IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 14^ 1^ 12.5 2.0 1.8 1.4 11^ V] \ U CA\IK TO I'KNTIAC- I'/ic. i:ic I'OKONIO: THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED. 166968 / fl f Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-eight, by Gii-BKRT Pakkek, London, England, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture. I I the by he TO tdiUiam (Brneat Icnlcn WITH ADMIRATION AND REGARD G. P. 1 f CON r K N r s EOOK I BKLOW THE SUN LINE CHAP. I. THE r.ATES OF THE SEA, II. 'motley is your only weak, in. A TALE OF NO MAN's SEA, . IV. THE TRAIL OF THE ISHMAELITE, V. ACCUSING FACES, VI. MUMMERS ALL, VII. THE WHEEL COMES FULL CIRCLE, VIII, A BRinGE OF PERIL, IX. 'THE PROGRESS OF THE SUNS,' X. BETWEEN DAY AND DARK, . PACK I 13 47 59 91 107 '39 160 184 198 BOOK II THE SLOPE OF THE TACIFIC XI. AMONG THE HILLS OF GOD, XII. THE WHIRLIGIG OF IIME, . vii 217 232 vm CONTENrS CHAP. XII) THR SONG OF THE SAW, XIV. THE PATH OF THE KA(;LE, XV. IN THE TROUGH OK THK WINDS, XVI. A DUEL IN ARCAUV, XVII. RIDING THR REKFS, . XVIII. THE STRINGS OF DESTINY, XIX. THR SENTENCE, XX. AFTER THE STORM, . XXI. IN POUT, , . PACK 250 271 326 34 > 361 385 403 415 MRS. FALCHION. h ( ) OK I . 15 1: LOW TIIK SUN LINE. CHAPTER T. '''m^ THE GATES OE THE SEA. THE part I played in Mrs. Ealchton*s career was not very noble, but I shall set it forth plainly here, else I could not have the boldness to write of her faults or those of others. Of my own history little need be said in preface. Soon after graduating with honours as a physician, I was offered a professional post in a college of medicine in Canada. It was difficult to establish a practice in medicine without some capital, else I had remained in London ; and, being in need of instant means, I gladly accepted the offer. But 2 MRS. FALCHION six months were to intervene before the beginning of my duties, — how to fill that time profitably was the question. I longed to travel, having scarcely been out of England during my life. Some one suggested the position of surgeon on one of the great steamers running between England and Australia. The idea of a long sea -voyage was seductive, for I had been suffering from over- study, though the position itself was not very distinguished. But in those days J cared more for pleasing myself than for what might become a newly-made professor, and I was prepared to say with a renowned Irish dean, — 'Dignity and I might be married, for all the relations we are.' I secured the position with humiliating ease and humiliating smallness of pay. The steamer's name was the Ftdvia. It was one of the largest belong- ing to the Occidental Company. It carried no emigrants, and had a passenger list of fashionable folks. On the voyage out to Australia the weather was pleasant, save in the Bay of Biscay ; there was no sickness on board, and there were many opportunities for social gaiety, the cultivation of pleasant acquaintances, and the encouragement of that brisk idleness which aids to health. This was really the first holiday in my life, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Nothing of unusual interest occurred ,1 .■■ I fS! i:j.:r'r!i'.'.tl; '\m:: THE GATES OF THE SEA 3 on the outwarri voyage ; for one thing, because there were no unusual people among the passengers ; for another, because the vessel behaved admirably. The same cannot be said of the return voyage: and with it my story really begins. Misfortune followed us out of Sydney harbour. We broke a crank-shaft between there and Port Phillip, Melbourne ; a fire in the hold occurred at Adelaide ; and at Albany we buried a passenger who had died of consumption one day out from King George's Sound. At Colombo, also, we had a misfortune, but it was of a peculiar kind, and did not obtrude itself at once ; it was found in an addition to our passenger list. I had spent a day in exploring Colombo — visiting Arabi Pasha, inspecting Hindu temples, watching the jugglers and snake-charmers, evading guides and the sellers of brummagem jewellery, and idling in the Cinnamon Gardens. I returned to the ship tired out. After I had done some official duties, I sauntered to the gangway, and, leaning against the bulwarks, idly watched the passengers come on board from the tendei. Two of these made an impression on me. One was a handsome and fashionably-dressed woman, who was followed by a maid or companion (as I fancied), carrying parcels ; the other, a shabbily-dressed man, who was the last to come up from the tender. The woman '((;''■-'. l;^«\i^ 4 MRS. FAT.CHION was gc^iny clown tlic companion - way when he stci)ped on deck with a .sin,L;le lja<^ in liis hand, and I noticed tliat he watched her with a strange look in his eyes. He stood still as he gazed, and remained so for a moment after she had gone ; then he seemed to recover himself, and started, as I thought, almost guiltily, when he saw that my attention was attracted. lie nervously shifted his bag from one hand to the other, and looked round as though not certain of where he should go. A steward came to him officiously, and patronisingly too, — which is the bearing of ser- vants to shabbily-dressed people, — but he shook his head, caught his bag smartl}^ away from the steward's fingers, and moved towards the after part of the ship, reserved for intermediate passengers. As he went he hesitated, came to the side of the vessel, looked down at the tender for a moment, cast his eyes to where the anchor was being weighed, made as if he would go back to the tender, then, seeing that the ladder was now drawn up, sighed, and passed on to the second-class com- panion-way, through which he disappeared. I stood commenting idly to myself upon this incident, which, slight though it was, appeared to have significance of a kind, when Ilungerford, the fifth officer, caught me slyly by the arm and said : :''t"'>Mt;i. THE GA'I'ES OF IIIE SEA his to [he d: ' Lucky fellow ! Nothing to do but watch the world go by. I wish I had you in the North Atlantic on a whaler, or in the No Man's Sea on a pearl- smack for a matter of thirty days.' •What would come of that, Ilungcrford ? ' said I. 'An exchange of matter for mind, Marmion ; muscle for meditation, physics for philosophy.' *You do me too much honour; at present I've neither mind, meditation, nur philosophy ; I am simply vegetating.' 'Which proves you to be demoralised. I never saw a surgeon on a ship who wasn't. They began with mind, — more or less, — they ate the fruits of indolence, got precious near being sinful as well as indolent, and ended with cheap C)nicism, with the old quid refcrt^ — the thing Hamlet plagiarised in his, " But it is no matter." ' ' Isn't this an unusual occupation for you, Hungerford, — this Swift-like criticism?' ' Swift-like, is it ? You see, I've practised on many of your race, Marmion, and I have it pat now. You are all of two classes — those who sicken in soul and leave after one trip, and those who make another trip and are lost.' •Lost? How?' H unp erford pressed his fingers hard on n^\- MRS. FALCHION . t breast-bone, looked at me enigmatically from under his well-hung brows, and replied: 'Brains put out to seed, morals put out to vegetate — that's " lost." ' *What about fifth officers?' ' Fifth officers work like navvies, and haven't time for foolishness. They've got to walk the bridge, and practise the boats, and be responsible for luggage, — and here I am talking to you like an infallible undergraduate, while the Lascars are in endless confusion with a half-dozen pieces of baggage, and the first officer foams because I'm not there to set them right. I leave you to your dreams. Good-bye.' Hfangerford was younger than myself, but he knew the world, and I was flattered by these un- commoii remarks, because he talked to no one else on the ship in the same way. He never sought to make friends, had a thorough contempt for social trifling, and shrugged his shoulders at the 'swagger' of some of the other ofificers. I think he longed for a different kind of sea- life, so accustomed had he been to adventurous and hardy ways. He had entered the Occidental service because he had fallen in love with a pretty girl, and thought it his duty to become a 'regular,* and thus have the chance of seeing her every three 1 THE GATIvS OF Till': SEA months in London. He IkuI conceived a liking for me, reciprocated on ni)' part ; the more so, because I knew that behind his bkmt exterior there was a warm and manly heart. When he left me I went to my cabin and prepared for dimier, lauL;hin<^ as I did so at his keen, uncompromising criticism, which I knew was correct enough ; for of all official posts that of a ship-surgeon is least calcu- lated to make a man take a pride in existence. At its best, it is assisting in the movement of a panorama ; at its worst, worse than a vegetation, liungerford's solicitude for myself, however, was misplaced, because this one voyage would end my career as ship- surgeon, and, besides, I had not vegetated, but had been interested in everything that had occurred, humdrum as it was. With these thoughts, I looked out of the port-hole, to see the shores of Colombo, Gallc Face, and Mount Lavinia fading in the distance, and heard seven bells — the time for dinner. When I took my seat at the table of which I was the head, my steward handed to me a slip of paper, saying that the chief steward had given a new passenger, a lady, the seat at my right hand, which had been vacated at Colombo. The name on the paper was, ' Mrs. Falchion.' The scat was still empty, and I wondered if this was the beautiful passenger who 8 MRS. FALCHION had attracted mc and interested the Intermediate Passenger. I was selfish enough to wish so : and it was so. We had finished the soup before she entered The chief steward, with that anxious civility which beauty can inspire in even so great a personage, conducted her to her seat beside me. I confess that though I was at once absorbed in this occur- rence, I noticed also that some of the ladies present smiled significantly when they saw at whose table Mrs. Falchion was placed, and looked not a little ironically at the purser, who, as it was known, always tried to get for his table the newest addition to the passenger list — when it was a pretty woman. I believe that one or two rude people chaffed the chief steward about ' favouring the doctor ;' but he had a habit of saying uncomfortable things in a deterential way, and they did not pursue the sub- ject. Then they commiserated the purser, who was an unpleasant little Jew of an envious turn of mind; and he, as I was told, likened me to Sir John Falstaff. I was sensitive in those days, and this annoyed me, particularly that I had had nothing to do with placing Mrs. Falchion at my table. We are alwa\s most sensitive when guilty concerning the spirit and not the letter. One who has lived the cosmopolitan life of S4 .7t THE GATES OK TIIIC SEA I London should be quick at detecting iiationalitics, but I found it difficult, even after I heard her speak, to guess at Mrs. Falchion's native land. There were good reasons for this, as may be duly seen. Her appearance in the saloon caused an instant buzz oi admiration and interest, of which she seemed oblivious. If it was acting, it was good acting ; if it was lack of self-consciousness, it was remarkable. As I soon came to know, it was the latter — which, in such a woman, increased the remarkableness. I was inclined at first to venture the opinion that she was an actress ; but 1 dis- covcied that she possessed the attracting power of an actress without the mind or manners of one ; her very lack of self-consciousness was proof of this emancipation. When she sat down, I immediately welcomed her by name to my table. The only surprise she showed at my knowledge of her name and my self-introduction was to lift her head slightly and look at me, as if wondering whether I was likely to be an inquisitive and troublesome host ; and also, as I thought, to measure me according to her measure. It was a quick look, and the interest she showed was of a passive kind. She asked me as she might an old acquaintance — or a waiter — if the soup was good, and what the fish was like * ' ',■%%■• 10 MRS. FAT.CIIION decided on my recommendation to unit for the entrees ; requested her next ncij^hbour to pass the oHves ; in an impersonal way began to talk about the disadvantages of life at sea; regretted that all ship food tasted alike ; wondered if tlie cook knew how to make a decent salad ; and added that the menu was a national compromise. Now that she was close to me, I could see that her beauty was real and notable. Her features were regular, her eyes of a greyish violet, her chin strong, yet not too strong, — the chin of a sinc;er; her hands had that charming quiet certainty of movement possessed by so few ; and her colour was of the most delightful health. In this de- hghtful health, in her bountiful yet perfect physical eloquence, her attractiveness, as it seemed to me, chiefly lay. For no one would ever have guessed her to possess an emotional temperament. All that was outer was fascinating, all that was inner suggested coldness. After experience assured me that all who came to know her shared this estimate, even in those days when every man on the ship was willing to be her slave. She had a compelling atmosphere, a possessive presence ; and yet her mind at this time was unemotional — like Octavia, the wife of Mark Antony, ' of a cold conversation.' She was striking and unusual in appearance, THE OATES OF THE SKA 1 1 la, ;e, and yet well within convention and *j^ood form.' Her dress was simply and modestly worn, and had little touches of grace and taste which, I understand, many ladies on board sought to imitate when they recovered from the first feeling of envy. She was an example of splendid life. I cared to look at her as one would dwell on the sleek beauty of a deer — as^^ indeed, I have many a time since then, in India, watched a tigress asleep on her chain, claws hidden, wild life latent but slumbering. I could have staked my life that Mrs. Falchion was insensible to love or passion, and unimpeachable in the broad scheme of right and wrong ; imperious in requiring homage, in- capable of giving it I noticed when she laughed, as she did once at table, that her teclh were very white and small and square ; and, like a school- girl, she had a habit of clicking them together very lightly, but not conspicuously, as if trying their quality. This suggested, however, something a little cruel. Her appetite was very good. She was coolly anxious about the amusements ; she asked me if I could get her a list of the passengers, said that she was never sea-sick, and took a languid interest in the ladies present. Her glance at the men was keen at first, then neutral. 12 MRS. FALCHION Once again, during the meal, she slowly turned and flashed an iiuiuiriiig glance at me. I caught her eyes. She did not show the least embarrassment, and asked me if the band insisted on playing every day. Ikfore she left the saloon, one could see that many present were talking about her. Even the grim old captain followed her with his eyes as she went. When she rose, I asked her if she was going on deck. I did it casually, as though it was her usual custom to appear there after dinner. In like fashion she replied that her maid had some unpacking to do, she had some things to super- intend, and, when this was done, she intended to spend a time on deck. Then, with a peculiar smile, she passed out. Note by Dr. Marmion appended to his MSS. : — 'Many of the conversations and monologues in this history, not heard by myseh' when tl'icy occurred, were told to me afterwards, or got from the diaries and notes of the persons concerned. Only a few are puiely imaj;inary.' G. P. CIIAPTKR IT. 'MOTLKV IS VOUk ONLY WIIAR.' I WENT to my cabin, took a l)()()k, sat down, and bc^^'ln to smoke. My thoughts drifted from the book, and then occurred a stranL,a\ in- congruous thing. It was a remembered incident. It came like a vision as I was lighting a fresh cigar : — A boy and a girl in a village chemist's shop ; he with a boy's love for her, she responding in terms, but not in fact. He passed near her carrying a measure of sulphuric acid. She put out her hand suddenly and playfully, as if to bar his way. His foot slipped on the oily floor, and the acid spilled on his hands and the skirt of her dress. He turned instantly and plunged his hands into a measure of alcohol standing near, before the acid had more than slightly scalded them. She glanced at his startled face ; hers was without emotion. She looked down, and said petulantly : ' You have spoiled my dress ; I cannot go into the street' 13 ■'■\l\V'!y^' »4 MRS. I'ALCIIION The boy's clothes were burnt also. Tie was poor, and to replace them must be a trial to him ; her father owned the shop, and was well-to-do. Still, he grieved most that she should be annoyed, though he saw her injustice. But she turned away and left him. Another scene then crossed the disc of smoke : — The boy and girl, now man and woman, stand- ing alone in the chemist's shop. He had come out of the big working world, after travel in many countries. His fame had come with him. She was to be married the next day to a seller of puri)le and fine linen. He was smiling a good-bye, and there was nothing of the old past in the smile. The flame now was in her eyes, and she put out both her hands to stop him as he turned to go; but his face was passionless. ' You have spoiled my heart,' she said ; ' I catmot go into the world so.' * It is too late ; the measures are empty,' he replied. * My hate, then, will follow you after to-morrow,' was the answer. But he turned and left her, and she blindly stretched out her hands and followed him into the darkness, weeping. Was it the scent of the chemicals in my cabin, coupled with some subterranean association of •MOTl.LY IS YOUR ONLY WKAR' 15 L > things, that brouglit these scenes vividly befurc mc at this moment? What had they to do with Mrs. I'alchion ? A time came wlien the occurrence appeared to mc in the h'ght of prescience, but that was when I be^Mn to understand that all ideas, all reason and philosophy, are the result of outer im- pression. The primal language of our minds is in the concrete. Afterwards it becomes the cypher, and even at its highest it is expressed by angles, lines, and geometrical forms — substances and allusive shapes. But now, as the scene shifted by, I had involuntarily thrust forward my hands as did the girl when she passed out into the night, and, in doing so, touched the curtain of my cabin door swinging in towards me. I recovered my- self, and a man timidly stepped inside, knocking as he did so. It was the Intermediate Passenger. His face was pale , he looked ill. Poor as his dress was, I saw that he had known the influences and practised the graces of good society, though his manner was hesitating and anxious now. I knew at a glance that he was suffering from both physical pain and mental worry. Without a word, I took his wrist and felt his pulse, and he said : ' I thought I might venture to come ' i6 MKS. FALCIIIOM I motioned him not to sj)c;ik. I counted tiic irregular pulse-beats, then listeticd to the action of his heart, with my ear to his breast. There lay his physical trouble. I poured out a dose of digitalis, and, handing it to him, asked him to sit chnvn. As he sat and drank the medicine, I rapidly studied him. The chir was firm, and the eyes had a dogged, persistent look that, when turned on you, saw not you, but something beyond you. The head was thrown slightly ffjrward, the eyes look- ing up at an angle. This last action was habitual with him. It gave him a peculiar earnestness. As I noted tiiese peculiarities, my mind was also with his case ; I saw that his life was threatened. Per- hai)s he guessed what was going on in me, for he said in a low, cultured voice : ' The wheels will stop too long some time, and there will be no rebound ;' — referring to the irregular action of his heart. * Perhaps that is true,' I said ; * yet it depends a good deal upon yourself when it will be. Men can die if they wish without committiug suicide. Look at the Maori, the Tongan, the Mala)'. They can also prolong life (not indefinitely, but in a case like yours considerably), if they choose. You can lengthen your days if you do not brood on fatal things — fatal to }'ou ; if you do not worry yourself into the grave.' :'i0. ids [en (Ic. LSC [all It.-il iclf ♦MOTLKY IS YOUR OXI.Y VVICAR' 17 I knew that soincthin^^ of this was platitude, and that counsel to such a man must be of a more possible cast, if it is to be followed. I was aware also that, in nine cases out of ten, worry is not a voluntary or constitutional thin-^s but sprin;_js from some extraneous cause. Me smiled faintly, raised his head a little higher, and said : ' Yes, that's just it, I suppose ; but then we do not order our own constitutions ; and I believe, Doctor, that you must kill a nerve before it ceases to hurt. One doesn't choose to worry, I think, any more than one chooses to lay bare a nerve.' And then his eyes dropped, as if he thought he had already said too much. Again I studied him, repeating my defmitions in my mind. He was not a drunkard ; he might have had no vice, so free was his face from any sign of dissipation or indulgence ; but there was suffering, possibly the marks of some endured shame. The suffering and shadows showed the more because his features were refined enough for a woman. And altogether it struck mc that he was [)ossesscd by some one idea, which gave his looks a kind of sorrowful eloquence, such as one sees on occasion in the face of a great actor like Salvini, on the forehead of a devout Jiiddhi^t, 01 in the eyes yf a Jesuit missionary who martyrs himself in the wilds. i8 MRS. FALCHION n ■I • I I felt at once for the man a sympathy, a brother- liness, the causes of which I should be at a loss to trace. Most people have this experience at one time or another in their lives. It is not a matter of sex; it may be between an old man and a little child, a great man and a labourer, a schoolgirl and an old negro woman. There is in such companion- ships less self-interest than in any other. As I have said, I thought that this man had a trouble, and I wished to know it ; not from curiosity, — though my mind had a selfish, inquiring strain, — but because I hoped I might be able to help him in some way. I put my hand on his shoulder, and replied : ' You will never be better unless you get rid of your worry.' He drew in a sharp breath, and said : * I know that. I am afraid I shall never be better.* There was a silence in which we looked at each other steadily, and then he added, with an intense but quiet misery, * Never — never ! ' At that he moved his hand across his forehead wearily, rose, and turned towards the door. He swayed as he did so, and would have fallen, but I caught him as he lost consciousness, and laid him on the cabin sofa. I chafed his hands, un- loosed his collar, and opened the bosom of his shirt. As the linen dropped away from his throat, I ■J '■o«)W 'MOTLEY IS YOUR ONLY WEAR' 19 ihead He but laid ,, un- If his hroat, ! ■.i t A M i a small portrait on ivory was exposed on his breast. I did not look closely at it then, but it struck me that the woman's head in the portrait was familiar, though tlie artistic work was not recent, and the fashion of the hair was of years before. When his eyes opened, and he felt his neck bare, he hurriedly put up his hand and drew the collar close, and at the same time sent a startled and inquiring look at me. After a few moments I helped him to his feet, and, thanking me more with a look than with words, he turned towards the door again. 'Wait,' I said, 'untH I give you some medicine, and then you shall take my arm to your cabin.' With a motion of the hand, signifying the use- lessness of remedies, he sat down again. As I lianded him the pliial, I continued: 'I know that it is none of my business, but you are suffering. — To help your body, your mind should be helped also. Can't you tell me your trouble ? Perhaps I should be able to serve you. I would if I could.' It may be that I spoke with a little feeling and an apparent honesty ; for his c)es searched mine in a kind of earnest bewilderment, as if this could not be true — as if, indeed, life had gone so hard with him that he had forgotten the way of kind- K a) 20 MRS. lALCmON n.'ss. Tlicn he strctclud out liis hand and said brokenly : ' I am [^raUfiil, l)clicvc mc. I cannot tell you just now, but I will soon, perhaps.' His hand was upon the curtain of the door, when my steward's voice was licard outside, callin^^ my name. The man h.imself entered immediately, and said that Mis. l^^dchion .sent her compliments, and would I come at once to see her companion. Miss Caron, who had hurt herself. I he Intermediate Passenger turned towards mc a strange look ; his lips oi)ened as if about to si)eak, but he said nf)thinfT. At the instant there came to my mind whom the picture on his breast resembled : it was Mrs. I^^dchion. 1 think he saw this new intelligence in my face, and a meanin;.;- smile took the place of words, as he slowly left the cabin, mutely refusini^ assistance. I went to Mrs. Isilchion's cabin, and met her outside the door. She looked displeased. 'Justine has hurt herself,' she said. 'Please attend to her; I am goini^^ on deck.' The unfeeling nature of this remark held me to the spot for a moment ; then I entered the cabin. Justine Caron, a delicate but warm-faced girl of little more than twenty, was sitting on the cabin sofa, her head supported against the wall, and her hand wound in a handkerchief soaked in blood. 1 W- 'MOTLEY IS YOUR ONLY W1:aR' 21 |c to bin. jl of nbin her )od. Ilcr dress and the floor were also stained. I undid the handkerchief and found an ii^ly wound in the palm of the hand. I called the steward, and sent him to my dispensary for some necessaries ; then I asked her how it hapi)encd. At the moment I saw the cause — a broken bottle lying on the floor. 'The ship rolled,' she said. 'The bottle fell from the shelf upon the marble wash- stand, and, breaking, from there to the ioor. Madame caught at my arm to save herself from falling ; but I slipped, and was cut on the bottle — so.' As she ended there was a knock, but the curtain was not drawn, and Mrs. Falchion's voice was heard. ' My dress is stained, Justine.* The half-fainting girl weakly replied : * I am very sorry, madame, indeed.* To this Mrs. Falchion rejoined: 'When you have been attended to, you may go to bed, Justine. I shall not want you again to-night. But I shall change my dress. It is so unpleasant ; I hate blood. I hope you will be well in the morning.* To this Justine replied: 'Ah, madame, I am sorry. I could not help it ; but I shall be quite well in the morning, I am sure.* Then she addc' and quietly. ' He turned to ine and said : " Science is a great study, Marmion, but it is sardonic too ; for you shall find that when y(Hi reduce even a Triton to its original element.-: " '"Oh, please let me finish," she interrupted softly. "I know the lecture so well. It reads this way: The place of gene nit ion must Inak to give place to the generated ; but the injluence spreads out beyond the fragfnents, and is greater thus than in the mass — neither matter nor mind can be destroyed. The earth zvas molten before it became cold rock and quiet ivorld. There, you see, Marm)', that 1 am a fellow-student of yours." 'Valiant's eyes were ugly to watch ; for she had quoted from a lecture of his, delivered to us that week. After an instant he said, with slow maliciousness: "Oh, ye gods, render uic worthy of this Portia, and teach her to do as Ihutus's Portia did, ad eternuni ! " ' She shuddered a little, then said very graciously, and as if he had meant nothing but kindness: '"Peg-gar that I am, 1 am even poor in thanks.' I will leave you now to your cigarettes ; and 38 MRS. FALCHION because I must ^o out soon, and shall not, I fear, see you a^^ain this afternoon, good-bye, Marmy, till Saturday — till Saturday." And she left us. *I was white and trembling with anger. He smiled co(..ly, and was careful to choose me one of his best cigars, saying as he handed it : " Conversation is a science, Marmion. Study it; there is solid satis- faction in it; it is the only art that brings instant pleasure. Like the stage, it gets its immediate applause." 'Well, Mrs. Valiant did ride Carbine on that Saturday. Such a scene it was ! I see it now — the mottled plump of" hounds upon the scent, the bright sun showing up the scarlet coats of the whips gloriously, the long stride of the hunters, ears back and quarters down ! She rode Carbine, and the fences ivcrc stiff — so stiff that I couldn't have taken half of them. Afterwards I was not sorry that I couldn't ; for she rode for a fall that day on Carbir^, her own horse, — she had bought him of Major Karncy a few days before, — and I heard her last words as she lay beside him, smiling through the dreadful whiteness of her lips. " Good- bye, Marmy," she whispered. "Carbine and I go together. It is better so, in the full cry and a big field. Tell the men at Luke's that I hope they will pass at the coming exams. ... I am going up — : ; s I s 'MOTLEY IS YOUR OiNI,Y WEAR 39 i I '■*■ -if % for my final — Manny. — 1 wonder — if I'll — pass." And then the words froze on her lips. 'It was persecution that did it — diabolical per- secution and selfisluiess. That was li;. worst day the college ever knew. At the funeral, when the pro\ost read, '* /v/' t/iat it liaih pleased Thee to deliver this our sister out of the miseries of this sinful world ^' Big Wallington, the wildest chap among the grads, led off with a gulp in his throat, and we all followed. And that gold -spectacled sneak stood there, with a lying white handkerchief at his eyes ! ' I laid myself out to make the college too hot for him. In a week I had every man in the plaj:c with me, and things came to such a pass that all of us must be sent down, or Valiant resign. He resigned. He found another professorship; but the thing followed him, and he was obliged to leave the country.' When I finished the story, Mrs. Falchion was silent for a time, then, with a slight air of surprise, and in a quite critical way, she said : * I should think you would act very well, if you used less emotion. Mrs. Valiant had a kind of courage, but she was foolish to die. She should have stayed and fought him — fought him every way, until she was his master. She could have done it ; she was 40 MRS. lALCIlION clever, I should think. Slill, if she had to die, it was better to go with a i,n)od horse that way. I think I should prefer to 140 swiftl)', suddeiiiy, but without the horror of blood and bruises, and that sort of thin;^^ ... I should like to meet I'rofciisor Valiant. He was hard, but he was able too. . . . lUit haven't we had enough of horror? I asked you to amuse me, and you have merely interested mc instead. Oh ! ' This exclamation, I thought, was caused by the voice of the quartermaster humming — 'I'm a-sailing, I'm a-sailini; on the sea, To a harbour where the wind is slill ' Almost immediately she said : * I think I will go below.' Then, after a slight pause, — 'This is a liberal acquaintance for one day, Dr. Marmion ; and, you know, we were not introduced.' '•No, Mrs. Falchion, we were not introduced; but I am in some regards your host, and I fear we should all be very silent if we waited for regular introductions here. The acquaintance gives me pleasure, but it is not nearly so liberal as I hope it may become.' She did not answer, but smiled at me over her shoulder as she passed down the staircase, and the next instant I could have bitten my tongue for 'MOTi.KY IS YOUR ()NI,Y WICAR' 41 js me hope [)la}'inj.j the cavalier as I had done ; for showing, as I think I did, tliat she had an inlhience over me- an influence peculiar to herself, and difficult to account for when not in her presence. I sat down, lit a cigar, and went over in my mind all that had been said between us ; all that had occurretl in my cabin after dinner ; every minute since we left Colombo was laid bare to its minutest detail. Lascars slip[)ed by me in the half-darkness, the voices of two lovers near alter- nated with their expressive silences, and from the music saloon there came the pretty strains of a minuet, played very deftly. Under the influence of this music my thoughts became less exact ; the\- drifted. My eyes shifted to the lights (jf the Porcuphie in the distance, and from them again to the figures passing and repassing me on the deck. Tile 'All's well' of the lookout seemed to come from an endless distance ; the szvish of water against the dividing hull of the Fiilvia sounded like a call to silence from another world ; the plios- phorescence swimming through the jarred waters added to the sensation of unreality and dreams. These dreams grew, till they were broken by a hand placed on my shoulder, and I saw that one of the passengers, Clovelly, an English novelist, had dropped out from the promenade to talk I 42 MRS. I AI.CIIION ■I 1 1 with mc. lie saw my nioocl, however, and said ([iiietl)',- ' (live iiic a li;^ht for my ci^ar, will you? Tlicn, astride tliis stool, I'll help you to make inventory of the rest of them. A pretty study ; for, at our best, " What fools we mortals be ! " ' '"Motley is your only wear,'" was my rei)ly; and for a full half-hour, whieh, even for a man, is eon- sidcrable, we spoke no word, but only nodded when some o!ie of the promenaders noticed us. There was a bookmaker fresh from tlie Melbourne races; an Americ.ui, Colonel K)'der, whose elocpience had carried him round the world ; a stalwart squatter from Queensland ; a pretty widow, who had left her husband under the sods of Tasmania ; a brace of girls going to join their lovers and be married in England ; a few officers fleeing from India with their livers and their lives ; a family of four lanky lasses travelling ' home ' to school ; a row of affable ladies, who alternated between envy and gaiety and delight in, and criticism of, their husbands ; a couple of missionaries, preparing to give us lectures on the infamous gods of the heathen, — gods which, poor harmless little creatures ! might be bought at a few annas a pint at Aden or Colombo, — and on the Exodus and the Pharaohs — pleasures reserved for the Red Sea ; a commercial traveller, who 'Mori-l'.V IS YOUR OMA WKAK' 43 arr.iii^'ctl theatricals, and cast liinisclf for all tin- priticii)al parts ; a luiiuurous and naive person who industriously hinted at the t)puKiK-e of his estates in Ireland; two stately I'JiL;lish ladies of title ; a cheerful array of colonial knights and judges off to lunope for a holitlay; and man)' others, who made little worlds unto themselves, called i/i(]ii(S by blunt peo[)le. *To my mind, the most interestinc^ persons on the shi}),' said Clovelly at last, 'arc the book- maker, Miss Treherne, and the lady with whom you have just been talkin<^ — an excei)tional type.' *An unusual woman, I fancy,' was my rei)ly. ' But which is Miss Treherne? I am afraid I am not quite sure.' He described her and her father, with whom I had talked — a London O.C., travellinj^^ for his health, a notable man with a taste for science, who spent his idle hours in rcadinij astronomy and the plays of Euripides. * Why not include the father in the list of the most interesting persons?' I questioned. * Because I have met many men like him, but no one quite like his daughter, or ]\Irs. What is her name ? ' * Mrs. Falchion.' .}J MRS. FALCHION * Or Mrs. Falchion or the bookmaker.' 'What is there so iinconimon about Miss Trcherne? She had not struck mc as being remarkable.' *No? Well, of course, she is not striking after the fashion of Mrs. Falchion. But watch her, study her, and you will fmd her to be the perfection of a type — the finest expression of a decorous con- vention, a perfect product of socd conservatism ; unaffected, cheerful, sensitive, composed, very talented, altoi^cther comi)anionablc.' ' Excuse me,' I said, laughing, though I was impressed ; 'that sounds as if you had been writing about her, and applying to her the novelist's system of analysis, which makes an imperfect individual a perfect t\'pe. Now, frankly, are you speaking of Miss Trehernc, or of some one of whom she is the outline, as it were? ' Clovelly turned and looked at me steadily. ' When you consider a patient,' he said, ' do you arrange a diagnosis of a type or of a person? — And, by the way, "type" is a priggish word.' ' I consider the type in connection with the person.' * Exactly. The person is the thing. That clears up the matter of business and art. But now, as to Miss Trcherne : I want to say that, having ■ » 'MOTLEY IS YOUR ONLY WEAR' 45 ,rs as been admitted to her acquaintance and that of her father, I have thoui;ht of them only as friends, and not as " characters " or "copy."' * I bei^ your pardon, Clovclly,' said I. * I might have known.* 'Now, to prove how magnanimous I am, I shall introduce you to Miss Treherne, if you will let mc. You've met her father, I suppose ? ' he added, and tossed his cigar overboard. * Yes, I have talked with him. He is a courteous and able man, I should think.' We rose. Presently he continued: 'See, Miss Treherne is sittinfT there with the Tasmanian widow — what is Jicr name ? ' 'Mrs. Callendar,' I replied. 'Blackburn, the Oueenslander, is joining them.' * So much the better,' he said. * Come on. As we passed the music saloon, we paused for an instant to look through the port-hole at a pale- faced girl with big eyes and a wonderful bright red dress, singing 'The Angels' Serenade,' while ail excitable bear-leader turned her music for her. Near her stood a lanky girl who adored actors and tenors, and lived in the hoi)c of meeting some of those gentlemen of the footlights, who plough their way so calmly through the hearts of maidens iresh from school. 46 MRS. FALCHION Wc drew back to <^o on towards Miss Trehernc, when riungcrford touched me on the arm, and said : * I want to see you for a little while, Marmion, if Mr. Clovelly will excuse you.' I saw by Hungcrford's face that he had some- thing of importance to say, and, linking my arm in his, I went with him to his cabin, which was near those of the intermediate passengers. IC, nd 3n, ne- i in eai CHAPTER III. -'r A TALE OF NO MAN .S SKA. INSIDE the cabin Hungerford closed the door, gripped me by the arm, and then handed me a cheroot, with the remark : ' My pater gave them to me last voyage home. Have kept 'em in tea.' And then he added, with no appear- ance of consecutiveness, — * Hang the bally ship, anyhow ! ' I shall not attempt to tone down the crudeness of Hungerford's language. It contents me to think that the solidity of his character and his worth will appear even through the crust of free- and-easy idioms, as they will certainly be seen in his acts; — he was sound at heart and true as steel. 'What is the matter, Hungerford?' I asked lighting the cheroot. * Everything's the matter. Captain, with his nose in the air, and trusting all round to his 47 48 MRS. FAT^CIITON i:: officers. First officer, no good — never any luse .since they poured the coal on him. Purser, ought to be on a Chinese junk. Second, third, fourth officers, first-rate chaps, but so-so sailors. Doctor frivolling with a lovely filly, pedigree not known. Why, confound it ! nobody takes this business seriously except the captain, and he sits on a golden throne. He doesn't know that in any real danger this swagger craft would be filled with foolishness. There isn't more than one good boat's crew on board — sailors, Lascars, stewards, and all. As for the officers, if the surgeon would leave the lovely ladies to themselves, he'd find cases worth treating, and duties worth doing. He should keep himself fit for shocks. And he can take my word for it — for I've been at sea since I was a kid, worse luck ! — that a man with anything to do on a ship ought to travel every day nose out for shipwreck next day, and so on, port to port. Ship- surgeons, as well as all other officers, weren't ordained to follow after cambric skirts and lace handkerchiefs at sea. Believe me or not as you like, but, tor a man having work to do, woman, lovely woman, is rocks. Now, I suppose you'll think I'm insolent, for I'm younger than you are, Marmion, but you know what a rough-and-tumble fellow I am, and you'll not mind.* A TALE OF NO MAN'S SEA 49 ise .ht rth tor \vn. less 1 a real Dat's and eavc :ases lould e my kid, o on t for pliip- ren't lace |s you man, you'll u are, lumble * Well, Hungcrford,' I said, * to what docs this lead ? ' 'To Number ii6 Intermediate, for one thing It's letting off steam for another. I tell you, M arm ion, these big ships are too big. There are those canvas boats. They won't work ; you can't get them together. You couldn't launch one in an hour. And as for the use of the others, the Lascars would melt like snow in any real danger. There's about one decent boat's crew on the ship, that's. all. There! I've unburdened myself; I feel better.* Presently he added, with a shake of the head : * See here : now - a - days we trust too much to machinery and chance, and not enough to skill of hand and brain stuff. I'd like to show you some of the crews I've had in the Pacific a'nd the China Sea — but I'm at it again ! I'll now come, Marmion, to the real reason why I brouglit \'ou here. . . . Number Il6 Intermediate is under the weather ; I found him fainting in the passage, I helped him into his cabin. He said he'd been to you to get medicine, and you'd given him some. Now, the strange part of the business is, I know him. He didn't remember. me, however — perhaps because he didn't get a good look at me. Coin- cidence is a strange thing. I can point to a dozen 4 so MRS. FALCHION in my short life, every one as remarkable, if not as startling, as this. Here, I'll spin you a yarn : — 'It happened four years ago. I had no moustache then, was fat like a whale, and first mate on the Damiug Kate, a pearler in the Indian Ocean, between Java and Australia. That was sailing, mind you, — real seamanship, no bally nonsense ; a fight every weather, interesting all round. If it wasn't a deadly calm, it was a typhoon ; if it wasn't either, it was want of food and water. I've seen us with pearls on board worth a thousand quid, and not a drop of water nor three square meals in the camboose. But that was life for men and not Miss Nancys. If they weren't saints, they were sailors, afraid of nothing but God Almighty, — and they do respect Him, even when they curse the winds and the sea. Well, one day we were lying in the open sea, about two hundred and fifty miles from Port Darwin. There wasn't a breath of air. The sea was like glass ; the sun was drawing turpentine out of every inch of the Dancing Kate. The world was one wild blister. There wasn't a comfortable spot in the craft, and all round us was that staring, oily sea. It was too hot to smoke, and I used to make a Scde boy do my smoking for me. I got the benefit of the if, I ■I A TALIC OK NO MAN'S SEA SI lister, t, and IS too oy do f the smell without any work. 1 was lyin^^ under the droop of a dingey, making the Sedc boy call on all his gods for wind, with interludes of smoke, when he chucked his deities and tobacco, and, pointing, shouted : " Man ! man ! ' * I snatched a spy-glass. Sure enough, there was a boat on the water. It was moving ever so slowly. It seemed to stop, and we saw something lifted and waved, and then all was still again. I got a boat's crew together, and away we went in that deadly smother. An hour's row, and we got within hail of the derelict, — as one of the crew said, " feclin' as if the immortal life was jerked out of us." The dingey lay there on the glassy surface, not a sign of life about her. Yet I had, as I said, seen something waved. The water didn't even lap its sides. It was ghi^stly, I can tell }'ou. Our oars licked the water ; they didn't attack it. Now, I'm going to tell you something, Marmion, that'll make you laugh. I don't think I've got any poetry in me, but just then I thought c)f some verses I learned when I was a little cove at Wellington — a devil- ishly weird thing. It came to me at that moment like a word in my ear. It made mc feel awkward for a second. All sailors arc superstitious, you know. I'm superstitious about this ship. Never mind ; I'll tell you the verses, to show you what a Sa MRS. FALCHION queer thing memory is. The thing was called « No Man's Sea " :— " The days are dead in the No Man's Sea, And (lod has left it alone; The ant;cls cover their heads and flee* And thii Wild lour winds have down. " There's never a ripple upon the tide, Tlicrc's never a word or sound ; But over the wa'^te the white wraiths glide, To look for the souls of the drowned. "The No Man's Sea is a gaol of souls, And i' ". gate is a burning sun, And deep beneath it a great bell tolls For a death that never is done. "Alas? for any that comes anear, That lies on its moveless breast ; The grumbling water shall be his bier, And never a place of rest." ' There are four of the verses. Well, I made a motion to stop the rowing, and was mum for a minute. TJie men got nervous. They looked at the boat in front of us, and then turned round, as thougli to see if the Dancing Kate was still in sight I spoke, and they got more courage. I stood up in the boat, but could sec nothing in the dingey. I gp.ve a sign to go on, and soon we wfere alongside. liA the bottom of the dingey lay a man, apparently dead, wearing the clotlies of a convict. One of the A TALE OK NO MAN'S SEA 53 e. crew gave a grunt of disgust, the others said nothing. I don't take to men often, and to convicts precious seldom; but there was a look in this man's face which the prison clothes couldn't demoralise — a damned pathetic look, whicli seemed to say, " Not guilty." * In a minute I was beside him, and found he wasn't dead. Brandy brought him round a little ; but he was a bit gone in the head, and muttered all the way back to the ship. I had unbuttoned his shirt, and I saw on his breast a little ivory portrait of a woman. I didn't let the crew see it ; for the fellow, even in his delirium, appeared to know I had exposed the thing, and drew the linen close in his fingers, and for a long time held it at his throat' •What was the woman's face like, Hungerford?' I asked. He parried, remarking only that she had the face of a lady, and was handsome. I pressed him. 'But did it resemble any one you had ever seen ? * With a slight droop of his eyelids, he said : 'Don't ask foolish questions, Marmion. — Well, the castaway had a hard pull for life. He wouldn't have lived at all, if a breeze hadn't come up and let us get away to the coast. It was the beginning 54 MRS. b'AI.ClllON I ; I • ' of the monsoon, and wc went bowling down towards Port Darwin, a crowd of Malay proas in our wake. However, the poor beg^^ar thought he was going to die, and one night he told me his story. He was an escaped convict from Freemantle, Western Australia. He had, with others, been taken \.v^ to the northern coast to do some Govern- ment work, and had escaped in the diiigey. His crime was stealing funds belonging to a Squatting and Mining Company. There was this extenuat- ing circumstance : he could have replaced the money, which, as he said, he'd only intended to use for a few weeks. But a personal enemy threw suspicion on him, accounts were examined, and though he showed he'd only used the money while more of his own \\'as on the way to him, the Company insisted on prosecuting him. For two reasons : because it was itself in bad odour, and hoped by this trial to divert public attention from its own dirty position ; and because he had against him not only his personal enemy, but those who wanted to hit the Company through him. He'd filched to be able to meet the large expenses of his wife's establishment. Into this he didn't enter minutely, and he didn't blame her for having so big a maiage ; he only said he was sorry that he hadn't been able to support it without having to A TALK OF NO MAN'S SKA 55 the wo and om nst ,vho c'd of iter so he to I come, even for a day, to the stupidity of stealing. After two years he escaped. He asked me to write a letter to his wife, which he'd dictate. Marniion, you or I couldn't have dictated that letter if we'd taken a year to do it. There was no rcliL,n'on in it, no poppy-cock, but strai'^htforward talk, full of sorrow for what he'd done, and for the disgrace he'd brought on her. I remember the last few sentences as if I'd seen tliem yesterday. " I am dying on the open sea, disgraced, but free," he said. " I am not innocent in act, but I was not guilty of intentional wrong. I did what I did that you should have all you wished, all you ought to have. I ask but this — and I shall soon ask for nothing — that you will have a kind thought, now and then, for the man who always loved you, and loves you yet. I have never blamed you that you did not come near me in my trouble ; but I wish you were here for a moment Ircfore I go away for ever. You must forgive me now, for you will be free. If I were a better man I would say, God bless you. In my last conscious moments I will think of you, and speak your name. And now good-bye — an everlasting good-bye ! I was your loving husband, and am your lover until death." And it was signed, "Boyd Madras." * However, he didn't die. Between the captain 56 MRS. I'AI.CIIION and myself, wc kept life in him, and at last landed him at Port Darwin ; all of us, officers and crew, svvearinLj to let no one know he was a convict. And I'll say this for the crew of the Damifiii- Kate that, so far as I know, they ke[)t their word. That letter, addressed in care of a firm of Melbourne bankers, I gave back to him before we landed. V\^c made him up a purse of fifl)' pounds, — for the crew had got to like him, — aiul left him at Port Darwin, sailing away again in a few days to another pearl- field farther east. What hai)pened to him at Port Darwin and elsewhere, I don't know ; but one day 1 found him on a fashionable steamer in the Indian Ocean, looking almost as near to Kingdom Come as when he starved in the dingey on No Man's Sea. As I said before, I think he didn't recognise me; and he's lying now in ii6 Intermediate, with ■a look on him that I've seen in the face of a man condemned to death by the devils of cholera or equatorial fever. And that's the story, Marmion, which I brought you to hear — told, as you notice, in fine classical style.' ' And why do you tell me this, Ilungcrford ? — a secret you've kept all these years. Knowledge of that man's crime wasn't necessary before giving him belladonna, or a hot bath.* Ilungcrford kept back the whole truth for A 'WW.V: OV NO MAN'S SKA 57 -a of ing for reasons of his own. He said : •Cliicfly because I want you to take a decent interest in the cliap. He looks as if he ini;^ht ^o off on the long voyage any tick o' the clock. You are doctor, parson, and evcrythin;^ else of the kind on board. 1 like the poor devil, but I'm not in a position to be going around with ginger-tea in a spoon, or I^'cclesiastcs under my arm — very good things, anyhow. Your profession has more or less to do with the mind as well as the body, and you may take my word for it that Boyd Madras's mind is as sick as his torso. By the way, he calls himself "Charles Boyd," so I .suppose we needn't recall to him his former experiences by adding the *' Madras." ' Hungerford squeezed myarm again violenlly, and added, — ' Look here, Marmion, we understand each other in this, don't we? — To do what we can for the fellow, and be mum.» Some of this looks rough and blunt, but as it was spoken there was that in it which softened it to my ear. I knew he had told all he thoiiirht I ouirht to know, and that he wished me to question him no more, nor to refer to Mrs. Falchion, whose relation- ship to Boyd Madras — or Charles Boyd — both of us suspected. 'It was funny about th-^se verses coming to my mind, wasn't it, Marmion ?' he continued. And he 58 MRS. FAT.CHION !l '.I began to repeat one of them, keeping time to the wave like metre with his cheroot, winding up with a quick, circular movement, and putting it again between his lips — 'There's never a ripple upon the tide, There's never a breath or sound ; Eut over the waste the white wraiths glide, To look for the souls of the drowned.' Then he jumped off the berth where he had been sitting, put on his jacket, said it was time to take his turn on the bridge, and prepared to go out, having apparently dismissed Number Ii6 Intermediate from his mind. I went to Charles Boyd's cabin, and knocked gently. There was no response. I entered. He lay sleeping soundly— the sUep that comes after nervous exhaustion. I had a ^ood chance to study him as he lay there. The f.ice was sensitive and well fashioned, but not strong ; the hands were delicate, yet firmly made. One hand was clenched upon that portion of his breast where the portrait hung. N CHAPTER IV. THE TRAIL OF THE ISIIMAELTTE. 1WENT on deck again, and found Clovclly in the smoking-room. The bookmaker was , engaged in telling talcs of the turf, alternated with comic songs by IMackburn — an occupation which lasted throughout the voyage, and was associated with electric appeals to the steward to fill the flowing bowl. Clovclly came with me, and we joined Miss Treherne and her father. Mr. Treherne introduced m.c to his daughter, and Clovclly amiably drevv the father into a dis- cussion of communism as found in the South Sea Islands. I do not think my conversation with Miss Treherne was brilliant. She has since told mc that I appeared self-conscious and preoccupied. This being no compliment to her, I was treated accord- ingly. I could have endorsed Clovclly's estimate of her so far as her reserve and scdateness were concerned. It seemed impossible to talk naturally. id 6o MRS. FALCHION !i The events of the day were in^^errupting the ordinary run of thought, and I felt at a miserable disadvantage. I saw, however, that the girl was gifted and clear of mind, and possessed of great physical charm, but of that fine sort which must be seen in suitable surroundings to be properly appreciated. Here on board ship a sweet gravity and a proud decorum — not altogether unnecessary — prevented her from being seen at once to the best advantage. Even at this moment I respected her the more for it, and was not surprised, nor exactly displeased, that she adroitly drew her father and Clovelly into the conversation. With Clovelly she seemed to find immediate ground for na'fve and pleasant talk ; on his part, deferential, original, and attentive ; on hers, easy, allusive, and warmed with piquant humour. I admired her; saw how cleverly Clovelly was making the most of her ; guessed at the solicitude, studious care, and affection of her bringing - up ; watched the fond pleasure of the father as he listened ; and was angry with myself that Mrs. Falchion's voice rang in my ears at the same moment as hers. But it did ring there, and the real value of that smart tournament of ideas was partially lost to me. The next morning I went to Boyd Madras's cabin. He welcomed me gratefully, and said that i TliK TR\IL OF THK ISIIMAELITR 6i ras's Ithat he was much better; as he seemed ; but he carried a hectic flush, such as comes to a consumptive person. I said little to him beyond what was necessary for the discussion of his case. I cautioned him about any unusual exertion, and was about to leave, when an impulse came to me, and I returned and said, — 'You will not let me help you in any other way?' 'Yes,' he answered ; * I shall be very glad of your help, but not just yet. And, Doctor, believe me, I think medicines can do very little. Thoui^di I am thankful to you for visiting me, you need not take the trouble, unless I am worse, and then I will send a steward to you, or go to vou '^yself What lay behind this request, ut '.-ss it was sensitiveness, I could not tell ; but I determined to take my own course, and to visit him when I thought fit. Still, I saw him but once or twice on the after- deck in the succeeding days. He evidently wished to keep out of sight as much as possible. I am ashamed to say there was a kind of satisfaction in this to me ; for, when a man's wife — and I believed she was Boyd Madras's wife — hangs on your arm, and he himself is denied that privilege, and fares poorly beside her suni[)tuousness, and lives as a stranger to her ; you can scarcely regard his ^ 62 MRS. FAT.CIIION If •■ I presence with pleasure. And from the sheer force of circumstances, as it seemed to me then, Mrs. Falchion's hand was often on my arm ; and her voice was always in my car at meal -times and when I visited Justine Caron to attend to her wound, or joined in the chattering recreations of the music saloon. It was impossible not to feel her influence ; and if I did not yield entirely to it, I was more possessed by it than I was aware. I was inquisitive to know beyond doubt that she was the wife of this man. I think it was in my mind at the time that, perhaps, by being with her much, I should be able to do him a service. But there came a time when I was sufficiently undeceived. It was all a game of misery in which some one stood to lose all round. Who was it : she, or I, or the refugee of misfortune, Number Ii6 Inter- mediate? She seemed safe enough. He or I should suffer in the crash of penalties. It was a strange situation. I, the acquaintance of a day, was welcome within the circle of this woman's favour — though it was an unemotional favour on her side ; he, the husband, as I believed, though only half the length of the ship away, was as distant from her as the north star. When I sat with her on deck at night, I seemed to feel Boyd Madras's face looking at me from the half-darkness THK TRAIL OF THE ISHMAELUE 63 ;ance this [ional |cvcd, , was I sat iBoyd Ikness of the aftcr-dcck ; and Mrs. Falchion, whose keen eyes missed Httle, remarked once on my gaze in that direction. Thereafter I was more careful, but the idea haunted me. Yet I was not the only person who sat with her. Other men paid her attentive court. The difference was, however, that with me she assumed ever so delicate, yet palpable, an air of proprietorship, none the less alluring because there was no heart in it. So far as the other passengers were concerned, there was nothing jarring to propriety in our companionship. They did not know of Number 116 Intermediate. She had been announced as a widow ; and she had told Mrs. Callendar that her father's brother, who, years before, had gone to California, had died within the past two years and left her his property ; and, because all Californians are supposed to be million- aires, her wealth was coimted fabulous. She was going now to England, and from there to Cali- fornia in the following year. People said that Dr. Marmion knew on which side his bread was buttered. They may have said more unpleasant things, but I did not hear them, or of them. All the time I was conscious of a kind of dis- honour, and perhaps it was that which prompted me (I had fallen away from my intention of visiting him freely) to send my steward to see how Boyd 64 MRS. FALCHION ni Madras came on, rather than go myself. I was, however, conscious that the position could not — should not — be maintained long. The practical outcome of this knowledge was not tardy. A new influence came into my life which was to affect it permanently : but not without a struggle. A series of concerts and lectures had been arrani^ed for the voyage, and the fancy-dress ball was to close the first part of the journey — that is, at Aden. One night a concert was on in the music saloon. I had just come from seeing a couple of passengers who had been suffering from the heat, and was debating whether to find Mrs. Falchion, who, I knew, was on the other side of the deck, go in to the concert, or join Colonel Ryder and Clovelly, who had asked me to come to the smoking-room when I could. I am afraid I was balancing heavily in favour of Mrs. Falchion, when I heard a voice that was new to me, singing a song I had known years before, when life was ardent, and love first c.tme — halcyon days in country lanes, in lilac thickets, of pleasant Hert- fordshire, where our footsteps met a small bom- bardment of bursting seed-pods of the furze, along the green common that sloped to the village. I thought of all this, and of her everlasting quiet. I'm-: TKAiL ()!' nil': isiimai;i iri': 6 was aloncr lillagc. Lsting With a diffcivnt voice tl)c words of tlie soiilt woulti have sent me out of hearitii^ ; now I stood rooted to the sj^.t, as the notes floated out past me to the nci\elessncss of the Inch'an Ocean, every one of them a commandment fiom behind the curtain of a sanctuary. Tiie voice was a warm, full C(^ntralto of ex- quisite culture. It suL,^L;ested depths of rich sound behind, from which the sins^er, if she chose, mii^ht draw, until the room and the deck and the sea ached with sweetness. I scarcely dared to look in to see who it was, lest I should find it a dream. I stood with my head turned away towards the dusky ocean. When, at last, with the closing notes of the soni^, I went to the port- hole and looked in, I saw that the siui^cr was Miss Treherne. There was an abstracted look in her eyes as she raised them, and she seemed unconscious of the applause following the last chords of the accompaniment. She stood up, folding the music as she did so, antl unconsciously raised her eyes towards the port-hole where I was. Fler glance caught mine, and instantly a change passed over her face. The effect of the song upon her was broken ; she flushed sli^^htly, and, as I thought, with f^iint anno\ance. I know of nothing imenti 'P ry 66 MRS. FALCHION that patronisin^dy listens outside a room or win vv> — not bound by any sense of duty as an andiciicc, — between whom and the artists an unna' iral barrier is raised. But I have reason 10 think now tl :.. Lelle Ttehcrr'^ was not wholly moved by n. yance — that she had seen something unusual, iiiayb oppressive, in my look. She turned to her father. He adjusted his glasses as if, in his pride, to see her better. Then he fondly took her arm, and they left the room. Then I saw Mrs. Falchion's face at the port- hole opposite. Her eyes were on me. An mstant before, I had intended following Miss Treherne and her fath •; now some spirit of defiance, some unaccountable revolution, took possession of me, so that I flaslied back to her a warm recognition. I could not have believed it possible, if it had been told of me, that, one minute affected by beautiful and sacred remembrances, the next I should be yielding to the unimpassioned tyranny of a woman who could never be anything but a stumbling- block and an evil influence. I had \ i; to learn that in times of mental and mora! struggle the nn'xed fighting forces in us resolve themselves into two cohesive powers, and strive for mastery ; that no past thought or act goes for nothing at such a time, but creeps out from the darkness THE TRAIL OF THE ISIIMAKTJTE 67 cuce, twral now d by jsual, :d to n his ik her port- istant le and some )f me, lition. been lutiful d be oman bling- learn e the selves story ; ng at kness where we thought it had gone for ever, i- ;d docs ba'^le with its kind against the con. ^on foe. There moved before my sight Jhrce women: one, sweet and unsubstantial, wistful and mute and very young, not of the earth earthy ; one, lissom, grave, with gracious body and warm abstracted eyes, all delicacy, strength, reserve ; the other and last, daring, colu b uliful, with irresistible charm, silent and ."^mt-ling. And these are tlie three women .,tn have influenced my life, who fought in me then for mastery ; one from out the unchangcaole past, the others in the tangible and delible present. Most of us have to pass through such ordeals before character and conviction receive their final bias ; before human nature has its wild trouble, and then settles into 'cold rock and quiet world;' which any lesser after- shocks may modify, but cannot radically change. I tried to think. I felt that to be wholly a man I should turn from those eyes drawing me on. I recalled the words of Clovelly, who had said to me that afternoon, half laughingly, — * Dr. Marmion, I wonder how many of us wish ourselves transported permanently to that time when we didn't know champagne from alter feiner madeira or dry hock from sweet sauterne ; when a pretty 68 MRS. I'AI.CIIIoM face inatlc us ftcl read)- to ahjiirc all the sinful lusts of the flesh and become inliei iters of the kin.;(loin f)f heaven ? IC^ad ! 1 should like to feel it once ai^.u'n. iUit how can we, when we have been intoxicated with many thint^s ; wlien we are drunk with success and experienc<.' ; have hun^ on the frin<^e of unrii^htcousiiess ; and know the world backwards, and ourselves mercilessly ? ' Was I, like the drunkard, cominL,^ surely to the time when I could no Ioniser say yes to my wisdom, or no to my weakness ? I knew that, an hour before, in filling a i)hial with medicine, I found 1 was doing it mechanically, and had to begin over again, making an effort to keep my mind to my task. I think- it is an axiom that no man can properly perform the business of life who indulges in emotional preoccupation. These thoughts, which take so long to write, passed then through my mind swiftly ; but her eyes were on me with a peculiar and confident insistence — and I yielded. On my way to her I met Clovelly and Colonel Ryder, llungerford was walking between them. Colonel Ryder said : * I've been saving that story for you, Doctor ; better come and get it while it's hot' This was a promised tale of the taking of Mobile in the American Civil War. i Till'. iKAiL OF iiii: isiiMAi'j^rri': (UJ )ilc At any other time the invitation would have pleased mc nii^ditily ; fur, apart from the other two, Hungerford's briiscpie and orij^inal conversa- tion was always a i)leasure — so were his cheroots ; but now I was under an influence selfish in its source. At the same time 1 felt that lluni/erford was storIn<^ up some acute criticism of me, and that he might let me hear it any moment. I knew, numberini^ the order of his duties, that he could have but a very short time to spare for gossip at this juncture, yet I said that I could not join them for half an hour or so. Ilutigcrford had a fashion of looking at me searchingly from under his heavy brows, and I saw that he did so now with impatience, perhaps contempt. I was certain that he longed to thrash me. That was his idea of punishment and j)enalty. He linked his arm in those of the other two men, and they moved on, Colonel Ryder sa)ing that he would keep the story till I came and would wait in the smoking-room for me. The concert was still on when I sat down beside Mrs. Falchion. ' You seemed to enjoy Miss Treherne's singing?' she said corJially enouj^h, as she folded her hands in her lap. 'Yes, I thought it beautiful. Did not y')U?* ' Pretty, most pretty ; and admirable in technique 7> MRS. KM, CI I ION )i and tone ; but she has too inucli feeling to be really artistic. She felt the th^ll^^ instead of pretending to feel it — which makes all the difference. She belonjrs to a race of deliijitful women, who never do any harm, whom everybody calls ^^oocl, and who arc very severe on those who do not pretend to be ^ood. Still, all of that pleasatit race will read their husband's letters and smui;L;le. They have no civic virtues. Yet they would be shocked to bathe on the beach without a macJiine, — as American women do, — and they look for a new fall of Jerusalem when one of th'jir sex smokes a cigarette after dinner. Now, I do not smoke cigarettes after dinner, so I can speak fre^' ily towards me, yet not nervously, as I had expected. 'What did she say?' * S/ie declined to ansiver direetly! There was a pause, in which I felt her eyes searching my face. I fear I must have learned dissimulation well ; for, after a minute, I looked at her, and saw, from the absence of any curious anxiety, that I had betrayed nothing. She looked me straight in the eyes and said : ' Dr. Marmion, a man must not expect to be forgiven, who has brought shame on a woman.* 'Not even when he has repented and atoned ?' 'Atoned! How mad you are! Mow can tl'cre be atonement? You cannot wipe thin;:;'; out — on earth. We are of the j of daily wearing the sackcloth of remorse and restitution.' * Oh,' she persisted, * you make me angry. I know what you wish to express ; I know that you con- sider it a sin to take one's life, even in " the high Roman fashion." But, frankly, I do not, and I fear — or rather, I fancy — that I never shall. After all, your belief is a pitiless one ; for, as I have tried to say, the man has not himself alone to consider, but those to whom his living is a perpetual shame and menace and cruelty insupportable — insupportable ! Now, please, let us change the subject finally; and* — here she softly laughed — ' forgive me if I have treated your fancied infatuation lightly or indiffer- ently. I want you for a friend — at least, for a pleasant acquaintance. I do not want you for a lover.' We both rose. I was not c^uite content with her nor with myself yet. I felt sure that while she did not wish me for a lover, she was not averse to my playing the devoted cavalier, who should give all, while she should give nothing. I knew that my punishment had already begun. We paced the deck in silence ; and once, as we walked far aft, I , saw, leaning upon the railing of the intermediate deck, and looking towards us — Boyd Madras ; and the words of that letter which he wrote on the No Man's Sea came to me. THE TRAIL OF THE ISHMAEMTE 87 . At length she said : * You have made no reply to my last remark. Are we to be friends, and not lovers? Or shall you cherish enmity against me? Or, worse still,' — and here she laughed, I thought, a little ironically, — ' avoid me, and be as icy as you have been — fervid ?* ' Mrs. Falchion,' I said, * your enemy I do not wish to be — I could not be if I wished ; but, for the rest, you must please let me see what I may think of myself to-morrow. There is much virtue in to-morrow,' I added; * it enables one to get perspective.' ' I understand,' she said ; and then was silent. We walked the deck slowly for several minutes. Then we were accosted by two ladies of a com- mittee that had the fancy-dress ball in hand. They wished to consult Mrs. Falchion in certain matters of costume and decoration, for which, it had been discovered, she had a peculiar faculty. She turned to me half inquiringly, and I bade her good-night, inwardly determined (how easy it is after having failed to gratify ourselves !) that the touch of her fingers should never again make my heart beat faster. I joined Colonel Ryder and Clovelly in the smoking-room. Hungerford, as I guessed gladly, was gone. I was too much the coward to meet ;)! 88 MRS. FALCHION his c\c just tlicn. Colonel Kydcr was cstimatinij^ tlic amount he woi.'d vvaijcr — if he were in the habit of betting — that the Fiilvia could not turn round in her tracks in twenty minutes, while he parenthetically endorsed Ilungcrford's remarks to me — thouj^h he was ignorant of them — that Las- cars should not be permitted on luiglish passenger ships. He was supported by Sir Hayes Craven, a shipowner, who further said that not one out of ten British sailors could swim, while not five out of ten could row a boat properly. Ryder's anger was great, because Clovelly remarked with mock seriousness that the Lascars were picturesque, and asked the American if he had watched them listlessly eating rice and curry as they squatted between decks ; whether he had observed the Sevang, with his silver whistle, who ruled them, and despised us 'poor white trash ;' and if he did not think it was a good thing to have fatalists like them as sailors — they would be cool in time of danger. Colonel Ryder's indignation was curbed, how- ever, by the bookmaker, who, having no views, but seeing an opportunity for fun, brought up reinforce- ments of chaff and slang, easily construable into profanity, and impregnated with terse humour Many of the ladies had spoken of the bookmaker i THE I'RAIL OF THE ISllMAELirE Sc as one of the best-manncrcd men on board. So lie was to all appearance. None dressed with better taste, nor carried himself with such an air. There was even a deferential tone in his strong l;ingiia<,^c, a hesitating qiiaintncss, which made it irresistible. He was at the service of any person on board needing championship. His talents were varied. He could suggest harmonies in colour to the ladies at one moment, and at the next, in the seclusion of the bar counter, arrange deadly harmonies in liquor. He was an authority on acting ; he knew how to edit a newspaper ; he picked out the really nice points in the sermons delivered by the mis- sionaries in the saloon ; he had some marvellous theories about navigation ; and his trick with a salad was superb. He now convulsed the idlers in the smoking-room with laughter, and soon deftly drew off the discussion to the speed of the vessel, arranging a sweepstake immediately, upon the possibilities of the run. He instantly proposed to sell the numbers by auction. He was the auctioneer. With his eyeglass at his eye, and Bohemian pleasantry falling from his lips, he ran the prices up. He was selling Clovelly's number, and had advanced it beyond the novelist's own bidding, when suddenly the screw stopped, the engines ceased working, and the Fulvia slowed down. 90 MRS. FALCHION The numbers remained unsold. Word came to us that an accident had happened to the machinery, and that we should be hove-to for a day, or longer, to accomplish necessary repairs. How serious the accident to the machinery was no one knew. I c to lery, igcr, 1 the CIIArTER V. ACCUSING FACES. I WIIIIJC we were hove - to, the Porcupine passed us. In all probability it would now get to Aden ahead of us ; and herein lay a development of the history of Mrs. Falchion. I was standing beside liclle Trchcrne as the ship came within hail of us and si^nialled to see what was the matter. Mrs. Falchion was not far from us. She was looking intently at the vessel through marine-glasses, and she did not put them down until it had passed. Then she turned away with an abst.-acted ligiit in her eyes and a wintry smile ; and the look and the smile continued when she sat down in her deck-chair and leaned her cheek meditatively on the marine - glass. But I saw now that something was added to the expression of her face — a suggestion of brooding or wonder. Belle Treherne, noticing the direction of my glances, said : * Have you known Mrs. Falchion long?' 91 I 92 MRS. FArCIlION * No, not lon^/ I replied. 'Only since she came on board.' ' She is very clever, I believe.' I felt my face flushing, though, reasonably, there was no occasion for it, and I said : ' Yes, she is one of the ablest women I have ever met* • She is beautiful, too — very beautiful.' This very frankly. ' Have you talked with her?' said I. ' Yes, a little this morning, for the first time. She did not speak much, however.' Here Miss Treherne paused, and then added meditatively, — * Do you know, she impressed me as having singular frankness and singular reserve as well? I think I admired it. There is no feeling in her speech, and yet it has great candour. I never before met any one like her. She does not wear her heart upon her sleeve, I imagine.' A moment of irony came over me ; that desire to say what one really does not believe (a feminine trait), and I replied : * Are both those articles necessary to any one? A sleeve? — well, one must be clothed. But a heart? — a cumbrous thing, as I take it' Belle Treherne turned, and looked me steadily in the eyes for an instant, as if she had suddenly awakened from abstraction, and slov\ly said, while M desire inine tides must , as I A CUSING FACKS 93 she drew back slightly: 'Dr. Mannion, I am only a {^'n\, I know, and inexperienced, but I hoped most people of education and knowledge of life were free from that kind of cynicism to be read of in books.' Then something in her thouj^hls seemed to chill her words and manner, and her father coming up a moment after, she took his arm, and walked away with a not very cordial bow to me. The fact is, with a woman's quick intuition, she had read in my tone something suggestive (;f my recent experience with Mrs. Falchion. Ilcr fine womanliness awoke ; the purity of her thoughts rose in opposition to my flippancy and to me ; and I knew that I had raised a prejudice not easy to destroy. This was on a Friday afternoon. On the Saturday evening following, the fancy- dress ball was to occur. The accident to the machinery and our delay were almost forgotten in the preparations therefor. I had little to do ; there was only one sick man on board, and my hand could not cure his sickness. How he fared, my uncomfortable mind, now bitterly alive to a sense of duty, almost hesitated to inquire. Yet a change had come. A reaction had set in for me. Would it be permanent? I daad scarcely answer that 94 MRS. FALCHION question, with Mrs. I'alchion at my li^lit hand at tabic, witii her voice at my car. I was not c^uitc myself yet ; I was striij^^h'ni]^, as it were, with the effects of a fantastic dream. Still, I had determined upon my course. I had made resolutions. I had ended the chapter of dalliance. I had wished to go to 1 16 Intermediate and let its occupant demand w hat satisfaction he would. I wanted to say to IIunL;eiTord that I was an ass; but that was even harder still. He was so thorough and uncompromising in nature, so strong in moral fibre, that I felt his sarcasm would be too outspoken for me just at present. In this, however, I did not give him credit for a fine sense of consideration, as after events .showed. Although there had been no spoken understanding between us that Mrs. Falchion was the wife of Boyd Madras, the mind of one was the other's also. I understood exactly why he told me Boyd Madras's story: it was a warning. He was not the man to harp on things. He gave the hint, and there the matter ended, so far as he was con- cerned, until a time might come when he should think it his duty to refer to the subject again. Some time before, he had shown me the portrait of the girl who had promised to be his wife. She, of course, could trust him anywhere, everywhere. nd at ijuitc h the I had :cr of cdiatc on he hat I . Mc laturc, ircasm resent. jHt for events poken )ii was as the >ld me e was hint, s con- hould igain. rait of ihe, of ACCUSING FACICS 95 Mrs. I"',dchi()n had seen tlic chani^^e in me, and, I am sure, guessed the new ilirection u( my thoughts, and knew thai I wished to take refuse in a new compani()nshi|)- -a Ihin^^ imleed, not easily to be achieved, as I felt now ; for no ^nrl of deliLate ami proud tem[)er woiiltl c«'in[)lacently re^^ani a hasty transference of allenlion from another to herself. Besides, it wouUl be neither courteuu.-i nor reasonable to break with Mrs. h'alchiou abruptly. The error was mine, not hers. She had not mv knowledge of the immediate circuinN'tances, which made my positi(jn morally untenable. Slie showed unembarrassed ignorance of the chanj^e. At the same time I caught a tone of voice and a manner which showed she was not actually oblivious, but was touched in that nerve called vanity ; and from this much femim'nc hatred sprini^s. I made up my mind to begin a course of scientific reading, and was seated in my cabin, vaiidy trying to digest a treatise on the pathology of the nervous system, when Ilungerford appeared at the door. With a nod, he entered, threw himself down on the cabin sofa, and asked for a match. After a pause, he said : ' Marmion, Buyd Madras, a/ias Charles Boyd, has recognised me.' I rose to get a cigar, thus turning my face from him, and said, — * Well ? ' I 96 MRS. FALCHION 'Well, there isn't aiiythin^^^ very startlinfr. 1 suppose he vvislies I had left him in the diiij^ey on No I\Tan's Sea. He's a fool.' ' Indeed, wliy ?' *Marmion, are your brains softening? Why does he shadow a woman who wouldn't lift her finger to save him from battle, murder, or sudden death ? ' 'From the code,' I said, in half soliloquy. T'rom the what ?' ' Oh, never mind, Iluni^erford. I supposj he is shadowing — Mrs. Falchion?' lie eyed me closely. * I mean the woman that chucked his name ; that turned her back on him when he was in trouble; that hopes he is dead, if she doesn't believe that he is actunlly ; that would, no doubt, treat him as a burglar if he went to her, got down on his knees, and said: *']\Icrc\', my girl, I've come back to you a penitent prodigal. Henceforth I shall be as straight as the sun, so help me Heaven and your love and forgiveness ! " ' Hungerford paused, as if expecting me to reply ; but, leaning forward on my knees and smoking hard, I remained silent. This seemed to anger him, for he said a little roughly: 'Why doe.^n't he come out and give you blazes on the promenade ACCUSING FACKS 97 "? dins^cy Why lift her sudden IS J he is s name ; trouble; that he im as a is knees, jk to you ill be as nd your to reply ; 1 smoking Ito anger L' doesn't lomenade deck, and corner her down with a mii^dity cheek, and levy on her for a thousand pounds? Both you and she would think more of him. Women don't dislike being bullied, if it is done in the right way, —haven't I seen it the world over, from lubra to dowager? I tell you, man — sinning or not — was meant to be woman's master and lover, and just as much one as the other.* At this point Ilungerford's manner underwent a slight change, and he continued : * Marmion, I wouldn't have come near you, only I noticed you have altered your course, and are likely to go on a fresh tack. It isn't my habit to worry a man. 1 gave you a signal, and you didn't respond at first. Well, we have come within hail again ; and now, don't you think that you might help to straighten this tangle, and try to arrange a recon- ciliation between those two? * The scheme is worth trying. Nobody need know but vou and me. It wouldn't be much of a sacrifice to her to give him a taste of the thing she swore to do — how does it run? — "to have and to hold from this day forward"? — I can't recall it; but it's whether the wind blows fair or foul, or the keel scrapes the land or gives to the rock, till the sea gulps one of 'em down for ever. 'That's the sense of the thing, Marmion, and 98 MRS. FALCHION m \i >i the contract holds between the two, straight on into the eternal belly. Whatever happens, a husband is a husband, and a wife a v/ife. It seems to me that, in the sight of Heaven, it's he that's running fiir in the teeth of the wind, every timber straining, and she that's riding with it, well coaled, flags flying, in an open channel, and passing the derelict without so much as, " Ahoy there ! " ' Now, at this distance of time, I look back, and see Hungerford, 'the rowdy sailor,' as he called himself, lying there, his dark grey eyes turned full on me ; and I am convinced that no honester, more sturdy-minded man ever reefed a sail, took histuin upon the bridge, or walked the dry land in the business of life. It did not surprise me, a year after, when I saw in public prints that he was the hero of — but that must be told elsewhere. I was about to answer him then as I knew he would wish, when a steward appeared and said : * Mr. Boyd, Ii6 Intermediate, wishes you would come to him, sir, if you would be so kind.' Hungerford rose, and, as I made ready to go, urged quietly : * You've got the charts and sound- ings, Marmion, steam ahead ! ' and, with a swift but kindly clench of my shoulder, he left me. In that moment there came a cowardly feeling, a sense ■iV i 'A I ACCUSING FACES 99 I year s the L was i 1 /ould 'Mr. 1 come 1 :o go, '4 3und- M ftbut t 1 that sense 1- of shamefaced ness, and then, hard upon it, and overwhelming it, a determination to serve Boyd Madras so far as lay in my power, and to be a man, and not a coward or an idler. When I found him he was prostrate. In his eyes there was no anger, no indignation, nor sul- lenncss — all of which he might reasonably have felt ; and instantly I was ashamed of the thought which, as I came to him, flashed through my mind, that he might do some violent thing. Not that I had any fear of violence ; but I had an active dislike of awkward circumstances. I felt his fluttering pulse, and noted the blue line on his warped lips. I gave him some medicine, and then sat down. There was a silence. What could I say ? A dozen thoughts came to my mind, but I rejected them. It was difficult to open up the subject. At last he put his hand upon my arm and spoke: 'You told me one night that you would help me if you could. I ought to have accepted your offer at first ; it would have been better. — No, please don't speak just yet. I think I know what you would say. I knew that you meant all you urged upon me ; that you liked me. I was once worthy of men's liking, perhaps, and I had good comrades; but that is all over. You have not :ii lOO MRS. FALCHION come near me lately, but it wasn't because you felt any neglect, or wished to take back your words ; but — because of something else. ... I understand it all. She has great power. She always had. She is very beautiful. I remember when — but I will not call it back before you, though, God knows, I go over it all every day and every night, until it seems that only the memory of her is real, and that she herself is a ghost. I ought not to have crossed her path again, even unknown to her. But I have done it, and now I cannot go out of that path without kneeling before her once again, as I did long ago. Having seen her, breathed the same air, I must speak or die ; perhaps it will be both. That is a power she has : she can bend one to her will, although she often, involuntarily, wills things that are death to others. One must care for her, you understand ; it is natural, even when it is torture to do so.' He put his hand on his side and moved as if in pain. I reached over and felt his pulse, then took his hand and pressed it, saying : * I will be your friend now, Boyd Madras, in so far as I can, God helping me! ' He looked up at me gratefully, and replied : * I know that — I know that. It is more than I deserve.' ACCUSING FACES lOI bed : In I Then he began to speak of his past. He told me ot Hungcrford's kindness to him on the Dancing Kate, of his luckless days at Port Darwin, of his search for his wife, his writing to her, and her refusal to see him. He did not rail against her. He apologised for her, and reproached him- self. * She is most singular,' he continued, ' and different from most women. She never said she loved me, and she never did, I know. Her father urged her to marry me; he thought I was a good man.' Here he laughed a little bitterly. ' But it was a bad day for her. She never loved any one, I think, and she cannot understand what love is, though many have cared for her. She is silent where herself is concerned. I think there was some trouble — not love, I am sure of that — which vexed her, and made her a little severe at times ; something connected with her life, or her father's life, in Samoa. One can only guess, but white men take what are called native wives there very often, — and who can tell? Her father — but that is her secret ! . . . While I was right before the world, she was a good wife to me in her way. When I went wrong, she treated me as if I were dead, and took her old name. But if I could speak to her quietly once more, perhaps she would 103 MRS. FALCHION ii i !i listen. It would be no good at all to write. Perhaps she would never begin the world with me again, but I should like to hear her say, " I forgive you. Good-bye." There would be some comfort in a kind farewell from her. You can see that, Dr. Marmion?' He paused, waiting for me to speak. *Yes, I can see that,* I said ; and then I added, ' Why did you not speak to her before you both came on board at Colombo?' * I had no chance. I only saw her in the street, an hour before the ship sailed. I had scarcely time to take my passage.' Pain here checked his utterance, and when he recovered, he turned again to me, and continued : 'To-morrow night there is to be a fancy-dress ball on board. I have been thinking. I could go in a good disguise. I could speak to her, and attract no notice ; and if she will not listen to me, why, then, that ends it. I shall know the worst, and to know the worst is good.' * Yes,' said I ; * and what do you wish me to do?' ' I wish to go in a disguise, of course ; to dress in your cabin, if you will let me. I cannot dress here, it would attract attention ; and I am not a first-class passenger.' ri ACCUSING FACKS 103 me ' I fear,* I replied, ' that it is impossible for me to assist you to the privileges of a first-class passenger. You see, I am an officer of the ship. But still I can help you. You shall leave this cabin to-night. I will arrange so that you may transfer yourself to one in the first-class section. . . . No, not a word ; it must be as I wish in this. You are ill ; I can do you that kindness at least, and then, by right, you can attend the ball, and, after it, your being among the first-class passengers can make little difference; for you will have met and spoken then, either to peace or otherwise.' I had very grave doubts of any reconciliation ; the substance of my notable conversation with Mrs. Falchion was so prominent in my mind. 1 feared she would only reproduce the case of Anson and his wife. I was also afraid of a possible scene — which showed that I was not yet able to judge of her resources. After a time, in which we sat silent, I said to Boyd Madras, — 'But suppose she should be frightened ? — should — should make a scene ? ' He raised himself to a sitting posture. * I feel better,' he said. Then, answering my question : ' You do not know her quite. She will not stir a muscle. She has nerve. I have seen her in positions of great peril and trial. She is not 104 MRS. FALCHION emotional, though I truly think she will wake one day and find her heart all fire — but not for me. Still, I say that all will be quite comfort- able, so far as any demonstration on her part is concerned. She will not be melodramatic, 1 do assure you.* ' And the disguise — your dress ?* inquired I. He rose from the berth slowly, and, opening a portmanteau, drew from it a cloth of white and red, fringed with gold. It was of beautiful texture, and made into the form of a toga or mantle. He said : * I was a seller of such stuffs in Colombo, and these I brought with me, because I could not dispose of them without sacrifice when I left hurriedly. I have made them into a mantle. I could go as — a noble Roman, perhaps ! ' Then a slight, ironical smile crossed his lips, and he stretched out his thin but shapely arms, as if in derision of himself * You will go as Menelaus the Greek,' said I. 'I as Menelaus the Greek?' The smile became a little grim. * Yes, as Menelaus ; and I will go as Paris.' I doubt not that my voice showed a good deal of self-scorn at the moment ; but there was a kind of luxury in self-abasement before him. ' Your wife, I know, intends to go as Helen ■ ACCUSING FACICS 105 of Tioy. It is all mumminc^. Let it stand so, as Menclaus and Helen and Tan's before there was any Trojan war, and as if there never could be any, — as if Paris went back discomfited, and the other two were reconciled.* His voic . was low and broken. *I know you exagi^erate matters, and condemn yourself beyond reason,' he replied. ' I will do as you say. But, Dr. Marmion, it will not be all mumming', as you shall see.' A strange look came upon his face at this. I could not construe it ; and, after a few words of explanation regarding his transference to the forward part of the sliip, I left him. I found the purser, made the necessary arrangements for him, and then sought my cabin, humbled in many ways. I went troubled to bed. After a long wakefulness, 1 dozed away into that disturbed vestibule of sleep where the world's happenings mingle with the visions of unconsciousness. I seemed to see a man's heart beating in his bosom in growing agonies, until, with one last immense palpitation, it burst, and life was gone. Then the dream changed, and I saw a man in the sea, drowning, who seemed never to drown entirely, his hands ever beating the air and the mocking water. I thought that I tried many times to throw him a lighted io6 MRS. FAl.CHION buoy in the half- shadow, but some one held me back, and I knew tliat a woman's arms were round me. But at last the drown in<^ man looked up and saw the woman so, and, with a last quiver of the arms, he sank from sight. When he was gone, the woman's arms dropped away fr^m me; but when I turned to speak to her, she too had gone. I awoke I Two stewards were talking in the passage, and one was saying, ' She'll get under way by daybreak, and it will be a race with the Porcupine to Aden. IIow the engines are kicking below 1* I CHAPTER VI. MUMMKRS ALL. I THE next day was beautiful, if not enjoyable. Stirring preparations were being made for the ball. Boyd Madras was transferred to a cabin far forward, but he did not appear at any meal in the saloon, or on deck. In the morning I was busy in the dispensary. While I was there, Justine Caroncame to get some medicine that I had before given her. Her hand was now nearly well. Justine had nerves, and it appeared to me that her efforts to please her mistress, and her occasional failures, were wearing her unduly. I said to her: 'You have been worried, Miss Caron?' ' Oh no, Doctor,' she quickly replied. I looked at her a little sceptically, and she said at last : * Well, perhaps a little. You see, madame did not sleep well last night, and I read to her. It was a little difficult, and there was not much choice of books.' 107 io8 MRS. FAT.CIIION \]i 1i 'What did you read?' I asked mechanically, as I prepared her medicine. * Oh, some French novel first — De Maupassant's ; but madame said he was impertinent — that he made women fools and men devils. Then I tried some modern Enjjiish tales, but she said they were silly. I knew not what to do. Hut there was Shakespeare. I read Antony and Cieopatra^ and she said that the play was j^rand, but the people were foolish except when they died — their deaths were magnificent. Madame is a i^reat critic ; she is very clever.' * Yes, yes, I know that ; but when did she fall asleep ? * 'About four o'clock in the morning. I was glad, because she is very beautiful when she has much sleep.' 'And you — does not sleep concern you in this matter of madame ? ' ' For me,' she said, looking away, ' it is no matter. I have no beauty. Besides, I am madame's ser- vant,' — she blushed slightly at this, — * and she is generous with money.' ' Yes, and you like money so much ? * Her eyes flashed a little defiantly as she looked me in the face. * It is everything to me.' *'he paused as if to see the effect upon me, or to MUMMKRS AIL 100 this oked or to jTct an artlficijil (I knew it was artificial) strength to go on, then she ackled : ' I love money. I work for it ; I would bear all for it— all that a woman could bear. I ' But here she paused again, and, though the eyes still flashed, the lips quivered. Hers was not the face of cupidity. It was sensitive, yet firm, as with some purpose deep as her nature was by creation and experience, and always deepening that nature. I suddenly got the conviction that this girl had a sorrow of some kind in her life, and that this unreal affec- tion for money was connected with it. Perhaps she saw my look of interest, for she hurriedly continued : * But, pardon me, I am foolish. I shall be better when the pain is gone. Madame is kind ; she will let me sleep this afternoon, perhaps.* I handed her the medicine, and then asked : * How long have you known Mrs. Falchion, Miss Caron ? ' * Only one yea^r.* * Where did you join her?' ' In Australia.' * In Australia? You lived there?' * No, monsieur, I did not live there.* A thought came to my mind — the nearness of New Caledonia to Australia, and New Caledonia no MRS. FALCHION '■, was a French colony— a French penal colony! I smiled as I said the word penal to myself. Of course the word could have no connection with a girl like her, but still she might have lived in the colon)-. So I added quietly : ' You perhaps had come from New Caledonia ? ' Her look was candid, if sorrowful. ' Yes, from New Caledonia.' Was she, thought I, the good wife of some convict — some political prisoner ? — the relative of some refugee of misfortune? Whatever she was, I was sure that she was free from any fault. She evidently thought that I might suspect something uncomplimentary of her, for she said : ' My brother was an officer at Noumea. He is dead. I am going to France, when I can.' I tried to speak gently to her. I saw that her present position must be a trial. I advised her to take more rest, or she would break down altogether, for she was weak and nervous ; I hinted that she might have to give up entirely, if she continued to tax herself heedlessly ; and, finally, that I would speak to Mrs. Falchion about her. I was scarcely prepared for her action then. Tears came to her eyes, and she said to me, her hand involuntarily clasping my arm, — ' Oh no, no ! I ask you not to speak to madame. I will sleep — I will rest. \ MUMMERS ALL III Indeed, I will. This service is so much to me. She is most generous. It is because I am so altogether hers, night and day, that she pays me well. And the money is so much. It is my honour — my dead brother's honour. You are kind at heart ; you will make me strong with medicine, and I will ask God to bless you. I could not suffer such poverty again. And then, it is my honour!' I felt that she would not have given way thus had not her nerves been shaken, had she not lived so much alone, and irregularly, so far as her own rest and comfort were concerned, and at such perpetual cost to her energy. Mrs. Falchion, I knew, was selfish, and would not, or could not, see that she was hard upon the girl, by such exactions as midnight reading and loss of sleep. She demanded not merely physical but mental energy — a complete submission ot both ; and when this occurred with a sensitive, high-strung girl, she was literally feeding on another's life-blood. If she had been told this, she, no doubt, would have been very much sur- prised. I reassured Justine. I told her that I should say nothing directly to Mrs. Falchion, for I saw she was afraid of unpleasantness ; but I impressed 1 li MRS. FALCHION upon her tliat she must spare herself, or she would break down, and extorted a promise that she would object to sitting up after midnight to read to Mrs. Falchion. When this was done, she said : * But, you see, it is not madame's fault that I am troubled.' ' I do not wish,* I said, ' to know any secret, — I am a doctor, not a priest, — but if there is any- thing you can tell me, in which I might be able to help you, you may command me in so far as is possible.' Candidly, I think I was too inquiring in those days. She smiled wistfully, and replied: 'I will think of what you say so kindly, and perhaps, some day soon, I will tell you of such trouble as I have. But, believe me, it is no question of wrong at all, by any one — now. The wrong is over. It is simply that a debt of honour must be satisfied ; it concerns my poor dead brother.' *Are you going to relatives in France?' I asked. ' No ; I have no relatives, no near friends. I am alone in the world. My motlier I cannot re- member ; she died when I was very young. My father had riches, but they went before he died. Still, France is home, and I must go there.' She turned her head away to the long wastes of sea. MUMMERS ALL 113 I re- My lied. iShe Little more passed between us. I advised her to come often on deck, and mingle with the passengers ; and told her that, when she pleased, I should be glad to do any service that lay in my power. Her last words were that, after we put into Aden, she would possibly take me at my word. After she had gone, I found myself wondering at my presentiment that Aden was to be associated with critical points in the history of some of us ; and from that moment I began to connect Justine Caron with certain events which, I felt sure, were marshalling to an unhappy conclusion. I won- dered, too, what part I should play in the de- velopment of the comedy, tragedy, or whatever it was to be. In this connection I thought of Belle Treherne, and of how I should appear in her eyes if that little scene with Mrs. Falchion, now always staring me in the face, were rehearsed before her. I came quickly to my feet, with a half-imprecation at myself; and a verse of a crude sea-song was m my ears- *You can batten down cargo, live and dead, But you can't put memory out of sight ; You can paint the full sails overhead, But you can't make a black deed white. . . .* Angry, I said to myself, ' It wasn't a black deed ; it was foolish, it was infatuation, it was TI4 MRS. FALCHION /i '!' !• not right, but it is common to shipboard ; and I lost my head, that was all.' Some time later I was still at work in the dis- pensary, when I heard Mr. Treherne's voice calling to me from outside. I drew back the curtain. He was leaning on his daughter's arm, while in one hand he carried a stick. * Ah, Doctor, Doctor,' cried lie, ' my old enemy, sciatica, has me in its grip, and why, in this warm climate, I can't under- stand. I'm afraid I shall have to heave-to, like the Fiilvia, and lay up for repairs. And, hy the way, I'm glad we are on our course again.' He entered, and sat down. Belle Trehcrne bowed to me gravely, and smiled slightly. The smile was not peculiarly hospitable. I knew perfectly well that to convince her of the reality of my growing admiration for her would be no easy task ; but I was determined to base my new religion of the affections upon unassailable canons, and I felt that now I could do best by waiting and proving myself. While I was arranging some medicine for Mr. Treherne, and advising him on care against chills in a hot climate, he suddenly broke in with : *Dr. Marmlon, Captain Ascott tells me that we shall get to Aden by Tuesday morning next. Now, I was asked by a friend of mine in London K MUMMERS ALL "5 m d I e dis- alling . He in one loctor,' in its undcr- to, like b}/ the 1.' He )wed to ile was :ly well rrowing ; but I of the I felt proving for Mr. st chills n with : that we cr next. London t\ to visit the grave of a son of his — a newspaper correspondent — who was killed in one of the expeditions against the native tribes, and was buried in the general cemetery at Aden. On the way out I was not able to fulfil the commission, because we passed Aden in the night. But there will be plenty of time to do so on Tuesday, I am told. This, however, is my difficulty: I cannot go unless I am belter, and I'm afraid there is no such luck as that in store for me. These attacks last a week, at least. J wish my daui;hter, how- ever, to go. One of the ladies on board will go with her — Mrs. Callendar, I believe ; and I am going to be so bold as to ask you to accompany them, if you will. ^I know \ ou better than any officer on board ; and, besides, I should feel safer and better satisfied if she went under the protec- tion of an officer, — these barbarous places, you know! — though, of course, it may be asking too much of you, or what is impossible.' I assented with pleasure. Belle Treherne was looking at the Latin names on the bottles at the time, and her face showed no expression either of pleasure or displeasure. Mr. Treherne said bluffly : 'Dr. Marmion, you are kind — \cry kind, and, upon my word, I'm much obliged.' He then looked at his daughter as if expecting her to speak. ii6 MRS. FALCHION ! ' ; ■( She looked up and said conventionally: 'You are very kind, Dr. Marmion, and I am much obliged.' Then I thought her eyes twinkled with amuse- ment at her own paraphrase of her father's speech, and she added, — * Mrs. Callendar and myself will be much honoured indeed, and feel very important in having an officer to attend us. Of course every- body else will be envious, and, a^ain of course, that will add to our vanity.' At this she would have gone ; but her father, who was suffering just enough pain to enjoy anything that would divert his attention from it, fell into conversation upon a subject of mutual interest, in which his daughter joined qu occasion, but not with enthusiasm. Yet, when they came to go, she turned and said kindly, almost softly, as her fingers touched mine, — * I almost envy you your profession. Dr. Marmion. It opens doors to so much of humanity and life.' 'There is no sin,* I laughingly said, *in such a covctousness, and, believe me, it can do no harm to me, at least.' Then I added gravely: ' I should like my profession, in so far as I am concerned, to be worth your envy.' She had passed through the door before the last words were said, but I saw that her look was not forbidding. ^ 1 MUMMERS ALL 117 'You nuch nuse- )eech, /ill be mt in svery- e, that 5r, who ything ill into iterest, »ut not to go, as her u your to so such a larm to aid like i, to be gh the aw that i Is there unhappiness anywhere? There is not a vexing toss of the sea, not a cloud in the sky. Is not catastrophe dead, and the arrows of tragedy spilled? Peace broadens into deep, per- fumed dusk towards Arabia ; languor spreads towards the unknown lands of the farthest south. No anxious soul leans out from the casement of life ; the time is heavy with delightful ease. There is no sound that troubles ; the world goes by and no one heeds ; for it is all beyond this musky twilight and this pleasant hour. In this palace on the sea Mirth trails in and out with airy and harmonious footsteps. Even the clang-clang of eight bells has music — not boisterous nor disturb- ing, but muffled in the velvety air. Then, through this hemisphere of jocund quiet, there sounds the ' All's well ' of the watch. But, look ! Did you see a star fall just then, and the long avenue of expiring flame behind it? — Do not shudder; it is nothing. No cry of pain came through that brightness. There was only the * All's well ' from the watchers. The thud of the engines falls on a padded atmosphere, and the Lascars move like ghosts along the decks. The long, smooth promenade is canopied and curtained, and hung with banners, ii8 MRS. FALCHION jj 1 ^ and gay devices of the gorgeous East are contri- buting to the federation of pleasure. And now, through a festooned doorway, there come the people of many lands to inhabit the gay court. Music follows their footsteps : Hamlet and Esther ; Caractacus and Iphigenia ; Napoleon and Hermione ; The Man in the Iron Mask and Sappho ; Garibaldi and Boadicea ; an Arab sheikh and Joan of Arc; Mahomet and Casablanca; Cleopatra and Hannibal — a resurrected world. But the illusion is short and slight. This world is very sordid — of shreds and patches, after all. It is but a pretty masquerade, in which feminine vanity beats hard against strangcly-clothed bosoms ; and masculine conceit is shown in the work of the barber's curling-irons and the ship - carpenter's wooden swords and paper helmets. The pride of these folk is not diminished because Hamlet's wig gets awry, or a Rom.an has trouble with his foolish garters. Few men or women can resist mumming ; they fancy themselves as somebody else, dead or living. Yet these seem happy in this nonsense. The indolent days appear to have deadened hatred, malice, and all uncharitablcness. They shall strut and fret their hour upon this little stage. Let that sprightly girl forget the sudden death which made her an orphan ; the nervous broker lis faithless .m MUMMERS ALL 119 wife; the grey-haired soldier his silly and liaunting sins ; the bankrupt his creditors. * On with the dance, let joy be unconfined 1 ' For the captain is on the bridge, the engineer is beneath ; we have stout walls, and a ceaseless sentry-go. In the intervals of the dance wine passes, and idle things are said beside the draped and cushioned capstan or in the friendly gloom of a boat, which, in the name of safety, hangs taut between its davits. Let this imitation Cleopatra use the Cleopatra's arts ; this mellow Romeo (sometime an Irish land- lord) vow to this coy Juliet; this Helen of Troy — Of all who walked these decks, mantled and wigged in characters not their own, Mrs. Falchion was the handsomest, most convincing. With a graceful swaying movement she passed along the promenade, and even envy praised her. Her hand lay lightly on the arm of a brown stalwart native of the Indian hills, fierce and savage in attire. Against his wild picturesqueness and brawny strength, her perfectness of animal beauty, curbed and rendered delicate by her inner coldness, showed in fine contrast ; and yet both were matched in the fine natural prowess of form. With a singular affirmation of what had been, after all, but a sadly-humorous proposal, I had attired myself in a Greek costume — quickly made by ! I20 MRS. FALCHION ■1 ' I m my steward, who had been a tailor — and was about to leave my cabin, when HungerA^rd entered, and exclaimed, as he took his pipe from his mouth in surprise, — ' Marmion, what does this mean ? Don't you know your duties better? No officer may appear at these flare-ups in costume other than his uniform. You're the finest example of suburban innocence and original sin I've seen this last quarter of a century, wherein I've kept the world — and you — from tottering to destruction.' He reached for one of my cigars. Without a word, and annoyed at my own Jtupidity, I slowly divested myself of the clothes of Greece ; while Hungerford smoked on, hum- ming to himself occasionally a few bars of T/ie Buccaneers Bride^ but evidently occupied with something in his mind. At 'ength he said ; ' Marmion, I said suburban innocence and original sin, but you've a grip on the law of square and compass too. I'll say that for you, old chap, — and 1 hope you don't think I'm a miserable prig.' Still I replied nothing, but offered him one of my best cigars, taking the other one from him, and held the match while he lighted it — which, between men, is sufficient evidence of good - feeling. He understood, and continued: 'Of course you'll keep your c} e on Mrs. Falchion and Madras to-night: i MUMMKKS ALL 121 if he is determined that they shall meet, and you hiive arranged it. I'd like to know how it goes before you turn in, if you don't mind. And, I say, Marmion, ask Miss Trcherne to keep a dance for me — a waltz — towards the close of the evening, will you ? Excuse me, but she is the thoroughbred of the ship. And if I have only one hop down the promenade, I want it to be with a girl who'll remind me of some one that is making West Ken- sington worth inhabiting. Only think, Marmion, of a girl like her — a graduate in arts, whose name and picture have been in all the papers — being willing to make up with me, Dick Hungerford I She is as natural and simple as a girl can be, and doesn't throw Greek roots at you, nor try to con- vince you of the difference between the songs of the troubadours and the sonnets of Petrarch. She doesn't care a rap whether Dante's Beatrice was a real woman or a principle ; whether James the First poisoned his son; or what's the margin between a sine and a cosine. She can take a fence in the hunting-field like a bird ! Oh, all right, just hold still, and I'll unfasten it' And he struggled with a recalcitrant buckle. ' Well, you'll not forget about Miss Treherne, will you ? She ought to go just as she is. Fancy-dress on her would be gild- ing the gold ; for, though she isn't surpassingly i II 129 MRS. FALCHION beautiful, she is very fine, very fine indcccl. There, now, you're yourself again, and look all the better for it' By this time I was again in my uniform, and I sat down, and smoked, and looked at Hungerford. His long gossip had been more or less detached, and I had said nothing. I understood tiiat he was trying;, in his blunt, honest way, to turn my thoughts definitely from Mrs. Falchion to Belle Treherne ; and he never seemed to me such a good fellow as at that moment. I replied at last, — *y\ll right, Hungcrford ; Fll be your deputation, your ambassador, to Miss Treherne. What time shall we see you on deck ? * 'About 11.40 — just in time to trip a waltz on the edge of eight bells.' * On the edge of Sunday, my boy.* *Yes. Do you know, it is just four years ago to-morrow since I found Boyd Madras on the No Man's Sea?' * Let us not talk of it,' said I. 'All right. I merely stated the fact, because it came to me. Fm mum henceforth. And I want to talk about something else. The first oflficer, — I don't know whether you have noticed him lately, but I tell you this, — if we ever get into any trouble with this ship he'll go to pieces. Why, I MUMMKRS ALL "3 ago the the other night, when the engine got tangled, he was as timid as a woman. That shock lie had with the coal, as I said before, has broken his nerve, big man as he is.' ' Hungerford,' I said, 'you do not generally croak, but you are earning the character of the raven for yourself to-night. The thing is growing on you What is the use of bringing up unpleasant sub- jects? You are an old woman.* I fear ihere was ihe slightest irritation in my voice ; but, truth is, the last few days' experiences had left their mark on me, and Hungerford's speech and manner had suddenly grown trying. He stood for a moment looking at me with direct earnestness from under his strong brows, and then he stepped forward, and, laying his hand upon my arm, rejoined : * Do not be raw, Marmion, I'm only a blunt, stupid sailor ; and, to tell you God's truth, as I have told you before, every sailor is superstitious — every real sailor. He can't help it — I can't. I have a special fit on me now. Why don't I keep it to myself? Because I'm selfish, and it does me good to talk. You and I are in one secret together, and it has made me feel like sharing this thing with a pal, I suppose.' I seized his hand and begged his pardon, and called myself unpleasant names, which he on the 124 MRS. FALCHION .'^;i^ ""^1 i- instant stopped, and said : ' That's all rij^ht, Marmy ; shake till the knuckles crack ! I'm off. Don't forget the dance.* He disappeared down the passage. Then I went on deck, and the scene which I have so imperfectly described passed before me. Mrs. Falchion was surrounded with admirers all the evening, both men and women ; and two of the very stately English ladies of title, to whom I before referred, were particularly gracious to her ; while she, in turn, bore herself with becoming dignity. I danced with her once, and was down on her pro- gramme for another dance. I had also danced with Belle Treherne, who appeared as Miriam, and was chaperoned by one of the ladies of title ; and I had also ' sat out ' one dance with her. Chancing to pass her as the evening wore on, I saw her in conversation with Mrs. Falchion, who had dismissed her cavalier, preferring to talk, she said, ' for dancing was tiresome work on the Indian Ocean,' Belle Treherne, who up to that moment had never quite liked her, yielded to the agreeable charm of her conversation and her frank applaus- ive remarks upon the costumes of the dancers. She had a good word for every one, and she drew her companion out to make the most of herself, as women less often do before women than in the presence of men. I am certain that her interest I MUMMKRS AT-L 125 irmy; "orget have Mrs. il the 2 very before while ly. I r pro- lanced n, and ; ; and incing her in Hissed incing t had eeable Dlaus- incers. drew lerself, in the itcrest in Belle Treherne was real, and likewise certain that she cherished no pique against her because I had transferred my allegiance. Indeed, I am sure that she had no deep feeling of injured pride where I was concerned. Such after acidity as she sometimes showed was directed against the foolish part I had played with her and my action in subsequent events ; it did not proceed from personal feeling or self-value. Some time after this meeting I saw Boyd Madras issue from the companion-way dressed as a Greek. He wore a false beard, and carried off well his garments of white and scarlet and gold — a very striking and presentable man. He came slowly forward, looking about him steadily, and, seeing me, moved towards me. But for his manner I should scarcely have recognised him. A dance was begin- ning; but many eyes were turned curiously, and even admiringly, to him ; for he looked singular and impressive and his face was given fulness by a beard and flesh paints. I motioned him aside where there was shadow, and said, — 'Well, you have determined to see her ?' * Yes,' he said ; * and I wish you, if you will, to introduce me to her as Mr. Charles Boyd. ' You still think this wise ? ' I asked. ' It is my earnest wish. I must have an under- rr M \ 126 MRS. FALCHION standing to-night.' He spoke very firmly, and showed no excitement. His manner was calm and gentlemanly. He had a surprising air of decision. Supporting an antique character, he seemed for the moment to have put on also something of antique strength of mind, and to be no longer the timid invalid. * Then, come with me,' I answered. We walked in silence for a few minutes, and then, seeing where Mrs. Falchion was, we advanced to her. The next dance on her programme was mine. In my previous dance with hcT we had talked as we now did at table — as we did the first hour I met her — impersonally, sometimes (I am bold to say) amusingly. Now I approached her with apologies for being late. The man beside her took his leave. She had only just glanced at me at first, but now she looked at my companion, and the look stayed, curious, bewildered. ' It is fitting,' I said, * that Greek meet Greek — that Menelaus should be introduced to Helen. May I say that when Helen is iiot Helen she is Mrs. Falchion, and when Menelaus is not Menelaus he is — Mr. Charles ]3oyd.' I am afraid my voice faltered slightly, because there came over me suddenly a nervousness as unexpected as it was inconvenient, and my words, MUMMERS MX ,27 which began lightly, ended huskily. fJad Boyd Madras miscalculated this woman ? Her eyes were afire, and her face was as pale as marble ; all its sh'ght but healthy glow had fled. A very faint gasp came from her lips. I saw that she recognised him, as he bowed and mentioned her name, following my introduction. I knew not what might occur, for I saw danger in her eyes in reply to the beseeching look in his. Would melodrama supervene after all.? She merely bowed towards me, as if to dismiss me, and then she rose, took his arm, and moved away. The interview that follows came to me from Boyd Madras afterwards. When they had reached the semi -darkness of the forward part of the ship, she drew her hand quickly away, and, turning to him, said : ' What is the name by which you are called ? One docs not always hear distinctly when being introduced.' He did not understand what she was about to do, but he felt the deadly coldness in her voice. * My name is known to you,' he replied. He steadied himself. * No, pardon me, I do not know it, for I do not know you. ... I never saw }ou before.' She leaned her hand carelessly on the bulwarks. He was shocked, but he drew himself together, 128 MRS. FALCHION ■I i 1 i Tlieir eyes were intent on each other. ' You do know me I Need I tell you that I am Boyd Madras ? ' 'Boyd Madras?' she said, musing coldly. *A peculiar name.' * Mercy Madras was your name until you called yourself Mrs. Falchion/ he urged indignantly, yet anxiously too. * It suits you to be mysterious, Mr. — ah yes, Mr. Boyd Madras ; but, really, you might be less exacting in your demands upon one's imagination.' Her look was again on him casually. He spoke breathlessly. 'Mercy — Mercy — for God's sake, don't treat me like this ! Oh, my wife, I have wronged you every way, but I loved you always — love you now. I have only followed you to ask you to forgive me, after all these years. I saw you in Colombo just before you came on board, and I felt that I must come also. You never loved me. Perhaps that is better for you, but you do not know what I suffer. If you could give me a chance, and come with me to America — anywhere, and let me start the world again ? I can travel straight now, and I will work hard, and be honest. I will ' But here sudden pain brought back the doubt concerning his life and its possibilities. He leaned against the bulwarks, and made a helpless, despairing motion with his hand . MUMMERS ALL 129 'No, no!' he said ; and added with a bitter laiigli, 'Not to begin the world again, but to end it as profitably and as silently as I can. . . But you will listen to me, my wife? You will say at least that you forgive me the blight and ill I brought upon you ? ' She had listened to him unmoved outwardly. Her reply was instant. * You are more melo- dramatic than I thought you capable of being — from your appearance,' she said in a hard tone. *Your acting is very good, but not convincing. I cannot respond as would become the unity and sequence of the play. ... I have no husband. My husband is dead — I buried him years ago. I hav^e forgotten his name — I buried that too.' All the suffering and endured scorn of years came to revolt in him. He leaned forward now, and caught her wrist. ' Have you no human feel- ing?' he said, — *no heart in you at all? Look: I have it in me here suddenly to kill you as you stand. You have turned my love to hate. From your smooth skin there I could strip those rags, and call upon them all to look at you — my wife — a felon's wife ; mine to have and to hold — to hold, you hear ! — as it was sworn at the altar. I bare my heart to you, repenting, and you mock it, torture it, with your undying hate and cruelty. You have no 9 130 MRS. FALCHION ! It ^ll i \ heart, no life. This white bosom is all of you — all of your power to make men love you — this, and your beauty. All else, by God, is cruel as the grave ! ' Mis voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. She had not sought to remove his hand, nor struggled in the least; and once it seemed as if this new development of his character, this animal fierceness, would conquer her : she admired courage. It was not so. He trembled with weakness before he had finished. He stopped too soon ; he lost. 'You will find such parts exhausting to play,' she murmured, as he let her arm fall. * It needs a strong physique to endure exaggerated, nervous sentiment. And now, please, let us perform less trying scenes.' Then, with a low, cold anger, she continued : ' It is only a coward that will dog a woman who finds his presence insupportable to her. This woman cannot, if she would, endure this man's presence ; it is her nature. Well, why rush blindly a.t the impossible? She wishes to live her spoiled life alone. The man can have no part in it — never, never! But she has money. If in that way ' He stretched out his hand protestingly, the fingers spread in excitement. *No more — not another word ! ' he said. * I ask for forgiveness, MUMMERS ALL 131 the I for one word of kindness — and lam offered money ! the fire that burned me to eat, instead of bread ! I had a wife once,' he added in a kind of troubled dream, looking at her as if she were very far away, 'and her name was Mercy — her fiame vib.s Mercy — Mercy Madras. I loved her. I sinned for her sake. A message came that she was dead to me ; but I could not believe that it was so altogether, for I had knelt at her feet and worshipped her. I went to her, but she sent me away angrily. Years passed. " She will have relented now," I said, and I followed her, and found her as I thought. But it was not she ; it was a wicked ghost in her beautiful body — nothing more. And then I turned away and cursed all things, because I knew that I should never see my wife again. Mercy Madras was dead. . . . Can you not hear the curses ? ' Still she was unmoved. She said with a cruel impatience in her voice : * Yes, Mercy Madras is dead. How then can she forgive? What could her ghost — as you call her — do, but offer the thing which her husband — when he was living — loved so well that he sold himself into bondage, and wrecked his world and hers for it — Money ? Well, money is at his disposal, as she said before ' But she spoke no more. The man in him straightway shamed her into silence with a look Hi ', m Mi 132 MRS. FALCFIION She bowed her head, yet not quite in shame, for there was that in Iier eyes which made her appear as if his suffering was a gratuitous inflic- tion. But a this moment he was stronger, and he drew her eyes up by the sheer force of his will. ' I need no money now,' he coldly declared. * I need nothing — not even you ; and can you fancy that, after waiting all these years for this hour, money would satisfy me? Do you know,' he continued slowly and musingly, * I can look upon you now — yes, at this moment — with more indifference than you ever showed to me? A mcr.jnt ago I loved you : now I think you horrible ; because you are no woman ; you have a savage heart. And some day you will suffer as I do, so terribly that even the brazen serpent could not cure you. Then you will remember me. He was about to leave her, but he had not taken two steps before he turned, with all the anger and the passion softened in his eyes, and said, putting his hand out towards yet not to touch her, ' Good- bye — for the last time.' And then the look was such as might be turned upon a forgiven excutioner. * Good-night,' she replied, and she did not look into his eyes, but out to sea. Her eyes remained fixed upon its furtive gloom. She too was fur- tive and gloomy at this moment. They were both MUMMERS ALL ^33 sleek, silent, and remorseless. There was a slight rustle to her dress as she changed her position. It was in grim keeping with the pitiless I'lstle of the sea. And so they parted. I saw him move on towards the companion-way, and though I felt instinctively that all had gone ill with him, I was surprised to sec how erect he walked. After a minute I approached her. She heard me coming, and presently turned to me with a curious smile. •Who is Mr. Charles Boyd?' she asked. 'I did not pierce his disguise. I could not tell whether I had met him on board before. Have I ? But my impression is that I had not seen him on the ship.* VNo, you had not seen him,' I replied. 'He Lad a fancy to travel, until yesterday, with the second-class passengers. Now he has a first-class cabin — in his proper place, in fact' 'You think i:o — in his proper place?' The suggestion was not pleasant. 'Assuredly. Why do you speak in that way?' was my indignant reply. She took my arm as we moved on. 'Because he was slightly rude to me.' I grew bold, and determined to bring her to some sort of reckoning. .1; 134 MRS. FALCHION ' How rude were you to him ? ' 'Not rude at all. It is not worth while beinjT so — to anybody,' was her chilly answer. *I was under the impression you had met him before,* I said gravely. ' Indeed ? And why ? ' She raised her eyebrows at me. I pushed the matter to a conclusion. * He was ill the other day — he has heart trouble. It was necessary for me to open the clothes about his neck. On his breast I saw a little ivory portrait of a woman's head.' 'A woman's head? 'she repeated absently, and her fingers idly toyed with a jingling ornament in her belt. In an idle moment I had sketched the head, as I remembered it, on a sheet of paper, and now I took it from my pocket and handed it to her. We were standing near a port-hole of the music saloon, from which light streamed. ' That is the head,' said I. She deliberately placed the paper in the belt of light, and, looking at it, remarked mechanically, — 'This is the head, is it?' She showed no change of countenance, and handed it back to me as if she had seen no likeness. ' It is very interesting,* she said, 'but one would think you might make li ai MUMMERS AI.I. 135 better use of your time than by surreptitiously sketchinjj^ portraits from sick men's breasts. One must have plenty of leisure to do that sort of thing, I should think. Be careful that you do not get into mischief, Dr. Marmion.' She laughed. * Besides, where was the special peculiarity in that portrait that you should treasure it in pencil so con- ventionally? — Your drawing is not good. — Where was the point or need ? * * I have no right to reply to that directly,' I responded. 'But this man's life is not for always, and if anything happened to him it would seem curious to strangers to find that on his breast — because, of course, more than I would see it there.* * If anything happened ? What should happer. ? You mean, on board ship?* There was a little nervousness in her tone now. *I am only hinting at an awkward possibility,' I replied. She looked at me scornfully. *When did you see that picture on his breast ? ' I told her. ' Ah ! before t/iat day ? ' she rejoined. I knew that she referred to the evening when I had yielded foolishly to the fascination of her presence. The blood swam hotly in my face. * Men are not noble creatures,' she continued. * I am afraid you would not give many their ri' . 136 MRS. FALCHION H patents of nobility if you had power to bestow them,' I answered. 'Most men at the beginning, and very often ever after, are ignoble creatures. Yet I should confer the patents of nobility, if it were my prerogative; for some would succeed in living up to them. Vanity would accomplish that much. Vanity is the secret of noblesse oblige ; not radical virtue — since we are beginning to be bookish again.' ' To what do you 1 duce honour and right ? ' returned I. * As I said to you on a memorable occasion,* she answered very drily, ' to a code.' ' That is,' rejoined I, * a man does a good action, lives an honourable life, to satisfy a social canon — to gratify, say, a wife or mother, who believes in him, and loves him ?' *Yes.' She was watching Belle Treherne pro- menading with her father. She drew my attention to it by a slight motion of the hand, but why I could not tell. ' But might not a man fall by the same rule of vanity ? ' I urged. * That he shall appear well in their eyes, that their vanity in turn should be fed, might he not commit a crime. and so brinef misery ?' ' Yes, it is true either way — pleasure or misery. MUMMKRS AI-L »37 ricasc come to the saloon aiul ^ct me an Ice before the next tlanee.' I was perplexed. Was she altogether scnillcss? Even now, as we passed amonj^ the dancers, she replied to coni^ratulations on her make-up and appearance with evident pleasure. An hour later, I was taking^ Belle Treherne from the arm of Ilun^^crford for the last waltz, and, in reply to an inquiring i^lance from him, I shook my head moiunfully. His face showed solicitude as he walked away. Perhaps it did not gratify my vanity that Belle Treherne, as her father limped forw.ird at the stroke of eight bells to take her below, said to me, — ' How downright and thorough Mr. Hungerford is ! ' But I frankly admitted that he was all she might say good of him, ajid more. The deck was quickly dismantled, the lights went out, and all the dancers disappeared. The masquerade was over ; and again, through the darkness, rose the plaintive, 'All's well! And it kept ringing in my ears until it became a mocking sound, from which I longed to be free. It was lik c ;ery. the voice of Lear crying over the body of Cordelia : * Never, never, never, never, never ! ' Something of Hungerford's superstitious feeling possessed me. I went below, and involuntarily made my way to Boyd Madras's cabin. Ir vh P ;i 138 MPs-S. FALCHION Though the night was not hot, the door was drawn to. I tapped. His voice at once asked who was there, and when I told him, and inquired how he was, he said he was not ill, and asked me to come to his cabin in the morning, if I would. I promised, and bade him good-night He re- sponded, and then, as 1 turned away from the door, I heard him repeat the good-night c<: dially and calmly. ■\'-' ! -'" U!i .)! i ! was sked lired me Duld. i re- door, and CHAPTER VII. THE WHEEL COMES FULL CIRCLE. 'T^HE next morning I was up early, and went on deck. The sun had risen, and in the moist atmosphere the tints of sky and sea were beautiful. Everywhere was the warm ocean undulating lazily to the vague horizon. A few Lascars were still cleansing the decks ; others were sealed on their haunches between decks, eating curry from a calabash ; a couple of passengers were indolently munching oranges ; and Stone the quartermaster was inspecting the work lately done by the Lascars. Stone gave me a pleasant good-morning, and we walked together the length of the deck forward. I had got about three-fourths of the length back again, when I heard a cry from aft — a sharp call of, ' Man overboard I ' In a moment I had travelled the intermediate deck, and was at the stern, looking below, where, in the swirling waters, was the head 130 li f-i! ) 140 MRS. FALCHION of a man. With cries of, * Man overboard ! * I threw two or three buoys after the disappearing head, above which a bare arm thrust itself. I heard the rush of feet behind me, and in a moment Hunger- ford and Stone were beside me. The signal was given for the engines to stop ; stewards and Lascars came running on deck in response to Hungerford's call, and the first ofi'icer now appeared. Very soon a crew was gathered on the after-deck about a boat on the port side. Passengers by this time showed in various stages of dressing — women wringing their hands, men gesticulating. If there is anything calculated to send a thrill of awe through a crowd, it is the cry of, * Man overboard ! ' And when one looked below, and saw above the drowning head two white arms thrust from the sea, a horrible thing was brought home to each of us. Besides, the scene before us on the deck was not reassuring. There was trouble in getting the boat lowered. The first officer was excited, the Lascars were dazed, the stewards were hurried without being confident; only Hungerford, Stone, and the gunner were collected. The boat should have been launched in a minute, but still it hung between its davits; its course downward was interrupted ; something was wrong with the ropes. * A false start, by !* said THE WHEEL COMES EULE CIRCLE 141 the bookmaker, looking tlirough his eycghiss. Colonel Ryder's face was stern, Clovell}' was pale and anxious, as moment after moment went, and the boat was not yet free. Ages seemed to pass before the boat was let down even with the bulwarks, and a crew of ten, with Llungerford in command, were in it, ready to be lowered. Whether the word was given to lower, or whether it was any one's fault, may never perhaps be known ; but, as the boat hung there, suddenly it shot down at the stern, some one having let go the ropes at that end ; and the bow being still fast, it had fallen like a trap-dcor. It seemed, on the instant, as if the whole crew were tossed into the water ; but some had successfully clutched the boat's side, and Hungerford hung by a rope with one hand. In the eddying water, however, about the reversing crew, were two heads, and farther off was a man strugs^ling. The face of one of the men near the screw was upturned for a moment ; it was that of Stone the quarter- master. A cry went up from the passengers, and they swayed forward to the suspended boat ; but Colonel Ryder turned almost savagely upon them. * Keep quiet ! ' he said. * Stand back ! What can you do? Give Ihe officers a chance.' He knew T ; i(. ' I I i : ! ■ ! 142 MRS. FALCHION that there had been a false start, and bad work indeed ; but he also saw that the task of the officers must not be made harder. His sternness had effect. The excited passengers drew back, and I took his place in front of them. When the first effort had been made to lower the boat, I asked the first officer if I could accompany the crew, but he said no. I could, therefore, do nothing but wait. A change came on the crowd. It became painfully silent, none speaking save in whispers, and all watching witli anxious faces either the receding heads in the water or the unfortunate boat's crew. Ilungerford showed himself a thorough sailor. Hanging to the davit, he quietly, reassuringly, gave the order for righting the boat, virtually taking the command out of the hands of the first officer, who was trembling with nervousness. Huugcrford was right ; this man's days as a sailor were over. The accident from which he had suffered had broken his nerve, stalwart as he was. But Hungerford was as cool as if this were ordinary boat-practice. Soon the boat was drawn up again, and others took the place of those who had disappeared. Then it was lowered safely, and, with Ilungerford erect in the bows, it was pulled swiftly along the path we had come. THE WHEEL COMES FULL CIRCLE 143 r^ At length, too, the great ship turned round, but not in her tracks. It is a pleasant fiction that these great steamers are easily managed. They can go straight ahead, but their huge proportions are not adapted for rapid movement. However, the work of rescue was begun. Sailors were aloft on watch, Captain Ascott was on the bridge, sweep- ing the sea with his glass ; order was restored. But the ship had the feeling of a home from which some familiar inmate had been taken, to icturn no more. Children clasped their mothers* hands and said, — ' Mother, was it Stone the quarter- master?' and men who the day before had got help from the petty officers in the preparation of costumes, said mournfully, — 'Fife the gunner was one of them.' But who was the man first to go overboard ? and who was it first gave the alarm ? There were rumours, but no one was sure. All at once I remembered something peculiar in that cry of, ' Man overboard r and it shocked me. I hurried below, and went to the cabin of Boyd Madras. It was empty ; but on a shelf lay a large envelope, addressed to Hungerford and myself. I tore it open. There was a small packet, which I knew contained the portrait he had worn on his bosom, addressed to Mrs. Falchion; and the other was m 144 MRS. FALCHION iii I I a single sheet directed to mc, fully written upon, and marked in the corner : ' To be made public.' So, he had disappeared from the play? lie had made his exit ? He had satisfied the code at last? Before opening the letter addressed to me, I looked round. His clothes were folded upon one of the berths ; but the garments of masquerade were not in the cabin. Had he then gone out of the world in the garb of a mummer? Not altogether, for the false beard he had worn the night before lay beside the clothes. But this terrible earnestness of his would look strange in last night's disguise. I opened the packet addressed to Hungerford and myself, and saw that it contained a full and detailed account of his last meeting with his wife. The personal letter was short. He said that his gratitude was unspeakable, and now must be so for ever. He begged us not to let the world know who he was, nor his relationship to Mrs. Falchion, unless she wished it ; he asked me to hand privately to her the packet bearing her name. Lastly, he requested that the paper for the public be given to the captain of the Fulvia. Going out into the passage, I foimd a steward, who hurriedly told me that just before the alarm f I ■^ TIIK WIIKEL COMKS FULL CIRCLE 145 was ^nven he had seen Boyd Madras going aft in that strange costume, which he mistook for a dressing-gown, and he had come to see if, by any chance, it was ne who had gone overboard. I told him that it was. He disappeared, and soon the whole ship knew it. I went to the captain, gave him the letter, and told him only what was necessary to tell. He was on the bridge, and was occupied with giving directions, so he asked me the substance of the letter, and handed it back to me, requesting me to make a copy of it soon and leave it in his cabin. I then took all the papers to my cabin, and locked them up. I give here the substance of the letter which was to be made public : — 'Because you know how much I have sufTered physically while on hoard this ship, and becau>;e you have lieen kind to me, I wish, through you, to say my last word to the world : though, indeed, this may seem a strange form for gratitude to take. Dying men, however, make few apologies, and I shall make none. My exist- ence, as you know, is an uncertain quantity, and may be cut short at any moment in the ordinary course of things. But I have no future in the active concerns of life ; no past on vvhi^h to dwell with satisfaction ; no friends to mourn for my misfortunes in life, nor for my death, whether it be peaceful or violent : therefore, I have fewer comjumctions in ending a mistaken career and a worthless life. 'Some one will profit by my death : who it is matters not, for it is no friend of mine. My death adjusts a balance, perhaps not nicely, yet it does it. And this is all I have to say. ... I am ^oing. Farewell. . . ,' After a brief farewell to me added, there came 10 • i i; 146 MRS. FALCFilON 1 : ii ■ •, i :!!l ^! the subscription * Charles Boyd ;' and that was all. Why he cried out, 'Man overboard' (for now I recognised that it was his voice which gave the alarm), I do not know, except that he wished his body to be recovered, and to receive burial. Just here, some one came fumbling at the curtain of my cabin. I heard a gasp — * Doctor — my head ! Quick!' I looked out. As I drew the curtain a worthless Lascar sailor fell f-iinting into my cabin. He had been dnnking a good deal, and the horror and excitement of the accident had brought on an apoplectic fit. This in a very hot climate is suddenly fatal. In three miuutes. in spite of me, he was dead. Postponing report of the matter, I went on deck again among the passengers. I expected that Mrs. Falchion would be among them, for the news must have gone to every part of the ship ; but she was not there. On the outskirts of one of the groups, however, I saw Justine Caron. I went to her, a.\\d asked her if Mrs. Falchion had risen. She said that she had not : that she had been told of the disaster, and had appeared shocked ; but had complained of a headache, and nad not risen. I then asked Justine if Mrs. Falchion had been told who the suicide was, and was answered in the negative. At that moment a lady came to me and THE WHEKL COMES FULL CIRCLE 147 *vas all. now I ive the hed his curtain y head ! orthless '- .:'«' He had ror and on an mate is i of me, natter, I ; among y part of outskirts "a"" e Caron. .1 lion had 1 she had ^1 shocked ; •f "lot risen. '4 ad been d in the > ) me and said in an awed whisper: VOr. Marmiin, is it true that the man who committed suicide was a second - class passenger, and that he appeared at the ball last night, and danced with Mrs. Falchion?* I knew that my reply would soon become conimopi property, so I said : * He was a first-class passenger, though until yesterday he travelled second class. I knew him. His name was Charles Boyd. I introduced him to Mrs. Falchion last night, but he did not stay long on deck, because he felt ill. He had heart-trouble. You may guess that he was tired of life.' Then I told her of the paper which was for the public, and she left me. The search for the unfortunate men went on. No one couM be seen near the floating buoys which were here and there picked up by Hunger- ford's boat. The long undulations of the water had been broken up in a large area about the ship, but the sea was still comparatively smooth. We were steaming back along the track we had come. There was less excitement on board than might be expected. The tropical stillness of the air, the quiet suddenness of the tragedy itself, the grim decisiveness of Hungcrford, the watchful silence of a few men like Colonel Ryder and Clovelly, had p r^ ! f i 1 148 MRS. FAT.CHION II '}' W I i effect upon even the emotion of those women, cvcryvvlierc found, who get a morbid enjoyment out of misery. Nearly all were watchinf^ the rescue boat, though a few looked over the sides of the ship as if they expected to find bodies floating about. They saw sharks instead, and a trail of blood, and this sent them away sickened from the bulwarks. Then they turned their attention again upon the rescue party. It was impossible not to note what a fine figure Ilungcrford made, as he stood erect in the bow, his hand over his eyes, searching the water. Presently we saw him stop the boat, and something was drawn in. He signalled the ship. He had found one man — but dead or alive? The boat was rapidly rowed back to the ship, Hungcrford making efforts for resuscitation. Arrived at the vessel, the body v/as passed up to me. It was that of Stone the qunrtermaster. I worked to bring back life, but it was of no avail. A minute after, a man in the yards signalled that he saw another. It was not a hundred yards away, and was floating near the surface. It was a strange sight, for the water was a vivid green, and the man wore garments of white and scarlet, and looked a part of some strange mosaic : as one has THE WHEEL COMES FULL CHICLE 149 seen astonishing figures set in balls of solid glass. This figure framed in the sea was Boyd Madras. The boat was'signallcd, it drew near, and two men dragged the body in, as a shark darted forward, just too late, to seize it. The boat drew alongside the Fulvia. I stood at the gangway to receive this castaway. I felt his wrist and heart. As I did so I chanced to glance up at the passengers, who were looking at this painful scene from the upper deck. There, leaning over the railing, stood Mrs. Falchion, her eyes fixed with a shocking wonder at the drooping weird figure. Her lips parted, but at first they made no sound. Then, she suddenly drew herself up with a shudder. ' Horrible ! horrible 1 ' :.iie said, and turned away. I had Boyd Madras taken to an empty cabin next to mine, which I used for operations, and there Hungerford and myself worked to resuscitate him. We allowed no one to come near. I had not much hope of bringing life back, but still we worked with a kind of desperation, for it seemed to Hungerford and myself that somehow we were responsible to humanity for him. His heart had been weak, but there had been no organic trouble : only some functional disorder, which open-air life and freedom from anxiety might have overcome. Hungerford worked with an almost fierce persist- 'SO MRS. I'ALCHION l!, \ t ti : t l\ cncc. Once he said : ' By God, I will bring him back, Marinioii, to face that woman down when she thini CHAPTER VIII. «;' jM '. ( A BRIDGE OF PERIL. NO more delightful experience may be had than to wake up in the harbour of Aden some fine morning — it is always fine there — and get the first imnression of that mighty fortress, with its thousanu iron eyes, in strong repose by the Arabian Sea. Overhead was the cloudless sun, and every wlicre the tremulous glare of a sandy shore and the creamy wash of the sea, like fusing opals. A tiny Mohammedan mosque stood gracefully where the ocean almost washed its steps, and the Resident's house, far up the hard hillside, looked down upon the harbour fron a green coolness. The place had a massive, war- like character. Here was a battery with earth- works ; there, a fort ; beyond, a signal - staff. Hosjutals, hotels, and stores were incidents in the picture. Beyond the mountain-wall and lofty 160 A IJRIDGE OF PKRIL i6r be had f Aden e — and brtress, ose by- less sun, sandy a, like stood ed its e hard rorr a [C, war- earth- ll - staff, nts in d lofty Jcl cl Sham uin, rising in fine pink and bronze, apc> at the end 0** a high-walled path between the great hills, lay the town of Aden proper. Above the town again were the mighty Tanks, formed out of clefts in the mountains, and built in the times when the Phoenicians made Aden a great mart, the richest spot in all Arabia. Over to the left, on the op, os. • side of the harbour, were wide bungalows bin. i^^ in the sun, and flanking the side of the ^n'-t' nt aqueduct, the gigantic tomb of an Arab sb ikh. In the harbour were the men-of-war of aii iiations, and Arab dhows sailed slowly in, laden with pilgrims for Mecca — masses of picturesque sloth and dirt — and disease also ; for more than one vessel flew the yellow flag. As we looked, a British man-of-war entered the gates of the harbour in the rosy light. It was bringing back the disabled and wounded from a battle, in which a handful of British soldiers were set to punish thirty times their number in an unknown country. But there was another man- of-war in port with which we were familiar. We passed it far out on the Indian Ocean. It again passed us, and reached Aden before we did. The Porcupine lay not far from the Fulvia, and as I leaned over the bulwarks, idly looking at II :t; f-^i.: ]()2 MRS. FALCHION I her, a boat shot away from her side, and came towards us. As it drew near, I saw tliat it was filled with hj^^agc — a naval officer's, I knew it to be. As the sailors hauled it up, I noticed that the initials upon the portmanteaus were G. R. The owner was evidently an officer going home on leave, or invalided. It did not, how- ever, concern me, as I thought, and I turned away to look for Mr. Trehcrne, that I might fulfil my promise to escort his daughter and Mrs. Callendar to the general cemetery at Aden ; for I knew he was not fit to do the journey, and there was nothing to prevent my going. A few hours later I stood with Miss Treherne and Mrs. Callendar in the graveyard beside the fortress- wall, placing wreaths of artificial flowers and one or two natural roses — a chance purchase from a shop at the port — on the grave of the young journalist. Miss Trehcrne had brought some sketching mate- rials, and both of us (for, as has been suggested, I had a slight gift for drawing) made sketches of the burial-place. Having done this, we moved away to other parts of the cemetery, looking at the tomb- stones, many of which told sad tales enough of those who died far away from home and friends. As we wandered on, I noticed a woman kneeling A BRinOK OF PKRTI. 163 \ came it was knew it noticed us were er going ot, how- led away fulfil my Callendar knew he there was >herne and le fortress- Ltid one or [om a shop journalist, [ling mate- rgested, I sketches of lOved away |t the tomb- enough of Lnd friends. tn kneeling beside a grave. It grew upon inc that the figure was faniih'ar. Presently I saw who it was, for the face hfted. I excused myself, went over to her, and said,—* Miss Caron, you are in trouble?' She looked up, her eyes swimming with tears and pointed to the tombstone. On it I read — Sacred to the Mimory of HECTOR CAkON, Ensign in the French Navy. Erected by his friend, Gait Roscoe, of H. H.M.N. Beneath this was the simple line — * PVAy, what eiHl hath he done ? ' * He was your brother?' I asked. 'Yes, monsieur, my one brother.' Her tears dropped slowly. * And Gait Roscoe, who was he?' asked I. Through her grief her face was eloquent. ' I never saw him — never knew him,' she said. ' He saved my poor Hector from much suffering ; he nursed him, and buried him here when he died, and then — that ! ' — pointing to the tombstone. ' He made me love the English,' she said. * Some day I shall find him, and I shall have money to pay him back all he spent — all I ' V0f 164 MRS. FALCHION Now I guessed the mcjiiiing of the scene on board the Falvia^ when she h;id been so anxious to preserve her present relations with Mrs. F'alchion. This was the secret, a beautiful one. She rose. 'They disgraced Hector in New Caledonia/ she said, ' because he refused to punish a convict at He Nou who did not deserve it. He determined to go to rVance to represent his case. He left me behind, because we were poor. He went to Sydney. There he came to know this good man,* — her finger gently felt his name upon the stone, — ' who made him a guest upon his ship ; and so he came on towards England. In the Indian Ocean he was taken ill : and this was the. end.' She mournfully sank again beside the grave, but she was no longer weeping. * What was this officer's vessel ? ' I said presently. She drew from her dress a letter. * It is here. Please read it all. He wrote that to me when Hector died.* The superscription to the letter was — H.B.M.S. Pomipine. I might have told her then that the Porcnphie was in the harbour at Aden, but I felt that things would work out to due ends without my help — which, indeed, they began to do imme- A BRIDGE OF IMCRII. 1 65 cnc on :ious to ilchion. le rose, lia/ she nvict at L'rmined ' He left went to is good ipon the lis ship ; In the , was tht rave, but )resently. is here, le when H.B.M.S. that the 5ut I felt without Jo imme- diately. As we stood there in siLMicc, I reading over and over again the lino upon the pedestal, I heard footsteps behind, and, turning, I saw a man approaching us, who, from his manner, though he was dressed in civilian's clothes, I guessed to be an officer of the navy. He was of more than middle height, had black hair, dark blue eyes, straight, strongly-marked brows, and was clean- shaven. He was a little ascetic-looking, and rather interesting and uncommon, and yet he was un- mistakably a sea-going man. It was a face that one would turn to look at again and again — a singular personality. And yet my first glance told me that he was not one who had seen much happiness. Perhaps that was not unattractive in itself, since people who are very happy, and show it, are often most selfish too, and repel where they should attract. He was now standing near the grave, and his eyes were turned from one to the other of us, at last resting on Justine. Presently I saw a look of recognition. He stepped quickly forward. * Mademoiselle, will you pardon me ? ' he said very gently, ' but you remind me of one whose grave T came to see.* His hand made a slight motion vo(,vards He:: .)r Caron's resting-place. Her eyes were on him 1 66 MRS. FALCHION ^^ i> with an inquiring earnestness. * Oh, monsieur, is it possible that you are my brother's friend and rescuer?' * I am Gait Roscoe. He was my good friend,' he said to her, and he held out his hand. She took it, and kissed it reverently. He flushed, and drew it back quickly and shyly. ' Some day I shall be able to repay you for all your goodness,' she said. * I am only grateful now — grateful altogether. And you will tell me all you knew of him — all that he said and did before he died?' ' I will gladly tell you all I know,' he answered, and he looked at her compassionately, and yet with a little scrutiny, as though to know more of her and how she came to be in Aden. He turned to me inquiringly. I interpreted his thought by saying, — ' I am the surgeon of the Fulvia. I chanced upon Miss Caron here. She is travelling by the Fulvia* With a faint voice, Justine here said : * Travelling — with my mistress.' 'As comp'x.iion to a lady,* I preferred to add in explanation, for I wished not to see her humble herself so. A look of understanding came into Roscoe's face. \ I i A 15RirXiE OF PERIL 167 ieur, IS ad and friend,' 1 She icd, and J for all ;ful now 2 all you lefore he nswered, yet with e of her arncd to am the ss Caron ravelling add in humble :oe's face. m. Then he said : ' I am glad that I shall sec more of you ; I am to travel by the Ftilvia also to London.' ' Yet I am afraid I shall see very little of you,' she quietly replied. He was about to say something to her, but she suddenly swayed and would have fallen, but that he caught her and supported her. The weakness lasted only for a moment, and then, steadying herself, she said to both of us, — ' I hope you will say nothing of this to mr.dame? She is kind, most kind, but she hates illness — and such things.' Gait Roscoe looked at me to reply, his face showing clearly that he thought * madame ' an extraordinary woman. I assured Justine that we would say nothing. Then Roscoe cordially parted from us, saying that he would look forward to seeing us both on the ship ; but before he finally went, he put on the grave a small bouquet from his buttonhole. Then I excused myself from Justine, and, going over to Belle Treherne, explained to her the circumstances, and asked her if she would go and speak to the afflicted girl. She and Mrs, Callendar had been watching the incident, and they eagerly listened to me. I think this was the -t:^ i68 MRS. FALCHION '§. 'II il i.ii moment that I first stood really well with Belle Treherne. Her sympathy for the bereaved girl flooded many barriers between herself and me. • Oh,' she said quickly, * indeed I will go to her, poor girl! Will you come also, Mrs. CallendarT' But Mrs. Callendar timidly said she would rather Miss Treherne went without her ; and so it was. While Belle Treherne was comforting tht, bereaved girl, I talked to Mrs. Callendar. I fear that Mrs. Callendar was but a shallow woman ; for, after a moment of excitable interest in Justine, she rather naively turned the talk upon the charms of Europe. And, I fear, not without some slight cynicism, I followed her where she led ; for, as I said to myself, it did not matter what direction our idle tongues took, so long as I kept my mind upon the two beside that grave • but it gave my speech a spice of malice. I dwelt upon Mrs. Callendar's return to her native heath — that ir, the pavements of Bond Street and Piccadilly, althcjugh I knew that she was a native of Tasmania. At this she smiled egregiously. At length Belle Treherne came to us and said that Justine insisted she was well enough to go back to the vessel alone, and wished not to be accompanied. So we left her there. I I A BRIDGE OF PERIL 169 . Belle :d girl le. to her, dar r ' rather it was. reaved It Mrs. after a rather Lurope. :ism, I myself, ongues le two spice return nts of w that smiled d said to go to be A score of times I have stopped when preparing my notes for this tale from my diary and those of Mrs. Falchion and Gait Roscoc, to think how, all through the events recorded here, and many others omitted, Justine Caron was like those devoted and, often, beautiful attendants of theheroes and heroines of tragedy, who, when all is over, close the eyes, compose the bodies, and cover the faces of the dead, pronouncing with just lips the benediction, fittest in their mouths. Their loves, their deeds, their lives, however good and worthy, were clothed in modesty and kept far up the stage, to be, even when everything was over, not always given the privilege to die as did their masters, but, like Horatio, bade to live and be still the loyal servant— * But in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain. To tell my story.' There was no reason why we should go to the ship immediately, and I proposed that we should first explore the port-town, and then vis.'t the city of Aden — five miles away beyond the hills — and the Tanks. To this the ladies consented. Somauli policemen patrolled the streets; Somauli, Arab, and Turkish guides impeded the way ; Arabs in plain white, Arab sheikhs in blue and white, and I ill 170 MRS. FALCHION i' i * gold, lounged languidly about, or drank their coffee in the shade of the bazaars. Children of the desert, nearly naked, sprinkled water before the doors of the bazaars and stores and upon the hot thorough- fare, from long leather bottles , caravans of camels, with dusty stride, swung up the hillside and beyond into the desert ; the Jewish water-carrier with his donkey trudged down the pass from the cool fountains in the volcanic hills; a guard of eunuchs marched by with the harem of a Mohammedan; in the doorways of the houses goats and donkeys fed. Jews, with greasy faces, red-hemmed skirt, and hungry look, moved about, offering ostrich feathers for sale, every where treated worse than the Chinaman in Oregcn or at Port Darwin. We saw English and Australian passengers o( the Fiih'ia pelting the miserable members of a despised race with green fruit about the streets, and afterwards from the deck of the ship. A number of these raised their hats to us as they passed ; but Belle Treherne's acknowledgment was chilly. ' It is hard to be polite to cowards,' she said. After having made some ruinous bargains in fezes, Turkish cloths and perfume, I engaged a trap, "ind we started for Aden. The journey was not one of beauty, bu' it had singular interest. Every turn of A BRIDGE OF PERIL 171 I the wheels carried us farther and farther away from a familiar world to one of yesterday. White-robed warriors of the desert, with lances, bent their bows upon us as they rode away towards the endless sands, and vagabonds of Egypt begged for alms. In about three-quarters of an hour we had passed the lofty barriers of Jebel Shamsan and its comrades, and were making clouds of dust in the streets of Aden. In spite of the cantonments, the British Government House, and the European Church, it was an Oriental town pure and simple, where the slow-footed hours wandered by, leaving apathy in their train ; where sloth and surfeit sat in the market-places ; idle women gossiped in their doorways ; and naked children rolled in the sun. Yet how, in the most unfamiliar places, does one wake suddenly to hear or see some most familiar thing, and learn again hat the ways of all people and nations are not, a' r all, so far apart ! — Here three naked youths, with trays upon their heads, cried aloud at each doo ay what, interpreted, was, • Pies 1 Hot pies ! Pies il . hot ! * or, ' Cx\xm~pei ! Crum-pet / Won't you buy-uy a crum-pet!' One sees the same thing i 1 Kandy, in Calcutta, in Tokio, in Istamboul, in Teheran, in Queensland, in London. I 72 MRS. FALCHION (1 if I li i! n To us the great Tanks overlooking the place were more interesting^ than the town itself, and we drove thither. At Government House and here were the only bits of green that we had seen ; they were, in fact, the only spots of verdure on the peninsula of Aden. It was a very sickly green, from which \.'an and dusty fig trees rose. In their scant shadow, or in the shelter of an overhanging ledge of rock, Arabs offered us draughts of cool water, and oranges. There were people in the sickly gardens, and others were inspecting the Tanks. Passengers from the ship had brought luncheon - baskets to this sad oa'^-is. As we stood at the edge of one of the Tanks, Belle Treherne remarked with astonishment that they were empty. I explained to her that Aden did not have the benefits conferred even on the land of the seven fat and seven lean kine — that there had not been rain there for years, and that when it did come it was neither prolonged nor plentiful. Then came questions as to how long ago the Tanks were built. ' Thirteen hundred years ! ' she said. * How strange to feel it so! It is like looking at old graves. And how high the walls are, closing up the gorge between the hills ! ' A HRIDC;?: Ol< PERU. 173 low old up i At thatmomcnt Mrs. Callciular drew our attention to Mrs. Falchion and a party from the ship. Mrs. Falchion was but a few paces from us, smiling agreeably as she acknowledged our greetings. Presently two of her party came to us and asked us to share their lunch. I would have objected, and I am certain Belle Treherne would gladly have done so, but Mrs. Callendar was anxious to accept, therefore we expressed our gratitude and joined the group. On second thoughts I was glad that we did so, because, otherwise, my party must have been without refreshments until they returned to the ship — the restaura at Aden are not to be trusted. To me Mrs. Falchion was pleasantly im- personal, to Belle Treherne delicately and actively personal. At the time I had a kind of fear of her interest in the girl, but I know now that it was quite sincere, though it began with a motive not very lofty — to make Belle Treherne her friend, and so annoy me, and also to study, as would an anatomist, the girl's life. We all moved into the illusive shade of the fig and magnolia trees, and lunch was soon spread. As we ate, conversation turned upon the annoying persistency of Eastern guides, and reference was made to the exciting circumstances attending m i !' ii I i\ 174 MRS. FALCHION the engagement of Amshar, the guide of Mrs, Falchion's party. Among a score of claimants, Amshar had had one particular opponent — a personal enemy — who would not desist even when the choice had been made. He, indeed, had been the first to solicit the party, and was rejected because of his disagreeable looks. He had even followed the trap from the Port of Aden. As one of the gentlemen was remarking on the muttered anger of the disappointed Arab, Mrs. Falchion said, — ' There he is now at the gate of the garden.* His look was sullenly turned upon our party. Blackburn the Qucenslander said, — ' Amshar, the other fellow is following up the game,' and pointed to the gate. Amshar understood the gesture at least, and though he gave a toss of his head, I noticed that his hand trembled as he handed me a cup of water, and that he kept his eyes turned on his opponent. ' One always feels unsafe with these cut-throat races,' said Colonel Ryder, ' as some of us know, who have had to deal with the nigger of South America. They think no more of killing a man * I A BRinr.K OF PKRIL 175 * Than an Australian squatter docs of ciispirsin^ a mob of aboriginals or kangaroos,' said Clovclly. Here Mrs. Callcndar spoke up briskly. * I don't know what you mean by " dispersing." ' * You know what a kangaroo battue is don't you ? ' 'But that is killing, s'.aughtering kangaroos hy the hundred.' 'Well, and that is aboriginal dispersion,' said the novelist. ' That is the aristocratic method of legislating the native out of existence.' Blackburn here vigorously protested. ' Yes, it's very like a novelist, on the hunt for picturesque events, to spend his forensic soul upon " the poor native," — upon the dirty nigger, I choose to call him : the meanest, cruellest, most cowardly, and murderous — by Jove, what a lot of adjectives ! — of native races. But we chaps, who have lost some of the best friends we ever had — chums with whom we've shared blanket and tucker — by the crack of a nulla-nulla in the dark, or a spear from the scrub, can't find a place for Exeter Hall and its ** poor native " in our hard hearts. We stand in such a case for justice. It is a new country. Not once in fifty times would law reach them. Reprisal and dispersion were the only things possible T76 MRS. FAT.CHION t ■^n f 1 I i to men whose friends h;ul been massacred, and — well, ihcy punislicd tribes for the acts of in- dividuals.' Mrs. Falchion here said convincingly: 'That is just what England does. A British trader is killed. She sweeps a native town out of existence with Hotchkiss guns — leaves it naked and dead. That is dispersion too ; I have seen it, and I know how far niggers as a race can be trusted, and how much they deserve sympathy. I agree with Mr. Blackburn.* Blackburn raised his glass. * Mrs. Falchion,' he said, * I need no further evidence to prove my case. Experience is the best teacher.* * As I wish to join the chorus to so notable a compliment, will somebody pass the claret?' said Colonel Ryder, shaking the crumbs of a pdte from his coat -collar. When his glass was filled, he turned towards Mrs. Falchion, and continued : ' I drink to the health of the best teacher 1 ' And every one laughingly responded. This impromptu toast would have been drunk with more warmth, if we could have foreseen an immediate event. Not less peculiar were Mrs. Falchion's words to Hungerford the evening before, recorded in the last sentence of the preceding chapter. v.: A BRIDGE or PERIL 177 d, and of in- rhat is adcr is [istence d dead, and 1 trusted, I agree lion,' he ny case. table a ?' said te from led, he lued : * I And romptu armth, event, ords to in the Cij^ars were passed, and the men rose and strolled away. We wandered outside the gardens, passing the rejected guide as we did so. 'I don't like the look in his eye,' said Clovelly. Colonel Ryder laughed. 'You've always got a fine vision for the dramatic' We passed on. I suppose about twenty minutes had gone when, as we were entering the garden again, we heard loud cries. Hurrying forward towards the Tanks, we saw a strange sight. There, on a narrow wall dividing two great tanks, were three people — Mrs. Falchion, Amshar, and the rejected Arab guide. Amshar was crouching behind Mrs. Falchion, and clinging to her skirts in abject fear. The Arab threatened with a knife. He could not get at Amshar without thrusting Mrs. Falchion aside, and, as I said, the wall was narrow. He was bent like a tiger about to spring. Seeing Mrs. Falchion and Amshar apart from the others, — Mrs. Falchion having insisted on crossing this narrow and precipitous wall, — he had suddenly rushed after them. As he did so, Belle Trehcrne saw him, and cried out. Mrs. Falchion faced round swiftly, and then came this tragic situation. Some one must die. 12 'iu M. V^.":.a5^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // ^ 4i /j 1.0 I.I 1.25 1^ m m ^ 1^ ia,« 2.0 1.8 ^ lU Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 873-4503 11 I! I [ 178 MRS. FALCHION Seeing that Mrs. Falchion made no efifort to dislodge Amshar from her skirts, the Arab presently leaped forward. Mrs. Falchion's arms went out suddenly, and she caught the wrist that held the dagger. Then there was an instant's struggle. It was Mrs. Falchion's life now, as well as Amshar's. They swayed. Th^y hung on the edge of the rocky chasm. Then we lost the gleam of the knife, and the Arab shivered, and toppled over. Mrs. Falchion would have gone with him, but Amshar caught her about the waist, and saved her from the fall which would have killed her as certainly as it killed the Arab lying at the bottom of the tank. She had managed to turn the knife in the Arab's hand against his own breast, and then suddenly pressed her body against it ; but the impulse of the act came near carrying her over also. Amshar was kneeling at her feet, and kissing her gown gratefully. She pushed him away with her foot, and, coolly turning aside, began to arrange her hair. As I approached her, she glanced down at the Arab. 'Horrible! horrible!' she said. I remembered that these were her words when her husband was lifted from the sea to the Ftilvia. She, not ungently, refused my hand or any A BRIDGE OF PERIL 179 efifort to le Arab in's arms vrist that instant's tv, as well g on the he gleam i toppled ivith him, ind saved sd her as le bottom the knife and then but the her over d kissing iway with arrange ced down said. I when her ilvia. 1 or any assistance, and came down among the rest of the party. I could not but feel a strange wonder at the powerful side of her character just shown — her courage, her cool daring. In her face now there was a look of annoyance, and possibly disgust, as well as of triumph — so natural in cases of physical prowess. Everybody offered congratulations, but she only showed real pleasure, and that mutely, at those of Belle Trehcrne. To the rest of us she said : * One had to save one's self, and Amshar was a coward.' And so this woman, whose hardness of heart and excessive cruelty Hungcrford and I were keeping from the world, was now made into a heroine, around whom a halo of romance would settle whenever her name should be mentioned. Now, men, eligible and ineliLjible, would increase their homage. It seemed as if the stars had stopped in their courses to give her special fortune. That morning I had thought her appearance at this luncheon-party was little less than scandalous, for she knew, if other? did not, who Boyd Madras was. After the occurrence with the Arab, the other event was certainly much less prominent, and here, after many years, I can see that the act was less in her than it would have been in others. i8o MRS. FAT.CHION Vor, behind her outward hardness, there was a sort of justice working, an iron thing, but still not unnatural in her. Belle Treherne awakened also to a new percep- tion of her character, and a kind of awe possessed her, so masculine seemed her courage, yet so womanly and feminine her manner. Mrs. Callcn- dar was loud in her exclamations of delight and wonder at Mrs. Falchion's coolness; and the book- maker, with his usual impetuosity, offered to take bets at four to one that we should all be detained to give evidence in the matter. Clovelly was silent. He occasionally adjusted his glasses, and looked at Mrs. Falchion as if he had suddenly come to a full stop in his opinions regarding her. This, I think, was noticed by her, and enjoyed too, for she doubtless remembered her conversation with me, in which she had said that Clovelly thought he understood her perfectly. Colonel Ryder, who was loyal at all times, said she had the nerve of a woman from Kentucky. More- over, he had presence of mhid, for he had immedi- ately sent off a native to inform the authorities of what had occurred; so that before we had got half way to the town we were met by policemen running towards us, followed by a small detachment of m- A BRIDGE OF PERIL i8i sort not rcep- sssed It so illen- : and 300k- » take ained justed if he inions y her, bored i said fectly. id she More- medi- ties of )t half inning int of Indian soldiers. The officer in command of the detachment stopped us, and said that the governor would be glad if we would come to Government House for an hour, while an inquiry was being held. To this we cheerfully consented, of course ; and, in a room where punkahs waved and cool claret- cup awaited us, we were received by the governor who was full of admiration of Mrs. Falchion. It was plain, however, that he was surprised at her present equanimity. Had she no nerves at all ? * I can only regret exceedingly/ said the governor, * that your visit to Aden has had such a tragical interruption ; but since it has occurred, I am glad to have the privilege of meeting a lady so brave as Mrs. Falchion.' — The bookmaker had introduced us all with a naivete that, I am sure, amused the governor, as it certainly did his aide-de-camp. — * We should not need to fear the natives if we had soldiers as fearless,' his excellency continued. At this point the inquiry began, and, after it was over, the governor said that there the matter ended so far as we were concerned, and then he remarked gallantly that the Government of Aden would always remain Mrs. Falchion's debtor. She replied that it was a debt she would be glad to i l82 MRS. FALCHION ■ .' .11 I ii • it. preserve unsettled for ever. After this pretty exchange of comph'ments, the governor smiled, and offered her his arm to the door, where our c/iar d dans awaited us. So impressed was the bookmaker with the hospitable reception the governor had given us, that he offered him his cigar-case with its con- tents, said he hoped they would meet again, and asked his excellency if he thought of coming to Australia. The governor declined the cigars graciously, ignored the hoped-for pleasure of another meeting, and trusted that it might fall to his lot to visit Australia some day. Thereupon the book- maker insisted on the aide-de-camp accepting the cigar-case, and gave him his visiting-card. The aide-de-camp lost nothing by his good-humoured acceptance, if he smoked, because, as I knew, the cigars were very good indeed. Bookmakers, gamblers and Jews are good judges of tobacco. And the governor's party lost nothing in dignity because, as the traps wheeled away, they gave a polite little cheer for Mrs. Falchion. I, at first, was fearful how Belle Treherne would regard the gaucheries of the bookmaker, but I saw that he was rather an object of interest to her than otherwise ; for he was certainly amusing. t \ .# A BRIDGE OF PERIL 183 As we drove through Aden, a SomauH lad ran from the door of a house, and handed up a letter to the driver of my trap. It bore my name, and was handed over to me. I recognised the hand- writing. It was that of Boyd Madras. He had come ashore by Hun^erford's aid in the night. The letter simply gave an address in England that would always find him, and stated that he intended to take another name. CHAPTER IX. 'THE PROGRESS OF THE SUNS.* NEWS of the event had preceded us to the Fulvia, and, as we scrambled out on the ship's stairs, cheers greeted us. Glancing up, I saw Hungerford, among others, leaning over the side, and looking at Mrs. Falchion in a curious cogitating fashion, not unusual to him. The look was non-committal, yet earnest. If it was not approval, it was not condemnation ; but it might have been slightly ironical, and that annoyed me. It seemed impossible for him — and it was so always, I believe — to get out of his mind the thought of the man he had rescued on No Man's Sea. I am sure it jarred upon him that the band foolishly played a welcome when Mrs. Falchion stepped on the deck. As I delivered Belle Treherne into the hands of her father, who was anxiously awaiting us, Hungerford said in my ear, — * A tragedy queen, Marmion 1 ' He said it 184 \ >■ i *TIiE PROGRESS OF THE SUNS' 185 so distinctly that Mrs. Falchion heard it, and she gave him a searching look. Their eyes met and warred for a moment, and then he added : ' I remember! Yes, I can respect the br.ivery of a woman whom I do not like.' 'And this is to-morroiVy she said, *and a man may change his mind, and that may be fate — or a woman's whim.* She bowed, turned away, and went below, evidently disliking the reception she had had, and anxious to escape inquiries and congratulations. Nor did she appear again until the Fulvia got under way about six o'clock in the evening. As we moved out of the harbour we passed close to the Porcupine, and saw its officers grouped on the deck, waving adieus to some one on our deck, whom I guessed, of course, to be Gait Roscoe. At this time Mrs. Falchion was standing near me. 'For whom is that demonstration > ' she said. ' For one of her officers, who is a passenger by the Fuivial I replied. * You remember we passed the Porcupine in the Indian Ocean?* 'Yes, I know that very well,' she said, with a shade of meaning. 'But' — here I thought her voice had a touch of breathlessness— 'but ir m it 1 86 MRS. FALCHION who is the officer? I mean, what is his name?* ' He stands in the group near the door of the captain's cabin, there. His name is Gait Roscoe, I think.' A sh'ght exclamation escaped her. There was a chilly smile on her lips, and her eyes souj^ht the group until it rested on* Gait Roscoe. In a moment she said, — * You have met him ? ' * In the cemetery this morning, for the first time.* ' Everybody seems to have had business this morning at the cemetery. Justine Caron spent hours there. To me it is so foolish, heaping up a mound, and erecting a tombstone over — what ? — a dead thing, which, if one could see it, would be dreadful.' *You would prefer complete absorption — as of the ocean ? ' I brutally retorted. She appeared not to notice the innuendo. * Yes, what is gone is gone. Graves are idolatry. Gravestones are ghostly. It is people without imagination who need these things, together with crape and black - edged paper. It is all barbaric ritual. I know you think I am callous, but I cannot help that. For myself, I wish the earth close about me, and level green grass above 4 l. THE PROGRKSS OF THE SUNS' 187 hh me, and no one knowing of the place; or else, fire or the sea.' 'Mrs. Falchion,* said I, 'between us there need be no delicate words. You appear to have neither imagination, nor idolatry, nor remembrances, nor common womanly kindness.* ' Indeed ! ' she said. * Yet you might know me better.* Here she touched my arm with the tips of her fingers, and, in spite of myself, I felt my pulse beat faster. It seemed to me that in her presence, even now, I could not quite trust myself. •Indeed!* she repeated. 'And who made you omniscient, Dr. Marmion? You hardly do your- self justice. You hold a secret. You insist on reminding me of ihe fact. Is that in perfect gallantry? Do you know me altogether, from your knowledge of that one thing? You are vain. Or does the secret wear on you, and — Mr. Hunger- ford? Was it necessary to seek /lis help in keeping it?' I told her then the true history of Hungerford's connection with Boyd Madras, and also begged her pardon for showing just now my knowledge of her secret. At this she said : ' I suppose I should be grateful,' and was there a slightly softer cadence to her voice ? * No, you need not be grateful,' I said. * We are fl 1 i ) I • i ' 1 88 MRS. FAI.CIIKJN silent, first, because he wished it ; then because you are a woman.' 'You define your reasons with astonishing care and taste,' she replied. ' Oh, as to taste ! * said I ; but then I bit my tongue. At that she said, her lips very firm and pale, — * I could not pretend to a grief I did not feel. I acted no lie. lie died as we had lived — estranged. I put up no memorials.' But I, thinking of my motiicr lying in her grave, a woman after God's own heart, who loved me more than I deserved, repeated almost unconsciously these lines (clipped from a magazine) : — * Sacred the ring, the faded glove, Once worn by one we used to love ; Dead warriors in their armour live, And in their relics saints survive. * Oh, Mother Earth, henceforth defend All thou hast garnered of my friend, From winter's wind and driving sleet, From summer's sun and scorching heat. ' Within thine all-embracing breast Is hid one more forsaken nest ; While, in the sky, with folded wings, The bird that left it sits and sings.' I paused ; the occasion seemed so little suited to 'I HR PROGRESS OF TIIK SUNS' iP() because ng care n I bit pale, — lot feci, lived — in her rt, who •epeated 2d from juited to the sentiment, for around us was the idle excite- ment of leaving port. I was annoyed with myself for my share in the conversation so far. Mrs. Falchion's eyes had scarcely left that group around the captain's door, although she had appeared acutely interested in what I was saying. Now she said : 'You recite very well. I feci impressed, but I fancy it is more your voice than those fine sentiments ; for, after all, you cannot glorify the dead body. Look at the mummy of Thothmes at Boulak, and think what Cleopatra must look like now. And please let us talk about some- thing else. Let us * She paused. I followed the keen, shaded glance of her eyes, and saw, coming from the group by the captain's door, Gait Roscoe. He moved in our direction. Suddenly he paused. His look was fixed upon Mrs. Falchion. A flush passed over his face, not exactly confusing, but painful, and again it left him pale, and for a moment he stood motionless. Then he came forward to us. He bowed to me, then looked hard at her. She held out her hand. 'Mr. Gait Roscoe, I think?' she said. * An old friend/ she added, turning to me. He gravely took her extended hand, and said : ■irj: i '4 a ^ i ill [0 ^w 190 MRS. FALCHION * I did not think to sec you here, Miss ' ' Mrs. Falchion,' she interrupted doarly. * Afrs. Falchion!' he said, with surprise. *It is so many years since we had met, and ' 'And it is so easy to forget things? But it isn't so many, really — only seven, the cycle for constitutional renewal. Dear me, how erudite that sounds ! . . . So, I suppose, we meet the same, yet not the same.' 'The same, yet not the same,' he repeated after her, with an attempt at ligLtness, yet ab- stractedly. * I think you gentlemen know each other ? ' she said. ' Yes ; we met in the cemetery this morning. I was visiting the grave of a young French officer.' *I know,' she said, — 'Justine Caron's brother. She has told me ; but she did not tell me your name.' ' She has told you ? ' he said. *Ycs. She is — my companion.' I saw that she did not use the word that first came to her. ' How strangely things occur ! And yet,' he added musingly, ' I suppose, after all, coin- cidence is not so strange in these days of much ise. It is 5? But it I cycle for ;rudite that the same, e repeated ;ss, yet ab- other?' she is morning, ng French n's brother, ell me your I saw that ;t came to And yet,' ^r all, coin- lys of much I 'THE PROGRESS OF THE SUNS' 191 travel, particularly with people whose lives arc connected — more or less.' ' Whose lives are connected — more or less, she repeated after him, in a steely tone. It seemed to me that I had received my cue to leave. I bowed myself away, and went about my duties. As we steamed bravely through the Straits of Babelmandeb, with Perim on our left, rising lovely through the milky haze, I came on deck again, and they were still near where I had left them an hour before. I passed, glancing at them as I did so. They did not look towards me. His eyes were turned to the shore, and hers were fixed on him. I saw an expression on her lips that gave her face new character. S!.j was speak- ing, as I thought, clearly and mercilessly. I could not help hearing her words as I passed them. * You are going to be that — you ! ' There was a ring of irony in her tone. I heard nothing more in words, but I saw him turn to her somewhat sharply, and J caught the deep notes of his voice as he answered her. When, a moment after, I looked back, she had gone below. Gait Roscoe had a scat at Captain Ascott's table, and I did not see anything of him at meal- times, but elsewhere I soon saw him a great deal. He appeared to seek my company. I was glad of '■<•}' M • 'I I t 192 MRS. FALCHION this, for I found that he was an agreeable man, and had distinct originality of ideas, besides being possessed of very considerable culture. He also had that social aplomb so much a characteristic of the naval officer. Yet, man of the world as he was, he had a Strain of asceticism which puzzled me. It did not make him eccentric, but it was not a thing usual with the naval man. Again, he wished to be known simply as Mr. Roscoe, not as Captain Roscoe, which was his rank. He said nothing about having retired, yet I guessed he had done so. One evening however, soon after we had left Aden, we were sitting in my cabin, and the conversation turned upon a recent novel dealing with the defection of a clercrxman of the Church fc>; of England through agnosticism. The keenness with which he threw himself into the discussion, and the knowledge he showed, surprised me. I knew (as most medical students get to know, until they know better) some scientific objec- tions to Christianity, and I put them forward. He clearly and powerfully met them. I said at last, laughingly : * Why, you ought to take holy orders.' ' That is what I am going to do,' he said very seriously, ' when I get to England. I am resigning the navy.* At that instant there flashed through «THE PROGRESS OF THE SUNS* 193 my mind Mrs. Falchion's words, * You are going to be that — you /' Then he explained to me that he had been studying for two years, and expected to go up for deacon's orders soon after his return to Enf^land. I cannot say that I was greatly surprised, for I had known a few, and had heard of many, men who had exchanged the navy for the Church. It struck me, however, that Gait Roscoe appeared to view the matter from a standpoint not professional ; the more so, that he expressed his determination to go to the newest part of a new country, to do the pioneer work of the Church. I asked him where he was going, and he said to the Rocky Mountains of Canada. I told him that my destin- ation was Canada also. He warmly expressed the hope that we should see something of each other there. This friendship of ours may seem to have been hastily hatched, but it must be remem- bered that the sea is a great breeder of friendship. Two men who have known each other for twenty years find that twenty days at sea bring them nearer than ever they were before, or else estrange them. It was on this evening that, in a lull of the conversation, I casually asked him when he had known Mrs. Falchion. His face was in- 13 ;» 1 n i 194 MRS. FALCHION scrutable, but he said somewhat hurriedly, * In the South Sea Islands/ and then changed tiie subject. So, there was some mystery again? Was this woman never to be dissociated from enigma? In those days I never could think of her save in connection with some fatal incident in which she was scatheless, and some one else suffered. It may have been fancy, but I thought that, during the first day or two after leaving Aden, Gait Roscoe and Mrs. Falchion were very little together. Then the impression grew that this was his doing, and again that she waited with confident patience for the time when he would seek her — because he could not help himself. Often when other men were paying her de- voted court I caught her eyes turned in his direction, and I thought I read in her smile a consciousness of power. And so it was. Very soon he was at her side. But I also noticed that he began to look worn — that his conversa- tion with me lagged. I think that at this time I was so much occupied with tracing personal appearances to personal influences that I lost to some degree the physician's practical keenness. My eyes were to be opened. He appeared to be suffering, and she seemed to unbend to him ft; % edly, *In .nged tiie y again ? ited from I think of 1 incident ; one else ught that, ing Aden, very little that this aited with he would p himself. \y her de- ed in his er smile a vas. Very so noticed \ conversa- t this time g personal .t I lost to I keenness, sared to be id to him -^ '4 M ■M THE PROGRESS OF THE SUNS' 195 more than she ever unbent to me, or any one else on board. Hungerford seeing this, said to me one day in his blunt way: 'Marmion, old Ulysses knew what he was about when he tied himself to the mast' But the routine of the ship went on as before. Fortunately, Mrs. Falchion's heroism at Aden had taken the place of the sensation attending Boyd Madras's suicide. Those who tired of thinking of both, became mildly interested in P.ed Sea history. Chief among these was the bookmaker. As an historian the bookmaker was original. He cavalierly waved aside all such confusing things as dates : made Moses and Mahomet contemporaneous, incidentally re- ferred to King Solomon's visits to Cleopatra, and with sad irreverence spoke of the Exodus and the destruction of Pharaoh's horses and chariots as 'the big handicap.' He did not mean to be irreverent or unhistorical. He merely wished to enlighten Mrs. Callendar, who said he was very original, and quite clever at history. His really startling points, however, were his remarks upon the colours of the mountains of Egypt and the sunset tints to be seen on the Red Sea and the Suez Canal. To him the grey, and pink, and melancholy gold only brought up visions of i, Hi 196 MRS. FAT.CHION I I I 1^' f ^i 11 a race at Epsom or Flcmington — generally Fiemington, where the staring Australian sun pours down on an emerald course, on a score of horses straining upon the start, the colours of the jockeys' coats and caps changing in the struggle like a kaleidoscope, and making strange harmonies of colour. The comparison between the moun- tains of Egypt and a racecourse might seem most absurd, if one did not remember that the bookmaker had his own standards, and that he thought he was paying unusual honour to the land of the Fellah. Clovelly plaintively said, as he drank his hock and seltzer, that the bookmaker was hourly saving his life ; and Colonel Ryder admitted at last that Kentucky never produced anything quite like him. The evening before we came to the Suez Canal I was walking with Belle Treherne and her father. I had seen Gait Roscoe in conversation with Mrs. Falchion. Presently I saw him rise to go away. A moment after, in passing, I was near her. She sprang up, caught my arm, and pointed anxiously. I looked, and saw Gait Roscoe swaying as he walked. ' He is ill— ill ! ' she said. I ran for^vard and caught him as he was falling. 111? Of course he was ill. What a fool I had •THE PROGRKSS OF THE SUNS generally ilian sun I score of lurs of the e struggle harmonies he moun- ght seem - that the id that he :o the land lid, as he maker was :r admitted 1 anything 197 been! Five minutes with him assured mc that lie had fever. I had set his haggard appearance down to some mental trouble — and I was going to be a professor in a medical college ! Yet I know now that a troubled mind hastened the fever. Suez Canal her father. 1 with Mrs. go away, r her. She 1 anxiously, ying as he ^ was falling, fool I had (! CHAPTER X. BETWKEN DAY AND DARK. '|!M |: !'i f ;'i FROM the beginning Gait Roscoe's fever was violent. It had been hanging about him for a long time, and was the result of mal- arial poisoning. I devoutly wished that we were in the Mediterranean instead of the Red Sea, where the heat was so great ; but fortunately we should soon be there. There was no other case of sickness on board, and I could devote plenty of time to him. Offers of assistance in nursing were numerous, but I only encouraged those of the bookmaker, strange as this may seem ; yet he was as gentle and considerate as a woman in the sickroom. This was on the first evening of his attack. After that, I had reasons for dispensing with his generous services. The night after Roscoe was taken ill we were passing through the Canal, the search-light of the Fulvia sweeping the path ahead of it, and glorifying everything it touched. Mud barges were fairy palaces ; Arab punts • 198 BETWEEN DAY AND DARK K/; e's fever ng about t of mal- we were Red Sea, nately we )ther case )te plenty n nursing I those of seem ; yet woman in evening of dispensing 'ter Roscoe the Canal, g the path it touched, irab punts beautiful gondolas ; the ragged Egyptians on the banks became picturesque ; and the desolate country behind them had a wide vestibule of splendour. I stood for half an hour watching this scene, then I went below to Roscoe's cabin and relieved the bookmaker. The sick man was sleep- ing fron the effects of a sedative draught. The bookmaker had scarcely gone when I heard a step behind me, and I turned and saw Justine Caron standing timidly at the door, her eyes upon the sleeper. She spoke quietly. * Is he very ill ? ' I answered that he was, but also that for some days I could not tell how dangerous his illness might be. She went to the berth where he lay, the reflected light from without playing weirdly on his face, and smoothed tjj^ pillow gently. ' If you are willing, I will watch for a time,' she said. ' Everybody is on deck. Madame said she would not need me for a couple of hours. I will send a steward for you if he wakes ; you need rest yourself That I needed rest was quite true, for I had been up all the night before ; still I hesitated. She saw my hesitation, and added : * It is not much that I can do, still I should like n >■ 'i I , !' it ' I ^ 1^ 300 MRS. FALCHION to do it. I can at least watch.' Then, very earnestly, * He watched beside Hector.* I left her with him, her fingers moving the small bag of ice about his forehead to allay the fever, and her eyes patiently reiijarding him. I went on deck again. I met Belle Treherne and her father. They both inquired for the sick man, and I told Belle — for she seemed much interested — the nature of such malarial fevers, the acute forms they some- times take, and the kind of treatment required. She asked several questions, showing a keen understanding of my explanations, and then, after a moment's silence, said meditatively : * I think I like men better when they are doing responsible work ; it is difficult to be idle — and important too.' I saw very well that, with her, I should have to contend for a long time against those first few weeks of dalliance on the Fulvia. Clovelly joined us, and for the first time — if I had not been so egotistical it had appeared to me before — I guessed that his somewhat professional interest in Belle Treherne had developed into a very personal thing. And with that thought came also the conception of what a powerful antagonist he would be. For it improves some men to wear glasses ; and Clovelly had a delightful, wheedling BETWEEN DAY ANU DARK aoi ;n, very he small le fever, went on jr father, d I told le nature ly some- required. a keen len, after think I sponsible nportant have to first few me — if I ed to me fessional d into a ht came itagonist to wear heedling tongue. It was allusive, .contradictory (a thing pleasing to women), respectful yet playful, bold yet reverential. Many a time I have longed for Clovelly's tongue. Unfortunately for me, I learned some of his methods without his art ; and of this I am occasionally reminded at this day. A man like Clovelly is dangerous as a rival when he is not in earnest ; when he is in earnest, it becomes a lonely time for the other man— unless the girl is perverse. I left the two together, and moved about the deck, trying to think closely about Roscoe's case, and to drive Clovelly's invasion from my mind. I succeeded, and was only roused by Mrs. Falchion's voice beside me. ' Does he suffer much ? * she murmured. When answered, she asked nervously how he looked, — it was impossible that she should con- sider misery without shrinking. I told her that he was only flushed and haggard as yet and that he was little wasted. A thought flashed to her face. She was about to speak, but paused. After a moment, however, she remarked evenly, — * He is likely to be delirious ?' ' It is probable,' I replied. Her eyes were fixed on the search-light. The look in them was inscrutable. She continued I 2U, MRS. TALC 1 1 ION '^tl\ 1 •s ' ji i! quietly : ' I will go and sec him, if you will let mc. Justine will go with mc' 'Not now,* I replied. 'He is sleeping. To- morrow, if you will.' I did not think it ncccssaiy to tell her that Justine was at that moment watching beside him. We walked the deck together in silence. * I wonder,* she said, ' that you care to walk with me. Please do not make the matter a burden.' She did not say this with any invitation to courteous protest on my part, but rather with a cold frankness — for which, I confess, I always admired her. I said now : ' Mrs. Falchion, you have suggested what might easily be possible in the circumstances, but I candidly admit that I have never yet found jour presence disagree- able ; and I suppose that is a comment upon my weakness. Though, to speak again with absolute truth, I think I do not like you at this present* *Ycs, I fancy I can understand that,* she said. * I can understand how, for instance, one might feel a just and great resentment, and have in one's hand the instrument of punishment, and yet with- hold one's hand, and protect where one should injure.' BHIWKKN DAY AND DARK ao3 11 let mc. ig. To- hcr that side him. to walk natter a ation to r with a ' always lion, you ssible in nit that disagree- mt upon lin with u at this she said. le might ; in one's ^et with- 3 should I At this moment these words had no particular signihcance to me, but there chanced a time when they came home with great force. I think, indeed, that she was speaking more to herself than to mc. Suddenly she turned to me. * I wonder,' she said, ' if I am as cruel as you think mc— for, indeed, I do not know. But I have been through many things.* Here her eyes grew cold and hard. The words that followed seemed in no sccjuence. *Yct,' she said, * I will go and see him to-morrow. . , . Good- night' After about an hour I went below to Gait Roscoe's cabin. I drew aside the curtain quietly. Justine Caron evidently had not heard inc. She was sitting beside the sick man, her fingers still smoothing away the pillow from his fevered face, and her eyes fixed on him. I spoke to her. She rose. *He has slept well,* she said. And she moved to the door. 'Miss Caron,' 1 said, 'if Mrs. Falchion is willing, you could help me to nurse Mr. Roscoe?' A light sprang to her eyes. * Indeed, yes,' she said. * I will speak to her about it, if you will let me?' She bowed her head, and her look was eloquent ■I . I : i- 204 MRS. FALCHION .i ^|M hii! , V i of thanks. After a word of good - night, we parted* I knew that nothing better could occur to Gait Roscoe than that Justine Caron should help to nurse him. This would do far more for him than medicine — the delicate care of a woman than many pharmacopoeias. Hungerford had insisted on relieving me for a couple of hours at midnight. He said it would be a good preparation for going on the bridge at three o'clock in the morning. About half- past two he came to my cabin and waked me, saying, — ' He is worse — delirious : you had better come.' He was indeed delirious. Hungerford laid his hand on my shoulder. *Marmion,' said he, 'that woman is in it. Like the devil, she is ubiquitous. Mr. Roscoe's past is mixed up with hers somehow. I don't suppose men talk abso- lute history in delirium, but there is no reason, I fancy, why they shouldn't paraphrase. I should reduce the number of nurses to a minmiurn if I were you.* A determined fierceness possessed me at the moment. I said to him : * She shall nurse him, Hungerford, — she, and Justine Caron, and myself BETWEEN DAY AND DARK 205 ht, we to Gait lelp to m than 1 many me for ; would bridge t half- ed me, I better •d laid aid he, she is ip with abso- ason, I should m if I me at nurse n, and • Plus Dick Hungcrford,' he added. ' I don't know quite how you intend to work this thing, but you have the case in your hands, and what you've told me about the French girl shows that she is to be trusted. But as for myself, Marmion M.D., I'm sick— sick — sick of this woman, and all her words and works. I believe that she has brought bad luck to this ship ; and it's my last voyage on it ; and — and I begin to think you're a damned good fellow — excuse the insolence of it ; and — good- night ! ' For the rest of the night I listened to Gait Roscoe's wild words. He tossed from side to side, and murmured brokenly. Taken separately, and as they were spoken, his words might not be very significant, but pieced together, arranged, and interpreted through even scant knowledge of circumstances, they were sufficient to g-ive me a key to difficulties v\hich, afterwards, were to cause much distress. I arrange some of the sentences here to show how startling were the fancies — or remembrances — that vexed him. 'But I was coming back — I was coming back — I tell you I should have stayed with her forever. . . . See how she trembles ! — Now her breath is gone — There is no pulse— Her heart is still— My God ! her heart is still !— Hush ! cover her face. . . . n 4> 1 .1. • II ; !!i. i ' J ( ^ I ! t 2g6 MRS. FALCHION Row hard, you devils! — A hundred dollars if you make the point in time. . . . Whereaway ? — Where- away ? — Steady now ! — Let them have it across the bows ! — Low ! low ! — fire low ! . . . She is dead — she is dead ! ' These things he would say over and over again breathlessly, then he would rest a while, and the trouble would begin again. * It was not I that did it - — no, it was not 1 1 — She did it herself! — She plunged it in, deep, deep, deep ! — You made me a devil ! . . . Hush ! I wi// tell ! — I know you — yet — Mercy — Mercy — Falchion ! * Yes, it was best that few should enter his cabin. The ravings of a sick man are not always counted ravings, no more than the words of a well man are always reckoned sane. At last I got him into a sound sleep, and by that time I was thoroughly tired out. I called my own stewaid, and asked him to watch for a couple of hours while I rested. I threw myself down and slept soundly for an hour beyond that time, the steward having hesitated to wake me. By that time we had passed into the fresher air of the Mediterranean, and the sea was delightfully smooth. Gait Roscoe still slept, though his tem- perature was high. r.ETVVEEN DAY AND DARK 207 , if you Where- ross the dead — d over I while, ' It was I — She 3, deep, 1 ! I will Mercy — is cabin, counted man are Ti into a Droughly d asked '. rested, an hour tated to eshcr air ightfully his tem- My conicrcnce with Mrs. h\ilchion after break- fast was brief, but satisfactory. I told her frankly that Roscoe had been delirious, that he had mentioned her name, and that I thought it best to reduce the number of nurses and watchers. I made my proposition about Justine Caron. She shook her head a little impaticntl}', and said that Justine had told her, and that she was quite willing. Then I asked her if she would not also assist. She answered immediately that she wished to do so. As if to make me understand why she did it, she added: 'If I did not hear the wild things he says, .some one else would ; and the difference is that I understand them, and the some one else would interpret them with the genius of the writer ot a fairy book.' And so it happened that Mrs. Falchion came to sit many hours a day beside the sick couch of Gait Roscoe, moistening his lips, cooling his brow, giving him his medicine. After the first day, when she was, I thought, alternating between innate di.s- gust of misery and her womanliness and humanity, — in these days more a reality to me, — she grew watchful and silently solicitous at every turn of the malady. What impressed me most was that she was interested and engrossed more, it seemed, m^ \f •» ff ■i! 1] I ._i , ; i '1 ■■ ■ 1 : I '1,1 ! o< il I 2o8 MRS. FAT.CHION in the malady than in the man himself. And \et she baffled me even when I had come to this conclusion. During most of his delirium she remained almost impassive, as if she had schooled herself to be calm and strong in nerve ; but one afternoon she did a thing that upset all my opinions of her for a moment. Looking straight at her with staring, unconscious eyes, he half rose in his bed, and said in a low, bitter tone : * I hate you ! — I once loved you — but I hate you now ! ' Then he laughed scornfully, and fell back on the pillow. She had been sitting very quietly, musing. His action had been unexpected, and had broken upon a silence. She rose to her feet quickly, gave a sharp indrawn breath, and pressed her hand against her side, as if a sudden pain had seized her. The next moment, however, she was composed again, and said in explanation that she had been half asleep, and he had startled her. But I had seen her under what seemed to me more trying conditions, and she had not shown any nervousness such as this. The passengers, of course, talked. Many 'true histories ' of Mrs. Falchion's devotion to the sick man were abroad ; but it must be said, however, that all of them were romantically creditable to BKTVVEEN DAY AND DARK 209 r. And yet )me to this incd almost f to be calm )on she did )f her for a 'ith staring, id, and said once loved he laughed V. She had action had m a silence, arp indrawn er side, as if xt moment, ind said in lalf asleep, id seen her conditions, ess such as Many 'true to the sick id, however, reditable to her. She had become a rare product even in the eyes of Belle Treherne, and more particularly her father, since the matter at the Tanks. Justine Caron was sl}ly besieged by the curious, but they went away empty ; for Justine, if very simple and single-minded, was yet too much concerned for both Gait Roscoe and Mrs. Falchion to give the inquiring the slightest clue. She knew, indeed, little herself, whatever she may have guessed. As for Hungerford, he was dumb. He refused to consider the matter. But he roundly mam- tained once or twice, without any apparent relevance, that a woman was like a repeating decimal — you could follow her, but }ou never could reach her. He usually added to this, — 'Minus one, Marmion,' meaning thus to exclude the girl who preferred him to any one else. When I ventured to suggest that Belle Treherne might also be excepted, be said, with maddening sug- gestion : 'She lets Mrs. Falchion fool her, doesn't she? And she isn't quite sure the splendour of a medical professor's position is superior to that of an author.' In these moments, although I tried to smile on him, I hated him a little. I sought to revenge myself on him by telling him to help himself to a cigar, having first placed the box of Mexicans 14 Itii ) 210 MRS. FALCHION I ♦ 'U { I '1 near him. He invariably declined them, and said he would take one of the others from the tea-box — my very best, kept in tea for sake of dryness. If I reversed the process he reversed his action. His instinct rei;arding cigars was supernatural, and I almost believe that he had — like the Black Dwarfs cat — the 'poo'er' of reading character and inter- preting events — an uncanny divination. I knew by the time we reached Valetta that Roscoe would get well ; but he recognised none of us until we arrived at Gibraltar. Justine Caron and myself had been watching beside him. As the bells clanged to * slow down ' on entering the harbour, his eyes opened with a gaze of sanity and consciousness. He looked at me, then at Justine. * I have been ill ? * he said. Justine's eyes were not entirely to be trusted. She turned her head away. * Yes, you have been very ill/ I replied, * but you are better.* He smiled feebly, adding : * At least, I am grate- ful that I did not die at sea.* Then he closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them, and said, looking at Justine : * You have helped to nurse me, have you not ? ' His wasted fingers moved over the counterpane towards her. a n, and said I tea-box — /ncss. If I be trusted. ;d, * but you |l am grate- closed his \, and said, |o nurse me, loved over rETvvEr:N day and dark 21 I ction. Mis '4 ural, and I , , ick Dwarfs 1 and intcr- 1 ^aletta that a sed none of stine Caron J him. As gntering the e of sanity /■,; ne, then at .Mcj; * I could do so little,' she murmured. * You have more than paid your debt to me.' he gently replied. ' For I live, you see, and poor Hector died.' She shook her head gravely, and rejoined ; 'Ah no, I can never pay the debt I owe to you and to God — now.' He did not understand this, I know. But I did. 'You must not talk any more,' I said to him. But Justine interposed. ' He must be told that the nurse who has done most for him is Mrs. Falchion.' His brows contracted as if he were trying to remember something. He moved his head wearily. 'Yes, I think I remember,* he said, 'about her being with me, but nothing clearly — nothing clearly. She is very kind.' Justine here murmured : 'Shall I tell her?* I was about to, say no ; but Roscoe nodded, and said quietly, ' Yes, yes.' Then I made no objection, but urged that the meeting should only be for a moment. I deter- mined not to leave them alone even for that moment. I did not know what things connected IP' 1 1! I il i 'iih! (I! i i- ) '! 212 MRS. FALCHION with their past — whatever it was — ml^ht be brought up, and I knew that entire freedom from excitement was necessary. I might have spared myself any anxiety on the point. When she came she was perfectly self-composed, and more as she seemed when I first knew her, though I will admit that I thought her face more possible to emotion than in the past. It seems strange to write of a few weeks before as the past ; but so much had occurred that the days might easily have been months and the weeks years. She sat down beside him and held out her hand. And as she did so, I thought of Boyd Madras and of that long last night of his life, and of her refusal to say to him one comforting word, or to touch his hand in forgiveness and friendship. And was this man so much better than Boyd Madras? His wild words in delirium might mean nothing, but if they meant anything, and she knew of that anything, she was still a heartless, unnatural woman, as I had once called her. Roscoe took her hand and held it briefly. "*Dr. Marmion says that you have helped to nurse me through my illness/ he whispered. * I am most grateful* n '%. '■:k night be M lorn from 1 ^e spared 1 she came re as she 1 1 vili admit ) emotion ■| ks before 1 that the 'i and the 1 her hand. % BETWEEN DAY AND DARK 213 i Madras id of her word, or iendship. an Boyd might inything^, wa.s still ad once briefly, to nurse am most ■^# I thought she replied with the slightest con- straint in her voice. 'One could not let an old acquaintance die without making an effort to save him.' At that instant I grew scornful, and longed to tell him of her husband. But then a husband was not an acquaintance. I ventured instead ; * I am sorry, but I must cut short all conversation for the present. When he is a little better, he will be benefited by your brightest gossip, Mrs. Falchion.* She rose smiling, but she did not again take his hand, though I thought he made a motion to that end. But she looked down at him steadily for a moment. Beneath her look his face flushed, and his eyes grew hot with light ; then they drcj^ped, and the eyelids closed on them. At that she said, with an incomprehen- sible airiness, — 'Good-night. I am going now to play the music o{ La Grande Duchesse as a farewell to Gibraltar. They have a concert on to-nighl.' And she was gone. At the mention of La Grande Duchesse he sighed, and turned his head away from her. What it all meant I did not know, and she had annoyed me as much as she had perplexed me ; her moods F p i 'M t 1 fji r*' 214 MRS. FALCHION were like the chameleon's colours. He lay silent for a lon^ time, then he turned to me and said : 'Do you remember that tale in the Bible about David and the well of Bethlehem?' I had to confess my ignorance. * I think I can remember it/ he continued. And though I urged him not to tax himself, he spoke slowly thus : * And David was in an hold, atid the garrison of the Philistines was then in BethleJietn. * A nd David longed, and said, Oh that one ivould give me to drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem that is at the gate I * And the three brake through the host of the Philistines ^ and drew water out oj the well of Be/ hie hem that was by the gate, and took and brought it to David; nevertheless, he would not drink thereof, but pot' red it out ufito the Lord. * And he said, My God forbid it me that I should do this : is not this the blood of the men that went in jeopardy of their lives ? Therefore he would not drink it.* He paused a moment, and then added : * One always buys back the past at a tremendous price. Resurrections give ghosts only.' * But you must sleep now/ I urged. And then. lay silent and said : ble about I had to ed. And , he spoke arrison of BKTWKKN DAV AN!) DARK 2>5 because I knew not what else more fitting, I added • ' Sleep, and "Let the dead past bury its dead.*" ' Yes, I will sleep/ he answered. one tvould « e well of 1 ^st of the '.'■( e well of took and he would -^ unto the '•V 1 1 should that went would not sd: *One ous price. END OF JiOOK I. Vnd then. li I 1 I ! i I M BOOK II. THE SLOPE OF THE PACIFIC. ClIAPTKR XI. • AMONG THE HILLS OF COD. *'\ /"OUR letters, sir/ said my servant, on the la^t A evening of the college year. Examinations were over at last, and I was wondering where I should spend my holidays. The choice was very wide ; ranging from the Muskoka lakes to the Yosemite Valley. Because it was my first year in Canada, I really preferred not to go beyond the Dominion. With these thoughts in my mind I opened my letters. The first two did not interest me ; tradesmen's bills seldom do. The third brought a thumping sensation of pleasure — though it was not from Belle Treherne. 1 had had one from her that morning, and this was a pleasure which never ''J< ' n «: 218 MRS. FALCHION came twice in one day, for Prince's College, Toronto, was a long week's journey from London, S.W. Con- sidering, however, that I did receive letters from her once a week, it may be concluded that Clovelly did not ; and that, if he had, it would have been by a serious infringement of my rights. But, indeed, as I have learned since, Clovelly took his defeat in a very characteristic fashion, and said on a im- portant occasion some generous things about me. The letter that pleased me so much was from Gait Roscoe, who, as he had intended, was settled in a new but thriving district of British Columbia, near the Cascade Mountains. Soon after his com- plete recovery he had been ordained in England, had straightway sailed for Canada, and had gone to work at once. This note was an invitation to spend the holiday months with him, where, as he said, a man * summering high among the hills of God* could see visions and dream dreams, and hunt and fish too — especially fish. He urged that he would not talk parish concerns at me; that I should not be asked to be godfather to any young mountaineers ; and that the only drawback, so far as my own predilections were concerned, was the monotonous health of the people. He described his summer cottage of red pine as being built on the edge of a lovely ravine, he said that he had AMONG THE HILLS OF GOD 219 , Toronto, .W. Con- It ers from t Clovelly e been by it, indeed, his defeat on a im- )out me. was from ^as settled Columbia, • his corn- England, had gone itation to ere, as he e hills of ams, and o^ed that 3; that I ly young ck, so far was the iescribed : built on : he had the Cascades on one hand with their big glacier fields, and mighty pine forests on the other ; while the balmiest breezes of June awaited 'the pro- fessor of pathology and genial saw-bones. At the end of the letter he hinted something about a pleasant little secret for my ear when I came ; and remarked immediately afterwards that there were one or two delightful families at Sunburst and Viking, villages in his parish. One naturally associated the little secret with some member of one of these delightful families. Finally, he said he would like to show me how it was possible to transform a naval man into a parson. My mind was made up. I wrote to him that I would start at once. Then I began to make preparations, and meanwhile fell to thinking ag.iin about him who was now the Reverend Gait Roscoe. After the Fulvia reached London I had only seen him a few times, he having gone at once into the country to prepare for ordination. Mrs. Falchion and Justine Caron I had met several times, but Mrs. Falchion forbore inquiring for Gait RoscG^ : from which, and from other slight but significant mattters, I gathered that she knew of his doings and whereabouts. Before I started for Toronto A\e, said that she might see me there some day, for she was going to San Francisco to IT (' ? Hf f. r 'I 320 MRS. FALCHION inspect the property her uncle had left her, and in all probability would make a sojourn in Canada, I gave her my address, and she then said she understood that Mr. Roscoe intended taking a missionary parish in the wilds. In his occasional letters to me while we all were in England Roscoe seldom spoke of her, but, when he did, showed that he knew of her movements. This did not strike me at the time as anything more than natural. It did later. Within a couple of weeks I reached Viking, a lumbering town with great saw-mills, by way of San Francisco and Vancouver. Roscoe met me at the coach, and I was taken at once to the house among the hills. It stood on the edge of a ravine, and the end of the verandah looked over a verdant precipice, beautiful but terrible too. It was uniquely situated ; a nest among the hills, suitable either for work or play. In one's ears was the low, continuous din of the rapids, with the music of a neighbouring waterfall. On the way up the hills I had a chance to observe Roscoe closely. His face had not that sturdy buoyancy which his letter suggested. Still, if it was pale, it had a glow which it did not possess before, and even a stronger humanity than of old. A new look had come into his AMONG THE HILLS OF GOD 221 her, and n Canada, said she taking a occasional id Roscoe 1, showed s did not lore than Viking, a y way of 2 met me ;e to the e edge of oked over rible too. the hills, jne's ears , with the hance to not that Id. Still, did not umanity into his eyes, a certain absorbing e"rnestncss, refining the past asceticism. A more amiable and unselfish comrade man never had. The second day I was there he took me to call upon a family at Viking, the town with a great saw-mill and two smaller ones, owned by James Devlin, an enterprising man who had grown rich at lumbering, and who lived here in the mountains many months in each year. Mr. James Devlin had a daughter who had had some advantages in the East after her father had become rich, though her earlier life was spent altogether in the mountains. I soon saw where Roscoe's secret was to be found. Ruth Devlin was a tall girl of sensitive features, beautiful eyes, and rare personality. Her life, as I came to know, had been one of great devotion and self-denial. Before her father had made his fortune, she had nursed a frail-bodied, faint- hearted mother, and had cared for, and been a mother to, her younger sisters. With wealth and ease came a brighter bloom to her cheek, but it had a touch of care which would never quite disappear, though it became in time a beautiful wistfulness rather than anxiety. Had this re- sponsibility come to her in a city, it might have spoiled her beauty and robbed her of her youth altogether ; but in the sustaining virtue of a life i! 222 MRS. FALCHION ! !■ il :'i t I'l in the mountains, warm hues remained on her cheek and a wonderful freshness in her nature. Her family worshipped her — as she deserved. That evening Roscoe confided to me that he had not asked Ruth DevHn to be his wife, nor had he, indeed, given her definite tokens of his love. But the thing was in his mind as a happy possibility of the future. We talked till midnight, sitting at the end of the verandah overlooking the ravine. This corner, called the coping, became consecrated to our many conversations. We painted and sketched there in the morning (when we were not fishing or he was not at his duties), received visitors, and smoked in the evening, inhaling the balsam from the pines. An old man and his wife kept the house for us, and gave us to eat of simple but comfortable fare. The trout- fishing was good, and many a fine trout was broiled for our evening meal ; and many a fine string of trout found its way to the tables of Roscoe's poorest parishioners, or else to furnish the more fashion- able table at which Ruth Devlin presided. There were excursions up the valley, and picnics on the hillsides, and occasional lunches and evening parties at the summer hotel, a mile from us farther down the valley, at which tourists were beginning to assemble. AMONG THE HILLS OF GOD 223 Yet, all the time, Roscoe was abundantly faithful to his duties at Viking and in the settlement called Sunburst, which was devoted to salmon- fishing. Between Viking and Sunburst there was a great jealousy and rivalry; for the salmon-fishers thought that the mills, though on a tributary stream, interfered, by the sawdust spilled in the river, with the travel and spawning of the salmon. It needed all the tact of both Mr. Devlin and Roscoe to keep the places from open fighting. As it was, the fire smouldered. When Sunday came however, there seemed to be truce between the villages. It appeared to me that one touched the primitive and idyllic side of life : lively, sturdy, and simple, with nature about us at once benignant and austere. It is impossible to tell how fresh bracing, and inspiring was the climate of this new land. It seemed to glorify humanity, to make all who breathed it stalwart, and almost pardonable even in wrong-doing. Roscoe was always received respectfully, and even cordially, among the salmon- fishers of Sunburst, as among the mill-men and river-drivers of Viking: not the less so, because he had an excellent faculty for machinery, and could talk to the people in their own colloquial- isms. He had besides, though there was little exuberance in his nature, a gift of dry humour, at : i li '^1 ill 11 ! II : ^ I ; I 224 MRS. FAT.CHION which did more than anything else, perhaps, to make his presence among them unrestrained. His little churches at Viking and Sunburst were always well attended — often filled to overflowing — and the people gave liberally to the offertory: and I never knew any clergyman, however holy, who did not view such a proceeding with a degree of complacency. In the pulpit Roscoe was almost powerful. His knowledge of the world, his habits of directness, his eager but not hurried speech, his unconventional but original statements of things, his occasional literary felicity and unusual tact, might have made him distinguished in a more cultured community. Yet there was something to modify all this : an occasional indefinable sadness, a constant note of pathetic warning. It struck me that I never had met a man whose words and manner were at times so charged with pathos ; it was artistic in its searching simplicity. There was some unfathomable fount in his nature which was even beyond any occurrence of his past ; some radical, constitutional sorrow, coupled with a very strong, practical, and even vigorous nature. One of his most ardent admirers was a gambler, horse-trader, and watch-dealer, who sold him a horse, and afterwards came and offered him thirty dollars, saying that the horse was worth that much -^- AMONG THE HILLS OF GOD 225 perhaps, to rained. His were always and Dvving "ertory : and er holy, who a dec^ree of was almost Id, his habits d speech, his ts of things, inusual tact, in a more jomethinGf to ible sadness, [t struck me words and pathos ; it ity. There ature which past ; some with a very Lire. a gambler, old him a i him thirty that much loss than Roscoe had paid for it, and protesting that he never could resist the opportunity of getting the best of a game. He said he did not doubt but that he would do the same with one of the arch- ani-els. He afterwards sold Roscoe a watch at cost, but confessed to me that the works of the watch had been smuggled. He said he was so fond of the parson that he felt he had to give him a chance of good things. It was not uncommon for him to discourse of Roscoe's quality in the bar-rooms of Sunburst and Viking, in v/hich he was ably seconded by Phil Boldrick, an eccentric, warm- hearted fellow, who was so occupied in the affairs of the villages generally, and so much an advisory board to the authorities, that he had little time left to progress industrially himself. Once when a noted bully came to Viking, and, out of sheer bravado and meanness, insulted Roscoe in the streets, two or three river-drivers came for- ward to avenge the insult. It was quite needless, for the clergyman had promptly taken the case in his own hands. Waving them back, he said to the bully, — * I have no weapon, and if I had, I could not take your life, nor try to take it ; and you know that very well. But I propose to meet your insolence — the first shown me in this town.' 226 MRS. I'ALCIIION ; ! I: ' ,i Here murmurs of approbation went round. 'You will, of course, take the revolver from your pocket, and throw it on the ground.' A couple of other revolvers were looking the bully in the face, and he sullenly did as he was ask^d. 'You have a knife : throw that down.* This also was done under the most earnest emphasis of the revolvers. Roscoe calmly took off his coat. * I have met such scoundrels as you on the quarter-deck,' he said, 'and I know what stuff is in you. They call you beachcombers in the South Seas. You never fight fair. You bully women, knife natives, and never meet any one in fair fight. You have mistaken your man this time.' He walked close up to the bully, his face like steel, his thumbs caught lightly in his waistcoat pockets ; but it was noticeable that his hands were shut. 'Now,' he said, 'we are even as to opportunity. Repeat, if you please, what you said a moment ago. The bully's eye quailed, and he answered nothing. 'Then, as I said, you are a coward and a cur, who insults peaceable men and weak women. If I know Viking right, it has no room for you.' Then he picked up his coat, and put it on. I AMONG TIIR HILLS OF GOD 27 nd. roni your king the s he was t earnest mly took Is as you lovv what )mbers in V^ou bully ly one in this time.* face like waistcoat nds were Dortun'.ty. moment nothing. id a cur, len. If I .' Then M ' Now,' he added, * I think you liad better go ; — but I leave that to tlic citizens of Viking.' What they thought is easily explained. Pliil Boldrick speaking for all, said : 'Yes, you had better go — quick ; but on the hop like a cur, mind you: on your hands and knees, jumping all the way.' And, with weapons menacing him, this visitor to Viking departed, swallowing as he went the red dust disturbed by his hands -^nd feet. This established Roscoe's position finally. Vet, with all his popularity and the solid success of his work, he showed no vanity or egotism, nor ever traded on the position he held in Viking and Sunburst He seemed to have no ambition further than to do good work ; no desire to be known beyond his own district ; no fancy, indeed, for the communications of his labours to mission papers and benevolent ladies in England — so much the habit of his order. He was free from professional mannerisms. One evening we were sitting in the accustomed spot — that is, the coping. We had been silent for a long time. At last Roscoe rose, and walked up and down the verandah nervously. ' Marmion,' said he, ' I am disturbed to-day, I cannot tell you how: a sense ot impending evil, an anxiety.' »»^ 1^' 228 MRS. KAI.CMION I > nm I U I ■il I looked up at him incim'iiiigly, aiul, of piiri)()sc, a little sceptically. He smiled something sadly and continued : ' Oh, I know you think it foolishness. But remember that all sailors are more or less superstitious: it is bred in them ; it is constitutional, and I am afraid there's a good deal of the sailor in me yei.* Remembering Ilungcrford, I said : ' I know that sailors are superstitious, the most seasoned of them are that. But it means nothing. I may think or feel that there is going to be a plague, but I should not enlarge the insurance on my life because of it' He put his hand on my shoulder and looked down at me earnestly. ' But, Marmion, these things, I assure you, are not matters of will, nor yet morbidness. They occur at the most unex- pected times. I have had such sensations before, and they were followed by strange matters.' I nodded, but said notliing. I was still thinking of Hungerford. After a slight pause he continued somewhat hesitatingly : ' I dreamed last night, three times, of events that occurred in my past ; events which I hoped would never disturb me in the life I am now leading.' *A life of self-denial/ ventured I. I waited a AMONG THE HILLS Ol' GOD 229 pU1l)()SC, :d : ' Oh, emcmber 3US : It is im afraid » :now that 1 of them ay think ue, but I "c because id looked n, these will, nor st unex- is before, s.' thinking continued )f events I hoped am now raited a I- minute, and then added : ' Roscoc, I think it only fair to tell you — I don't know wiiy I haven't done so before — that when you were ill you were delirious, and talked of things that may or may not have had to do with your past* He started, and looked at me earnestly. * They were unpleasant things ? ' 'Trying things ; though all was vague and dis- connected,* I replied. * I am glad you tell me this,' he remarked quietly. *And Mrs. Falchion and Justine Caron — did they hear?' He looked off to the hills. ' To a certain extent, I am sure. Mrs. Falchion's name was generally connected with — your fancies. . . . But really no one could place any weight on what a man said in delirium, and I only mention the fact to let you see exactly on what ground I stand with you.* * Can you give me an idea — of the thing I raved about?* * Chiefly about a girl called Alo, — not your ivife^ I should judge — who was killed.' At that he spoke in a dry voice : ' Marmion, I will tell you all the story some day ; but not now. I hoped that I had been able to bury it, even in memory, but I was wrong. Some things — such things — never die. They stay; and in our » f M, I III I ' 230 MRS. I'ALCIIION chccrfulcst, most p<;accful moments confront us, and mock the new life we are leading. There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance.' I le turned a*;ain from me and set a sombre face towards the ravine. ' Roscoe,' I said, takini^ his arm, 'I cannot bc- Uevc that you have any sin on your conscience, so dark that penitence cannot wipe out, that is not wiped out now.* ' God hless you for your confidence. But there is one woman who, I fear, could, if she would, dis- grace me before the world. You understand,' he added, 'that there are things we repent of which cannot be repaired. One thinks a sin is dead, and starts upon a new life, locking up the past, not deceitfully, but believing that the book is closed, and that no good can come of publishing it; when suddenly it all flames out like the letters in Faust's book of conjurations.' • Wait,' I said. ' You need not tell me more, you must not — now ; not until there is any danger. Keep your secret. If the woman — if that woman — ever places you in danger, then tell me all. But keep it to yourself now. And don't fret because you have had dreams.* * Well, as you wish,' he replied after a long time. AMOxc; '1111-: nil i.s of cod ront us, There in this launt us, ain from nc. nnot bc- icncc, so .t is not ut there uld, dis- :and,' he )f which ead, and )ast, not 5 closed, t; when 1 Faust's 231 As he sat in silence, I .sni()kiii i;. n ■ .( ,i \'\ i' ' S f: ^ I I- . f1 I V'. ?! 236 MRS. FALCHION made fair, should remain tender and merciful, and ' * " So young and so untender ! " * she inter- jected, with a rippling laugh. * Yet Cordelia was misjudged very wickedly, and traduced very un- gallantly, and so am I. And I bid you good- day, sir. Her delicate laugh rings in my ears as I write. I think that sun and clear skies and hills go far to make us cheerful and harmonious. Somehow, I always remember her as she was that morning. She was standing then on the brink of a new and beautiful experience, at the threshold of an acknow- ledged love. And that is a remarkable time to the young. There was something thrilling about the experi- ences of that morning, and I think we all felt it. Even the great frowning precipices seemed to have lost their ordinary gloom, and when some young white eagles rose from a crag and flew away, grow- ing smaller as they passed, until they were one with the snow of the glacier on Mount Trinity; or a v/apiti peeped out from the underwood and stole away with glancing feet down the valley ; we could scarcely refrain from doing some foolish thing out of sheer delight. At length we emerged from a thicket of Douglas pine upon the shore of the THE WHIRIJOIG OF TIMK 237 merciful, le inter- lelia was very un- >u good- 1 I write, go far to lehow, I ling. new and acknow- le to the experi- 1 felt it. to have ; young r, grow- )ne with y^; or a d stole e could ing out from a of the VVhi-Whi, and, loosening our boat, were soon moving slowly on the cool current. For an hour or more we rowed down the river towards the Long Cloud, and then drew into the shade of a little island for lunch. When we came to the rendezvous, where picnic parties generally feasted, we found a fire still smoking and the remnants of a lunch scattered about. A party of picnickers had evidently been there just before us. Ruth suggested that it might be so/ne of the tourists from the hotel. This seemed very probable. There were scraps of newspaper on the ground, and among them was an empty envelope. Mechan- ically I picked it up, and read the superscription. What I saw there I did not think necessary to disclose to the other members of the party; but, as unconcernedly as possible, for Ruth Devlin's eyes were on me, I used it to light a cigar, — inappropiately, for lunch would soon be ready. * What was the name on the envelope?' she said. * Was there one ? ' I guessed she had seen my slight start. I said evasively : ' I fancy there was, but a man who is immensely interested in a new brand of cigar ' * You are a most deceitful man,' she said. * And, at the least, you are selfish in holding your cigar more important than a woman's curiosity. Who >38 MRS. FALCHION ,u i 11 5 .; I' can tell what romance was in the address on that envelope ' * What elements of noble tragedy, what advertise- ment for a certain property in the Whi-Whi Valley,' interrupted Roscoc, breaking off the thread of a sailor's song he was humming, as he tended the water-kettle on the fire. This said, he went on with the song again. I was struck by the wonderful change in him now. Presentiments were far from him, yet I, having read that envelope, knew that they were not without cause. Indeed, I had an inkling of that the night before, when I heard the voices on the hill. Ruth Devlin stopped for a moment in the preparations to ask Roscoe what he was humming. I, answering for him, told her that it was an old sentimental sea- song of common sailors, often sung by officers at their jovial gatherings. At this she pretended to look shocked, and straightway demanded to hear the words, so that she could pronounce judgment on her spiritual pastor and master. He good-naturedly said that many of these old sailor songs were amusing, and that he often found himself humming them. To this 1 could testify, and he sang them very well indeed — quietly, but with the rolling tone of the sailor, jovial yet fascinating. At our united request, his THE WHIRLUiU; OF TIME 239 s on that idvertise- i Valley/ cad of a nded the Lgain. I im now. 'ing read without he night L Ruth itions to ^ring for ital sea- ficers at nded to to hear dgment ese old T found testify, quietly, , jovial St, his humming became distinct. Three of the verses I give here : — 'The Lo7iely Jane went sailinfj down To anchor at the Spicy Isles ; And the wind was fair as ever was blown, For the matter of a thousand miles. Then a storm arose as she crossed the line, Which it caused her masts to crack ; And she gulped her fill of the whoopin^j brine, And she likewise sj ained her back. And the capting cried, " If it's Davy Jones, Then it's Davy Jones," says he, " Thout;li I don't aspire to leave my bones In the equatorial sea. ' * What the further liistory of the Lovely Jane was we were not informed, for Ruth Devlin announced that the song must wait, though it appeared to be innocuous and child-like in its sentiments, and that lunch would be served between the acts of the touching tragedy. When lunch was over, and we had again set forth upon the Whi-Whi, I asked Ruth to sing an old French-Canadian song which she had once before sung to us. Many a time the woods of the West had resounded to the notes of En Roulant via Boule, as the voyageiirs traversed the long paths of the Ottawa, St. Lawrence, and Mississippi; brave, light-hearted fellows, whose singing days were over. By the light of coming events there was some- y 246 MRS. FALCHION i ! ^rP t ' i( Ml i; i' ! '■• ' ' I- .1 ■ '- i; r t f) ii »:: thing weird and pathetic in this Arcadian air, sung as it was by her. Her voice wa.s a mezzo-soprano of rare bracing quality, and she had enough natural sensibility to give the antique refinement of the words a wistful charm, particularly apparent in these verses : — *Ah, cruel Prince, my heart you break, In killing thus my snow-white drake. My snow-white drake, my love, my King, The crimson life-blood stains his wing. His golden bill sinks on his breast. His plumes go floating east and west- En roulant ma boule : Rouli, roulant, ma boule roulant, En roulant ma boule roulant, En roulant ma boule I ' As she finished the song we rounded an angle in the Whi-Whi. Ahead of us lay the Snow Rapids and the swift channel at one side of the rapids which, hurrying through a rocky archway, was known as the Devil's Slide. There was one channel through the rapids by whicn it was per- fectly safe to pass, but that sweep of water through the Devil's Slide was sometimes a trap of death to even the most expert river-men. A half-mile below the rapids was the confluence of the two rivers. The sight of the tumbling mass of white water, and the gloomy and colossal grandeur of W: THE WHIRLIcaC OF TIME 241 1 air, sung :o- soprano gh natural mt of the )parent in iig. an angle Ithe Snow (le of the archway, l-e was one was per- ;r through of death half-mile the two of white indeur of the Devil's Slide, a buttress of the hills, was very fine. But there was more than scenery to interest us here, for, moving quickly towards the Slide, was a boat with three people in it. They were evidently intending to attempt that treacherous passage, which culminated in a series of eddies, a menace to even the best oarsmanship. They c tainly were not aware of their danger, for there came over the water the sound of a man's laughing \oice, and the two women in the boat were in unconcerned attitudes. Roscoe shouted to them, and motioned them back, but they did not appear to understand. The man waved his hat to us, and rowed on. There was but one thing for us to do : to make the passage quickly through the safe channel of the rapid:, and to be of what service we could on the other side of the Slide, if necessary. We bent to the oars, and the boat shot through the water. Ruth held the rudder firmly, and her young sister and Mrs. Revel sat perfectly still. But the man in the other boat, thinking, doubtless, that we n'cre attempting a race, added his efforts to the current of the channel. I am afraid that I said some words below my breath scarcely proper to be spoken in the presence of maidens and a clerk in holy orders. Roscoe was here, however, a 1 !• ^\ 242 MRS. FALCHION > r 1 ) ) ; III M; ' ! i hundred times more sailor than parson. He spoke in low, firri tones, as he now and then suggested a direction to Ruth Devlin or myself. Our boat tossed and plunged in the rapids, and the water washed over us lightly once or twice, but we went through the passage safely, and had turned towards tlie Slide before the other boat got to the rocky archway. We rowed hard. The next minute was one of suspense, for we saw the boat shoot beneath the archway. Presently it emerged, a whirling play- thing in treachf ous eddies. The man wildly waved his arm, and shouted to us. The women were grasping the sides of the boat, but making no outcry. We could not see the faces of the women plainly yet. The boat ran forward like a race-horse ; it plunged hither and thither. An oar snapped in the rocks, and the other one shot from the man's hand. Now the boat swung round and round, and dipped towards the hollow of a whirlpool. When we were within a few rods of them, it appeared to rise from the water, was hurled on a rock, and overturned. Mrs. Revel buried her face in her hands, and Ruth gave a little groan, but she held the rudder firmly, as we swiftly approached the forms struggling in the water. All, fortunately, had grasped the swamped Ik THE \VHIKI-l(;iO OF TIME 24.^ lie spoke suggested Our boat the water ; we went d towards the rocky as one of incath the ling play- an wildly he women It making es of the ward like then An one shot jng round How of a iv rods of ater, was rs. Revel h gave a firmly, as jng in the swamped 1 boat, and were being carried down the stream towards us. The man was caring resolutely for himself, but one of the women had her arm round the other, supporting her. We brought our skiff close to the swirling current. I called out words of encouragement, and was preparing to jump into the water, when Roscoc exclaimed in a husky voice: 'Marmion, it is Mrs. Falchion.* Yes, it was Mrs. Falchion ; but I had known that before. We heard her words to her companion : 'Jusiine, do not look so. Your face is like death. It is hateful.' Then the craft veered towards the smoother water where we were. This was my opportunity. Roscoe threw me a rope, and I plunged in and swam towards the boat. I saw that Mrs. Falchion recognised me ; but she made no exclamation, nor did Justine Caron. Their companion, however, on the other side of the boat, was eloquent in prayers to be rescued. I caught the bow ot the boat as it raced past me, and with all my strength swung it towards the smoother water. I ran the rope I had brought through the iron ring at the bow, and was glad enough of that ; for their lives perhaps depended on being able to do it. It had been a nice calculation of chances, but it was done. Roscoe immediately bent to the oars, I ; t 244 MRS. FALCHIOM HI I flii! "hi p ii ' f in ill with which she had held the situation in the boat. But at the door of the hotel she said cheerfully: 'Of course, Dr. Marmion will find it necessary- to call on his patients to-morrow, — and the clergyman also on his new parishioners.* The reply was left to me. I said gravely : * Let us be thankful that both doctor and clergyman are called upon to use their functions ; it might easily have been only the latter.' ' Oh, do not be funereal ! ' she replied. ' I knew that we were not to drown at the Devil's Slide. The drama is not ended yet, and the chief actors cannot go until " the curtain." — Though I am afraid that is not quite orthodox, is it, Mr. Roscoc ?' Roscoe looked at her gravely. * It may not be orthodox as it is said, but it is orthodox, 1 fancy, if we exchange God for fate, and Providence for chance. . . . Good-night.' He said this wearily. She looked up at him with an ironical look, then held out her hand, and quickly bade him good-night. Partings all round were made, and, after some injunctions to Mrs. Falchion and Justine Caron from myself as to preventives against illness, the rest of us started for Sunburst. As we went, I could not help but contrast Ruth and Amy Devlin, these two gentle yet strong •■ 1 ■'■ H hi:*! i i ■ ■ ( t ! ill \l ■if ! si ; i:l III 1 ii ill!' ilr f,H ^ ^^il: Iff s i j 1 1^ I t ' i ] 248 MRS. FALCHION mountain girls, with the woman we had ^eft. Their lives were far from that dolorous tide which, sweeping through a selfish world, leaves behind it the stain of corroding passions ; of cruelties, ingratitude, hate, and catastrophe. We are all ambitious, in one way or another. We climb mountains over scoria that frays and lava that burns. We try to call down the stars, and when, now and then, our conjuring succeeds, we find that our stars are only blasting meteors. One moral mishap lames character for ever. A false start robs us of our natural strength, and a mis- placed or unrighteous love deadens the soul and shipwrecks just conceptions of life. A man may be forgiven for a sin, but the effect remains ; it has found its place in his constitution, and it cannot be displaced by mere penitence, nor yet forgiveness. A man errs, and he mi:st suffer ; his father erred, and he must endure ; or some one sinned against the man, and he hid the sin — But here a hand touched my shoulder ! I was startled, for my thoughts had been far away. Roscoe's voice spoke in my ear, — * It is as she said ; the actors come together for **the curtain.'" ~ Then his eyes met those of Ruth Devlin turned to him earnestly and inquiringly. And I felt for a moment hard against Roscoc, that he should 1 1 Their which, behind ruelties, are all i climb Lva that d when, we find 1. One A false i a mis- oul and le effect titution, nee, nor suffer ; »me one n— But ;tartled, 's voice actors §=; THE VVHIRLTGIO OF TIME 249 even indirectly and involuntarily, bring suffering into her life. In youth, in early manhood, we do wrong. At the time we seem to be injuring no one but ourselves; but, as we live on, we find that we were wronging whomsoever should come into our lives in the future. At the instant I said angrily to myself: 'What right has he to love a girl like that, when he has anything in his life that might make her unhappy, or endanger her in ever so little ! ' But I bit my tongue, for it seemed to me that 1 was Pharisaical ; and I wondered rather scornfully if I should have been so indignant were the girl not so beautiful, young, and ingen^v^u-,. I tried not to think further of the matter, and tax., d much to Ruth, — Gait Roscoe walked with Mrs. Revel and Amy Devlin, — but I found I could not drive it from my mind. This was not unnatural, for was not I the ' chorus to the play ' ? turned felt for should i I m ill 4 ^;.l ¥ W: • it n '. I H im CITAPTER XIII. THE SONG OF THE SAW THERE was still a subdued note to Roscoe's manner the next morning. He was pale. He talked freely however of the affairs of Viking and Sunburst, and spoke of business which called him to Mr. Devlin's great saw-mill that day. A few moments after breakfast we were standing in the doorway. ' Well,' he said, * shall we go ? * I was not quite sure where he meant to go, but I took my hat and joined him. I wondered if it would be to the summer hotel or the great mill. My duty lay in the direction of the hotel. When we stepped out, he added : ' Let us take the bridle-path along the edge of the ravine to the hotel.' The morning was beautiful. The atmosphere of the woods was of soft, diffusive green — the sunlight filtering through the transparent leaves. 250 # toscoe's as pale. Viking 1 called ay. A ding in to go, ndered 2 great ; hotel. s take to the sphere — the leaves. THE SONG OF THE SAW 351 i t Bowers of delicate ferns and vines flanked the path, and an occasional clump of giant cedars invited us : the world was eloquent. Several tourists upon the verandah of the hotel remarked us with curiosity as we entered. A servant said that Mrs. Falchion would be glad to see us ; and we were ushered into her sitting- room. She carried no trace of yesterday's mis- adventure. She appeared superbly well. And yet, when I looked again, when I had time to think upon and observe detail, I saw signs of change. There was excitement in the eyes, and a slight nervous darkness beneath them, which added to their charm. She rose, smiling, and said : * I fear 1 am hardly entitled to this visit, for I am beyond convalescence, and Justine is not in need of shrift or diagnosis, as you see.' I was not so sure of Justine Caron as she was, and when I had paid my respects to her, I said a little priggishly (for I was young), still, not too solemnly, — * I cannot allow you to pronounce for me upon my patients, Mrs. Falchion ; I must make my own inquiries.' But Mrs. Falchion was right. Justine Caron was not suffering much from her immersion ; though, speaking professionally, her temperature was higher than the normal. But that might be from sonie \ - 252 MRS. FALCHION i V'l iilUll ^11 , w i* li i Ml m mi i < impulse of the moment, for Justine was naturally a little excitable. We walked aside, and, looking at me with a flush of happiness in her face, she said : ' You remember one day on the Fulvia when I told you that money was everything to me ; that I would do all I honourably could to get it ? ' I nodded. She continued : ' It was that I might pay a debt — you know it Well, money is my god no longer, for I can pay all I owe. That is, I can pay the money, but not the goodness, the noble kindness. He is most good, is he not? The world is better that such men as Captain Gait Roscoe live — ah, you see I cannot quite think of him as a clergyman. I wonder if I ever shall ! * She grew suddenly silent and abstracted, and, in the moment's pause, some ironical words in Mrs. Falchion's voice floated across the room to me : * It is so strange to see you so. And you preach, and baptize, and marry, and bury, and care for the poor and — ah, what is it ?- — " all those who, in this transitory life, are in sorrow, need, sickness, or any other adversity " ? . . . And do you never long for the flesh-pots of Egypt ? Never long for * — here her voice was not quite so clear — * for the past. Gait Roscoe ? ' I was sure that, whatever she was doing, he had THE SONG OF THE SAW 253 naturally le with a id: 'You told you I would s that I money is 'e. That goodness, he not? tain Gait think of r shall ! ' , and, in J in Mrs. to me: li preach, care for 2 who, in sickness, )u never long for * "•for the , he had been trying to keep the talk, as it were, on the surface. I was equally sure that, to her last question, he would make no reply. Though I was now speaking to Justine Caron, I heard him say quite calmly and firmly : * Yes, I preach, baptize, marry, and bury, and do all I can for those who need help.' * The people about here say that you are good and charitable. You have won the hearts of the mountaineers. But you always had a gift that way.' — I did not like her tone. — * One would almost think you had founded a new dispensation. And if I had drowned yesterday, you would, I suppose, have buried me, and have preached a little sermon about me. — You could have done that better than any one else ! . . . What would you have said in such a case ? ' There was an earnest, almost a bitter, protest in the reply. * Pardon me, if I cannot answer your question. Your life was saved, and that is all we have to consider, except to be grateful to Providence. The duties of my office have nothing to do with possibilities.* She was evidently torturing him, and I longed to say a word that would torture her. She continued: 'And the flesh-pots — you have not I •! : I 1* i; t' li- 254 MRS. FALCHION answered about them : do you not long for then - occasionally ?' 'They are of a period/ he said, 'too distant ' >r regret.' 'A \ /et,' she repHed softly, 'I fancied some- tit ni^ 'n London last year, that you had not ouigrown -hat antique time— those lotos-days.' He made no reply at once, and in the pause Justine and I passed out to the verandah. ' How long docs Mrs. Falchion intend remaining here, Miss Caron ? * I said. Her reply was hesitating : ' I do not quite know ; but I think some time. She likes the place ; it seems to ami'^^s her.' ' And you — does it amuse you ? ' ' It does not matter about me. I am madame's servant ; but, indeed, it does not amuse me par- ticularly.' * Do you like the place ? * The reply was somewhat hurried, and she glanced at me a little nervously. ' Oh yes,' she said,' I like the place, but ' Here Roscoe appeared at the door and said : ' Mrs. Falchion wishes to see Viking and Mr. Devlin's mills, Marmion ; she will go with us. In a little time we were on our way to Viking. I walked with Mrs. Falchion, and Roscoe with m THE SONG OF THE SAW 255 • then - stant !»r d some- had not lys.' e pause maining 2 know ; lace ; it adame's ne par- ^lanccd /I like i said : id Mr. s. /iking. »e with Justine. I was aware of a new clement i*) >s. Falch jn's m.inner. She seemed less povvci "jlly attractive to me than in the old days, yet she certainly was more beautiful. It was hard to trace the new characteristic. But at last I thought I saw it in a decrease of that cold composure, that impassiveness, so fasci'^'^ting in the past. In its place had come an alli'. iv restless something, to be found in words c* rouDlesome vagueness, in variable moods, in an ' icreased sensitiveness of mind and an ur r- current of emotional bitterness — she was emotional at last! She puzzled me greatly, for I saw two spirits in her : one pitiless as of old ; the other human, anxious, not unlovely. At length we became silent, and walked so side by side for a time. Then, with that old delightful egotism and selfishness — delightful in its very daring — she said : * Well, amuse me ! ' *And is it still the end of your existence,' I rejoined, * to be amused ? ' 'What is there else to do?' she replied with raillery. * Much. To amuse others, for instance ; to regard human beings as something more than automata.' * Has Mr. Roscoe made you a preaching curate? — I helped Amshar at the Tanks.* tr ■'Ki H'i a^rt MUS. l'',\I,('lll(>N ■i i •■i i , . I '()!»(' (Iocs lint l(>i}M'( lh.it. Y<'l \(Mi phsIknI Atnshai with \(»m («>ttt.' * I)i(l you ('\|)((t iiu* to Kis'; the hhu k cowaid ? — ThiMi. I iuh'u'iI Mr. Koscoc in his ilhicss.' •And hcloiv th.it P' ' Atnl IhMoiv that 1 was horn into the world, and ^;r(nv to jcars ol KnowU'di;c, and learned wh.it tools wo moitals he, and - .iiul theic ! is tliat Mr. I )i^\ lins hii; saw mill ? * We h.ul snddenl\ (inei inul ofi a shelf of the mountain - side, and were lookini; down into the LoiU' (loud ValK-\'. It was a noble si.hl. l'"ar to the iiotth wcM(^ toot hills lONiM'ed with the idorious Norfolk pine, lisini; in steppes till they seemed to toueh while pkite.ius oi snow, whieh a^ain hillowed to i;l.ivier tlelds whosi^ austere h«>soms m.in's h.ind had never touehed ; and these suddenly lilted up hui;c\ unapproaeh.iMe sIiouKUm's, erowned with majestie peaks that tt>i>k in their teeth the sun, the storm, and the whirlw imls ot the north, never ehani;ini; icnmtenancc from da)- to year and from year to a^e. Facing" this loni; line of t;"lory, running'; irre^u- larl\- on towards that sea where h'ranklin and M'Clinlock led lluir i;a)' adventurers, — the bold ships, — was another shore, not so hiL^h or superior, but tall and sombre and warn\ through whose |nish('\ ,iiid idled tin- ..( iiciniis ( liiii<»Ml< uind^ tlir 'nolliiii'/ hrcatli '^f the fiiciidl)' I'.ifidr. I'dwrfii th'sc .lioic; tl)'* I, on;; (Innd kivci ran; nou' hoislcroiis, now S(»n, now w.dlowini; away tlnoiiidi Io?r; f li.iti:i«Is, wash '•U'. r,"''r/'-' alwii)'. d.ii I; ,1. 1 1 oiifdi '.ii.id'd by wit it » r, ,ind vall(')s alvva)s {;r( en as favcnifd hy -.ninrncr. ( iccpiii;; alnii^r a lofty narr'jw path upon that faith' I shore was a imile train, heariii}^^ parks whieh would ii(»t he opened I ill, tliroii;;h the ^;teat passes of the nioimlain, they wen; spilled upon the floors of fort and post on tin; east side of the Kfxkics. N(»t far from where the nmie train erej>t alr^ri^^ was a f^ncat hole in the niounlain-side, as thonjjh anticpie 'dants of tlu; hills had tutnielled thronj:di to make themselves a home or tf) find the eternal secret of the monntains. Near tr) this vast dark cavit)' was a hut -a uK^re playhouse, it secmefl, so small was it, vi(;we(l from where we stood. hVom the c(]i^(i of a cliff just in front of this hut, there swun^,^ a lon^ cable, which reached almost to the base of the shore beneath us ; and, even as we looked, we saw what seemed a tiny bucket go swin^^in^ slowly down that stran^^^c hypotenuse. We watched it till we saw it ^ct to the end of its journey in the valley beneath, not far from the great mill to which we were bound. 25.^ MRS. I AICIIION w mi IP'* HI II n I ' I low inyslorioiis ! ' said Mrs. l''.ilihi()ii. 'What (Iocs it mean? I mvcr saw aM)llnii).j like that hiTorc. What a wonilerfiil thiii^l' Rdscoc cx[)I.uium.1. 'Up tlierc in that hut,* he sail), • there lives a man called Fhil Holdriek. lie is a unitiue fellow, with a stranpfc history. He has been miner, sailor, wootlsman, river-driver, trai)|)er, salmon-fisher ; — cxi)ert at the duties of eaeh of these, persistent at none. lie has a taste for the ingenious and the unusual. I'or a time he worked in Mr. Devlin's mill. It was too t.imi' for him. He conceiveil the idea of suppl)ing the valley with certain necessaries, by intercepting the mule trains as they passed acrt)ss the hills, and gettinji; them down to Vikini; by means of that cable. The valley laui;hed at him ; men said it was impossible, lie went to Mr. Devlin, and Mr. Devlin came to me. I have, as you know, some knowledge of machinery and cngincerinL;-. I thought the thing feasible but expensive, and told Mr. Devlin so. However, the ingenuity of the thing pleasetl Mr. Devlin, and, with that singular enterprise which in other directions has made him a rich man, he determined on its completi(Mi. Between us we managed it. Boldrick carries on his aerial railway with considerable success, as you see.* •A singular man,' said Mrs. Falchion. 'I should ill. :^ TIIK SONO OI" rilK SAW 2!)<) : like that ;it hut; he [Irirk. Ho /. lie has cr, I rapper, nf each of iste for the Ik* workcil e for liiin. valley with mule tr.iius Itin^ them able. The iui [Possible, in came to )\vledge of the thing Devlin so. "(Mseil Mr. rise which rich man, cen us we al railway * I should lilsc to see him. CouK', sit down here ami tell me all you know about him, will you not?* Roscoe assented. I arranj^'ed a seat for us, and wc all sat. Roscoe wa.s about to bc^nn, when Mr.s. Falchion said : * Wait a minute. Let us take in this scene first.* We were silent. After a moment I turned to Mrs. I''alchion, and said: * It is beautiful, is it not?' She drew in a lon^^ breath, her eyes lighted up, and she said with a strange abandon of gaiety : • Yes ; it is (lelij.;htful to live.* It seemed so, in spite of the forebodings of my friend and my own uneasiness concerning him, Ruth Devlin, and Mrs. Falchion. The place was all peace: a very inonotoiiy of toil and |)leasuie. The heat drained through the valley back and forth in visible palpitations upon the roofs of the houses, the mills, and the vast piles of lumber: all these seemed breathing. It looked a busy A ready. I'rorn beneath us life vibrated with the regularity of a pulse: distance gave a kind of delighted case to toil. Event ai)pcared asleep. But when I look back now, after some years, at the experiences of that day, I am asto' i;}ied by the running fire of events, which, unfortunately were not all joy. i i 1 : .1 u ^ 260 MRS. FAI.CIIION '•i ; 1 f k: I 1; r I M As I write I can hear tliat keen wild sincrlnir of the saw come to us distantly, with a pleasant, weird elation. The big mill hung above the river, its sides all open, humming with labour, as I had seen it many a tune during my visit to Roscoe. The sun beat in upon it, making a broad piazza of light about its sides. Beyond it were pleasant shadows, through which 'men passed and repassed at their work. Life was busy all about it. Yet the picture was bold, open, and strong. Great iron hands reached down into the water, clamped a massive log or huge timber, lightly drew it up the slide from the water, where, guided by the hand- spikes of the men, it was laid upon its cradle and carried slowly to the devouring teeth of the saws : there to be sliced through rib and bone in moist sandwiched layers, oozing the sweet sap of its fibre ; and carried out again into the open to be drained to dry bones under the exhaust-pipes of the sun: piles upon piles ; houses with wide chinks through which the winds wandered, looking for tenants aud finding none. To the north were booms of logs, swilling in the current, waiting for their devourer. Here and there were groups of river-drivers and their fore- men, prying twisted heaps of logs from the rocks or the shore into the water. Other groups of river- i THE SONG OF THE SAW 261 sincfinc: of L pleasant, s the river, , as I had to Roscoe. Dad piazza x pleasant d repassed it it. Yet Great iron clamped a w it up the the hand- cradle and the saws : le in moist sap of its Den to be t-pipes of ide chinks )oking for ling in the Here and their fore- the rocks )s of river- drivers were scattered upon the banks, lifting their huge red canoes high up on the platforms, the spring's and summer's work of river-driving done ; while others lounged upon the grass, or wandered lazily through the village, sporting with the China- men, or chaffing the Indian idling in the sun — a garish figure stoically watching the inroads of civi- lisation. The town itself was squat but amiable : small houses and large huts ; the only place of note and dignity, the new town hall, which was greatly overshadowed by the big mill, and even by the two smaller ones flanking it north and south. But Viking was full of men who had breathed the strong life of the hills, had stolen fr )ii^ Nature some of her brawny strength, and set themselves up before her as though a man were as great as a mountain and as good a thing to see. It was of such a man that Gait Roscoe was to tell us. His own words I will not give, but will speak of Phil Bold rick as I remember him and as Roscoe described him to us. Of all the men in the valley, none was so striking as Phil Boldrick. Of all faces his wa.*' the most singular; of all characters his the most unique ; of all men he was the most unlucky, save in one thing, — the regard of his fellows. Others might lay up treasures, not he ; others lose money at gambling, w : i ! i i i i 1 I j 1 ■ j ( t. 'i| ! V i 262 MRS. FALCHION not he — he never had much to lose. But yet he did all things magniloqucntly. The wave of his hand was expansive, his stride was swaying and decisive, his over-ruling, fraternal faculty was always in full swing. Viking was his adopted child ; so much so that a gentleman river-driver called it Philippi ; and by that name it sometimes went, and continues still so among those who knew it in the old days. Others might have doubts as to the proper course to pursue under certain circumstances; it was not so with Phil. They might argue a thing out orally, he did so mentally, and gave judgment on it orally. He was final, not oracular. One of his eyes was ot glass, and blue; the other had an eccentricity, and was of a deep and meditative grey. It was a wise and knowing eye. It was trained to many things — like one servant in a large family. One side of his face was solemn, because of the gay but unchanging blue eye, the other was gravely humorous, shrewdly playful. His fellow citizens respected him ; so much so, that they intended to give him an office in the new-formed corporation ; which means that he had courage and dovvnrightness, and that the rough, straightforward gospel of the West was properly interpreted by him. THE SONCi OF THE SAW 263 Jt yet he e of his nng and s always :hild ; so called it es went, knew it i proper nces ; it a thing udgment One of ther had editative It was mt in a solemn, eye, the "ul. His :hat they i^-formed rage and tforward reted by If a stranger came to the place, Phil was sent first to reconnoitre; if any function was desirable, Phil was requested to arrange it ; if justice was to be mctcd out, Phil's opinion had considerable weight — for he had much greater leisure than other more prosperous men ; if a man was taken ill (this was in the days befoie a doctor came), Phil was asked to declare if he would *shy from the finish.* I heard Roscoe more than once declare that Phil was as good as two curates to him. Not that Phil was at all pious, nor yet possessed of those abstemious qualities in language and appetite by which good men are known ; but he had a gift of civic virtue — important in a wicked world, and of unusual importance in Viking. He had neither self-consciousness nor fear ; and while not possessed of absolute tact in a social way, he had a knack of doing the right thing bluntly, or the wrong thing with an air of rightness. He envied no man, he coveted nothing; had once or twice made other men's fortunes by prospecting, but was poor him- self. And in all he was content, and loved life and Viking. Immediately after Roscoe had reached the mountains Phil had become his champion, de- claring that there was not any reason why a man il H ^Mi ri U ifl| !li n [■ ■J 'i ; I 264 MRS. FALCHION should not be treated sociably because he was a parson. Phil had been a great traveller, as had many who settled at last in these valleys to the exciting life of the river: salmon - catching or driving logs. He had lived for a time in Lower California and Mexico, and had given Roscoe the name of The Padre: which suited the genius and temper of the rude population. And so it was that Roscoe was called The Padre by every one, though he did not look the character. As he told his story of Phil's life I could not help but contrast him with most of the clerg)men I knew or had seen. He had the admirable ease and tact of a cultured man of the world and the frankness and warmth of a hearty nature, which had, however, some inherent strain of melancholy. Wherever I had gone with him I had noticed that he was received with good-humoured deference by his rough parishioners and others who were such only in the broadest sense. Perhaps he would not have succeeded so well if he had worn clerical clothes. As it was, of a week da)% he could not be distinguished from any respectable layman. The clerical uniform attracts women more than men, who, if they spc^ke truly, would resent it. Roscoe did not wear it, because he thought more of m.en than of function, of manliness than clothes ; f. THE SONG OF THE SAW 265 was a as had to the ing or Lower :oe the us and it was ry one, lid not gymen le ease id the which icholy. d that ice by i such Id not lerical d not yman. than mt it. more )thes ; and though this sometimes got him into trouble with his clerical brethren who dearly love Roman collar, and coloured stole, and the range of ritual from a lofty intoning to the eastward position, he managed to live and himself be none the worse, while those who knew him were certainly the better. When Roscoe had finished his tale, Mrs. Falchion said : * Mr. Boldrick must be a very interesting man;' and her eyes wandered up to the great hole in the mountain - side, and lingered there. 'As I said, I must meet him,' she added ; 'men of individuality are rare.' — Then: 'That great " hole in the wall " is of course a natural formation ' 'Yes,' said Roscoe. 'Nature seems te> have made it for Boldrick. He uses it as a storehouse.* 'Who watches it wh, he is away?' she said. ' There is no door to th lace, of course.' Roscoe smiled enign cally. ' Men do not steal up here: that is the ur donable crime ; any other may occur and go unpunished ; not it' The thought seemed to strike Mrs Falchion. •I might have known I she said. ' It is the same in the South Seas among the natives: Sam.oans, Tongans, Fijians, and c.ihers. You can— as you know, Mr. Roscoe,' — her voice had a subterranean meaning, — 'travel from end to end of those places, 18 i! I i i 1,1 i ! 266 MRS. FALCHION and, until the white man corrupts them, never meet with a case of stealing: you will find them moral too in other ways until the white man corrupts them. But sometimes the white man pays for it in the end.' Her last words were said with a kind o dreami- ness, as though they had no purpose ; but though she sat now idly looking into the valley beneath, I could sec that her eyes had a peculiar glance, which was presently turned on Roscoe, then with- drawn a'j^ain. On him the effect was so far dis- turbing that he became a little pale, but I noticed that he met her glance unflinchingly and then locked at me, as if to see in how far I had been affected by her speech. I think I confessed to nothing in my face. Justine Caron was lost in the scene bef jre us. She had, I fancy, scarcely heard half that had been said. Roscoe said to her presently: 'You like it, do you not?' * Like it ? ' she said. * I never saw anything so wonderful.* 'And yet it would not be so wonderful without humanity there,' rejoined Mrs. Falchion. ' Nature is never complete without man. All that would be splendid without the mills and the machinery and Boldrick's cable, but it would not be penect : it , never d them :e man c man ireami- though encath, glance, n with- ar dis- tioticed d then d been sed to jre us. at had 'You ing so athout Mature would hineiy ^ct : it THE SONG OF THE SAW 267 needs man — Phil Boldrick and Company in the foreground. Nature is not happy by itself: it is only brooding and sorrowful. You remember the mountain of Talili in Samoa, Mr. Roscoc, and the valley about it : how entrancing yet how melancholy it is. It always seems to be haunted, for the natives never live in the valley. There is a tradition that once one of the white gods came down from heaven, and built an altar, and sacri- ficed a Samoan girl — though no one ever knew quite why : for there the tradition ends. I felt again th:.v there was a hidden meaning in her words ; but Roscoe remained perfectly still. It seemed to me that I was little by little getting the threads of his story. That there was a native girl ; that the girl had died or been killed ; that Roscoe was in some way — innocently I dared hope —connected with it ; and that Mrs. Falchion held the key to the mystery, I was certain. That it was in her mind to use the mystery, I was also certain. But for what end I could not tell. What had passed between them in London the previous winter I did not know : but it seemed evident that she had influenced him there as she did on the FulviUy had again lost her influence, and vvas now resenting the loss, out of pique or anger, \jr because she really cared for him. It might be that she cared. '' !' 268 MRS. FALCHION I ii:^ . She added after a moment : ' Add man to nature, and it stops sulking : which goes to show that fallen humanity is better than no company at all.' She had an inherent strain of mockery, of play- ful satire, and she told me once, when I knew her better, that her own suffering always set her laugh- ing at herself, even when it was greatest. It was this characteristic which made her conversation very striking, it was so sharply contrasted in its parts ; a heartless kind of satire set against the most serious and acute statements. One never knew when she would turn her own or her inter- locutor's gravity into mirth. Now no one replied immediately to her remarks, and she continued : * If I were an artist I should wish to paint that scene, given that the lights were not so bright and that mill machinery not, so sharply defined. There is almost too much lime- light, as it were ; too much earnestness in the thing. Either there should be some side-action of mirth to make it less intense, or of tragedy to render it less photographic ; and unless, Dr. Marmion, you would consent to be solemn, which would indeed be droll ; or that The Padre there — how amusing they should call him that ! — should cease to be serious, which:, being so very unusual, would be tragic, ^ do not know how we are to tell the artist ■M4 THE SONG OF VHK SAW 269 that he has missctl a chance of immortalising:^ himself.' Roscoe said nothing, but smiled at her vivacit)', while he deprecated her words by a wave of his hand. I also was silent for a moment; for there had come to my nind, while she was speaking and I was watching the scene, something that Hunger- ford had said to me once on board the Fulvia. * Marmion,' said he, * when everything at sea appears so absolutely beautiful and honest that it thrills you, and you're itching to write poetry, look out. There's trouble ahead. It's only the pretty pause in the hapi)y scene of the play before the villain comes in and tumbles things about. When I've been on the bridge,' he continued, 'of a night that set my heart thumping, I knew, by Jingo! it was the devil playing his silent overture. — Don't you take in the twaddle about God sending thunderbolts; it's that old war-horse down below. — And then I've kept a sharp look- out, for I knew as right as rain that a company of waterspouts would be walking down on us, or a hurricane racing to catch us broadsides. And what's gospel for sea is good for land, and you'll find it so, my son.' I was possessed of the same feeling now as 1 looked at the scene before us, and I suppose I [I r^ 70 MRS. l-ALCHION 1^: II' \- '. i seemed moody, for iminciliatrly Mrs. Falchion said : * Why, now my words have come true ; the scene can be made perfect. Pray step down to the valley, Dr. Marmion, and complete the situa- tion, for you are trying to seem serious, and it is irresistibly amusing — and professional, I suppose ; one must not forget that you teach the young " saw-bones " how to saw.' I was piqued, annoyed. I said, though I admit it was not cleverly said : * Mrs. Falchion, I am willing to go and complete that situation, if you will go.with me ; for you would provide the tragedy — plenty of it ; there would be the full perihelion of elements ; your smile is the incarnation of the serious. She looked at me full in the eyes. 'Now that,' she said, ' is a very good ^uid pro quo — is that right? — and I have no doubt that it is more or less true ; and for a doctor to speak truth and a professor to be understood is a matter for angels. And I actually believe that, in t'me, you will be free from priggishness, and become a very smart conversationalist ; and — suppose we wander on to our proper places in the scene. . . Besides, I want to see that strange man, Mr. Boldrick. % CHAPTER XIV. THE PATH OF THE EAGT-E. WE travelled slowly down the hillside into the village, and were about to turn towards the big mill when we saw Mr. Devlin and Ruth riding towards us. We halted and waited for them. Mr. Devlin was introduced to IVIrs. Falchion by his daughter, who was sweetly solicitous concerning Mrs. Falchion and Justine Caron, and seemed sur- prised at finding them abroad after the accident of the day before. Ruth said that her father and herself had just come from the summer hotel, where they had gone to call upon Mrs. Falchion. Mrs. Falchion heartily acknowledged the courtesy. She seemed to be playing no part, but was appar- ently grateful all round ; yet I believe that even already Ruth had caught at something in her presence threatening Roscoe's peace ; whilst she from the beginning, had, with her more trained instincts, seen the relations between the clergy 271 4 ^*> IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 If'- I I.I 1.25 25 6" 1^ |||Z2 I -- IIIIIM IHUU 111= U ill 1.6 V] <^ /; cM <^^.. ' . °!> \;> .^/ ^'^ • '^•y >^ vV^ O: Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 272 MRS. FALCTTTON nJ i i t. man and his young parishioner. — But what had that to do with her? Between Roscoe and Ruth there was the sh'ghtest constraint, and I thought that it gave a troubled look to the face of the girl. Involuntarily, the eyes of both were attracted to Mrs. Falchion. I believe in that moment there was a kind of reve- lation among the three. While I talked to Mr. Devlin I watched them, standing a little apart, Justine Caron with us. It must have been a pain- ful situation for them : to the young girl because a shadow was trailing across the light of her first love ; to Roscoe because the shadow came out of his past ; to Mrs. Falchion because she was the shadow. I felt that trouble was at hand. In this trouble I knew that I was to play a part ; for, if Roscoe had his secret and Mrs. Falchion had the key to it, I also held a secret which, in case of desperate need, I should use. I did not wish to use it, for though it was mine it was also another's. I did not like the look in Mrs. Falchion's eyes as she glanced at Ruth : I was certain that she resented Roscoe's regard for Ruth and Ruth's regard for Roscoe ; but, up to that moment, I had not thought it possible that she cared for him deeply. Once she had influenced me, but she had never cared for me. it had ightcst oubled ly, the ion. I )f reve- to Mr. : apart, a pain- because tier first 3 out of was the trouble Roscoe ey to it, espcrate it, for I did as she resented ard for thought Dnce she d for me. g< THE PATH OF THE EAGLE 273 I could see a change in her. Out of it came that glance at Ruth, which seemed to me the talon- like hatred that shot from the e\ es of Goneril and Regan : and I was sure that if she loved Roscoe, there would be mad trouble for him and for the girl. Heretofore she had been passionless, but there was a dormant power in her which had only to be wickedly aroused to wreck her own and others' happiness. Hers was one of those volcanic natures, defying calculation and ordinary concep- tions of life ; having the fullest capacity for all the elementary passions, — hatred, love, cruelty, delight, loyalty, revolt, jealousy. She had never from her birth until now felt love for any one. She had never been awakened. Even her affec- tion ior her father had been dutiful rather than instinctive. She had provoked love, but had never given it. She had been self-centred, compulsive, unrelenting. She had unmoved seen and let her husband go to his doom — it was his donm and death so far as she knew. Yet, as I thouLjht uf this, I found myself again admiring her. She was handsome, independent, distinctly original, and possessing capacity for great things. Iksides, so far, she had not been actively vindictive — simply passively indifferent to the sufferings of others. She seemed to regard 2 74 MRS. FALCHION 1 4 "■ ! results more than means. All she did not like she could empty into the mill of the destroying gods : just as General Grant poured hundreds of thousands of men into the valley of the James, not thinking of lives but victory, not of blood but triumph. She too, even in her cruelty, seemed to have a sense of wild justice which disregarded any incidental suffering. I could sec that Mr. Devlin was attracted by her, as every man had been who had ever met her ; for, after all, man is but a common slave to beauty : virtue he respects, but beauty is man's valley of suicide. Presently she turned to Mr. Devlin, having, as it seemed to me, made Roscoe and Ruth sufficientlv uncomfortable. With that cheerful insoitciance which was always possible to her on the most trying occasions, she immediately said, as she had often said to me, that she had come to Mr. Devlin to be amused for the morning, perhaps the whole day. It was her way, her selfish way, to make men her slaves. Mr. Devlin gallantly said that he was at her disposal, and v.-ith a kind of pride added that there was plenty in the valley which would interest her; for he was a frank, bluff man, who would as quickly have spoken disparagingly of what belonged to himself, if it was not worthy, as have praised it THE PATH OF THE EAGLE 275 like she ig gods : lousands nking of She too, e of wild uffering. acted by ever met 1 slave to is man's d to Mr. le Roscoe A^ith that )0ssible to mediately she had morning, Iher selfish las at her Idcd that lid interest Iho would of what ', as have \ I 'Where shall we go first?* he said. 'To the mill?' 'To the mill, by all means,' Mrs. Falchion replied; *I have never been in a great saw-mill, and I believe this is very fine. Then/ she added, with a little wave of the hand towards the cable running down from Phil Boldrick's eyrie in the mountains, 'then I want to see all that cable can do — all, remember.' Mr. Devlin laughed. ' Well, it hasn't many tricks, but wh?t it does it does cleverly, thanks to The Padre.' * Oh yes,' responded Mrs. Falchion, still looking at the cable ; 'The Padre, I know, is very clever.' * He is more than clever,' bluffly replied Mr. Devlin, who was not keen enough to see the faint irony in her tones. ' Yes,' responded Mrs. P'alchion in the same tone of voice, ' he is more than clever. I have been told that he was once very brave. I have been told that once in the South Seas he did his country a great service.' She paused. I could see Ruth's eyes glisten and her face suffuse, for though she read the faint irony in the tone, still she saw that the tale which Mrs. Falchion was evidently about to tell, must be to Gait Roscoe's credit Mrs. Falchion idly turned 276 MRS. FALCHION il I I upon Ruth and saw the look in her face. An almost imperceptible smile came upon her lips. She looked a^ain at the cable and Phil Boldrick's eyrie, which seemed to have a wonderful attraction for her. Not turning away from it, save now and then to glance indolently at Mr. Devlin or Ruth, and once enigmatically at myself, she said : ' Once upon a time — that is the way, I believe, to begin a pretty story — there were four men-of-war idling about a certain harbour of Samoa. One of the vessels was the flag-ship, with its admiral on board. On one of the other vessels was an officer, who had years before explored this harbour. It was the hurricane season. He advised the admiral not to enter the harbour, for the indications fore- told a gale, and himself was not sure that his chart was in all respects correct, for the harbour had been hurriedly explored and sounded. But the admiral gave orders, and they sailed in. 'That day a tremendous hurricane came crying down upon Samoa. It swept across the island, levelled forests of cocoa palms, battered villages to pieces, caught that little fleet in the harbour, and played with it in a horrible madness. To right and left were reefs, behind was the shore, with a monstrous surf rolling in ; before was a narrow passage. One vessel made its way out — on it was )i . An r lips, drick's action »w and Ruth, icve, to -of-war One of iral on officer, )ur. It idmiral IS fore- is chart ur had ^ut the crying island, ages to )ur, and right with a narrow 1 it was THE PATH OF THE EAGLE 277 \ 1 the officer who had surveyed the harbour. In the open sea there was safety. He brought his vessel down the coast a little distance, put a rope about him and in the wild surf made for the shore. I believe he could have been court-martialed for leaving his ship, but he was a man who had taken a great many risks of one kind and another in his time. It was one chance out of a hundred ; but he made it — he got to the shore, travelled down to the harbour where the men-of-war were careen- ing towards the reefs, unable to make the passage out, and once again he tied a rope about him and plunged into the surf to try for the admiral's ship. He got there terribly battered. They tell how a big wave lifted him and landed him upon the quarter-deck just as big waves are not expected to do. Well, like the hero in any melodrama of the kind, he very prettily piloted monsieur the admiral and his fleet out to the open sea.' She paused, smiling in an inscrutable sort of way, then turned and said with a sudden softness in her voice, though still with the air of one who wished not to be taken with too great a serious- ness : * And, ladies and gentlemen, the name of the ship that led the way was the Porcupine ; and the name of the hero was Commander Gait Roscoe, R.N. ; and " of such is the kingdom of heaven I " ' r ; I I 278 MRS FAT.CfllON There was silence for a moment. Tlie talc had been told adroitly, and with such tact as to words that Roscoe could not take offence — need not, indeed, as he did not, I believe, feel any particular self-consciousness. I am not sure but he was a little glad that such evidence should have been given at the moment, when a kind of restraint had come between him and Ruth, by one who he had reason to think was not wholly his friend, — might be his enemy. It was a kind 01 offset to his pre- monitions and to the peril over which he might stumble at any moment. To me the situation was almost inexplicable ; but the woman herself was inexplicable: at this moment the evil genius of us all, at that doing us all a kind of crude, superior justice. I was the first to speak. * Roscoe,* I said, * I never had heard of this, although I remember the circumstance as told in the newspapers. But I am glad and proud that I have a friend with such a record.* 'And, only think/ said Mrs. Falchion, 'he actually was not court-martialed for abandoning his ship to save an admiral and a fleet. But the ways of the English Admiralty are wonderful. They go out of their way to avoid a court-martial sometimes, and they go out of their way to establish it sometimes.* THE PATH OF TIH-: EACLK 279 By this time we had started towards the mill. Roscoe walked ahead with Ruth Devlin. Mr. Devlin, Mrs. Falchion, Justine Caron and myself walked together. Mrs. Falchion presently continued, talking, as it seemed to me, at the back of Roscoc's head : 'I have known the Admiralty to force an officer to resign the navy because he had married a native wife. But I never knew the Admiralty to court- martial an officer because he did not marry a native wife whom he ought to have married : but, as I said, the ways of the Admiralty are past admiration.' I could see Roscoe's hand clench at his side, and presently he said over his shoulder at her : * Your memory and jour philosophy are as wonderful as the Admiralty are inscrutable.* She laughed. 'You have not lost your old gift of retort,' she said. * You are still amusing.' 'Well, come,' said Mr. Devlin cheerfully, 'let's see if there isn't something even more amusing than Mr. Roscoe in Viking. I will show you, Mrs. Falchion, the biggest saw that ever ate the heart out of a Norfolk pine.' At the mill Mrs. Falchion was interested. She asked questions concerning the machinery which mightily pleased Mr. Devlin, they were so apt and 28o MKS. KAIX-'IIION I ! !!■' ( » intcllij^cnt; and herself assisted in givin|T an immense log to the teeth of the largest saw, wliich, with its six upright blades, ate and was never satisfied. She stooped and ran her ungloved hand into the sawdust, as sweet before the surj has dried it as the scent of a rose. The rich smell of the fresh-cut lumber filled the air, and suggested all kinds of remote and pleasant things. The industry itself is one of the first that comes with the invasion of new territory, and makes one think of man's first work in the world : to fell the tree and till the soil. It is impossible to describe that fierce, jubilant song of the saw, which even when we were near was never shrill or shrieking: never drowning our voices, but vibrant and delightful. To Mrs. Falchion it was new ; she was impressed. *I have seen,' she said to Mr. Devlin, 'all sorts of enterprises, but never anything like this. It all has a kind of rough music. It is enjoyable.' Mr. Devlin beamed. 'I have just added some- thing to the mill that will please you,' he said. She looked interested. We all gathered round. I stood between Mrs. T^alchion and Ruth Devlin, and Roscoe beside Justine Caron. * It is the greatest mill-whistle in the country,' he continued. * It will be heard from twelve to twenty-five miles, according to the condition of the inpj an , which, i never :d hand Lin has mcU of 5. The cs with e think he tree be that n when never 111. To cd. 11 sorts It all some- d. round. Devlin, )untry,' ilve to of the THE PATH OF TIIK E\G\.\L 281 ^ atmosphere. I want big things all round, and this is a masterpiece, I guess. Now, I'll let you hear it if you like. I didn't expect to use it until to-night at nine o'clock, when, also for the first time, I am to light the mills by electricity; a thing that's not been attempted yet in any saw -mill on the continent. We're going to work night and day for a couple of months.' * This is all very wonderful. And are you indebted to Mr. Roscoe in these things too? — Everybody seems to need him here.' * Well,' said the mill-owner, laughing, 'the whistle is my own. It's the sort of thing I would propose — to blow my trumpet, as it were; but the elec- tricity and the first experiments in it I owe to The Padre.' * As I thought,' she said, and turned to Roscoe. * I remember,' she added, 'that you had an electrical search-light on the Porcupine^ and that you were fond of electricity. Do you ever use search-lights here? I should think they might be of use in your parish. Then, for a change, you could let the parish turn it upon you, for the sake of contrast and edification.' For the moment I was exceedingly angry. Her sarcasm was well veiled, but I could feel the sardonic touch beneath the smiling surface. This 19 I f 28a MRS. I'AI.CIIION innucnclo sccmcil so gratuitous. I said to her, almost beneath tny breath, that none of the others could hear . * 1 low womanly ! ' She did no more than lift her ejcbrovvs in acknowledgment, and went on talking lightly to Mr. Devlin. Roscoc was cool, but I could see now in his eyes a kind of smoukleriiig anger ; which was quite to my wish. I hoped he would be meek no longer. Presently Ruth Devlin said : * Would it not be better to wait till to-night, when the place is lighted, before the whistle is blown ? Then you can get a better first impression. And if Mrs. Falchion will come over to our home at Sunburst, we will try and amuse her for the rest of the day — that is, after she has seen all here.* Mrs. Falchion seemed struck by the frankness of the girl, and for an instant debated, but presently said : * No, thank you. When all is seen now, I will go to the hotel, and then will join you all here in the evening, if that seems feasible. Perhaps Dr. Marmion will escort me here. Mr. Roseoe, of course, has other duties.' * I shall be happy,* I said, maliciously smiling, 'to guide you to the sacrifice of the saw.* She was not disturbed. She touched Mr. Devlin's arm, and, looking archly at him, nodded Tin: PA III nl' rilK KA(;i II I ! i iili 286 MRS. FALCHION waters under the earth ; but when you get swing- ing there over the world, and not high enough to get a hold on heaven, it makes you feel as if things was droppin' away from you like. But, by gracious ! yc u did it like an eagle — you and your friend.' By this time he was introduced, and at the name of Mrs. Falchion, he cocked his head, and looked quizzically, as if trying to remember something, then drew his hand once or twice across his fore- head. After a moment he said : ' Strange, now, ma'am, how your ntime strikes me. It isn't a common name, and I've heerd it before some- where — somewhere. It isn't your face that I've seen before — for I'd have remembered it if it was a thousand years ago,' he added admiringly. ' But I've heard some one use it ; and I can't tell where.* She looked curiously at him, and said : * Don't try to remember, and it will come to you in good time. But show us everything about your place before we go back, won't you, please ? ' He showed them his hut, where he lived quite alone. It was supplied with bare necessaries, and with a counter, behind which were cups and a few bottles. In reference to this, Boldrick said : * Temperance drinks for the muleteers, tobacco and tea _.nd sugar and postage stamps and things. i swing- enough el as if But, by id your e name looked lething, is fore- e, now, isn't a some- lat I've ' it was 'But where.* ' Don't n good r place i quite es, and and a k said : :co and things. THE PATH OF THE EAGT-E 2.S7 They don't gargle their throats with anything stronger than coffee at this tavern.' Then he took them to the cave in which puma, bear, and wapiti skins were piled, together with a few stores and the kits of travellers who had left their belongings in Boldrick's keeping till they should come again. After Mrs. Falchion and Ruth had seen all, they came out upon the mountain- side and waved their handkerchiefs to us, who were still watching from below. Then Boldrick hoisted a flag on his hut, which he used on gala occasions, to celebrate the event, and, not content with this, fired Pi/e/i dejoie, manag-^d in this way: — He t(Jok two anvils used by the muleteers and expressmen •to shoe their animals, and placed one on the other, putting powder between. Then Mrs. Falchion thrust a red - hot iron into the powder, and an explosion ensued. I was for a moment uneasy, but Mr. Devlin reassured me, and instantly a shrill whistle from the little mills answered the salute. Just before they got into the cage, Mrs. Falchion turned to Boldrick, and said : 'You have not been trying to remember where you heard my name before ? Well, can you not recall it now ? ' Boldrick shook his head. * Perhaps you will recall it before I see you again,' she said. 288 MRS. FALCHION ' ■:' They started. As they did so, Mrs. Falcliion said suddenly, Loking at Boldrick keenly : 'Were you ever in the South Seas ? * Boldrick stood for an instant open-mouthed, and then exclaimed loudly as the cage swung down the incline : ' By Jingo ! No, ma'am, I was never there, but I had a pal who come from Samoa.' She called back at him, — ' Tell me of him when we meet again. What was his name ? * They were too far down the cable now for Boldrick's reply to reach them distinctly. The descent seemed even more adventurous than the ascent, and, in spite of myself, I could not help a thrill of keen excitement. But they were both smiling when the cage reached us, and both had a' very fine colour. *A deliglitful journey, a remarkable reception, and a very singular man is your Mr. Boldrick,' said Mrs. Falchion. * Yes,' replied Mr. Devlin, 'you'll know Boldrick a long time before you find his limits. He is about the most curious character I ever knew, and does the most curious things. But straight — straight as a die, Mrs. Falchion ! ' ' I fancy that Mr. Boldrick and I would be very good friends indeed,' said Mrs. Falchion ; 'and I purpose visiting him again. It is quite probable TIIK PATH OF THE EAGLE 589 that we shall find \vc have had mutual acquaint- ances.' She looked at Roscoe meanin;^ly as she said this, but he was occupied with Ruth. ' You were not afraid ? ' Roscoe said to Ruth. * Was it not a strange sensation ? * Frankly, at first I was a little afraid, because the cage swings on the cable, and it makes you uncomfoi table. But I enjoyed it before we got to the end.' Mrs. Falchion turned to Mr. Devlin. * I find plenty here to amuse me,' she said, 'and I am glad I came. To-ni;_:ht I want to go up that cable and call on Mr. l^oldrick again, and see the mills and the electric light, and hear your whistle, from up there. Then, of course, you must show us the mill working at night, and afterwards — may I ask it? — you must all come and have supper with me at the summer hotel.' Ruth dropped her eyes. I saw she did not wish to go. Fortunately Mr. Devlin extricated her. ' I'm afraid that will be impossible, Mrs. Falchion,* he said: 'much obliged to you all the same. But I am going to be at the mill pretty near all night, and shouldn't be able to go, and I don't want Ruth to go without me.' 'Then it must be another time, said Mrs, Falchion. 2yo MRS. I'AIX'lllON • ii 1 * Oh, whcticvcr it's convenient for Ruth, after a day or two, I'll be reuly and glad. Ikit I tell you what: if )ou want to sec something fine, you must go down as soon as possible to Sunburst. We live there, you know, not here at Viking. It's funny, too, because, you see, there's a feutl between Vikiuij and Sunburst — we arc all river-men and mill-hands at Viking, and they're all salmon-fishers and fruit-growers at Sunburst. By rights I ought to live here, but when I started I thought I'd build my mills at Sunburst, so I pitched my tent down there. My wife and the girls got attached to the place, and though the mills were built at Viking and I made all my money up here, I live at Sunburst and spend my shekels there. I guess if I didn't happen to live at Sunburst, people would be trailing their coats and making Donnybrook fairs every other day between these two towns. But that's neither here nor there. Take my advice, Mrs. Falchion, and come to Sunburst and see the salmon-fishers at work, both day and night. It is about the biggest thing in the way of natural picturesqueness that you'll see — outside my mills. Indians, half-breeds, white men, Chinamen, — they are all at it in weirs and cages, or in the nets, and spearing by torch-light ! — Don't you think I would do to run a circus, Mrs. Falchion? — Stand at the ! f 'nil-: PA'in ok riiic kahi k 2i)\ h, after a 1 tell you you must urst. Wc king. It's d between --men and non-fishcrs its I ou^ht It I'd build ■ tent down ched to the : at Viking^ , I live at I guess if iople would )onnybrook two towns. 2 my advice, and see the [light. It is of natural c my mills, imen,— they he nets, and ink I would tand at the -I ^ m door, and shniit, " Here's where you get the worth of your money " ? ' Mrs. Falchion laughed. ' I am sure you and I will be good friends ; you are amusing. And, to be perfectly frank with you, I am very weary of trying to live in the intellectual altitudes of Dr. Marmion — and The Padre.' I had never seen her in a greater strain of gaiety. It had almost a 'kind of feverishness — as if she relished fully the position she held toward Roscoc and Ruth, her power over their future, and her belief (as I think was in her mind then) that she could bring back to herself Roscoe's old allegiance. That she believed this, I was convinced ; that she would never carry it out, was just as strong : for I, though only the chorus in the drama, might one day find it in my power to become, for a moment, one of the principal actors, — from which position I had declined one day when humiliated before Mrs. Falchion on the Fulvia. Boyd Madras was in my mind. After a few minutes we parted, agreeing to meet again in the valley in the evening. I had promised, as Mrs. Falchion had sugi^^ested, to escort her and Justine Caron from the summer hotel to the mill. Roscoe had duties at both Viking and Sunburst and would not join us until we all met in the it i; Hi 1 1 4^: 1)1 V f!.^ I , T : if .'i * 292 MRS. FAT.CrilON evening. Mr. Devlin and Ruth rode away towards Sunburst. Mrs. Falchion, Justine, and myself tra- velled slowly up the hill-side, talking chiefly upon the events of thcrmorning. Mrs. Falchion appeared to admire greatly the stalwart character of Mr. Devlin ; in a few swift, complimentary words dis- posed of Ruth ; and then made many inquiries concerning Roscoe's work, my own position, and the length of my stay in the mountains ; and talked upon many trivial matters, never once referring — as it seemed to me, purposely — to our past ex- periences on the Fu/vt'a, nor making any inquiry concerning any one except Belle Trchernc. She showed no surprise when I told her that I expected to marry Miss Treherne. She con- gratulated me with apparent frankness, and asked for Miss Treherne's address, saying she would write to her. As soon as she had left Roscoe's presence she had dropped all enigmatical words and phrases, and, during this hour I was with her, was the tactful, accomplished woman of the world, with the one present object : to make her conversa- tion agreeable, and to keep things on the surface. Justine Caron scarcely spoke during the whole of our walk, although I addressed myself to her frequently. But I could see that she watched Mrs. Falchion's face curiously ; and I believe that at I THE PAIH OF Till': EAGLE 293 ly towards nysclf tra- licfly upon n appeared ter of Mr. words dis- y inquiries sition, and and talked referring — ir past ex- iny inquiry nc. d her that She con- and asked she would t Roscoe's tical words ,s with her, the world, ir conversa- the surface, le whole of ;elf to her Itched Mrs. ^ve that at this time her instinct was keener by far to read what was in Mrs. Falchion's mind than my own, though I knew much more of the hidden chain of events connecting Mrs. Falchion's life and Gait Roscoe's. I parted from them at the door of the hotel, made my way down to Roscoe's house at the ravine, and busied myself for the greater part of the day in writing letters, and reading on the coping. About sunset I called for Mrs. Falchion, and found her and Justine Caron ready and waiting. There was nothing eventful in our talk as we came down the mountain-side towards Viking — Justine Caron's presence prevented that. It was dusk when we reached the valley. As yet the mills were all dark. The only lights visible were in the low houses lining tlie banks of the river. Against the mountain-side there seemed to hang one bunch of flame like a star, large, red, and weird. It was a torch burning in front of Phil Boldrick's hut. We made our way slowly to the mill, and found Mr. Devlin, Ruth, and Roscoe, with Ruth's sister, and one or two other friends, expecting us. * Well,' said Mr. Devlin heartily, * I have kept the show waiting for you. The house is all dark, but I guess you'll see a transformation scene pretty quick. Come out,' he continued, ' and let us get the IN /I 294 MRS. FAinilON ■ front seats. They arc all stalls here; nobody has a box except Holdrick, and it is up in the flics.' 'Mr. Devlin,' said Mrs Falchion, ' I purpose to see this show not only from the stalls, but from the box in the flics. Therefore, during the first act, I shall be here in .front of the footlights. During the second act I shall be aloft like Tom Bowling ' ' In other words ' began Mr. Devlin. 'In other words,* added Mrs. Falchion, 'I am going to see the valley and hear your great horn blow, from up there!' She pointed towards the star in front of Phil's hut. 'AH right,' said Mr. Devlin ; 'but you will excuse me if I say that I don't particularly want anybody to see this performance from where Tom Bowling bides.* We left the office and went out upon the plat- form, a little distance from the mill. Mr. Devlin gave a signal, touched a wire, and immediately it seemed as if the whole valley was alight. The mill itself was in a blaze of white. It was trans- figured — a fairy palace, just as the mud barges in the Suez Canal had been transformed by the search-light of the Fulvia. For the moment, in the wonder of change from darkness to light, the valley became the picture of a dream. Every man TIIK I'A'I H OF rilK KM'A.K '■95 obody has c flics.' )urposc to but from J the first footh'f^hts. like Tom n. on, * I am jreat horn wards the /ill excuse t anybody n Bowling the plat- /[r. Devlin ediately it jht. The was trans- barges in d by the oment, in light, the ^very man I was at his post in the mill, and in an instant work- was going on as wc had seen it in tlie morning. Then, all at once, there came a great roar, as it were from the very heart of the mill, — a deep diapason, dug out of the throat of the hills: the big whistle. 'It sounds mournful — like a great animal in pain,* said Mrs. Falchion. 'You might have got one more cheerful.* •Wait till it gets tuned up,' said Mr. Devlin. ' It hasn't had a chance to get the burs out of it? throat. It will be very fine as soon as the engine- man knows how to manage it.' *Ycs,' said Ruth, interposing, *a little toning down would do it good — it is shaking the windows in your office ; feel this platform tremble ! ' 'Well, I bargained for a big whistle and I've got it : and I guess they'll know if ever there's a fire in the town 1 ' Just as he said this, Roscoe gave a cr)', and pointed. We all turned, and saw a sight that made Ruth Devlin cover her face with her hands and Mrs. Falchion stand horror-stricken. There, coming down the cable with the speed of lightning, was the cage. In it was a man — Phil Boldrick. With a cry and a smothered oath, Mr. Devlin sprang toward the machinery, Roscoe with him. There 296 MRS. FALCHION \\ i<;. III! was nobody near it, but tlicy saw a boy whose duty it was that niL,dit to niaii.iyc the cable, runniiij^ towards it. Roscoe was the first to reach the lever ; but it was too late. He partially stopped the cage, but onl}' partially. It came with a dull, sickening thud to the ground, and Phil Holdrick — Phil Boldrick's broken, battered body — was thrown out. A few minutes later, Bv)ldrick was lying in Mr. Devlin's office. Ill luck for Viking in the hour of her success. Phil's shattered hulk is chifting. The masts have gone by the board, the pilot from the captain's side. Only the man's 'unconquerable soul' is on the bridge, watching the craft dip at the bow, till the waters, their sport out, should hugely swallcnv it. We were all gathered round. Phil had asked to see the lad who, b)- neglecting the machinery for a moment, had wrecked his life. 'My boy,* he said, 'you played an ugly game. It was a big mistake. I haven't any grudge agen you, but be glad I'm not one that 'd haunt you for your cussed foolishness. . . . There, now, I feel better: that's off my mind ! ' ' If you're wanting to shov/ remorse or anything,' he continued, ' there's my friend Mr. Roscoe, The Padre — he's all right, you understand ! — Are you 'IIIK PATH OF INK IIAC.LR 297 osc duty running ;ach the stopped 1 a dull, )ldrick — s thrown ^r in Mr. success. sts have da's side. on the , till the low it. asked to nery for boy/ he s a big but be r cussed : that's ything/ oc, The Vrc you \i i « ^ 1 there? . . . Wily don't you s[icak?' He stretclicd out his hand. The l.id took it, but he could not speak : he held it and sobbed. Then Phil understood. His brow wrinkled with a sudden trouble. He said: * There, never mind. I'm v^lyini;, but it isn't what I expected. It ducsn'i smart nor tear much ; not more than rivcr-rhcu niatism. P'r'aps I wouldn't mind it at all if I could see." For Phil was entirely blind now. The accident had destro)ed his remaining eye. Heing blind, he had already passed that first corridor of death — darkness. Roscoe stooped over him, took his hand, and spoke quietly to him. Phil knew the voice, and said with a faint smile : ' Do you think they'd plant me with munirz/al honours ? — honours to pardncrs?' 'We'll see to that, Phil,' said Mr. Devlin from behind the clergyman. Phil recognised the voice. 'You think that nobody '11 kick at making it official ? ' ' Not one, Phil.' 'And maybe they wouldn't mind firin' a volley —LigJits out, as it were : and blow the big whistle? It'd look sociable, wouldn't it?' 'There'll be a volley and the whistle, Phil,— if you have to go,' said Mr. Devlin. 20 f^'! ! \ I , <'f M !' 298 MRS. FALCHION There was a silence, then the reply came musingly : * I guess I hev to go. ... I'd hev liked to see the corporation runnin' longer, but maybe I can trust the boys.' A river-driver at the door said in a deep voice : ' By the holy ! yes, you can trust us.' 'Thank you kindly. ... If it doesn't make any difference to the rest, I'd like to be alone with The Padre for a little — not for religion, you understand, — for I go as I stayed, and I hev my views, — but for private business.' Slowly, awkwardly, the few river-drivers passed out — Devlin and Mrs. Falchion and Ruth and I with them — for I could do nothing now for him — he was broken all to pieces. Roscoe told me afterwards what happened then. * Padre,' he said to Roscoe, 'are we alone?* 'Quite alone, Phil.' ' Well, I hevn't any crime to tell, and the busi- ness isn't weighty ; but I hev a pal at Danger Mountain ' He paused. 'Yes, Phil?' 'He's low down in s'cicty ; but he's square, and we've had the same blanket for many a day together. I crossed him first on the Panama level. I was broke — stoney broke. He'd been ship- wrecked, and was ditto. He'd been in the South .'V*'> THE PATH OF THK EACLE 299 y came lcv liked ; maybe p voice : lake any vith The ierstand, ws, — but s passed ;h and I for him told me le?' the busi- Danger lare, and a day 11 a level. en ship- le South Seas ; I in Nicaragua. We travelled up through Mexico and Arizona, and then through California to the Canadian Rockies. At last we camped at Danger Mountain, a Hudson's Bay fort, and stayed there. It was a roughish spot, but we didn't mind that. Every place isn't Viking. One night we had a difference — not a quarrel, mind you, but a difference. He was for lynchin' a fellow called Piccadilly, a swell that'd come down in tlie world, bringin' the worst tricks of his tribe with him. He'd never been a bony fidy gentleman — just an imitation. He played sneak with the daughter of Five Fingers, an Injin chief. We'd set store by that girl. There wasn't one of us rough nuts but respected her. She was one of the few beautiful Injin women I've seen. Well, it come out that Piccadilly had ruined her, and one morning she was found dead. It drove my pal well-nigh crazy. Not that she was anything partik'ler to him ; but the thing took hold of him unusual* Now that I know all concerning Roscoe's past life, I can imagii.e that this recital must have been swords at his heart. The whole occurrence is put down minutely in his diary, but there is no word of comment upon it. Phil had been obliged to stop for i>'ain, and, 300 MRS. FALCHION after Roscoe had adjusted the bandages, he continued : ' My pal and the others made up their minds they'd lynch Piccadilly ; they wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt — for it wasn't certain that the girl hadn't killed herself. . . . Well, I went to Piccadilly, and give him the benefit. He left, and skipped the rope. Not, p'r'aps, that he ought to hev got away, but once he'd showed me a letter from his mother, — he was drunk too at the time, — and I remembered when my brother Rodney was killed in the lilack Hills, and how my mother took it ; so I give him the tip to travel quick.' He paused and rested. Then presently con- tinued : * Now, Padre, I've got four hundred dollars, — the most I ever had at one time in my life. And I'd like it to go to my old pal — though we had that difference, and parted. I guess we respect each other about the same as we ever did. And I wish you'd write it down so that the thing would be munit7/al.' Roscoe took pencil and paper and said ; ' What's his name, Phil ? ' 'Sam — Tonga Sam.' ■ But that isn't all his name ? ' No, I s'pose not, but it's all he ever had in es, he minds /e him in that vent to [e left, I ought I letter time, — ey was er took y con- liars, — . And f^e had respect . And I would What's THE PATH OF THE EAC.LE 301 had in M general use. ITe'd got it because he'd been to the Tonga Islands and used to yarn about them. Put "Tonga Sam, Phil Boklrick's Pal at Dan<:cr Mountain, ult," — add the "ult," it's c'rrect. — That'll find him. And write him these words, and -if you ever see him say them to him— " Phil Bol- drick never had a pal that crowded ToDga Sam." When the document was written, Roscoc read it aloud, then both signed it, Roscoe guiding the battered hmd over the paper. This done, there was a moment's pause, and then Phil said : ' Pd like to be in the open. I was born in the open— on the Saskatchewan. Take me out, Padre.' Roscoe stepped to the door, and silently beckoned to Devlin and myself. We carried him out, and put him beside a pine tree. * Where am I now ? ' he said. * Under the white pine, Phil.' * That's right. Face me to the north.' We did so. Minutes passed in silence. Only the song of the saw was heard, and the welting of the river. ' Padre,' he said at last hurriedly, * lift me up, so's I can breathe.' This was done. ' Am I facin' the big mill ? r ' I 302 MRS. FALCHION ' Yes. 'That's c'rrect. And the 'Icctric light is burnin' in the mill and in the town, an* the saws are all goin' ? ' 'Yes.' ' By gracious, yes — you can hear 'em ! Don't they scrunch the stuff, though ! ' He laughed a little. * Mr. Devlin an' you and me hev been pretty smart, hevn't we ?* Then a spasm caught him, and after a painful pause he called : * It's the biggest thing in cables. — Stand close in the cage. . . . Feel her swing — • Safe, you bet, if he stands by the lever! . . .* His face lighted with the last gleam of living, and he said slowly: *I hev a pal — at Danger Mountain.* L 1 . 4 ^B CHAPTER XV. IN THE TROUGH OF THE WINDS. ^ I ^HE three days following the events re; jrded A in the preceding chapter were notable to us all. Because my own affairs and experiences are of the least account, I shall record them first : thev will at least throw a little light on the history of people who appeared previously in this tale, and disappeared suddenly when the Fulvia reached London, to make room for others. The day after Phil J^oldrick's death I received a letter from Hungerford, and also one from Belle Treherne. Hungerford had left the Occidental Company's service, and had been fortunate enou-h to get the position of first officer on a line of steamers running between England and the West Indies. The letter was brusque, incisive, and forceful, and declared that, once he got his foot firmly planted in his new position, he would get married and be done with it. He said that Clovelly 303 Ill w\ ^y murder, or a drop from a precipice, or a lingering fever ; but Clovelly did the thing with delicate torture, lie said, 'Go to blnzes,' and he fixed up that marriage — and there you are ! Clovelly, I drink to you ; you are a master I " 'Clovelly acknowledged beautifidly, and brought off a fine thing about the bookmaker having pocketed ^^5000 at ihe Derby, then complimented Colonel Ryder on his success as a lecturer in London (pretty true, by the way), and congratulated Blackburn on his coming marriage with Mrs. Callendar, the Tasmanian widow. What he said of myself I am not going to repeat ; but it was salaaming all round, wilh the lic^uor good, and fun bang over the bulwarks. * How is Roscoe ? I didn't see as much of him as you did, but I liked him. Take my tip for it, that 7voiitan will make trouble for him some day. She is the bigi;est puzzle I ever met. I never could tell whether she liked him or haled him ; but it seems to me that either would be the ruin of any "Chiistom man." I know she saw something of him while slie was in London, because her quarters were next to those of my aunt the dowager (whose heart the gods soften at my wedding !) in (^ueen Anne's Mansions, S.W. , anil who actually liked Mrs. ¥., called on her, and asked her to dinner, and Koscoe too, whom she met at /ler place. I believe my aunt would have used her influence to get him a good living, if he had playeil his cards properly ; but 1 expect he wouldn't be patron- ised, and he \\ent for a " mickonaree," as they say in the South Seas. . . . Well, I'm off to the Spicy Isles, then back again to marry a wife ! " Go tliou and do likewise." ' By the way, have you ever beard of or seen Boyd Madras since he slipped our cable at Aden and gave the world another chance? I trust he will spoil her wedding — if she ever tries to have one. May I be there to see ! ' Because we sliall sec nothing more of Hunger- ford till we finally dismiss the drama, I should •I I J II i !l I M i \ '; 306 MRS. FALCHION like to say that this voyage of his to the West Indies made his fortune — that is, it gave him command of one of the finest ships in the Enghsh merchant service. In a storm a disaster occurred to his vessel, his captain was washed overboard, and he was obliged to take command. His skill, fortitude, and great manliness, under tragical circumstances, sent his name booming round the world ; and, coupled, as it "Was, with a singular act of personal valour, he had his pick of all vacancies and possible vacancies in the merchant service, boy (or little more) as he was. I am glad to say that he is now a happy husband and father too. The letter from Belle Treherne mentioned having met Clovelly several times of late, and, with Hungerford's words hot in my mind, I determined, though I had perfect confidence in her, as in myself, to be married at Christmas-time. Her account of the courtship of Blackburn and Mrs. Callendar was as amusing as her description of an evening which the bookmaker had spent with her father, when he said he was going to marry an actress whom he had seen at Druiy Lane Theatre in a racing drama. This he subsequently did, and she ran him a breakneck race for many a day, but never making him unhappy or less re- the West gave him lie English r occurred overboard, Mis skill, ;r tragical round the a singular pick of all 2 merchant I am glad sband and mentioned late, and, y mind, I fidence in tmas-time. . .bstracted ion, very let' say, but suspected - )n. I, of : story of Justine's 1 Roscoe. / f '■?'' itered the i ruit of no i engaging quality. In her own home however, it was a picture to see her with her younger sisters and brothers, and invalid mother. She went about very brightly and sweetly among them, speaking to them as if she was mother to them all, angel of them all, domestic court for them all ; as indeed she was. Here there seemed no disturbing clement in her ; a close observer might even have said (and in this case I fancy I was that) that she had no mind or heart for anything or anybody but these few of her blood and race. Hers was a fine nature — high, wholesome, unselfish. Yet it struck me sadly also, to see how the child-like in her, and her young spirit, had been so early set to the task of defence and protection ; a mother at whose breasts a child had never hung ; maternal, but without the relieving joys of maternity. I knew that she would carry through her life that too watchful, too anxious tenderness ; that to her last day she would look back and not remem- ber that she had a childhood once ; because while yet a child she had been made into a woman. Such of the daughters of men make life beauti- ful ; but themselves are selfish who do not see the almost intolerable pathos of unselfishness and sacrifice. At the moment I was bitter with the thought that, if Mrs. Falchion determined anything 81 i1 'I I i 11 !' i .|l' II ( 'm i' * I: 314 MRS. FALCHION which could steal away this girl's happiness from her, even for a time, I should myself seek for some keen revenge — which was, as may appear, in my power. But I could not go to Mrs. Falchion now and say, — 'You intend some harm to these two: for God's sake go away and don't trouble them ! ' I had no real ground for making such a request. Besides, if there was any catastrophe, any trouble, coming, or possible, that might hasten it, or, at least, give it point. I could only wait. I had laid another plan, and from a telegram I had received in answer to one I had sent, I believed it was working. I did not despair. I had, indeed, sent a cable to my agent in England, which was to be forwarded to the address given me by Boyd Madras at Aden. I had got a reply saying that Boyd Madras had sailed for Canada by the Allan Litie of steamers. I had then telegraphed to a lawyer I knew in Montreal, and he had replied that he was on the track of the wanderer. All Viking and Sunburst turned out to Phil Boldrick's funeral. Everything was done that he had requested. The great whistle roared painfully, revolvers and guns were fired over his grave, and the new - formed corporation appeared. He was buried on the top of a foot-hill, which, to this IN THE TROUGH OF THE WINDS 315 less from for some ir, in my hion now lese two : e them ! ' L request. )' trouble, it, or, at plan, and • to one I did not my agent d to the A.den. I dras had steamers. knew in s on the to Phil that he Dai n fully, rave, and He was I, to this J day, is known as Bold rick's Own. The grave was covered by an immense flat stone bearing his name. But a flagstaff was erected near, — no stouter one stands on Beachy Mead or elsewhere, — and on it was engraved — PHIL BOLDRICK, IJur.ed with Municipal Honours on the Thirtieth day of June 1883. This to his Memory, and for the honour ot Viking and Sunburst. * Padre,' said a river-driver to Gait Roscoc after the rites were finished, 'that was a man you could trust' 'Padre,' added another, 'that was a man you could bank on, and draw your interest reg'lar. He never done a mean thing, and he never pal-ed with a mean man. He wasn't for getting his teeth on edge like some in the valley. He didn't always side with the majority, and he had a gift of doin' things on the square.' Others spoke in similar fashion, and inen Viking went back to work, and we to our mountain cottage. Many days passed quietly. I saw that Gait Roscoe wished to speak to me on the subject perplexing him, but I did not help him. I knew that it would com.e in good time, and the farther off it was the better. I dreaded to hear what he t n 316 MRS. FALCHION had to tell, lest, in spite of iny confulcncc in him, it shoulcl reall}' he a thini^ which, if made public, must bring ruin. During the evenings of these days he wrote much in his diary — the very book that lies b)' me now. Writing seemed a relief to him, for he was more cheerful afterwards. I kncjw that he liad received letters from the summer hotel, but whether they were from Mrs. Falchion or Justine Caron I was not then aware, though I afterwards came to know that one of them was from Justine, askii.g him if she might call on him. He guessed that the request was connected with Hector Caron's death ; and, of course, gave his consent. During this time he did not visit Ruth Devlin, nor did he mention her name. As for myself, I was sick of the whole business, and wished it well over, whatever the result. I make here a few extracts from Roscoe's diary, to show the state of his mind at this period : — ' Can a man never get away from the consequences of his wicked- ness, even though he repents? , . . Restitution is necessary as well as repentance. — But wlien one cannot make restitution, when it is impossible ! — What tlien ? I suppose one has to reply. Well, you have to suflei, that is all. . . . Toor Alo ! To think that after all these years, you can strike me ! * There is something malicious in the way Mercy Falchion crosses my path. What she knows, she knows ;— and what she can do if she olicK'Ses, I must endure. — I cannot love Mercy Falchion again, and that, I suppose, is the Ir st thing she would wish now. I cannot biiiig Alo back. But how does that concern /wr} Why does she IN riiK I R()U(;ii ov riii<: winds ^t; :c in him, lie public, of these very book a relief to I know ] summer Falchion , though I them was ill on him. xtcd with gave his visit Ruth As for nd wished oe's diary, od : — f his wicked- ncccssary as tulion, when reply, Well, ink that after chion crosses le can do if chion again, kv. I cannot 'hy does she hate mc so? For, undirnrath hrr kindest word^, — and they arc kind somefitncs, — I can detect the note of enmity, of calculatinf; scorn. ... I wish I could go to Kiitli and tell liei all, and ask her to decide if she can take a man with such a past. . . . What a tliiii}^ it is to have had a clean record of unflinching manliness at one's back ! ' I add another extract : — * I'hil's story of Dani^er Mountain struck like ice at my heart. Tiiere was a liorril>Ie irony in the ti in^ : that it shoulil l)e told to me, of all the world, and at such a time ! Some woidd say, I sup- j)osc, that it was the arianj^ement of I'rovidcuce. Not to speak it profanely, it seems to be the achievement of the devil. The torture was too malicious for (iod, . . . ' Phil's letter has gone to his pal at Danger Mountain. . . .' 7'iie fourth day after the funeral Justine Caron came to see Gait Roscoc. This was the substance of their conversation, as I came to know long afterwards. * Monsieur,' she said, ' I have come to pay some- thing of a debt which I owe to you. It is a long time since you gave my poor Hector burial, but I have never forgotten, and I have brought you at last — you must not shake your head so— the money you spent. . . But you ;////.s7 take it. I should be miserable if you did not. The money is all that I can repay ; the kindness is for memory zmd gratitude alwajs.' He looked at her woiideringly, earnestly, she seemed so unworldly, standing there, her life's ambition not stirring beyond duty to her dead. If m -111 '1'^ \: I r I*! ■1/ ! - 11. 1 318 MRS. FALCHION goodness makes beauty, she was beautiful ; and yet, besides all that, she had a warm, absorbing eye, a soft, rounded clieek, and she carried in her face the light of a cheerful, engaging spirit. *Will it make you happier if I take the money?' he said at 'last, and his voice showed how she had moved him. * So much happier ! * she answered, and she put a roll of notes into his hand. *Then I will take it,' he replied, with a manner not too serious, and he looked at the notes care- fully ; * but only what I actually spent, remember ; what I told you when you wrote me at Hector's death ; not this ample interest. You forget, Miss Caron, that your brother was my friend.' * No, I cannot forget that. It lives with me,' she rejoined softly. But she took back the surplus notes. *And I have my gratitude left still,' she added, smiling. 'Believe me there is no occasion for gratitude. Why, what less could one do ? ' * One could pass by on the other side.* * He was not fallen among thieves,' was his reply ; * he was among Englishmen, the old allies of the French. * But the Priests and the Levites, people of his own country — Frenchmen — passed him by. They iful ; and absorbing ed in her it : money?* w she had d she put a manner lotes care- •emember ; ,t Hector's prget, Miss th me/ she le surplus still,' she gratitude. was his old allies ) pie of his by. They IN THE TROUGH OF I'lIK WINDS 319 were infamous in falsehood, cruel to him and to me. — You are an Englishman ; you have heart and kindness.' He hesitated, then he gravely said : 'Do not trust Englishmen more than you trust your own country- men. We are selfish even in our friendships often. We stick to one person, and to benefit that one we sacrifice others. Have you found all Englishmen — and ivomeii unselfish?' He looked at her steadily ; but immediately repented that he had asked the question, for he had in his mind one whom they both knew, too well, perhaps ; and he added quickly, — * You see, I am not kind.' They were standing now in the sunlight just outside the house. His hands were thrust down in the pockets of his linen coat; her hands opening and shutting her parasol slightly. They might, from their appearance, have been talking of very inconsequent things. Her eyes lifted sorrowfully to his. * Ah, monsieur,* she rejoined, * there are two times when one must fear a woman.' She answered his question more directly than he could have conjectured. But she felt that she must warn him. * I do not understand,* he said. *0f course you do not. Only women themselves ' ■ hh s ■ n i 320 MRS. FALCHION IM e iindcrstaiul that the tvv ^ times when one must fear a woman arc when she hates, and when she loves — after a kind. When she gets wicked or mad enough to hate, either through jealousy or because she cannot love where she would, she is merci- less. She does not know the honour of the game. She has no pity. Then, sometimes when she loves in a way, she is, as you say, most selfish. I mean a love which is — not possible. Then she does some mad act — all women are a little mad some- times ; — most of us wish to be good, but we are quicksilver. . . .' Roscoe's mind had been working fast. He saw she meant to warn him against Mrs. Falchion. His face flushed slif,ditly. He knew that Justine had thought well of him, and now he knew also that she suspected something not creditable or, at least, hazardous in h's life * And the man — the man whom the woman hates?' 'When the woman hates — and loves too, the man is in danger.' ' Do you know of such a man ? ' he almost shrinkingly said. ' If I did I would say to him. The world is wide. There is no glory in fighting a woman who will not be fair in battle. She will say what may fi must fear she loves I or mad 3r because is merci- the game. 1 she loves 1. I mean 1 she does nad some- Dut we are He saw hion. His ustine had also that [or, at least, Ihe woman s too, the he almost » Irld is wide, who will I what may IN THE TRoiJciii oi" rni: winds 3.M appear to be true, but what she knows in her own heart to be false — false and bad.' Roscoe now saw that Justine had more than an inkling of his story. He said calmly: 'You would advise that man to flee from danger?* ' Yes, to flee,' she replied hurriedly, with a strange anxiety in her eyes; 'for sometimes a woman is not satisfied with words that kill. She becomes less than human, and is like Jael.' Justine knew that Mrs. Falchion held a sword over Roscoe's career ; she guessed that Mrs. Falchion both cared for him and hated him too ; but she did not know the true reason of the hatred, — that only came out afterwards. Woman-like, she exaggerated in order that she might move him ; but her motive was good, and what she said was not out of keeping with the facts of life. 'The man's life even might be in danger?' he asked. ' It niighv\' ' But surely that is not so dreadful,' he still said calmly. * Death is not the worst of evils.' * No, not the worst ; one has to think of the evil word as well. The evil word can be outlived ; but the man must think of those wno really love him, — who would die to save him, — and whose hearts I : I 322 MRS. FALCHION I i : would break if he were killed. Love can outlive slander, but it is bitter when it has to outlive both slander and death. It is easy to love with joy so long^ as both live, though there are worlds between. Thoughts fly and meet ; but Death makes the great division. . . . Love can only live in the pleasant world. Very abstractedly he said : * Is it a pleasant world to you ? ' She did not reply directly to that, but answered : 'Monsieur, if you know of such a man as I speak of, warn him to fly.' And she raised her eyes from the ground and looked earnestly at him. Now her face was slightly flushed, she looked almost beautiful. ' I know of such a man,* he replied, 'but he will not go. He has to answer to his own soul and his conscience. He is not without fear, but it is only fear for those who care for him, be they ever so few. And he hopes that they will be brave enough to face his misery, if it must come. For we know that courage has its hour of comfort. . . . When such a man as you speak of has his dark hour he will stand firm.' Then with a great impulse he added: 'This man whom I know did wrong, but he was falsely accused of doing a still greater. The consequence I outlive live both h joy so between, the great pleasant pleasant inswered : IS I speak her eyes im. Now cd almost ut he will ul and his it is only ver so few. enough to we know . . When k hour he ed: 'This ivas falsely nsequence IN THE TROUGH OF THE WINDS 32^^ of the first thing followed him. He could never make restitution. Years went by. Some one knew that dark spot in his life — his Nemesis.' *Thc worst Nemesis in this life, monsieur, is always a woman,' she interrupted. ' Perhaps she is the surest,' he continued. 'The woman faced him in the hour of his peace and * he paused. His voice was husky. * Yes, "and," monsieur? ' *And he knows that she would ruin him, and kill his heart and destroy his life.' * The waters of Marah are bitter,' she murmured, and she turned her face away from him to the woods. There was no trouble there. The birds were singing, black squirrels were jumping from bough to bough, and they could hear the tapping of the vvood{)ecker. She slowly drew on her gloves, as if for occupation. He spoke at length as though thinking aloud: ' But he knows that, whatever comes, life has had for him more compensations than he deserves. For, in his trouble, a woman came, and said kind words, and would have helped him if she could.' * There were two women,' she said solemnly. ' Two women ? ' he repeated slowly. * The one stayed in her home and prayed, and the other came.* ^i li m m m III f 1 ; I ' ) 1' ■■ii^ti _ 324 MRS. I AI.CIIION ' ! tlo not undc'isl. 111(1,' \\c. s.iid : .itid he spoke tiiil)'. ' Lovo is ahv.iys pi;i\iii^ lor its own, therefore one woman piayetl at lioine. The other woman who eamc was full of ^natitude, for the man was noble, she owed him a ^reat debt, and slie !)elieved in him always. She knew that if at any time in his life he liad done wronj^, the sin was without malice or evil.* 'The woman is gentle and pitiful with him, God knows.' She spoke quietly now, and her gravity looked strange in one so young. 'God knows she is just, and woukl sec him justly treatetl. She is so far beneath him ! and yet one can serve a friend though one is humble and poor.' ' How strange,' he rejoined, 'that the man should think himscit miserable who is befriended in such a way! . . . Justine Caron, he will carry to his grave the kindness of this woman.' * Monsieur,' she added humbly, yet with a brave h'ght in her eyes, * it is good to care whether the wind blow^s bitter or kind. Every true woman is a mother, though she have no child. She longs to protect the suffering, because to protect is in her so far as God is. . . . Well, this woman cares that way. . .' She held out her hand to say good-bye. I ii i lie sj)(>ki: therefore r woman man was believed Y time ill without lim, God ^ looked im justly yet one id poor.' n should I in such r to his IN rilK IkOL'CIf ()!• I III., \\I\F)S 325 Ilcr look was simple, direct, and kind. Their partin^( words were few and unremarkable. Koscoe watched Justine Caron as she passed out into the shade of the wootis, and he said to himself, — 'Gratitude like that is a wonderful thin^;.' He should have said something,' else, but he did not know, and she did not wish him to know: and he never knew. a brave :ther the /Oman is longs to is in her ares that ood-bye. ./i ) [INi '^l It « ' 5 ? it* 1. I , III i ii I Jrl fi CHAPTER XVI. A DUEL IN ARCAbY. THE morj I thought of Mrs. Falchion's attitude towards Roscoe, the more I was puzzled. But I had at last reduced the position to this : — Years ago Roscoe had Ccired for her and she had not cared for him. Angered or indignant at her treatment of him, Roscoe's axTcctions declined unworthily elsewhere. Then came a catastrophe of some kind, in which Alo (whoever she might be) suffered. The secret of this catastrophe Mrs. Falchion, as I believe, held. There was a parting, a lapse of years, and then the meeting on the Fitlvia: with it, partial restoration of Mrs. Falchion's influence, then its decline, and then a complete change of position. It was now Mrs. Falchion that cared, and Roscoe that shunned. It perplexed me that there seemed to be behind Mrs. Falchion's present regard for Roscoe, some weird expression of vengeance, as though somehow she had been 320 attitude puzzled. this : — and she gnant at declined trophe of light be) )he Mrs. L parting, g on the •"alchion's complete Falchion Derplexed ^alchion's xpression had been A DUEL IN ARCADY 327 . FALCHION ! t.i ' I I ■ \ I ! I J |. you, — so well tiiat some day )ou will feel that I have been a gooJ friend to you as well as to him ' Again she iiitciruptcd me. * You talk in foolish riddles. No good can come of this.' * I can not believe that,' I urged ; ' for when once your heart is moved by the love of a man, you will be just, and then the memory of another man who loved you and sinned for you ' * Oh, you coward!* she broke out scornfully: * you coward to persist in this 1 ' I made a little motion of apology with my hand, and was silent. I was satisfied. I felt that I had touched her as no words of mine had ever touched her before. If she became emotional, was vulner- able in her feelings, I knew that Roscoe's peace might be assured. That she loved Roscoe now I was quite certain. Through the mists I could see a way, even if I failed to find Madras and arrange another surprising situation. She was breathing hard with excitement. Presently she said with incredible quietness : ' Do not force me to do hard things. I have a secret' * I have a secret too,' I answered. * Let us com- promise.' * I do not fear your secret,* she answered. She thought I was referring to her husband's death. A DUKL IN ARCADY 339 :1 that I :11 as to in foolish rhcn once , you will man who :orn fully : my hand, lat I had r touched as vulner- )e's peace coe now I could see d arrange breathing less : * Do 1 secret' it us com- :red. She death. 'Well,' I replied, 'I honestly hope you never will. That would be a good day for you.* ' Let us go,* she said ; then, presently : * No, let us sit here and forget that we have been talking.* I was satisfied. We sat down. She watched the scene silently, and I watched her. I felt that it would be my lot to see stranger things happen to her than I had seen before; but all in a different fashion. I had more hope for my friend, for Ruth Devlin, for ! I then became silent even to myself. The weltering river, the fishers and their Inbour and their songs, the tall dark hills, the deep gloomy pastures, the flaring lights, were thc.i in a aieam before me ; but I was thinking, planning. As we sat there, we heard noises, not very harmonious, interrupting the song of the salmon- fishers. We got up to see. A score of river-drivers were marching down through the village, mocking the fishers and making wild mirth. The Indians took little notice, but the half-breeds and white fishers were restless. ' There will be trouble here one day,* said Mrs. Falchion. A free fight which will clear the air,* I said. I should like to see it — it would be picturesque 340 MRS. FALCHION I i ■ : M.|f at least,' she added cheerfully ; 'for I suppose no lives v/ould be lost.* 'One cannot tell,' I answered; 'lives do not count so much in new lands.' 'Killing is hateful, but I like to see courage.' And she did see it. i'l'' I'! I !' n 5 I' 11 M 1 I (IIP • ^ t' n i i (l( i Ifl ppose no do not age.' CHAPTER XVII. RIDING THE REEFS. ' I ^HE next afternoon Roscoe was sitting on the -t. coping deep in thought, when Ruth rode up with her father, dismounted, and came upon him so quietly that he did not hear her. I was standing in the trees a Httle distance away. She spoke to him once, but he did not seem to hear. She touched his arm. He got to his feet. 'You were so engaged that you did not hear me,' she said. * The noise of the rapids ! * he answered after a strange pause, * and your footstep is very Hght' She leaned her chin on her hand, rested against the rail of the coping, looked meditatively into the torrent below, and replied : * Is it so light r ' Then, after a pause, * You have not asked me how I came, who came with me, or why 1 am here.* 'It was first necessary for me to conceive the 341 m Ipi' l/| 342 MRS. FALCHION > •. ig !1 ■ • II I li Ui delightful fact that you are here,' ac sam in a dazed, and, therefore, not convincing tone. She looked him full in the eyes. * Please do not pay me the ill compliment of a compliment,' she said. ' Was it the sailor who spoke then or the — or yourself? It is not like you.' ' I did not mean it as a compliment,' he replied. * I was thinking about critical and important things.' '"Critical and important" sounds large,' she returned. *And the awakening was sudden,' he continued. ' You must make allowance, please, for * * For the brusque appearance of a very unimagin- ative, substantial, and undreamlike person ? I do. And now, since you will not put me quite at my ease by assuming, in words, that I have been properly " chaperoned " here, I must inform you that my father waits hard by — is, as my riotous young brother says, "without on the mat."' * I am very glad,' he replied with more politeness than exactness. * That I was duly escorted, or that my lather is "without on the mat"? . . . However, you do not appear glad one way or the other. And now I must explain our business. It is to ask your company at dinner (do consider yourself honoured RIDING THE REEl S 343 id in a do not nt,' she r the — replied, iportant je,' she ntinued. > imagin- ? I do. I at my ,'e been rm you riotous jliteness [ather is \ do not I now I ik your onourcd I i — actually a formal dinner party in the Rockies!) to meet the lieutenant-governor, who is coming to see our famous Viking and Sunburst. . . . But you are expected to go out where my father feeds his — there, see, — his horse on your "trim parterre." And now that I have done my duty as pnge and messenger without a word of assistance, Mr. Roscoc, will you go and encourage my father to hope that you will be vis-a-vis to his excellency ? ' She lightly beat the air with her whip, while I took a good look at the charming scene. Roscoe looked seriously at the girl for an instant. He understood too well the source of such gay social banter. He knew it cove'-'^'l a hurt. He said to her : ' Is this Ruth Devlin or mother?' And she replied very gravely : * it is Ruth Devlin and another too,' and she looked down to the chasm beneath with a peculiar smile ; and her eyes were troubled. He left her, and went and spoke to her father whom I had joined, but, after a moment, returned to Ruth. Ruth turned slightly to meet him as he came. *And is the prestige of the house of Devlin to be supported?' she said; 'and the governor to be entertained with tales of flood and field ? ' His face had now settled into a peculiar Is 1 V i 344 MRS. FALCHION ''. r:' ■ I 3 I. i'i' I ,i 1 ■ .\4 ■ '. ■ i t i i ] V I' li: (! calmness. He said with a touch of mock irony: 'The sailor shall play his part — the obedient retainer of the house of Devlin.' *0h/ she said, 'you are malicious now! You turn your long accomplished satire on a woman.' And she nodded to the hills opposite, as if to tell them that it was as they had said to her : those grand old hills with which she had lived since childhood, to whom she had told all that had ever happened to her. * No, indeed no,' he replied, ' though 1 am properly rebuked. I fear I am malicious, — ^just a little, but it is all inner-self-malice : " Rome turned upon itself"' * But one cannot always tell when irony is intended for the speaker of it. Yours did not seem applied to yourself,' was her slow answer, and she seemed more interested in Mount Trinity than in him. *No?' Then he said with a playful sadness : *A moment ago you were not completely innocent of irony, were you ? ' * But a man is big and broad, and should not — he should be magnanimous, leaving it to woman, whose life is spent among little things, to be guilty of littlenesses. But see how daring I am — speaking like this to you who know so much more than I RIDING THK REEFS 345 irony : bedient ! You iroman.' to tell : those i since ad ever 1 am —just a turned ony is id not answer, Trinity ss: *A cent of not — i^oman, guilty caking than I i- ' ' do. . . . Surely, you are still only humorous, when you speak of irony turned upon yourself — the irony so icy to your friends?' She had developed greatly. Her mind had been sharpened by pain. The edge of her wit had become poignant, her speech rendered 1 gical and allusive. Roscoe was wise enough to understand that the change in her had been achieved by the change in himself; that since Mrs. Falchion came, Ruth had awakened sharply to a distress not exactly definable. She felt that though he had never spoken of love to her, she had a right to share his troubles. The infrequency of his visits to her of late, and something in his manner, made her uneasy and a little bitter. For there was an understanding between them, though it had been unspoken and unwritten. They had vowed without priest or witness. The heart speaks eloquently in symbols first, and afterwards in stumbling words. It seemed to Roscoe at this moment, as it had seemed for some time, that the words would never be spoken. And was this all that had troubled her — the belief that Mrs. Falchion had some claim upon his life? Or had she knowledge, got in some strange way, of that wretched shadow in his past? This possibility filled him with bitterness. The 346 MRS. FALCHION ■U m ii ), Ni?» ^n 1 p >.- 1. old Adam in him awoke, and he said within him- self, — ' God in heaven, must one folly, one sin, kill me and her too? Why me more than another! . . . And I love her, I love her ! ' His eyes flamed until their blue looked all black, and his brows grew straight over them sharply, making his face almost stern. . . . There came swift visions of renouncing his present life ; of going with her — anywhere : to tell her all, beg her forgiveness, and begin life over again, admitting that this attempt at expiation was a mistake ; to have his conscience clear of secret, and trust her kindness. For now he was sure that Mrs. Falchion meant to make his position as a clergyman impos- sible ; to revenge herself on him for no wrong that, as far as he knew, he ever did directly to her. But to tell this girl, or even her father or mother, i/iai he had been married, after a shameful, un- sanctified fashion, to a savage, with what came after, and the awful thing thai happened — he who ministered at the altar ! Now that he looked the thing in the face it shocked him. No, he could not do it. She said to him, while he looked at her as though he would read her through and through, though his mind was occupied with a dreadful possibility beyond her, — ' Why do you look so ? You are in him- sin, kill mother ! 11 black, sharply, e came life ; of beg her Imitting ake ; to rust her "alchion I impos- ng that, er. mother, ne after, le who I" 'i ' 'I ' if ( ; 1 • I ! I h ! 11 i: :i ili' •i:: * ir past week, that his hair had become almo . white about the temples ; nnd the moveies?- sadness of his position struck her with unnatur,'^ force, so that, in spite of herself, le.rs came siid^i ii'y to her eyes and a slight moan broke /; rv« ■•: r. She would have run away ; but it was too late. He saw the tears, the look of pity, indignation, pride, and love in her face. * My love ! ' he cried passionately. He opened his arms to her. But she stood still. He came very close to her, spoke quickly, and almost despairingly : ' Ruth, I love you, ai ' I have wronged you ; but here is your place, if you will come.' At first she seemed stunned, and her face was turned to her mountains, as though the echo of his words were coming back to her from them, but the thing crept into her heart and flooded it. She seemed to wake, and then all her affection carried her into his arms, and she dried her eyes upon his breast. After a time he whispered : ' My dear, I have wronged you. I should not have made you care for me.' She did not seem to notice that he spoke of wrong. She said : * 1 was yours, Gait, even from RIDING THE REEFS 349 almo noveies:^^ n nature.'' •s caine n broke It it was ignation, opened e to her, 'Ruth, I here is ace was lo of his but the It. She carried ipon his I have ^ou care poke of en from the b.fi^inning, I think, thou-^h I did not \itc know *t I remember what you read in c 'ircli the tirst Sunday you came, and it has always helped me ; for I wanted to he good.* She paused and raised her eyes to his, and then with sweet solemnity she said : ' The words were : — * " The Lord God is my s. ei. '//, and He will make mv feet like kinds' feet, >d .<-: will make vie Jo walk iipon mi)ie high pL. us' ' ' Ruth,' he answered 'you have always walked on the high places. You have never failed. And you are as safe as the nest of the eagle, a noble work of God.' * No, I am not noble ; but I should like to be so. Most women like goodness. It is instinct with us, I suppose. We had rather be good than evil, and when we love we can do good things ; but we quiver like the compass-needle between two poles. Oh, believe me ! we are weak ; but we are loving.' 'Your worst, Ruth, is as much higher than my best as the heaven is ' ' Gait, you hurt my fingers ! ' she interrupted. He had not noticed the almost fierce strength of his clasp. But his life was desperately hungry for her. .^50 MRS. IWLCIiloN -1' 1 i ] f , < .Iff :'f : ' Forgive mc, dear. — As I said, better than my best ; for, Ruth, my life was — wicked, long ago. You canni)t understand how wicked ! ' * You are a clergyman and a good man,' she said, with pathetic negation. * You give me a heart unsoiled, unspotted of the world. I have been in some ways worse than the worst men in the valley there below.* * Gait, Gait/ she said, ' you shock mc ! * 'Why did I speak? Why did I kiss )'Our hand as I did ? Because at the moment it was the only honest thing to do ; because it was due you that I should say, — " Ruth, I love you, love you so much " ' — here she nestled close to him — *"so well, that everything else in life is as nothing beside it, — nothing! so well that I could not let you share my wretchedness."* She ran her hand along his breast and looked up at him with swimming eyes. 'And you think, Gait, that this is fair to me? that a woman gives the heart for pleasant weather only ? I do not know what your sorrow may be, but it is my right to share it. 1 am only a woman ; but a woman can be strong for those she loves. Remember that I have always had to care for others — always ; and I can bear much. I will not ask what your trouble is, I only ask you ' — here she i :!' RIDING rilK RKKFS 35» han my iig ago. she said, :d of tlic than the Dur hand the only m that I )much'" veil, that ide it, — hare my d looked • to mc? weather may be, woman ; le loves, care for will not -here she spoke slowly and earnestly, ind rested her hand on his shoulder 'to say to me that you love no other woman ; ajid that — that no other \vom;m has a claim upon you. Then I shall be content to pity you, to help you, to love you. God gives women many pains, but none so great as the love that will not trust utterly ; for trust is our bread of life. Yes, indeed, indeed!' 'I dare not say,' he said, 'that it is your mis- fortune to love me, for in this you show how noble a woman can be. But I will say that the cup is bitter-sweet for you. ... I cannot tell you now what my trouble is ; but 1 can say that no other living woman has a claim upon me. . . . My reckoning is with the dead.' 'That is with God,' she whispered, 'and He is just and merciful too. . . . Can it not be repaired here?' She smoothed back his hair, then let her fingers stray lightly on his cheek. It hurt him like death to reply : ' No, but there can be — punishment here.' She shuddered slightly. * Punishment, punish- ment!' she repeated fearfully, — 'what punish- ment?* ' I do not quite know.' Lines of pain grew deeper in his face. . . . 'Ruth, how much can a woman forgive?* y*'lr 352 MRS. I'ALCIIIOM «» ' I ?( -• I ; I 'A mother, everything.' But she would say no more. He looked at her long and earnestly, and said at last : 'Will you believe in me no matter what happens?' ' Always, always.* Her smile was most winning. *If things should appear dark against me?' 'Yes, if you give me your word.' 'If I said to you that I did a wrong; that I broke the law of God, though not the laws of man?' There was a pause in which she drew back, trembling slightly, and looked at him timidly and then steadily, but immediately put her hands bravely in his, and said : 'Yes.' * I did not break the laws of man.* * It was when you were in the navy?' she in- quired, in an awe-stricken tone. ' Yes, vears a;^o.' ' I know. I feel it. You must not tell me. It was a woman, and this other woman, this Mrs. Falchion knows, and she would try to ruin you, or' — here she seemed to be moved suddenly by a new thought — ' or have you love her. But she shall not, she shall not — neither ! For I will love you, and God will listen to me, and answer me.' RIDING rii!': Kl'KFS 353 lid say no ', and said tter what st winning, mc?' ng ; that I he laws of drew back, imidly and her hands y?' she in- tell me. It 1, this Mrs. o ruin you, uddcnly by r. But she I will love ;wer me.* I 'Would to God T were worthy of )'ou! I dare not tiiink of where you mi^dit be called to follow mc, Ruth.' '" Whither tJiou goest, I ivill (:^o ; and U'hcre thou lodi^rst, I wii/ /(>di,v : thy f^coplc sluill be my people, and thy God my God,'' she rejoined in a low voice. "'Thy God my G(kI ! *" he repeated after her slowly. He suddenly wondered if his God was her God ; whether now, in his trouble, he had that comfort wiiich iiis creed and profession should give him. For the first time he felt acutely that his choice of this new life might have been more a reaction from the past, a desire for expiation, than radical belief that this was the right and only thing for him to do. And when, some time after, he bade Ruth good-bye, as she went with her father, it came to him with ai)paliing conviction that his life had been a mistake. The twist of a great wrong in a man's character distorts his vision ; and if he has a tender conscience, he magnifies his misdeeds. In silence Roscoe and I watched the two ride down the slope. I guessed what had happened : afterwards I was told all. I was glad of iV though the end was not yet promising. When v.e turned to go towards the house again, a man lounged out 354 MRS. I'ALCHION til •If ^ If Ui '.1 ' if ill ? 1- . ii 1 * V y i^ m^^ ' of tlic trees towards us. lie looked at inc, then at Roscoc, and said : * I'm Phil Boldrick's pal from Danger Mountain.' Roscoc held out his hand, and the man took it, sayinL^ : 'You're The Padre, I suppose, and Phil was soft on you. Didn't turn religious, did he? He always had a streak of God A'mighty in him ; a kind of give-away-the-top-of-your-head chaj) ; friend o' tlic widow and the orphan, and divvy to his last crust with a pal. I got your letter, and come over here straight to see that he's been tombed accordin* to his virtues ; to lay out the dollars he left me, on the people he had on his visitin' list; no loafers, no gophers, not one ; but to them that stayed by him I stay, while prog and liquor last/ I saw Roscoe looking at him in an abstracted way, and, as he did not reply, I said : ' Phil had many friends and no enemies.* Then I told him the tale of his death and funeral, and how the valley mourned for him. While I spoke he stood leaning against a tree, shaking; 'ii.^ head and listening, his eyes occasionally resting on Roscoe with a look as abstracted and puzzled as that on Roscoc's face. When I had finished he drew his hand slowly down his beard, and a thick sound came from behind his fingers. But he did not sp^ak. RIDING THE RKKFS 355 then at (untain.' took it, nd Phil did he? in him ; d chap ; divvy to ind come tombed ollars he sitin Hst ; hem that or last* bstractcd Phil had told him how the st a tree, casionally acted and len I had lis beard, is fingers. I I # ■i Then I suggested (iiiielly that Phil's dollars could be put to a better use than fur prog and liquor. He did not reply to this at all ; but after a moment's pause, in which he seemed to be study- ing the gambols of a scpu'rrel in a pine tree, he rubbed his chin nervously, and more in soliloquy than conversation said : * I never had but two pals that was pals through and through. And one was Phil and the other was Jo — Jo Brackenbury.' Here Roscoe's hand, which had been picking at the bark of a poplar, twitched suddenly. The man continued : ' Poor Jo went down in the Fly Aivay when she swung with her bare ribs flat before the wind, and swamped and ^ore upon the bloody reefs at Apia. . . . God, how they gnawed her! And never a rag holdin* nor a stick standin', and her pretty figger broke like a tin whistle in a Corliss engine. — And Jo Brackenbury, the dandiest rip, the noiscst pal that ever said " Here's how ! " went out to heaven on a tearing sea. *Jo Brackenbury — * Roscoe repeated musingly. His head was turned away from us. *Yes, Jo Brackenbury: and Captain Falchion said to me* (I wonder that I did not start then) 'when I told hirr. how the Fly Away went down 356 MRS. FAT.CITTON to Davy, and her lovers went aloft, reefed close afore the wind, — " Then," says he, " they've got a damned sound seaman on the Jordan, and so help me ! him that's good enough to row my girl from open sea, gales poundin' and breakers showin' teeth across the bar to Maita Point, is good enough for use where seas is still and reefs ain't fashionable." ' Roscoc's face looked haggard as it nov; turned towards us. * If you will meet me,' he said to the stranger, 'to-morrow morning, in Mr. Devlin's office at Viking, I will hand you over Phil Bold- rick's legacy.' The man made as if he would shake hands with Roscoe, who appeared not to notice the motion, and then said : * Pll be there. You can bank on that ; and, as we used to say down in the Spicy Isles, where neither of you have been, I s'pose, Talofa ! ' He swung away down the hillside. Roscoe tu.ned to me. * You see, Marmion, all things circle to a centre. The trail seems long, but the fox gets killed an arm's length from his hole.' * Not always. You take it too seriously,' I said. * You are no fox.' 'That man will be in at the death,' he persisted. RIDING THE RKEFS 357 close got a ;o help •1 from ,ho\vin' 3 good ;fs ain't ' turned d to the Devlin's til Bold- nds with motion, bank on le Spicy I s'pose, [mion, all ims long, from his |y/ I said. )crsisted. ^:« t ' Nonsense, Roscoe. He does not know you. What has he to do with )'ou ? This is over- wrought nerves. You arc killing yourself with worry.' He was motionless and silent for a minute. Then he said very quietly: 'No, I do not think that I really w^orry now. I have known' — here he laid his hand upon my shoulder and his eyes had a shining look — ' what it is to be happy, un- speakably happy, for a moment ; and that stays with me. I am a coward nc loiiLjer.' o He drew his finger tips slowly across his fore- head. Then he continued : ' To-morrow I shall be angry with myself, no doubt, for having that moment's joy, but I cannot feel so now. I shall probably condemn myself for cruel selfishness ; but I have touched life's highest point this afternoon, Marmion.' I drew his hand down from my shoulder and pressed it. It was cold. He withdrew his eyes from the mountain, and said : * I have had dreams, Marmion, and they are over. I lived in one : to expiate — to wipe out — a past, by spending my life for others. The expiation is not enough. I lived in another : to win a woman's love ; and I have, and was caught up b)- it for a moment, and it was wonderful. But it is over now, quite over, ' . « • • .m 358 MRS. FALCHION i.4ili And now for her sake renunciation must be made, before I have another dream — a long one, Marmion.' I had forebodings, but I pulled myself together and said firmly : * Roscoe, these are fancies. Stop it, man. You are moody. Come, let us walk, and talk of other things.' ' No, we will not walk,' he said, 'but let us sit there on the coping, and be quiet — quiet in that roar between the hills.' Suddenly he swung round, caught me by the shoulders and held me gently so. ' I have a pain at my heart, Marmion, as if I'd heard my death sentence ; such as a soldier feels who knows that Death looks out at him from iron eyes. You smile : I suppose you think I am mad/ I saw that it was best to let him speak his mind. So I answered : ' Not mad, my friend. Say on what you like. Tell me all you feel. Only, for God's sake be brave, and don't give up until there's occasion. I am sure you exaggerate your danger, whatever it is.' * Listen for a minute,* said he : * I had a brother Edward, as good a lad as ever was ; a boisterous, healthy fellow. We had an old nurse in our family who came from Irish hills, faithful and kind to us both. There came a change over Edward. He appeared not to take the same interest in his RIDING THE RKEFS 359 I made, g one, ogether . Stop alk, and ;t us sit ; in that ig round, rently so. 'as if I'd dier feels from iron am mad.* his mind. Say on Only, for itil there's ur danger, a brother boisterous, se in our ■1 and kind -r Edward. rest in his -'■I sports. One day he canic to nic, lookiivT a bit pale, and said : "Gait, I think I should like to study for the Church." I lau<;hed at it, yet it troubled me in a way, for I saw he was not well. I told Martha, the nurse. She shook her head sadly, and said : " lulward is not for the Church, but you, my lad. He is for heaven."* ' " For heaven, Martha ? " laughed I. " *In truth for heaven," she replied, "and that soon. The look of his eye is doom. I've seen it since I swaddled him, and he will go suddenly." * I was angry, and I said to her, — though she thought she spoke the truth, — "This is on^y Irish croakinfT. We'll liave the banshee next." 'She got up from her chair and answered me solemnly, — " Gait Roscoe, I /kwc heard the banshee wail, and sorrow falls up' n your home, And don't you be so hard with m .hat have loved you, and who suffers for the la ihat often and of'.en lay upon my breast. Don be so hard ; for your day of trouble comes to- You, not he, vvll be priest at the altar. Death will come to him like a swift and easy sleep ; but you will feel its hand upon your heart and know its hate for many a day, and bear the slow pangs of it until your life is all crushed, and you go from the world alone, Love crying after you and not able to save you, not even 360 MRS. I'AIXJIIION % M! li I' II if y ■ I ■11 I /• ■^1 ( ' 'in "Ir i' i: the love of woman — weaker than death. . , . And, in my grcjve, when that day comes beside a great mountain in a strange hind, I will weep and pray for you ; for I was mother to you too, when yours left you alone bcwhilcs, never, in this world, to come back." 'And, Marmion, that night towards morning, as I lay in the same room with Edward, I heard his breath stop sharply. I jumped up and drew aside the curtains to let in the light, and then I knew that the old woman spoke true. . . . And now ! . . . Well, I am like Hamlet, — and I can say with him, "But thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart — but it is no matter ! " . . . ' I tr'^d to laugh and talk ^iway his brooding, but there was little use, his convictions were so strong. Besides, what can you do with a morbidness which has its orisjin in fateful circumstances? I devoutly wished that a telegram would come from Winnipeg to let me know if Bo)-d Madras, under his new name, could be found. I was a hunter on a faint trail. , . And, a great .nd pray m yours /orld, to rning, as leard his evv aside I knew nd now ! say with all's here ■ ding, but ;o strong, ess which uld come I Madras, I was a CHAPTER XVIII. THE STRINGS OF DKSTINY. WHEN Phil's pal left us he went wandering down the hillside, talking to himself. Long afterwards he told me how he felt, and I reproduce his phr^s . as nearly as I can. 'Knocked 'em, I guess,' he said, 'with that about jo Brackenbury. . . . Poor Jo! Stuck together, him and me did, after she got the steel in her heart.' . . . He pulled himself together, shuddering. . . . ' Went back on me, she did, and took up with a cursed swell, and got it cold — cold. And I ? By Judas! I never was shut of that. Eve known women, many of 'em, all countries, but she was different ! I expect now, after all these years, that if I got my hand on the devil that done for her, Ed rattle his breath in his throat. There's things that clings. She clings, Jo Brackenbury clings, and Phil Boldrick clings ; and they're gone, and I'm left to go it alone. To play the single hand — what ! — by Jiminy ! * 362 MRS. FAT,riIION U: n n 4\ ' r ■ S Hi llli> I He exclaimed thus on seeing two women approach from the direction of the valley. He stood still, mouth open, staring. They drew near, almost passed him. But one of them, struck by his intense gaze, suddenly turned and came towards him. • Miss Falchion ! Miss Falchion ! * he cried. Then, when she hesitated as if with an effort of memory, he added, — 'Don't you know me?' 'Ah!' she replied abruptly, ' Sam Kilby ! Are you Sam Kilby, Jo Brackenbury's friend, from Samoa?' 'Yes, miss, I'm Jo Brackenbury's friend ; and I've rowed you across the reefs with him more than once — I guess so 1 But it's a long way from Apia to the Rockies, and it's funny to meet here.' ' When did you come here ? and from where ? *I come to-day from the Hudson's Bay post at Danger Mountain. I'm Phil Boldrick's pal.' 'Ah,' she said again, with a look in her eyes not pleasant to see, — ' and what brings you up here in the hills?' Hers was more than an ordinary curiosity. ' I come to see The Padre who was with Phil — when he left. And The Padre's a fair square sort, as I reckon him, but melancholy, almighty melan holy.' women llcy. He rcw near, struck by e towards he cried, effort of 3y ! Are md, from ; and I've lore than rom Apia re.' vhere ? ly post at al.' r eyes not I up here ordinary with Phil .ir square ahnighLy THE STRINGS OF DESTINY 363 *Yes, melancholy, I suppose,' she said, 'and fair square, as you say. And what did you say and do?' ' Why, we yarned about Phil, and where I'd get the legacy to-morrow ; and I s'pose I had a strong breeze on the quarter, for I talked as free as if we'd grubbed out of the same dough-pan since we was kiddies.' 'Yes?' * Yes sirce ; I don't know how it was, but I got to reelin' off about Jo — queer, wasn't it? And I told 'em how he went down in the Fly Awa}\ and how the lovely ladies — you remember how we used to call the white-caps lovely ladies — fondled him out to sea and on to heaven.' 'And what did— The Padre— think of that?' 'Well, he's got a heart, I should say, — and that's why Phil cottoned to him, maybe, — for he looked as if he'd seen ghosts. I guess he'd never had a craft runnin' 'tween a sand-bar and a ragged coral bank; nor seen a girl like the Fiy Azvay take a buster in her teeth ; nor a man-of-war come bundlin' down upon a nasty glacis, the captain on the bridge, engines goin' for all they're worth, every man below battened in, and every Jack above watchin' the fight between the engines and the hurricane. . . . PIcre she rolls six fathoms from the glacis that'll 3^4 MRS. FALCHION I ■•I'a ■ illi j ill 1 I :fi: rip her copper garments off, and the quiverin* engines pull her back ; and she swini^s and struggles and trembles between hell in the hurricane and God A'mighty in the engines ; till at last she gets her nose at the neck of the open sea, and crawls out safe and sound. ... I guess he'd have more marble in his cheeks, if he saw likes o' that, Miss Falchitjn?' Kilby paused and wii)cd his forehead. She had listened calmly. She did not answer his question. She said : ' Kilby, I am staying at the summer hotel up there. Will you call on me — let me see . . . say, to-morrow afternoon ? — Some one will tell you the way, if you do not know it. . . . Ask for Mrs. Falchion, Kilby, not AIi'ss Falchion. . . . You will come ? ' ' Why, yes,' he replied, 'you can count on me; for Fd like to hear of things that happened after I left Apia — and how it is that you are Mrs. Falchion, — for that's mighty queer.' *You shall hear all that and more.' She held out her hand to him and smiled. He took it, and she knew that now she was gathering up the strings of destiny. They parted. The two passed on, looking, in their cool elegance, as if life were the most pleasant thing ; as though Tin-: SIRINCIS OF DESTINY 3^>S quiverin /ini(s and 11 in the gjines ; till " the open . I guess if he saw ot answer itaying at 11 on me — 1 ? — Some low it. . . . Falchion. t on me ; ned after are Mrs. She held 3k it, and le strings elegance, .s though the very perfume of their garments would preserve them from that plague called trouble. 'Justine,* said Mrs. Falchion, 'there is one law stranger than all ; the law of coincidence. Perhaps the convenience of modern travel assists it, but fate is in it also. Events run in circles. People con- nected with them travel that way also. We pass and re-pass each other many times, but on different paths, until we come close and see each other face to face.' She was speaking almost the very words which Roscoe had spoken to me. But perhaps there was nothing strange in that. 'Yes, madame,' replied Justine; 'it is so, but there is a law greater than coincidence.' 'What, Justine?' * The law of love, which is just and merciful, and would give peace instead of trouble.' Mrs. Falchion looked closely at Justine, and, after a moment, evidently satisfied, said : ' What do you know of love ? ' Justine tried hard for composure, and answered gently: 'I loved my brother Hector.* 'And did it make you just and merciful and — an angel ? * * Madame, \ou could answer that better. But it has not made me be at war; it has made me patient.' ^>. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // 1.0 I.I 1^ 12.5 li li: 1^ 12.0 *- I. 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 - — ^ 6" — ► v2 m 'c-l ^>/^" / <^. oS. ''^ .r >' 0>1 'A ^ Photographic Sciences Corporation ^^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBJTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 <^ ''i u. % ;66 MRS. FALCHION If 'Your love — for your brother — has made you that?' Again she looked keenly, but Justine now showed nothing but earnestness. * Yes, madame.' Mrs. Falchion paused for a moment, and seemed intent on the beauty of th^ piiie-belted hills, capped by snowy peaks, and wrapped in a most hearty yet delicate colour. The red of her parasol threw a warm softness upon her face. She spoke now without looking at Justine. 'Justine, did you ever love any one besides your brother? — I mean another man.* Justine was silent for a moment, and then she said : * Yes, once.* She was looking at the hills now, and Mrs. Falchion at her. 'And you were happy?' Here Mrs. Falchion abstractedly toyed with a piece of lace on Justine's arm. Such acts were unusual with her. * I was happy — in loving.' 'Why did you not marry?* 'Madame, — it was impossible — quite I' This, with hesitation and the slightest accent of pain. ' Why impossible ? You have good looks, you were born a lady; you have a foolish heart — the fond are foolish.' She watched the girl keenly, the hand ceased to toy with the lace, and caught the arm itself, — * Why impossible?* THE STRINGS OF DESTINY 3^>7 'Madame, he did not love me, he never could.' ' Did he know of )our love ? ' ' Oh no, no ! * This, with trouble in her voice. 'And you have never forgotten?' The catechism was merciless ; but Mrs. Falchion was not merely malicious. She was inquiring of a thing infinitely important to her. She was searching the heart of another, not only because she was suspicious, but because she wanted to know herself better. * It is easy to remember.* ' Is it long since you saw him ? ' The question almost carried terror with it, for she was not quite sure why Mrs. Falchion questioned her. She lifted her eyes slowly, and there was in them anxiety and joy. * It seems/ she said, * like years.' * He loves some one else, perhaps ? * * Yes, I think so, madame.* 'Did you hate her?* ' Oh no ; I am glad for him.' Here Mrs. Falchion spoke sharply, almost bit- terly. Even through her soft colour a hardness appeared. 'You are glad for him? You would see another woman in his arms and not be full of anger?' 36« MRS. FALCHIOM l\ I 'Quite.' 'Justine, you are a fool.* ' Madame, there is no commandment against being a fool.' ' Oh, you make me angry with your meekness ! * Here Mrs. Falchion caught a twig from a tree by her, snapped it in her fingers, and petulantly threw its pieces to the ground. ' Suppose that the man had once loved you, and afterwards loved another, — then again another?' * Madame, that would be my great misfortune, but it might be no wrong in him.' * How not a wrong in him ? ' * It may have been my fault. There must be love in both — great love, for it to last' 'And if the woman loved him not at all?* 'Where, then, could be the wrong in him?' 'And if he went from you,' — here her voice grew dry and her words were sharp, — 'and took a woman from the depths of — oh, no matter what ! and made her commit — crime — and was himself a criminal ?* 'It is horrible to think of; but I should ask myself how much I was to blame. . , . What would you ask yourself, madame?' 'You have a strain of the angel in you, Justine. You would forgive Judas if he said, *'Peccavt." I THE STRINGS OF DESTINY 369 nent against meekness ! ' from a tree id petulantly pose that the rwards loved .t misfortune, here must be at all?' in him?' ere her voice p,— 'and took matter what ! 1 was himself I should ask ie. . . . What ^ you, Justine. ''Peccavi" I have a strain of Satan, — it was born in me. — I would say, You have sinned, now suffer.' 'God give you a softer heart,' said Justine, with tender boldness and sincerity. At this Mrs. Falchion started slightly, and trouble covered her face. She assumed, however, a tone almost brusque, artificially airy and un- important 'There, that will do, thank you. . . . We have become serious and incomprehensible. Let us talk of other things. I want to be gay. . . . Amuse me.* Arrived at the hotel, she told Justine that she must not be disturbed till near dinner-time, and withdrew to her sitting-room. There she sat and thought, as she had never done in her life before. She thought upon everything that had happened since the day when she met Gait Roscoe on the Fiilvia ; of a certain evening in England, before he took orders, when he told her, in retort to some peculiarly cutting remark of hers, that she was the evil genius of his life: that evening when her heart grew hard, as she had once said it should always be to him, and she determined again, after faltering many times, that just such a genius she would be ; of the strange meeting in the rapids at the Devil's Slide, and the irony of it ; and the fact that he had li! ... 370 MRS. FALCHION saved her life — on that she paused a while ; of Ruth Dcv lin —and here she was swayed by conflicting emotions ; of the scene at the mill, and Phil Bold- rick's death and funeral ; of the service in the church where !^he meant to mock him, and, instead, mocked herself; of the meeting with Tonga Sam ; of all that Justine had said to her: then again of the far past in Samoa, with which Gait Roscoe was associated, and of that first vow of vengeance for a thing he had done ; and how she had hesitated to fulfil it year after year till now. Passing herself slowly back and forth before her eyes, she saw that she had lived her life almost wholly alone ; that no woman had ever cherished her as a friend, and that on no man's breast had she ever laid her head in trust and love. She had been loved, but it had never brought her satis- faction. From Justine there was devotion ; but it had, as she thought, been purchased, paid for, like the labour of a ploughboy. And if she saw now in Justine's eyes a look of friendship, a note of personal allegiance, she knew it was because she herself had grown more human. Her nature had been stirred. Her natural heart was struggling against her old bitterness towards Gait Roscoe and her partial hate of Ruth Devlin. Once Roscoe had loved her, and she had not lo\^ed THE STRINGS OF DESTINY 37 le ; of Ruth conflicting Phil Bold- nce in the .nd, instead, bnga Sam ; :n again of Roscoe was ngeance for id hesitated 1 before her life almost :r cherished ; breast had e. She had t her satis- tion ; but it laid for, like le saw now a note of because she atural heart ess towards luth Devlin, id not lov^ed him. Then, on a bitter day for him, he did a mad thing. The thing became — though neither of them knew it at the time, and he not yet — a great injury to her, and this had called for the sharp retaliation which she had the power to use. But all had not happened as she expected ; for some- thing called Love had been conceived in her very slowly, and was now being born, and sent, trembling for its timid life, into the world. She closed her eyes with weariness, and pressed her hands to her temples. She wondered why she could not be all evil or all good. She spoke and acted against Ruth Devlin, and yet she pitied her. She had the nettle to sting Roscoe to death, and yet she hesitated to use it. She had said to herself that she would wait till the happiest moment of his life, and then do so. Well, his happiest moment had come. Ruth Devlin's heart was all out, all blossomed — beside Mrs. Falchion's like some wild flower to the aloe. . . . Only now she had come to know that she had a heart. Something had chilled her at her birth, and when her mother died, a stranger's kiss closed up all the ways to love, and left her an icicle. She was twenty-eight years old, and yet she had never kissed a face in joy or to give joy. And now, when she had come to know mi 1 ■ •' ( J I; • i i; 372 MRS. FALCHION herself, and iindcrstancl wliat others understand when they are little children in their mother's arms, she had to bow to the spirit that denies. She drew herself up with a quiver of the body. ' O God ! she said, * do I hate him or love him ! Ilcr head dropped in her hands. She sat re- gardless of time, now scarcely stirring, desperately quiet. The door opened softly and Justine entered. * Madame,* she said, ' pardon me ; I am so sorry, but Miss Devlin has come to see you, and I thought ' • 'You thou;^dit, Justine, that I would see her.* There was unmistakable irony in her voice. 'Very well. . . . Show her in.* She rose, stretched out her arms as if to free herself of a burden, smoothed her hair, composed herself, and waited, the afternoon sun just falling across her burnished shoes, giving her feet of gold. She chanced to look down at them. A strange thought came to her : words that she had heard Roscoe read in church. The thing was almost grotesque in its association. ^ How beautiful upon tJic nioiDiiiuns are tJie feet of him who bringeth glad tidings, who publishcth peace I ' Ruth Devlin entered, saying, ' I have come, Mrs. Falchion, to ask you if you will dine with us next Monday evening? ' f i I THK STRINGS OF DKSriNY 373 iclcrstand mother's it dcniLS. )ody. Dvc him ! ' le sat rc- ispcrately c entered, so sorry, u, and J. see her.' e. ' Very if to free composed List falling et of gold. A strange had heard as almost !ti'//// tipon ngeth glad come, Mrs. ith us next Then she explained the occasion of the dinner party, and said : ' You see, though it is formal, I am asking our guests informally;* and she added as neutrally and as lightly as she could, — 'Mr. Roscoe and Dr. Marmion have been good enough to say that they will come. Of course, a dinner party as it should be is quite impossible to us simple folk, but when a lieutenant - governor commands, we must do the best we can — with the help of our friends.' Mrs. Falchion was delighted, she said, and then they talked of trivial matters, Ruth smoothing out the folds of her riding-dress with her whip more earnestly, in preoccupation, than the act called for. At last she said, in the course of the formal talk, — 'You have travelled much?' ' Yes, that has been my lot,' was the reply ; and she leaned back in the gold-trimmed cane chair, her feet still in the belt of sunlight. ' I have often wished that 1 might travel over the ocean,' said Ruth, 'but here I remain, — what shall I say? — a rustic in a bandbox, seeing the world through a pin-hole. — That is the way my father puts it Except, of course, that I think it very inspiring to live out here among wonderful mountains, which, as Mr. Roscoe says, are the most aristocratic of companions.' at 374 MRS. FALCHION 1 f i i * j 1 il ii '^' t t'ij ;)i'i ll I !l^ . ! I j Som( le one in the next room was playJng the piano idly yet expressively. The notes of // Trovatorc kept up a continuous accompaniment to their talk, varying, as if by design, with its mean- ing and importance, and yet in singular contrast at times to their thoughts and words. It was almost sardonic in its monotonous persistence. 'Travel is not all, believe me. Miss Devlin,' was the indolent reply. * Perhaps the simpler life is the happier. The bind box is not the worst that may come to one — when one is born to it. I am not sure but it is the best. I doubt that when one has had the fever of travel and the world, the bandbox is permanently habitable again.* Mrs. Falchion was keen ; she had found her opportunity. On the result of this duel, if Ruth Devlin but knows it, depends her own and another's happiness. It is not improbable, however, that something of this is in her mind. She shifts her chair so that her face may not be so much in the light But the belt of sunlight is broadening from Mrs. Falchion's feet to her dress. * You think not ? ' Ruth said slowly. The reply was not important in tone. Mrs. Falchion had picked up a paper knife and was bending it to and fro between her fingers. TIIK STRINGS 01" DKSI INY 375 ing the s of // ment to s mean- contrast It was ICC. lin,' was r life is Drst that I am /hen one arid, the )und her :vlin but appiness. ithing of r so that But the alchion's le. Mrs. and was * I think not. Particularly with a man, who is, we will say, by nature, adventurous and explorative. I think, if, in some mad moment, I determined to write a novel, it should be of such a man. He flics wide and far; he .sees all; he feeds on novelty; ht passes from experience to experience, — liberal pleasures of mind and sense all the wa>'. Well, he tires of F-gypt and its flesh-pots, lie has seen as he hurried on, — I hope I am not growing too picturesque? — too much of women, too many men. He has been unwise, — most men are. Perhaps he has been more than unwise ; he has made a great mistake, a social mistake — or crime — less or more. If it is a small one, the remedy is not so difficult. Money, friends, adroitness, absence, long retire- ment, are enough. If a great one, and he is sensitive — and sated — he flies, he seeks seclusion. He is afflicted with remorse. He is open to the convincing pleasures of the simple and unadorned life ; he is satisfied with simple people. The snuflf of the burnt candle of enjoyment he calls regret, repentance. He gives himself the delights of introspection, and wishes he were a child again — yes, indeed it is so, dear Miss Devlin.' Ruth sat regarding her, her deep eyes glowing. Mrs. Falchion continued: 'In short, he finds the bandbox, as you call it, suited to his renunciations. f { i ' I I ! I J llli 376 MKS. I'ALCllION Its simplicities, which he thinks is regeneration, are only new sensations. lUit — you have often noticed the signification of a "but,"* she added, sniiliiij^, tai)[)in^' her check lightly with the ivory knife, — 'but the hour arrives when the bandbox becomes a prison, when the simple hours cloy Then the ordinary incident is merely i^aiic/ie^ and expiation a bore. 'I see by your face that you understand quite what I mean. . . . Well, these things occasionally happen. The great mistake follows the man, and, by a greater misery, breaks the misery of the band- box ; or the man himself, hating his captivity, becomes reckless, does some mad thing, and has a miserable end. Or again, some one who holds the key to his mistake comes in from the world he has left, and considers — considers, you understand ! — whether to leave him to work out his servitude, or, mercifully — if he is not altogether blind — permit him the means of escape to his old world, to the life to which he was born, — away from the bandbox and all therein. ... I hope I have not tired you — I am sure I have.' Ruth saw the full meaning of Mrs. Falchion's words. She realised that her happiness, his hap- piness — everything — was at stake. All Mrs. Falchion's old self was baltlini; with her new self. . il ncratlon, vc often 2 added, lie ivory b.iiidbox irs cloy iche^ and nd quite isjonaily lan, and, lie band- :aptivity, nd has a lolds the d he has tand !— tude, or, pcrniit 1, to the )andbox d you — ilchion's lis hap- 11 Mrs. lew self. 'lllK SIRINUS OK DKsriNY — - ^ 377 She had determined to abide !))• the result of this meeting. She had spoken in a half gay tone, but her word s were not everytliiuL, ; the woman herself was there, speakin;^' in every feature ami glance. Ruth had listened with an occasional change of colour, but also with an outward pride t»» which she seemed suddenly to have grown, l^ut her heart was sick and miserable. I low could it be other- wise, reading, as she did, the tale just told her in a kind of allegory, in all its warning, nakedness, and vengeance ? liut she detected, too, an occasional painful movement of Mrs. Falchion's lips, a kind of trouble in the face. She noticed it at first vaguely as she listened to the music in the other room ; but at length she interpreted it aright, and she did not despair. She did not then follow her first impulse to show that she saw the real meaning of that speech, and rise and say, ' You are insulting,* and bid her good-day. After all, where was the ground for the charge of insult? The words had been spoken imj)er- sonally. So, after a moment, she said, as she drew a glove from a hand slightly trembling: * And you honestly think it is the case : that one having lived such a life as you descjibe so unusually, would never be satisfied with a simple life ? ' i 378 MRS. FALCHION !i * My dear, never ; — not such a man as I describe. I know the world.' * But suppose not quite such an one ; suppose one that had not been so — intense ; so much the social gladiator ; who had business of life as well/ — here the girl grew pale, for this was a kind of talk unfamiliar and painful to her, but to be en- dured for her cause, — *as well as "the flesh-pots of Egypt;" who had made no wicked mistakes — would he necessarily end as you say?' * I am speaking of the kind of man who had made such mistakes, and he would end as I say. Few men, if any, would leave the world for — the bandbox, shall I still say ? without having a Nemesis.' ' But the Nemesis need not, as you say yourself, be inevitable. The person who holds the key of his life, the impersonation of his mistake ' * His m;///;/«/ mistake,* Mrs. Falchion interrupted, her hand with the ivory knife now moveless in that belt of sunlight across her knees. * His criminal mistake,' Ruth repeated, wincing, — ' might not — it become changed into mercy, and the man be safe ? ' * Safe ? Perhaps. But he would tire of the pin-hole just the same. . . . My dear, you do not know life.' THE STRINGS OF DESTINY 379 describe. suppose nuch the : as well,' , kind of o be en- h-pots of istakes — who had as I say. for — the having a yourself, he key of > terrupted, Dveless in , wincing, lercy, and re of the )U do not * But, Mrs Falchion,* said the girl, now very bravely, * I know the crude elements of justice. That is one plain thing taught here in the moun- tains. We have swift reward and punishment — no hateful things called Nemesis. The meanest wretch here in the West, if he has a quarrel, avenges himself openly and at once. Actions are rough and ready, perhaps, but that is our simple way. Hate is manly — and womanly too — when it is open and brave. But when it haunts and shadows, it is not understood here.* Mrs. Falchion sat during this speech, the fingers of one hand idly drumming the arm of her chair, as idly as when on board the Fulvia she listened to me telling that story of Anson and his wife. Outwardly her coolness was remarkable. But she was really admiring, and amazed at Ruth's adroitness and courage. She appreciated fully the skilful duel that had kept things on the surface, and had committed neither of them to anything personal. It was a battle — the tragical battle of a drawing-room. When Ruth had ended, she said slowly : * You speak very earnestly. You do your mountains justice ; but each world has its code. It is good for some men to be followed by a slow hate • — it all depends on themselves. There are some 38o MRS. FALCHION >. m who wish to meet their fate and its worst, and others who would forget it. The latter are in the most danger always.* Ruth rose. -jhe stepped forward slightly, so that her feet also were within the sunlight. The other saw this ; it appeared to interest her. Ruth looked — as such a girl can look — with incredible sincerity into Mrs. Falchion's eyes, and said : ' Oh, if I knew such a man, I would be sorry — sorry for him ; and if I also knew that his was only a mistake and not a crime, or, if the crime itself had been repented of, and atonement made, I would beg some one — some one better than I — to pray for him. And I would go to the person who had his life and career at disposal, and would say to her, — if it were a woman, — Oh, remember that it is not he alone who would suffer! I would beg that woman — if it were a woman — to be merciful, as she one day must ask for mercy.' The girl as she stood there, all pale, yet glowing with the white light of her pain, was beautiful, noble, compelling. Mrs. Falchion now rose also. She was altogether in the sunlight now. From the piano in the next room came a quick change of accompaniment, and a voice was heard singing, as if to the singer's self, // i?akn del siw sorris. It is TIIK S'l'RINdS OK DKsriMY 3S- orst, and are in the X her feet other saw 1 looked — e sincerity 1, if I knew / for him ; a mistake f had been would beg to pray for vho had his say to her, r that it is Id beg that Ticrciful, as yet glowing IS beautiful, V rose also. From the change of singing, as orris. It is hard to tell how far such little incidents affected iier in what she did that afternoon ; but thev had their influence. She said : ' You arc altruistic — or are you selfish, or both? . . . And should the woman — if it were a woman — yield, and spare the man, what would you do?* ' I would say that she had been merciful and kind, and that one in this world would pray for her when she needed ])rayers most.' 'You mean when she was old,' — Mrs. Falchion shrank a little at the sound of her own words. Now her careless abandon was gone ; she seemed to be following her emotions. ' When she was old,' she continued, 'and came to die? It is horrible to grow old, except one has been a saint — and a mother. . . And even then — have you ever seen them, the women of that Fgypt of which we spoke? — powdered, smirking over their champagne, because they feel for an instant a false pulse of their past? — See how eloquent your mountains make me ! — I think that would make one hard and cruel ; and one would need the prayers of a churchful of good women, even as good — as you.' She could not resist a touch of irony in the last words, and Ruth, who had been ready to take her hand impulsively, was stung. But she replied nothing ; and the other, after waiting, added, with 382 MRS. FALCHION r " ■ .! if ,« 'i'r! a sudden and wonderful kindness, — *I say what is quite true. Women might dislike you, — many of them would, — though you could not understand why ; but you are good, and that, I suppose, is the best thing in the world. Yes, you are good,' she said musingly, and then she leaned forward and quickly kissed the girl's check. * Good-bye/ she said, and then she turned her head resolutely away. They stood there both in the sunlight, both very quiet, but their hearts were throbbing with new sensations. Ruth knew that she had conquered, and, with her eyes all tearful, she looked steadily, yearningly at the woman before her ; but she knew it was better she should say little now, and, with a motion of the hand in good-bye, — she could do no more, — she slowly went to the door. There she paused and looked back, but the other was still turned away. For a minute Mrs. Falchion stood looking at the door through which the girl had passed, then she caught close the curtains of the window, and threw herself upon the sofa with a sobbing laugh. * To her ! * she cried, * I played the game of mercy to her ! And she has his love, the love which I rejected once, and which I want now — to my shame ! A hateful and terrible love. I, who i; THE STRINGS OF DKSTINY 3«.? ;ay what I, — many iderstand ise, is the ^ood,' she vard and bye,' she resolutely both very with new onquered, i steadily, but she now, and, she could r. There Dther was )oking at 3sed, then dow, and g laugh, game of the love now — to ;. I, who ought to say to him, as I so long determined,— "You shall be destroyed. You killed my sister, poor Alo ; if not with a knife yourself, you killed her heart, and that is just the same. I never knew until now what a heart is wlicn killed.' She caught her breast as thouL^h it hurt her, and, after a moment, continued: * Do hearts always ache so when they love ? I was the wife of a good man, — oh ! he zvas a good man, wlio sinned for me. — I see it now! — and I let him die — die alone ! ' She shuddered violently. * Oh, now I see, and I know what love such as his can be ! I am punished — punished ! for my love is impossible, horrible.' There was a long silence, in which she sat looking at the floor, her face all grey with pain. At last the door of the room softly opened, and Justine entered. * May I come in, madame ? * she said. 'Yes, come, Justine.' The voice was subdued, and there was in it what drew the girl swiftly to the side of Mrs. Falchion. She spoke no word, but gently undid the other's hair, and smoothed and brushed it softly. At last Mrs. Falchion said : 'Justine, on Monday we will leave here.* The girl was surprised, but she replied without comment, — ' Y'es, madame ; where do we go ?' 1 1 ■ f 1 ' ' i \ '■ 381 MRS. FALCHION I There was a pause ; then : ' I do not know. I want to go where I shall get rested. A village in Italy or ' she paused. ' Or France, madame ? ' Justine was eager. Mrs. Falchion made a gesture of helplessness. 'Yes, France will do. . . . The way around the world is long, and I am tired.' Minutes passed, and then she slowly said: 'Justine, we will go to- morrow night.' * Yes, madame, to-morrow night, — and not next Monday.' There was a strange only half-veiled melancholy in Mrs. Falchion's next words : * Do you think, Justine, that I could be happy anywhere?* ' I think anywhere — but here, madame.* Mrs. Falchion rose to a sitting posture, and looked at the girl fixedly, almost fiercely. A crisis was at hand. The pity, gentleness, and honest solicitude of Justine's face conquered her, and her look changed to one of understanding and longing for companionship : sorrow swiftly welded their friendship. Before Mrs. Falchion slept that night, she said again, — * We will leave here to - morrow, dear, for ever.' And Justine replied : ' Yes, madame, for ever.* know. I village in :ager. Iplessness. round the es passed, vill go to- i not next aclancholy you think, I?' tsture, and jrcely. A eness, and [juered her, anding and ftly welded it, she said rrow, dear, for ever.* CHAPTER XIX. THE SENTENCi:. ^r^IIE next morning Roscoe was quiet and A calm, but he looked ten years older than when I had first seen him. After breakfast he said to me : * I have to go to the valley to pay Phil Boldrick's friend the money, and to see Mr. Devlin. I shall be back, perhaps, by lunch-time. Will you go with me, or stay here ? ' *I shall try to get some fishing this morning, I fancy,' I said. 'And possibly I shall idle a good deal, for my time with you here is shortening, and I want to have a great store of laziness behind me for memory, when I've got my nose to the grind- stone.* He turned to the door, and said : * Marmfon, I wish you weren't going. I wish that we might be comrades under the same roof till ' He paused and smiled strangely. 'Till the finish,' I added, 'when we should amble 886 386 MRS. FAT,CHION I. t grey-headed, sans everything, out of the mad old world ? I imagine Miss Belle Trcherne would scarcely fancy that. . . . Still, we can be friends just the same. Our wives won't object to an occasional bout of loafing together, will they ?* I was determined not to take him too seriously. He said nothing, and in a moment he was gone. I passed the morning idly enough, yet thinking, too, very mucli about my friend. I was anxiously hoping that the telegram from Winnipeg would come.. About noon it came. It was not known quite in what part of the North-west, Madras (under his new name) was, for the corps of mounted police had been changed about recently. My letter had, however, been forwarded into the wilds. I saw no immediate way but to go to Mrs. Falchion and make a bold bid for his peace. I had promised Madras never to let her know that he was alive, but I would break the promise if Madras himself did not come. After considerable hesitation I started. It must be remembered that the events of the preceding chapter were only known to me afterwards. Justine Caron was passing through the hall of the hotel when I arrived. After greetings, she said that Mrs. Falchion might see me, but that they were very busy ; they were leaving in the evening THE SENTENCE 387 nad old ; would friends t to an riously. as gone. :hinking, nxiously :g would t known as (under ed police jtter had, to Mrs. peace. I :now that romise if isiderable )ered that /ere only lall of the she said that they le evening for the coast. Here was a pleasant revelation 1 I was so confused with delight at the information, that I could think of nothing more sensible to say than that the unexpected always happens. By this time we were within Mrs. Falchion's sitting- room. And to my remark, Justine replied : 'Yes, it is so. One has to reckon most with the acci- dents of life. The expected is either pleasant or unpleasant ; there is no middle place.* 'You are growing philosophic,' said I playfully. ' Monsieur,' she said gravely, * I hope as I live and travel, I grow a little wiser.' Still she lingered, her hand upon the door. ' I had thought that you were always wise.' * Oh no, no ! How can you say so ? I have been very foolish sometimes.' . . . She came back towards me. * If I am wiser I am also happier,' she added. In that moment we understood each other; that is, I read how unselfish this girl could be, and she knew thoroughly the source of my anxiety, and was glad that she could remove it * I would not speak to any one save you,' she said, * but do you not also think that it is good we go ? * * I have been thinking so, but I hesitated to say so,' was my reply. I I'l f 11^ 3S8 MRS. FALCHION ' You need not licsilatc/ she said earnestly. 'We have both understood, and I know that you are to be trusted.* * Not always,' I said, remcmberinfr that one experience of mine with Mrs. Falchion on the Ftilvia. Holding the back of a chair, and looking earnestly at me, she continued: 'Once, on the vessel, you remember, in a hint so very little, I made it appear that madame was selfish. ... I am sorry. Her heart was asleep. Now, it is awake. She is unselfish. The accident of our going away is hers. She t;oes to leave peace behind.' *I am most glad,* said I. 'And you think there will be peace ? ' * Surely, since this has come, that will come also.' *And you — Justine Caron ? ' I should not have asked that question had I known more of the world. It was tactless and unkind. * For me it is no matter at all. I do not come in anywhere. As I said, I am happy.' And turning quickly, yet not so quickly but that I saw her cheeks were flushed, she passed out of the room. In a moment Mrs. Falchion entered. There was something new in her carriage, in her person. She THE SENTKNCK 3«9 icstly. ,t you t one n the coking )n tlic ittle, I . . . I ', It IS of our peace Iv there le also.* ot have of the )t come but that 1 out of lere was hn. She came towards mc, held out her hand, and said, with the same old half-quizzical tone : ' Have you, with your unerring instinct, guessed that I was leaving, and so come to say good-bye? ' ' You credit me too ln\i^hly. No, I came to see you because I had an inclination. I did not guess that you were going until Miss Caron told me.* 'An inclination to see me is not your usual instinct, is it? Was it some special impulse, based on a scientific calculation — at which, I suppose, you are an adept — or curiosity? Or had it a purpose? Or were you bored, and therefore sought the most startling experience you could conceive?* She deftly rearranged some flowers in a jar. ' I can plead innocence of all directly ; I am guilty of all indirectly. — I was impelled to come. 1 reasoned — if that is scientific — on what I should say if I did come, knowing how inclined I was to ' * To get beyond my depth,' she interrupted, and she motioned me to a chair. * Well, let it be so,' said I. — * I was curious to know what kept you in this sylvan, and I fear, to you, half-barbaric spot. I was bored with myself; and I had some purpose in coming, or I should not have had the impulse.' She leaning back in her chair easily, not was languidly. She seemed reposeful, yet alert. 390 MRS. FALCHION ' How wonderfully you t;ilk ! ' she said, with good- natured mockery. ' You arc scientifically frank. You were bored with yourself. — I'hen there is some hope for your future wife. . . . We have had many talks in our acc^uaintance, Dr. Marmion, but none so interesting as this promises to be. But now tell me what your purpose was in coming. "Pur- pose" seems portentous, but quite in keeping.' I noticed here the familiar, almost impercep- tible click of the small white teeth. Was I so glad she was going that I was playful, elated ? * My purpose,' said I, ' has no point now ; for even if I were to propose to amuse you — I believe that was the old fonnula — by an idle day somewhere, by an excursion, an ' ' An autobiography,' she broke in soothingly. ' Or an autobiography,' 1 repeated stolidly, ' you would not, I fancy, be prepared to accept my services. There would be no chance — now that you are going away — for me to play the harle- quin ' * Whose office you could do pleasantly if it suited you — these adaptable natures ! ' Quite so. But it is all futile now, as I say.* 'Yes, you mentioned that before. — Well?' *// is zvelll I replied, dropping into a more meaning tone. THE SEN'IKNCK 391 good- frank. some many none t now " Pur- crccp- layful, t now ; ^ou — I lie day y, ' you pt my i\v that harle- t suited ay/ I more I 'You say it patrlarchally, but yet flatteringly.' Here she casually offi red me a fl(j\vcr. I m( chan- ically placed it in my buttonhole. She seemed delighted at confusing me. Ikit I kept on fnmly. * I do not think,' I rejoined gravely now, ' that there need be any flattery between us.' ' Why ? — We are not married.* 'That is as radically true as it is epigrammatic/ blurted I. 'And truth is more than epigram?' ' One should delight in truth ; I do delight in epi- gram ; there seems little chance for choice here.' It seemed to me that I had said quite vhat I wished there, but she only looked at me enigmatically. She arranged a flower in her dress as she almost idly replied, though she did not look me full in the face as she had done before, — * Well, then, let me add to your present delight by sa\ ing that you may go play till doomsda)'. Dr. Marmion. Your work is done.' * I do not understand.' Her eyes were on me now with the directness she could so well use at need. * I did not suppose you would, despite your many lessons at my hands. You have been altruistic. Dr. Marmion ; I fear, critical people would say 392 MRS. FALCHION '. : i I that you meddled. I shall only say that you are inquiring — scientific, or feminine — what you please! . . . You can now yield up your portfolio of — - foreign affairs — of war — shall I say ? and retire into sedative habitations, which, believe me, you become best. . . . What concerns me need concern you no longer. The enemy retreats. She offers truce — without conditions. She retires. . . . Is that enough for even you, Professor Marmion ? ' * Mrs. Falchion,' I said, finding it imiisossible to understand why she had so suddenly determined to go away (for I did not know all the truth until afterwards — some of it long afterwards), *it is more than I dared to hope for, though less, I know, than you have heart to do if you willed so. I know that you hold some power over my friend.' ' Do not think,' she said, 'that you have had the least influence. What you might think, or may have intended to do, has not moved me in the least. I have had wrongs that you do not know. I have changed, — that is all. I admit I intended to do Gait Roscoe harm. I thought he deserved it. That is over. After to-night, it is not probable that we shall meet again. I hope that we shall not ; as, doubtless, is your own mind.' She kept looking at me with that new deep look which I had seen when she first entered the room. THE SENTENCE 393 you are I please! io of — • d retire Tie, you concern e offers . Is that jsible to ermined ith until is more )w, than I know had the or may e in the Dt know, ntended deserved probable liall not ; eep look e room. I was moved, and I saw that just at the last she had spoken under considerable strain. * Mrs. Falchion,' said I, ' 1 have thought harder things of you than I ever said to any one. Pray believe that, and believe, also, that I never tried to injure you. For the rest, I can make no complaint. You do not like me. I liked you once, and do now, when you do not depreciate yourself of purpose. . . . Pardon me, but I say this very humbly too. ... I suppose I always shall like you, in spite of myself You are one of the most gifted and fascinating women that I ever met. I have been anxious for my friend. I was concerned to make peace between you and your husband ' * The man who was my husband,' she interrupted musingly. *Your husband — whom you so cruelly treated. But I confess 1 have found it impossible to with- hold admiration of you.' For a long time she did not reply, but she never took her eyes off my face, as she leaned slightly forward. Then at last she spoke more gently than I had ever heard her, and a glow came upon her face. * I am only human. You have me at advantage. What woman could reply unkindly to a speech like that ? I admit I thought you held me utterly ».? ^ h t MBM w 394 MRS. FAT.CIIION 111 sH i.t [I, ■ «:i ;''; i II bad and heartless, and it made me bitter. ... I had no heart — once. I had only a wrong, an injury, which was in my mind ; not mine, but another's, and yet mine. Then stranye thini^s occurred. . . . At last I relented. I saw that I had better go. Yesterday I saw that ; and I am going — that is all. ... I wished to keep the edge of my intercourse with you sharp and uncompanionable to the end ; but you have forced me at my weakest point. . . .* Here she smiled somewhat painfully. . . . 'Believe me, that is the way to turn a woman's weapon upon herself. You have learned much since we first met. . . . Here is my hand in friendliness, if you care to take it ; and in good-bye, should we not meet again more formally before I go.' ' I wish now that your husband, Boyd Madras, were here,* I said. She answered nothing, but she did not resent it, only shuddered a little. Our hands grasped silently. I was too choked to speak, and I left her. At that moment she blinded me to all her faults. She was a wonderful woman. • . . « . • • Gait Roscoe had walked slowly along the forest - road towards the valley, his mind in that state of calm which, in some, might be thought THE sentp:nce 395 . . I had m injury, another's, irred. . . . Dctter go. that is all. itercourse the end ; oint. . . .* . 'Believe ipon upon 2 we first ess, if you Id we not d Madras, t resent it, DO choked )ment she wonderful along the nd in that )e thought numbness of sensation, in others fortitude — the prerogative of despair. He came to the point of land jutting out over the valley, where he had stood with Mrs. Falchion, Justine, and myself, on the morning of Phil Boldrick's death. He looked for a long time, and then, slowly descending the hillside, made his way to Mr. Devlin's office. He found Phil's pal awaiting him there. After a few preliminaries, the money was paid over, and Kilby said ; 'I've been to see his camping -ground. It's right enough. Viking has done it noble. . . . Now, here's what I'm goin' to do : I'm goin' to open bottles for all that'll drink success to Viking. A place that's stood by my pal, I stand by, — but not with his money, mind you ! No, that goes to you, Padre, for hospital purposes. My gift an* his. . . . So, sit down and write a receipt, or whatever it's called, accordin' to Hoyle, and you'll do me proud.* Roscoe did as he requested, and handed the money over to Mr. Devlin for safe keeping, remark- ing, at the same time, that the matter should be announced on a bulletin outside the office at once. As Kilby stood chewing the end of a cigar and listening to the brief conversation between Roscoe 39^ MRS. FALCHION •, > l:^] and Mr. Devlin, perplexity crossed his face. He said, as Roscoe turned round : * There's somethin<^ catchy about your voice, Padre. I don't know what ; but it's familiar like. You never was on the Panama level, of course ? ' ' Never.' 'Nor in Australia? ' 'Yes, in 1876.' ' I wasn't there then.* Roscoe grew a shade paler, but he v/as firm and composed. He was determined to answer truth- fully any question that was asked him, wherever it might lead. 'Nor in Samoa?* There was the slightest pause, and then the reply came : ' Yes, in Samoa.' ' Not a missionary, by gracious ! Not a iiiickon- aree in Samoa?' ' No.' He said nothing further. He did not feel bound to incriminate himself 'No? Well you wasn't a beachcomber, nor trader, I'll swear. Was you there in the last half of the Seventies? — That's when I was there.' ' Yes.' The reply was quiet. * By Jingo ! ' The man's face was puzzled. He was about to speak again ; but at that moment i face. He 1 something don't know ver was on ^as firm and iswer truth- whcrever it d then the )t a mickon- did not feel :omber, nor the last half there.' luzzled. He hat moment THE SENTEXCR 397 two rivcr-dri\cr- — boon companions, who had been hanging about the door — urged him to conic to the tavern. This distracted him. He laughed, and said that he was coming, and then again, though with less persistency, questioned Roscoe. * You don't remember me, I suppose? ' ' No, I never saw you, so far as I know, until yesterday.* *No? Still, I've heard your voice. It keeps swingin' in my ears; and I can't rcme ber. ... I can't remember! . . . Rut we'll have a spin about it again, Padre.' He turned to the impatient men. 'AH right, bully-boys, I'm comin'.' At the door he turned and looked a!zain at Roscoe with a sharp, half-amused scrutiny, then the two parted. Kilby kept his word. He was liberal to Viking ; and Phil's memory was drunk, not in silence, many times that day. So that when, in the afternoon, he made up his mind to keep his engagement with Mrs. Falchion, and left the valley for the hills, he was not entirely sober. But he was apparently good-natured. As he idled along he talked to himself, and finally broke out into singing: — **'Then swing the long Ix'at clown the drink, For the lads as pipe to go ; But I sink when the Lorc/y Jane does sink, To the mermaids down below." N I f t 398 MRS. FALCHION ' "The long boat bides on its strings," says we, "An' we bides where the lonj^ boat bides; An' we'll bluff this ecjuaturial sea, Or swallow its hurricane tides," 'Jiut the Lovely Jane she didn't go down, An* she anchored at the Spicy Isles ; An' she sailed again to Wellington Town— A matter of a thousand miles.' It will be remembered that this is part of the song sung by Gait P.oscoe on the Whi-Whi River, the day we rescued Mrs. Falchion and Justine Caron. Kilby sang the whole song over to himself until he reached a point overlooking the valley. Then he stood silent for a time, his glance upon the town. The walk had sobered him a little. * Phil, old pal,' he said at last, ' you ain't got the taste of raw whisky with you now. When a man loses a pal he loses a grip on the world equal to all that pal's grip was worth. . . . I'm drunk, and Phil's down there among the worms — among the worms 1 . . . Ah ! * he added in disgust, and, dash- ing his hand across his eyes, struck off into the woods again, making his way to the summer hotel, where he had promised to meet Mrs. Falchion. He inquired for her, creating some astonishment by his uncouth appearance and unsteaoy manner. He learned from Justine that Mrs. Falchion had gone to see Roscoe, and that he would probably THE SENTKNCK 399 rs we, es; art of the A^hi River, id Justine to himself the valley, ance upon m a little. I't got the ben a man d equal to drunk, and among the and, dash- ifif into the nmer hotel, :hion. He nent by his er. dchion had d probably meet her if he went that way. This he did. He was just about to issue into a partly open space by a ravine near the house, when he heard voices, and his own name mentioned. He stilled and listened. ' Yes, Gait Roscoe,' said a voice, ' Sam Kilby is the man that loved Alo — loved her not as you did. He would have given her a home, have made her happy, perhaps. You, when Kilby was away, married her — in native fashion! — which is no marriage — and ki//ed her.* * No, no, not killed her ! that is not so. As God is my Judge, that is not so.' * You did not kill her with the knife ? . . . Well, I will be honest now, and say that I believe that, whatever I may have hinted or said before. But you killed her just the same when you left her.' * Mercy Falchion,* he* said desperately, *I will not try to palliate my sin. But still I must set myself right with you in so far as I can. The very night Alo killed herself I had made up my mind to leave the navy. I was going to send in my papers, and come back to Apia, and marry her as Englishmen are married. While I remained in the navy I could not, as you know, marry her. It would be impossible to an English officer. I intended to come back and be regularly married to her.' 400 MRS. FALCHION i? In hi. mil i ' You say that now,' was the cold reply. ' But it is the truth, the truth indeed. Nothing that you might say could make me despise myself more than I do ; but I have told you all, as I shall have to tell it one day before a just God. You have spared me: He will not* *Galt Roscoe,' she replied,*! am not merciful, nor am I just. I intended to injure you, though you will remember I saved your life that night by giving you a boat for escape across the bay to the Porcupine^ which was then under way. The band en board, you also remember, was playing the music of La Grande Duchesse. You fired on the natives who followed. Well, Sam Kilby was with them. Your brother officers did not know the cause of the trouble. It was not known to any one in Apia exactly who it was that Kilby and the natives had tracked from Alo's hut.' He drew his hand across his forehead dazedly. 'Oh yes, I remember!' he said. *I would to God I had faced the matter there and then I It would have been better.' ' I doubt that,' she replied. 'The natives who saw you coming from Alo's hut did not know you. You wisely came straight to the Consul's office — my father's house. And I helped you, though Alo, half-caste Alo, was — my sister ! * THE SENTENCE 40 1 . Nothing pise myself 1, as I shall God. You 3t merciful, ^ou, though 1 at night by 2 bay to the The band playing the [ired on the by was with t know the 1 to any one by and the d dazedly. I would to d then! It natives who 3t know you. ul's office — you, though Roscoe started back. * Alo — your — sister ! ' he exclaimed in horror. * Yes, though I did not know it till afterwards, not till just before my father died. Alo's father was my father ; and her mother had been honestly married to my father by a missionary ; though, for my sake, it had never been made known. You remember, also, that you carried on your relations with Alo secretly, and my father never suspected it was you.* * Your sister ! * Roscoe was white and sick. * Yes. And now you understand my reason for wishing you ill, and for hating you to the end.* ' Yes,' he said despairingly, * I see.* She was determined to preserve before him the outer coldness of her nature to the last ' Let us reckon together,' she said. * I helped to — in fact, I saved your life at Apia. You helped to save my life at the Devil's Slide. That is balanced. You did me — the honour to say that you loved me once. Well, one of my race loved you. That is balanced also. My sister's death came through you. There is no balance to that What shall balance Alo's dcach? ... I leave you to think that over, it is worth thinking about I shall keep your secret too. Kilby does not know you. I doubt that he ever saw }■ •«,"» 403 MRS. FALCHION I: } \ ' f f said, he followed you with the natives that nij^ht in Apia. lie was t«) come to sec me to-day. I think I iiitenilcd to tell him all, and shift -the duty — of ])unishmcnt on his shoulders, which I do not tloubt he would fulfd. But he shall not know. Do not ask why. I have chan^jed my mind, that is all. lUit still the account remains a long one. You will have your lifetime to reckon with it, free from any interference on my part ; for, if I can helj) it, we shall never meet again in this world — never I . . . And now, good-b^e!' Without a gesture of farewell she turned and left him standing there, in misery and bitterness, but in a thankfulness too, more for Ruth's sake than his own. lie r.iiscd his arms with a desi)airing motion, thou let them drop heavily to his side. , . , And then two strong hands caught his throat, a body pressed hard against him, and he was borne backwards — backwards — to the cliff 1 t i that nit;ht to-(l.'iy. I -tlic duty I I do not not know, mind, that long one. I'ith it, free r, if I can lis world — led and left :crness, but sake than despairing s side. . . . his throat, i was borne CHAPTER XX. AI'TKK TIIK STOKM. T WAS sliilnrr on the verandah, writing a letter ^ to Belle Trchcrne. The substantial peace of a mountain evening was on mc. The air was clear, and full of the scent of the pines and cedars, and the rumble of the rapids came musically down the cailon. I lifted my head and saw an eagle .sailing away to the snow -topped peak of Trinity, and then turned to watch the orioles in the trees. The hour was delightful. It made me feel how grave mere living is, how noble even the meanest of us becomes sometimes — in those big moments when we think the world was built for us. It is half egotism, half divinity ; but why quarrel with it ? I was young, ambitious ; and Love and I were at that moment the only figures in the universe really deserving attention! I looked on down a lane of cedars before me, seeing in imagination a long procession of pleasant thin-s ; of Ai 403 IN 'I If m 404 MRS. FALCHION f - i i i t ' I ! I looked, another procession moved through the creatures of my dreams, so that they shrank away timidly, then utterly, and this new procession came on and on, until — I suddenly rose, and started forward fearfully, to see — unhappy reality! — the body of Gait Roscoe carried towards me. Then a cold wind seemed to blow from the glacier above, and killed all the summer. A man whispered to mc: * We found him at the bottom of the ravine yonder. Ile'd fallen over, I suppose.' I felt his heart. 'He is not dead,' I said. •Thank God!' *No, sir,' said the other, 'but he's all smashed.* They brought him in and laid him on his bed. I sent one of the party for the doctor at Viking, and mysc'r sot to work, with wiiat appliances I had, to deal with the dreadful injuries. When the doctor came, together we made him into the sem- blance of a man again. His face was but slightly injured, though his head had received severe hurts. I tliink that I alone saw the marks on his throat ; and I hid them. I guessed the cause, but held my jjeace. I had sent round at once to James Devlin (but asked him not to come till morning), and also to Mrs. Falchion ; but I begged her not to come at all. I might have spared her that ; for, as I after- AFl'ER Till:: STORM 405 •oiigVi the ank away sion came id started lity !— the from the r. A man :he bottom I suppose.' id,' 1 said. smashed.* on his bed. r at Viking, ippliances I When the nto the sem- but slightly severe hurts, n his throat ; , but held my s Devlin (but ), and also to )t to come at for, as I after- i wards knew, she had no intention of coming. She had learned of the accident on her way to Viking, and had turned back ; but only to wait and know the worst or the best. About midnight I was left alone with Roscoc. Once, earlier in the evening, he had recognised me and smiled faintly, but I had shaken my head, and he had said nothing. Now, however, he was looking at me earnestly. I did not speak. What he had to tell me was best told in his own time. At last he said faintly, — ' Marrnion, shall I die soon ? ' I knew that frankness was best, and I replied : ' I can not tell, Roscoe. There is a chance of your living.' He moved his head sadly. ' A very faint chance ? * ' Yes, a faint one, but * 'Yes? "But".^' He looked at me as though he wished it over. 'But it rests with you whether the chance is worth anything. If you are content to die, it is gone.' * I am content to die,' he replied. 'And there,' said I, 'you are wrong and selfish. You have Ruth to live for. Besides, if you are 4o6 MRS. FALCHION m given the chance, you commit suicide if you do not take it* There was a long pause, and then he said : * You are right ; I will live if I can, Marmion.' ' And now fou are right* I nodded soothingly to him, and then asked him to talk no more ; for I knew that fever would soon come on. He lay for a moment silent, but at length whispered : * Did you know it was not a fall I had ?' He raised his chin, and stretched his throat slightly, with a kind of trembling. * I thought it was not a fall,' I replied. ' It was Phil's pal— Kilby.' * I thought that* 'How could you — think it? Did — others — think — so?' he asked anxiously. ' No, not others ; I alone. They thought it accident; they could have no ground for suspicion. But I had ; and, besides, there were marks on your throat' * Nothing must happen to him, you understand. He had been drinking, and — and he was justi- fied. I wronged him in Samoa, him and Mrs. Falchion.' I nodded and put my fingers on my lips. Again there was silence. I sat and watched him, his eyes closed, his body was motionless. He AFTER THE STORM 407 ; if you do said : ' You i soothingly D more ; for t at length not a fall I ed his throat :d. 1 — others — thought it or suspicion, arks on your understand, e was justi- m and Mrs. lips, .nd witched ioniess. He slept for hours so, and then he waked rather sharply, and said half deliriously, — * I could have dragged him with me, Marmion.' 'But you did not. Yes, I understand. Go to sleep again, Roscoe.' Later on the fever came, and he moatied and moved his head about his pillow. He could not move his body, — it was too much injured. There was a source of fear in Kilby. Would he recklessly announce what he had done, and the cause of it? After thinking it over and over, I concluded that he would not disclose his crimes. My conclusions were right, as after events showed. As for Roscoe, I feared that if he lived he must go through life maimed. He had a private income ; therefore if he determined to work no more in the ministry, he would, at least, have the comforts of life. Ruth Devlin came. I went to Roscoe and told him that she wished to see him. He smiled sorrowfully and said : * To what end, Marmion ? I am a drifting wreck. It will only shock her.' I think he thought she would not love him now if he lived — a crippled man. * But is this noble ? Is it just to her ? ' said I. After a long time he answered : 'You are right again, quite right. I am selfibh. When one is I 408 MRS. FALCHION shaking between life and death, one thinks most of one's self.* * She will help to bring you back from those places, Roscoe/ ' If I am delirious ever, do not let her come, will you, Marmiun ? Promise me that' I pro- mised. I went to her. She was very calii and womanly. She entered the room, went quietly to his bedside, and, sitting down, took his hand. Her smile was pitiful and anxious, but her words were brave. * Gait, dear,' she said, * I am sorry. But you will soon be well, so we must be as patient and cheerful as we can.* His eyes answered, but he did not speak. She leaned over and kissed his check. Then he said : ' I hope I may get well.* * This was the shadow over you,' she ventured. ' This was your presentiment of trouble — this accident.* ' Yes, this was the shadow.' Some sharp thought seemed to move her, for her eyes grew suddenly hard, and she stooped and whispered : ' Was she there — when — it happened, Gait?' He shrank from the question, but he said immediately, — ' No, she was not there.' AFTER THE STORM 409 ks most of rom those her come, it.* I pro- l womanly, lis bedside, smile was brave. But you )atient and 3eak. She n he said : I ventured, ible — this ve her, for ooped and happened, t he said ' I am glad,' she added, * that it was only an accident.' Her eyes grew clear of their momentary hard- ness. There is nothing in life like the anger of one woman against another concerning a man. Justin'j Caron came to the house, pale and anxious, to inquire. Mrs. Falchion, she said, was not going away until she knew how Mr. Roscoe's illness would turn. 'Miss Caron,' I said to her, 'do you not think it better that she should go?' * Yes, for him ; but she grieves now.' ' For him ? ' ' Not alone for him,' was the reply. There was a pause, and then she continued : ' Madame told me to say to you that she did not wish Mr. Roscoe to know that she was still here.' I assured her that I understood, and then she added mournfully: 'I cannot help you now, monsieur, as I did on board the Fulvia. But he will be better cared for in Miss Devlin's hands, the poor lady ! . . . Do you think that he will live?' * I hope so. I am not sure ' Her eyes went to tears; and then I tried to speak more encourag-'igly. All day people came to inquire; chief amon^ 410 MRS FAT.CHION ' i them Mr. Devlin, whose big heart split itself in humanity and compassion. 'The price of the big mill for the guarantee of his lifel* he said over and over again. * We can't afford to let him go.' Although I should have been on my way back to Toronto, I determined to stay until Roscoe was entirely out of danger. It was singular, but in this illness, though the fever was high, he never was delirious. It would almost seem as if, having paid his penalty, the brain was at rest. While Roscoe hovered between life and death, Mr. Devlin, who persisted that he would not die, was planning for a new hospital and a new church, of which Roscoe should be president and padre respectively. But the suspense to us all, for many days, was very great; until, one morning when the birds were waking the cedars, and the snow on Mount Trinity was flashing coolness down the hot valley, he waked and said to me: 'Marmion, old friend, it is morning at last.' 'Yes, it is morning,' said I. 'And you are going to live now? You are going to be reasonable and give the earth another chance ? * ' Yes, I believe I shall live now.' To cheer him, I told him what Mr. Devlin intended and had planned ; how river-drivers and salmon-fishers came every day from the valley to it itself in of the big said over him go.' way back Loscoe was ar, but in , he never ; if, having ind death, d not die, 2w church, md padre for many when the snow on n the hot mion, old are going nable and r. Devlin vers and valley to AFTER THE STORM 411 inquire after him. I did not tell him that there had been one or two disturbances between the river-drivers and the salmon-fishers. I tried to let him see that there need be no fresh change in his life. At length he interrupted me. 'Marmion,' he said, 'I understand what you mean. It would be cowardly of me to leave here now if I were a whole man. I am true in intention, God knows, but I must carry a crippled arm for the rest of my life, must I not ? . . . and a crippled Padre is not the kind of man for this place. They want men straight on their feet' 'Do you think,' I answered, 'that they will not be able to stand the test? You gave them — shall I say it ? — a crippled mind before ; you give them a crippled body now. Well, where do you think the odds lie? I should fancy with you as you are.* There was a long silence in which neither of us moved. At last he turned his face towards the window, and not looking at me, said lingeringly : ' This is a pleasant place.* I knew that he would remain. I had not seen Mrs. Falchion during Roscoe's illness ; but every day Justine came and inquired, or a messenger was sent. And when, this fortunate day, Justine herself came, and I told her that the 412 MRS. FALCHION crisis was past, she seemed infinitely relieved and happy. Then she said : 'Madame has been ill these three days, also; but now I think she will be better ; and we shall go soon.' * Ask her,' said I, ' not to go yet for a few days. Press it as a favour to me.* Then, on second thought, I sat down and wrote Mrs. Falchion a note, hinting that there were grave reasons why she should stay a little longer: things connected with her own happiness. Truth is, I had received a note that morning which had excited me. It referred to Mrs. Falchion. For I was an arch- plotter — or had been. I received a note in reply which said that she would do as I wished. Meanwhile I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of some one. That night a letter came to Roscoe. After reading it shrinkingly he handed it to me. It said briefly :— * I'm not sorry I did it, but I'm glad I hevn't killed you. I was drunk and mad. If I hadn't hurt you, I'd never hev forgive myself. I reckon now, there's no need to do any forgivin* either side. We're square — though maybe you didn't kill her after all. Mrs, Falchion says you didn't. But you hurt her. Well, I've hurt you. And you will never hear no more of Phil's pal from Danger Mountain.' Immediately after sunset of this night, a storm [ieved and ays, also; d we shall few days. 3n second 'alchion a isons why connected d received d me. It an arch- 1 that she anxiously e. After It said you. I was rgive myself, either side. :r all. Mrs. 've hurt you. rom Danger , a storm AFTER THE STORM 413 swept suddenly down the mountains, and prevented Ruth and her father from going to Viking. I left them talking to Roscoe, he wearing such a look on his face as I like to remember now, free from distress of mind — so much more painful than dis- tress of body. As I was leaving the room, I looked back and saw Ruth sitting on a stool beside Roscoe's chair, holding the unmaimcd hand in hers ; the father's face shining with pleasure and pride. Before I went out, I turned again to look at them, and, as I did so, my eye fell on the window against which the wind and rain were beating. And through the wet there appeared a face, shocking in its paleness and misery — the face of Mrs. Falchion. Only for an instant, and then it v/as gone. I opened the door and went out upon the verandah. As I did so, there was a flash of light- ning, and in that flash a figure hurried by me. One moment, and there was another flash ; and I saw the figure in the beating rain, making towards the precipice. Then I heard a cry, not loud, but full of entreaty and sorrow. I moved quickly towards it. In another white gleam I saw Justine with her arms about the figure, holding it back from the abyss. She said with incredible pleading: i 1 • 1 '-: <•' ^ 4'4 MRS. FALCHION * No, no, madame ! not that ! It is wicked — wicked ! ' I came and stood beside them. The figure sank upon the ground, and buried a pitiful face in the wet grass. Justine leaned over her. She sobbed as one whose harvest of the past is all tears. Nothing human could comfort her yet. I think she did not know tliat I was there. Justine lifted her face to me, appealing. I turned and stole silently away. m I ■ r I ; wicked — d buried a the past Is rt her yet. was there. CHAPTER XXI. IN PORT. THAT night 1 could not rest. It was impos- sible to rid myself of the picture of Mrs. Falchion as I had seen her by the precipice in the storm. What I had dared to hope for had come. She had been awakened ; and with the awakening had risen a new understahding of her own life and the lives of others. The storm of wind and rain that had swept down the ravine was not wilder than her passions when I left her with Justine in the dark night. All had gone well where the worst might have been. Roscoe's happiness was saved to him. He felt that the accident to him was the penalty he paid for the error of his past : but in the crash of penalties Mrs. Falchion, too, was suffering; and, so far as she knew, must carry with her the re- morse of having seen, without mercy, her husband sink to a suicide's grave. I knew that she was 416 1 )i a mil 4i<^ MRS. FALCHION pa)'Ing a jTrcat price now for a mistaken past. I wislicd that I mi^ht make her remorse and sorrow less. There was a way, but I was not sure that all would be as I wished. Since a certain dread- ful day on the Fulvia, Hungerford and I had held a secret in our hands. Wiien it sremed that Mrs. Falchion would brin^^ a great trouble and shame into Roscoe's life, I determined to use the secret. It must be used now only for Mrs. Falchion's good. As I said in the last chapter, I had received word that somebody was coming whose presence must take a large place in the drama of these events: and I hoped the best. Until morning I lay and planned the best way to bring things to a successful issue. The morn- ing came — beautiful after a mad night. Soon after I got up I received a note, brought by a boy from Viking, which gave me a thrill of excitement. The note requested me to go to Sunburst. But first I sent a note to Mrs. Falchion, begging her in the name of our new friendship not to leave the mountains that day. I also asked that she would meet me in Sunburst that evening at eight o'clock, at a place indicated by me. I asked for a reply by the messenger I sent, and urged her to ask no questions, but to trust me as one who only wished to do her a great service, as I hoped her comph- cen past 1 i and sorrow ot sure that ^rtain dread- ed I had held icd that Mrs. e and shame 3e the secret. Ichion's good, received word presence must these events: the best way The morn- it. Soon after ht by a boy of excitement, unburst. But n, begging her lot to leave the that she would ,t eight o'clock, eel for a reply her to ask no ho only wished ed her comph- IN PORT 417 aiice would make possible. I waited for the reply, and it bore but the one word — * Yes.' Greatly pleased, I started do'vn the valley. It was still early when I readied Sunburst. I went directly to the little tavern from whence tiic note liad come, and remained an hour or more. The result of that hour's conversation with the writer of the note was memorable, as was the hour itself. I began to hope fondly for the success of my scheme. From the tavern I went to the village, with an elation hardly disturbed by the fact that many of the salmon-fishers were sullen, because of foolish depredations committed the evening before by idle river-men and mill-hands of Viking. Had I not been so occupied with Mrs. Falchion and an event wherein she must figure, I should have taken more seriously the muttcrings of the half-breeds, the moroseness of the Indians, and the nervous thrcatenings of the white fishers : the more so because; I knew that Mr. Devlin had started early that morning for the Pacific Coast, and would not be back for some days. No two classes of people could be more unlike than the salmon-fishers of Sunburst and the mill- hands and river-drivers of Viking. The life of the river-men was exciting, hardy, and perilous; tending to boisterousness, recklessness, daring, and wild I ^^ 4i3 MRS. FALCHION humour: that of the sahiion-fishers was cheerful, picturesque, infrequently dangerous, mostly simple and quiet. The river -driver chose to spend his idle hours in crude, rough sprightliness : the salmon- fisher loved to lie upon the shore and listen to the village story-teller, — almost official when success- ful, — who played upon the credulity and imagination of his listeners. The river-driver loved excitement for its own sake, and behind his boisterousness there was little evil. When the salmon-fisher was roused, his anger became desperately serious. It was not his practice to be boisterous for the sake of boisterousness. All this worked for a crisis. From Sunburst I went over to Viking, and for a time watched a handful of river-drivers upon a little island in the centre of the river, working to loosen some logs and timber and foist them into the water, to be driven down to the mill. I stood interested, because I had nothing to do of any moment for a couple of hours. I asked an Indian on the bank to take his canoe and paddle me over to the island. He did so. I do not know why I did not go alone ; but the Indian was near me, his canoe was at his hand, and I did the thing almost mechanically. I landed on the island and watched with great interest the men as they pried, twisted, iiN PORT 419 5 cheerful, itly simple spend hi*^ he salmon- sten to the jn succcss- maginatton excitement sterousness i-fisher was serious. It for the sake ing, and for ^ers upon a working to ,t them into ill. I stood do of any d an Indian Idle me over know why I near me, his hinci almost and watched ied, twisted, I and tumbled the pile to j^ot at the kcy-loj; which, found and loosened, would send the heap into the water. I was sorry I brought the Indian with me, for though the river-drivers stopped their wild sing- song cry for a moment to call a 'I low!' at me, they presently began to toss jeering words at the Indian. They had recognised him — 1 had not — as a salmon-fisher and one of the Siwash tribe from Sunburst. lie remained perfectly silent, but I could see sullenness growing on his face. He appeared to take no notice of his scornful enter- tainers, but, instead of edging away, came nearer and nearer to the tangle of logs — came, indeed, very close to me, as I stood watching four or five men, with the foreman close by, working at a huge timber. At a certain moment the foreman was in a kind of hollow. Just behind him, near to the Indian, was a great log, Vvhich, if loosened by a slight impulse, must fall into the hollow where the foreman stood. The foreman had his face to us; the backs of the other men were on us. Suddenly the foreman gave a frightened cry, and I saw at the same instant the Indian's foot thrust out upon the big log. Before the foreman had time to get out of the hollow, it slid down, caught him just above the ankle and broke the leg. 420 MRS. FALCHION ■:H m I wheeled, to see the Indian in his canoe making for the shore. He was followed by the curses of the foreman and the gang. The foreman was very quiet, but I could see that there was danger in his eye, and the exclamations of the men satisfied me that they were planning an intermunicipal difficulty. I improvised bandages, set the leg directly, and in a little while we got to the shore on a hastily - constructed raft. After seeing the foreman safely cared for, and giving Mr. Devlin's manager the facts of the occurrence, more than sated with my morning's experience, I climbed the mountain-side, and took refuge from the heat in the coolness of Roscoe's rooms. In the afternoon I received a note from Mrs. Falchion, saying that on the following day she would start for the coast ; that her luggage would be taken to Sunburst at once ; and that, her engage- ment with me fulfilled, she would spend a night there, not returning again to the hills. I was preparing for my own departure, and was kept very busy until evening. Then I went quickly down into the valley, — for I was late, — and trudged eagerly on to Sunburst. As I neared the village I saw that there were fewer lights — torches and fires — than usual on the river. I IN PORT ; making :urses of was very anger in I satisfied municipal ectly, and a hastily - fian safely inager the i with my intain-side, ;oolness of from Mrs. day she age would ler engage- nd a night Is. I was was kept nt quickly late, — and s I neared VQY lights — le river. 1 421 noticed also that there were very few fishers on the banks or in the river. But still the village seemed noisy, and, although it was dusk, I could make out much stir in the one street along which the cottages and huts ambled for nearly a mile. All at once it came to me strongly that the friction between the two villages had consummated in the foreman's injury, and was here coming to a painful crisis. My suspicions had good grounds. As I hurried on I saw that the lights usually set on the banks of the river were scattered through the town. Bonfires were being lighted, and torches were flaring in front of the Indian huts. Coming closer, I saw excited groups of Indians, half-breeds, and white men moving here and there ; and then, all at once, there came a cry — a kind of roar — from farther up the village, and the men gathered them- selves together, sf i;.ing guns, sticks, irons, and other weapons, and ran up the street. I understood. I was moderately swift of foot those days. I came quickly after them, and passed them. As I did so I inquired of one or two fishers what was the trouble. They told me, as I had guessed, that they expected an attack on the village by the mill-hands and river-drivers of Viking. The situation was critical. I could foresee a catastrophe which v/ould tor ever unsettle the two V ' I' f li ' ixr 422 MRS. FALCHION :| :jr I'M 1 ' ) IL^ i towns, and give the valley an unenviable reputa- tion. I was certain that, if Roscoe or Mr. Devlin were present, a prohibitive influence could be brought to bear ; that some one of strong will could stand, as it were, in the gap between them, and prevent a pitched battle, and, possibly, blood- shed. I was sure that at Viking the river drivers had laid their plans so secretly that the news of them would scarcely reach the ears of the manager of the mill, and that, therefore, his influence, as Mr. Devlin's, would not be available. Remained only myself — as I first thought. I was unknown to a great number of the men of both villages, and familiar with but very few, — chiefly those with whom I had a gossiping ac- quaintance. Yet, somehow, I felt that if I could but get a half-dozen men to take a firm stand with me, I might hold the rioters in check. As I ran by the side of the excitable fishers, I urged upon one or two of them the wisdom and duty of preventing a conflict. Their reply was — and it was very convincing — that they were not forcing a struggle, but were being attacked, and in the case would fight. My hasty persuasion pro- duced but little result. But I kept thinking hard. Suddenly it came to me that I could place my hand upon a man whose instincts in the matter IN roRT 423 le reputa- Ir. Devlin could be ;rong will 2cri them, »ly, blood- ier-drivers 2 news of i manager ice, as Mr. lought. I le men of :ry few, — siping ac- if I could btand with I fishers, I isdom and jply was — ' were not ;ed, and in asion pro- king hard, place my the matter would be the same as mine ; who had authority ; knew the world ; had been in dangerous positions in his lifetime ; and owed ine something. I was sure that I could depend upon him : the more so that once frail of body he had developed into a strong, well-controlled man. Even as I thought of him, I was within a few rods of the house where he was. I looked, and saw him standing in the doorway. I ran and called to him. He instantly joined me, and we ran on together: the fishermen shouting loudly as they watched the river-drivers come armed down the hill-slope into the village. I hastily explained the situation to my friend^ and told him what we must do. A word or two assured me of all I wished to know. We reached the scene of the disorder. The fishermen were bunched together, the river on the one side, the houses and hills on the other. The river-drivers had halted not many yards away, cool, determined and quiet, save for a little muttering. In their red shirts, top boots, many of them with long black hair and brass earrings, they looked a most for- midable crowd. They had evidently taken the matter seriously, and were come with the intention of carrying their point, whatever it might be. Just as we reached the space between the two parties, 11- 'If' II ;^ I 424 MRS. FALCHION the massive leader of the river-drivers stepped for- ward, and in a rough but collected voice said that they had come determined to fight, if fighting were necessary, but that they knew what the end of the conflict would be, and they did not wish to obliter- ate Sunburst entirely if Sunburst accepted the conditions of peace. There seemed no leader to the fishermen. My friend said to me quickly, — 'You speak first.' Instantly I stepped forward and demanded to know what the terms of peace were. As soon as I did so, there were harsh mutterings among the river-drivers. I explained at once, waving back some of the fishermen who were clamouring about me, that I had nothing whatever to do with the quarrel • that I happened to be where I was by accident, as I had happened by accident to see the difficulty of the morning. But I said that it was the duty of every man who was a good citizen and respected the laws ^ f his country, to see, in so far as it was possible, that there should be no breach of those laws. I spoke in a clear strong voice, and I think I produced some effect upon both parties to the quarrel. The reply of the leader was almost immediate. He said that all they demanded was the Indian who had so treacherously injured the foreman of their gangs. I saw the position at 3nce, IN PORT 425 ;ppcd for- 2 said that hting were end of the to oblitcr- :epted the len. speak first.' manded to .s soon as I among the aving back uring about lo with the e I was by t to see the that it was citizen and se, in so far J no breach g voice, and th parties to was almost nanded was injured the tion at once, and was dumfounded. For a moment I did not speak. I was not prepared for the scene that im- mediately followed. Some one broke through the crowd at my back, rushed past rne, and stood between the two forces. It was the Indian who had injured the foreman. He was naked ^o the waist, and painted and feathered after the manner of his tribe going to battle. There was a wild Hglit in his eye, but he had no weapon. He folded his arms across his breast, and said : 'Well, you want me. Here I am. I will fight with any man all alone, without a gun or arrow or anything. I will fight with my arms — to kill.' I saw revolvers raised at him instantly, but at that the man, my friend, who stood beside me, sprang in front of the Indian. * Stop ! stop ! ' he said. * In the name of the law I I am a sergeant of the mounted police of Canada. My jurisdiction extends from Winnipeg to Vancouver. You cannot have this man except over my body : and for my body every one of you will pay with your lives ; for every blow struck this night, there will be a hundred blows struck upon the river-drivers and mill-hands of this valley. Beware ! Behind me is the law of the land — her police and her soldiery.' 'i:''Ui''Mi. .;'i !' if i .1 I:; I'm 426 MRS. FALCHION He paused. There was almost complete silence. He continued : 'This man is my prisoner; I arrest him.* — He put his hand upon the Indian's shoulder. — ' For the crime he committed this morning he shall pay : but to the law, not to you. Put up your revolvers, men. Go back to Viking. Don't risk your lives ; don't break the law and make yourselves criminals and outlaws. Is it worth it? Be men. You have been the aggressors. There isn't one of you but feels that justice which is the boast of every man of the West. You wanted to avenge the crime of this morning. But the vengeance is the law's. — Stand back! — Stand back !' he said, and drew his revolver, as the leader of the river-drivers stepped forward. * I will kill the first man that tries to lay his hand upon my prisoner. Don't be mad. I am not one man, I am a whole country.' I shall never forget the thrill that passed through me as I saw a man who, but a handful of months before was neck deep in his grave, now blossomed out into a strong, defiant soldier. There was a pause. At last the leader of the river-drivers spoke. * See,' he said, * Sergeant, I guess you're right. You're a man, so help me God ! Say, boys,' he continued, turning to his followers, ' let him have the Injin. I guess he 's earned him.' IN PORT 427 Icte silence. him.'— He . — * For the ill pay : but olvers, men. lives ; don't minals and You have of you but " every man he crime of the law's. — nd drew his ^ers stepped tries to lay mad. I am Tdt passed I handful of grave, now dicr. ader of the Sergeant, I jlp me God ! is followers, larned him.* So sa}ing he wheeled, the men with him, and they tramped up the slope cigain on ihcir way back to Viking. The man who had achieved this turned upon the fishers. 'Back to your homes!' he said. 'Be tliankful that blood was not shed here to-night, and let this be a lesson to you. Now, go ! ' The crowd turrcd, slowly shambled down the river-side, and left us three standing there. But not alone. Out of the shadow of one of the houses came two women. They stepped forward into the light of the bonfire burning near us. One of the women was very pale. It was Mrs. Falchion. I touched the arm of the man standing beside me. I le wheeled and saw her also. A cry broke from his lips, but he stood still. A whole life-time of sorrow, trouble, and love looked out of his eyes. Mrs. Falchion came nearer. Clasping her hands upon her breast, she peered up into his face, and gasped ; *0h — oh — I thought that you were drowned — and dead 1 I saw you buried in the sea. No — no — it cannot be you ! — I have heard and seen all within these past few minutes. Von are so strong and brave, so great a man ! . . . Oh, tell me, tell me, and save me from the horror of my remorse and shame : are you my husband ? ' ^ 428 MRS. FALCHION ':;) I ' ! mw ■ He spoke. * I was your husband, Mercy Falchion. I was drowned, but this man ' — he turned and touched my shoulder — * this man brought me back to life. I wanted to be dead to the world. I begged him to Keep my secret. A sailor's corpse was buried in my shroud, and I lived. At Aden I stole from the boat in the night. I came to America — to Canada — to begin a new life under a new name, never to see you again. . . . Do not, do not speak to me — unless I am not to lose you again ; unless I am to know that now you forgive me — that you forgive me — and wish me to live — my wife ! ' She put both her hands out, a strange sorrowful look in her eyes, and said : ' I have sinned — I harve sinned.' He took her hands in his. ' I know,' he said, * that you do not love me yet ; but you may some day.' * No,' she said. * I do not Ic/e you ; but ... I am glad you live. Let us — go home.' • A^ -\ ...i-": •.. » hion. I was and touched back to life. '. begged him ivas buried in tole from the I — to Canada name, never lot speak to lin ; unless I le— that you wife ! ' ige sorrowful med — I harve love me yet; but . , . . I