ll 
 
n, 
 
 1 
 

 
A Book of True Lovers 
 
A BOOK OF 
 TRUE LOVERS 
 
 ^OCTAVE THANET 
 
 NWYOSK. DOUBIEDAYd 
 
Copyright 1897, by Way & Williams. 
 Copyright 1 899, by Doubleday & McClure Co. 
 
Note 
 
 u The Strike at Glasscock s " was first 
 published in ^^North-western Miller, "The 
 Judgment on Mrs. Swift " and " The Court 
 of Last Resort," in Peterson s Magazine 
 (1893), "The Dilemma of Sir Guy the 
 Neuter," in Scribner s Magazine, "The 
 Ladder of Grief," in McClure s Magazine, 
 "Why Abbylonia Surrendered," in Har 
 per s Bazar, and "The Captured Dream," 
 in Harper s Magazine. 
 
 84030-5 
 
Nothing is sweeter than Love, nothing 
 
 stronger, nothing higher, 
 Nothing wider, nothing more pleasant, 
 Nothing fuller or better 
 In heaven or on earth. 
 
 Thomas a Kempis. 
 
To the Gentle Reader 
 
 Mine Unknown but Dearly Esteemed Friend: 
 
 It hath been a pleasure for me to gather into 
 this little volume a few stories regarding- the joys 
 and sorrows, the adventures and misadventures of 
 divers true lovers whom I have known, trusting 
 that such may be of profit and entertainment. 
 
 The lovers in the first tale, albeit of small 
 pretense to sentiment or to daintiness of living, 
 were, none the less, of assured faithfulness, and 
 fond of each other in their mute fashion. The hero 
 of the old world tale that followeth, did prefer his 
 honor to friendship and the strong movings of com 
 passion and even to love itself, yet seemeth to me, 
 nevertheless, a true lover. In the Judgment on 
 Mistress Swift are two lovers, one of whom was al 
 ways true, and the other found love only through 
 grief and shame, seeing first the false love, before 
 her soul recognized the true. While Abbylonia, as 
 the speech of the vulgar runneth, " didn t know 
 when she was well off," and mistook true love for 
 the feeble counterfeit that fails under the trials of 
 a common journey into the world; yet for her is 
 great excuse, since there is no lonelier lot, nor one 
 
fuller of gallsome toil and privation, than that of 
 the farmer s wife. There is no excuse for the weak 
 creature whose faithful wife appealed to the court 
 of last resort, but since she was satisfied with her 
 sorry bargain he is admitted to the company. 
 Whatever his faults, the man whose grief became 
 the ladder whereon he climbed to a higher and 
 more unselfish love, was a true lover. And the old 
 couple in " The Captured Dream " were the truest 
 lovers of all. If, my dear friend, you perceive that 
 the love herein depicted deals more with married 
 folks than with youths and maidens, may I humbly 
 suggest that as we should call no man happy until 
 he be dead, so likewise may we hesitate to call a 
 lover true until he hath been proved by marriage, 
 which is as a fire or an ireful acid, releasing all 
 the volatile and unsubstantial elements of love, 
 and leaving only the pure gold of the heart. 
 
 That so much of it remains in the marriages 
 of our Anglo-Saxon race is the happiest omen for 
 us as a people. 
 
 Having thus sketched the lovers in each tale, 
 it is for you to choose which you may care to read, 
 and for me to wish you all happiness in your own 
 loves, present and to come. 
 
 I am your most obedient, humble servant, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE STRIKE AT GLASSCOCK S 1 
 
 THE JUDGMENT ON MRS. SWIFT . 23 
 
 THE DILEMMA OF SIR GUY THE NEUTER 77 
 
 THE COURT OF LAST RESORT . 143 
 
 WHY ABBYLONIA SURRENDERED . 169 
 
 THE LADDER OF GRIEF . . . 219 
 
 THE CAPTURED DREAM . . . 259 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 Tis in vain to kick when a man is once fet 
 tered. Montaigne. 
 
 T F you call these arrangements primi- 
 1 tive," said my friend, the colonel, 
 flashing his white teeth through the lint- 
 dusted atmosphere of the cotton gin, and, 
 with one sweep of the arm, indicating the 
 three chambers of the mill cotton gin, 
 lumber mill and grist mill "if you are 
 moved to your very unnecessary and im 
 polite mirth by such little trifles as engines 
 running without a fence around them, I 
 wish you could have seen a mill I saw last 
 week." Then, being properly importuned, 
 he told me about it. 
 
 "I was riding through the bottom, after 
 some timber I wanted to look at, with a view 
 to selling, and somehow I lost my way. I 
 came out on a new clearing. I never had 
 seen it before, or the fence about the thrifty 
 garden, or the house of lumber, built tight, 
 
2 The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 and three-fourths painted, with a man on a 
 ladder, slapping- the yellow paint on the 
 battened walls; or the shed of a mill on the 
 river bank, under a great water oak. Not 
 a wisp of smoke drifted out of the rusty 
 stovepipe that was the mill chimney. There 
 wasn t a sound, either, except the calls of 
 the birds and the cheeping- of a crowd of 
 chickens in the front yard. 
 
 "I hailed the man, and he g-ot his neck 
 and one shoulder around far enoug-h to stare 
 at me. 
 
 " "That a mill ? says I. 
 
 " Used to be, yesterday/ says he. 
 
 " * Sell me some meal for my horse ? 
 
 " * No, sir. All out, and ain t runninV 
 
 " * What s the matter ? 
 
 " 4 Crew on a strike. 
 
 " What s the matter with them ? 
 
 "The man deliberately hooked his pail 
 over the ladder, and leisurely descended. 
 He was a long-, g-aunt old fellow, well griz 
 zled, and his tough old face was scored with 
 a network of wrinkles. His gray beard had 
 a close curl to it, as had his silky gray hair, 
 and his blue eyes twinkled in a half shrewd, 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s. 3 
 
 half humorous way that was rather prepos 
 sessing-. He was clean, too, which is a dis 
 tinction in some parts of this country. * Ob 
 stinate as the devil, I said to myself, but 
 most likely honest, and knows a joke when 
 he sees one. I knew he was fixing- to tell 
 me the whole story the minute he swung- 
 off from the ladder. 
 
 " Set down, said he; mought as well 
 res you hoss a spell ; hot day to-day, and 
 mussiful man s mussiful to his beastis, ye 
 know. Have drink er muscadine cider ? 
 
 " He broug-ht a drink that came out of a 
 stone jug- slung- in the well, and tasted cool 
 and pleasant. In return I handed him a 
 cig-ar ; and we were at once on most amica 
 ble terms. Yes, he resumed, " tis kinder 
 embarrassin , Saturday comin on to-mor- 
 rer, and most like folks comin round fer 
 meal, to be fixed this here way ; an I tole 
 the widder so, but thar warn t no movin of 
 her. 
 
 " The widow? 
 
 " Yes, sir he had one of the soft, 
 slurring- voices that you don t hear out of 
 the south, voices that ling-er on the vowels, 
 
4 The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 and let the consonants get along- by them 
 selves ; for my part I like to hear our people 
 talk, just for the sound of it yes, sir, the 
 widder, my wife. Nice a woman as you 11 
 ever meet up with, and good a cook, tew, 
 but the Lord made most wimmen fools, and 
 all on em stubborn. And once git her set, 
 thar ain t no movin of the widder. So here 
 I be, with nothin but my own cookin to 
 depend on, an* mill shut down. 
 
 " * You mean your wife and you have 
 parted? said I, using* the common expres 
 sion of the country. 
 
 " Parted be d d! bawled he, firing 
 
 instantly, parted nothin ! Didn t I tell you 
 she ben on the strike? 
 
 * And your mill crew also? 
 
 " Well, stranger, was his sardonic com 
 ment, you don t look nigh as dumb as ye 
 be. Bless ye, she air the crew ! 
 
 " The mill crew? 
 
 " Yes, sir, the plumb crew; how much 
 of a crew do you expect? 
 
 " Aren t you a little short-handed? 
 
 * Course we ain t. Come down to that 
 mill and I 11 show you. We got a daisy en- 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s. 5 
 
 gine, peart as ye cud ask. I run the saw 
 when we air a-sawin , and she pumps the 
 bar l full er water; and we got a inspirator 
 to draw it into the engine, and when we 
 use that up we stop and fire her up agin. 
 She pumps the water and chops up the 
 slabs that I saw off fur the engine, and I 
 run the saw or the grist. Every feller that 
 comes dips his own sack full out of the box 
 and feeds the huller, tew; so we don t have 
 nare trouble. We didn t tell she struck. 
 
 " Why did she strike? 
 
 " Well, it warn t fur wages, ezackly, nor 
 it warn t agin the union natchelly not, 
 seein we air the union ourselves. What 
 ruined our fambly is just cravin fur style 
 and show, and the natchell yearnin of wim- 
 men to have their own way. We d of been 
 married thirty-three year come next Sep 
 tember, and we hain t never had no casion 
 fer havin a house paintid, when she got it 
 inter her head, or Susan Ma y put it thar, 
 that she wanted a paintid house. She tole 
 me of a Sunday that she d ben dwellin on 
 the idee fur a right smart. 
 
 " "Ye best ondwell, then/ says I. 
 
6 The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 " Paint air onhealthy, and I don t want none 
 er it in mine. " " Tain t neither, says she ; 
 "the cholera is comin , and the doctors say 
 paint fresh paint is a perventatative," 
 says she, terrible uppish. But it warn t no 
 perventatative she ben ayfter. It ben fur 
 the looks of the thing-, and I knowed it. Ye 
 see, the widder allus had a hankerin fur 
 fine thing s. We ain t got no less n four 
 rockin cheers to our house. Fact. And 
 she won t w ar a sunbunnit to church. Got 
 to have a bunnit or a straw hat. An she 
 kinder tolled me inter paintin an paperin 
 inside tell we was so dadg ummed fine she 
 cudn t have my old dog inside in muddy 
 weather. Clare, that made me mad. An 
 what made me madder, she had to git a 
 stove in the room, an* I hadn t nare place 
 on earth to spit in cept a box! What do 
 you reckon bout that? Air that the way to 
 treat a self-respectin citizen with a white 
 skin makin of him spit in a box? Oh, it 
 air all Susy Ma y, her daug-hter / knows 
 her. She married a man ain t g-ot no no 
 tions cept to please her! Dretful fool s ye 
 ever did see ! Makes a heap er money run- 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s. 7 
 
 nin a mill, an got a house fur her made 
 outer a book. Yes, sir, I seen it in the book. 
 Gits thing-s fur his mill outer a book, tew. 
 Has high s fifteen men foolin with that 
 mill, an lumber ain t planed a bit better n 
 mine. Got a cotton gin on it, and grinds 
 cotton, tew. 
 
 "It was plain his disapproval of his son- 
 in-law struggled with pride in his posses 
 sions; but I had seen that sort of thing- be 
 fore, and I knew enough to keep my mouth 
 shut. He went on describing- the glories 
 of Susan Ma y s house and yard. She had 
 a carpet with roses on it, and china vases, 
 and a clock, and a gold watch, and curtains 
 in the windows, and lamps with white 
 shades over the chimneys made it light as 
 day all night. And she puts the widder 
 up to all manner er nonsense, he concluded, 
 ferociously. 
 
 " * That s your step-daughter, I suppose, 
 said I, to keep the conversation brisk, and 
 get the old man in the humor to let me get 
 some meal, somehow, for my horse. The 
 poor beast had the lampers, and needed 
 soft food. 
 
8 The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 " * Step-daughter ! said he, sharply ; * no, 
 she ain t ; widder an me ain t never ben 
 married, cept to each other. 
 
 " * Oh, it was only from her being called 
 Mrs. your wife s daughter, and you call 
 ing your wife the widow, I hazarded. 
 
 " * That s cause she favors her maw, an 
 ain t got nare sense like me, he snarled 
 back. * Ain t you never heard married 
 folks talk afore? An I calls her the widder, 
 cause if I was to die she wud be the widder 
 Glasscock, wudn t she? She d stay so, 
 too ! An she mought ez well begin to hear 
 it. We ain t got nare nother child nor Susan 
 Ma y, neither. Now you got us straight in 
 you mind, stranger? 
 
 " I reckon, said I. 
 
 " Well, so ye have, I kin go on to the 
 p int. We kep at it. She ben wantin of 
 me to take a paper, "so we ll know the 
 news," says she. I says, "We ain t no 
 need er news, cept what we kin git oncet a 
 month, at preachin ," but I says, when this 
 come up, "If I ll git ye a paper oncet a 
 week will ye quit bellerin atsme?" Says 
 she, "I dunno how to b ar hit without we 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s. 9 
 
 git the house paintid." "Ye cayn t have 
 the house paintid," says I, " but I 11 git ye 
 the paper." And I done got her the paper. 
 And she read it to me reg lar. She kin 
 read the best in the world, right off; nev 
 does have to stop an spell, not even to 
 whisper words off to herseff. An she use 
 to read all bout them strikes an sich 
 reckon ye know on em? 
 
 " I ve heard, said I. 
 
 "* Kinder fool things, to my notion, but 
 she got dredful struck by em. An she 
 kep at me bout the paint axed me twicet 
 in one week "say, squire, ain t you goin 
 to paint?" jest like that, mighty fine an 
 mincin . "No, I ain t," says I; "you quit 
 you foolin bout paint or I 11 quit y ou! " 
 jest like that, awful stern an determined. 
 I lowed it wud shet her up. Sayd it to her 
 twicet. Fust time she didn t say nary, jest 
 taken a bite on her snuff stick, an santered 
 off. Nex time she says, right low an 
 pleasant, "Say, squire, if I was to pay fur 
 the paint wud it make ary differ in you 
 feelin s?" "You ain t got nare money," 
 says I, fur I knowed she done spent ever 
 
io The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 last cent she got from her chickens on a colt 
 she bought fur me ter go ridin . His coun 
 tenance wore the queerest expression over 
 the last sentence ; I believe he wanted to 
 convey to me, without telling, that his rebel 
 lious wife really did, as we call it down here, 
 set a heap of store by him. He went on, 
 scraping the dried paint off the palms of 
 his hands as he talked, with his finger nails. 
 " You ain t got nare money." I sayd that. 
 " How come ye cayn t let me work it out at 
 the mill?" says she. " I isn t to pay you fur 
 workin to the mill," says I; "I never did 
 pay ye one cent." " Time ye begun, then," 
 says she, "fur I don t low to strike nary 
 nuther lick ter the mill tell ye gives me you 
 word bout that ar paint." " Oh, you goin 
 to strike, be ye?" says I. "All right fur 
 you." And I went home, mad. I cudn t 
 someway b ar to be beat by her cussedness, 
 and I kep a-turnin an a-turnin it over, an 
 studyin bout it, an I reckon I got madder 
 an madder, fur to tell ye the hones truth, 
 stranger, I ben fixin ter give in to that ar 
 fool woman, seein how she did work so 
 good ever other way; an fact is, I had 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s. 1 1 
 
 bought that ar paint to the store leastways 
 I had priced it an I lowed if she begged 
 right hard I cud ride over an git it, nex 
 mornin , mud not bein more n shoe-mouth 
 deep, nowhar, an road good. So, natchelly, 
 that made me all the madder, me meanin 
 so well by her, an her cuttin up rough that 
 way, an doin me so mean! So we was 
 out to the paschure we all got a right fine 
 paschure an some mighty nice cows an 
 she ben a milkin when I named the matter 
 to her so I jest lit out an leff her a-milk- 
 in . Didn t offer to holp tote the pails or 
 nothin ; jest went a-streakin back with my 
 mad up! Say, stranger, you married? 
 
 "I said I was so fortunate. 
 
 " Well, then, and he rolled the scrap 
 ings of paint into a ball in the hollow of his 
 palms, and gave a sigh of relief, then you 
 know thar ain t nare nother critter on earth 
 kin make ye mad as you wife; an looks 
 like the more ye think on her, the madder 
 she kin rile ye. I ben that mad I cudn t 
 see straight; an when, as I turned away, 
 all choked up, I heerd the swish, splash of 
 the milk drappin into the pail, steady like, 
 
12 The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 an knowed she hadn t turned a h ar fur 
 all my r arin an chargin looked like I 
 wanted to spite her wuss n I ever did want 
 anythin ! But I turns round, an I sayd, 
 "Mistress Glasscock," says I, "to-morrer 
 is Saturday, an thar is like to be ten men, 
 maybe, long- here to have their corn ground. 
 Do you mean to tell me ye won t holp me 
 with them men a-grindin ? " "I mean I 
 done struck," says she, "like them men 
 you read on. You knows on what terms 
 I 11 come back the house prommussed to 
 be paintid." An she went at the cow agin, 
 swish, splash. " All right fur you ! " says I. 
 And I never did turn my head on her agin, 
 but I walked right spang- home, and I went 
 in, an I nailed a bar agin all three er the 
 doors, an then I got the kettle an the coffee 
 pot on the stove, an went out an* cut some 
 meat an got it a-sizzlin , an I sot down. 
 D reckly I heerd her a-comin . Then she 
 tried the door. We didn t have nare locks 
 nur bolts on the doors, an I lowed she mis- 
 trustid; but I set dumb s a wil hog when 
 ye stick him. One by one, she tried ever 
 last door. Then she spoke. " What is you 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s. 13 
 
 aimin to do, Sam Glasscock?" says she, 
 kinder flustered like; an I answered back, 
 "You mighty sharp, Mistress Glasscock, 
 but you cayn t cut me. I read the papers, 
 tew. If you a-strikin , I m a-lockin ye out. 
 That ar s what I air aimin at, Mistress 
 Glasscock! " 
 
 " He paused to let me appreciate the im- 
 pressiveness of his retort, and flung- the 
 little ball of paint at a hen that had strayed 
 into the garden and was nibbling- at the 
 rows of peas. 
 
 " * What did she say, said I. 
 
 " He sig-hed heavily, and said : * She jest 
 kinder laug-hed, right spiteful like, an , 
 ayfter a plumb minnit, endurin* wich she 
 hadn t made nare sound er rattlin the win 
 ders, nur poundin on the doors, nur nary, 
 an I ben kinder coolin off, she sayd: " Sam, 
 if ye want to fix it that a way, you kin ; but 
 when ye want me back, remember I ain t 
 a-comin , less n to a paintid house." She 
 nev did say nuthin more. I waited on her 
 to speak, cause I ben gettin more an more 
 cooled off, but I didn t hear nuthin , an 
 bymeby, when I come to look out he got 
 
14 The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 up, frowned and shook himself as a dog- 
 will, you know, before he concluded well, 
 that s all; she were plumb gone ! 
 
 " Somehow, for all his bravado, I guessed 
 that it had hurt him. 
 
 "In a moment or two, he went on his 
 plaint, with his back to me: We all ben 
 man an wife fur thirty-three year, an we 
 ain t never did ben apart a night before ; an 
 it ben ever mite her fault, I tole myself. 
 But I reckon I hadn t orter locked her out. 
 Hay, stranger ? 
 
 " I reckon you would have done better 
 to have let her in and talked it over peace 
 ably, said I. 
 
 " You reckon I best paintid the house fer 
 her? It was comical, the way he flung 
 those sentences over his shoulder at me, 
 never once turning- around. 
 
 " Can you afford it? 
 
 " Course I kin. 
 
 " Hasn t she been a g-ood wife to you, 
 every other way ? 
 
 " * Ain t I done tole ye that ? Nobody in 
 this yere kentry has got a better woman 
 than me. 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s. 15 
 
 " Still he kept his broad back to me; but 
 his shoulder wriggled at each question. 
 
 " * You d better give in, then, said I. 
 
 " He exploded in a second, flung- himself 
 round on me, swinging his fists and snort 
 ing, swelling like an enraged hen. 
 
 " * Give in, he screamed, you bet I won t 
 give in ! I ain t that kind er man /ain t ! 
 Why, look a here, I fund out better n that 
 by the papers. Ain t she struck? 
 
 " Surely, said I. 
 
 " * Ain t I done locked her out ? 
 
 " * So it appears, said I. 
 
 " * Well, triumphantly he spread his hands 
 apart, glistening with paint, what do they 
 do in the papers in these ye**e contests 
 atweeii labor an capitil ? is labor that s 
 her goin to give in? Not much; it ain t 
 got the sense ! Is capitil that s me 
 goin to lay down? Never! * he slapped 
 his painted jeans with a sounding thud with 
 both hands Well, how is you to manage ? 
 How does them great contestin pyarties 
 manage? Why, nobuddy gives in. They 
 finds somebody they kin have confidence in, 
 
1 6 The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 an they leaves it to him, an both on em will 
 abide by his decidin . 
 
 " I see, said I gravely, and I 
 
 " You air the arbitration committee, an" 
 don t you ferget it. You decide fur paint, 
 paint it is ! 
 
 "I ventured to suggest that he had 
 started on the paint before the committee 
 decided. His foot was already on the last 
 round of the ladder and his hand out 
 stretched to unhook the pail ; but he cast a 
 withering- glance at me. Stranger, he re 
 marked, in a low, impressive voice, I done 
 lived on my own cookin ever sence last Fri 
 day week ; an does you reely reckon I air 
 goin to monkey round yere waitin on a arbi 
 tration committee an doin nuthin ? No, sir. 
 I knowed aforehand what a decent arbitra- 
 tioner wud say, an , w ilst I ben waitin fur 
 one to come by, I jest laid the paint on lively. 
 It 11 be all on afore sundown, this evenin, 
 an I kin git to Susan Ma y, my daughter s, 
 afore long; an the widder has jest natchelly 
 got to submit to the arbitrationer, tew, an 
 come long home ; an ef the fraish paint 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s. 17 
 
 makes her plumb sick, tain t nare fault er 
 mine I An I never will paint agin. 
 
 "So saying-, he addressed himself so 
 vigorously to his painting- that I rather felt 
 myself in the way. However, I interrupted 
 him long- enoug-h to inquire my road, and 
 then I took it, since cornmeal, under the 
 present strained relations of labor and capi 
 tal at Glasscock s, seemed out of reach. I 
 had not gone very far before I came upon 
 what we call a hack; that is, a spring- wagon 
 drawn by a very g-ood pair of horses, and 
 driven by a woman much better dressed 
 than one will often see on a country road. 
 Beside her sat a little, wiry, meek-faced old 
 woman in a sunbonnet. I didn t need to see 
 them turn down the cross-road to Glass- 
 cock s, to make out that there had been 
 some sort of an arbitration committee for 
 the party of the second part, also. 
 
 "I lodged that night not far from the mill, 
 and in the morning I rode back to it. The 
 smokestack was puffing away. Outside a 
 small figure, in a short blue gown, was 
 swinging an ax with a most extraordinary 
 agility. It was the crew of the mill, evi- 
 
1 8 The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 dently, going to work with that zeal which 
 is always mentioned in the newspapers after 
 a strike ends. The mill itself, on nearer 
 approach, turned out to be a mere shell. 
 There was a funny little engine, and, sure 
 enough, there were the barrel and the pump 
 and the inspirator; and as soon as the bar 
 rel was pumped full the engine could start 
 up. While I halted my horse and looked 
 through one side (it had all one side open, 
 so no doors were needed), the whistle blew 
 and the engineer began to pump ; in no time 
 the mill started up. 
 
 " Within the grist mill there was a pile of 
 corn on the floor, and old Glasscock was 
 shoveling corn into the box of the sheller. 
 The corn cobs poured out at one end and 
 the shelled corn came in a more or less 
 jerky stream from the middle. Glasscock, 
 at intervals, would stop shoveling and kick 
 the pile of corn away from the mouth of the 
 sheller. Presently, the water barrel being 
 emptied, the mill shut down. While the 
 mill crew heaped slabs into the furnace the 
 miller sifted the corn through a clums}? 
 wire sieve and then put it into the funnel 
 
The Strike at Glasscock s. 19 
 
 above the buhr stones. He threw off the 
 belt from the sheller and set the grist mill 
 going-; and, as soon as the wheezing- of the 
 desultory little engine was heard, the meal 
 began to come snowing out of the funnel 
 below. There was a box ready to receive 
 it, and this box he emptied into the barrel 
 standing near. 
 
 "Noticing my horse s shadow on the 
 floor, he glanced up. He beckoned to me to 
 approach. * That s her ! he said, drop 
 ping his voice and gazing with undisguised 
 pride and satisfaction on the busy little 
 figure ; ain t she a terror to work ? Ain t it 
 worth arbitratin a leetle to git sech a crew 
 back? An she don t put on no airs. She 
 done begged my pardon, right humble. 
 Wudn t mad me fur nuthin , now. Don t 
 she keep a-movin peart, though ? Sayd she 
 nev would say paint to me agin. This yere 
 eggsperience done humbled her shore 
 plumb humbled her ! 
 
 "He dwelt with such unction on the 
 words, and she did seem so mild a creature, 
 that I began to wonder where the victory 
 in the present contest between labor and 
 
2O The Strike at Glasscock s. 
 
 capital really belonged. Wondering-, I de 
 parted, although they pressed me to stay, 
 and I began to see then a lively gratitude 
 on the part of Mrs. Glasscock that has given 
 me many a frying chicken since. Just as I 
 was leaving, old Glasscock sidled up to me. 
 Say, he muttered, most like you 11 be 
 goin by the store at the cross-roads; say, 
 tell em to mix me up another batch er that 
 paint. It 11 be time fur the second coat 
 next week ! " 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 i. 
 
 There is nothing 1 good nor evil save in the will. 
 Schopenhauer. 
 
 "/^"XNLY one omnibus?" said Mrs. 
 
 \^J Swift. 
 
 There are two omnibuses in Flowering 
 Bridge, one pink, one blue ; and they pro 
 vide a striking- feature for funeral pro 
 cessions. True enoug-h, there was only 
 one, the blue one, to-day. It was a pitiful 
 little train that plodded through the whitish- 
 gray dust past the Dagget piazza; first the 
 omnibus, next the hearse and the single 
 shabby landau of the village livery stable, 
 with Marcia Wright in the corner behind 
 her black veil and the curtain that could be 
 pulled down the other curtains stick fast 
 then half a dozen wagons and buggies 
 filled with country people in their best 
 clothes. 
 
24 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 Mrs. Swift scanned every vehicle and 
 every face, from the elderly features of the 
 pall-bearers in the omnibus to Joey Pratt s 
 freckled round cheeks in the last buggy, 
 with a peculiar suppressed interest. With 
 an equal interest of a different kind, Mrs. 
 Dagget watched Mrs. Swift. She observed 
 that, as the Pratt bug-g-y showed its dusty 
 back, Mrs. Swift drew a soft and tremulous 
 sig-h. One might easily take it to be a sigh 
 of relief. 
 
 The two women sat on the front veranda 
 of a substantial two -story house, newly 
 painted, gray as to the weather-boarding, 
 and vivid green as to the blinds. It was 
 the house of the Honorable Simon Dagget, 
 postmaster and principal storekeeper of 
 Flowering Bridge. Mrs. Swift had come in 
 from her farm to sell her weekly store of 
 butter and eggs, and, according to the hos 
 pitable rural custom, she had dined with 
 Mrs. Dagget. They sat in rocking chairs 
 under an archway of rose bushes that 
 dropped graceful tendrils over their heads, 
 waiting for the hot Iowa sun to pass its me 
 ridian and permit a cooler drive home. 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 25 
 
 "I see they got the Piscopal minister," 
 said Mrs. Swift, smoothing- her skirt over 
 her knees. Angular knees they were, Mrs. 
 Swift being of a spare habit, and, moreover, 
 disapproving of the waste of good cloth 
 in frivolous draperies. Her hands were 
 tanned, long, and belonged to that square 
 type to which chirosophists ascribe a love 
 of order and indomitable will. They did not 
 wriggle at the fingers nor twitch the cloth 
 underneath them ; having smoothed it, they 
 lay still, palms together, for they did not 
 belong to a nervous woman. They matched 
 the flat, broad chest and the long face, given 
 a square contour by cheeks sagging a little 
 with age. The widow Swift was a very tall 
 woman, not bent the fraction of an inch by 
 her sixty-five years or the rearing of five 
 boys to manhood. She had been considered 
 an ugly maiden and a plain young wife ; but 
 in her silky gray hair and her widow s cap, 
 with her strong, bright eyes and a skin 
 more freshly tinted than is frequent in the 
 west, she was a handsome elderly woman. 
 Her unvarying composure lent a dignity to 
 her presence; whoever observed her per- 
 
26 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 ceived that here was a nature out of the 
 common. Her companion was stout, rosy, 
 and, judged by rural standards, far better 
 dressed than Mrs. Swift who, in fact, had 
 not altered the cut of her severe black 
 gowns since Elder Alpheus Swift s death, 
 twenty-six years ago she wore a figured 
 blue sateen frock, draped and ruffled. At 
 the widow s speech, she rocked more vigor 
 ously. 
 
 "Well, you know Mrs. Wright, she didn t 
 like Brother Given. I guess she never did 
 quite forgive him for marrying Marcia to 
 that feller. Of course, she forgave the only 
 child she d got ; but the minister was dif 
 ferent. He was over in Marshalltown cir 
 cuit then, and he said he didn t sense it 
 they was a runaway couple; but she said if 
 he didn t know, he d ough ter known ! When 
 they first come back, there was another pas 
 tor here, you know, and she went regular to 
 church, but she never went ayfter he come." 
 
 "I guess her leaving didn t hurt," said 
 Mrs. Swift, with a sneer. "Twas much as 
 she could do to hire a back pew on the side 
 aisle, and jest half that. I did hear she 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 27 
 
 promised ten cents a Sunday, and then had 
 to come down to a nickel. And lately she 
 wasn t there, and Marshy was talking how 
 she d pay it up all to once ; but she ain t 
 paid yit." 
 
 "Poor thing 1 !" the gentler woman ex 
 claimed; " tain t like you, Hannah, to be 
 pecking at them that s down, .like that. 
 And so liberal to the church as she used to 
 be! She d have the society twice to our 
 once, cause she kept a girl the year round. 
 If it hadn t been my ankle is so bad, I d have 
 gone to the funeral. Hannah, you d feel 
 bad if you d been there, like I been, during 
 her last sickness. I don t b lieve they got 
 a cent to depend on, cept what Marshy gets 
 from her dressmaking ; and that s fell off 
 since Mrs. Wright had to keep her bed and 
 there was so much tending. But she al 
 ways has got something in her hands. Mar 
 shy s dreadful changed, Hannah." 
 
 4 Yes, lost all her beauty ! I call her real 
 homely now." 
 
 "Well, I don t, then," cried Mrs. Dagget, 
 with animation; "there s something bout 
 Marshy Wright s face now that I like bet- 
 
28 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 ter n I ever did. It s the saddest face I 
 know, too. But, mercy knows, she has gone 
 through enough to make her look sad ! Look 
 at them, after all they used to have ! Why, 
 Hannah, it fairly made me sick to go into 
 the pantry, remembering- the kind of pantry 
 Mrs. Wright used to keep never less than 
 three kinds of preserves at her tea-parties 
 and always some pound-cake or fruit-cake 
 in a jar for drop-in company! Hannah, 
 they didn t have so much as a tumbler of 
 jel. That s so. Marshy come to me and 
 asked me if I wouldn t give her a tumbler 
 of my green-grape jel, cause her ma craved 
 green-grape jel, and she was sorter out of 
 her head toward the last, and fancied she 
 was well-off again, a-living in Marshy s 
 house, and all the pickles and thing s she 
 used to put up, standing- in the pantry ; and 
 she d be asking- Marshy for this kind and 
 that kind till the poor girl didn t know which 
 way to turn. I most cried when she says : 
 If you ll kindly let mother have the jel, 
 I ll work it out afterward. You poor 
 child, I says, I guess your mother s wel 
 come to anything in my house, and don t 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 29 
 
 you fret ; it would be a pity if, now she is 
 back mong her old friends, if they can t 
 make her comfortable. And after that, she 
 did let Sister Pratt and I fetch in thing s 
 some." 
 
 Mrs. Dagget stopped, out of breath, to 
 wipe her kind eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Swift folded her arms, and in the 
 action looked more immovable, somehow, 
 than before. "Who d Mis Wrig-ht think 
 Marshy was married to?" said she. 
 
 "Well," there was a flutter in Mrs. Dag- 
 get s articulation "well, I didn t intend to 
 name it to you, Hannah, but she thought it 
 was it was just Alpheus Swift, and that s 
 the truth!" 
 
 "Now it will all come out," thoug-ht the 
 speaker, doggedly, "and I don t know s I 
 care. Tain t near so bad as what I got to 
 say to her, anyhow. I s pose it s my Chris- 
 tion duty, though. Simon says tis. I guess 
 I 11 jest make a break now!" 
 
 But her courage oozed out at her finger 
 tips, which trembled over the woolenlace that 
 she was crocheting, as Mrs. Swift deliber 
 ately creaked her chair about to face her. 
 
30 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 "I ain t got nothing-," said the firm, hard 
 voice, u to say bout a d}dng woman s delu 
 sions. But Marshy Wright is mistaken if 
 she thinks she 11 ever get my consent to her 
 marrying- my son. He s g-ot to give up her 
 or me." 
 
 "But you were willing before, Hannah." 
 "If I was willing before, is no reason I 
 should be willing now. Before, when she 
 was engaged to Alpheus, she was the pret 
 tiest and richest girl in this county, and 
 there wan t nothing against her cept being 
 a fool, like most young girls. Now she has 
 let her husband, that she jilted Al for, spend 
 her money and her mother s too; and her 
 husband s in the penitentiary, and she ain t 
 got a cent nor even a right to her name, for 
 she s divorced from him. She s jest a sort 
 of outcast." 
 
 "Hannah, how can you be so hard? " 
 "I ain t hard; I m just. I may as well 
 speak out, now I m about it. I never was 
 willing; I never liked them. Marshy was 
 spoiled by going east to boarding school ; 
 she couldn t find nothing good nun for her, 
 west, ayfter that, and, naturally, when that 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 31 
 
 city feller come along-, that had been to col 
 lege, and wore store clothes, and could make 
 fun of us to Marshy, Al hadn t no show I" 
 Little mottles of red had crept into Mrs. 
 Swift s cheeks, her calm voice was deep 
 ened and roughened. Mrs. Dagget mar 
 veled over the repressed passion in her face 
 and the unloosening- of her tongue, for she 
 was a taciturn woman. The good soul did 
 not understand that the yeasty brooding 
 of months was having its way. " I knew 
 well nuff what it meant when Al wasn t 
 satisfied no more to eat in the kitchen, and 
 was everlastingly scrubbing his finger 
 nails! Ellen Dagget, you call me hard; jest 
 s pose your boy, that was your baby and 
 used to love you better n any critter on 
 earth you seen him, evening ayfter even 
 ing, slickin himself up and going off to be 
 poked fun at before his girl; and you seen 
 him fooling away the money he d worked 
 so hard for, making her presents that was 
 laughed at and hid away out of sight, while 
 the city feller s books was strutting bout 
 the parlor table, and flowers here and flow 
 ers there, that come by the cars, and was 
 
32 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 wilted fore you d really got the smell of 
 em into your nose ! Never mind, they was 
 all right and beautiful, cause they come 
 from him! And go on; s pose you seen 
 your boy growing- poorer and poorer and 
 paler and paler, jest wearing- the flesh off 
 his bones with worry, and then, when she 
 sends him off, he won t let his own mother 
 say a ha sh word about her no, I cayn t 
 feel to pity her. It s a judgment. " 
 
 Mrs. Dag-g-et was watching- the funeral 
 train ; she could not decide whether it had 
 been joined by another bug-g-y. She said 
 sorrowfully that, if Marcia Wright had 
 done wrong, she had certainly been pun 
 ished. 
 
 " She had ought to be punished, "retorted 
 Mrs. Swift ; "it s a plain judgment on folly 
 and a haughty spirit." 
 
 "Well, sister," Mrs. Dagget pleaded, 
 mildly, "it runs in my mind always what 
 David says: If it comes to going by our 
 merits, oh Lord, who shall stand? Think 
 of what a pretty critter she did use to be, 
 and every young man in the place goingwild 
 over her; was it funny her head was turned? 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 33 
 
 Think of what she had to bear, too, him 
 drinking- and gambling and squandering 
 her mother s money, as well as hers; yes, 
 and spending it on such critters as he did, 
 too ! I don t blame her for getting a divorce ! 
 And, Hannah, I do say, if Marshy s sinned, 
 she has repented, too, and tried to atone 
 and walk humble before the Lord; and 
 long s He says He won t break the bruised 
 reed, I don t feel it s my duty to hit it a 
 lick. 5 
 
 Mrs. Swift was a woman who did not 
 value the last word ; she had said what she 
 had to say ; for the rest, Mrs. Dagget might 
 work her will on the Scriptures. She rocked 
 in silence, with her mouth firmly closed. 
 
 After a pause, the pacific Mrs. Dagget 
 essayed a pleasanter topic, remarking: "I 
 heard you paid off the last on your mort 
 gage, Hannah. I m real pleased." 
 
 "So am I," said Mrs. Swift, her counte 
 nance relaxing; " we have the whole of the 
 new farm paid for now. It feels queer ; we 
 ain t been without a mortgage since Elder 
 died, twenty-six year, come next Sunday." 
 
 " You have had a hard time of it, Hannah 
 
34 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 you left with five men children to raise, 
 and the oldest only ten, and the youngest 
 creeping- under feet." 
 
 "I ain t complaining-. The Lord seen me 
 throug-h, and the boys are g-ood boys, if they 
 are scattered." 
 
 "I s pose thirty thousand dollars wouldn t 
 buy your and Alpheus s farms tog-ether." 
 
 "No, ma am. And it will be all Alpheus s 
 some day, for the other boys got their sheer, 
 to take out in the world. Alpheus and me, 
 we stuck to the farm. Ellen, I cayn t tell 
 you the way I felt when I handed Al the 
 hundred and fifty-two dollars I had laid by. 
 He was expecting- to sell a colt to raise that 
 money ; he d no notion of me having- any 
 sich sum. But I was not going- to have him 
 sell that colt he wanted to drive ; it s Al s 
 besetment he wants to drive a good hoss. 
 That makes me think I better be gitting 
 along with mine ; it s not overly warm no 
 more. You see, I cayn t take my time and 
 pleasure, like I used ; I got a girl now. Al, 
 he would have me git one." 
 
 1 What s your hurry ? She can look ay f ter 
 the supper." 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 35 
 
 "Hmn!" grunted Mrs. Swift, grimly 
 jocular, * who 11 look ay ft er the girl? She 
 bust the door off the oven, last time I left 
 her to look ayfter things; had a turkey in 
 and plumb forgot to baste it, and it dried up 
 and bust with a pop like a cannon. Well, 
 pray for patience! maybe, if we both live 
 long enuff, she 11 learn something. I tell 
 
 Al " She broke off, startled at her 
 
 friend s worried look, instead of the smile 
 she had expected. "Air you sick or any 
 thing, Ellen?" she asked, in a very gentle 
 tone. 
 
 "Oh, I cayn t tell her, any way on earth!" 
 was the thought that had puckered Mrs. 
 Dagget s brows. She did not tell her then; 
 she allowed Mrs. Swift to reproach her for 
 walking recklessly on her lame ankle ; she 
 sat passive, while the old woman went into 
 the house to put on the linen duster and 
 large hat that should ward off sun and dust, 
 her conscience pummeling her every sec 
 ond ; but, when the gaunt figure reappeared, 
 she took her courage in both hands. 
 
 "Hannah," said she, not looking at Mrs. 
 
36 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 Swift, "have you heard of Miss Pennell s 
 loss?" 
 
 "That girl was visiting- at the Piscopal 
 minister s? No; was it any nigh kin?" 
 
 "No," solemnly, "it wasn t no kin at all; 
 it was her beautiful diamond pin!" 
 
 "Is that so?" said Mrs. Swift. She was 
 civilly concerned, but she was not in the 
 least agitated. 
 
 Mrs. Dagget looked far more nervous as 
 she continued: "You saw it, didn t you? 
 Wasn t you there when she was packing up 
 to go way?" 
 
 Yes indifferently she had come that 
 day with butter, and she remembered the 
 pin; it was right on the sofy in the front 
 room, with a lot of gewgaws; a kinder 
 pretty pin. 
 
 "Pretty?" screamed Mrs. Dagget. "It 
 cost two hundred and twenty dollars ! Don t 
 you remember the clothes that girl used to 
 wear? And she gave five dollars to the 
 missionaries ! She was dreadful rich ! " 
 
 "She must a been dreadful keerless, to 
 leave her things round so and lose sich a 
 vallerable pin," said Mrs. Swift, calmly. 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 37 
 
 "She thinks it was stole. They was 
 called out of the room while she was pack 
 ing-; the girl had a telegraph for Miss Pen- 
 nell, jest fetched, and she and Mrs. Keith 
 went out together; and when they came 
 back there was the case all right on 
 the sofy with the rest, and she chucked it 
 into her bag; and it was afterward Mrs. 
 Keith wasn t sure something was in, and 
 so they took things out, and the pin was 
 gone. It was jest an empty case." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 "When you seen it," the lace slipped out 
 of Mrs. Dagget s shaking fingers, "I don t 
 mean the first time, but when you come 
 back, was anybody in the room?" 
 
 " Not a soul," said Mrs. Swift. " I d got 
 out on the sidewalk, when I missed my little 
 black bag; so I come back, and the door of 
 that front room stood on the jar, and I says, 
 Excuse me, ladies, and went in, got my 
 bag and went out. It was laying right on 
 the sofy, beside that pin." Suddenly Mrs. 
 Swift s eyes glazed, while the words fal 
 tered off her tongue. Whether it was the 
 fright on the face of her old friend, or the 
 
38 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 blinding- flash of recognition in her own 
 mind, she herself could not have told. 
 " Why, merciful Lord ! I was the last per 
 son in that room!" she thought far down 
 in her soul. "I was in a hurry and I run! 
 
 But would anybody dast " The blood 
 
 was ting-ling- along her old veins ; her face 
 burned red, redder, an intolerable hot scar 
 let. " Do you mean to say, Ellen Dagg-et," 
 she cried, gripping- the other s plump shoul 
 der, "that anybody dast think I come back 
 for anything- cept to get my own bag-?" 
 
 "Mrs. Keith and Miss Pennell, they saw 
 you," stammered Mrs. Dag-get, "and the 
 
 hired girl " 
 
 " Do they think I stole that pin? " 
 " Oh, lawsey, Hannah, don t look at me 
 that way. I never thought it not for a 
 single minnit ! You couldn t ! " 
 " Where did you hear bout it? " 
 Mrs. Dag-get, weeping, murmured some 
 thing about " Simon. " 
 
 " They been talking bout it at the store, " 
 said Mrs. Swift. Releasing Mrs. Dagget, 
 she walked uncertainly to the chair where 
 she had sat in such a different mood. And 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 39 
 
 Ellen had known about it all the time ! She 
 sank down; the village street flooded with 
 sunshine, the small, cheerful houses with 
 their curtains and open windows, the bare 
 footed children making- a joyous din over 
 their ball, Tim Murray s dog- chasing- the 
 Dilworthy cows westward into a dust span 
 gled g-old haze, all the homely peaceful scene 
 wavered and surged before her. But she 
 held herself erect by the arms of her chair ; 
 she kept the even pitch of her voice. "Half 
 a dozen times, lately, folks was looking- the 
 other way when I passed. Last Sunday, to 
 the song- service, when I g-ot up to give my 
 testimony, Brother Given never said a word 
 when I sat down. Yesterday I asked Ann 
 Liza Forest to stop, going by, and g-et a cup 
 o tea and some of my green tomato pre 
 serve; I never knowed such a thing- as her 
 to refuse, but she refused then. That s 
 what it meant." 
 
 "Oh, Hannah dear, I never believed a 
 word!" 
 
 "I been a member since I was called, 
 at the age of fifteen. I ain t fallen from 
 grace, as I know. I ain t had no great to 
 
40 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 give, but I gave willing of what I had. 
 Alpheus worked six days to help build the 
 church, and we lent the teams to haul 
 lumber. I always paid my debts prompt, 
 though me and my children went without 
 shoes more n one time to do it. I sold the 
 red heifer to Brother Given for twenty 
 dollars, because he had my word, though 
 Squire Dilworthy offered me twenty-six. 
 Simon Dagget knows my apples and my 
 berries run jest the same to the bottom of 
 the box." 
 
 " It is only because they saw you, and you 
 going to Davenport and coming back last 
 week, and having money to give Alpheus, 
 and his not selling the colt but nobody 
 thinks it not really but I knew you 
 could make it explain it and oh, Han 
 nah, you didn t think I, long s we ve known 
 each other, and the way you was to me when 
 
 little Eddy died, I couldn t I " Here 
 
 poor Mrs. Dagget, at her wits end, hobbled 
 across to the other chair and wept over the 
 linen duster. 
 
 "Ellen Dagget, you shet up! Crying 
 right on the front porch, before the whole 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 41 
 
 town! I ain t going- to let this down me. 
 Get up and set down decent." 
 
 In such Spartan semblance did Hannah 
 Swift retreat, notwithstanding- the world 
 reeled about her. She would not take a sip 
 of an assassinating- liquor that slandered 
 the name of brandy, kept " for sickness " 
 by Mrs. Dag-g-et, and reg-arded with awe by 
 the household as well it mig-ht be! She 
 would not have Rufe, the boy of all work, 
 fetch her horses from the store. She re 
 mained about twenty minutes long-er, mi 
 nutely and pertinaciously questioning Mrs. 
 Dagget ; and then she went to the store her 
 self, and drove by the piazza with her elbows 
 at a sharp angle, erect and defiant to the 
 last glimpse. 
 
 " Lord knows whether I done right to tell 
 her, "moaned poor Mrs.Dagget who com 
 pared her own sensations, telling Simon of 
 it, to a rag just free from the wringer "but 
 it did seem she had ought to know! And 
 now I must find that chicken pie to send over 
 to Marcia Wright." 
 
 At that moment, Marcia was lifting her 
 heavy veil, as if by the action she could lift 
 
42 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 the heavier visions that encompassed her, 
 and shaking- off the dust that her distem 
 pered fancy feigned a symbol of the soil 
 cast on her nature by a hideous experience. 
 
 Eight months ago, the two forlorn ex 
 plorers into the world had crept back, like 
 wounded animals, to their old home. Mrs. 
 Wright, stricken with a mortal disease, had 
 a homesick longing to die among the fam 
 iliar scenes near her husband s grave. 
 Marcia could not oppose her. She had no 
 hopes, and but one fear, and that drew 
 closer, every day of a failing life. 
 
 To return to Flowering Bridge meant 
 merely a little heavier weight on her heart, 
 a wrench or two more of the rack for her 
 conscience. 
 
 Then she met Alpheus Swift again. 
 
 He had few of the graces that she used to 
 worship, but which now seemed to her the 
 charms of the snake. Al was a man that 
 other men respected. He was strong, he 
 was gentle, he had the delicacy of a good 
 heart; and he was infinitely kind and 
 thoughtful to her mother. Insensibly, the 
 sense of his worthiness, that she had kept 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 43 
 
 through all the disenchantment of her 
 wretched married life, was transmuted into 
 a keener feeling-. But this only revealed to 
 her a new sensibility to pain in her numbed 
 heart, since there were reasons that her 
 conscience could not evade, why she might 
 not yield to his tenderness. To be sure, 
 one of these reasons had been removed of 
 late; but there was always the other. In 
 deed, so worn and shamed was she that she 
 almost esteemed it a fresh sin of hers that 
 she should dare to love at all. 
 
 Even Mrs. Swift would have pitied her 
 to-day, could she have read the thoughts of 
 the woman she hated. 
 
 The carriage had passed the last strag 
 gling houses of the village; Marcia saw 
 tree-tops over the horses heads, maple- 
 tops waving greenly, safe from the dust of 
 the traveled roads. The omnibus and the 
 hearse were already through the gate. 
 There was a white arch above it, and black 
 letters painted on the arch. She could see 
 the graves and the white stones. She felt 
 the carriage settle backward in its place; 
 the driver she had known him from a 
 
44 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 boy was at the door, his reins over his 
 arm. " Say, let me help you out," he said, 
 " the hosses will stand." But she thanked 
 him and walked to the grave alone, before 
 Mrs. Pratt could scramble out of the last 
 buggy. The sun dazed her, and she stum 
 bled on her black skirts. By the side of the 
 road was the open grave, lined with fir 
 boughs. It was kind, she thought, in the 
 sexton, to take away thus the raw horror of 
 the upturned earth; and then immediately 
 she knew it was not the sexton that she 
 should thank. Mrs. Pratt came and stood 
 by her side; the slender young man in the 
 surplice opened his prayer book. Dully, 
 Marcia felt grateful for the companionship, 
 grateful that it was not Brother Given, 
 whom her mother had not trusted, reciting 
 those sentences of immeasurable faith and 
 hope. But it was more and more dully be 
 cause her head ached so queerly and it took 
 all her will to stand. There were moments 
 when she forgot where she was and had the 
 old sensation of needing to hurry in order 
 to get home to her mother. She would be 
 roused by a pang like a knife stab, and see 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 45 
 
 and hear, but directly she would be away 
 again. In one of these conscious moments, 
 she was aware of the perfume of lilies. A 
 young- man, standing- at her side, held a 
 great bunch of them; and while she was 
 struggling- to focus her brain on them 
 enoug-h to recognize them and their con 
 nection with her, this man stepped forward 
 and laid them on the coffin-lid. There were 
 other flowers ; but these were exotics from 
 the city, to which the streamers of white 
 satin ribbons lent a formal pomp. Once, 
 during- her sickness, her mother had said 
 that she liked flowers tied with white rib 
 bon she should like some on her coffin; 
 because of that speech, Marcia had tied the 
 roses from Mrs. Dagget with ribbon. She 
 perceived that another had remembered 
 also. Remembered what? She was drift 
 ing again. There was a creaking of straps, 
 a slight bustle among the men. Why, it 
 was her mother s coffin that they lowered 
 her mother s! and she must go back to that 
 empty home ! She swayed to one side ; she 
 did not care any longer that she was going 
 to faint, the anguish of her loss possessed 
 
46 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 her; she did not even know that Alpheus 
 and Mrs. Pratt led her to the carriage. 
 Alpheus got in after her; but he had said 
 to Mrs. Pratt : " Won t you go home with 
 her?" And she had answered: "No, I 
 won t, Alpheus Swift. Nobody can comfort 
 that poor girl like you ; you git right in and 
 doit." 
 
 Therefore, when Marcia revived, she saw 
 him fanning her. 
 
 Six years had made a man out of the shy 
 and awkward lad that she knew. He was 
 neither shy nor awkward, having the man 
 ner of a man used to consideration from 
 others. He was dressed neatly and taste 
 fully, though hardly in the fashion of the 
 city. His fair, composed features were like 
 his mother s, but they were suffused with 
 a deep tenderness. 
 
 "I don t think she would have minded, 
 dear," were his first words, "and I couldn t 
 bear to have you go back alone." 
 
 As she did not reply, "I have two things 
 to tell you," said he, " for I don t know when 
 you will let me see you again. I saw your 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 47 
 
 mother that last day you went out with the 
 work, and I told her." 
 
 Marcia s breath came more quickly. 
 
 " She was very kind. She said she would 
 be glad to have you marry me; she said it 
 made her happy. 
 
 Then Marcia recalled the delirium of 
 those subsequent days, comprehendingwith 
 a weakening- of the heart the reason for that 
 illusion of her marriage. 
 
 "You did make her happy," she cried; 
 "she was happy at the end." The tears 
 swept her words away. They would not 
 come to soften her own anguish, but at the 
 thought of the peace that he had brought her 
 mother, they rained down her cheeks. She 
 wept for a long time, while he sat beside 
 her, not so much as venturing to touch her 
 hand, lest he should divert her grief into 
 the channel of a crueler pain. Only, he 
 laid a fresh handkerchief from his own 
 pocket very softly on her knee. She used 
 it mechanically, then she looked at him and 
 said: "I don t believe there ever was a 
 man treated as badly as you that could for 
 give so ! " 
 
48 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 "Oh, there s lots," said he, "you were 
 fair to me, Marcia but never mind the 
 past ; you are here, and I am here, and you 
 shall make it up to me if you want to. This 
 doesn t seem the place for this kind of talk; 
 but if your mother sees us, she under 
 stands. I am sure she would have me take 
 every chance. Marcia, I have just come 
 back from Anamosa this morning-. What I 
 told your mother is all correct, like in the 
 warden s letter. He died a month ago." 
 
 " I didn t doubt it before ; but you were 
 kind to go, Al." 
 
 " I promised her. They told me he died 
 penitent," said Al, doggedly, "and he hoped 
 you d forgive him." 
 
 " I do forgive him ; it wasn t all his fault, 
 Al I wasn t so patient as I ought to have 
 been." 
 
 Al said nothing ; his mouth bore a pe 
 culiar resemblance to his mother s. He re 
 called with a bracing sensation his one per 
 sonal encounter with Marcia s late husband 
 and the severe thrashing he (Alpheus) had 
 given him. 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 49 
 
 " Was he comfortable in the hospital?" 
 said Marcia. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I mean, did he have the little things he 
 wanted fruit and wine and such thing s? * 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She threw back her veil and showed him 
 the ghost of a smile. "Al, I could always 
 see through you. I believe you sent him 
 those things yourself ! " 
 
 "Yes, I did," said Al, frowning. "I 
 supposed you would fret, someway, if he 
 didn t get them. Him I didn t care a 
 rap about him 1 I didn t believe in his 
 palaver." 
 
 A pause, during which Al coughed a har 
 assing lump down his throat, but it left his 
 tones husky as he asked: "Is there any 
 other reason you got for not marrying me, 
 Marcia?" 
 
 " You know it, Al." 
 
 " You mean mother ? Well, Marcia, you 
 know what I think. I love my mother, and 
 I m willing to make any sacrifice in reason 
 for her. She can have her house and the 
 biggest of the farms, and I 11 let her have 
 
50 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 her say about the stock. I know what I owe 
 to her " 
 
 " Maybe what you don t know is how she 
 loves you." 
 
 His answer was not the answer that she 
 expected, although one natural enough in a 
 lover. What he said was: "You are an 
 angel ! " 
 
 But he didn t think it natural that she 
 should begin to cry. "Al," she implored 
 him, "I disobeyed my mother, and look 
 what misery and shame it brought on us 
 both on the innocent as well as the 
 guilty ! Oh, Al, don t you go and want to 
 do the same thing ! Do you think now I m 
 just beginning to realize what it is to lose a 
 mother, I could be plotting to break your 
 mother s heart? She couldn t bear it to 
 have you marry me ! She despises me. 
 Oh, she has got the right to despise me 
 hush, dear," at a passionate gesture from 
 the young man "I know you don t, but 
 she doesn t know any thing about me except" 
 my silly, wicked folly ! It would be wicked 
 to bring such sorrow to her, Al ! God would 
 punish us oh, I wouldn t mind His pun- 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 51 
 
 ishing me, a poor, broken thing- as I am, but 
 you you my darling- " 
 
 Never before had she used a caressing 
 word like that to him, and she could see the 
 blood surge up his forehead, and his eyes 
 flash. She moved away from him. "Don t 
 be afraid, dear," he said, gently; "I m not 
 going to kiss you ! I want to, and there s 
 no moral harm in it; but I won t, not if you 
 don t want me to. See, dear, just this ! " and, 
 turning back the hem of her black glove, 
 he kissed her wrist, not ardently, but with 
 a solemn and reverent tenderness. "I won t 
 worry you any more now; I can wait," said 
 he, " I know you belong to me." 
 
 "Yes," said she. They only spoke of 
 trivial things after this, until they reached 
 the house. At the gate he helped her out, 
 and Mrs. Dagget herself opened the door 
 and took Marcia in her arms. 
 II. 
 
 Shaken though she was, Hannah Swift 
 did not lose her reasoning powers ; but the 
 more she rummaged the details of the evi 
 dence, the uglier it looked ! They must 
 have searched the house thoroughly ; if they 
 
52 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 had not, and the pesky thing- which, to 
 Hannah s mind, it was a sin and a shame 
 for any Christian woman to be wearing- any 
 how had been overlooked, most like it had 
 been swept up, carted off, flung- into the 
 ravine that the Dyers and the Pratts used 
 too, and Lord help anybody to find anything 
 in that mux ! 
 
 And there were the three women to prove 
 that she was the last creature in the house 
 before the diamond disappeared. Not so 
 much as a bird or a dog- or a cat to lay the 
 blame on! The Keiths kept none of them. 
 She could not even prove that she had the 
 money given to Al, for it was the piecemeal 
 accumulation of years, and unhappily she 
 had not put it in the bank. Now this sudden 
 wealth bore witness ag-ainst her. 
 
 Only one plan promised anything- 
 namely, to write to Davenport in order that 
 she might get proof that she had not gone 
 to a jeweler s or sold any diamond. 
 
 But this was a gigantic undertaking for 
 an unready writer. She must needs employ 
 a penman ; and whom ? She recoiled with 
 an inexpressible fright from the thought 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 53 
 
 of applying- to Alpheus. That her son 
 might hear of the charge was her daily ter 
 ror. She watched him like a cat. His fits 
 of abstraction, his ominous indifference to 
 what he ate, scared her. She tried to think 
 that he was "only fussing bout Marshy." 
 Yet not a week ago Marcia had been the 
 specter! 
 
 Sunday came, and Hannah went to church 
 as usual, staying over to the evening serv 
 ice. 
 
 She noted every averted glance, every 
 chilled greeting-; very likely she suspected 
 chill and aversion where they did not exist. 
 
 At the evening- service Brother Given 
 spoke on secret sins. He was a handsome, 
 portly man, whose loud voice and imposing 
 stature gave an appearance of more decision 
 than he will claim at the judgment day. He 
 talked with a certain rude eloquence, tell 
 ing pathetic tales in illustration of his theme. 
 Many of the women wiped their eyes, but 
 some merely used their handkerchiefs as a 
 screen behind which they could look safely 
 at the Swift pew. Hannah did not flinch in 
 a muscle ; she breathed slowly and regularly 
 
54 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 and she suffered as only a proud woman 
 can. 
 
 "Confession and restitootion," roars 
 Brother Given, "oh, my sinful brother 
 oh, my sinful sister they alone can cleanse 
 the soul ! But make no mistake leaning- 
 over the pulpit cushions and smiting- the 
 palm of one hand with the fing-ers of the 
 other, while his voice sinks to a confidential 
 semitone " restitootion, restitootion is the 
 greatest duty ! Confession, I say boldly, is 
 not as important as restitootion. Why, sup 
 pose, let us say, that you have lost prop 
 erty stock, or money, or land, or jewelry 
 any sort of property; do you want your 
 poor sinful brother, who took it, to come 
 back and confess, as much as you want your 
 property back ? You say, No, of course 
 not, Brother Given ! I can imagine a case 
 where the wrong-ed one would say : "I don t 
 ask you to confess; you have led a respect 
 able life, you may have an innercent family 
 to consider. Make restitootion give it 
 back, and go in peace ! Go and sin no 
 more ; that s the main point. Will Sister 
 Pratt please lead us in prayer ? " 
 
. The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 55 
 
 Not a few of the listeners felt that Sister 
 Pratt neglected an opportunity of grace; 
 for, while she dutifully prayed that we 
 might be given strength to repent and 
 cleanse ourselves from undiscovered sin, 
 she also prayed that we be preserved from 
 prying- into other folks sins, and from un 
 charitable and suspicious minds. 
 
 Mrs. Swift waited to shake hands with 
 Sister Pratt at the door. She did not thank 
 her for her prayer, but she told her that she 
 hoped she (Sister Pratt) would come and 
 see her new crazy-quilt. "I got a hull lot 
 of pieces left over, " said Mrs. Swift ; "maybe 
 some on em would do for yours. You re 
 real welcome to them !" 
 
 She was speaking when the preacher ap 
 peared and would have edged by the group ; 
 instantly she stopped him. 
 
 "Brother Given," said she, in a clear 
 voice of good compass, "you give us a pow 
 erful discourse, and all true; but what of 
 folks that air suspicioned and cayn t confess 
 nor restitoot neither, cause they ain t done 
 it?" 
 
56 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 "Surely, sister, such cases will be cleared. 
 I was only alluding- to certain guilt." 
 
 "Well, now, Hain t so easy to be certain." 
 Thus good Mrs. Pratt put in her word, as 
 she placed her sturdy figure in the small 
 remaining portion of the passage-way. "I d 
 a lesson bout that, this very week*; didn t I 
 bile my currant jel most way to nothing, 
 jest cause I was so fool certain I d put the 
 sugar in ! I d a-measured it and set it away 
 in the pantry, and I knowed I d put it in ; 
 and why in mercy didn t that jel thick up? 
 But I hadn t put it in, all the same ! It is a 
 sight easier making mistakes than taking 
 pains !" 
 
 Meekly Brother Given agreed, and 
 clutched a passing brother, under whose 
 convoy he made his retreat. He was a 
 peace loving man, who had dealt with the 
 scandal according to the lights of others 
 rather than his own; and he was by no 
 means assured in his soul. 
 
 Monday and Tuesday, Mrs. Swift did her 
 duty by the family washing. Wednesday, 
 she had occasion to come to town. Her road 
 led past an unsavory restaurant and secret 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 57 
 
 liquor den of the type that curses rural dis 
 tricts. Half a dozen youths lolled on the 
 bench outside the fly-specked window, try 
 ing- to persuade themselves that they were 
 bad young- men. They smoked and spat 
 vociferously. At the moment of Mrs. 
 Swift s passing-, the wag- of the party made a 
 joke, and there was a burst of coarse laug-h- 
 ter. She was sure that they were laug-hing- 
 at her, and whipped up her horses, her old 
 face aflame. She did not rein the horses in 
 for a long- way ; indeed, her reckless driv 
 ing- had nearly caused her to run over Mar- 
 cia Wrig-ht on a crossing-. Marcia carried 
 a great bundle. She looked white and tired, 
 in her black clothes. 
 
 Mrs. Swift s elbows widened to shorten 
 her reins, then she lashed her horses backs 
 with them and frowned ; she had resisted 
 an extraordinary impulse to bid Marcia get 
 into her wag-on. "It s rig-ht on my way to 
 take her home, " she had thoug-ht ; then with 
 a sneer at her own movement of compas 
 sion, "the two outcasts together that 
 would be a show!" 
 
 "I s pose she does have a hard time," 
 
58 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 she answered an invisible opponent half a 
 score of times, on the way home, "but she 
 deserves it; I don t!" 
 
 Whereupon the opponent retorted: "How 
 do you know? Do you know, or have you 
 been jealous and ready to hate her because 
 your boy loved her?" And the opponent 
 asked questions about Marcia s sufferings, 
 and stung- Hannah s torpid imagination into 
 picturing a disgrace like her own. 
 
 Such thoughts gave her bad nights. She 
 grew haggard. Alpheus urged her to con 
 sult a doctor. She knew that he watched 
 her; and she, in turn, watched him with an 
 agony of suspicion. The next time she 
 drove to town, she went with a purpose. 
 "Might s well ask her as anybody," said 
 Hannah Swift; "I kin pay her." 
 
 Therefore, when she saw Marcia on the 
 street, she overwhelmed the young woman 
 with amazement by asking her to ride. She 
 had leisure, sitting on the same seat with 
 Marcia, to study the peaked oval of her 
 face, the hollow cheeks that she remem 
 bered so blooming, the sunken eyes and the 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 59 
 
 careworn lines about the mouth that used 
 to wear so insolent a smile. 
 
 "Yes," -she said to herself, "she does 
 look distressid ; I g-uess she has had it hot 
 and heavy, and maybe she didn t deserve 
 all on HI" 
 
 Aloud she said : "Marshy Wright, I g-uess 
 you know what folks say bout me." 
 
 "Yes, ma am," quavered Marcia. 
 
 "Well, do you believe it s true?" 
 
 "No, ma am; of course not." 
 
 "Course not? What do you know about 
 it, you re so certain?" 
 
 "I know you!" said Marcia, with her 
 glimmer of a smile. Nothing- dies so hard 
 as the sense of humor, and Marcia s some 
 times showed vitality, still. 
 
 "Hmn," said Mrs. Swift, "you re the 
 fust to take count of that. Well, how be I 
 to provethe liesain ttrue, Marshy Wrig-ht?" 
 
 Marcia colored, but she answered firmly : 
 "I am sure it was not stolen at all; I am gx> 
 ing- to sew at Mrs. Keith s next week, and 
 maybe I can see better then how it could be 
 lost. Then you you could show you didn t 
 
60 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 pawn any diamond when you went to Dav 
 enport." 
 
 "That s so, Marshy; but I got to have 
 somebody write for me. And she stopped, 
 hardly knowing- how to ask Marcia. 
 
 "If if I could do it, Mrs. Swift?" said 
 Marcia. 
 
 "I guess you could do it if you wanted 
 to," said Mrs. Swift. 
 
 One bit of information gleaned from the 
 subsequent conversation consoled her; she 
 gathered that Alpheus knew nothing of the 
 evil gossip at least, he had not discussed 
 it with Marcia ; and by the fierce leap of 
 her pulses at Marcia s assurance, the poor 
 mother knew what had been that dread. 
 Really, Al did know nothing; the people of 
 Flowering Bridge were a kindly sort, and 
 would have been shocked at the idea of tak 
 ing a son into confidence about the dishonor 
 of his mother. 
 
 But you may be sure Marcia told him how 
 civilly Mrs. Swift had greeted her. Al spoke 
 no word of gratitude; but he bought his 
 mother a new gown, and praised all the poor 
 
The judgment on Mrs. Swift. 61 
 
 maid s disasters in bread, rashly imputing 
 them to her mistress. 
 
 All this while, the small community was 
 in a state of agitation out of all experience. 
 It seemed terrible to suspect a woman of 
 stainless probity, a mother in Israel who 
 had kept her word to her hurt; and yet 
 who else took the diamonds? They were 
 there when she left the house for the first 
 time, they were left there by the others, 
 they were gone after her second secret 
 visit; and suddenly she has a large unsus 
 pected sum of money, j ust when it isneeded. 
 Mrs. Dagget s explanation of the return for 
 the black bag might be granted without 
 affecting the case against Mrs. Swift. Sup 
 pose she did go back merely to get the bag; 
 she found herself alone with temptation 
 sudden and great, she did not see the three 
 women watching her behind the lattice, she 
 thought herself safe, and she had snatched 
 the diamond and fled. 
 
 On the whole, public opinion drifted fur 
 ther and further away from any theory of 
 innocence. 
 
 Again Sunday came. Mrs. Swift sat in 
 
62 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 her pew, erect and calm as iron. Brother 
 Given shrank from her steady eyes. If she 
 could only have guessed how afraid he was, 
 and how safe she was from any sinister im 
 plications from him ! 
 
 During the week, the replies to her letters 
 began to come. By the end of the week, all 
 Marcia s correspondents had answered her 
 inquiries. The letters accounted for every 
 minute of Mrs. Swift s time in the city; 
 Marcia had done her task well. 
 
 As Mrs. Swift read them, she smiled. 
 Now, Marcia could not remember a smile 
 on the grim woman s face; it was wonderful 
 how the novel radiance altered those harsh 
 features. 
 
 " You done well, Marshy," she muttered; 
 "you re a good girl!" And she told Mrs. 
 Dagget that Marcia Wright was not "nigh 
 sich a fool s she looked." From any one 
 else, this might seem a mitigated compli 
 ment; but it approached enthusiasm on the 
 part of Mrs. Swift, and was so received by 
 her friend, who, she assured Simon, felt as 
 if the world were coming to an end, and was 
 obliged to "stay herself" with a punch. 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 63 
 
 Punch in that temperate household meant 
 a teaspoonful of brandy to a large tumbler 
 ful of water; and, notwithstanding- the bale 
 ful nature of the brandy bought at a drug 
 store under oath that it was for medicinal 
 purposes only had never harmed a mor 
 tal. Hannah Swift declined the punch, say 
 ing that she feared it might go to her head, 
 and she wanted all her wits about her, be 
 cause she was going to "dress up " and 
 visit Mrs. Keith. 
 
 It was part of the curious reticence used 
 in the whole affair, that the two women 
 should have had no direct dealings regard 
 ing it. 
 
 " Now I am going to have it out with 
 her!" said Hannah. 
 
 Home she went, with a lighter heart in 
 her breast than she had carried for weeks, 
 and straightway laid out her best black 
 bombazine gown, her bonnet, and, as a por 
 tion of her garb of state, her fine black 
 cachemire shawl. 
 
 " Sun s hot, but I don t need to put it on 
 till I git right up to the house," she con 
 sidered; "I never could feel dressed up in 
 
64 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 jest my body and no cape or nothing-. For 
 the Jand s sake ! if I ain t tore out a hunk of 
 the fringe ! It s gitting in and out of that 
 pesky top-buggy, that s what done it. And 
 I got to have that buggy to-day, too. I told 
 Mike to wash it off every time I used it, but 
 I ll bet anything he ain t; and goodness 
 knows when I used it last ! " 
 
 On the spur of the thought, she hur 
 ried out to the barn, knowing that Mike 
 was disposed to neglect the " top-buggy," 
 which, indeed, was used rarely. Sure 
 enough, there it stood with the mud caked 
 on its tires. 
 
 "Well, Mike and me has got to have a 
 reckoning, right straight," said Hannah. 
 
 But fate had willed to spare the erring 
 Mike. Mrs. Swift, who was slapping the 
 cushions into place, all at once dived her 
 gray head under the seat, uttered a shrill 
 quavering cry, and sank in a heap on the 
 floor. 
 
 Between her limp fingers, the great dia 
 mond of Miss Pennell s lost brooch winked 
 at her like an evil eye ! A few strands of 
 black worsted clung to the gold setting. 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 65 
 
 "The fringe of my shawl!" groaned 
 Hannah Swift. "I must a switched it off 
 the sofy, and it caught ; and when the fringe 
 tore out, gitting outer the buggy, it fell off, 
 and it s lay there all this time, for I ain t 
 had the buggy out sence. Oh, Lordamassy, 
 twas me stole it, ayfter all!" 
 
 I hesitate to describe the blackness of the 
 next hours for that honest, haughty old 
 soul. No confession could set her right 
 with her world now; there would always be 
 a question whether she had not invented 
 the story, being frightened at the conse 
 quences of her crime. 
 
 Somehow she did get herself and the dia 
 monds back to the house, back to her own 
 chamber. The instincts of a pious life 
 made her sink on her knees by the bed, 
 just as she had sunk there in the other 
 great crisis of her life, w r hen her husband 
 died. 
 
 " Oh, Elder, if you was only here to tell 
 it to ! " the crushed heart wailed. She tried 
 to pray, but her first words were stopped 
 on her lips by a searing flash of thought: 
 "Is it a judgment, O Lord?" she sobbed, 
 
66 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 wildly, " cause I held myself so high and 
 didn t show mercy to sinners! Now, ain t 
 I be going to be lowed to hold myself inner- 
 cent? Oh, Lord, have I got to own them 
 fools was right?" 
 
 In the whole world, who would believe 
 her now? Yes, there was one a woman 
 who had known an equal bitterness, a 
 woman whom she had defamed and de 
 spised and misjudged. " Marshy d know 
 how I felt, and she d believe me, too," she 
 thought; "but I got to give it all up, if I go 
 now. I cay n t do that I cay n t, Lord, I 
 cayn t!" 
 
 Nevertheless, two hours later, she knocked 
 at Marcia Wright s door. She marched 
 into her errand without preliminaries: 
 
 "Marshy, I don t know what you 11 say, 
 but I jest found out I stole that pin! " 
 
 "Then you took it by mistake," said 
 Marcia; " how did it happen? " 
 
 Before the end of Mrs. Swift s narrative, 
 her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shin 
 ing; she looked like her old self. 
 
 "And now," Mrs. Swift concluded, dis 
 mally, "I don t see nothing for it but to 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 67 
 
 take up my cross and go over to Mrs. Keith s 
 with the pin and tell her the hull story. 
 Maybe they 11 make me confess in church, 
 too, and folks won t believe me nohow; but 
 if they don t, the Lord knows I done my 
 best." 
 
 "I wouldn t do any such thing-," said 
 Marcia, firmly; " don t you remember what 
 Brother Given said about restitution being- 
 better than confession? I g-uess he ought 
 to know. All you are bound to do is to get 
 that diamond back to Mrs. Keith ; and 
 that s all Mrs. Keith wants, either! " 
 
 " But what will I say to the woman? " 
 
 Marcia rose, a new energy in every poise 
 of her slim young figure ; she laid her hands 
 on Hannah s bowed shoulders, she fixed 
 her shining eyes full on Hannah s despair 
 ing face, her voice was sweet and high. 
 44 Mrs. Swift," said she, " can you trust me 
 to give that pin back? " 
 
 "Marshy," Hannah Swift answered, sol 
 emnly, "I kin trust you with anything in 
 this world." 
 
 And then a most strange thing happened : 
 Marcia, with that transfigured face, bent 
 
68 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 nearer and kissed her. So strange a thing- 
 was it that in all her bewildered misery 
 she kept returning- to it and to her own 
 sensations. 
 
 "It was awful funny; and what was fun 
 nier, I kinder liked it! " said she. 
 
 That which might have occurred to her 
 as yet a strang-er circumstance than the 
 caress or her own feelings was the further 
 fact that, in spite of knowing- no more than 
 her horses regarding Marcia s plans, she 
 had unhesitatingly promised secrecy. 
 
 She went home with a timid, unwar 
 ranted, unaccountable hope in her company. 
 But the night was long, and Mrs. Dagget, 
 who appeared about noon, exclaimed at her 
 pallor. 
 
 "Never mind; I got news to raise the 
 dead," thought the kind woman; "but I 
 got to break it gentle." 
 
 By way of breaking it gently, she fell on 
 Mrs. Swift s neck and burst into tears. 
 
 "Ellen Dagget, what is the matter with 
 you? " cried Hannah, sternly. " If you got 
 bad news, tell it ; don t go to scaring me 
 this way!" 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 69 
 
 "Oh, it ain t bad news; it s good. 
 They ve found Miss Pennell s pin!" 
 
 Mrs. Swift s knees gave way under her; 
 she dropped into the nearest chair. 
 
 " Found? " she gasped, feebly. 
 
 " Yes, found. You come right into the 
 other room, where the girl won t be run 
 ning in on us, and set down, and I 11 tell 
 you the whole from beginning to end. You 
 poor thing?" Thus mingling sympathy 
 and command, Mrs. Dagget propelled her 
 friend into the shelter of the dim "best 
 room," and the nearest rocking chair. 
 
 "Now, this is the way of it," said she: 
 "Marcia Wright, she s been sewing for 
 Mrs. Keith, and she is working on a plum- 
 colored dress that has got those big, ex 
 pensive buttons on it to match ; and some 
 way, this morning, first thing, one of the 
 buttons got lost. Well, Marcia set em all 
 to hunting, and hunted herself, but no but 
 ton ! Finally, says Marcia: * Could it have 
 got into the,,rags, and where did they keep 
 them ? Well, they kept the good big rags in 
 the rag-bag, and the little scraps and scrids 
 they jest chucked in the stove. Marcia said 
 
70 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 they might s well look in both button 
 wouldn t burn up, if rags did. And first 
 they looked in the rag-bag, and then they 
 overhauled that stove, and carted every last 
 dud out of it; and whilst they were looking, 
 the hired girl gave a screech, and Mrs. 
 Keith looks in she mistrusted it was a 
 mouse, and you know she ain t fraid of 
 nothing and she pulled it out Miss 
 Pennell s diamond pin!" 
 
 "Oh, Lord have mercy I" said Mrs. 
 Swift. 
 
 "Yes, there twas, good s ever, jest 
 smouched a little. Mrs. Keith says it all 
 come to her in a flash. That was the room 
 they was packing in, you know. There 
 was a lot of papers and stuff on the floor, 
 and, soon s she put the things in the bag, 
 she told the girl to clear up; and she put 
 the papers in the stove, and that pin must 
 have been in them." 
 
 " Hadn t they looked in the stove? " 
 
 u Why, yes, I guess they had; but it was 
 kinder slipped down in a corner, and I 
 guess they didn t poke round much. You 
 see, Miss Pennell was so swearing certain 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 71 
 
 she put the pin in the case. It s jest an 
 other case like Sister Pratt s jel! You 
 cayn t be sure of nothing- xept original sin, 
 I say. Mrs. Keith, she feels real upset 
 about you and how folks have misjudged 
 you. She was for hiring- a livery and com 
 ing- right out to see you. She didn t seem 
 to think of the expense at all. But Marcia 
 Marcia s g-ot real g-ood sense, Hannah! " 
 
 "I know it," said Hannah, meekly. 
 
 " Marcia, she says: *I wouldn t, Mrs. 
 Keith; I wouldn t never name it to her, 
 since you never have. I d g-o and talk to 
 Mrs. Dagget, says Marcia. And that s 
 jest what she did; and I made the boy 
 hitch right up, and told Lucy Dagget to 
 give her pa what she could git for dinner, 
 and I come here fast s I could. Mrs. Keith 
 wants you to know how she feels. She 
 does feel real bad why, she couldn t have 
 got a livery for less n two dollars, and she 
 would have come right off if Marcia hadn t 
 stopped her. She says she don t blame you 
 much if you cayn t forgive her " 
 
 "But I do I do from my heart," cried 
 Hannah; "and I thank Marcia and you. 
 
72 The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 
 
 And oh, Ellen, if I didn t need never to hear 
 a word more about it again ! " 
 
 " Bless your poor heart, you never shall I " 
 said Mrs. Dagget, wiping" her eyes. 
 
 Flowering Bridge agrees that Mrs. 
 Swift s conduct in burying malice is admir 
 able. Everybody felt a little ashamed at 
 the outcome of the scandal, and everybody 
 was inclined to under-estimate his own dis 
 trust. Of course, Sister Swift would not at 
 her age begin to purloin diamond pins ! No 
 one had really supposed such a thing. But 
 Al certainly was puzzled at the sudden flood 
 of compliments that he received for his 
 mother whose gifts and good qualities, 
 from her eyesight to her generosity, had 
 honorable mention and at the extent of 
 neighborly good-will taking the form of 
 preserves. However, he was too happy 
 and too grateful to his mother, at this time, 
 to find any appreciation of her extravagant. 
 
 Hannah herself had mighty wrestlings of 
 conscience. 
 
 "Marshy, air you sure there wan t no 
 lies told? " was her first question when the 
 two met again. 
 
The Judgment on Mrs. Swift. 73 
 
 "Not a lie," replied Marcia, cheerfully. 
 
 "But, Marshy, you had to say something-, 
 the time they found it; what did you say, 
 Marshy?" 
 
 " Oh, I said : * Gracious goodness ! " 
 
 Possibly Marcia s conscience is rather 
 Western than the undiluted inheritance 
 of the Puritans, for it has given her no 
 twinges; only, sometime, she hopes Mother 
 Swift will consent to her telling- Al. 
 
 Mrs. Swift walks less firmly now, over 
 her neighbors faults; she is less caustic in 
 her speech, and slower to wrath, than of 
 yore ; she has even asked the pastor s family 
 to tea. 
 
 "Tribberlation," says Brother Given, 
 " has brought forth grace 1 " 
 
The Dilemma 
 of Sir Guy the Neuter 
 
The Dilemma 
 of Sir Guy the Neuter.* 
 
 $ 
 
 I had not loved thee, dear, so much, 
 
 Loved I not honor more. Richard Lovelace. 
 
 THERE are two portraits remaining 1 of 
 Sir Guy Paget, later Baron Ellesmere. 
 One of them hangs in the old hall to which 
 his descendants have spared its Elizabethan 
 state. No one can name the painter ; prob 
 ably he was one of the Dutch artists who 
 were attracted to England by Holbein s 
 success. 
 
 The paint has cracked in minute and 
 irregular diamonds all over the canvas; and 
 behind this network of the old spider, Time, 
 you see Sir Guy s face and his supple and 
 elegant figure, down past the half of his 
 comely legs. He is in court dress, as he 
 
 * The bishop in this story was a most real and manful 
 man, to whose memory I offer this slight tribute. His story 
 may be found in any history of England. 
 
 77 
 
78 The Dilemma of 
 
 was wont to appear before her majesty, 
 Mary I of England: cloth of silver and 
 white taffeta, jewels sparkling- from his 
 sword hilt, and a " marten chain "wound 
 about his square white velvet cap. 
 
 I judge that, at this time, he may have 
 owned twenty-eight or nine years. He has 
 the dark hair of the Pagets (fine and 
 straight, I discover elsewhere) brushed up 
 ward in the fashion of the day. His slight 
 beard hardly disguises the beautiful oval of 
 his face. His tawny gray eyes, though not 
 large, are full of fire. The nose is the 
 rather long, well formed nose of Holbein s 
 portraits ; the chin is firm ; and the delicate 
 lips are relaxed by a fine, half-melancholy, 
 half-satiric smile. 
 
 The other portrait, a miniature by Hil- 
 liard, taken in Elizabeth s reign, shows the 
 same graceful beauty, not effeminate, yet 
 certainly not robust, and the same smile, 
 which I am quite unable to describe. In 
 the miniature, Lord Ellesmere wears ar 
 mor, being thus represented at the instance 
 of his wife, whom he tenderly loved and 
 who was proud of his martial exploits. He 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 79 
 
 was, indeed, a valiant and fortunate com 
 mander; but it was at the court, not in the 
 field, that he mended the estate of a poor 
 gentleman into that of a great lord ; and it 
 is the courtier who smiles that haunting 
 and elusive smile. 
 
 Perhaps I am reading- my own meaning-s 
 into this dead courtier s face, or taking 
 them, modernized in spite of myself, from 
 the manuscript story which he left to his 
 grandson. He left other records of strange 
 passages in his life, some of them concern 
 ing very great personages, indeed; possi 
 bly it is for that reason they have been de 
 stroyed. Tradition also accuses him of 
 "diuers Sonets the wich were extream com 
 mended of Master Philip Sidney." But 
 they have gone their way to oblivion, all the 
 same. I know of no line of Guy Paget s 
 extant outside these musty old pages, the 
 narrative of a tragic and bewildering epi 
 sode. 
 
 Next to his celebrated uncle, the man 
 who most influenced Guy s life was an al 
 most forgotten hero, Robert Ferrars, 
 
8o The Dilemma of 
 
 Bishop of St. Davids. His first meeting 
 with Ferrars was in this wise : 
 
 During- the autumn of 1549, Edward VI, 
 then being- on the throne, and the Catholic 
 rebellion just happily suppressed, Master 
 Pag-et rode through Devonshire with dis 
 patches from his uncle to the Bishop of St. 
 Davids. The bishop and his wife had g-one 
 to Devonshire to visit Sir Peter Carew, the 
 bishop s brother-in-law, and afterward con 
 voy his daughter, Lady Godsalve, with 
 them to Wales, because of the prospective 
 absence of her father and husband in Italy 
 on a diplomatic mission. Guy was to meet 
 the bishop in a little Devonshire village. 
 The sun was passing into the west as he 
 came in sight of the village. He rode un 
 attended, for his business was private. 
 "Though of young years," says another 
 chronicler, " Master Paget was greatly 
 esteemed and trusted by his uncle, and 
 much employed by him in secret affairs of 
 state." 
 
 The mire of the foul ways had splashed 
 Guy s riding boots, as well as the cloak of 
 fine Flemish cloth which he wore to pro- 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 81 
 
 tect his doublet of "wanchett blue velvet 
 guarded with silver." Yet for all the travel 
 stains, he must have looked a gallant and 
 handsome young- gentleman. Not a very 
 light hearted one at this moment, however, 
 though he expected, presently, to see his 
 sweetheart. He gazed about him with a 
 bitter smile. The sunshine bathed the 
 moist green meadows where the sheep were 
 grazing-. King-cups and cuckoo blossoms 
 and all the dazzling- ranks of the autumn 
 flowers were freshly sprung- along- the road 
 side or waving- above the hedg-erows; and 
 sloes showed their sleek black sides on the 
 blackthorn bushes. A little brook flashed 
 across the open before it dipped into the 
 shade of wooded banks. You could see, 
 from Guy s point of vision, orchards and 
 groves, and single majestic oaks or horse- 
 chestnuts dappling- the plain with rich sha 
 dow; and harvests waving- their dull gold; 
 and hills to break the soft curves of the 
 landscape on the horizon line. Directly be 
 fore him the highway slipped out of sight 
 among the steep roofs of the village. 
 
 The scene was one of just such gentle 
 
82 The Dilemma of 
 
 and pensive loveliness as English poets, in 
 all ages, have delighted to praise, but now 
 it was a loveliness disheveled and woeful. 
 The ruined harvests were tumbled over 
 their fields. Ragged gaps had been slashed 
 in the hedges; deep furrows were plowed 
 in the greensward ; how, was easy to know 
 from the broken cannon wheels, the bleach 
 ing bones of horses, rusted pieces of weap 
 ons and armor, and all the hideous litter of 
 warfare still cumbering the ground . A long, 
 transverse ridge of raw earth marked the 
 common grave of king s men and rebels. In 
 like wise the black heaps of ashes and 
 charred timbers, here and there, meant 
 that the soldiers had burned the cottages. 
 So near Guy that his horse s nostrils di 
 lated with the smoke, a few rafters were 
 still smoldering. They had taken the way 
 side cross out of its socket, hacked it into 
 the semblance of a gallows, and swung from 
 it a man in a tattered frieze frock. His 
 clouted soles were barely a foot from the 
 embers. 
 
 Guy frowned and rode away. The main 
 street of the village was blocked halfway 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 83 
 
 by an ancient Norman church. Here, again, 
 Guy saw signs of that furious time. The 
 lead was peeled from the roof, and the 
 tower stripped of its bells. Zealots had 
 smashed the noble windows, leaving- only 
 jagged points like red and blue flames to 
 cling to the cusps and mullions. Within, 
 the choir, bare of all that the piety of ages 
 had bestowed, altars, ornaments, crucifixes, 
 images, held only an oaken communion 
 table; and the walls had been "white 
 limned " so roughly that the floor and even 
 the table were bespattered. Through the 
 trefoil above the group of lancet windows 
 on the north side of the tower, fronting the 
 street, a great beam was run, from which 
 dangled a rope, its purpose plainly indicated 
 by the loop and swinging end. 
 
 A crowd of half-grown lads craned their 
 necks at the noose ; and a half-score men-at- 
 arms made "scurril jests." 
 
 Guy kept his way on down the street. It 
 was a narrow street, unpaved, drained by 
 open gutters. The houses abutted on it di 
 rectly. Most of them were of timber and 
 plaster, two stories high, divided by a pro- 
 
84 The Dilemma of 
 
 jecting string-course. The booths of the 
 tradesmen were below, their dwelling s were 
 above. Evidently the town was astir in 
 some unwonted fashion, for heads crowded 
 the windows and doorways, and little groups 
 of citizens, with troubled faces, talked to 
 g-ether at the street corners. Guy easily 
 distinguished the inn by its sign of the 
 gilded swan. It was a timber house of 
 some architectural pretensions, built about 
 a quadrangle. The fagade had the lawless 
 picturesqueness of the epoch, with its 
 Gothic gables, its large, deeply recessed 
 windows, shapen with the Tudor arch, and 
 divided into many lights, its carven drip 
 stones and cornices, and its porch and 
 porch chamber supported on Ionic pillars. 
 The porch seats were filled with the village 
 magnates, and the tapster in his leather 
 apron and crumpled white hose was serving 
 them to great stoups of beer. 
 
 No landlord was to be seen (Guy learned 
 afterward that he was a timorous man who 
 shunned the wagging of tongues), but his 
 wife displayed a new violet kirtle and her 
 black eyes and red cheeks in the doorway. 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 85 
 
 She, alone, was unabashed by Guy s ap 
 proach ; she greeted him courteously, and 
 having- rendered his horse to the hostler 
 and bade the tapster fetch a fresh tankard, 
 she continued her speech. "Marry," she 
 cried, "though they do hang him, I say he 
 was a kind man; many a dirge and placebo 
 hath he said for a poor body, nor axed for 
 the dirge groat. And which o the new 
 priests would ha tarried like him i the 
 plague time?" 
 
 "He feared naught" it was a red-faced 
 yeoman who took up the word. "Lord, how 
 stout he did crack at the usurers and sheep 
 mongers, and the forestallers and regra- 
 tors!" 
 
 There was a cautious acquiescence in 
 nods, with side glances at Guy. 
 
 A young man would have told of the 
 equally notable drubbing administered to 
 these hated personages by Master Latimer, 
 the king s preacher; but it was clear that 
 young Dobson was suspected of making his 
 travels too conspicuous; they, his elders 
 and betters, were never in London ; his own 
 father checked him : 
 
86 . The Dilemma of 
 
 "Aye, aye, lad, twas famous fine, no doubt, 
 but good Sir Giles was broad spoken enow 
 for me." 
 
 "By likelihood, he was too broad spoken," 
 said a burgher, " tis claimed he practiced 
 with the headiness of the multitude; and 
 sure he said the mass the old way." 
 
 "Well, they ha swept us good clean of 
 the mass, now, " the tapster rejoined, grimly, 
 "and ta en the roods down, too. Poor Hobb 
 be hang-ing- to one now." 
 
 The citizens exchang-ed black looks. 
 
 "They will sweep the land good clean of 
 religion," cried an old man in a threadbare 
 sarcenet gown. "The nobles be jeerers 
 and mockers, riotous and bloody and evil 
 livers, the young men be neuters, of no 
 faith. They fear neither God nor the devil. 
 The merchants have the Gospel swimming 
 on their lips; but, Lord, how they oppress 
 the poor! They keep their wool and their 
 cloth till it be beyond a poor man s buying; 
 and it weareth no time, for the naughtiness 
 of the making. Rich men will show no 
 compassion to the poor. I say there was 
 never a time when the rich were so cruel to 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 87 
 
 the poor. All kinds of bestial be so high a 
 poor man cannot live. When I was a young 
 man, eggs were a penny a dozen, and twas 
 a penny a pound for beef or mutton or veal, 
 and white meat a penny farthing, and neck 
 or legs two farthings. But now the new 
 lords and the clerking knights have en 
 closed the commons so a poor man cannot 
 keep a cow or pig for the comfort of it." 
 
 "Yea, and how the rents be raised !" said 
 the yeoman. 
 
 "Wot ye, good people," said a portly 
 mercer, "how this our native country be 
 sore decayed, so tis to be feared we may 
 fall a prey to our enemies for lack of men? 
 Everywhere be the people sore minished. 
 Where, in a few years agone, were ten or 
 twelve hundred, be scarce four hundred 
 now, and where did use to be fifty plows 
 and good houses of husbandry, now will be 
 but a shepherd and his dog. And the hus 
 bandmen be so pined and famished they be 
 fain to eat acorns, they say." 
 
 "Yea," young Dobson interrupted, ea 
 gerly, " sheep and cattle that be ordained 
 to be eaten of men have devoured the men, 
 
88 The Dilemma of 
 
 quoth Master Latimer; and worthy Master 
 
 Be9on in his book, the Jewel of Joy " 
 
 But the crowd would have nothing* of 
 young Dobson or his new lights. The land 
 lady sent a bell-like Devonshire voice above 
 the din of criticism. "Nay, go to, lad, I per 
 ceive, as the saying* is, a blind man doth 
 swallow many a fly. The new priests talk 
 of charity, but it s from the teeth forward. 
 Yea, we have a hot gospeler here, that got 
 our monk s chantry lands. Ye wot well how 
 that the monks were good landlords. But 
 this new lord hath enclosed the commons 
 and so raised his rents and pulled and polled 
 his tenants that a meanie of them have lost 
 their farms and must beg on the roads or 
 fall to picking and stealing-. There was one 
 poor simple man I knew him well, his name 
 was Jock Tibbets he came to my yard and 
 died there of a fever, and his wife, why I 
 know not, she died also, so the two sons and 
 one daughter they did beg on the roads. 
 One of the sons was pressed to fight with 
 the king- s men, and was killed ; and the girl, 
 being but simple withal and miserably han 
 dled by the soldiers, she was haired out of 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 89 
 
 her wits and drowned herself in the brook; 
 I saw her on the banks stark of her limbs, 
 and dripping", and her other brother making* 
 moan over her." 
 
 "Yes," said the tapster, "Martin his 
 name is, and by the rood, Lord William be 
 going* to hang 1 him to-day, with our vicar." 
 
 "And how chance they hang- him, sirrah?" 
 a voice demanded from within. 
 
 Guy had the curiosity to draw nearer 
 and look into the inn parlor. Two persons 
 were in the room. One was the speaker, 
 an elderly man, tall and stalwart of figure, 
 composed and benignant of face. His gray 
 hair was stiff and abundant. His features 
 were large and rather clumsily molded, 
 but the eyes were "marvelous bright," 
 and wrinkles of kindly mirth discovered 
 themselves at the corners of his eyelids 
 and his mouth. His attire was " grave and 
 reverend " but plain, "a fair black gown" 
 and " black hose with ruffled plates of the 
 same cloth." Instead of the cap of the 
 period, he held a broad hat in his strong, 
 white hand. 
 
9O The Dilemma of 
 
 "By the faith of my body, tis the bishop," 
 said Guy. 
 
 The other person in the room was a 
 young- gentlewoman, richly appareled, of 
 whose person the dim light only revealed 
 that she had a pale face and dark red hair. 
 But Guy did not need to see her plainly; he 
 had been fitting- grand adjectives to that 
 auburn hair for months. Not much more 
 than two years before, Sir William Paget 
 had selected Mistress Margaret Carew for 
 his nephew s wife. There was " much 
 speech of the matter." The young people 
 saw each other. Mistress Margaret, a shy 
 girl, mourning the death of her mother, did 
 not so much as lift her eyes at the graceful 
 young cavalier, and blushed painfully at his 
 court flatteries. Guy was well enough satis 
 fied; he told his uncle that the lady was fair 
 and that he would warrant her " infinitely 
 virtuous." " As for her wit," quoth he, "I 
 could wish it some growth, but there be 
 time enow." 
 
 Nevertheless the affair "came to naught. 
 I gather that there was some dispute about 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 91 
 
 "the dowry." Shortly after, Mistress Mar 
 garet married Sir John Godsalve. 
 
 Cotemporary gossip pictures Sir John as 
 old, rich and ugly, a brave soldier and an 
 honest if stormy tempered gentleman. 
 
 Guy took the rupture of his betrothal 
 with equanimity; but when, after her mar 
 riage, Lady Godsalve appeared at court, 
 whether because she were really grown 
 more fascinating or because her charms 
 had acquired the luster of the unattainable, 
 certain it is Master Paget chose to fancy 
 himself the victim of a hopeless passion. 
 This was the period of his sonnets to 
 Amoret. 
 
 Amoret was cold. She did not blush any 
 for his compliments, and the wit, to which 
 he had wished growth, was quite vigorous 
 enough to match Master Guy s, now. He 
 professed himself dying of despair, but I 
 imagine that, at this period, there was a 
 good deal of poetic license about his de 
 spair. At any rate, he consoled himself 
 with kinder beauties. Guy was a man of 
 his time, and it was not the time of Sir 
 Galahad. Yet as he saw that averted 
 
92 The Dilemma of 
 
 pale cheek and the lovely curve of the 
 throat into the cheek, he felt a thrill be 
 yond his light admiration. "Dear child," 
 he murmured, " Lord, what an innocent 
 face it is!" All this was in the space of 
 the tapster s gruff answer: " Why, please 
 your lordship, Lord William willed Martin 
 to hang our vicar, and he would not so 
 they are going to hang him lo, there they 
 come! " 
 
 A clatter of armor, a jingle of spurs, a 
 thud of horses hoofs, the rush of many 
 feet, boys feet, men s feet, women s feet, 
 little children s feet, a troop of men-of-arms 
 riding at a slow pace, and, in the middle 
 rank, two men on horseback, arms tied 
 behind their backs, feet lashed under their 
 horses yes, they were coming. 
 
 The priest s spine was as erect as any 
 soldier s, though his robe bunched ungrace 
 fully over the saddle pommel, and they had 
 tied a bucket of holy water, a rosary and a 
 sacring bell round his neck, to splash and 
 clank at every motion. He was a little 
 round man with a bald head which glistened 
 in the sun. He looked steadily at the tower 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 93 
 
 and the beam, but he did not flinch by as 
 much as the quiver of an eyelid; even his 
 full cheeks kept their ruddy hue. The 
 other prisoner was an athletic young- man 
 who would have been handsome but for the 
 yellowish pallor of his skin and the glassy 
 eyes which roamed from side to side. His 
 curly flaxen hair was matted with blood, 
 and his ragged fustian jacket nearly torn 
 off him. 
 
 As the dismal procession moved up the 
 street an inarticulate and awful murmur 
 swelled from the crowd, that under-throb 
 of rage and grief and straining patience 
 that holds the menace of unchecked fury, 
 and heard from an English mob has rarely 
 failed to keep its promise. "Some day," 
 thought the keen young interpreter who 
 watched it all, " some day it will be the new 
 priests turn ha, what meaneth my lord 
 bishop? " 
 
 The bishop had stepped into the street. 
 He stood there, lifting his arms 
 
 " My lord, in the king s name ! " 
 
 The leader of the troop was a mere 
 stripling well known to Guy, a duke s son. 
 
94 The Dilemma of 
 
 He turned impatiently in his saddle, say 
 ing-: "My lord, ye be letting the king s 
 justice." 
 
 "Nay, not so," said the bishop, "sure, 
 tis against the king s justice and natural 
 pity, too, to hang this fond young man for 
 that he will not hang the other." 
 
 Lord William answered, in a tone of im 
 patient raillery, that the knave would hang 
 the priest fast enough when the pinch came. 
 
 "That will I never," said the prisoner, 
 sullenly. 
 
 The priest managed to turn his bound 
 body toward the bishop. " For the passion 
 of Christ, good gentlemen," he pleaded, 
 "be a mean for this poor lad. Tis no 
 rebel, but a poor miser that beggeth on the 
 road." 
 
 " That will I, sir," said the bishop, heart 
 ily, " but for yourself " 
 
 " For me," said the priest, "pity me not. 
 I have lived good days, and I am found 
 worthy to die in God s cause." 
 
 Guy had been whispering in Lord Will 
 iam s ear, regarding the Protector s lenity 
 toward the rebels. "He? He may want 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 95 
 
 the like himself," said Lord William; but 
 then he laughed and bade two of his soldiers 
 "have the knave away." 
 
 "For the priest," he added, "I have no 
 option." 
 
 The bishop thanked him for his " gentle 
 ness " and stepped aside. Lord William 
 gave the word of advance. The troop 
 moved on up the street, impassive as their 
 armor. The people streamed after them, 
 and, directly, Guy and the bishop saw the 
 stout figure swinging before his own church 
 tower. Lady Godsalve had gone. They 
 stood alone together. 
 
 "God have pity on his soul!" said the 
 bishop, solemnly; "he was a very pestilent 
 traitor, well worthy of death, but he was a 
 brave man." 
 
 Guy masked a pity that hurt him, under 
 a careless answer: "Yea, he had a stout 
 and arrogant stomach. He minded me of 
 Forrest that was burned in the late king s 
 time, ye know. I saw him suffer. You of 
 the clergy have a special gift for torment, 
 methinks. They burned him in a cradle of 
 chains. Master Latimer preached, and at 
 
96 The Dilemma of 
 
 such length I trow Forrest was glad to be 
 out of the sermon and into the fire. But, 
 an he were not a traitor, I would say For 
 rest took his death as Christian-like as any 
 man I ever did see. I was a lad, at the 
 time. I wept to see the man, screaming- in 
 the fire, and climbing- up, clinging- to the 
 chains, swaying his body out of the flames. 
 Marry, I did run away." 
 
 The bishop sighed: "It liketh me not 
 these harsh punishments, but they affright 
 evil doers. Better is it one traitor die 
 dreadfully like Forrest than hundreds in 
 battle or like such an one. But, Master 
 Paget, ye have letters for me, I wis; let us 
 to the green fields where we may read them 
 in good quiet." 
 
 Guy willingly "did his bidding." They 
 sat down together by the brookside and 
 the bishop looked over the letters. They 
 related to various abuses in the diocese, 
 and especially to certain complaints pri 
 vately made against the bishop. Their 
 tenor appeared in the bishop s running 
 comment: "Griflith ap Morgan be an un 
 meet man for promotion ; he stole his own 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 97 
 
 church bells. Canon Hugh Evans com- 
 plaineth of the multitude of valyaunt beg 
 gars and sturdy vagabonds in his parish. 
 The justice hath whipped and branded to 
 no end; he would have two hanged as an 
 ensample. Not an I can hinder it. Let 
 him advise Sir Thomas Jones to open his 
 mines; the poor lobs be willing enow to 
 work so work be had. John Hughes ! Nay, 
 she was not his wife. I will not take bribes 
 to bear with his wrong doing; let him com 
 plain. Ha! this be all false! It was not I, 
 but George Constantine of his own pre 
 sumptuous mind removed the communion 
 altar in Caermarthen Church. Yea, it be 
 very vile and in great decay. For why, 
 the canons have spoiled it of crosses, cen 
 sers, chalices with other plate and jewels 
 to the value of five hundred marks. Your 
 uncle hath the papers. I did take order to 
 compel restitution. But they have bolster- 
 ers. I do perceive they make charges 
 against me. Saw ye ever such frivole rea 
 soning?" He smiled, although plainly dis 
 tressed. "Here be a famous hotchpotch: 
 Pemunire and using my clergy tyran- 
 
98 The Dilemma of 
 
 nously, and wearing- a hat verily, there I 
 must plead guilty, sith the proof be on me. 
 It beareth off the cold in winter and the 
 heat in summer, yet from the coil ye would 
 deem a hat partook of the nature of mortal 
 sin. Likewise I have had two godmothers 
 for my son, * making of his son a monster, 
 quoth they, and him a laughing stock. 
 Well, Master Paget, there were two wives 
 being before at variance who desired both 
 to be godmothers, so to make unity between 
 them they were both received. What! com 
 plain they too that I whistle my child, say 
 ing that he understood my whistle when he 
 was three days old, and so whistle him, 
 daily, friendly admonition neglected 
 friendly forsooth! But tis true I do use 
 with gravity all honest loving entertain 
 ment of the child to encourage him, there 
 after,- willingly to receive, at his father s 
 mouth, wholesome doctrine of the true fear 
 and love of God. It killeth my heart, Master 
 Paget, to see how cruelly these innocents, 
 that Christ loved, be entreated by their 
 parents and masters. Marry, though, ye 
 would laugh your fill, Master Paget, to see 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 99 
 
 Sam nigh leaping out of his mother s arms, 
 hearing of my whistle, I not being in sight. 
 The towardness of the babe, the nurse 
 saith, is amazing but I forget my canon s 
 sore grief." He read with a mixture of 
 sadness, vexation and humor a long list of 
 charges almost incredible to the modern 
 mind. The bishop did not forcibly take 
 away the people s beads ; he permitted them 
 to "kneel and knock" to the sacrament. 
 He seditiously wished, " speaking of the 
 alteration of the coin," that "the penny 
 should be in weight worth a penny of the 
 same metal." He dined with his servants, 
 and his talk was u not of godliness but of 
 worldly matters." He neglected his books 
 and preaching, and spent his time opening 
 mines, surveying lands, and attending to 
 fisheries. When he reached the last indict 
 ment the bishop wiped his brow. "God 
 forgive me, sir," said he, "belike therein 
 be a savor of truth. I be so occupied with 
 the piteous condition for this world of my 
 poor people and the seeking out some re- 
 mede that I may neglect to feed my sheep 
 spiritually, though I do preach regularly 
 
ioo The Dilemma of 
 
 every week. But Master Paget, enow of 
 this gear; ye bear your worshipful uncle s 
 very thought of the matter ; pray you give 
 it me." 
 
 During the bishop s examination of the 
 letters Guy had been watching every 
 phrase, those sharp, worldly-wise young 
 ears of his on the alert for some ring 
 of the base metal of cruelty, or ambition, or 
 avarice, or sinister indulgence, which he 
 was used to detect in the "new priests 
 talk." 
 
 "Almost thou persuadest me thou art an 
 honest man," he thought before he answered 
 courteously: "That will I, my lord. Tis 
 my uncle s belief the notary, George Con- 
 stantine, is promoter of all this broil. Tis 
 bruited that he be not only guilty of theft 
 of church moneys and other naughty facts, 
 but he has had a hand in the late rising. 
 Wherefore, do ye inquire, shrewdly, and 
 secretly gather what proof ye may it 
 needs not much and hale him before Sir 
 Peter, who is your right friend and brother 
 and there will be an end of him and his 
 plottings ! " 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 101 
 
 "Mean ye," cried the bishop, opening- his 
 eyes wide, "mean ye that I have him hanged 
 whether or no?" 
 
 Guy stroke the down on his smiling- lip as 
 he answered g-ently that the hang-ing- best 
 be left to the secular arm, that is, Sir Peter 
 Carew. 
 
 "God forbid," said the bishop, flushing-, 
 "that I take any man s blood on my soul ! 
 I thank Sir William for his gentle friend 
 ship, but it standeth not with my honor or 
 the faith of a Christian man thus to render 
 evil for evil." 
 
 " Verily, tis an honest man," was Guy s 
 inward comment; outwardly he said that 
 his own duty ended with the delivery of his 
 message. "And so the bishop put the 
 papers in his poke and they fared back to 
 the ostle." 
 
 Will, the tapster, met them with a grin 
 and the intelligence: "Martin, him your 
 worships wot of" he griped his throat 
 significantly "he hath led the soldiers 
 into a ditch and is off." 
 
 "Another knave to pillage the king s 
 lieges," said Guy, tossing the fellow a cru- 
 
IO2 The Dilemma of 
 
 sado and secretly rather glad. He sus 
 pected that the bishop shared his feeling 1 . 
 
 The evening- was spent in the parlor of 
 the inn. Mistress Ferrars was present, a 
 tall, slender gentlewoman, neither young 
 nor pretty, yet attracting- by a mild and un- 
 exacting- comeliness and an evident sweet 
 ness of nature. 
 
 Lord William contributed his handsome 
 person and his sackbut, " playing- divers 
 French songs most untunef ully " but this 
 is Guy s judgment, and he wanted to en 
 gross Lady God salve s attention himself. 
 He was too courtly a youth to display his 
 chagrin; he rather made extra efforts to 
 please the whole company. He discoursed 
 on the doings of the court, the dress of the 
 ladies at the last masque ; the new salad just 
 come from France ; the beauty, talents and 
 marvelous virtues of the young prince 
 (whereat the bishop s eyes grew moist and 
 he nodded his head u many times in a vehe 
 ment manner," and was heard to murmur 
 something in his wife s ear about "our 
 Sam"); the fair gardens of the Duke of 
 Somerset ; the wonders of France, Holland 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 103 
 
 and Italy, which countries young- Paget had 
 seen with his uncle. 
 
 The simple pair delighted in this talk. 
 Ever and anon the bishop would turn his 
 beaming- eyes at his wife and they would 
 smile in unison upon Guy. He caug-ht his 
 breath with interest over the foreign mar 
 vels, and laughed a great, round, unclerical 
 laug-h at every jest. Finally, when Guy 
 sang- at his asking- (the rascal abused his 
 opportunity and adapted some of his own 
 raving-s about " Amoret " to a "fair foreign 
 melody ") he rubbed his eyes, openly, ex 
 claiming-: " Tush, I had not thoug-ht a fond 
 song- could so move me. Thou must teach 
 it me, that I may whistle it to Sam." 
 
 Guy could not help an expansion of his 
 heart under this artless admiration. But 
 when the conversation touched on the state 
 of the commonwealth he was impressed 
 with the sturdier side of Ferrars s charac 
 ter. A homely acumen edged his straight 
 forward sentences. His mind had a breadth 
 of justice and mercy, and a fanciful imagi 
 nation as well, which played about his stern 
 honesty and blunt courage, just as little 
 
IO4 The Dilemma of 
 
 Sam used to frolic in his father s arms and 
 rest his dainty cheek against the other s 
 wrinkles. 
 
 "Yea, verily, here is an honest man," 
 said Guy to himself. 
 
 While the company sate about the room 
 and Lord William explained the last cam 
 paign to the bishop, and Mistress Ferrars 
 was counting her stitches on a remarkable 
 sampler, he made an occasion to go to Lady 
 Godsalve, to examine her broidery work, 
 saying (which was not true) that it minded 
 him of a piece worked by the Lady Mary, 
 theking s sister. So he leaned over thegable 
 of her chair and his fingers slipped along 
 the silken pattern until they touched the 
 slim white fingers drawing the thread. He 
 audaciously asked her how she liked the 
 song. " Twas writ for you," said he. 
 
 Lady Godsalve folded her hands upon her 
 work. " Master Paget," she said, "I would 
 fain talk with you in good sadness if I 
 might." 
 
 "Assuredly, madam," Guy answered, 
 perplexed by her calm voice and the steady 
 gaze of her eyes. Then, all at once, he saw 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 105 
 
 that her hands were clasping each other with 
 the tightness of resolution, not self-control. 
 She lifted her eyes. They were long- in 
 shape, and not until she lifted them did one 
 see how large they were or how deep their 
 violet lights. Faint shadows lay under her 
 smooth eyelids. Her eyebrows, darker 
 than her hair, were drawn a little together. 
 The small mouth curved downward the 
 merest trifle. It was the short upper lip, 
 Guy could see, that gave the mouth its 
 haughty expression; now, the lips had the 
 pathetic curves of the mouth of a tired 
 child. Surely her cheek had grown thinner 
 and paler. 
 
 Guy recalled the girl who should have 
 been his wife and who was "infinitely vir 
 tuous." He was touched. All the artificial 
 gallantry slipped from his manner; he 
 stood up and held the embroidery in both 
 his hands as if to examine it. 
 
 She gave him the first grateful look that 
 he had ever seen in her eyes. " Master 
 Paget," she went on, hurriedly, "brought 
 ye news of the accusations Constantine, 
 the notary, hath laid against the bishop? " 
 
io6 The Dilemma of 
 
 "Alack, madam, my matters be private. * 
 
 u Nay, it needs not you disclose them," 
 she said, with rather a dreary smile. "I 
 wot tis true withouten your speech. Ah, 
 Master Paget, be his good lord. Intercede 
 with your uncle. He be not a clawback 
 flatterer like his besetters; he cannot plead 
 his own cause. He hath done so much in 
 Wales for the poor people. And he hath 
 taken order with the misbehaving- clergy; 
 therefore they do hate him, and practice to 
 destroy him." 
 
 " He hath good hap to win such an advo 
 cate," said Guy, smiling- a little. 
 
 "He hath done more for me," she an 
 swered; "once when I was in sore trouble 
 and ang-uish of mind, seeing- no helper, he 
 set my feet in the straig-ht road; and his 
 counsel was like the ropes they do throw to 
 poor mariners in a storm. He looketh a 
 kind, simple man only, but oh, he doth 
 know the depths wherein the soul be like 
 to sink!" 
 
 During- her words the young- courtier s 
 heart was beating- in an unprecedented 
 way. Could Margaret Godsalve s extremity 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 107 
 
 concern him? That still damsel who scarce 
 let him see the color of her eyes, had she 
 loved him in secret? Poor heart, to have 
 them rudely fling- her sweetness at that 
 brutal old soldier ! Was her flouting- of him 
 but to hide her hurt? Guy recalled his 
 sonnets. He was smitten with the sharp 
 est regret that he had ever known ; his 
 seemed to him an unknig-htly part, and he 
 remembered his mother and her tales of 
 knights who loved one woman and clave to 
 her and served her, asking- no g-uerdon. 
 
 "Margaret," said he, "forget what hath 
 given thee pain in time agone. I will be 
 thy right brother, now. Whatever I can do, 
 that will I ; wherefore, thou knowest, but 
 shalt never hear me say." 
 
 He* had spoken to her thought rather 
 than her words, but neither of them con 
 sidered that until afterward. She was any 
 thing but pale, now; she turned her face so 
 that he might not see the blushes so like 
 those blushes when they were first to 
 getherher sweet voice was barely above 
 a whisper: "I knew, always, thou wast 
 no bl e _ as noble as thou art brave! " 
 
io8 The Dilemma of 
 
 She might have added something- to these 
 intoxicating words; but Lord William was 
 moved to ask her "a fool question." 
 
 The following morning Guy rode back to 
 London. He tells that he made the jour 
 ney, " heavily revolving many things in his 
 mind." He did not know it, but he had 
 passed through a momentous experience: 
 at one and the same time he had been awak 
 ened to his best impulses as a citizen and as 
 a man. He had his crude and cynical im 
 aginations of man and woman jostled out of 
 shape; for in Ferrars he found an honest 
 married priest, and in the insolently adored 
 mistress of his fancy, the woman whom he 
 should love all the days of his life. 
 
 If there w r as one being Guy despised 
 more than another it was "the married 
 priest." This opinion was the common 
 property of his time ; even the Princess 
 Elizabeth could not rid herself of it, and 
 when one reads the published defense of 
 their marriages given the world by some 
 of the English clergy, it may be owned that 
 the scornful had some excuse. Guy him 
 self, like a multitude of young Englishmen 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 109 
 
 of his generation, buffeted backward and 
 forward between Catholicism and Protest 
 antism, was, in the phrase of the time, 
 " a neuter, a person of no faith." To him 
 the new religion looked an indecent scram 
 ble for spoils on the part of the laity, and 
 for license on the part of the clergy; and 
 the married priests with their wives and 
 children and their greedy palms were a 
 noxious and scandalous spectacle. Yet to 
 day he had seen a married priest who loved 
 his wife and child, and none the less had 
 kept clean hands and a pure heart. That 
 Ferrars was not of the exalted spiritual 
 type, but simply a healthy, not too refined 
 follower of righteousness, helped his influ 
 ence over Guy, who had the moderate 
 man s incredulous contempt for exaltation 
 of feeling. 
 
 "I will never maintain again that a new 
 priest may not be a true man," said Guy. 
 
 And he has left his own record of his 
 state of mind regarding Margaret. 
 
 "Before, when he was assured she re 
 garded him not, he had pursued her right 
 earnestly; but now that he did perceive that 
 
1 10 The Dilemma of 
 
 she had bestowed her heart upon him (so un 
 worthy) he was mazed and durst no longer 
 proceed, but would as it were protect her, 
 yea against his own self. So was he sore 
 distraught, seeing no joy or delight in living 
 without this lady ; yet fully persuaded she 
 would in no wise fall from her duty to her 
 lord ; and, therewith consumed with such 
 excess of admiring and longing sorrow that 
 he did weep to think of her, yet could he 
 by no manner of means divert his mind 
 from her." 
 
 Edward was dead and Mary reigned in 
 his stead, and the mass was back in Eng 
 land, before Guy saw the little Devonshire 
 town again. 
 
 Meanwhile evil days had come to Robert 
 Ferrars. So long as Somerset was in 
 power, the Pagets influence kept his ene 
 mies at bay ; but Sir William s address 
 only availed to save his own neck, after the 
 duke s fall. He retired to what was left of 
 his estates, and Guy went to help fight the 
 Turks. Presently, Ferrars was summoned 
 to London on the same "frivole reasonings " 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 1 1 1 
 
 which he had discussed with Guy. He was 
 thrown into prison, and in prison he was, 
 on Mary s accession to the throne. The 
 Pagets came back with the Catholic queen. 
 The Lord Paget had been the most moder 
 ate of Protestants; he was an equally tol 
 erant Catholic ; but moderate men were 
 speedily pushed into the background by 
 fanatics wild with the unslaked hatreds of 
 the time. 
 
 In vain all Guy s influence was exerted 
 for the bishop s release. He was deposed 
 from his see as a married priest; he was 
 kept in prison. His wife sickened and 
 died, but Guy obtained the poor boon of 
 taking him, under his own charge, for a 
 farewell visit to her. There is still extant 
 an affecting letter which the bishop wrote 
 to Margaret Godsalve relating to this visit. 
 And with the bishop s letter is one of thanks 
 to Guy from Margaret evidently inclos 
 ing the first. Margaret s letter is indorsed 
 in Guy s handwriting : " My Dearling 
 Lady, Her first letter writ to Me." 
 
 Margaret at this point was in France. 
 Her father had been concerned in Wyatt s 
 
H2 The Dilemma of 
 
 insurrection and fled. Her husband, though 
 nominally loyal to the queen, was reported 
 to sympathize secretly with the insurgents. 
 
 It is written in every history how Lord 
 Paget succeeded in defeating the heresy 
 bills of two parliaments, and how he failed 
 in the third. In every history, also, is it 
 written how, though he failed when the 
 question only touched men s lives, he suc 
 ceeded at every point in keeping for the 
 laymen all the church property which 
 Henry VIII had stolen for them. Natur 
 ally, all this did not help Paget s court 
 favor. He remained president of the 
 Welsh Marshes. He was of her majesty s 
 privy council. The lands which had been 
 confiscated were his again. But the queen 
 looked coldly on him; he was " vehemently 
 suspect," and " my Lord of Winchester did 
 whisper to my Lord Riche at the Lady 
 Jane s execution that, for a small pretext, 
 they would make the Lord Paget s head 
 dance the like dance." 
 
 Shortly after, Guy, being summo ned by 
 his uncle, found that cool-headed statesman 
 " in a fume." 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 1 1 3 
 
 "By God s wounds, nephew Guy," were 
 the first words Guy could win, "these 
 bloody tikes of priests will break the neck 
 of mother church, of their own swinge ! 
 Ten heretics burned in this one month ! 
 They be the veriest dolts ! Wot they not 
 tis the best of the new religion will stand 
 steadfast, and men will pity their suffer 
 ings, and, at the length, turn on their tor- 
 menters ! By the passion of Christ, it put- 
 teth me out of my patience ! And now they 
 will send the poor old age, Master Ferrars, 
 down to Wales to be tried of the new bishop, 
 Morgan, and that cursed knave, Constan- 
 tine. An he do not recant and ye wot he 
 is of stomach stout and hard they will 
 sure burn him. They did send him down 
 to Wales with Lord William Radcliffe ; but 
 they need him elsewhere, so they demanded 
 me, in the council this morning, if ye were 
 not trusty to be sent. I ween tis to prac 
 tice with us that they may find a pretext to 
 destroy us; but I durst not refuse. 
 
 " Thou must go, Guy. See to it the man 
 doth not give ye the slip, and that he be 
 
H4 The Dilemma of 
 
 mercifully entreated. God, He knoweth I 
 do rue for him." 
 
 So, "very heavily," Guy went. He had 
 planned a different errand to Devonshire. 
 Sir John was dead and Margaret, he had 
 heard, was in England again. Of what had 
 been his relations with Lady Godsalve dur 
 ing the intervening years ; whether he had 
 ever tried to drag his star from heaven, 
 whether he had kept his own fidelity un 
 stained through all the temptation of his 
 youth and that unbridled time of such 
 matters Guy has said nothing, but it is 
 plain that Margaret was still "infinitely 
 virtuous" as she was infinitely fair; and 
 the stiff phrases of the day relax into grace 
 and tenderness if they do but approach her 
 image. 
 
 Therefore, not only "marvelous sorrow 
 ful" over Ferrars s sad case, but "much 
 afeared lest the lady might take his errand 
 in ill part," Guy rode into Devonshire to 
 the same village where he had encount 
 ered Lord William before. There was 
 little change in the aspect of the village 
 street. The church had plain windows, 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 1 1 5 
 
 and a priest in a white rochet was celebrat 
 ing- mass, while a bell tolled from the tower 
 before which stout Sir Giles had swung-. 
 He was welcomed at the inn by the land 
 lady, grown a trifle weightier and rosier, 
 and by Will tapster, himself, standing- now 
 in the landlord s shoes, that timorous 
 worthy having- escaped to the only sure 
 refug-e from tumult and fear in England, 
 the villag-e graveyard. 
 
 The porch seats were filled much as they 
 had been before, and the rustics stared at 
 the soldiers corselets and hacquebuts with 
 the same mixture of dread and aversion. 
 Guy made out some of the faces; but the 
 young- man who had praised Latimer was 
 g-one. The hostess had kept all the details 
 of his visit with rural tenacity, and recalled 
 them volubly. She had not lost her habit 
 of bold speech. " Well a day, tis rare g-ood 
 luck your worship be come," she cried; 
 " Lord William he be reveling- with a great 
 sort of g-entlemen at the hall, and the poor 
 old heretic man been put in a little blind 
 house adjoining-, where we do keep the 
 
il 6 The Dilemma of 
 
 coals; and no fire withal, so he be like to 
 starve for cold!" 
 
 Laying- up a reckoning- (which he after 
 ward paid in full) for Lord William, in his 
 own mind, Guy had Ferrars removed to the 
 inn chamber, where was a fire and a supper 
 laid out, and the best bed well warmed. 
 
 The bishop, who had greeted Guy with 
 all his usual affection, now looked about 
 him with a broad smile. " Yea, even pennar 
 and inkhorn!" he exclaimed, gleefully. 
 "Verily, g-ood youth, thou art my white 
 son. God be praised, tis in dolour and 
 hardness that a man findeth out the kind 
 ness of men. The g-ood man of the house 
 he did fet me a great mess of meat and 
 bread and a stoup of wine ; and the woman 
 did send me the cloak of her husband that 
 dead is. He was of slight personage," the 
 bishop laughed, " and I as ye see, but, 
 marry, it softened the coals for me, and I 
 have an ill back. I pray you, Sir Guy, thank 
 her for her gentleness. The keepers in 
 the city left me little, but I have a silver 
 groat I would send her." 
 
 "This is not the meeting I had hoped 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 117 
 
 for," groaned Guy, unmanned by the old 
 man s cheerfulness. 
 
 "Nay, good youth, thou hast done thine 
 uttermost for me; regret it not, nor rue for 
 me. I mind me ever of the old saying: 
 
 Althoug-h the day be ever so long- 
 At last it ringeth to evensong-. 
 
 Pray you sup with me, my son, and tell 
 me of our friends." 
 
 Then followed a scene strange enough, 
 but of a like nature to those witnessed 
 often in England, at this time. 
 
 The heretic and his most unwilling guard 
 supped together while the soldiers watched 
 outside. Vainly the courtier taxed his 
 subtle wit to persuade Ferrars to choose 
 life instead of death. 
 
 "Oh, consider," he cried, unconsciously 
 speaking the words of another man of the 
 world to a martyr, "life is sweet and death 
 is bitter; and will ye die for such empty 
 words?" 
 
 A very pleasant, gentle smile stole over 
 the old man s rugged features, gaunt and 
 pale with imprisonment. "Ye remem 
 ber," said he, " I was ever addict to songs 
 
n8 The Dilemma of 
 
 and rhymes. My dear heart, when she was 
 with me, did often repeat to me one that 
 marvelously comforted me : 
 
 He that dieth with honor liveth forever, 
 But the defamed dead recovereth never. 
 
 Nay, nay, my son, I die for no idle words, 
 but for the very truth of God." 
 
 "Ye would die against the mass, and 
 poor Father Giles he died for the mass," 
 said Guy with the irritation of despair; 
 "ye cannot both be right " 
 
 "Nay, Father Giles be all wrong," said 
 the bishop, cheerily, "I have the warrant 
 of Holy Writ." 
 
 Thus the talk went on as such talk was 
 going on in England, whenever the man of 
 the world and the man of the other world 
 held their everlasting dispute. Guy was 
 too shrewd not to perceive the helplessness 
 of his arguments. He was as powerless to 
 move the bishop as the bishop would have 
 been to persuade the young courtier to go 
 to the stake on his own account because he 
 did not believe in the " mummery of the 
 mass." 
 
 Sadly enough he bade the old man good- 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 119 
 
 night and betook himself to his chamber. 
 He had posted his guards about the house 
 and he made the rounds before he retired. 
 Down the street the flare of the torches 
 showed him three soldiers. "Those be 
 Lord William s antients, belike," said 
 the old lieutenant who had served with 
 Paget in Hungary. Just then one of them 
 turned his head. Guy experienced that un 
 defined sense of recognition which often 
 bothers the man trained to remember 
 faces. " Somewhere did I see that fellow s 
 hawk eyes," thought Guy. 
 
 His troops placed, the chamber where 
 the bishop lay guarded at every approach, 
 Guy went into the porch chamber which 
 was his own. The porch chamber was built 
 out from the house above the porch, a com 
 mon architectural feature in Tudor man 
 sions. Leaning out of the window, he could 
 plainly hear the voices of the loiterers in 
 the porch. Guy extinguished his taper 
 and listened. It was more to distract his 
 thoughts than from any analyzed purpose. 
 
 Now and then a sentence rose above the 
 murmur. 
 
I2O The Dilemma of 
 
 "Well, I care not for strangers, gaffer; 
 but poor Jock Dobson " 
 
 " He be a right merciful man an he do be 
 a heretic. I did see him beg Martin s life 
 i this very place." 
 
 " Martin, forsooth ! twas an ill fact that 
 tis the most arrant rogue and robber i 
 the country side." 
 
 "Never a soul i this town hath had 
 wrong of Martin." 
 
 The words were lost in an unintelligible 
 buzz of Martin s exploits, besprinkled with 
 peals of laughter as if Martin s wickedness 
 must have a humorous twang. Then some 
 voice said that Martin had seen "the here 
 tic." 
 
 "Say, dame," was the next clear sen 
 tence, "will they burn him like they did 
 poor Dobson?" 
 
 " Yea, but not here, they only bide here 
 overnight. They will burn him in Wales. 
 Alack the pity, tis a hard death, burning!" 
 
 "The gospelers be in some sort Chris 
 tian men" Guy recognized the mercer s 
 voice "I think burning should be for 
 ana-baptists and arians and such like." 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 121 
 
 "I warrant I could not abide the fire. I 
 should recant." 
 
 " Best not take up with their gay glorious 
 doctrines, then, gossip; they be all of the 
 devil, Father Giles said." 
 
 " Marry, this same Lord William was t 
 that hanged him; then would he give the 
 mass ne cap ne knee; and he hacked the 
 rood down and made a gallows out o t for to 
 hang a poor good Catholic clown. How 
 chance he hath not been dealt roundly with? 
 This poor man did no burning, no hanging 
 that I wot of; yet Lord William hath lands 
 and lordship, but this poor miser needs 
 burn. Neighbors, .1 be the queen s right 
 subject, God bless her; but I like not these 
 burnings." 
 
 "The times be no better," an aged voice 
 grumbled, "and there be a meanie of Span 
 ish men to eat up all poor England hath. 
 Tis bruited the queen meaneth to make 
 the prince king, for the great love she hath 
 for him." 
 
 "More than he for her, belike," the yeo 
 man muttered. 
 
 No one reproved him ; they were suddenly 
 
122 The Dilemma of 
 
 all so silent that Guy looked down the street 
 for the cause, instantly apparent in the ap 
 proach of several figures on horseback. 
 Coming- under the light from the inn win 
 dows they were revealed as a gentlewoman, 
 an old serving woman, and two serving men, 
 all attended by Guy s lieutenant and half a 
 dozen soldiers. 
 
 "I seek Sir Guy Paget, good people," 
 said a voice that made his pulses bound. In 
 a moment he was before the lady of his 
 dreams. She was calm enough ; every other 
 emotion had been smothered by the stress 
 of one overwhelming fear. 
 
 "Sir Guy, thou knowest mine errand with 
 out my telling it. Thou hast mine uncle s 
 life in thy hands. Oh, be his good lord ! " 
 
 * Alas, madam, I have no power, said Guy ; 
 "I have labored him sore to recant, but he 
 will not." 
 
 "And there be no hope for him with Mor 
 gan and Constan tine, "said the lady, "I know 
 that right well." 
 
 Guy assented, despondently. 
 
 "How wicked be these laws," she cried, 
 wringing her hands, but dry-eyed in her 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 123 
 
 misery; "an I were a man I would fight 
 them till I died!" 
 
 "My uncle, he did his uttermost in par 
 liament," said Guy, feeling- the weakness of 
 his words. He could not keep his eyes 
 away from her, where she stood, the candle 
 light on her white face and her curling dark 
 red hair and glittering eyes and the scarlet, 
 trembling lips. 
 
 "In parliament ! like clerks ! " the passion 
 ate speech flowed on, "but ye be a valiant 
 knight, ye wear a sword. Think, they will 
 burn twenty this week ! Some of them be 
 women, some lads, nigh children, that never 
 heard of any other religion. How can the 
 nobles and gentles of England sit by and see 
 such foul shame!" 
 
 "What profiteth fighting?" said Guy. 
 "Wyatt, what hath he done to help the her 
 etics? He hath only lost his own head and 
 many an honest gentleman s beside." He 
 caught the hands that she flung up in a wild 
 gesture, and held the white wrists. "List 
 en, dear heart nay, ye shall not scorn me, 
 Margaret, I be no coward knave, my heart 
 is heavy for these poor heretics. Yea, I 
 
124 The Dilemma of 
 
 would fght for them, did fighting serve; 
 but the Lady Mary is our rightful queen. 
 I will not bring in the French king to con 
 quer England." 
 
 She let her face droop until her cheek 
 rested almost against his hands which were 
 holding her wrists. " Forgive me, Sir Guy, 
 I did wrong thee. Alack, I be haired out of 
 my wits with the planning and thinking. I 
 know thou wouldst serve him. And it is so 
 easy. Ah, sir, do for me one little, little 
 thing?" 
 
 "What, sweetheart?" he said, dreamily. 
 How passing sweet it was to have her so 
 near him and she was free! 
 " The password for to-night." 
 She whispered in his ear, "Just that- 
 only that to me." 
 
 "What would ye with the password?" 
 "Nay, do not ask. Best to know naught. 
 Only tell it me." 
 
 " Tis a device to free Master Ferrars." 
 He spoke very gently but sadly. Suddenly 
 he kissed her wrist. 
 
 "Thou knowest how I love thee," he 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 125 
 
 groaned, "and thou wouldst make me a for 
 sworn man!" 
 
 "Nay, not so. Leave holding- of my 
 hands, Sir Guy, I pray thee." 
 
 When he dropped her wrists she turned 
 and sat down, making- a piteous effort at 
 composure. "Fy, I do talk like a fond wo 
 man. Look, I will g-o to work roundly with 
 you to amend your reasoning-. Prythee 
 allow me require certain thing s of ye. Is 
 it because ye deem this law to be righteous 
 that ye help it thus, or because ye be sent 
 to execute it?" 
 
 "Ye wot tis the latter. I be a soldier. I 
 obey them that have authority." 
 
 "But deem ye a soldier must obey al 
 ways? Say they command ye murder babes, 
 like King- Herod ? Or like him that sent to 
 kill the babes in the Tower? Did those 
 slayers, by authority, right well? Or say, 
 the queen the which is a shrewd likeli 
 hood, sith she be a cruel and irous dame 
 say she will ye to despatch the Lady Eliza 
 beth? Shall ye do her will and wash your 
 hands, saying-, Marry, I be sent by author 
 ity ? Tush ! Away with such reasoning- for 
 
126 The Dilemma of 
 
 a free-born Englishman ! I tell ye, Sir Guy 
 Paget, ye stain your knightly sword when 
 ye lift it in such a quarrel ! He is a gentle 
 man that hath gentle conditions. And he 
 that helpeth wicked men to murder and, 
 lo ! how cruelly ! an innocent, kind old man 
 that hath wrought only good, yea, by God s 
 mercy, he be no gentleman, no knight, but 
 a murdering slave!" 
 
 "Ye drive me too hard," cried the young 
 man, beside himself; "I tell ye, my uncle, 
 that is more than a father to me, he hath my 
 word. Oh, Margaret, show pity, drive me 
 not out of my manhood ! " 
 
 But she was too much of a woman to be 
 merciful. She rose. She walked to him 
 and knelt at his feet. 
 
 u Guy," she whispered, while he could 
 hardly see her face for the daze of anguish 
 in his eyes, "Guy, often hast thou sworn 
 that thou lovest me; and I could not tell 
 thee how even so did I love thee. No one 
 will know ; Martin (he that the bishop saved, 
 here, in this town) will do all. Thy uncle 
 will have no guilt. Thou need st know 
 nothing or " she lifted her radiant eyes 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 127 
 
 to him " thou shalt know all and fly with 
 him and me to my father in Normandy. 
 My father will not refuse me to thee then!" 
 
 How many times had Guy pictured this 
 moment when he should speak his heart 
 and know hers ; he had hoped and trembled, 
 he had conjured up a hundred possibilities, 
 but never never anything- like this. In 
 his deep bitterness of soul he groaned 
 aloud. 
 
 And with that, "seeing- him so moved and 
 being- in a measure distraught with her mis 
 ery, she did embrace his feet with weeping 
 tears, calling him her dear lord, and such 
 like expressions, which did, as it were, sear 
 his heart; so that he was marvelous fain to 
 give her her will, yet would he not yield." 
 
 It could not be, he said ; he had given his 
 word to his uncle. 
 
 She urged him further, for she knew that 
 the lieutenant of the guard was to come di 
 rectly; imploring him if he decided for 
 mercy to send a ring ("therewith she gave 
 it him") by Will tapster, "who was trusty," 
 with the password written and slipped into 
 a hiding place in the ring. 
 
128 The Dilemma of 
 
 Scarcely had she shown him the "trick of 
 the stone" before the lieutenant s knock 
 was heard. 
 
 They had but a moment together. Mar 
 garet drew Guy s dark head down until it 
 was level with her eyes. She kissed him. 
 "That do I," she said, while he looked at 
 her "like a dumb man with a knife in his 
 heart," "because after this night either 
 thou art my husband, or else a man barbar 
 ous and forsworn whom I never will see 
 more and I have loved thee as mine own 
 soul!" 
 
 She dropped her hands and opened the 
 door. Guy saw her step into the shadows, 
 he heard the rustle of her gown on the floor. 
 She turned and passed down the stair. 
 
 "Come back to me when I call," Guy told 
 the lieutenant; "I have somewhat to write, 
 before." 
 
 He closed the heavy door upon the man. 
 He was left alone with his dilemma. 
 
 To Martin s plans he had no clew nor 
 does he supply any to us out of his later 
 knowledge but he felt sure, now, that the 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 129 
 
 soldier with the vaguely recognized face 
 was the outlaw himself. 
 
 Martin may have contemplated strategy 
 alone ; but it is likely he had force in reserve. 
 The burning of Dobson and two others of 
 the townspeople had seriously shaken their 
 loyalty. Martin was sure of their tacit good 
 will. Armed with the password, he could 
 introducehismenintotheinn. If thequeen s 
 men resisted, there would be bloody fight 
 ing and the bishop would be "conveyed 
 away" in the melee. "Then will the poor 
 knaves lose their lives because I have first 
 lost mine honor," thought Guy, bitterly. 
 "And what would befall his uncle while he 
 led a merry life with his wife in France?" 
 
 All his life, Guy had not only loved his 
 uncle, he had also admired that long-headed 
 and rather cool-hearted courtier, above all 
 living men. Apart from any question of 
 soldierly duty or his conduct as a subject, 
 his defection would most probably ruin Sir 
 William. On the other hand, was he to be 
 the minister of a hideous injustice, to de 
 liver the affectionate and brave old man, to 
 whom he owed the awakening and purify- 
 
130 The Dilemma of 
 
 ing of his own soul, over to the most cruel 
 of deaths, and to lose forever his most pre 
 cious hopes? Let him describe the conflict 
 in his own words: "Wherefore I was in 
 ang-uish and tumult of soul, thinkingwhether 
 it be best to quit my allegiance and my faith 
 to my uncle who trusted me ever with all 
 he had, or whether to both be the cause of 
 a good man s destruction and to lose her 
 that was dearest to me of any woman in the 
 world, I being then a young man at an age 
 over which Love hath hisextremest power." 
 
 He paced the floor. At times he wrung 
 his hands, at times he wept; but in the end 
 he summoned his lieutenant and bade him 
 prepare all things for departure. He wrote 
 a letter to Margaret explaining his course 
 and its harsh necessity. This letter he 
 sent to her (with the ring) by Will tapster. 
 u And by this time, all being in readiness, 
 they fared forth on their journey." 
 
 There is a large space devoted to the 
 journey into Wales, in Guy s narrative. 
 He described the doomed man s "joyance" 
 in the sunshine, in the spring green creep 
 ing into the sedges and covert sides, in the 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 131 
 
 flight of the herons, the song of the mavis, 
 and the crisp air; " he having- been so long- 
 pent away from all." He tells how people 
 used to stand at the wayside to see them 
 pass, " most often of sad countenance, and 
 many crying: God sustain you, sir ! or God 
 send you deliverance! " 
 
 He repeats all Ferrars s affecting talk of 
 his son, and his messages to the child, and 
 his own promise to "deal with the little 
 Samuel like as it were his own son." He 
 gives the " jests" and the "stories" and 
 the " merry quips on words " in which the 
 old man indulged, after the fashion of his 
 time; as well as the grave and godly talk. 
 But it would seem that in his last days, as 
 always, Ferrars had more faith in doing 
 justice and showing mercy than in spiritual 
 exercises; though he humbly reproaches 
 himself therefor, "with dullness and gross- 
 ness of nature and over love of this glosing 
 world. " Guy has not omitted a touch in the 
 picture; he cannot bear to slight a word of 
 this man who moves him so strongly and 
 whom he had given over to death. We can 
 see the cheery old man on Guy s own fiery 
 
132 The Dilemma of 
 
 charg-er ("for as old as he been there was 
 no horse he could not ride, and all beasts 
 loved him ") whistling- the notes of the birds 
 or "g-odly tunes." 
 
 "For sure," said he, " it were ungrate 
 ful to the Lord that granteth me these 
 days of solace before my trial not to joy in 
 them and streng-then my heart. The Lord 
 loveth a cheerful giver, be it of life or g-ear." 
 
 But Guy, himself one only finds here 
 and there a hint of his confused misery. 
 
 They had reached the Welsh marshes 
 when they were overtaken by a flying- horse 
 man. He delivered to Guy, as token, the 
 ring- which he had such sorrowful cause to 
 know, and a pacquet. The pacquet con 
 tained a letter to Ferrars and another to 
 himself. When he opened the latter he 
 found only his own eager words of pleading- 
 and pain. 
 
 The town of Caermarthen is the princi 
 pal town of the diocese of St. Davids. It 
 lies on the river Towy, and its narrow 
 streets creep up a hill to the market place 
 and the massive castle, old as the Welsh 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 133 
 
 princes. On the thirty-first day of March , 
 1555, the market place had but one vacant 
 spot, a little space about the cross, in which 
 a four-cornered pile of fagots had been built 
 as high as a man s waist. An oaken stake 
 stood in the center and a chain was locked 
 to the stake. 
 
 Like a wide wall of light the sunshine 
 shifted from blazing- point to point of breast 
 plates, steel caps and halberts, massed 
 close as men could stand between the stake 
 and the wavering, black sea of Welsh hats 
 and frieze. A platform had been erected, 
 whereon, as the custom was, the priests 
 and commissioners sate, to watch the hid 
 eous pageant. People pointed out a sleek, 
 dark-skinned priest nervously fidgeting his 
 arms in his wide velvet sleeves; and the 
 name Constantine passed from mouth to 
 mouth. 
 
 On the platform they "bore a solemn 
 countenance," relaxed now and then when 
 some wag told a good story such as in our 
 day would beguile the tedium of the pall 
 bearers ride to the grave. 
 
 But below, among the pale women and 
 
134 The Dilemma of 
 
 men with set jaws and lowering- brows, and 
 the little children who had loved Robert 
 Ferrars, the suffering- whom he had com 
 forted and the friendless poor whom he had 
 defended, there was no jesting-. Tears were 
 on many faces. One man standing- close to 
 the g-uards could not wipe his eyes because 
 he was holding a bag- of gunpowder, and a 
 soldier near by did him that office, his own 
 eyes full. Presently this soldier was hold 
 ing the bag, and the man had disappeared. 
 
 The crowd have waited since dawn, and 
 it is now noon; but no one goes away. 
 Mothers ease the children s blistered feet 
 by holding them in their arms. 
 
 Now a universal movement in the crowd 
 shakes a little even that burnished line of 
 steel. Every head is turned to the little 
 group coming slowly from the castle gate 
 way. Taller than any of them, all the peo 
 ple recognize that well loved figure and the 
 familiar hat. Before they reach the mar 
 ket place a haggard rider on a flagging 
 horse gallops through the lane made for 
 him at once. There are cheers and shouts 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 135 
 
 of "Grace! grace!" "A pardon! a par 
 don ! " 
 
 "There be no grace, good people, only 
 the devil s wonted bait ! " shouts a strong 
 voice; and a wail in women s tones echoes 
 the bold heretic. 
 
 Guy has not heard them at all. He is so 
 spent with his long ride and the sleepless 
 nights, before, that he tumbles off his sad 
 dle at Master Ferrars s feet. " Ha, good 
 youth," says the kind, loud voice Guy 
 knows, " the Lord be praised I see ye once 
 more." 
 
 Guy knows that Margaret is close to him, 
 and, clinging to her, a fair haired child ; but 
 he has no power to feel an additional pang; 
 he knows that Margaret must have told the 
 bishop all ; but he has no feeling left to be 
 hurt or comforted by the serene and kindly 
 gaze that is bent on him. 
 
 He takes out a paper and makes the last 
 ineffectual appeal. He felt it useless when 
 he started, but to make it he has ridden 
 night and day. The paper is the mildest 
 possible form of recantation. Let the 
 bishop sign it, no public penance shall be 
 
136 The Dilemma of 
 
 exacted; he shall be free to leave the 
 country. 
 
 So Guy tells him, and the sheriff adds 
 his word of persuasion, being- a merciful 
 man. 
 
 Every one near can hear the bishop s an 
 swer. " Consider, fair sir, how thou, a neu 
 ter and a worldly person, would not break 
 thy faith to thine earthly lord, but would 
 rather be letted of a great estate and of the 
 wife thou hast chosen ; then shall I, for the 
 sake of a few more years or the queen s 
 favor, forsake my good God ? Nay, God 
 helping- me, never. If death come, wel 
 come be it. True, the manner of it be 
 dreadful, but it is the portal to life eternal." 
 Then smiling- he added: " Tis like thou, 
 beholding-, wilt suffer more than I ; so, as a 
 sign that the pain be bearable I will hold up 
 my hands." Guy entreated him no more. 
 He saw him embrace his child, who cried a 
 little at the crowd and the sad faces, and did 
 not understand why he might not g-o with 
 his father; but was led away smiling-, at last, 
 with Margaret s gold chain. 
 
 The muscles of the father s face quiv- 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 137 
 
 ered, and he dashed his hand across his 
 eyes. " A good child, and winsome, " he said, 
 in a husky voice. " Ye will remember, Sir 
 Guy." 
 
 Then he embraced Guy and blessed him, 
 and so went cheerfully on to his suffering 1 . 
 
 It was long- told in Wales how the brave 
 old man lifted his hands, nor once stirred 
 them, amid the flames. 
 
 Guy heard the crash of powder. 
 
 Then he ventured to look ; but still the 
 intrepid hands were lifted. 
 
 A groan of horror and pity burst from 
 the crowd. " Put fire ! set to fire ! " yelled 
 the sheriff. They did not have time to obey 
 him ; a bill hook, wielded by a hand too 
 merciful to falter, caught the spring sun 
 shine on its edge as it swang ; the gray head 
 sank, and there was no more need for cour 
 age or for pity. The man with the bill flung 
 it down and sobbed. Sick at heart, Guy 
 crawled away. He sat down in the shadow 
 of the gateway and abandoned himself to his 
 grief. 
 
 A hand was laid lightly on his arm, but 
 not even when he saw the white face and 
 
138 The Dilemma of 
 
 the woeful, tearless eyes could he realize 
 that Margaret had come to him. 
 
 "He hath sent me," she said; "Oh, God 
 forgive you, Guy, I am his last gift to you ! " 
 
 As the years dulled emotion I suppose 
 that Margaret came to forgive her husband 
 even, perhaps, to understand his con 
 duct; but whenever I look at the picture 
 and the smile that has so little mirth, so 
 deep an experience, I query in my own 
 mind: Did Guy ever decide if he acted 
 right, or was he only sure that as grim a 
 perplexity would have awaited him on the 
 other side of the dilemma? 
 
 But our honest Martin always maintained 
 that my lord did act fair and honest, since 
 having passed his word he kept it. "Like 
 I kept mine to the lady Margaret," said 
 Martin. "And sure twas a right comfort 
 that my lord was able to give the knave 
 Constantine his deserts and he died in 
 prison." 
 
 Martin, be it understood, was a reformed 
 man at this speaking. The narrative tells 
 naively that so great was the effect of Fer- 
 rars s death on him "that he did straight 
 
Sir Guy the Neuter. 139 
 
 forsake his evil courses, and sailing- over 
 seas, he commenced buccaneer with Sir 
 Peter Carew." 
 
 His reformed ways prospered to such an 
 extent that he was knighted by Queen Eliz 
 abeth, and, retiring- on the spoils of his 
 reformation, became a model country gen 
 tleman and one of the soundest and most 
 regular sleepers of the parish church. 
 
 I fancy if Lord Ellesmerewent to church 
 he did not sleep. I imagine him smiling as 
 the crude commonplace dragged along, see 
 ing perhaps the kind, strong, childlike face 
 of another preacher, drearily pondering on 
 that never ending dilemma. 
 
 But little Samuel grew up happily ; and 
 never knew why sometimes his benefactor s 
 hand was laid so tenderly on his head and 
 Lord Ellesmere sighed. 
 
The Court of Last Resort 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 * 
 
 Tis a poor thing, but mine own. Shakespeare. 
 pvOROTHY LAWRENCE, looking one 
 I J summer day from the veranda of "the 
 big house, "saw the ferry toiling across the 
 Black river. The ferryman paddled slowly, 
 for the current is swift. The passengers 
 were a woman and boy, both black, in a 
 white-covered ** mover s wagon." 
 
 They had already reached the shore when 
 the oxen became frightened, with the stu 
 pid strong fright of their kind ; and a clamor 
 of shouts, a vast waving of the paddle, and 
 backing and stumbling of the oxen ended in 
 the wagon s being dumped in the river. 
 
 Here the woman emerged from the wag 
 on. Coolly dropping her dress skirt on 
 the seat, she jumped into the water after 
 the oxen. Waist high in the green waves, 
 she swung her whip and shouted at the 
 
 143 
 
144 The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 brutes exactly as if on dry land, finally driv 
 ing them in good order up the bank. Then 
 she disappeared behind the wag-on, to 
 emerge again, dry and clad. 
 
 "There is a sensible darky!" thought 
 Dorothy, who by this time was making 
 ready to go to the store for her husband. 
 The store was only a stone s throw from 
 the house, but Colonel Lawrence liked to 
 have his wife come toward supper time and 
 walk home with him; after ten years of 
 married life, the Lawrences were still in 
 love with each other. As Dorothy strolled 
 under the shade of the row of gum trees, 
 she looked at the wagon, which stood by it 
 self, with the oxen loose and the pole on the 
 ground. The oxen were fat, well-condi 
 tioned beasts. The wagon had a new top 
 and was painted a bright red of an uneven 
 gloss, that, with the absence of decorating 
 hairlines and such bedizenments, suggested 
 the home artist. A large Arkansas hound 
 slept under the wagon bed. Inside, one 
 could see the swelling outlines of a feather 
 bed, sacked in burlap, the corner of a cov- 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 145 
 
 ered sewing- machine, and a cooking stove. 
 Plainly, this was a mover of means. 
 
 The little boy was playing near the wag 
 on. He might be nine years old, a little 
 brown creature whose cheeks dimpled con 
 tinually. All the buttons were on his shirt, 
 and his short trousers were new and clean. 
 
 The woman had walked toward the store. 
 Colonel Lawrence came down the steps and 
 she addressed him. He beckoned to his 
 wife to join him, which she did, perceiving 
 that here was one of the times that he 
 preferred facing in company. She could 
 see that he was listening to a tale of wrong, 
 for he nodded his head and pulled at his 
 black moustache, frowning at intervals, and 
 murmured: "Hmn! hmn!" in the vague 
 and non-committal sympathy of the man 
 who must listen to the complaints of many. 
 
 "So Jake Willis is your husband," were 
 the first words that Dorothy heard, "and 
 you parted " 
 
 "No, sah," eagerly interrupted the wom 
 an, "we ain t done pahted. He run away 
 wid Lize Ma y Hunter. I never did give 
 nare consent, sah!" 
 
146 The Court of Last Resort 
 
 The colonel recognized the distinction 
 a "parting-," among- the negroes, being- a 
 mutual ceremony. There are neg-otiations 
 and solemn division of the property and a 
 semi-legal severance of the marriage bonds. 
 
 "I see," said Colonel Lawrence; "you 
 didn t agree. And you want him back?" 
 
 "Dat s it, boss yes, sah; Jake, he did 
 prommus me solemn, las time, he won t 
 never run way agin. Now, sah, will you 
 please kin ly have Jake turn dat nigger 
 loose an come off back wid me, or let me 
 go longer him, jes what he wants ter; I 
 ain t aimin to be ha sh wid Jake ! He kin 
 have his ruthers consarnin dat p int!" 
 
 While the woman talked she spoke in a 
 low, mellow voice, with neither hurry nor 
 excitement in the liquid notes Dorothy 
 was looking her over. There was some 
 thing to look over, it may be said, since the 
 deserted wife was nearly five feet ten inches 
 in height, and, though not stout, of a square 
 and ample build. She had not the fatal gift 
 of beauty, being of the genuine coal-black, 
 flat-nosed, Nubian type of negro, and hav 
 ing cross-eyes to the bargain; but there 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 147 
 
 was something attractive in her exceptional 
 tidiness of dress and in the anxious good 
 humor of her countenance, and something 
 almost graceful in her perfect command of 
 every muscle as she moved. 
 
 "She is not quite the ordinary darky," 
 thought Dorothy. 
 
 The colonel chewed the endsof his mous 
 tache and frowned, signs of perplexity rec 
 ognized by his wife. 
 
 "Well, you see, Mrs. Willis," said he, "I 
 don t knowmuch about Jake; he came here 
 with a woman that he calls his wife, repre 
 senting that they were just married, and 
 took seventy-five acres on the yon side of 
 the creek. I don t know when he will be 
 down to the store." 
 
 "Dat s all right, sah; I seen Jake a-set- 
 tin on de steps of de sto , when I come 
 cross de river." 
 
 "You say this girl isn t his wife ?" The 
 colonel saw he could not postpone the ques 
 tion, and braced himself with an audible 
 sigh. 
 
 "Dat she ain t, sah," said the woman; 
 " she ben Sol Hunter s wife, but he died up. 
 
148 The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 She got him to paht from his wife, she done 
 so ; and she done make her brag s dat she 
 wud git Jake way from me fo Christmas. 
 She sayed as how Jake done runned away 
 afo , and he knowed de way ! " 
 
 "Oh, he ran away before, did he ?" 
 u Yes, sah ; it ben like dis : we-uns got 
 a fyarm down Memphis way, nigh bout 
 paid fo ; and, come time fo de morgige, 
 we got de money tergedder. Jedge Coving- 
 ton, he lent us hunderd dolla s, an we got 
 de restis dat s hunderd an forty-two, 
 cause I did make dat up wid de crap an 
 de aigs and de claybank colt we sole. An 
 I ben a plum idjit an let Jake fetch de 
 money from de jedge two hunderd an 
 forty-two dolla s, sah and Jake, he did 
 feel so peart and gaily dat he jest ben 
 obleeged, it look like, to stop at de cross 
 roads sto f o to git a drink ; and dar he met 
 up wid two wicked niggers from a boat, an 
 dey got him to playin of craps. Well, sah, 
 fo dat fool Jake cud bat his eye, most, dem 
 niggers got all his money plumb way from 
 him. So Jake, he does be mighty tender- 
 hairted, and he cudn t bear t come home 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 149 
 
 to all dat sorrer an trouble, and he jest 
 natchelly lit right out wid dem same dar 
 kies fo de cotton boat. But fust he done 
 sole his mule, an dat how come I got wu d 
 from him. I ben nigh deestractid, sarchin 
 fo him far an near ! " 
 
 "You poor thing ! what did you do ?" said 
 Dorothy, in a gentle voice, at the sound of 
 which the muscles about the black wom 
 an s mouth twitched a little. 
 
 "T ank ye, ma am," she said; "yes, 
 ma am, I p intedly did have a rough time, 
 dat fall. De jedge got so mad at Jake usin 
 of him dat mean, not knowin how chicken- 
 hairtid Jake ben, an how he jest cudn t 
 bear nohow to see folkses suffer so de 
 jedge, not knowin , wudn t holp me; an de 
 man wid de morgige, he come down on me 
 de p inted time, an looked like I hadn t no 
 ways to turn. But I did reason wid dat man, 
 an I got him to take a new morgige stiddier 
 dat ole one, if I wud pay fo hunderd dolla s 
 stiddier two hunderd an fo ty ; an den he 
 let me off, an I did stay right along at my 
 own place, a-waitin on Jake, cause I knowed 
 he wud come back some day. And I got a 
 
150 The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 mighty good crap nex year, an I made out 
 wid de pickin an de stock; an so I paid 
 off most de morgige an all er de j edge s 
 money. I ben sho all long dat Jake be 
 comin back ; an one day, long bout sun 
 down, I seen a cullud man a-comin down de 
 lane mighty slow and tuckered-out like. 
 Dat ar ben Jake. He suttinly did look dis- 
 tressid, w arin de ve y selfsame clo es he 
 done got on his back when he lit out, an 
 kinder puny-lookin an coughin like he got 
 de breas complaint. He says: * Doesn t 
 ye know me, Persis? Den he cudn t speak 
 fo de coughin ; and me, I " 
 
 She stopped with a gulp ; so unlike the 
 ordinary African fashion of manifesting 
 emotion was her subdued self-restraint, 
 that it took the Lawrences a moment to 
 realize that she was overcome by the recol 
 lection of the meeting. 
 
 "I suttinly did feel good, dat time, to git 
 Jake back. I got him inter de house, an 
 got a cup of coffee down him, an kinder 
 spi ted him up; so den he tole me how he 
 ben in Memphis, dat great city, an had a 
 turrible hard time, an he seen a man dat 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 151 
 
 ben Unk Jerusalem Coffin come from we- 
 all s way, an he axed him to lend him some 
 change, cause he didn t know whar to turn 
 fo a bite er bread or a bite er po k he got 
 down so bad like dat ! And Unk Jerusalem, 
 he bu st out laffin an tole him it ben right 
 funny fo a man ownin a good farm to be 
 gwine hungry dat-a-way ! An wid dat, 
 Jake got excited an axed him questins an 
 borried what he cud, an come right spang 
 home by de nex boat. Well, ayfter dat, 
 we-all paid de res er de morgige an got 
 long right good, an sent de boy dat ben 
 Jake s boy, ye know, sah " 
 
 "He was a widower, then, when you 
 married him? " 
 
 " Yes, sah ; suttinly, sah. Jake s fust 
 wife ben Sist Viney Griffin; belong to we- 
 all s chu ch, a right good woman, dat made 
 de bes kind er light bread. She died up 
 an lef Jake wid de baby, de onlies chile 
 dey got, him risin of two. Looked like 
 dey didn t have nobuddy to do fo dem, so I 
 jes taken de chile to my own place. I ben 
 doin well, an dey ben mighty po . Dat 
 how come I taken up wid Jake in de fust 
 
152 The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 place ; I got sorter wonted to doin fo him, 
 cause he d be comin to see de baby, an I 
 wud men him up him havin nobuddy. 
 An we did get long- right well tell dat ar 
 Lize Ma y, she sot er eyes on my Jake an 
 made her brags she ben gwine t marry 
 him afo nex Christmas. An she kep up 
 a-laffin an a-laffin ; an ever festival Jake 
 done go ter, dar ben dat Lize Ma y a-laffin 
 at him ! Dat made him kinder curi s an 
 cravin fo to know what fo she keep up 
 dat laffin ; men pussons is dat way dey 
 sots deir min s on mo fool t ings dan de 
 women ; I had de crap to look ayfter, an 
 de keerin fo de stock an de cookin , an a 
 power er t ings to keep me busy. Sides, I 
 cudn t leave de chile by his lone, to go to 
 festivals; but I cudn t enjure to prive Jake 
 er takin his time an his pleasure. So he 
 did go, an he met up wid her ever time ; 
 an bymeby he got to axin of her bout de 
 laffin , an bymeby agin she didn t laff no 
 mo , an dat how come all de trouble. One 
 day, he lef me in the mo nin , makin out 
 like he ben gwine to take a load er wood to 
 de jedge ; an I ain t seen him tell dis day. 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 153 
 
 But a man come an showed me a paper dat 
 he sayed ben sign by me; an dat like nuff, 
 seein Jake got me to sign my name to whut 
 he did call jest a lettin him sell de bit of 
 wood. An he say, dat man, dat I done sig-n 
 way de hull plum place, an dat Jake got 
 de money " 
 
 Husband and wife exchanged glances, 
 both recalling- that Jake had come to the 
 Black river with a most surprising- pleni 
 tude of ready money. 
 
 "Well, sah," she continued, "I wen to 
 de jedg-e; but he did say as howl done sign 
 de paper, an de place ben Jake s fo to sell, 
 an I cudn t do nuffin . An I went to ax 
 him to cotch Jake fo me, an git him back ; 
 but he sayed dat he cudn t fin him. An 
 den I sole de truck an de stock, an pack 
 up what I cudn t sell, an come a-sarchin 
 fo Jake ; cause I knowed t didn t ben no 
 good waitin on him, cause dar didn t ben 
 nuffin fo him to come back ter ! I ben 
 trackin him ever since ; but I got him 
 now, shoV 
 
 She smiled ; the inscrutable part of the 
 whole business was that she should be so 
 
154 The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 confident that it would be concluded in her 
 favor, if once she were face to face with the 
 fugitives. 
 
 " I lows," she said, " Jake done fool away 
 a heap er dat money ; but he kain t of got 
 shet er it all. We kin make mo " 
 
 Here she stopped and stared down the 
 winding road from the forest. 
 
 Along the sun-dappled roadway, rattling 
 and jingling, came a smart new wagon, 
 drawn by two young horses of mettle 
 enough to toss their heads and shy at pools 
 of water here and there. The front seat 
 of the wagon was filled by the voluminous 
 white draperies of the only occupant, a 
 handsome yellow girl, whose eyes rolled 
 under an astonishing flower pot of a hat, 
 and whose white gown was decked with a 
 motley flutter of ribbons. She glittered 
 with plated jewelry and red and green and 
 yellow glass and Arkansas diamonds. 
 
 Pompously she held herself erect, and 
 tossed her ringleted head at the gaping 
 crowd of darkies. 
 
 "Heabenly name! dat sho de colts," 
 muttered the wife ; " look a de way dat fool 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 155 
 
 nigger dribe wabble f om one side er de 
 road to de udder, like a goose a-runnin . 
 Lize Ma y, I done come fo Jake." 
 
 The splendidly attired one stopped and 
 looked at the old wife standing in the dusty 
 road in her homely gown. 
 
 At first, she winced ; but in a second, re 
 covering herself, she tossed her head in 
 vast scorn. 
 
 "Go long, nigger, then," she said, dis 
 tinctly ; " you wicked woman, ain t you 
 shamed to come runnin ayfter my hus 
 band ? You a heap too old to be actin so 
 scandilous ! " 
 
 Persis only gasped, "You husband?" 
 and stared at her as a fish stares, jerked 
 out into the maddening air. 
 
 Some intention that Lize Ma y had of 
 stopping at the store she must have quickly 
 abandoned, for she lashed the horses. 
 
 "Stop!" thundered Lawrence; not that 
 he was excited, but to be heard above her 
 wheels and the laughter of the idlers. 
 
 She made as if she did not hear ; but he 
 waved his arm at her, and she had not the 
 audacity to sail past him, the white man. 
 
156 The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 Sullenly she drew in her horses ; but then, 
 as if by the switching away of a curtain, 
 her face was revealed, all coy smiles, and 
 she said : ; 
 
 " Was you seekin anything-, sah ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I have something- to say to you. 
 Why did you inveigle that poor woman s 
 husband away from her ? " 
 
 " Laws, sah, she does be po an/ old, but 
 that ain t my fault ; I kain t holp er bein 
 born so long befo me that ben the Lord s 
 will an not mine. An I does hate to say it 
 bout er, but she is the one takin away 
 husban s, for she is aimin to take away 
 mine. She never was Jake s wife no, sah, 
 never; an when he met up with me, he got 
 shamed of himself, an he lef his wicked 
 ness an married me. An then she threat 
 ened his life, an so we come way down 
 here." 
 
 This was said with a touching mien of 
 modesty that had like to have impressed 
 the man who listened, but his wife laughed. 
 
 " Do you mean to say you are Jake s wife, 
 and not this one ? " 
 
 "Yes, sah yes m. I ben married by 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 157 
 
 Squire Nixon, an I got de writings correct. 
 Ax er who married er to Jake." 
 
 " It ben a minister, an he is daid ! " said 
 Persis, frowning-. 
 
 " But you is sho got some writing s bout 
 it, to show?" said Lize Ma y, insolently 
 gentle. 
 
 " You knows I ain t ; you knows Jake 
 stole de -stockin wid de money whar dey 
 ben ! " said Persis, between her teeth, still 
 staring 1 in the same daze. 
 
 "Hike for to go to my husband, if you 
 please, sah," said Lize Ma y, with much 
 suavity; "I ain t customed t be holdin 
 talk with sich pussons. I don t aim to give 
 er no bad talk, but I ask er jest to leave 
 us lone an quit interferin with married 
 folks. Tain t decent." 
 
 She inclined her bedecked head to the 
 colonel and his wife, and was for making 
 off ag-ain. Ag-ain the colonel stopped her. 
 
 " Hold a minute ! " said he his wife had 
 whispered in his ear ; " I want to hear what 
 Jake has to say for himself, before you talk 
 it over together. Hi ! you Jim, run up and 
 tell Jake to come over here ! " 
 
158 The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 There was a pause that the discarded 
 wife filled up by going- over to the little 
 boy. She was visibly agitated. "You* 
 daddy a-comin , Jakey," she said. "Is you 
 got you face clean? Make haste an git 
 you new cap on ! " 
 
 The erring- Jake, when he appeared, es 
 corted by no less than six interested black 
 brethren, showed a mild, rather attractive 
 yellow face and a smart new suit of clothes 
 of the gay plaids that lie in heaps on the 
 counters of " all-sort stores " in the south. 
 A flimsy red silk handkerchief stood in a 
 triangle out of one pocket. He drew it 
 forth, wiped his face and grinned feebly, 
 first at one claimant and then at the other. 
 
 "I done come fo ye, Jake," said Persis, in 
 a quiet way. 
 
 Lize Ma y writhed her shapely head and 
 shrugged her shoulders, giggling: 
 
 " Gunnel is cravin to know if you is my 
 husban or hers, Jake." 
 
 Before Jake answered, he hopped nimbly 
 into the wagon. Then he said : 
 
 "I reckon I belongs to Lize Ma y." 
 
 "But this woman here says you married 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 159 
 
 her first," objected the colonel; "hold those 
 horses still, will you, Jake?" 
 
 "Does be powerful skeery and restive," 
 muttered Jake, while he drew in the reins 
 with a wide crooking of his elbows and loud 
 "Huh! quit you funnin l" and hissing 
 sounds between his teeth. 
 
 "I nev did marry her tall," said he, 
 "nev in this worl ; jes ta en up wid her, 
 an dat s all ain t it, Lize Ma y?" 
 
 "Dat salie!" said Persis. 
 
 "Who knows that you were married up 
 in Tennessee? " Dorothy struck in. 
 
 To her surprise, Persis s face fell. 
 
 "I done tole de judge dat, an he sayed 
 whar did I ben mah ied, cause it ben afo 
 we-uns did move to Tennessee ; an he sayed 
 did I got are writin s, an I didn t, cause 
 Jake stole dem ; an he sayed I cudn t prove 
 it. But I don t guess Jake wud far up dem 
 papers dat we allus did keep so keerful." 
 
 Lize Ma y s muttered chorus of scorn rose 
 into a groan : 
 
 "Oh, jes hark to the lies of her! She 
 knows there ain t no papers!" 
 
 "I am sorry," said the colonel; "but, if 
 
160 The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 you have no proof of the marriage, I really 
 can t interfere, under the circumstances." 
 
 "T ank you, sir," said Lize Ma y; "but 
 one t ing mo : Jake an me, we is right 
 willin to take little Jakey home an keer fo 
 him." 
 
 "Yes, sah suttinly, sah; we is, fo a 
 fac !" Jake agreed, eagerly, with a look at 
 the boy. "Come on by, Jakey; ain t ye 
 gwine speak to dad?" 
 
 But Jakey, though he grinned respons- 
 ively, held back, saying: 
 
 "Mummer, too?" 
 
 For the first time, Jake looked uncomfort 
 able ; he stole a glance at the ugly sad face 
 of the woman standing in the dust, and then 
 winced at some unseen prod from the girl 
 by his side and tried to pass it off with a 
 laugh. 
 
 "Come on," said Lize Ma y, "the chile 
 belongs to you; she cayn t claim him." 
 
 "I don t like for to toll him way from 
 er," muttered Jake; "but if ye want to git 
 shet er him, Persis, 1 are right willin " 
 
 The woman s face quivered a little. 
 
 "No," said she, quietly, "I don t." At 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 161 
 
 the same time, she suddenly flung- both her 
 arms about the small body pressed among- 
 her skirts, and glared at Lize Ma y, who 
 smiled back. 
 
 "You ain t g-ot nothin to say bout it," 
 was the taunt in which Lize Ma y expressed 
 both hate and triumph; "he ain t no kin to 
 you!" 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence came to the rescue of her 
 perplexed husband with a calm feminine 
 disreg-ard of the visible claims of the law of 
 the land. 
 
 "Jake, you g-o rig-ht home," she said; 
 "you both oug-ht to be ashamed of your 
 selves. We are g~oing to find out about this. 
 You can come back to-morrow." 
 
 Lize Ma y would have spoken, but for her 
 companion; he read the lig-ht in Dorothy s 
 eye too shrewdly for resistance. Without 
 a word, he hit the horses a swing-ing- clip 
 with the twig- that served as whip, and the 
 wag-on whirled off in a cloud of dust. 
 
 Only Dorothy noted the tears slowly 
 gather in the deserted wife s eyes. Not a 
 word did she speak. She made a rude kind 
 of courtesy to the white lady, and, with the 
 
1 62 The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 child still clinging- to her skirts, she moved 
 away. They saw her climb into the wagon. 
 
 "Well, I am sorry for her," said Dorothy ; 
 "I think she was his wife." 
 
 "There is no telling-," said the colonel, 
 philosophically; "I reckon she can t do any 
 thing- if she is." 
 
 "Can t she go to law?" 
 
 "She couldn t prove anything- if she did." 
 
 "Well, I don t think much of the law, 
 then!" cried Dorothy, with true feminine 
 logic, according- to the masculine notion of it. 
 
 The colonel dismissed the matter from 
 his mind. Dorothy was less easily swayed 
 when her sympathies were moved. 
 
 "I wonder if she can wash," she mused 
 aloud, in the morning-. 
 
 "There, I nearly cut myself," said the 
 colonel, who was shaving- himself, and thus 
 easily ruffled. "Who can wash?" 
 
 "Why, Persis, of course Jake s wife. 
 We might have her do our extra washing 
 this week, and then she could stay on and 
 have a chance to win back Jake." 
 
 "She is more likely to lose the child 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 163 
 
 Lize Ma y means business ; and she has no 
 legal claim." 
 
 "Isn t there any court she could go to?" 
 
 "Well, hardly." 
 
 "I think it a very great shame, Phil; and 
 I am going to talk to that Jake." 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence was in earnest. The col 
 onel laughed, but he drove her to Jake s in 
 the cool of the morning, just the same. 
 
 They were both surprised to find, in 
 front of the house, a white-covered mover s 
 wagon; and their surprise deepened and 
 thrilled into amaze when a tall woman put 
 her head out of the door. The woman was 
 Persis. At the same moment, Jake s slim 
 figure and gentle smile drifted into view 
 from around the wood pile. 
 
 He smiled sheepishly at the colonel s sal 
 utation. 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir," said he; "dat Persis fo 
 sho , boss ! "You see," he rubbed his hands 
 softly together, "she come by right early, 
 befo sun-up, most. I ben kinder upset by 
 dat ar Lize Ma y, onyhow, an I ben studyin 
 bout t ings. Den up comes Persis an gits 
 out befo you cud bat you eye, and is gwine 
 
164 The Court of Last Resort. 
 
 in de house, an all she says ben: *I done 
 come fo my Jake, says she; an dat ar fool 
 yaller gell, she ben fixin to laff an laff. 
 Persis, she nev did git mad jes says: 4 I 
 ben to de cunnel, an I ben to de jedge, an 
 no redressance nur holp, an I taken it inter 
 my own ban s, Lize Ma y, says she; an 
 clare if dat triflin Lize Ma y didn t bu st 
 out laffin so ye cud hear er clear an across 
 de creek. An den Persis, she nev did 
 pyart lips wid er no more jes failed on 
 er an pulled out a big pawpaw switch an 
 guv er de bud most outrigeous. Yes, sah, 
 she did lick dat gell twell she squealed an 
 hollered an run outen de house, an den she 
 made me run fotch all er clo es an fling 
 dem ayfter er." 
 
 "But didn t you interfere? " said the col 
 onel, with a strong desire to laugh. 
 
 Jake rolled his mild eyes. 
 
 "I don t reckon you ev did see Persis 
 excited," answered he, solemnly; "Per 
 sis, she don sull nor she don r ar on ye, 
 but she s terrible hefty in her arms ! No, 
 sah; I doesn t low to bunch rags wid dat 
 nigger, if I kin holp it!" 
 
The Court of Last Resort. 165 
 
 "But you were mighty easy with her yes 
 terday!" 
 
 "Den I ben in de wagon, sah; dat ar 
 does make a heap o differ." 
 
 "What did you do?" 
 
 "Why, I stan s mighty still an reasons 
 wid Persis, an begs er not to hu t Lize 
 Ma y too hyard ; and den I goes in, an Per 
 sis done make me some er de bestis coffee 
 an corn bread." 
 
 At this moment, Persis put her head out 
 of the door, and both man and woman 
 grinned. 
 
 "Well, you got him back, didn t you?" 
 said Dorothy. 
 
 "In co se," Persis replied; "I knowed I 
 cud git Jake back, if I jest got a little place 
 to argy wid him in!" 
 
 "I was mistaken," the colonel explained 
 to his wife ; "there was still a resource, and 
 Persis appealed to the court of last resort." 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 * 
 
 Love that hath us in his net, 
 Shall he pass and we forget? 
 
 Love is hurt by jar and fret, 
 Love becomes a vag-ue regret, 
 Eyes with idle tears are wet, 
 Idle habit links us yet. 
 What is love, for we forget ! 
 Ah no! no! Tennyson. 
 
 A BBYLONIA EDDINGS, wife to the 
 J~\. Reverend Eli Edding-s, was always 
 tired of a Monday afternoon; but never 
 had she been so exhausted, soul and body, 
 as she was one Monday in March. She 
 stood in a tired woman s attitude, her 
 knuckles on her hips, and gazed wearily 
 about the kitchen. "Just slicked up!" 
 sighed Abbylonia. "Well, it s the best I 
 can do, with this back." 
 
 169 
 
170 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 Yet the ordinary eye would have reported 
 the room miraculously neat, from the big- 
 dresser to the glistening- kitchen stove. But 
 the eye of Abbylonia Edding-s was no or 
 dinary eye. She had more ambition than 
 health, and in spite of eking- out the latter 
 with that which the New Englanders name 
 "faculty," and we in Arkansas call by no 
 special name, but admire as sincerely, she 
 at times strained her nerves to the tearing 
 point. 
 
 "Abby," her mother-in-law, the widow 
 Eddings, once said to her "Abby, you 
 had ought to pray to be more trifling! " 
 
 "I 11 die sooner," replied Abby, vehe 
 mently. "Do you want me to sink to the 
 level of these people around me? I can 
 work, whether I m tired or rested. There 
 wouldn t be much done if I only worked 
 when I was rested." 
 
 "But you re working on your nerves, 
 Abby," the widow ventured, "and they 
 won t last forever." 
 
 "I reckon they 11 last my time," said 
 Abby. 
 
 The widow shook her head and wiped 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 171 
 
 away an unobtrusive tear. She was a 
 woman of a gentle and plaintive turn, who 
 said little, but wept frequently and at 
 length. Abby herself seldom wept. Per 
 haps it were better for her had she thus 
 washed the bitterness out of her heart. 
 She did not shed any tears to-day, although 
 she was crushed under the leaden misery 
 of her anxieties and her physical exhaus 
 tion. She looked, dry-eyed, out of the win 
 dow not to see the street, but simply 
 because the window happened to be in front 
 of her eyes and caught a glimpse of her 
 mother-in-law s black mohair skirts brush 
 ing past her gate. "There comes maw," 
 she said, "because I don t feel like seeing a 
 mortal creature! Well, I don t care. I d 
 like maw to remember me kindly." The 
 last thought summoned a flicker of a smile 
 to her face as she opened the door. 
 
 The widow Eddings lived down the 
 street, in her own house, which her son 
 Eli had bought for her. He had selected 
 this little village because Hattie, Mrs. Edd- 
 ings s daughter, lived there, being married 
 to one of the best tempered and most un- 
 
172 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 successful business men in the state of 
 Arkansas. Eli had loaned him money twice 
 (although Abby knew it would be lost), 
 and now had hit upon the expedient of 
 yoking- him to a shrewd partner, who should 
 manage the business, while Bud Slater 
 might entertain the customers. 
 
 The widow came in gingerly, on tip-toe. 
 " Dreadful muddy," said she ; " and I lowed 
 twas only shoe-mouth deep, and come off 
 without my rubbers. I had to come most 
 of the crossing- on the railroad; and I was 
 scared to death lest a train should come up 
 behind, kinder quiet like, whilst I ben so 
 busy picking- my way, and run over me " 
 
 "I don t think there s much dang-er of 
 a train of cyars being quiet^ maw," said 
 Abby, who was wiping off the widow s 
 shoes. 
 
 "Well, they do make a heap of noise in 
 the street. But I didn t aim to contrairy 
 you, Abby ; I reckon you know best, read 
 ing so many books asyou do." The widow 
 sighed. She had a long, fair, plaintive face 
 and timid eyes. There was a scar over one 
 eyebrow. She was always carefully neat in 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 173 
 
 her dress, which was black, not so much 
 because she still mourned the husband of 
 her youth (who used to throw thing s at her) 
 as because she esteemed black an economi 
 cal and useful habit. She continued : "There 
 s a dreadful sight of typhoid fever in town. 
 I reckon it s the mud puddles. Do you 
 know you got a reg lar slash outside the 
 gate? I seen Susy Nell playing outside; 
 she looked kinder puny, I lowed. Maybe 
 not." 
 
 Susy Nell was the Eddings s only child. 
 Abby.could have explained her looks, but 
 she had no mind for talk. The widow dis 
 mally continued to unpack her budget: 
 "Say, Abby I reckon I best tell you, for 
 you re sure to hear it Eli ain t going to 
 git the job of painting the church pews." 
 
 " They didn t give it to Hobson? " 
 
 " That s jest what they did. I met Mis 
 Hobson on the street, and she told me her 
 self. Right spiteful of her, too, I call it. 
 But tain t right to jedge. Jedge not, and 
 you ain t going to be j edged, you know. 
 She was with Sister Arnott." 
 
 "That s how Hobson got the job," said 
 
174 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 Abby. But she showed none of that in 
 dignation that the widow had expected. 
 "She s always toadying- Mrs. Arnott. And 
 
 anything- Brother Arnott says, you know 
 
 
 
 "Yes, the committee 11 jest grease its 
 head and swaller it whole," said the widow, 
 sadly. "I expect she talked him over. 
 What do you think she had in her hand, 
 Abby?" 
 
 "I don t know, maw." Abby spoke list 
 lessly. 
 
 "It was that dress pattern you told me 
 you aimed to buy." 
 
 " The blue mixture with the red thread 
 in it?" 
 
 "Yes, ma am. That very piece. It was 
 sticking- out of the bundle. And I felt so 
 bad bout you being- disappointed of that 
 dress that I went round to the store, think 
 ing- maybe Bud mig-ht have some come in 
 or something-, and that s how come they 
 sold it, and thinkin I d git it for you, to 
 make sure " 
 
 " Maw, that was right sweet and kind of 
 you," exclaimed Abby; her heart smote her 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 175 
 
 with the remembrance of many kindnesses 
 from her dismal mother-in-law, dolefully 
 rendered, but in all willing-ness of heart. 
 
 "I don t guess you need to be thankful, 
 Abby ; didn t come to nothing-. I only found 
 out that they didn t have nare nother bit. 
 Bud had spoken to Mis Arnott how you 
 thought of taking the piece ; but he said that 
 only seemed to make her more wishful to 
 have it, and he didn t like to mad her, she 
 buys so much." 
 
 "Sister Arnott has been mean to us all 
 ever since we came," said Abby ; but, to the 
 widow s surprise, she said it without vio 
 lence. There was an absent look in her eye, 
 dissipated for a second by the petty sting 
 of the news, but returning at once. "I 
 reckon the Arnotts would be glad to have 
 us quit. Brother Arnott s got a nephew he 
 thinks Elder would assign here." 
 
 " Oh laws, Abby ! But he cayn t ! " cried 
 the widow, in dismay. 
 
 "Not unless Eli s willing; but maw, 
 Eli wants to leave the ministry ! " 
 
 "Well, sir!" the widow gasped. She 
 was not able to say more; her lips moved 
 
176 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 up and down like the gills of a fish out of 
 water. 
 
 "It isn t like it was a question of sup 
 port." Abby spoke doggedly. " Eli earns 
 far more by his painting and papering- than 
 he does at preaching-. You know what little 
 places we ve been at making- a crop and 
 Eli preaching round. Yet we ve laid by 
 some money. I ve slaved night and day, 
 hoping we could leave the country and come 
 to some civilized place. Eli s been away 
 most of the time papering and painting, 
 coming back to the circuit to preach Sun 
 days. The conference made no objections, 
 because he always did his full duty, and he 
 was willing to take such little pay. It was 
 lonesome for me, but I was willing to bear 
 it, always hoping he would get a better cir 
 cuit. And I was so happy when we moved 
 here. But now Eli says he must quit. He 
 has enough to buy a little farm if he cayn t 
 open a shop here maw, don t cry like 
 that!" 
 
 The widow had taken out her handker 
 chief, and quietly, but in a thorough-going 
 manner, with no attempt to gainstrive it, 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 177 
 
 was abandoning- herself to grief. Her first 
 words were, "Reckon I got to ask you to 
 give me another han kercher, Abbylonia; I 
 set out not knowing- I d have occasion to 
 use it, excepting- for ordinary purposes, 
 and I picked up little Hattie s, and it s so 
 small that I I g-ot to trouble you! " 
 
 She mopped her eyes patiently with the 
 small cotton square until the fresh hand 
 kerchief appeared, when the deferred flood 
 swept over the barriers of control and she 
 wept aloud. 
 
 "Oh, he was a child of prayer!" so 
 articulate speech shaped itself in the chaos 
 of woeful sounds. "When he wasn t more n 
 twelve year old I told him I wanted him to 
 be a preacher, and I begun reading of him 
 sermons on a Sunday and he never did 
 like em ! He always wanted to paint and to 
 chop things with the hatchet. He painted 
 the hull wood shed different colors, to see 
 how they d look ; and I used to pray over 
 him and cry nights. I don t guess buckets 
 on buckets would hole my tears; and at last 
 you come to visit in the neighborhood, and 
 he begun to wait on you, and you persuaded 
 
178 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 of him oh, Lordy ! how kin I bear it if he 
 gives it up now ! And this a heap the best 
 place he ever did git! " 
 
 "The only decent place," said Abby. 
 
 " How come it, Abby? You taking- in 
 sech a heap of books and papers, they ain t 
 led Eli astray, have they? That magazine 
 on the table, are you sure it s sound reli 
 giously? The kiver is plumb worldly, to 
 my mind. He ain t lost his faith? " 
 
 "He hates to preach, and he loves to 
 paint. I reckon that s it, as near as I can 
 ascertain." 
 
 The widow rocked to and fro, sobbing. 
 There were no tears in Abby s eyes; her 
 mouth was rigid. 
 
 "If he wasn t so obstinate," mourned the 
 widow. "He always did be mule-headed, 
 even as a little boy. , He was mild as milk, 
 but once get him to make up his mind, and 
 there wasn t nare moving of him." 
 
 "We did move him once," said Abby; 
 " he didn t ever want to be a minister." 
 
 "But look how well he s done look at 
 
 his sermons " Her speech snapped off 
 
 short; and both women colored. " Oh, 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 179 
 
 Abby, I cay n t keep it from you no longer; 
 I ve known it all along! " the widow cried. 
 
 Abby smiled bitterly. "Well, maw, I 
 reckon I m glad. And you never told " 
 
 " I never told a mortal soul. Not Hattie ; 
 not nobody." 
 
 " I m sure you didn t, maw, or Bud would 
 have had it all over town." 
 
 "Abby, is it />&/?" 
 
 " Yes, maw, it s that. He says he can t 
 endure it any longer." 
 
 "I low you ve always done it." 
 
 "Always. He never wrote a word him 
 self. I wrote them, and he learned them, 
 sometimes. More times he s read them 
 off." 
 
 "It has been right hard on you, Abby." 
 
 Abby turned away her head; then she 
 flung it back, and her eyes were glowing. 
 " Yes, it has been hard, maw ; but it s been 
 a comfort in a way, too. You know how I 
 always have hungered after books and 
 papers. Maw, every cent of Eli s salary 
 he s given me. He would do it. He s 
 made a good living for us beside. And I ve 
 bought magazines and papers and books. I 
 
180 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 like having- the money. But I liked the 
 
 I don t know whether you 11 understand 
 me, but there s something- in me that had 
 to come out, and it came out in the sermons; 
 and when I g-ot so unhappy it was a strange 
 kind of comfort to talk about troubles that 
 were not like mine, yet, being- troubles, 
 made a suffering- that -was like mine." 
 
 "They always were powerful g-ood ser 
 mons, Abby. But what were you unhappy 
 about, daug-hter? Losing- of the baby, of 
 course, but anything- else? Has this here 
 you doing- his work made a differ between 
 you two? " 
 
 "Something- has," said Abby; "he he s 
 kind as ever, but he tells me nothing-. I 
 know he s miserable. I ve known it along- 
 time, but he never has said a word until last 
 week. Then, all at once, he told me he 
 couldn t endure it any longer; he felt he 
 was a fraud. As long- as he was working- 
 round at little places, doing- more pastoral 
 work than preaching, it hadn t seemed so 
 bad to him. I asked him what he was going 
 to say, and he said, The truth ! He was 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 181 
 
 going- to get up in church and make confes 
 sion before God and man " 
 
 " Oh, laws, Abby, you mustn t let him do 
 that!" cried the widow. 
 
 " I don t know if I can help it," said Abby, 
 with a kind of groan. " Oh, maw, you don t 
 understand." She bit her lips; even to her 
 husband s mother the wife could not say: 
 " You don t understand how little influence 
 I have over him." 
 
 "Yes, I do, tew, Abby; he s powerful 
 obstinate. And I reckon it s hard for a 
 man to feel his wife s smarter n him ! " 
 
 " I m not, and I don t think it," said Abby; 
 "but maw, you never told me how did 
 you find out?" 
 
 " Oh, easy," sighed the widow; " the ser 
 mons was like you and not like Eli, and one 
 night I found some sheets of paper in the 
 wood box. I couldn t help finding out 
 laws, Abby, there s Eli himself! " 
 
 "Abby! Is Abby here?" said a deep, 
 mild voice. " Why, maw, is it you? Rest 
 your bonnet on a chair and stay to supper 
 with us." 
 
 Eli had opened the door and was before 
 
1 82 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 them, a tall figure, stooping- a little, with a 
 handsome face. The curly brown hair was 
 wearing away on the temples. They were 
 well shaped temples, and the forehead was 
 a promising dome. The features beneath, 
 too, were clear cut and manly, and the eyes 
 were bright, but the whole countenance 
 wore a deprecating expression that made 
 one think of a dog expecting a blow, and for 
 which there was no sufficient reason either 
 in Eli Eddings s nature or prospects. He 
 was a Methodist minister, who was known 
 favorably among the brethren as one who 
 asked for little from the conference, went 
 willingly to the least desirable circuits, and 
 preached impassioned sermons in an apa 
 thetic manner. 
 
 The widow kissed her son tearfully, but 
 she could not be persuaded to stay, and he 
 followed her voyage through the mud 
 puddles with an anxious eye. 
 
 "Ain t maw been crying? " said he. 
 
 "You re right observing, Eli," said 
 Abby, dryly. "Yes, she has." 
 
 "I hope it wasn t anything serious, 
 Abby." 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 183 
 
 " That s as you look at it, Eli. She was 
 crying- about your leaving- the ministry." 
 
 " I was fraid she would take it that way," 
 said Eli. And he sig-hed. 
 
 "I don t know when I ve seen your 
 mother so worked up, Eli; it s gfoing- to be 
 a most terrible thing- to her if you do the 
 way you said." 
 
 Eli s lips puckered with pain. He said 
 nothing-, and his silence and the very 
 misery of his bearing- pricked his wife s 
 temper. She was exasperated and fright 
 ened at once. The thought darted to her, 
 " He s fixing- not to give in, no matter how 
 it hurts him ! " Her ang-er flashed out be 
 fore she could ask herself was it wise to 
 speak. "It s a cruel, unmanly thing- you 
 propose to do, Eli Edding-s," she cried 
 "shaming- your mother and me before all 
 these strang-ers. You may have a rig-ht to 
 confess your own sins, if you will call them 
 that, but you ve no rig-ht to confess mine!" 
 
 "But, Abby" Eli found his voice 
 "you didn t do wrong-; it was me. All the 
 same, if you don t want it, I can jest say I 
 
184 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 didn t write the sermons. I won t speak 
 your name." 
 
 Abby shivered. "I think," said she, 
 slowly, in an emotionless voice, "that if 
 you lived with me a hundred years you 
 wouldn t understand me, Eli." 
 
 " Maybe not," Eli answered, patiently. 
 "I expect I had better pack up some water 
 for you, Abby, and fill the wood box." 
 Therewith he was edging- out of the room. 
 
 "Can t you see the box is full?" said 
 Abby. "Johnny Hinds filled it. He was 
 over here. Susy Nell fell in the cistern 
 
 " The father s face changed sharply 
 
 before she could add, "Of course I pulled 
 her out; I heard the splash and there she 
 was, floundering " 
 
 "And it s eight feet deep, and you cayn t 
 swiml Oh Lord, Abby, what did you do?" 
 
 " Threw the clothes line to her, of course, 
 and told her to catch on and hold on or I d 
 whip her! What else could I do? She d 
 have drowned before I could rummage up 
 that ladder in the barn! " 
 
 "But how did you pull her up?" 
 
 " I called on Johnny Hinds, who was out 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 185 
 
 in their yard, and he ran over. I made him 
 get that long- board you had for papering-, 
 and I had him put it down crossways in the 
 cistern, and I hauled her to the board, and 
 she climbed out enough for me to catch 
 her." 
 
 "You you weren t mad at her, Abby?" 
 Eli spoke timidly, and Abbylonia s eyes 
 turned to steel. 
 
 " Didn t I tell you she caught on to the 
 rope as I told her? Do you suppose I d 
 punish her for minding- of me? No; I boiled 
 her some milk and g-ave Johnny and her 
 some doughnuts. I had to change every 
 stitch on her." 
 
 Eddings swallowed twice. "You re awful 
 smart, Abby!" said he. Then he cleared 
 his throat; but nothing came of the exer 
 cise, and presently he shuffled out of the 
 room. 
 
 Abbylonia sank into a chair, leaned her 
 head back, and laughed. "That sail the good 
 it s done, my telling," she said to herself; 
 "he s gone to hug and kiss her; he hasn t 
 a thought left for me. He didn t even kiss 
 me once. What do I care? When he does, 
 
1 86 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 it s only because he promised to love his 
 wife. It s his duty. Well, I don t blame 
 him. I m ugly tempered and I m homely ; 
 I m worn to the bone working- for him. Oh, 
 Lord ! Oh, Lord ! How can you make a wo 
 man like me, who can t make her husband 
 love her, and can t stop loving- him ! " She 
 walked to the little giass above the roller 
 towel and g-azed steadily on her imag-e. The 
 sunlight gave her every wrinkle. Merci 
 lessly it painted the irregular sharp fea 
 tures, the straight black hair, the unquiet 
 eyes, the lines scoring the brow between 
 the eyebrows (like footprints of a frown), 
 the set mouth, the crooked curve of the jaw. 
 The attractions of the face, its clear soft 
 tints, the brilliancy of the eyes, and the 
 white teeth that showed in a flashing smile, 
 the refinement of those irregular features, 
 the vitality and changing intensity that 
 informed the whole plain countenance 
 these, which were poor Abby s real charm, 
 she could not see, and the picture was gall- 
 some to her. She turned away with a groan. 
 "He s a good man," she thought, "but 
 nobody can be so cruel as good people. To 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 187 
 
 get rest for his own conscience be ? s willing- 
 to send me to perdition ! I 11 die before I 
 11 go back and live on a farm again, with 
 Eli away half the time. And I wouldn t 
 even have the sermons to write and the 
 little money for my own." How much 
 comfort she found in the spending of that 
 pittance, without let or hindrance, on the 
 books for which she hungered, is beyond 
 the imagination of one who has not been a 
 dependent step-daughter, filching a crude 
 education from sleep, and picking cotton to 
 earn the price of a print gown. "Yes," 
 she repeated, " I 11 die sooner! " Under all 
 her physical and mental torture, even while 
 she called herself hopeless, she had been 
 hoping that Eli would be moved by the 
 danger to the child- and by her rescue, and 
 that she could use his awakened tenderness 
 to soften his purpose. The hope had failed. 
 " I 11 give him one last chance," she said. 
 "I 11 not be angry or bitter. I 11 speak to 
 him calmly and kindly. We 11 talk it over, 
 and at least he 11 not be so cruel as to speak 
 out; he can quit the ministry without mak 
 ing the town too hot to hold us." 
 
1 88 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 Trying- to blow the dead embers of her 
 hope into life after this fashion, she went 
 about preparing- a better supper than usual 
 for Eli. She was so footsore that every 
 step hurt her, and there were shooting- 
 pains in her back, but she moved briskly. 
 Whatever Abby lacked, it was not fortitude. 
 Eli came in, laden with wood, and Susy 
 Nell at his heels carried a basket of kind 
 ling-. 
 
 "Susy Nell s been giving- Johnny a beau 
 tiful knife," said Eli, in a cheerful hig-h 
 tone, "and papa s going- to paint Johnny s 
 mamma s parlor for her to-morrow to 
 show how good we think he was to pull Susy 
 Nell out of the mean, bad cistern. Now 
 Susy s going to be mamma s little helpin 
 dirl, ain t she?" 
 
 Susy Nell, a chubby, smiling little crea 
 ture of five, proffered the basket, and Abby 
 kissed her, saying, " Now you run out and 
 play." Susy Nell felt vaguely repulsed, 
 but she took it in good part, and pattered 
 away for the yard. She forgot the kisses 
 which (as agreed outside) she was to give 
 "dear mamma for pulling her out of the 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 189 
 
 cistern." And Eli was too after-witted to 
 remind her. He busied himself making the 
 fire and cutting- the meat. 
 
 " Maw told me you didn t get the paint 
 ing of the pews." 
 
 Eli avoided her eye. "No, Abby; they 
 gave it to Hobson. Maybe I hadn t ought 
 to say it, but I m afraid they 11 make a 
 botch of it, too. They don t understand 
 fine work." 
 
 " They certainly don t, " said Abby ; " they 
 painted Hattie s aunt s house, and the paint 
 streaked dark streaks the very next sum 
 mer." 
 
 "Put turpentine in it, and most likely 
 used boiled linseed oil," said Eli, with a 
 sudden air of interest. "Well, I would 
 hate to have them spoil those pews. I 
 wonder would they take it hard if I was to 
 caution them against boiled oil, and ask em 
 to put plenty of japan in the paint for the 
 inside. They re going to varnish the 
 pews, they say; and if they ain t careful 
 and don t use the right kind of hard finish, 
 which takes a heap of rubbing and goes on 
 
190 Why Abby Ionia Surrendered. 
 
 mighty slow like, there 11 be trouble for 
 sure." 
 
 "But why did Brother Arnott not get you 
 to do it? you the minister, too, and having 
 an interest " 
 
 " Well, he said that was the very reason 
 said ministers of the Gospel had no right 
 to be engaged in secular callings. I reckon 
 he s partly rig-ht, too." 
 
 "Are you of the same mind still, Eli?" 
 
 "If I d thought of changing, how could I 
 ayfter the Lord s dealing with me this 
 day?" 
 
 " Do you think the Lord pulled her out of 
 the cistern? or maybe you think He pushed 
 her /," said Abby. She had turned around. 
 Her face was flushed, and her eyes glit 
 tered, and she spoke in an unfamiliar voice. 
 
 Eli s sluggish wits could not rally under 
 her vehemence. "I I reckon we better 
 not talk about it till you feel cammer, 
 Abby," he stammered. Which was about 
 the most irritating thing that he could have 
 said. 
 
 Abby had begun the interview deter 
 mined not to grow angry ; but poor Abby, 
 
Why Abby Ionia Surrendered. 191 
 
 with her raw nerves and the canker-fret of 
 jealousy in her heart, was not in a condition 
 to discuss the merits of baking- powder, 
 safely. The passion that she had tried to 
 smother, blazed up at Eli s words. She 
 flung- out her arms wildly, crying-: "It s 
 now or never, Eli Edding-s. For the last 
 time, and mig-hty near the first time too, 
 I m g-oing- to ask you to consider me. It is 
 folly of you to imagine we can live on here 
 ayfter your getting up and making- that con 
 fession. I couldn t show my face among 
 the ladies here. / have a little sense of 
 shame, if you haven t! " 
 
 Eli hung- his head. " We could go into 
 the country and rent and make a crop " 
 
 "I hate the country! I hate the country 
 people! " 
 
 "You didn t hate the folks at Sycamore 
 Hurd when they were so kind to us, when 
 little Eli died, and put up a stone to his 
 grave, and Sister Mitchell picke all the 
 geraniums she was saving for Rosy s wed 
 ding you don t hate them, Abby?" said 
 Eli, sorrowfully. And his patience, instead 
 of quelling Abby s wrath, only made it 
 
192 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 mount the higher; it seemed to put her in 
 the wrong-, who was really in the right. 
 
 Except for the goading- of her fury she 
 could never have answered him so cruelly ; 
 but nothing seems cruel to an angry wife 
 who has disputed with her husband. She 
 said: "If we hadn t been out in Sycamore 
 Hurd, if you d taken the other circuit they 
 offered, and been in town near a doctor, 
 perhaps baby wouldn t have died! " 
 
 Eli recoiled, and his face went white. 
 Abby was not looking at him; she had 
 whisked back to her frying pan on the 
 stove; when the hot grease spattered on 
 her wrist she smiled savagely at the pain. 
 Her husband s voice came after a long 
 pause: 
 
 "I don t guess there s much use our 
 talking, Abby ; if there ain t anything I can 
 do to help you bout supper I reckon I 11 go 
 out in the yard with Susy Nell." 
 
 "Eli, are you going to speak out next 
 Sunday?" 
 
 " We won t talk bout it now, Abby. You 
 you pray, too, and then we 11 talk." 
 
 " Eli, no prayer will change this to me. 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 193 
 
 And I tell you now, you 11 be sorrier than 
 you ever were in your life if you do speak." 
 
 Eli made no reply at all. He left the 
 house. He carried away a deep wound of 
 his own; and pain always made him silent. 
 But again his silence infuriated his wife. 
 At supper she told him that Susy Nell was 
 coughing-, and she had best stay with her 
 that night. 
 
 " Don t you think we d ought to have the 
 doctor step in?" said Eli, anxiously, "Is 
 your throat sore, honey lamb? " 
 
 He made no slightest objection. Abby 
 staid with Susy Nell every night that week. 
 The cold had disappeared if there ever 
 had been a cold but Eli did not speak of a 
 change. 
 
 " He s glad to be rid of me," thought the 
 miserable wife ; "all he cares for is Susy 
 Nell," and her anger changed into some 
 thing deadly and still. At times she was 
 conscious that her torment of soul was 
 overmuch for anything that Eli had done. 
 Then she would tell herself that she had 
 lost her husband s love, and she would have 
 to grow old and haggard in the slavery of a 
 
194 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 farm, and gradually, as her health failed, 
 that she would sink into the like of the 
 slatternly drudges that she despised. She 
 felt her strength failing-. She could not do 
 half the work that she used to do unless she 
 lashed herself through the last part of her 
 tasks. Years of overtaxed days and robbed 
 nights were having- their revenge. The 
 creeping paralysis of estrangement had 
 aided them, and the shock of Eli s decision 
 dealt the last blow. Abby s nervous system 
 simply collapsed. She did not suspect it, 
 but she was not a responsible creature. 
 
 There was a strange sensation in her 
 head all the time. It seemed to her that she 
 was conscious of the physical working of 
 her thoughts, and that as they passed from 
 one chamber of her brain to another, she 
 felt the passage. Once this notion had 
 fastened, on her mind, she could not pluck 
 it away, and the wearisome disquietude of it, 
 it is impossible to suggest. Unreal noises 
 began to vex her ears. She would hear her 
 dead baby cry; wailing voices would rise 
 and sink, which, no sooner did she hearken, 
 would cease or change into the clamor of the 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 195 
 
 poultry yard. At first the ghastly path of 
 escape from her trouble had been only the 
 mental elaboration of her angry phrase, 
 "I 11 die sooner!" 
 
 Then she did not mean to die; but inch 
 by inch the tide of despair submerged the 
 nervous woman s reason. The fancy be 
 came a possibility ; at last it was a desire. 
 
 "I m growing crazy, I expect." said 
 Abby. " Well, it don t matter, if I can die 
 in time! 1 
 
 It may be asked, had Abby no religious 
 scruples regarding the sin that she medi 
 tated? Not any. It is the besetting temp 
 tation of the handler of religious things to 
 lose his reverence in the familiarity of habit. 
 Every clergyman knows the deadening 
 effect of the constant use of religious 
 phraseology. And Abby had no protec 
 tion of religious zeal. She was not a pious 
 woman. She wrote her sermons not to 
 save souls, but to help the Reverend Eli 
 Eddings. From indifference she had slipped 
 into doubt. 
 
 "If there is a God, He knows I cayn t 
 bear it! " she said. 
 
196 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that she no longer 
 watched Eli s face for signs of relenting-. 
 She withdrew into the shadow of her dis 
 tempered dreams. Here was a way to 
 punish Eli, all the dearer because it would 
 make her suffer as well as him. A woman 
 always likes to strike the man that she loves 
 through her own heart. 
 
 So the soul of Eli s wife walked apart 
 among- formless hopes and fears, or beat 
 against that impasse, a realization of the 
 next step beyond the g-ate. Yet to outward 
 seeming she was not changed, except that 
 she was a trifle absent minded. Until Fri 
 day she had a faint was it hope or fear? 
 that Eli might give up his purpose to 
 his mother s pleadings if not to hers. Fri 
 day, the widow paid her a visit. After 
 thanking Abby for certain gifts of pre 
 serves sent in during the week, she took 
 out her handkerchief. 
 
 " You always have ben a good daughter 
 to me, Abbylonia," she said; and the ready 
 tears welled in her eyes. " I cayn t say how 
 I feel, I feel so for you in this hour of trial. I 
 ve made it a subjec of prayer, and studied 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 197 
 
 and studied on it till my hand cher wasn t 
 enough and I had to take my apron I And 
 this here is how I look at it. Abby, honey, 
 there ain t no good comes of fighting- agin 
 the will of the Lord. I knew Eli hadn t no 
 call to be a minister. He knew it too, and 
 he tried to beg off; but I kept a-pecking at 
 him and a-worrying of him until he gave up, 
 wore out. And now looks like it is a judg 
 ment on me that he is going to quit in the 
 sight of men. I ve talked with him, and 
 he s spoke his mind; and, Abby, I cayn t 
 oppose him, though it 11 mortify me so I 
 reckon I 11 be obliged to leave town." 
 
 Abby laid her sewing down. The widow 
 shielded herself behind her handkerchief 
 and sobbed. Had Abby scolded her, she 
 would have sobbed the louder. But Abby 
 answered, in a quiet, mild, voice: " I expect 
 you have aimed to do right, maw. I don t 
 want you to think I blamed you. It s be 
 tween Eli and me. Don t cry. Look at this 
 dress of Susy Nell s. Do you reckon she 
 will like it?" 
 
 The widow sniffed gratefully, and was 
 sure Susy Nell would like such a beautiful 
 
198 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 frock. She did not adventure any return to 
 the perilous theme, and soon fared forth, 
 equally bewildered and relieved. 
 
 Then Abby, in her neat street gown, her 
 smooth hair shining-, and every pin on her 
 in place, walked down the broad, sunny vil 
 lage street, where bluets were sprinkling 
 the green sod on either side the wooden 
 walk, to Bud Slater s store, and bought a 
 box of rat poison, with a lying jest. That 
 night, for the first time in a week, she slept 
 all night. All day Saturday her manner 
 was exceedingly gentle. Eli was moved by 
 her soft, unusual ways, but did not know 
 how to show his feeling, beyond constant 
 attention to the wood boxes and buying her 
 a copper wash boiler. The strange diffi 
 dence that often stands between those in 
 the closest relations, locked his tongue 
 while he longed to speak. Abby no longer 
 cared to talk. The desire for expression 
 was all burned out by the constant thought 
 of that one tremendous expression on which 
 she was resolved. 
 
 Sunday morning dawned bright and beau 
 tiful, as March mornings often dawn in Ar- 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 199 
 
 kansas. Abby bathed and dressed her 
 self with unusual care. Then she made 
 Susy Nell ready for church. She won 
 dered at herself that she shouldn t feel more 
 this last time she would ever dress the 
 child. She kissed her, but there was neither 
 grief nor passion in the kiss. That was be 
 cause grief belonged to the left lobes of the 
 brain, and somehow it had become mis 
 placed, and was on the right side; she 
 couldn t suffer on the right side. " Or else 
 I m a wicked woman who doesn t love her 
 children," thought Abby. " I 11 let her go 
 to Bessie Moon s for dinner. Better for 
 her. I d like to see her once more, but it 
 doesn t matter about me ; I m a wicked wo 
 man. The hill women used to love their 
 children best, better than their husbands, 
 but I always loved Eli best better than 
 baby, even. Baby, what are you crying 
 out in the barn for? Oh, he bruised his 
 little pale cheek! Oh, baby, baby! the 
 bruise was there in his coffin! And Mrs. 
 Mitchell fetched all her flowers. She came 
 over in that calico that was so short in 
 front I wish I d helped her cut that dress 
 
2OO Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 instead of just lending- her the pattern 
 she came over in all the rain. I hated to 
 have it rain, and I cried that night to have 
 it raining- on his little grave, and to have 
 him out in it all alone. I wish I could cry 
 now." 
 
 But she did not cry ; after all, why should 
 she, when she would soon be out of all the 
 worry, and wouldn t need to feel her 
 thoug-hts beating- through her brain? 
 
 It was a little difficult to remember about 
 the cooking; nevertheless, she did remem 
 ber, and it was a better breakfast than com 
 mon that she set before Eli. He ate very 
 little of it. She said to herself that a few 
 weeks ago she would have thought how 
 handsome and manly he looked in his new 
 black suit. Now she merely wondered 
 would he have it for his wedding suit when 
 he married again? Even that stab fluttered 
 her heart but a second; then she was back 
 working those weary thoughts through her 
 brain. 
 
 Eli started when she came into the room 
 ready for church. " It s awful kind of you, 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 201 
 
 Abby," he faltered, " but you don t need to 
 go. Maw is going- to stay home." 
 
 " I rather go, Eli," said Abby, untenderly 
 but gently. 
 
 They walked down the street together, 
 little Susy Nell tripping ahead in the sun 
 shine. The town was prosperous, and 
 there were two or three new brick build 
 ings with wooden trimmings smart with 
 paint. Here and there over the plain a 
 mansion rose a story or two above the 
 pointed roofs; but for the most part the 
 houses were modest southern cottages, not 
 too finical about the back yards. The 
 church bells were ringing, and the street 
 was full of little groups of people wending 
 their way churchward in sedate cheerful 
 ness. The children s white frocks and a 
 few lawn gowns lent a brightsome air to the 
 simple toilettes. 
 
 Abby gazed quite carelessly about her. 
 To-morrow to-morrow where would she 
 be? She wondered why she did not suffer. 
 "I m going to die to-night, and I don t care," 
 she said to herself, dully. "I reckon I m 
 past it." She didn t want to think, because 
 
202 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 it was such heavy work pushing- the thoughts 
 through the cells of her brain; and some 
 thing- seemed to be loose in the machinery 
 within her head, and to be rattling about; 
 but she kept remembering how after baby 
 died Eli was in the same kind of daze. She, 
 in her own passionate anguish, had called 
 him stupid of heart. Perhaps she had mis 
 judged him. It was then that the misun 
 derstanding, the alienation, began between 
 them. She had written a sermon about 
 the death of children a sermon that she 
 seemed to write with the very blood of her 
 heart and Eli refused to preach it. He 
 said: "I cayn t do it!" and when she 
 pressed for a reason he answered, " I don t 
 want to; it makes me feel too bad." 
 
 Her vanity was hurt. Without a word she 
 wrote him another sermon, instead of the 
 old one which he proposed to preach. She 
 never mentioned the sermon afterward. 
 Neither did he. Nor did she see it again; 
 but she found some charred sheets of paper 
 in the embers on the hearth next morning, 
 and concluded (without examining) that 
 Eli had burned the sermon overnight. And 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 203 
 
 it hurt her. But now that it was too late, 
 now that everything- was too late, she won 
 dered whether she had not been rash and 
 hard. They were passing- Colonel O Neil s 
 house, where the few Episcopalians of the 
 village g-athered Sundays to listen to the 
 service read by one of their number. The 
 music of their hymn rose in an air plaintive 
 and intense. Passing- the open window, 
 Abby could hear every word : 
 
 " In the hour of trial, 
 
 Jesus, plead for me ! 
 Lest by base denial 
 I depart from Thee." 
 
 She stole a glance at Eli. Was that the 
 way he felt? A new apprehension of his 
 motives was struggling- into her confused 
 mind. She drew a step nearer to him. Eli 
 turned his eyes on her. 
 
 " I expect the folks are anxious to see the 
 new paint," said he. "I spoke to Hobson 
 and warned him, but he said he reckoned 
 he knew his own business; and I m nig-h 
 certain he hasn t used hard finish. Don t 
 you sit down without feeling-, Abby ! " 
 
 Abby laughed a hard little laugh, and 
 
2O4 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 said that she wouldn t. She did not speak 
 again. She had wondered what was pass 
 ing- through his mind. Well, she knew now 
 in this supreme day of his life he was 
 worrying about paint ! No, she hadn t 
 done him injustice. 
 
 Eli parted with her at the church door. 
 "Abby," he began " Abby " and could 
 get no further; but he put out his rough 
 workingman s hand and touched her sleeve 
 with a lingering fall. Then he smiled fee 
 bly, and ended, " Mind you look out for the 
 paint." 
 
 She did not understand that he was 
 yearning to express his own suffering and 
 his sympathy for her, that he longed to 
 touch her, as a child in pain longs to 
 touch its mother. And she parted from 
 him with a mortal ache in her heart. Yet 
 his words followed her, trivial as they were, 
 and automatically she obeyed them. She 
 touched the seat of the pew, which, truly 
 enough, was sticky; and before Susy Nell 
 and she sat down, she covered back and seat 
 with one of the Sunday school papers which 
 were scattered among the pews. Then she 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 205 
 
 seated herself, and sank into a dreary 
 reverie, imageless and numb. When she 
 glanced up the pews were full, and Sister 
 Arnott, in all the pomp of her new gown, 
 was stiffly inclining- her shoulders as she 
 sat down in the front pew. The inde 
 structible respect of a woman for a pretty 
 gown was stronger in Abby at that mo 
 ment than her own misery, and far 
 stronger than any ill will that she 
 might bear to the wearer. Hastily she 
 arrested the descent of those rustling 
 sleeves. "Don t!" she whispered; "the 
 varnish is all sticky; you 11 spoil your 
 dress!" And she picked up a paper and 
 spread it out herself. At the same moment 
 she nodded a warning to three women who 
 were entering the seat, behind. " Perhaps 
 the other seats stick too," she said. But 
 Sister Arnott, with dignity, replied that 
 these seats were varnished last ; the others 
 would surely be dry. And Abby, caring 
 little, sank back into her thoughts. 
 
 Eli was on his feet announcing the hymn. 
 " We will sing the one hundred and fortieth 
 hymn, on page twenty-five No. 140, page 
 
206 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 25. * God moves in a mysterious way His 
 wonders to perform. " The words rolled 
 back into the minister s throat. He could 
 see the whole church. And decidedly it 
 was a spectacle to be seen, for all over the 
 church men and women were struggling to 
 rise, and squirming- helplessly, wrathfully, 
 on their seats. 
 
 The climax came when a wailing- childish 
 voice pealed out: "Mamma! mamma! I 
 stuck! " Then the emotions that decorum 
 had g-ag-g-ed burst forth. There was a rend 
 ing 1 sound, a buzz of voices. The children 
 especially were in great power, little girls 
 whimpering- and little boys giggling, and 
 Sister Wayling s baby bawling- with fright. 
 Men wrestled and women writhed, but the 
 varnish held stanchly, and the scene be 
 came a wild one. Brother Arnott, who came 
 a few minutes late, stood horror-stricken in 
 the middle of the aisle. The minister hur 
 ried to the aid of his imprisoned flock. 
 Sister Arnott, Abby, a few fortunate tardy 
 sheep, the three women in the seat behind 
 Abby, and perhaps half a dozen provident 
 ones whose custom was to look before they 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 207 
 
 sat as well as before they leaped, helped 
 Brother Arnott and Eli to pull .and twist 
 and wrench the people free, although at a 
 sad cost to their Sunday clothes. At last 
 all except Sister Moon and Brother Tredith 
 were rescued from the snare of the spoiler, 
 and the congregation gathered about these 
 captives. Sister Moon was a woman of 
 weight in every sense, the richest person 
 age in the town, with a rich vein of obsti 
 nacy running through a pious and kindly 
 nature, who had long since ceased to tempt 
 the scales. Brother Tredith was a man 
 of substance and great stature, and (as 
 he carefully explained) he had sat down 
 "kinder sky west and crooked," hence 
 there was the more of him to stick. 
 
 As for Sister Moon, she announced pite- 
 ously to her audience : " It ain t that I m so 
 powerful heavy, but I always did set down 
 hard 1 And, oh laws ! this seat sticks like 
 fly paper ! I 11 never have another sheet in 
 my house, now I know how it feels ! It s 
 awful! Brother Eddings, nev mind if you 
 do tear my dress; I got plenty on under 
 neath to be decent, and I never was proud! 
 
208 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 Pull away! Bless you, Sister Eddings, I 
 really felt it give a mite then. Cayn t some 
 more ketch holt on me? Brother Eddings, 
 it s all we-all s own fault, for you done told 
 us, and told them to put on different var 
 nish ; I know if you d a painted this church 
 we d be standing free praising the Lord 
 this minnit! " 
 
 And Brother Tredith s tolling base 
 chimed in : " That s right ! There ain t a 
 better painter in Arkansas, whatever you 
 call him for a preacher ! Now most like we 
 11 have to be soaked off with alcohol, and all 
 Hobson s fool work! " 
 
 The tide thus started ran high against 
 Hobson, at which no one could wonder who 
 had what might be called an all-rouiid view 
 of the unfortunate congregation. By this 
 time a charitable commercial traveler was 
 trying the effect of whisky on varnish, 
 under Brother Tredith s direction, and 
 those around Sister Moon were weak with 
 laughter. Eli himself gave the last pull 
 which freed her, and was in time to peel off 
 Brother Tredith s long legs. Then Abby 
 reached him, and whispered him to dismiss 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 209 
 
 the congregation, which he did in a single 
 sentence, "I reckon we all better go home 
 now." 
 
 Abby lingered a little time behind the 
 others ; she was detained by Sister Arnott. 
 Sister Arnott had never liked Abby, but 
 now she took her hand, saying, heartily, 
 "Sister Eddings, I am ashamed I got this 
 dress when I more than half suspected you 
 wanted it; and I think you showed a right 
 Christian spirit saving it for me; and if I 
 can ever do anything for you, count on me! " 
 
 Abby smiled, and said something in reply, 
 she hardly knew what. She had the sensa 
 tion of a criminal who receives a reprieve 
 on his journey to the gallows. Moreover, 
 the whole drift of her mind was diverted 
 violently by the farce of the paint. It 
 seemed ridiculous to think of suicide when 
 she was still laughing over the picture of 
 Sister Moon! Almost unconsciously she 
 found herself laughing at it with Eli. "I 
 believe maw would have had to laugh too," 
 she cried. " I wish she had been there." 
 
 "It was awful good of you to come this 
 morning," said Eli, with a grateful look; 
 
2io Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 u and maw told me bout that dress, how 
 you wanted it, and I sent to St. Louis for 
 one for you. I think it was right sweet 
 of you saving- it for Sister Arnott that way." 
 
 " She looked so pretty in it, and it is such 
 a nice dress " 
 
 Eli opened his mouth, g-asping- vainly ; it 
 seemed to him a very lame speech that he 
 made, but perhaps it served his purpose 
 with Abby quite as well as eloquence. He 
 said: " You re a heap prettier than her, 
 Abby!" 
 
 Abby stood still in the road to look at 
 him ; but no suspicion could endure before 
 his simple-hearted gaze. She reddened and 
 smiled in spite of herself. " You haven t 
 said that much to me, Eli, for years! " 
 
 "But you knew I thought it! " 
 
 u No, I didn t. Susy Nell, run ahead; 
 Bessie Moon s signaling- to you over yonder ! 
 I reckon I am mean, Eli, but it s mig-hty 
 hard to have your husband think so " 
 
 "I never did think so, as God hears me, 
 honey. But you were so much smarter n 
 me, and wrote such beautiful sermons, I 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 211 
 
 lowed you looked down on a uneducated 
 man like me " 
 
 "Eli" his wife interrupted him in 
 strong- agitation "Eli, I believed you de 
 spised me because because I wrote the 
 sermons for you! " 
 
 He was in front of the puddle which had 
 disturbed the widow; in his excitement he 
 splashed into the worst of it. " I ain t such 
 a pusillanimous, ornery, trifling- tyke as 
 that," he cried. " Abby, forgive me; I am 
 pulling- you into the mud ! " 
 
 " You can pull me throug-h all the mud in 
 Hickory Ridg-e, Eli Edding-s, and I won t 
 say one word! " 
 
 He swung- around. His eyes kindled. 
 He caught the little figure up in his arms 
 and carried her across the puddle to the 
 firm ground. As he put her down he made 
 a shamefaced apology: "Abby, I was just 
 naturally obliged to get hold of you and hug 
 you, and I didn t see no other way, out in 
 the street as we are ! " 
 
 Abby only made a kind of gurgle in her 
 throat, and ran swiftly through their gate 
 down the walk to the house. But when he 
 
212 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 overtook her, in their little parlor, simple 
 as he was in woman s moods, he understood 
 that his wife was not angry with him. 
 
 He sat down, he drew his wife on his 
 knee in the fashion of his early married 
 life, and kissed her. " Abby," said he, "I 
 feel now like I could tell you all about it. 
 You know how come I went into the minis 
 try. I hadn t no more call to it than our 
 caff ! I went to please maw and you. And 
 I staid because you wanted me ! Oh, Abby " 
 his voice melted, and she hid her face 
 ^you know what I felt about you! Why, 
 your very clothes were so much nicer than 
 the other girls , and the way you wore your 
 hair, and it s white on your neck where the 
 hair grows, and when I was near you I felt 
 like I was walking- in the woods with the 
 wild honeyseckles ! Abby ! Abby ! you little 
 thing- that I could crush, you re just like a 
 flower yourself, honey, dearie. Don t cry, 
 honey; I cayn t g-o on and do what I had 
 oug-ht to do if you cry ; I 11 have to give in 
 to you, I love you so ! " 
 
 And Abby? She forgot the nig-htmare of 
 the last week, she forgot how she hated to 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 213 
 
 live in the country, she forgot everything 
 except that her husband loved her, and she 
 sobbed, " Oh, Eli, I 11 go anywhere and I 11 
 live anyhow if you only will love me like 
 that!" 
 
 "I love you a hundred thousand times 
 better than you know, Abby," he cried. 
 "Why, dearie, it was you converted me and 
 made me give up preaching. What you 
 trembling so for, lambie? Listen; it was 
 this way: I read your sermons, and they 
 worked on me. It was slow, for I m slow. 
 I don t know how to talk out things even to 
 myself, and that makes me slow. But they 
 worked on me. Abby, there was one ser 
 mon you wrote it ayfter little Eli died " 
 
 " Yes," said Abby, in a tense voice. 
 
 "I didn t seem to know where I was or 
 what I was doing those days. I I felt very 
 bad, Abby." 
 
 Abby s hand stroked his brown curls, 
 trembling; she could not speak. 
 
 " When I read that sermon, for the first 
 time I could cry. And I was out in the 
 willows by the river, and I kneeled right 
 down and prayed to the Lord to have mercy 
 
214 Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 
 
 and show me the way out and comfort us 
 both ! Abby, He will. But I couldn t preach 
 that sermon." 
 
 " What did you do with it, Eli? " 
 
 "Wait a minute," said he. He put her 
 out of his arms very tenderly, and went 
 out of the room, while she waited for him, 
 trembling 1 . 
 
 She heard his footsteps moving- about 
 their chamber; they came back again. He 
 was standing before her with the neat 
 square sheets that she knew in his hands. 
 And she read on the outside, in Eli s 
 cramped hand, * This sermon, which I thank 
 God for, was written by my dear wife after 
 the death of our dear son Eli" There fol 
 lowed the date. 
 
 "Now you know," said Eli, "how you 
 converted me. Ayfter that I felt I couldn t 
 live a lie before you. But I wasn t strong- 
 enough, knowing- the anxious notion you 
 had of me being a minister, to stop right 
 away, and I waited till I g-ot things fixed so 
 I can get a shop in this town; and you shall 
 have the same money you had for the 
 preaching, and more if you will take it, and 
 
Why Abbylonia Surrendered. 215 
 
 we 11 get a hired girl, so you 11 have time 
 to read your books; and, Abby, when it fell 
 out this way this morning-, I said to myself, 
 4 Maybe the Lord ain t requiring- a public 
 confession of you, and maybe I could just 
 say I didn t feel myself fitted, and quit. 
 What do you think, Abby? " 
 
 " I think," said Abby, "I d go over to 
 Brother Arnott and tell him all, and abide 
 by his decision." 
 
 " I will," cried Eli, with a deep intake of 
 breath. " I 11 go now while you re getting 
 dinner. Say, Abby, in your drawer on your 
 bureau was standing this that you got for 
 the rats ; don t you think it s kinder danger 
 ous having it there? Susy Nell " 
 
 Abby caught it out of his hand and hurled 
 the box into the open fire. "Yes, yes," 
 said she; "it s a wicked thing. You go, 
 Eli. And, Eli, you go tell your mother 
 before you come home!" Then, as his 
 footsteps echoed on the wooden walk, she 
 sank lower and lower, and kneeled before 
 the chair where he had sat. 
 
The Ladder of Grief 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 Through love to light! Oh, wonderful the way 
 That leads from darkness to the perfect day ! 
 Richard Watson Gilder. 
 
 THERE was a great deal of sympathy 
 in Fairport for Mr. Markham when 
 his wife died. Silas Markham was the 
 president of the principal bank, a man 
 respected by every one, although he had no 
 intimate friends. He was a just man; in 
 many ways he was merciful, and he would 
 keep his word to his hurt; but there was 
 about him always a reserve, a species of 
 coldness, building a barrier beyond which, 
 to the knowledge of Fairport, only one 
 human being had ever passed. This one 
 person was his wife. His love for her the 
 very servants in the house knew ; and they 
 served him the better for it, because they 
 all loved her. 
 
 219 
 
220 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 Now that, after a few hours illness, and a 
 swift unconsciousness that never lifted, the 
 wife had slipped out of the world with no 
 last words, she who would not have dis 
 missed a beggar ungently, and he was left 
 alone in his desolate house, unconsoled by 
 so much as the memory of a last embrace, 
 his sorrow was of a kind that any one could 
 pity. Yet, really, no one knew its compass. 
 During those first stunned weeks he hardly 
 realized it himself; but now it was coming 
 to him with every day, with every horrible 
 night. Markham was a man of will. He 
 had no more mind to be crazy than he had 
 to seek an ignoble and brutal forgetfulness 
 of his torment in drink or opium. Yet 
 night after night he slept only to dream one 
 hideous dream. He was always seeking 
 Agnes. The night damp would be in his 
 hair, and the dream chill in his heart, as 
 he would wander over a vast and treeless 
 prairie trying to find, his wife, while the 
 faint light on the edge of the horizon faded. 
 He never found her. Always he woke up 
 in a dreadful fright at the darkness and 
 something horrible which was about to 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 221 
 
 happen. And awake, he would put out his 
 hand and remember, but have no tears to 
 relieve his scorched heart. One day he said 
 to himself, " I must get nearer to her, some 
 how, or I shall go mad! " He was sitting-, 
 as he used to sit of an evening-, in his 
 library, the neglected newspapers littering 
 the desk, his head sunk on his breast, think 
 ing. Rather, one should say, dreaming, 
 since thought is too orderly a word for that 
 dreary and aimless drift of past scenes. 
 At intervals his numbed will would strug 
 gle to tear him away from the wretched 
 panorama, but it was not strong enough to 
 hold him; he always harked back to it, and 
 was living over again moments bitter or 
 sweet. 
 
 The library was a beautiful room. It 
 was she that chose all the books ; she that 
 planned the great mullioned window and the 
 fireplace, and the somber richness of furni 
 ture. "This is to be your room, Si," she 
 had said. " I m going to make it to repre 
 sent you; it is to be characteristic." 
 
 "But why not represent you, too?" said 
 he. 
 
222 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 "The whole house represents me," she 
 smiled back, "you are so indulgent!" 
 
 "Am I?" he asked lightly. She flushed; 
 her eyelids fell. 
 
 "I never asked for but one thing you 
 didn t grant me," said she; and her eyes 
 for one troubled instant questioned his. 
 But he made no answer. He knew what 
 she meant, but felt no desire to discuss 
 this one point of variance ; and perhaps her 
 courage was exhausted when she mentioned 
 it. Aggie was not a daring woman. How 
 the color would dapple her cheek, her pretty 
 oval cheek, when she tried to say some 
 thing; and she never could hold her sweet 
 voice even. But how brave she was, too! 
 When the children were born, the poor 
 little babies that died, it was he was the 
 coward ; she He broke down, remem 
 bering. It was well ; it was good for him to 
 cry. Then he looked at her picture above 
 the desk. A great artist had painted it. 
 Why had the fellow made her look so sad? 
 The babies deaths were hard to bear; but 
 it was five years since little Silas died, and 
 he was still with her, and she loved him 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 223 
 
 surely she loved him; surely he made her 
 happy. Yet that crank had made her 
 lovely dark eyes so wistful, and her smile 
 was sadder than tears. It was ridiculous 
 to imagine that the one thing- about which 
 they differed, which neither of them, by 
 tacit consent, ever mentioned, could have 
 been a shadow on her life. He turned rest 
 lessly away from the canvas, and tried to 
 fix his attention on the plans for the chil 
 dren s hospital which he was building- as a 
 memorial of his wife. But almost imme 
 diately he pushed the neat parchment rolls 
 away, and his head sank on his hands. 
 
 "If I could only dream of her," groaned 
 the lonely man; "she said she would come 
 to my dreams." 
 
 As married lovers will, they had talked 
 of the dread possibility of loneliness. She 
 had introduced the subject, and he had 
 checked her, clasping her almost roug-hly 
 to his heart, crying, "I couldn t live with 
 out you!" But smiling with a thrill, over 
 his violence, she had continued, "Si, I 
 would come back to you ; we should be so 
 
224 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 near. I could get back to your dreams, I 
 know." 
 
 " Near?" he murmured. 
 
 "I believe " and now she was pressing 
 her face close to his heart, and he could not 
 see it "I believe I could come. You 
 know what the theosophists think, and 
 don t you remember that lovely book of Du 
 Maurier s and those two lovers who could 
 * dream true ? It was because their souls 
 were so near like ours." 
 
 The remembrance of that promise came 
 to him as he knelt by a still form and 
 talked, half-crazed, to his dead wife the 
 whole night through. "I ll get near 
 enough, Aggie; you ll see, you ll see!" he 
 had whispered, stroking her hair with his 
 gentlest touch. To-night his lip curled 
 and his heart was ice as he retraced his 
 efforts to get nearer to Aggie. Once he 
 had gone to a limp, scared little spiritual 
 medium whose husband rented rooms in 
 one of his buildings, and he had sat on a 
 dingy plush sofa, and watched the sun 
 beams gild the dust on a rickety table and 
 a strange woman behind the table "acting 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 225 
 
 Aggie," until he sickened of the profanity. 
 At the end of the second " trance " he rose 
 and handed the medium a bank note, the 
 figure on which sent the blood into her sal 
 low cheeks. 
 
 "I think this will pay you for your trou 
 ble, madam," he said; "I shall not come 
 any more." The medium hoped that the 
 communications had given him comfort, 
 and was sorely puzzled by his reply: " No, 
 ma am. But I think I understand." With 
 which, and a solemn bow, he fared forth 
 from her presence, and the red plush sofa 
 and the dusty table knew him no more. 
 
 "It wasn t Aggie " so he summed up 
 his experience "though she told things 
 only Aggie and I knew; but she didn t tell 
 anything outside my thoughts; and I had 
 no business, I nor any other decent man, 
 to go where my thoughts of my wife could 
 be pulled out of me." 
 
 The same harassing longing for a spirit 
 ual sense of his wife s presence sent him to 
 her church, although he did not like either 
 the church or the rector. The church was 
 "high"; and to Markham, the pagan son of 
 
226 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 Puritan parents, the ritual of the church 
 was merely a spectacle, tawdry or tedious, 
 according- to the pomp with which it was 
 presented. The rector was a young- man 
 whose earnest soul would have moved his 
 western auditors more had it not been ex 
 pressed with an English accent. Markham 
 put no objections in his wife s path, but he 
 stayed home and read the papers. When 
 Mrs. Markham died, the parish sorely 
 missed her open hand. Therefore, when, 
 one Sunday, a tall, erect, thin man, with a 
 beautiful gray head and a profile fine and 
 stern enoug-h for a Roman coin, walked 
 composedly down the aisle after the flock of 
 crumpled cottas, the rector s pulses bound 
 ed. Markham was so rich, and, were he so 
 minded, he could be so generous ; and they 
 were so poor ! 
 
 The rector kept his hopes under cover, 
 but the senior warden said frankly : " I do 
 hope you can hold him ; there s no telling- 
 what he 11 do if we can g-et him interested." 
 
 Six Sundays the rector held him, during 
 which time gradually the listener came to 
 exert a singular and sinister influence over 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 227 
 
 the preacher. He felt himself dogged from 
 the versicles to the benediction by a baffling 
 sense of failure. He unfolded the beauties 
 of the higher life and the mystic helpfulness 
 of the church services with all the ardor of 
 young zeal; and the rigid shape in the 
 Markham pew, which neither rose nor 
 knelt, the immovable, attentive, unrespons 
 ive countenance bent on him, while the man 
 sat with his wife s hymnal unopened in his 
 hand, turned into a kind of a specter of the 
 skepticism of th e whole world. The preach- 
 er s studied arguments and his eager, boy 
 ish appeals beat against the man of the 
 world s indifference as helplessly as a 
 child s fists beat against a locked door. It 
 bewildered, then it disconcerted him ; in 
 the end, it nearly palsied his tongue. The 
 Sunday that saw the Markham pew empty, 
 saw the rector, amid his humiliation and 
 dismay at the vision of the senior warden s 
 reproaches, drawing a guilty sigh of relief. 
 After all, there was no fear of the senior 
 warden ; he was in high feather over Mark- 
 ham s farewell check; he congratulated the 
 rector heartily. 
 
228 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 "He came to see what he thought of us; 
 and it is plain he thought that we deserved 
 his wife s interest," declared the senior 
 warden. "I guess he sees now there is 
 something- in the High Church besides 
 candles and a boy choir. And that reminds 
 me, don t you think we could afford to have 
 the boys cottas done up twice a month 
 now? They do look pretty mussy by the 
 fourth Sunday." 
 
 And Markham was sitting at his library 
 desk gazing wearily at the plans for the 
 hospital. " Everything fails," he said; 
 "this will fail, too, I suppose. Why doesn t 
 Wheatly come?" 
 
 Like an answer the heavy door opened, 
 and Milly, the waitress, glided into the room 
 with the lugubrious mien that was her own 
 tribute of sympathy, and in a hushed voice 
 announced: "Mr. Wheatly, sir. Shall I 
 fetch him in here?" 
 
 Wheatly had been Markham s lawyer for 
 years; he might almost be called an inti 
 mate friend. " Markham s got a heart 
 somewhere," he often assured his wife, 
 "and any day I m liable to find it." He 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 229 
 
 was a tall man, of a dignified portliness, 
 with a noble bald head and shrewd blue 
 eye. He joyed in battle, and bullied jury 
 and judge alike, and, one may say, won his 
 cases with a sledge hammer; but nobody 
 charged smaller fees to poor clients, or 
 could be gentler to the friendless and un 
 defended. 
 
 He greeted Markham, and plunged at 
 once into the business of their meeting. 
 They settled the details of the deeds in 
 entire harmony; but, the business con 
 cluded, Wheatly fidgeted in his chair, puff 
 ing hard on his Henry Clay, and twice 
 opening his lips and shutting them again, 
 in the manner of the man who oscillates 
 between speech as good and silence as 
 better. Suddenly he said brusquely, 
 " Markham, my wife says I ought to tell 
 you something." 
 
 "Mrs. Wheatly is always right," said 
 Markham, with his dry politeness. 
 
 "You see, Markham, we have known 
 Mrs. Markham ever since she was a little 
 girl why, I taught her to ride her first 
 pony, in the old major s time " 
 
230 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 "And do you think I shall ever forget 
 how kind you were when the major died 
 and they were left without anything-?" 
 
 "That was nothing. What I meant to 
 say was that Agnes naturally felt to us 
 almost as if she had been a niece or such a 
 relation, and and she used to talk to us 
 about her friends the Haskills. I fancy," 
 said the lawyer, carefully watching- the 
 glowing- ash of his cigar, " that we were the 
 only people to whom she did say anything 
 about them. She was rather anxious about 
 Mrs. Haskill s health. She hasn t been 
 well. The fact is, that woman works too 
 hard. She makes light of it, but she has 
 worked her strength all out. Agnes was 
 deeply attached to Mrs. Haskill, you know. 
 And one day she asked me to draw up her 
 will. It was the day before she was taken 
 ill, and perhaps she didn t have time to tell 
 you about it." 
 
 Markham bent to pick -up a paper weight 
 which clattered to the oaken floor. He 
 wore his face of wood. "She did not tell 
 me," said he. 
 
 "Well," the lawyer found it easier not 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 231 
 
 to look at his friend as he spun off the items 
 of the will "she left a list of friends to 
 whom she wished you to give keepsakes 
 out of her jewels. I think you have antici 
 pated her wishes there ; I know you have 
 with us." 
 
 "If you will give me the list, I will attend 
 to it," said Markham in an emotionless 
 tone. 
 
 "She left some money to each of the ser 
 vants." 
 
 "I have given each of them a hundred 
 dollars. I thought of that myself," said 
 Markham. 
 
 "She left a thousand dollars to the church, 
 St. Anne s, and five hundred to the rector." 
 
 "I sent five thousand to the church ; I 11 
 attend to the rector," said Markham. 
 
 "She left five hundred to the hospital, 
 for a children s ward." 
 
 Markham silently laid his finger tips on 
 the heap of architect linen, with its neat 
 drawings in colored inks. 
 
 " All the residue of her estate she left to 
 EmmaHaskill." 
 
 Did he expect any sign of feeling from 
 
232 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 his client ? Markham gave none whatever. 
 For a second there was silence ; Wheatly 
 puffed on his cigar and looked at the por 
 trait. The wistful eyes met his. He stran 
 gled a sigh. 
 
 "She didn t sign the will?" said Mark- 
 ham. 
 
 "No; I simply took her instructions for 
 it, and she was to come in another time. 
 It s, so much waste paper legally." Mark- 
 ham lighted a fresh cigar ; but Wheatly 
 noticed that a good half of a cigar was char 
 ring on the table beside the paper weight. 
 
 "I m afraid Haskill is in pretty bad 
 shape," said he. "He was on Keene s 
 bond, and the runaway has done him up ; 
 he will lose his house and every dollar he 
 has in the world. It s too bad. Ralph s 
 an honest man, though he belongs to the 
 class that always bet on the losing horse. 
 As for Emma Haskill " Wheatly looked 
 at this instant just as he looked when he 
 dominated the court room, and gave the 
 judge to understand both law and justice 
 were on his side, wherever His Honor might 
 be found "I don t know a better woman." 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 233 
 
 "Wheatly," said Markham," she is the 
 only woman in the world whom I dislike. " 
 
 "I was afraid of that," said Wheatly. 
 
 " My wife and I never had but one differ 
 ence. That was about her. She was a 
 school girl friend of Aggie s. She had 
 great influence over her. I never liked 
 her, but I was civil. We held different 
 opinions on every subject, and she didn t 
 in the least conceal what she thought ; she 
 is one of those loud-voiced, shrieking women 
 who like to argue. I didn t care to argue 
 with her, so avoided meeting her. I told 
 Agnes frankly that I didn t like being 
 schooled by her friend ; the house was as 
 much hers as mine, but I should be obliged 
 if she would choose those hours to invite 
 Mrs. Haskill when I could be absent. Un 
 luckily, Mrs. Haskill overheard me, and 
 she chose, later, to make a scene with Aggie, 
 and refused to enter the house again. Agnes 
 cried herself sick over the episode, and that 
 didn t make me feel any more kindly to 
 ward the woman. Aggie used to go there, 
 and she was always doing things for them ; 
 but I saw nothing of them. Once after 
 
234 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 after our little boy died, she asked me 
 could she have that oldest girl of the Has- 
 kills , the one they named after her, up to 
 the house for a two weeks visit. I said she 
 could. But I went away that night and 
 stayed for two weeks. I made a pretense 
 of sudden business. She never asked for 
 the child again. But she was always going 
 to see them and giving them things. * He 
 set his teeth on the next sentence and 
 stopped. Milly softly opened the door, she 
 softly stole into the room, and, nodding her 
 head gloomily, announced in the lowest 
 of voices that use the vocal chords, "Mr. 
 Haskill begs you 11 see him a moment as a 
 great favor, sir." 
 
 "Very well; I ll see him here," said 
 Markham. 
 
 Wheatly rose ; he had no choice but to 
 make his farewell. Nevertheless, as he 
 told his wife, he felt that that well meaning 
 idiot would kick over the whole bucket of 
 fish. 
 
 For a few minutes Markham was left 
 alone. He was facing a grotesque and hor 
 rible dilemma, for he was angry with his 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 235 
 
 dead wife. To be angry and rage futilely 
 is an ugly pain ; but to be angry with the 
 dead that we love, to know that they can 
 never hear our reproaches or justify them 
 selves and put us in the wrong this 
 wrings the soul I For, however angry we 
 may be with them while alive, we have al 
 ways, under our anger, the hope that they 
 have not wronged our love, and that it is 
 we, not they, who will need to be forgiven. 
 But Agnes could never explain. There was 
 left him yes, there was one thing left 
 him ; and his mind darted to a purpose 
 bearing little good for the man in the hall. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Markham," said a 
 deprecating voice. Markham did not take 
 the pains to smile. He was on his feet al 
 ready, therefore he did not rise. Haskill 
 extended a hand that fell instantly, Mark- 
 ham busying himself in pushing a chair at 
 his visitor. 
 
 " What can I do for you this evening Mr. 
 Haskill?" said he. Haskill sat down on the 
 edge of the chair, a great leathern armchair 
 that looked ready to engulf him entirely. 
 He was a small man, prematurely bald, 
 
236 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 wrinkled under the eyelids. His skin was 
 fair, flushing- readily, and (in Markham s 
 opinion) he was prone to equally irrational 
 fever fits of fear and hope. In his early 
 manhood he had inherited a small fortune, 
 promptly lost in headlong- ventures. Since 
 then he had been a clerk in a dry goods 
 shop, advancing- no farther than the silk 
 counter, although every one liked to trade 
 with Ralph Haskill. He had made a careful 
 toilet, the sight of which had given him a 
 flicker of confidence as he stood before the 
 mirror at home ; but now, while Markham s 
 cold eye traveled from the shiny seam of 
 the left elbow to the neatest of patches in 
 the hem of his right trouser leg- (why must 
 he have tried to learn to ride a wheel when 
 he had on his g-ood clothes?), he felt sud 
 denly poor and shabby the man who had 
 failed begging- of the man who had suc 
 ceeded. His tongue grew too larg-e for his 
 dry throat. "I have come to to ask a 
 favor of you, Mr. Markham," he said. 
 
 " So I presumed, " said Markham. It was 
 not an encouraging beginning of the inter 
 view. 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 237 
 
 "I shouldn t want you to call it exactly 
 a favor, either," said Haskill, struggling 
 not to seem so dejected as he was. "I am 
 sure, Mr. Markham, little as you may like 
 me, you are a just man." 
 
 "I don t see what my liking- or disliking 
 you has to do with that," said Markham, 
 cruelly at his ease. 
 
 Haskill forced the quivering- muscles of 
 his mouth into a smile. "Of course, it 
 hasn t ; but I mean I think you wouldn t let 
 any prepossession against me make make 
 you decide unjustly." 
 
 "No? "said Markham. 
 
 "This is the case with me," said Haskill, 
 g-ulping- down something- in his throat: "my 
 wife is sick. She s worked like a dog- for 
 me and the children. God knows I ve tried 
 to make money, but either I m too honest 
 or I m too stupid or I g-et to believing- in 
 the wrong- things. Whatever s the reason, 
 we haven t got on ; and my wife s done 
 everything, Mr. Markham. She s scrubbed 
 the floors, she s worked in the garden, she s 
 made the children s clothes, she s gone 
 without a girl when there were two babies. 
 
238 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 together, and always so cheerfully " 
 
 He choked, and his eyes filled, but he 
 straightened the quiver in his voice, going 
 on quickly: " The doctor says she must go 
 to Colorado. It isn t there s no hemor 
 rhage ; and, besides, they cure consumption 
 nowadays. He told me he d engage she 
 would be well to go this winter and rest. If 
 Aggie if my oldest girl could go with her, 
 and they needn t travel poor, but have a 
 section in a sleeper and board in a comfort 
 able place I know she d get well. I 
 haven t anything to raise money on or I 
 wouldn t come to you, Mr. Markham ; but 
 you know about Keene. My house and the 
 few hundreds we had saved they re all 
 gone. It s my wife s life at stake, Mr. 
 Markham " For the first time his hag 
 gard eyes interrogated Markham s, and the 
 anguish in him overflowed. "Mr. Mark- 
 ham, you ve lost your wife; you know what 
 it is. I can t sleep nights, I m so worried. 
 And the doctor s sure she 11 get well if she 
 can go." Markham s brow wrinkled, which 
 meant that he was moved ; he couldn t tell, 
 himself, whether it was irritation or a faint 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 239 
 
 rousing of pity. But his mind was so filled 
 with its tumult of anger and suspicion that 
 the other feeling could not edge into the 
 crowd. Yet it did stand outside ; he did 
 perceive its presence. Poor Haskill des 
 perately blundered on: "I wouldn t have 
 ventured to ask such a favor, but it isn t as 
 a favor. Emma says we ve the right to tell 
 you the truth. It s this way, Mr. Mark- 
 ham. Aggie " (Markham shut his teeth at 
 the familiar diminutive of his wife s name), 
 "Aggie came to our house the very week 
 before she died, and she was talking with 
 Emma, and she told Emma she ought to go 
 south this winter, and she said, I ll see 
 you go, Emma, says she, and if anything 
 happens to me, you 11 find I haven t for 
 gotten you and little Aggie. Those were 
 her very words." 
 
 " What you mean is that my wife meant 
 to leave you money in her will?" said 
 Markham. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Haskill; and he gripped 
 the arms of his chair with both hands. 
 
 "I suppose you know every cent she had 
 I gave her. She died without making a will. 
 
240 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 The money coming- back thus to my hands 
 by law, do you think I am bound to pay it 
 out?" 
 
 " Didn t you give it to her? " said Haskill. 
 The sweat beaded his pale face; his eyes 
 were wild. 
 
 "He is suffering-," Markham thought; 
 but the thoug-ht, like his transient pity, was 
 outside a fixed intention which seemed to 
 possess him. 
 
 44 Didn t you give it to her for her own 
 not to take back? " cried Haskill. 
 
 " Yes, I gave it to her for her own," said 
 Markham. 
 
 "And wouldn t you think that what she 
 wanted, you ought to do, even even if she 
 was dead?" 
 
 "Yes," said Markham, "I would. Let 
 me ask you a question. Would you think 
 my obligation ended there? " 
 
 "I don t understand you, sir; maybe I m 
 stupid or it s being so so anxious." 
 
 Markham frowned again. "I mean, do 
 you think I am bound to do any more than 
 divide what property my wife left accord 
 ing to her wishes, so far as I know them? " 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 241 
 
 "No, sir. If you divide Aggie s money 
 as she wished, what more could we ask?" 
 
 "Well, you might ask that I, out of my 
 own money, should give what she wanted 
 given." 
 
 " Certainly not, sir. It is only what she 
 left " 
 
 " I don t intend to take one cent of any 
 money left by Mrs. Markham," said Mark- 
 ham, looking- full at Haskill; and, somehow, 
 in spite of the reassuring- words, the man 
 felt his heart curdle within him. "But, 
 Mr. Haskill, do you know how Mrs. Mark- 
 ham invested that money? Tou had faith 
 in Keene; he g-ave you a commission. You 
 wanted her to invest " 
 
 "She put that money with Keene? " Has- 
 kill s voice was not more than a whisper. 
 "You you let her?" 
 
 "As you have said, Mr. Haskill, it was 
 her money; I let her." 
 
 Haskill shrank back in his chair. " Is it 
 all gone?" said he. 
 
 "All, I think." 
 
 An instinct that he did not recognize 
 averted his eyes from the crushed creature 
 
242 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 in the chair. He half wished but HasKiil 
 was on his feet; he was speaking-; and it 
 was queer that his voice should be firmer 
 than it had been yet. " I 11 not trouble 
 you longer, Mr. Markham. I hope I hope 
 Aggie did not know." 
 
 "No, she didn t know." 
 
 Haskill said, "I m glad for that," and 
 would have walked out of the room ; at the 
 door he tottered. 
 
 " You re not well 1 " said Markham, touch 
 ing the decanter on the desk. " A glass of 
 wine?" 
 
 But Haskill, with almost a glance of 
 horror, waved him aside. Then, the swing 
 of the door in his ears, Markham remem 
 bered some stories of Haskill s youth, be 
 fore he married. u He might find that beast 
 ly sort of oblivion more tempting than I," 
 he thought. He turned away. He looked 
 at the picture. His heart was numb. "O 
 Aggie, come back, come back and tell me 
 -why you did it!" he cried, stretching out 
 his hands. And even as he spoke, his wrath 
 was cut off like the foam upon the water. 
 He had driven straight toward his fero- 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 243 
 
 cious purpose, under the first sting- of his 
 knowledge; but now that he had trans 
 ferred his torture to another soul he was 
 seized with a sick disgust of his own cruelty. 
 It was base in him to stand by in his per 
 verse pride and let Aggie fling- her little for 
 tune away. " When I hoped she would lose 
 it and find out what a crazy loon he was, and 
 it would make a coolness between them! " 
 he cried. He had prided himself coldly 
 that he was a just man. Was it just to 
 punish his wife throug-h these humble 
 people that she loved? "I suppose," he 
 said aloud he was getting- into a silly 
 habit of talking to himself; it was part of 
 his distempered state now that he had lost 
 his only confidant "I suppose I was jeal 
 ous. I wasn t afraid that she loved Emma 
 Haskill as she loved me; I knew better. 
 Aggie, I knew, I knew how you loved me; 
 but I was jealous because you didn t love 
 me so absorbingly that you would give up 
 anything that I asked you to, just because 
 I asked you. If you had been willing, I 
 would not have demanded it." Then he 
 returned to every inflection of HaskilPs 
 
244 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 voice and every motion and change of ex 
 pression in his pitiful face. "The man," 
 he muttered, "is suffering- like me! He 
 loves his wife, too!" He did not despise 
 Haskill the less, but he began to pity a pain 
 that was in the similitude of his own. Mark- 
 ham was a man of narrow imagination, and 
 therefore he was an untender man in gen 
 eral; but here he could picture with a 
 frightful vividness exactly the frame of 
 mind of this other husband to whom he had 
 just denied his wife s life. "Confound her! 
 He shall have her if he wants her so infer 
 nally bad," he burst out at last, "if my 
 money can give her to him." 
 
 All night he tore his soul with new doubts 
 and fears. The light was stealing into the 
 luxurious room before he threw himself on 
 the lounge and sank into a dead and dream 
 less sleep. "I wish I could get that poor 
 devil word he doesn t need to worry," was 
 his last conscious thought. His first in the 
 morning was a relief that the night had 
 gone and he had not dreamed his nightmare 
 dream. His next, that he would not pro 
 long Haskill s suspense. Not waiting for 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 245 
 
 his breakfast, to the inexpressible conster 
 nation of the servants, he was seen walk 
 ing swiftly down the street before eight 
 o clock not twenty minutes after he was 
 awake. 
 
 The Haskill house was in the upper part 
 of the town, where land was cheaper. The 
 house was of a familiar type where the 
 ambitious architect strives for a large Colo 
 nial effect with a dwelling- of eight rooms, 
 mostly hall and piazza, but picturesque. 
 There was a tiny yard. Even in early No 
 vember the lawn was like green velvet. 
 
 A girl of ten was sweeping the porch. 
 Her motions had the deftness of long prac 
 tice. On the porch railing was perched a 
 very shabby canton flannel elephant. Hav 
 ing swept the walk to the gate, the little 
 girl lifted the elephant and kissed it. " You 
 *ve been real good," said she; "now we 11 
 go in, and you can watch me make a sponge 
 cake all myself." At this point Markham 
 opened the gate. 
 
 "Is this Mr. Haskill s?" he said, lifting 
 his hat with the ceremonious courtesy that 
 was easier to him than another man s un- 
 
246 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 dress manners, "and are you Mr. Haskill s 
 little girl?" 
 
 * Yes, sir, I am Aggie Haskill, " answered 
 the girl. She was a pretty little girl, Mark- 
 ham thought; her blue eyes and long lashes, 
 and her fair, freckled face were like her 
 father s. 
 
 u ls your mother in, Miss Aggie? " 
 
 "No, sir; she s gone to the grocery to 
 get some eggs. She told me to ask any one 
 that I didn t know to sit down on the porch. 
 Will you sit down, sir? Papa s gone down 
 town." 
 
 Evidently she did not know him. It oc 
 curred to him that it was not quite the 
 usual thing that the children of a woman s 
 dearest friend, living in the same town, 
 should not know her husband by sight. 
 The Haskills had not forced themselves on 
 his presence. That, at least, might be said 
 of Emma Haskill. They had kept to their 
 own side of the fence. He came up to the 
 piazza, and addressed himself to the child. 
 
 "What is your doll s name, little girl?" 
 said he. 
 
 She drew out the elephant proudly. " It 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 247 
 
 is not a doll, it s an elephant, and its name is 
 Silas." 
 
 Markham experienced a queer surprise. 
 " How s that? That s my name too." 
 
 The little girl smiled. " It s named after 
 you, then, too. My Aunt Aggie made it. 
 She made it for Johnny. That s my little 
 brother. He s in heaven now. It had a 
 red blanket, and a little basket all full of 
 money ; and Johnny wanted to call it after 
 Aunt Aggie, only he couldn t, because it 
 was a boy elephant, you know; so Aunt 
 Aggie said why not call it after the one she 
 loved best? and his name was Silas. So we 
 called it Silas Markham, to be after her, 
 too, you know." 
 
 "It s a very nice elephant. May I hold 
 it?" said Markham. He held it carefully, 
 stroking the flannel. His hand trembled a 
 little. 
 
 "Silas was in a fire once," the little girl 
 prattled away. She quite enjoyed being- 
 treated like a grown-up person by this po 
 lite g-entleman. 
 
 "Indeed, how was that? " said Markham. 
 
 "It was this way: The house took fire. 
 
248 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 It was at night, too, and we all had to run 
 out; and when we were all out, Mamie be 
 gan to cry because she had left Silas. He 
 was sleeping with her that night, and she 
 said, * Oh, Si will burn ! Si s in there ! and 
 so papa ran back, and a fireman ran with 
 him. He was mad when he found it was 
 only an elephant, but papa told him how it 
 used to belong to his little boy that was 
 dead, and then he said, Oh, that! and was 
 real kind. Si wasn t hurt a bit. We used 
 to pretend to make him tell us how he felt 
 when he was in the fire. It s only pretend, 
 of course." 
 
 Markham nodded. He was Booking 
 through the door into the little parlor. It 
 almost seemed to him that he could detect 
 his wife s gifts scattered among the plain 
 furnishings. 
 
 " Did you know niy Aunt Aggie? " asked 
 the little girl. 
 
 " Yes," said Markham. 
 
 "She is in heaven," said the little girl, 
 reverently. "I m named after her, and 
 mamma says I must be a very good little 
 girl like her. She was so good, and she 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 249 
 
 looked so sweet. Sometimes I used to go 
 riding with her in her carriage." 
 
 " Yes," said Markham. 
 
 "She was the best friend mamma had. 
 When she died papa cried too. He got 
 some flowers at the greenhouse. He didn t 
 send them to the house, though, but mamma 
 and he went up to the cemetery and put 
 them on the grave. Oh, they were just 
 beautiful flowers ! " 
 
 Markham knew. He had seen the flow 
 ers laid on the mound. He wished that he 
 had sent for Mrs. Haskill on the day of Ag 
 gie s death. When she came Aggie was 
 dead ; he had gone out of the chamber, leav 
 ing her there; he remembered how he had 
 resented the sound of her sobs. "She had 
 a right to grieve, too," he perceived for the 
 first time. "I wish " 
 
 * There s mamma," exclaimed the child, 
 running out to joyously fall upon a tall wo 
 man with a basket on her arm. 
 
 Years and struggle and sorrow had tamed 
 the exuberant young creature that Mark- 
 ham used to dislike. Her red cheeks were 
 gone, and her bounding step dragged; but 
 
250 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 there was left her ready smile, which faded 
 instantly as she perceived her caller. She 
 greeted him courteously. He made no pre 
 lude to his errand. 
 
 "Haskill was to see me last night," said 
 he; "after he left I considered the matter. 
 Whatever Agues wished to have done with 
 her property I feel myself bound to do. The 
 property is gone." 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Mrs. Haskill. She 
 had not a loud voice to-day, and all her em 
 barrassing- vivacity was gone. 
 
 "I feel the obligation just the same," 
 said Markham. " I shall send you a check 
 for the sum at once." 
 
 Emma Haskill gasped. She was quite 
 pale. "You are a very just man, Silas 
 Markham," faltered she. 
 
 "Not always," said Markham; "but I 
 want to do what she wished." 
 
 "You made her very happy." She was 
 amazed at the wistful look in his eyes, and 
 at his " Thank you " and his proffered 
 hand. 
 
 Something prompted her, an impulsive 
 woman, to say, "Won t you come again, 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 251 
 
 some time, Mr. Markham?" Yet she was 
 surprised to hear, instead of the expected 
 formal thanks, "I will come. I want to 
 take this little girl out to drive with the 
 elephant." 
 
 But she was not more surprised than he 
 that he should be saying- such words. And 
 a strang-er surprise still it was, that the 
 first sentence uttered by any one that 
 seemed even for the least space to lift the 
 load on his heart should have come from 
 Emma Haskill. Nor, later in the day, did 
 he find any fault with Ralph Haskill, al- 
 thoug-h he hated a display of emotion, and 
 Haskill was crying- like a baby. 
 
 "I felt like killing- myself last nig-ht," 
 Haskill sobbed. "I did think of it, but I 
 couldn t leave her while she needed me; 
 and this morning- Mr. Wheatly offered to 
 lend me the money " 
 
 " You won t need to borrow," said Mark- 
 ham; "the extra check, besides the leg-- 
 acy, is for the journey. Mrs. my wife 
 would have wanted Mrs. Haskill to have 
 every comfort. You would better go with 
 her this winter, all of you. I have seen 
 
252 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 about that. You can have a vacation. 
 Don t be worried. Mrs. Haskill will come 
 back all right." 
 
 Haskill wrung his hand. He had not a 
 word. 
 
 With Markham, perhaps, it was as well. 
 The latter halted at the door and said, with 
 out looking- at Haskill, "I should like I 
 should feel obliged if occasionally you 
 would let your little girl come to see me." 
 
 Then he went home. He opened the 
 library door with the familiar sinking of 
 his heart. But he did not, at once, look at 
 his wife s picture, as was his custom. He 
 sat down by his desk. He took out a list 
 from his pocket, and noted something oppo 
 site each name. 
 
 "Whether it hurts me or not," he mut 
 tered, " no matter." 
 
 Next, he wrote a letter, a stiff business 
 letter, inclosing a check. It was addressed 
 to the rector of St. Anne s. 
 
 "Aggie, I ve done everything now," 
 said he. As he , spoke, he was fumbling 
 among the stationery in the drawer for an 
 envelope ; hence it happened that his fingers 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 253 
 
 fell on his wife s portfolio. He had not 
 suspected that it was in the drawer. It 
 was the same dainty little affair of Russia 
 leather and silver that he had often seen in 
 his wife s lap; and he remembered how he 
 used to make small jokes about her un 
 workmanlike manner of writing-. He laid 
 the portfolio open on the table. A letter 
 was lying before him. " My dear, dear 
 husband" the room reeled a little, but he 
 was reading- quite calmly, only the back of 
 his head seemed to throb, and it was hard 
 for him to breathe. 
 
 MY DEAR, DEAR HUSBAND: I did something 
 to-day, and I want to tell you about it, but I haven t 
 the courage to talk to you. I went to Mr. Wheatly 
 to have him draw up my will. I didn t sign it, 
 dear; I wouldn t do such a thing- without consult 
 ing- you. But he has it all drawn up, so that if I 
 were to be very ill I could sign it at a moment s 
 notice. Dear Silas, there has never been but one 
 thing to come between us. You did not like Emma 
 Haskill. To every other friend of mine you were 
 kind and good, but you were hardly civil to her; 
 and you know that she overheard what you said. 
 She never has been in the house since then. How 
 could she come? It hurts me Oh, Si, it hurts me 
 so, that you two, who are the best and noblest per- 
 
254 The Ladder of Grief. 
 
 sons in the world, should have misunderstood each 
 other so, and it seems as if it must be somehow my 
 fault. Emma has been having such a hard time. 
 I have tried to help her. But life is so uncertain, 
 and I thought that I ought to make my will. But 
 I know that you will value more the expression of 
 my wishes than any legal document. And I felt I 
 was treating you unkindly and undutifully, acting 
 this way with the money which you have given me. 
 So, instead, darling, will you pardon me for doing 
 this without telling you? And I will go to Mr. 
 Wheatly, and ask him to draw up a memorandum 
 which I will enclose in this. We have been so 
 happy, Silas, although we have had such sorrows ; 
 but there never has been but this one cloud on our 
 love. I haven t been the wife I ought to have been 
 to you ; I am so silly and cowardly not what 
 your wife should be; but, oh, I have loved you! I 
 am going to put this with my treasures. You will 
 find it with every line that you ever wrote me, from 
 that first note, asking if you might take mamma 
 and me to the theater (how good, good, good, you 
 were to mamma, and how often I have been grate 
 ful to you !) to your last dear letter. I do not know 
 when you will find it; I hope you won t need to 
 find it, because I mean to snuggle up to you, some 
 evening, out on the porch, when it is dark, and 
 whisper it all to you, and beg you to be kind and 
 forgive. But, since I don t know what may hap 
 pen, I will write this perhaps we shall read it 
 together. In the little time that may 
 
The Ladder of Grief. 255 
 
 Here the letter ended. Something- had 
 interrupted the writer, and she had pushed 
 the sheet aside, never to finish it nor to 
 have that one hour of confidence which 
 should sweep every doubt away. Mark- 
 ham s tears were dropping- fast, not for 
 himself, but for her who had loved him, 
 and yet had been lonely, struggling- to be 
 loyal to her old ties. Oh! if she had been 
 lonely then, was he not lonely now? Yet, 
 in that moment of repentance and grief, 
 there came to him a strange foreshadowing 
 of comfort. Out of the grave she had ex 
 plained and put him in the wrong. He 
 went up to the picture so close that he 
 could touch the painted cheek with his 
 hand. The eyes looked at him, and he 
 found in them more love than sorrow. 
 "Dearest," he whispered, "I ll try to be 
 good to all your friends. I ll try to do 
 what you would have done." 
 
 That night he dreamed of his wife. 
 
The Captured Dream 
 
The Captured Dream 
 
 Too late I have found thee, O beauty most an 
 cient, O beauty most new ! S. Augustine. 
 
 SOMERS rode slowly over the low Iowa 
 hills, fitting an air in his mind to An 
 drew Lang s dainty verses. Presently, be 
 ing quite alone on the country road, he 
 began to sing: 
 
 " Who wins his love shall lose her; 
 
 Who loses her shall gain; 
 For still the spirit wooes her, 
 
 A soul without a stain; 
 And mem ry still pursues her, 
 With longings not in vain. 
 
 "He loses her who gains her, 
 Who watches day by day 
 The dust of time that stains her, 
 The griefs that leave her gray, 
 The flesh that yet enchains her, 
 Whose grace hath passed away. 
 259 
 
260 The Captured Dream. 
 
 Oh, happier he who gains not 
 The love some seem to gain; 
 The joy that custom stains not 
 Shall still with him remain, 
 The loveliness that wanes not, 
 The love that ne er can wane. 
 
 " In dreams she grows not older, 
 The land of dreams among, 
 
 Though all the world wax colder, 
 Though all the songs be sung; 
 
 In dreams doth he behold her, 
 Still fair and kind and young." 
 
 The gentle strain of melancholy and 
 baffled desire faded into silence, but the 
 young- man s thoughts pursued it. A mem 
 ory of his own that sometimes stung him, 
 sometimes plaintively caressed him, stirred 
 in his heart, "I am afraid you hit it, Andy, " 
 he muttered, "and I should have found it 
 only a dream had I won." 
 
 At thirty Somers fancied himself mighty 
 cynical. He consorted with daring critics, 
 and believed the worst both of art and of 
 letters. He was making campaign cartoons 
 for a daily journal instead of painting the 
 picture of the future; the panic of 93 had 
 stripped him of his little fortune, and his 
 
The Captured Dream. 261 
 
 sweetheart had refused to marry him. 
 Therefore he said, incessantly, in the lan 
 guage of Job, "I do well to be angry." The 
 rubber tires revolved more slowly as his 
 eye turned from the wayside to the smiling 
 hills. The corn ears were sheathed in sil 
 very yellow, but the afternoon sun jeweled 
 the green pastures, fresh as in May (for 
 rain had fallen in the morning), and maples, 
 oaks and elms blended exquisite gradations 
 of color and shade here and there among 
 the open fields. Long rows of poplars re 
 called France to Somers, and he sighed. 
 "These houses are all comfortable and all 
 ugly," thought the artist. "I never saw 
 anything less picturesque. The life hasn t 
 even the dismal interest of poverty and re 
 volt, for they are all beastly prosperous; 
 and one of the farmers has offered me a 
 hundred dollars and my expenses to come 
 here and make a pastel of his wife. And I 
 have taken the offer, because I want to pay 
 my board bill and buy a second-hand bicycle. 
 The chances are he is after something like 
 a colored photograph, something slick and 
 smooth, and every hair painted oh, Lord! 
 
262 The Captured Dream. 
 
 But I have to have the money; and I won t 
 sign the cursed thing-! What does he want 
 it for, though? I wonder, did he ever know 
 love s young- dream? Dream? It s all a 
 dream a mirage of the senses or the fancy. 
 Confound it! why need I be harking- back 
 to it? I must be near his house. House 
 near the corner, they said, where the roads 
 cross maybe this is it. Ugh ! how it jumps 
 at the eyes!" 
 
 The house before him was yellow, with 
 pea green blinds ; the great barns were In 
 dian red; and a white fence glittered in 
 front of an old fashioned garden ariot with 
 scarlet salvias and crimson coxcomb. Two 
 men were talking, hidden to the waist by a 
 thicket of marigolds, out of which the sun 
 struck orange spangles. One of the men 
 smote the palm of his left hand with his 
 right fist as he talked not vehemently, but 
 with a dogged air. His checked shirt and 
 brown overalls were as coarse and soiled as 
 the other man s, yet even a stranger could 
 perceive that he was the master. There 
 was a composure about the rugged gray 
 face, a look of control and care, that belongs 
 
The Captured Dream. 263 
 
 to the ruler, whether of large affairs or 
 small. 
 
 He made an end of the talk by turning 
 on his heel, whereupon the other flung an 
 ugly word after the sturdy old back, and 
 slunk off. At the gate he was joined by a 
 companion. They passed Somers, who 
 caught a single sentence: "Nit. I told 
 you he wouldn t give no more. He s close 
 as the bark of a tree." 
 
 Somers wheeled by, up to the gate and 
 the old man, who was now leaning on the 
 fence. He asked where Mr. Gates lived. 
 
 "Here," said the old man, not removing 
 his elbows from the fence bar. 
 
 "And may I ask, are you Mr. Gates?" 
 said Somers, bringing his wheel to a halt, 
 with one foot on the curb stone. 
 
 "Yes, sir. But if you re the young man 
 was round selling Mother, Home and Heaven, 
 and going to call again to see if we liked it, 
 we don t want it ; you needn t git off. My 
 wife can t read, and I m taking a Chicago 
 paper now, and ain t got any time." 
 
 Somers smiled and dismounted. "I m 
 not selling anything but pictures," said he, 
 
264 The Captured Dream. 
 
 "and I believe you want me to make one 
 for you." 
 
 "Are you Mr. Somers? F. J. S.?" cried 
 the farmer, his face lightening- in a sur 
 prising- manner. "Well, I m glad to see 
 you, sir. My wife said you d come this 
 afternoon, and I wouldn t believe her; I m 
 always caug-ht when I don t believe my wife. 
 Come rig-ht in. Oh, g-ot your tools with 
 you?" 
 
 Somers having- released his hand from a 
 mig-hty grasp, was unstrapping a package 
 on the under side of his saddle. 
 
 "I see. Handy little fixing. Ever in 
 loway before?" 
 
 "Never," said Somers. 
 
 "Finest corn state in the Union; and 
 second in production of flax. And lowest 
 percentage of illiteracy. Hope they treated 
 you well in town." 
 
 "Very well indeed, thank you." 
 
 "Generally do treat strangers well. We 
 try to, anyhow. What do you think of our 
 city?" 
 
 "Very pretty town." 
 
 "I m glad you like it. Say, can t you 
 
The Captured Dream. 265 
 
 stay over night here and let me drive you 
 round a little? We ve got some of the 
 prettiest brick pavements in the country, 
 and our system of water works can t be 
 beat; and the largest arsenal in the world 
 is on the island " 
 
 "You are awfully good," protested 
 Somers deceitfully, "but I must leave for 
 Chicago to-night; I m not a free man, you 
 know. The paper " 
 
 "Say ! that paper is smart enough. I like 
 it. I took it jest to please my wife, so s to 
 have something to read her in the evenings, 
 and now I d be lost without it. The man 
 that writes them editorials, I tell you he s 
 sound on the money question ; he rakes 
 them well. But I don t know but the best 
 thing yet is your picters. You know that 
 Columbia?" 
 
 Somers nodded, and put the released port 
 folio under his arm, awaiting his host s 
 pleasure. 
 
 "Well, the minnit I saw that drawing 
 the first one I said, Mother, if that feller 
 had you to set to him, he wouldn t have 
 made it much more like. About the same 
 
266 The Captured Dream. 
 
 height, too, only fatter ; but so like the way 
 she looked when we was courting-, it give 
 me a start. I ve been seeking- somebody to 
 paint a picter for me of her for a long- spell. 
 The minnit I seen that, I says, * There s 
 my man. I drawed the money out of bank 
 this morning-; it s all ready. Guess you 
 best take your bike along-. Come rig-ht in 
 and set down, and I ll git you a glass of 
 buttermilk off the ice. We churned to-day. 
 Paper says that you wheelmen are great on 
 buttermilk. 
 
 He guided Somers into the house, and 
 into a room so dark that he stumbled. 
 
 "There s the sof y ; set down, "said Gates, 
 who seemed full of hospitable cheer. "I 11 
 git a blind open. Girl s gone to the fair, 
 and mother J s setting out on the back piazza, 
 listening to the noises on the road. She s 
 all ready. Make yourself to home. Pastel 
 like them picters on the wall s what I want. 
 My daughter done them." His tone 
 changed on the last sentence, but Somers 
 did not notice it; he was drinking in the 
 details of the room to describe them after 
 ward to his sympathizing friends in Chi- 
 
The Captured Dream. 267 
 
 cago. He smiled vaguely; he said, "Yes, 
 certainly"; and his host went away, well 
 content. 
 
 "What a chamber of horrors!" he 
 thought; "and one can see he is proud of 
 it." The carpet was soft to the foot, cov 
 ered with a jungle of flowers and green 
 leaves the pattern of carpet which fashion 
 leaves behind for disappointed salesmen to 
 mark lower and lower, until it shall be 
 pushed into the ranks of shop worn bar 
 gains. The cheap paper on the wall was 
 delicately tinted, but this boon plainly came 
 from the designers, and not the taste of the 
 buyer, since there was a simply terrible 
 chair that swayed by machinery, and had 
 four brilliant hues of plush to vex the eye, 
 besides a paroxysm of embroidery and lace, 
 to which was still attached the red badge 
 of courage of the county fair. More em 
 broidery figured on the cabinet organ and 
 two tables, and another red ticket peeped 
 coyly from under the ornate frame of a 
 pastel landscape displaying every natural 
 beauty forest, mountain, sunlit lake, and 
 meadow at their bluest and greenest. 
 
268 The Captured Dream. 
 
 There were three other pictures in the 
 room two very large colored photographs, 
 one of a lad of twelve, the other of a pretty 
 girl who might be sixteen, in a white gown, 
 with a roll of parchment in her hand tied 
 with a blue ribbon; and the photograph of a 
 cross of flowers. 
 
 The girl s dark, wistful, timid eyes 
 seemed to follow the young artist as he 
 walked about the room. They appealed to 
 him. "Poor little girl," he thought, "to 
 have to live here 1 " Then he heard a drag 
 ging footfall, and there entered the mistress 
 of the house. She was a tall woman who 
 stooped. Her hair was gray and scanty, 
 and so ill arranged on the top of her head 
 that the mournful tonsure of age showed 
 under the false gray braid. She was thin 
 with the gaunt thinness of years and toil, 
 not the poetic, appealing slenderness of 
 youth. She had attired herself for the pic 
 ture in a black silken gown, sparkling with 
 jet that tinkled as she moved; the harsh, 
 black, bristling line at the neck defined her 
 withered throat brutally. Yet Somers s 
 sneer was transient. He was struck by 
 
The Captured Dream. 269 
 
 two things the woman was blind ; and she 
 had once worn a face like that of the pretty 
 girl not her face, but a face like it. With 
 a sensation of pity, he recalled Andrew 
 Lang s verses jinaudibly, while she greeted 
 him, he was repeating: 
 
 Who watches day by day 
 The dust of time that stains her, 
 The griefs that leave her gray, 
 The flesh that still enchains her, 
 
 Whose grace hath passed away." 
 Her eyes were closed, but she came 
 straight toward him, holding out her hand. 
 It was her left hand that was extended ; her 
 right closed over the top of a cane, and this 
 added to the impression of decrepitude con 
 veyed by her whole presence. She spoke 
 in a gentle, monotonous, pleasant voice. " I 
 guess this is Mr. Somers, the artist. I feel 
 we feel very glad to have the honor of 
 meeting you, sir." 
 
 No one had ever felt honored to meet 
 Somers before. He thought how much re 
 finement and sadness were in a blind wo 
 man s face. In his most deferential manner 
 he proffered her a chair. "I presume I am 
 to paint you, madam," he said. 
 
270 The Captured Dream. 
 
 She blushed faintly. " Ain t it redicul- 
 ous?" she apologized. "But Mr. Gates 
 will have it. He has been at me to have 
 somebody paint a picture of me ever since 
 I had my photograph taken. It was a big- 
 picture, and most folks said it was real 
 good, though not flattering; but he wouldn t 
 hang it. He took it off, and I don t know 
 what he did do to it. 4 1 want a real artist 
 to paint you, mother, he said. I guess if 
 Kitty had lived she d have suited him, 
 though she was all for landscape ; never did 
 much figures. You noticed her work in 
 this room, ain t you? on the table and 
 chair and organ art needle-work. Kitty 
 could do anything. She took six prizes at 
 the county fair ; two of em come in after 
 she was in her last sickness. She was so 
 pleased she had the picture that s the 
 picture right above the sofy; it s a pastel 
 and the tidy I mean the art needle 
 work put on her bed, and she looked at 
 them the longest while. Her pa would 
 never let the tickets be took off." She 
 reached forth her hand to the chair near 
 her and felt the ticket, stroking it absently, 
 
The Captured Dream. 271 
 
 her chin quivering- a little, while her lips 
 smiled. "Mr. Gates was thinking," she 
 said, " that maybe you d paint ahead of me 
 
 pastel like that landscape that s why 
 he likes pastel so. And he was thinking if 
 
 if maybe my eyes was jest like Kitty s 
 when we were married if you would put 
 in eyes, he would be awful much obliged, 
 and be willing to pay extra, if necessary. 
 Would it be hard?" 
 
 Somers dissembled a great dismay. "Cer 
 tainly not," said he, rather dryly; and he 
 was ashamed of himself, at the sensitive 
 flutter in the old features. 
 
 "Of course I know," she said, in a dif 
 ferent tone than she had used before "I 
 understand how comical it must seem to a 
 young man to have to draw an old woman s 
 picture ; but it ain t comical to my husband. 
 He wants it very much. He s the kindest 
 man that ever lived, to me, caring for me 
 all the time. He got me that organ me 
 that can t play a note, and never could 
 just because I love to hear music, and some 
 times, if we have an instrument, the neigh 
 bors will come in, especially Hattie Knight, 
 
272 The Captured Dream. 
 
 who used to know Kitty, and is a splendid 
 performer ; she comes and plays and sing s. 
 It is a comfort to me. And though I guess 
 you young folks can t understand it, it will 
 be a comfort to him to have a picture of me. 
 I mistrusted you d be thinking it comical, 
 and I hurried to come in and speak to you, 
 lest, not meaning anything, you might, jest 
 by chance, let fall something might hurt his 
 feelings like you thought it queer, or 
 some sech thing. And he thinks so much 
 of you, and having you here, that I couldn t 
 bear there d be any mistake." 
 
 "Surely it is the most natural thing in 
 the world he should want a portrait of you, " 
 interrupted Somers, hastily. 
 
 " Yes, it is," she answered, in her mild, 
 even tones, "but it mightn t seem so to 
 young folks. Young folks think they know 
 all there is about loving. And it is very 
 sweet and nice to enjoy things together; 
 and you don t hardly seem to be in the 
 world at all when you re courting, your 
 feet and your heart feel so light. But they 
 don t know what it is to need each other. 
 It s when folks suffer together that they 
 
The Captured Dream. 273 
 
 find out what loving is. I never knew what 
 I felt toward my husband till I lost my 
 first baby; and I d wake up in the night 
 and there d be no cradle to rock and he 
 d comfort me. Do you see that picture 
 under the photograph of the cross? " 
 "He s a pretty boy," said Somers. 
 "Yes, sir. He was drownded in the 
 river. A lot of boys in playing, you know, 
 and one got too far, and Eddy, he swum out 
 to help him. And he dumb up on Eddy, 
 and the man on shore didn t git there in 
 time. He was a real good boy, and liked to 
 play home with me most as well as with 
 the boys; and he d tell me the things he 
 was going to get me. He was the greatest 
 hand to make up stories of what he would 
 do. But only in fun; he never told us a lie 
 in his life and it come hard sometimes 
 for him to own up, for he was mischievous. 
 Father was proud as he could be of him, 
 though he wouldn t let on. He was real 
 bright, too; second in his class. I always 
 felt he ought to have been head, but teacher 
 said behavior counted, too, and Eddy -was 
 mischievous. That cross was what his 
 
274 The Captured Dream. 
 
 schoolmates sent; and teacher she cried 
 when she told me how hard Eddy was try 
 ing- to remember and mind and win the 
 prize, to please his pa. Father and I went 
 through that together. And we had to 
 change all the thing s we used to talk of 
 together, because Eddy was always in 
 them; and we had to try not to let each 
 other see how our hearts were breaking-, 
 and not shadder Kitty s life by letting- her 
 see how we missed him. Only once father 
 broke down; it was when he give Kitty 
 Eddy s colt." She stopped, for she could 
 not g-o on. 
 
 " Don t don t distress yourself," Som- 
 ers begged, lamely. His cheeks were hot. 
 
 "It don t distress me," she answered, 
 "only jest for the minnit; I m always 
 thinking- of Eddy, and of Kitty, too. Some 
 times I think it was harder for father when 
 his girl went than anything else. And 
 then my blindness and my rheumatism 
 come; and it seemed like he was trying to 
 make up to me for the daughter and the 
 son I d lost, and be all to once to me. He 
 has been, too. And do you think that two 
 
The Captured Dream. 275 
 
 old people that have grown old together, 
 like us, and have been through losses like 
 that do you think they ain t drawed 
 closer and kinder and tenderer to each 
 other, like the Lord to His Church? Why, 
 I m plain and old and blind and crooked 
 but he don t know it. Now, do you under 
 stand?" 
 
 " Yes, " said Somers, "I understand." 
 "And you 11 please excuse me for speak 
 ing so free; it was only so father s feelings 
 shouldn t git hurt by noticing maybe a look 
 like you wanted to laugh. * 
 
 "God knows I don t want to laugh," 
 Somers burst in. "But I m glad you 
 spoke. It it will be a better picture. 
 Now may I ask you something? I want 
 you to let me dress you I mean put some 
 thing about your neck, soft and white; and 
 then I want to make two sketches of you 
 one, as Mr. Gates wishes, the head alone; 
 the other, of you sitting in the rustic chair 
 outside." 
 
 " But she looked troubled "it will be 
 so expensive; and /know it will be foolish. 
 If you d jest the same " 
 
276 The Captured Dream. 
 
 "But I shouldn t; I want to do it. And 
 it will not cost you anything. A hundred 
 dollars will repay m e well enough. I wish 
 I truly wish I could afford to do it all for 
 nothing." 
 
 She gasped. "A hundred dollars! Oh, 
 it ain t right ! That was why he wouldn t 
 buy the new buggy. And jest for a picture 
 of me." But suddenly she flushed like a 
 girl, and smiled. 
 
 At this instant the old man, immaculate 
 in his heavy black suit and glossy white 
 shirt, appeared in the doorway, bearing a 
 tray. 
 
 " Father," said she, " do you mean to tell 
 me you are going to pay a hundred dollars 
 jest for a picture of me?" 
 
 11 Well, mother, you know there s no fool 
 like an old fool," he replied, jocosely; but 
 when the old wife turned her sightless face 
 toward the old husband s voice, and he 
 looked at her, Somers bowed his head. 
 
 He spent the afternoon over his sketches. 
 Riding away in the twilight, he knew that 
 he had done better work than he had ever 
 done in his life, slight as its form might be ; 
 
The Captured Dream. 277 
 
 nevertheless, he was not thinking- of his 
 work, he was not thinking- of himself at all. 
 He was trying- to shape his own vague per 
 ception that the show of dainty thinking- 
 and the pomp of refinement are in truth 
 amiable and lovely things, yet are they no 
 more than the husks of life; not only under 
 them, but under ungracious and sordid 
 conditions, may be the human semblance 
 of that " beauty most ancient, beauty most 
 new, " that the old saint found too late. He 
 felt the elusive presence of something in love 
 higher than his youthful dream; strong-er 
 than passion, fairer than delight. To this 
 commonplace man and woman had come the 
 deepest gift of life. 
 
 "A dream?" he murmured; "yes, per 
 haps; but he has captured it." And he 
 sang: 
 
 " In dreams she grows not older, 
 
 The land of dreams among, 
 Though all the world wax colder, 
 
 Though all the songs be sung; 
 In dreams shall he behold her, 
 Still fair and kind and young." 
 
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