THE MONK 
 
 AND THE DANCER 
 
-"•^s?'^ 
 
 THE MONK 
 
 AND 
 
 THE DANCER 
 
 BT 
 ARTHUR COSSLETT SMITH 
 
 NEW rORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 4 /^-^i ^ 
 
 1910 
 
Copyright^ 1900, by Charles Scribne/s Sons 
 
 96I 
 
» 
 
 •Khadija believes in mb" 
 
 226638 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 
 I. La Trappe 
 
 I 
 
 II. Beyond the Walls 
 
 19 
 
 III. The Folies-Bergeres 
 
 45 
 
 IV. The Abbot 
 
 66 
 
 Trot, Trot to Market 
 
 83 
 
 The Peach 
 
 "3 
 
 The Senior Reader 
 
 149 
 
 Some Old Families 
 
 183 
 
 The Eye of the Harem 
 
 215 
 
«^i 
 
 H> 
 
 THE MONK 
 
 AND THE DANCER 
 
AlV^-STt^^XT^^W 'I'l. 
 
 M^ 
 
 THE MONK 
 AND THE DANCER 
 
 I. LA TRAPPE 
 
 V OR three weeks, and well into Lent, 
 the rain had fallen upon the thirsty soil 
 of Algeria ; then one night the wind 
 shifted, and the next day the blazing sun 
 rode through a cloudless sky. 
 
 At the abbey of La Trappe at Staoueli 
 the monks hailed the coming of spring 
 with joy. It meant for them the begin- 
 ning of out-door work, the culture of the 
 vines, the tending of the T2essn\ or white 
 roses, from which they extraft the attar, 
 and the geraniums which furnish the 
 essence for which the abbey is famous ; 
 it meant the herding of the cattle and the 
 sheep in the outlying pastures, the songs 
 of the birds in the hedges, the rustling of 
 the grass; it meant the exchange of white- 
 
 [ I ] 
 
T!he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 washed cells for the open air and the blue 
 sky. 
 
 Of the forty monks of La Trappe two 
 only are permitted to speak; these are the 
 Abbot and the guest-master, Brother Am- 
 brose. The others may say "Memento 
 mori" when they meet each morning, 
 and may pray. Beyond this they are dumb. 
 Each spends a few moments of the day in 
 digging his own grave, and they sleep on 
 straw, with their coffins for beds. On the 
 wall of the refeftory is this inscription : 
 " Sil est dur de vivre a la Trappe^ quil est 
 doux d'y mourirV' Over each door is the 
 word ''''Silenced 
 
 Just outside the walls of the abbey, by 
 the great gates, there is a room devoted to 
 hospitality. Here each day, from ten to 
 twelve o'clock, food is given to all who 
 come. Brother Ambrose has charge of 
 this room, and serves each guest with his 
 own hands. 
 
 On this first morning of spring Brother 
 Ambrose went to the Abbot and made a 
 request. 
 
 [2] 
 
La Trappe 
 
 " Father," he said, " this fine day after 
 the long rain will bring many travellers, 
 and I am beginning to feel my age. Will 
 you kindly give me help?" 
 
 The Abbot thought a moment, then 
 pointing through the open window 
 toward the garden, he asked, "Who is 
 that among the geraniums?" 
 
 Brother Ambrose shaded his eyes with 
 his hand, and answered, "It is Brother 
 Angelo. But is he not too young? There 
 will be many guests, and," he added, 
 "women as well as men." 
 
 The Abbot looked up quickly, a faint 
 smile upon his lips. 
 
 "Ah, Brother Ambrose," he said, "at 
 what age does one become safe? Send 
 Brother Angelo to me." 
 
 The Abbot saw Brother Ambrose go 
 down the grass walk toward the scarlet 
 geraniums. Then he resumed his seat. 
 Soon there was a knock at the door. 
 
 "Enter," said the Abbot. Brother An- 
 gelo came in. 
 
 "Memento mori, father," he said. 
 
 [3] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " I try to," replied the Abbot. Brother 
 Angelo stared. 
 
 " My son," said the Abbot, " how long 
 have you been with us?" 
 
 " Always, father." 
 
 "And how old are you, my son?" 
 
 "Twenty-two years, father." 
 
 The Abbot opened hi^ *3esk and took 
 out a small red book fastened with a lock. 
 He selefted a key from those which^-hung 
 at his girdle and opened the book? 
 
 " My son," he said, " Brother Ambrose 
 is growing old, and I have told him that 
 you will help him. I intend that you 
 shall take his place some day. For that 
 reason you were taught languages. At 
 present you are not to speak to any of the 
 guests. Brother Ambrose will attend to 
 that. Now listen to what I shall read to 
 you, and ask no questions." 
 
 The Abbot turned several pages, and 
 then read: 
 
 " "- Angelo^ Brother, Born April second^ 1 873. 
 " Baptized the same day and named Charles 
 " Viaor. 
 
 [4] 
 
La Trappe 
 
 ^^ Father, Count Charles Frangois d'Apre- 
 
 ^^mont. Colonel of the Fourth Chasseurs 
 
 ''d'Afrique. 
 
 ^'Mother, Miriam^ an Almee woman of the 
 
 " tribe of Ouled Nail, who danced in the cafes 
 
 " of Biskra, and who died April third, 1873. 
 
 ^^ Given to me May first, 1873, ^ his fa- 
 
 ^Uher, who in the world was my friend, and 
 
 " who died in the desert some time in May^ 
 
 "1873. 
 
 " T^ook the final vows on Easter Monday ^ 
 
 "1895. 
 
 ^^ Signed by me, Richard, 
 
 ''Abbot of La Trapper' 
 
 " I read you this, my son, for you are 
 going to-day outside of the protefting 
 walls, and are to catch a glimpse of the 
 world. Remember how little the world 
 has done for you. You owe it nothing but 
 life. You will pay your debt when you 
 die. Now go to Brother Ambrose." 
 
 At ten o'clock the guests began to 
 come. There were Spaniards from Oran, 
 Maltese from Bona and the Tunis frontier, 
 French peasants from the neighboring 
 
 [5] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 farms, an Englishman or two, and a com- 
 mercial traveller from Lyons. Brother 
 Angelo scarcely noticed them. He did 
 what Brother Ambrose bade him do: he 
 found seats at the tables for the peasants 
 and their families; he handed about the 
 fish, the bread, the lentils, and the cheese; 
 he comforted a crying child; he served 
 the wine, and all the while he was say- 
 ing to himself, " My father was Count 
 d' Apremont, and my mother was Miriam, 
 the dancing-girl of Biskra." 
 
 Just before twelve o'clock, when all 
 the guests except an Englishman and the 
 commercial traveller had departed, a car- 
 riage stopped at the gate; and a moment 
 after the door opened, and a woman, fol- 
 lowed by a courier belonging to one of 
 the hotels at Algiers, entered the room. 
 She turned, startled by the cheerless ap- 
 pearance of the place, and was about to go 
 out, when her eyes met those of Brother 
 Angelo; then she walked slowly to the 
 head of the table and took her seat. The 
 courier sat at the foot. Brother Ambrose 
 
 [6] 
 
La Trappe 
 
 served her, and she made a pretence of 
 eating. She cast occasional glances at the 
 young monk, and he never took his eyes 
 away from her. He stood staring at what 
 he had never seen before — a beautiful 
 woman. 
 
 She was very dark. Her hair was blue- 
 black, twisted into a heavy knot at the 
 back of her head, and over her ears two 
 sharply pointed locks curved up like 
 sickles on her temples. She wore a little 
 black hat, such as Spanish bull-fighters 
 wear, tilted down upon her brows. Her 
 nose was straight and thin, pinched in 
 just above the nostrils, which quivered 
 with each breath. Her lips were full and 
 red, and her white teeth were small and 
 shaped like orange seeds. Her hands 
 were those of the old races, with long 
 pointed fingers and rosy nails. She wore a 
 dozen rings, and all were set with emer- 
 alds. Once she looked about the room, 
 and saw the Englishman and the com- 
 mercial traveller; afterward she did not 
 notice them. 
 
 [7] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 When she could no longer make a 
 pretence of eating she turned to Brother 
 Ambrose and said, " You have an excel- 
 lent white wine here, I am told. May I 
 not taste it?" 
 
 "Why not?" replied Brother Am- 
 brose, and off he went to bring a bottle 
 from the abbey cellars. 
 
 Scarcely had the door closed behind 
 him, when she turned and looked fairly 
 at Brother Angelo. He stood as before, 
 tall and lithe, his closely cut hair curling 
 about his face, his black eyes sparkling, 
 his cheeks glowing, his full lips parted, 
 his hands pressed upon his breast. 
 
 " Come here," she said. 
 
 He took a step toward her. 
 
 "What is your name?" she asked. 
 
 He started, and put his finger to his 
 lips. 
 
 She laughed, put her hands to her lips, 
 and threw him a kiss. 
 
 "What is your name?" she repeated. 
 
 " Memento mori," he gasped. 
 
 "How droll!" she said. "That sounds 
 [8 ] 
 
La T'rappe 
 
 like Latin, and I do not know Latin. I 
 only know my own language, and the 
 French which I am using. It is not good 
 French. My accent is very bad. You re- 
 mind me of a pi61:ure I saw in Florence. 
 It was of a young man into whom they 
 had shot arrows. I think they called him 
 Saint Sebastian. I see that you wear sand- 
 als. That is good; it gives one a carriage. 
 The Arabs wear sandals, and they walk 
 properly. I also wear no heels," and she 
 put out her little feet. " In the evening, 
 if I wear slippers, then heels — in the 
 daytime, no. That is so that I may walk 
 well. I sent the old man for the wine so 
 that I might speak to you. He looks 
 rather cross, but then he is old. It is very 
 sad to be old. I am twenty. I have nearly 
 ten years yet. Then I shall marry. It 
 seems that you are not talking much, but 
 you are blushing very nicely. I used to 
 blush when men spoke to me. It is a very 
 pretty accomplishment, but I have lost 
 it. Still, if you will come to see me at the 
 Hotel Saint George, I will try my best 
 
 [9] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 to recall it. Will you come? If you intend 
 to say something nice to me, or to kiss 
 my hand, you must do it very soon, 
 before the old man returns with the 
 wine." 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the courier, 
 "pray be careful. The Abbot is very 
 stria." 
 
 "This Abbot," she said, with a laugh, 
 "if one could only know, is probably 
 nothing but a man." 
 
 Then she turned to Brother Angelo 
 again, and whispered, "What is your 
 name?" 
 
 The blood left his face, and he trem- 
 bled like a leaf Then he said, "My 
 father was Count d'Apremont, and my 
 mother was Miriam, the dancing-girl of 
 Biskra." And he burst into tears. 
 
 There was a crash. Brother Ambrose 
 stood in the door, and he had dropped 
 the bottle of white wine. 
 
 The Englishman and the commercial 
 traveller walked down the road together. 
 "Monsieur," said the latter, "she is al- 
 [lo] 
 
La Trappe 
 
 most better in real life than on the stage." 
 "Very clever," said the Englishman. 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 The commercial traveller stopped 
 short, and looked hard at his companion. 
 Finally he said, " Is it possible that mon- 
 sieur does not know? She is Dolores, the 
 Spanish dancer. They pay her two thou- 
 sand francs a night at the Folies-Ber- 
 gcres. 
 
 II 
 
 1 HAT evening, when Brother Am- 
 brose had made his report, the Abbot 
 sat silent for some moments, and then 
 said, " You are quite sure that he spoke? " 
 "Quite sure, father." 
 "And to a woman?" 
 "To a woman, father," and Brother 
 Ambrose crossed himself. 
 
 "Was she an attraftive person?" 
 " She was as handsome as the devil." 
 The Abbot looked up quickly, but 
 Brother Ambrose was evidently sincere 
 in his comparison. 
 
 [ " ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Yes," he continued, " in all the thirty- 
 years that I have been guest-master I 
 have never seen one like her. When she 
 walked up the room she seemed to float 
 along; there was no movement of her 
 skirts. There was a faint odor of violets 
 about her that filled the air. She had a 
 fashion of half closing her eyes and look- 
 ing at you through the lashes. There was 
 that pifture of the repentant Magdalen 
 which Brother Thomas painted last year, 
 and which you bade him burn, because, 
 although it was the Magdalen, it was 
 not repentant. Well, this woman had that 
 same look. Her throat — " 
 
 "That will do," said the Abbot, "I 
 understand." 
 
 The two old men looked at each other 
 silently. Then Brother Ambrose, shifting 
 his feet and nervously fingering the beads 
 of his rosary, said, " Father, when the 
 spring comes back, when the whole earth 
 begins to breathe again, when the star- 
 lings build their nest in the great cross 
 on the chapel roof, and the scent of the 
 
 [ 12 ] 
 
La Trappe 
 
 lilacs fills the air, do you never find 'me- 
 mento mori * hard words to say ? " 
 
 The Abbot went to the window, looked 
 out, came back, and said slowly, "Bro- 
 ther Ambrose, on such a night as this, 
 after the manner of men, I fight with 
 beasts at Ephesus." 
 
 "Thank God," said Brother Ambrose, 
 solemnly, "that I am not the only one. 
 And now, father," he added, briskly, 
 " what is to be done with Brother An- 
 gelo?" 
 
 "You may put him in the chapel cell 
 for to-night," replied the Abbot, "and in 
 the morning I will fix his penance. You 
 may leave him his straw, and bring me 
 the key of the cell." 
 
 " Is that all ? " asked Brother Ambrose. 
 
 "Yes," replied the Abbot. 
 
 Brother Ambrose started for the door. 
 
 " Memento mori, father," he said. 
 
 The Abbot smiled. 
 
 "I will grant you an indulgence to- 
 night, old friend. Good night." 
 
 Brother Ambrose's lips quivered. 
 
 [ 13] 
 
T'he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Good night," he said. And then he 
 added, "Those words sound very sweet 
 after thirty years." 
 
 In ten minutes he brought the key of 
 the chapel cell, and the Abbot fastened 
 it to his girdle. 
 
 Brother Ambrose lingered a moment, 
 and then said, " If it is permitted, father, 
 I should like you to. say good night once 
 more." 
 
 " Good night," said the Abbot, and 
 then Brother Ambrose went away. 
 
 Left alone, the Abbot sat unconsciously 
 playing with the keys at his waist, then 
 rising, he extinguished the single candle 
 upon his desk, and opening his door, 
 stepped out upon tne grass walk. 
 
 The garden was bathed in moonlight. 
 On the long lines of almond trees the 
 white blossoms shone like silver stars. 
 High on the chapel roof the great iron 
 cross was silhouetted against the sky, and 
 the Abbot could see, at the interseftion 
 of the arms, the starling's nest. He walked 
 slowly on past the geraniums, their scarlet 
 
 [ H] 
 
La Trappe 
 
 flowers black in the moonlight, and then 
 he came to the roses. All about him were 
 the bending stems, the delicate, fresh 
 leaves, and the great, white flowers. He 
 circled with his arms a dozen of the stalks, 
 brought them close together, and buried 
 his face in the mass of blossoms. He 
 breathed in the fragrance with long gasps ; 
 and then, after a moment, he went on 
 down the grass walk. At the corner of 
 the wall was a stone bench, upon which 
 the leaves of the vines cast delicate shad- 
 ows. Here he took his seat. Behind him, 
 trellised on the wall, was a mass of honey- 
 suckle and jasmine, the perfume of which 
 saturated the warm air. From the dove- 
 cote came the soft cooing of the pigeons, 
 and in the far-off fields he heard the 
 lowing of the cattle, for even the birds 
 and the beasts felt the sweet influence of 
 the spring, and could not sleep. 
 
 The Abbot sat motionless for a mo- 
 ment, overwhelmed by the beauty of the 
 night, then suddenly he threw himself 
 upon his knees. 
 
 [ 15] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "O God," he sobbed, "help thy ser- 
 vant!" 
 
 When he rose, an hour later, his prayer 
 had been answered, and a sweet smile 
 played about his lips. 
 
 " I will do it this very night," he said 
 to himself, and then he went swiftly up 
 the grass walk. He did not enter his own 
 room, but passed through the cloisters to 
 a door near the chapel wall. He opened 
 this door, went in, and closed it after him. 
 He was then in a small passage which led 
 to the barred door of the chapel cell. It 
 was perfe6lly dark, but the Abbot put his 
 hand on the wall and felt his way to the 
 end of the passage. 
 
 " My son ? " he whispered. 
 
 There was no answer, but the Abbot 
 heard a rustling in the straw. 
 
 " My son," he said, his voice trembling, 
 "what I read to thee this morning was 
 all true, except that thy father did not 
 die in the desert. He is alive and is here. 
 I am Charles Fran9ois d'Apremont. I am 
 thy father." 
 
 [ i6] 
 
La Trappe 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 The Abbot put his hands upon the 
 barred door, and it swung open. The lock 
 was broken. With a cry he entered the 
 cell. He felt the straw under his feet, and 
 he heard a rat scamper out into the pas- 
 sage. The cell was empty. 
 
 The Abbot went quickly out through 
 the cloisters, across the wide courtyard, 
 where the fountain was casting jets of sil- 
 ver in the moonlight, and on down the 
 paved walk to the great gates. He found 
 them locked and barred as usual ; but as 
 he was turning away, he saw projefting 
 from the shadow of the further gate-post 
 the foot of a ladder. Then his heart failed 
 him utterly, for he knew that he had lost 
 his son. 
 
 He went slowly to the ladder, and trip- 
 ping on his robe, he mounted step after 
 step, until he could see the world sur- 
 rounding the great wall which for more 
 than twenty years had bounded his hori- 
 zon. 
 
 He saw the white road stretching away 
 
 [ 17] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 to Algiers, and the long lines of eucalyp- 
 tus trees which bordered it and cast their 
 shadows across it. He saw cultivated fields 
 and patches of woodland, and far off in 
 the distance he caught the twinkle of a 
 light in the window of a shepherd's hut. 
 As he gazed at these things, so strange 
 and yet so well known, there surged from 
 his heart to his mind the memories of the 
 world. He saw himself at the head of his 
 regiment ; he heard the neighing of the 
 horses, and he saw the glint of the moon- 
 light on the sabres and the buckles ; he 
 heard the bugles ; he saw the fierce skir- 
 mish in the desert ; he saw the mosques 
 and the citadel of Biskra; and then — 
 ah, then he saw Miriam the dancing-girl 
 coming to meet him under the palm trees. 
 He waved his hand toward the distant 
 city, and whispered, " Farewell, my son ! 
 God keep thee ! " 
 
 [ i8] 
 
II. BEYOND THE WALLS 
 
 JLT was ten o'clock when Brother An- 
 gelo stepped from the ladder to the cop- 
 ing of the wall, hung by his hands for 
 an instant, and then dropped softly into 
 the world. 
 
 He knew four languages, his breviary, 
 and how to tend geraniums; otherwise he 
 was as much a child as when, twenty-two 
 years before, an officer of the Chasseurs 
 had brought him in his arms to LaTrappe 
 and the great gates had closed upon them 
 both. 
 
 But his ignorance did not occur to him 
 as he shortened his robe on one side to the 
 knee and started down the moonlit road 
 toward Algiers. He walked smoothly and 
 swiftly, like the Arabs, with his head held 
 high and his arms swinging easily. In two 
 hours he came to Sidi Ferruch, and as he 
 passed the barracks a sentinel called from 
 the shadow of the gate, '^Qui vive?'' 
 
 [ 19] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Memento mori," replied Brother An- 
 gelo, and passed swiftly on. Soon he came 
 to the lighthouse of Cape Caxine and for 
 the first time saw the sea and heard the 
 clamor of the surf. Then he passed the old 
 Moorish fort at Point Pescade, and fur- 
 ther on, he went through Saint Eugene, 
 where the villas stood white and silent in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 It was two o'clock in the morning when 
 he reached Mustapha Superieur and saw 
 the lights of the city and harbor beneath 
 him. He had made the eighteen miles in 
 four hours, and turning off from the road, 
 he lay down under a mimosa tree to wait 
 for the lazy sun. 
 
 About six o'clock the concierge of the 
 Hotel Saint George came out of the side 
 entrance, looked up to the sky, stretched 
 his arms, yawned, and kicked a dog that 
 came to greet him. Soon the courier who 
 had been at La Trappe the preceding day 
 joined him. 
 
 "How is mademoiselle?" asked the 
 concierge. 
 
 [ 20] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 "Well enough," replied the courier, 
 "but I am glad to be through with her. 
 Yesterday she made a fool of a young monk 
 at the monastery, and Brother Ambrose 
 caught him at it. It 's a chance if they let 
 me in the next time I go. Such as she 
 spoil business. She pays well, but I am 
 glad that she is leaving. She takes the 
 steamer this evening for Naples." 
 
 "Her maid tells me," said the con- 
 cierge, "that she has made fools of many. 
 A bull-fighter in Seville was the first one. 
 He started her. Then she took to dancing 
 and the men flocked after her. They say 
 the Prince of — " 
 
 "Mother of Heaven!" exclaimed the 
 courier, " Here 's the monk." 
 
 Brother Angelo came swiftly up the 
 driveway, a mass of yellow mimosa blos- 
 soms in his hand. 
 
 " I have arrived," he said to the courier. 
 
 " So I perceive," replied the latter. 
 
 "Where is she?" asked Brother An- 
 gelo. 
 
 " She is where I should be if the world 
 
 [21 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 were rightly managed," said the courier ; 
 "she is in bed." 
 
 " Is she ill ? It is past six o'clock." 
 
 Just then a buxom young woman came 
 onto the terrace. 
 
 "There is her maid," replied the cou- 
 rier ; " ask her." 
 
 For the second time in his life Brother 
 Angelo spoke to a woman. 
 
 " Tell me," he said eagerly, " is she ill ? 
 She told me to come, and I got over the 
 wall while the rest were at complines. 
 Will you not tell her that I am here ? " 
 
 The young woman looked at him in 
 silence. 
 
 " Perhaps," he said, " you do not under- 
 stand French. I speak also Spanish, Eng- 
 lish, and Arabic." 
 
 " You speak plainly enough," said the 
 maid, "but I was wondering what there 
 was for me in all this. The little Jew 
 chocolate-maker in Paris gave me fifty 
 napoleons for one of mademoiselle's old 
 slippers. The English milord used to pay 
 postage in gold for every note I delivered, 
 [22] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 and the Abbe Guilbert gave me absolu- 
 tion and a kiss each time I let him in at 
 the servants' door. What will you offer ? 
 We leave this evening, so I am obliged to 
 speak frankly. What will you give f " 
 
 " Alas," said Brother Angelo, " I have 
 nothing in the world but these," and he 
 held out the mimosa blossoms. 
 
 " It is not business," said the maid, after 
 a pause, " but perhaps you will make it up 
 to me later," and snatching the flowers 
 from his hands, she ran into the house. 
 
 Presently she came out again and whis- 
 pered, so that the concierge should not 
 hear her, " I put the flowers where she 
 will be sure to see them. I will let you 
 know when she wakes. It will be several 
 hours yet. Go down by the fountain in the 
 garden and wait for me." 
 
 She looked at him fixedly for a moment 
 and said, " So you climbed the wall, did 
 you ? Good, that is the kind she likes." 
 Then going, she turned her head and ad- 
 ded, "That is the kind that all women 
 like." 
 
 [^3] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 Brother Angelo went down the terrace 
 into the garden and after some search 
 found the fountain, which was hidden 
 among the trees. He loosened his robe 
 at the throat, turned it back, and plunged 
 his head into the cold water. He took oiF 
 his sandals and bathed his feet, and then, 
 fresh and glowing, his crisp hair curling 
 even more closely about his temples, he 
 began to wait. Just then a neighboring 
 clock struck seven, and unconsciously he 
 repeated the office of "prime." Every day 
 since he could remember he had said those 
 words at this hour, sometimes with tears, 
 sometimes with reverent joy, always with 
 his whole heart. But that was ages ago ; 
 nearly twenty-four hours ; before he had 
 seen her ; before his prayers were turned 
 from the worship of an invisible God to 
 the adoration of a visible goddess. He 
 thought of his broken vows without re- 
 gret. Why had the Abbot and Brother 
 Ambrose deceived him all these years ? 
 Why had they taught him that the world 
 was something to hide away from f He 
 
 [24] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 looked about him and saw that it was 
 good. Why had they talked so much of 
 divine love when human love was at their 
 very gates? Why had they taught him 
 four languages, but never a word fit to 
 speak to the woman he was soon to see 
 again ? 
 
 He felt a hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 "Come/' said the maid, "you are 
 lucky. She is awake, and it is not yet 
 nine o'clock." 
 
 He followed her through the garden 
 to the side entrance. They went up one 
 flight of stairs, and then she opened a door 
 and motioned to him. He put his hands 
 to his heart and entered. It was a sitting- 
 room, draped and furnished in the Moor- 
 ish fashion. A little table between the 
 windows was covered with a white cloth 
 and a breakfast service for two persons. 
 There were some trunks in the room, and 
 the disorder which denotes either a re- 
 cent arrival or an early departure. On the 
 floor lay a woman's glove. Brother An- 
 gelo picked it up. It was the first glove 
 
 [25] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 he had ever seen, but he quickly divined 
 its use. He spread it upon his palm, smiled 
 at its littleness, and then, blushing like a 
 girl, raised it to his lips. 
 
 A faint noise startled him and he turned 
 quickly. The curtains of the door leading 
 to the next room were parted ; and be- 
 tween them, dressed in white, with yel- 
 low mimosa blossoms at her bosom, stood 
 Dolores. 
 
 "Count d'Apremont," she said, "you 
 do me great honor ; " and stepping for- 
 ward she let the curtains fall behind her. 
 
 For a moment they stood silent, then 
 he said, " What is your name ? " 
 
 She put her finger to her lips, cast down 
 her eyes, and whispered, "Memento 
 mori." 
 
 " What is your name ? " he asked again. 
 
 "My mother," she replied, "was a 
 gypsy girl of Seville, and my father — 
 perhaps he was a peasant, perhaps he was 
 the king. I never asked. My name is a 
 sad one. It is Dolores." 
 
 " Dolores," he repeated ; " that is Span- 
 
 [ 26] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 ish. I know Spanish, English, French, and 
 Arabic." 
 
 " With all those languages," she said, 
 "you have still much to learn." 
 
 Then she came close to him and be- 
 gan playing with his crucifix. He felt 
 her breath upon his cheek. 
 
 "There is another language, still," she 
 said softly. 
 
 " Italian ? " he gasped. 
 
 "No," she whispered, "although that 
 is very like it. The language that I mean 
 has no name and no words, but it is uni- 
 versal;" and she put her arms about his 
 neck and kissed his lips. 
 
 II 
 
 1 HEY wandered slowly north, through 
 Italy, following the spring ; and when 
 they reached Venice, behold it was June. 
 When a man is twenty-two and has 
 strength and health and all his hair and 
 the woman he loves, it is difficult to be 
 unhappy anywhere during the month of 
 June. In Venice it is impossible. For 
 
 [27] 
 
"The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 thirty days nature demonstrates in Ven- 
 ice what the world would have been had 
 the serpent not glided into Paradise. Then 
 the timorous tourist has fled to Como or 
 Lucerne ; the gondoliers demand only 
 their legal fare; the sacristan at St. Mark's 
 shows you the turquoise cup for an Ital- 
 ian cigar, and even asks you to come again ; 
 the waiters in the Piazza do not forget to 
 return your change; the Venetians move 
 back to their front rooms, which have 
 been occupied during the winter by 
 Americans; the last Doge turns over in 
 his tomb ; the voice of the Englishman 
 is stilled in the land; and summer has 
 come. 
 
 As for Brother Angelo, he walked on 
 air. It is a fine thing to be a baby of 
 twenty-two, and to be in love with one's 
 nurse. Dolores's kiss in the little room of 
 the Hotel St. George was the beginning 
 of life for him. At that moment there fell 
 from his eyes " as it had been scales," and 
 the world burst upon his sight. People, 
 customs, architefture, pictures, music, the 
 
 [ 28 ] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 landscape, and most of all, the children 
 and the beggars touched him. 
 
 "Dolores,'' he used to say, "here is a 
 man who is hungry. Give him some- 
 thing." 
 
 And she would shrug her shoulders and 
 say, " My friend, three months ago you 
 had never tasted meat, and this man ate 
 it this morning;" and then she would open 
 her purse. 
 
 Music moved him strangely. Whether 
 it was an organ in the street, a military 
 band in the Piazza, or the Pope's choir 
 at St. John Lateran, he used to stand en- 
 tranced. Dolores would grow impatient. 
 
 " If you wish to hear music," she said, 
 "you should hear the Tunisians in the 
 elephant at the Moulin Rouge." 
 
 AtNaples he had exchanged his monk's 
 robe for the ordinary dress of a traveller. 
 
 " It is better so," said Dolores. " It is 
 very chic for a great lady to have her pri- 
 vate chaplain, but for me to travel with 
 one — it is better so." 
 
 Nevertheless, when he first presented 
 
 [29] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 himself in his new attire she put her hands 
 over her eyes. 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " the romance has all 
 gone out of it. You are now like every- 
 body else, except," she added, " your eyes. 
 They save you." 
 
 She bade him keep his monk's dress. 
 " It will serve as a domino for the carni- 
 val masquerades," she said. 
 
 Rome wearied her. 
 
 " But, monsieur," she said to the guide 
 who was conducing them through the 
 Forum, " these buildings are very shabby, 
 and all the people you are telling us of 
 are dead. Is there no life in Rome, no 
 cafe-chantant^ no ballet ? " 
 
 "There are the marionettes," he re- 
 plied sullenly. 
 
 " Good," she cried, clapping her hands. 
 " You will take a box for us for this even- 
 
 " This evening ! " exclaimed the guide^ 
 " This evening, madame, they illuminate 
 the Coliseum and Professor Boldini de- 
 livers a lefture in the arena." 
 
 [30] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 " How charming ! " said Dolores ; " but 
 still you will take the box." 
 
 "There are people," she said to An- 
 gelo in Spanish, "who prefer the Coli- 
 seum to the marionettes. This is a strange 
 world. There was an English milord who 
 came to Seville to see me dance. He 
 could stay but two days and the last was 
 Sunday, and Juan was there, the greatest 
 matador in Spain, and they killed eight 
 bulls and fourteen horses, and one of the 
 banderilleros was tossed so that he could 
 never walk again. It was superb. And 
 where do you think was milord all this 
 while ? In the Museum, looking at the 
 Murillos ! Oh, those English ! They are 
 cold. But," she added, "he gave me this 
 ring — no, that one — Juan gave me this. 
 Juan discovered me. Do you know what 
 that means ? " and she looked him full in 
 the face. 
 
 " Of course you do not," she said. " I 
 am constantly forgetting that you are 
 only three months old." 
 
 Then, with a laugh, she added, " and 
 
 [ 31 ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 baby shall not see the naughty Coliseum; 
 he shall see the pretty marionettes." 
 
 But if Rome wearied her, Venice was 
 a delight. 
 
 The night that they arrived they sat 
 in the little garden of the Hotel Britannia, 
 close to the stone steps which lead down 
 to the Grand Canal. Across the water, 
 outlined by the moonlight, rose Santa 
 Maria della Salute. To the left of the 
 church, in the canal St. Mark, lay a 
 schooner yacht, her harbor lights brightly 
 shining. Off to the right were the dark 
 masses of the Palace Esterhazy and the 
 Academy. High above them hung the 
 summer moon, sending a ladder of silver 
 across the ripples of the lagoon to their 
 very feet. They sat silent, her hand in 
 his. 
 
 Presently, the soft, warm breeze 
 brought the sound of music, and from 
 behind the palaces on their left there 
 came a gondola hung with colored lan- 
 terns and wreaths of flowers. It floated 
 silently on until it was abreast of the little 
 
 [ 32] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 garden; then it stopped and, after a pre- 
 lude by the violins and flutes, a woman 
 began to sing the " Si tu ne maimes pas " 
 from "Carmen." The laughter on the 
 balconies and in the gondolas suddenly- 
 ceased; the sailors on the yacht, who 
 were hoisting in the launch, stopped and 
 belayed; the ripples against the stone 
 steps seemed to hush and die away, and 
 the very air hung breathless. 
 
 The song ceased, and for a minute 
 there was perfect silence; then from the 
 gondolas came shouts of" Calve ! Calve ! " 
 which the shores took up until the pal- 
 aces echoed back her name. 
 
 Dolores started to her feet. "Ah!" she 
 exclaimed, "those cries are sweet to her. 
 The finest thing in all this world is ap- 
 plause. I live on it, and I am famishing." 
 
 Then she came up to him and said, 
 "Do you regret?" 
 
 "What?" he asked. 
 
 "Your broken vows — your chance of 
 heaven." 
 
 "Heaven?" he said. "I have it now." 
 
 [33] 
 
Hhe Monk and the Dancer 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders and put 
 out her hands. " Why do you not tell the 
 truth, you men, when women ask you 
 questions? Why did you not say, 'Yes, I 
 do regret'? Then I should have loved you ; 
 but you are all alike — milord, the choco- 
 late-maker, the Abbe, the prince — you 
 are all liars, except Juan. He was a man." 
 
 She snatched at her sleeve and pulled 
 it up to her shoulder, her rounded arm 
 shining like ivory in the moonlight. 
 
 "There," she cried, pointing to a red 
 line above the elbow, " I was rolling a ci- 
 garette for Juan and I spilled the tobacco 
 on the floor. His knife was on the table, 
 and he did that. He was a man." And she 
 bent her head and kissed the scar. 
 
 She walked rapidly up and down the 
 terrace, humming the song that had so 
 moved her. Then she stopped before him 
 and said, " I am sorry that I spoke those 
 words. You do not understand such 
 things. How should you? Nevertheless, 
 they were true. Women like me need the 
 stick. We kiss the hand that strikes us. 
 
 ,[34] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 We prefer an order to a request. Strength, 
 audacity, force, a kiss and a blow, those 
 are the things we like. A man must keep 
 us women on our knees. If he lets us up 
 we are apt to walk away. Even you, my 
 friend, if it were not for your beauty, 
 might in time grow monotonous. You 
 never contradict me. You treat me as if I 
 were a saint rather than a woman. If I 
 touch your hand I feel you tremble. That 
 is good. It is your French blood; but you 
 are also half Arab and should know how 
 to make me tremble. Arabs manage wo- 
 men and horses very well. They master 
 them. The next time I ask anything of 
 you, refuse it, will you?" 
 
 " I shall try to," he replied, wondering. 
 
 "Good," she said. "It will be refresh- 
 ing. Now give me a kiss and end our 
 quarrel." 
 
 "A hundred," he cried. 
 
 "You have forgotten already," she 
 laughed. 
 
 "No," he said; "you asked for only 
 one, and that I refuse." 
 
 [35] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 She drew back and looked at him with 
 amused astonishment. "It seems/* she 
 said finally, "that baby is growing." 
 
 Ill 
 
 1 HE next morning they went through 
 the little court at the back of the hotel, 
 and following the lane, they crossed the 
 bridge and came to the Piazza. When it 
 burst upon them he stood speechless, but 
 she clapped her hands and cried, " See the 
 chairs before the cafes, and the waiters in 
 their white aprons. There is a woman with 
 a Virot hat. I had one like it last year. She 
 has put it on wrong — she is English." 
 
 " But the church ! " said Angelo. " Bro- 
 ther Ambrose told me once that, of all 
 the works of man's hands, this is the most 
 beautiful." 
 
 She glanced at the east end of the 
 Piazza and shrugged her shoulders. " An- 
 other church," she said. "That will wait 
 for a rainy day when we cannot sit in 
 front of the cafes and eat ices, and feed the 
 pigeons and listen to the band. You may 
 
 [36] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 take your time with churches; they will 
 not run away." 
 
 But at eleven o'clock there fluttered up 
 the three flagstaffs in front of St. Mark's 
 the banner of Italy, and the loungers 
 about Florian's cafe started in groups 
 toward the cathedral. 
 
 "Come," said Dolores, "we may as 
 well see your church to-day. It seems to 
 be fashionable." 
 
 As they crossed the Piazza her eyes 
 caught the four gilded horses from the 
 Arch of Nero. "I like those," she said; 
 "they are alive." 
 
 They entered through the middle door, 
 adorned with enamelled figures of the 
 saints, and came at once into the glory of 
 the place. Before them, up to the very 
 altar steps, was a kneeling throng of peo- 
 ple. Around them rose the walls of glass 
 mosaics, of alabaster, of precious marbles 
 and hammered gold. From the domes 
 the light filtered through the smoke of 
 the censers ; and far away, above the high 
 altar, glowed the Pala d'Oro. 
 
 [37] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 A priest held up the Host, and out 
 of the silence came the far-ofF note of a 
 silver bell. Angelo fell upon his knees. 
 Again the sweet sound throbbed through 
 the air. 
 
 Dolores bent over him, and he felt a 
 tear upon his hand. "Take me away," 
 she sobbed. " Quick, or I shall be pray- 
 ing." 
 
 They went out onto the Piazza and 
 walked slowly through the arcade on the 
 right. They did not speak. At the pho- 
 tographer's, near the corner, Dolores 
 stopped and looked at the pictures in the 
 window. 
 
 " There is Calve," she said, " and Bern- 
 hardt, and Monsieur Gladstone. He 
 should change his valet." Then she gave 
 a cry and ran into the shop. Angelo fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 "No, no," she was saying to the at- 
 tendant; "not that one — that is Jean de 
 Reszke — the one in the corner," and she 
 leaned over and pointed eagerly. 
 
 The shopman handed her a piflure. 
 
 [ 38] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 She seized it, looked at it, and then 
 pressed it to her bosom. 
 
 " Look," she cried, half laughing, half 
 crying, "it is Juan. Isn't he grand? See; 
 he is wearing the scarf I gave to him. 
 Look at his silk stockings — how white 
 they are." 
 
 She held the pidlure away from her and 
 made a courtesy. 
 
 "Very fine we are to-day. Monsieur 
 Juan," she said. " What woman tied your 
 jabot for you?" 
 
 She asked the price of the picture. 
 
 "A lira, Signora." 
 
 "Too little," she said, and she put a 
 gold piece on the counter. 
 
 That evening she was very quiet. About 
 nine o'clock she rang for the waiter and 
 asked him to bring writing materials. She 
 did not write easily, and she was obliged 
 to ask Angelo the spelling of one or two 
 simple words. When she finally sealed 
 and addressed her letter he ofi^ered to post 
 it for her. 
 
 " It is of no consequence," she said. 
 
 [39] 
 
T!he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " It is to my dressmaker. I must be get- 
 ting ready for the autumn." Presently, 
 she went out and posted it herself. 
 
 They spent the next two days upon 
 the water. They floated from the Piazza 
 through the Grand Canal, under the iron 
 bridge, to the Canal de Mestre, by the 
 side of which lies the Ghetto. They glided 
 over the tideless lagoons to Murano; they 
 skirted the shores of Saint Lazzaro, where 
 the white-walled monastery stands among 
 the trees, and, best of all, they took a 
 " barca," and the two rowers drove them 
 out against the warm wind to the Lido. 
 
 The third day she said to him, " I have 
 a headache. The sun on the water has 
 been too much for me. I shall sleep until 
 the evening ; then I shall be well again. 
 You must spend the day by yourself. It 
 will be the first. Go out to the Lido again 
 and tell me all about it when you return." 
 
 He demurred, but she said, "If you 
 stay here you will be coming in every 
 half-hour to ask if I am better, and I shall 
 not sleep." So he submitted. 
 
 [40] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 She called him back as he reached the 
 door. " Do not dare to look at any of the 
 women on the beach. If you do I shall 
 know it. I have only to look into your 
 eyes. 
 
 He had his hand upon the latch when 
 she called again, " Angelo." He came back 
 eagerly. 
 
 " You are sure that you do not regret ? " 
 
 He shook his head. " I only regret the 
 years before you came," he said. 
 
 She looked at him for a moment, then 
 she put out her arms, drew him toward 
 her, and kissed him on the forehead. 
 
 "Good-by," she said. "Do not come 
 back if I call again." 
 
 He went out. As he was going down 
 the stairs he heard her call his name, and 
 stopped, then he remembered her injunc- 
 tion, and went on. If he had disobeyed, 
 who knows ? 
 
 He went to the Lido, but the light 
 had gone out of the sky, the breeze from 
 the Adriatic was cold, the band played 
 out of tune, and his luncheon choked 
 
 [41 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 him. He walked up and down the sands, 
 waiting until he might go back to Ven- 
 ice, where there was sunlight, where the 
 breeze was warm, where, in the Piazza, 
 the band played sweetly and the pigeons 
 perched and cooed on the carved statues 
 of the saints. At three o'clock he started to 
 walk to the quay — the tram-cars were too 
 slow. He found his barcajust off the land- 
 ing steps, and he bade the men row fast. 
 
 " I am very late," he said. 
 
 He flung himself upon the cushions 
 and shut his eyes. 
 
 "Pietro," he said to the man at the 
 after oar, " were you ever ivs. love ? " 
 
 "A thousand times, signore," replied 
 Pietro, showing his white teeth. 
 
 " Is she waiting for you ? " asked An- 
 gelo. 
 
 "I fear she is, signore." 
 
 "Row faster, then," said Angelo; and 
 rising, he flung his weight upon the oar. 
 
 They landed at the Piazza, and it was 
 only four o'clock. He did not dare to go 
 home. 
 
 [42] 
 
Beyond the Walls 
 
 " She said she should sleep until even- 
 ing," he thought. "If I go home now I 
 shall disturb her." 
 
 He wandered about the Piazza looking 
 at the shop windows. He passed the glass- 
 makers, the jewellers, and the print-shop. 
 He crossed to the other side and walked 
 slowly by the cafes and the booksellers. 
 Then he came to the little flower-shop. 
 In the window were some yellow mi- 
 mosa blossoms. He went in and bought 
 them. It was now half-past four. He 
 would go to the hotel, but not up-stairs. 
 Perhaps the concierge could tell him how 
 Dolores was ; perhaps he might see Nan- 
 ette, her maid. 
 
 He went out of the Piazza, across the 
 bridge, and through the lane, walking as 
 slowly as possible. He entered the court- 
 yard of the hotel. The concierge stood in 
 the doorway. 
 
 " Ah, signore," he exclaimed, " the sig- 
 nora barely caught the train. She bade 
 me give you this letter." 
 
 Angelo took it without a word, and 
 
 [43] 
 
T'he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 slowly opened it. It contained some Ital- 
 ian money and a scrap of paper on which 
 was written : 
 
 " Forget me. 
 
 '' Dolores r 
 
 [44] 
 
III. THE FOLIES-BERGfeRES 
 
 JLlE opened his eyes and saw a woman's 
 face framed in white linen. 
 
 " If the geraniums flower too soon," he 
 said feebly, "you must pinch off the 
 blossoms with your fingers and — " 
 
 "Hush," said a sweet, low voice; and 
 he closed his eyes and slept again. 
 
 The house surgeon made his rounds at 
 ten o'clock. "How is your patient?" he 
 asked of the Sister of Mercy who sat at 
 the foot of Angelo's bed. 
 
 "Better," she replied. "He spoke just 
 now of flowers. They all seem to speak 
 of flowers or women when they are con- 
 valescent." 
 
 "Flowers and women are the same 
 thing," said the surgeon with a bow, and 
 he went up to the cot. 
 
 "Count d'Apremont?" he said. An- 
 gelo opened his eyes. " How are you this 
 morning?" 
 
 [45] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Very well," said Angelo, " but the ge- 
 raniums — " 
 
 " He will do/' said the surgeon to the 
 nurse. " Plenty of nourishment and the 
 same medicines." 
 
 A week afterward they let him sit on 
 the balcony overlooking the Campo San 
 Polo. Sister Frances sat by him. 
 
 "How far is it to Paris?" he asked. 
 
 " I do not know," she replied, " but it 
 is the chief city of France, and to go to 
 France one must turn to the right. I 
 know that, for last summer the senior 
 surgeon went to France, and I saw him 
 go out of the door and turn to the right. 
 I do not know much about such things. 
 I am religious." 
 
 "Did you ever know a man named 
 Juan?" he asked, after a pause. 
 
 "Juan? Juan?" she said, reflefting. 
 " Oh, yes, the old Spanish gardener at the 
 convent in Turin was called Juan. He 
 gave me some flowers the day I came 
 away to begin my nursing." 
 
 "The Juan that I mean was not a gar- 
 
 [46] 
 
T^he Folies-Bergeres 
 
 dener," said Angelo. "He was a man 
 with broad shoulders and a thick neck. 
 He had black hair and a smooth face, 
 except that he had whiskers just to the 
 bottom of his ears. He wore a velvet 
 jacket with many buttons, and long, 
 white silk stockings. He had a scarf about 
 his waist and a lace jabot at his throat. 
 He was a bull-fighter." 
 
 " I know no bull-fighters," said Sister 
 Frances. 
 
 " If a man were to cut your arm with 
 his knife because you spilled his tobacco," 
 he asked presently, "would you love him 
 for it?" 
 
 " It is time for your medicine," said 
 Sister Frances. 
 
 At the end of another week the sur- 
 geon pronounced him cured. 
 
 "He is as well as he is likely to be," 
 he said to the nurse, and he tapped his 
 forehead with his fingers and shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 Angelo made a bundle of his monk's 
 robe and sandals, which he tied up in a 
 
 [47] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 large silk handkerchief. Everything else 
 he told Sister Frances she might give 
 away. Of the money which Dolores had 
 enclosed in her letter he kept a note for 
 fifty liras; the rest he gave to Sister 
 Frances. " For your poor," he said. 
 
 " I shall have no more poor," she ex- 
 claimed. "They will all be rich;" and 
 she turned away to hide her tears. 
 
 Then he shook hands with her and with 
 the surgeon, went down-stairs, through 
 the front door, and turned to the right. 
 As he passed the little balcony he looked 
 up and saw Sister Frances. She turned her 
 head away quickly and put her hands to 
 her eyes. When he reached the turning 
 in the narrow street he looked back. She 
 was still upon the balcony, and she put 
 out her arms toward him. He took off 
 his hat and then turned the corner. 
 
 " Signore," he said to the first man he 
 met, "will you kindly tell me the road 
 to France?" 
 
 The stranger looked at him, laughed, 
 and then walked away. 
 
 [48] 
 
Hhe Folies-Bergeres 
 
 Angelo went on. Presently he crossed 
 the canal by the iron bridge, and in a few 
 moments he reached the railway station. 
 
 " Signore," he asked of a man in uni- 
 form, "is this the road to France?" 
 
 "Yes, signore," replied the official; "a 
 train leaves for Turin and Paris in twenty 
 minutes." 
 
 " Thank you," said Angelo, " but I shall 
 walk," and crossing the long trestle which 
 spans the lagoon, he began his journey. 
 
 II 
 
 It was the evening of the last Sunday 
 in September, and the boulevards were 
 thronged. The hotels were full of Amer- 
 icans, and the favorite had won at Long- 
 champs. The bourgeoisie was content. 
 
 At the restaurant Cesar, on the Bou- 
 levard Poissoniere, they dine early. At 
 half-past four Henri, the head waiter, 
 shaved and changed his collar. At five, 
 Madame Cesar, her gray hair arranged in 
 puff^s, put on her lace cap with the pink 
 ribbons and took her seat behind the little 
 
 [49] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 counter. At her left hand was a glass filled 
 with mignonette; at her right stood the 
 nickel vase into which the waiters cast the 
 pourboires^ to be divided later. At a quarter 
 past five Cesar himself came down-stairs 
 and arranged, on the table in the centre, 
 the grapes, the peaches, the melons, and 
 the green almonds. He stepped back and 
 regarded the effeft — the mirrors, framed 
 in ebony and tarnished gold; the red vel- 
 vet seats, somewhat worn; the linen on 
 the tables, white, but coarse; the shining 
 glasses; the fruits on the centre-table, and 
 his wife, with the pink ribbons, at the end 
 of the room. 
 
 "Good," he said, "but we need yel- 
 low," and he cut a great melon in halves 
 and laid them in a bed of green leaves. 
 
 At a quarter to six Monsieur Martin, 
 the engineer, entered. Madame Martin 
 followed him. His white, pointed beard 
 was closely trimmed, and he wore a red 
 ribbon in his button-hole. She was faded 
 and dressed in black. They took the table 
 in the corner, at the left of the door. 
 
 [ 50] 
 
T^he Folies-Bergeres 
 
 ^'^ Bon jour ^ madame; hon jour^ monsieur^'' 
 said Madame Cesar. They read the menu 
 carefully, then monsieur said, in a loud and 
 confident voice, "-' Sole f rite et rump steak'' 
 
 " As usual," whispered Cesar to Henri, 
 and the fish was served almost instantly. 
 
 The door opened slowly and Angelo 
 came in. He carried a bundle in a silk 
 handkerchief and his clothes were worn 
 and travel-stained. He took off his hat 
 and bowed to Madame behind the coun- 
 ter, to the Martins, and to Cesar. 
 
 " If it is not too dear," he said to the 
 latter, " I should like some soup and a 
 piece of bread." 
 
 " It will be one franc, monsieur." 
 
 Angelo hesitated. Then Madame Ce- 
 sar coughed and said, "Monsieur, soup 
 and bread cost fifty centimes ; a franc in- 
 cludes butter." 
 
 Angelo seated himself and put his 
 bundle under his chair. 
 
 " Be pleased to omit the butter," he said. 
 
 Henri served him with petite marmite 
 and a long loaf of bread. 
 
 [ SI ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Did you ever see such eyes ? " whis- 
 pered Madame Cesar to her husband. " I 
 wonder what he has in his bundle f " 
 
 "Silverware," said Cesar. 
 
 "You are stupid," she replied. "No 
 thief ever had such eyes." 
 
 " A few more pairs like them would 
 ruin us," said her husband. "You cut the 
 price in two. If a blind man comes in 
 perhaps you will double it." 
 
 "Go speak to him," said madame. 
 "Find out something about him. It is 
 easy to see that he is a gentleman and that 
 he is ill." 
 
 By this time many of the tables were 
 occupied. Cesar made the rounds ; a bow 
 to one, a joke with another, a slight ser- 
 vice to a third. At length he came to 
 Angelo, who had emptied the tureen and 
 was now eating the last of the bread. 
 
 " Will not monsieur have a little more 
 of the soup ? " asked Cesar. 
 
 "I should like it," replied Angelo, 
 "but I have very little money." 
 
 "When one orders soup," said Cesar, 
 
 [52] 
 
The Folies-Bergeres 
 
 "he is entitled to all that he wishes. It 
 is the rule of the house." 
 
 " In that case," said Angelo, " I will 
 have some more ; and bread, also, if it is 
 permitted." 
 
 "Monsieur is a traveller?" ventured 
 Cesar. 
 
 " Yes," replied Angelo. " I came from 
 Venice this evening." 
 
 " From Venice ? Then you arrived by 
 the express at five o'clock, at the Gare 
 de Lyon ? " 
 
 "No," replied Angelo; "I walked." 
 
 " Yes, from the station ? " 
 
 "No, from Venice." 
 
 "Monsieur !" exclaimed Cesar, "that 
 is more than six hundred miles." 
 
 "Yes," said Angelo, "but I left Ven- 
 ice the last day of July. I came to see a 
 woman — " 
 
 " Monsieur," said Cesar, " many young 
 men come to Paris for that purpose." 
 
 "Her name is Dolores," continued 
 Angelo. " Do you know where I can find 
 her?" 
 
 [53 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "She must be Spanish," said Cesar. 
 *' Is she an artiste, a singer, an adtress ? " 
 
 "She is a dancer," replied Angelo. 
 
 " I do not think she comes here," said 
 Cesar. " Most of my patrons are serious. 
 There is Monsieur Martin, the celebra- 
 ted engineer, at the table in the corner. 
 Madame is with him. They have dined 
 here for ten years at a quarter to six. 
 They read the menu from hors-d'oeuvres 
 to cheese and then he orders fried sole 
 and rump steak. We have those dishes 
 ready for him at a quarter to six. On his 
 last name-day he ordered langouste and 
 vol-au-vent a la financiered but before 
 Henri reached the door monsieur called 
 him back. 'Henri,' he said, 'on second 
 thought, I will have fried sole and rump 
 steak.' He will know nothing of your 
 dancer. His habits are formed. 
 
 " The lady at the next table," he con- 
 tinued, "the large lady with the blue hat 
 and the slight moustache, might doubt- 
 less have helped us twenty years ago, when 
 she led the ballet at the Grand Opera, 
 
 [54] 
 
l^he Folies-Bergeres 
 
 but she has ceased to be of the world. 
 She is a compatriot of mine. She comes 
 from Marseilles. She dines here each Fri- 
 day and Sunday. We serve bouillabaisse 
 on Friday, and I always keep some over 
 for Sunday. Bouillabaisse is much better, 
 monsieur, at its second cooking." 
 
 He looked slowly about the room. 
 
 " If Monsieur Vallon were here — ah, 
 there he is, in the far corner. He is of 
 the press. He knows every one." 
 
 He went over and spoke to a small man 
 who, between the courses of his dinner, 
 was correcting proofs. They evidently had 
 their joke together, for Cesar came back 
 smiling. 
 
 "Monsieur," he said, "it seems that 
 your friend is famous. She dances at the 
 Folies-Bergeres. She has an apartment on 
 the avenue Friedland. Each fine day she 
 drives a bay cob and a morning cart in 
 the Bois. She drinks two glasses of warm 
 milk at the Pre Catelan, and lunches at 
 the Madrid. Her appetite is good. In 
 the afternoon she drives in a vicSoria or a 
 
 [ 55] 
 
Hhe Monk and the Dancer 
 
 brougham, according to the weather. Her 
 servants are Enghsh. They wear dark 
 green and no rosettes. They are corre6tly 
 dressed and do not attempt to speak 
 French. Her brougham horses were given 
 her by an English milord. They are very 
 taking, but the nigh one is unsound. Af- 
 ter she has danced in the evening she has 
 supper at Paillard's. She dances at half- 
 past nine. Her maid is a Frenchwoman, 
 named Nanette. On Tuesdays and Satur- 
 days madame has a masseuse for an hour. 
 On Fridays she confesses at the Made- 
 leine. Her costumes for the stage are 
 made in Madrid, those for the carriage 
 and the house she procures from Raud- 
 nitz and Jeanne Hallee, and her morning 
 gowns are sent to her from London. 
 Hellstern makes her slippers and he tries 
 them on four times. Next winter she 
 dances in St. Petersburg, and in the 
 spring she goes to America. At the 
 Folies-Bergeres she receives two thou- 
 sand francs each night and half the gross 
 receipts of each Sunday. She keeps an 
 
 [56] 
 
T'he Folies-Bergeres 
 
 account at the Credit Lyonnais. Mon- 
 sieur Vallon makes you his compliments 
 and regrets that he cannot give you more 
 definite information." 
 
 " And Juan ? " asked Angelo. " Did he 
 say nothing of a bull-fighter called Juan ? " 
 
 Cesar became interested in the salt- 
 cellar. 
 
 " Did he speak of Juan ? " Angelo asked 
 again. 
 
 Cesar blushed and drummed upon the 
 table with his fingers. Then he leaned 
 over and whispered, " Monsieur Vallon's 
 advice is that you return to Venice." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Angelo paid for his dinner and gave 
 Henri two sous as zpourboire. Then, with 
 his bundle in his hand, he bowed to Ma- 
 dame Cesar. 
 
 " Good night, monsieur," she said, and 
 she followed him with her eyes to the door. 
 
 Cesar gave him his route. 
 
 "The first turn to the right, monsieur, 
 then the third street is the rue Richer. 
 
 [57] 
 
l^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 Turn to the right again and you will come 
 to the Folies-Bergeres." 
 
 The rue Richer was crowded with 
 cabs. Their lamps made two lines of 
 lights so long that they narrowed in the 
 distance. Over the door of the theatre, 
 traced in gas-jets, blazed the word "Do- 
 lores." 
 
 Angelo entered the vestibule. Two 
 men in evening dress sat within the rail- 
 ing of the bureau, and a member of the 
 municipal police stood by the green door 
 at the left, his helmet, breastplate, and 
 jack-boots glittering in the gas-light. 
 
 " Your ticket, if you please, monsieur," 
 said the cashier. 
 
 "I have come to see Dolores," said 
 Angelo. 
 
 "Doubtless," rejoined the cashier, 
 "but have you a place? You are just in 
 time." 
 
 "No," replied Angelo, "I have no 
 place. I do not understand these matters 
 very well, monsieur. I have not been of 
 the world long. I arrived in Paris only 
 
 [58 ] 
 
The FolieS'Bergeres 
 
 this evening. I came from Venice, mon- 
 sieur. Before that I was in Rome. The 
 marionettes in Rome are very fine, mon- 
 sieur. They walk and dance, and the tall 
 one in the bluejacket smokes a cigarette. 
 Dolores said that they were much more 
 amusing than the Coliseum, but that, I 
 believe, is very fine also. In Venice I was 
 quite ill, monsieur. Dolores left me there. 
 She was obliged to come to Paris to see 
 her dressmaker and — " 
 
 " Excuse me, monsieur," said the cash- 
 ier, " but if you have no ticket you are 
 too late. All the places are taken. You 
 may stand in the upper balcony, but it 
 is very crowded. The admission is two 
 francs." 
 
 Angelo put his hand in his pocket. 
 
 "Monsieur," he said, after counting 
 his money, "I have but one franc and 
 eighty centimes." 
 
 "Take it and get rid of him," whis- 
 pered the assistant, who was adding up 
 the night's receipts; and the cashier 
 handed Angelo a ticket. 
 
 [ 59] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 He went up-stairs, crossed the glass- 
 roofed garden where the palm trees are, 
 then up another flight, and came to the 
 second balcony. 
 
 It was crowded with workmen in their 
 Sunday clothes, with men from the clubs, 
 with women from the streets. The heat 
 was intense and the foul air reeked with 
 the scent of patchouly. The slope of the 
 balcony was very abrupt, and thanks to 
 his height, Angelo could see the stage 
 and the two loges next to the proscenium 
 arch. The drop-curtain was down and the 
 sign ^'' Entre-adle'' was posted. 
 
 "Where is Dolores?" asked Angelo. 
 
 A girl who stood next to him looked 
 at his bundle, laughed, and said, "She's 
 having a bottle with Juan in her dress- 
 ing-room." Then she looked in his face 
 and said, "Pardon, monsieur, I thought 
 you were one of us, but I see that I was 
 stupid." 
 
 She was silent a moment and then she 
 spoke again: "You may stand in front of 
 me if you wish. I have seen her twice 
 
 [60] 
 
The Folies-Bergeres 
 
 already. I come because the men come. 
 She has the trick. She is no better looking 
 than some of us, and the way in which 
 she wears her hair, with little hooks over 
 her ears, is very bad, but she is the mode, 
 and then one has said it. The mode is a 
 strange thing, monsieur. It depends upon 
 trifles. Liane, who lives with me, went 
 without her dinner for a month and then 
 bought a hat in the rue de la Paix. She 
 is down there in the stalls with a head 
 clerk from the Bon Marche, and I am up 
 here in the second balcony. But," she 
 said with a laugh, "I had the thirty 
 dinners, and they are better than a head 
 clerk." 
 
 "You perceive, monsieur," she added, 
 "that with such principles I shall never 
 be the mode." 
 
 "Are you cold?" she asked suddenly. 
 "You are shivering." 
 
 "No," he replied. "But Dolores, — is 
 she not coming?" 
 
 Just then the prompter gave the three 
 spats and the members of the orchestra 
 [6i ] 
 
Hhe Monk and the Dancer 
 
 came from under the stage and took their 
 seats. Angelo could see a man with a 
 blond beard enter the loge on the left. 
 Presently a man seated himself in the loge 
 on the right. He wore a dinner-jacket, a 
 folded collar, cut very low in front, and 
 a red cravat. He was dark, with closely 
 cut hair, and he was continually rolling 
 cigarettes which he lighted and then 
 threw away. 
 
 "Look," said Angelo's neighbor; 
 "there they are, the English milord and 
 Juan. They say milord has castles and 
 yachts and jewels and all such things, 
 and poor old Juan has nothing but his 
 smile and his courage and his cigarettes, 
 and Dolores sides with Juan. That is 
 eccentric, and it makes her a la mode.'' 
 
 The leader tapped with his baton and 
 the music began; a picked string here, a 
 tap of the kettle-drums there, a bleat 
 from the oboe, a twinkle from the clari- 
 onets, a blare from the trombones, a wave 
 of the white gloves, a burst of concerted 
 sound, and the curtain went slowly up. 
 
 [62] 
 
"The Folies-Bergeres 
 
 The stage was a blank. The orchestra 
 glided into the " Spanish Dances," and 
 from the wings stepped Dolores. 
 
 She was dressed in black. Her bodice, 
 her skirts, her stockings, all were black. 
 So small and perfectly shaped were her 
 feet that she had the audacity to wear 
 white slippers; and over her left ear rested 
 the stem of a crimson rose. 
 
 She walked slowly down the stage, de- 
 mure, her eyes cast down. She came into 
 the glow of the foot-lights, stopped, and 
 cast a glance toward the box on the right. 
 Then she went half-way up the stage 
 again, and the orchestra burst into full 
 melody. 
 
 She stood motionless a moment, and 
 then her body began to sway. The time 
 was so exquisitely marked that the au- 
 dience found itself swaying in unison. 
 There was a tap of the kettle-drums, a 
 change of rhythm, and she came whirl- 
 ing down the stage, a cloud of black tulle 
 and a suggestion of white linen. The 
 music ended with a crash and she stopped 
 
 [63] 
 
TChe Monk and the Dancer 
 
 suddenly, her arms extended, her bosom 
 heaving. For a moment the audience 
 was as silent as the throng at St. Peter's 
 when the Host is elevated, or as they 
 who, hat in hand, file past the Sistine 
 Madonna. Then a man in the third row 
 stood up and waved his hat. Immediately 
 the house rose, men and women. They 
 clapped their hands, they shouted, they 
 flung flowers, cigarettes, hats, gloves, 
 coins upon the stage; and she, her cheeks 
 burning, her eyes glowing, took the red 
 rose fi*om her hair, put it to her lips, and 
 then flung it into the loge on the right. 
 Juan caught it, and the curtain fell. 
 
 "You are not going?" said the girl to 
 Angelo. " She dances in a moment. That 
 was merely her appearance." 
 
 He looked at her with a smile so sad 
 that she felt the tears coming to her eyes 
 and marvelled at herself. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " I am going. I have 
 seen her once more. Why should I stay? 
 I thank you, mademoiselle, for your kind- 
 ness. Good night." 
 
 [64] 
 
T^he Folies-Bergeres 
 
 He made his way slowly through the 
 crowd to the stairs. She followed him 
 with her eyes and suddenly pushed after 
 him and touched his shoulder. 
 
 "Where are you going?" she asked. 
 
 " I do not know," he answered. 
 
 She hesitated, and then said, "You 
 have money?" 
 
 " I have nothing," he replied. 
 
 "Good!" she exclaimed; "I am rich, 
 if I am not the mode. I have forty francs. 
 I can afford to be respectable for a week. 
 Come." 
 
 She put her arm through his, and half 
 supporting him, she led him out into the 
 streets. 
 
 [6s] 
 
IV. THE ABBOT 
 
 T 
 
 HE long, hot summer passed slowly 
 at La Trappe; and when winter came 
 it found the monastery unchanged, save 
 that the graves of the monks had grown 
 a little deeper and the Abbot had grown 
 much older. All during the year he had 
 worked with the feverish energy of a 
 man who has a task to accomplish and 
 finds his time short. His candle burned 
 late every night, and with the strange 
 freemasonry that prevails in all commu- 
 nities condemned to silence, the monks 
 asked one another, "What has befallen 
 the Abbot?" 
 
 One night in December the rain which 
 had been steadily falling turned to snow, 
 and in the morning, when the chapter 
 went to the chapel at seven o'clock for 
 " prime," the terrace by the fountain was 
 covered with feathery flakes an inch deep. 
 Such a thing had not been seen in Algeria 
 for years. As the long file of brown-robed 
 
 ^ [66] 
 
the Abbot 
 
 monks passed through the courtyard, one 
 of them, a black-bearded Belgian, broke 
 from the line, and flinging himself down 
 rolled in the snow. 
 
 "My God," he cried, "see the snow, 
 the snow that falls in Brussels. I made a 
 statue of it in the park and Won a prize. 
 Marie came to see it. She said — " 
 
 Brother Ambrose whispered in his ear, 
 and he rose and sullenly resumed his place 
 in the line. 
 
 When Brother Ambrose reported this 
 occurrence to the Abbot it was with fear 
 and trembling. He remembered that An- 
 gelo had spoken in reply to a woman and 
 had disappeared, "to work his penance," 
 as the Abbot had said the next day. But 
 Brother Pierre's offence had been grati^i- 
 tous; no one had spoken to him, and the 
 whole household had heard him utter a 
 woman's name. It was not merely an of- 
 fence, it was a scandal. 
 
 The Abbot listened calmly to the re- 
 port, and then went to his desk and took 
 out of it the red book with the lock. 
 
 [67] 
 
T!he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "Marie was the name he spoke, was 
 it not ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes, father," replied Brother Am- 
 brose. 
 
 The Abbot opened the book, turned 
 several leaves, ran his finger down a page, 
 paused, and then locked the book and put 
 it back in the desk. 
 
 " My friend," he said finally, " I fear 
 that more men turn monks for the love 
 of a woman than for the love of God." 
 
 Brother Ambrose drew his hand across 
 his eyes and stood silent. 
 
 The Abbot paced the little room, his 
 hands behind his back. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, "who resusci- 
 tated our order ? Armand de Ranee. He 
 was a brave man who stood well with 
 his king. He loved the Duchess Rohan- 
 Montbazon, and she loved him. One day 
 the king sent him into Germany on a 
 mission. The duchess begged him not to 
 leave her; but he said, 'The king wills 
 it, and my honor compels me.' And she 
 said, 'Thy honor is my honor,' and kissed 
 [68 ] 
 
The Abbot 
 
 him, and he rode away. When in a month 
 he returned to Paris, successful in his mis- 
 sion, he rode gayly to her house, and get- 
 ting off his horse, ran past the domestics, 
 up the stairs to her room, and found her 
 there, dead, upon a bier, the candles burn- 
 ing. Had shelived, there would have been 
 no La Trappe. You took the vows, my 
 friend, because forty years ago a little 
 flaxen-haired girl in Normandy played 
 you false. Shall I tell you her name ? It 
 is all in the red book, yonder." 
 
 "No," cried brother Ambrose, "do 
 not speak it. I hear it in my dreams; I 
 hear it continually by day — in the pray- 
 ers — in the chants — in the gospel and 
 epistle — in every breeze that blows. Do 
 not speak it." 
 
 "Forgive me," said the Abbot. "I 
 hoped that forty years had brought you 
 peace." 
 
 There was a long silence, and then the 
 Abbot spoke again. 
 
 "You remember," he said, "when I 
 came to La Trappe, do you not ? " 
 
 [69] 
 
T'he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "Yes," replied Brother Ambrose, "I 
 let you in at the gate. You rode a black 
 horse and wore an officer's uniform. You 
 carried Angelo, who was a baby then, in 
 your arms. You gave him to me, and I 
 brought him up on goat's milk. You told 
 me that he was the son of an officer who 
 had died in the desert." 
 
 " I lied to you," said the Abbot. 
 
 " I thought so at the time," said Bro- 
 ther Ambrose. 
 
 " I wrote the same lie in the red book," 
 added the Abbot. 
 
 Brother Ambrose shook his head 
 gravely. 
 
 " What is more," said the Abbot, " on 
 the day that Angelo helped you in the 
 guest-room, I read the lie to him." 
 
 " You disowned him.? " gasped Brother 
 Ambrose. 
 
 " Yes, God help me," said the Abbot, 
 " I disowned my son." 
 
 " You perceive," he added, " what man- 
 ner of man your Abbot is." 
 
 " I presume," suggested Brother Am- 
 
 [70] 
 
The Abbot 
 
 brose, faintly, "you thought it for the 
 best?" 
 
 " Yes," said the Abbot, bitterly, " I 
 have tried that salve, but it does not heal. 
 A lie is never for the best. What right 
 had I, because the world had gone wrong 
 with me, to teach my son that the grave 
 is the only happiness that comes to man? 
 What right had I to tell him he was 
 fatherless and had nothing to link him 
 with the world? My grief made me self- 
 ish. I forgot all the joys of living; I saw 
 only the face of a girl lying dead in the 
 little house in Biskra. I often see it, and 
 I often hear her sweet voice asking, 
 'Where is my son, for whom I died?' 
 And the only answer I can make is, ' I 
 disowned him and he went away.' God 
 came to me in the garden the last night 
 that Angelo was here, and I went to the 
 chapel cell to make confession; but I was 
 too late; the lock was broken and my son 
 was a wanderer. He had no money, no 
 knowledge of the world, no friends. That 
 was almost a year ago, and I have heard 
 
 [71 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 no word of him. Is he ill, is he homeless, 
 is he famishing, or is he with his mother 
 in heaven? If so, what must they two think 
 of the Holy Abbot of La Trappe? What 
 do you think of him? You came to me 
 to-night to ask me to fix a penance for 
 Brother Pierre. His offence is that he 
 spoke the name of the woman who loved 
 him years ago. He simply spoke aloud 
 what you and I whisper every hour of 
 the day. It is true the monastery has its 
 rules, but who am I that I should enforce 
 them? I can only say, God bless him." 
 
 "Amen," said Brother Ambrose. 
 
 "To-morrow," resumed the Abbot, 
 " is Christmas Day. I wish the discipline 
 to be somewhat relaxed. Serve out fresh 
 straw for the chapter and let them sit in 
 the refeftory for a half-hour after dinner. 
 You will be celebrant at the high mass." 
 
 "I!" exclaimed Brother Ambrose, 
 "Why not you?" 
 
 "Because," said the Abbot, "I shall 
 not be here. This is my last day at La 
 Trappe." 
 
 [ 72 ] 
 
The Abbot 
 
 Brother Ambrose staggered back 
 against the wall. 
 
 The Abbot took from his desk a letter. 
 
 " I have written fully to the Superior/' 
 he said, "and I wish that you would post 
 this after I am gone. The accounts of the 
 chapter are made up to this morning. 
 We have had a very good year. Here 
 are my keys," and he held them out to 
 Brother Ambrose, who stood motionless. 
 
 The Abbot looked at him a moment, 
 and then placed the keys upon the desk. 
 
 " I have ordered a carriage from Al- 
 giers to be at the gate at eleven o'clock,'* 
 he continued. "I shall go out as I am, 
 but in the guest-room I shall leave my 
 robe and shall put on ordinary dress, 
 which will be brought me in the car- 
 riage. I wish that you would keep my 
 rosary and crucifix, as a remembrance. I 
 shall remain in Algiers only long enough 
 to make some inquiries, and shall then go 
 wherever it seems best. If it should be 
 necessary to communicate with me, the 
 Superior has an address. By the way, do 
 
 [73] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 you know my name? I am Count Charles 
 Franfois d'Apremont. A good name till 
 I soiled it." 
 
 Just then the great bell at the gate 
 clanged. 
 
 The Abbot started. "The carriage!" 
 he exclaimed. "I thought it was earlier. 
 Go and see." 
 
 "No, no," cried Brother Ambrose, 
 starting from the wall and placing him- 
 self against the door. " You must not go. 
 You shall not go." 
 
 "Silence," said the Abbot, sternly. 
 "Remember that until I have passed 
 the gate I am the Abbot of La Trappe. 
 Afterwards," he added gently, " I shall be 
 nothing but an old man seeking his son." 
 
 Brother Ambrose bowed his head and 
 went slowly out. 
 
 The Abbot arranged the books and 
 papers in his desk with great care, then 
 he turned the key and left it in the lock. 
 He glanced about the little room he was 
 so soon to leave. Its whitewashed walls 
 and stone floor were dimly lighted by 
 
 [74] 
 
The Abbot 
 
 the candle. Its sole furnishings were the 
 desk, a single chair, the coffin bed in the 
 corner, and near the door a bench, upon 
 which was a basin and a water-pitcher of 
 red clay. It was all hideously clean and 
 bare, but still it had been a home. The 
 Abbot marvelled at the reluftance with 
 which he quitted it. 
 
 The door opened slowly, and Brother 
 Ambrose whispered, "It was the car- 
 riage. I bade the coachman wait a little 
 distance down the road." 
 
 " Good," said the Abbot. " I am ready." 
 
 At the door he turned and waved his 
 hand. 
 
 "Adieu, little chamber," he said, and 
 then he went out, leaving the candle 
 burning. 
 
 The two old men went slowly through 
 the courtyard. The rain had ceased, and 
 the sky was filled with broken clouds 
 swept toward the Great Desert by the 
 wind. 
 
 At the gate the Abbot stopped and 
 fumbled at his girdle. 
 
 [75 ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "Here," he said, "take this before I 
 go out," and he thrust his rosary into 
 Brother Ambrose's hand. 
 
 "Now open the gate." 
 
 Just then a faint noise came from the 
 dark shadow of the eucalyptus trees. 
 Some one was coming. They could hear 
 him splashing through the pools of water 
 that lay upon the rain-drenched road. 
 The moon shone out from between the 
 edges of the clouds, and the Abbot saw 
 the figure of a man approaching. It came 
 on slowly, and the Abbot and Brother 
 Ambrose stepped behind the great stone 
 gate-post. The footsteps came close up 
 to the gate, then stopped; a pale, drawn 
 face was thrust between the bars and a 
 faint voice whispered, " Open." 
 
 The Abbot turned white and fell to 
 trembling. He did not speak while Bro- 
 ther Ambrose was busy with the lock. 
 But when, a moment later, he flung his 
 arms about his son. Brother Ambrose 
 heard him whisper the one word, 
 "Miriam." 
 
 [76] 
 
The Abbot 
 
 Angelo did not notice it, nor did he 
 seem to see the two old men. He breathed 
 sobbingly, as if he had been running. 
 
 " Quick ! " he gasped, throwing himself 
 against the gate, "shut it and keep it 
 out!" 
 
 "What?" asked Brother Ambrose. 
 
 " The world," said Angelo ; " it is pur- 
 suing me." 
 
 They shut the gate and locked it. 
 
 Angelo gazed about him as if in a 
 dream. He had resumed his monk's robe, 
 and it was wet and splashed with mire to 
 the waist. He was so tired and weak that 
 he swayed as he stood. 
 
 "The geraniums;" he said finally, and 
 he started toward the garden. 
 
 The Abbot put his arm about his son's 
 waist, and they crossed the courtyard 
 and went down the grass walk together. 
 When they came to the geraniums they 
 found nothing but long rows of brown 
 stalks, cut back for the winter. In the 
 trenches between the rows the water lay 
 in sullen pools. Angelo stood silent for 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 a time, and then he said, " It must be win- 
 ter. What has become of the summer? " 
 
 " It has gone," replied the Abbot, sadly, 
 "but," he added, "it will come again." 
 
 They went slowly up the grass walk, 
 neither of them speaking. 
 
 As they reached the Abbot's chamber 
 the moon shone out full and clear. The 
 Abbot paused on the threshold. 
 
 "Look, my son," he said, and he 
 pointed to the cross on the chapel roof. 
 "For those who are weary and heavy- 
 laden there alone is peace." 
 
 They entered the little chamber, and 
 the Abbot closed the door. 
 
 Brother Ambrose, who had followed 
 them afar off, took his seat on a bench in 
 the cloisters, within call, and waited. 
 
 In half an hour the Abbot came out 
 and called him softly. 
 
 He went up to the door. 
 
 " Hush," whispered the Abbot, "he is 
 sleeping. Is the carriage still waiting?" 
 
 ^'Yes, Father," replied Brother Am- 
 brose. 
 
 [78] 
 
The Abbot 
 
 " Pay the coachman a double fare and 
 send him away," said the Abbot. 
 
 "And the clothes in the carriage?" 
 asked Brother Ambrose. 
 
 The Abbot hesitated. "You may give 
 them to the coachman, also," he said 
 finally. 
 
 "Thank God," said Brother Ambrose. 
 "Shall I celebrate the mass to-morrow?" 
 
 "No," said the Abbot. 
 
 "Then you had better take this. Fa- 
 ther," said Brother Ambrose, and he 
 handed the Abbot his rosary. 
 
 "Good night," said the Abbot. 
 
 "Good night. Father," said Brother 
 Ambrose. 
 
 The clock over the refedory door 
 struck twelve. 
 
 It was Christmas morning. 
 
 [79] 
 
«w 
 
 TROT, TROT 
 TO MARKET 
 
^ 
 
 ^11 
 
 TROT, TROT 
 TO MARKET 
 
 When the Earl of Vauxhall left the 
 smoking-room of the Celibates Club (he 
 had been divorced many years and was 
 theoretically eligible), he was followed 
 by laughter and clapping of hands. A man 
 of three score and ten, he had told a story 
 that may not be told here. There were 
 French phrases scattered through it at 
 which the men who did not know French 
 laughed, and at which those who did 
 shifted uneasily in their chairs and won- 
 dered why they were there. A few tooth- 
 less skeletons in fur coats, who sat about 
 the fire, cackled and winked and nudged 
 each other and, dying, saluted him. 
 
 When the earl reached the lobby he 
 spoke to the porter. 
 
 " Shaw," he asked, " is there a note for 
 me?" and while Shaw was searching 
 
 [83 ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 among the post-boxes, the earl took oc- 
 casion to stagger, to clutch at his collar, 
 to collapse upon the porter's seat, and 
 thence to slide to the floor and lie still : 
 a heap of fur coat, top hat, white gloves, 
 patent leather, and dead clay. 
 
 "Yes, my lord," said Shaw, turning, 
 "here is—" 
 
 Colonel Mellish, who just then came 
 into the club, was the first to reach the 
 prostrate nobleman. The colonel had seen 
 many things and was not easily rattled. 
 He raised the peer's head and loosened 
 his cravat. 
 
 "Shaw," asked the colonel in a low 
 voice, "what is it, — apoplexy or the 
 booze ? " 
 
 " I 'm sure, sir, I can't say," gasped 
 Shaw. " It might be either, sir. His lord- 
 ship has been here since luncheon wait- 
 ing for a note which just came, sir." 
 
 "Have you it?" asked the colonel. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Shaw, and he held out 
 a dainty white envelope. 
 
 " Better hold onto it," said the colonel, 
 
 [84 J 
 
7r^/, Trot to Market 
 
 "it is probably not from the Bishop of 
 London." 
 
 Just then a man came into the lobby. 
 The colonel looked up. 
 
 "Ah, Dr. Hardy," he said, "here is 
 something in your line. I resign." 
 
 The do6lor kneeled, pulled open the 
 peer's coat, in the buttonhole of which 
 was a white carnation, felt for the heart 
 and the pulse, looked into the eyes, stood, 
 and took off his hat. 
 
 "He is dead," he said. 
 
 "Quick work," said the colonel. "No 
 chance for bets. I could have got two to 
 one in the smoking-room that it was noth- 
 ing but the booze." 
 
 He stood a moment, looking down at 
 the heap on the marble floor. 
 
 "Do6tor," he said at length, "what 
 was it we used to have at school — some- 
 thing about de mortuis ? There was more 
 of it, but I forget it. Now, just between 
 you and Shaw and me, I wish to say that 
 that thing lying there was a peer of Eng- 
 land three minutes ago, and that he didn't 
 
 [85] 
 
T'he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 have a friend. I '11 leave him to you. You 
 have the smartest praftice in the West 
 End — and the largest death-rate." 
 
 He started tov^ard the door, paused, 
 and came back. 
 
 " Shaw," he whispered, " where 's that 
 note ? " 
 
 " Here, sir," replied Shaw. 
 
 "Give it to me," said the colonel. 
 
 "But, sir," said Shaw, "the rules are 
 very strift about members' letters." 
 
 "How is it addressed?" asked the 
 colonel. 
 
 "To the Earl of Vauxhall, sir," re- 
 plied Shaw. 
 
 " Who is the Earl of Vauxhall .? " asked 
 the colonel. 
 
 Shaw stared. "There he is, sir," he 
 said finally, pointing to the floor. 
 
 "Nonsense," said the colonel, "that's 
 nobody. I 'm going to see the earl, and 
 I '11 give him his letter." 
 
 "Oh," said Shaw, "you mean Lord 
 Robert, sir? He is the earl now, sure 
 enough, sir," and he handed over the note. 
 [ 86] 
 
Trot^ Trot to Market 
 
 "Call a hansom," said the Colonel. 
 
 n 
 
 IT was only a moment's drive down 
 Piccadilly and up Clarges Street, when 
 the colonel held his stick to the left and 
 the hansom stopped. The colonel sat so 
 long that cabby opened the trap and 
 asked, " Is this right, your honor ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied the colonel. " I *m think- 
 ing; don't bother me. You're Irish, are 
 you not ? " 
 
 " Well, your honor," said cabby, " that 
 depends." 
 
 "Upon what?" demanded the colo- 
 nel. 
 
 "Upon what your honor is," replied 
 cabby. 
 
 "Enough," said the colonel, "we are 
 countrymen;" and he stepped to the side- 
 walk and handed up a shilling. 
 
 " Don't break your hand," said cabby. 
 
 "I won't," said the colonel, with a 
 laugh. " Are you married ? " 
 
 " I am, your honor," replied cabby, 
 
 [87] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " And one at the breast, I expeft," said 
 the colonel. 
 
 " Two, your honor," said cabby, grin- 
 ning. 
 
 "Good," said the colonel; "we are a 
 pair of rogues, but I haven't another 
 shilling in the world." 
 
 " I '11 lend your honor four bob," said 
 cabby, standing on the perch and going 
 for his pocket. 
 
 " No, thanks," said the colonel. " I don't 
 want another creditor, but I 'd shake your 
 hand if I hadn't just touched carrion." 
 
 " I 'm even with your honor," said 
 cabby, "I've just had a sandwich at the 
 shelter." 
 
 They parted with mutual regret, and 
 the colonel rang the bell of a little house 
 with a green light over the doo-r. 
 
 " Is Lord Robert at home ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the servant, and the 
 colonel went up the stairs, stumbled at 
 the top step, swore, and knocked. 
 
 " Come," said some one, and the colonel 
 entered. 
 
 [88 ] 
 
Trot^ 'Trot to Market 
 
 "rm a bit late," he said, "but the 
 King is dead! long live the King." 
 
 A young man with hair the color of 
 ripe wheat, with black eyebrows, with 
 a waist like an hour-glass, with a skin like 
 milk, and a voice like cream, said, " What 
 are you rowing about ? You Ve got a place 
 to sleep, I suppose; why don't you go to 
 it?" 
 
 " Faith," said the colonel, " that 's a fine 
 way to greet the bearer of glad tidings. 
 I Ve a mind not to tell you, but I must, 
 it's too good to keep; your father has 
 been dead half an hour." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " exclaimed the 
 young man. 
 
 "Just what I say," replied the colonel. 
 "Your respected parent had a stroke in 
 the vestibule of the Celibates and never 
 moved after it. You Ve bearin' up won- 
 derfully, my lad. I know what a blow it 
 is to you. You 're an earl, and through 
 no fault of your own. I trust, my lord, 
 that if any patronage comes your way 
 you won't forget that Colonel Mellish 
 
 [89] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 spent his last shilling to bring you this 
 news. You might give me a drink now. 
 I Ve a bad taste in my mouth.'' 
 
 The Earl of Vauxhall motioned toward 
 a corner of the room, and the colonel went 
 to a cabinet, opened it, and took out a 
 decanter, a glass, and a syphon. He mixed 
 a drink, drank it, mixed another, and came 
 back, with the glass in his hand. He took 
 a seat by the fire and watched the earl 
 pace the floor. 
 
 " Bobby," asked the colonel, after a sip 
 or two, " how long is it since you and the 
 lamented had speech together ? " 
 
 " Rather more than five yeacs," replied 
 the earl. " Did he speak of me to-night ? " 
 
 "He didn't speak at all," said the 
 colonel. " He just wheezed a bit and was 
 off. He'd been drinking well all day, Shaw 
 told me, so we 've every reason to suppose 
 he died happy. Oh, he was a fine old 
 English gentleman!" 
 
 " If you think," said the earl, " that you 
 gratify me by these remarks, you are mis- 
 taken. While he was alive, it was one 
 
 [90] 
 
Trot^ Trot to Market 
 
 thing. Now that he is dead, it is quite 
 another. You will oblige me by either 
 being decent or going." 
 
 The colonel laughed. "All right, my 
 lord," he said. "I came to talk a little 
 business. You owe me a thousand pounds. 
 I suppose it will soon be convenient to 
 pay, now that you have come into the 
 property." 
 
 " Property ! " laughed the earl, " there 
 isn't any. The land is mortgaged up to 
 its neck. The town house went years ago, 
 and the pictures and the bric-a-brac were 
 sold in '96. My father leaves me nothing 
 but his title and his reputation. As forme, 
 I have three hundred a year from my 
 mother, in a trust; I sell a little wine to 
 my friends; I occasionally help an artist 
 to get rid of a picture; now and then I 
 get a tip on the horses, and I have been 
 known to play cards — witness my debt 
 to you. I owe more money than I ever 
 had." 
 
 The colonel sat gazing into the fire. 
 
 "Bobby," he said at length, "it looks 
 
 [91 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 as though you would have to sell some- 
 thing." 
 
 "I've got a Waterbury watch," said 
 the earl. 
 
 "I brought you something to-night 
 that is rather valuable," said the colonel. 
 
 "What is it?" asked the young man. 
 
 "An earldom," replied the colonel, 
 "and there's a rich American born every 
 minute." 
 
 The young man laughed again. "Do 
 you know a possible purchaser?" he asked. 
 
 "I do," replied the colonel. "There's 
 one just around the corner in Park Lane. 
 She is the daughter of a man who lived 
 in Montana or Delaware or some other 
 Western place. He salted mines and then 
 sold them. He built railroads and then 
 wrecked them. He went to Congress and 
 worked the stock market. He died six 
 months ago and left his daughter a mat- 
 ter of sixty thousand a year. My cousin. 
 Matt Cassidy, was the old man's private 
 secretary, and he sent me all the particu- 
 lars when the girl came over. She 's here 
 
 [92] 
 
T^rot^ Trot to Market 
 
 with her aunt, the only relation she has. 
 They brought letters to the Embassy, but 
 they don't know many people yet, being 
 in mourning for the old pirate. They do 
 things in style. They have as good horses 
 as go in London, and a better cook than 
 there is in Buckingham Palace." 
 
 "Have you seen her?" asked the earl. 
 
 " Faith, I have, and twice," replied the 
 colonel. "Both times in the Park, and 
 Bobby, my boy, she's the sweetest thing 
 that ever came out of the States." 
 
 " How old is she? " asked the earl, with 
 some animation. 
 
 "Just one and twenty," replied the 
 colonel. " She got her money in Febru- 
 ary. I have a list of her securities that 
 Matt sent me. At present prices she's 
 worth over a million." 
 
 "Pounds?" asked the earl. 
 
 "Of course," said the colonel. 
 
 "You seem to have been thorough," 
 said the earl. 
 
 "In my business," said the colonel, 
 "you've got to be thorough." 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "What is her name?" asked the earl. 
 
 The colonel went to the corner and 
 mixed himself another drink. " Bobby," 
 he said, "before I tell you that, we ought 
 to have an understanding. I don't want 
 much." 
 
 " What are your terms? " asked the earl. 
 
 " Cash is one thing," said the colonel, 
 " and a contingent fee is another." 
 
 "That's reasonable," said the earl. 
 
 "I must have the thousand you owe 
 me, and nine more to go with it," said 
 the colonel. 
 
 "You shall have it," said the earl. 
 
 "And in addition," continued the colo- 
 nel, " I want the run of the house. I want 
 to be the friend of the family, with a seat 
 in the chimney-corner. I 'm getting old, 
 and I'm looking into the question of 
 reform." 
 
 " Agreed," said the earl, laughing. 
 
 "Shake," said the colonel, and they 
 joined hands. 
 
 "Now," said the colonel, glancing 
 about the room and lowering his voice, 
 
 [94] 
 
Tro/, "Trot to Market 
 
 "I'll tell you her name. It's Harwood* 
 Catherine Harwood. Don't forget it." 
 
 " I sha n't," said the earl ; " but how am 
 I to meet her?" 
 
 "Leave that to me," replied the colo- 
 nel. "Good night." 
 
 He rose unsteadily, took his overcoat 
 from the sofa, and struggled into it. He 
 buttoned it slowly and put his hands into 
 the pockets for his gloves. 
 
 " Hello," he said, " I was near forget- 
 ting. The late earl, of blessed memory, 
 was waiting all day at the club for this 
 note. It came just too late to catch him. 
 He had been so anxious about it that I 
 thought it might be important, so I 
 brought it along. You'd best open it." 
 
 The earl took the letter and broke the 
 seal. He read the contents under the lamp. 
 
 "It seems," he said, "that my dear 
 old father got ahead of us." 
 
 "What is it?" asked the colonel. 
 
 The earl read aloud: 
 ^^Dear Lord Vauxhall^ — I have thought it 
 " all over by myself^ and I have talked it all 
 
 [95] 
 
I^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 ^^over with my aunt^ and my answer is — 
 
 " / shall he at home all to-morrow afternoon^ 
 
 '"-and shall look for you at any hour. 
 
 Very sincerely^ 
 
 Catherine Harwood. 
 " Wednesday. 
 
 "What!" shouted Colonel Mellish. 
 
 The earl tossed the note across the table. 
 
 "No," said the colonel. "You read it 
 again. I haven't got my glasses." 
 
 The earl complied. When he had fin- 
 ished, the colonel went slowly to the cor- 
 ner and took the decanter in his trem- 
 bling hand. The bottle clicked against 
 the glass as he poured. 
 
 " Here's to the late Earl of Vauxhall," 
 he said. " He was a past-master. Old, hid- 
 eous, bankrupt, disgraced, he knew how 
 to make the richest girl in London say 
 — yes. Our cake is dough, but I drink to 
 him." 
 
 " It occurs to me," said the earl, " that 
 you have had drink enough. Your mind 
 seems a bit flabby." 
 
 [96] 
 
Trot^ Trot to Market 
 
 " How so ? " asked the colonel. 
 
 "She didn't marry him, did she?" 
 asked the earl. 
 
 "No," replied the colonel. 
 
 "But she said she would^ didn't she ?" 
 
 The colonel nodded. 
 
 "He's dead, isn't he?" 
 
 " Dead ? " exclaimed the colonel, with 
 a shudder. " If you had seen him on the 
 floor—" 
 
 "Well, then," continued the earl, "is 
 it vanity that suggests that, if she were 
 willing to marry the late earl, she may 
 be willing to marry the present one?" 
 
 The colonel staggered to his feet, and 
 threw his arms about his companion's 
 neck. 
 
 " Damn it," he cried, " we '11 have her 
 yet. The old man did all the work and 
 the young one gets the girl — " 
 
 "Sit down," said the earl, pushing 
 him off. " Don't put your hands on me, 
 man. You 're drunk." 
 
 Colonel Mellish fell into his chair. 
 
 "You'll go now," continued the earl. 
 
 [97] 
 
T!he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " I shall step around to my father's rooms. 
 I don't suppose they will let me in, but 
 I'll give them a chance. Come — good 
 night." 
 
 The colonel reached the door with 
 effort. "When will you see the girl?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "To-morrow," replied the earl. "I 
 shan't need to be presented. I '11 go by my- 
 self. What's the number of the house?" 
 
 " I 've forgotten," said the colonel, 
 "but it's the one with the conservatory 
 in front. You can't miss it." 
 
 Ill 
 
 1 HE swift bolt of the gods had stricken 
 the old Earl of Vauxhall so very late at 
 night that the morning newspapers made 
 no mention of the calamity. The new 
 earl satisfied himself of this while at 
 breakfast. He had come from his cham- 
 ber dressed in black, and his first aft was 
 to send out his hat to be fitted with a 
 deep band. The mirror told him that his 
 mourning was becoming, and he ate his 
 
 [98I 
 
7r(?/, T^rot to Market 
 
 egg and drank his tea with more than 
 usual satisfaction. 
 
 " I 'm an earl at twenty-five, and there 's 
 sixty thousand a year waiting for me round 
 the corner," he said to himself. " It might 
 be worse." 
 
 He had been at his father's rooms the 
 night before, and when he had finished 
 his breakfast and the racing news in the 
 papers, he took a cab again for Half 
 Moon Street. His father's man let him in. 
 
 "Good morning, Dobbins," said the 
 earl, "is everything right?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord," replied Dobbins,"! Ve 
 just got him shaved and touched up a bit, 
 and he looks very well, considering what 
 he 's been through. Will you go in, my 
 lord?" 
 
 The earl hesitated. " No," he said, at 
 length, " I don't think he would like it 
 if he knew I were looking at him." 
 
 " I dare say not, my lord," ventured 
 Dobbins. " He was a bitter hater." 
 
 "Has he never spoken of me in all 
 these years? '' asked the earl, 
 
 [99] 
 
l!he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Not in a way I ought to mention, 
 my lord," replied Dobbins. 
 
 " I am sorry," said the earl, "but I had 
 to stand by my mother." 
 
 "Yes, my lord," said Dobbins, "you 
 did quite right, if I may be so bold." 
 
 "Thank you, Dobbins," said the earl. 
 "You know more about it than any one 
 else. By the way, there is no one that 
 should be notified of the funeral, is there? 
 I have wired my father's cousin, Mr. 
 Whitstable. He is the only relative that 
 I know of." 
 
 Dobbins shook his head. " I 'm afraid, 
 my lord," he said, " that the funeral will 
 look like a creditors' meeting." 
 
 "Do you know a lady named Har- 
 wood?" asked the earl. " Miss Catherine 
 Harwood?" 
 
 " No, my lord," said Dobbins, refleft- 
 ing. " I don't recall the name. But then," 
 he added, looking toward the chamber 
 door, "he had so many." 
 
 " I suppose so," said the earl. " I will 
 come in again this evening." 
 
 [ loo ] 
 
Trot^ "trot to 'Market 
 
 At his rooms he found Colonel Mel- 
 lish awaiting him. 
 
 "Bobby, my lad," said the latter, "I 
 dropped in to cheer you up a bit." 
 
 "And yourself, incidentally, I see," 
 said the earl, pointing to the decanter on 
 the table. 
 
 " I 'm doing my best," replied the colo- 
 nel, " but I 'm in an awful funk. Suppose 
 she won't have you?" 
 
 The earl caught a glimpse of himself 
 in the mirror. " I think she '11 have me 
 fast enough," he said. "The only question 
 is, has she got the money?" 
 
 " I have it in black and white," ex- 
 claimed the colonel. 
 
 " All right," said the earl. " We '11 look 
 over the schedules while we are eating 
 our chop." 
 
 They lunched leisurely, and the sched- 
 ules proved highly satisfaftory. 
 
 "I don't know much about these 
 American securities," said the earl, " but 
 they certainly look well on paper." 
 
 " I 've looked them all up," said the 
 [ loi ] 
 
T'Ae Monk and the Dancer 
 
 colonel, "and they're as good as the 
 Bank." 
 
 The earl went into his chamber, added 
 a few touches to his toilet, came back, 
 and drew on a pair of black gloves. 
 
 " I 'm off," he said. 
 
 "God bless you," said the colonel. 
 "You'll find me here. Don't be long." 
 
 The earl took a visiting-card from his 
 case, drew a pencil through the name, 
 and wrote under the line, "The Earl of 
 Vauxhall." Then he went out. 
 
 The house with the conservatory in 
 front was not far down Park Lane, and 
 the earl stopped his hansom before the 
 door. He rang the bell, and a footman in 
 powder took his card. 
 
 "Is Miss Harwood at home?" asked 
 the earl. 
 
 "Yes, my lord," replied the man. 
 
 The earl went in, and was shown 
 through the hall, past another footman, 
 up the stairs, and into a small room on 
 the left. He looked about him with ap- 
 proval. 
 
 [ I02 ] 
 
Trot^ Trot to Market 
 
 "This will do, I think," he said to 
 himself. " I '11 make a few slight changes, 
 but on the whole it will do. How those 
 Americans spend money on flowers — 
 bunches on the piano — on the mantel — 
 on the cabinet — on the table ; four guin- 
 eas, at least! I can save a bit there." 
 
 His ear caught the rustle of a skirt, and 
 he turned quickly. A girl came into the 
 room. She began speaking at the door. 
 
 "Ah, Lord Vauxhall," she said, "I 
 was afraid you had repented." Then she 
 stopped suddenly and gazed at the earl. 
 
 He bowed as if she were the queen. 
 
 " I am afraid there is some mistake," 
 she said, smiling. " I expedled to find the 
 Earl of Vauxhall." 
 
 " Madam," said the young man, " I am 
 the Earl of Vauxhall." 
 
 "There must be two of you, then," she 
 said, laughing. "You certainly are not 
 my Earl of Vauxhall." 
 
 "Madam," said the earl, "you doubt- 
 less expefted to see my father. He died 
 last night." 
 
 [ 103 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Oh," she cried, "how terrible ! How 
 sorry I am for you." 
 
 " And I, for you," said the earl. 
 
 " For me ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes," he said, with a smile that he 
 made very sad, and a voice into which he 
 put tears, "for you. My father and I have 
 been estranged and have not spoken to- 
 gether in many years. Chance alone has 
 made me acquainted with his great hap- 
 piness — with his great loss." 
 
 The girl stood speechless, with won- 
 dering eyes. 
 
 "Just after my father's death," contin- 
 ued the earl, " this letter was given to 
 me. It was addressed to the Earl of Vaux- 
 hall, and I opened it. It seemed to me 
 that it was my plain duty to bring it back 
 to you at once. I alone have read it, and 
 it is as though it had never been written." 
 
 He handed her the note and stepped 
 back. She opened it, glanced at its con- 
 tents, and dropped it on the table by 
 which she stood. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " that is the note I sent 
 
 [ 104 ] 
 
T!rot, "trot to Market 
 
 him yesterday, and he never got it after 
 all. Poor Lord Vauxhall — he seemed so 
 anxious about it." 
 
 " I do not blame him," said the earl. 
 " He had everything staked upon your 
 answer." 
 
 " Was it as bad as that," she exclaimed. 
 
 "Can you doubt it?" answered the 
 earl. 
 
 The girl said nothing, but stood with 
 downcast eyes, nervously pulling the 
 petals from a rose upon the table. The 
 earl, watching her, saw her lips move as 
 if she were trying over words that did not 
 suit her, and he also saw a blush mount 
 slowly from her throat to her temples. 
 
 " Lord Vauxhall," she said finally, her 
 words halting, her voice trembling, " We 
 Americans do not know much about 
 these things — we are brought up so dif- 
 ferently. We come over here and make 
 dreadful mistakes. I am very much afraid 
 that I am making one now, but if I am, 
 you must forgive me and forget it. If, as 
 you say, my answer was of such impor- 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 tance to your father, perhaps, as you have 
 succeeded him, you might like me to re- 
 peat it to you. If you wish, you may con- 
 sider that note to have been written to 
 yourself." 
 
 The earl dropped his hat upon the floor 
 and ran toward her, his arms extended. 
 The girl looked up, saw him coming, and 
 with a cry, sprang behind the table. The 
 earl, brought up standing, saw something 
 in the girl's eyes that made him think he 
 had been precipitate. He dropped his 
 arms and began to look foolish. 
 
 "Come, now," he said, "is that the 
 way they do things in the States? If you 
 are willing to marry me — " 
 
 "Marry you?" gasped the girl. 
 
 The earl gazed at her silently, then he 
 took the note from the table and read it 
 aloud: 
 
 " Dear Lord Vauxhall: I have thought it all 
 " over by myself^ and I have talked it all over 
 " with my aunt, and my answer is — yes ! " 
 
 He looked up. The girl had her hand- 
 kerchief to her face. 
 
 [ io6] 
 
"trot^ Trot to Market 
 
 "Don't cry," he said; "I'm sorry I 
 frightened you. I won't do it again if 
 you're not used to it — I mean — if it is 
 not customary in the States." 
 
 The girl took the handkerchief from 
 her face. Her cheeks were scarlet, but 
 there were no tears upon them. 
 
 " There," she said, " I have n't laughed 
 out loud yet, but if you don't go pretty 
 soon, I shall break down." 
 
 The earl shifted his feet uneasily. 
 
 " But how about the letter? " he asked, 
 somewhat sullenly. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said the girl, "the letter; 
 I suppose I must explain that Lord Vaux- 
 hall was very anxious that I should buy 
 some of the family diamonds. He said 
 his son had ruined him. I promised to 
 give an answer yesterday, and so I wrote 
 that note." 
 
 The earl looked about for his hat. It 
 was not to be seen. 
 
 "I think," said the girl, "that when 
 you dropped it, it rolled under the sofa. I 
 will ring for a servant to get it for you." 
 
 [ 107 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 The earl said nothing, but getting on 
 all fours, fished out the hat with the deep 
 mourning band. While he was in this 
 posture the handkerchief went up to the 
 girl's face again, but she made no sound. 
 
 When the earl reached the door he 
 turned and bowed again, as though to 
 royalty. The girl still stood behind the 
 table. As he looked at her his eyes began 
 to twinkle and his lips to twitch. 
 
 " You may come out of the corner now, 
 little girl, if you will be good," he said, 
 and went out laughing. 
 
 When the girl heard the street door 
 close, she came quickly from behind the 
 table and ran to the window. She sepa- 
 rated the curtains by an inch and looked 
 out. She saw the Earl of Vauxhall go 
 down the steps and cross the sidewalk to 
 the hansom. As he reached the curb, he 
 turned and looked up. He was still laugh- 
 ing. The girl watched him until he dis- 
 appeared down the street, then she left 
 the window and walked slowly toward 
 the door. 
 
 [ io8] 
 
Trot^ Trot to Market 
 
 " I wonder," she said to herself, " what 
 would have happened if that table had 
 not been there." 
 
 She stood a moment, wondering; then, 
 blushing and laughing, she grasped her 
 skirts and ran from the room. 
 
 The footmen in the hall below heard 
 the flying footsteps and the laughter. 
 
 "'Icks," said the elder, "she lacks re- 
 pose." 
 
 " She do, Mr. Wilson," assented Hicks, 
 "she do." 
 
 [ 109 ] 
 
^. 
 
 •^ 
 
 THE PEACH 
 
THE PEACH 
 
 <^ ^> 
 
 IJEFORE my uncle turned serious and 
 began to put on flesh, he spent some years 
 in the critical study of mankind, his re- 
 searches compelling him to divide his 
 time between Paris and Monte Carlo. 
 For purposes of taking deep soundings in 
 the sea of humanity he kept his steam- 
 yacht in the Mediterranean, and it used 
 to be said that the holding-ground on the 
 north shore of that pleasant lake was 
 spoiled by the empty champagne bot- 
 tles dropped overboard from the Merry 
 Wives. 
 
 It was during this period of research 
 and experiment that my uncle, very early 
 one morning, kicked open the green 
 baize doors of the Municipal Casino, in 
 Nice, and emerged upon the Place Mas- 
 sena. Had it not been carnival time his 
 
 [ "3 ]_ 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 appearance might have caused remark, 
 since he wore a Pierrot costume of white 
 satin, his face was floured, and his hair 
 was covered by a smoothly fitting skull- 
 cap. At my uncle's heels there followed 
 a troop of male and female maskers who, 
 with shrill cries, besought him not to 
 leave them. Various propositions were ad- 
 vanced, — "one more dance," "a little 
 supper at the London House," "a drive 
 to Cimella to ring up the monks," — but 
 against all these my uncle, who by this 
 time had entered a cab, turned a smiling 
 but resolute face. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," he said in ex- 
 cellent French, waving his hand over the 
 back of the voiture, " and thou especially, 
 Hortense," and he threw a kiss to a tall 
 girl in pink, "it lacerates my heart to 
 leave you. But what would you; we are 
 still young and the world is very small. 
 Count Lenormand, I kiss your hands, 
 Hortense, thy lips. To the harbor, coach- 
 man." 
 
 The cab started when a young man in 
 
 A "4] 
 
'The Peach 
 
 ordinary dress sprang forward and cried, 
 "And me, monsieur?" 
 
 " Ah," said my uncle, " I had forgot- 
 ten, — jump in;" and the two drove off 
 together, followed by cheers, laughing 
 adieus, and perhaps a tear or two, for 
 my uncle had great possessions. 
 
 At the harbor the Merry Wives lay 
 so close to the quay that one had only 
 to cross the gang-plank to reach her 
 deck. 
 
 " Captain Sparrow," said my uncle to 
 the officer who saluted him at the gang- 
 way, " this gentleman is so good as to give 
 me a half-hour of his company; after that 
 you may get under way." 
 
 If the captain observed anything unus- 
 ual in his owner's costume he gave no 
 sign, but saluting again he turned on his 
 heel and walked toward the engine-room 
 hatch. The after-deck was covered with 
 rugs and skins. On a large table were two 
 softly shaded lamps, books, and a collec- 
 tion of pipes. Scattered about were sev- 
 eral lounging-chairs. My uncle touched 
 
 [ "5] 
 
"The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 a bell and diredled the steward who an- 
 swered it to bring brandy and soda. 
 
 " Monsieur," said the young man, "be- 
 fore I partake of your hospitality I should 
 tell you my name;" and he handed my 
 uncle a visiting-card, upon which the lat- 
 ter read by the lamplight the w^ords " Se- 
 bastian Grantaire." 
 
 "Your name, monsieur," said my un- 
 cle, "is a new one to me, and I do not 
 recall your face, but I have an idea that 
 I can guess the affair that gives me the 
 pleasure of your acquaintance. When 
 you spoke to me at the ball I said to 
 myself, 'It has arrived.' It is in behalf 
 of a certain lady that you are here, is 
 it not?" 
 
 The stranger shook his head with a 
 smile. 
 
 "No, monsieur," he replied, "I bear 
 no challenge." 
 
 " I am delighted to see you, monsieur," 
 said my uncle. 
 
 "Perhaps," he resumed after a mo- 
 ment's pause, " it is that a cathedral is to 
 [ii6] 
 
T:he Peach 
 
 be restored, and that an opportunity is 
 afforded?" 
 
 " No, monsieur, I have no subscription 
 paper." 
 
 "One more guess," said my uncle, 
 " and I am done. It is that a noble family, 
 having met with reverses, is obliged to 
 part with a Rembrandt or a Correggio. 
 Ah, I have it at last." 
 
 "You are wrong again, monsieur. I 
 have not come to sell you pictures, but 
 to lay the world at your feet." 
 
 " Have you it with you ? " asked my 
 uncle. 
 
 "Yes," said Grantaire, and putting his 
 hand in his breast he drew forth a small 
 green morocco portfolio, which he placed 
 upon the table. 
 
 My uncle eyed it curiously for a mo- 
 ment. " I see that the world is flat," he 
 remarked. 
 
 "Monsieur," asked Grantaire, "what 
 is it that all mankind dreads but cannot 
 escape ? " 
 
 "The police," replied my uncle, 
 promptly. [ 117 ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "No," said Grantaire, "it is death, 
 and with this," and he placed his hand 
 on the portfolio, " I shall abolish death. 
 Do you desire greater wealth than you 
 already possess ? Do you long for power ? 
 You shall have such riches as the world 
 never saw heaped up, and such power as 
 never yet man wielded. I have spent fif- 
 teen years and a fortune seeking it. Listen 
 a moment. When Miserob the Arme- 
 nian, early in the fifth century, wished to 
 translate the Bible, he sent his students 
 to Alexandria to learn the Greek tongue. 
 One of them brought this back with him. 
 Miserob gave it to Moses of Khorene, who 
 placed it in the Vatican library in the year 
 437. When the Popes went to Avignon 
 in 1309 it went with them, and when they 
 returned to Rome, Gregory XI. carried it 
 back. When the Duke of Bourbon sacked 
 the Vatican in 1527, and was shot by 
 Benvenuto Cellini, one of his soldiers 
 stole it, sold it to the royal library at 
 Fontainebleau in 1534, and stole it back 
 again the next day. This soldier caused 
 
 [ 118] 
 
The Peach 
 
 me much trouble, monsieur. He pawned 
 it once in Paris, and twice in Marseilles, 
 under an assumed name, and chancing to 
 die at Corbie in Picardy, the monk who 
 shrived him took it from his bosom. This 
 monk placed it in the library of the mon- 
 astery, and it appears in the catalogue of 
 1638. In 1794, it was removed to the 
 town library of Amiens, where it was 
 unnoticed. Four years ago I was made 
 care-taker at Amiens, and day before yes- 
 terday I found it. It had been stolen for 
 fourteen hundred years, and I had no scru- 
 ples. Why should I ? It had cost me the 
 best years of my life, and five hundred 
 thousand francs to find it. Who is the 
 rightful owner ? The library at Alexan- 
 dria. Where is that library.? Cassar burned 
 it." 
 
 " That was a long time ago, monsieur," 
 remarked my uncle. 
 
 "So long," said Grantaire, "that the 
 statute has run. It is mine by right of dis- 
 covery, and history begins from this day." 
 
 My uncle struck a match and lit a pipe. 
 
 ["9] 
 
T'he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "Monsieur Grantaire," he asked, "what 
 
 is itr 
 
 The Frenchman sprang from his chair. 
 "Haven't I told you?" he exclaimed; 
 then, leaning over, he whispered in my 
 uncle's ear, " It is a map showing the ex- 
 aft location of the Garden of Eden, and 
 a manuscript by Miserob, who visited it." 
 
 Just then Captain Sparrow came aft 
 and asked if he should get under way. 
 
 " Does it matter whether you stay here 
 or go on to Monaco \ " asked my uncle of 
 Grantaire. 
 
 "No," he replied; "the little bag I 
 brought aboard is my luggage." 
 
 My uncle nodded to the captain, who 
 gave an order and went upon the bridge. 
 The boatswain's whistle sounded, the 
 crew cast off the hawsers, a bell jingled 
 in the engine-room, the screw began to 
 slowly beat the water, and the Merry 
 Wives glided out of the harbor. Just then 
 the sun peeped over the boot of Italy, and 
 the water and the sky turned from gray 
 to pink and then to blue; a faint breeze 
 [ I20 ] 
 
the Peach 
 
 sprang up from the east, bringing with it 
 the scent of roses and of pines, the bugles 
 sounded from Villafranca, and my uncle 
 leaned over and blew out the lamps, for 
 it was morning. 
 
 II 
 
 W HEN Grantaire came on deck at 
 four bells the yacht lay at anchor under 
 the palace of Monaco. An awning had 
 been stretched over the after-deck, and 
 under this breakfast was laid. The stew- 
 ard had just placed the melons on the 
 table when my uncle came up the hatch. 
 "Ah, monsieur," he said, "I dreamed 
 of the Garden of Eden all night, and we 
 wake to find it on our port bow," and 
 he waved his hand toward Monte Carlo. 
 "Yes," he continued, as they took their 
 seats, "here you have sky, water, trees, 
 flowers, music, pigeon-shooting, gam- 
 bling, and every two-footed beast that 
 walks the earth; besides there are no 
 taxes. Does not that make a paradise ? 
 Why did you spend so much money for 
 
 [ 121 ] 
 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 your map when you could have bought 
 a Baedeker for four francs ? " 
 
 "Monsieur," replied Grantaire, "I 
 fear that you do not take me seriously. 
 Have you a Bible ? " 
 
 " Steward," said my uncle, "is there a 
 Bible on board?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied the steward ; " when 
 we was fittin' in Southampton the mate 
 won one at a Salvation Army raffle." 
 
 " Ask the mate to loan it to me," said 
 my uncle, "and meanwhile, monsieur, 
 try these eggs a la BercyT 
 
 The steward came back with the book. 
 Grantaire took it and crossed himself. 
 "This," he said solemnly, "is the Word 
 of God." 
 
 Then he read the following from the 
 Book of Genesis: 
 
 '''And the Lord God planted a garden east- 
 " ward in Eden^ and there he put the man 
 '''whom he had formed, 
 " And out of the ground made the Lord God 
 " to grow every tree that is pleasant to the 
 "'sight and good for food; the tree of life also 
 
 [ 122 ] 
 
The Peach 
 
 " in the midst of the garden^ and the tree of 
 
 " knowledge of good and evil, 
 
 ^'^ And the Lord God commanded the man^ 
 
 ^'' sayings Of every tree of the garden thou 
 
 " may est freely eat ; 
 
 " But of the tree of the knowledge of good and 
 
 " evil^ thou shalt not eat of it : for in the day 
 
 " that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die'^ 
 
 He paused a moment and resumed: 
 
 ^^And the Lord God said^ Behold^ the man 
 
 " is become as one ofus^ to know good and evil; 
 
 " and now ^ lest he put forth his hand and take 
 
 " also of the tree of life ^ and eat^ and li^efor- 
 
 ^^ever: 
 
 " Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from 
 
 " the Garden of Eden ^ to till the ground from 
 
 ^'whence he was taken. 
 
 ^^So he drove out the man ; and he placed at 
 
 " the east of the Garden of Eden the Cheru- 
 
 " bim and the flame of a sword ^ which turned 
 
 ^^ every way to keep the way of the tree of 
 
 "lifer 
 
 He closed the book and said : " Do you 
 understand now what I have obtained? 
 [ 123 ] 
 
T'he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 Do you see that what the world has been 
 seeking for ages I have found in a search 
 of only fifteen years ? Don't you under- 
 stand that the man who finds the Garden 
 of Eden will find there growing the Tree 
 of Life, and that he who finds the tree 
 may eat of the fruit thereof?" 
 
 My uncle buttered a muffin with great 
 care. "Monsieur," he said at length, "do 
 you believe what you have just read?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Grantaire. " My mother 
 taught me to believe it when I was a child, 
 and I have met no man since who was 
 wise enough to give me a substitute. Be- 
 sides, Miserob found the garden and the 
 tree." 
 
 " It does not seem to have worked in 
 his case," said my uncle. "He is quite 
 dead, is he not ? " 
 
 "Yes, he died fourteen hundred years 
 ago, but he did not eat of the fruit." 
 
 " And you, monsieur, if you were to 
 find the tree, would you disobey the divine 
 injunction and eat thereof; would your 
 mother approve of that ? " 
 
 [ 124] 
 
The Peach 
 
 "Ah, monsieur," replied Grantaire, 
 "man was told that he might freely eat 
 of every tree in the garden save only of 
 the tree of the knowledge of good and 
 evil. He was not forbidden to eat of the 
 tree of life." 
 
 My uncle smoked silently for some 
 minutes ; then he said, somewhat abruptly, 
 "Tell me what you wish and why you 
 have come to me." 
 
 " Monsieur," said Grantaire, " I wish 
 money for my journey, and I come to you 
 because you are young and venturesome 
 and the richest man of your years in France 
 to-day." 
 
 My uncle rose from the table, and the 
 quartermaster, who had been waiting this 
 signal that breakfast was over, hauled 
 down the meal pennant. Grantaire re- 
 mained in his seat. My uncle took a turn 
 up and down the deck, returned Captain 
 Sparrow's good morning, and then went 
 on the bridge. He came down again and 
 walked aft to where Grantaire was sit- 
 ting. 
 
 [ 1^5 ] 
 
T!he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Monsieur," he said, " how much will 
 it cost ? " 
 
 " As you would travel," replied Gran- 
 taire, " with a caravan, bearers, a chef, a 
 valet, and an ice machine, it would take a 
 million francs. As I shall go, a hundred 
 thousand will suffice." 
 
 "Have you any money?" asked my 
 uncle. 
 
 "Two louis," replied Grantaire; and 
 he laid them on the table. 
 
 "They will buy you an umbrella for 
 your journey," said my uncle. " You were 
 wise to come to me, for as you say, I am 
 very, very young. I have also more money 
 than is good for me. I decline to furnish 
 one hundred thousand francs, but I will 
 make you a sporting proposition. I came 
 here this morning to gamble. I have fifty 
 thousand francs in my cabin. I never lose 
 more. I will divide with you, and we will 
 go to Monte Carlo after lunch; if you win 
 seventy-five thousand francs, there you 
 are." 
 
 " And if I lose ? " asked Grantaire. 
 
 , [ 126 ] 
 
"The Peach 
 
 " Why, in that event," said my uncle, 
 "there you are also." 
 
 At luncheon there were some hot- 
 house peaches on the table. Grantaire 
 took one up and said, " By the way, 
 monsieur, I am convinced that I shall 
 find the fruit to be more like a peach 
 than an apple, which in its palatable form 
 is artificial." 
 
 " Excuse me," said my uncle, somewhat 
 impatiently, "but the launch is at the 
 gangway, and if you are ready, I am. Here 
 are the twenty-five thousand francs." 
 
 While in the launch, Grantaire said, 
 "This is the nineteenth of the month and 
 my birthday." 
 
 • They landed just east of the station, 
 and crossing the tracks, mounted the long 
 flight of steps to the terrace. When they 
 entered the casino, Grantaire went into 
 the bureau and asked for a card of ad- 
 mission. He called my uncle's attention 
 to the fa6t that it was numbered 1 906. 
 Then they left their hats and Grantaire's 
 bag in the vestiaire, Grantaire's hat check 
 [ 127 ] 
 
T'he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 was number 719. They went into the large 
 room where the four roulette tables are. 
 
 "Good luck to you," said my uncle, 
 and turned to the left. Grantaire went 
 toward the table on the right. 
 
 " Now," said my uncle to himself, " I '11 
 give him a chance to bolt and close the 
 incident." 
 
 But Grantaire did not bolt. He took 
 his stand behind the players until some 
 one rose to leave, then he threw a louis 
 on the table and claimed the vacant seat. 
 My uncle went over and stood where he 
 could watch him. Grantaire handed the 
 croupier two notes for i ,000 francs each 
 and received the gold for them. Then he 
 placed eight louis on the number nine- 
 teen, and 1 ,200 francs on the line between 
 nineteen and twenty-two, thus playing the 
 "transverse." He next laid 3,000 francs 
 on the middle dozen. The croupiers and 
 the players began to watch him. Next he 
 placed 6,000 francs on "red," the same 
 on "passe," and the same on "impaire"; 
 the remainder, 2,620 francs, he laid in 
 
 [ 128] 
 
The Peach 
 
 the square at the bottom of the first col- 
 umn of figures. The croupiers unfolded 
 the notes and called their amounts. The 
 players from the other tables crowded 
 about, and my uncle had hard work to 
 keep his place. 
 
 "Make your play, ladies and gentle- 
 men," called the croupier, then, after a 
 moment's pause, he spun the wheel and 
 threw the ball. There was silence until 
 the ball began to hit against the partitions 
 of the slowing wheel. "Nothing more 
 goes," called the croupier, and then the 
 seconds became hours. Suddenly the click 
 of the ball ceased — it had settled into one 
 of the partitions. "Dix-neuf, passe, im- 
 paire et rouge," called the croupier. Gran- 
 taire sat unmoved while the croupiers 
 counted out his several bets; and when 
 they finally pushed over to him 41,890 
 francs, he gathered them up, but left his 
 stakes upon the table and added to them 
 from his winnings sufficient to cover the 
 other "transverse," the "corners," the 
 "couples," and the "cross," and he also 
 [ 129 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 completed his stake upon the first column. 
 
 No one else made a bet. The croupier 
 bowed to Grantaire and asked, " Is mon- 
 sieur quite ready?" 
 
 "Quite," replied Grantaire, and the 
 wheel started. There was the same 
 strained silence, broken only by the click- 
 ing of the ball; and when that ceased, 
 before the croupier could announce the 
 result the crowd shouted. The ball had 
 stopped in number nineteen. The croupier 
 counted out to Grantaire 78,650 francs. 
 He gathered up all the money on the 
 table and left his seat. He walked into 
 the entrance-hall and consulted a rail- 
 way time-table which hung on one of the 
 pillars. My uncle joined him there. 
 
 "Ah, monsieur," said Grantaire, "a 
 train leaves for the East in six minutes. 
 I have won 120,540 francs. I return you 
 the 25,000 which you so kindly loaned 
 me, and the 20,540 as interest," and he 
 thrust a roll of notes into my uncle's hand. 
 They walked toward the station. 
 
 "Monsieur," said my uncle, "I ad- 
 
 [ 130 ] 
 
The Peach 
 
 mired your courage when you left your 
 stake upon the table." 
 
 Grantaire took off his hat. "It was 
 nothing," he said, "compared with yours 
 when you loaned me the 25,000 francs. 
 May I ask why you have never asked to 
 see the map?" 
 
 My uncle laughed. " I was afraid," he 
 answered, " that if I saw it I should go 
 with you." 
 
 Just then the engine whistled, and the 
 two men shook hands. 
 
 " I shall report to you in New York," 
 said Grantaire, and ran down the steps. 
 
 m 
 
 rLlGHT years afterward, on an after- 
 noon in early June, the Merry Wives 
 passed Whitestone bound west. The yacht, 
 being feminine, had changed her name, 
 and was now the Beatrix, Captain Spar- 
 row was on the bridge, and my uncle was 
 dozing in a steamer chair under the after 
 awning. On the table, among the books 
 and flowers, lay a pair of small gloves and 
 
 [ 131 ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 a fan. A green parrot hung in a gilded 
 cage. 
 
 "Jack," came a voice from the after 
 hatch. My uncle smiled and half opened 
 his eyes. 
 
 " Here," he replied. 
 
 "Jack," the voice continued, "throw 
 me down your keys." 
 
 My uncle fished his key-ring out of 
 his trousers pocket and tossed it down the 
 hatch ; then he resumed his slumbers, but 
 not for long, for soon there emerged from 
 the companionway a white sailor hat, th en 
 a comely, smiling face, then a blue serge 
 gown, and finally, as my aunt stepped onto 
 the deck, a white shoe and a few inches 
 of black silk stocking. 
 
 "Jack," she said, " see what I found in 
 the little drawer in your dressing-table," 
 and she held out a visiting-card to which 
 were pinned a number of French bank- 
 notes. "Who is Sebastian Grantaire?" 
 
 " I declare," said my uncle, " I had for- 
 gotten all about it," and he took the notes 
 from my aunt and counted them. "Twen- 
 
 [ 132 ] 
 
The Peach 
 
 ty thousand five hundred," he said. Then 
 he took a small purse from his pocket, 
 from which he abstrafted two louis. 
 "These," he said, "go with them and 
 make up the 20,540 francs." And then 
 he told my aunt the story. 
 
 "Jack," said she, "it seems to me that 
 you did very strange things when you 
 were studying in Europe." 
 
 "Nothing," repHed he, "to what I 
 have done since." 
 
 "What?" asked my aunt. 
 
 " There 's my total reformation, for one 
 thing," said my uncle, who grew demon- 
 strative. 
 
 "Don't," said my aunt, straightening 
 her hat, "some of the men will see 
 you. 
 
 " They don't mind," said my uncle, and 
 he did it again. 
 
 When the Beatrix dropped her anchor 
 off the yacht-station at Twenty-sixth 
 Street, my uncle and my aunt went ashore 
 in the gig, and were met at the float by 
 a servant who, as he shut the door of the 
 
 [ 133 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 brougham, handed in a bundle of letters. 
 My uncle opened the first one, read it, 
 settled back into the corner, and dropped 
 the hand which held the paper onto his 
 knee. My aunt, who had been looking 
 out of her window, surprised him in this 
 attitude. 
 
 "What is it. Jack?" she asked. 
 
 My uncle handed her the letter. It was 
 in French, and she read it aloud: 
 
 " If Monsieur will take the Elevated Railway 
 " this evening and will descend ati^^th Street 
 ^' as if to proceed to the Polo Grounds^ he will 
 " learn the gratitude of 
 
 "Sebastian Grantaire. 
 
 ^^ Friday y June fourth" 
 
 They sat silent for some moments, then 
 my aunt drew close to my uncle and said, 
 "Jack, I'm afraid; just think, we were 
 talking of him only an hour ago, and you 
 had not thought of him before in eight 
 years; and now the first thing you get 
 when you reach home is his letter, and 
 he wants you to go way up to the Polo 
 
 [ 134] 
 
"The Peach 
 
 Grounds to-night. Shall you go, Jack ? *' 
 
 " Of course I shall," he replied, " and 
 I '11 have Grantaire in to lunch to-morrow. 
 Perhaps you can get on to his game — 
 he 's too deep for me." 
 
 This tribute to my aunt's superior as- 
 tuteness silenced her objeftions, and my 
 uncle went down the steps of the Elevated 
 at 155th Street that evening at just six 
 minutes past nine and started to walk 
 toward Eighth Avenue. He had not gone 
 far when a shadow clambered down from 
 the rocks and stood in the road until my 
 uncle came up; then the shadow raised its 
 hat and said, " Monsieur, I felt sure that 
 you would come." 
 
 "Grantaire," asked my uncle, some- 
 what nervously, " is that you ? " 
 
 "Ah, monsieur," replied the shadow, 
 "that opens a philosophical question 
 which has baffled the ages. There are 
 good things to be said on both sides of 
 it ; and to be frank with you, I don't 
 know. I only know that eight years ago 
 you loaned me 25,000 francs, and if I 
 
 [ 135 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 were Grantaire then I am Grantaire now, 
 but who knows ? Come." 
 
 They turned off from the road across 
 the rocks. 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked my 
 uncle. 
 
 "But a step," replied Grantaire; "my 
 house is yonder." 
 
 In a few moments they stopped at one 
 of those composite huts found only in the 
 upper part of Manhattan Island. While 
 Grantaire was working at the lock my 
 uncle looked about him and saw over at 
 the south the illuminated tents of "The 
 Greatest Show on Earth" pitched on the 
 Polo Grounds, and the faint breeze 
 brought to his ears the music of the 
 circus. Grantaire entered the hut and 
 turned up the lamp. My uncle followed 
 him, and then for the first time saw his 
 companion's face. Grantaire was an old 
 man. His hair and beard were white, his 
 flesh had wasted and turned yellow, and 
 his eyes were only glittering black beads, 
 without pupil or iris, that rested on my 
 
 [ 136 ] 
 
T:he Peach 
 
 uncle for an instant and then turned away. 
 
 "Monsieur," said Grantaire, his eyes 
 averted, his fingers ceaselessly playing 
 upon the arms of his chair, "to-night I 
 am in a position to repay the loan you 
 made me." 
 
 "You forget," said my uncle, "that 
 you paid it to me the same day at Monte 
 Carlo, and left with me in addition 20,540 
 francs, which I now return to you." And 
 he placed them on the table. 
 
 " As you please," said Grantaire, " they 
 will help to pay postage. To-morrow, 
 when my secret is known, I shall have a 
 correspondence. When I said that I was 
 in a position to repay your loan I did not 
 mean that I actually had the money; I 
 meant that I had the power to command 
 money. I have found the Tree of Life. 
 Shall I tell you where I found it .? " 
 
 My uncle thought a moment and then 
 said, "No; tell me what you found. 
 Don't tell me your route. If I knew that, 
 I might wake some morning with an ir- 
 resistible desire to travel." 
 
 [ 137 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " I found," said Grantaire, " after a six 
 months' journey over mountain-ranges 
 and across deserts, two small volcanoes 
 that w^ere marked upon my map as the 
 'Cherubim w^ith the Flaming Sword,' 
 and traversing a short valley which lay 
 between them I entered the Garden of 
 Eden. I spent three years in that sweet 
 spot as the trusted guest of a tribe of 
 grave and gentle men whose whole world 
 is bounded by the hills which circle them. 
 All beyond is, to them, the desert. 
 
 " In the midst of the garden is a group 
 of small trees which is guarded night and 
 day. The fruit is never touched, and where 
 it falls it lies. No One ever enters the grove 
 except the chief, or high priest, and his 
 family. I need not tell you that those trees 
 are the descendants of the Tree of Life, 
 but the inhabitants of the garden do not 
 know it. All that they know is that their 
 fathers, from time immemorial, have 
 guarded the grove, and that, for some 
 reason, it is sacred. 
 
 " For three years I lived in the shadow 
 
 [ 138] 
 
The Peach 
 
 of the trees, but I never passed the line 
 of guards which encircled them. Then, 
 one night in the autumn of the fourth 
 year, when the ripe fruit had begun to 
 fall, I stole away from the valley, passed 
 the Cherubim and the Flaming Sword, 
 which seemed to menace me, and once 
 more crossed the desert that separates 
 Eden from the world." 
 
 " And the Tree of Life," cried my un- 
 cle — "you did not eat of it after all.?" 
 
 "No," answered Grantaire, "I have 
 never tasted of it, but I shall to-night, 
 and so shall you." 
 
 He took up the lamp, crossed the room 
 to a door, opened it, and my uncle fol- 
 lowed him into a rudely construdted hot- 
 house, framed with scantling, and covered 
 with the glass sash which market garden- 
 ers use for their frames. 
 
 The glass was thickly whitewashed. 
 There was a stove at one end; and a litter 
 of matting, straw, and broken packing- 
 boxes covered the floor. In the centre 
 stood a large wooden box painted green, 
 
 [ 139 ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 and in the box a tree about four feet high 
 was growing. 
 
 My uncle had scarcely time to note 
 these things when he heard Grantaire say 
 something in a strange language, and a 
 woman came out of the shadow and stood 
 in the light. She was clothed in some 
 graceful, flowing garment, her hands were 
 crossed upon her breast, and her yellow 
 hair hung about her waist. My uncle had 
 not known that the world possessed any- 
 thing so beautiful. She stood a moment, 
 knelt at my uncle's feet, and then went 
 back to her seat in the shadow. 
 
 " I told her," said Grantaire, " that you 
 and she are the only friends I have in the 
 world. You may speak freely; she knows 
 only her own tongue." 
 
 " Who is she ? " my uncle whispered. 
 
 Grantaire did not reply at once. Finally 
 he said: "She is Lilith, the daughter of 
 the high priest. She took the fruit after I 
 had besought her for two years, and she 
 came across the desert with me. Do you 
 think the good God will ever forgive me.? 
 
 [ HO ] 
 
\ 
 
 T:he Peach 
 
 She brought away two of the fruit, and I 
 planted the pits when we reached Mar- 
 seilles. I was right, you see ; the tree is 
 more like a peach than an apple. Both of 
 the pits sprouted and grew until we were 
 half-way across the Atlantic, then one of 
 them died. Lilith and I have watched 
 the other every moment during the last 
 four years, turn and turn about, and I 
 have asked you to come here to-night, 
 for it has borne fruit and the fruit is ripe. 
 I have beggared myself, spent twenty- 
 three years of my life, and" — glancing 
 toward the form in the shadow — "have 
 been a scoundrel, but I have gained im- 
 mortality. Why should I bother about my 
 soul if it is never to leave my body, and 
 what can happen to my body when death 
 shall have no more dominion over me? " 
 
 " I never exaflly understood," said my 
 uncle, "how this fruit is to secure to you 
 what you claim. How will it make you 
 rich? How will it give you power? Of 
 course, you can start a cannery, but — " 
 
 Grantaire turned on him. " What would 
 
 [ 141 ] 
 
TChe Monk and the Dancer 
 
 you give me if the young wife, which the 
 newspapers say you have taken, were dy- 
 ing and I could save her life? Multiply 
 that sum by half the population of the 
 earth, and what do you get? How much 
 would the French Government have paid 
 me in 1 870 if I could then have made her 
 soldiers proof against the German bullets? 
 How much would the life insurance com- 
 panies of the world give me to render all 
 their risks a nullity? And as for power — 
 is there any limit to him who holds life 
 and death in his hand, and who can make 
 the history of the world ? Come,'* he cried, 
 " the harvest is ripe ; let us eat." 
 
 He walked toward the tree, still carry- 
 ing the lamp. My uncle followed, and 
 among the shining leaves saw a highly 
 colored fruit, somewhat oblong in shape, 
 and very like a peach. Grantaire stood a 
 moment holding the lamp above his head 
 and peering about the room as though 
 dreading interruption. The lamp shook 
 and flared. Finally he reached his hand 
 toward the fruit, but drew it back again, 
 
 [ 142 ] 
 
The Peach 
 
 and taking his handkerchief from his poc- 
 ket he wiped his forehead. Then he mut- 
 tered to himself: "And now, lest he put 
 forth his hand and take also of the Tree 
 of Life, and eat and live forever" — and 
 then he thrust out his hand quickly and 
 plucked the fruit. 
 
 A low moan came from the woman 
 crouched in the shadow. Grantaire, still 
 carrying the lamp, walked over to her and 
 offered her the fruit. She shuddered, drew 
 back, and hid her face in her hands. With 
 a shrug of his shoulders, Grantaire came 
 back and held out the fruit to my uncle, 
 who put his hands behind him and shook 
 his head. 
 
 "Coward!" hissed Grantaire; "most 
 men fear to die — it appears that you are 
 afraid to live;" and he raised the fruit to 
 his lips. 
 
 Just then there was a faint rustling in 
 the straw at the foot of the tree. Gran- 
 taire heard it and glanced down, and my 
 uncle, who was watching his face, saw it 
 suddenly grow gray. 
 
 [ H3 ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 Then my uncle looked down also and 
 saw slowly gliding out from the straw a 
 little green and black field snake that 
 twined itself about the stem of the tree. 
 
 " Look! " screamed Grantaire. " Satan, 
 who tempted man aforetime to lose his 
 soul, is here to see he does not win it 
 back again ! " And he flung the lamp, 
 with all his force, straight at the glisten- 
 ing coil. 
 
 There was a crash — silence — and then 
 all was fire. My uncle put his arms across 
 his face and burst through the glass. 
 Burned and cut, he turned and saw for a 
 moment that Grantaire was bending over 
 the tree, evidently trying to shield it with 
 his body, and that the woman was kneel- 
 ing at his feet, her arms clasped about his 
 knees. Then the roof fell in, the flames 
 shot up, and my uncle saw no more. 
 
 Some days after, my uncle, plastered 
 and bandaged, opened his eyes upon the 
 sweet face of my aunt, who was bending 
 over him, 
 
 "What is it?'* he asked faintly. 
 
 [ H4 ] 
 
The Peach 
 
 "You have been badly hurt," she re- 
 plied. "You were burned and — " 
 
 " Oh, yes," he said, " I remember now." 
 
 Then in a moment he whispered, 
 
 " Poor Grantaire! I found paradise nearer 
 
 home," — and he raised my aunt's hand 
 
 to his lips. 
 
 [ H5 \ 
 
«f»: 
 
 •«> 
 
 THE SENIOR READER 
 
4 1111^ 
 
 THE SENIOR READER 
 
 When in May, 1857, Mr. Anthony 
 Panizzi — he had not then been knighted 
 — opened the great reading-room of the 
 British Museum, he walked down the 
 centre aisle with the Prince Consort and 
 the trustees, and spoke to a man in a 
 shabby coat who stood near the door. 
 
 "Mr. Basilwood," said Panizzi, "you 
 are my senior reader, since you have al- 
 ready been twenty years in Burlington 
 House, and you shall have the choice of 
 seats. I hope," he added, "that t/iis build- 
 ing will stand until your great work is 
 finished." 
 
 " Who is that? " whispered the Prince. 
 
 " Sir," answered Panizzi, " that is Wil- 
 liam Basilwood. Much learning hath 
 made him mad." 
 
 "Dear me!" said the Prince. 
 
 [ H9 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Quite so," said V2Lmz7A. 
 
 Basilwood smiled at the use of such col- 
 loquial English by a German and an Ital- 
 ian, but said nothing, and going up the 
 aisle, took the first desk on the right, the 
 desk which he was to occupy for forty 
 years. He sent in his list of books, and was 
 just getting to work when he heard his 
 name spoken at his shoulder. He turned, 
 annoyed by the interruption, and saw the 
 Prince. 
 
 " I beg you not to rise," said the latter. 
 " Let me sit by you a moment. The old- 
 est reader in the Museum will doubtless 
 take pity upon my ignorance, since I have 
 observed that knowledge breeds urbanity. 
 Tell me about your work, and I will try 
 to understand." 
 
 " Sir," said Basilwood, gruffly, " I am 
 seeking the basis of human life." 
 
 " Ah," said the Prince, " I am German 
 bred and simple, and I have been taught 
 that life is the breath of God." 
 
 "Perhaps," replied Basilwood, "but it 
 is not proven." 
 
 [ 150] 
 
T!he Senior Reader 
 
 The Prince sat silent for a moment, and 
 then he asked, softly, " Must all things be 
 proven? Is there no such thing as faith? " 
 
 "Sir," exclaimed Basilwood, "when 
 you speak to a scientific man of 'faith,' 
 you insult his intelligence. While he is 
 striving to present the race with fails, you 
 ask him to compromise on fables. I grant 
 you there are things so trivial that the ab- 
 solute truth concerning them is not worth 
 the trouble of its establishment. I have 
 faith that you are the husband of our Gra- 
 cious Queen, although I was not present 
 at the marriage ceremony. But who, ex- 
 cept the Queen, cares whether you are 
 or not? If it were proven, would bread 
 be cheaper, would life be easier, would 
 death be sweeter?" 
 
 The Prince flushed and half rose; then 
 he caught himself, resumed his seat, and, 
 after a moment, said, — 
 
 " Pardon me, Mr. Basilwood. I should 
 not have interrupted your work. I told 
 you I was simply bred. I spoke of faith 
 as simple people do who rely upon others 
 
 [ i5» ] 
 
l^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 to tell them the great truths which they 
 themselves are incapable of finding out. 
 I come to you, who for twenty years have 
 lived with books, and ask you to give me 
 the drop of attar which you have ex- 
 tracted from their leaves. It is much to 
 ask, but life is much to me. You have 
 already forgotten that I am the Prince 
 Consort; forget that I am anything save 
 one who seeks knowledge. Can you blame 
 a thirsty man because he runs to the foun- 
 tain, and perhaps stumbles as he runs ? " 
 
 At this Basilwood bowed, for he had 
 once possessed manners, and said, " Sir, as 
 yet I have but a theory." 
 
 " And I have many," said the Prince, 
 laughing. "Tell me yours." 
 
 "Have you time?" asked Basilwood. 
 
 "I have fifteen minutes," the Prince 
 answered, looking at his watch; "after 
 that I must leave to open a morgue or a 
 flower-show, — I have forgotten which 
 comes first." 
 
 " I can tell you all my fa6ts in less time 
 than that," said Basilwood. 
 
 [ 152] 
 
T^he Senior Reader 
 
 " And you have read for twenty years ? " 
 exclaimed the Prince. 
 
 " Yes," replied Basilwood, " but much 
 that I have read was written upon 'faith,* 
 and does not count." 
 
 The Prince glanced at his compan- 
 ion out of the corner of his eye, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 " A child is born into the world," re- 
 sumed Basilwood, "well-formed, lusty, 
 and crying." 
 
 " Yes," exclaimed the Prince, " I can 
 vouch for the crying. Have you children, 
 Mr. Basilwood?" 
 
 " I believe so, sir," replied Basilwood, 
 "but I do not charge my mind with 
 such matters, and I must look to make 
 sure." 
 
 He took a worn memorandum-book 
 from his pocket, turned some of its leaves, 
 and then exclaimed : 
 
 " Of course I have a child, Margaret. 
 Here is the entry." And he read from the 
 book: 
 ""' January 3, 1857. ^^^^^^ bought copy 
 
 [ 153 ] 
 
'Hhe Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " of Wicked Bible from Stevens for eighteen 
 '"• guineas. In case 24^, 41. Daughter born'' 
 
 "That proves it," he said, closing the 
 book. " Margaret is my daughter, and she 
 was born January 3, 1857." 
 
 "Dear me!" exclaimed the Prince. 
 
 "That is what you remarked when 
 Panizzi told you I was mad," said Basil- 
 wood. 
 
 " But we left that new-born child cry- 
 ing," said the Prince, quickly. " Should 
 we not return to it ? " 
 
 "That child has life in him," resumed 
 Basilwood. "He is 'quick,' as they used 
 to say, and as the law-writers say now. 
 The question is. Where is the seat of life? 
 In a week his nurse bites off his finger- 
 nails so that they may grow thin. He still 
 lives. Soon they cut his hair. He does not 
 miss it. As he grows older he loses a foot, 
 a leg, an arm, and still he lives. The seat 
 of life has not been overturned. Then we 
 come to what are vulgarly called ' the vi- 
 tal organs,' and we find that a man has 
 lived with a crowbar driven through his 
 
 [ 154] 
 
T!he Senior Reader 
 
 brain, with a bullet through the heart, 
 with the lungs eaten up, with the bowels 
 perforated, with the stomach removed. 
 Where is the centre of vitality? Where 
 is the pin-point in the human frame that 
 death touches to stop the working mech- 
 anism which we call life ? If we can find 
 it, perhaps we can guard it." 
 
 " Mr. Basilwood," said the Prince, ris- 
 ing, " I fear that my time is up, but there 
 is one faft that I can give you, and that 
 is, that the heart is not the seat of life. I 
 know a man, a strong man, one who helps 
 to make the laws of this realm, who eats 
 and sleeps and walks and talks — yes, he 
 talks a great deal, and yet he has no heart 
 at all." 
 
 "That must be Colonel Sibthorp,"said 
 Basilwood, with a chuckle. "The papers 
 say that he cut your allowance in the 
 Commons from fifty to thirty thousand 
 pounds." 
 
 The Prince smiled and held out his 
 hand. "Good-by," he said, "and be sure 
 to send me the first eleven copies of your 
 
 [ ^55 ] 
 
TChe Monk and the Dancer 
 
 work. That will be one each for the 
 Queen, myself, and the children." 
 
 "The breath of God, indeed," said Ba- 
 silwood to himself as the Prince walked 
 away. " I have lost half an hour." And 
 he fell to his work. 
 
 II 
 
 1^ OR some years Basilwood was known 
 at the Museum as "the man that the 
 Prince spoke with ; " then one morning 
 a charming girl of eighteen led him 
 slowly up the aisle, took off his wraps, 
 found his spectacles, put a shilling in his 
 pocket, kissed him, and, smiling, went 
 away. In the evening she came to fetch 
 him, and from that day he was spoken of 
 by the doorkeepers, the messengers, the 
 confirmed readers, and even by Sir An- 
 thony himself, as " Margaret's father." 
 
 One evening she was a little late, and 
 came into the Museum with cheeks aglow 
 and eyes sparkling. 
 
 " Daddy," she whispered, as with eager 
 fingers she helped him gather up his 
 
 [ 156] 
 
The Senior Reader 
 
 notes, "this has been the most beautiful 
 day of my life. You love me, don't you, 
 dear?" and she pushed the white hair 
 back from his forehead and kissed him. 
 They took an omnibus and crossed to the 
 Surrey side. She held his hand the whole 
 way and did not speak, but her face was as 
 that of an angel. 
 
 At dinner she was very talkative. 
 " Daddy," she said, after a short pause, 
 " how old was my mother when you and 
 she were married.?" 
 
 Basilwood did not answer. 
 
 "Was she very beautiful.?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "and you are very 
 like her." 
 
 Her cheeks flamed, and springing up 
 she ran over to him and put her arms 
 about his neck. 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad," she cried. "I 
 wish to be very beautiful indeed." 
 
 "Your mother," said Basilwood, "was 
 a good woman, but she died during the 
 week that the Offer library was sold at 
 Southby's. I missed two days of the sale." 
 
 [ '57 ]„ 
 
"The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and 
 Margaret ran to it, opened it, and went 
 out. There was whispering in the hall, 
 and then in walked a strapping young 
 fellow with a flower in his button-hole 
 and the light of love in his eyes. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Basilwood," he said, hold-, 
 ing out his hand; "how goes the Great 
 Work?" 
 
 " Sir," said Basilwood, "who the devil 
 are you?" 
 
 The question seemed to faze the young 
 man, but only for a moment. 
 
 "Don't you know me?" he said. "I 
 am Philip Kennet, for whom you stood 
 godfather down in Berkshire, twenty odd 
 years ago ; and I have been to see your 
 daughter and you ever so many times, and 
 have read no end of copy for you, and I 
 love Margaret and she loves me. Will 
 you give her to me, Mr. Basilwood?" 
 
 Then Margaret came in and found the 
 men confronting each other. 
 
 "Who is this man?" asked Basilwood. 
 
 "Oh, father," said Margaret, "is it as 
 
 [ 158 ] 
 
The Senior Reader 
 
 bad as that?" And she went to him and 
 took his hand. 
 
 "Philip, dear," she said to the young 
 man, who was no longer smiling, "he 
 does n't remember even you. You see how 
 impossible it is that I should leave him." 
 
 "Leave him!" he cried; "I don't ask 
 you to leave him. There will be always 
 a place for him. Only give me the right 
 to take care of you both. He shall have 
 all the books he wants. Why should you 
 be slaving in that shop when I — " 
 
 She put her hand over his mouth. 
 
 " Margaret," asked Basilwood, " is this 
 true.?" 
 
 "Is what true, father.?" 
 
 " That this is Sir George Kennet's son ? " 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "And has he been here often, as he 
 says.?" 
 
 She smiled sadly and replied, "Yes, 
 very often." 
 
 "And do you love him.?" 
 
 She blushed, but answered bravely, " I 
 love him next to you." 
 
 [ 159 ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "Then, sir," said Basilwood, " I hope I 
 know how to be unselfish, and if all goes 
 well, you may have her on the day my 
 book is finished." 
 
 Ill 
 
 It was Jubilee year and a dreary day in 
 December. Basilwood left his desk at 
 one o'clock and went to the Museum res- 
 taurant. He walked very slowly and leaned 
 heavily upon his stick. When he had 
 taken the chair which a waiter placed for 
 him, he drew a parcel from his pocket, 
 opened it, and began to eat his bread and 
 cheese. 
 
 A little man, made noticeable by a 
 large watch-chain and a brown wig, 
 came in, looked nervously about the 
 room, and then came over to the senior 
 reader. 
 
 "Mr. Basilwood," he asked, "do you 
 happen to know much about twins?" 
 
 Basilwood shook his head. 
 
 "Well," continued the stranger, "I 
 can tell you this much. The life of a twin 
 [ '6o] 
 
T'he Senior Reader 
 
 is hell upon earth. What 's that you are 
 eating, — bread and cheese? Join me in 
 a pork pie. They are very good here. 
 Waiter, a pork pie and two mugs of 
 bitter." 
 
 They took their seats at a table behind 
 the door. 
 
 " Mr. Basilwood," resumed the stran- 
 ger, "I am told that you are the senior 
 reader in the Museum, and that you have 
 given more than sixty years to the prep- 
 aration of a work upon the physical basis 
 of life. My name is Gilbert, Theodore 
 Gilbert, and if ever a man needed coun- 
 sel, I 'm the man." 
 
 "What can I do for you?" asked Ba- 
 silwood. 
 
 "You can have another pint of bitter," 
 replied Gilbert. 
 
 "Granted," said Basilwood. 
 
 "My father," continued Gilbert, 
 "when he died, left three things behind 
 that raised the devil. He left twins and 
 a home-made will. The will said that 
 David — that 's my brother — and I were 
 [ i6i] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 to have three thousand a year each until 
 one of us died, and then the survivor was 
 to have the pot, a million or more. That 
 made quite a race, and, being twins, we 
 started even. We lived together for a time 
 in the old house, but it finally got onto 
 our nerves. It is no sport to dine with a 
 man when you stand between him and a 
 million. We used to carve by turns, and 
 sometimes we would exchange plates and 
 then match a coin to determine which 
 should take the first mouthful. I used to 
 have my tooth-powder analyzed every 
 Monday. After a year or two, this got to 
 be a bit dreary. One night I went into 
 the dining-room early, and there was Da- 
 vid with the salt-cellar in one hand and 
 a little blue-paper parcel in the other. 
 When he saw me he turned as white as 
 his shirt and threw the blue paper into 
 the grate. Then he stood and grinned. 
 He didn't speak. He simply grinned. 
 I was at him in a moment with the carv- 
 ing-knife, and I slashed him across the 
 face. He went down, and his head hit the 
 
 [ 162 ] 
 
The Senior Reader 
 
 base-board. He bled beautifully. In a week 
 he came down-stairs with a black plaster 
 from the corner of his nose to his chin. 
 
 " * There, damn you/ 1 cried, ' they can 
 tell us apart now.' 
 
 "'I've had enough of this,' he said, 
 and we parted. He went to San Francisco, 
 in America, and I stayed here. When he 
 went out of the house he turned and shook 
 his fist at me. 
 
 "'Curse you,' he said, 'I'll outlive 
 you.' 
 
 '"Not if there is anything in early 
 hours and dry feet,' I replied, and I took 
 a cab for Sir Andrew Ashley's. He' s the 
 chap that used to tend the Queen when 
 she was strengthening the succession. I 
 told him about the will and about my 
 twin brother, and then I asked him 
 plump, 'What are my chances?' 
 
 " He played with his glasses a moment 
 and then went to the door. 
 
 "'William,' he said to the footman, 
 ' if the Chief Justice calls, beg him to wait. 
 I cannot be disturbed.' 
 
 [ 163 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " When I heard this, I fished about in 
 my pocket for three more sovereigns. 
 
 " ' Mr. Gilbert/ he said, when he had 
 resumed his seat, ' a curious law governs 
 double births. Twins are apt to resemble 
 each other not only in features and dispo- 
 sition, but also in constitution. They are 
 like two watches of the same make, which, 
 if wound up together, will run down to- 
 gether. So I say to you, putting aside ac- 
 cidents and acute diseases, the chances are 
 that you and your brother will die about 
 the same time. I trust this is satisfactory. 
 Good morning, Mr. Gilbert. It looks like 
 rain.' 
 
 " I went the rounds of the doftors, and 
 they all told me the same thing. 'You 
 and your brother will die at the same 
 time.' About ten years ago I came here 
 in the hope that I could learn something 
 from the books. I have read more than 
 a thousand, but have found nothing that 
 tells me how to live. Oh, sir, in all your 
 sixty years of research, have you hit upon 
 the secret of life ? " 
 
 [ 164] 
 
The Senior Reader 
 
 Basilwood rose slowly and leaned upon 
 the back of his chair. 
 
 " Mr. Gilbert/' he said, with great de- 
 liberation, "it is written that reading 
 makes a full man. I have read sixty years, 
 and on top of that I have now two pints 
 of bitter. I am very full. I will see you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " One moment," said Gilbert. " Hav- 
 ing exhausted the do6tors and literature, 
 last night I tried the fakirs. I went to 
 the Hindoo in Gower Street. He came 
 over for the Jubilee. He told me I might 
 ask him one question, and I said, 'Tell 
 me the date of my death.' 
 
 " He laughed and said, ' I feared you 
 would ask me some hard question, some- 
 thing about a woman. You have a twin 
 brother. You will both die at the same 
 instant. If you look at your left forearm 
 you will see the date of your death.'" 
 
 "Well," said Basilwood, "what did 
 you find?" 
 
 Gilbert stripped up his sleeve, and on 
 the white flesh of his arm, in scarlet letters, 
 
 [ 165 j 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 were the words, "January first, 1897." 
 
 Basilwood dipped the corner of his 
 napkin in his water-glass and scrubbed 
 the letters. They only became brighter. 
 
 "No go," said Gilbert. "Fve tried 
 everything, from Pear's soap to sapolio." 
 
 Then his whole manner changed sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Basilwood," he cried, "I 
 am going to die in ten days. I came to 
 you as a last resort. You can't help me 
 to live, it seems. You can help me to 
 die. I have sat near you for ten years. 
 Sit by me the last night of my life. It is 
 awful to drift out beyond the horizon all 
 alone. You have your daughter. I have 
 watched her for years. I have seen her 
 change from a laughing girl to a woman 
 with white hairs above her temples. I 
 have seen her give her life, her hope, her 
 love to you, and some day she will close 
 your eyes. But I must die alone, unless 
 you come and sit by me. I will promise 
 to die like a gentleman. F 11 make no fuss, 
 but it will help me when I pass the line 
 
 . [ 166 ] 
 
T^he Senior Reader 
 
 and sink, sink to God knows where, if I 
 see a hand of some one of my race waving 
 me a farewell." 
 
 Basilwood cleared his throat. 
 
 " Mr. , excuse me, but your name 
 
 has escaped me," — and then he lurched 
 a bit and caught his chair, — "I am the 
 senior reader here — I have read for sixty 
 years — the Prince Consort spoke to me 
 in fifty-seven. He spoke nonsense, but I 
 felt his royal breath on my ear — the di- 
 vine afflatus — I have written eighteen 
 parts of my work, and I have a notion 
 that the nineteenth part would fit your 
 case. Can't you postpone your death about 
 a year ? " And he leaned over his chair 
 and moistened his lips with his tongue. 
 
 Then Margaret came into the restau- 
 rant. 
 
 "Oh, daddy," she cried. "How you 
 frightened me. I feared you had gone 
 home alone." 
 
 Basilwood braced himself between his 
 stick and the chair and smiled vacantly. 
 Gilbert came up to Margaret and took 
 off his hat. [ 167 ] 
 
T'he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " My dear young lady," he said, " your 
 father has promised to spend the last night 
 of the year with me. Here is my ad- 
 dress." And he gave her an envelope. 
 
 IV 
 
 WN the afternoon of December 31 
 Margaret came to the Museum rather 
 earlier than usual. She brought a hand- 
 bag with her, and she reminded her fa- 
 ther that they were to pass the night with 
 Mr. Gilbert. " He says in his letter," she 
 explained, "that we are to go to Green- 
 wich and dine at the 'Ship.' We are to 
 have the very best dinner we can order, 
 and we are to drink his health in a bottle 
 of champagne. There was a five-pound 
 note in the letter 'for his treat,' he says. 
 After dinner we are to take a cab and 
 drive to his house, which is in Black- 
 heath, just beyond the Observatory." 
 
 They went by boat to Greenwich, and 
 they had their dinner at the " Ship." The 
 fire in the grate, the lights, the clear tur- 
 tle, the turbot, the pheasant in a casserole, 
 
 [ 168 ] 
 
T^he Senior Reader 
 
 the forced asparagus, the vintage wine, the 
 toasted cracker, and the gorgonzola, the 
 demi-tasse, the petit-verre, the long, dark 
 perfefto, and the waiter made havoc with 
 the five-pound note. 
 
 "Margaret," said Basilwood, "when 
 ' The Work ' is finished, we shall dine like 
 this every night, and if there is anything 
 you wish you shall have it. You know 
 me. I Ve never denied you anything: yet, 
 have I?" ^ y gy > 
 
 She looked away, and then she said, 
 "No, daddy, you have been very sweet 
 to me." But as she spoke, her hands went 
 up to her face, and she rose quickly and 
 crossed over to the window. 
 
 The waiter went out and closed the 
 door softly. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Basil- 
 wood; "does the smoke bother you?" 
 
 "No," she said presently, but with- 
 out turning. " Here is the cab. We must 
 be going." 
 
 After a drive of ten minutes they 
 stopped while a gate was opened; then 
 
 [ 169] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 they went on, up a driveway bordered 
 by pines, and stopped before the house. 
 The front door opened, and an elderly 
 woman came quickly down the steps. 
 
 " Is this Mr. Basilwood and his daugh- 
 ter ? " she asked. 
 
 "Yes," replied Margaret. 
 
 "Thank God," exclaimed the woman, 
 and she led them into the house. 
 
 "You are to go up at once," she said 
 to Basilwood, " and the young lady is to 
 stay here with me. He is in the room at 
 the top of the stairs. The first door. You 
 can't miss it. I am the housekeeper." 
 
 Basilwood went slowly up the stairs and 
 knocked with his stick on the first door. 
 
 "Come in," cried a shrill voice, and 
 Basilwood turned the knob. 
 
 Gilbert was in bed, propped up by the 
 pillows. His wig was off and his bald head 
 resembled a huge egg. His cheeks and 
 temples were sunken, but his eyes were un- 
 pleasantly bright. His baldness rendered 
 his ears unduely prominent. A black plas- 
 ter made a line from the corner of his nose 
 
 [ 170 ] 
 
The Senior Reader 
 
 down under his chin. His hands lay out- 
 side the bedclothes, and the sleeve of his 
 left arm being rolled up, Basilwood could 
 see the scarlet letters which formed the 
 words "January first, 1897," ^^^ instinc- 
 tively he glanced at the clock on the man- 
 tel. 
 
 "Plenty of time," cried Gilbert; "the 
 clock is right; I set it this noon by the 
 Observatory time-ball. I Ve got two hours 
 and a half yet before I let go and float 
 off to meet brother David somewhere in 
 the blue. The evening papers are on the 
 table, with the whiskey and the cigars. 
 Did you bring your slippers ? Never mind 
 — mine are by the bed. Put them on and 
 make yourself comfortable." 
 
 Basilwood mixed himself a glass of 
 grog, and while he was busied with it he 
 heard a chuckle from the bed. 
 
 He turned quickly. " What is there to 
 laugh at ? " he demanded. 
 
 Gilbert's chuckle grew to a laugh, and 
 then to a shout. His face turned purple, 
 and the tears rolled down his cheeks. 
 
 [ 171 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Stop it," cried Basilwood. " It is n't 
 decent for a man in your situation to 
 carry on like that. Stop it, I say, or I will 
 leave you." 
 
 "Oh," gasped Gilbert, "it 's great. To 
 think of the time and money I have was- 
 ted on the do6lors, the library, diet, and a 
 quiet life, and then to have the solution of 
 the whole matter pop into my mind this 
 morning while I was shaving! When a 
 thing comes to you like that, it makes 
 you jump. I slashed myself with the razor 
 just as I cut David with the carving-knife. 
 They won't be able, after all, to tell us 
 apart in the hereafter." 
 
 Basilwood shortened his stick in his 
 hand and came up to the bed. 
 
 " If you have the secret," he hissed, 
 " you had better tell it to me, or you will 
 never see midnight." 
 
 Gilbert began to laugh again. "Put 
 up your stick," he said presently. "My 
 truth is like all truths, very simple. I am 
 to die on January i, 1897, j^^^ ^^ ^^ 
 day begins ; and David is to die at the 
 
 [ 172 ] 
 
The Senior Reader 
 
 same instant; but when will that be for 
 him in San Francisco? It will be four 
 o'clock yesterday afternoon. He will die 
 in 1 896 and I in 1 897. Which of us will 
 be the survivor? Which of us will get 
 the pot? Damn him, I '11 beat him by a 
 year." 
 
 "It's a queer thing," he continued, 
 " that the meridian of Greenwich passes 
 through the hall of this house, and this 
 room is the birthplace of the days." 
 
 Basilwood went back to his seat and 
 took up his glass. 
 
 " If I understand you, Mr. Gilbert," he 
 said, "life is simply a question of longi- 
 tude?" 
 
 "No," replied Gilbert. "The date of 
 your death is a question of longitude. 
 Life itself is the breath of God." 
 
 "Where have I heard that before?" 
 said Basilwood, musingly. There was si- 
 lence in the chamber for some time, and 
 then Gilbert spoke. 
 
 " Will you let your daughter come up 
 here for a few moments, and will you step 
 
 [ 173 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 into the hall when she comes? I have 
 something to say to her." 
 
 Basilwood went to the door and called 
 Margaret. She came running up the 
 stairs. As she entered the room, her fa- 
 ther left it. 
 
 She stood staring at the apparition in 
 the bed. 
 
 "Miss Basilwood," said Gilbert, "I 
 am sorry to put you to all this bother, 
 but I have very little time and I wish 
 to tell you something. Please be seated." 
 
 She shook her head and took a step 
 toward the door. 
 
 " For ten years I have seen you, on each 
 open day, bring your father to the Mu- 
 seum. I have followed you to your home 
 across the river, and, forgive me, I have 
 followed you to the shop." 
 
 Margaret came forward swiftly. "You 
 won't tell him how hard I work?" she 
 whispered, pointing toward the door. 
 
 "No, my dear," said Gilbert, "but I 
 wish that I had my hat on so that I 
 might take it off to you." 
 
 [ '74 ] 
 
The Senior Reader 
 
 Margaret smiled. 
 
 "That 's right," said Gilbert. " I never 
 saw you smile before. It becomes you. 
 I hope that from this on you will smile 
 very often. I shall die to-night, and I 
 have made my will. I have left to you a 
 fortune which I never had. I hope that 
 it will bring happiness to you. I wish that 
 I had known you when I was a young 
 man. If I had, I should not be so un- 
 certain where I am to go at midnight. I 
 should like it if you would say 'good- 
 by' to me; just those words would help 
 me very much when I cross the border." 
 
 Margaret came to the bedside and put 
 out her hand. 
 
 "Good-by," she said. 
 
 "There, there," said Gilbert, "Tve 
 made you cry when I wished to make 
 you happy. Go, now, and ask your father 
 to come." 
 
 Margaret left the room and Basilwood 
 came in. 
 
 " I have almost two hours yet," said 
 Gilbert, " and I think that I will take a 
 
 [ I7J ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 nap, but you must certainly wake me just 
 before twelve. I want to see the end of 
 this thing." 
 
 He lay back on the pillows and fell 
 asleep instantly. 
 
 Basilwood took his seat by the fire and 
 mixed another glass of grog. He sipped 
 it slowly, and when it was finished, his 
 head fell forward and he, too, slept. He 
 was awakened by the striking of the 
 clock. Gilbert was sitting up in bed 
 counting the strokes. When he reached 
 twelve he paused a moment, then he 
 cried, "Ah, David, my lad, is that you? 
 Have you been waiting long? What did 
 you have in that blue paper?" 
 
 Then his hands flew up, and he fell 
 back on the pillows. 
 
 Basilwood stood at the foot of the bed. 
 Gilbert's left arm lay across his breast. 
 The scarlet letters began to fade away 
 to pink, to lavender, to nothing. When 
 they had entirely disappeared, Basilwood 
 glanced at the clock. It was five minutes 
 past twelve. He opened the window, blew 
 
 [ 176 ] 
 
The Senior Reader 
 
 out the candle, drained his glass, and then 
 went slowly down the stairs. 
 
 -T OR a fortnight Basilwood kept away 
 from the Museum; then he returned to 
 his desk and his occupation. At the lunch- 
 eon hour he walked slowly and with diffi- 
 culty to the newspaper room in the wing. 
 He consulted a file of the San Francisco 
 Chronicle and carried the issue of Janu- 
 ary I back to his desk, as his privilege 
 permitted. 
 
 When he had taken his seat, he looked 
 at the index on the first page of the pa- 
 per, and then turned to the " Death No- 
 tices." The first was this: 
 " Gilbert, Suddenly^ on the afternoon of De- 
 " cember 3 1 , David Gilbert^ aged sixty-four 
 ^^ years. New York papers please copy^^ 
 
 "My God," he exclaimed, "the man 
 was right!" 
 
 He sat for a long time motionless and 
 with closed eyes. Then he opened his 
 
 [ ^n ] 
 
l!he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 desk and took out the notes for his book 
 which had accumulated during the last 
 few months. He ran them slowly over. 
 
 " Sixty years of work," he muttered, 
 " and all wrong." 
 
 He began tearing the slips into small 
 pieces. It took some time to tear them 
 all, and the litter nearly filled the desk. 
 He closed the lid and then, taking a large 
 sheet of the Museum paper, he wrote: 
 
 "To 
 
 Her Majesty the Queen: 
 " The Prince Consort was right. Life is the 
 ''Breath of God, 
 
 William Basilwood, 
 
 Senior Reader''' 
 
 At five o'clock a hansom stopped be- 
 fore the Museum gate and a woman and 
 a man got out. She was dressed in black, 
 with white collar and wrist-bands, the 
 livery of the shop. Her hair was tinged 
 with gray, but there was a charming color 
 in her cheeks, and her eyes were spark- 
 ling. The man was bearded and deeply 
 
 [ 178 ] 
 
T^he Senior Reader 
 
 tanned, and so tall that he leaned a trifle 
 that his companion might take his arm. 
 
 "Philip," she said, as they passed the 
 gate, "I have prayed for this without 
 ceasing, but the book is not yet finished." 
 
 " Book or no book, I shall not go away 
 again," he replied. 
 
 They went up the steps and through 
 the hall. At the entrance to the reading- 
 room she left him. 
 
 " Don't speak to father when he comes 
 out, dear," she said. "He won't know 
 you, and perhaps won't even notice you," 
 and then she went in. 
 
 "Good evening, miss," said the door- 
 keeper. "You are a bit late. There he is, 
 sound asleep at his desk, waiting for you." 
 
 She went quickly up the aisle, smiling 
 and nodding to one or two that she knew, 
 and put her hand on her father's shoulder. 
 
 " Come, daddy," she said ; but he did 
 not move, and so she shook his arm gent- 
 ly. " It is time to go home, daddy," she 
 said, and she leaned over and looked into 
 his face. 
 
 [ 179 ] 
 
"The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 A woman's cry rang through the vast 
 room which is sacred to silence. 
 
 The senior reader had already gone 
 home. 
 
 The Great Work was finished. 
 
 [ i8o] 
 
«f»i 
 
 SOME OLD FAMILIES 
 
 K 
 
4 '''■-:^ 
 
 SOME OLD FAMILIES 
 
 JrllGH up in the West Virginia moun- 
 tains, close to the Kentucky Hne, is the 
 flag-station Catamount. Here a lumber 
 company has built a great saw-mill, a 
 planing-mill, dry-kilns, and twenty white 
 cottages for the superintendent, the land- 
 looker, the sawyer, the storekeeper, and 
 the other head men. Across the bridge, 
 which spans the Tug River, are the board- 
 ing-houses and the dwellings of the four 
 hundred hands, all of whom are more or 
 less white. No black labor is employed. 
 One man performs the duties of telegraph 
 operator and station agent. His name is 
 Bill. He was born in war times, when 
 there was much confusion, and he never 
 had a surname. His account at the store 
 reads, "Bill, Dr." 
 
 One night, early in November, Bill 
 
 [ 183 ] 
 
T!he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 came out of his cabin by the track. As 
 he stood on the platform he faced the 
 river, the mountains, covered with tim- 
 ber to their summits, and the full, round 
 moon which topped them and sent a 
 shiver of silver across the sluggish stream. 
 
 " God," said Bill, as he stretched 
 his arms and yawned, "I wisht I was 
 rich." 
 
 As there was no response from the 
 bridge, the white cottages, the mills, the 
 river, or the moon. Bill relapsed into si- 
 lence and walked down the platform. At 
 the end he turned. 
 
 "God," he exclaimed (most of Bill's 
 sentences began that way), "there's a 
 light in the boss's window. He must have 
 gone to bed and forgot it." 
 
 Bill went down the road and knocked 
 at the office door. 
 
 "Come," cried some one inside, and 
 Bill opened the door. 
 
 "Ah, Bill," said the superintendent, 
 "is that you? I was just going over to 
 see you. Young Mr. Watkins, the presi- 
 
 [ 184 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 dent's son, is coming down with a private 
 car on the eleven four. His car will be 
 cut out here and will go on the switch. 
 It 's all clear, is it not ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Bill, "the switch is clear, 
 but why is he comin' here ? Aint Kala- 
 mazoo good enough fer him ? " 
 
 The superintendent smiled. " Why are 
 you here. Bill ? " 
 
 " 'Cause I aint never had money enough 
 to git away," replied Bill; and then, re- 
 alizing that his sentence was incomplete, 
 he added, after an interval, "God." 
 
 " I wonder why / am here," said the 
 superintendent, musingly. " I have a smat- 
 tering of Latin and Greek. I speak French 
 and Spanish, and I am not entirely unac- 
 quainted with Shakespeare and the mu- 
 sical glasses — when they are full — and 
 yet here I am." 
 
 They sat gazing into the fire, thinking 
 of very difi^erent things, when there came, 
 floating up the valley, the whistle of the 
 eleven four. The superintendent lit a lan- 
 tern and the two went out, up the road, 
 
 [ i8s] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 across the tracks, and stood upon the plat- 
 form. 
 
 Far down in the west they saw a light 
 that, as they watched it, grew larger and 
 brighter. Soon they felt, rather than heard, 
 a humming in the air. The blur of sound 
 resolved itself into a rhythmic beat, and 
 then lost itself in a roar. The light spread 
 and tipped the black forest on either side; 
 a white jet of steam shot up from the 
 glare; two shrill whistles set the echoes 
 flying; the great, hot, panting engine 
 staggered past them, and with groaning 
 brakes the eleven four arrived on time. 
 
 The conductor jumped from the for- 
 ward platform. 
 
 "Bill," he said, "we've got a private 
 on the end. I '11 run ahead and kick it 
 back. All clear?" 
 
 "Yes," said Bill. "Who's 'leded?" 
 
 "Did n't hear," replied the conduftor. 
 "Mighty close, but reckon it's Bryan." 
 
 "God," said Bill, "that's two dollars 
 for one. P'r'aps I kin git away from here 
 
 now." 
 
 [ i86] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 When the private car came back on 
 the switch, the superintendent stood at 
 its steps with his lantern. Soon the door 
 opened and a boy in knickerbockers came 
 out. He was tall and ruddy and smiling. 
 
 " Is this Catamount ? " he asked. 
 
 "It is," replied the superintendent. 
 "You are Mr. Watkins, are you not?" 
 
 "Well," said the boy, "I am Tom 
 Watkins. Mr, Watkins is in Kalamazoo. 
 I 'm nothing but his son. I Vecome down 
 here to learn the business and grow up 
 with the country. Hello," he exclaimed, 
 as the lantern shone on the face of the 
 superintendent. "You are Mr. Blount, 
 aint you ? My father told me about you. 
 You are an Oxford man. Come on board. 
 I 'm in disgrace, you know. Sent down 
 here on account of a little trouble I had at 
 Harvard. The dean is very fussy. I Ve got 
 my luggage, my man, a bike, and two dogs 
 aboard. Shall I get off, or spend the night 
 in the car ? It goes back in the morning." 
 
 "I think," said Blount, as he seated 
 himself upon the piano-stool in the parlor 
 
 [ 187] 
 
"The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 of the car, "that you will be more com- 
 fortable here, perhaps. I have had a bed 
 put up for you in a room over the office, 
 and Mrs. Brice will see that you get some- 
 thing to eat. She keeps the boarding- 
 house for the head men. Let me suggest 
 that you do not overlook Mrs. Brice. 
 She is asocial leader here. She wears shirt- 
 waists, and she plays the melodeon when 
 a preacher comes this way." 
 
 Tom Watkins laughed and then he 
 winked. 
 
 "Thank you for the steer," he said. 
 "I'll attend to Mrs. B. the first thing in 
 the morning. I '11 get her over before the 
 car leaves and have her play the piano. 
 This is the only car the Pullmans have 
 with a piano. It was fitted up for travel- 
 ling opera troupes, so they could practise 
 between stands. My man hits the box in 
 great shape. He 's been playing and sing- 
 ing for me all the way down from Co- 
 lumbus. If you say so, I'll have him in. 
 I should like to have you hear him sing, 
 *I want but little, but I want it nice.' 
 
 [ i88 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 It 's great. He can do all the music-hall 
 stunts. He only came over from London 
 last spring. I got him settling up a poker 
 debt with Russ Suffolk, just after the dean 
 turned me down. Russ is a great swell in 
 college. His people threw the tea over 
 in the war of 1812, or some of those 
 scraps. Russ used to say to me, 'Tom, if 
 your grandfather had made the money, 
 instead of your father, you would n't be 
 impossible' ; and then he 'd borrow a hun- 
 dred and go off to the club. When the 
 dean turned me down, Russ came in to 
 see me. 'Old man,' he said, 'I owe you 
 four hundred, and I owe my man the 
 same. He 's an invaluable man. He val- 
 eted Lord Oldcastle when he went on the 
 special mission to Berlin about that ruby 
 that was taken off the Prince at the mas- 
 querade ; and he was in the bushes when 
 Captain O'Kelly fought the duel with the 
 Grand Duke at Boulogne, and he helped 
 carry the Duke to the carriage after it 
 was over. If you take a man like that back 
 to Kalamazoo, Tom, you '11 paralyze the 
 
 [ 189] 
 
"The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 town. Now, I '11 tell you what we '11 do. 
 We '11 have just one poker hand, with a 
 draw. If you win, you take Dawson, pay 
 him the four hundred I owe him and can- 
 cel my debt to you. If you lose, you take 
 Dawson and I continue to owe you each 
 four hundred.' We dealt the cards and 
 Russ drew three. I held up a pair and 
 drew three. On the show-down I had my 
 pair and Russ had nothing. 
 
 "'You win,' he said, 'and I'll send 
 Dawson over. Good-by, old man.' 
 
 "When he had gone, I looked at his 
 discard. He had thrown away three jacks. 
 Some of those old families are no fools." 
 
 Blount looked hard at his companion 
 and then said, " May I ask your age, Mr. 
 Watkins?" 
 
 The boy started, blushed to his hair, 
 and then sprang up and began to pace the 
 floor. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Blount. " I 
 have been down here so long that I am 
 off in my manners." 
 
 " No," exclaimed the boy, stopping be- 
 
 [ 190 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 fore the man, "I know I am a fool. I 
 know I have no chance with men like 
 you. But think of it. I never knew my 
 mother, and my father got his start filing 
 saws in the lumber mills. He has made 
 money. He is one of the richest men in 
 Michigan, and he sent me to college to 
 learn to be a gentleman, and what did he 
 give me to start with ? A check-book." 
 
 Now it was the man who blushed. 
 
 "Tom," he said, and the boy flushed 
 again, but this time it was with pleasure, 
 "I carried to Oxford much more than 
 you took to Harvard, and I brought less 
 away. You must not think hard of your 
 father. It is better to begin by filing saws 
 and end a man of power, than to begin 
 with power and end by filing saws." 
 
 " Father told me," said the boy, " that 
 you were a gentleman." 
 
 The Englishman drew himself up and 
 bowed stiffly. " Approbation from Sir Hu- 
 bert Stanley — "he began, then he laughed 
 and took up his lantern. "Good night," 
 he said. " I invite myself to breakfast with 
 
 [ 191 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 you in the morning." He turned at the 
 end of the car. " By the way," he drawled, 
 " if I may presume so far, I would sug- 
 gest that you let Dawson go back to Kala- 
 mazoo. There is absolutely no society for 
 him here. He would be desolated." 
 
 When his guest had departed, the boy 
 pressed the button of the eleftric bell. 
 
 Dawson came in from the end of the car. 
 
 " Dawson," said the boy, " did you see 
 my friend Mr. Blount?" 
 
 Dawson stood irresolute. 
 
 "Why don't you answer?" asked the 
 boy, sharply. 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir," said Dawson, "but 
 do you mean the gentleman that just went 
 out, sir?" 
 
 Something in Dawson's voice caused 
 the boy to look up. 
 
 "What are you fidgeting about?" he 
 asked. "Do you know him?" 
 
 "The gentleman that just went out, 
 sir," said Dawson, slowly, " is the Hono- 
 rable Gerald Fitzallen, the youngest son 
 of the Earl of Oldcastle. I packed his 
 
 [ 192 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 boxes, sir, when they sent him down from 
 Christchurch. It broke his lordship's 
 heart, sir." 
 
 " Dawson," said the boy, after a pause, 
 "you may go back in the car to-morrow, 
 and don't let Mr. Blount see you before 
 you go. It might be uncomfortable for 
 him. Call me at eight, and tell the cook 
 to have breakfast on the table at half-past. 
 That 'sail." 
 
 " I quite understand, sir," said Dawson. 
 " Good night, sir." 
 
 The next morning Blount and the boy 
 had their breakfast in the car, and when 
 they had finished, Mrs. Brice came over 
 from the boarding-house to try the piano. 
 She wore her very best shirt-waist and 
 was, perhaps, overdressed. She began, 
 timidly, with her show piece, and did 
 not make an entire success of it, but the 
 boy helped her. 
 
 "Mrs. Brice," he cried, clapping his 
 hands, "you played that way up in G, 
 but it is too classical for me. Give us 
 something simple." 
 
 [ 193 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 And Mrs. Brice, reassured, let her fin- 
 gers wander among the keys, and out there 
 came wonderful melodies, filled with sad 
 minors and strange conceits, the songs 
 that her mammy had sung to her long 
 "before the war." When she had played 
 for some time, she began to sing. All 
 her embarrassment had left her. Her rich 
 voice filled the narrow car and floated 
 through the open windows across the 
 river, where the hands in the lumber 
 yards stopped their work to listen. 
 
 When the song ceased, Blount was 
 staring hard at the ceiling, and there were 
 tears in the boy's eyes. 
 
 " Thank you," he said, " I never heard 
 anything like that before." 
 
 "It has done me good," said Mrs. 
 Brice, "to get away from my oven and 
 my wash-tubs for a little while, and now 
 I must get back to them." 
 
 When she had gone, Blount and the 
 boy went over to the office, where they 
 found a crowd of head men waiting to 
 be presented to the son of the president. 
 
 [ 194 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 The boy was somewhat awed by the 
 thought that all these men were working 
 for his father, and that some day they 
 would be working for him. 
 
 "What are those rifles for?" he asked, 
 pointing to a rack against the wall. 
 
 Blount laughed. "Have you never 
 heard of the Hatfields and the McCoys.? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Yes," replied the boy, " they are the 
 families that have the feud and are always 
 killing each other, aren't they?" 
 
 "Yes," said Blount, "and we have 
 thirty of them out in the yards piling 
 lumber. When we opened the mill they 
 used to carry their Winchesters all day 
 and work with one hand. We paid them 
 for half a day's work. Last month I made 
 a rule that no man should carry a gun into 
 the yards, and they had a caucus and 
 agreed. They come here in the morn- 
 ing, leave their Winchesters, get checks 
 for them, and reclaim them at the end 
 of the day. We pay them full wages 
 now." 
 
 [ 195] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "This place is quite different from 
 Cambridge, isn't it? " said the boy. "And 
 even from Kalamazoo," he added. 
 
 "Yes," said Blount, "it is older. The 
 men who live in these mountains are 
 nearly the best bred men in the States. 
 I am speaking as an Englishman novvr, 
 and I mean that they are the descendants 
 of younger sons who were driven out of 
 Old Virginia. Their ancestors came here 
 for cause, and they have bred true. They 
 have handed down lawlessness and pride 
 of birth." 
 
 "It seems to me," said the boy, "that 
 Kalamazoo is the place for me. I ran up 
 against pride of birth at Cambridge, and 
 now I run up against it in Catamount. I 
 thought I should be 'good people' here." 
 
 "The place for you," said Blount, "is 
 New York. Several old families have 
 started there since I have been in the 
 States." 
 
 The door opened and a man came into 
 the office. He was tall, but his shoulders 
 dragged. His hair was long, unkempt, 
 
 [ 196 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 and the color of flax. His beard was thin, 
 and from the corners of his mouth two 
 black lines ran part way down it. His eyes 
 were china-blue and watery. He was 
 dressed in butternut homespun. On his 
 feet were a pair of low shoes, broken, and 
 red with dried mud. He wore no stock- 
 ings, and he carried a Winchester in the 
 hollow of his left arm. 
 
 Blount rose and pushed out a chair. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Dinwiddie," he said, "how 
 are you.? This is Mr. Watkins, from 
 Michigan, the son of our president." 
 
 Mr. Dinwiddie slowly seated himself 
 and planted the stock of his Winchester 
 between his feet. 
 
 " Beg pardon," said Blount, pointing 
 to the rifle, "but you know the rule of 
 the office." 
 
 Dinwiddie slowly raised his weapon, 
 threw open the breech, and held it up to 
 show that it was empty. Then he handed 
 it to Blount, who turned to the boy and 
 showed him three notches cut in the grip 
 of the stock. 
 
 [ 197 ] 
 
'The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "Those stand for the men he has 
 killed," he whispered. " He 's not much 
 of a murderer. One of those in the rack 
 has twenty-two notches. It belongs to Cy 
 Hatfield. He holds the record. He has 
 been tried for murder thirteen times, and 
 the jury has always disagreed. He is out 
 on bail now." 
 
 Blount handed the rifle back to its 
 owner. 
 
 " All right, Mr. Dinwiddle," he said. 
 " What can I do for you ? " 
 
 " I come in this mornin'," said the man 
 with three notches on his rifle, "to git 
 a clothes-line. I toted in some corn, 
 and they weighed it to the store, and 
 it come to thirty-two cents, and the 
 clothes-line is thirty-six. What be I 
 goin' to do } " 
 
 " I shall esteem it a favor," said Blount, 
 " if you will permit me to arrange it for 
 you ; " and he went out and returned with 
 the line. 
 
 " Is that a swell ? " asked the boy, when 
 Dinwiddle had departed. 
 
 [ 198 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 " If descent makes one," replied Blount, 
 "he is. If ascent makes one, he is not. 
 Take your choice." 
 
 They crossed the bridge to the great 
 saw-mill. The boy stood entranced. For 
 an hour he watched the dripping logs 
 come slowly in the door, riding on an 
 endless chain. He saw them seized with 
 canthooks and rolled upon the carriage. 
 He saw the "nigger-head" dart up 
 through the floor, dash its sharp beak into 
 the log, and fling it into position. He saw 
 the head sawyer hold up his fingers to 
 designate to the riders the thickness of 
 the cut. He saw them set their gauge and 
 their clamps. He saw the log borne down 
 onto the great whirring, flashing band- 
 saw which sliced it as if it were cheese. 
 He heard the rush of the returning car- 
 riage. He saw the white boards carried 
 away in the distance, to be measured, 
 sorted, piled on the trucks, and shot onto 
 the long scaffolding which zigzagged up 
 the valley for half a mile. They went to 
 the dry-kilns, where great piles of lumber 
 
 [ 199 ] 
 
Hhe Monk and the Dancer 
 
 lay seasoning. They went to the huge 
 stack, where the sawdust, that would 
 otherwise swamp the mill, was burning 
 with a roar like Niagara. They went to 
 the planing-mill, where small machines 
 cut up and smoothed strips of oak for par- 
 quette flooring. So deft, ingenious, and 
 perfedtwas the work that the boy laughed 
 aloud as he watched. 
 
 "Thunder ! " he said, " those machines 
 are alive. I feel like asking them ques- 
 tions.'' 
 
 "There is only one thing they cannot 
 do," said Blount, "they cannot sort the 
 strips according to color. That must be 
 done by the human eye and hand." 
 
 They crossed the bridge again, and at 
 the repair shop Blount spoke to a man in 
 blue overalls who was wiping his black- 
 ened hands on a bunch of waste. 
 
 " Is steam on No. 3 ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied the man. 
 
 "Run her out," said Blount, "and 
 couple on a flat. Put some soap boxes on 
 for seats, and run us up to the camps." 
 [ 200 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 "It is rather nice," said the boy, "to 
 order out a special train like that." 
 
 They reached the camp at the noon 
 hour, and they dined in the boarding- 
 house, Blount at the head of the table and 
 the camp boss and the boy at his either 
 hand. The latter wondered at the amount 
 of pie consumed, and spoke of it. 
 
 " Ah," said Blount, " the more one lives 
 out of doors the more he craves sweets. 
 If a man in the camp here steals anything 
 it is sure to be sugar. A pate de foie gras 
 would be perfectly safe." 
 
 After dinner they went out with the 
 cutters and watched the great trees trem- 
 ble, rock, and then, with a mighty rush 
 of wind, come sweeping to the earth. 
 Sometimes, as the last ligaments parted, 
 the dying giants shrieked as they fell. 
 
 "I dont like this," said the boy. "It 
 is too much like homicide." 
 
 " I have never grown quite used to it," 
 said Blount. " Suppose we go back." 
 
 "Is this the end of the road?" asked 
 the boy. 
 
 [ 201 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "Yes," replied his companion, "we 
 extend it as we cut." 
 
 " I believe I will walk on a bit," said 
 the boy. 
 
 "Very good," said Blount. "Follow 
 the valley, and you will come to a trail 
 on the left. It goes on forever. When you 
 have had enough, come back here and 
 take any train. I must go to the oiRce." 
 
 When the boy had gone up the bank 
 of the stream for a half-mile, he found 
 the trail and turned into it. It was two 
 feet wide and twisted through the forest, 
 a faint line on the dark carpet of fallen 
 leaves. The sunlight was shaded by the 
 tree-tops, and the great trunks marked out 
 the aisles and transepts of the first temple. 
 There was no sound. The small, brown 
 birds that flitted about the path were 
 mute. The silence awed the boy, and he 
 went on slowly. Suddenly he stopped. At 
 his feet, lying across the path, was a green 
 branch, freshly broken. 
 
 "How did that come here?" he asked 
 himself. He picked it up. It was laurel, 
 
 [ 202 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 and there was none growing in sight. He 
 went on a little further, and there was an- 
 other branch across the trail. He looked 
 about, and far ahead he caught a glimpse 
 of bright color that instantly disappeared. 
 He went on faster, passing branch after 
 branch. Finally he stopped and picked 
 up another, that lay at the foot of a gi- 
 gantic poplar, fifteen feet in girth. As he 
 stood, perplexed, he heard a low but 
 merry laugh. He stepped around the 
 tree-trunk and came upon a girl who 
 wore a pink cotton dress, and who held 
 in her arms a bunch of laurel twigs. 
 
 The boy, being a boy, blushed, and 
 took off his cap; and the girl, being a 
 girl, laughed. Then the boy laughed too. 
 The sombre forest suddenly became a 
 very pleasant place. When it seemed silly 
 to laugh any longer, the boy began to cast 
 about for something to say. He was so 
 long about it that the girl spoke first. 
 
 "Where is your bottle?" she asked. 
 
 " My bottle.? " said the boy. " I haven't 
 any." 
 
 [ 203 ] 
 
T'he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 The girl laughed again. She did not 
 giggle, nor guffaw. She laughed with 
 the silvery gurgle of a brook running 
 over pebbles, and when she laughed the 
 boy saw that there were dimples in her 
 glowing cheeks, her dainty chin, and at 
 the corners of her red lips. 
 
 " If you have n't got a bottle," she 
 said, "why did you take up the twig?" 
 
 "I don't know," replied the boy. "I 
 saw it in the path and wondered how it 
 got there. What does it mean? Why did 
 you put it there?" 
 
 "You don't know much, do you?" 
 asked the girl. 
 
 "No," said the boy, "I've never had 
 a chance." 
 
 "Well," resumed the girl, "father ran 
 his still last night and made between four 
 and five gallons. The twigs mean that if 
 you leave your bottle and your money 
 opposite one of them, you will find your 
 bottle full in the morning." 
 
 "Ah," said the boy, "I understand — 
 moonshine? " 
 
 [ 204 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 " Yes," said the girl. " We have to live. 
 Good-by." 
 
 "Where are you going? " asked the boy. 
 
 " Home,"' replied the girl, pointing up 
 the trail. 
 
 "May I go with you?" he asked. 
 
 "Sure," she answered, "the road is 
 free." 
 
 They walked on, saying little; and soon 
 they came to the creek, clear and ankle 
 deep at the edge, but dark and strewn 
 with bowlders in the channel. 
 
 "You'd better take off your shoes and 
 stockings," said the girl. 
 
 The boy looked down at his compan- 
 ion's feet. They were bare, but she was 
 not ashamed. She led the way, leaping 
 from stone to stone with her bare feet, 
 and the boy followed as best he could in 
 his Thomas golf shoes. 
 
 Watching the girl, he made a miss of 
 the centre stone, and laughing, he slipped 
 into the waist-deep water. She heard the 
 splash, and leaping back, gave him her 
 hand. He grasped it, and it was so strong 
 [ 205 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 but yet so soft, so warm, so vital, that he 
 could not bear to let it go; so he held it 
 until they reached the other side, and 
 even then, he kept it and stood looking 
 into her face. As he gazed at her he saw 
 her eyes grow soft and then droop. He 
 saw the rich blood come rushing into her 
 cheeks, and then, being a boy, and she be- 
 ing a girl, he felt his heart stop beating, 
 and bending down, he kissed her. 
 • ••.•.•• 
 
 When they came back to earth and 
 felt the sunshine and heard the whisper- 
 ing of the leaves and the singing of the 
 stream, the girl exercised the prerogative 
 of her sex, and again spoke first. 
 
 "Are you my lover?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," replied the boy, "I am your 
 lover." 
 
 "Do you mean true?" she said, her 
 hands on his shoulders, her eyes search- 
 ing his. 
 
 "Yes," said the boy, "I mean true;" 
 and they went on up the trail, hand in 
 hand. 
 
 [ 206 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 They walked slowly, and being a boy 
 and a girl, they stopped often, so that it 
 was some time before they came to a little 
 clearing, unfenced and dotted with tree- 
 stumps, about which grew goldenrod 
 and wild asters. In the centre stood a cabin 
 built of hewn logs, their joints plastered 
 with clay. 
 
 "There," said the girl, pointing toward 
 the cabin, "that's my home." 
 
 The boy felt a bit queer, just then. He 
 thought of his father's house in Kalama- 
 zoo, with its wooden towers and mina- 
 rets, its porte-cochere^ its great bare lawn 
 with the tulip bed and the two green cast- 
 iron settees in the centre, and for a brief 
 moment he speculated as to how the presi- 
 dent would regard this first afternoon 
 spent in Catamount. 
 
 Soon, however, he was thinking of 
 other things, for as they approached the 
 cabin, a man came out and stood before 
 the door. He was tall, but bent ; his hair 
 was flaxen and touched his shoulders, and 
 from the corners of his mouth two black 
 [ 207 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 stains ran down his beard. He was dressed 
 in butternut, and he carried a Winches- 
 ter in the hollow of his left arm. His eyes 
 were china-blue. 
 
 " Dinwiddie ? " exclaimed the boy. 
 
 "Yes," said the girl; and then as they 
 came up to the door she said, " Father, 
 this is my lover." 
 
 There followed a silence that the boy 
 thought would never end. It ended with 
 a click. Dinwiddie had cocked his rifle. 
 The boy began to think again of his fa- 
 ther and of Kalamazoo. He did not look 
 at the girl; he kept his eyes on the gun, 
 or perhaps on the man behind the gun. 
 
 " Rosie," said the man with the china- 
 blue eyes, — and his voice was low and 
 sweet, like the girl's, — "they ain't none 
 better born nor you in all the mountings. 
 You 're Dinwiddie on yer pa's side, and 
 yer ma had Pocahonty blood. Bein' bred 
 like that, it would n't be right fer you to 
 cross with no galoot from y\.\Q\\\gan, No, 
 no, Rosie ; you kin do a heap better. Cy 
 Hatfield is bailed out, I seen him at the 
 [ 208 ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 mill. He 's comin' up to-night and he 's 
 goin' to marry you to-morrer." 
 
 With a cry like a wild beast's, the girl 
 sprang at her father and struck him in 
 the face. 
 
 " Good," said Dinwiddie, calmly, as he 
 drew his sleeve across his cheek. "That 
 Pocahonty blood is game. Yer ma had it." 
 
 Then he straightened himself, and his 
 china-blue eyes grew hard and evil. 
 
 "Go," he said to the boy, and he 
 pointed toward the trail. 
 
 The boy hesitated. 
 
 "Shall I go, Rosie?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," sobbed the girl. "He'll kill 
 you if you don't." 
 
 " Go," repeated Dinwiddie, in a voice 
 no longer low and sweet. "And don't yer 
 come back again. If yer do, by God, 
 there '11 be four nicks on my gun 'stead 
 of three." 
 
 II 
 
 1 HE next morning the boy came very 
 late to his breakfast. Mrs. Brice waited 
 
 [ 209 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 for him and was embarrassed and dis- 
 tressed by his want of appetite. She even 
 suggested some dried-apple pie. When a 
 man in Catamount starts in to drink, be- 
 cause he is paid off, or has had a baby 
 born, or a funeral in his family, he is apt 
 to have pie for breakfast. Just so the man 
 who has been fortunate in "the Street" 
 eats melons at the Waldorf in February. 
 The boy declined the pie, drank a little 
 tea, nibbled a slice of toast, and pushed 
 back his chair. 
 
 Outside the sun was shining as usual; 
 the sluggish river eddied by the booms, 
 the air was filled with the hum of the 
 band-saws, the clack of the planers, the 
 puffing of the logging locomotives, the 
 roar of the sawdust-burner. 
 
 The boy went slowly down the road, 
 crossed the railway, and passed on to the 
 store. He did not enter, but stood upon 
 the steps, his hands in his coat pockets, 
 his thoughts far up the trail. 
 
 Suddenly he heard a clatter on the 
 bridge. He looked and saw a gray mule 
 
 [ 2IO ] 
 
Some Old Families 
 
 shacking down the road. On her back was 
 a slouching rider clad in butternut. The 
 sun glistened on the barrel of a rifle. 
 
 " Dinwiddie ! " gasped the boy. And 
 then he set his teeth and stood his ground. 
 
 The gray mule came on and finally 
 stopped before the store. The rider swung 
 his right leg and dismounted slowly. He 
 threw his reins over the mule's head upon 
 the ground. Then he came up the steps. 
 
 "MorninV* he said. "How be ye?" 
 
 The boy stood silent. 
 
 "They 's goin' to be a weddin' at our 
 house to-night," said the man with the 
 china-blue eyes, "and I come in to git a 
 few fixin's. I haint got no ready money, 
 and what be I goin' to do ? " 
 
 The boy led the way into the store. 
 
 "Mr. Barton," he said to the clerk, 
 "let Mr. Dinwiddie have what he wants 
 and charge it to me." 
 
 With the bazaars of the world before 
 him, Mr. Dinwiddie chose two pairs of 
 ladies' white cotton hose, one pair of gents' 
 ditto ; one pair of ladies' shoes, No. 3, 
 
 [211 ] 
 
Hhe Monk and the Dancer 
 
 one pair of gents' ditto. No. lo ; six cot- 
 ton pocket-handkerchiefs, one celluloid 
 comb, a pound of cheese, and twenty-five 
 Winchester cartridges. 
 
 "There," he said, when he had com- 
 pleted his purchases, and was about to re- 
 mount his mule, " fer clost on to two hun- 
 dred year my fambly has been married in 
 shoes and stockin's. I must be goin'. Cy 
 and Rosie is down the trail, fillin' the 
 bottles and takin' up the money." He 
 kicked his mule and started,only to wheel 
 about and return. 
 
 "Mr. Watkins," he said, "no hard 
 feelin's 'twixt us, be they ? We could n't 
 quite 'low you to marry inter the fambly, 
 but we '11 keep on tradin' to your store 
 jist the same." 
 
 He started again and wheeled again. 
 
 "Mr. Watkins," he said, restraining 
 his restive mule, " Rosie says, ' Tell Tom, 
 if you sees him, to come up the trail some 
 time when Cy's in jail.'" 
 
 [ 212 ] 
 
«5»i 
 
 •f^ 
 
 THE EYE 
 OF THE HAREM 
 
M'^''' = » 
 
 THE EYE 
 
 OF THE HAREM 
 
 W HEN the Bishop had passed the cus- 
 toms — a High Church inspector letting 
 certain embroidered vestments through 
 as "tools to be used in a trade," under 
 Schedule Z — he took a cab and had his 
 wife and himself driven to the Albemarle. 
 His rooms w^ere ready for him, and his 
 letters were on a table in the sitting-room. 
 His wife, a small, thin woman with gray 
 hair drawn over her ears, examined the 
 letters and selected her own. Then she 
 permitted the Bishop to have his. He 
 went into his chamber, and soon came to 
 the door in his shirt-sleeves. 
 
 "Maria," he called, "here is a note 
 from Tewksbury. An engagement pre- 
 vented his meeting us at the wharf, but 
 he puts his carriage at our disposal while 
 we are here, sends his kindest remem- 
 brances to you and incloses — " 
 
 [ 215] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " What ? " asked his wife, with a hair- 
 pin in her mouth. 
 
 "Nothing," replied the Bishop, "that 
 is," he added, "only a card;" and having 
 been so near to an untruth, he thought 
 of Saint Peter and half listened for the 
 cock's crow. 
 
 " Well," said his wife, after a short in- 
 terval, her mouth still occupied by the 
 necessaries of her toilet, " if I felt equal 
 to it I should go around to Trinity Chapel 
 and give thanks for a safe voyage, but 
 my head is very bad and I shall try to 
 sleep. Of course you will go." 
 
 There was a knock at the door. The 
 Bishop went to it hurriedly. 
 
 "Please, sir," said the buttons, "Mr. 
 Tewksbury's carriage is below, and the 
 groom says he is to take your orders." 
 
 The Bishop went to the door of his 
 wife's room. 
 
 " My dear," he said, " I wish I could 
 do something for you. I don't like to leave 
 you alone." 
 
 "Nonsense," rejoined his wife, "it 
 
 [ 216 ] 
 
T^he Eye of the Harem 
 
 won't be the first time. There is a little 
 foreign money in my purse. Put it in the 
 offertory, I dare say they can use it, and 
 get me some fruit while you are out — 
 that nasty steamer food ! lobsters on the 
 menu six days out! — get me some necta- 
 rines, such as we had at Lambeth Palace ; 
 there is a fruit-shop just up the street ; 
 and don't wake me up to show them to 
 me. Wait till I call you." 
 
 "Yes, my dear," said the Bishop, and 
 he went down-stairs and entered the neat 
 brougham which stood before the door. 
 
 "Where, my lord?" asked the foot- 
 man. 
 
 "Anywhere," sighed the Bishop as he 
 sank back against the cushions. 
 
 They drove through the park, and the 
 sweetness of the landscape brought peace 
 to the Bishop's heart. 
 
 " After all," he said to himself, " a celi- 
 bate clergy has its limitations. See those 
 baby-carriages and white-capped nurses 
 on the lawn. None of them, it is to be 
 hoped, belongs to the Pope, and any one 
 [ 217 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 of them — in fa6t,all of them — might be- 
 long to my humblest curate. Then, there 
 is the question of stockings. Maria keeps 
 mine darned. Friars are barefooted, doubt- 
 less because they have no one to darn for 
 them. By the way, what was it Maria told 
 me to fetch her ? Oh, nectarines, that 's 
 it. I Ve plenty of time and will get them 
 after I have let the carriage go," and just 
 then they quitted the macadam of the 
 park for the asphalt of the avenue. 
 
 In a few moments the Bishop, who had 
 been watching the street-lamps, squeezed 
 the rubber bulb which hung in front of 
 the brougham door, and the coachman 
 drew up to the left-hand curb. 
 
 The Bishop backed slowly out, one foot 
 on the step and the other feeling for the 
 sidewalk. 
 
 "James," he said, when he had found 
 his legs — and very good legs they were 
 in their gaiters — "James, that is all." 
 
 "Thank you, my lord," said James, 
 raising his forefinger to his hat-brim. 
 
 "And, James," added the Bishop, "if 
 [218 ] 
 
The 'Eye of the Harem 
 
 any one should ask where you left me, 
 you may say at the corner of Thirty- 
 eighth Street. This is the corner of Thirty- 
 eighth Street, is it not ? " 
 
 " Quite so, my lord,'' replied James. 
 
 " I have enjoyed my drive very much," 
 said the Bishop. "Share this with the 
 coachman," and he slipped his wife's 
 foreign money, wrapped in a bill, into 
 James's hand. 
 
 The Bishop stood a moment, as if un- 
 decided where to go, then he walked 
 briskly down the avenue. As he went 
 along men and women turned to look at 
 him, the men a little slyly, the women 
 with frank admiration. Miss Dottie St. 
 Claire, who was driving home from re- 
 hearsal, put her blond head out of the 
 hansom and gazed after him. 
 
 " Are n't he a love ? " she said to the 
 young man by her side. " He makes me 
 think of 'ome." 
 
 And the Bishop was well worth look- 
 ing at. Six feet tall, with a smooth, ruddy 
 face, kind blue eyes, crisp gray hair un- 
 
 . [ 219 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 der a shovel hat, neat gaiters, well-black- 
 ened boots, and just enough waist to show 
 off his apron, he was a pleasing objeft,— 
 so pleasing, indeed, that it was difficult 
 for certain lewd men who passed him to 
 conceive that he was the direft descend- 
 ant of the apostles, who, they whispered 
 one to another, were simple folk, with 
 only one coat, one pair of shoes, and no 
 stockings, no gaiters, no amethyst episco- 
 pal rings, no broughams, and no incomes. 
 
 But the good Bishop, as he walked 
 down the avenue, was not troubled by 
 these aspersions of his legitimacy. His 
 thoughts were evidently fixed on pleas- 
 anter things than the bar sinister with 
 which envy sought to daub his sacerdotal 
 escutcheon. 
 
 "I wonder," he said to himself, "if 
 this is the place ? " and he stopped and 
 looked up at a corner house. 
 
 " Yes," he said, consulting a card which 
 he held in his hand ; "this is the num- 
 ber, but it might be a private house for 
 all that appears. I had supposed — " and 
 [ 220 ] 
 
"The 'Eye of the Harem 
 
 then he went up the steps which were on 
 the side street and touched the bell. The 
 door opened instantly. 
 
 "Is this the Saunterers' Club?" he 
 asked of the servant who stood on the 
 threshold. 
 
 "Yes, my lord," replied the hallman. 
 
 The Bishop blushed, first with pleas- 
 ure, and again because his conscience 
 pricked him. 
 
 " I am Bishop Williamson, of Porto 
 Rico," he said, "and I received notice 
 to-day that my old friend, Mr. Robert 
 Tewksbury, has obtained the privileges 
 of this club for me for two weeks. Is Mr. 
 Tewksbury in.?" and he held out the 
 card. 
 
 " No, my lord," replied the doorman, 
 " but he will be, later. He telephoned for 
 dinner only a few moments ago." 
 
 The Bishop went in and a servant took 
 his hat. 
 
 " I will show you about the 'ouse, my 
 lord," he said. 
 
 The Bishop blushed again. He found 
 
 [ "^L, 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 it pleasant to be addressed by English ser- 
 vants. 
 
 They entered the library. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed the Bishop, " this is 
 delightful. Such quiet, such repose, such 
 a refuge from the hurly-burly of the 
 street ! I think I will try one of these hos- 
 pitable chairs." 
 
 " Shall I bring you a paper, my lord ? " 
 asked the servant. 
 
 "Yes," replied the Bishop. "I should 
 like to see the last copy of the Church- 
 man ^ 
 
 "Very sorry, my lord, but we don't 
 take in the Churchman^' said William. 
 " Will you try the 'Evening Post^ my lord.? 
 The Post is a very serious paper." 
 
 " No," replied the Bishop. " I think I 
 will take a little rest. I have had a busy 
 day. And, by the way," he added, his 
 conscience pricking him again, " I am not 
 ' my lord.' I am simply Bishop William- 
 son, of Porto Rico." 
 
 "Thank you, my lord," said William ; 
 and then he went away. 
 [ 222 ] 
 
T^he 'Eye of the Harem 
 
 Left to himself, the good Bishop 
 glanced languidly about the room, — its 
 huge chairs, heavy curtains, sombre color, 
 and subdued lights, so inviting to repose. 
 Then, assured that he was alone, he 
 stretched out his gaitered legs, crossed his 
 white hands over his apron, dropped his 
 chin upon his breast, and slept. 
 
 He had scarcely lost himself when the 
 clear notes of a coach-horn filled the room. 
 It was evidently blown at the club door. 
 The Bishop awakened with a jerk, and 
 getting on his feet, walked to the open 
 window. He was just in time to see a 
 black drag, picked out in yellow, draw 
 up to the curb. While it was still in mo- 
 tion two servants ran to the heads of the 
 horses, and when the brake was set a tall 
 man in a drab coat, who was sitting on 
 the box seat, threw the reins onto the 
 wheelers' backs and stood up. The horses 
 spread their legs and breathed hard. It 
 was evident that they had come fast. A 
 crowd gathered instantly from the place 
 from which crowds come, and men with 
 [ 223 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 bare heads ran out of the club and stood 
 about the front wheels. 
 
 "Good old Tewksbury," cried some 
 one from the club steps. 
 
 " Good old Macaroni," cried another. 
 
 " Three cheers for Spaghetti," yelled a 
 third, and they were given with a will. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Tewksbury, brac- 
 ing himself on the footboard, " the filly 
 ran true to breeding, and there will be 
 cakes and ale in the blue dining-room 
 at eight o'clock. I hope you all landed 
 well. You haven't time to go home and 
 dress. Come as you are. All you need is a 
 thirst." 
 
 " Bless me," said the Bishop, to him- 
 self, "can that man in those very pro- 
 nounced clothes be Robert Tewksbury? 
 When I last saw him, at the General 
 Convention" — and then the door flew 
 open and Tewksbury came in. 
 
 "David, old boy, how are you?" he 
 cried. 
 
 " Bob," replied the Bishop, " I am very 
 well." 
 
 [224] 
 
I^he "Eye of the Harem 
 
 The two men stood gazing and smiling 
 at each other. 
 
 "You old sinner," said Tewksbury, 
 " how your togs become you ! " 
 
 " You old saint," said the Bishop, " how 
 funny you look in yours ! " and then they 
 laughed and shook hands for a long 
 time. 
 
 " I saw your arrival in the Herald^^ 
 said Tewksbury, " and I sent my coach- 
 man round to you with the carriage. Did 
 he find you?" 
 
 " Indeed he did," said the Bishop, " and 
 I got your card for the club, and came to 
 thank you. I have to choose my time, 
 for we are very busy, and Maria is a lit- 
 tle nervous." 
 
 "How/j- Maria?" asked Tewksbury. 
 
 "Just as ever," replied the Bishop, " as 
 true as steel." 
 
 " Humph," said Tewksbury. 
 
 The Bishop sighed. 
 
 As the mention of his wife had caused 
 the silence which ensued, he felt bound 
 to break it. 
 
 [ "5 ] 
 
Hhe Monk and the Dancer 
 
 "What have you been doing lately, 
 Bob?" he asked. 
 
 "Doing?" exclaimed Tewksbury, — 
 "everything. This has been my busy 
 year. I v^ent to Europe last Oftober, fell 
 in with the Turkish ambassador at Lon- 
 don, went on with him to Constantinople, 
 worked out a loan for the Sultan, cleaned 
 up a million, came home last week, and 
 to-day I won the 'Far and Near' with 
 my filly Spaghetti, by Macaroni, out of 
 Vermicelli." 
 
 " What is the ' Far and Near ' ? " asked 
 the Bishop. 
 
 Tewksbury looked hard at his friend. 
 
 " Dave," he said, finally, " you always 
 were rather, downy at school. You used 
 to pretend ignorance of lots of things 
 with which you had at least a bowing ac- 
 quaintance. This supposed ignorance of 
 yours went far toward making you a 
 bishop." 
 
 The Bishop smiled a sort of smile, but 
 he asked again, " What is the * Far and 
 Near'?" 
 
 ^ [ 226 ] 
 
'The Eye of the Harem 
 
 "If you're honest about it," said 
 Tewksbury, " it 's a horse-race, and I won 
 it to-day, along with forty thousand dol- 
 lars, and I '11 build you a chapel in Porto 
 Rico if you'll dine with me to-night." 
 He was evidently somewhat excited. 
 
 The Bishop sat silent for a moment, 
 and then he uttered the single word, 
 "Maria?" 
 
 "Be a man, Dave," said Tewksbury. 
 
 The Bishop's hands clasped the arms 
 of his chair, and the charming bow of his 
 lips became a straight line. 
 
 "Bob," he said, "I will." 
 
 "Good," exclaimed Tewksbury, "the 
 chapel is yours." 
 
 "I'm afraid," said the Bishop, "that I 
 should have stayed without the chapel. 
 I am periodically attacked with a longing 
 to mingle with my fellow-men. Thus far 
 I have fought against it, although in Lon- 
 don I fell, and went to Madame Tussaud's. 
 But to-day I have scarcely struggled. I 
 started out this afternoon with the delib- 
 erate intention of coming here. I dis- 
 [ 227 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 missed your carriage at the corner of 
 Thirty-eighth Street, and told James to 
 say he had set me down there. I thought 
 it would not look well if I drove up to 
 the door of a club, and I proposed to say 
 nothing about it to Maria. This is bad 
 enough, but it is not the worst, for. Bob, 
 I aftually revel in the deceit. I am wildly 
 happy in my sin, and I propose to quaff 
 the cup of pleasure to the dregs; but. 
 Bob,'' he added earnestly, "you must let 
 me know when it is ten o'clock. Till then 
 I shall be a man among men. After ten, I 
 shall be the Bishop of Porto Rico, and 
 shall go home to Maria. I know what 
 you are going to say. You are about to 
 suggest that I tell Maria that I stayed out 
 in order to get the chapel. There are two 
 objections to that. One is that it is not 
 true, and the other is that Maria will 
 know that it is not true. By the way, I 
 left her to go to Trinity Chapel, and then 
 to get her some ne6tarines at Hick's. 
 Don't let me forget them." 
 
 "All right," said Tewksbury, "you 
 [ 228 ] 
 
'The Eye of the Harem 
 
 have plenty of time to run over to the 
 Albemarle and tell her you are going to 
 dine with me." 
 
 " By no means," exclaimed the Bishop. 
 " I shall send a note. I am not Catiline. 
 If I go, I shall not return." 
 
 "All right," laughed Tewksbury . "You 
 know best. I '11 just run upstairs and do a 
 tub. I sha' n't change because the others 
 have n't time. By the way, what clothes 
 do you wear at coronations and such like ? " 
 
 The Bishop blushed for the third time. 
 
 "When I dined at Lambeth Palace," 
 he said, " I wore silk stockings and silver 
 buckles on my pumps, but my coat was 
 very like the one I have on, except that 
 it was braided." 
 
 " You '11 do above the waist, then," said 
 Tewksbury, " and your legs will be under 
 the table. Come along if you want to 
 wash your hands." 
 
 II 
 
 A SCORE of men sat about the long 
 
 table in the blue room. There were bank- 
 
 [ 229 ] 
 
l!he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 ers, railroad presidents, promoters, cor- 
 poration lawyers, idlers; all were million- 
 naires except the Bishop and a little man 
 in tweeds who sat at the host's left. The 
 little man was presented to the Bishop 
 by Tewksbury as his trainer; "and what 
 Jenkins does n't know about horses," he 
 added, "you can put in tea." 
 
 "How very interesting," rejoined the 
 Bishop. " I should enjoy a long talk with 
 you, Mr. Jenkins, about that noblest of 
 animals, the horse. You doubtless recall 
 the matchless description of him in the 
 Book of Job." 
 
 " I carnt say as I do, my lord," replied 
 Mr. Jenkins. " What with lookin' after 
 three and thirty in trainin', keepin' the 
 stable lads sober, warnin' off the touts and 
 reporters, seein' after the weights and en- 
 tries, nursin' the sick ones, patchin' up 
 the cripples, takin' off my 'at to the jocks, 
 as you has to do now-a-days, and with 
 oats at forty-eight cents, I don't have the 
 time for much readin', but I was well ac- 
 quainted with Job." 
 
 [ 230 ] 
 
The 'Eye of the Harem 
 
 " What ? " exclaimed the Bishop. 
 
 "Of course you understand," added 
 Mr. Jenkins, "that Job wasn't his real 
 name. He just took it for sportin' pur- 
 poses, and he used to sign it to the racin' 
 articles in the Spirit. He called on me 
 once at the stables, a proper gentleman 
 with saridy hair and a blue bird's-eye tie 
 — did n't ask for no tips — just passed the 
 time of day — gave me a cigar — had the 
 clothes off of Macaroni — went into the 
 'ouse to see the picture of the old 'orse 
 with me at his 'ead — took a cup of tea 
 with the missus — liked to killed her with 
 one of his stories — 'ad the little girl onto 
 his lap, and went away as pleasant as a 
 May mornin'. I '11 look up his book this 
 winter unless we take the string South." 
 
 " I fear," said the Bishop, " that I did 
 not make myself quite clear. I had refer- 
 ence to — " 
 
 " David," interrupted Tewksbury, " do 
 you see that lad down at the other end, 
 the chap with the white hyacinth in 
 his buttonhole ? He is Carrol De Lancy, 
 
 [ 231 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 one of our most eminent cotillion lead- 
 ers." 
 
 " Dear me," said the Bishop, " I have 
 never seen one." After a look through his 
 glasses, he turned to Tev^ksbury, his eyes 
 twinkling, and whispered, "And a little 
 child shall lead them." 
 
 "Not such a child as he looks," said 
 Tewksbury. " He '11 be presented to you 
 later, and will ask you for the loan of his 
 cab fare. He never carries any money in 
 his evening clothes. Says it bulges him 
 and spoils his figure. He 's got a flat latch- 
 key which he keeps in his hat lining. He 
 gets his corsets from Klob in Vienna, who 
 makes for the Pope's guard. They are the 
 best set up chaps in Europe, bar none ; and 
 the reason is that their corsets are made in 
 one piece of elastic, which goes on over 
 the head. It takes two men to put 'em on, 
 and they say they are never taken off." 
 
 "Dear me," said the Bishop, "I had 
 no idea — who is that man with the 
 side whiskers, the one speaking to the 
 waiter?" 
 
 [ 232 ] 
 
"The Eye of the Harem 
 
 "Oh/' replied Tewksbury, "that's 
 Jamieson, the most awful millionnaire 
 here. He *s drunk half that bottle, and 
 now he is telling the waiter that it is 
 corked. That 's a habit. He paid a thou- 
 sand dollars the other day to become a 
 life member of the club. He immediately 
 began to think. ' If I die inside of five 
 years,' he said to me, ' my estate will lose 
 money, as the annual dues are two hun- 
 dred. What would you do?' 
 
 " I could n't advise him. Later he came 
 to me radiant. 
 
 " ' I 've fixed that matter I was speaking 
 to you about,' he said. ' I 've taken out a 
 five-year policy on my life for a thousand 
 dollars. My estate can't lose much. One 
 has to look after these things.' " 
 
 "Dear me," said the Bishop, again. 
 " I had no idea — and he is of a very old 
 family, is he not?" 
 
 "I should say so," replied Tewksbury. 
 " Good old Bible family. A lot of his an- 
 cestors ran violently down a steep place 
 into the sea, and — " 
 
 [ 233 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " Tewksbury," called a man from the 
 other end of the table, "they say that 
 when you were in Turkey last winter the 
 Sultan got sweet on you and gave you 
 the Eye of the Harem. Can't we have a 
 look at it, or have you locked it up in 
 some safe deposit vault down town?" 
 
 "No," said Tewksbury, "I wore it 
 to the races to-day, for luck, and I am 
 ashamed to say, I have got it on yet," and 
 he took off his ring and passed it on — a 
 blue diamond as large as a filbert, with 
 pink and white flashes through it that 
 made the millionnaires gasp. To the 
 Bishop it was only something to marvel 
 at and admire ; to the others, it was some- 
 thing to covet and appraise. 
 
 " A hundred thousand dollars, if it is 
 worth anything," whispered the Bishop's 
 right-hand neighbor. "Suchjewels should 
 be suppressed. They breed crime. They 
 make thieves and poisoners. How often 
 do you suppose blood has been spilled on 
 account of that stone?" 
 
 The Bishop did not reply, for just then 
 
 [ 234 ] 
 
The 'Eye of the Harem 
 
 a servant offered him a huge bowl of 
 white and black grapes, and, as he helped 
 himself to a small cluster, he uncovered 
 a crimson-cheeked neflarine. He had for- 
 gotten his wife's commission. 
 
 "Are you ill?" asked his neighbor. 
 "You look rather white. Let me get you 
 some brandy." 
 
 "No," said the Bishop, with a faint 
 smile, " it is my conscience, not my stom- 
 ach, that is troubling me. I have thought 
 too much of my own pleasure to-day, and 
 too little of that of others. Now I must go 
 and confess;" and he rose from his chair. 
 
 "Not going, are you, David? "asked 
 Tewksbury. 
 
 "Yes," said the Bishop, "I must say 
 good night." 
 
 "Well," said Tewksbury, " I '11 see you 
 out, and if no one will have any more 
 drink, we will have our coffee in the 
 other room. By the way, where is my 
 ring?" and he held up the hand upon 
 which he had worn it. 
 
 There followed a moment's silence and 
 
 [ 235 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 then — "I passed it on," said one, "and 
 I," "and I," said each. They shook the 
 napkins and searched the floor. The co- 
 tillion leader took one of the candles 
 and disappeared under the table. No dia- 
 mond. " Never mind," said Tewksbury, 
 "it will turn up all right. Don't think 
 any more about it." 
 
 Then they thought about it very hard 
 indeed, and a silence ensued that became 
 embarrassing. It was broken by Jamie- 
 son, the multi-millionnaire, who walked 
 unsteadily but rapidly to the door and 
 locked it. 
 
 " I move we all be searched," he cried, 
 in a voice made strident by drink. " I 
 can't aiFord to have diamonds like that 
 disappear at dinner-tables where I am. 
 Search me first and let me get out. Who's 
 next?" 
 
 "Mr. Jamieson," said Tewksbury, 
 "you forget yourself. These are my 
 guests. I don't have guests that have to 
 be searched." 
 
 "You've got nothing to do with it," 
 
 [ 236 ] 
 
TChe Eye of the Harem 
 
 screamed Jamieson. "It is a measure of 
 self-preservation for each of us. We can't 
 go until the stone is found, or until it is 
 proved that vv^e have n't got it. Do you 
 all agree?" 
 
 And they all agreed but one — the 
 Bishop. He stood, very erefl: and very 
 pale, his hand extended to Tewksbury. 
 
 " I think I '11 go now^, Robert," he said, 
 and then he turned and, looking down the 
 room, added, " Good night, gentlemen." 
 
 There were a few awkward responses as 
 Tewksbury unlocked the door and went 
 out with his friend. The two did not 
 speak until they stood on the steps of the 
 club. Then Tewksbury put his hand on 
 the Bishop's shoulder, and said, " Dave, it 
 was awfully square of you to stand up and 
 refuse to be searched. That drunken fool, 
 Jamieson, put you all in a dreadful hole, 
 and I know how hard it was for you to 
 walk out. You did it for my sake." 
 
 "No, Bob," said the Bishop, sadly, "I 
 did it for my own sake. I didn't dare to 
 be searched. I am a thief." 
 
 [ 237 ] 
 
The Monk and the Dancer 
 
 " My God, Dave, what do you mean? " 
 gasped Tewksbury. 
 
 "I mean," said the Bishop, "that I 
 stole this," and putting his hand into his 
 skirt pocket he drew out a neftarine. 
 
 Tewksbury glanced at it and burst into 
 a laugh. 
 
 "It is no laughing matter," said the 
 Bishop. "It made a sneak and coward 
 of me. I had to run away or be exposed. 
 Fancy an unworthy successor of the apos- 
 tles searched, and found with stolen fruit 
 on his person; " and drawing back his arm 
 he flung the neflarine far down the street. 
 
 " Poor old boy," said Tewksbury, " I 
 should not have asked you to such a din- 
 ner." 
 
 " It is not your fault," said the Bishop. 
 " I deserve it all. I began the day wrong. 
 I was not conscientious on the wharf this 
 morning in regard to my vestments. And 
 then I permitted Maria to believe that I 
 left her to go to Trinity Chapel, and in- 
 stead of going, I drove in the park. I gave 
 her money to the groom when she had 
 
 [238 ] 
 
'The Eye of the Harem 
 
 charged me to put it in the offertory. I 
 wrote her that I was dining with you, but 
 did not mention the club, and I forgot all 
 about her fruit until that on your table 
 reminded me of it. I am sorry that you 
 have lost your ring. Bob, but I have lost 
 much more — my self-respeft." 
 
 " Nonsense," exclaimed Tewksbury. 
 "You're morbid. You spend too much 
 time with curates and women." 
 
 " I am going home to a woman now," 
 said the Bishop, "and I am wondering 
 just what I shall say to her. Good night," 
 and he started down the street. 
 
 He walked very slowly, and he even 
 took a little stroll in Madison Square be- 
 fore he entered the hotel. When he did 
 go in, he declined the offer of the eleva- 
 tor and climbed the stairs. He opened the 
 door very carefully and crept into the sit- 
 ting-room. It was dark, but a faint glim- 
 mer of light came from his wife's room. 
 He could hear her breathing. She was 
 asleep. He was reprieved until morning. 
 With a thankful heart he groped his way 
 
 [ 239 ] 
 
T^he Monk and the Dancer 
 
 toward his own door. He had almost 
 reached it when he stepped upon the 
 projefting rocker of a chair. There was a 
 bang against the wall, a cry from his wife, 
 a sudden gleam of light as she turned up 
 the gas, and then the Bishop of Porto 
 Rico realized that his crimes had over- 
 taken him. 
 
 He began to talk very rapidly : "Tewks- 
 bury asked particularly after you, my dear, 
 — very particularly. We had a delight- 
 ful dinner. I don't know when I have had 
 so charming a dinner. We had oysters 
 and soup and fish and roast and snipe — 
 I think, yes, snipe — and, ha, ha, ha, there 
 was a young man present who leads cotil- 
 lions and wears corsets. It was a delight- 
 ful dinner, most delightful — Tewksbury 
 asked most particularly — " 
 
 "That will do," said his wife. "You 
 may complete the menu in the morning. 
 I wonder what they think down in the 
 office of the Bishop of Porto Rico com- 
 ing in at this hour of the night. Leave 
 the neftarines in the sitting-room and go 
 to bed." [ 240 ] 
 
The 'Eye of the Harem 
 
 " My dear," began the Bishop, " I very 
 much regret — " 
 
 There was a knock at the outer door. 
 The Bishop answered it. A servant from 
 the club stood in the hall with a small 
 basket in his hand. 
 
 " My lord," he said, taking off his hat, 
 "Mr. Tewksbury sends these nectarines 
 with his compliments, and bids me say 
 that he found the ring. He put it in his 
 waistcoat pocket when it was passed back 
 to him, and forgot all about it. Good 
 night, my lord." 
 
 "Good night," said the Bishop, "and 
 God bless you." 
 
 [241 ] 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 BERKELEY 
 
 Return to desk from which borrowed. 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 20ec 
 
 ;211953LU 
 
 27Apr'6lJ« 
 
 REC'D LD 
 
 APR 24 1961 
 
 LD 21-100m-7,'52(A2528sl6)476 
 
)B 39869