know if God didn't make me, And cause me to live and all that? I believe there's a place for nobody's child, And also for nobody's cat." Mr. Grandoken lifted misty eyes. "It's fine," he said, "an' every word true!... Every single word." The next morning Jinnie went to the basket behind the stove. The cat was dead,--dead, in the same position in which she had left him the night before, and close to his nose was the meat Peggy had tried to entice him to eat. She lifted the basket and carried it into the shop. "Poor little feller," said Lafe. "I 'spose you'll have to bury him, lass." Bobbie edged forward, and felt for Jinnie's fingers. "Bury him on the hill, dearie, where you found me," he whispered. "It's lovely there, and he can see my stars." "All right," replied Jinnie, dropping her hand on the boy's golden head. That afternoon, just before the funeral, Jinnie stood quietly in front of the cobbler. "Lafe," she said, looking at him appealingly, "the kitty's happy even if he is dead, isn't he?" "Sure," replied Lafe. "His angels've got charge of him, all right." "I was wondering something," ventured the girl, thoughtfully. "Couldn't we take him in the 'Happy in Spite'?... Eh, Lafe?" Lake looked at her in surprise. "I never thought of takin' anything dead in the club," said he dubiously. "But he's happy, you said, Lafe?" "He's happy enough, yes, sure!" "Then let's take him in," repeated Jinnie eagerly. "Let's take 'im in, cobbler," breathed Bobbie, pressing forward. "He wants to come in." They lifted the cover of the basket, and there in quietude the barn-cat was sleeping his long last sleep. Jinnie lifted one of the stiff little paws, and placed it in Lafe's fingers. The cobbler shook it tenderly. "You're in the club, sir," said he in a thick, choked voice. Then Jinnie and Bobbie, carrying their precious dead comrade, started for the hill. CHAPTER XXIV "HE MIGHT EVEN MARRY HER" "I don't see why you must have her out of the way entirely," hesitated Molly Merriweather, looking up into Jordan Morse's face. "Couldn't you send her to some girls' place?" "Now you don't know anything about it, Molly," answered the man impatiently. "If she doesn't disappear absolutely, the cobbler and Theodore'll find her." "That's so," said Molly, meditatively, "but it seems horrible----" Morse interrupted her with a sarcastic laugh. "That's what Theodore would think, and more, too, if he thought any one was going to harm a hair of the child's head." Molly flamed red. "To save her, he might even marry her," Morse went on relentlessly. Molly gestured negatively. "He wouldn't. He couldn't!" she cried stormily. She had never permitted herself to face such a catastrophe save when she was angry. Jordan Morse contemplated his wife a short space of time. "I can't understand your falling in love with a man who hasn't breathed a word of affection for you," he said tentatively. Molly showed him an angry face. "You're not a woman, so you can't judge," she replied. "Thank God for that!" retorted Morse. "We wouldn't have had any of this trouble," he continued, at length, "if you'd let me know about the boy. There's no excuse for you, absolutely none. You know very well I would have come back." All the softness in the woman turned to hardness. "How many times," she flamed, "must I tell you I was too angry to write or beg you to come, Jordan?... I've told you over and over." "And with all you say, I can't understand it. Are you going to impart your precious past to Theodore?" "No," replied Molly, setting her lips. Presently Morse laughed provokingly. "How you women do count your chickens before they're hatched! Where did you get the idea Theodore was going to ask you to marry him?" "I'll make him," breathed Molly, with confidence. "Well, go ahead," bantered Morse. "All I ask for releasing you is that you'll help me rid myself of my beautiful niece, Virginia, at the same time ridding yourself, my lady, and give me my boy when we find him." His tones in the first part of the speech were mocking, but Molly noted when he said "boy" his voice softened. She looked at him wonderingly. What a strange mixture of good and evil he was! When he got up to leave, she was not sorry. She watched him stride away with a deep sigh of relief. She was still sitting in the summer house when Theodore King swung his motor through the gate and drew up before the porch. He jumped out, wiped his face, saw Molly, and smiled. "Well, it's cool here," he said, walking toward her. "Yes," said Molly. "Come and sit down a minute." Theodore looked doubtfully at the house. "I really ought to do some writing, but I'll sit a while if you like. I passed Jordan on the way home." Molly nodded, and Theodore quizzed her with laughing eyes. "Isn't he coming pretty often?" he asked. "Jordan's got prospects, Molly! If his niece isn't found, you know, he'll have a fortune.... Better set your cap for him." Molly blushed under his words, trying not to show her resentment. Was Theodore a perfect fool? Couldn't he see she desired no one but himself, and him alone? "Jordan doesn't care for me that way," she observed with dignity, "and I don't care for him." Theodore flicked an ash from his cigar. "I think you're mistaken, Molly--I mean as far as he is concerned." "I'm not! Of course, I'm not! Oh, Theodore, I've been wanting to ask you something for a long time. I do want to go back home for a day.... Would you take me?" Theodore eyed her through wreaths of blue smoke. "Well, I might," he hesitated, "but hadn't you better ask Jordan? I'm afraid he wouldn't like me----" Molly got up so quickly that Theodore, surprised, got up too. "I don't want Jordan, and I do want you," she said emphatically. "Of course if you don't care to go----" "On the contrary," interrupted Theodore, good-naturedly, "I would really like it.... Yes, I'll go all right.... I have a reason for going." Molly's whole demeanor changed. She gave a musical laugh. He could have but one reason, and she felt she knew that reason! What a handsome dear he was, and how she loved the whole bigness of him! As she turned to walk away, Theodore fell in at her side, suiting his steps to hers. "Mind you, Molly, any day you say but Saturday." "Why not Saturday?" asked Molly, pouting. "I might want you then!" Unsuspecting, Mr. King explained. "The fact is, Saturday I've planned to go on the hill. You remember Grandoken's niece? I want to find out how she's progressing in her music." If Theodore had been watching Molly's face, he would have noted how its expression changed darkly. But, humming a tune, he went into the house unconcernedly, and Molly recognized the rhythm as one Jinnie had played that night long ago with Peg Grandoken's lace curtains draped about her. Jinnie's youth, her bright blue eyes, her wonderful talent, Molly hated, and hated cordially. Then she decided Theodore should go with her Saturday. That evening when Jordan Morse came in, Molly told him she would help him in any scheme to get Jinnie away from Bellaire. "You're beginning to understand he likes her pretty much, eh?" asked the man rudely. Molly wouldn't admit this, but she replied simply: "I don't want her around. That's all! As long as she's in Bellaire, the Kings'll always have her here with her fiddle." "Some fiddle," monotoned Jordan. "It's the violin that attracts Theodore," hesitated Molly. "And her blue eyes," interrupted Jordan, smiling widely. "Her talent, you mean," corrected Molly. "And her curls," laughed Morse. "I swear if she wasn't a relation of mine I'd marry the kid myself. She's a beauty!... She's got you skinned to death." "You needn't be insulting, Jordan," admonished Molly, flushing. "It's the truth, though. That's where the rub comes. You can't wool me, Molly. If she were hideous, you wouldn't worry at all.... Why, I know seven or eight girls right here in Bellaire who'd give their eye teeth and wear store ones to get Theodore to look at 'em crosseyed.... Lord, what fools women are!" Molly left him angrily, and Morse, shrugging his shoulders, strolled on through the trees. Not far from the house he met Theodore, and they wandered on together, smoking in silence. Morse suddenly developed an idea. Why shouldn't he sound King about Jinnie? Accordingly, he began with: "That's a wonderful girl, Grandoken's niece." This topic was one Theodore loved to speak of, to dream so, so he said impetuously: "She is indeed. I only wish I could get her away from Paradise Road." Morse turned curious eyes on his friend. "Why?" "Well, I don't think it's any place for an impressionable young girl like her." "She's living with Jews, too, isn't she?" "Yes, but good people," Theodore replied. "I want her to go away to school. I'd be willing to pay her expenses----" Morse flung around upon him. "Send her away to school? You?" "Yes. Why not? Wouldn't it be a good piece of charity work? She's the most talented girl I ever saw." "And the prettiest," Jordan cut in. "By far the prettiest," answered King without hesitation. His voice was full of feeling, and Jordan Morse needed no more to tell him plainly that Theodore loved Jinnie Grandoken. A sudden chill clutched at his heart. If King ever took Jinnie under his protection, his own plans would count for nothing. He went home that night disgusted with himself for having stayed away from his home country so long, angry that Molly had not told him about the baby, and more than angry with Theodore King. CHAPTER XXV WHEN THEODORE FORGOT For the next few days Jordan Morse turned over in his mind numerous plans to remove Jinnie from Grandoken's home, but none seemed feasible. As long as Lafe knew his past and stood like a rock beside the girl, as long as Theodore King was interested in her, he himself was powerless to do anything. How to get both the cobbler and his niece out of the way was a problem which continually worried him. He mentioned his anxiety to Molly, asking her if by any means she could help him. "I did tell her I'd write to you," said Molly. Morse's face fell. "She's a stubborn little piece," he declared presently. "Theo's in love with her all right." "You don't really mean that!" stammered Molly, her heart thumping. "Perhaps not very seriously, but such deep interest as his must come from something more than just the girl's talent. He spoke about sending her away to school." "He shan't," cried Molly, infuriated. Morse's rehearsal of Theodore's suggestion was like goads in her soul. "If she'd go," went on the man, "nothing you or I could do would stop him. The only way----" Molly whirled upon him abruptly. "I'll help you, Jordan, I will.... Anything, any way to keep him from her." They were both startled and confused when Theodore came upon them suddenly with his swinging stride, but before Morse went home, he whispered to Molly: "I've thought of something--tell you to-morrow." That night Molly scarcely slept. The vision of a black-haired girl in the arms of Theodore King haunted her through her restless dreams, and the agony was so intense that before the dawn broke over the hill she made up her mind to help her husband, even to the point of putting Jinnie out of existence. That morning Morse approached her with this command: "You try to get Jinnie to go with you to Mottville. You wouldn't have to stay but a day or so. There your responsibilities would end.... I'll be there at the same time.... Will you do it, Molly?" "Yes," said Molly, and her heart began to sing and her eyes to shine. Her manner to Jordan as he left was more cordial than since his return from Europe. At noon time, when Theodore King saw her walking, sweetly cool, under the trees, he joined her. Molly had donned the dress he had complimented most, and as he approached her, she lifted a shy gaze to his. "You couldn't take me to-morrow, you're sure?" she begged, her voice low, deep and appealingly resonant. Theodore hesitated. Being naturally chivalrous and kindly, he disliked to refuse, but he had already sent a note to Jinnie to meet him at the master's Saturday, and it went against his inclination to break that appointment. "I don't see how I can," he replied thoughtfully, "but choose any day next week, and we'll make a real picnic of it." "I'm so disappointed," Molly murmured sadly. "I wanted to go Saturday. But of course----" "I'll see if I can arrange it," he assured her. "Possibly I might go up to hear her play to-day.... I'll see.... Later I'll 'phone you." Leaving the house, he headed his car toward the lower end of the town. He was glad of an excuse to go to Paradise Road. Lafe smiled through the window at him, and he entered the shop at the cobbler's cordial, "Come in!" "I suppose you want Jinnie, eh?" asked Lafe. "Yes. I'll detain her only a moment." Bobbie got up from the floor where he was playing soldiers with tacks and nails. "Boy'll call Jinnie," said he, moving forward. The two men watched the slender blind child feel his way to the door. "Bobbie loves to take a part in things," explained Lafe. "Poor little fellow!" "Is he hopelessly blind?" asked Theodore. "Yes, yes," and Lafe sighed. "I sent him once by Peg to ask a big eye specialist. He's a good little shaver, but his heart's awful weak. You wouldn't think he's almost eleven, would you?" Theodore shook his head, shocked. "It isn't possible!" he exclaimed. "He ain't growed much since he come here over two years ago. Jinnie can carry him in one arm." "Poor child!" said Theodore sympathetically. Just then Jinnie came into the room shyly. Bobbie had excitedly whispered to her that "the beautiful big man with the nice hands" wanted her. She hesitated at the sight of Mr. King, but advanced as Lafe held out his hand to her. Before Theodore could explain, she had told him: "The master isn't giving me a lesson to-day, but he will to-morrow because you're coming." With pride in her voice, she said it radiantly, the color mantling high in her cheeks. Molly's importunate insistence escaped Theodore's mind. When with Jinnie, ordinary matters generally did fade away. "I'm very glad," he replied. "I hope you've progressed a lot." "She has, sir, she sure has," Lafe put in. "You'll be surprised! How long since you've heard her play?" "A long time," answered Theodore, and still forgetting Molly, he went on, "I wonder if you'd like to come to the house to-morrow to dinner and play for us. My mother was speaking about how much she'd enjoy it only a short time ago." Jinnie's eyes sparkled. "I should love to come," she answered gladly. He rose to go, taking her hand. "Then I'll send the car for you," he promised her. He was sitting at his office desk when Molly the Merry once more came into his mind. An ejaculation escaped his lips, and he made a wry face. Then, in comparison, Jinnie, with all her sparkling youth, rose triumphant before him. He loved the child, for a child she still seemed to him. To tell her now of his affection might harm her work. He would wait! She was so young, so very young. For a long time he sat thinking and dreaming of the future, and into the quiet of his office he brought, in brilliant vision, a radiant, raven-haired woman--his ideal--his Jinnie. Suddenly again he remembered his promise to Molly and slowly took down the telephone. Then deliberately he replaced it. It would be easier to explain the circumstances face to face with her, and no doubt entered his mind but that the woman would be satisfied and very glad that Jinnie was coming with her violin to play for them. Molly wouldn't mind postponing her trip for a few days. Molly was reclining as usual in the hammock with a book in her hand when he ran up the steps. "Molly," he began, going to her quickly, "I want to confess." "Confess?" she repeated, sitting up. "Yes, it's this way: When I went out this morning I felt sure I could arrange about to-morrow.... But what do you think?" Miss Merriweather put down the book, stood up, her hand over her heart. "I can't guess," she breathed. "Well, I went to Grandoken's----" "You could have sent a note," Molly cut in. Theodore looked at her curiously. "I could, but I didn't. I wanted Jinnie to understand----" His voice vibrated deeply when he spoke that name, and the listener's love-laden ears caught the change immediately. "Well?" she murmured in question. "When I got there and saw her, I forgot about Saturday. Before I had a chance, she told me she wasn't going to the master's to-day. Then without another thought----" "Well?" interviewed Molly with widening eyes. "Pardon me, Molly," Theodore said tactlessly, "for forgetting you--you will, won't you? I asked her to play here to-morrow night." Molly felt the structure of her whole world tumbling down about her ears. He had forgotten her for that girl, that jade in Paradise Road, the girl who stood between her and all her hopes. She took one step forward and forgot, her dignity, forgot everything but his stinging insult. "How dared you?" she uttered hoarsely. Her voice grew thin as it raised to the point of a question. "Dare!" echoed Theodore, his expression changing. Molly went nearer him with angry, sparkling eyes. "Yes, how dared you ask that girl to come here when I dislike her? You know how I hate her----" Mr. King tossed his cigar into the grass, gravity settling on his countenance. "I hadn't the slightest idea you disliked her," he said. Molly eagerly advanced into the space between them. "She is trying to gain some sort of influence over you, Theo, just the same as she got over that Jewish cobbler." Theodore King gazed in amazement at the reddening, beautiful face. Surely he had not heard aright. Had she really made vile charges against the girl? To implicate Jinnie with a thought of conspiracy brought hot blood about his temples. He wouldn't stand that even from an old-time friend. Of course he liked Molly very much, yes, very much indeed, but this new antagonistic spirit in her---- "What's the matter with you, Molly?" he demanded abruptly. "You haven't any reason to speak of the child that way." "The child!" sneered Molly. "Why, she's a little river rat--a bold, nasty----" Theodore King raised his great shoulders, throwing back his closely cropped head. Then he sprang to refute the terrible aspersion against the girl he loved. "Stop!" he commanded in a harsh voice, leaning over the panting woman. "And now I'll ask you how _you_ dare?" he finished. Molly answered him bravely, catching her breath in a sob. "I dare because I'm a woman.... I dare because I know what she's doing. If she hadn't played her cards well, you'd never've paid any attention to her at all.... No one can make me believe you would have been interested in a--in a----" The man literally whirled from the porch, bounded into the motor, turned the wheel, and shot rapidly away. CHAPTER XXVI MOLLY ASKS TO BE FORGIVEN All the evening Molly waited in despair. She dared not appear at dinner and arose the next morning after a sleepless night. For two or three hours she hovered about the telephone, hoping for word from Theodore. He would certainly 'phone her. He would tell her he was sorry for the way he had left her, for the way he had spoken to her. Even his mother noticed her pale face and extreme nervousness. "What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. King, solicitously. "Nothing, nothing--much," answered Molly evasively. Mrs. King hesitated before she ventured, "I thought I heard you and Theo talking excitedly last night. Molly, you musn't quarrel with him.... You know the wish of my heart.... I need you, child, and so does he." Miss Merriweather knelt beside the gentle woman. "He doesn't care for me, dear!" she whispered. For an instant she was impelled to speak of Jinnie, but realizing what a tremendous influence Theodore had over his mother, she dared not. Like her handsome son, Mrs. King worshipped genius, and Molly reluctantly admitted to herself that the girl possessed it. "He's young yet," sighed the mother, "and he's always so sweet to you, Molly. Some day he'll wake up.... There, there, dearie, don't cry!" "I'm so unhappy," sobbed Molly. Mrs. King smoothed the golden head tenderly. "Why, child, he can't help but love you," she insisted. "He knows how much I depend on you.... I'd have had you with me long before if your father hadn't needed you.... Shall I speak to Theodore?" "No, no----" gasped Molly, and she ran from the room. Under the tall trees she paced for many minutes. How could she wait until dinner--until he came home? She felt her pride ebbing away as she watched the sun cross the sky. The minutes seemed hours long. Molly went swiftly into the house. First assuring herself no one was within hearing distance, she paused before the telephone, longing, yet scarcely daring to use it. Then she took off the receiver and called Theodore's number. His voice, deep, low and thrilling, answered her. "It's I, Theo," she said faintly.... "Molly." "Yes," he answered, but that was all. He gave her no encouragement, no opening, but in desperation she uttered, "Theodore, I'm sorry!... Oh, I'm so sorry!... Won't you forgive me?" There was silence on the wire for an appreciable length of time. "Theodore?" murmured Molly once more. "Yes." "I want you to forgive me.... I couldn't wait until you came home." She heard a slight cough, then came the reply. "I can't control your thoughts, Molly, but I dislike to have my friends illy spoken of." "I know! I know it, Theodore! But please forgive me, won't you?" "Very well," answered Theodore, and he clicked off the 'phone. Molly dropped her face into her hands. "He hung the receiver up in my ear," she muttered. "How cruel, how terrible of him!" It was a wan, beautiful face that turned up to Theodore King when he came home to dinner. Too kindly by nature to hurt any one, he smiled at Molly. Then he stopped and held out his hand. The woman took it, saying earnestly: "I'm sorry, Theo.... I'm very sorry. I think I'm a little cat, don't you?" and she laughed, the tension lifted from her by his cordiality. There was a wholesomeness in her manner that made Theodore's heart glad. "Of course not, Molly!... You couldn't be that!... And next week we will have a lovely day in the country." Molly turned away sadly. She had hoped he would do as she wanted him to in spite of his appointment with Jinnie Grandoken. That evening Jinnie wore a beautiful new dress when she started for the Kings. Of course she didn't know that Theodore had arranged with Peggy to purchase it, and when Mrs. Grandoken had told her to come along and buy the gown, Jinnie's eyes sparkled, but she shook her head. "I'd rather you'd spend the money on Lafe and Bobbie," she said. But Peggy replied, "No," and that's how it came that Jinnie stepped quite proudly from the motor car at the stone steps. Molly Merriweather met her with a forced smile, and Jinnie felt strained until Theodore King's genial greeting dissipated the affront. After the dinner, through which she sat very much embarrassed, she played until, to the man watching her, it seemed as if the very roof would lift from the house and sail off into the Heavens. When Jinnie was ready to go home, standing blushing under the bright light, she had never looked more lovely. Molly hoped Theo would send the girl alone in the car with Bennett, but as she saw him put on his hat, she said, with hesitancy: "Mayn't I go along?" She asked the question of Theodore, and realized instantly that he did not want her. Jinnie came forward impetuously. "Oh, do come, Miss Merriweather! It'll be so nice." And Molly hated the girl more cordially than ever. On arriving home Jinnie beamed out her happiness to the cobbler and his wife. "And the fiddle, Peggy, they loved the fiddle," she told the woman. "Did you make it, Jinnie?" asked Peggy gruffly. "What, the fiddle?" demanded Jinnie. Peggy nodded. "No," faltered Jinnie in surprise. "Then don't brag about it," warned Peggy. "If you'd a glued them boards together, it'd a been something, but as long as you didn't, it ain't no credit to you." Lafe laughed, and Jinnie, too, uttered a low, rueful sound. How funny Peg was! And when Mrs. Grandoken had gone to prepare for the night, Lafe insisted that Jinnie tell him over and over all the happenings of the evening. For a long time afterwards she sat dreaming, reminiscing in sweet fancy every word and smile Theodore had given her. CHAPTER XXVII "HAVEN'T YOU ANY SOUL?" Whenever Molly Merriweather was mentioned to Theodore King, that young man felt a twinge in his conscience. His mother had taken him gently to task. Out of respect for Molly's wishes she refrained from speaking of the girl's affection for him, but cautioned him to be careful not to offend her companion. "She's very sensitive, you know, Theodore dear, and very good to me. I really don't know what I'd do without her." "I was thoughtless!... I'll do better, mother mine," he smiled. "I'll go to her now and tell her so." Theodore found Molly writing a letter in the library. He sank into an easy chair and yawned good-naturedly. The woman was still furious with him, so merely lifted her eyes at his entrance, and went on writing. Theodore was quiet for a few moments, then with a laugh went to the desk and took the pen forcibly from Molly's hand. "Come and make up," he said. "Have we anything to make up?" she asked languidly, keeping her eyes on the paper. "Of course we have. You know very well, Molly, you're angry with me.... Now mother says----" She caught his bantering tone, and resenting it, drew her fingers away haughtily. "You learn good manners from your mother, it seems." Her tone was insolent and angered him. Theodore returned quickly to his chair. "No, I don't," he denied. "You know I don't! But before you asked me to go with you Saturday, I told you I had an appointment----" "Yes, and you told me who it was with, too," Molly thrust back in his teeth. "Exactly, because there's no reason why I shouldn't. I've taken an extreme interest in the little girl.... You offended me by talking against her." Molly's temper was rising by the minute. She had armored herself with a statement, the truth of which she would force upon him. "I'm not sure I said anything that wasn't true," she returned discourteously. Theodore leaned back in his chair. "Then you didn't mean it when you said you were sorry?" he demanded shortly. "I wanted you to go with me, that's all." "And you took that way to make me. Was that it?" Molly picked up her pen and made a few marks with it. "I'm not interested in Miss Grandoken," she replied. "So I notice," retorted Theodore, provokingly. She turned around upon him with angry, sparkling eyes. "I think you've a lot of nerve to bring her into your home." She hazarded this without thought of consequences. "What do you mean?" he asked presently, searching her face with an analytical gaze. Molly was wrought up to the point of invention, perhaps because she was madly jealous. "Men generally keep that sort of a woman to themselves," she explained. "A home is usually sacred to the ordinary man." Theodore was stung to silence. It was a bitter fling, and his thoughts worked rapidly. It took a long moment for his tall figure to get up from the chair. "Just what _do_ you mean?" he demanded, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I don't believe I need tell you any more," she answered. Theodore stood in the middle of the room as if turned to stone. "I'm dense, I guess," he admitted huskily. Angered beyond reason or self-control, Molly pushed the letter away impatiently and stood up. "Well, if you're so terribly dense, then listen. No man is ever interested in a girl like that unless she is something more to him than a mere----" She broke off, because a dark red flush was spreading in hot waves over the man's face. But bravely she proceeded, "Of course you wouldn't insult your family and your friends by marrying her. Then what conclusion do you want them to draw?" Theodore looked at her as if she'd suddenly lost her senses. She had cast an aspersion upon the best little soul in God's created world. "Well, of all the villainous insinuations I ever heard!" he thundered harshly. "My God, woman! Haven't you any soul ... any decency about you?" The question leaped out of a throat tense with uncontrollable rage. It was couched in language never used to her before, and caused the woman to stagger back. She was about to demand an apology, when Theodore flung out of the room and banged the door behind him. Molly sat down quickly. Humiliating, angry tears flowed down her cheeks and she made no effort to restrain them. What cared she that Theodore had repudiated her accusation? She felt she had discovered the truth, and nothing more need be said about it. After growing a little calmer, she saw that she'd made another mistake by enraging Theodore. He had not taken her insults against the girl as she had expected. Half an hour later she called his office and was informed he was out. Theodore left Molly more angry than he'd ever been in his life. Instead of making him think less of Jinnie, Molly's aspersions drew him more tenderly toward the girl. As he strode through the road under the trees, his heart burned to see her. He looked at his watch--it was four o'clock. Jinnie had had her lesson in the morning, so he could not call for her at the master's. Just then he saw her walking quickly along the street, and she lifted shy, glad eyes as he spoke her name. By this time his temper had cooled, yet there lingered in his heart the stabbing hurt brought there by Molly's slurs. He felt as if in some way he owed an apology to Jinnie; as if he must make up for harm done her by a vile, gossiping tongue. He fell into step beside her and gently took the violin box from her hand. "And how is my little friend to-day?" he asked. His voice, unusually musical, made Jinnie spontaneously draw a little nearer him. "I'm very well," she returned, demurely, "and I've learned some very lovely things. I went up twice to-day--sometimes the master makes me come back in the afternoon." It eased his offended dignity to see her so happy, so vividly lovely. He had gone to Molly with the intention of asking her to go with him some day soon to Mottville. He thought of this now with a grim setting of his teeth; but looking at Jinnie, an idea more to his liking came in its place. He would take _her_ somewhere for a day. She needed just such a day to make her color a little brighter, although as he glanced at her again, he had to admit she was rosy enough. Nevertheless a great desire came over him to ask her; so when they had almost reached the cobbler's shop, he said: "How would a nice holiday suit you?" Jinnie looked up into his face, startled. "What do you mean by a holiday? Not to take lessons?" Theodore caught her thought, and laughed. "Oh, no, not that! But I was thinking if you would go with me into the country----" "For a whole day?" gasped Jinnie, stopping point blank. "Yes, for a whole day," replied Theodore, smiling. "Oh, I couldn't go. I couldn't." "Why?... Don't you want to?" Of course she wanted to go. Jinnie felt that if she knew she was going with him, she'd fly to the sky and back again. "Yes," she murmured. "I'd like to go, but I couldn't--for lots of reasons!... Lafe wouldn't let me for one, and then Bobbie needs me awfully." They started on, and Jinnie could see Lafe's window, but not the cobbler himself. "But I'd bring you back at dusk," Theodore assured her, "and you'd be happy----" "Happy! Happy!" she breathed, with melting eyes. "I'd be more'n happy, but I can't go." Theodore raised his hat quickly and left her without another word. CHAPTER XXVIII JINNIE DECIDES AGAINST THEODORE Now for a few days Theodore King had had in mind a plan which, as he contemplated it, gave him great delight. He had decided to send Jinnie Grandoken away to school, to a school where she would learn the many things he considered necessary. So one morning at Jinnie's lesson hour he appeared at the cobbler's shop and was received by Lafe with his usual grave smile. "Jinnie's at the master's," said Mr. Grandoken, excusing the girl's absence. "Yes, I know. The fact is, I wanted to talk with you and Mrs. Grandoken." Lafe looked at him critically. "Bobsie," said he to the blind boy, "call Peggy, will you?" When the woman and child came in hand in hand, Peggy bowed awkwardly to Mr. King. Somehow, when this young man appeared with his aristocratic manner and his genial, friendly advances, she was always embarrassed. Theodore cleared his throat. "For some time," he began, "I've had in mind a little plan for Miss Jinnie, and I do hope you'll concur with me in it." He glanced from the cobbler to his wife, and Lafe replied, "You've been too kind already, Mr. King----" "It isn't a question of kindness, my dear Mr. Grandoken. As I've told you before, I'm very much interested in your niece." Bobbie slipped from Mrs. Grandoken and went close to the speaker. "She's my Jinnie," breathed the boy with a saintly smile. Theodore laughed. "Yes, I know that, my lad, but you want her to be happy, don't you?" "She is happy," interjected Lafe, trembling. "You might tell us your plan," broke in Peg sourly, who always desired to get the worst over quickly. "Well, it is to send her away to school for a few years." Bobbie gave a little cry and staggered to Peg, holding out his hands. She picked him up, with bitterness depicted in her face. But when she looked at her husband she was shocked, for he was leaning against the wall, breathing deeply. "I knew the thought of letting her go would affect you, Mr. Grandoken," soothed Theodore. "That's why I came alone. Jinnie's so tender-hearted I feared the sight of your first grief might cause her to refuse." "Does she know you was goin' to ask us this?" demanded Peg suspiciously. Mr. King shook his head. "Of course not! If she had, she and I would have asked it together." "God bless 'er!" murmured Lafe. "You see it's like this, sir: Peg and me don't want to stand in her light." "I won't let my Jinnie go," sighed Bobbie. "I haven't any stars when she's gone." "The poor child's devoted to her," excused Lafe. "That's what makes him act so about it." Theodore's sympathy forced him to his feet. "So I see," said he. "Come here, young man! I want to talk to you a minute." Reluctantly Bobbie left Mrs. Grandoken, and Theodore, sitting again, took him on his knee. "Now, Bobbie, look at me." Bobbie turned up a wry, tearful face. "I've got my eyes on you, sir," he wriggled. "That's right! Don't you want your Jinnie to learn a lot of things and be a fine young lady?" "She is a fine young lady now," mumbled Bobbie stubbornly, "and she's awful pretty." "True," acquiesced Theodore, much amused, "but she must study a lot more." "Lafe could learn her things," argued Bobbie, sitting up very straight. "Lafe knows everything." Mr. King smiled and glanced at the cobbler, but Lafe's face was so drawn and white that Theodore looked away again. He couldn't make it seem right that he should bring about such sorrow as this, yet the thought of Jinnie and what he wanted her to be proved a greater argument with him than the grief of her family. "I've told you, sir," Lafe repeated, "and I say again, my wife and me don't want to stand in our girl's light. She'll decide when she comes home." Theodore got up, placing Bobbie on his feet beside him. "I hope she'll think favorably of my idea, then," said he, "and to-morrow I'll see her and make some final arrangements." After he had gone, Peggy and Lafe sat for a long time without a word. "Go to the kitchen, Bobbie," said Mrs. Grandoken presently, "and give Happy Pete a bit of meat." The boy paused in his stumbling way to the kitchen. "I don't want my Jinnie to go away," he mumbled. When the door closed on the blind child, Peggy shook her shoulders disdainfully. "She'll go, of course," she sneered. "An' we can't blame 'er if she does, Peg," answered Lafe sadly. "She's young yet, an' such a chance ain't comin' every day." The woman got heavily to her feet. "I hate 'er, but the house's dead when she ain't in it," and she went rapidly into the other room. Jinnie came into the shop wearily, but one look at the cobbler brought her to a standstill. She didn't wait to take off her hat before going directly to him. "Lafe--Lafe dear, you're sick. Why, honey dear----" "I ain't very well, Jinnie darlin'. Would you mind askin' Peggy to come in a minute?" Mrs. Grandoken looked up as the girl came in. "Lafe wants you, Peg. He's sick, isn't he? What happened to him, Peggy?" Bobbie uttered a whining cry. "Jinnie," he called, "Jinnie, come here!" Peg pushed the girl back into the little hall. "You shut up, Bobbie," she ordered, "and sit there! Jinnie'll come back in a minute." Then the speaker shoved the girl ahead of her into the shop and stood with her arms folded, austerely silent. "I want to know what's the matter," insisted Jinnie. "You tell 'er, Peg. I just couldn't," whispered Lafe. Mrs. Grandoken drew a deep breath and ground her teeth. "You've got to go away, kid," she began tersely, dropping into a chair. Jinnie blanched in fright. "My uncle!" she exclaimed, growing weak-kneed. "No such thing," snapped Peg. "You're goin' to a fine school an' learn how to be a elegant young lady." "Who said so?" flashed Jinnie. "Mr. King," cut in Lafe. Then Jinnie understood, and she laughed hysterically. For one blessed single moment her woman's heart told her that Theodore would not be so eager for her welfare if he didn't love her. "Was that what made your tears, Lafe?" Her eyes glistened as she uttered the question. Lafe nodded. "And what made Bobbie cry so loud?" "Yes." "Was Mr. King here?" "Sure," said Peg. "And he said I was to go away to school, eh?" "Yes," repeated Peg, "an' of course you'll go." Jinnie went forward and placed a slender hand on Lafe's shoulder. Then she faced Mrs. Grandoken. "Didn't you both know me well enough to tell him I wouldn't go for anything in the world?" If a bomb had been placed under Mrs. Grandoken's chair, she wouldn't have jumped up any more quickly, and she flung out of the door before Jinnie could stop her. Then the girl wound her arms about the cobbler's neck. "I wouldn't leave you, dear, not for any school on earth," she whispered. "Now I'm going to tell Mr. King so." Jinnie sped along Paradise Road and into the nearest drug store. It took her a few minutes to find Theodore's number, and when she took off the receiver, she had not the remotest idea how to word her refusal. She only remembered Lafe's sad face and Bobbie's sharp, agonizing calling of her name. "I want to speak to Mr. King," she said in answer to a strange voice at the other end of the wire. Her voice was so low that a sharp reply came back. "Who'd you want?" "Theodore King." She waited a minute and then another voice, a voice she knew and loved, said, "This is Mr. King!" "I'm Jinnie Grandoken," Theodore heard. "I wanted to tell you I wouldn't go away from home ever; no, never! I wouldn't; I couldn't!" "Don't you want to study?" Mr. King asked eagerly. Jinnie shook her head as if she were face to face with him. "I'm studying all the time," she said brokenly, "and I can't go away now. If they couldn't spare me one day, they couldn't all the time." "Then I suppose that settles it," was the reluctant reply. "I hoped you'd be pleased, but never mind! I'll see you very soon." "I told him!" said Jinnie, facing the cobbler. "Now, Lafe, don't ever think I'm going away, because I'm not. I've got some plans of my own for us all when I'm eighteen. Till then I stay right here." At dinner Peg cut off a very large piece of meat and flung it on Jinnie's plate. "I suppose you're plumin' yourself because you didn't go to school; but you needn't, 'cause nothin' could drag you from this shop, an' there's my word for it." Then she glanced at Lafe, and ended, "If 'er leg was nailed to your bench, she wouldn't be any tighter here. Now eat, all of you, an' keep your mouths shut." CHAPTER XXIX PEG'S VISIT One morning Bobbie sat down gravely some distance from Lafe, took up one of Milly Ann's kittens, and fell into troubled thought. After permitting him to be silent a few moments, the cobbler remarked, "Anything on your mind, comrade?" "Yes," said Bobbie, sighing. "Can't you tell a feller what it is?" Bobbie pushed the kitten from his lap. He crept to the cobbler's side slowly. Then, as he leaned his golden head against his friend, Lafe's arm fell about him. "Tell me, laddie," insisted Mr. Grandoken. "My stars're all gone out," faltered the boy sadly. "What made 'em go out, Bob?... Can you tell?" "Yes," blubbered Bobbie. "I guess Jinnie's sick, that's what's the matter." "Sick?" asked Lafe, in a startled voice. "Who said so?... Did she?" Bobbie shook his head. "No, but I know!... She cried last night, and other nights too." Lafe considered a moment. "I'm glad you told me, Bob," he said, knocking the ashes from his pipe. Jinnie left the master's home with lagging footsteps. The idea of going away to school had not appealed to her, but never in all her life had she been so tempted to do anything as to go with Theodore for one blessed day in the country--but a whole day from home could not be thought of. The cobbler saw her crossing the tracks, and after the daily salute, she came on with bent head. He watched her closely during the evening meal and gave Bobbie credit for discovering the truth. After Peg had wheeled him back to the shop and he was alone with Jinnie, Lafe called her to him. "Bring the stool," said he, "an' sit here." Languidly she sank down, resting against him. She was very tired besides being very unhappy. Lafe placed two fingers under her chin, lifting her face to his. Her eyes were full of tears, and she no longer tried to conceal her suffering. The cobbler remained quiet while she cried softly. At last: "It's Maudlin Bates, ain't it, darlin'?" he asked. "No, Lafe." "Can't you tell your friend what 'tis?" "I guess I'm crying because I'm foolish, dear," she replied. "No, that's not true, Jinnie. I feel as bad seeing you cry's if 'twas Peggy." This was a compliment, and Jinnie tried to sit up bravely, but a friendly hand held her close. "Just begin, an' the rest'll come easy," Lafe insisted. Jinnie's tongue refused to talk, and of a sudden she grew ashamed and dropped her scarlet face. "I don't believe I can tell it, Lafe dear," she got out. "Something about a man?" Jinnie nodded. "Then I got to know! Tell me!" he directed. His insistence drew forth a tearful confession. "Before Mr. King spoke about the school, he asked me to go a day in the country with my fiddle, and I couldn't." After the telling, she caught her breath and hid her face. "Why?" Lafe demanded. "Why couldn't you?" Jinnie raised startled eyes to the cobbler's for the better part of a minute. What did he mean? Was it possible---- "I thought you wouldn't let me----" "You didn't ask me, did you, Jinnie?" "No, because--because----" "Because why?" Lafe intended to get at the root of the matter. "Too long from the shop! Bobbie needs me," replied Jinnie. "I don't think so, child.... The kid'd be all right with me and Peg." "Lafe?" cried Jinnie, standing up and throwing her arms around him. "You ought to a told me when he spoke of it, Jinnie. I could a fixed it." The cobbler smiled, and then laughed. Once more on the stool in front of him, Jinnie said: "I'm afraid Mr. King was a little offended." "It would a done you a lot of good to get out in the fields----" chided Lafe. "And the woods, Lafe. I'd taken my fiddle. He asked me to." "Sure," replied Lafe.... "Call Peggy." Mrs. Grandoken, looking from one to the other, noticed Lafe's gravity and signs of Jinnie's tears. "What's the matter?" she inquired. Lafe told her quietly, and finished with his hand on Jinnie's head. "Our little helper ought to have some fun, Peggy." Jinnie glanced up. What would Peggy think? But for a few minutes Peg didn't tell them. Then she said: "She ought a went, I think, Lafe." Jinnie got up so quickly that Happy Pete and Milly Ann stirred in their sleep. "Oh, Peg, I do want to--but how can I, now I've said I wouldn't?... How can I?" "You can't," decided Peg gruffly, and Jinnie dropped down once more at Lafe's feet. "I guess you'll have to forget about it, child, an' be 'Happy in Spite'," said Lafe, with a sigh. The next day Peggy took Lafe into her confidence. "I think it could be did," she ended, looking at her husband. "Mebbe," said Mr. Grandoken thoughtfully. "I'll do it," snapped Peg, "but I hate 'er, an' you can bang me if that ain't a fact, but--but I'll go, I said." About ten o'clock Peggy dressed and went out. Theodore King was in his office, trying to keep his mind on a line of figures. Of late work palled on him. He sighed and leaned back thoughtfully, striking and touching a match to his cigar. Memories of blue-eyed Jinnie enveloped him in a mental maze. She stood radiant and beckoning, her exquisite face smiling into his at every turn. He realized now how much he desired Jinnie Grandoken--and were she with him at that moment, life could offer him nothing half so sweet. "I want her always," he said grimly, aloud to himself. A boy's head appeared at the door. "Woman to see you, sir," said he. "Who?" "Mrs. Grandoken." "Show her in," and Theodore stood up. Peggy came in embarrassedly. She had a mission to perform which she very much disliked. "Good morning, Mrs. Grandoken," said Theodore, holding out his hand. "Good morning, sir," said Peg, flushing darkly. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. How could she state her errand to this dignified, handsome young man? He was looking at her questioningly; but that wasn't all--he was smiling encouragingly also. "Won't you sit down?" said he. Peggy coughed, smoothed her mouth with her hand, pulled the thin shawl more closely about her shoulders, and took the indicated seat. Taking no time to reflect on the best way to present her case, she blurted out, "Lafe didn't know till last night about your askin' Jinnie to go for a holiday?" "Oh!" The man was at a loss to say more than that one word in question. "No," replied Peggy, "and she's been cryin'----" "Crying?" ejaculated Theodore. "Crying, you say?" "Yes," nodded Peggy. "What'd she cry for?" asked Theodore. "She positively refused to go with me." "I know it, but she thought me an' Lafe wouldn't let 'er." Theodore moved uneasily about the office. "And would you?" he asked presently. "Sure," responded Peggy, nodding vigorously. "Sure! Jinnie's been workin' awful hard for years, an' Lafe'd like you to take 'er. But you musn't tell 'er I come here." Saying this, Peggy rose to her feet. She had finished what she had come to say and was ready to go. Theodore King laughingly thanked her and shook her heartily by the hand. Then he escorted her to the door, and she returned to Lafe a little less grim. It was nearly noon when Jinnie left the master's music room, carrying her fiddle box. Her teacher noticed she played with less spirit than usual, but had refrained from mentioning it. She was coming down the steps when King's car dashed up to the door. Her meetings with him were always unexpected and found her quite unprepared for the shock to her emotions. "I've come to take you home, Jinnie," said Theodore, jumping out. Jinnie's throat filled, and silently she allowed him to help her to the seat. They were in the flat of the town before he turned to her. "I haven't given up my plan to take you away for a day," he said gently. Jinnie gulped with joy. He was going to ask her again! Lafe and Peg had said she could go. She waited for him to proceed, which he did more gravely. "When I make up my mind to do a thing, I generally do it. Now which day shall it be, Jinnie?" "I guess I'll have to let you tell," whispered Jinnie, which whisper Theo caught despite the noise of the chugging motor. "Then, to-morrow," he decided, driving up to the cobbler's shop. "I'll come for you at nine o'clock.... Look at me, Jinnie." Slowly she dragged a pair of unfathomable blue eyes to his. "We're going to be happy for one whole beautiful day, Jinnie," said he hoarsely. He helped her out, and neither one spoke again. The motor started away, and the girl rushed into the shop. Lafe had just said to Peggy, "There they be! He's been after 'er!" "Lafe, Lafe dear," Jinnie gurgled. "I'm going with 'im to-morrow. All day with the birds and flowers! Oh, Peggy dear, I'm so happy!" Mrs. Grandoken glared at her. "Ugh! 'S if it matters to me whether you're happy or not!" Jinnie stooped and smothered Bobbie with caresses. With his arms tightly about her neck, he purred contentedly, "My stars're all shinin' bright, Jinnie." "Kiss me, both of you kids!" was all Lafe said. CHAPTER XXX WHAT THE FIDDLE TOLD THEODORE Jinnie looked very sweet when she bade farewell to Peg and Lafe the next morning. Mr. King's car was at the door, and the cobbler watched him as he stepped from it with a monosyllabic greeting to the girl and helped her to the seat next to his. Peggy, too, was craning her neck for a better view. "They're thick as thieves," she said, with a dubious shake of her head. "I guess he likes 'er," chuckled Lafe. "To make a long story short, wife, a sight like that does my eyes good!" Mrs. Grandoken shrugged her shoulders, growled deep in her throat, and opined they were all fools. "An' quit doin' yourself proud, Lafe!" she grumbled. "You're grinnin' like a Cheshire cat. 'Tain't nothin' to your credit she's goin' to have the time of her life." "No, 'tain't to my credit, Peggy," retorted the cobbler, "but 'tis to yours, wife." By the time Lafe finished this statement, Mr. King and Jinnie Grandoken were bowling along a white road toward a hill bounding the west side of the lake. "See that basket down here?" said the man after a long silence. "Yes." "That's our picnic dinner! I brought everything I thought a little girl with a sweet tooth might like." Jinnie had forgotten about food. Her mind had dwelt only upon the fact she was going to be with him all day, one of those long, beautiful days taken from Heaven's cycle for dear friends. The country, too, stretched in majestic splendor miles ahead of them, trees rimming the road on each side and making a thick woodland as far as one could see. "I'm glad I brought my fiddle," Jinnie remarked presently. "I am, too," said Theodore. The place he chose for their outing was far back from the highway, and leaving the car at one side of the road, they threaded their way together to it. The sky above was very blue, the lake quietly reflecting its sapphire shades. Off in the distance the high hills gazed down upon the smaller ones, guarding them in quietude. Theodore spread one of the auto robes on the ground, and shyly Jinnie accepted his invitation to be seated. "Oh, it's lovely," she said in soft monotone, glancing at the lake. "Yes," replied Theodore dreamily. His eyes were upon the placid water, his thoughts upon the girl at his side. Jinnie was thinking of him, too, and there they both sat, with passionate longing in their young hearts, watching nature's great life go silently by. "Play for me," Theodore said at length, without taking his eyes from the water. "Stand by that big tree so I can look at you." Flushed, palpitating, and beautiful, Jinnie took the position he directed. She had come to play for him, to mimic the natural world for his pleasure. "Shall I play about the fairies?" she asked bashfully. "Yes," assented King. As on that night in his home when first she came into his life in full sway, the man now imagined he saw creeping from under the flower petals and from behind the tall trees, the tiny inhabitants of Jinnie's fairyland. Then he turned his eyes toward her, and as he watched the lithe young figure, the pensive face lost and rapt in the lullaby, Theodore came to the greatest decision of his life. He couldn't live without Jinnie Grandoken! No matter if she was the niece of a cobbler, no matter who her antecedents were--she was born into the world for him, and all that was delicate and womanly in her called out to the manhood in him; and all that was strong, masterful, and aggressive in him clamored to protect and shield her, and in that fleeting moment the brilliant young bachelor suddenly lost his hold on bachelordom, as a boy loses his hold on a kite. There are times in every human life when such a decision as Theodore then made seemed the beginning of everything. It was as if the past had wrapped him around like the grey shell of a cocoon. A loose lock of hair fell coquettishly from the girl's dark head low upon the fiddle, and Theodore loved and wanted to kiss it, and when the instrument dropped from under the dimpled chin, he held out his hand. "Come here, Jinnie," he said softly. "Come sit beside me." She came directly, as she always did when he asked anything of her. He drew her down close to his side, and for a long time they remained quiet. Jinnie was facing the acme of joy. The day had only begun, and she was with the object of her dreams. Just as when she had lived in the hills the fiddle had held the center of her soul, so now Theodore King occupied that sacred place. The morning light rose in her eyes, the blue fire transforming her face. [Illustration: "PLAY FOR ME," THEODORE SAID. "STAND BY THAT BIG TREE SO I CAN LOOK AT YOU."] Theodore turned, saw, and realized at that moment. He discovered in her what he had long desired. She loved him! All the old longing, all the strength and passion within him broke loose at the nearness of her. Suddenly he stretched out his arms and drew her still nearer. Jinnie felt every muscle of his strongly fibered body grow tense at her touch. She tried to draw away from his encircling arms, but the rise and fall of her bosom, girlishly curved--the small-girl shyness that caused her to endeavor to unloose his strong hands, only goaded him to press her closer. "Don't leave me, my dearest, my sweet," he breathed, kissing her lids and hair. "I love you! I love you!" She gasped once, twice, and her head fell upon his breast, and for a moment she lay wrapped in her youthful modesty as in a mantle. "Kiss me, Jinnie," Theodore murmured entreatingly. She buried her head closer against him. "Kiss me," he insisted, drawing her face upward. His lips fell upon hers, and Jinnie's eyes closed under the magic of her first kiss. The master-passion of the man brought to sudden life corresponding emotions in the girl--emotions that hurt and frightened her. She put her hand to his face, and touched it. He drew back, looking into her eyes. "Don't," she breathed. "Don't kiss me any more like--like that." "But you love me, my girlie, sweet?" he murmured, his lips roving over her face in dear freedom. "You do!... You do!" Jinnie's arms went about him, but her tongue refused to speak. "Kiss me again!" Theodore insisted. Oh, how she wanted to kiss him once more! How she gloried in the strong arms, and the handsome face strung tense with his love for her! Then their lips met in the wonders of a second kiss. Jinnie had thought the first one could never be equaled, but as she lay limply in his arms, his lips upon hers, she lost count of everything. It might have been the weird effect of the shadows, or the deep, sudden silence about them that drew the girl slowly from his arms. "I want my fiddle," she whispered. "Let me go!" Faint were the inflections of the words; insistent the drawing back of the dear warm body. Theodore permitted her to get up, and with staggering step she took her position at the tree trunk. Then he sank down, hot blood coursing through his veins. Long ago he had realized in Jinnie and the fiddle essentials--essentials to his future and his happiness, and to-day her kisses and divine, womanly yielding had only strengthened that realization. Nothing now was of any importance to him save this vibrant, temperamental girl. There was something so delightfully young--so pricelessly dear in the way she had surrendered herself to him. The outside world faded from his memory as Jinnie closed her eyes, and with a very white face began to play. For that day she had finished with the song of the fairies, the babbling of the brook, and the nodding rhythm of the flowers in the summer's breeze. All that she considered now was Theodore and his kisses. The bow came down over a string with one long, vibrating, passionate call. It expressed the awakening of the girl's soul--awakened by the touch of a man's turbulent lips--Jinnie's God-given man. Her fiddle knew it--felt it--expressed it! With that first seductive kiss the soul-stirring melody was full born within her, as a world is called into the firmament by one spoken word of God. And as she played, Theodore moved silently toward her, for the fiddle was flashing out the fervor of the kisses she had given him. He was close at her feet before he spoke, and simultaneously the white lids opened in one blue, blue glance. "Jinnie!" breathed Theodore, getting up and holding out his arms. "Come to me! Come to me, my love! I can't live another moment without you." The bow and fiddle remained unnoticed for the next half hour, while the two, the new woman and the new man, were but conscious of one another, nothing else. At length Theodore spoke. "Jinnie, look up and say, 'Theodore, I love you'." It was hard at first, because her mind had never reached the point of speaking aloud her passionate love for him, but Theodore heard the halting words, and droned them over to himself, as a music lover delights in his favorite strains. "And you love me well enough to marry me some day?" he murmured. Marry him! This, too, was a new thought. Jinnie's heart fluttered like a bird in her breast. To be with him always? To have him for her own? Of course, he was hers, and she was his! Then into her mind came the thought of Lafe, Peggy, and Bobbie, and the arms around him relaxed. "I love you better'n anybody in the world," she told him, pathetically, "but I can't ever leave the cobbler.... They need me there." "They can't keep you," he cried passionately. "I want you myself." His vehemence subdued her utterly. She glanced into his face. In his flashing eyes, Jinnie read a power inimitable and unsurpassed. "I couldn't ever leave 'em," she repeated, quivering, "but couldn't they live----" "We'd take the little blind boy," promised Theodore. Jinnie remained pensive. To bring the shine in her eyes once more, he said: "Wouldn't you like Bobbie to live with us?" "Yes, of course; but I couldn't leave Lafe and Peg in Paradise Road." Theodore surrounded the entreating, uplifted face with two strong hands. "I know that. We'll take care of them all----" Still Jinnie held back her full surrender. "Can I take Happy Pete, too? And the cats? There's an awful lot of 'em.... Milly Ann does have so many kitties," she ended naïvely. Theodore laughed delightedly. "Dearest little heart! Of course we'll take them all, every one you love!" "Will you tell Lafe about--about us?" Jinnie asked shyly, "I--I----" but she had no more time to finish. "I'll tell him to-morrow, Jinnie!" exclaimed Theodore. "Are you happy, dearest?" "So happy," she sighed, with loving assurance. The rest of the day they were like two frolicking children, eating their luncheon under the tall trees. When the shadows fell, they left their trysting place, and with their arms about each other, went slowly back to the automobile. CHAPTER XXXI WHAT THEODORE TOLD HIS FRIEND "He's been gone all day," mourned Molly miserably to Jordan Morse. They had finished dinner; Molly had put Mrs. King to bed, and the two were seated in chairs on the lawn. Every minute that passed and found Theodore still away was like an eternity to the woman. She had always hated the office hours which took him from the house, hated the business friends who dropped in now and then and changed the conversation from the delicate personal things she always managed to dwell upon. During the years she had been companion to Mrs. King, Theo's dinner and luncheon hours were ones of joy to her. Now this day had passed without him. "He'll show up before long," Morse said presently. "What a lot of worry you have over that man!... Now if you had a problem on your hands like mine----" The soft chug of a motor cut off his ejaculation. "He's coming, now," he said, getting up. Molly responded coldly to Theodore's friendly salute from the car. As Mr. King walked quickly toward them, Morse called laughingly, "We had just decided you'd been kidnapped." "Nothing like that," answered Theodore, "I've been in the country.... Sit down, Jordan; no use standing up!" And Theodore seated himself on the grass. "It's been a fine day," he went on boyishly, scarcely knowing what to say. "Lovely," agreed Molly, and Jordan supplemented this by asking: "Have a--pleasant ride?" "Yes, delightful! One doesn't realize how murky the city is until he goes in the country for a day." After a time, during which he looked up through the enfolding green of the trees, he proceeded calmly, "I took Miss Grandoken on a picnic." Morse's sudden glance at Molly warned her to control herself. "She's an odd child," continued Theodore, "but, then, all geniuses are. I don't know when I've so thoroughly enjoyed myself." Morse's "That's good," was closely followed by Molly's curt question, "Where'd you go?" "Just up the lake a ways. We took some picnic stuff----" "And her fiddle, I suppose?" cut in Molly sarcastically. "Of course. Jinnie's not Jinnie without her fiddle." "She does play well," admitted Jordan. "More than well," interpolated Theodore. "She plays divinely." Then again they fell into an oppressive silence. Molly was so curious to know the events of the day she could scarcely control her impatience. Suddenly Mr. King announced: "I'm going to marry Jinnie Grandoken." Molly and Morse slowly got to their feet. They stood looking down upon the young millionaire with jaws apart and startled eyes. "Well, you needn't look as if I were about to commit some crime," he said, quizzing them with laughing eyes. "I suppose a chap can get married if he wants to; can't he?" "It's ridiculous," blurted Miss Merriweather. A drawn, helpless expression had crept into her eyes, making her appear like an old woman. Theodore got to his feet. "What's ridiculous?" he demanded, immediately on the defensive. "My wanting to be happy?" "Not that quite," replied the woman, "but surely you can't----" "I can and I will!" exclaimed Theodore decidedly. "I couldn't be happy without her, and mother----" "It'll kill 'er," warned Molly significantly. "Not at all," denied Theodore. "My mother's a woman of sense! When she knows her big boy's madly in love with the sweetest girl in the world, she'll take it as a matter of course." Miss Merriweather turned toward the house. "I think I'll go," she said in strained tones. She had almost reached the veranda when Theodore called her. "Molly!" he shouted. "Yes?" "Don't tell mother. I want to surprise her." "Very well," and the woman went on again, trembling from the blow which had struck her in the face. The two men, lolling under the trees, said but little more, and with burning heart and unsettled mind, Jordan Morse went back to his apartment. He had scarcely settled himself before his telephone tinkled. Taking down the receiver, he said, "Well?" A faint voice answered him. "It's Molly, Jordan!... Listen! I'm down at the foot of the hill. Do come here! I'm nearly frantic.... Yes, I'll wait." Very soon Molly saw Jordan crossing the street, and she went to meet him. "Let's walk," she said fretfully. "I can't breathe." "If you feel like I do," replied Morse moodily, "I pity you." He led her to a small park where they sat down upon one of the wooden benches. "I'm shocked beyond expression," said Molly wearily. "So am I," replied Morse. Then picking up the thread of thought which had troubled him all the evening, he went on, "I need my boy! Every night I'm haunted by dreams. I'd give up my plans about Jinnie if I had him...." "Well, I never!" ejaculated Molly. "The trouble with you is you haven't any heart," went on Jordan. "How you put your mind on anything but finding that child I don't know. But I notice you manage to keep close on Theo's heels every minute." "I love him," admitted Molly. "Don't you love your son, your poor little lost son?" "Of course, Jordan! Don't be stupid!... Of course I do, but I don't know where he is." "And you're making very little effort to find him, that's evident. You've seen him, and I haven't, yet I'd give half my life to get my hands on him." He paused, drew a long breath, and proceeded, "I'll warn you of this much, Molly. When I do find him--and find him I will--you won't get a chance to even see him." "Oh, Jordan!" gasped Molly. "That's right," he insisted, with an ugly shrug. "I tell you, Molly, I've always been impressed with the idea mothers cared more for their children than fathers, but I'm over that now since knowing you." "Oh, Jordan!" repeated Molly faintly once more. Not heeding her appealing voice, he rushed on, "I'd be willing to strangle half the world for money to hire detectives to search for him. But as I've said before, I'd let Jinnie alone if I had him--and work for him with my two hands--if I had to dig graves." Molly turned her startled eyes upon the excited man. She had never known the depths of his nature. "You make me tired," he proceeded with sarcasm. "What in hell do you think Theodore could see in you when a girl like Jinnie cares for him?" "Why, Jordan Morse!" stammered the woman. "How dare you talk to me like that?" "Because it's true," replied Jordan hotly. "You're like a lot of women--if a man looks sidewise at you, you think he's bowled over with your charms. Good Heavens! It's sickening!" "I didn't ask you here to talk like this," said Molly. "What if you didn't?" snapped Jordan. "_You_ can talk now if you want to! I'm going home in five minutes, and I want some money before I go, too." "I'll give you some to-morrow. Now what're you going to do about Theodore?" "Well, he won't marry Jinnie," replied Morse slowly. "How can you help it?" "That's what I'm going to figure out. If I can get her away from Grandoken's, she won't get back, I can tell you that. But that damn cobbler and Theo'll make such a devilish row----" "You needn't be profane," chided Molly. "A woman like you's enough to make any man swear.... Now listen to me. The very fact that Jinnie ran away from home shows me that Tom Singleton told her I put 'im in a mad house! Jinnie, of course, told Grandoken. I've got to get that cobbler--and--you've got to help me get Jinnie----" "Haven't I done all I could?" gasped Molly. "I can't go down there and take her by the nape of the neck, can I?" "No, but I will! Now let's go! I want to do some pretty tall thinking before morning. Once let those two people be married and I'm lost." "So am I," muttered Molly, swaying at his vehement words. They threaded their way back to the hill, and Morse left Molly at her gate. As she walked slowly up the road, she could see the light in Theodore's window, and his shadow thrown on the curtain. CHAPTER XXXII JORDAN MORSE'S PLAN The next morning Jordan Morse rose after a sleepless night, his face drawn in long, deep-set lines. The hours had been spent in futile planning. To save himself from the dire consequences of his misdeeds, to procure the money which would come to Jinnie when she was eighteen years old, was the one idea that dinned constantly at his brain. She and the cobbler would have to be put out of the way, and this must be done before Theodore announced publicly his intention of marrying the girl. Jordan had no wish to break his friendship with Theodore, so he could do nothing openly. If it were a mere case of filching what little he could from Jinnie's estate before she became of age, it would be an easy matter, but the girl must disappear. How? Where? There was finality in one of his decisions that moment. He must get possession of her that very day. Theodore would let no grass grow under his feet. He would marry her offhand, and educate her afterwards. Jordan wondered vaguely if the Jewish cobbler had an enemy among the shortwood gatherers. If so, and the man could be found, it would bring his own salvation. With this desire uppermost in his mind, Jordan wended his way to the lower part of the town, passed into Paradise Road, and paused a second in front of Lafe Grandoken's shop to read the sign: "Lafe Grandoken: Cobbler of Folks' and Children's Shoes and Boots." His lips curled at the crude printing, and he went on past the remaining shanties to the entrance to the marsh. At the path where Jinnie had so many times brought forth her load of wood, he paused again and glanced about. As far north as he could see, the marsh stretched out in misty greenness. The place seemed to be without a human being, until Jordan suddenly heard the crackling of branches, and there appeared before him a young man with deep-set, evil eyes, and large, pouting mouth. Upon his shoulders was a shortwood strap. At the sight of Mr. Morse, the wood gatherer hesitated, made a sort of obeisance, and proceeded to move on. Jordan stopped him with a motion of his hand. "In a hurry?" he asked good-naturedly. "Got to sell my wood," growled the man. Morse appraised him with an analytical glance. "What's your name?" he demanded. "Maudlin Bates. What's yours?" "Jordan Morse.... Just wait a minute. I want to talk to you." Down came the shortwood strap on the ground. Maudlin scented something interesting. "I got to sell my wood," he repeated, surly-toned. However, he nodded his head when Jordan explained that it might be to his advantage to tarry a while. "I'll pay you for your time," agreed Morse eagerly. Side by side they seated themselves on a fallen tree. The young wood gatherer looked wicked enough to do anything that might be requested of him. "Are you married?" asked Morse. Maudlin's face darkened. "No," he grunted moodily. "Ha! In love? I see!" laughed the other. Maudlin turned sheepish eyes on his interrogator; then looked down, flushed, and finished: "I'd a been married all right if it hadn't been for a damn bloke along Paradise Road," he explained. "Yes? Tell me about it." "Oh, what's the use! Everybody's stickin' their noses in my business, and it ain't nothin' to do with 'em uther." "I might help you," suggested Jordan, seemingly interested. "Ain't anybody c'n help me," sulked Maudlin. "Got the richest man in town 'gainst me, and money's what makes the mare go." The words "richest man" startled Morse, but he only said, "That's so! But tell me just the same." "Aw, it's only a wench I wanted! A mutt by the name of King butted in on me." Jordan Morse mentally congratulated himself that he had struck the right nail on the head the very first whack. To gain possession of Jinnie's money meant finding his boy, and that was the dearest wish of his heart. "You might tell me about it," he reiterated slowly. "I ought to be able to help you." "Naw, you can't!" scoffed Maudlin. "My pa and me's tried for a long time, but there ain't nothin' doin' with Jinnie. She's a sure devil, Jinnie is." Jordan's blood tingled in anticipation. "Is that the girl's name?" he queried. "Yes, she's a niece of a cobbler up the track yonder, and as pretty a little minx as walks Paradise Road. If I had 'er I'd fix her. I'd beat her till she minded me, I c'n tell y' that!" "I believe beating's the way to subdue most women," said Morse, lighting a cigarette. But as he said this, a slight smile passed over his face. He thought of Molly Merriweather in connection with the man's logic. "It's the way pa done to my stepmother," observed Maudlin presently. "She was a onery woman as ever you see, but pa one day just licked her, and then licked 'er every day till now she don't dast but mind 'im.... I'd do that with Jinnie if I had 'er." Morse watched rings of smoke curl upward in the summer air, breaking among the branches of the trees. "Why don't you steal 'er?" he demanded at length. Bates' lower jaw fell down, showing discolored teeth. He stared at his inquisitor in consternation. Then he dropped back into his former slovenly attitude. "I never thought o' that," said he. "I'll help you," offered Morse, carelessly, brushing ashes from his coat lapel. Maudlin turned his eyes slowly from their straight ahead position until they came directly upon the handsome face of the other man. Then the two looked long and steadily at each other. "What're you drivin' at?" blurted Bates. "Only that I'm also interested in getting Jinnie away from Grandoken. The fact is I hate King, and I think it's a good way to get even with him." He refrained, however, from mentioning he was Jinnie's relative. "D'you have me in mind when you come here?" questioned Bates. "No! But I felt sure there'd be some young buck round here who'd fallen in love with the girl before this. And I found you without asking----" "I'd make her beg me to marry her after I'd had 'er a week or two," interrupted Maudlin, with dilating pupils. "How could we steal 'er?" "Just steal 'er, I said," replied Morse. "And I said, 'How?'" Morse waited a minute until Bates repeated once more, "How, mister?" then he asked: "Can you run a motor car?" "No, but my pa can." "My God! You musn't mention this to any one, not even your father. I'll run the car myself. You go to the cobbler and by some excuse get the girl in the car--after that I'll see to her." Bates narrowed his eyes. "No, you won't see to nothin'," he growled surlily. "I don't take a step till I know I get 'er. I'll marry 'er all right, but she's got to want to marry me first." "I don't care what you do with 'er," replied Morse morosely. "Marry 'er or not, just get her, that's all!" "The cobbler's got a vixen of a wife," complained Maudlin at length. "Persuade her to go somewhere, can't you?" snapped Morse. "Yes, that's easy," drawled Maudlin, wobbling his head. For a long time they sat talking and planning, until at length Morse put his hand in his pocket and handed the other man some money. Maudlin tucked it away with a grin. "Easy cash, eh? What'd you say the dame's name was?" "Merriweather--Molly Merriweather. She's companion to Mr. King's mother." "Jinnie fiddles all the afternoon.... Mebbe she won't go." "Yes, she will. Tell her Miss Merriweather wants her to arrange a surprise for Theodore King. Tell 'er Miss Merriweather wants her to play." Bates laughed evilly. "That'll fix the huzzy. Anything about that damn fiddle'll fetch 'er every time! When I get 'er I'll bust it up for kindlin' wood." "Then it's settled," said Morse, rising. "You go this afternoon at three o'clock to Grandoken's, tell Jinnie what I told you to, get the cobbler into an argument, and I'll do the rest." "You'll be sure to be there?" "Of course! What'd you think I am? Keep your mouth shut! Be sure of that." "Three o'clock, then," said Maudlin, getting up. "So long!" and lifting his wood, he went on his way rejoicing. CHAPTER XXXIII THE MURDER At half past one that afternoon a messenger appeared at Grandoken's with a letter for Jinnie. Peggy called the girl to the shop. "Boy's got something for you," she declared. "It's a letter, I guess." Jinnie held out her hand with thumping pulses, took the extended pencil, and signed her name to a blank page. Then the boy held out the missive. Of course it was from Theodore, thought Jinnie. She had scarcely slept the night before, fitfully dreaming of him. Throwing a shy smile at Peg, she went into her bedroom and shut the door. With a long, ecstatic breath, she set herself to the delightful task of slowly perusing the beloved epistle. "My darling," Jinnie read, and she kissed those two words, each one separately. Then she whispered them again, "My darling," and read on: "I'm coming this afternoon at three to see your uncle, and I thought you might like me to talk with him alone. It will be a simple matter for you to take the little blind boy and go away for an hour or so, but be sure and return at four. By that time I'll have our arrangements all made, but I won't go until I see you. "I send all my love to you, my sweetheart. "Your own, "THEODORE." Jinnie kissed the words "my sweetheart" too, and then joyfully slipped the letter inside her dress. She daren't speak of his coming, for how could she conceal her happiness from Lafe? At two o'clock, she said to Peggy: "May I take Bobbie for a little walk, dear?" The blind child heard the request and scrambled up. "Can I go, Peggy?" he pleaded. Peg glared at the girl. "I thought you always fiddled in the afternoon," she queried. "I do generally," acquiesced Jinnie, "but--to-day----" "Well, go 'long," said Peg, not very graciously. "I'm goin' over to Miss Bates' a while. Maudlin come by just now, an' said would I come over.... Get back early!" Jinnie dressed Bobbie with trembling fingers. The boy noticed she could scarcely button his jacket. "What's the matter, Jinnie dear?" he whispered. Jinnie was just slipping on his cap as he spoke. She bent and kissed him passionately. "Nothing, honey, only Jinnie's happy, very happy." "I'm so glad," sighed Bobbie, with a smiling wag. "I'm happy too. Let's go on the hill, and take Petey." "It'd be lovely, dear," replied the girl. A few minutes later, with the little dog at their heels, they were wending their way up the board walk to the hill. Mr. Grandoken, alone in his shop, worked with contented vigor. The days, those beautiful summer days, were bringing untold joy to him. Peggy seemed in brighter spirits, and Jinnie's radiant face made Lafe rejoice. Little Bobbie's stars were always shining nowadays, so what more could the dear man want? As he sat tip-tapping, he took himself in fancy to that day ahead when Heaven would unfold another blessing for Peg--for him. He put down his hammer and glanced out of the window, and suddenly Maudlin Bates loomed up, with all his hulking swagger obliterating the shoemaker's mental bliss. Lafe nodded as Maudlin stepped into the shop. There was an unusually aggressive expression upon the young wood gatherer's face, and Mr. Grandoken refrained from asking him to sit down. Instead he questioned: "Brought some cobblin'?" "No," said Bates. "Wanted to talk to you; that's all." "Hurry up, then, 'cause I'm busy." "Where's Jinnie?" queried Maudlin. Swift anger changed the cobbler's face. "What's that to you?" he demanded. "And you needn't be drippin' tobacco juice around my shop." "Won't hurt it, I guess," answered Maudlin insolently, sitting down heavily. With every passing minute, Lafe was growing more and more enraged. "Yap me your business and get out," he ordered, picking up his hammer. He settled his eyes on the sodden face before him, and for a minute or two each plumbed the strength of the other. "I'm goin' to marry Jinnie," announced Maudlin, drawing his large feet together and clasping his fingers over his knees. The cobbler deliberately placed the hammer beside him once more and leaned back against the wall. "Who said so?" he asked. "I do," defied Maudlin, swaggering. "Is that what you come to say to me?" "Yep." "Well, now you're done with your braggin', get out, an' get out quick." But Maudlin didn't move. "I said to scoot," said Lafe presently, in suppressed tones. He was magnificent in his ferocity. "I heard you!" observed Maudlin, still sitting, though a little cowed in his former egotistical spirit. Lafe picked up the hammer and pounded frantically on the sole of a shoe. "I'm goin' to have money," muttered Maudlin when the cobbler paused for a few nails. As Lafe proceeded with his work silently, Maudlin said: "I'll marry Jinnie and take the empty shack next to pa's. I got money, I said." Lafe's lips were moving rapidly, but the other could not hear what he was saying. The fact was, the cobbler was asking for strength and self-control. "Where's Jinnie?" demanded Maudlin again. "She ain't here," said Lafe, "an' I want you to get out before she comes." He said this more gently, because his muttered prayers had somewhat assuaged his rage. Just then a motor car dashed into the little lane at the side of the house, and Maudlin knew that Morse had arrived. "I'll go when I see Jinnie," he insisted, sinking deeper into his chair, "I want to tell 'er somethin' about a party." "Ain't no show o' your seein' 'er to-day," replied Lafe. "I bargained with your pa about you lettin' my girl alone, and that's all there is to it." "Pa's cobblin' ain't nothin' to do with me," observed Maudlin darkly. "I'll wait for 'er!" At that minute Theodore King's car drew up in front of the shop, and he stepped out. Maudlin caught a glimpse of him and set his teeth sharply. He'd have it out with this man, too. They might as well all understand what his intentions were. He wondered if Morse, from his point of vantage, had seen Mr. King arrive. When Theodore swung into the shop, he paused at the sight of Bates and frowned. He brought to mind the chastening he had given the fellow, and how Jinnie had suffered through his brutality. Lafe smiled cordially at the young man and asked him to be seated. "Jinnie's out," stated the cobbler. "I know it!" responded Theodore, taking a chair. "I've come to have a talk with you." Then looking from Mr. Grandoken to Maudlin, he queried, "Will you soon be disengaged?" Lafe nodded. "I hope so," he said disinterestedly. Lafe always disciplined himself after a siege with his temper. "He won't be alone till I get through with 'im," grunted Maudlin, with an ugly expression. "I been tellin' 'im I'm goin' to marry Jinnie." Lafe straightened with a throat sound that boded no good for the speaker, and Theodore got swiftly to his feet. "Don't repeat what you've just said," the latter gritted between his teeth, whirling on Maudlin. Bates shot out of his chair at this command. "My tongue's my own," he roared, "and Jinnie'll be glad to marry me before----" Theodore's big fist swept out, striking the man full in the face, and Maudlin dropped like an ox hit with an axe, but he was on his feet in another minute. His rapidly swelling face was blanched with rage. "Damn you, twicet and three times damn you----" Lafe made an ejaculation, and neither one of the three men noticed that the door to the little hall at the back had opened a trifle. Jordan Morse was peering in upon the enraged trio. He saw the man he'd hired to help him take the first knock down and get up swiftly. He saw Theodore King make another dive at the wood gatherer. The cobbler was in direct range of Jordan's vision, and he slipped his hand into his pocket, from which he took a revolver. Two quick, short cracks, and the pistol came flying through the room and landed near the cobbler's bench. Then the kitchen door slammed suddenly. Theodore staggered forward and sank slowly to the floor, while Maudlin fell headlong without a cry. As in a maze Lafe heard a motor leap away like a mad thing. Through the window he could see Theodore's car where the young man had left it. He made a desperate effort to rise, but sank back with a shuddering groan. He forced his eyes to Bates, who was close to the shop door, then dragged them backward to Mr. King, whose head was almost under his bench. Each had received a bullet, and both lay breathing unconsciously. The cobbler stooped over and placed his hand under Theodore's head to straighten it a little. For a full minute nothing was heard but the loud rattling in Maudlin's throat and the steady, laborious breath of the man at his feet. Sudden tears diffused the cobbler's eyes, and he leaned over and tenderly touched the damp forehead of Jinnie's friend. "He's given His angels charge over thee, boy," he murmured, just as Jinnie, leading Bobbie by the hand, walked in. The girl took one impetuous step forward and noted Lafe's white, agonized face. Then she caught a glimpse of the stricken men on the floor. Her tongue refused its office, and dropping the blind child's fingers, she came quickly forward. "Call help! Hurry! Get a doctor!" gasped Lafe, and Jinnie, without saying a word, rushed out. Afterward she could not measure with accuracy the events of that afternoon. Peggy came home and put the terrified Bobbie in bed, telling him curtly to stay there until she allowed him to get up. Several doctors rushed in and examined both Theodore and Maudlin. Not one word had escaped Jinnie's pale lips until the wounded men were removed from the shop. Then she sank at the cobbler's feet. "Will he die?" she whispered, in awe-stricken tones. "Maudlin's dyin'," replied the cobbler, with bowed head, "an' Mr. King's awful bad off, the doctor says." Jinnie went to Lafe's side and put her arm about his neck, and as if it had never been, their joy was blotted out by the hand of a bloody tragedy. CHAPTER XXXIV THE COBBLER'S ARREST Tearing away from Paradise Road, Jordan Morse drove madly up the hill. No one had seen him come; no one had seen him go. He must get in touch with Molly immediately. In his nervous state he had to confide in some one. Molly had settled Mrs. King in an easy chair and was on the lawn, pacing restlessly to and fro, when Jordan swiftly drove his machine through the gate and up to the veranda. Catching one hasty glimpse of his haggard face, the woman knew something extraordinary had happened. "I've put my foot in it, all right," he ejaculated, jumping to the soft grass. "My God! I don't know what I have done!" Molly's face blanched. "Tell me quickly," she implored. Jordan repeated his conversation with Maudlin Bates, stating how his plans had suddenly matured on hearing the wood gatherer denounce King and Grandoken. Then he proceeded a little more calmly. "It seems I hadn't been at the side door of Grandoken's shack a minute before Theodore drove up." Molly's hands came together. "Theodore?" she repeated breathlessly. "Yes, and the Bates man was with Grandoken. I heard loud talking, stole into the little hall, and found the back part of the house empty. Jinnie wasn't there; at least I didn't see her. Bates had already inveigled Mrs. Grandoken away. I opened the door into the cobbler's shop just as Theo was striking Bates in the face. I waited a minute, and as Theo struck out again, I fired----" "Fired!" gasped Molly. "Yes, at Grandoken. I wanted to kill him----" "But Theo--you might have hit Theodore, Jordan." "But I didn't, I tell you! I'm sure I didn't. If I hit any one, 'twas Bates or the cobbler.... Get back near the veranda for fear Theodore 'phones." No sooner had the words left his lips than a bell sounded from the house. Molly ran up the steps. As she took down the receiver, she dropped it, but picked it up again. "Halloa," she called faintly. "Is this Theodore King's home?" shouted a voice. "Yes." "Mr. King's had an accident. He's in the hospital. Break the news carefully to his mother, please." Dazedly, Molly slipped the receiver back to its hook. She stumbled to the porch and down the steps, her face ashen with anguish. "You shot Theo, Jordan," she cried hysterically. "Shut your head," growled Morse, glancing furtively about. "Don't talk so loud.... Now then, listen! There'll be hell to pay for this. But Bates won't peach, and I'm sure I clipped the cobbler's wings. Keep quiet till you hear from me." He sprang again into the machine and was gone before the woman could gather her wits together. She turned and went slowly up the steps. It was her duty to break the news to Theodore's mother--she who knew so much, but dared to tell so little! How to open the conversation with the gentle sufferer she knew not. Mrs. King smiled a greeting as she entered, but at the sight of Molly's face, her book dropped to the floor. "What is it?" she stammered. Molly knelt down beside her. "Probably very little," she said hastily. "Don't get excited--please--but--but----" "It's Theodore!" gasped the mother, intuitively. "He's hurt a little, just a little, and they've taken him to the hospital." Mrs. King tried to rise, but dropped back weakly. "He's badly hurt or he'd come home." "I'll find out," offered Molly eagerly. Then as an afterthought, "I'll go if you'll promise me to stay very quiet until I get back." "I promise," said Mrs. King, sobbing, "but go quickly! I simply can't be still when I'm uncertain." In another house of lesser proportions, a girl was huddled in a chair, gazing at Lafe Grandoken. "An' they told you over the telephone he was dyin'?" he demanded, looking at Jinnie. "Yes," gulped Jinnie, "and Maudlin's dead. The hospital people say Mr. King can't live." The last words were stammered and scarcely audible. "Lafe, who shot him?" "I dunno," said Lafe. "Didn't you see who had the gun?" persisted the girl, wiping her eyes. "Mr. King didn't have it; nuther did Maudlin. It came from over there, an' I heard a car drive away right after." Jinnie shook her head hopelessly. It was all so mysterious that her heart was gripped with fright. A short time before, an officer had been there cross-questioning Lafe suspiciously. Then he had gone away with the pistol in his pocket. She stared out of the window, fear-shadowed. In a twinkling her whole love world had tumbled about her ears, and she listened as the cobbler told her once more the story of the hour she'd been away with Bobbie. "There're two men coming here right now," she said suddenly, getting up. "Lafe, there's Burns, the cop on this beat." "They're wantin' to find out more, I presume," replied Lafe wearily. As the men entered the shop, Jinnie backed away and stood with rigid muscles. She was dizzily frightened at the sight of the gruff officers, who had not even saluted Lafe. The foremost man was a stranger to them both. "Are you Lafe Grandoken?" he demanded, looking at the cobbler. "Yes," affirmed Lafe. The man flourished a paper with staid importance. "I'm the sheriff of this county, an' I've a warrant for your arrest for murderin' Maudlin Bates," he sing-songed. Jinnie sprang forward. "Lafe didn't shoot 'im," she cried desperately. The man eyed her critically. "Did you do it, kid?" he asked, smiling. "No, I wasn't here!" answered Jinnie, short-breathed. "Then how'd you know he didn't do it?" For a moment Jinnie was nonplussed. Then she came valiantly to her friend's aid. "I know he didn't. Of course he didn't, you wicked, wicked men! Don't you dare touch 'im, don't you dare!" "Well, he's got to go with me," affirmed the man in ugly, sneering tones. "Whistle for the patrol, Burns, and we'll wheel the Jew in!" Jinnie heard, as in a hideous dream, the shrill, trilling whistle; heard the galloping of horses and saw a long black wagon draw up to the steps. When the two sullen men laid violent hold of the wheelchair, Jinnie's terrified fingers reached toward the cobbler, and the sheriff gave her hand a sharp blow. Lafe uttered an inarticulate cry, and at that moment Jinnie forgot "Happy in Spite," forgot Lafe's angels and the glory of them, and sprang like a tiger at the man who had struck her. She flung one arm about his neck and fought him with tooth and nails. So surprised was Policeman Burns that he stood with staring eyes, making no move to rescue his mate from the tigerish girl. "Damn you! Damn you!" screamed Jinnie. "I'll kill you before you take 'im." Lafe cried out again, calling her name gently, imploringly, and tenderly. When his senses returned, Burns grasped Jinnie in his arms and held her firmly. There she stood panting, trying to break away from the policeman's detaining fingers. She looked half crazed in the dimming late afternoon light. "Merciful God, but you're a tartar, miss!" said the sheriff ruefully. "Well, if she ain't clawed the blood clean through my skin!" "She comes of bad stock," exclaimed Burns. "You can't expect any more of Jews. Go on; I'll hold 'er till you and Mike get the chair out." Hearing this, Jinnie began to sob hysterically and make more desperate efforts to free herself. The viselike fingers pressed deeper into her tender flesh. "Here, huzzy, you needn't be tryin' none of your muck on me," said Burns. "Keep still or I'll break your arm." Jinnie sickened with pain, and her eyes sought Lafe's. If he'd been in his coffin, he couldn't have been whiter. "Jinnie," he chided brokenly, "you've forgot what I told you, ain't you, lass?" Through the suffering, tender mind flashed the words he'd taught her. "There aren't any angels, Lafe," she sobbed. "There aren't any." Then, as another man entered the shop, she cried: "Don't take 'im, oh, please don't take 'im, not now, not just yet, not till Peggy gets back." Turning around in his chair, Lafe looked up at the men. "Could--I--say--good-bye--to my--wife?" he asked brokenly. "Where is she?" demanded the officer. "Gone to the store," answered Lafe. "She'll be here in a minute." "Let 'er come to the jail," snapped the angry sheriff. "She'll have plenty of time to say good-bye there." At that they tugged the chair through the narrow door. Then two boards were found upon which to roll it into the patrol. Inside the shop Jinnie was quiet now, save for the convulsions that rent her body. She looked up at the man holding her. "Let me go," she implored. "I'll be good, awful good." Perhaps it was the pleading blue eyes that made the officer release her arms. Jinnie sprang to the door, and as Lafe saw her, he smiled, oh such a smile! The girl ran madly to him. "Lafe! Lafe!" she screamed. "Lafe dear!" Lafe bent, touched the shining black curls, and a glorified expression spread over his face. "He's given His angels charge over you, lass," he murmured, "an' it's a fact you're not to forget." Then they rolled him up the planks and into the wagon. With clouded eyes Jinnie watched the black patrol bowl along toward the bridge, and as it halted a moment on Paradise Road to allow an engine to pass, the cobbler leaned far out of his wheel chair and waved a thin white hand at her. Then like a deer she ran ahead until she came within speaking distance of him. The engine passed with a shrieking whistle, and the horses received a sharp crack and galloped off. Jinnie flung out her arms. "Lafe!" she screamed. "I'll stay with Peg till you come." He heard the words, waved once more, and the wagon disappeared over the bridge. For full ten minutes after Lafe was taken away, Jinnie sat in the shop like one turned to stone. The thing that roused her was the side door opening and shutting. She got up quickly and went into the little hall, closing the shop door behind her. Mrs. Grandoken, with bundles in her hands, was entering the kitchen. Jinnie staggered after her. "Peggy," murmured Jinnie, throwing her arms about the stooped shoulders. "You'll be good----" It was as if she had said it to Bobbie, tenderly, low-pitched, and imploring. Peg seemed so miserable and thin. "What's the matter with you, kid?" growled Mrs. Grandoken. "The town folks," groaned Jinnie, "the town folks've made a mistake, an awful mistake." Mrs. Grandoken turned sunken eyes upon the speaker. "What mistake've they made?" Jinnie's throat hurt so she couldn't say any more. "What mistake?" asked Peg again. "They think Lafe shot----" Peggy wheeled on the hesitating speaker. Shoving her to one side, she stalked through the door. Jinnie flew after her. "Peggy, Peg, he'll come back!" Mrs. Grandoken opened the shop door and the empty room with overturned chairs and scattered tools told its silent, eloquent tale. "Honey," whispered Jinnie. "Honey dear----" "God's Jesus," muttered Peg, with roving eyes, "God's Jesus, save my man!" Then she slid to the floor, and when she once more opened her eyes, Jinnie was throwing water in her face. CHAPTER XXXV ALONE IN THE SHOP Later in the day Jordan Morse and Molly Merriweather met at the hospital. They looked into each other's eyes, not daring to mention the terrible consternation that possessed them. "Have you heard anything?" murmured Molly, glancing about before speaking. Jordan nodded his head. "It's awful," he said. "Bates is dead--if you say a word, I'm lost." "Depend on me," Molly assured him. "Oh, how dreadful it all is! Theodore must get well," she continued in agitation. "Well, he won't!" snarled Morse. Then he went on passionately. "Molly, I swear I didn't intend to shoot _him_. I was mad clear through and aimed at the cobbler." "Hush!" warned Molly. "Some one's coming." A young doctor approached them with gravity. "Mr. King?" murmured Molly. "Is slowly failing. The bullet found a vital spot----" "And the other man--Bates? Is it true he's dead?" interjected Morse eagerly. "Yes, he died shortly after the tragedy. It's all a mystery, but I think they've arrested the guilty man." Both listeners stared at the speaker as if he'd told them the world had come to an end. It was Morse who managed to mutter: "What man?" "Haven't you heard? They've arrested Lafe Grandoken. The shooting occurred in his cobbling shop, and the gun was found as proof of his crime. Of course, like all Jews, he's trying to invent a story in his own favor.... He's undoubtedly the criminal." Not until they were in the street did Jordan express himself to Molly. "What heavenly luck! So they've arrested Grandoken. If Theodore lives----" Molly clutched his arm. "Oh, he must! He must! Jordan! I shall die myself if he doesn't." Jordan Morse turned sharply upon her. "Don't throw a fit right here. You're not the only one suffering. My atmosphere is cleared a little with Grandoken's arrest, though." "But you've still to reckon with Jinnie," ventured Molly. "Easy now," returned the man. "I'll get her before Theodore is well." "Take me home," pleaded Molly wearily. "Such a day as this is enough to ruin all the good looks a woman ever had." Disgustedly, Jordan flung open the motor door. "Well, my God, you've got about as much brains and heart as a chipmunk. Climb in!" Later, as the two separated, Morse said, with low-pitched voice: "Now, then, I'm going to plan to get Jinnie. Might's well be hung for a sheep's a lamb----I'm just as well satisfied that Bates is dead. After I secure Jinnie--then for my boy. God! I can scarcely wait until I have him." Miss Merriweather went into the house in utter exhaustion, nor did she pause to take off her hat before telling Theodore's mother the little she could to encourage her. If Molly was suffering over the crime which had sent the man she loved to the hospital, Jinnie was going through thrice that agony for the same man. He had almost met his death in coming to tell Lafe of their love, and had been struck down in his mission by an unknown hand. Jinnie knew it was an unknown hand, because just as sure as she lived, so sure was she that Lafe had not committed the crime. The cobbler had explained it all to her, and she believed him. Peggy was dreadfully ill! After her fainting spell, the girl put Mrs. Grandoken to bed, and then went to comfort Bobbie. She found him huddled on his pillow, clasping Happy Pete in his arms. The small face was streaked with tears and half buried from sight. "Bobbie," called Jinnie softly. The yellow head came up with a jerk, the flashing grey eyes begging in mute helplessness an explanation for these unusual happenings. "I'm here, Jinnie. What's the matter with everybody?" Jinnie lay down beside him. "Peggy's sick," she said, not daring to say more. "Where's Lafe?" An impulsive arm went across the child's body. "He's gone away for a little while, dear, just for a few days!" Something in her tones made Bobbie writhe. With the acuteness of one with his affliction, his ears had caught the commotion in the shop. "But he can't walk, Jinnie. Did he walk?" he demanded. "No." "How'd he go, in a motor car?" "No," repeated the girl. "Some one took him, then?" demanded Bobbie. "Yes." "In a wagon?" By this time she could feel the tip-tap of his anguished heart against hers. "Yes," she admitted, but that was all. She felt that to tell the truth then would be fatal to the throbbing young life in her arms. "Bobbie," she whispered, cuddling him. "Lafe's coming home soon. Be a good boy and lie still and rest. Jinnie'll come back in a few minutes." She crawled off the bed, and went to the shop door. By main force she had to drag her unwilling feet over the threshold. She stood for two tense minutes scanning the room with pathetic keenness. Then she walked forward and stood beside the bench. It seemed to be sentiently alive with the magnetism of the man who had lately occupied it. Jinnie sat on it, a cry bursting from her white lips. She wanted to be with him, but she had promised to take care of Peggy, and she would rather die than betray that trust. Her eyes fell upon two dark spots upon the floor, one near the door and one almost under her feet. She shuddered as she realized it was blood. Then she went to the kitchen for water and washed it away. This done, she gathered up Lafe's tools, reverently kissing each one as she laid it in the box under the bench. How lonely the shop looked in the gathering gloom! To dissipate the lengthening shadows in the corners, she lighted the lamp. The flickering flame brought back keenly the hours she had spent with Lafe--hours in which she had learned so much. The whole horror that had fallen on the household rushed over her being like a tidal wave over a city. Misery of the most exquisite kind was tearing her heart in pieces, stabbing her throat with long, forklike pains. Tense throat muscles caught and clung together, choking back her breath until she lay down, full length, upon the cobbler's bench. In poignant grief she thought of the expression of Lafe's face when he had been wheeled from the room. His voice came back through the faint light. "He has given His angels charge over thee, lassie." But how could she believe in the angels, with Lafe in prison and Theodore dying? She got up, spent and worn with weeping, and went in to Peggy, sitting for a few minutes beside the agonized woman, but she could not say one word to make that agony less. In losing the two strong friends, she had lost her faith too. Peg's face was turned to the wall, and as she didn't answer when the girl laid her hand on her shoulder, Jinnie tiptoed out. In her own room she lay for seemingly century-long hours with Bobbie pressed tightly to her breast. CHAPTER XXXVI JINNIE EXPLAINS THE DEATH CHAIR TO BOBBIE Seven days had dragged their seemingly slow length from seconds to minutes, from minutes to hours, from hours to days. In the cobbler's shop Jinnie and Bobbie waited in breathless anxiety for Peg's return. She had gone to the district attorney for permission to visit her husband in his cell. Nearly three hours had passed since her departure, and few other thoughts were in the mind of the girl save the passionate wish for news of her two beloved friends. She was standing by the window looking out upon the tracks, and as a heavy train steamed past she counted the cars with melancholy rhythm. There came to her mind the day she had found Bobbie on the hill, and all the sweet moments since when the cobbler had been with them. She choked back a sob that made a little noise in her tightened throat. Bobbie stumbled his unseeing way to her and shoved a small, cold hand into hers. "Jinnie's sad," he murmured. "Bobbie's stars're blinkin' out." Mrs. Grandoken and Jinnie had come to an understanding that Bobbie should not know of the cobbler's trouble, so the strong fingers closed over the little ones, but the girl did not speak. At length she caught a glimpse of Peg, who, with bent head, was stumbling across the tracks. Peggy had failed in her mission! Jinnie knew it because the woman did not look up as she came within sight of the house. As Mrs. Grandoken entered slowly, Jinnie turned to her. "You didn't see him?" she said in a tone half exclamation, half question. "No," responded Peg, wearily, sitting down. "I waited 'most two hours for the lawyer, an' when he come, I begged harder'n anything, but it didn't do no good. He says I can't see my man for a long time. I guess they're tryin' to make him confess he killed Maudlin." Jinnie's hand clutched frantically at the other's arm. Both women had forgotten the presence of the blind child. "He wouldn't do that," cried Jinnie, panic-stricken. "A man can't own up to doing a thing he didn't do." "Course not," whispered Bobbie, in an awed whisper, and the girl sat down, drawing him to her lap. She could no longer guard her tongue nor hide her feelings. She took the afternoon paper from Mrs. Grandoken's hand. "Read about it aloud," implored the woman. "It says," began Jinnie, "Mr. King's dying." The paper fluttered from her hand, and she sat like a small graven image. To see those words so cruelly set in black and white, staring at her with frightful truth, harrowed the very soul of her. A sobbing outburst from Bobbie mingled with the soft chug, chug of the engine outside on the track. Happy Pete, too, felt the tragedy in the air. He wriggled nearer his young mistress and rested his pointed nose on one of her knees, while his twinkling yellow eyes demanded, in their eloquent way, to know the cause of his loved ones' sorrow. Peggy broke a painful pause. "Everybody in town says Lafe done it," she groaned, "an'----" she caught her breath. "Oh, God! it seems I can't stand it much longer!" Jinnie got up, putting the limp boy in her chair. She was making a masterful effort to be brave, to restrain the rush of emotion demanding utterance. Some beating thing in her side ached as if it were about to burst. But she stood still until Peg spoke again. "It's all bad business, Jinnie! an' I can't see no help comin' from anywhere." If Peg's head hadn't fallen suddenly into her hands, perhaps Jinnie wouldn't have collapsed just then. As it was, her knees gave way, and she fell forward beside the cobbler's wife. Bobbie, in his helpless way, knelt too. Since Lafe's arrest the girl had not prayed, nor could she recall the promises Lafe had taught her were made for the troubled in spirit. Could she now say anything to make Peg's suffering less, even if she did not believe it all herself? "Peg," she pleaded, "don't shiver so!... Hold up your head.... I want to tell you something." Peggy made a negative gesture. "It ain't to be bore, Jinnie," she moaned hoarsely. "Lafe ain't no chance. They'll put him in the chair." Such awful words! The import was pressed deeper into two young hearts by Peg's wild weeping. Jinnie staggered to her feet. Blind Bobbie broke into a prolonged wail. "Lafe ain't never done nothin' bad in all his life," went on the woman, from the shelter of her hands. "He's the best man in the world. He's worked an' worked for everybody, an' most times never got no pay. An' now----" "Don't say it again, Peggy!" Jinnie's voice rang out. "Don't think such things. They couldn't put Lafe in a wicked death chair--they _couldn't_." Bobbie's upraised eyes were trying to pierce through their veil of darkness to seek the speaker's meaning. "What chair, Jinnie?" he quivered. "What kind of a chair're they goin' to put my beautiful Lafe in?" Jinnie's mind went back to the teachings of the cobbler, and the slow, sweet, painful smile intermingled with her agony. Again and again the memory of the words, "He hath given his angels charge over thee," swelled her heart to the breaking point. She wanted to believe, to feel again that ecstatic faith which had suffused her as Maudlin Bates pulled her curls in the marsh, when she had called unto the Infinite and Theodore had answered. Peg needed Lafe's angels at that moment. They all needed the comfort of the cobbler's faith. "Peg," she began, "your man'd tell you something sweet if he could see you now." Peg ceased writhing, but didn't lift her face. Jinnie knew she was listening, and continued: "Haven't you heard him many a time, when there wasn't any wood in the house or any bread to eat, tell you about--about----" Down dropped the woman's hands, and she lifted a woebegone face to her young questioner. "Yes, I've heard him, Jinnie," she quavered, "but I ain't never believed it!" "But you can, Peggy! You can, sure! Lots of times Lafe'd say, 'Now, Jinnie, watch God and me!' And I watched, and sure right on the minute came the money." She paused a moment, ruminating. "That money we got the day he went away came because he prayed for it." The girl was reverently earnest. "Lafe's got a chance, all right," she pursued, keeping Peg's eye. "More'n a chance, if--if--if----Oh, Peggy, we've got to pray!" "I don't know how," said Peg, in stifled tones. Jinnie's face lighted with a mental argument Lafe had thrown at her in her moments of distrust. She was deep in despondency, but something had to be done. "Peg, you don't need to know anything about it. I didn't when I came here. Lafe says----" "What'd Lafe say?" cut in Peggy. "That you must just tell God about it----" Jinnie lifted a white, lovely face. "He's everywhere--not away off," she proceeded. "Talk to Him just like you would to Lafe or me." Mrs. Grandoken sunk lower in her chair. "I wisht I'd learnt when Lafe was here. Now I dunno how." "But will you try?" Jinnie pleaded after a little. "You know 'em better'n I do, Jinnie," Peg muttered, dejectedly. "You ask if it'll do any good." Jinnie cleared her throat, coughed, and murmured: "Close your eyes, Bobbie." Bobbie shut his lids with a gulping sob, and so did Peg. Then Jinnie began in a low, constrained voice: "God and your angels hovering about Lafe, please send him back to the shop. Get him out of jail, and don't let anybody hurt him. Amen." "Don't let any chair hurt my beautiful cobbler," wailed Bobbie, in a new paroxysm of grief. "Gimme Lafe an' my stars." In another instant Peggy staggered out of the room, leaving the blind boy and Jinnie alone. As the door closed, Bobbie's voice rose in louder appeal. Happy Pete touched him tenderly with a cold, wet nose, crawling into his arms with a little whine. Jinnie looked at her two charges hopelessly. She knew not how to comfort them, nor could she frame words that would still the agony of the child. Yet she lifted Bobbie and Happy Pete and sat down with them on her lap. "Don't cry, honey," she stammered. "There! There! Jinnie'll rock you." Her face was ashen with anxiety, and perspiration stood in large drops upon her brow. Mechanically she drew her sleeve across her face. "I'm going to ask you to be awful good, Bobbie," she pleaded presently. "Lafe's being arrested is hard on Peg--and she's sick." Bobbie burst in on her words. "But they'll sit my cobbler in a wicked chair, and kill him, Jinnie. Peggy said they would." "You remember, Bobbie," soothed the girl, "what Lafe said about God's angels, don't you?" The yellow head bent forward in assent. "And how they're stronger'n a whole bunch of men?" "Yes," breathed Bobbie; "but the chair--the men've got that, an' mebbe the angels'll be busy when they're puttin' the cobbler in it." This idea made him shriek out louder than before: "They'll kill Lafe! Oh, Jinnie, they will!" "They can't!" denied Jinnie, rigidly. "They can't! Listen, Bobbie." The wan, unsmiling blind face brought the girl's lips hard upon it. "I want to know all about the death chair," he whimpered stubbornly. "Bobbie," she breathed, "will you believe me if I tell you about it?" "Yes," promised Bobbie, snuggling nearer. "Hang on to Pete, and I will tell you," said Jinnie. "I'm hangin' to 'im," sighed Bobbie, touching Pete's shaggy forelock. "Tell me about the chair." Jinnie was searching her brain for an argument to satisfy him. She wouldn't have lied for her own welfare--but for Bobbie--she could feel the weak, small heart palpitating against her arm. "Well, in the first place," she began deliberately, "Peg doesn't know everything about murders. Why, Bobbie, they don't do anything at all to men like Lafe. Why, a cobbler, dear, a cobbler could kill everybody in the whole world if he liked." Bobbie's breath was sent out in one long exclamation of wonder. "A cobbler," went on Jinnie impressively, "could steal loaves of bread right under a great judge's nose and he couldn't do anything to him." Jinnie had made a daring speech, such a splendid one; she wanted to believe it herself. "Tell me more," chirped Bobbie. "What about the death chair, Jinnie?" She had nursed the hope that the boy would be satisfied with what she had already told him, but she proceeded in triumphant tones: "Oh, you mean the chair Peg was speaking about, huh? Sure I know all about that.... There isn't anything I don't know about it.... I know more'n all the judges and preachers put together." A small, trustful smile appeared at the corners of Bobbie's mouth. "I know you do, Jinnie," he agreed. "Tell it to me." Jinnie pressed her lips on his hair. "And if I tell you, kiddie, you'll not cry any more or worry Peggy?" "I'll be awful good, and not cry once," promised the boy, settling himself expectantly. "Now, then, listen hard!" Accordingly, after a dramatic pause, to give stress to her next statement, she continued: "There isn't a death chair in the whole world can kill a cobbler." Bobbie braced himself against her and sat up. His blind eyes were roving over her with an expression of disbelief. Jinnie knew he was doubting her veracity, so she hurried on. "Of course they got an electric chair that'll kill other kinds of men," she explained volubly, "but if you'll believe me, Bobbie, no cobbler could ever sit in it." Bobbie dropped back again. There was a ring of truth in Jinnie's words, and he began to believe her. "And another thing, Bobbie, there's something in the Bible better'n what I've told you. You believe the Bible, don't you?" "Lafe's Bible?" asked Bobbie, scarcely audible. "Sure! There isn't but one." "Yes, Jinnie, I believe that," said the boy. "Well," and Jinnie glanced up at the ceiling, "there's just about a hundred pages in that book tells how once some men tried to put a cobbler in one of those chairs, and the lightning jumped out and set 'em all on fire----" Bobbie straightened up so quickly that Happy Pete fell to the floor. "Yes, yes, Jinnie dear," he breathed. "Go on!" Jinnie hesitated. She didn't want to fabricate further. "It's just so awful I hate to tell you," she objected. "I'd be happier if you would," whispered Bobbie. "Then I will! The fire, jumping out, didn't hurt the cobbler one wee bit, but it burned the wicked men----" Jinnie paused, gathered a deep breath, and brought to mind Lafe's droning voice when he had used the same words, "Burned 'em root and branch," declared she. Bobbie's face shone with happiness. "Is that all?" he begged. "Isn't it enough?" asked Jinnie, with tender chiding. "Aren't there nothin' in it about Lafe?" "Oh, sure!" Again she was at loss for ideas, but somehow words of their own volition seemed to spring from her lips. "Sure there is! There's another hundred pages in that blessed book that says good men like Lafe won't ever go into one of those chairs, never, never.... The Lord God Almighty ordered all those death chairs to be chopped up for kindling wood," she ended triumphantly. "Shortwood?" broke out Bobbie. Unheeding the interruption, Jinnie pursued: "They just left a chair for wicked men, that's all." Bobbie slipped to the floor and raised his hands. "Jinnie, pretty Jinnie. I'm goin' to believe every word you've said, every word, and my stars're all shinin' so bright they're just like them in the sky." Jinnie kissed the eager little face and left the child sitting on the floor, crooning contentedly to Happy Pete. "Lafe told me once," Jinnie whispered to herself on the way to the kitchen, "when a lie does a lot of good, it's better than the truth if telling facts hurts some one." She joined Peggy, sighing, "I'm an awful liar, all right, but Bobbie's happy." CHAPTER XXXVII WHAT THE THUNDER STORM BROUGHT In the past few weeks Jinnie Grandoken had been driven blindly into unknown places, forced to face conditions which but a short time before would have seemed unbearable. However, there was much with which Jinnie could occupy her time. Blind Bobbie was not well. He was mourning for the cobbler with all his boyish young soul, and every day Peggy grew more taciturn and ill. The funds left by Theodore were nearly gone, and Jinnie had given up her lessons. She was using the remaining money for their meagre necessities. So slowly did the days drag by that the girl had grown to believe that the authorities would never bring Lafe to trial, exonerate him, and send him home. Then, too, Theodore was still in the hospital, and she thought of him ever with a sense of terrific loss. But the daily papers brought her news of him, and now printed that his splendid constitution might pull him through. It never occurred to her that her loved one would believe Lafe had shot him and Maudlin Bates. Theodore was too wise, too kindly, for such suspicions. For a while after receiving permission from the county attorney, she visited Lafe every day. Peggy had seen him only once, being too miserable to stand the strain of going to the jail. But Mrs. Grandoken never neglected sending by the girl some little remembrance to her husband. Perhaps it was only a written message, but mostly a favorite dish of food or an article of his wearing apparel. One afternoon Bobbie sat by the window with his small, pale face pressed close to the pane. Outside a great storm was raging, and from one end of Paradise Road to the other, rivulets of water rushed down to the lake. Several times that day, when the boy had addressed Mrs. Grandoken, she had answered him even more gruffly than of yore. He knew by her voice she was ill, and his palpitating heart was wrung so agonizingly that he was constantly in tears. Now he was waiting for Jinnie, and the sound of the buffeting rain and the booming roar of heavy thunder thrilled him dismally. To hear Jinnie's footsteps at that moment would be the panacea for all his grief. Peg came into the shop, and Bobbie turned slightly. "Jinnie's stayin' awful long at the jail to-day," said the woman fretfully. "Do you hear her comin', Bobbie?" "No," said Bobbie, "I've been stretchin' my ears almost to the hill to hear her. If she doesn't come soon, I'll die--my stars've been gone a long time." "I wish she'd come," sighed Mrs. Grandoken. "Bend over here, Peg," entreated Bobbie, "I want to touch your eyes!" Without comment the woman leaned over, and the boy's fingers wavered over her wrinkled countenance. "You're awful sick, dearie," he grieved, pressing against her. "Can Blind Bobbie do anything?" Peg dropped her arm around him. "I'm afraid," she whispered. "I wish Lafe and Jinnie was here." One long shiver shook Bobbie's slender body. That Peg could ever be afraid was a new idea to him. It terrified him even to contemplate it. He began to sob wistfully, but in another instant raised his head. "She's comin'," he cried sharply. "I hear 'er. I got two stars, mebbe three." When Jinnie opened the door, the water was dripping from her clothes, and her hair hung in long, wet curls to her waist. One look into Peg's twisted, pain-ridden face, and she understood. "I'm glad you're here," said the woman, with a gesture of helplessness. And Bobbie echoed, with fluttering hands, "I'm glad, too, Jinnie. Me and Peg was so 'fraid." The girl spoke softly to Bobbie, and drew Peggy into the bedroom. There, with her arm thrown across Mrs. Grandoken's shoulder, she gave all the assurance and comfort of which she was capable. Long after midnight, the rain still came down in thrashing torrents, and through the pieces of broken tin on the roof the wind shrilled dismally. There was a solemn hush in the back bedroom where Peggy lay staring at the ceiling. In front of the shadowy lamp was a bit of cardboard to protect the sick woman's eyes from the light. At Peggy's side sat Jinnie, and in her arms lay a small bundle. Jinnie had gained much knowledge in the last few hours. She had discovered the mystery of all existence. She had seen Peg go down into that wonderful valley of life and bring back Lafe's little boy baby, and the girl's eyes held an expression of impenetrable things. She moved her position slightly so as to study Mrs. Grandoken's face. Suddenly Peg's eyes lowered. "Jinnie, gimme a drink, will you?" Placing the child on the bed, the girl got up instantly. She went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of milk. It had scarcely touched the woman's lips before she raised her hand and pushed it away. "I mustn't drink that," she whispered feebly. "I got it specially for you, Peggy dear," insisted Jinnie.... "Drink it," she wheedled, "please." Then Jinnie sat down again, listening as the elements kept up their continuous rioting, and after a while they lulled her to rest. Suddenly her head dropped softly on the bundle in her arms, and the three--Peggy, Jinnie and the tiny Jewish baby--slept. Jinnie's name, spoken in low tones, roused her quickly. She raised her head, a sharp pain twisting her neck. Peggy was looking at her, with misery in her face. "I feel awful sick, Jinnie," she moaned. "Can't you say somethin' t'me, somethin' to make me feel better?" Something to make her feel better! The words touched the listener deeply. Oh, how she wanted to help! To alleviate Peg's suffering was her one desire. If it had been Bobbie, or even Lafe, Jinnie would have known exactly what to say; but Peggy, proud, stoical Peggy! "Let me put the baby with you where it's warm, Peg," she said, gently. "I'm going to talk to you a minute.... There, now, you're all safe, little mister, near your mammy's heart." Then she knelt down by the bed and took the woman's hot fingers in hers. "Peggy," she began softly, "things look awful bad just now, but Lafe told me once, when they looked that way, it was time for some one to come along and help. I'll tell you about it, Peg! Eh?" "Who c'n come?" demanded Mrs. Grandoken, irritably. "Mr. King can't, an' we hain't no other friends who'll come to a cobbler's shop." The question in her voice gave Jinnie the chance she was looking for. "Yes, there is," she insisted. "Now listen, while I say something; will you?" "Sure," said Peg, squeezing Jinnie's fingers. Then Jinnie started to repeat a few verses Lafe had taught her. She couldn't tell exactly where they were in the Bible, but the promise in them had always made her own burdens lighter, and since seeing Lafe daily, she had partially come back to her former trust. "'The Lord is my Shepherd,'" she droned sleepily. Then on and on until she came to, "'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,'" and Peg broke into a sob. "'I will fear no evil,'" soothed Jinnie, amid the roaring of the wind and the crackling of the thunder over the hill. "'For thou art with me,'" she finished brokenly. "He's the one I was talking about, Peggy. He'll help us all if we can believe and be----" Then she quickly ended, "Happy in Spite." Peg continued to sob. One arm was across her baby boy protectingly, and the other hand Jinnie held in hers. "Somehow things seem easier, Peggy, when you hold your head up high, and believe everything'll come all right.... Lafe said so; that's why he started the club." "I wisht I could think that way. I'm near dead," groaned the woman. Jinnie smoothed the soft, grey-streaked hair. "Wouldn't you like to come into the club, dear?" she faltered, scarcely daring to put the question. "Then you'll be happy with us all--with Lafe and Bobbie and--and----" Jinnie wanted to say another name, but doubted its wisdom--and then abruptly it came; "and Jinnie," she finished. Peggy almost sat up in bed. "Darlin'," she quivered. "Darlin' girl, I've been cussed mean to Lafe an' you. I've told you many a time with my own mouth I hated you, but God knows, an' Lafe knows, I loved you the minute I set eyes on you." She dropped back on the pillow and continued, "If you'll take me in your club, an' learn me how to believe, I'll try; I swear I will." For a long time Jinnie sat crooning over and over the verses she'd learned from Lafe, and bye-and-bye she heard Peg breathing regularly and knew she slept. Then she settled herself in the chair, and sweet, mysterious dreams came to her through the storm. CHAPTER XXXVIII THE STORY OF A BIRD Lafe Grandoken, in his wheel chair, sat under the barred prison window, an open Bible on his knees. Slowly the shadows were falling about him, and to the man every shade had an entity of its own. First there trooped before him all the old memories of the many yesterdays--of Peg--his little dead lad--and Jinnie. And lastly, ghostlike, came the shattered hopes of to-morrow, and with these he groaned and shivered. Jinnie stole in and looked long upon her friend through the iron-latticed door. The smile that played with the dimples in her cheeks and the dancing shadows in the violet eyes indicated her happiness. Lafe looked older and thinner than ever before, and her heart sang when she thought of the news she had to tell him. She longed to pronounce his name, to take away the far-away expression that seemed to hold him in deep meditation. During her tramp to the jail she'd concocted a fairy story to bring a smile to the cobbler's lips. So at length: "Lafe," she whispered. Mr. Grandoken's head came up quickly, and he turned the chair and wheeled toward her. There was the same question in his eyes that had been there for so many days, and Jinnie smiled broadly. "Lafe," she began mysteriously, "a great big bird flew right into the house last night. He flopped in to get out of the storm!" "A bird?" repeated Lafe, startled. "Yes, and everybody says it's awful good luck." Lafe's expression grew tragic, and Jinnie hurried on with her tale. "I'll bet you can't guess what kind of a bird 'twas, Lafe." Lafe shook his head. "I can't lessen 'twas a robin," said he. Jinnie giggled. "My, no! He was a heap bigger'n a robin. Guess again!" Such chatter from Jinnie was unusual, especially of late, but Lafe bore it patiently. "I can't," he sighed, shaking his head. Jinnie clapped her hands. "I knew you couldn't! Well, Lafe, it was a--a----" "Yes?" queried Lafe wearily, during her hesitation. "Well, Jinnie?" "It was a great, big, beautiful white stork, Lafe, and he brought you a new Jew baby. What'd you think of that?" "Jinnie, girl, lass, you ain't tellin' me----" "Yes, dear, he's there, as big as life and twice as natural, Peg says.... Of course," she rambled on, "the stork went away, but the Jew baby--to make a long story short, he's with----" "His ma, eh, dear?" interjected Lafe. "How's Peg, honey?" "Oh, she's fine," replied Jinnie, "and I've a lot to tell you, dearest." "Begin," commanded Lafe, with wide, bright eyes. Jinnie commenced by telling how lovely the baby was. Of course she didn't rehearse Peg's suffering. It wouldn't do any good. "And the baby looks like you, Lafe," she observed. "Does he really?" gasped Lafe, trying to smile. "He's got your Jew look 'round his nose," added Jinnie gravely. "You wanted him to look like you, didn't you, Lafe?" "Sure, Jinnie. And now about Peggy? Tell me about Peggy." "Peggy's with us, Lafe----" Jinnie stopped and drew a long breath. "What'd you think? Oh--guess!" "I couldn't! Tell me, Jinnie! Don't keep me waitin' for good things." "Peggy's in the 'Happy in Spite', and I'm learning her all the verses you taught me." Then Lafe's head dropped on his hands and tears trickled through his fingers. "I wish I could see her," he groaned deeply. "When she gets well, you can," promised Jinnie, "and mebbe the baby." Lafe's head was raised quickly and his eyes sparkled. "I'd love to see 'em both," was all he could stammer. The girl thrust her fingers through the bars to him, and they stood thus, regarding each other in all confidence and faith, until Jinnie dropped his hand. "Mr. King's getting well," she said softly. "I'm glad, very glad. He don't think I done it, does he, Jinnie?" "No, and when I see him I'll tell him you didn't." And as if that settled it, she turned to go; then hesitating, she smiled upon him. "Give me four nice kisses, Lafe. I'll take one to Peg, Bobbie, and the baby, and keep one for myself." Then after their lips had met through the bars in resounding smacks, Jinnie gasped, "We can't forget Milly Ann and Happy Pete. Two more, honey!" "God bless you, Jinnie lass," murmured Lafe, trying to hide his emotion, and then he wheeled quickly back into the falling afternoon light under the window. Jinnie's energetic mind was busy with a scheme. She wasn't sure it would meet with Peg's approval, but when she arrived home, she sat down beside Mrs. Grandoken. "Now, Peggy," she began emphatically, "I want you to pay attention to what I'm saying to you." "I will," said Peggy. "Lafe wants to see the baby!" "Now?" asked Mrs. Grandoken, surprised. "Well, he didn't say just now, but his eyes asked it, and, Peg, I was wondering if I couldn't take the little kid up to the jail." Peggy shook her head. "They wouldn't let you in with 'im," she objected. Jinnie thought a long time. Presently she laughed a little, chuckling laugh. "I know how to get him in there!" "How?" asked Peggy, incredulously. "Why, everybody knows I've been a shortwood girl. I'll roll him up in a bundle----" Peg's hand sought the little body under the covers protectingly. "Oh, I won't hurt him, Peg," assured Jinnie. "We'll wrap him up the first fine day! You can do it yourself, dear." One week later Jinnie went slowly up the incline that led to the prison. On her back was a shortwood strap filled with brush and small twigs. "I want to see Lafe Grandoken," she said. To surprise Lafe she crept softly along the corridor until she halted at his cell door. She could see him plainly, and the troubled lines were almost erased from between his brows. She was glad of that, for she wanted him to smile, to be "Happy in Spite." She called his name and he turned, wheeling toward her. "I hoped you'd be comin'," he said, smiling gravely. Then noting the shortwood, he exclaimed, "Have you had to go to work again, lass?" "Just for to-day," and Jinnie displayed her white teeth in a broad smile. "I've brought you something, Lafe, and I wrapped it up in shortwood." The girl carefully slipped the strap from her shoulders and sat down beside it on the floor. Watching eagerly, Lafe peered between the bars, for surely his Peggy had sent him some token of her love. The girl paused and looked up. "Shut your eyes tight, Lafe," she commanded playfully. Lafe closed his eyes, wrinkling down his lids. Then Jinnie lifted the baby and uncovered the small face. The little chap opened his eyes and yawned as the girl held him close to the bars. "Now, Lafe, quick! Look! Ha! It's a Jew!" The cobbler's eyes flew open, and he was staring squarely into a small, rosy, open-eyed baby face. For a moment he thought he was dreaming--dreaming a dream he had dreamed every night since the thunder storm. He caught at his chin to stay the chattering of his teeth. "It ain't him, Jinnie, my Jew baby?" he murmured brokenly. "Yes, 'tis," and she laughed. "It's your own little feller. I brought him to get a kiss from his daddy. Kiss him! Kiss him smack on the mouth, Lafe." And Lafe kissed his baby--kissed him once, twice, and three times, gulping hard after each caress. He would never have enough of those sweet kisses, never, never! And as his lips descended reverently upon the smooth, rose-colored skin, Mr. Grandoken laughed, and Jinnie laughed, and the baby, too, wrinkled up his nose. "Lafe," Jinnie said tenderly, drawing the baby away, "I knew you wanted to see him; didn't you?" Lafe nodded. "An' I'll never be able to thank you for this, Jinnie.... Let me kiss him once more.... Oh, ain't he beautiful?" Just before the girl wrapped the boy again in the shortwood, she suggested, "Lafe, what's against taking him into the 'Happy in Spite'? He's happier'n any kid in the whole world, having you for a daddy and Peg for his mother." Jinnie thrust the baby's plump hand through the bars, and Lafe, with tears in his eyes, shook it tenderly, then kissed it. "Lafe Grandoken, Jr," he whispered, "you're now a member of the 'Happy in Spite' Club." And then Jinnie took the baby back to Peggy. CHAPTER XXXIX JINNIE'S VISIT TO THEODORE So suddenly had the two strong, friendly forces been swept from Jinnie's daily life that as yet she had not the power to think with precision. Lafe she had had every day for almost three years, and Theodore King--oh, how she loved him! Rumors were afloat that no power could save Lafe--her dear, brave cobbler. Day by day the girl's faith increased, and of late she had uttered silent prayers that she might be allowed to see Theodore. One morning she was in the kitchen rocking little Lafe when Peggy called her. "There's some one to see you," said she. Jinnie gave the mother her baby and went to the shop door. A man in a white suit smiled down upon her. "I'm from the hospital," said he. "Mr. King would like to see you this morning." Jinnie's heart seemed to climb into her throat. "Mr. Theodore King?" she murmured. "Yes," said the young man. "I've got a car here. Will you come?" "Of course! Wait till I get my hat." Once at their destination, they tiptoed into Theodore's room noiselessly, and as Jinnie stood over the bed, looking down upon him, she suffered keenly, he looked so deathlike; but she resolutely controlled her feelings. When Theodore glanced at her, she forced herself to smile, and the sight of the lovely girl refreshed the sick man, giving him a new impetus to recover. He smiled back, endeavoring not to show his weakness. "You see I'm getting well," he whispered. Jinnie nodded. She wasn't sure whether he was or not. How her heart ached to do something for him! One of his long, thin hands lay over the coverlet, and Jinnie wanted to kiss it. Tears were standing thick on her lashes. The doctor stood beside her, consulting his watch. "If you wish to speak, Mr. King," he said kindly, "you must do so quickly, for the young lady can stay but two minutes more. That's all!" The doctor turned his back upon them, watch in hand. "Kiss me, dear!" murmured Theodore. Oblivious of the doctor's presence, Jinnie stooped and kissed him twice, taking the thin hand he extended. "I sent for you because I feared you'd go to work at the wood again." Jinnie would reassure him on this point even by an untruth, for she might be driven, for the sake of Peggy and the children, to go back into that hated occupation. "I promise I won't," she said. "Are you still taking lessons?" Jinnie shook her head. "I couldn't when you were sick. I just couldn't." "But you must; you must go to-morrow. I have something here for you," he said, reaching under the pillow with his free hand. Jinnie drew back abashed. "You're too sick to think of us," she murmured. Theodore raised her hand to his lips. "No! No, darling, I think of you always--every day and shall even when I'm dead. You must take this money. Do you love me, dearest, very much?" He smiled again as she stooped impetuously to kiss him, and with her face very close to his, she whispered, "Lafe didn't do it, darling!" "I know it," replied Theodore, closing his eyes. Then the doctor turned and sent her away. When she sank back in the automobile, Jinnie opened her hand with the roll of bills in it, and all the way home, she repeated, "He has given His angels charge over thee." She was hoping and praying for Theodore King. Two days later, coming down the hill, she met Miss Merriweather on horseback. The young woman stopped her and asked her to accompany her home. Jennie hesitated. She still had memories of the cat sent to its death in Molly's fit of anger and the woman's chilling reception of her at the King dinner. Nevertheless she turned and walked slowly beside the horse. When they reached the porch of Mr. King's home, a groom came and led the animal away. Jinnie laid down her fiddle, taking the chair indicated by Molly. It had been Jordan Morse's idea that she should endeavor to again talk with the girl, but the woman scarcely knew how to begin. Jinnie looked so very lovely, so confiding, so infinitely sweet. Molly leaned over and said: "Wasn't it queer how suddenly I remembered who you were? That night at the party your name refused to come to my mind. I've wanted to tell you several times how sorry I was about your accident!" "I recognized you the minute I saw you," said Jinnie, smiling, relieved a little by Molly's apology. "You've a good memory," answered Molly. "Now I want to tell you something, and I hope you'll be guided by my judgment." Jinnie looked straight at her without a sign of acquiescence. "What is it?" she asked presently. "You must leave Grandoken's!" Jinnie started to speak, but Molly's next words closed her lips. "Please don't get nervous! Listen to me! You're a very young and very pretty girl and there--there is some one interested in you." Jinnie pricked up her ears. Some one interested in her! Of course she knew who it was. Theodore! But she wouldn't leave Peggy even for him, and the thought that he would not ask this of her brought her exquisite joy. "Is it Mr. King who's interested in me?" she asked, timidly. Molly's eyes narrowed into small slits. "No, it isn't Mr. King who's interested in you!" she replied a trifle mockingly. "Mr. King's too sick to be interested in anybody." Jinnie couldn't refrain from saying, "He looked awful ill when I saw him at the hospital." Molly stared at her blankly. She grew dizzy and very angry. This girl always made her rage within herself. "You've seen him since--since----" A maddened expression leapt into Molly's eyes. "I drive there every day, but they won't let _me_ see him," she said, reddening. "Mr. King sent for me," Jinnie replied, resolutely. And as the girl admitted this, with deepening flushes, Molly looked away. When she had first spoken of Jinnie's future to Jordan Morse, she had pleaded with him to be kind to her, but now she could surround that white throat and strangle the breath from it without compunction. "Will you tell me what he said to you?" she queried, trying to hide her anger. Jinnie looked down, and locked her fingers together. "I can't tell," she said at length, moving in discomfort. She wanted to go--to get away from the woman who looked at her so analytically, so resentfully. She got up nervously and picked up her fiddle. "Don't go," urged Molly, starting forward. Then she laughed a little and went on, "I suppose I did feel a bit jealous at first because we--Mr. King and I--have been friends so many years. But now we won't think any more about it. I do want you to go from that terrible Paradise Road. It's no place for a girl in your position." "You've told me that before," retorted Jinnie, with clouded eyes. "My position isn't anything. I haven't any other home, and I'm a sort of a helper to Peggy." A helper to Peggy! Doubtless if Lafe had heard that he would have smiled. Truly she was a wonderful little helper, but she was more than that, much more--helper, friend, and protector all in one. "Another thing," added Jinnie quickly, "I love 'em all." "You've your own home in Mottville," the woman suggested. "You ought to be there." Jinnie sank back into the chair. "Oh, I couldn't ever go there!" she cut in swiftly. "But I can't tell you why." "Don't you want me to help you?" Jinnie shook her head doubtfully. "It wouldn't help any, taking me away from Peggy. I'd rather you'd do something for Lafe. Help him get out of prison. Will you?" "I'm not interested in him," said Molly. "But I am in you----" "Why?" blurted Jinnie. Molly colored. "One can't explain an interest like mine. But I'd go back to Mottville with you, and help you with your----" Jinnie shook her head violently. "I wouldn't go there for anything in the world," she interjected. "I can't understand why not!" "Well, first I couldn't, and I won't.... Then Peggy needs me in Paradise Road, and there's the baby and Bobbie." "Who's Bobbie?" "Our little kid," replied Jinnie, smiling sweetly. She did not think it necessary to explain that she had found Bobbie in the woods. He was as much one of them as Lafe's baby or herself. Neither did she speak of the boy's pitiful condition. In spite of Jinnie's absolute refusal, Molly went on: "But you don't understand. You've got your own life to think of!" Jinnie burst in with what she thought was a clinching triumph. "I take lessons on my fiddle every day. Some time I hope----" Molly's eyes gleamed again. "How can you afford to take lessons?" The questioner read the truth in the burning blush that swept the girl's dark hair line, and her little white teeth came together. "Mr. Grandoken is not your uncle," she snapped. "He's more'n my uncle; he's a father to me, and when he comes home----" "He's not coming home. Murderers don't get off so easily." Jinnie got up and again picked her fiddle from the floor. "He isn't a murderer!" she stammered, with filling eyes. "Lafe wouldn't kill anything.... I've been with him almost three years and I know. Why, he wouldn't let Peg or me swat flies." Miss Merriweather saw her mistake. She realized then as never before that nothing could take from the girl her belief in the cobbler. "Sit down," she urged. "Don't go yet." "I don't want to sit down," said Jinnie, very much offended. "I'm going! I'm sorry you think Lafe----" Molly rose too. Impetuously she held out her hand. "I really shouldn't have spoken that way, because I don't know a thing about it." Jinnie relented a little, but not enough to sit down. She was too deeply hurt to accept Molly's hospitality further. "And we musn't quarrel, child," decided the woman. "Now won't you reconsider my proposition? I should love to do something for you." Resolutely the dark curls shook in refusal. "I'm going to stay with Peggy till Lafe gets out, and then when I'm eighteen I'm going to school. I've been studying a lot since I left Mottville.... Why sometimes----" she resumed eagerly, "when we haven't had enough to eat, Lafe's made me buy a book to study out of, and I promised him I'd stay with his family till he came back. And----" she walked to the edge of the porch, turning suddenly, "and he's coming back, all right," she ended, going down the stairs. Molly watched the slim young figure swing out to the road. The girl didn't look around, and the woman waited until she had disappeared through the gate. "He'll not get out, and you, you little upstart," she gritted, "you'll not stay in Paradise Road, either." CHAPTER XL AN APPEAL TO JINNIE'S HEART One afternoon she was on her way home from her lesson when she heard a voice call, "Miss Grandoken!" She glanced up swiftly, recognizing the speaker immediately. He had been present that first night she had played for Theodore's guests, and she remembered vividly her intuitive dislike of him; but because he was a friend of Theodore's she went forward eagerly. The man drove his car to the side of the pavement and bowed. "Would you care to be of service to Mr. King?" he asked, smiling. Jinnie noticed his dazzling teeth and scarlet lips. "Oh, yes, indeed! I wish I might." "Then come with me," replied the man. "Will you?" Without fear she entered the open car door and sat down, placing her violin on the seat beside her. She sank back with a sigh. The time had come she had so longed for; she was going to do something for Theodore. She was glad now she had consented to take two lessons that day, or she would have missed this blessed opportunity to show her gratitude to her dear one, in acts, as well as words. The car turned and sped up the hill. If Jinnie wondered where the man was taking her, she did not allude to it. They were driving in the same direction she took every day to visit the master, and the very familiarity of it turned aside any question that arose in her mind. As he helped her from the machine, she looked up at the sombre building in front of them. In passing it daily she had often wondered what it was and if any one lived within its vast stone walls. One hasty glance, as she was being ushered in, showed paint pails, brushes, and long ropes fastened from the roof to broad planks below. "Miss Merriweather will be here very soon," the man explained good-naturedly. "She wants you to go with her to the hospital." Jinnie's mind flew to that one time she had visited Theodore's sick bed. She would be glad to see Molly the Merry. She had forgiven all the woman's cruelty. The long flights of stairs they mounted were dark and uncarpeted. Their footsteps made a hollow sound through the wide corridors, and there was no other sign of human life about the place. But still Jinnie followed the man in front of her, up and up, until she had counted five floors. Then he took a key from his pocket and put it in the lock, turning it with a click. Jinnie waited until, stepping inside, he turned and smilingly bade her enter. There was so little natural suspicion in the girl's heart that she never questioned the propriety, much less the safety, of coming into a strange place with an unknown man. Her dear one was ill. She was anxious to see him again, to help him if possible. She felt a little shy at the thought of seeing Miss Merriweather once more. The man led her to an inner room and suavely waved to a chair, asking her to be seated. Casting anxious eyes about the place, she obeyed. "I'm going after Miss Merriweather now, if you'll wait a few moments," explained the stranger. "She wasn't ready and asked me to bring you first. I think she's preparing a surprise for Mr. King." Jinnie's tender little heart warmed toward Molly the Merry. Just then she had untold gratitude for the woman who was allowing her to take Theodore something with her own hands. Oh, what joy! She smiled back at the speaker as he moved toward the door. Then he left her, asking her politely to make herself at home until he returned. Jinnie waited and waited until she thought she couldn't possibly wait any longer. Peg would be worried, terribly worried, and little Bobbie wouldn't eat his supper without her. But because of Miss Merriweather's kindness and her own great desire to see her sweetheart, she must stay until the last moment. She grew tired, stiff with sitting, and the little clock on the mantel told her she'd been there over two hours. She got up and went to the window. The building stood high on a large wooded bluff overlooking a deep gorge. The landscape before her interested her exceedingly, and took her in fancy to the wilderness of Mottville. The busy birds fluttered to and fro, twittering sleepily to each other, and for a short time the watcher forgot her anxiety in the majesty of the scene. Miles of hills and miles and miles of water stretched northward as far as her eyes could discern anything. The same water passed and repassed the old farmhouse, and for some time Jinnie tried to locate some familiar spot, off where the sky dipped to the lake. It wasn't until she noticed the hands of the clock pointed to half past six that she became terribly nervous. She wanted to go to the hospital and get back to Peg. Mrs. Grandoken couldn't leave the baby with Blind Bobbie, and there was supper to buy. Once more she paced the rooms, then back to the window. She shivered for some unknown reason, and a sharp consciousness of evil suddenly grew out of the lengthening hours. With the gathering dusk the hills and gorge had fallen into voiceless silence, and because her nerves tingled with vague fear, Jinnie drew the curtains to shut out the yawning dark, and lighted a lamp on the table. The room was arranged simply with a small divan, at the head of which was a pillow. Jinnie sat down and leaned back. Her face held a look of serious attention. She wondered if anything had happened to Molly the Merry. Then abruptly she decided to go downstairs. If they weren't coming, she'd _have_ to go home. She went to the door and, turning the knob, pulled hard. The door was locked, and the key was gone! Her discovery seemed to unmake her life in a twinkling. She was like one stricken with death--pale, cold and shivering. She did not know what she was going to do, but she must act--she must do something! A round of inspection showed her she could not open one of the doors. The windows, too, had several nails driven into their tops and along the sides, and the doors were securely fastened with keys. She went back to the window, raised the curtains, and looked out into the gloom. There was not another light to be seen. The clock on the mantel had struck nine, and Jinnie had grown so horrified she dared not sit down. Many a time she went to the door and pressed her ear to it, but no sound came through the deep silence. It was after eleven when she dropped on the divan and drew the coverlet over her. The next she knew, daylight was streaming in upon her face. CHAPTER XLI JINNIE'S PLEA Jinnie sprang up, unable at first to remember where she was. Then it all came to her. She was locked away from the world in a big house overlooking the gorge. However, the morning brought a clear sun, dissipating some of her fear--filling her with greater hope. The dreadful dreams during the night had been but dreams of fear and pain--of eternal separation from her loved ones. Such dreams, such fears, were foolish! No one could take her away from Peggy. She wouldn't go! Ah, the man would return very soon with Molly the Merry. The clock struck eight. What would Blind Bobbie think--and Peggy? The woman might decide she had left her forever; but no, no, Peg couldn't think that! Childlike, she was hungry. If some one had intentionally imprisoned her, they must have left her something to eat. Investigation brought forth some cold meat, a bottle of milk, and some bread. Jinnie ate all she could swallow. Then for an hour and a half she paced up and down, wishing something would happen, some one would come. Anything would be better than such deadly uncertainty. Perhaps it was the overwhelming stillness of the building, possibly a natural alertness indicative of her fear, that allowed Jinnie to catch the echoes of footsteps at the farther end of the corridor. But before she got to the door, a key grated in the lock, and the man who had brought her there was standing beside her. Their eyes met in a clinging, challenging glance--the blue of the one clashing with the sinister grey, as steel strikes fire from steel. An insolent smile broke over his face and he asked nonchalantly: "Did you find the food?" Jinnie did not answer. She stood contemplating his face. How she hated his smile, his white teeth, and his easy, suave manner. Their glances battled again for a moment across the distance. "Why did you bring me here?" she demanded abruptly. He spread his feet outward and hummed, toying the while with a smooth white chin. "Sit down," said he, with assumed politeness. Jinnie stared at him with contemptuous dread in her eyes. "I don't want to; I want to know why I'm here." "Can't you guess?" asked the stranger with an easy shrug. "No," said Jinnie. "Why?" "And you can't guess who I am?" "No," repeated Jinnie once more, passionately, "and I want to know why I'm here." He came toward her, piercing her face with a pair of compelling, mesmeric eyes that made her stagger back to the wall. Then he advanced a step nearer, covering the space Jinnie had yielded. "I'm Jordan Morse," he then said, clipping his words off shortly. If a gun had burst in Jinnie's face, she could have been no more alarmed. She was frozen to silence, and every former fear her father had given life to almost three years before, beset her once more, only with many times the amount of vigor. Nevertheless, she gave back look for look, challenge for challenge, while her fingers locked and interlocked. Her uncle, who had sent her father to his grave, the man who wanted her money, who desired her own death! Then her eyes slowly took on a tragic expression. She knew then she was destined to encounter the tragedy of Morse's terrific vengeance, and no longer wondered why her father had succumbed to his force. He stood looking at her, his gaze taking in the young form avidiously. "You're the most beautiful girl in the world," he averred presently. Jinnie's blue eyes narrowed angrily. However, in spite of her rage, she was terribly frightened. An instinct of self-preservation told her to put on a bold, aggressive front. "Give me that key and let me go," she insisted, with an upward toss of her head. She walked to the door and shook it vigorously. Morse followed her and brought her brutally back to the center of the room. "Not so fast," he grated. "Don't ever do that again! I've been hunting you for almost three years.... Sit down, I said." "I won't!" cried Jinnie, recklessly. "I won't! You can't keep me here. My friends'll find me." The man hazarded a laugh. "What friends?" he queried. Jinnie thought quickly. What friends? She had no friends just then, and because she knew she was dependent upon him for her very life, she listened in despair as he threw a truth at her. "The only friends you have're out of business! Lafe Grandoken will be electrocuted for murder----" The hateful thing he had just said and the insistence in it maddened her. She covered her face with her hands and uttered a low cry. "And Theodore King is in the hospital," went on Morse, mercilessly. "It'll do no good for you to remember him." She was too normally alive not to express the loving heart outraged within her. "I shall love him as long as I live," she shivered between her fingers. "Hell of a lot of good it'll do you," grunted the man coarsely. Keen anxiety empowered her to raise an anguished face. "You want my money----" she hesitated. "Well, you can have it.... You want it, don't you?" Her girlish helplessness made Morse feel that he was without heart or dignity, but he thought of his little boy and of how this girl was keeping from him the means to institute a search for the child, and his desire for vengeance kindled to glowing fires of hate. He remembered that, steadily of late, he had grown to detest the whole child-world because of his own sorrow, and nodded acquiescence, supplementing the nod with a harsh: "And, by God, I'm going to have it, too!" "Then let me go back to Lafe's shop. I'll give you every cent I have.... I won't even ask for a dollar." It took some time for Morse to digest this idea; then he slowly shook his head. "You wouldn't be allowed to give me what would be mine----" "If I die," breathed Jinnie, shocked. She had read his thought and blurted it forth. "Yes, if you die. But I haven't any desire to kill you.... I have another way." "What way? Oh, tell me!" "Not now," drawled Morse. "Later perhaps." The man contemplated the tips of his boots a minute. Then he looked at her, the meditative expression still in his eyes. "To save your friends," he said at length, "you've got to do what I want you to." "You mean--to save Lafe?" gasped Jinnie, eagerly. Morse gave a negative gesture. "No, not him. The cobbler's got to go. _He knows too much about me._" Jinnie thought of Lafe, who loved and helped everybody within helping distance, of his wonderful faith and patience, of the day they had arrested him, and his last words. She could not plan for herself nor think of her danger, only of the cobbler, her friend,----the man who had taken her, a little forlorn fugitive, when she had possessed no home of her own--he who had taught her about the angels and the tenderness of Jesus. From her uncle's last statement she had received an impression that he knew who had fired those shots. He could have Lafe released if he would. She would beg for the cobbler's life, beg as she had never begged before. "Please, please, listen," she implored, throwing out her hands. "You must! You must! Lafe's always been so good. Won't you let him live?... I'll tell him about your wanting the money.... You shall have it! I'll make any promise for him you want me to, and he'll keep it.... He didn't kill Maudlin Bates, and I believe you know who did." Morse lowered his lids until his eyes looked like grey slits across his face. "Supposing I do," he taunted. "As I've said, Grandoken knows too much about me. He won't be the first one I've put out of my way." He said this emphatically; he would teach her he was not to be thwarted; that when he desired anything, Heaven and earth, figuratively speaking, would have to move. He frowned darkly at her as Jinnie cut in swiftly: "You killed my father. He told me you did." Morse flicked an ash from a cigar he had lighted, and his eyes grew hard, like rocks in a cold, gray dawn. "So you know all my little indiscretions, eh?" he gritted. "Then don't you see I can't give you--your liberty?" Liberty! What did he mean by taking her liberty away? She asked him with beating heart. "Just this, my dear child," he advanced mockingly. "There are places where people're taken care of and--the world thinks them dead. In fact, your father had a taste of what I can do. Only he happened to----" "Did you put him somewhere?" "Yes." "Where?" "Same kind of a place I'm going to put you----" He hesitated a moment and ended, "A mad house!" "Did you let him come home to me?" "Not I. Damn the careless keepers! He skipped out one day, and I didn't know until he'd a good start of me. I followed as soon as possible, but you were gone. Now--now--then, to find _such_ a place for you!" Jinnie's imagination called up the loathsome thing he mentioned and terrified her to numbness. At that moment she understood what her father had written in that sealed letter to Lafe Grandoken. But she couldn't allow her mind to dwell upon his threat against herself. "What'd you mean when you said I could save my friends?" "You're fond of Mrs. Grandoken, aren't you?" Jinnie nodded, trying to swallow a lump in her throat. "And--and there's a--a--blind child too--who could be hurt easily." Jinnie's living world reeled before her eyes. During this speech she had lost every vestige of color. She sprang toward him and her fingers went blue-white from the force of her grip on his arm. "Oh, you couldn't, you wouldn't hurt poor little Bobbie?" she cried hysterically. "He can't see and he's sick, terribly ill all the time. I'll do anything you say--anything to help 'em." Then she fell to the floor, groveling at his feet. "Get up! You needn't cry; things'll be easy enough for you if you do exactly as I tell you. The first order I give you is to stay here quietly until I come again." As he spoke, he lifted her up, and she stood swaying pitiably. "Can't I let Peg know where I am?" she entreated when she could speak. "Please! Please!" "I should think not," scoffed Morse. Then, after a moment's consideration, he went on, "You might write her a note, if you say what I dictate. I'll have it mailed from another town. I don't want any one to know you're still in Bellaire." "Could I send her a little money, too?" she asked. "Yes," replied Morse. "Then tell me what to write, and I will." After he had gone and Jinnie was once more alone, she sat at the window, her eyes roving over the landscape. Her gaze wandered in melancholy sadness to the shadowy summit of the distant hills, in which the wild things of nature lived in freedom, as she herself had lived with Lafe Grandoken in Paradise Road, long before her uncle's menacing shadow had crossed her life. Then her eyes lowered to the rock-rimmed gorge, majestic in its eternal solitude. She was on the brink of some terrible disaster. She knew enough of her uncle's character to realize that. She spent the entire day without even looking at her beloved fiddle, and after the night closed in, she lay down, thoroughly exhausted. Peggy took a letter from the postman's hand mechanically, but when she saw the well-known writing, she trembled so she nearly dropped the missive from her fingers. She went into the shop, where Bobbie lay face downward on the floor. At her entrance, he lifted a white face. "Has Jinnie come yet?" he asked faintly. "No," said Peg, studying the postmark of the letter. Then she opened it. A five-dollar bill fell into her lap, and she thrust it into her bosom with a sigh. * * * * * "PEGGY DARLING," she read with misty eyes. "I've had to go away for a little while. Don't worry. Here's some money. Use it and I'll send more. Kiss Bobbie for me and tell him Jinnie'll come back soon. And the baby, oh, Peggy, hug him until he can't be hugged any more. Don't tell Lafe I'm away. "With all my love, "JINNIE." * * * * * Peggy put down the letter. "Bobbie!" she said. The boy looked up. "I ain't got any stars, Peggy," he wailed tragically. "I want Jinnie and Lafe." "I've got a letter from Jinnie here," announced Peggy. The boy got to his feet instantly. "When she's comin' back?" "She don't say, but she sends a lot of kisses and love to you. She had to go away for a few days.... Now don't snivel!... Come here an' I'll give you the kisses she sent." He nestled contentedly in Peggy's arms. "Let me feel the letter," came a faltering whisper presently. Bobbie ran his fingers over the paper, trying with sensitive finger tips to follow the ink traces. "Can I keep it a little while?" he begged.... "Please, Peggy!" "Sure," said Peg, putting him down, and when the baby cried, Mrs. Grandoken left the blind child hugging Happy Pete, with Jinnie's letter flattened across his chest between him and the dog. CHAPTER XLII BOBBIE TAKES A TRIP Jinnie had been gone two weeks. Nearly every day the postman brought a letter from the girl to Peggy, and after reading it several times to herself, she gave it to Blind Bobbie. Mrs. Grandoken had discovered this was the way to keep him quiet. One afternoon the boy sat on the front steps of the cobbler's shop, sunning himself. "You can hear Jinnie better when she comes," said Peg, as an excuse to coax him out of doors. "Now sit there till I get back from the market." Bobbie had Happy Pete in his arms when he heard strange footsteps walking down the short flight of steps. He lifted his head as he heard a voice speak his name. "Bobbie," it said softly. "Are you Bobbie?" "Yes," replied the boy tremblingly. The soft voice spoke again. "Do you want to see Jinnie?" Bobbie clutched Happy Pete with one arm and struggled up, holding out a set of slender fingers that shook like small reeds in a storm. "Yes, I want to see 'er," he breathed. "Do you know where she is?" "If you'll come along with me, I'll take you to her. Bring the dog if you like." "I want to see her to-day," stated Bobbie. Jordan Morse took Bobbie's hand in his. "Come on then, and don't make a noise," cautioned the man. "Put down the dog; he'll follow you." Once in Paradise Road, he stooped and lifted the slight boyish figure and walked quickly away. Beyond the turn in the road stood his car. He placed Bobbie and the dog on the seat beside him, and in another moment they were speeding toward the hill. At that moment Jinnie was brooding over her violin. Her fiddle was her only comfort in the lonely hours. The plaintive tones she drew from it were the only sounds she heard, save the rushing water in the gorge and the thrashing of the trees when the wind blew. The minutes hung long on her hands, and the hours seemed to mock her as they dragged along in interminable sequence. With her face toward the window, she passed several hours composing a piece which had been in embryo in her heart for a long time. The solitude, the grandeur of the scenery, the wonderful lake with its curves and turns, sometimes made her forget the tragic future that lay before her. She was just finishing with lingering, tender notes when Jordan Morse came quickly through the corridor. Bobbie stiffened in his arms suddenly. "I hear Jinnie's fiddle," he gasped. "I'm goin' to my Jinnie." When the key turned in the lock, the girl came to the door. At first she didn't notice the blind child, but her name, unsteadily called, brought her eyes to the little figure. Happy Pete recognized her with a wild yelp, wriggled himself past the other two, and whiningly crouched at her feet. Jinnie had them both in her arms before Morse turned the key again in the lock. "Bobbie and Happy Pete!" she cried. Then she got up and flashed tearful eyes upon Morse. "What did you bring them for? Did you tell Peg?" "No, I didn't tell Peg and--and I brought him----" he paused and beckoned her with an upward toss of his chin. Jinnie followed him agitatedly. "I brought him," went on Morse, "because I don't just like your manner. I brought him as a lever to move you with, miss." Then he left hurriedly, something unknown within him stirring with life. He decided afterward it was the sight of the blind child's golden head pressed against Jinnie's breast that had so upset him. As he drove away, he crushed a desire to return again, to take them both, boy and girl, back to the cobbler's shop. But he must not allow his better emotions to attack him in this matter. He had known for a long time Jinnie could be wielded through her affection for the lad. He thought of his own child somewhere in the world and what it meant to him to possess Jinnie's money, and set his teeth. He would bring the girl to his terms through her love for the slender blind boy. That day Jinnie wrote a letter to Peg, telling her that Bobbie was with her, and Happy Pete, too. The stolid woman had quite given way under the mysterious disappearance of the boy. When she returned home, she searched every lane leading to the marshes until dusk. In fact, she stumbled far into the great waste place, calling his name over and over. He was the last link that held her to the days when Lafe had been in the shop, and Peg would have given much if her conscience would cease lashing her so relentlessly. It eased her anxiety a little when a new resolution was born in her stubborn heart. If they all came back to the shop, she'd make up to them in some way for her ugly conduct. With this resolve, she went home to her own baby, sorrowful, dejected and lonely. All the evening while Peg was mourning for them, Jinnie sat cuddling Bobbie, until the night put its dark hood on the ravine and closed it in a heavy gloom. Happy Pete, with wagging tail, leaned against the knees of the girl, and there the three of them remained in silence until Bobbie, lifting his face, said quiveringly: "Peggy almost died when you went away, Jinnie." Jinnie felt her throat throb. "Tell me about it," she said hoarsely. "There ain't much to tell," replied the child, sighing, "only Peggy was lonely. She only had me and the baby, and I didn't have any stars and the baby's got no teeth." "And the baby? Is he well, dear?" questioned Jinnie. "Oh, fine!" the boy assured her. "He's growed such a lot. I felt his face this morning, and oh, my, Jinnie, his cheeks puff out like this!" Bobbie gathered in a long breath, and puffed out his own thin, drawn cheeks. "Just like that!" he gasped, letting out the air. "And Lafe?" ventured Jinnie. "Lafe's awful bad off, I guess. Bates' little boy told me he was going to die----" "No, Bobbie, no, he isn't!" Jinnie's voice was sharp in protestation. "Yes, he is!" insisted Bobbie. "Bates' boy told me so! He said Lafe wouldn't ever come back to the shop, 'cause everybody says he killed Maudlin." As the words left his lips, he began to sob. "I want my cobbler," he screamed loudly, "and I want my beautiful stars!" "Bobbie, Bobbie, you'll be sick if you scream that way. There, there, honey!" Jinnie hushed him gently. "I want to be 'Happy in Spite'," the boy went on. But his words brought before the pale girl that old, old memory of the cobbler who had invented the club for just such purposes as this. How could she be 'Happy in Spite' when Bobbie suffered; when Peg and baby Lafe needed her; happy when Lafe faced an ignominious death for a crime he had not committed; happy when her beloved was perhaps still very ill in the hospital? She got up and began to walk to and fro. Suddenly she paused in her even march across the room. Unless she steadied her fluttering, stinging nerves, she'd never be able to still the wretched boy. There's an old saying that when one tries to help others, winged aid will come to the helper. And so it was with Jinnie. She had only again taken Bobbie close when there came to her Lafe's old, old words: "He hath given his angels charge over thee." "Bobbie," she said softly, "I'm going to play for you." As Jinnie straightened his limp little body out on the divan, she noticed how very thin he had become, how his heart throbbed continually, how the agonized lines drew and pursed the sensitive, delicate mouth. Then she played and played and played, and ever in her heart to the rhythm of her music were the words, "His angels shall have charge over thee." Suddenly there came to her a great belief that out of her faith and Lafe's faith would come Bobbie's good, and Peg's good, and especially the good of the man shut up in the little cell. When the boy grew sleepy, Jinnie made him ready for bed. "I'll lie down with you, Bobbie," she whispered, "and Happy Pete can sleep on the foot of the bed." And as the pair of sad little souls slept, Lafe's angels kept guard over them. CHAPTER XLIII THEODORE SENDS FOR MOLLY Theodore King was rallying rapidly in the hospital. All danger of blood poison had passed, and though he was still very weak, his surgeon had ceased to worry, and the public at large sat back with a sigh, satisfied that the wealthiest and most promising young citizen in the county had escaped death at the hand of an assassin. One morning a telephone message summoned Molly Merriweather to the hospital. In extreme agitation she dressed quickly, telling Mrs. King she would return very soon. Never had she been so hilariously happy. Jinnie Grandoken had disappeared, as if she had been sunk in the sea. Molly now held the whip hand over her husband; she could force him to divorce her quietly. It was true of them both now their principal enemies were out of the way. Theo was getting well, and would come home in a few days. While she had thought him dying, nothing save Jordan's tales of the girl's experiences in the gorge house had been able to rouse her to more than momentary interest. With glowing cheeks she followed the hospital attendant through a long corridor to Theodore's room. She entered softly and for a moment stood gazing at him admiringly. How very handsome he was, even with the hospital pallor! When the sick man became cognizant of Molly's presence, he turned and smiled a greeting. He indicated a chair, and she sank into it. "You sent for me, Theodore?" she reminded him softly, bending forward. "Yes." He was silent so long, evidently making up his mind to something, that Molly got up and smoothed out his pillow. Theodore turned to her after she had reseated herself. "Molly," he began, "do you know where Jinnie Grandoken is?" Molly's eyelids narrowed. So he was still thinking of the girl! "No," she said deliberately. "It seems strange," went on King somberly. "I've tried every way I know how to discover her whereabouts, and can't. I sent to the Grandoken's for her, but she was gone." "You still care for her then?" queried Molly dully. "Yes. I know you dislike the poor child, but I thought if you knew that I--well, I really love her, you might help me, Molly." It was a bitter harvest to reap after all these weeks of waiting--his telling her he loved another woman--and as his voice rang with devotion for Jinnie Grandoken, Molly restrained herself with difficulty. She dared not lose her temper, as she had several times before under like conditions. With her hands folded gracefully in her lap, she replied: "If I could help you, Theo, I would; but if Mrs. Grandoken doesn't know where her own niece is, how should I know?" "You're so clever," sighed Theodore, "I imagined you might be able to discover something where a woman like Mrs. Grandoken would fail. She's got a young child, I hear." "What do you suggest?" inquired Molly presently. "I want to find out quickly where she's gone," the sick man said bluntly. "You want to see her?" demanded Molly. Theodore nodded. "Yes, I'd get well sooner if I could," and he sighed again. Then his ivory skin grew scarlet even to his temples, but the blood rushed away, leaving him deathly white. Molly went to him quickly and leaned over the bed. She wanted--oh, how she wanted to feel his arms about her! But he only touched her cold hand lightly. "Help me, Molly," he breathed. Molly choked back an explanation. She would glory in doing anything for him--anything within her power; but nothing, nothing for Jinnie Grandoken. Suddenly an idea took possession of her. She would make him doubt Jinnie's love for him, even if she lied to him. "Of course I knew you cared for her," she said slowly. "Yes, I made that clear, I think," said Theo, "and she cares for me. I told you I asked her to marry me." He laid stress on the latter half of his statement because of a certain emphasis in Molly's. "I don't like to hurt you--while you're ill," she ventured. Theodore thrust forth his hand eagerly. "Come closer," he pleaded. "You know something; you can tell me. Please do, Molly." "I don't know much, mind you, Theo----" "Take hold of my hand, Molly!... Please don't keep me in such suspense." She drew her chair closer to the bed, her heart throbbing first with desire, then with anger, and laid her white fingers in his. "Tell me," insisted Mr. King. "There was a boy----" "You mean the little blind boy?" "No, no," denied Molly, paling. The very mention of such an affliction hurt her sadly. "No," she said again, "I mean a friend of the boy who was shot; you remember him?" "Oh, I remember Maudlin Bates; certainly I do; but I don't think I heard of any other." Molly hadn't either; she had shot at random and the shot told. Theodore sat up in bed with whitening face. "Molly," he stammered, "Molly, has any one hurt her? Has----" Molly shook her head disgustedly. "Don't be foolish, Theo," she chided. "No one would want to hurt a grown girl like her." "Then what about the man?" "I think she went away with him." "Where to?" "I'm not sure----" Theodore sank back. Molly's fingers slipped from his, and for a moment he covered his face with his hands, soundless sobs shaking his weak body. The woman knew by his appearance that he believed her absolutely. "It'll kill me!" he got out at last. Molly slipped an arm under his head. She had never seen him in such a state. "Theo, don't! Don't!" she implored. "Please don't shake so, and I'll tell you all I know." "Very well!... I'm listening." The words were scarcely audible, but Molly knew and hugged the thought that his belief in Jinnie Grandoken had been shaken. "Did you hear that Jinnie was in Binghamton?" "Yes," murmured Theodore. The woman released her hold on Theodore, and said: "The man was over there with her." Theodore turned his face quickly away and groaned. "That's enough," he said. "Don't tell me any more." They were quiet for a long time--very quiet. Then Molly, with still enlarging plans, burst out: "What if I should bring her back to you, Theo?" He flashed dark-circled eyes toward her. "Could you?" he asked drearily. "I think so, perhaps. Suppose you write her a little note, and then----" "Ring the bell for writing material quickly." He had all his old-time eagerness. He was partly sitting up, and Molly placed another pillow under his head. Theodore wrote steadily for some moments. Then he addressed an envelope to "Jinnie Grandoken," placed the letter in it, and fastened down the flap. "You won't mind?" he asked wearily, handing it to Molly and sinking back. Molly took the letter, and with a few more words, went out. Once at home in her bedroom, she sat down, breathing deeply. With a hearty good will she could have torn the letter into shreds, but instead she ripped open the envelope and read it. After she had finished, she let the paper flutter from her hand and sat thinking for a long time. Then, sighing, she got up and tucked the letter inside her dress. CHAPTER XLIV MOLLY GIVES AN ORDER TO JINNIE A motor car dashed to the side of the street, and Jordan Morse helped Molly to the pavement. She stood for a moment looking at the gorge building contemplatively. "And she's been here all the while?" she remarked. "Yes, and a devil of a time I've had to keep her, too. If there'd been any one in the whole place, I believe she'd have made them hear; though since the boy came she's behaved better." Morse's face became positively brutal under recollections. "I've made her mind through him," he terminated. Jinnie had put Bobbie into bed and kissed him, and soon the child was breathing evenly. She knew Jordan Morse would come that night, so she closed the door between the two rooms and walked nervously up and down. Bobbie was always ill for hours after Morse had made his daily calls. She hoped the man would allow the child to remain in bed. When the key grated in the lock, she was standing in the middle of the room, her eyes fastened on the door. Every time he came, she had hopes that he might relent, if but a little. Morse entered, followed by Molly the Merry. Jinnie took a step forward when she saw the woman. Molly paused and inspected sharply the slim young figure, her mind comprehending all its loveliness. Then woman to woman they measured each other, as only women can. Jinnie advanced impulsively. "You've come to take me home!" she breathed. Molly shook her head. "I've come to talk to you," she retorted hoarsely. Never had she seen so beautiful a girl! The martyrdom Jinnie had endured had only enhanced her attractiveness. "Sit down," said Molly peevishly. Jinnie made a negative gesture. "I'm tired of sitting.... Oh, you will do something for me, something for poor little Bobbie?" Morse moved to the door between the two rooms, but Jinnie rushed in front of him. "He's asleep," she said beseechingly. "Don't wake him up! He's had a dreadful spell with his heart to-day." Morse turned inquiring eyes upon Molly. "You wanted to see him, didn't you?" he asked. Molly flung out a hand pettishly. "Let him sleep," she replied. "I don't want to be bored with fits and tears." Jinnie sank into a chair. "He ought to have a doctor," she sighed, as if she were speaking to herself. Then turning to Molly, she bent an entreating look upon her. "Please do something for him. Get a doctor, oh, do! He's so little and so sick." "I'm not a bit interested in him," replied Molly with a shrug. Jinnie's nerves had borne all they could. She trembled unceasingly. The girlish spirit had been broken by Morse's continual persecution. "He's so little," she petitioned again, "and he can't live long." As Molly had said, she was not interested in the sleeping child. The only time she cared to hear him mentioned was when Jordan told her of Jinnie's anguish over his treatment of the child. She had delighted in his vividly described scene of how he had forced the girl to do his will through her love for the little fellow. Now she, too, would wreak her vengeance on Jinnie through the same source. "I've come to tell you something about Theodore King," she remarked slowly, watching the girl avidly the while. Jinnie sat up quickly. If her dear one had sent her a message, then he must know where she was. "Then tell it," was all she said. Molly put her hand into a leather hand bag and drew forth a letter. "It isn't for you," she stated, with glinting eyes. "I've known for a long time you thought he cared for you----" "He does," interjected Jinnie emphatically. "I think not. Here's a letter he wrote to me. It will dispel any idea you may have about his affection for you." "I don't wish to read your letter," said Jinnie proudly. "Read it!" ordered Morse frowning, and because she feared him, Jinnie took the letter nervously. The woman's words had shattered her last hope. For a moment the well-known handwriting whirled; then the words came clearly before her vision: * * * * * "MY DARLING," she read. "Won't you come to me when you get this? My heart aches to have you once more in my arms. I shall expect you very soon. With all my love, "THEODORE." * * * * * It was not strange that she crushed the paper between her fingers. "You needn't destroy my letter," Molly said mockingly, thrusting forth her hand. "Give it to me." She took it from Jinnie's shaking hand and, smoothing it out, replaced it in her pocket book. "I wouldn't have come but for your own good," she said, looking up. "Mr. Morse told me you had an idea that Mr. King loved you, and I want you to write him a letter----" "Write who a letter?" asked Jinnie dully. "Theodore." "Why?" "Because I tell you to," snapped Molly. Then taking another letter from her bag, she held it out. "You're to copy this and give it to Mr. Morse to-morrow." Jinnie took the letter and read it slowly. She struggled to her feet. "I'll not write it," she said hoarsely. "I think you will," said Morse, rising. Jinnie stared at him until he reached the closed door behind which Bobbie slept. "Don't! Don't!" she shuddered. "I'll write, I'll do anything if you won't hurt Bobbie." Raising her eyes to Morse, she said in subdued tones, "I'll try to give it to you to-morrow." Never had her heart ached as it did then. The perils she was passing through and had passed through were naught to the present misery. She realized then her hope had been in Theodore's rescuing her. A certain new dignity, however, grew upon her at that moment. She stood up, looking very tall, very slight, to the man and woman watching her. "I wish you'd both go," she said wearily. "I'd rather be alone with Bobbie." Molly smiled and went out with Jordan Morse. "She gave in all right," remarked Molly, when they were riding down the hill. "I knew she would." Morse shrugged his shoulders. "Of course. She worships Grandoken's youngster.... I was wondering there once how you felt when you knew she was reading her own letter." Molly's face grew dark with passionate rebellion. "He'll write me one of my own before the year is out," said she. "I'm not so sure!" responded Morse thoughtfully. For a long time after the closing of the door, Jinnie sat huddled in the chair. Nothing else in all the world could have hurt her as she had been hurt that night, and it wasn't until very late that she crept in beside the blind boy, and after four or five hours, dropped asleep. CHAPTER XLV WRITING A LETTER TO THEODORE The first thing Jinnie saw the next morning was the rough draft of the letter Molly had ordered her to copy. To send it to Theodore was asking more of her than she could bear. She turned and looked at Bobbie. He was still sleeping his troubled, short-breathed sleep. She had shielded him with her life, with her liberty. Now he demanded, in that helpless, babyish, blind way of his, that she repudiate her love. In the loneliness of the gorge house she had become used to the idea of never again seeing Theodore, but to allow him to think the false thing in that letter was dreadful. She picked it up and glanced it over once more, then dropped it as if the paper had scorched her fingers. She'd die rather than send it, and she would tell her uncle so when he came that morning. She was very quiet, more than usually so, when she gave the blind boy his breakfast. "Bobbie," she said, "you know I'd do anything for you in this whole world, don't you? I mean--I mean anything I could?" Mystified, the boy bobbed his curly head. "Sure I do, Jinnie, and I'd do anything for you too, honey." She kissed him passionately, as her eyes sought the letter once more. It lay on the floor, the words gleaming up at her in sinister mockery. She tore her eyes from it, shaking in dread. Would she have the courage to stand against Jordan Morse in this one thing? She had given in to him at every point, but this time she intended to stand firmly upon the rock of her love. Once more she picked up the letter and put it away. Two hours later, with loathing and disgust depicted in her white face, she saw Mr. Morse enter, and her blazing blue eyes stabbed the man's anger to the point of desiring to do her harm. For a moment he contemplated her in silence. He was going to have trouble with her that day. What a fool Molly was! It was she who insisted upon that bally letter. What did he care about Theodore King? Still his wife had him completely within her power, and he was really afraid of her now and then when she flew into rages about his niece and Theodore. He mopped his brow nervously. A few days more and it would be ended. Inside of one week he would be free from every element which threatened him, free to commence the search for his child. He strode across the room to Jinnie. "Come on with me," he ordered under his breath. Jinnie obediently followed him into the inner room. Morse slammed the door with his foot. "Where's the letter?" he growled between his teeth. Jinnie went to the table, got the original draft and handed it over. "Here it is," she said slowly. He glanced over the paper. "Why, this is the one we left here yesterday, isn't it?" "Yes!" "Where is the one you wrote? I don't want this." A glint of understanding flashed upon him. "Where is the other?" he demanded once more. "I haven't written it and I don't intend to." For one single instant Morse's mind swept over the sacrifices she had made. She had done every single thing he had told her, not for her sake but for others. He shuddered when he thought of the trouble he would have had with her had not the blind boy been within his power also. "Get the paper and write it now," he said ominously. "I will not!" She meant the words, a righteous indignation flaming her face, making her eyes shine no longer blue, but opal color. Morse wondered dully if she could and would stand out against what he would be forced to do. "I see," he began shiftily. "I have to teach you a lesson every time I come here, eh?" "This time you won't," she flashed at him. "This time I will," he taunted. "I'd rather be dead," she faltered. "I'd rather be dead than write it." "Perhaps! But would you rather have----" he made a backward jerk of his thumb toward the other room--"him dead?" Jinnie's eyes misted in agony, but Theodore was still near her in spirit, and she remembered the dear hours they had spent together and how much she loved him. A sudden swift passion shook her as his kisses lived warm again upon her face. That letter she would not write. But as she made this decision for the hundredth time that day, Morse's words recurred to her. Would she rather have Bobbie dead? Yes, if she were dead too. But life was so hard to part with! She was so strong. How many times she had prayed of late to die! But every morning found her woefully and more miserably alive than the one before. "I understand you'd rather, then," drawled Morse. Jinnie shook her head. "I don't know what I'd rather have, only I can't write the letter." She made one rapid step toward him--"I know," she went on feverishly, "I won't ever see Theodore again----" Morse's emphatic nod broke off her words, but she went on courageously. "I don't expect to, but I love him. Can't you see that?" "Quite evident," replied the man. "Why hurt me more than necessary then?" she demanded. "This is part of Miss Merri----" "She loves him too?" cried Jinnie, staggering back. "Yes, and he--well, you saw his letter yesterday." "Yes, I saw it," breathed Jinnie with swift coming breath. "Miss Merriweather thinks Theodore might still feel his obligations to you unless you----" "Does she know he asked me to marry him?" In spite of her agony, she thrilled in memory. "Yes, and he told me, too. But Miss Merriweather intends to marry him herself, and all she wants is to wipe thoughts of you from his mind." A powerful argument swept from her lips. "It wouldn't make any difference to him about me if he loved her." "You're an analytical young miss," said Morse with one of his disagreeable smiles. "You've taught me to be," she retorted, blazing. "Now listen! You asked me if I'd rather have Bobbie die than write the letter, didn't you?" He nodded. "Then I say 'yes'." She caught her breath. "We'll both die." "Well, by God, you're a cool one! Theodore's more lucky than I thought. So that's the way you love him?" She grew more inexplicable with each passing day. "Poor Theodore!" murmured Morse, to break the tense silence. "I thought it all out this morning," explained Jinnie. "Bobbie's awfully ill, terribly. He can't live long anyway, and I----" A terrific sob shook her as a raging gale rends a slender flower. Jinnie controlled her weeping that the blind child in the other room might not hear. Never had Jordan been so sorely tempted to do a good deed. Good deeds were not habitual to him, but at that moment a desire possessed him to take her in his arms, to soothe her, to restore her to Peggy and give her back to Theodore. But the murder scene in the cobbler's shop came back with strong renewed vigor. He had gone too far, and he must have money. Molly held him in her power, and as he thought of her tightly set lips, the danger signal she had tossed at him more times than once, he crushed dead his better feeling. "Your plan won't work," he said slowly. "Write the letter--I am in a hurry." "I will not," she refused him once more. Morse walked to the door, and she allowed him to open it. Then with clenched hands she tottered after him. He was going to kill Bobbie and herself. Somehow within her tortured being she was glad. Morse waited and looked back, asking her a question silently. She made no response, however, but cast her eyes upon the blind boy sitting dejectedly upon the floor, one arm around Happy Pete. "Jinnie," said Bobbie, rolling his eyes, "I was afraid you were goin' to stay in there all day." "Come here, boy," ordered Morse. "Get up and come here." Bobbie turned his delicate, serious face in the direction of the voice. "I don't want to," he gulped, shaking his head. "I don't like you, Mister Black Man. I can't get up anyway, my heart hurts too much!" Still the girl stood with the vision of Theodore King before her. "I won't write it, I won't," she droned to herself insistently. Morse sprang forward and grasped the child. "Get up," he hissed. Bobbie scrambled up because he was made to. He uttered a frightened, terrified cry. Then, "Jinnie!" he gasped. Jinnie saw Morse shake the slender little body and drop into a chair, dragging the child forward. Bobbie could no longer speak. The dazed girl knew the little heart was beating in its very worst terror. She couldn't bear the sight and closed her eyes for an instant. When she opened them, Morse's hand was raised above the boy's golden head, but she caught it in hers before it descended. "I'll do it," she managed to whisper. "Look! Look! You've killed him." In another moment she had Bobbie in her arms, his face pressed against her breast. "Get out of here!" she said, deathly white, to Morse. "I'll do it, come back to-morrow." And Morse was glad to escape. After Jinnie brought Bobbie to his senses and he lay like a crumpled leaf on the divan, she took up the hated letter. She sat down to read it once more. It was short, concise, and to the point. * * * * * "MR. KING: "I made a mistake in ever thinking I cared for you. I have some one else now I love better, and expect to be very happy with him. "JINNIE GRANDOKEN." * * * * * The next morning when Morse came jauntily in, she handed him the copy of it without a word. He only said to her: "You'd have saved yourself a lot of trouble if you'd done this in the first place. You won't bother me long now. Mr. King is home and almost well." Then he smiled, showing his white, even teeth. "He'll be glad to receive this letter." "Get out," Jinnie gritted. "Get out before I--I kill you!" * * * * * Two days later Molly Merriweather was in the seventh heaven of bliss. As Morse had said, Theodore was home, looking more like himself. With her heart in her mouth, the woman entered his sitting room with Jinnie's letter. Jordan had had it mailed to King from Binghamton. "I've brought you a letter, Theodore," smiled Molly nervously. He extended his hand, and upon recognizing the handwriting, turned deadly white. "I'd like to be alone," said he without looking up. When he sent for her a little while later, and she sat opposite him, he said: "I'd rather not speak of--of--Miss Grandoken again. Will you give me a drink, Molly?" And the woman noted the hurt look in his eyes. CHAPTER XLVI "BUST 'EM OUT" "Jinnie, ain't we ever goin' back to Peggy?" Bobbie asked one day, his eyes rolling upward. His small face was seamed with questioning anxiety. The girl drew him to her lap. How many times Jinnie had asked that question of herself! How she longed for Paradise Road, with its row of shacks, Peggy and the baby! Bobby knew how she felt by the way she squeezed his hand. "Ain't we?" he asked again. "Some time," answered Jinnie limply. "Did the black man say we could go, Jinnie?" the boy demanded. Jinnie patted his head comfortingly. "I hope he'll take us home soon," she remarked, trying to put full assurance into her tones. Bobbie zigzagged back to the divan, drew himself upon it, and Jinnie knew by his abstracted manner that he was turning the matter over in his busy little brain. Two hours later, when Jordan Morse came in, the child was still sitting in the same position, and the man beckoned the girl into the other room. "Grandoken's trial is to start this afternoon within an hour," he informed her. "You'll be here to-day and to-morrow. You see the court won't be long in proving the cobbler's guilt." If he had expected her to cry, he was mistaken. She was past crying, seemingly having shed all of her tears. "He didn't do it," she averred stubbornly. "I know he didn't." In justice to Lafe, she always reiterated this. Morse gave a sinister laugh. "What you know or don't know won't matter," he responded, and looking at the angry, beautiful face, he ejaculated, "Thank God for that!" Jinnie turned her back, but he requested her sharply to look at him. "Have you told the boy where I'm going to take you?" he demanded, when she was eyeing him disdainfully. "No." "I never knew a woman before who could hold her tongue," he commented in sarcasm. Jinnie didn't heed the compliment. "When he asks you questions, what do you tell him?" "That you will come for us soon." "I will, all right." Jinnie went nearer him. "Where are you going to take him?" Morse shrugged his shoulders. "You'll know in time," said he. How ominous his words were, and how his eyes narrowed as he looked at her! She was thoroughly afraid of that tone in his voice. Her own fate she was sure of, but Bobbie--desperation filled her soul. She would beg Morse to let him go back to Peggy. Lifting clasped hands, she walked very close to him. "You're going to have all my money," she said with emphasis. "I've done everything I can, and I'll make Bobbie promise not to say a word to any one if you'll take him to Mrs. Grandoken." Morse shook his head. "Too dangerous," he replied, and he went out without a glance at the blind boy on the divan. Once more alone with Bobbie, Jinnie sat down to think. How could she rescue him from this awful position? How get him back to Peggy? Somehow she felt that if she could be sure the little boy was safe, she could go away to the place Morse had described with at least a little relief. That day Lafe's accusers were to try him before a jury----. She had almost lost hope for the cobbler--he was lame, had no friends, and was a Jew, one of the hated race. She knew how the people of Bellaire despised the Jews. For Peggy she didn't worry so much. Jordan Morse had given his solemn promise that, if Lafe died in the electric chair--and she died to the world--he would be of financial assistance to Peggy. She sat studying Bobbie attentively. The child's face was pathetically white and she could see the quick palpitation of his heart under his jacket. "I heard what the black man said, Jinnie," Bobbie blurted presently, sinking in a little heap. "I mean when he had you in the other room a little while ago. You was beggin' him to help me; wasn't you, Jinnie?" Jinnie went to him quickly and gathered him into her arms. "Bobbie," she implored, "you must never let him know, never, never, that you heard him talking. He might hurt you worse than he has." Bobbie flashed his eyes questioningly in evident terror. "What'd he hurt me more for? I ain't done nothin' to him." "I guess because he's bad, dear," said Jinnie sadly. "Then if he's bad, why do you stay here?" He clung to her tremulously. "Take me away, Jinnie!" "I can't!" lamented Jinnie. "I've told you, Bobbie, the door's locked." She could lovingly deceive him no longer. How the little body trembled! How the fluttering hands sought her aid in vain! "My stars're all gone, Jinnie," sobbed Bobbie. "My beautiful stars! I can't see any of 'em if I try. I'm awful 'fraid, honey dear. It's so dark." Jinnie tightened her arms about him, racking her brain for soothing words. "But Lafe's God is above the dark, Bobbie," she whispered reverently. "We've got to believe it, dearie! God is back up there ... just up there." She took his slender forefinger and pointed upward. "How does God look, Jinnie? Just how does he look?" "I've never seen him," admitted the girl, "but I think, Bobbie, I think he looks like Lafe. I know he smiles like him anyway." "I'm glad," sighed the boy. "Then He'll help us, won't He? Lafe would if he could. If you say He will, He will, Jinnie!" Five tense minutes passed in silence. Then: "Sure we couldn't get out of the window, dearie?" asked Bobbie. "They're locked, too," answered the girl, low-toned. "I'd bust 'em out," volunteered the boy, with sudden enthusiasm. "But there's a deep gorge in front of every one, honey," replied Jinnie sadly. Yet Bobbie's words--"bust 'em out"--took hold of her grippingly, and the thought of leaving that unbearable place was like a tonic to the frantic girl. She crossed the room rapidly and examined the window panes. But even if she could break them, as Bobbie suggested, the water below would receive their bodies, and death would follow. If it were a street, she might manage. Yet the sight of the flowing water, the dark depths between the ragged rocks, did not send Bobbie's words, "bust 'em out," from her mind. If they fell together, the boy would never be tortured any more. To-morrow Jordan Morse would be in the courtroom all day. To-morrow----God, dear God! She seemed to hear Lafe's monotone, "There's always to-morrow, Jinnie." She was called upon to think, to act alone in a tragic way. Of course she would be killed if she jumped into the deep gorge with the child and Happy Pete. She tried to think, to plan, but after the manner of all believing sufferers, could only pray. Bobbie need fear no evil! "Angels have been given charge over him, and Bobbie shall not want," Jinnie whispered, her mind spinning around like a child's top. A sudden faith boomed at the portals of her soul. What was the use of asking help for Bobbie if she didn't have faith in an answer? To-day would bring forth a plan for to-morrow. To-morrow Bobbie would be saved from Jordan Morse. To-morrow would end his terror in the gorge house. To-morrow--she would be eighteen years old! "Bobbie," she entreated, going to the child swiftly, "Bobbie, do you remember any prayers Lafe taught you?" The child bobbed his head. "Sure," he concurred. "'Now I lay me' and 'Our Father which art in Heaven.'... I know them, Jinnie." "Then sit upon the divan again and say them over and over, and pray for Lafe, and that you'll get out of here and be happy. You mustn't tell Mr. Morse if he comes, but I'm going to try to get you out of the window." As she stood in the gathering gloom and peered into the water below, Jinnie could hear the child lisping his small petitions. At that moment a new faith came for herself. Lafe's angels would save her, too, from Jordan Morse's revenge. At ten-thirty the next morning Morse came. With trepidation Jinnie heard him open the door. He was extremely nervous and stayed only a few moments. "I've got to be in court at eleven," he explained, "and I'll come for you both about ten this evening. Be ready, you and the boy, and remember what I told you!" When they were alone once more, she sat down beside the blind child and placed her arm around him. "Bobbie, will you do exactly what I tell you?" "Sure," responded Bobbie, cheerfully. "Are we goin' home?" Without answering him, Jinnie said: "Then take Happy Pete and don't move until I get back. Just pray and pray and pray! That's all." Happy Pete snuggled his head under Bobbie's arm and they both sat very still. The boy scarcely dared to breathe, he was so anxious to please his Jinnie. The farthest window in the inner room door seemed to be the best one to attack. If Morse surprised her, it would be easier to cover up her work. With a frantic prayer on her lips, she took off her shoe and gave the pane of glass one large, resounding blow. It cracked in two, splinters not only flying into the room, but tumbling into the gorge below. Then she hastily hammered away every particle of glass from the frame, and, shoving her shoulders through, looked out and down. The very air seemed filled with angels. They could and would save her and Bobbie even in the water--even if they were within the suction of the falls there, some distance below and beyond. Then her eyes swept over the side of the building, and she discovered a stone ledge wide enough for a human being to crawl along. Would she dare try it with her loved ones? She distinctly remembered seeing a painter's paraphernalia in the front, and they might be there still! The more she thought, the greater grew her hope, and with this growing hope came a larger faith. At least she'd find what was at the end of the building away off there to the east. To-day, yes, now!... She couldn't wait, for her uncle was coming to-night. It must be now, this minute. She went back to Bobbie. "I'm going to try it, darling," she told him, kissing his cheek. "Sit right here until I get back. Hang to Petey. He might follow me." Then cautiously she dragged her body through the hole in the window, and began to crawl along the stone ledge. The roar of the water on the rocks below made her dizzy. But over and over did she cry into God's ever listening ear: "He has given--he has given his angels--angels charge over thee." Jinnie reached the corner of the building, and looked out over the city. The ledge extended around the other side of the building, and she turned the corner and went slowly onward. At the south end she stopped still, glancing about. Only one thing of any value was in the range of her vision. The two long ropes she had seen long before were still hanging from the roof and fastened securely to a large plank almost on the ground. It brought to Jinnie's mind what Lafe had told her,--of Jimmie Malligan who had been killed, and of how he himself had lost his legs. Could she, by means of the rope, save the three precious things back in that awful room--Bobbie, Happy Pete, and her fiddle? To be once more under God's sun with the blue above gave her new strength. Then she turned and crawled slowly back. At the corner she grew faint-hearted. It must have been the gorge below that made her breath come in catching sobs. But on and on she went until through the window she could see Bobbie with Happy Pete asleep in his arms. The child was still muttering over his little prayers, his blind eyes rolling in bewildered anxiety. Jinnie was very white when she sat down beside him. Putting her face close to his, she brushed his cheek lovingly. "Bobbie," she said, touching his hair with her lips, "how much do you love Jinnie?" "More'n all the world," replied Bobbie without hesitation. "Then if you love me _that_ much, you'll do just what I tell you." "Yes," Bobbie assured her under his breath. Jinnie took a towel--she couldn't find a rope--and strapped the violin to Bobbie's back. "I've got to take my fiddle with me, dearie," she explained, "and I can't carry it because I've got you. You can't carry it because you've got to hold Happy Pete.... Now, then, come on!" Jinnie drew the reluctant, trembling child to his feet and permitted him to feel around the window-sash; she also held him tightly while he measured the stone ledge with his fingers. "I'm awful 'fraid," he moaned, drooping. Jinnie feared he was going to have another fainting spell. To ward it off, she said firmly: "Bobbie, you want to see Lafe, don't you?" "S'awful much," groaned Bobbie. "Then don't hold your breath." She saw him stagger, and grasping him, cried out "Breathe, Bobbie, breathe! We're going to Peggy." Bobbie began to breathe naturally, and a beatific smile touched the corners of his lips. "I got so many stars to-day, Jinnie," he quavered, "one slipped right down my throat." "But you mustn't be scared again, Bobbie! If we stay, the black man'll come back and shake you again and take us to some place that'll make us both sick. You just keep on praying, and I will, too.... Now, then, I'm going out, and when I say, 'Ready,' you crawl after me." "What's that noise?" shivered Bobbie, clutching Happy Pete. "It's water," answered Jinnie, "water in the gorge." Bobbie's teeth chattered. "Do we have to jump in it?" "No, I'm going to take you down a rope." With that she crawled through the hole, and when once on the stone ledge, she put her hand in on the boy's head. "Lift up your leg and hang tight to Petey," she shuddered, and the blind boy did as he was bidden, and Jinnie pulled him, with the dog and fiddle, through the opening. She put him on his knees in front of her with her arms tightly about him. "Jinnie, Jinnie!" moaned Bobbie. "My heart's jumpin' out of my mouth!" Jinnie pressed her teeth together with all her might and main, shivering so in terror that she almost lost the strength of her arms. "Don't think about your heart," she implored, "and don't shake so! Just think that you're going to Lafe and Peg." Then they began their long, perilous journey to the corner of the building. It must have taken twenty minutes. Jinnie had no means by which to mark the time. She only knew how difficult it was to keep the blind child moving, with the water below bellowing its stormy way down the rock-hill to the lake. Happy Pete gave a weird little cry now and then. But on and on they went, and at the corner Jinnie spoke: "Bobbie, we've got to turn here. Let your body go just as I shove it." Limp was no word for Bobbie's body. He was dreadfully tired. His heart thumped under Jinnie's arms like a battering-ram. "Bobbie, don't breathe that way, don't!" she entreated. "I can't help it, honey! my side hurts," he whispered. "But I'll go where you take me, Jinnie dear." The girl turned him carefully around the sharp ledge corner, and they went on again. Her arms seemed almost paralyzed, but they clung to the child ahead, and the child ahead clung to the little dog, who hung very straight and inert in front of his body. When they reached the south corner, Jinnie explained their next move to Bobbie in this way: "Now listen," she told him. "You get on my back with your legs under my arms, hang to me like dear life, and keep Happy Pete between us. Don't hurt him if you can help it." They were within touch of one of the dangling ropes and far below Jinnie saw the swaying plank to which it was fastened. Once on that board, she could get to the ground. Then she continued: "Now while I lean over, you get on my back." As she guided his slender hands, she felt them cold within her own, but in obedience to her command, Bobbie put his legs about her, one arm around her neck, and with the other held Happy Pete. "We won't fall, will we, Jinnie?" quavered the boy. "No," said Jinnie, helping to settle him on her back. Then she crawled closer to the rope, took up her skirt and placed it about the rough hemp. She was afraid to use her bare hands. The rope might cut and burn them so dreadfully that she'd have to let go. With a wild inward prayer, she swung off into the air, with the boy, the dog and the fiddle on her back, and began her downward slide. She counted the windows as they passed, one, two, three, and then four. Only a little distance more before she would be upon firm ground. As her feet touched the plank, she glanced into the street and in that awful moment saw Jordan Morse crossing the corner diagonally, within but a few yards of where she stood, terrified. CHAPTER XLVII BOBBIE'S STARS RENEW THEIR SHINING Jinnie stood rooted to the spot, the burden on her back bearing heavily upon her. She scarcely dared breathe, but kept her startled eyes upon the advancing man. Her uncle was walking with his head down. As he approached the building, a terrible shiver passed over the blind boy. "The black man's comin'!" he shuddered. "I hear----" "Hush!" whispered Jinnie, and Bobbie dropped his head and remained quiet. The girl's heart was thumping almost as fast as his. In the oppressive silence she heard Bobbie's faint whisper: "Our--our Father who art in Heaven," and her own lips murmured: "He has given his angels charge over thee." Without raising his eyes, Jordan Morse sprang to the steps and entered the door. Jinnie turned her head and almost mechanically watched him disappear. Then she took one long, sobbing breath. "Bobbie, Bobbie," she panted, "get down quick!" The boy slid to the plank, dropping Happy Pete. Jinnie grasped the child's cold hand in hers, and they ran rapidly to a thick clump of trees. Once out of sight of the building, she picked up the little dog and sank down, clutching Bobbie close to her heart. The beginning of the second day of Lafe's trial brought a large crowd to the courthouse. All the evidence thus far given had been against him, but he sat in his wheelchair, looking quietly from under his shaggy brows, and never once, with all that was said against him, did the sweet, benevolent expression change to anger. The cobbler had put his life into higher hands than those in the courtroom, and he feared not. After the morning session, Jordan Morse left the room with a satisfied smile. He walked rapidly to the streetcar and took a seat, with a thoughtful expression on his countenance. Lafe would be convicted, and he would get rid of the girl now shut away from the world in the gorge building. Then, with the money that would be his, he'd find his child,--the little boy who was his own and for whom he so longed. He often looked at Molly and wondered how she could smile so radiantly when she knew she had lost her child,--her own flesh and blood,--her own little son. Even after he left the car and was approaching the gorge, he worried about the two in the house. It was because his mind was bent on important plans that he did not see Jinnie swinging in the sunshine between heaven and earth. He climbed the stairs, framing a sentence for the girl's benefit. As he unlocked the door, the silence of the room bore down upon him like an evil thing. He went hurriedly into the second room, only to find it also empty. For the moment he did not notice the shattered glass on the floor, and his heart sank within him, but the breeze that drifted to his face brought his eyes to the broken window. With an oath, he jumped to it and looked out. Far below, the water tumbled as of yore over the rocks. He strained horrified eyes for a glimpse of a human body. The girl and boy must have dropped together into the deep abyss, preferring death to uncertainty. They were gone--gone over the ragged rocks, where their bodies would be lost in some of the fathomless juts a mile beyond. He would never be bothered with Jinnie again. Then he turned from the window. His most terrifying obstacle was out of his way. The blind child did not concern him. He was but a feather in the wind,--the little fellow who always shrank from him. As if leaving a tomb, he went softly from the room and turned the key in the lock with a sigh. Jinnie had relieved him of an awful responsibility. At least fate had taken from his hands a detestable task, at which he had many a time recoiled. So far all of his enemies, with the exception of Theodore King, had one by one been taken away, and he swung himself out of the building with a great burden lifted from his shoulders. As he passed, Jinnie was still drawing long breaths under the thick bushes, Bobbie's face against her breast, and it was not until she was sure Morse had gone that she ventured to speak. "We're going to Lafe and Peg, Bobbie," she said. "Can you walk a long way?" "Yes," gurgled Bobbie, color flaming his face. "My legs'll go faster'n anything." And "faster'n anything" those thin little legs did go. The boy trotted along beside his friend, down the hill to the flats. Jinnie chose a back street leading to the lower end of the town. "I'd better carry you a while, dearie," she offered presently, noting with what difficulty he breathed. "You take the fiddle!" And without remonstrance from the boy she lifted him in her arms. From the tracks Lafe's small house had the appearance of being unoccupied. Jinnie went in, walking from the shop to the kitchen, where she called "Peggy!" two or three times. Then the thought of the cobbler's trial rushed over her. Peggy and the baby were at court with Lafe, of course. Knowing she must face her uncle in the courtroom, she went to Lafe's black box and drew forth the sealed letter her father had sent to Grandoken. This she hid in her dress, and taking Bobbie and the fiddle, she went out and closed the door. Another long walk brought them to the courthouse, which stood in solemn stone silence, with one side to the dark, iron-barred jail. Jinnie shivered when she thought of the weary months Lafe had sat within his gloomy cell. She entered the building, holding Bobbie's hand. Every seat in the room was filled, and a man was making a speech, using the names of Maudlin Bates and Lafe Grandoken. Then she looked about once more, craning her neck to catch sight of those ahead. Her eyes fell first upon Lafe, God bless him! There he sat, her cobbler, in the same old wheelchair, wearing that look of benign patience so familiar to her. Only a little distance from him sat Peggy, the baby sleeping on her knees. Molly the Merry was seated next to Jordan Morse, whose large white hand nervously clutched the back of the woman's chair. Several stern-looking men at a table had numerous papers over which they were bending. Then Jinnie's gaze found Jasper Bates. She could see, by the look upon his face, that he was suffering. She felt sorry, sorry for any one who was in trouble, who had lost a son in such a manner as Jasper had. Then she awoke to the import of the lawyer's words. "Before you, Gentlemen of the Jury," he was saying, "is a murderer, a Jew, Lafe Grandoken. You know very well the reputation of the people on Paradise Road. The good book says 'a life for a life.' This Jew shot and killed his neighbor----" Jinnie lost his next words. She was looking at Lafe, and saw his dear face grow white with stabbing anguish. The girl's throat filled with sobs, and she suddenly remembered something Theodore had once said to her. "If you want anything, child, just play for it." And she wanted the life of her cobbler, the man who had taken her, with such generosity, into his heart and meagre home. She slipped the fiddle from the case and stooped and whispered in Bobbie's ear: "Grab the back of my dress, dearie, and don't let go!" She moved into the aisle, making ready to start on her life mission. She lifted the bow, and with a long sweep, drew an intense minor note from the strings. A sea of faces swung in her direction. Jinnie forgot every one but the cobbler--she was playing for his life--improvising on the fiddle strings a wild, pleading, imploring melody. On and on she went, with Blind Bobbie, in trembling confusion, clinging to her skirts, and Happy Pete with sagging head at their heels. At the first sound of the fiddle Lafe tried to rise, and did rise. He stood for a moment on his shaking legs, and there, to the amazement of the gaping crowd of his townsfolk, he swayed to and fro, watching and listening as the wonderful music filled and thrilled through the room. A heavenly light shone on the wrinkled face. Jordan Morse got to his feet, chalk white. Molly the Merry was looking at Jinnie as if she saw a ghost. The onlookers saw Lafe's unsteady steps as he tottered toward the lovely girl and blind child. When he was within touching distance, she put the instrument and bow under one arm and took Lafe's hand in hers. Her voice rang out like the tone of a bell. "I've come for you, Lafe. I've come to take you back." Then Molly's eyes dropped from Jinnie to the boy, and a cry broke from her. Before her was the child for whom, in spite of the evidence of her smiling lips, she had truly mourned. The wan, blind face was turned upward, the golden hair lying in damp curls on the lovely head. Spontaneously the woman reached forward and took the little hand in hers. All the mother within her leaped up, like a brilliant flash of lightning. "My baby!" was all she said; and Bobbie, white, trembling and palpitating, cried in a weird, high voice: "I've found my mother!" Then Jordan Morse understood. The hot blood was tearing to his ear drums. The blind boy he had persecuted and tortured, the boy he had made suffer, was his own son. That wonderful quality in the man, the fatherhood within him, rose in surging insistence. Instant remorse attacked him, as an oak is attacked by fierce winter storms. He saw the boy's angelic face grow the color of death; saw Molly the Merry gather him up. Then a stab of jealousy cut his heart like a knife. He bent over with set jaws. "Give him to me," he cried. "He's mine!" Molly surrendered the child with reluctance, but terror and fright were depicted upon Bobbie's face. "Jinnie! Lafe! Peggy!" he screamed. "He'll hurt me! The black man's goin' to kill me! Jinnie, pretty Jinnie----" The passionate voice grew faint and ceased. Then the loving little heart burst in the boyish bosom, and Bobbie's angels bore away his young soul to another world where blindness is not,--where his uplifted being would understand that the stars he'd loved,--the stars he'd gathered in his small, unseeing head,--were but a reflection of those in God's firmament. With one final quiver he straightened out in his father's arms and was silent. All his loves and sorrows were in the eternal yesterdays, and to-day had delivered him into the charge of Lafe's angels. Jinnie was crying hysterically, and her father's dying curse upon her uncle leapt into her mind. She was clinging to the cobbler, and both had moved to Peg, where the woman sat as if turned to stone. Not a person in the courtroom stirred. In consternation the jury sat in their chairs like graven images, taking in the freshly wrought tragedy with tense expressions. The judge, too, leaned forward in his chair, watching. Jordan Morse faced the room, with its silent, observant crowd, pressing to his breast the dead body of his child. Then he turned to Lafe, white, twitching, and suffering. "I shot Maudlin Bates," he said, haltingly; then turning to the jury he continued: "The cobbler's an innocent man----" A menacing groan fell from a hundred lips at his words. He deliberately took from his hip pocket a revolver, lifted the weapon and finished: "I'm--I'm sorry, Jinnie, I'm----" Then came the sharp, short bark of the gun, and the bullet found a path to his brain. He staggered, frantically clutching the slender body of Bobbie closer--and toppled over. CHAPTER XLVIII FOR BOBBIE'S SAKE Lafe's homecoming was one of solemn rejoicing. The only shadow hanging over the happy family was the absence of Blind Bobbie, who now lay by the side of his dead father. After the first greetings, Lafe took his boy baby and pressed him gratefully to his heart. "He's beautiful, Peggy dear, ain't he?" he implored, drinking in with affectionate, fatherly eyes the rosy little face. "Wife darlin', make a long story short an' tell me he's beautiful." Mrs. Grandoken eyed her husband sternly. "Lafe," she admonished, "you're as full of brag as a egg is of meat, and salt won't save you. All your life you've boasted till I thought the world'd come to an end, an' I ain't never said a word against it. Now you can't teach me none of your bad habits, because I won't learn 'em, so don't try." She paused, her lips lifting a little at the corners, and went on: "But I'm tellin' you with my own lips there ain't a beautifuller baby in this county'n this little feller, nor one half so beautiful! So there's my mind, sir." "'Tis so, dear," murmured the cobbler, rejoicing. About five o'clock in the afternoon, while Peggy was uptown replenishing the slender larder and Lafe and Jinnie were alone with the baby, there came a timid knock. Jinnie went to the door and there stood Molly Merriweather. The woman's face was white and drawn, her eyes darkly circled underneath. One glance at her and Jinnie lost her own color. "I want to speak with you just a moment," the woman said beseechingly. "May I come in?" Without answering, Jinnie backed into the room, which action Molly took as a signal to enter. She inclined her head haughtily to the cobbler. "Would you mind if I spoke to Miss Grandoken alone?" Lafe looked to Jinnie for acquiescence. "If Jinnie'll help me to the kitchen," he replied, "you can talk here. I'm a little unsteady on my feet yet, miss!" It took some time for the tottering legs to bear him away, but the strong, confident girl helped him most patiently. "You might just slip me the baby, Jinnie," said Lafe, after he was seated in the kitchen. "I could be lookin' at 'im while you're talkin'. You ain't mindin' the woman, honey lass, be you?" "No, dear," answered Jinnie. This done, the girl returned to Molly, who stood at the window staring out upon the tracks. She turned quickly, and Jinnie noticed her eyes were full of tears. "I suppose you won't refuse to tell me something of my--my little boy?" she pleaded. Tears welled over Jinnie's lids too. Bobbie's presence and adoration were still fresh in her mind. "He's dead," she mourned. "My little Bobbie! Poor little hurt Bobbie!" Molly made a passionate gesture with her gloved hands. "Don't, please don't say those things! I'm so miserable I can't think of him. I only wanted to know how you got him." "I just found him," stated Jinnie. Then, because Molly looked so white, she forgot the anguish the woman had caused her, and rehearsed the story of Bobbie's life from the time she had discovered him on the hill. "I guess he was always unhappy till he came to us." "And I helped to hurt him," cried Molly, shivering. "But you didn't know he was yours," soothed Jinnie. The woman shook her head. "No, of course I didn't know," she replied, and then went on rapidly: "I was so young when I married your uncle, I didn't know anything. When I lost my baby, I knew no way to search for him." "Won't you sit down?" Jinnie had forgotten that they were both standing. "Sit in that little rocker; it's Bobbie's," she finished. Molly looked at the little chair and turned away. "Lafe bought it for him," Jinnie explained eagerly. "He was too sick with his heart to get around much like other boys." Miss Merriweather wrung her hands. "Don't tell me any more," she begged piteously. "He's dead and nothing can help him now. I've--something else to say to you." Jinnie wiped her eyes. "Mr. King is quite well now, and----" "Oh, I'm glad!" cried Jinnie. "Does he--he ever speak of me?" Molly shook her head mutely. "I don't want him to see you!" she cried, her eyes growing hard and bright. "Why?" Jinnie said the one word in bewilderment. "He doesn't know yet what Jordan and I did to you, nor about--about--Bobbie. I don't want him to, either, just yet. I fear if he does, he won't care for me." Jinnie's eyes drew down at the corners. "Of course he wouldn't if he knew," she said, with tightly gripped fingers. Molly paid no heed to this, but went on rapidly: "Well, first, you don't love him as I do----" "I love him very much," interjected Jinnie, "and he used to love me." The woman's lips drew linelike over her teeth. "But you see he doesn't any longer," she got out, "and if you go away----" "Go away?" gasped Jinnie. "Yes, from Bellaire. You won't stay here, now that you're rich." She threw a contemptuous glance about the shop. Jinnie caught the inflection of the cutting voice and noted the expression in the dark eyes. "I'll stay wherever Lafe and Peggy are," she said stubbornly. "Perhaps, but that doesn't say you're going to live in this street all your life.... I want you to go back to Mottville." Jinnie still looked a cold, silent refusal. Molly grew even whiter than before, but remembering Jinnie's kindly heart, she turned her tactics. "I'm very miserable," she wept, "and I love Theodore better than any one in the world." "So do I," sighed Jinnie, bowing her head. "But he doesn't love you, child, and he does love me." Jinnie's eyes fixed their gaze steadily on the other woman. "Then why're you afraid for him to see me?" she demanded. Molly got to her feet. She saw her flimsily constructed love world shattered by the girl before her. She knew Theodore still loved her, and that if he knew all her own wickedness, his devotion would increase a hundredfold. He must not see Jinnie! Jinnie must not see him! Rapidly she reviewed the quarrels she and Theodore had had, remembered how punctiliously he always carried out his honorable intentions, and then--Molly went very near the girl, staring at her with terror in her eyes. "Jinnie," she said softly, "pretty Jinnie!" Those words were Bobbie's last earthly appeal to her, and Jinnie's face blanched in recollection. "Didn't you love my baby?" Molly hurried on. A memory of fluttering fingers traveling over her face left Jinnie's heart cold. Next to Lafe and Theodore she had loved Bobbie best. "I loved him, oh, very much indeed!" she whispered. "And he often told you he loved--his--his--mother?" "Yes." Molly was slowly drawing the girl's hands into hers. "He'd want me to be happy, Jinnie dear. Oh, please let me have the only little happiness left me!" Jinnie drew away, almost hypnotized. "I can't be a--a good woman unless I have Theodore," Molly moaned. "You're very young----" Her eyes sought the girl's, who was struggling to her feet. "For Bobbie's sake, Jinnie, for--for----" Jinnie brought to mind the blind boy, his winsome ways, his desire for his beautiful mother, her own love for Theodore, and turning away, said with a groan: "I want Theodore to be happy, and I want you to be happy, too, for--for Bobbie's sake. I--I promise not to see him, but I'll always believe he loves me--that--that----" "You're a good girl," interrupted Molly with a sigh of relief. Jinnie went to the door. "Go now," she said, with proudly lifted head, "and I hope I'll never see you again as long as I live." Then Molly went away, and for a long time the girl stood, with her back to the door, weeping out the sorrow of a torn young soul. She had promised to give up Theodore completely. She had lost her love, her friend, her sweetheart. Once more she had surrendered to Bobbie Grandoken the best she had to give. Later, when the cobbler and his wife were crooning over their little son, Jinnie, with breaking heart, decided she would leave Bellaire at once, as Molly had asked her. She must never think of Theodore again. She'd renounced him, firmly believing he still loved her; she'd promised to depart without seeing him, but surely, oh, a little farewell note, with the assurances of her gratitude, would not be breaking that promise. So, until Peggy carried the baby away to bed, the girl composed a letter to Theodore, pathetic in its terseness. She also wrote to Molly, telling her she had decided to go back to Mottville immediately. When she had finished the letters, she took her usual place on the stool at the cobbler's feet. "Lafe," she ventured, wearily, "some time I'm going to tell you everything that's happened since I last saw you, but not to-night!" "Whenever you're ready, honey," acquiesced Lafe. "And I've been thinking of something else, dear. I want to go to Mottville." Lafe's face paled. "I don't see how Peg an' me'll live without you, Jinnie." Jinnie touched the hand smoothing her curls. "I couldn't live without you either, Lafe, and I won't try----" The cobbler bent and kissed her. "I won't try, dear," she repeated. "You must all live with me, although I'll go first to arrange things a little. We'll never worry about money any more, dearest." "And Mr. King," Lafe faltered, quite disturbed, "what about him?" "I shan't ever see him again," Jinnie stated sadly. "I've just written him, and he'll understand." Lafe knew by the finality of her tones that she did not care to discuss Theodore that night. CHAPTER XLIX BACK HOME Late the next afternoon Jinnie left the train at Mottville station, her fiddle box in one hand, and a suitcase in the other. She stood a moment watching the train as it disappeared. It had carried her from the man she loved, brought her away from Bellaire, the city of her hopes. One bitter fact reared itself above all others. The world of which Theodore King had been the integral part was dead to her. What was she to do without him, without Bobbie to pet and love? But a feeling of thanksgiving pervaded her when she remembered she still had Lafe's smile, the baby to croon over, and dear, stoical Peggy. They would live with her in the old home. It was preferable to staying in Bellaire, where her heart would be tortured daily. Rather the brooding hills, the singing pines, and all the wildness of nature, which was akin to the struggle within her, and perhaps in the future she might gather up the broken threads of her life. She shook as if attacked with ague as she came within sight of the gaunt farmhouse, and the broken windows and hanging doors gave her a sense of everlasting decay. Below her in the valley lay the blue lake, a shining spread of water, quiet and silent, here and there upon it the shadow of a floating, fluffy cloud. She listened to the nagging chatter of the squirrels, mingled with the fluttering of the forest birds high above her head. As she stood on the hill, the only human being in all the wilderness about, in fancy she seemed to be at the very top of the world. She heard the old familiar voices of the mourning pines, and remembered their soothing magic, and a stinging reproach swept over her at the thought of her forgetfulness of them. They had been friends when no other friends were near. Along with the flood of memories came Matty's ghastly ghost stories and her past belief that her mother's spirit hovered near her. She went through the lane leading to the house and paused under the trees. Presently she placed her violin box and suitcase on the grass and lay down beside them. In the eaves of the house a dove cooed his late afternoon love to his mate, and Jinnie, because she was very young and very much in love, brought Theodore before her with that lingering retrospection that takes possession in such sensuous moments. She could feel again the hot tremor of his hands as they clung to hers, and she bent her head in shame at the acute, electrifying sensations. He belonged to another woman; he no longer belonged to her. She must conquer her love for him, and at that moment every desire to study, every thought of work seemed insipid and useless. The whole majestic beauty of the scene, her sudden coming into a great deal of money, did not add to her happiness. She would gladly give it all up to be again with her loves of yesterday. But that could not be! The future lay in a hard, straight line before her. She was striving against a ceaseless, resisting force,--the force of her whole passionate nature. With their usual reluctance, the things of night at length crept forth. Jinnie felt some of them as they touched her hands, her face, and moved on. One of the countless birds fluttered low, as if frightened at the advancing dark, brushed her cheek, then winged on and up and was lost in the tree above her. Somewhere deep in the gloom shrouding the little graveyard came the ghostly flutter of an owl. Jinnie was flat on her back, and how long she lay thus she could never afterward remember, but it was until the stars appeared and the moon formed queer fantastic pictures, like frost upon a window pane. In solemn review passed the days,--from that awful night when she had left her father dead upon the floor in the house nearby to the present moment. She glanced at the windows. They looked back at her like square, darkening eyes. She wondered dully how that wee star away off there could blink so peacefully in its nightly course when just below it beat a heart that hurt like hers. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, long black fingers were drawing dark pictures across the sky. A drop of rain fell upon her face, but still she did not move. Then, like rows of soldiers, the low clouds drew slowly together, and the stars softly wept themselves out. Suddenly, from the other side of the lake, the thunder rolled up, and with the distant boom came the thought of Lafe's infinite faith, and the memory fell upon Jinnie like a benediction from God's dark sky. She arose from the grass, took the fiddle box and bag, and walked to the porch. She went in through the broken door. It was dark, too dark to see much, and from the leather case she took a box of matches and a candle. Memories crowded down upon her thick and fast. In the kitchen, which was bare, she could mark the place where Matty used to sit and where her own chair had been. The long stairs that led from the basement to the upper floor yawned black in the gloom. Candle and fiddle in hand, Jinnie mounted them and halted before the unopened door. Somehow it seemed as if she would find before the grate the long, thin body of her dead father, and she distinctly remembered the spindle fire-flames falling in golden yellow licks upon his face. In her imagination she could again see the flake-like ashes, thrown out from the smoldering fire, rise grey to the ceiling, then descend silently over him like a pale shroud. After this hesitation, she slowly turned the handle of the door and walked in. The only things remaining in the room were a broken table and chair. She placed the violin on the floor and the candle on the table. Then with a shudder Jinnie drew from her blouse an unopened letter, studying it long in the flickering light. It had been written in this very room three years before, and within its sealed pages lay the whole secret which now none but the dead knew. It took no effort on her part to bring back to her memory Jordan Morse's handsome face and his rock-grey eyes, eyes like Bobbie's. He and Bobbie had gone away together. She touched the corner of the envelope to the candle, watching it roll over in a brown curl as it burned. "He's happy now," she murmured. "He's got his baby and Lafe's angels." Then she gathered up the handful of ashes, opened the window, and threw them out. The hands of the night wind snatched them as they fell and carried them swiftly away through the rain. On her way to the attic stairs, she stood a minute before the window, awe-stricken. From the north the great storm was advancing, and from among the hills rolled the distant roar of thunder. It brought to her mind the night when Peggy had gone into the life-valley and brought back Lafe's baby; and she remembered, too, with a sob, Blind Bobbie, and how she missed him. Ah, it was a lonely, haunted little spirit that crept up the dark narrow stairs to the garret! Only that the room seemed lower and more stuffy, it, too, was much the same as she had left it. She brushed aside some silvery cobwebs, raised the window, and sat down on a dilapidated trunk. On the floor at her feet, almost covered with dust, was the old fairy book about the famous kings. She picked it up mechanically. On the first page was the man in the red suit, with the overhanging nose and fat body,--he whom she at one time believed to be related to Theodore. Again she was overwhelmed with her misery. Theodore belonged to another woman, and Jinnie, alone with her past and an uncertain future, sat staring dry-eyed into the stormy night. CHAPTER L "GOD MADE YOU MINE" "I haven't seen any papers for three days, Molly. What's become of them all?" Theodore and Molly were sitting in the waning sunshine, the many-colored autumn leaves drifting silently past them to form a varied carpet over the grass. All fear had now left the woman. She had Jinnie's promise not to see Theodore, and he had apparently forgotten there ever was such a girl in the world. "I'd really like to see the papers," repeated Theodore. "Dear me, how glad I am to be so well!" "We're all glad," whispered Molly, with bright eyes. She had kept the papers from him purposely, playfully pretending she would rather give him an account of the court proceedings. When she described how another man had confessed to the shooting, Theodore felt a glad thrill that the cobbler was exonerated. Later Molly decided she would tell him about Morse, but never that she had married him. It was she who suggested, after a time of silence: "Theodore, don't you think a little trip would do us all good? Your mother's been so worried over you----" "Where would we go?" he asked, without interest. "Anywhere to get away from Bellaire for a season." "We might consider it," he replied reluctantly. Then he fell to thinking of a blue-eyed girl, of the letter,--that puzzling letter she had sent him. When he could bear his thoughts no longer, he got up and walked away under the trees, and Molly allowed him to go. She watched him strolling slowly, and was happy. He had been so sweet, so kindly, almost thrilling to her of late. She would make him love her. It would be but a matter of a few weeks if she could get him away from Bellaire. Just at that moment Mrs. King's bell rang, and she went into the house. When she came back, Theodore was sitting on the veranda reading a letter, with another one unopened on his knee. The sight of his white face brought an exclamation from her lips. "Theodore!" she cried. He reminded her she was standing by saying: "Sit down!" This she was glad to do, for her knees trembled. Her eyes caught the handwriting on the unopened letter, resting like a white menace on Theodore's lap. She saw her own name upon it, but dared not, nor had she the strength, to ask for it. At length, with a long breath, Theodore looked at her steadily. "This letter is for you," he said, picking up her own. "Open it and then--give it to me." Never had she heard such tones in his voice, nor had she ever been so thoroughly frightened. Mechanically she took the letter, tore open the flap, and read the contents: * * * * * "DEAR MISS MERRIWEATHER: "After you left the shop, I decided to do as you wanted me to. I shall go back to Mottville, and afterwards Peggy and Lafe will come to me. I'll keep my promise and won't see Theodore. I hope you will make him happy. JINNIE GRANDOKEN." * * * * * Molly crushed the paper between her fingers. "Don't do that," commanded Theodore sharply. "Give it to me." "It's mine," murmured Molly, lacking breath to speak aloud. "Give it to me!" thundered Theodore. And because she dared not disobey, she slowly extended the letter. With deliberation the man spread out the crumpled page and read it through slowly. Then once more he took up his own letter and perused it. * * * * * "DEAR MR. KING: "I'm going back to my home in the hills to-morrow. I'm so glad you're better. I thank you for all you've done for Lafe and Peggy, and hope you'll always be happy. For what you did for me I can't thank you enough, but as soon as I get my money, I'll send back all you've advanced for my lessons and other things. I'm praying all the time for you. "JINNIE GRANDOKEN SINGLETON." * * * * * Sudden tears almost blotted the signature from Theodore's vision. On the spur of the moment he picked up both letters and thrust them into his pocket. "Come upstairs with me," he ordered the woman staring at him with frozen features. Molly followed him as in a dream, preceding him when he stepped aside to allow her to enter the little sitting-room, where of late she had passed so many pleasant hours. Then as he closed the door, he whirled upon her. "Now I want the meaning of those letters. Have you seen Miss Grandoken?" "Yes!" She could say no more. "When?" "Yesterday." "There's something I don't know. Ah! That's why you kept the papers from me." Quickly he turned to the bell. "Theodore!" gasped Molly. "Wait! Wait! Don't--don't ring! I'll tell you; I will!" He pressed the bell button savagely. "I wouldn't believe you under oath," he muttered. "I want all this week's papers, and I want 'em quick!" he snapped at the servant. "Every one! Last night's too!" He walked to the window, but turned again as a knock came upon the door. "I can't find the papers, sir," excused the maid. "Wait!" Theodore closed the door, exclaiming in white heat, "Molly, where are those papers?" "In my room," replied Molly sulkily. Mr. King gave the order, and again they were behind closed doors. Molly made a sorry picture of shame when Theodore looked at her. "I'll get to the bottom of this if it kills me," he said wearily. "Theo, Theo, don't read the papers!" she gasped. Then she fell forward at his feet. "I love you, dear; I love you." "You've lost your mind, Molly," he said harshly. "You're mad, completely mad." "No, I'm not. Listen, Theodore, I'm here at your feet, miserable, unhappy; I want to be forgiven----" "Then tell me what you did to Jinnie Grandoken." "I can't! I can't!" When another knock sounded on the door, Theodore opened it and took the papers through the smallest imaginable crack. Molly crawled to a chair and leaned her head upon the seat. Without a word, Theodore sat down and began to turn the pages of the papers nervously. As he read both accounts of Lafe's trial, bitter ejaculations fell from his lips. The story of Bobbie's dramatic death and Morse's suicide brought forth a groan. When he placed the papers slowly beside him on the floor, Molly raised her face, white and torn with grief. "Now you know it all, forgive me!" "Never, while I live!" he cried. "What ungodly wretchedness you've made that child suffer! And you were married all the time to Morse, and the mother of that poor little boy!" "Yes," sobbed Molly. Then a sudden thought took possession of him. "You and Morse made Jinnie write me that first letter." Molly nodded. "May God forgive you both!" he stammered, and whirled out of the room. An hour later, with new strength and purpose, Theodore threw a few clothes into a suitcase, ordered the fastest motor in the garage, and was standing on the porch when Molly came swiftly to him. "Theodore," she said, with twitching face, "if you go away now, you won't find me here when you get back." He glanced her over with curling lip. "As you please," he returned indifferently. "You've done enough damage as it is. If you've any heart, stay here with the only person in the world who has any faith in you." Vacantly the woman watched the motor glide away over the smooth white road, and then limply slid to the floor in a dead faint. All the distance from Bellaire to Mottville Theodore was tortured with doubt. He brought to mind Jinnie's girlish embarrassment when they had been together; the fluttering white lids as his kisses brought a blue flash from the speaking love-lit eyes. She had loved him then; did she now? Of course she must love him! She had brought to him the freshness of spring--the love of the mating birds among the blossoms--the passionate desire of a heaven-wrought soul for its own, to whom could be entrusted all that was his dearest and best. He would follow her and win her,--yea, _win_ the woman God had made for him and him alone, and into his eyes leapt the expression of the conquering male, the force God had created within him to reach for the woman sublime and cherish her. When the car entered Mottville, rain was falling and the wind was mourning ceaselessly. By inquiry, Theodore found the road to the Singleton farm, and again, as he impatiently sank back in the motor, he mentally vowed, with the vow of a strong man, that the girl should listen to him. He never realized, until they were climbing the rain-soaked hill, how starved was the very soul of him. The road was running with water, but they ploughed on, until through the trees the farmhouse loomed up darkly. Bennett stopped the car at the gate and Theodore jumped out. A light twinkling in the upper part of the house told him she was there. Harmonious echoes were sounding and resounding in his ears. They were notes from Jinnie's fiddle, and for a moment, as they sobbed out through the attic window, he leaned back against the wet fence, feeling almost faint. The wild, sweet, unearthly melody surged over him with memories of the past. Then he passed under the thrashing pines, mounted the broken steps, and entered the house. It took but a minute to find the stairs by which to reach her, and there he stood in the gloom of the attic door, watching the swaying young figure and noting the whole pitiful dejection of her. In the single little light her eyes were as blue as the wing of a royal bird, and oh, what suffering she must have gone through! Then Jinnie ceased playing, and, as if drawn by a presence she knew not of, she turned her eyes slowly toward the door, and when she saw him, she fell, huddled with her violin on the garret floor, staring upward with frightened eyes. "If you're there," she panted, "if--if--speak to me!" He bounded forward and gathered her up, and the light of an adoring love shone full upon him. "My sweet, my sweet, my beautiful, my little wonder-woman!" he breathed. "Did you think I could live without you?" She was leaning, half fainting, against his breast, like a wind-blown flower. "I've come for you," he said hoarsely. "Dearest, sweetest Jinnie!" She pressed backward, loyalty for another woman rising within her. "But Molly, Molly the Merry----" she breathed. Theodore shook his head. "I only know I love you, sweetheart, that I've come for you," and as his lips met hers, Jinnie clung to him, a very sweet young thing, and between those warm, passionate kisses she heard him murmur: "God made you mine, littlest love!" And so they went forth from the lonely farmhouse, with none but the cobbler's angels watching over them. THE END