PS 1214 S96 cou.l Burnett - Southern Branch of the University of California Los Angeles Form L 1 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below I OCT 2 APR 2 1 1953 5 1959 Form L-9-15t-10,'25 SURLY TIM AND OTHER STORIES. SURLY TIM AND OTHER STORIES NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1887 COPYRIGHT, 1877, By SCRIBNKR, ARMSTRONG, & Co. TROWS PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, NEW YORK. 5333 4 CONTENTS. MM " SURLY TIM." A LANCASHIRE STORY . . I "LE MONSIEUR DE LA. PETITE DAME" ... 26 SMETHURSTSES . 70 ONE DAY AT ARLE , 104 ESMERALDA 124 MERE GIRAUD'S LITTLE DAUGHTER . . 162 LODUSKY . iSS "SETH" ... .... 337 '* * "SURLY TIM." A LANCASHIRE STORY. ORRY to hear my fellow-workmen speak so disparagin' o' me ? Well, Mester, that's as it may be yo' know. Happen my fellow-workmen ha' made a bit o' a mistake happen what seems loike crustiness to them beant so much crustiness as summat else happen I mought do my bit o' complainin' too. Yo' munnot trust aw yo' hear, Mester ; that's aw I can say." I looked at the man's bent face quite curiously, and, judging from its rather heavy but still not un prepossessing outline, I could not really call it a bad face, or even a sulky one. And yet both managers and hands had given me a bad account of Tim Hibblethwaite. " Surly Tim," they called him, and each had something to say about his sullen disposi tion to silence, and his short answers. Not that he was accused of anything like misdemeanor, but he was " glum loike," the factory people said, and 2 "SURLY TJM." "a surly fellow well deserving his name," as the master of his room had told me. I had come to Lancashire to take the control of my father's spinning-factory a short time before, being anxious to do my best toward the hands, and, I often talked to one and another in a friendly way, so that I could the better understand their griev ances and remedy them with justice to all parties concerned. So in conversing with men, women, and children, I gradually found out that Tim Hib- blethwaite was in bad odor, and that he held himself doggedly aloof from all ; and this was how, in the course of time, I came to speak to him about the matter, and the opening words of my story are the words of his answer. But they did not satisfy me by any means. I wanted to do the man justice myself, and see that justice was done to him by others; and then again when, after my curious look at him, he lifted his head from his work and drew the back of his hand across his warm face, I noticed that he gave his eyes a brush, and, glanc ing at him once more, I recognized the presence of a moisture in them. In my anxiety to conceal that I had noticed any thing unusual, I am afraid I spoke to him quite hurriedly. I was a young man then, and by no means as self-possessed as I ought to have been. " I hope you won't misunderstand me, Kibble- thwaite," I said; "I don't mean to complain in deed, I have nothing to complain of, for Foxley "SURLY TIM." 3 tells me you are the steadiest and most crderly hand he has under him ; but the fact is, I should like to make friends with you all, and see that no one is treated badly. And somehow or other I found out that you were not disposed to fee] friendly towards the rest, and I was sorry for it. But I suppose you have some reason of your own." The man bent down over his work again, silent for a minute, to my discomfiture, but at last he spoke, almost huskily. "Thank yo', Mester,"Jie said; "yo're a koindly chap or yo' wouldn't ha' noticed. An' yo're not fur wrong either. I ha' reasons o' my own, tho' I'm loike to keep 'em to mysen most o' toimes. Th' fellows as throws their slurs on me would na understond 'em if I were loike to gab, which I never were. But happen th' toime '11 come when Surly Tim '11 tell his own tale, though I often think its loike it wunnot come till th' Day o' Judgment." " I hope it will come before then," I said, cheer fully. " I hope the time is not far away when we shall all understand you, Hibblethwaite. I think it has been misunderstanding so far which has separated you from the rest, and it cannot last al ways, you know." But he shook his head not after a surly fash ion, but, as I thought, a trifle sadly or heavily so I did not ask any more questions, or try to force the subject upon him. 4 "SURLY TIM." But I noticed him pretty closely as time went on, and the more I saw of him the more fully I was convinced that he was not so surly as people im agined. He never interfered with the most active of his enemies, nor made any reply when they taunted him, and more than once I saw him per form a silent, half-secret act of kindness. Once I caught him throwing half his dinner to a wretched little lad who had just come to the factory, and worked near him ; and once again, as I was leav ing the building on a rainy night, I came upon him on the stone steps at the door bending down with an almost pathetic clumsiness to pin the woolen shawl of a poor little mite, who, like so many others, worked with her shiftless father and mother to add to their weekly earnings. It was always the poor est and least cared for of the children whom he seemed to befriend, and very often I noticed that even when he was kindest, in his awkward man fashion, the little waifs were afraid of him, and showed their fear plainly. The factory was situated on the outskirts of a thriving country town near Manchester, and at the end of the lane that led from it to the more thickly populated part there was a path crossing a field to the pretty church and church-yard, and this path was a short cut homeward for me. Being so pretty and quiet, the place had a sort of attraction for me, and I was in the habit of frequently passing through it on my way, partly because it was pretty "SURLY TIM." 5 and quiet, perhaps, and partly, I have no doubt, because I was inclined to be weak and melancholy at the time, my health being broken down under hard study. It so happened that in passing here one night, and glancing in among the graves and marble monuments as usual, I caught sight of a dark figure sitting upon a little mound under a tree and resting its head upon its hands, and in this sad- looking figure I recognized the muscular outline of my friend Surly Tim. He did not see me at first, and I was almost in clined to think it best to leave him alone ; but as I half turned away he stirred with something like a faint moan, and then lifted his head and saw me standing in the bright, clear moonlight. " Who's theer ? " he said. " Dost ta want owt ? " " It is only Doncaster, Hibblethwaite," I re turned, as I sprang over the low stone wall to join him. " What is the matter, old fellow ? I thought I heard you groan just now." " Yo' mought ha' done, Mester," he answered heavily. " Happen tha did. I dunnot know mysen. Nowts th' matter though, as I knows on, on'y I'm a bit out o' soarts." He turned his head aside slightly and began to pull at the blades of grass on the mound, and all at once I saw that his hand was trembling nerv ously. 6 "SURLY TIM." It was almost three minutes before he spoke again. " That un belongs to me," he said suddenly at last, pointing to a longer mound at his feet. " An' this little un," signifying with an indescribable gest ure the small one upon which he sat. " Poor fellow," I said, " I see now." " A little lad o' mine," he said, slowly and trem ulously. " A little lad o' mine an' an' his mother.' " What ! " I exclaimed, " I never knew that you were a married man, Tim." He dropped his head upon his hand again, still pulling nervously at the grass with the other. " Th' law says I beant, Mester," he answered in a painful, strained fashion. " I conna tell mysen what God-a'-moighty 'ud say about it." " I don't understand," I faltered ; " you don't mean to say the poor girl never was your wife, Hibblethwaite." "That's what th' law says," slowly; "I thowt different mysen, an' so did th' poor lass. That's what's the matter, Mester; that's th' trouble." The other nervous hand went up to his bent face for a minute and hid it, but I did not speak. There was so much of strange grief in his simple move ment that I felt words would be out of place. It was not my dogged, inexplicable " hand " who was sitting before me in the bright moonlight on the baby's grave ; it was a man with a hidden history of some tragic sorrow long kept secret in his "SURLY TIM." J homely breast, perhaps a history very few of us could read aright. I would not question him, though I fancied he meant to explain himself. I knew that if he was willing to tell me the truth it was best that he should choose his own time for it, and so I let him alone. And before I had waited very long he broke the silence himself, as I had thought he would. " It wur welly about six year ago I comn here," he said, " more or less, welly about six year. I wur a quiet chap then, Mester, an' had na many friends, but I had more than I ha' now. Happen I wur better nater'd, but just as loike I wur loigh- ter-hearted but that's nowt to do wi' it. " I had na been here more than a week when theer comes a young woman to moind a loom f th' next room to me, an' this young woman bein' pretty an' modest takes my fancy. She wur na loike th' rest o' the wenches loud talkin' an' slattern i' her ways ; she wur just quiet loike and nowt else. First time I seed her I says to mysen, ' Theer's a lass 'at's seed trouble ; ' an' somehow every toime I seed her afterward I says to mysen, ' Theer's a lass 'at's seed trouble.' It wur i' her eye she had a soft loike brown eye, Mester an' it wur i' her voice her voice wur soft loike, too I sometimes thowt it wur plain to be seed even i' her dress. If she'd been born a lady she'd ha' been one o' th' foine soart, an' as she'd been born a fac- 8 "SURLY TSM." tory-lass she wur one o' th' foine soart still. So 1 took to watchin' her an' tryin' to mak' friends wi' her, but I never had much luck wi' her till one neet I was goin' home through th' snow, and I seed her afore fighten' th' drift wi' nowt but a thin shawl over her head ; so I goes up behind her an' I says to her, steady and respecful, so as she wouldna be feart, I says : " ' Lass, let me see thee home. It's bad weather fur thee to be out in by thysen. Tak' my coat an' wrop thee up in it, an' tak' hold o' my arm an' let me help thee along.' " She looks up right straightforrad i' my face wi' her brown eyes, an' I tell yo' Master, I wur glad I wur a honest man 'stead o' a rascal, fur them quiet eyes 'ud ha' fun me out afore I'd ha' done sayin' my say if I'd meant harm. " ' Thank yo' kindly Mester Hibblethwaite,' she says, ' but dunnot tak' off tha' coat fur me ; I'm doin' pretty nicely. It is Mester Hibblethwaite, beant it ? ' " ' Aye, lass,' I answers, ' it's him. Mought I ax yo're name.' " ' Aye, to be sure,' said she. ' My name's Rosanna 'Sanna Brent th' folk at th' mill allus ca's me. I work at th' loom i' th' next room to thine. I've seed thee often an' often.' " So we. walks home to her lodgins, an' on th' way we talks together friendly an' quiet loike, an' th' more we talks th' more I sees she's had trouble^ " SURLY TIM." 9 an' by an' by bein' on'y common workin' folk, we're straightforrad to each other in our plain way it comes out what her trouble has been. " ' Yo' p'raps wouldn't think I've been a married woman, Mester,' she says ; ' but I ha', an' I wedded an' rued. I married a sojer when I wur a giddy young wench, four years ago, an' it wur th' worst thing as ever I did i' aw my days. He wur one o' yo're handsome, fastish chaps, an' he tired o' me as men o' his stripe allus do tire o' poor lasses, an' then he ill-treated me. He went to th' Crimea after we'n been wed a year, an' left me to shift fur mysen. An' I heard six month after he wur dead. He'd never writ back to me nor sent me no help, but I couldna think he wur dead till th' letter comn. He wur killed th' first month he wur out fightin' th' Rooshians. Poor fellow ! Poor Phil ! Th' Lord ha' mercy on him ! ' " That wur how I found out about her trouble, an' somehow it seemed to draw me to her, an' mak' me feel kindly to'ards her ; 'twur so pitiful to hear her talk about th' rascal, so sorrowful an' gentle, an' not gi' him a real hard word for a' he'd done. But that's allus th' way wi' women folk th' more yo' harry's them, th' more they'll pity yo' an' pray for yo'. Why she wurna more than twenty- two then, an' she must ha' been nowt but a slip o' a T ass when they wur wed. " Hows'ever, Rosanna Brent an' me got to be good friends, an' we walked home together o* IO "SURLY TIM." nights, an' talked about our bits o' wage, an' our bits o' debt, an' th' way that wench 'ud keep me up i' spirits when I wur a bit down-hearted about owt, wur just a wonder. She wur so quiet an' steady, an' when she said owt she meant it, an* she never said too much or too little. Her brown eyes allus minded me o' my mother, though th' old woman deed when I were nobbut a little chap, but I never seed 'Sanna Brent smile th'out thinkin' o' how my mother looked when I wur kneelin' down sayin' my prayers after her. An' bein' as th' lass wur so dear to me, I made up my mind to ax her to be summat dearer. So once goin' home along wi' her, I takes hold o' her hand an' lifts it up an' kisses it gentle as gentle an' wi' summat th' same feelin' as I'd kiss th' Good Book. " ' 'Sanna,' I says, ' bein' as yo've had so much trouble wi' yo're first chance, would yo' be afeard to try a second ? Could yo' trust a mon again ? Such a mon as me, 'Sanna ? ' " ' I wouldna be feart to trust thee, Tim,' she answers back soft an' gentle after a manner. ' I wouldna be feart to trust thee any time.' " I kisses her hand again, gentler still. '"God bless thee, lass,' I says. 'Does that mean yes ? ' " She crept up closer to me i' her sweet, quiet way. " ' Aye, lad,' she answers. ' It means yes, an* I'll bide by it' "SURLY TIM." II " ' An' tha shalt never rue it, lass,' said I. ' Tha's gi'en thy life to me, an' I'll gi' mine to thee, sure and true.' " So we wur axed i' th' church th' next Sunday, an' a month fro then we wur wed, an' if ever God's sun shone on a happy mon, it shone on one that day, when we come out o' church together me and Rosanna an' went to our bit o' a home to begin life again. I couldna tell thee, Mester theer beant no words to tell how happy an' peace ful we lived fur two year after that. My lass never altered her sweet ways, an' I just loved her to make up to her fur what had gone by. I thanked God-a'-moighty fur his blessing every day, and every day I prayed to be made worthy of it. An' here's just wheer I'd like to ax a question, Mester, about summat 'ats worretted me a good deal. I dunnot want to question th' Maker, but I would loike to know how it is 'at sometime it seems 'at we're clean forgot as if He couldna fash hissen about our troubles, an' most loike left 'em to work out their- sens. Yo' see, Mester, an' we aw see sometime He thinks on us an' gi's us a lift, but hasna tha thysen seen times when tha stopt short an' axed thysen, ' Wheer's God-a'-moighty 'at he isna straighten things out a bit ? Th' world's i' a power o' a snarl. Th' righteous is forsaken, 'n his seed's beggin' bread. An' th' devil's topmost agen.' I've talked to my lass about it sometimes, an' I dunnot think I meant harm, Mester, for I felt humble enough 12 "SURLY TIM: 1 an' when I talked, my lass she'd listen an' smile soft an' sorrowful, but she never gi' me but one answer. "'Tim,' she'd say, 'this is on'y th' skoo' an we're th' scholars, an' He's teachin' us his way We munnot be loike th" children o' Israel i' th' Wilderness, an' turn away fro' th' cross 'cause o' th' Sarpent. We munnot say, "Theer's a snake : " we mun say, " Theer's th' Cross, an' th' Lord gi' it to us." Th' teacher wouldna be o' much use, Tim, if th' scholars knew as much as he did, an' I allus think it's th' best to comfort mysen wi' sayin', "Th' Lord-a'-moighty, He knows.'" "An' she allus comforted me too when I wur worretted. Life looked smooth somewhow them three year. Happen th' Lord sent 'em to me to make up fur what wur comin'. " At th' eend o' th' first year th' child wur born, th' little lad here," touching the turf with his hand, " ' Wee Wattie' his mother ca'd him, an' he wur a fine, lightsome little chap. He filled th' whole house wi' music day in an' day out, crcwin' an' crowin' an' cryin' too sometime. But if ever yo're a feyther, Mester, yo'll find out 'at a baby's cry's music often enough, an' yo'll find, too, if yo' ever lose one, 'at yo'd give all yo'd getten just to hear even th' worst o' cryin'. Rosanna she couldna find i' her heart to set th' little un out o' her arms a minnit, an' she'd go about th' room wi' her eyes aw leeted up, an' her face bloomin' like a slip o' a "SUKLY TIM." 13 girl's, an' if she laid him i' th' cradle her head 'ud be turnt o'er her shoulder aw th' time lookin' at him an' singin' bits o' sweet-soundin' foolish woman-folks' songs. I thowt then 'at them old nursery songs wur th' happiest music I ever heard, an' when 'Sanna sung 'em they minded me o' hymn-tunes. " Well, Mester, before th' spring wur out Wee Wat was tocldlin' round holdin' to his mother's gown, an' by th' middle o' th' next he was cooin' like a dove, an' prattlin' words i' a voice like hers. His eyes wur big an' brown an' straightforrad like hers, an' his mouth was like hers, an' his curls wur the color o' a brown bee's back. Happen we set too much store by him, or happen it wur on'y th' Teacher again teachin' us his way, but hows'ever that wur, I came home one sunny mornin' fro' th' factory, an' my dear lass met me at th' door, all white an' cold, but tryin' hard to be brave an' help me to bear what she had to tell. " ' Tim,' said she, ' th' Lord ha' sent us a trouble ; but we can bear it together, conna we, dear lad ? ' " That wur aw, but I knew what it meant, though th' poor little lamb had been well enough when I kissed him last. " I went in an' saw him lyin' theer on his pillows strugglin' an' gaspin' in hard convulsions, an' I seed aw was over. An' in half an hour, just as th' sun crept across th' room an' touched his curls, th' pretty little chap opens his eyes aw at once. 14 "SUKLY TIM." "'Daddy!' he crows out. ' Sithee Dad ! an' he lifts hissen up, catches at th' floatin' sun shine, laughs at it, and fa's back dead, Mester. "I've allus thowt 'at th' Lord-a'-moighty knew what He wur doin' when he gi' th' woman t' Adam i' th' Garden o' Eden. He knowed he wur nowt but a poor chap as couldna do fur hissen ; an' I suppose that's th' reason he gi' th' woman th' strength to bear trouble when it comn. I'd ha' gi'en clean in if it hadna been fur my lass when th' little chap deed. I never tackledt owt i' aw my days 'at hurt me as heavy as losin' him did. I couldna abear th' sight o' his cradle, an' if ever I comn across any o' his bits o' playthings, I'd fa' to cryin' an' shakin' like a babby. I kept out o' th' way o' th' neebors' children even. I wasna like Rosanna. I couldna see quoite clear what th' Lord meant, an' I couldna help murmuring sad and heavy. That's just loike us men, Mester ; just as if th' dear wench as had give him her life fur food day an' neet, hadna fur th' best reet o' th' two to be weak an' heavy-hearted. " But I getten welly over it at last, an' we was beginnin' to come round a bit an' look forrard to th' toime we'd see him agen 'stead o' luokin' back to th' toime we shut th' round bit of a face under th' coffin-lid. Th' day comn when we could bear to talk about him an' moind things he'd said an" tried to say i' his broken babby way. An' so we wur creepin' back again to th' old happy quiet, an "SURLY TIM:'' 15 jve had been for welly six month, when summat fresh come. I'll never forget it, Mester, th' neet it happened. I'd kissed Rosanna at th' door an' left her standin' theer when I went up to th' village to buy summat she wanted. It wur a bright moon light neet, just such a neet as this, an' th' lass had followed me out to see th' moonshine, it wur so bright an' clear ; an' just before I starts she folds both her hands on my shoulder an' says, soft an' thoughtful : " ' Tim, I wonder if th' little chap sees us ? ' " ' I'd loike to know, dear lass,' I answers back. An' then she speaks again : " ' Tim, I wonder if he'd know he was ours if he could see, or if he'd ha' forgot ? He wur such a little fellow.' " Them wur th' last peaceful words I ever heerd her speak. I went up to th' village an' getten what she sent me fur, an' then I comn back. Th' moon wur shinin' as bright as ever, an' th' flowers i' her slip o' a garden wur aw sparklin' wi' dew. I seed 'em as I went up th' walk, an' I thowt again of what she'd said bout th' little lad. " She wasna outside, an' I couldna see a leet about th' house, but I heerd voices, so I walked straight in into th' entry an' into th' kitchen, an' theer she wur, Mester my poor wench, crouchin' down by th' table, hidin' her face i' her hands, an' close beside her wur a mon a mon i' red sojer dothes. V 16 "SURLY TIM:'' " My heart leaped into my throat, an' fur a min- nit I hadna a word, fur I saw summat wui up, though I couldna tell what it wur. But at last my voice come back. " ' Good evenin', Mester,' I says to him ; ' I hope yo' ha'not broughten ill-news? What ails thee, dear lass ? ' " She stirs a little, an' gives a moan like a dyin' child ; and then she lifts up her wan, broken hearted face, an' stretches out both her hands to me. " ' Tim,' she says, ' dunnot hate me, lad, dunnot. I thowt he wur dead long sin'. I thowt 'at th' Rooshans killed him an' I wur free, but I amna. I never wur. He never deed, Tim, an' theer he is the mon as I wur wed to an' left by. God forgi' him, an' oh, God forgi' me ! ' " Theer, Mester, theer's a story fur thee. What dost ta' think o't ? My poor lass wasna my wife at aw th' little chap's mother wasna his feyther's wife, an' never had been. That theer worthless fellow as beat an' starved her an' left her to fight th' world alone, had comn back alive an' well, ready to begin agen. He could tak' her away fro' me any hour i' th' day, and I couldna say a word to bar him. Th' law said my wife th' little dead lad's mother belonged to him, body an' soul. Theer was no law to help us it wur aw on his side. " Theer's no use o' goin' o'er aw we s aid to each "SURLY TIM:' 17 other i' that dark room theer. I raved an' prayed an' pled wi' th' lass to let me carry her across th' seas, wheer I'd heerd tell theer was help fur such loike ; but she pled back i' her broken, patient way that it wouldna be reet, an' happen it wur the Lord's will. She didna say much to th' sojer. I scarce heerd her speak to him more than once, when she axed him to let her go away by hersen. "'Tha conna want me now, Phil,' she said. 'Tha conna care fur me. Tha must know I'm more this nion's wife than thine. But I dunnot ax thee to gi' me to him because I know that wouldna be reet ; I on'y ax thee to let me aloan. I'll go fur enough off an' never see him more.' " But th' villain held to her. If she didna come wi' him, he said, he'd ha' her up before th' court fur bigamy. I could ha' done murder then, Mester, an' I would ha' done if it hadna been for th' poor lass runnin' in betwixt us an' pleadin' wi' aw her might. If we'n been rich foak theer might ha' been some help fur her, at least ; th' law might ha' been browt to mak' him leave her be, but bein' poor workin' foak theer wur on'y one thing : th' wife mun go wi' th' husband, an' theer th' husband stood a scoundrel, cursin', wi' his black heart on his tongue. " ' Well,' says th' lass at last, fair wearied out wi' grief, ' I'll go wi' thee, Phil, an' I'll do my best to please thee, but I wunnot promise to forget th' 2 1 8 "SURLY T/M." mon as has been true to me, an' has stood betwixt me an' th' world.' " Then she turned round to me. " ' Tim,' she said to me, as if she wur haaf feart aye, feart o' him, an' me standin' by. Three hours afore, th' law ud ha' let me mill any mon 'at feart her. ' Tim,' she says, ' surely he wunnot re fuse to let us go together to th' little lad's grave - fur th' last time.' She didna speak to him but ta me, an' she spoke still an' strained as if she win too heart-broke to be wild. Her face was as white as th' dead, but she didna cry, as ony other woman would ha' done. 'Come, Tim,' she said, 'he conna say no to that.' " An' so out we went 'thout another word, an' left th' black-hearted rascal behind, sittin' i' th' very room th' little un deed in. His cradle stood theer i' th' corner. We went out into th* moonlight 'thout speakin', an' we didna say a word until we come to this very place, Mester. "We stood here for a minute silent, an' then I sees her begin to shake, an' she throws hersen down on th' grass wi' her arms flung o'er th' grave, an' she cries out as if her death-wound had been give to her. " ' Little lad,' she says, ' little lad, dost ta see thy mother ? Canst na tha hear her callin' tl.ce ? Little lad, get nigh to th' Throne an' plead ! ' " I fell down beside o' th' poor crushed we-eh an' sobbed wi' her. I couldna comfort her, *r "SURLY TIM:'' 19 wheer wur there any comfort for us ? Theer wur none left rheer wur no hope. We was shamed an' broke down our lives was lost. Th' past wur nowt th' future wur worse. Oh, my poor lass, how hard she tried to pray fur me, Mester yes, fur me, as she lay theer wi' her arms round her dead babby's grave, an' her cheek on th' grass as grew o'er his breast. ' Lord God-a'-moighty, she says, ' help us dunnot gi' us up dunnot^ dunnot. We conna do 'thowt thee now, if th' time ever wur when we could. Th' little chap mun be wi' thee, I moind th' bit o' comfort about getherin' th' lambs i' his bosom. An', Lord, if tha could spare him a minnit, send him down to us wi' a bit o' leet. Oh, Feyther ! help th' poor lad here help him. Let th' weight fa' on me, not on him. Just help th' poor lad to bear it. If ever I did owt as wur worthy i' thy sight, let that be my reward. Dear Lord-a'-moighty, I'd be willin' to gi' up a bit o' my own heavenly glory fur th' dear lad's sake.' " Well, Mester, she lay theer on th' grass prayin' an cryin', wild but gentle, fur nigh haaf an hour, an' then it seemed 'at she got quoite loike, an' she got up. Happen th' Lord had hearkened an' sent th' child happen He had, fur when she getten up her face looked to me aw white an' shinin' i' th' clear moonlight. " ' Sit down by me, dear lad,' she said, ' an' hold my hand a minnit.' I set down an' took hold of her hand, as she bid me. 2O "SURLY TIM." "'Tim/ she said, 'this wur why th' little chap deed. Dost na tha see now 'at th' Lord knew best ? ' " ' Yes, lass,' I answers humble, an' lays my face on her hand, breakin' down again. '"Hush, dear lad,' she whispers, 'we hannot time fur that. I want to talk to thee. Wilta lis ten ?' " ' Yes, wife,' I says, an' I heerd her sob when I said it, but she catches hersen up again. " ' I want thee to mak' me a promise,' said she. ' I want thee to promise never to forget what peace we ha' had. I want thee to remember it allus, an' to moind him 'at's dead, an' let his little hond howd thee back fro' sin an' hard thowts. I'll pray fur thee neet an' day, Tim, an' tha shalt pray fur me, an' happen theer'll come a leet. But if theer dunnot, dear lad an' I dunnot see how theer could if theer dunnot, an' we never see each other agen, I want thee to mak' me a promise that if tha sees th' little chap first tha'lt moind him o' me, and watch out wi' him nigh th' gate, and I'll promise thee that if I see him first, I'll moind him o' thee an' watch out true an' constant.' " I promised her, Mester, as yo' can guess, an' we kneeled down an' kissed th' grass, an' she took a bit o' th' sod to put i' her bosom. An' then we stood up an' looked at each other, an' at last she put her dear face on my breast an' kissed me, as she had done every neet sin' we were mon an' wife. "SURLY TIM." 21 " ' Good-bye, dear lad,' she whispers her voice aw broken. ' Doant come back to th' house till I'm gone. Good-bye, dear, dear, lad, an' God bless thee.' An' she slipped out o' my arms an' wur gone in a moment awmost before I could cry out. " Theer isna much more to tell, Mester th' eend's comin' now, an' happen it'll shorten off th' story, so 'at it seems suddent to thee. But it were na suddent to me. I lived alone here, an' worked, an' moinded my own business, an' answered no ques tions fur nigh about a year, hearin' nowt, an' seein' nowt, an' hopin' nowt, till one toime when th' daisies were blowin' on th' little grave here, theer come to me a letter fro' Manchester fro' one o' th' medical chaps i' th' hospital. It wur a short letter wi' prent on it, an' the moment I seed it I knowed summat wur up, an' I opened it tremblin'. Mester, theer wur a woman lyin' i' one o' th' wards dyin' o' some long-named heart-disease, an' she'd prayed 'em to send fur me, an' one o' th' young soft hearted ones had writ me a line to let me know. " I started aw'most afore I'd finished readin' th' letter, an' when I getten to th' place I fun just what I knowed I should. I fun her my wife th' blessed lass, an' if I'd been an hour later I would- na ha' seen her alive, fur she were nigh past knowin' me then. "But I knelt down byth' bedside an' I plead wi' 22 "SURLY 77/17." her as she lay theer, until I browt her back to th world again fur one moment. Her eyes flew wide open aw at onct, an' she seed me an' smiled, aw her dear face quiverin' i' death. " ' Dear lad,' she whispered, ' th' path was na so long after aw. Th' Lord knew He trod it hissen' onct, yo' know. I knowed tha'd come I prayed so. I've reached th' very eend now, Tim, an' I shall see th' little lad first. But I wunnot forget my promise no. I'll look out fur thee fur thee at th' gate.' " An' her eyes shut slow an' quiet, an' I knowed she was dead. " Theer, Mester Doncaster, theer it aw is, fur theer she lies under th' daisies cloost by her child, fur I browt her here an' buried her. Th' fellow as come betwixt us had tortured her fur a while an' then left her again, I fun out an' she wur so afeard of doin' me some harm that she would na come nigh me. It wur heart disease as killed her, th' medical chaps said, but .1 knowed better it wur heart-break. That's aw. Sometimes I think o'er it till I conna stand it any longer, an' I'm fain to come here an' lay my hand on th' grass, an* sometimes I ha' queer dreams about her. I had one last neet. I thowt 'at she comn to me aw at onct just as she used to look, on'y, wi' }'er white face shinin' loike a star, an' she says, 'Tim, th' path isna so long after aw tha's come nigh to th' eend, an' me an' th' little chap is waitin'. He knows thee, dear lad, fur I've towt him.' "SURLY TIM." 23 "That's why I comn here to-neet, Mester; an' I believe that's why I've talked so free to thee If I'm near th' eend I'd loike some one to know, I ha' meant no hurt when I seemed grum an' surly, It wurna ill-will, but a heavy heart." He stopped here, and his head drooped upon his hands again, and for a minute or so there was an other dead silence. Such a story as this needed no comment. I could make none. It seemed to me that the poor fellow's sore heart could bear none. At length he rose from the turf and stood up, looking out over the graves into the soft light beyond with a strange, wistful sadness. ''Well, I mun go now," he said slowly. "Good- neet, Mester, good-neet, an' thank yo' fur listenin'." " Good night," I returned, adding, in an impulse of pity that was almost a passion, " and God help you ! " " Thank yo' again, Mester ! " he said, and then turned away ; and as I sat pondering I watched his heavy drooping figure threading its way among the dark mounds and white marble, and under the shadowy trees, and out into the path beyond. I did not sleep well that night. The strained, heavy tones of the man's voice were in my ears, and the homely yet tragic story seemed to weave itself into all my thoughts, and keep me from rest. I could ^ot get it out of my mind. In consequence of this sleeplessness I was later 24 "SURLY TIM." than usual in going down to the factory, and when I arrived at the gates I found an unusual bustle there. Something out of the ordinary routine had plainly occurred, for the whole place was in confu sion. There was a crowd of hands grouped about one corner of the yard, and as I came in a man ran against me, and showed me a terribly pale face. "I ax pardon, Mester Doncaster," he said in a wild hurry, " but theer's an accident happened. One o' th' weavers is hurt bad, an' I'm goin' fur th' doctor. Th' loom caught an' crushed him afore we could stop it." For some reason or other my heart misgave me that very moment. I pushed forward to the group in the yard corner, and made my way through it. A man was lying on a pile of coats in the middle of the by-standers, a poor fellow crushed and torn and bruised, but lying quite quiet now, only for an occasional little moan, that was scarcely more than a quick gasp for breath. It was Surly Tim! " He's nigh th' eend o' it now ! " said one of the hands pityingly. " He's nigh th' last now, poor chap ! What's that he's sayin', lads ? " For all at once some flickering sense seemed to have caught at one of the speaker's words, and the wounded man stirred, murmuring faintly jut not to the watchers. Ah, no ! to something far, far beyond their feeble human~sight to something in the broad Without. "SURLY TIM." 25 " Th' eend ! " he said, " aye, this is th' eend, dear lass, an' th' path's aw shinin' or summat an Why, lass, I can see thee plain, an' th' little chap too ! " Another flutter of the breath, one slight move ment of the mangled hand, and I bent down closer to the poor fellow closer, because my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see. " Lads," I said aloud a few seconds later, " you can do no more for him. His pain is over ! " For with a sudden glow of light which shone upon the shortened path and the waiting figures of his child and its mother, Surly Tim's earthly trouble had ended. " LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." IT was Madame who first entered the box, and Madame was bright with youthful bloom, bright with jewels, and, moreover, a beauty. She was a little creature, with childishly large eyes, a low, white forehead, reddish-brown hair, and Greek nose and mouth. " Clearly," remarked the old lady in the box op posite, "not a Frenchwoman. Her youth is too girlish, and she has too petulant an air of indif ference." This old lady in the box opposite was that ven erable and somewhat severe aristocrat, Madame de Castro, and having gazed for a moment or so a little disapprovingly at the new arrival, she turned her glasses to the young beauty's companion and uttered an exclamation. It was at Monsieur she was looking now. Mon sieur had followed his wife closely, bearing her fan and bouquet and wrap, and had silently seated him self a little behind her and in the shadow. LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." 2/ " del!" cried Madame de Castro, "what an ugly little man ! " It was not an unnatural exclamation. Fate had not been so kind to the individual referred to as she might have been in fact she had been definitely cruel. He was small of figure, insignifi cant, dark, and wore a patient sphynx-like air of gravity. He did not seem to speak or move, simply sat in the shadow holding his wife's belongings, apparently almost entirely unnoticed by her. " I don't know him at all," said Madame de Castro ; " though that is not to be wondered at, since I have exiled myself long enough to forget and be forgotten by half Paris. What is his name ? " The gentleman at her side a distinguished- looking old young man, with a sarcastic smile began with the smile, and ended with a half laugh. "They call him," he replied, "Le Monsieur de la petite Dame. His name is Villefort" "Le Monsieur de la petite Dame," repeated Madame, testily. " That is a title of new Paris the Paris of your Americans and English. It is villainously ill-bred." M. Renard's laugh receded into the smile again, and the smile became of double significance. "True," he acquiesced, "but it is also villain ously apropos. Look for yourself." Madame did so, and her next query, after she had dropped her glass again, was a sharp one. 28 "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." " Who is she the wife ? " " She is what you are pleased to call one of our - Americans ! You know the class," with a little wave of the hand, " rich, unconventional, com fortable people, who live well and dress well, and have an incomprehensibly naive way of going to impossible places and doing impossible things by way of enjoyment. Our fair friend there, for instance, has probably been round the world upon several occasions, and is familiar with a number of places and objects of note fearful to contemplate. They came here as tourists, and became fascinated with European life. The most overwhelming pun ishment which could be inflicted upon that excel lent woman, the mother, would be that she should be compelled to return to her New York, or Phila delphia, or Boston, whichsoever it may be." " Humph ! " commented Madame. " But you have not told me the name." " Madame Villefort's ? No, not yet. It was Trent Mademoiselle Bertha Trent." " She is not twenty yet," said Madame, in a queer, grumbling tone. " What did she marry that man for ? " "God knows," replied M. Renard, not too de voutly, " Paris does not." For some reason best known to herself, Madame de Castro looked angry. She was a shrewd old person, with strong whims of her own, even at seventy. She quite glared at the pretty American from under her bushy eyebrows. "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." 29 " Le Monsieur de la petite Dame ! " she fumed. "I tell you it is low low to give a man such names." " Oh ! " returned Renard, shrugging his shoul ders, "we did not give it to him. It was an awk ward servant who dubbed him so at first. She was new to her position, and forgot his name, and be ing asked who had arrived, stumbled upon this bon mot : ' Un monsieur, Madame le monsieur de la petite dame, 1 and, being repeated and tossed lightly from hand to hand, it has become at last an established witticism, albeit bandied under breath." It was characteristic of the august De Castro that during the remainder of the evening's enter tainment she should occupy herself more with her neighbors than with the opera. She aroused M. Renard to a secret ecstasy of mirth by the sharp steadiness of her observation of the inmates of the box opposite to them. She talked about them, too, in a tone not too well modulated, criticising the beautifully dressed little woman, her hair, her eyes, her Greek nose and mouth, and, more than all, her indifferent expression and her manner of leaning upon the edge of her box and staring at the stage as if she did not care for, and indeed scarcely saw, what was going on upon it. " That is the way with your American beauties, " she said. " They have no respect for things. Their people spoil them their men especially. 30 "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE They consider themselves privileged to act as theii whims direct. They have not the gentle timidity of Frenchwomen. What French girl would have the sangfroid to sit in one of the best boxes of the Nouvelle Opera and regard, with an actual air of ennui, such a performance as this? She does not hear a word that is sung." " And we do we hear ? " bantered M. Renard. "Pouff" cried Madame. "We! We are world- dried and weather-beaten. We have not a worm- eaten emotion between us. I am seventy, and you, who are thirty-five, are the elder of the two. Bah ! At that girl's age I had the heart of a dove." " But that is long ago," murmured M. Renard, as if to himself. It was quite human that he should slightly resent being classed with an unamiable grenadier of seventy. " Yes ! " with considerable asperity. " Fifty years ! " Then, with harsh voice and withered face melted suddenly into softness quite na'ive, " Mon Dieu ! " she said, " Fifty years since Arsene whis pered into my ear at my first opera, that he saw tears in my eyes ! " It was at this instaut that there appeared in the Villefort box a new figure, that of a dark, slight young man of graceful movements, in fact, a young man of intensely striking appearance. M. Villefort rose to receive him with serious courtesy, but the pretty American was not so gracious. Not until he had seated himself at her side and spoken "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." 31 to her did she turn her head and permit her eyes simply to rest upon his face. M. Renafd smiled again. " Enter," he remarked in a low tone, " enter M. Ralph Edmondstone, the cousin of Madame." His companion asked no questions, but he pro ceeded, returning to his light and airy tone : " M. Ralph Edmondstone is a genius," he said. " He is an artist, he is a poet, he is also a writer of subtile prose. His sonnets to Euphrasie in the day of Euphrasie awakened the admiration of the sternest critics : they were so tender, so full of purest fire ! Some of the same critics also could scarcely choose between these and his songs to Aglae in her day, or Camille in hers. He is a young man of fine fancies, and possesses the amiable quality of being invariably passionately in earnest. As he was serious in his sentiments yesterday, so he will be to-morrow, so he is to-day." " To-day ! " echoed Madame de Castro. " Non sense ! " Madame Villefort did not seem to talk much. It was M. Ralph Edmondstone who conversed, and that, too, with so much of the charm of animation that it was pleasurable even to be a mere looker- on. One involuntarily strained one's ears to catch a sentence, he was so eagerly absorbed, so full of rapid, gracefully unconscious and unconven tional gesture. " I wonder what he is saying ? " Madame de Castro was once betrayed into exclaiming. 32 " LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." " Something metaphysical, about a poem, or a passage of music, or a picture, or perhaps his soul," returned M. Renard. " His soul is his strong point, he pets it and wonders at it. He puts it through its paces. And yet, singularly enough, he is never ridiculous only fanciful and naive. It is his soul which so fascinates women." Whether this last was true of other women or not, Madame Villefort scarcely appeared fascinated. As she listened, her eyes still rested upon his eager mobile face, but with a peculiar expression, an expression of critical attention, and yet one which somehow detracted from her look of youth, as if she weighed his words as they fell from his lips and classified them, without any touch of the en thusiasm which stirred within himself. Suddenly she rose from her seat juu addressed her husband, who immediately rose also. Then she spoke to M. Edmondstone, and without more ado, the three left the box, the young beauty, a little oddly, rather followed than accompanied by her companions, at the recognition of which circumstance Madame de Castro uttered a series of sharp ejaculations of disapproval. " Bah ! Bah ! " she cried. " She is too young for such airs ! as if she were Madame 1'Impera- trice herself! Take me to my carriage. I am tired also." Crossing the pavement with M. Renard, they passed the carriage of the Villeforts. Before its Los Airg- "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." 33 open door stood M. Villefort and Edmondstone, and the younger man, with bared head, bent for ward speaking to his cousin. " If I come to-morrow," he was saying, " you will be at home, Bertha ? " " Yes." " Then, good-night," holding out his hand, " only I wish so that you would go to the Aylmers instead of home. That protegee of Mrs. Aylmer's the little singing girl would touch your heart with her voice. On hearing her, one thinks at once of some shy wild bird high in a clear sky, far enough above earth to have forgotten to be timid." " Yes," came quietly from the darkness within the carriage ; " but I am too tired to care about voices just now. Good-night, Ralph ! " M. Renard's reply of " God knows, Paris does not," to Madame de Castro's query as to why Madame Villefort had married her husband, con tained an element of truth, and yet there were num bers of Parisian-Americans, more especially the young, well-looking, and masculine, who at the time the marriage had taken place had been ready enough with sardonic explanations. "There are women who are avaricious enough to sell their souls," they cried ; "and the maternal Trent is one of them. The girl is only to blame for allowing herself to be bullied into the match." " But the weak place in this argument," said M. Renard, "is, that the people are too rich to be 3 34 " LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." greatly influenced by money. If there had been a title, but there was no title." Neither did Bertha Trent comport herself like n cowed creature. She took her place in society as Madame Villefort in such a manner as could give rise to no comment whatever ; only one or two of the restless inquisitive wondered if they had not been mistaken in her. She was, as I have said already, a childishly small and slight creature, the kind of woman to touch one with suggestions of helplessness and lack of will ; and yet, notwith standing this, a celebrated artist a shrewd, worldly-wise old fellow who had painted her por trait, had complained that he was not satisfied with it because he had not done justice to " the obsti nate endurance in her eye." It was to her cousin, Ralph Edmondstone, he had said this with some degree of testiness, and Edmondstone had smiled and answered : " What ! have you found that out ? Few people do." At the time of the marriage Edmondstone had been in Rome singeing his wings in the light of the eyes of a certain Marchesa who was his latest poetic passion. She was not his first fancy, nor would she be his last, but she had power enough for the time being to have satisfied the most exacting of women. He was at his banker's when he heard the news spoken of as the latest item from American Paris, ' "LE MONSIEUK DE LA PETITE DAME." 35 and his start and exclamation of disgust drew forth some cynical after-comment from men who envied him. "Who?" he said, with indiscreet impatience. " That undersized sphynx of a Villefort ? Faugh ! " But insignificant though he might be, it was M. Villefort who had won, and if he was nothing more, he was at least a faithful attendant. Henceforth, those who saw his wife invariably saw him also, driving with her in her carriage, riding with her courageously if ungracefully, standing or seated near her in the shadow of her box at the Nouvelle Opera, silent, impassive, grave, noticeable only through the contrast he afforded to her girlish beauty and bloom. " Always there ! " commented a sharp American belle of mature years, "like an ugly little con science." Edmondstone's first meeting with his cousin after his return to Paris was accidental. He had rather put off visiting her, and one night, entering a crowd ed room, he found himself standing behind a girl's light figure and staring at an abundance of red dish-brown hair. When, almost immediately the pretty head to which this hair belonged turned with a slow, yet involuntary-looking movement toward him, he felt that he became excited without know ing why. " Ah, Bertha ! " he exclaimed. She smiled a little and held out her hand, and he 36 " LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." immediately became conscious of M. Villefort be ing quite near and regarding him seriously. It was the perverseness of fate that he should find in Bertha Villefort even more than he had once seen in Bertha Trent, and there had been a time when he had seen a great deal in Bertha Trent. In the Trent household he had been a great favorite. No social evening or family festiv ity had seemed complete without his presence. The very children had felt that they had a claim upon his good-humor, and his tendency to break forth into whimsical frolic. Good Mrs. Trent had been wont to scold him and gossip with him. He had read his sonnets and metaphysical articles to Bertha, and occasionally to the rest ; in fact, his footing in the family was familiar and firmly estab lished. But since her marriage Bertha had be come a little incomprehensible, and on that ac count a little more interesting. He was sure she had developed, but could not make out in what direction. He found occasion to reproach her sometimes with the changes he found in her. " There are times when I hardly know you," he would say, " you are so finely orthodox and well controlled. It was not so with you once, Bertha. Don't - don't become that terrible thing, a fine lady, and worse still, a fine lady who is destl- lusionee" It baffled him that she never appeared much moved by his charges. Certainly she lived the LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." 37 life of a "fine lady," a brilliant life, a luxurious one, a life full of polite dissipation. Once, when in a tenderly fraternal mood, he reproached ner with this also, she laughed at him frankly. " It is absinthe," she said. " It is my absinthe at least, and who does not drink a little absinthe of one kind or another ? " He was sincerely convinced that from this mo ment he understood and had the right to pity and watch over her. He went of tener to see her. In her presence he studied her closely, absent he .brooded over her. He became impatiently intolerant of M. Villefort, and prone to condemn him, he scarcely knew for what. "He has no dignity no perception," was his mental decision. "He has not even the delicacy to love her, or he would have the tenderness to sacrifice his own feelings and leave her to herself. I could do it for a woman I loved." But M. Villefort was always there, gravely carrying the shawls, picking up handkerchiefs, and making himself useful. "Imbecile!" muttered M. Renard under cover of his smile and his mustache, as he stood near his venerable patroness the first time she met the Villeforts. " Blockhead ! " stealthily ejaculated that amiable Aristocrat. But though she looked grimly at M. Villefort, M. Renard was uncomfortably uncertain that it was he to whom she referred. 38 "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." 11 Go and bring them to me," she commanded. " Go and bring them to me before some one else engages them. I want to talk to that girl." It was astonishing how agreeable she made her self to her victims when she had fairly entrapped them. Bertha hesitated a little before accepting her offer of a seat at her side, but once seated she found herself oddly amused. When Madame de Castro chose to rake the embers of her seventy years, many a lively coal discovered itself among the ashes. Seeing the two women together, Edmondstone shuddered in fastidious protest. "How could you laugh at that detestable old woman ? " he exclaimed on encountering Bertha later in the evening. " I wonder that M. Ville- fort would permit her to talk to you. She is a wicked, cynical creature, who has the hardihood to laugh at her sins instead of repenting of them." " Perhaps that is the reason she is so amusing," said Bertha. Edmondstone answered her with gentle mourn- fulness. " What ! " he said. " Have you begun to say such things? You too, Bertha" The laugh with which she stopped him was both light and hard. "Where is M. Villefort?" she asked. " I have actually not seen him for fifteen minutes. Is it possible that Madame de Castro has fascinated him into forgetting me ? " LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." 39 Edmondstone went to his hotel that night in a melancholy mood. He even lay awake to think what a dreary mistake his cousin's marriage was. She had been such a tender and easily swayed little soul as a girl, and now it really seemed as if she was hardening into a woman of the world. In the old times he had been wont to try his sonnets upon Bertha as a musician tries his chords upon his most delicate instrument. Even now he re membered certain fine, sensitive expressions of hers which had thrilled him beyond measure. " How could she marry such a fellow as that how could she ? " he groaned. " What does it mean ? It must mean something." He was pale and heavy-eyed when he wandered round to the Villeforts' the following morning. M. Villefort was sitting with Bertha and reading aloud. He stopped to receive their visitor punctiliously and inquire after his health. " M. Edmondstone cannot have slept well," he remarked. " I did not sleep at all," Edmondstone answered, "and naturally have a headache." Bertha pointed to a wide lounge of the pouf order. " Then go to sleep, now," she said ; " M. Ville fort will read. When I have a headache he often reads me to sleep, and I am always better on uwaking." Involuntarily Edmondstone half frowned. Al> 40 " LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." surdly enough, he resented in secret this amiabihtj on the part of M. Villefort toward his own wife. He was quite prepared to be severe upon the read ing, but was surprised to be compelled to acknowl edge that M. Villefort read wondrously well, and positively with hints of delicate perception. His voice was full and yet subtly flexible. Edmond- stone tried to protest against this also, but use lessly. Finally he was soothed, and from being fretfully wide-awake suddenly passed into sleep as Bertha had commanded. How long his slumber lasted he could not have told. All at once he found himself aroused and wide-awake as ever. His head ache had departed ; his every sense seemed to have gained keenness. M. Villefort's voice had ceased, and for a few seconds utter, dead silence reigned. Then he heard the fire crackling, and shortly af terward a strange, startling sound a sharp, gasp ing sob ! The pang which seized upon him was strong indeed. In one moment he seemed to learn a thousand things by intuition to comprehend her, himself, the past. Before he moved he knew that Villefort was not in the room, and he had caught a side glimpse of the pretty blue of Bertha's dress. But he had not imagined the face he saw when he turned his head to look at her. She sat in a rigid attitude, leaning against the high cushioned back of her chair, her hands clasped above her head. She stared at the fire with eyes wide and "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME:' 41 strained with the agony of tears unshed, and amid the rush of all other emotions he was peculiarly conscious of being touched by the minor one of his recognition of her look of extreme youth the look which had been wont to touch people in the girl, Bertha Trent. He had meant to speak clearly, but his voice was only a loud whisper when he sprang up, uttering her name. " Bertha ! Bertha ! Bertha ! " as he flung him self upon his knees at her side. Her answer was an actual cry, and yet it reached no higher pitch than his own intense whisper. " I thought you were asleep ? " Her hands fell and he caught them. His sad impassioned face bowed itself upon her palms. " I am awake, Bertha," he groaned. " I am awake at last." She regarded him with a piteous, pitying glance. She knew him with a keener, sadder knowledge than he would ever comprehend ; but she did not under-estimate the depth of his misery at this one overwhelming moment. He was awake indeed and saw what he had lost. " If you could but have borne with me a little longer," he said. " If I had only not been so shal low and so blind. If you could but have borne with me a little longer ! " " If I could but have borne with myself a little longer," she answered. "If I could but have borne a little longer with my poor, base pride ! 42 "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." Because I suffered myself, I have made another suffer too." He knew she spoke of M. Villefort, and the thought jarred upon him. " He does not suffer," he said. " He is not of the fibre to feel pain." And he wondered why she shrank from him a little, and answered with a sad bitterness : " Are you sure ? You did not know that I " " Forgive me," he said brokenly, the face he lifted, haggard with his unhappiness. "Forgive me, for I have lost so much." She wasted few words and no tears. The force and suddenness of his emotion and her own had overborne her into this strange unmeant confes sion ; but her mood was unlike his, it was merely receptive. She listened to his unavailing regrets, but told him little of her own past. " It does not matter," she said drearily. " It is all over. Let it rest. The pain of to-day and to morrow is enough for us. We have borne yester day ; why should we want it back again ? " And when they parted she said only one thing of the future : " There is no need that we should talk. There is nothing for us beyond this point. We can only go back. We must try to forget and be satisfied with our absinthe." Instead of returning to his hotel, Edmondstone found his way to the Champs FJysees, and finally "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAAfE." 43 to the Bois. He was too wretched to have an) purpose in his wanderings. He walked rapidly, looking straight before him and seeing nobody. He scarcely understood his own fierce emotions. Hitherto his fancies had brought him a vague rapture ; now he experienced absolute anguish. Every past experience had become trivial. What happiness is so keen as one's briefest pain ? As he walked he lived again the days he had thrown away. He remembered a thousand old, yet new, phases of Bertha's girlhood. He thought of times when she had touched or irritated or pleased him. When he had left Paris for Rome she had not bid den him good-by. Jenny, her younger sister, had told him that she was not well. " If I had seen her then," he cried inwardly, " I might have read her heart and my own." M. Renard, riding a very tall horse in the Bois, passed him and raised his eyebrows at the sight of his pallor and his fagged yet excited look. " There will be a new sonnet," he said to him self. "A sonnet to Despair, or Melancholy, or Loss." Afterward, when society became a little restive and eager, M. Renard looked on with sardonic interest. "That happy man, M. Villefort," he said to Madame de Castro, u is a good soul a good soul. He has no small jealous follies," and his smile was scarcely a pleasant thing to see. 44 " ^ MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." "There is nothing for us beyond this past," Bertha had said, and Edmondstone had agreed with her hopelessly. But he could not quite break away. Sometimes for a week the Villeforts missed him, and then again they saw him every day. He spent his mornings with them, joined them in their drives, at their opera-box, or at the entertainments of their friends. He also fell into his old place in the Trent household, and listened with a vague effort at interest to Mrs. Trent's maternal gossip about the boys' college expenses, Bertha's household, and Jenny's approaching social debut. He was continu ally full of a feverish longing to hear of Bertha, to hear her name spoken, her ingoings and out- comings discussed, her looks, her belongings. " The fact is," said Mrs. Trent, as the winter advanced, "I am anxious about Bertha. She does not look strong. I don't know why I have not seen it before, but all at once I found out yester day that she is really thin. She was always slight and even a little fragile, but now she is actually thin. One can see the little bones in her wrists and fingers. Her rings and her bracelets slip about quite loosely." " And talking of being thin, mother," cried Jenny, who was a frank, bright sixteen-year-old, " look at cousin Ralph himself. He has little hollows in his cheeks, and his eyes are as much too big as Bertha's. Is the sword wearing out the scabbard, "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." 45 Ralph ? That is what they always say about geniuses, you know." " Ralph has not looked well for some time," said Mrs. Trent. "As for Bertha, I think I shall scold her a little, and M. Villefort too. She has been living too exciting a life. She is out continually. She must stay at home more and rest. It is rest she needs." " If you tell Arthur that Bertha looks ill" be gan Jenny. Edmondstone turned toward her sharply. "Ar thur ! " he repeated. " Who is Arthur ? " Mrs. Trent answered with a comfortable laugh. " It is M. Villefort's name," she said, " though none of us call him Arthur but Jenny. Jenny and he are great friends." " I like him better than any one else," said Jenny stoutly. "And I wish to set a good exam ple to Bertha, who never calls him anything but M. Villefort, which is absurd. Just as if they had been introduced to each other about a week ago." " I always hear him address her as Madame Ville fort," reflected Edmondstone, somewhat gloomily. " Oh yes ! " answered Jenny, " that is his French way of studying her fancies. He would consider 't taking an unpardonable liberty to call her ' Ber tha,' since she only favors him with ' M. Villefort.' I said to him only the other day, ' Arthur, you are the oddest couple ! You're so grand and well-be haved, I cannot imagine you scolding Bertha a little, 46 "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." and I have never seen you kiss her since you were married.' I was half frightened after I had said it. He started as if he had been shot, and turned as pale as death. I really felt as if I had done some thing frightfully improper." "The French are so different from the Ameri cans," said Mrs. Trent, "particularly those of M. Villefort's class. They are beautifully punctilious, but I don't call it quite comfortable, you know." Her mother was not the only person who noticed a change in Bertha Villefort. Before long it was a change so marked that all who saw her observed it. She had become painfully frail and slight. Her face looked too finely cut, her eyes had shadowy hollows under them, and were always bright with a feverish excitement. " What is the matter with your wife ? " demanded Madame de Castro of M. Villefort. Since their first meeting she had never loosened her hold upon the husband and wife, and had particularly culti vated Bertha. There was no change in the expression of M. Villefort, but he was strangely pallid as he made his reply. " It is impossible for me to explain, Madame." " She is absolutely attenuated," cried Madame. " She is like a spirit. Take her to the country to Normandy to the sea somewhere! She will die if there is not a change. At twenty, one should be as plump as a young capon." "LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." 47 A few days after this, Jenny Trent ran in upon Bertha as she lay upon a lounge, holding an open book, but with closed eyes. She had come to spend the morning, she announced. She wanted to talk about people, about her dress, about her first ball which was to come off shortly. " And Arthur says " she began. Bertha turned her head almost as Edmondstone had done. " Arthur ! " she repeated. For the second time Jenny felt a little em barrassed. " I mean M. Villefort," she said, hesi tantly. She quite forgot what she had been going to say, and for a moment or so regarded the fire quite gravely. But naturally this could not last long. She soon began to talk again, and it was not many minutes before she found M. Villefort in her path once more. " I never thought I could like a Frenchman so much," she said, in all enthusiastic good faith. " At first, you know," with an apologetic half laugh, " I wondered why you had not taken an American instead, when there were so many to choose from, but now I understand it. What beautiful tender things he can say, Bertha, and yet not seem in the least sentimental. Everything comes so simply right from the bottom of his heart. Just think what he said to me yesterday when he brought me those flowers. He helps me with mine, and it is 48 " LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE odd how things will cheer up and grow for him, I said to him, 'Arthur, how is it that no flower ever fails you ? ' and he answered in the gentlest quiet way, ' Perhaps because I never fail them. Flowers are like people, one must love and be true to them, not only to-day and to-morrow, but every day every hour always.' And he says such things so often. That is why I am so fond of him." As she received no reply, she turned toward the lounge. Bertha lay upon it motionless and silent, only a large tear trembled on her cheek. Jenny sprung up, shocked and checked, and went to her. "Oh, Bertha!" she cried, "how thoughtless I am to tire you so, you poor little soul ! Is it true that you are so weak as all that ? I heard mamma and Arthur talking about it, but I scarcely believed it. They said you must go to Normandy and be nursed." " I don't want to go to Normandy," said Bertha. "I I am too tired. I only want to lie till and rest. I have been out too much." Her voice, however, was so softly weak that in the most natural manner Jenny was subdued into shedding a few tears also, and kissed her fervently. " Oh, Bertha ! " she said, " you must do anything anything that will make you well if it is only for Arthur's sake. He loves you so so terribly.'' Whereupon Bertha laughed a little hysterically. "Does he," she said, "love me so 'terribly? Poor M. Villefort ? " " LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME." 45 She did not go to Normandy, however, and still went into society, though not as much as had been her habit. When she spent her evenings at home, some of her own family generally spent them with her, and M. Villefort or Edmondstone read aloud or talked. In fact, Edmondstone came oftener than ever. His anxiety and unhappiness grew upon him, and made him moody, irritable, and morbid. One night, when M. Villefort had left them alone together for a short time, he sprang from his chair and came to her couch, shaken with suppressed emotion. "That man is killing you!" he exclaimed. "You are dying by inches ! I cannot bear it ! " " It is not he who is killing me," she answered \ and then M. Villefort returned to the room with the book he had been in search of. In this case Edmondstone's passion took new phases. He wrote no sonnets, painted no pictures. He neglected his work, and spent his idle hours in rambling here and there in a gloomy, unsociable fashion. " He looks," said M. Renard, " as if his soul had been playing him some evil trick." He had at first complained that Bertha had taken a capricious fancy to Madame de Castro, but in course of time he found his way to the old woman's salon too, though it must be confessed that Madame herself never showed him any great 4 5j\ the back. If I was a talkin' man I might object to the stillness an' a general fixedness in the gaze, as perhaps is a objection as wax-works is open to as a rule, though I can't say as it ever impressed me as a very affable gentleman once said it impressed him. " Smethurst," says he, " you must have a blamed clear conscience (though, bein' rather free-spoken, ' blamed ' was not the precise word employed) you must have a blamed clear conscience or I'm blamed if you could stand so many blamed pair of staring eyes gimleting you year in an' year out. An' as to them with works," says he, "they're worse than the others, for even if they turn away a minute they always turn back again, as if they wouldn't trust you out of their sight." But somehow, I never thought of it in that way, an' as to not liking the quiet, why shouldn't I ? In a general way I haven't got no more to say than they have, and so it suits me well enough. I will own though, as I've never felt particular comfort able in the Chamber of Horrors, an' never wouldn't have had one, but even in a small collection like mine the public demands it, an' won't hear of bein' satisfied without one; "for," says they, " what's the use of a wax-works without Manning an' them, an' the prisoners in the dock, an' the knife as the young woman was cut up in pieces with ? " So I was obliged to have the little back room hung with black, like Madame Tussaud's in 72 SMETHURSTSES. a small way, and fitted up with murders, and a model of the guillotine, and two or three heads of parties as come to a untimely end in the French Revolution. But it aint my taste for all that, and there's always a heaviness in the air as makes me low-like an' I'm glad to turn the key on 'em al night an' leave 'em to have a rest from the stares an' talk an' stirrin' up of their sin, an' the shame an' agony of their dreadful deaths. Good Lord ! it turns me sick to think of them havin' been real livin' creatures, with mothers an' wives an' friends, some of 'em perhaps livin' to-day, all crushed an' blasted with the horror they've went through. But that aint the story as I've half-way promised to tell you. If you really want to hear it, mum, I don't mind tellin' it, though I don't know as it will be interestin' I've often wondered if it would be as interestin' to outsiders as it was to me, bein' as it's the story of a friend of mine as was something like me an' likewise had a wax-works. Would you mind settin' there, mum, next to the Japanese party ? His lady's works was broke, an' her bein' absent at the cleaner's leaves the chair vacant most convenient. His name it was Joe this acquaintance of mine, an', as I said, he was somethin' of my build an' temper. He was a quiet chap an' a lonely chap, an' London was his native place leastways, I don't see as it could have been no nativer than it SMETHURSTSES. 73 was, bein' as he was laid at the door of a London foundlin' when he wasn't no more than a few days old, and London fed him and clothed him until he was big enough to take care of hisself. He hadn't a easy life of it as you may be sure. He wasn't handsome nor yet sharp, he couldn't answer back nor yet give cheek ; he could only take it, which he had to do frequent. There was plenty of folks as give him the char acter of a nat'ral born fool, an' they may have been right. They said as no chap as had his right senses could be as good-natured an' ready to forgive a in jury, an' above all as slow to suspect as one was bein' done him. I think they thought his bein' slow to suspect harm a-goin' on was the best proof of his bein' a fool, an' he wasn't ready enough with his tongue to argy the point. He wasn't never good at a argyment Joe wasn't. Well, he growed up, an' he did first one thing an' then another, until at last he was picked up by a travelin' wax-works showman as had just such a collection as this here of mine havin' in it just such a Lady Jane Grey, and likewise a sim'lar Royal Fam'ly. " Well," says the wax-works man, when Joe first goes to ask for work, " what can you do ? " " Not much, perhaps," says Joe ; " leastways, I've not been in the business before ; but if you'll give me a job, Mister, I can do what I'm told." The showman gives him a look from head to foot 74 SMETHURSTSES. " Well," says he, " at all events, you're not one of them blarsted sharp uns as knows everythin' an' can't dust a figger without knockin' its head off. I've had enough of them sort " savage like "a-ruinin' my Richard Cure the Lion, an' a-settin' Mary Queen o' Scottses insides all wrong " (which was what his last young man had been a-doin'). "No," answers Joe, slow an' serious, "I don't think as I'd do that." The showman gives him another look, an' seems sort of satisfied. "Go inside an' get your dinner," he says. "I'll try you just because you haven't got so much cheek." And he did try him, an' pretty well they got on together, after a while. Slowness is not a objec tion in a wax-works as much as in a business as is less delicater. I've thought myself as p'r'aps wax works has their feelin's, an' knows who means respec'ful by 'em an' who doesn't, an' this Joe meant respec'ful, an' never took no liberties as he could help. He dusted 'em regular, an' wound 'em up an' set 'em goin' accordin' to rules ; but he never tried no larks on 'em, an' that was why he gets along so well with his master. "That other chap was too fond of his larks," says the showman, kind of gloomy whenever he men tions the first young man. He never forgive him to the day of his death for openin' the collection one day with Charles the Secondses helmet on SMETffUKSTSES. 75 Mrs. Hannah Mooreses head, an' Daniel in the Lions' Den in William Pennses spectacles, with some other party's umbrella under his arm. But Joe weren't of a witty turn, an' not given to jokes, which is not suited to wax-works as a rule, collections bein' mostly serious. An', as I say, him an' his master got along so well that one day, after they had been together a year or so, the show man, he says to him, " Joe," says he, " I'm blessed if I'd mind takin' you in as a partner." An' that very mornin' he has the reg'lar papers made out, an' the thing was done without no more said about it. An' partners they was till he died, which happened very unexpected him a sayin' sudden one night when they was a-shuttin' up together, "Joe, old chap, I'm blessed if my works aint a runnin' down," an' gives one look round at the riggers, an' then drops which the medical man said as it was dropsy of the heart. When his things was looked over, it was found he'd left everythin' to Joe except one partic'lar ugly figger, as turned his eyes with a squint an' couldn't be done nothin' with, an' him he'd left to a old maid relation as had a spite agin him "for," says the will, " she'd ought to have him, for he's the only chap I ever see yet as could match her let alone stand her, an' it's time she was takin' a partner, if she's goin' to." They did say as it was nearly the party's death, for, though they'd quarreled reg'lar for twenty-five years an' hated each other deadly^ 76 SMETHURSTSES. she'd always believed as she'd come into his belongin's if she outlived him, thinkin' as he would make no will. Well, havin' had company for so long, it was nat'ral as Joe should feel lonely-like after this, an' now an' then get a trifle down-hearted. He didn't find travelin' all alone as pleasant as it had been, so when he was makin' anythin' at all in a place, he'd stay in it as long as he could, an' kind of try to persuade hisself as it was kind of home to him, an' he had things to hold him to it. He had a good many feelin's in secret as might have been laughed at if people had knowed 'em. He knowed well enough as he wasn't the kind of chap to have a home of his own men as has homes has wives, an' who'd have wanted to marry him, bless you he wasn't the build as young women take to. He weren't nothin' to look at, an' he couldn't chaff, nor yet lark, nor yet be ready with his tongue. In general, young women was apt to make game of him when their sweethearts brought 'em into the collection, an' there was times when a pretty, light- hearted one would put him out so as he scarcely knowed the Royal Fam'ly by name, an' mixed up the Empress of the French an' Lucreecher Borgiar in the description. So he lived on, lonesome enough, for two or three year, an' then somethin' happened. He went up to London to stay while the races was goin' on, an' one day, when the collection was pretty full, SMETHURSTSES. 77 there comes in a swell paity with a girl on his arm. The swell, as was a tall, fine-lookin' chap, was in high sperits, an' had just come in for the lark of the thing, Joe sees plain, for he were makin' his jokes free an' easy about everythin', an' laughin' fit to kill hisself every now an' then. But the girl were different ; she were a little rosy thing, with round, shinin' eyes, an' a soft, little timid way with her. She laughed too, but only shy an' low, an' more because she was happy an' because the swell laughed. She wasn't the kind of young woman as the swell ought to have been a-goin' with. She was dressed in her best, an' was as pretty as a pic- tur' ; but her clothes was all cheap, an' Joe could see as she belonged to the workin' class, an' was out for a holiday. She held close to the gentle man's arm, an' seemed half frightened, an' yet so glad an' excited that she would have minded you of a six-year-old child. It were the first time she'd ever been into a wax-works, an' things looked wonderful to her. When they come to Lady Jane Grey she was quite took with her, an' begun to ask questions in the innocentest way. " She's one of the nobility, sir, isn't she ? " she says to her companion. " Did you ever see her ? Isn't she beautiful, sir?" He laughs delighted, an' squeezes her hand a bit with his arm. "No, Polly," he says. "I never saw her until to-day. She didn't keep her head on her shoulders 78 SME THURS TSES. long enough. It was cut off some time ago, my dear." An' then he whispers : " An' it wasn't nearly as pretty a head as yours, Polly, either." The little girl blushes like a rose, an' tries to laugh too ; but Joe knew as she'd took the words more to her innocent heart than was good for her. " Lor' me ! " she says. " What a shame it was to cut her head off, an' her so sweet an' quiet ! " "Yes, Polly," says the young gentleman, a- laughin' more. " Very quiet. Wax-works are, as a rule. A nice time a proprietor would have, if they were not, with such a lot of queer customers, Bloody Mary, for instance, and Henry the Eighth, and Nana Sahib, and John Knox, and Lucretia Borgia, though you don't know much of their amiable characteristics, my dear." They went on in that way through the whole room, him a-jokin' an' makin' light, an' her en- joyin' herself an' admirin' everythin' she set eyes on, an' Joe, a-watchin' her. He couldn't help it. Somethin' queer seemed to have took hold of him the minute he first sees her. He kep' a-wishin' as the collection was ten times as big, so as it would take longer for her to go through. He couldn't bear the thought of seein' the last of her, an' when they comes to the Russian party, as stands near the door, dressed for the winter season, his nose bein' protected with fur, after the fashion of the country, his heart were in his mouth, an' when she passed out into the crowd, he seemed to \ SMETHURSTSES. 79 swallow it with a gulp, as took it into the heels of his boots. " Lor' ! " he says, all of a tremble in his insides, " I shan't never see her again, never ! " He hadn't no spirit in him all that day, nor the next either. It was as if somethin' altogether out of common had happened, an' he couldn't never be the same man again. He were miserable, an' down an' nervous, an' there wasn't a figger in the collection as didn't seem to know it. He took to standin' at the door whenever he could, a-lookin' at the people a-passin' by. An' yet he scarcely knowed what for. If he'd seen the face he wanted to, he wouldn't 'a' dared to say a word, nor yet to move a step ; an' still he was a-hungerin' day an : night for a glimpse of what couldn't be no good to him. Well, if you'll believe me, mum, instead of get- tin' easier as time went on, he got uneasier. He was as lonesome again as he had been, an' he took his tea a-settin' with the Royal Fam'ly reg'lar, he couldn't have swallowed it by hisself. After shuttin' up, he'd go out wanderin' in the streets melancholy and wistful like, an' one night he stops short all at once, a-feelin' hisself turn pale in con sequence of it comin' to him sudden what ailed him. " I've fell in love," says he, fearful an' respec'ful, "that's it, an' there's no help for me. I'm not the man as should have done it, for I can't look for nothin' to come out of it." 8O SMETffURSTSES. He give hisself up to it, because he didn't see no way out of it. Nobody wasn't troubled but his self, an' so it didn't matter. He got pale an' thin, an' didn't sleep well o' nights, but there wasn't no one to bother themselves about him, there weren't even a soul as he could 'a' left the collec tion to, if he'd 'a' died. It went pretty hard with him to leave London, an' when he did leave it, he couldn't stay away ; an' I'm blessed if he didn't come back in less than six months ; for, says he to hisself : " Here's a place as is somethin' more than the others, at least, though it is in a sorrowful way, an' I'd rather as the collection would earn me a bare livin' in a side street in London, than make money away from it. I might see her again ; an', Lor' bless me ! what do I want of money a-layin' back ? " Well, the very first night after he came back, he did see her again. He'd set out the collection in the room he'd hired, an' then he'd gone out in the old wanderin' way, an' he hadn't hardly stepped into the street before he comes on a crowd gath ered around somethin' near a lamp-post ; so he stops nat'ral, an' makes inquiries. " Anybody hurt ? " says he. " No, not exactly," answers the man he'd spoke to. " It's a young woman as has fainted, I think." He makes his way a bit nearer, an' as soon as he claps his eyes on the deathly face under the SME THURSTSES. 8 1 lamp-light, he sees as it's the face he's been lookin' for an' thinkin' about so long. " It's her! " he says, so shook as he didn't know what he was doin'. " It's Polly ! " " Polly ! " says the woman as was holdin' her head. "Do you know her, young man? If you do, you'd better speak to her, for she's just comin' to, poor little thing ! " He knowed he couldn't explain, an' he thinks, besides, as the feelin' he had for her might make his face look friendlier than a stranger's, so he kneels down as the woman tells him, just as she opens her eyes. The crowd seemed to frighten her, an' she began to tremble an' cry ; an' so Joe speaks to her, low, an' quiet, an' respec'ful : "Don't be afraid, miss," he says, "don't. You'll be well directly." She catches hold of his hand like a frightened baby. " Send them away ! " she says. " Please, don't let them stare at me. I can't bear it ! " "Miss," says Joe, "would you mind bein took into a collection, if this good lady would go with you ? " "A collection!" she says, all bewildered. "I haven't got any money. What is it for? Oh, please make them go away ! " "Not a hat took 'round, miss," says Joe. "Oh dear, no ! I was alludin' to a wax-works which is 6 82 SMETHURSTSES. quite convenient, an' belongs to me, an' a fire an' a cup of tea ready immediate, an' a good lady to stay with you until you feel better, an' all quite private." " Take me anywhere, please/' she says. " Thank you, sir. Oh, take me away." So between them, Joe an' the good woman helps her up an' leads her to the door as was but a few steps off, an' Joe takes them in an' on to the back room, where the fire was a burnin' an' the kettle singin', an' there he has them both to sit down. The woman makes the girl lie down on the sofa by the fire, an' she bein' weak an' wanderin' yet did as she was told without asJdn' a question. " A cup of tea'Il set her up," says the woman, " an r then she can tell us where she lives an' we can take her home." Joe went about like a man in a dream. His legs was unsteady under him, an' he was obliged to ask the woman to pour the water on the tea, an' while she was doin' it he takes a candle and slips into the collection secret, to make sure the Royal Fam'ly was there an' he wasn't out of his head. The woman, havin' girls of her own, was very motherly an' handy an' did all she could, but she couldn't stay long, and after she'd give Polly her tea, she says she must go. " An' I dare say as the young man as is so kind- hearted'll come along with me, an' we'll see you home together, my dear." SMETIIUKSTSES. 83 They both looks at Polly then a-waitin' to see what she would say, but she only looked frightened, an' the next minute hides her face in her little hands on the sofa-arm an' begins to sob. " I haven't got no home," she says, " nor no where to go. What shall I do what shall I do?" Then the woman looks very serious an' a bit hard-like about the mouth though not as hard as some might have done. " Where's your mother?" she says, just the least short. " I haven't none," says Polly. " I lost her a month ago." " You aint in mournin'," says the woman. " No, ma'am," says Polly, " I couldn't afford it." " An' your father ? " But this made the poor little thing cry harder than ever. She wrung her hands an' sobbed piti ful. " Oh, father ! " she says. " Good, kind, easy father, if you was alive I wouldn't be like this. You always loved me always. You never was hard, father." " What have you been livin' on ? " says the woman, lookin' as if she was a-relentin'. " I was in a shop " But Joe couldn't stand no more. " Ma'am," he says in a undertone, " if a pound or so, which not bein' a fam'ly man an' a good 4 SMETHURSTSES. business at times, I have it to spare, would make matters straight, here it is." An' he pulls a handful of silver out of his pocket and holds it out quite eager an' yet fearful of givin' offense. Well, then the woman looks sharp at him. " What do you mean ? " she asks. " Do you want me to take her home with me ? " " Ma'am," says Joe, "yes, if a pound or so " But she stops him by turning to the girl. " Are you a respectable young woman ? " she asks. The pretty face was hid on the sofa-arm, an' the little figure looked so droopin' that Joe could stand that less than he could stand the other. "Ma'am," says he hurried, "if five pound" It seemed like the woman's heart was touched, though she answered him rough. "Young man," she says, "you're a fool, but if you don't want me to speak out before her, take me into the next room an' we'll talk it over." So Joe took her into the collection, an' the end of it was that they made an agreement, an' sharp as she seemed, the woman showed as she was fair and straight an' would take no advantage. She let Joe persuade her at last to take the girl with her an' ask no questions, an' he was to pay her a trifle to make it straight an' no burden to her. "Though," says she, "if she had a different face an' one as wasn't so innocent an' young, I wouldn't take her at no price, for I've girls of my own aa SME THUKSTSES. 8 5 I tell you, an' p'r'aps that's what makes me easier on her." When they was gone away, Joe goes into the room they'd left an' sets hisself down by the fire an' stares at the sofa. " She set there," he says, "an' she laid her head on the arm, and likewise drunk out of that there cup. I've seen her again as sure as I'm a man." An' not a wink of sleep does he get that night, but sits, an' stares, an' thinks until the fire dies out into ashes, an' it's gray early mornin'. Through a delicateness of feelin' he does not go anywheres near her for a day or so, an' then the woman whose name is Mrs. Bonny calls in to see him. "Well," she says, "it seems all right so far. She's a nice little thing, an' she's got work in a millinery down town, an' I've kept my word an' asked no questions, an' will you come an' have a cup of tea with us this evening ? " Of course he went, glad enough, though awk ward, an' he saw her again, an' she was prettier an' innocenter lookin' than ever, though pale an' timid. When she give her hand at partin' an' says, "Thank you for bein' so kind to me," he couldn't say a single word in answer, he -were so bashful an' upsot. He was always bashful enough, even after they knowed each other better an' was good friends, which they came to be. She seemed to take a 86 SMETIIURSTSES. childish likin' to him, an' always to be a remem- berin' as she'd somethin' to be grateful for. " What made you so kind to me that night, Joe ? " she'd say. " You hadn't never seen me before, you know. Oh, how good you was, Joe ! " An' he hadn't never the courage to tell her as he had. Through one thing an' another, it was quite a while before she chanced to see the collection, but, at last, one afternoon, they all comes down Mrs. Bonny, the girls, and Polly. Polly was a-goin' 'round with Joe, an' he couldn't help wonderin' anxious if she would remember as she had seen the place an' him before. An' she did. Before she had been in the room three min utes, she begins to look round strange an' puzzled, an' when she comes to Lady Jane Grey, she catches Joe's arm an' gives a tremblin' start. " I've been here before," she says. " I was here last races I oh, Joe," an' she breaks off with a sob. He sets her in a chair and stands before her, so as the Bonnys can't see. " Don't cry, Polly," he says, but he says it with a sinkin' feelin', because he sees as she doesn't re member him at all, an' that she hasn't forgot her handsome sweetheart. She doesn't cry much more for fear of the Bonnys, but she doesn't laugh nor talk no more all the rest of the day, an' her little downcast face SMETHUKSTSES. 8/ was enough to make a man's heart ache. I dare say you'll think as Joe was a fool to hang on so in the face of all this, but it was his way to