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i^m'mm^m
THE
MILLS OF THE GODS.
A NOVEL.
BY
MRS. J. H. T WELLS.
r II I L A D K I. P H I A :
J. B. L 1 IM' [ N C O 'V V & C O.
1875-
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
?^
£900
SHOULD THIS BOOK HOLD A WORTHY THOUGHT,
A NOBLE SENTLMENT. OR A TENDER TOUCH OF FEELING,
I BEG LEAVE TO DEDICATE THEM ALL
TO THE LARGEST-HEARTED OF WOMEN, THE KINDEST OF FRIENDS,
THE MOST DEVOTED OF MOTHERS,
MY OWN.
■,-^.'^.0<^
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
It was the last night of the Carnival in Rome. During
the past eight days the fantastic Harlequin of Mirth had
disported himself on the Corso, amid the rainbow-decked
balconies, where laughing-eyed women displayed their
beauty in coquettish, flowery warfare ; at every window
of the high, dull houses, which broke out all over in smiles,
and ogles, and vari-colored streamers ; and down in the
narrow street, with its contrary flow of carriages, — flower-
and frolic-laden, — and its jostling crowd of masques and
r(?;?/i'//'/-intoxicated roysterers.
And now the evening of " Mardi Gras" rides rollicking
over the boisterous waves of humanity, which had roared
and rolled high in the fury of condensed excitement all
through that sunny day which ushered in Ash-Wednes-
day. The riderless horses had run, cheered to the echo;
the last bouquet had been thrown ; arcli glances were
deteriorating into weary leers, the revelers and the con-
fetti had become exhausted, and the carnival of flowers
and bonbons, of poetry and sentiment, was giving place to
the carnival of reckless debauch, of unrestrained license,
of frantic excitement, which hides no blush under the
I* 5
6 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
shadow of the darkness, and cries, " Let us eat and drink,
for to-morrow we die !"
Half the world, the adventurous and the canaille,
were making night a Pandemonium in that ingenious de-
vice of the devil, — the struggle to extinguish each other's
torches.
Ye gods ! when one contemplates so much fierce
energy being wasted upon a senseless sport, one is tempted
to wonder why a portion of that frantic zeal is never
brought to bear in rekindling an illumination in this dark-
ened land, which would -once more put out the lesser lights
of the world !
The other half of the Roman population were preparing
to array themselves in fanciful garb for the concluding
bal masque of the season.
For it is to be an early ball, both at palazzo and theatre,
— though fast and furious, for the chime of midnight, like
the writing on the wall which disturbed the serenity of
Balthazar's coiivives, will startle into a sudden sobriety
these wild-eyed Maenads, these laughing rioters, with its
solemn — " Peace, — be still !" And then the lauglUcr of
these maniacs will terminate in groans, their flashing
glances will be quenched in tears, while their confetti-
soiled hands will beat the breast from which shall issue
one cry, Mea culpa !
Throughout those gala-days, in the balconies where
the fairest of his countrywomen dazzled the passers-by
with their blush-rose charms. Dyke Faucett lounged and
lingered, serenely unruffled as a lake under an August
moon, amid all that wild uproar of sights and sounds,
supplying with lavish hand, flowers, bonbons, compli-
ments, ad infinitum, to one and all about him with
impartial liberality. He took no active part in the bom-
bardment of friend or foe, feeling that he had done his
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 7
part (by far the least exhausting), in supplying ammunition
for his fair friends, and the lazy lids drooped occasionally
over his handsome eyes, as if the whole thing bored him
— and, he would f,\in have been elsewhere. Of the
countless fragrant missiles which rarely missed their mark
and which fell at his feet, aimed from all directions with a
persistency of fire which showed more ardor than dis-
cretion, Dyke took not the slightest cognizance, save when
they struck him rather too obtrusively in the face, when
his eyebrows would elevate themselves, and he would
murmur in the ear of the lovely woman who stood beside
him, "Shocking bad form in that girl opposite to bom-
bard a man as inoffensive as myself; pray send her two
or three bonbonnieres with a flag of truce, — de via part.''
"No, no; you must defend yourself," laughed Lady
Jane St. Maur, who had spent six out of seven of those
latter days striving assiduously by hook or by crook (a good
deal by crook) to force that cool insouciance to betray by
some little galvanic start that blood flowed through those
tranquil pulses, and life glowed under that blonde, delicate-
tinted epidermis. But for Dyke Faucett, the javelins of
all the Becky Sharps in the big Vanity Fair of the world
were blunted for the present against the breast-plate be-
hind which his heart was shielded, — the fierce infatuation
which had taken possession of him, to which he had, after
many ineffectual struggles, surrendered himself. Before
the innocence and purity of Dora Fairfiix's white soul,
he had thrown down his weapons of worldly wisdom, and
acknowledged himself defeated. Had her fascination for
him been one whit less powerful, or her soul one shade
less clean, the cynical callousness which had stood Dyke
Faucett's friend on many similar occasions would not have
deserted him now. But through all the varied experiences
of his former life, he had never encountered such combined
8 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
attractiveness and power as this little girl possessed, who
first drew his eyes away from a saint's face in the Vatican
which she was copying, to rest in undisguised admiration
upon her own ; and then, so deftly weaved her net about
him, after a fortunate accident had thrown them together,
as to give him but one object in life to pursue, which he
did unremittingly, and, for the first time in his life, almost
hopelessly, until within a fortnight of to-day.
But Lady Jane St. Maur had not despaired ; she had not
gained her pre-eminence in London drawing-rooms, and
Parisian salons, and German spas, without much and
arduous labor, and she did not dream of withered laurels
at eight-and-twenty.
" Fi-donc, mo?} ami !''' she cried, gayly, as Dyke daintily
dusted the confetti-powder from his coat-sleeve. "Your
indolence is itself provocative, and challenges attack !
You set yourself up as a target, and — there are six feet of
you, remember;" and she laughed musically. She. was
right ; six feet of comeliness, dressed by Poole, and sur-
mounted by that Antinous head, where the sunlight brought
out the gold in the curly, chestnut chevelure, could not
escape disaster through those gala-days, when every
woman's heart rioted in a little tumultuous orgie of its
own.
But Dyke Faucett was tired of it all ; there were few
things which would not pall upon him now ; some weeks
ago he would have averred that there was nothing that
would not turn to ashes on his sated lips; but that was
some weeks ago.
For this man, in the flower of life, with the beauty of a
god and the digestion of an ostrich; with money in his
purse, and the world before him, had joined that noble
army of martyrs whom the demon of ennui claims as its
very own ; and after years of delightful travel, bronzed by
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 9
tropic suns and bleached by northern frosts, having
plucked the fruit of the knowledge-tree, and eaten thereof
in every clime under the sun, he had begun to taste the
bitterness of the lees lying inevitably at the bottom of the
pleasure-cup, and to groan out that it was all " vanity and
vexation of spirit ;" or that " life would be very tolerable
were it not for \\'=, pleasures y
And now all this noisy rabble had begun to bore him
unutterably, therefore he suggested to Lady Jane the
delicious tranquillity of an inner salon ; and she, nothing
loth, allowed herself to be seated therein, in the most
comfortable of caiiseitses, placed at precisely the correct
angle for the display of her faultless profile, which Dyke
compared mentally with that of little Dora, to the detri-
ment of the one before him.
Of which fact Lady Jane — making the most of this
blessed opportunity which the gods had thrown in her
way — remained in blissful ignorance.
And Dyke Faucett simply endured the slow-crawling
hours until the moment arrived when, with the plea of an
imperative engagement, he freed himself from the toils
which this young lady flattered herself were strengthening
momentarily, and, at nine o'clock, after a hasty dinner
and a careful toilet, he sprang into his cab with the first
sensation of pleasure he had felt that day.
With a domino thrown carelessly over his brilliant
courtier-dress of the Elizabethan days (having ordered his
man to drive to the Via Babuino), he leaned back on the
cushions with a smile of satisfaction, picturing to himself
Dora's surprise at his novel appearance. Poor Dora !
during all these merry-making days and nights she had
not left her father's side, who, suffering from an attac k
of rheumatic gout, which crippled him, was pitiably de-
pendent upon her tender nursing and companionship.
A*
lO THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
The long, monotonous days held for her but the couple
of hours of delight when Dyke Faucett could tear himself
away from the claims of his friends and acquaintances,
and in the interval between dinner and ball seek the un-
fashionable Via Babuino, where Dora watched and waited
for his coming as the one great gladness of her day. For
she loved this man unselfishly, devotedly, seeing only in
him the incarnation of her own love-dream ; thanking
God with tears for the blessing of his love, and praying
to grow worthier of it.
And thus another problem was cast forth, which will not
know solution until the dawning of that day when we
shall learn the answers to many vexing questions ; among
others, why Desdemonas wed with Moors.
When Sardyx, of mythical memory, went forth to bat-
tle armed with the magic javelin which never went foul of
the mark, pressed into his hands by the beautiful Aglaia,
wet with her tears and followed by her prayers, did a
vision of the triumphant return of the victor accompanied
by a newer, not fairer, mistress, cast its long, drear shadow
over all the days that parted them ?
And when within a few miles of his native city, Aglaia
rushed forth to meet her hero with wide-stretched arms,
did the sight which greeted her pierce less murderously
her faithful heart, than the fatal javelin hurled by the
hand of him she loved, as the surest and speediest method
of ridding himself of an incumbrance? Was it the stir-
ring of this legend in her brain, or was it only the hope
deferred of lonely waiting in the sad, still twilight through
two long hours, which has given that downward curve to
Dora's sweet mouth to-night, and the far-away, prescient
gaze out into the gathering darkness? Or is her guardian
angel drawing aside the veil from the future years and
showing her the gaunt spectre of that life into which the
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. n
beautiful present has been transformed ? I know not ;
but true it is, that in the pose of the slender form, white-
robed and fragile as a lily, there was a certain pensive
listlessness as she leaned against the railing that guarded
the window, with her graceful head bent in a despondent
curve. How exquisitely lovely she looked standing thus,
with her slender, white hands clasped before her, while
the round arms gleamed like polished marble through the
transparent muslin ! No ornament detracted from her
pure loveliness, a fragrant bunch of double violets closed
the lace frills across her white throat, and a knot of the
same love-breathing flowers nestled among the rich braids
of her sunny hair.
Against the dusky background'of her little sitting-room,
Avith its paucity of furniture, its wealth of pictures, books,
statuettes, its harp in one corner, and its little hired piano
in another, its white-shaded lamp not yet lighted, and its
wild flowers everywhere, Dora offered as fair a study of
"II Penseroso" as any artist, however ambitious, could
desire.
So thought Dyke Faucett, as, opening the door noise-
lessly, he stole upon her unawares, to watch her surprise
and wonder at his flmciful garb.
She was so absorbed in her reverie that he stood and
watched her silently for a moment, and then advanced.
With a faint cry she sprang aside, and it was not until he
had removed quickly the pointed beard which belonged to
the era he represented, that she recovered from her alarm.
" Did I startle you, my little fawn ?" cried Dyke, caressing
her hand with his, after he had bent and kissed her lightly
on the cheek ; " did you not know me at all?"
"Who are }ou, ])ray?" she laughed, wliile the color
came back to her clifck and the gleaming jt)y to her eyes.
"Arc you the beloved Essex or the gallant Raleigh?
12 THE MILLS OF THE CODS.
You are very gorgeous, whoever you are; I feel a great
want of court-train and jewels at this moment."
He laid his hand upon her shoulder. " Court-train and
jewels would not add royalty to that gracious head or this
perfect form, ma mic. I would not have you other than
you are at this moment. Ah, if you only knew how sick
unto death I am of satins and gems, pearl-powder and
rouge, and how divinely sweet you seem to me in your
white gown and violets. Oh, Dora !" he exclaimed, with
the nearest approach to passion he had ever before allowed
to thrill in his voice, — ** Dora, I am growing tired of wait-
ing for you. My love, why can you not come into my
life now and make it perfect?"
His arm stole about her, and for a moment she simply
existed, nothing more. And then she roused herself.
" Dyke, I have talked with my father to-day, a long, long
time, and he is opposed to our clandestine marriage.
Wait, darling," for Dyke was about to interrupt her im-
patiently ; "he says I am very young, — not nineteen, you
know, — and we can wait ; that no good ever comes of
secret marriages, and "
" That is all arrant nonsense," commented Dyke. " My
guardian cannot live forever, and after his death there is
no one on earth to dictate to me. I know, Dora, that he
has other views for me, and would never consent to this
marriage. Oh, my darling, do not start away from me
like that ! I resent his narrow-minded injustice as much
as you possibly can, my peerless pearl, but would you have
jne wait for you tlirough all the long years which may in-
tervene before his death? Can you thrust me away from
you, — say, Dora, ca/i yon do this thing?"
Her face grew very white, but she answered, in a clear,
firm voice, " Yes, Dyke, I could thrust you away from me
forever, and pluck my love for you nut of my heart by the
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 13
roots, before I could consent to live under the foul cover
of deceit and falsehood which this secret marriage might
entail, through years and years of hopeless self-contempt."
" No, Dora, that need not be. Were my guardian to
see you in your winning beauty, with your many gifts,
and know that you were irrevocably bound to me, he could
not then refuse to sanction and bless our marriage. Ah,
you are but a child, and / know the world, and my
guardian above allj can you not trust to me?"
" How long would it be necessary to keep it a secret?"
she asked, her tears falling fast.
" Perhaps a couple of months; only until I could go over
to England and prepare his mind for your reception, dear-
est, and then I should come for you and your father, and,
oh, Dora, my perfect one, can you imagine our happiness
and still turn from me?"
" I will do whatever you say. Dyke. I will trust you
to the end !" Her last words were smothered in frantic
kisses. As he clasped her to his heart a pang of remorse
shot through him, — the last, — it was the death-sigh of his
conscience, which died that night forever in this world.
It was after eleven o'clock when he left her ; and she
had promised to meet him two days hence, in the early
morning, outside the "Porta del Popolo," where the Eng-
lish Chapel stood, to ratify by sacred vows the trust she
had promised to place in him. He could scarcely tear
himself away from her, so fearful was he that his prize
would elude his grasp; so more than beautiful she looked,
in the full rays of the moon, which bathed her in its
mystic gleams, and made her almost too spiritual in its
glory. Her cheeks were flushed with happiness, her eyes
shone like stars, and her scarlet lips showed the tiny pearls
behind them in a divine smile. "Oh, Dora, turn away
from me, else 1 cannot leave you," pleaded Faucell, com-
14 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
pletely intoxicated. She smiled more bewilderingly than
ever, and stretched out both hands to him; but, choking
down an exclamation. Dyke, without one other word,
turned to the door and fled.
Dora stood amazed; what did this mean, — this abrupt
flitting, this disregard of her last good-night? She sank
into a chair, and mused until the light faded out of her
face, and —
" The soft, sad eyes
Set like twilight plan-ets in the rainy skies,
With the brow all patience and the lips all pain! "
bore more likeness to tlie fair, doomed Iphigenia, than to
a young bride-elect, standing with trembling but joyous
feet almost on the threshold of her wedding-day.
For two hours, in that ghostly moonshine, she sat, shift-
ing her fate from hand to hand. It was not yet too late;
her promise had been wrung from her, it is true, but could
she but convince herself that this necessary deception was
unjustifiable, even as the price of such unutterable happi-
ness, she would not hesitate to retract her weak words;
and then, — Dyke Faucett, unwilling to bide the time in
that far-stretching future which seemed so illimitable to
her childish gaze, they must part, part forever; he going
back to his world of fashion and beauty (ah, what lovely
faces she had seen with him in the galleries of art! where
he only acknowledged her existence by a courteous raising
of the hat, wliich generally drew upon her llic lorgnonsof
his coniijaniuns, antl more or less audible critiques on her
rare type of beauty), and she, — well, the light would have
been put out of her life forever, and there would be no-
thing left for her in the dreary, vacant years to come but
her father, wliose life was well-nigh spent, she remembered
with a pang, — antl —
"The coiled memory munli and cold,
That slept in tier heart, a droaniiiig snake,"
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 15
that would
" Drowsily lift itself fold by fold,
And gnaw, and gnaw, hungrily, half awake."
And who was this guardian, whoee narrow prejudices
were to crowd back into the green bud all the full-ex-
panded glories of this gorgeous tropic flower of love, which
had absorbed even her vital forces in its luxuriant growth?
Not even had he claim of blood, or kindred, ui)on this man
whom he hoped to sacrifice upon some Mammon's altar,
whilst his heart beat only for her. And what objections
could this arrogant, selfish, wicked old aristocrat bring
forward against her, when she should appear in his stiff,
mildewy old castle as his adopted son's bride? She was
certainly well born ; was not her mother's name one of
the proudest in the peerage? And her father? Well,
she did not know much about his people;' but who could
look at him and doubt his blue blood ? Surely Dyke's
guardian could not fail to acknowledge that? (Himself,
perhaps, merely a wealthy old cotton-spinner; she had
read of the aristocracy of the spinning-jenny far over-
topping, in intolerant haughtiness, the quiet good breed-
ing fed from the j-a/;^'--as//r of centuries.) "Personally,
he could not object to me," she dreamed on, with a slight
flush of conscious vanity dyeing her cheek in the moon-
light. "Surely I am as good-looking, and better man-
nered than those hoyden English girls, who would rattle on
so, during service at St. Peter's ; and I am well educated !
Ah ! but I am poor, — and this guardian would like to
marry Dyke to a great, big-footed, red-cheeked daughter
of some old money-bags, who cannot spell his own name,
— and hasn't one to spell, if he could. Fancy Dyke, my
refined, fastidious, purely artistic Dyke, chained to such
a monster 1" A dimpling smile broke out over the sweet
l6 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
face, and long before her father's voice, calling "Doro-
thea! Dorothea!" disturbed her reverie, she had fully
decided the subject of the' " Porta del Popolo;" for her
love once given, she felt was —
" Like water spilt upon the plain :
Ne'er to be gathered up again."
And what did those four words, " for better, for worse,"
mean, if one were not willing, in joining hands, to con-
front fate, for weal or woe ?
CHAPTER II.
"Dorothea, you are not looking well ; you are pale,
and your eyes are heavy, my patient little nurse! What
have you done with the roses you brought liome from our
summer trip in Switzerland, my child, and the glad,
bright eyes?"
Dora, sitting in a low American rocking-chair, with the
frill she had been hemming lying in a white heap upon the
carpet, rocked herself gently, with arms upraised and hands
clasped at the back of her head, whilst her eyes looked
dreamily beyond the figure of her father in his dressing-
gown and easy-chair, with each wretched foot swathed in
flannel and occupying separate foot-stools (little thrones
of exquisite pain these were to him), answered, in a far-off
voice, "Yes, dear; did you want something, papa?"
"Dora," began her father, leaning slightly forward,
but immediately drawing back again with the wryest face,
the least movement causing a twinge of agony. " Dora,
you are vexing yourself about this young Faucett. Now,
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 17
don't contradict me" (she had not moved or spoken);
"and I have made up my mind to put an end to the
aifair, for good and all, as soon as I am able to put my
feet to the ground !"
Down went Dora's arms; the rocking-chair was arrested
at an angle. " Papa !" was all she could exclaim.
"Yes; I am quite determined. Since Mr. Faucett has
no power of choice in his selection of a wife, and declines
to take the trouble to obtain the consent of his guardian
(who is he, by the way? I will write to him myself),
I shall not sit quietly by and see him take the sunshine
out of my life, and fade my little Dora into a colorless
snow-drop."
" What will you do?" she gasped.
"I shall just give up this little home, where we have
spent four happy years, and go back to see how the beeches
have grown about our old English homestead. I feel that I
will not be with you long, Dora, and I must look up some
trusty friends to leave about you before I go; and" (in a
low, tender voice here) "I should like to kneel at my
darling Marian's grave once more, and maybe, if it please
God, to be laid at rest beside her."
Dora's arms were about his silvered head now, and her
tears falling fast upon it. She could not speak. A great
fear mingled with a great joy and stifled her. Could this
day pass without her innocent heart and face betraying
her now fixed purpose of taking destiny by the horns on
the morrow? If he pressed her with questions, she must
tell him all, and throw herself on his mercy and love.
" Papa, you break my heart when you speak of leaving
me. Ah, what sad thoughts have come to you since this
cruel pain has tortured you ! But you must not think
such things; you will soon be well again, and able to go
into the sunshine, and to see your friends, who have been
2*
1 8 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
SO kind since your illness. Papa, Major Goodwin called
again, yesterday, to inquire for you, and he asked if you
would be able to have him come and read to you to-day
or to-morrow."
"Surface-friends!" sighed Mr. Fairfax; "very kind,
no doubt, but friends of an hour, or a fortnight, at longest,
who turn their backs and forget you utterly. Did you say
he might come?"
"Yes, to-morrow." Dora's cheeks burned, but she
was standing behind her father's chair, gently stroking
back the fine white locks which waved thickly over his
handsome brow.
"Ah, that is well, for I had intended, Dora, sending
you and Annunziata out on an excursion to-morrow, to
try to coax back some of the pink into those pale cheeks
of yours. You must go out of the city and its noisy bustle
of this foolish Carnival, into the country; to those fine
Borghese grounds, or for a stretch on the Campagna. You
will take a closed caleche, — the one we usually employ on
the Via Condotti ; the man is trustworthy, — and old An-
tonio will keep within call and serve my dinner; so you
must make a long day of it, and come back able to sing
once more for your poor old cripple."
" Shall I sing now, papa? I feel the sweet flower-scented
air of to-morrow blowing over me already ! What shall I
sing for you?"
He looked at her surprised ; her whole appearance was
suddenly changed, — she drooped no longer ; her face wore
a rosy flush ; her great amber-tinted eyes seemed to brim
with joy. She smiled with the old winning brightness, for
she felt that in obeying his command on that dread mor-
row, she would be si)ared half the liumiliation (possible
prevarication) of her promised complicity in deceit; so
sophistical is the devil's reasoning, she almost felt that
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 19
her father sanctioned her action by this fortunate coinci-
dence.
She sang unweariedly song after song, and her father
lay back contentedly in his temporary freedom from pain,
inwardly congratulating himself upon having discovered
an infallible remedy for the drooping spirits of his singing-
bird. She had been too long caged up in that sick-room,
and needed air and light ; voila tout !
CHAPTER III.
The night was wet and wintry, rain mingled with sleet,
and the icy breath of January, in Rome, struck through
the toughest top-coats, into the marrow of the bones of
those unfortunates who happened to be exposed to their
disheartening influences.
" Pile more wood on the fire, Antonio, and then step
around to the post-office ; there may be letters from my
daughter by the late post." And Mr. Fairfax settled him-
self down comfortably in his luxurious chair and drew
towards him a London Times.
A marked change for the better has taken place in the
old gentleman's surroundings since we last looked in
upon him some ten months ago ; a change which, in its
beneficent effect, seemed to have added ten years to his
declining life. Whether this was precisely the result
anticipated, or desired, by Dyke Faucett when he drew
the father of his bride away from the small, dingy apart-
ment on the fourth floor of the Via del Babuino, and
inducted him into the comfortable and more accessible
suite on the Via Sistina, au premier, our imagination alone
20 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
can divine. But Mr. Fairfax was one of those happily-
constituted mortals who accept life as it comes to them :
make no loud moan in adversity, and revel in the smile
of that fickle wench, Fortune, with a range of vision merci-
fully limited to the bridge of their own noses.
Mr. Fairfax, in his cozy rooms, with an excellent cook
and the factotum of the Babuino quarters (habited in
decent guise, and with a new strut of pomposity, appropri-
ate to his altered circumstances, though somewhat at vari-
ance with his honest, child-like expression of face) to wait
upon him exclusively, with Dyke's choice books to linger
over, and his choice cigars and fine wines put entirely
at his disposal, Dora's father was not mad, wicked, or
ungrateful enough to repine, or to allow the disagreeable
thought to intrude and mar the harmony of the ensemble
(and his digestive organs), that Dyke had not yet taken
that trip to England to break the news of his marriage to
his guardian, who still remained in blissful ignorance of
the fatal frustration of his plans, and who occasionally
wrote kindly letters to Faucett, which were duly and
affectionately answered.
When Dora had returned to her father's side on the
evening of her wedding-day (for Dyke had carefully ar-
ranged the programme, and after the nine o'clock morning
service in the English chapel, Dora and he were made
man and wife, with all the solemnity of the beautiful
marriage-service, by a bona fide parson, and in the pres-
ence of one other witness, — Annunziata, Dora's maid, a
brown-faced, bright-eyed Italian girl, who worshiped her
mistress next to the Madonna) ; — when she came and knelt
at his side, with her happiness glowing all over her, and
half whispered, "Papa, Mr. Faucett and I were married
this morning!" without elaboration or circumlocution,
he was simply stunned at a coup d' etat which had scattered
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 21
to the winds his plans and projects. And then, for one
moment, he covered his eyes with his shapely hands, and
swiftly there spread out before him a vision of his youth.
The love he had borne for a woman from whom parents
wished to separate him; her pleading face, his high-handed
venture, and then afterwards, the long, happy married
life together, — one continuous courtship until the very end.
"Dora," he said, looking steadily at her through two
tear-dimmed eyes, "are you sure you love him?"
"Oh, papa!"
"And are you equally sure he loves you ?''''
"Why else should he have married me, dear papa?
Ah, tell me you have forgiven me for doing as I have done
without your consent, and I shall be perfectly happy !"
She laid her cheek on his hanSs and kissed them.
"God bless you, my own ewe-lamb! May you be as
happy as your mother was, thank God !" And they wept
together, not unhappy tears.
The following day they were transplanted to their new
quarters, which Dyke informed Mr. Fairfax he had leased
for three years, and which he was to look upon as his
home, as well as his daughter's and son-in-law's, when
they would be in Rome. For the present, the happy pair
intended running up to Paris to choose Dora's very simple
trousseau and hear the new opera. ("It was really too
much to ask of a man to leave his bride and rush over
alone to England; that can be postponed, my dear sir,
until after the honey-moon at least,'' remonstrated Dyke,
in reply to Mr. Fairfax's innocent query, "When do you
start for England?")
Money is the axis upon which the world turns, therefore it
is not surprising that, having lavishly employed that power-
ful agent since the hour in which he left his betrothed
dreaming in the moonlight, the very day after the cere-
22 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
mony all things were magically in their places, and the
softest and easiest of conveyances carried Mr. Fairfax to
his handsome rooms in the new apartment, in which a
French cook, Dora's maid, Faucett's valet, and old An-
tonio metamorphosed, were already in their respective
stalls. Mr. Fairfax could not conceal his delight ; and the
fact of Dyke's having observed his preference for the for-
lorn-looking, hybrid maid- and man-servant of his four-
years-old home, touched him deeply.
That same night Dyke Faucett and his bride occupied
a coupe of a railway train en route to Civita Vecchia,
while the faithful Giles entertained, in a second-class car-
riage and in broken Italian, Dora's dark-eyed little maid,
Annunziata.
Dora felt that she had never seen Paris before, after
some weeks of the enchanting diversion which that city
afforded to a well-filled purse and a man not destitute of
savoir-faire. It was one long fairy-tale to her, and her
eloquent letters full of fetes, tours of palaces and galleries,
tlieatres and the opera, of Dyke's lavish generosity in his
costly contributions to her trousseau and jewel-case, of his
devotion to her in all ways, patted to sleep the last remain-
ing scruple in the mind of her doting father, who, in
return, wrote cheering letters of his restored health, and
of his hope that before their return he would walk as well
as ever.
He walked before their return !
After a couple of months of Paris, the advanced spring
rendered Italy dangerous and Switzerland desirable. The
old gentleman was advised to go to the lakes in the north
of Italy, where his considerate son-in-law had already
engaged rooms for him, paid in advance. ("As they are
included in my suite, you understand ; for Dora and I
mean to join you later," wrote Dyke, to soothe any ruffles
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
23
on the pride which never died out of the old man's blood.)
But he occupied the' suite in lonely grandeur, and if he
missed his singing-bird, and the luxuries of life seemed at
times a poor exchange, he never pained her by such a
confession. He made friends everywhere, and led a sweet,
tranquil life, grateful to God for the comforts of which he
had never mourned the absence.
Only once during those long ten months had he seen
Dora, and then for a brief week's visit after his return to
Rome, in September. " It was only to give him a glimpse
of his darling," Dyke assured her fatlier ; "for they were
en route to Naples, and would return to Rome for the
Christmas festivities." And when Mr. Fairfax's material
organ of sight had fully satisfied itself that Dorothea's
eyes had gained in lustre, and the oval of her cheek was
unimpaired, that the willowy figure had rounded into fuller
curves, and her voice deepened in its richest notes, he was
more than content, thoroughly assured that her soul was
full-fed, and tliat the tendrils of her heart, clinging to a
firm support, were flowering all over in luxuriant profusion.
The subject of the still-postponed trip to England was
not mooted. When all the sky was serenely blue, with
not even a cloud the size of a man's hand to awaken
doubt or dread, why should he raise a mimic thunder, or
force discordant elements to agitate the moral barometer
which was set so fi.xedly at — "fair'' ?
And Dora had certainly not a corporeal wish ungrat-
ified ; and althougli Dyke's bank account had not been
over-weighted by a paul, the money which had ever flowed
like sand through his careless fingers was now concentrated
upon one object, in place of many, the one only, long-
lasting passion of his life. Fur Dora still held him cap-
tive, though ten moons had risen and waned since that in
wliich he had left her in her slight, girlish beauty, glowing
24 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
in the conscious triumph of having woven the last link of
the chain which bound him to her feet.
A closer association with her, so far from bringing to
him the customary desillusionnemejit, only served to un-
fold to his view charms of manner and graces of char-
acter which had never before come under his observation.
The beau-sexe had long been a study to this man, but it
was always from the same potter's-clay they were formed,
however delicate in form and coloring (and frailty).
Those Sevres bits had ornamented his table to perfec-
tion, but they never changed in form or tint througli all
the many costly courses in which they served, and after
awhile they wearied the pampered eye, and gave place to
another set of a newer pattern and a rarer shade, but
bearing the same manufactory's mark under the exquisite
enamel.
But here was a woman, guileless as a child, and yet pos-
sessed of that innate power of fascination which springs
from infinite tact, unerring good taste, art-culture, and a
sweet, sunny warmth and brightness of temper, united to
a purity of thouglit and dignity of character which enforced
his respect, and which, through almost an aesthetic admira-
tion, he would not have desired sullied any more than he
could have restrained his disgust should some Vandal mu-
tilate the Venus of the Capitol or plunge a knife through
the canvas of a Titian. And the secret of her power was
this: she never bored him for one moment, and yet,
strange to say, she loved him. For love, being blind, is
ofttimes selfish, and in the insatiable hunger of a loving
woman's heart, even her arms may weigh heavily, after a
time, on the most ardent lover's shoulders.
Young bride, beware ! the first, faintest sigh of satiety
is the first tremulous sound of the death-knell of your
power. Before the orange-blossoms crown your bright
THE MILLS 01' THE GODS. 25
tresses, chain your beloved by heavy-forged b'nks of gold
or steel, an you will ; but after the golden circlet clasps
your finger, let your victim breathe freely in bonds flower-
woven and lightly worn.
Instinct teaches some fine, artistic natures many things;
vivid perception and a keen psychological eye see breakers
ahead before the dull, half-closed optic of a coarser nature,
or the distorted vision of a more sin-clouded soul, would
see aught but the sun-glinted waves of the present enjoy-
ment.
And Dora understood the art, more difficult than win-
ning love, of keeping it, and never allowed, through her
own weakness or craving, the ineffable charm of novelty,
the exhaustless resources of her versatile mind, the ever-
increasing charm of her rare beauty and her entrancing
voice, to pall upon his taste, or his over-stimulated nerves,
or his blase epicureanism. Whether this near communion
with her idol had robbed her of some illusions and low-
ered his pedestal to the level of humanity in general, she
had not confessed to her own heart, for she loved Dyke
still absorbingly, and, as long as that love lasted, she ex-
ercised over him the spell which won his absolute devo-
tion. It was only long after, when her respect became
undermined and the whole beautiful fabric of trust and
belief in his honor tumbled piecemeal to the ground,
that she, through weakened love, relaxed her vigilance
and carefully-preserved fascinations, and he slipped gradu-
ally his neck from beneath the yoke which had only just
begun to weigh even lightly upon him.
IJutwe must go back to poor old Mr. Fairfax, whom we
have left so long, wading through that stale Times, and
who has now been repaid for his perseverance in sending
every three hours to the post, by a few lines in Dyke's
beautiful calligraphy, announcing the birtli of a fine lillle
R 3
26 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
girl, with the assurance of Dora's welfare at that writing,
etc., etc.
Mr. Fairfax put down the letter with an audible sigh of
relief. This, then, accounted for Dora's long silence and
the neglect of Dyke's promise to bring her to Rome for
Christmas ; he had not suspected such a denouement, and he
was delighted with its plausibility in excusing their evident
forgetfulness of himself.
" A little daughter ! Dora with a baby ! Oh, it was too
ridiculous ! She never had held an infant in her arms in
her life ; and born down there in Naples, with not an
English-speaking Christian about her ; Annunziata was
faithful, but she was ignorant and inexperienced. Ah,
how I long to see her, — my little Dora, — and — the baby !
Ha ! ha ! ridiculous ! too absurd !" And he rang the bell
to confide the joyous intelligence to the devoted Antonio
(who had known Dora as a slim girl of fifteen, and would
have given his life for her at any moment), with the ad-
ditional information that Mr. Faucett would bring his
family {^^Yi-x\ ha!") to Rome before Easter, and then
Antonio should dandle la Signora's baby !
CHAPTER IV.
The tender crocus had peeped forth, followed by the
shrinking violet ; the orange-trees had blossomed and
scented the air all about Rome with heavy delicious fra-
grance. And now — all spring was spreading full bloom
over everything; even the lazzaroni forgot the stereotyped
expression of woe frozen into their countenances by the
cold blasts of the winter through those dark, narrow streets,
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
27
and chatted and laughed and sung in the revivifying
sunshine.
Dorothea had rejoiced her father's eyes during the last
six weeks, and had witnessed, without an apparent pang,
the complete transfer of that pink, dimpled, golden-haired
cherub Marian to the pedestal which she herself had oc-
cupied for so many years, before which her father had
bowed in abject idolatry.
And Antonio ! Never, save on canvas, had he seen any-
thing so fair and blue-eyed, and with such tender rose-
tints about it ; it was comical to see these two old men
gaze at and discuss gravely together the entrancing wiles
and absurd grimaces of the wonderful baby. Dora too,
while she laughed at them both, found secret store of
blissful enjoyment in the little frail life unfolding day by
day under her loving eyes.
Dyke was in England, — at last he had determined to
avoid a possible fracas with his guardian by paying him a
visit of a fortnight. The fortnight had lengthened into
two months; they had left EUingham and gone uj) to
town ; for it was the third week in May, and Dyke had
not enjoyed the "season" for some years, and it had
novelty enough now to attract him.
His letters to his wife were not frequent, but they were
affectionate enough, veiling with plausible pretexts his
desire to remain longer than he had at first intended.
Not one word, however, did they contain relative to
the divulgement of his secret marriage, and Dora's heart
sank like lead within her. She could not fail to remem-
ber how guarded Dyke had been during their bridal trip
and their sojourn in Naples to prevent the fact of his
marriage, by any possibility, being reported in English
circles, — how, when in llicir rambles they stumbled upon
parties of acquaintances. Dyke invariably passed hastily
28 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
witli a cold bow, or, hustling her into the carriage, bade
the coachman drive home, whilst he turned and joined
his compatriots with smiles and hand-shakings.
Through all these twelve months and more, he had
never introduced a single person to his sweet young wife,
with the exception of a itfi men who were unavoidably
presented just before they sat down to dinner, and whom
she never saw after the meal had ended and cards and
decanters occupied the table ; but the laughter and cigar-
smoke mingled reached her in her little sitting-room be-
yond, where she sang to herself, or sketched, or read a
little, wondering if they never meant to go and let Dyke
come to her.
And then towards the small hours, when her rcpciioire
had become exhausted, and she had watered her flowers
and buried her face in their fragrant blossoms, feeling
that in them she found some strange, sweet sympathy,
she would betake herself to her bedroom with its windows
looking out upon the beautiful bay. There Dyke, coming
in softly, would sometimes find her enveloped in her
flowing white peignoir, with her luxuriant hair unbraided
and falling about her like a cloud, out of which the pure
face and great eyes gleamed with almost supernatural
beauty. A gentle reproach from Dyke for losing her
beauty-sleep, a loving caress, and her loneliness was for-
gotten, her sadness dispelled. The next morning was
sure to be sunshiny, and they would drive along the
shore of that magical bay; or often, as the fancy seized
them, would take their places in a barciolina, belonging
to a fisherman, who was ready to throw aside his net at
the prospect of biiona viano, antl lend all the energies in
his brawny arms to the swift speeding of the tiny bark
over the blue waves. And then Dyke, lying at her feet,
would tell her the story of the ^Micid, while she, breathing
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 29
in the golden air of that exquisite climate which makes it
a joy to live, with one white hand idly toying with the
blue waters over which they glided, listened with unabated
interest to the musical voice which had not lost one whit
of its charm. Then they would draw in to shore, and
would stroll into the cave of the Cumsean Sibyl where
^neas consulted the oracle, or into the Temple of Apollo,
where Daedalus retreated after his flight from the island of
Crete, and make a festive day of it, — a sort of improvised
picnic, tete-d'teie, without one jarring element or moment
of ennui to mar their entire enjoyment. Or else they
would drive to the Castle of St. Elmo, winding through
the heart of Naples, and spend hours of delight in the ole-
ander-shaded arbor on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the
myriad gems set in the sea stretching beneath them ; while
Vesuvius towered high above groves of orange, lemon, and
citron trees, myrtle-shaded walks, classic ruins, and lovely
villas, half buried in acacia-blossoms, on the other hand.
And sometimes they would join the stream of gayly-
dressed idlers on the promenade which leads to the
Villa Reale, that charming chiaja, which is certainly one
of the brightest and gayest in Europe. But this was very
seldom, for it was a rare chance at that season that, cos-
mopolite as he was. Dyke should not meet among that
gay throng one or more acquaintances, and this contre-
temps he avoided religiously when Dora was with him.
And Dora was not sorry : she cared only for Dyke ; his
society was her world, his voice a complete orchestra,
filling every want to her ears ; his approval of her appear-
ance the only flattery she craved, and in their solitary
ramblings she found perfect joy.
During those early days of her married life the thought
never intruded, like a snake in her paradise, that perhaps
Dyke was just a little selfish now and then. She never
3°
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
questioned for one moment liis right to dispose of her and
of himself as he saw proper or agreeable to himself, and
on liiose evenings when he dined out, and just "looked
in" afterwards at the San Carlo, for an act or two, she was
undisturbed by doubt or foreboding, thinking it all very
natural, and rather pitying her husband, who looked so
bored as he drew on his light gloves and kissed her good-
night, begging her not to sit up for him ; he would get
away as soon as he decently could, however, etc.
And sometimes Avhen he had taken her to the theatre
and she, sitting slightly behind the curtain according to
his suggestion ("For, my darling, yours is too lovely a
face to be stared at by these brutes of Italians," he assured
her), and she would see him in the boxes of the elegantly-
dressed women and disiingue-Xookmg men, evidently Eng-
lish, chatting familiarly, and sometimes with an empresse-
incnt too marked to be unobserved by one keenly interested
and with an excellent lorgnette, detained {pour causer un
pcii) in the little saloon attached to each box, a thought
would cross her mind that some of these fair dames should
have done her the honor to call upon her, as they seemed
such old friends of her husband. But she never put her
thought into words, and — they never called.
And then came into her cup of joy another drop and
caused it to overflow ; she cared no longer for the San Carlo
or the promenade; she troubled herself with no further
questionings of the why or wherefore of the world about
her; she never felt lonely or sad when Dyke did not re-
turn as early as he promised, for she carried in her heart
a blessed hope, the sweetest of all a pure woman's entire
life, — the budding promise of a first maternity.
She kept her secret jealously to herself, gloating over it
as a miser over his gold, building dream-castles on its frail
foundations, singing of it in gushing, caroling notes of
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
31
very happiness ; and Dyke saw her whole expression of
face change from that of gleeful girlhood to the sweet
serenity of dawning matronhood, intensifying the eloquent
eyes in an extraordinary degree, and wondered at her
ever-increasing charm.
But 1 fear when, with blushes and tears and stammer-
ings, the great news was broken to him, his delight was
not entirely unfeigned, and if his candid opinion could
have been educed, it would have been something after
this fashion, "A deuced bore ! Hang it all ! What's the
use of it ?" etc., and straightway forget all about it until the
next mention. But Dora dreamed naught of this ; if she
was a little chilled by the calmness with which he received
her communication, she consoled herself with the reflection
that he was only a man, and could not be expected to soar
heavenward on the wings of such bliss as hers ; could not
understand or appreciate it, in fact ; but Annunziata could,
and did, for she wept genuine tears of joy over her young
mistress, and was so enthusiastic after her tears subsided,
that Dora became quite impatient for the grand finale;
and they talked and plotted and arranged the programme
of everything, after the manner of women, quite unne-
cessarily prematurely, and then cried a little more, and
ended up in a cheerful and patient frame of mind, both
looking a little more consequential than usual, and stealing
eloquent glances at each other full of a mute sympathy.
I think the happiest hours of Dora's whole life were
those spent in sunny Naples, and yet the time came when
she could not look back upon those days without a spasm
of pity for her own helpless blindness, so treacherously
betrayed.
And Naples was marked in her memory by the loss of
her faithful Annunziata, to whom she had become much
attached.
32 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Two months after little Marian's birth the poor girl
had been seized by fever, and in spite of the most careful
attendance and the best medical advice she became de-
liriousj and did not recover consciousness until the end.
Dora was deeply grieved, and, as soon as a suitable nurse
could be provided in her place for the infant, they left
Naples and the flowery grave which had saddened every
thing for her, and returned to Rome, Dyke leaving almost
immediately for England.
CHAPTER V.
"Yes, Dyke, I will go to this ball if you desire it so
much." And Dora, standing at the window gazing out
upon a street with its shifting panorama with unseeing
eyes, sighed a little tremulous sigh, which expressed the
struggle it had cost her to accede to Dyke's request, and
attend a great ball which was to be given for charitable
purposes, patronized by the elite of the English residents
in Rome.
" You need not sigh so profoundly over the prospect,
Dora, my dear," yawned her husband from the depths of
his easy-chair. " Most handsome women would be en-
chanted at this opportunity of exhibiting themselves;
there are any number of foreign potentates to add lustre
to the "
"Oh, Dyke," interrupted Dora, reproachfully, "you
are only discouraging me. I have never attended a ball,
a real ball, you know, in my life, and," she concluded,
dreamily, "I scarcely think I am fitted to shine in festiv-
ities on such a grand scale ; they do not attract me."
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 33
"Ah, my dear, you do not know yet; taste tlie cup
before you abjure it. You are dwindling and pining for a
little excitement, and as for me, well, I am sick of Rome
and — everything." He yawned again, shook himself,
and, without a word of adieu, started off for his club.
Dora looked after him with tears in her sad eyes; but
there was an unwonted flush upon her cheek as she turned
hastily and pulled the bell. Giles appeared immediately.
" Tell Clementine to prepare Miss Marian to drive with
me, and order the coupe at once, if you please," she
commanded.
The color had not faded out of her sweet face, when,
half an hour later, she stood discussing with feverish ani-
mation the rival merits of satin, silk and velvet with
Madame Massoni, the most fashionable and expensive
coiituriere in Rome. Madame was in raptures; with such
a face and such a form she would accomplish a chef-
d'' xuvre which would outdo her rival, IMadame Borsini
Dupres, and quench her for evermore. And when Dora,
becoming weary, and dazzled and confused by the masses
of color exposed for her selection and the volubility of
the artiste (who was taking in every detail of her visitor's
beauty, dress, and appurtenances ; for Marian, a three-
year-old mass of embroidery and lace, cushioned on
Ernestine's Parisian -clothed la]) in the neatly-appointed
coupe at the door, had not escajjed her observation), had
at la.st exclaimed, in despair, "I cannot decide; I leave
everything to you. Spare no expense ; but make me beau-
tiful ; do you understand? — beautiful!"
"Ah, madame, nature has spared me that trouble ; but
trust me, we shall find a fit setting for such a face as
yours even ; I understand perfectly. And it is for the
ball at the Opera on Wednesday evening? Give yourself
no uneasiness, Madame shall be satisfied."
34
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
And Dora departed, while a small devil invaded the
tranquil depths of her nature, stirring up rebellion at last,
and whispering, "We shall see whether love is dead in
his heart ; if there is one spot left which can feel pain, it
shall be pricked into suffering as surely as I live."
Thus it will be seen that the years have borne fruit of
thistles, which was far from the toothsome fig; and in
the inevitable estrangement which had grown up between
Dora and her husband there was bitterness as well as dis-
appointment.
After Dyke's return from England, more than two years
ago, he had volunteered no explanation of his extended
visit, no mention of his determined continued reserve
towards his guardian on the subject of his marriage.
Dora had pondered long and wonderingly on this strange,
to her unaccountable, deception, and at last had timidly
broached the subject to him.
She was answered by a cool nonchalant query, "Are
you not content, Dora? Is there anything more I can do
to contribute to your happiness or your father's comfort?
If so, only mention it to me, and consider it accomplished ;
but do not fret yourself or annoy me by any heroics on
the subject of my guardian's blessing upon our nuptials.
I fancy we can get on without it, my dear." And then he
kissed her and lounged away, and she knew a seal had been
placed upon her li])s which it would not be wise to break.
But from that hour her faith in her husband's nobility
of character wavered ; her respect for his truth and honor
was shaken ; she never loved him quite so idolatrously
afterwards. But still she loved him, and still her fasci-
nation was paramount with him, although not all-absorb-
ing as at first.
There were days passed in jjlcasures of which she knew
nothing, save the one grim fact that they took Dyke away
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 35
from her side ; there were dinners and balls and card-
parties, to all of which he went reluctantly, but inevitably;
and there were visits to England each spring and autumn,
in which she did not participate, and there were occasional
trips to Paris, and in the summer to the Lakes, in which
she did. And now the smooth run of pleasure was begin-
ning again to pall upon Dyke Faucett. The novelty of a
wife had worn off at the edges ; the flirtations interspersed
through these last three years were becoming tame, and he
felt that he must stretch out in a new series of experiences
or he would perish.
'• With pleasure drugged, he ahnost longed for woe ;
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below !"
But in vain he strove to shake off the last remaining
influence which Dora possessed over him. Other women,
when he had grown weary of them, he had been able
to dispose of very quietly ; some with a few low-spoken
decisive words, — many more by heavy drafts upon his
bankers; but Dora's great luminous eyes turned full upon
him always checked those quiet words before they were
formed into syllables. And this was the last vestige of
her power over him ; he dared not wound her ! And this
fact irritated him beyond endurance. Caligula, when he
clutched his wife Milonia Csesonia by the throat, shriek-
ing at her, " Tell me, thou fascinating devil, what poisons
thou hast put in my wine, thus to bind me against my
will ? Make confession ! or the torture shall wring it from
thee !" no doubt expressed from the black depths of his
cruel heart the same passion which Dyke Faucett,
under the controlling influences of the social amenities,
whispered only to his own soul.
But who has forgotten that wlien this Roman monster
was assassinated, this wretched wife implored the conspira-
36 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
tors to slay her also, "which, in pity for her wild grief,
they did" ? And can we wonder that Dora still clings to
the first love of her life, though trust, respect, hope, and
faith are dying all about his image?
In the sort of moral syncope which had become Dyke's
normal condition, he dreamed not of the warring of love
and pride and despair in the heart of the woman he
had sworn to cherish until his life's end. And after he
had grown used to her beauty, grown weary of her repug-
nance to certain choice entertainments, in which his male
friends participated and from which his lady friends were
rigorously excluded, he resented a purity of heart and tone
which was a constant mute reproach to him ; and finding
his efforts to draw her down to his level unavailing, he
grew to feel her a shackle upon his freedom, morally; and
the feeling chafed liim more and more as he saw her eyes
grow sadder and the color in her cheek vary with every
emotion through the delicate transparency of her skin.
He sought a new device to arouse her: she should know
what it was to be admired, courted, flattered ; perhaps she
would not prove insensible to the incense which intoxi-
cated all women, and her old charm would return with a
knowledge of her power.
He would try it; anything is better than this stagna-
tion ; and he should like to compare her, in a ball-room,
to others, — to the beautiful Marquise de Courboisie (the
" Pauline" of his Spanish tour, who, with her aged spouse,
was spending the winter in the Eternal City, and finding
therein imlimited delight in the devotion of \\<tx preux
chevalier of other days). But to his amazement Dora
had declined, gently but firmly, "exhibiting herself," as
he had expressed it ; and it was only after the very worst
little quarter of an hour of their marital experience that
she had yielded reluctant consent.
THE MILLS OF TILE GODS. 37
And then, all at once, an inspiration possessed her: she
was to be exhibited, compared with others, perhaps ex-
posed to ridicule or censorious comments on her lack of
style, her provincial manner, her timid shyness. Ah,
well, she would soon settle all that. Dyke should not be
ashamed of her ; and perhaps — well, perliaps she would
j'ltsi stir vp a little the embers of that dead love in his
heart.
Hence her order to INIadame Massoni, and her inspec-
tion of her jewel-case later, and the wild glee in her
voice as she burst out into song, for the first time for
months, that evening, and delighted her father's heart.
CHAPTER VI.
" Can this be Cytherea, born of the sea-foam, — or
Aphrodite herself, just risen from the waves?" asked the
young Earl Elphinstone of an officer in Her Majesty's
Rifles, as Dora swept into the ball-room on her husband's
arm, looking a very sea-nym^jh in her pale-green robes,
lace-shrouded, and her crown of sea-shells composed of
many-tinted pearls, from the dark-gray to the delicate
rose, of priceless value. This crown was her sole orna-
ment ; but the snowy shoulders and small, rounded arms
needed none to enhance their loveliness. Her bronze
hair rippled above the pure child-like brow, her glorious
eyes were brilliant with a new triumpli, her cheeks were
delicately flushed, and she entered the ball-room amid an
audible buzz of admiration, with the proud composure of
a queen. Dyke felt gratified in spite of himself, and a
little nervous; he must get himself away from her as
4
38 THE MILLS OF TILE GODS.
quickly as possible : people would be pressing for intro-
ductions. Even as the thought crossed him, the Prince
di R approached, and entreated the honor of a pre-
sentation. As soon as Dyke had performed the ceremony
he vanished, leaving his wife chatting with the most dis-
solute man in Roman society. After a few inane plati-
tudes, he branched off into nauseating compliments, fixing
poor Dora with his piercing black eyes, and noting her em-
barrassment with delight. As he became more and more
obnoxious, Dora looked out over the sea of human beings,
like a cornered fawn, fascinated under the glaring eyeballs
of a tiger ready to spring, hoping to see Dyke's tall form
among them; but Dyke had gone into the refreshment-
rooms with la belle Marquise, and she was not thinking
of relinquishing her prey for many an hour to come.
Dora, in despair, attempted to freeze the little reprobate
with a sudden accession of hauteur; she looked over his
head in icy indifference, — and he drew nearer to her.
She replied in curtest style to his florid flattery, — his
breath almost fanned her cheek. She drew herself away
and desired him to do her the favor of looking for Mr.
Faucett. He declined courteously but positively, — " it
was impossible, in such a crowd, to move, far less possible
to find any one; would not Madame waltz? she must
waltz divinely." Dora was on the point of bursting into
an hysterical fit of tears when — oh, thank Heaven ! an
English voice — a voice she knew — spoke just behind her.
" Miss Fairfax !" called out glad tones ; and, as she turned,
her hand was seized tightly and the handsome, frank face
of Reginald Trelawney — one of the few friends of her
childhood — smiled into hers a joyful recognition.
"Ah," cried Dora, " I am so glad to see you again !"
(She was.) And as he slipped the hand he still held
through his arm and moved away with her, I fear her
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 39
ignorance of good manners deprived the indignant prince
of even the slightest bow of farewell. "And how you
have changed ; and yet I should ha\-c known you any-
where, in spite of that luxuriant moustache and those
fierce whiskers !" And she laughed merrily — the Dora of
old — once again.
" Surely you are not beginning already to chaff me, are
you?" asked he, with a lingering look in her beautiful
face. " You had no mercy upon me in those other days;
but may I not hope that I have outgrown now the age at
which a man is fair game to a woman ?"
"Who outfjrows that age? Methuselah himself would
find a Delilah to turn his old head were he here to-night.
Look at that couple in the cotillion to the right !"
He laughed. It was a picture of Spring and Winter, —
a young, pretty girl bestowing all manner of blandishments
upon a white-haired, decrepit old man, wliose breast was
covered outwardly with decorations and inwardly with
the mildew of age.
"This is my first ball, Mr. Trelawney, and, do you
know, I quite long to dance. This delicious music almost
bears me off on its wings; but I have not been asked to
dance, and I do not know any one," she laughed.
"Excepting the Prince di R , who was devouring
you when I rescued you, and myself. Will you dance
with me?" Almost the same pleading voice and bashful
manner with which he had implored her years before,
when he was a mere boy, to accept his life's devotion.
Dora hesitated. She had never danced, save in those
petit reunions of artists and their families, before she had
met Dyke Faucctt, and — well, that valse was really too
much for her remaining scruples. She laid her hand on
Reginald's shoulder, and in a moment they were whirling
away in the delirious delight of perfect music, perfect time,
40 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
and perfect step. Trelawney suited her, in height, in
movement, and in accuracy of ear, and that first real
waltz marked an epoch in Dora's life. What Reginald's
feelings were, one can imagine ; he had never been so per-
fectly, unutterably happy in his life. The desire of his
soul through those long, dreary years in India had at last
been gratified : he had seen Dora once more, and she had
been "so glad to see him!" What more could earth
grant of bliss?
After they had danced, rested, danced again, until they
could no more, they sauntered out into the cool lobbies,
where camellia-trees and myrtle formed shady nooks, in
which ices were served to refresh the dancers.
" How have you come to Rome, — are you on leave of
absence ?" asked Dora, sipping daintily her ice, and look-
ing more exquisite than ever under the green drooping
branches of an acacia in full flower. Reginald could
scarcely tear his eyes from her face.
"Yes; I am on leave. The fact is I grew tired of In-
dian service, and longed to get back to England for a
while ; so I exchanged into the Rifle Brigade, and here
I am!"
"But this is not England," quoth Dora, maliciously.
"Ah, you wanted to idle about, travel, and see the
world, — to ^do' Paris, and Rome, and Vesuvius!"
" No ; I came straight from Soutliamj)ton to Marseilles,
thence here. Rome is the whole world to me." His
earnest eyes gazed straight into hers ; she colored slightly.
"Ah, do not say that if you have not seen Switzerland
or Naples, or "
"And what can Switzerland or Naples, or any other
spot under heaven, bring me of happiness more than I
find in Rome to-night?" he interrupted, with the old im-
petuosity. But Dora would wot see.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 41
"You remind me," she laughed, "in your contempt
for the beauties of Nature, of Lord Byron's disgust at
passing, on his way to the Castle of Chillon, a traveling-
carriage in which lay a lady asleep. ' Fast asleep in the
most anti-narcotic spot in the world — excellent!' he
exclaimed, satirically, Mr. Trelawney. Now can you
tell me that Mont Blanc or the Jungfrau could not
arouse your enthusiasm?"
" I never tried them," he replied, smiling; "and indeed
I do not mean to leave Rome, — at least during your stay,
Miss Fairfax."
And then Dora felt constrained to deal her blow. "I
reside in Rome, Mr. Trelawney : it is my home ; and, I am
not Miss Fairfax now." She did not look at him, but
she felt the white, shocked pain in his face.
''Not Miss Fairfax?" he stammered. "Who, then?
Oh, surely "
"My name is Mrs. Faucett," interposed Dora, with
gentle dignity.
He did not speak again. This was bitter, — hard and
bitter, and utterly unbearable. Never had man more
thoroughly, more egregiously, deceived himself; never
had man been stunned by so sudden and sharp a blow !
For weeks he had haunted every street, every church,
every gallery in Rome ; run over every visitors' book at
each hotel, spent hours watching every face that passed
on the favorite promenades ; worn out the rims of his
lorgnette at every theatre _and opera, looking for this
girl, who at last burst upon his vision doubly beautiful ;
and in her shy, sweet, graceful manner (in which nothing
of the matron could be detected), had filled his mind
with hope and his heart with overpowering happiness.
Reader, do you not know women, of mature \ears even,
who have borne many children perhaps, in happy wed-
4*
42
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
lock, who still glide through the world, mutely denying
the marriage estate by a certain girlishness of figure, shy-
ness of mien, wistfuhiess of expression in the eyes, which
are timid and modest as the eyes of Una herself; just as
you have seen in little girls of ten, sometimes, the square,
set figures, the steady eye and resolute lip of the embryo
Cornelia ; and after the mystic ring is slipped over the
plump third finger, it seems as if it had grown there for-
ever ; and the rest of her spreads out all over everything
in a motherly embonpoint, which reminds one of nothing
so much as an overgrown cabbage or cauliflower?
Alas! there was nothing of the vegetable about Dora;
the wild rose blooms on her cheek, and her slender figure
suggests the lily ; and the violet itself is not more shrink-
ing from the careless gaze than she, or more suggestive
of ungathered sweetnesses.
"Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness."
Dyke Faucett's voice broke in opportunely, and put an
end to a silence which was becoming embarrassing to
Dora ; and Trelawney was obliged to shake himself to-
gether, and shake hands with this man (whom he longed
to take by the throat, then and there), and after a few
more words, to see him walk off with Dora on his arm to
the cloak-room ; not, however, before Dyke had handed
Trelawney his card with his address upon it, and begged
him to look in ujjon them often.
Dora did not echo this invitation by word, or look, or
wish. She bent her head gravely and turned away, lean-
ing with empressemcnt on her husband's arm.
" Were you much bored ?" inquired Dyke, during their
homeward drive, "and did that cad di R make him-
self disagreeable?"
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
43
" I was not bored, and that cad di R did make him-
self disagreeable," replied his wife, concisely, and a little
resentfully. If the man was known to be a puppy, why
did her husband present him to her and leave her at his
mercy? Dora flashed out (inwardly) at this, and at his
continued neglect throughout the evening.
" I caught a glimpse of you occasionally, waltzing ; do
you like it?"
"Yes," slightly mollified (he had watched her, then).
" I do like it with a partner like Mr. Trelawney ; he dances
exquisitely, and oh, the music was divine!" And she
hummed a bar or two of the last valse, smiling to herself.
"I thought you did, with Mr. Trclaivney. He seemed
to like it pretty well too."
"Ah, yes, he did," Dora answered, rather sadly.
" Dyke, I wish you had not asked that boy to call." Her
voice was tremulous and hesitating now.
" Boy ! you are ridiculous, Dora. Trelawney is no
longer a sentimental boy, but a man who has outlived all
that absurd nonsense. Wliy, you don't fancy that he is
spoony about you now, Dora? Really, I thought you
knew men better than all that."
"I do not know much about men, you know, Dyke.
My father and yourself are almost the only ones I know
intimately and perhaps you are right, I should have known
love could never sj^rvive so many years. ^^ There was an in-
describable pathos in her voice, and Dyke — changed the
subject.
" Have you retracted your opinion on the subject of
balls ? Are they not all that I painted them ?" he asked.
"I do not know. I shall never go to another one,"
Dora answered, wearily, and then closed her eyes until
the carriage stoi)ped and Dyke handed her out, and then,
re-entering it, drove to the club for a half-hour or so.
44
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Dora locked her door after her maid left her, and, sink-
ing into a great easy-chair drawn up before the open wood-
fire, pondered on many things. And out of the chaos of
disturbed thought stood forth in startling distinctness,
Dyke Faucett's selfishness and Reginald Trelawney's un-
abated devotion ; two figures who were destined to war
with each other in her tender heart for longer than that
night.
Before she slept, she prayed for strength to bear the pain
which each day now brought to her, in the conviction that
her husband had wearied of her, or been lured from her by
distractions outside his home. And then she slept and
dreamed that she was back in the Via Babuino again,
copying pictures and singing in the church-choirs for a
support, with a heart as light as her purse, and the bright
smile of her girlhood rested once more on her lips. The
dream-angel is the most merciful and the dearest of all
the white-winged choir.
CHAPTER VII.
** But you could make so much of your life if you chose.
Why not give up the army, — it is only ' playing soldier' in
these peaceful days, — and take up a new career ? Surely
there are many oj)en to you where you might win a name,
and never- failing incentive to draw forth your powers."
They were sauntering along one of the terraces sur-
rounding Monte Pincio, Dora with Reginald Trelawney
— her constant companion now, — followed by Clementine
and little Marian with grandpapa in an open carriage.
All over the bcnutiful j'incian Hill swarmed equipages,
from the cardinal's coach to the small, hired voiture de
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 45
place; equestrians on thoroughbred steeds, nurses with
their laughing charges, men and women pedestrians in holi-
day garb, thronging the garden on the summit, among its
glittering fountains, its gleaming statues, and charming
walks flower-bordered.
Ah, what a view of the "City of the Soul" stretched
out from beneath that point ! Queenly still in her aged
desolation ! Rome !
" She who was named Eternal, and arrayed
Her warriors but to conquer ; she who veiled
Earth with her haughty shadow, and displayed,
Until the o'ercanopied horizon failed,
Her rushing wings, — oh, she who was almighty hailed !"
and who now stands unequaled in majesty, crowned with
her immortal monuments of art, throned on her seven
hills !
Looking out over the vast sweep beneath them, with the
great dome of St. Peter's, and the Vatican, standing in bold
relief against the background of the Campagna; — with the
Eden-like Borghese grounds stretching their masses of
foliage and flower-decked allees under their eyes ; with the
Antonine column towering in the distance, and that grim
obelisk of the Nile, — and the great round roof of the Pan-
theon, pride of Rome ! —
" Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, .
From Jove — to Jesus,"
Standing erect in majestic grandeur, as when some two
thousand years ago the last touch was put to its simple, mas-
sive state under direction of Agrippa, before Christ was
born.
But Dora had raised her eyes from the great city with
its everlasting monuments, and was gazing beyond, where
fair Soracte stood out clearly against the blue enamel of
46 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
the sky, whilst she strove to stir up, in the young heart
beside her, the smouldering ambition which exists in every
nature worthy of a name. But in that heart lay a slow
poison which was spreading through every vein and numb-
ing every aspiration, all energy, all hope. So he answered,
a little contemptuously, "A name ! What is it after all?
A whole life devoted to the Avinning of it, and then — a
puff in the newspapers, — an epitaph, and — oblivion ! The
greatest men in these days are the successful ones, and you
know a certain member of Parliament once said, ' I hear
a great deal said here about posterity ; but let mc ask
frankly, what has posterity ever done for us /' I think he
was about right," Reginald concluded, moodily, while
Dora could not restrain a smile.
"Mr. Faucett tells me you have had your leave ex-
tended ; is this so?"
"It is ; don't be vexed. I know I promised you to get
away to some forlorn spot in the Alps where I could
devour my own heart in a solitary unselfishness, but I could
not do it, and, unless you send me away, I shall stay just
here until "
" Until you have utterly, irretrievably lost my respect
and your own ; until all that is fine and noble in your
nature grovels to the earth under the influence of a mad
infatuation, a madness which must end, Mr. Trelawney,
sooner or later, and which, with my consent, shall not last
another day in my presence." Dora spoke in a low tone
of concentrated feeling; pity, contempt, and the all-for-
giving sympathy of her woman's heart contending in one
wild tumult.
During the last three months Trelawney had been ever
at her side ; morning, noon, and evening he was sure to be
at hand, to chat with her, to drive with her father and her-
self, to escort her to the theatre, where D)ke looked in
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 47
upon her and begged Reginald to see her safely home
(safely !). In her morning strolls with her sketch-book
and little Marian, in her evening rambles, Reginald was
always at her service, with his gentle deference to her
faintest expressed wish, with his sunny temper and his
keen enjoyment of everything, boyish still in its pure zest.
And Dora — a little recklessly perhaps, — a good deal
thoughtlessly — allowed it all. Could she resist it ? Her
days were empty — he filled them delightfully; with invent-
ive ingenuity, planned excursions ; arranged picnics in
the environs of the city, was indefatigable as a guide-
book in the galleries, and palaces, and churches; supplied
her with flowers enough to turn her salon into Paradise,
with music of the newest selections, with books, and all
that made up her dearest enjoyments now. Her days
were empty and he filled them, her heart was desolate and
he cheered it, her mind was going to sleep and he awakened
and stimulated it anew.
For there are natures so delicately Strung that
" Should tlicir days
Melt to calm twilight, they feci overcast
With sorrow and supincncss, and so die,
Even as a flame, unfed, which runs to waste
With its own flickenng "
And Dora, with all her sweetness and power of self-
renunciation, was not perfect ; and in the slow, torturing
process which robbed her of the last blessed liope of re-
animating the dead, callous heart of her husband, — in the
last departing flicker of a blindness to his true nature
which had so enveloped her mental gaze from the very
first, — she had been more than woman, if the sweet balm
of Reginald's pure worship had failed to comfort her.
Alas, she could not go back to the happy days when her
father held an unfailing fount of sympathy for every sor-
48 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
row of her life ! She could no more satisfy her question-
ing soul, or calm her aching heart on that loving breast,
than she could go back and be once more the merry,
joyful, singing-bird of old. What wonder, then, that she
" Grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain?" — ■
recking little, in a new selfishness, that peace for her may
mean utter wreck and ruin to the man wlio loved her "too
well." For she never felt for him more than tender pity,
an earnest affection and admiration, won by his many ad-
mirable traits of character; never more than this, though
he poured the whole wealth of his heart and mind and
soul at her feet. If she had felt deeper interest in him
than this, — if his devotion had won her love in return, —
the words spoken then on the Pincian Hill would have
been uttered long before, and to more purpose, let us
hope. For weeks rolled on, and the warm June days
drove them out of Rome to the hills, and still Reginald
lingered in their wake.
For Dyke Faucett insisted that they should not part
company now, just when he could be more with them
and enjoy Trelawney's society, too. It was all nonsense ;
he had six months' leave, why not spend it with their
party? they would not bore him more than others, etc.
And Reginald being in love, and weaker than the reed
swayed by the wind, yielded, and remained.
And his love grew and gathered strength in their moun-
tain rainbles and through long days of summer idling (in
which Dyke rarely joined), through long twilights, throb-
bing with the music of their mixed voices (for Trelawncy
had learned to sing, whilst in Rome, of Dora's old maes-
tro). He was hajipy in a sort of ecstatic bliss which was
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 49
half pain ; and she, looking forward with unceasing dread,
feeling to her heart's core her helplessness, and a frantic
sorrow in looking on that wasted life, wondering at Dyke's
blindness or — his cruelty (which was it ?) —
" Stretched abroad her trembHng arms
Upon the precincts of this nest of pain.
The Supreme God
At war with all the frailty of grief,
Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge,
Remorse, spleen, hope; but, most of all, despair I"
CHAPTER VIII.
Albano, that favorite resort of the Roman nobility dur-
ing the " villeggiatura" season from June to October, —
the Hampstead or Highgate of Rome, — celebrated for its
beauty of scenery and purity of air, was the spot chosen
by Dyke Faucett as a temporary sojourn when the heat
became oppressive in the city.
Dora was pleased, in a calm, undemonstrative way, very
different to the enthusiastic delight which she would have
expressed two or three years ago, — she lived outwardly
then as well as inwardly; now her inner life was all-
absorbing, and all outer demonstration checked and
subdued.
She took pleasure in rambling over the ruins of the an-
cient Roman villas and of the great Amphitheatre, erected
by Domitian, which had been, in those glorious days of
barbarous magnificence, the scene of the most revolting
cruelties under order of the last of the twelve Caesars,
f 5
50 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Dora was becoming very fond of perching herself upon a
remnant of ruined wall, moss-covered, and losing herself
for hours in idle dreaming, while her eyes wandered over
the broad plain of the Campagna or rested on the blue,
dancing waves of the Mediterranean, stretching out more
than twelve hundred feet beneath her.
Or, with her father and little Marian, — always accom-
panied, too, by Reginald Trelawney, — she would saunter
along the Via Appia, under the blooming ilex-trees, to
beautiful Lariccia; or, mounting donkeys, they would
ride slowly through exquisite scenery to the lonely Lake of
Albano, lying in placid beauty in the crater of an extin-
guished volcano.
Dyke rarely joined these excursions. Where or how
he spent his days and nights, Dora was supremely ig-
norant.
It was his custom to breakfast late, and then, mounting
his horse, to ride off, with a careless " ta-ta" to Dora and
perhaps a pat on the golden curls of his child. He seldom
returned to dine, and often not before midnight. Little
conversation passed between him and his wife, — never a
word of wrangling; she was too proud to upbraid, he too
diplomatic to attempt to offer excuses or explanations.
Mr. Fairfax looked on — and saw twilling. Dora was well,
and seemed content. She had her child and every com-
fort of life. It seemed to be the fashion for married
people to hold no more than ceremonious intercourse to-
gether, and there was no jarring. He and his Marian
had not lived together after this fashion ; but then, he
had married nearly fifty years ago, and half a century
brought changes in everything, manners and customs
included.
Yes, Mr. Fairfax, in everything save flesh and blood;
a woman's heart can ache as keenly now as in the days
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 51-
when the "Lily maid of Astolat" crooned forth her
waiHng ditty, —
" Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain ;
And sweet is Death, who puts an end to pain. . . .
Sweet love that seems not made to fade away" —
before she paid that ghostly visit with face as white as the
lily in her hand, and the letter holding her heart's last
moan lying on the marble breast.
But Dora, less happy than Elaine, could not die. As she
saw slowly unfolding before her a long, loveless, lonely
future, she braced herself to meet it at least with com-
posure and tranquil patience. "I cannot struggle to re-
cover what never existed ; he fiever loved me from the
very first, — for love never dies. I have just wrecked my
life, and must bear it without complaint. Ah, me ! —
" ' None know the choice I made, and broke my heart
Breaking mine idol ! . . .
I broke it at a blow, I laid it cold,
Crushed, in my deep heart where it used to live.
My heart dies inch by inch ; the time grows old,
Grows old, in which I grieve.' "
But she smiled and even sang sometimes, — though her
song was sadder than weeping, — and believed that she
completely deceived her father and all about her. But
she never laughed ; that sweet, rippling, girlish laughter,
which had been one of her rare charms, never welled up
from her Iieart again.
And there was one pair of eyes which watched her with
ever deepening tenderness, that marked the slight but
eloquent change in her delicate features and coloring.
The eyes were softened by a violet circle about them, the
pure oval of her face was less perfect in outline, the skin
52 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
looked waxen in its whiteness, while the full red lips
curved sadly downward faintly rose-tinted.
Reginald Trelawney did not lose one sigh, one sad look,
one pang of disappointment which wrote itself upon that
expressive face, and in garnering these up, he built thereon
heart-ache for himself. . . . And she had still another
friend, if an humble one. The piercing gray eyes of faith-
ful Giles fastened themselves upon her with a keen, re-
spectful interest, awakened by her never-varying gentle-
ness, and his knowledge of his master's character. Slowly,
surely, was that aroused pity and interest undermining his
dog-like fidelity to Faucett, a fidelity which for ten years
had never wavered, and which Dyke prized highly ; but
novv he was to stand by and see a cruel wrong done, a
crime beside which paled all the numerous unscrupulous
deeds of evil which he had known his master to perpetrate
without one pang of self-reproach? For Dyke's sake,
and because in his slavish ignorance he believed it to
be his duty, he had transformed himself into an active
machine, a man of indestructible sang-froid, of good judg-
ment, and infinite tact. But under the crust of custom,
stirred still a heart, and, after some late confidences
wrung from Celestine, the marquise's maid and confidante
(when will women learn to burn their letters and hold their
tongues?), he had resolutely determined that he would not
stand by and witness this crowning wickedness of a bad
career.
For Celestine had divulged (being herself completely
under the thrall of a serious passion for the masterful Giles),
that her mistress, weary of waiting for the old man's death
(the marquis had i)romised by outward appearances to die
long ere this, and failed to abide by his promise), had de-
termined to leave him, with ^'ce monsieur Anglais, aussitot
que possible.'^ (They were then stopping in the neighbor-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 53
hood, on a visit to Prince Doria at his villa near the
Roman Gate, within an easy ride of Albano).
When the visit had drawn itself out to proper limits
according to the code of etiquette, the fair Pauline de-
cided to breathe the air of Switzerland, and, after a week
in Paris, she would hope to see her cher ami Dyke in
Geneva.
Dora was requested to prepare to accompany her hus-
band, while Mr. Fairfax and little Marian would remain at
Albano until their return. This was a bitter trial to Dora,
for her child had never yet been separated from her. She
remonstrated, but "We have taken the apartment in this
stupid place for the summer; somebody must occupy it;
Marian is doing very well here; traveling is misery to
children ; come, don't fret about such a trifle," etc., she
was mute ; but another stone rolled to the door of the
sepulchre where her dead love lay, and the tears she shed
through the long, silent nights for her baby's arms about
her, would have made any mother weep from sympathy.
CHAPTER IX.
"You must pardon my ohtuseness, but really, Dora, I
cannot see how Mr. Trelawney's stay or departure can
affect your happiness. If he bores you, avoid him ; he is
too well-bred to persecute you ; if not, and he amuses you,
why should he not remain?" And Dyke stretched him-
self into an easier position on the lounge in Dora's dress-
ing-room, at the Hotel Metropole, Geneva. They had
just arrived, and Trelawncy, still in their suite, had been
5*
54
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
again earnestly solicited by Faucett to take vip his quarters
in their hotel, and postpone his trip to Chamounix, and
ascent of Mont Blanc, until they all could go together
(Dyke, having promised to meet some friends in Geneva,
awaited their arrival). Dora had at last determined to
speak very plainly to her husband, and show him clearly
to what this fatuous indifference on his part was inevitably
pointing. It was a bitter, painful task for her, as it must
ever be to a sensitive, high-strung woman, to tear open
the eyes of a man willfully blinding himself to his own dis-
honor. For there was no mistaking Reginald's utter self-
abandonment to the madness which was fast depriving
him of even a show of regard for appearances. He was
very nearly reckless of consequences, and did not care to
conceal it always. As his contempt for Faucett increased,
seeing farther into the depths of that cruel, selfish heart,
than Dora, his pity and love gained in strength, until
they mastered every other feeling of his nature. He felt
almost as if his duty was involved in remaining with them
constantly, that he might be at hand to protect and shield
this fragile, unsuspicious, broken-spirited woman from
deadly danger, oblivious of the fact that danger the direst
lay in the very protecting influence he offered as a shield.
And now Dora had determined, at all costs, to end this
feverish, daily increasing infatuation of poor Trelawney's,
and through licr husband's interposition, for she had
failed hitherto in convincing him, unsupported by Dyke's
concurrence.
" It is not that he bores me," she said, after a moment ;
"indeed, it is because I am begitwing to feel iJiat I can
scarcely do without lii'/ii ; /shall miss him so sorely, tiiat I
tliink it better that he should break off from us " (she
waited expectantly; Dyke yawned.) " Do you realize,"
she continued, "that he has been incessantly at my side
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 55
during the last six months ? Do you realize that he is a
man without ties, young, capable of feeling, capable of
suffering ?' '
"And that he is in love with you?" put in Dyke.
Her color deepened. "Yes, if you will have me say
it; that he has loved me since the first day I met him"
("Bah !" ejaculated her husband, incredulously), — "who
has loved me," she went on, steadily, — " and will love me
as long as he lives."
"Well, that does not hurt you, does it? I am not
afraid of him or any man ; why should you excite your-
self about such rubbish as this?"
She left her seat in the window, looking out over the
peaceful lake, and came quite close to him. "Because it
is not rubbish ; it is shi, and pain, and grief, — and per-
haps remorse or despair; — who knows? Because jw/ have
wearied of me, and seen fit to starve to death every
loving fibre of my heart, do you think that it is quite
impossible for any other hand to touch my heart-
strings? Ah, Dyke, take care! I may seem numb and
dead to you ; but there is life beneath the surface yet ;
if you have no pity for him, have at least some care
for me !"
She paced the room with uneven steps after that last
wail escaped her, and then stood again at the window,
awaiting, yet dreading, his reply. None came; was his
indignation, his wounded pride, at length aroused? Was
he gathering strength to launch calmly at her the bitter
sentence which would prove that love was not entirely
extinct even yet, and that her cry of despair had touched
one vital spot? Oh, would to Heaven this were so!
Anger, contempt, curses, blows even, would have wounded
less cruelly than the sound which now caused her to raise
her drooping head to listen, and then she crossed the
56 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
room swiftly- and stood looking down on the cold, cruel,
handsome face. The eyes were closed, the jaw relaxed
(the sound she heard had been something between a groan
and a chuckle), and Dyke was sleeping profoundly !
For one instant Dora gazed at him while her heart
seemed to contract with sharp pain, and then, with curl-
ing lip and head erect, she swept out of the room.
On, along the corridor, until she gained the door of
her salon ; and there entering, turned the key and threw
herself, face downward, on the couch in one corner of the
room and burst into an agony of tears.
Ah me! hope had died forever; the last blow had
been dealt by that ruthless hand — to faith, and trust, and
love. Alone she must stand for evermore ; alone, de-
fenseless, in the hands of a man as unscrupulous as he
was heartless, to whom she could never look again for
affection, comfort, or protection.
"Oh, Dyke!" she sobbed, " if you had only killed
mc at one blow ! Oh, Heaven pity me !" Heart-break-
ing was the convulsion which seemed to rend her frail
form in its fierce agony (what grief so bitter as the tearing
from one's heart the idol which has proved unworthy of
its sacred shrine?). But there were dregs still in the cup
of her anguish which she had not tasted yet.
Reginald Trelawney, smoking on the balcony upon
which these windows opened, was startled out of a sor-
rowful reverie by the sound of suppressed weeping, and
the moaning cry which burst irrepressibly from Dora's
lips reached liim as he stood irresolute a moment on tlie
threshold of the window, with eyes fixed wonderingly on
the prone figure of the woman whom he had learned to
worship above all else on earth. One moment, and then
a swift stride or two brought him to the couch, where he
cast himself on his knees, crying wildly, —
THE MILLS 01' THE GODS. 57
"What is this? Dora! Mrs. Faucett ! Oh, what has
happened ? Speak to me ; tell me. I cannot bear to see
this grief!"
His arms were about her, his voice strained and harsh,
his face grown white with sympathy for a sorrow of which
he felt the cause. But Dora only raised her hand and
motioned him away, creeping closer into the shelter of
the cushions on the lounge, weeping no less bitterly at
this additional trial.
" I will not go !" cried Reginald, answering her move-
ment. "My place is here at your feet; you would not
spurn a dog away from you; and I am not less faithful.
Oh, Dora, raise your dear head and speak to me; let me
help you if I can ; even by going away from you forever,
if I in any way have caused this pain. Do not fear; I
am strong enough to leave you, but too weak to see you
suffer." And he bowed his head upon the back of the
couch, and tears trickled slowly down his cheeks.
Dora raised her head with an effort. " Oh, Heaven !"
she cried, "do you care enough for me to lucep? Are
there tears, then, in some men's hearts? Are they not
all stone, hard and cruel, and cold?" Dreamily she
spoke, while her face was wet with tears; and her great,
sad eyes turned wistfully towards Reginald, recalled for-
cibly to his mind that incarnation of passionate yet child-
like sorrow, the Beatrice of Guido. He trembled from
head to foot as she passed her hand caressingly over his
fair, wavy hair, murmuring as she did so, more to herself
than to him, "A woman is such a pitiful thing, — such a
trailing, twining, weak-spirited thing, that when she is
torn from a support she has grown used to, she must
needs grovel and lie in the dust and wail. Oh, my friend,
you may well pity me; but your tears would give me
more pain if my heart were not all numb and cold."
58
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
She sank back now wearily; the storm had passed and
left exhaustion.
"But, wliy," Reginald urged, — " why have you been
so grieved ? Who has been so wicked as to hurt your
tender heart ? Who has dared to make you so wretched ?
Oh, in pity tell me what has caused this !"
She answered nothing, but lay back pale as a lily,
with violet shadows under the large eyes, while Reginald,
still kneeling before her, caressed her hand, lying limp
and motionless in his. She scarcely knew he was there;
her thoughts were straying back to the burial of her dead
love ; she mourned in her soul over the grave of her most
treasured hopes, — over the long, desolate, worse than
widowed future which stared in her face in its emptiness;
and then the vision of Dyke asleep in heartless unconcern
stung her again, and she moaned aloud.
Reginald could not bear suspense quietly ; lie started to
his feet, and strode rapidly up and down the room, Dora
following every movement witli dreamy, unseeing eyes.
But she was aroused from her apathy when he stopped
suddenly before her and spoke in a husky voice, and with
an expression she had never seen before on his young face.
"You will not tell me your sorrow? Well, I know it;
I have known it all along : since the very first days when
I met you in Rome ; indeed" (with a short, harsh laugh),
"'who docs not know? But let that ])ass ; the present
is what we have to look to, — and the future. What
do you mean to do, Dora? Do you dream of living
on in this ghastly fashion, — a wife and yet no wife ;
bearing your husband's name, and yet unacknowledged,
denied, repudiated! — neglected, exposed, unshielded?"
Dora gazed up at liim, silent, under a horrible fascination ;
he went on: "And he, is it not enough that he thus
forswears himself, and breaks every vow which binds In'm
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 59
to you? But he must make his story a by-word in the
towns wherever he moves ; he must flaunt his devotion to
the Marquise de Courboisie everywhere. She it is, he
awaits here, she it is who enchained him in Rome, in
Paris, even in the hills where you rusticated and enjoyed
your simple, primitive life, unconscious of her proximity.
Ah, what it has cost me to keep silent! What pangs of
self-abasement to touch that man's hand, to sit at his
board, to breathe the same air he breathed ! And yet,
what could I do? Could I leave you, poor lamb ! in the
fangs of this wolf? Could I go aw^ay from you knowing
well that iliis day must dawn soon ; that you would have
to bear the bitter pain which wrings your heart to-day,
— alone? No; my life is not worth much, but to its
very last breath it \% yours ; yours to use, to be sure of, to
trample upon, if you so please, but still yours forever.
As long as I live my arm shall protect you, and my
heart shall come between you and any pain which it can
shield from you." He sat down on the edge of the
couch, and looked straight into Dora's eyes. "Answer
me one question !" he almost commanded : "is your love
for this man quite dead?"
"Yes," she answered, in a strange voice; "quite, —
quite dead !"
"Then you can bear to hear something from me?"
he asked.
"Oh, yes; I can bear anything." Still in that odd,
constrained tone.
" This man you call your husband has plotted to get rid
of you, — this sounds cruel, but I musfsay it, — and failing,
through your angelic purity, he has resolved to leave you.
His plans are well laid, and I hold the key to every move.
He means to elope with the Marquise de Courboisie and
leave you in my charge. All this has been divulged to me
6o THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
by a man who was devoted to him, body and soul, until
he learned to know j'f« and your gentle sweetness won his
■^heart. Oh, Dora, you may imagine what a night I passed
after this man Giles came to my bedroom door last night
and implored vie to interfere to save you, telling me the
whole vile plot, and all the circumstances of your secret
marriage. Heaven help me ! I should have shot that
villain like a dog, had he crossed my path last night. But
that would leave you more defenseless still ; I must be
patient." He resumed his pacing back and forth, and
Dora watched him as before ; but in her white cheeks
burned now two spots of crimson, and her eyes had the
cold glitter of steel in their depths. When Reginald came
near again his voice was very low and pleading, and his
eyes were soft with tenderness.
" Dora, you must come away with me; there is nothing
left for you to do ; nothing will come amiss to this man
if he once desires an obstacle removed. I cannot leave
you in such terrible danger, and I can no longer meet
that devil face to f:xce without telling him my thoughts.
You will come with me, my darling, — you and your father
and little Marian, — home to dear England, where the law
will soon free you from this wretch? Oh, Dora, I am not
pleading selfishly. I know there is not a shadow of hope
for me ; you never even pretended to care for me, and
I do not think you ever will ; but \ou will give me a
brother's right to protect and help you in this sad moment,
will you not ?"
Dora slowly rose to her feet ; not one word had escaped
lier of all that he had said ; each one was an arrow
shot straight into her heart ; she was quivering all over
with pain and horror as she stood before him, looking up
into his honest, manly face. Then she rested her two
hands lightly on his shoulders, and said, with incomparable
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. Ci
sweetness, "God bless you; you are very noble. Oh, I
do trust you, my brother !" And, as he quickly bent his
head, she touched his cheek with her lips, and in a
moment he was alone.
As Dora sped along the passage to her own apartments
she encountered a party of new arrivals ; shrinking behind
a pillar, she saw them pass : a decrepit old man supported
by a valet, followed by a stylish little girl about five years
old, and her maid ; behind them, the beautiful Marquise
de Courboisie, leaning on Dyke Faucett's arm, and speak-
ing in low, confidential tones in French, close to his ear.
Just as he closed the door upon the party in their hand-
some suite of rooms, a cry from one of the house-maids at
the other end of the corridor attracted his attention. He
was about to turn away in an opposite direction, when
the woman perceived him, and called out, "Ah, Monsieur,
voila Madame qui s'est trouvee mal, venez vite, je vous en
prie ;" and Faucett, advancing, had the felicity of figuring
in a coup-de-scenc, and carrying his insensible wife to her
bedroom.
Dora recovered her consciousness only to fall into high
fever, which showed symj)toms of serious illness, and over
which the medical man, who had been hastily summoned,
shook his head gravely.
That night, as the impassive Giles laid out his master's
evenimj dress and inserted the studs in the delicate
embroidery under which his bad heart held its secrets, lie
made a vast effort, and, gulping down the last spasm of
reluctance at breaking old bonds, spoke out, —
" I desire to give warning, sir, if you please."
"Hey! what!" ejaculated Faucett, turning sharply
round from the mirror with one side of his face covered
with lather and his razor upheld in his hand. " Did you
speak, Giles?"
6
62 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
"Beg pardon, sir; but I said that I desire to give
warning. This day month, sir, I should wish to return to
England."
Dyke looked at him fixedly. " Hem ! you have been
offered higher wages, have you?"
" Oh, no, sir. You have been most liberal," answered
Giles, delicately sprinkling his master's inner vest from
an arrosoir of violets and giving a " legere teinture" of
the same to the exquisite handkerchief.
"Ah, you are in love, then; there is some Mary Ann
in the case ; you wish to marry?"
"Ah, no, sir; I have no thought of marrying."
"What the deuce do you leave me for, then? You
suit me. Have I found ftuilt with you? Come, what
is it?"
" You have been a kind master to me, sir," answered
poor Giles, in trembling tones ; " but still, sir, I mean to
leave you, — this day montli, if you please, sir."
Dyke turned around again, this time pale with rage.
"Not this day month, but to-night; there!" throwing
him a handful of napoleons. " I paid you up last week ;
there are a month's wages ; begone !"
" Oh, sir!" began Giles.
"Leave the room !" thundered Dyke. And the door
closed softly on the retreating form of the best servant
man ever had.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. (yT^
CHAPTER X.
It will scarcely be necessary to assure those who have
correctly gauged the profound, callous egotism of Dyke
Faucett's moral nature, that, however reckless and unscru-
pulous he became in regard to the future welfare of others,
he had always been able to hold in leash his desires when
they threatened wreck to himself. Only in one in-
stance — never to be sufficiently deplored — had he allowed
his passion to overtop his calculating reason, — in the case
where Dora's exceptionally powerful fascination, against
which he had struggled in vain, caused him to succumb at
last, feeling that when the inevitable weariness supervened,
his ready genius of evil would furnish an avenue of
escape for him.
For in the early days of his courtship and marriage he
laid no subtle plot to give form and feature to his subse-
quent dastardly wickedness; tlie idea of making his mar-
riage as private as possible, and keeping it as secret, with
the distiuct possibility of being able to repudiate its
claims when they became irksome, had not prompted his
action at that time. To plan would have involved some
deterioration of the sentiment, which, false as it was, ab-
sorbed him, — and would have cost him some labor of in-
vention and thought, — was work, which he shifted aside
as much as practicable.
And the years had brought out the realization of his
anticipations. He had won Dora, and wearied of her;
and without the least effort or the slightest ruffle on the
surface of his equable life, he had given her to understand
this; and they had just drifted apart, and soon would
64 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
stand on either side of a fathomless gulf. For, judging
her nature by his own, and that of the many women he
had known (all being of one type, in different degrees),
he never doubted for one moment that, sooner or later,
she, driven by loneliness and the bitterness of disappoint-
ment, would — in the futile vengeance some women grasp
with the avidity of despair — cross that gulf. That he
gave her every opportunity ; that he strove to the best of
his ability to point out to her the way; that he found in
Reginald Trelawney's self-abnegating devotion tlie very
weapon at his hand wherewith to slay her soul, only
proves that the way of the transgressor is sometimes
smooth enough to excite one's wondering awe !
But that he intended to expedite matters by doing vio-
lence to the world's opinions in eloping with a married
woman, and thus at one blow cutting off from himself his
guardian's respect and affection (with their abundant fruit,
his princely income), and burdening himself anew with a
woman who loved him and was destitute entirely of that
fine, sensitive pride which Dora had no lack of, did not
enter into his calculations for one moment. In the fervid
brain of romantic Celestine, and perhaps faintly sug-
gested as a remote conclusion by her impetuous mistress,
alone was such self-sacrifice as this dreamed of.
The marquise and Dyke Faucctt were certainly on
terms of intimate friendship, — rather more implied than
expressed on his side, for he rarely committed himself in
words, never on paper ; but he was always gallant, ele-
gant, handsome, and ready to admire her coquetries, — and
she loved him. If the future held some shadowy hopes
for her, built upon the rickety life of her aged spouse,
she kept them for her solitary hours — and her maid's
delectation.
Therefore the last blow, which bowed poor Dora's
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 65
head to the earth, and lost Dyke a well-trained servant,
was dealt by fate through the agency of a silly woman's
prattle.
And is not the world full of wrecks which have come
to grief in those same babbling shallows?
Dora lay ill for weeks, fighting with helpless hands, in
the delirium of fever, the spectres of her broken life and
shattered hopes, wailing out her plaints in the uncompre-
hending ears of a Swiss nurse, who watched her care-
fully and pitied her wretchedness, in her stolid, matter-of-
fact fashion.
And Dyke, making inquiry through his new valet each
morning and evening, found she was making slow progress
towards recovery, and consoled himself for that fact in
throwing a faint tendresse into his customary insouciant
manner with the beautiful Pauline, who was totally un-
aware of the existence of a wife.
True, she had seen Dora once or twice with Dyke — in
his box at the opera, veiled by the drapery, — but, when
questioned, Dyke would eloquently shrug his shoulders,
raise his eyebrows, and dismiss the subject. The mar-
quise formed her own conclusions, and, frowning out-
wardly, smiled inwardly.
During these weeks of Dora's illness, I fear Trelawney
suffered most of all. He spent his days lounging about
the corridors, waylaying the physician, the nurse, the
servants, who entered or came from Dora's rooms. His
nights were weary wanderings along the lake border,
within call from the Hotel Metropole — for, by liberal
donations, he had won from the Swiss garde-maiade the
promise that, should her patient develop new symptoms
or sink into the lethargy which would be the precursor
of death, he should be called to her side immediately.
He was intoleral)ly wretched ; and Giles (whom Reginald
6--
66 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
had at once engaged in his own service) was as anxious
and nervous about his late mistress as a well-trained
servant dared to be.
He it was who, seated on a chair outside her door,
watched during those three fearful nights, when the
doctor acknowledged that he dreaded the dawning of the
morning, ready at a moment's notice to fly to Reginald's
room ; which he, dressed, haggard, wild with grief, paced
in impotent anguish. He it was who, during Dora's slow
convalescence, scoured the country far and wide for fruits
and flow^ers, and delicacies of all kinds, to tempt the
capricious appetite of the invalid. And on those occa-
sions, — very seldom they were, when Dyke approached
to inquire himself of her welfare, — Giles would rise
to his feet from his seat outside her door, and stand
motionless before his former master ; Dyke, completely
ignoring his existence, would tap upon the panel of the
door, and inquire of the nurse, in languid accents, how
her patient fared? Then Giles, girded in spirit, years
of slavish devotion, of unfaltering fidelity, could be
obliterated in the heart and memory of this hard, cold
man by one single act of self-assertion, one effort to be
true himself, to his better instincts.
Dyke never met Trelawney now ; the latter avoided
him with a horror which was almost a mania ; he felt that
if Dora died, he must kill this man I and, I fear, in that
ghastly anticipation he found his only solace.
But Dora did not die; there was tugging at her heart-
strings when that deathly weakness which is the twin-sister
of Death followed the fever and pain, and was almost
tempting in its restful promis:^ of oblivion, the tiny hand
of little Marian. "I must live for her, my little one, —
poor, helpless orphan baby ! what would become of her
without me? I will live T And she gathered strength
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
67
daily, to enable her to get back to her darling and her
father, whose anxiety was but slightly veiled in his letters.
Dyke, fearing his father-in-law would follow them, had
written concisely from time to time of Dora's illness, and
always from the most sanguine view, promising as soon as
she was able to travel, to return to Italy, or take her to
some quiet place, where they would expect him and little
Marian to join them.
CHAPTER XI.
It would be difficult to decide which face had changed
most perceptibly during the last three weeks, — Dora's or
Reginald Trelawney's. As she raised her eyes, and
stretched forth a thin hand to greet him, she could
scarcely repress a cry of surprise and sorrow at the
marked alteration of his features. The healthy bronze
had all worn off his fair skin, and a white pallor had
superseded it, void of ruddy tinge ; his frank gray eyes
looked larger than she had known them, and had a
strained look of habitual pain in their expression ; and
there were lines about the mouth which told of sleepless
nights of anxiety and suffering.
He came forward and took her hand silently, fearing
to trust himself to speak, and then sat down beside her
great easy-chair, and covered his face with his hand.
Dora, looking at him and noting the changes in his face
and figure, — for his coat hung loosely now on those square
shoulders, — felt sorrowful compassion, knowing full well
whence this change had been wrought ; and, when he
raised his head, he saw the tears steal down her white
68 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
face, — tears of weakness and profound pity. Every effort
to control himself vanished. In a moment he was stand-
ing before her, imploring, entreating, commanding by
turns; his eyes wild; his haggard face lit up with hope;
his heart throbbing, so that he almost feared she would
hear it.
" Oh, Dora, you must not let him take you away ; you
shall not trust yourself with him again. I can no longer
endure this anguish ; I cannot leave you in his hands ; oh,
have pity, have pity!" And he cast himself down again
at her side, shaken with the passion of his last appeal from
head to foot. At last her sweet voice broke the silence, —
" I have been very close to death, Reginald, and almost
on the threshold of the other world ; things which before
seemed obscure and clouded to my eyes grew clear, and
pointed out my path to me. Reginald, I am a wife in
God's sight and my own, whatever the world chooses to
call me, and it is not right that you should come near
me with such words on your lips, such feelings in your
heart. I have sent for you to-day to tell you this for the
last time, and to ask you to return to England, and not to
add to the grievous burden of my life, — your wretched-
ness !" She paused, exhausted, and he rose up again and
took her hand.
*'/ will not ; trust me. I shall spare you all further
sight of my sorrow, only tell me this : Should you need
me ; should the day come when a brother's love could
shield you, — will you send for me ? Will you promise to
do this?"
"I will," she answered, simply.
He took from his pocket-book a card and laid it on her
lap. " This address will always find me. I shall return to
England as soon as you leave Geneva, and I shall not stir
out of it until you call me. D ) not grieve," he entreated,
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 69
as her lip quivered, "do not; I cannot bear it. I will
do all that I know you would wish. I will leave here
to-night for Chamounix, and — Dora, say ' Good-by, Re-
ginald. '"
Dora raised her streaming eyes, and tried to smile
through the tears. " Good-by, dear Reginald," she said.
He bent and looked into her face a look of such wild
hunger and despair that her heart sank within her, then
pressed his lips to her frail little hand, and the sound of
his step along the passage told that he had gone, gone,
and left her truly desolate.
A few days later. Dyke started with his wife and the
Swiss nurse for France, where they settled down at last in
a neat, small apartment in Tours, and were joined imme-
diately by Mr. Fairfax, Marian, Antonio, and Clementine.
Dyke had scarcely established them, and Dora, still
prostrated from her recent illness, had just grown strong
enough to creep out for an hour or two in the little garden
which inclosed their pension, when a sudden shock felled
her once more to the earth.
The Galignani, and one or two other journals, had been
ordered by Dyke to be sent regularly, for the air was full
of rumors of war, and the papers of thrilling interest.
Sitting in the rustic porch, with Marian playing at her feet,
Dora glanced carelessly over the columns of the Messenger.
Mechanically she began to read an article headed, —
"Distressing cccident on Mont Blanc. A party of
English and American tourists lost in an avalanche. No
recovery of the bodies possible, etc. etc."
She read on, without feeling the actuality of the occur-
rence, until she came to the following paragraph :
"We regret to record among the lost, the only son of
70
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
a highly esteemed officer in the British army, General
Winstanley Trelawney. He was also an officer in Her
Majesty's service, and said to have been a most promising
young man. The bodies of Mr. Reginald Trelawney and
his servant, Giles Humphreys, have not been recovered."
With a faint cry Dora slid off her chair to the ground,
whilst Marian rent the air with shrieks of terror.
On being carried to her bed, she revived, only to experi-
ence a relapse of her. first attack. Fortunately, her nurse
was still with her, and an able physician in the neighbor-
hood, but it was a close wrestle once more with death.
Dyke had been on the point of starting for a few
weeks of Paris when this fresh exasperation occurred and
detained him. He felt sure that she would not survive
this relapse, and waited.
But life gained the victory once more, and Dyke, after
a few words of cold congratulation to the wan ghost who
smiled a feeble glimmer of a smile when he entered her
sick-room, told Dora that the next day he must run away
for awhile (where, he did not state), and that he had left
orders at his banker's to furnish her with all she required
during his absence.
Dora merely smiled again and bent her head in acquies-
cence ; but that night, in the temporary absence of her
nurse, she arose and, throwing over her a dressing-gown,
glided down-stairs to the sitting-room where Dyke was
consuming innumerable cheroots in solitude.
He gave a perceptible start as she stood suddenly before
him, leaving glided in unheard in her velvet chaussure,
and asked, with irritation, " What under Heaven are you
about, Dora? Do you want to be ill again? I .should
think you had had about enough of it by this time !"
She sank into a chair, breathing heavily; presently she
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 71
spoke. "Dyke, I came here because I could not sleep
to-night without telling you what is tormenting me. I feel
that you are not going away to-morrow for a few days, —
or weeks. You have other plans which you hide from me,
but I do not care to know them, only I must know that
which will affect myself and my child. Tell me only this. ' '
She fixed her eyes, bright with fever, upon his face; he
moved uneasily.
"You are raving, Dora, positively raving; you had
much better go back to bed and quiet your nerves ;
there is no reason for this excitement."
In an instant she was close beside him, looking down
into his calm face with her burning gaze. " Is this true ?"
she asked. " Is there indeed no reason for my fears and
suspicions. Have I been doing you gross injustice all
these months? Are you faithful and loyal to your wife?
Do you care for the welfare of your child ? and am I mad ?
Have I not lost your love, your protection, the name you
gave me in good faith? Oh, tell me that it is the fever in
my veins which has conjured up this misery ! Tell me
that I shall awake from this horrible nightmare in time,
and feel that I have not lost everything! Oh, Dyke, my
heart is nearly broken ! — have i)ity upon me !" She
swayed forward and would have fallen to the ground had
she not caught at a projection of the carving of the chim-
ney-piece and held it with the nervous grasp of fever.
Dyke pushed his chair back impatiently, and laid his hand
on Dora's shoulder, while he said, in tones as cold and
clear as ice, "During the five years of our acquaintance,
Dora, you certainly have formed some idea of my char-
acter ; have you ever seen anything which would lead you
to believe that I would alter my intentions or change my
opinions at the instance of any such tirade as this with
which you have just favored me?" (the shoulder upon which
72 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
his hand rested shivered and shrank.) "Would it not
be far better for you to leave the development of my
plans to the future, and accept facts as they stand at
present ? I leave you for a time, amply provided for, in
your father's guardianship. I am tired of tears and re-
proaches, gardc-7nalades and caudle.'''
''In sickness or in health, until death do us part,"
came slowly, solemnly from Dora's lips; unheeding, he
continued :
" You can have every comfort here : this is an excellent
physician ; your nurse is faithful " he paused suddenly,
for a ripple of hysterical laughter broke forth, startling
him far more than a burst of tears.
" Yes," cried Dora, wildly, " my nurse is faithful and
my doctor devoted and death near at hand ; what more
can I desire ? In a few short weeks, — or days, — all that
is left of me will be put out of sight in a nameless, dis-
honored grave, and you will be free once more ! I un-
derstand many things to-night which have been mysteries
to me for years : why you have never acknowledged your
marriage to the world ; why you have hidden me from
sight, and forbidden me to wear your name. But there
is one thing which I cannot yet comprehend: — why you
married me J Tell me that, too, that I may not have one
doubt left in my soul of your perfidy!"
"Why, indeed?" echoed Dyke, striding back and
forth through the room, casting his cigar into the fire.
" God only knows ! I suppose most men make fools of
themselves once in their lives; but it is the 'repenting
at leisure' which I cannot manage. I have not been
brought up to it, you see; it bores me !"
For a few moments there was silence after these words;
the candles, with their wicks grown long, flickered and
sputtered, the green wood in the tiny fireplace crackled
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
73
and smoked — to Dora's eyes the room grew suddenly-
darker, dingier, more sordid in its homeliness ; the green
paper on the Avails looked sicklier than before ; the black
horse-hair covered furniture more funereal than ever; the
waxed floor felt cold and comfortless to her feet. Her
eyes wandered about over every object in that dreary
room, and then unconsciously fastened themselves upon
the tall figure pacing to and fro at the extreme end of it.
He stopped abruptly and asked, " Why do you glare at
me, Dora ? Go to your room at once ; this comedy is over
for to-night !" He approached the bell to summon her
maid, but before he reached it she cried, " Stop ! Dyke,"
she went on in a lower tone, full of concentrated excite-
ment, — "Dyke, where is Reginald Trelatvney ? Where is
that boy that you have murdered as yo7( will murder me?
Where have you hid his body? tell me; I w/7/know !" and
she caught his sleeve with one thin hand, while her eyes
blazed into his with delirium.
"Bah! mad woman," exclaimed Dyke, drawing his
arm away from her clasp roughly. Again she swayed for-
ward, and, before he could catch her, fell with outstretched
arms, face downward, at his feet. Dyke lifted her gently,
and carried her with swift steps to the room above, where
he laid her on the bed, whilst he sharply reprimanded the
alarmed nurse for her neglect of duty.
All that night the doctor hung over Dora's bed with
hopeless zeal ; the nurse, weeping sorely, reproached her-
self bitterly for carelessness ; and old Mr. Fairfax sat
tearless and stricken in the little sitting-room below.
W'hen morning dawned, and the household was all
astir, the news sped from lip to lip — that the poor young
English lady was dying.
At last the doctor felt it a duty to inform Mr. Fairfax
that there was no longer a vestige of hope to cling to:
D 7
74
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
life was ebbing away so fast ; and the heart-broken father,
mad with grief, sought Dyke's room with what frenzied
intent God alone ever knew.
For — the room was empty ; the bed had not been oc-
cupied. Inquiries were made, and then he learned that
Dora's husband, the man who had sworn to cherish and
protect her until death parted them, had taken post-
horses to an adjacent town, to enable him to catch the
midnight train to Paris, in order that he might not see
Dora die !
The old man knelt down beside the bed where his dar-
ling lay so white and still, and strove not to curse the
hand which had robbed him of his one ewe-lamb — his
little Dora.
" The light upon her golden hair,
But not within her eyes ;
The light still there upon her hair,
The death upon her eyes."
BOOK II.
DEAD-SEA FRUITS.
" But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime,
And fatal have her Saturnalia been
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime;
Because the deadly days which we have seen,
And vile Ambition, which built up between
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall,
And the base pageant last upon tlie scene
Arc grown the pretext for the eternal thrall
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his second fall."
Byron.
CHAPTER I.
The war-cry re-echoes throughout the land ! The first
blow of the Teuton fist had been dealt right vigorously, and
France, the invincible, reeled under its scientific potency !
Sedan has fallen; the emperor is captive; chaos, an-
archy, confusion, — a terrible triad,. — reigns in his stead.
Gay, beautiful, laughter-loving Paris, mad Bacchante
that she was, had danced and sung more wildly than ever
during the reckless carnival which preceded the sackcloth
and ashes of this fatar4th September, 1870.
For Paris, drunk with the purple vintages of years of
prosperous peace, pressed down and running over under
75
76 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
the master-heel of the man who had made her the idol of
the world, snapped her rosy fingers in the grim face of
fate, crying gayly {en fringuant), A Berlin ! a Berlin !
But the 4th September has dawned ; the thunderbolt
has fallen; Paris is sobered at last! " Une Madeleine
dans I'impuissance de son pouvoir," she plucks the fading
garland from her brow, and robes herself in penitential
serge, prepared to eat the bread mingled with tears, of a
retributive chastisement.
For over the field of Waterloo was drawn the veil of
Time, and, seen but dimly by the eyes besotted by victory
and vain-glory, the warning written there in blood failed
to deter the grand-nephew of the hero who paid so dearly
for his lesson, from following in his footsteps in the lust
of gain. Perhaps the result of \.\\^ plebiscite had unsettled
the brain of the modern Achilles (whose vulnerable point
lay in his self-conceit), or he hoped, armed with this
ostensibly-flattering tribute of his people, by a brilliant
victory to steady the fluctuating tide of his ebbing popu-
larity — and so cast down the gauntlet which Prussia was
not loth to take up, whilst all France rang with the bugle-
call, '' To arms !"
When Brutus, undeterred by C?esar's spectral warning,
lay gasping with spear-pierced side on the field of Philippi,
he sighed with his last breath, " // is well !''
But Napoleon III., free from other wound than the
death-blow given to his arrogance, with drooping laurels
and lowered crest, in the retirement of Wilhelmshohe
wraps liimself in the mantle of a consoling philosophy and
murmurs, '■^ It is fate P'' For, like his ilUistrious relative,
he despised not the "black art," and licld firm faith in
auguries. What availed example'or warning to him whose
destiny was already writ amid the stars ? In vain stretched
forth a prophetic hand from far-off, sad St. Helena, where
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
11
a greater man had chafed away life in bitter anguish, as
he watched day by day the
" Bleak shores beat back
The ocean's foamy feet" —
in a remorseful solitude ! For about his forehead also had
the aureole grown dimmed through the storm of fate, and
those same "rifts within the lute" oi his great mind, of
superstition, callous selfishness and vanity, had silenced
all music in the sordid soul which repudiated Josephine!
So naught was left to either of these demagogues after
their worshipers fell off from their allegiance, but the fate
of Prometheus, with the vulture of despair gnawing at
their vitals until Death, that ^^ iniaiiswered Greek questiGU,''^
released them. For the people loved them not; it was
their prestige, their success, the glory they achieved
which created the nimbus about their heads, and com-
pelled a worship, a terror, a fanatical admiration for the
beings who owned such gigantic self-confidence, such un-
scrupulous ambition, such belief in their invincibility. It
was Napoleonisrn which crossed the bridge of Lodi ; it
was Napoleonism which forced the Austrian government
to sign the Treaty of Campo Formio by simply smashing
a priceless porcelain vase during an audience with the
ambassador, to emphasize a tlireat as idle and bombastic
as the wind ; it was Napoleonism which marched tri-
umphantly to Paris after Elba, which has carried the tri-
color victoriously over scores of battle-fields, and which
has brought weal as well as woe to France.
And these two men, who each possessed
" That mystery of commanding,
That birth-hour gift, that art Napoleon,
Of winning, fettering, wielding, molding, banding
The heart of millions till they move as one,"
7*
yg THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
stood at last stripped of their laurels, forsaken by their
worshipers ; the one like a chained eagle beating his
wings in impotent wrath on that rocky, desolate shore,
the other imprisoned apart from wife and child, broken
in health, with spirit crushed, and the curse of his be-
trayed people ringing in his ears until the last hour of his
life!
All foreign visitors to the gay capital had been warned
by the chiefs of the various legations to "flee from the
wrath to come," and in every direction people were flitting,
some gayly, carelessly, taking no thought for the morrow,
or what that morrow might bring forth for the fair city
which even then had something tragic in her smile; others
slowly and sadly departed, bearing their Lares and Pe-
nates they scarcely knew whither. English men and
women were turning joyfully homeward, glad to ht forced
back to something like comfort and respectability. Amer-
icans, with many a backward, tearful glance at the daz-
zling Danae, whom that millinery-loving people grow fond
of contemplating through a golden shower, embarked
sorrowfully for those benighted lands where the indigenous
heathen invest not their " wampum" in the vagaries of
Monsieur Worth, and bow not the knee to Pingat. Fare-
well to thee, beloved, lotus-eating Paris ! to thy wealth
of art, of taste, of luxur\-, thy Longchamps toilettes, and
thy savory flesh-pots ; thine adorers must hie them away
to the Western world, lest they be crushed in thy fall ; but
rest assured, never shall they cover their chignons with a
home-made bonnet, or croquer line praline, without a retro-
spective sigh for the beguiling city whose glory has de-
parted ; and verily, if there is possible constancy in the
feminine heart, they will never cease to mourn that there
should be a limit, not to dynasties, or to the ambition of
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 79
a Napoleon, but to the capacity of that ship's hold which
carried their luggage safely over.
Alas for the sluggard who procrastinated his visit to
Paris during her palmy days, the days of the luxurious
empire and of the gracious Eugenie!
Of the "cakes and ale" of futurity there may be no
scant measure, but to the palates grown used to their
flavor in those gala-days of prosperity they will be flat
and savorless for evermore.
Surely when the flames died out, and the smoke cleared
away from the plains of Sodom, there were few hearts-
stout enough to build upon the site of the scourged city
another such monument to commemorate the vices of
man.
Already the "abomination of desolation" was marking
the deserted boulevards, the empty shops, the half-filled
theatres, and the anxious faces gathered about the doors
of the cafes, where usually one or more red-capped
patriots harangued their fellows with an eloquence born
of idleness and absinthe. A few foreigners still lingered,
from interest or expediency, or — because life bored them ;
the curtain was about to roll up, and the play to begin.
Why should one not remain and criticise from before the
footlights this "piece" which France had determined to
exhibit to the gaping audience of the world? — this bloody
tragedy ending in the pitiful farce, of which Paris and its
environs are the old stock mise en scene.
It was not an every-day experience this, in the calmly-
ordered, geometrically-measured humdrummery of the
lives of those loungers whose spice of life had lost its pun-
gency ; and since the beginning of all things, pity for
others' woes has never been known to bleach the hair
white, nor write itself in legible lines upon the human
countenance.
8o THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Wherefore then should we avert our eyes from the
sight of France in her despair? The sight of a queen de-
throned and dragged through the mire of her own selfish-
ness and rapacity, must always have something of dramatic
eclat to interest one ; and the sad mockery of a disheveled,
mud-bespattered goddess of Liberty, with tears of blood
upon her famine-wasted cheek, striving to cover with the
folds of the drapeau rouge the rags of the ermine her rival
wore right royally but yesterday, has a unique attraction
for the spectator !
• Poor prodigal Paris ! Will she emerge from this trial
by fire, and sword, and famine, after aching and groan-
ing and being glad to fill herself with the swine-rejected
husks, repentant, humbled, purified? And shall not all
the nations, seeing her afar off, fall on her neck and kiss
her with the kiss of a loving compassion ? . . . Who shall
answer? The grooves in which Paris ran so smoothly to
destruction were deep, and velvet-lined. Would it be
surprising that after a trial of the flint road of self-sacri-
fice she should, after a season, begin to slide gently back
into those seductive furrows? Let not the fatted calf
be prematurely killed.
CHAPTER IL
In a luxurious appartemetit an premier on the Rue
Royale, Dyke Faucett lounged at mid-day over a scarcely-
tasted breakfast, glancing idly over the Figaro and the
Journal Officiel, each charged with the electricity of the
coming storm.
Six months had passed since that night when the net
had been so tightly drawn a])out liini that he began to
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 8 1
doubt the possibility of ever being free again — the night
in Tours, when he had lifted the insensible form of his
wife, who, driven mad at last by his cold, cruel treachery,
had so poured out upon him the pent-up vials of reproach-
ful bitterness, and when he had felt convinced that no
other resource remained to him — but flight.
Six months spent in Paris, in those dear, delightful
haunts of former bachelor-days (only excepting a few
weeks when the heat of mid-summer had driven him under
the cool shadow of the Jungfrau). Six months, during
which he logically reasoned himself free — free from the*
woman whose bloom had faded under the withering frost
of his neglect, whose moral rectitude and pure soul had for
him the monotonous aspect and blank vapidity of a sheet of
white paper; — for, after the scales fell from her eyes and
she realized for what manner of man she had sold her
birthright of freedom and the power to live her life out
to its grandest proportions, Dora failed undeniably in
supplying that piquant incense which her first idolatrous
devotion had furnished his unsated vanity. And now he
was once more free !
Free from the mute reproach of her white face and
heavy-shaded eyes (for she had not rated him with the vi-
tuperative eloquence of a discarded shrew, or treated him
to the hysterical paroxysms of a brainless idiot ; he must
do her that justice); — free from the incubus of a doting
father-in-law, who, of late, had been continually trying to
button-hole him into a confession of his intentions in
regard to his darling child.
Free to loiter in the boudoir of the Marquise de Cour-
boisie, who had so gained in bloom and curve, and had
reigned in the choicest circles of Roman society that last
winter, an acknowledged queen; free to divide his alle-
giance to her, if he so minded, with the great singer of
82 THE MILLS OF TLIE GODS.
the day or with any coryphee of the ballet who happened
to charm his eye for the moment, without being called to
account, or having his slumbers disturbed by the sound
of suppressed weeping.
Free some day, — in the far-off future, — when the savor
has gone out of everything, when he has come into pos-
session of the estate of EUingham, and an heir would be
desirable, — to choose in the choicest pasture of the sweet
English "garden of girls" one fit to be his bride, one in
whom beauty, rank, intelligence, and fortune should
'combine to make a creature worthy of so noble a mate.
For Dora must be dead; perhaps even in that moment
when she had fallen at his feet, with a last despairing cry,
her heart may have ceased to beat ! And even had this
not been so, the shock which greeted her return to con-
sciousness — of his entire abandonment of her and the
<hild — would, without doubt, have snapped the frail
thread of life !
How else construe their silence? The fact of his
banker's assurance that no demand had been made upon
the allowance awarded them, and the additional informa-
tion that no one had called to make inquiries for Mr.
Faucett's present address, all gave solidity to his conclu-
sions. Yes, Dora was certainly dead ; and Mr. Fairfax
was trop gentilhomme to touch another penny of lier
destroyer's money.
When we wish ardently that a certain thing should be,
are we not apt in the end to believe that it really is ?
And how often is our belief, our judgment, and our taste
bolstered up or alloyed by the "trifles light as air" of
circumstance or the opinions of others ? We bow to
hyperbole and the "vox populi" !
Do we not all go to Rome and yield up a devout admi-
ration to the ox-eyed, small-mouthed Raphaelized conccp-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 83
tion of the Virgin Mother, knowing all the while that we
each hold in our hearts a fairer ideal of sad, awe-shadowed
loveliness, with a suggestion of the coming anguish seen
dimly through the present glory, without that eternal
simper which fits the lips of flie baker s daughter, or the
plummet-line of exact regularity of feature? (Was Mrs.
Browning ever satisfied with the Madonna of the galleries,
I wonder? Her great poetic soul could not warp itself
to the meanness and narrowness of this art-apostasy which
would sacrifice her dear, heaven-born conceptions to the
autocratic, well-thumbed opinions of — the guide-books
and the marginal platitudes of the ubiquitous tourist !)
Oh, that bete noir oi the art-lover, the tourist! When a
passage can be taken to the moon, shall we not strive to
emulate Americus Vespucius, that we may travel once, at
least, without the restricting Murray or the didactic Brad-
shaw, and form our o%vn conclusions, untrammeled by the
friendly tourist — on the lunar wonders?
In the mean time we shall continue to ejaculate, with
mechanical precision, "how wonderful !" "how beauti-
ful!" "how exquisitely proportioned !" wliether we gaze
at the Venus of Medicis or the leaning tower at Pisa!
Although we continue to prefer, in the silent recesses
of our souls, to the finely-calculated, classic measure-
ments of the former, that mutilated fragment of Milo,
which touches us more naturally and deeply, perhaps,
because of its marred perfection ! and see in that hair-
breadth-escape-looking tower nothing but a monstrously
ugly index of the moral obliquity of the people over
whom it leans threateningly.
For we belong to that well-brought-up class whose ideas
are tauglit to run in grooves — to that class which never
raises its glass to its eye to see anything hung above its own
level! — whose religion is bounded by " Burke's Peerage"
84 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
on the north and the '' Landed Gentry" on the south, on
the east by the opinions of Her Grace, and by His Lord-
ship the Bishop on the last remaining avenue of escape !
The class which dares not admire a sunset by Millais
without the authority of a titled precedent ! or a moon-
rise by — the. hand of God, — because enthusiasm is vulgar
and Nature commonplace !
Yes, to my unutterable grief I confess it, our ancestors
existed long before William of Normandy was thought
of, and in the crime de la crane we exist like fies in
amber I
And why should we grieve ? you ask ; why should we
not be content in this sea of golden transparency?
Because — we want to buzz !
When, forsooth, we gather up our velvet skirts for fear
they brush the faded finery of the mendicant Magdalen
at our carriage-door, and seat ourselves by the side of
the gorgeous, "dear creature" of a duchess who has not
been "sans reproche'" (though assuredly '^ sans peur'''^
since her infancy, we dare not cry out against the injustice
of things, but must e'en stifle our remonstrances and clog
our wings in that yellow sea of inanity !
But all this is not interesting to you, dear reader.
Pardon me ! Even if it were, by chance, would it not be
vain to attempt to solve the psychological puzzles which
madden one, in a digression which must ha thoughtful, —
and therefore as inadmissible in a novel as in the perfumed
atmosphere of your ladyship's boudoir?
" Yes; I shall certainly stay and see the game played
out," concluded Dyke Faucett, after pondering the matter
over during the space of half an hour. " There is nothing
doing in England just now, and Pauline is certainly charm-
ing." So resolving, he drew towards him a pile of letters
and dainty notes, which lay upon a salver close at hand,
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 85
and, selecting one written on large paper, sealed with wax
bearing a coat of arms, in the good old-fashioned style
before the vulgar days of self-sealing envelopes, he leisurely
opened and perused it.
" Ellingham, Sept. 2, 1870.
"My dear Dyke, — It appears that France is determined
to make a fool of herself, as usual ; and from last accounts,
we understand that before many days it is apprehended
that Paris will be in a state of siege.
"Under these circumstances, knowing well how averse
you are to privation of every description, and how more
than ordinarily unpleasant that city will become, I feel
no hesitation in urging your return to your native land,
which, during the last ten years, you have almost forsaken.
"When three years had expired, which you considered
necessary to spend in travel for the purpose of perfecting
yourself in foreign languages, and obtaining that polish
which the gentlemen of my day were able to acquire at
home, I had hoped that you would be content to settle
down and take to yourself a fair English wife ; that I
might not spend the remnant of my days in solitude, and
that I might welcome a boy of yours in the old place be-
fore I went away forever. But after a hasty visit, you have
contrived upon one pretext or another to cut England
almost entirely. It may be that I erred in a too lavish
indulgence towards you in your boyhood, when you came
to gladden my lonely hearth, and so fostered in you that
germ of selfishness which is inherent in all human nature.
" However, I have no desire to reproach you, my dear
boy, and will simply add that you have now an oppor-
tunity of proving the gratitude and affection of which you
have often feelingly written to me. Come home ; give
up this Bohemian wandering ; marry and be respectable.
It is quite time, and you know my unconquerable aversion
8
86 * THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
to foreigners. Take these suggestions into consideration,
knowing that I have rarely made a request of you, and
will not, in this case, he likely to pardon a refusal.
"Very affectionately yours,
"Philip Standley."
Over the blonde, impassive beauty of Dyke Faucett's
face a scowl settled loweringly, as he brooded with ever-
increasing displeasure over this letter, which recalled him
to England at the moment when Paris began to be inter-
esting to him. His will, for once, must bend to that of
another; the meaning of those last itw quiet lines he well
understood. Between himself and those vast possessions
stood a life, — not a very vigorous one, to be sure, but
which held fire enough still to resent ingratitude and dis-
obedience, and he was not even heir-presumptive. To
understand fully the position, we must go back some forty
years.
Sir Philip Standley, the only surviving member of a
good old Kentish family, had loved, " not wisely, but too
well," a woman whose heart and mind gave the lie to the
fairest face that ever smiled sweetly in assumed innocence,
as she dealt the death-blow to the dearest hopes of a man's
whole future life.
In these moral murders, which, since the days of Delilah,
have brought worse than blindness upon men, by the subtle
sophistry of a woman's reasoning, she exculpates herself
in a way which cannot but excite our admiration, if not
our unequivocal concurrence.
That she foresees the conclusions a man forms upon the
ground of blushes and sighs, half-averted looks, and low-
toned whispers, she denies; that she can hold in thrall with
soft glances and softer hand-pressure a dozen men about
her footstool, while over their heads she shoots far and
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 87
away arrows of deadlier aim, drawn from the quiver of
the heart, — she claims as one of the prerogatives of her
sex.
Is it not always thus?
Out of the shadows of past ages, are the names which
stand glorified immortally, crowned with great men's love,
the purest, the noblest, or the l^csf ? Is Trojan Helen, or
the swarthy enchantress of the Nile, or even the self-abne-
gating Helo'ise, the type of what should be God's last,
best gift to man? Alas! since the Philistines fell upon
betrayed Samson, — since the fiery sword barred the gates
of Eden, — have not the desire of the eye and the lust of
the flesh waged ceaseless war against the higher aspirations
of our very human nature ?
There was no repulsive glitter of steel about the Ift/re
de cachet (that dread weapon of the Inquisition and the
" Reign of Terror") ; no blood-marks stained its fair sur-
face, yet it did its murderous work swiftly and silently,
and very surely. In the silence of night the waters
opened, and closed over the victim's head, and the sleep-
ing world recked not that the light of another life had
gone out forever.
On tlie day when Constance Dyke, feeling the catas-
trophe of a projjosal, which she could not accept, to be
imminent, breathed into the ear of the man whom she
had beguiled through many months of dalliance into
loving her, the fact that she had been affianced for three
years to a young lieutenant then on foreign service, she
killed at a blow all future possibility of trusting love, in
the heart of Philip Standley.
He ditl not turn cynic and Avax bitter against all his
kind ; his nature was too sweet at the core for that ; he not
only loved her to the last day of her life, but he formed
a warm friendship for the gallant young officer, who, as
88 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
soon as he had won his epaulettes, came home and
claimed his bride. •
Only, the first fruits of his heart had been gathered, and
never again did bud or blossom bloom into promise where
the lightning had fallen scathingly.
During six years of happy married life, Constance Fau-
cett learned to value thoroughly the noble nature of the
man whom she had unwittingly (?) injured; for, although
the wound had never once been laid bare to her eyes, by
the aid of that sixth sense with which a woman learns when
a man loves her she guessed the existence of a scar. And
when, in the last hour, they stood beside her, the devoted
husband and the true friend, it would be difficult to de-
termine which man's heart was more bitterly wrung, or to
which the beautiful eyes, fast glazing in death, bade the
tenderer farewell.
There seemed to be need for few last words between the
two men, after the green sod had been laid over what they
loved best on earth ; and for Captain Faucett to go out
at once with his regiment to active service, and for Sir
Philip to take to his aching heart the motherless boy,
seemed the only possible way to make each man's life
endurable.
In the strong hand-clasp and steady look into each
other's eyes, as they stood on the deck of the steamer
which was to bear one of them away to danger, possibly
to death, there was an eloquence born of strong emotion.
They parted silently; and when, after awhile, the news
came home that Lionel Faucett had fallen at the head of
his regiment, in the thickest of the fight in the Indian
mutiny of that year, no one grieved for the strong, brave
life so suddenly stricken down, more deeply than the man
whose rival he had been.
Throughout the childhood of the spirited boy, who had
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
89
inherited the fatal gift of his mother's beauty ; through
the boisterous Eton holidays, when the irrepressible glee
of a perfectly healthy boy, who feared no reprimand, how-
ever demonstrative he became, made the old Hall ring
again, where the echoes had been silent for more than
forty years. Sir Philip found unceasing pleasure and
solace for his lonely hours. Through his Oxford career,
as well, he had watched the son of his dead love with
unabated interest and affection ; and, when he returned
after graduating, — not without honor, — a remarkably fine
specimen of manly beauty. Sir Philip's admiration and
pride knew no bounds.
He consented readily to the grand tour which was
deemed de rigueur to "finish" a man's perfections, but
rebelled in spirit when he found that his protege had
become a victim to the travel-mania of the day, and
could not be persuaded to pitch his tent on his native soil
for more than a month or two during the hunting season,
or a fortnight of town in June.
It was a grievous disappointment to the old gentleman,
who, perhaps, might be excused for believing in the
existence of gratitude won by such boundless kindness, —
for he was a true-hearted man himself, and trusted with
the charity which '* hopeth all things" in the sincerity of
others' professions.
And Dyke was invariably courteous and affectionate, in
an indolent, graceful way, treating his guardian with a
deference which, while it partook of sycophancy, had
nothing of its cringing manner; and, during his brief
sojourn at home, he managed so to fascinate the kind old
gentleman, that it was not difficult to win his consent to
another prolonged Continental visit.
The possibility of Dyke's having deceived him, that it
was something more than the excitement of foreign travel
8*
90
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
which lured him, time after time, back to the other side
of the Channel, never crossed Sir Philip's mind.
That a man could be so base as to requite unwavering
kindness and liberality by deception, or to abuse the unre-
strained liberty awarded him in an implicit confidence by
the treacherous acted lie of years, he could have believed
possible in a romance or a newspaper, but never in the
heart and mind of the son of the woman he had loved.
For Sir Philip Standley was a man of a clear and upright
nature and the kindliest feelings. Simplicity, frankness,
and integrity of principle were his prominent traits. In
politics, he was an honest and inflexible conservative ; in
social life, a genial and hospitable host, a promoter of all
good works, a whole-souled dispenser of charities, a man
of a too generous nature to be suspicious of evil.
But now, looking out over the troubled aspect of things
in France from the quiet retirement of his country home,
noting with the wondering eye of an Englishman, to whom
such mad folly as threatened that fair land with destruction
seemed incredible. Sir Philip felt the time had come when
Dyke might be safely recalled to home duties at last.
"Surely he must have grown weary of this incessant
knocking about the world, — satiated with pleasure, tired
of the unending round of excitement and variety of his
restless life. It is lime he should marry. I wonder he
never thinks of that ; and I should be glad to resign my
seat in Parliament to him. For I am growing old, — yes,
seventy years is the allotted time, — and I may go to my
darling soon now, very soon." And on the old man's
face, as he thus ruminated, broke forth a smile of joyful
anticipation, which lit up his fine hazel eyes with a happy
light, which was as radiant as any gleam of youth.
And then, having written his letter of summons to
Dyke, he carried his Times out on the velvet lawn to his
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
91
favorite seat under the grand old cedars, and plunged into
a fresh recital of the horrors which over-shadowed the
French nation, from an Englishman's point of view.
The facts were not more garbled than might have been
expected. The fall of Sedan, the capture of the Emperor,
were supplemented by other reverses which had not yet
befallen the doomed people; and the escape of the Em-
press, in male attire, was aunounced prematurely, as well
as the death of the Imperial Prince. Enthusiastic were
the accounts of MacMahon's glorious death on the field
of battle, whilst that wily son of the Irish kings, wounded
only slightly in the thigh, was quietly nursing his oppor-
tune scratch, in strict seclusion, waiting for better days !
That poor General Wimpffen was obliged to shoulder
the responsibility of defeat at Sedan, and, cruslied by the
execrations and reproaches of the nation, resigned his
sword, smarting under unmerited disgrace, did in nowise
disturb the equanimity with which the "late lamented
hero" hearkened to the paean of praise which sounded
throughout the country in his honor.
I doubt if, even in that proudest hour of his triumph,
when President Marshal MaclVIahon, in the grand chapel
of Versailles, robed in gorgeous attire, crimson, violet,
and gold, amid an assemblage of ministers of war, of the
marine, of foreign affairs ; of ofificers in gold lace, and
bedecked and bejeweled women (the ^/z'/d" of the peerage);
while priests in superb vestments swarmed about him,
some of whom he crowned with the scarlet hat of the car-
dinal, under the direction of the Pope of Rome ; — I doubt
if, even in that moment, a thought of poor Wimpffen's fate
crossed the mind dazed by the smile from the Vatican,
intoxicated with the adulation of the people, who but for
that fragment of shell would have held him accursed! And
we scoff dXfate I
92 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
That timely wound just saved the quick-witted soldier
from delivering up the sword which he had carried on a
score of battle-fields, and following the lead of his sovereign
to Wilhelmshohe ; saved him from a like obloquy and con-
demnation to become the instrument for restoring peace,
order, property, in the second siege of Paris. Later, when
a seven-years' dictatorship was conferred upon him and he
held in his hand the destinies of thirty-eight millions of
Frenchmen, he blessed the wound which laid him low at
Sedan and shielded him from an odium worse than death !
^^ Le roi est mort ; vive le roi f thought Sir Philip, as
he concluded the various articles translated from French
journals and the editorial in the Times, all bearing upon
the disasters of their neighbors across the Channel. "The
French must always have something to madden themselves
about, and now it is ^liberie, egalite, fraternite,' — three
hoots of the night-owl which have never boded aught but
evil to France. Down with the Empire ! up with the mob !
What a country it is to be sure !" And he looked out over
the fair fields of grain and soft emerald-green turf, stretch-
ing for miles in peaceful beauty below him, and thanked
God he was born an Englishman !
The worn-out hackneyism that no two nations are so dis-
similar as the Saxon and the Gaul of to-day requires no
astuteness to discover its veracity; but during this last
frenzied struggle, during the maniacal, suicidal crisis of
the Commune, England stood aghast, looking on with un-
comprehending horror at a display of passion and reck-
lessness for which her phlegmatic temperament held un-
bounded contempt. Alas ! the fair lilies of France have
been smirched more than once by the fierce hands of this
hot-headed rabble !
The shadows were lengthening when Sir Philip, after a
solitary ramble through the park (during which he had
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
93
Stopped to inquire for a disabled game-keeper who-' had
been ill for some weeks, and to say a kindly word to eacl^
gardener or dependent whom he chanced to meet; failing
not to stroke the yellow curls of the gate-keeper's little
one as he passed the lodge), re-entered his comfortable
home, greeting all about, only servants though they were,
with his genial smile, as was his custom.
And this is the man who has loved and trusted Dyke
Faucett ; this man with his large, benevolent soul,
" Whose nature is so far from doing harm
That he suspects none."
Alas ! if he could look into the heart of this moody
Dyke, whom we have left so long chewing the cud of his
rebellious reflections ! Would his faith in human nature
ever recover its equilibrium?
So profound is Dyke's reverie that he does not hear the
smooth tones of poor Giles's successor, who announces a
visitor and then stands motionless.
"Shall I show her up, sir?" he ventures at last, in de-
spair of attracting his master's attention by the slight
cough with which he has endeavored to arouse it.
"Show her up? Who? What? Yes, certainly ; and
" Recovering his customary sang-froid and languid
drawl : " Simpson, take away these things." He pointed
to the elaborate gold and silver service which held his
unfinished breakfast. In a trice the dexterous servant had
removed the tray, placed the still unread letters on the
table before his master, and disappeared.
"Confoundedly early hour to make a visit," muttered
Dyke, as he glanced complacently in a mirror opposite
and arranged a straggling lock of the chestnut hair which
had a way of becoming ruffled in his meditative moods.
" Can Pauline be so imprudent ? These Frenchwomen
94 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
are so impulsive ! I wonder how she will take the news of
my departure ? Ah, ' che sara, sara^'^ he sighed, im-
patiently, "I am to go back to England, to orthodox
respectability, and — to wedlock ; no, not that; I cannot
marry, unless, indeed Good God ! Dora ! You
here!" He started back, with face blanched and eyes
distended, as through the velvet /^r//V;r passed the fragile
figure of a woman, clothed quietly in some dark stuff and
with her veil thrown back.
Had a ghost suddenly arisen to confront him, Faucett
could not have been more utterly amazed, so firmly had
the idea of her death obtained possession in his mind.
Dora, seeming scarcely to observe his agitation, ap-
V. proached the table, and, taking up one of the letters from
the pile lying there, said, in a low, sad voice, "So you
have not read my letter, Dyke ; you did not expect me,
then?"
He wheeled forward s.fatitcuil for her before he replied,
in his usual tones, "Expect you? No. How should I
expect you — here?''
"And yet," she replied, "I am here. Strange, is it
not, that the woman you left for dead, — the woman you
hoped would die, — yes, Dyke" (as he waved his hand im-
patiently), — "there must be no moredissimulation between
us, — the woman you hoped wo\\\(\. die has conquered death
and distance, and obstacles of all kinds, and — and herself?
Not for your sake. Dyke, nor for the hope of any possible
happiness between us in the future, but for our child's
sake; and for her sake" — she drew herself up proudly,
while the soft hazel eyes flashed with sudden fire — "I
mean to follow you to the end of the world, until you
consent to grant to me the right to bear your name."
She ceased, panting slightly, and leaned back in her chair
as if exhausted.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 95
** My dear girl," drawled Dyke, " pray spare me another
scene ; I have not yet recovered from the last. Compose
yourself, and we will talk the matter over quietly." He
poured some liqueur from a crystal carafe standing on a
console at his elbow, and placed the tiny glass beside
Dora. " Calm yourself," he repeated. "Taste this; in
the mean time I shall read your letter."
He sank into a chair opposite her and deliberately
opened her letter. He read on steadily for a few minutes,
gently stroking his long moustache, with no perceptible
change of expression.
Those words wrung from her heart might have been
the whine of an over-pampered spaniel for all effect they
had upon him. Dora, without noticing the cordial at her
side, watched Dyke anxiously.
Seen against the violet velvet of the fauteuil, her face
looked like Parian marble in its transparent purity ; the
great golden-brown eyes looked larger from the violet
shadows beneath them, while the hand from which she
had removed her glove was white and blue-veined as the
Mareotis lily.
"Ah !" Dyke exclaimed at last, laying down the letter,
"so you refuse to allow me to provide for you and the
child. Is not your pride running away with your judg-
ment, Dora, my dear?"
She sat up straight now, and leaned a little forward as
she said, " Dyke Faucett, were I to accept from your hand
now the alms you offer me, would not I go on through all
the miserable future a pensioner on your bounty, an un-
known, dishonored dependent on the charity of the man
who for five long years has deceived me and tampered with
my faith in him, and who will deceive and tamper with
me to the end of his life? Oh, my Fatlier in heaven !"
she cried, piteously, raising her clasped hands, "is there
96 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
no truth in this man? no honor, no manliness? nothing
but the beautiful face, and the bad, cruel heart?" She
covered her face with her thin hands and rocked herself
to and fro. Dyke Faucett never wasted his .eloquence,
therefore he sat quite silent until the storm should be past.
Her next words almost startled him.
" Dyke, where is the old man — Foster his name was —
who married us?"
•" Dead, I understand from a recent letter from Rome ;
he died two years ago," he replied.
" A recent letter?" she looked fixedly at him, and then
the moan broke forth: '■^ Dead! is it not ominous that
all connected with that sad ceremony should be dead ?
Annunziata, my little maid, and the dear old man who
loved to talk of his English home to you, — both dead, and
only you and I left to tell the story !" A little ghost of a
smile rested on the sweet mouth.
" Don't, Dora, don't get pathetic, I beg of you," en-
treated Dyke; "all that sort of thing does very well on
the stage, but in real life, 'pon my soul it's — ridiculous."
He opened his cigarette-case and proceeded to roll for
himself some little consolation.
Dora looked at him curiously, and then said, "Dyke,
do you mean to acknowledge me as your wife? do you
mean to begin from to-day to undo all the wrong you
have done me and my child ? Do you remember our
wedding-day. Dyke, five years ago next March?" How
passing sweet and mournful her voice grew as she looked
back with her eyes full of a wistful sadness on the scene
of her marriage, through the "tender light of a day that
was dead" !
"What a happy day that was, Dyke," she went on,
dreamily. "We were married, you remember, early in the
morning, so that we might drive out to Tivoli and spend
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 97
the whole day there, and come home in the sweet, still
evening. Oh, how blue the sky was ! and how the birds
sang that day ! and the scent of the violets will haunt me
till I die. And you crowned me with wild-flowers, and
made me sing for you ; and then you told me of your
childhood ; your home ; your kind guardian. And when
I grew sad with the thought of my dear old father, whom
I had deceived for the first time in my life that day,
how gently you comforted me ! — for you loved me then.
Dyke; you did love me then ! And when we came home
weary, — but oh, so happy ! — hand-in-hand under the silent
stars, you kissed me, and bade me go in and tell my
father of my happiness. Oh, Dyke, is there nothing in
all these memories to stir your heart?"
There was no answer for a moment, and then —
" Your father,— he is well, I hope," said Faucett, courte-
ously; "and," a little nervously, — "the child?"
Dora looking steadily at him saw the hands which were
rolling the cigarette tremble a little.
In a moment, before he could move or prevent it, she
had thrown herself on her knees at his feet, with her arms
about him, and her lovely eyes filled with the luminous
glow which made her face look too delicate to hold them.
" Dyke, your hand is trembling. You do care for her, —
our little Marian ; she is so lovable and beautiful. You
cannot, canitot tear her from your heart!" Passionate
tears rained down, and the slight form bent and swa3'ed
like a yoimg tree before the blast ; but Dyke Faucett had
never, since his birth, sacrificed himself for another,
and he did not dream of beginning to learn that lesson
now.
Gently he raised and replaced her in her chair, and
then, — " Dora, if you have quite done ranting, a thing I
utterly detest, — in the worst possible taste, — I will tell you
E 9
98 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
why what you ask of me is impossible — at present." The
two last words were almost inaudible, decidedly reluctant.
" My guardian, the kindest man alive, is the most obsti-
nate of men on some subjects. I have told you so often
before that it seems scarcely reasonable to expect me to
repeat it, that my marriage, — particularly a clandestine
marriage, during the three years in which I had pledged
myself to keep free from entanglements — would bring
upon me the insurmountable displeasure of the man upon
whom I am completely dependent, — who would undoubt-
edly disinherit me, for he is not the man to pardon de-
ception, and throw me — at thirty years of age, without
profession, without the energy to work — upon my own
resources; and you know me well enough, Dora, to know
that 'I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed.' Now," he
concluded, "if you will be patient and reasonable, and
allow me to make suitable provision for you "
"Why did you not tell me this before?" she inter-
rupted. "I have heard nothing, until to-day, of your
promise to keep yourself free during those three years.
Why have you, during all our married life, promised, from
month to month, from year to year, to take me home
with you to England, and lift from my heart and head the
burden of a shame which is not mine? And now there
is no talk of next month, or next year, but an indefinite
waiting for another man's death. And in tlie mean time
I may die; I am not strong, you know; and there is
Marian, — is she, my spotless lily, to grow up to womanhood
with such a stain as this upon her? Dyke, do you im-
agine that I will endure this ? Do you think that because
I have been patient in the i)ast — as long as I had a shred
of trust in you to cling to — I will be forbearing in the
future? Undeceive yourself; the time will come when
the vow of .secrecy you extorted from me five years ago
THE MILLS OF TILE GODS. 99
shall be broken, — when, for my child's sake, I shall de-
nounce the man who has treacherously forsaken me, — the
man who is too cowardly to tell me the whole truth, —
which is, that he has ceased to love me, — the toy has lost
its charm, the flower has faded in his hand ; it is but one
more poor, withered weed, to be flung aside when such
flowers as this, and this" (laying down before him two
exquisitely painted miniatures of celebrated beauties of
the day), "bloom near his hand. Ah, Dyke, I am not
jealous of these beautiful women j I can only pity them
if they love you.''''
Faucett took up the pictures and carefully replaced
them on the cheffonnier, and resuming his seat, said,
irrelevantly, "You should leave Paris, Dora, and return
to Tours ; it will not be safe for you here. / leave for
England to-morrow night."
Her face grew troubled. "Will Paris be besieged?"
she asked.
"Assuredly." •
"Then I shall go. It would be terrible for my father,
— he is very feeble now, — and for Marian. Ah, I have
left them too long, now; I must go at once."
With nervous haste she gathered up parasol and gloves.
Then she came quietly to his side and said, witli winning
gentleness, "Dyke, I tuill be patient; I will wait until
you have seen and talked with your guardian ; I will wait
one month from today, and" — her voice grew firmer
here — " if you do not tlien send, or come for mc, I shall
stand up and proclaim myself your wife, my Marian your
child, in the face of the whole world."
His face hardened into stone; a slight sneer disfigured
the beautiful mouth: "I had hoped you had done with
histrionics, Dora, when you perceived how utterly they
failed with nie ; and now, as you have seen fit to threaten
lOO THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
me, may I ask hoiv you mean to prove the truth of your
assertions in regard to our marriage /' '
His voice was quite as sweet and low as when, under
the sunny skies of Italy, he had wooed her with loving
words and promises; and, for the credit of human nature,
let us believe that this was merely said as a taunt ; but it
struck like a sharp knife into the already bleeding heart
of the woman before him.
"Do you, then, deny me?" she cried, in a voice faint
with pain. " Is this your plan, — to cast me utterly away?
Oh, my child ! my child !" And groping with her hands
before her, like one suddenly struck blind, she passed
away out of his sight.
A drizzling rain was falling, as she emerged from the
porte-cochere and turned her 'steps mechanically towards
the Rue de Rivoli, faint and giddy with the blow which
had not been unforeseen, but which had fallen none the
less heavily for that.
CHAPTER III.
Heedless of the shower, Dora moved slowly along the
Rue Royale, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, — numb
with pain, — until, as she turned into the Rue de Rivoli, a
horrible noise aroused her, and she became conscious of
a shouting, surging, excited mass of human beings, bear-
ing down upon her from an opposite direction, gesticu-
lating wildly, brandisliing clubs, armed with stones,
shrieking imprecations, dragging along in mad fury an
almost insensible wretch, whom they suspected, justly or
unjustly, of being a spy. " To the Seine ! to the Seine !
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. loi
Shoot him ! Drown him ! Chien de Prussien ! Vive la
Republique !" A piping voice: "Vive Trochu !" A
stentorian voice : " Down with Trochu !" etc., etc.
Dora hesitated, turned to fly, and encountered a band
of five hundred "Gardes Nationales" marching to join
their comrades on the Place Vendome, with colors flying
and drums beating, and supported by the usual accompa-
niment of blue blouses and ragged gamins.
In a moment they would be upon her. Stunned, deaf-
ened, wild with terror, she darted hither and thither
among the maddened crowd, when suddenly her foot
slipped on the wet pavement, and she went down, down
under the brutal feet of a French mob.
Fortunately, the cry, "A woman! a woman! is she
killed? is she hurt?" created a diversion, and caused a
momentary lull, while a pair of stout arms drew her forth
bruised, bleeding, inanimate, as if truly dead. Holding her
cradled in his brawny arms, the man, wearing the blouse
of the ouvrier, elbowed his way out of the crowd, already
dispersing before the advance of the National Guard.
He glanced at the white face, with its closed eyes, and
the long lashes lying on the waxen cheek, and at the thin
crimson thread of blood which issued from between her
pale lips, and a thrill passed over the giant frame of the
strong man, who a moment ago was hounding a fellow-
creature to the death. " My God !" he muttered, "she is
dead, and I trod on her f'^
He darted with her into an open door of a patisserie
at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue Royale.
The shop was deserted ; but, without releasing his burden,
he, with his elbow, pushed towards the edge of the counter
a huge glass jar of marrons glacees, and let it fall with a
crash on the marble tiles beneath.
"Ah, mon Dieu ! what is this? are the Prussians in
9*
I02 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Paris? are we all to be murdered in cold blood?"
screamed a woman's voice at the head of the staircase
opening into the shop.
The workman needed no further invitation ; gently,
very slowly, he mounted the stair, guarding Dora's head
and limbs from contact with any object which might jar
her. The shrieks redoubled, and were echoed by infantile
voices in the shrill treble of frantic fear.
"Ah, what cowards you are, all of you!" panted the
OHvricr, depositing his burden tenderly on the nearest
bed; "and you call yourselves Frenchwomen! Sacre-
bleu ! you are not the women of the last Revolution ! Is
there anything in that dead girl to terrify you so?" He
pointed to the insensible form ; and the frightened women,
who had covered their eyes awaiting the final shot, removed
their hands and ventured to approach the bed. The chil-
dren ceased their wailing, and crept on tip-toe to their
mothers' sides.
" Ciel ! comme elle est pale! Is she dead, do you
think, Ernestine?" asked the younger of the two women.
"God knows," answered the other, who was busily
occupied in taking off the crushed bonnet and loosening
the fastenings of her dress. "Marie, run to No. lo Rue
St. Honore and send Dr. Dubois here — if he should
chance to be at home — immediately, — fly !"
"Oh, I dare not, Ernestine; I am afraixl to go into
the streets to-day ! There are great doings at the Hotel
de Ville, and they say there will be trouble before night,
and "
"Hull!" interrupted the workman. "Where is this
doctor? I will fetch liini, whether he will or no. What
number did you say?" He was off like a shot.
Meanwhile, Ernestine was si)onging with cold water the
poor, soiled face, and sprinkling cologne over tlie hands
THE MILLS OF TILE GODS.
103
and head. Marie was busy in preparing a glass of eau
Sucre and orange-water, to be ready on the recovery of the
patient, that concoction being considered a specific by the
Parisian for every ill that flesh is heir to.
Presently there was a struggling sigh, a gasp for breath,
and Dora opened her eyes, and closed them again instantly
with a shudder.
" Elle est encore evanouie," whispered Marie, approach-
ing with her eau d'orange. "Oh, die va mourir ; ah,
mon Dieu, comme elle est jeune et belle, et quelles petites
mains qu'elle a ! et quels pieds, ceux sont des pieds d'en-
fant, veritablement !"
"Ah, taisez-vous done, Marie; elle revient."
Again the white lids unclose, and the eyes, gazing
into Ernestine's good, homely Breton face, ask mutely,
"Where am I?"
" You are safe, mon enfant," answered the good women,
in a breath ; " lie still, the doctor will be here presently,
and you must not move until he comes."
"But have I been ill?" she whispered in English;
"and Marian, where is she, — oh, where is she?"
" Tiens ! c'est une Anglaise," pronoimced Marie.
" Mamselle no spick Franch ?" she asked.
(The patisserie window below boasted a card, " Ici on
parle Anglais !")
"Oui, oui," answered Dora; and then eagerly, in their
own tongue, she prayed to be taken home at once to her
child, — her old father, — who knew not what had become
of her.
"Mais oui, certainemcnt ; you sail come back to the
house, — bicntot, — de suite — when M. le Docteur say.
Tenez, Mamselle, buvez done, une toute petite goutte !"
She attempted to raise Dora's head, but a cry of i)ain
arrested her.
I04 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
"My shoulder! it is broken; it is out of place,"
moaned she, and then lay still with closed eyes.
Heavy footsteps on the stairs announced the return of
the ouvrier.
"He has gone, your doctor 3 escaped yesterday to
Boulogne ; afraid of his skin ; and I have not been
able to find another. What can be done? Has she
spoken ?"
"Ah, yes," replied Ernestine, gravely, "but I fear she
is very badly hurt ; her shoulder seems displaced ; some
brute must have put his foot on her!"
He shuddered. " It may be she fell in the crowd, and
we were punishing cc pauvre diable Miiller, so we had not
time to be gallant;" he smiled grimly, and then said,
sadly, "There will be many such scenes before these
troubles are over. The streets are full of madmen now,
and I have promised to meet some friends at the Cafe du
Rhin, for to-morrow I am to be enrolled in the National
Guard, — Jacques Toquelet, at your service!" — with a
military salute and a smile.
"Oh, Dion ami,'' sighed the woman, "you smile
brightly to-day, and to-morrow, perhaps, you may lie as
she lies now" (pointing to the bed). " Where is this to
end ? Is Trochu a fool or a coward, that he accepts not
the wish of the people?"
"Both, I fear," he replied. "The fact is, madame,"
drawing nearer and speaking in a tone of conviction,
"the people don't know what they want; they have
tasted blood, and they are mad. Trochu was the idol of
the hour, but he is not the man to save Paris, unless, in-
deed, he goes with us of the National Guard. What think
you, via petite dame, would he accept the command of the
National Guard ?"
"Ah, monsieur, do not jest ; one cannot laugh with the
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 105
heart full of tears. If the Prussians invest Paris shall we
not all be slaughtered ?"
" Mille to7ine7'res ! /iiais noii, viadame. Can you breathe
such a thought while Jacques Toquelet and thousands of
other brave hearts remain to defend you? Let them
come {sacres chicus qu Us sont), they shall not wear out
our courage or endurance, and before we yield one inch
of our France to the coclions iV Allemands, we will not
leave one heart beating, or one stone upon another, in our
Paris ! Do not fear, madame : we have met with some
reverses, but a Frenchman never stays beaten."
All this time the poor woman, deriving little con-
solation from her companion's contradictory assurances,
stood close to the window, peering anxiously into the
street.
' "You don't happen to know my good man," she asked,
— "Louis Picot, do you? He has not been in since early
morning, when he went with a party to the Place of the
Hotel de Ville, to hear what news from the Assembly. I
fear much he has come to harm."
" I regret that I do not know him, madame; should I
meet him in the future, I shall do him a service if I can ;
in the mean time you must not torment yourself with
forebodings ; as I tell my little ones at home : ' never cry
unless your heads are off.' "
" Monsieur," came in a feeble voice from the bed.
He darted to the side of the suffering woman. "Mon-
sieur, I want to thank you," Dora said, and put out a
tiny hand which lay like a pearl in the oyster-shell of his
great brown palm ; " you have saved me from a terrible
death, and life is very precious to me, for I have a little
daughter, sir. I heard you speak just now of your chil-
dren : you can then feel for me. Take me home, I im-
plore you. See, it is growing late in the afternoon, and
E*
lo6 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
I must go now." She ceased, panting from exhaustion,
and the man answered her, promptly, —
"You shall go, instantly, the moment I get a fiacre to
the door. I will carry you down, and this good little
woman will go with you." He pointed to Marie, who
sat pale and trembling in a distant corner. As he dis-
appeared in search of a carriage, she took the childrenby
each hand, and vanished, to be seen no more that day.
In great agony, but without a groan, Dora submitted
gladly to being carried down-stairs and seated in the fiacre
with Ernestine's kind arms supporting her. Jacques To-
quelet, postponing his engagement at the Cafe du Rhin
indefinitely, leaped upon the box as they started.
Dora had just time to slip her purse into Ernestine's
hand before she became once more insensible.
At the same hour that the sorry vehicle which held the
inanimate form of the woman he had vowed to love and
cherish dragged at a snail's pace its weary way over the
Seine to the Latin quarter. Dyke Faucett, " curled and
oiled" in away that would have astonished the "Assyrian
bull" of scented memory, in faultless attire and most com-
placent mood, dropped into the magnificent salons of
Madame la Marquise de Courboisie, who had secured him
weeks ago by a dinner invitation for this evening.
In this princely suite of rooms, dazzlingly lighted by
myriads of wax candles, where all that art and taste and
wealth could contribute to form a whole gratifying to the
senses; in the laughing Pauline herself, a charming bru-
nette, with the air of an empress and the fascination of a
siren, — or a Frenchwoman, — one failed to realize the peril
and anguish upon the brink of which Paris tottered. The
Faubourg St. Germain seemed as far removed from all these
horrors as — the moon, — and, after the exquisite dinner,
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 107
the other guests dropped away one by one to fulfill various
engagements, and Dyke, finding himself in the cool,
dreamy, green light of the conservatory, with the music
of splashing fountains in his ear, and the velvet eyes of
Pauline raised with well-counterfeited tenderness in their
depths to his, broke to her the news of his departure on
the morrow.
No scene greeted the disclosure: she was too grande
dame for any exhibition of that description. She merely
crushed her great tortoise-shell fan in her small hand
tightly enough to break one or two of its carved sticks
silently, and then smiled up in his face, just enough to
show the white,- even pearls between her red lips, and
said, sweetly, "Ah, you think to escape me thus, cheri,
and to leave me desolate in this poor, stricken Paris, do
}ou, viechant? I have half a mind not to tell you of our
plans, and to say adieu to-night in place of au plaisir /''
" Can it be possible, Pauline, for you to be serious for
one moment ? This parting is too sorrowful a thing to me
to be a subject of mockery to you."
" Point de badinage, cheri. I am as solemn as an owl.
We go to England — to your tristc London — to-morrow
night. Est-ce que tu vas me boudcr a present, ingrat f
"And M. le Marquis — he remains in Paris?"
" Safis doute ; he must remain to protect the aristoc-
racy ; but I shall have a chaperone ; the old Duchessc de
Languedoc resides in London, and I shall take la petite,
and nearly all my servants, hiiagine me witli a dozen of
your English 'flunkeys' about me." She laughed mer-
rily, — not a trace of ill-humor about her. What a con-
trast to that fiery little Puritan, Dora!
And yet, when about midnight the bewitching Pauline
retired to her sleeping -apartment, and gave in sudden,
sharp sentences her orders for the unexpected flight on
lo8 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
the following evening, poor Celestine could tell a dif-
ferent story of her mistress's amiability.
Surely among these lowly hand-maidens there are many
"martyrs by the pang, without the palm."
That night's mail to England carried the following
letter :
"To Sir Philip Standley, Bart., EUingham Hall, Kent.
"My dear Sir Philip,— The fiat has gone forth ; who
shall gainsay it? You have commanded my return to
England in requesting it.
"In my ready acquiescence, pray accept the gratitude
of my heart, which I cannot otherwise express, for your
inexhaustible goodness towards me. Pardon me, how-
ever, if I confess that your suggestions of a wife for me
are less alluring than the prospect of the siege. As to
marriage, I hold but one opinion : it is a necessary evil
where an heir is indispensable, but I sympathize with the
Athenians when they held but one impracticable desire
in the zenith of their power, and cried out, 'Ah, if we
could but have children — without wojnen P
" I leave Paris to-morrow night, and shall go at once
to EUingham.
"Always affectionately yours,
" Dyke Faucett."
" Rue Royale, Paris, Sept. 4, '70"
After Dyke Faucett had dispatched this epistle, and
sundry other notes of farewell to friends in Paris, he
lounged an hour away with his favorite cheroot, reviewing
the events of the day. His memory passed swiftly over
the unwelcome letter to which he had just replied, and the
still more unwelcome visitor who had well-nigh upset his
nerves for the rest of the day, and dwelt long and lovingly
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 109
over the unequivocal demonstration of devotion he had
read in the suddenly-developed plan of the beautiful
marquise. She had not deceived him ; their natures were
too sympathetic for any by-play to escape unnoticed.
They were equally selfish, and equally unscrupulous ; but
they were botli too high-bred to deal in the common
emotions of humanity — outwardly. If their hands were
clinched sometimes in irrepressible passion, be sure they
were Men gantees and the nails never pierced the tender
flesh.
Dyke Faucett's slumbers that night were peaceful as a
babe's.
Nemesis is ofttimes a laggard in our finite judgments ;
it is, however, a comfort to reflect that althougli ^^ tlie
mills of the gods grind slowly, they grind exceeding small."
CHAPTER IV.
Paris, like the wily Ulysses, "fertile in devices,"
gathered together from all parts of the world the gay,
the frivolous, the learned curious, and — the curious un-
learned.
To the average Frenchman, a life that is not debonnaire
presents a foretaste of purgatory, which his poco-curante
philosophy does not impel him to anticipate, even when
engaged in the sterner work requiring a self-abstrac-
tion inconsistent with frivolity. Still, there have been
presented specimens of intellectual development in the
volatile Gaul which have long won the admiration of their
insular neighbors, who are not too over-blown with na-
tional prejudices to acknowledge the fi.ict, and to trans-
10
no THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
port their inflated intelligences over the narrow seas to reap
what benefits there might be found ripe for the plucking.
Of all the French schools of science, none occupy a
higher position than that of medicine.
To the Hotel Dieu, one of God's own mansions on
earth, flocked the disciples of the healing art of all nations,
that the talents which had been given them should not rot
undeveloped, and, wrapped in the napkin of a supine
ignorance, fail to expand under the generative sun of a
world-wide experience.
Among the others, came Ronald Buchanan, who, for
two years, had imbibed deep draughts from this well of
pathology (whose depths, alas ! are fathomless), with which
he hoped to strengthen the backbone of his future pros-
pects — dependent entirely upon persevering exertion —
and establish himself in the not-altogether congenial
career of a surgeon in his native land. However, he was
a man who, after once putting his hand to the plow,
looked not back.
There was an atmosphere of force about him which im-
pressed all who came in contact with him, — in the clean-
cut face there was not a vestige of weakness ; and in
the eyes, — gray eyes, with the brown iris which could
soften into such tenderness at times, — well set under dark,
straight brows, which gave a decisive tone to the face
when considered in connection with the firm lines of a
chin too square for other beauty than that of strength, —
one could read the honesty of purpose, the unflinching
trutlifiilncss of the man's character.
And yet the mouth was the most expressive feature of
a face never to be forgotten in love or anger.
There was singular sweetness in the rare smile, which
disclosed perfect rows of white teeth beneath the unbearded
lip; but when the Scotch blood in his veins was kindled
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. m
to wrath by cowardly act, or sense of injustice done, the
mouth lost its gentle curves, and in straight lines pointed
to retribution.
Such was the head, borne upon strong, square shoulders,
and proportionate length of body and limb, which as-
cended with bounding leaps the flight of stone steps which
led to his modest quarters, au cinquiafie, in the Rue de
Vaugirard of the Quartier Latin.
*' Qu'on est bien a vingt ans," he shouted, in far from
unmusical voice, which was immediately subdued as he
remembered how harshly sounds of mirth might strike
upon some troubled heart in his vicinity. Opening the
door with his pass-key, he rapidly divested himself of
coat and hat, and, slipping into a dressing-gown worn
into comfortable creases, he proceeded to fill a pipe and
settle himself down to meditation. There was a knotty
point to be argued, and he had left it until after his frugal
dinner of three courses and sour wine, that he might take
his "familiar," the deep-colored meerschaum of years,
into counsel.
It was the question which had vexed the minds of half
Paris for weeks, and which now, so far as he was concerned,
must be definitely decided.
Should he return to England, to the dear old parsonage,
where his happy-hearted sisters made so bright a home for
him, and where his reverend father, a hale, ruddy-faced,
jovial-hearted Christian, expounded the Scriptures accord-
ing to his lights through their cheeriest messages of "peace
and good will towards men"? Or should he remain in
the unhappy city, where there would soon be earnest work
for him to do among the suffering and wounded, the help-
less and the weak ?
The parson's quiver is proverbially full, and the little
parsonage had long since overflowed.
112 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
The eldest of four sons had, through the influence of a
relative, obtained a commission in Her Majesty's service,
and had been some years in India. The second was glad
to accept a lucrative position in a large house in Bombay.
The third is our Ronald, and the fourth, still a boy at
school.
Of the four sisters, three were rosy-faced, flaxen-haired,
jolly girls, with little distinguishing characteristics, all
turned out of the same mould. The fourth, the eldest of
the family, a dark-haired, gray-eyed, thoughtful woman,
with much of Ronald's strength, tempered by a most
angelic sweetness in her face.
It was Lydia who, fourteen years ago, just in the budding
beauty of womanhood, took the tiny week-old infant from
her dying mother's arms and vowed to consecrate to it,
and the others, who were so soon in helpless childhood to
be left motherless, the life which stretched out before her
so full of fairer promise. For it was only a week ago on
that sad, never-to-be-forgotten day, that she had pledged
her faith to the young curate, who, wishing to add the
crowning jewel to a beautiful life full of good works,
had won as helpmeet a woman such as this, who found
strength to renounce happiness, and find blessedness in
taking upon her young shoulders the burden of another.
And after the promise had been spoken and sealed by a
kiss upon the clay-cold lips which could never kiss again,
there was no wavering, nor shadow of turning away from
the self-imposed duty which the steadfast eyes saw before
them in the dim, future years.
Had Paul Wyngate resented the decision of his be-
trothed, or added by useless repinings to the bitterness of
her pain, when she drew from her slender hand the ring
he had placed there so short a time before, and sorrow-
fully but firmly freed him from his troth, he would have
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
113
simply ceased to be the man she loved above all else on
earth.
But he never for a moment doubted the noble heart he
had learned to know so truly, and his voice was full of
love and faith as he said, gently, " Put the ring on again,
my darling ; we need not love each other less if we must
wait a little longer before you come to me forever."
''But, Paul," she murmured, "it may be years, ten,
fifteen years, before I can leave them, and your life must
not be blighted by an almost hopeless waiting."
" It shall never be hopeless, please God, as long as you
and I live, Lydia," he answered, with a sweet earnestness
wliich filled her with joy inexpressible even in that sad
hour. And, as he rej^laced the plain golden circlet on her
finger, she felt strong to walk erect in the path which
she had chosen, and which would never now be the
lonely one she feared.
All through those fourteen years — since she first, with
a new, sudden-born dignity, stepped into the mother's
vacant place — had Lydia found comfort, sympathy,
counsel in the faithful friend, who bided his time in
patience, uncomplaining.
Little Robert lived and throve ; and when the puny,
wailing babe had, under her cherishing care, grown into
the strong, liardy lad, wlio looked up with reverential
devotion to the sister-mother of the household; when the
three oldest boys had gone forth to fight the battle of life,
each girt with the breast-plate of her gentle teachings ;
when the fair young sisters had bloomed into maidenhood,
— Grace and Edith and liltle Jean, the pet of her father,
"a wee bit ^^;z/)'-looking bairn, with a lace no to be for-
gotten, though I couldna say it was bonnie," as he was
wont to describe her in one of those moments of rare
feeling, when he always inslindively found expression in
I o ■■
114
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
the dear, a'most forgotten, dialect of his childhood in the
old Scottish manse, — then Lydia felt that her task was
done, and that the rest and joy which she had promised
Paul and herself so many years ago, was won.
There are some silver threads through Paul's dark locks,
and the bloom on Lydia's cheek has faded, but in the
eyes of both there dwells a light reflected from the peace
which passeth understanding.
They are to be married very soon. Paul has a little
parsonage of his own now, and Ronald has promised to
come home for the wedding.
CHAPTER V.
His pipe had gone out, and still the }'-oung surgeon sat
leaning, with folded arms, on the window-sill, gazing out
in the fast deepening September twilight into the street
beneath, — where knots of students and the blue-shirted
autocracy of the quarter were gathered together in ex-
cited discussion, — or, over the way, at the row of high,
narrow houses, with their numerous open windows, very
interrogation-points to a speculative curiosity. But his
thoughts were far away; he was picturing to himself an
intcricure of English home comfort, in which a good deal
of carpet, and an extravagant open fire, good solid ma-
hogany furniture, and better solid rounds of beef, were
prominent features, in striking contrast to the gilt rococo
style of Parisian anicublcment, and the eternal made-dishes
of which the Briton of the true type soon wearies.
The kindly welcome shining out of his father's genial
blue eyes, the wholesome, somewhat boisterous, jollity of
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 115
the girls, above all, the sweet, tender, more quiet greeting
of Lydia, wooed him irresistibly. He determined to
return to them, but first he would just step around to the
Cafe du Midi and hear what the prospects were of a quiet
night. Resuming his coat, and taking his hat and a stout
stick, he sallied forth.
He had not proceeded far, when his attention was
attracted by the sound of low moans, which seemed to
issue from the inside of a fiacre, drawn up in front of a
house nearly opposite his own quarters. Several men
and women were collected about the open door of the
carriage, apparently disputing as to the best means of
extricating a helpless sufferer within.
With one or two strides Ronald reached the group, and,
with one or two decisive words, sent the disputatious
inefficients to the right-about, saying, simply, to a white-
haired old gentleman who stood wringing his hands in
impotent distress, " Je suis chirurgien, monsieur."
"Ah, thank God !" burst from the old man's lips.
"And," McDonald added in English, "if you will go
before and lead the way, I will soon carry this poor child
up for you."
"Where does she seem to be most hurt?" he asked of
Ernestine, who still sat in the carriage supporting Dora
in her arms. (Jacques Toquelet had not been able to
resist rushing to the aid of a brother-in-arms, who was
being overpowered by numbers on the Pont-Neuf as they
were crossing.)
"I think, sir," answered Ernestine, "her shoulder is
out of place and her arm injured."
"Sit quite still, then," he directed, "and hold her
shoulders as firmly and gently as possible."
He passed his arm under her, and, with an immense
effort of strength, drew her forth without more movement
Ii6 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
than was indispensable. Tlien, preceded by the old father
carrying a light, and followed by Ernestine, he mounted
four flights of stairs, and laid poor Dora softly down on
the spotless white-curtained bed in her own neat little
room; a room which, even in that first moment of entering
it, seemed to impress itself upon Ronald's imagination the
childlike innocence and purity of its occupants. There,
in a tiny cot, lay the slumbering Marian, not yet undressed,
but with tumbled hair and flushed cheeks, in the uncon-
scious grace of sleeping childhood. She had cried herself
to sleep an hour ago, poor little tot, when mamma failed
to come, according to promise, before dinner, and grand-
papa had not been able to invent answers to her ceaseless
questions with sufficient rapidity.
" Bring more lights," commanded Buchanan ; " and,"
to Ernestine, "will you procure a pair of scissors, please,
at once?" She disappeared ; returning immediately with
the desired implement.
After he had cut away the dress from the arms and
shoulders, he found that the collar-bone was broken and
that she was much bruised, but there was no other injury.
He ordered Ernestine to lock the door and permit no
one to enter (the old father stood at the foot of the bed,
motionless), until he could go in search of necessary band-
ages, etc.
In a moment he had reached his own room, supplied
himself with all he required, — including a small flask of
very fine brandy, — and returned to his patient. First
pouring out a little of the brandy in a glass, he, with a
spoon, obliged her to take a few drops at a time until she
began to revive again. He then set the bone, bandaged
and made her perfectly comfortable, with a dexterity
which proved his excellent instruction.
" Une toute petite tasse de bouillon a present," he whis-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
117
pered to Ernestine, who stood by with ready hand and
sparkling eyes, watching his every movement with undis-
guised admiration. She flew to do his bidding, and when
she returned with a bowl of delicate soup, Ronald sat on
the edge of the bed and fed the rapidly-recovering Dora
with spoonfuls of the nourishing beverage. As the last
mouthful was administered he asked, with the rarely sweet
smile softening his grave face, "Should you like to kiss
baby now and go to sleep?"
Ernestine had taken up the little one and inducted her
into her little night-gown, and washed the hands and face,
and brushed the untidy hair, and was now talking in a
subdued whisper to her in a distant corner.
"Oui, cherie, tu vas voir maman tout de suite; elle est
la-bas couchee, vois-tu, et si tu es sage, bien sage, tu vas
I'embrasser avant de dormir."
A grateful smile broke over Dora's pale face at the
thoughtful suggestion of the young surgeon.
"Bring the child, tna fille ; viejis, petite, maman- ca.nnot
sleep until she kisses you; gently now, gently; don't
move."
He took the little white-robed cherub in his arms and,
bending over the bed, allowed the child to kiss and fondle
her mother without leaning on her. Tears of delight filled
the beautiful hazel eyes.
" Assez, assez," cried the young man. "Couchez-la
bien vite, mademoiselle," and he restored her to Ernes-
tine's arms, who replaced her in her cot drawn up close
to the other side of the bed.
Then, with a quiet "Good-evening, niadame, I will see
you in the morning," and a bow to the old gentleman,
Ronald departed ; but not to the Cafe du Mitli; back to
his den au cinquiemc, to indite a few lines to 1-ydia. In
half a dozen concise sentences he informed her that it
iiS THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
would be impossible for him to leave Paris before the
siege. " Only one thing could deprive me of the pleasure
of witnessing your well-earned happiness, my dearest
sister," he wrote, "and that is a conviction of the abso-
lute necessity of my remaining here. Fate has decided
the question ; there is work for me to do here, and no
other hand to do it, and I iTiust stay. Some day, please
God, I shall tell you all about it ; for the present, believe
that my heart is with you. Love to my father and the
girls ; as to Paul — he is too happy to need a message from
your brother, Ronald Buchanan.
1 1
In passing out of the opposite house that night, Ronald
had exchanged a few words with the porteress which ma-
terially assisted in forming his decision.
"Ah, monsieur," began the voluble old woman, "what
a misfortune for the poor lady up-stairs ! So sweet she is,
too, — a veritable angel I assure you, monsieur ; so kind to
everybody, with such a gentle way with her, and "
"Who is she?" interrupted Ronald. " What does she
call herself?"
" I know not, monsieur; the old gentleman her father's
name is Fairfax."
"And her husband, where is he?" asked Ronald.
The old woman shrugged her shoulders and looked
wicked. "Ah, I have not seen him; the husband of a
beautiful English girl with such a grand air about her
don't bring her to the Latin quarter ; and she does not
wear the English mourning of the widow ; but the little
child is hers {Ah quel anj^e cctte petile !)\ and she seems
quite quiet and respectable ; sees no company, monsieur;
and never goes out without the child and le vieux, until
this unhai)py day, when she started early in the morning
alone, and came back this evening ; tiuis "
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 119
"And her father," — Ronald hesitated, and then re-
sumed, '* does he seem to have means? her room was very
small."
''Ah, mon Dieu T began the old woman, "they are
poor, for I have seen the young lady painting pictures
in her room, which they take away afterwards, I am sure,
to sell ; and I have got her lace to mend, too, for les
grandes dames, who have now all gone out of ce pauvre
Paris."
Slipping a napoleon in her hand and adjuring her to let
the lady want nothing that could be procured, Ronald
waited to hear no more.
His mind was made up : he would stay.
CHAPTER VI.
The next morning dawned bright and clear ; and as
Ronald Buchanan took his early breakfast of rolls and
coffee at the Cafe Henri Quatre, he gathered from the
eager voices about him an indication of the turmoil which
the events of yesterday had stirred in the heart of Paris.
Perceiving at a distant table a confrere of the knife,
also an Englishman, he gathered up liis Journal Officiel
and made his way through the vociferous throng to his
side.
"Ah, good-day to you, my dear fellow," joyfully ex-
claimed Richard Ogilvie, rising and drawing a chair to
the table for his friend. " 'Gad, it's as good as a bottle
of champagne to a thirsty soul to see your face here still ;
I thought you meant to get back to the paternal roof-
tree."
I20 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
"I have changed my mind, Dick, and intend to stay
and see how you bear starvation. You remain, do you
not?"
"Of course; wouldn't miss it for the world; it's just
the sort of thing for a man to look back upon and yarn
about to his grandchildren, you see; and, du resic, if
harm comes to me, who cares?" This with a pathetic
sigh and a comically lugubrious expression, which made
Ronald smile.
" What have you been doing with yourself, Dick ?
You have not been at the hospitals for days. Are you
growing lazy in your old age?"
" Not I ; I have had ' other fish to fry.' " He helped
himself to another rognon aux champignons, and Ronald
asked, "What do you mean to do, Dick? The siege
seems inevitable before long, and then Heaven knows
what comes next on the programme. At all events, there
will be plenty of wounds to dress and limbs to ampu-
tate."
"No doubt, dear old boy; but I don't propose to
dress any limbs but my own, or amputate any — wounds,"
cried Dick, confusedly, beckoning to the gar^on to settle
his bill. "I want to fight, and I a//// fight, — National
Guard, Mobiles, — anything, so that I can see the fun;
(four francs fifty centimes for a breakfast, and the siege
imminent: what do you think of that, you old ancho-
rite?) — here !" spinning almost his last five-franc piece to
the obsequious garq-on. "Yes," he concluded, "there's
time enough for the sawbones when I go back to Eng-
land, — if I ever do go b:u k" (another plaintive sigh);
" one don't meet a cliance like tliis often, and I have liad
some experience, you kn(jw" flie was captain of a militia
company at home).
" I am sorry, Dick, very sorry," answered his friend;
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 121
" we will not meet often, I fear ; and I had quite counted
on you as a collaborateur, for I mean to do the good
Samaritan, — though your prospect docs look tempting !"
This with the genuine sigh of the Briton when he re-
nounces, of liis tree will, the belligerent anticipations
which are so seductive to his nation.
"Not meet often? What can you mean? You are
not going into a monastery, are you ? And I am cer-
tainly not intent upon being riddled by the first fire.
Now see here, old man, we will make a standing engage-
ment to dine here every day together, at six o'clock, and
recount our adventures. Have you any money?"
*'A little. I never have very much, you remember."
"Yes, I remember; and I also bear somewhere in my
memory the fact that I rarely have any, — but I'll share it
with you to the last penny, Ronald, my boy ; I will, in-
deed," quite gravely.
" Thanks ; I am sure you would," replied Ronald, with
equal gravity.
" I say," burst out Dick, "it's almost too early in the
day for champagne, isn't it? but I shotild like to crack a
bottle with you later, — I have a napoleon somewhere at
home, — just in honor of this joyful surprise you brought
me. Really," seizing Ronald's hand and shaking it
again vehemently, while every feature of his face beamed
with good nature, " this is very jolly, isn't it?"
"Calm yourself, my dear fellow; we will dine here to-
gether at six, and you shall have your bottle; — but in the
mean time be reasonable. The news to-day is gloomy
enough, and there seems to be no little excitement in the
streets."
"Oh, it's all ;v/," pronounced Dick. " There was a
mob outside the Hotel de Ville at midnight, — and for
what? Because these idiots cannot understand that
F I I
122 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Trochu and the other fellow — the war-minister, Palikao —
will not undertake the salvation of the city according to
their judgments; who would? If Wellington, George
Washington, and the first Napoleon united in one effort
to save Paris, these fools would circumvent them, and de-
stroy it in the way which pleased them best."
"Don't be too hard on them, Dick; they can't help
it; it's in the blood. They do not understand; and not
understanding, they fear; and fearing, they become furi-
ous " ("And furious, they become fiends," interpo-
lated Dick). " Why, early as it is, Belleville and Mont-
Martre are pouring their incendiary rabble through all
Paris, stirring up the people by the irresistible contagion
of their example, — vowing vengeance upon whom, or
what, I have not been able to find out."
"Nor you won't be, either; they don't know them-
selves. They will surround tlio hall of the Corps L^gis-
latif and yell their menaces and shout their maledictions,
which fall equally on Napoleon and Trochu, — on the Ger-
mans and the French army, — on all and everything under
the sun, — and then they will shake their fists at the fagade
of the Hotel de Ville, and commence again da capo ; but
if they were frankly asked what they demanded, they
would only glare at you and liowl out their favorite
meaningless threat, ^ Decheance !' "
By this time the cafe was deserted ; everybody having
breakfasted and delivered himself of a separate opinion
on the condition of things, had gone out to gather fresh
subjects for argument before the dinner-hour.
Our two friends separated after a few more words and a
renewal of the promise to meet at six o'clock, Ronald
making liis way back to the old city, and Dick going
towanls the liead-quarters of the National Guards.
As Ronakl mounted the staircase leading to the room
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
123
where he had left Dora sinking into tranquil shunbcr the
night before, he felt a curious sensation of delight and
timidity which was new to him. Indeed, the sweet face
and gentle voice had not been absent from his mind, sleep-
ing or waking, during many minutes since he had closed
the door between them and himself.
He hesitated a moment at the door, overcome by a
strange repugnance, but with an impatient " Bah !" at his
unwonted weakness, he knocked gently. The figure of a
young woman in the garb of a Sister of Charity, with the
white-winged cap of the order upon her head, appeared at
the opening. " Monsieur le Docteur?" she asked, softly.
" Oui, ma scKiir,''^ replied Ronald, to whom the appa-
rition was a familiar one in the hospitals.
" Entrez done, je vous en prie," she whispered.
"Madame est tres-souffrante : she has fever, you see, and
is quite out of her head."
He approached tlie bed and looked at her a moment,
silently. How beautiful slie was, l\ing with her head
thrown back, and the masses of chestnut hair flung loosely
over the pillows, with a deep carmine glow in the cheeks
and parted lips, and the exquisite eyes brilliant with fever !
She was not lying comfortably, but he dared not touch her.
"Raise her, ma sceur, her head is too much thrown
back;" and as she obeyed him, he continued: "When
did this fever come on, — how long ago?"
"About midnight, sir," she answered. " I came home
and found my poor friend (for we have been friends, sir,
for three months), last evening, about eight o'clock (just
after you left her), in such sad plight, and heard of her
terrible accident (she was asleep, but a good woman, a
Madame Picot, I think it was, told me the particulars),
and also that she was obliged to return home for tlic
night, and begged me to watch witli this pour ( hild. (^f
124
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
course I consented. I have not worn this dress many
days, monsieur, but this is not my first experience in
nursing. I shall not leave her, with your permission, un-
til she is quite well again." He could not resist taking
her hand in his. I think if it had not been for that in-
convenient coif\\t would have kissed her in his gratitude.
*' Thank you, ma sceur, you are an angel of goodness;
that poor soul seemed utterly friendless and forsaken."
He looked narrowly at her; something in her accent had
struck upon his acute ear. "Pardon me, but are you
frafi(aise ?" he asked.
"No, monsieur; my mother was English, and," whis-
pering, with a glance around, as if afraid, "my father
was rt! German. They are both dead;" and she added,
simply, " my name is Agnes."
He was writing a prescription, but looked up here, and
said, " You speak English, then, do you not ? That will be
a great comfort to this poor girl during her illness."
" Oh, yes," she replied, " I always spoke it as a child ;
but," she continued, anxiously, "you do not think there
in any danger of serious illness, do you, doctor?"
"I cannot tell yet; I fear there is some nervous
trouble. Has she had a shock of any kind, other than her
accident? The brain, I am afraid, is affected."
" Nothing that I know of, sir; she seemed always very
sad and quiet, and I know nothing of her history ; I only
know that she is the very sweetest, purest-hearted woman
in the world, and that I love her dearly." Tears stood
in the bright blue eyes, and the firm lips trembled. She
bent over the bed and wet the parched mouth of her
friend with some cooling iisanc to hide her unwonted
agitation.
"Will you see that this prescription is filled at once,
please?" He handed her a paper, and she left the room.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 125
Ronald walked to the window and looked out. Oppo-
site he could see the casement at which he had sat dream-
ing the evening before ; how long ago it seemed ! He
could scarcely believe it possible that such a revolution
could take place in a human being in such a trifling space
of time. What was it? What was this new life which
seemed to course through his veins like liquid fire? He
felt suffocated; the window was open, and he leaned out
as far as possible in the vain endeavor to breathe more
freely.
What had come to him ? He, the earnest student, the
unimpressionable, methodical, frugal-minded philosopher,
the man who had lived two years in the Latin quarter in
Paris, not perhaps in exact imitation of St. Simeon on his
forty years' pillar of renunciation, but at least exempt
from active complicity in the mad excesses and reck-
less orgies which were wont to make " night hideous," in
that quarter of merry Bohemianism. He had not rubbed
the bloom off pleasure in contact with men or women, who
so often in that process evince a perseverance and energy
worthy of a better cause. And never since he had as-
sumed the toga virilis of manhood, and taken up cud-
gels in his own defense against the world, the flesh, and
the devil, had a woman caused his heart to beat more
swiftly ; nor had his sleep been haunted by a vision such
as the last night had brought him.
Alas, he had taken the disease in its worst form. They
are not the Lovelaces of the world who fall hopeless vic-
tims to this fatal malady; they are the Galahads, who,
when the symptoms manifest themselves in earnest, rarely
recover; never, indeed, without carrying the pit-marks to
the grave.
To Ronald's excited imagination the open window of
his own room seemed to grin at him wilh a sardonic
ii-x-
126 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
sneer ; he turned impatiently his back to its mocking
suggestiveness, and surveyed the room of his patient.
It was a room destitute of luxury, and j'et with that
indefinable aroma of refinement about it, — like the odor
which betrays the violet hidden from sight in its leafy
covert, — which many gorgeous salons lack.
On the white-washed walls hung a couple of fine copies
of the Mater Dolorosa and Guido's Magdalen. Under
them were suspended shelves of the beautiful Mosaic wood
of Sorrento, filled with plain copies of Milton and Dante,
with Petrarch's Sonnets in Italian ; of Goethe, Schiller,
and the divine Jean Paul — in their own tongue ; of Racine
and Moliere, of Lamartine and De Stael, with a huge
Byron, and a well-worn Shakspetire.
The floor was carpetless, — circc, according to French
custom, and scrupulously clean. On the mantel-shelf stood
a delicate clock of Genoese silver filigree ; and over it
hung a faded miniature on ivory, exquisitely painted, of
her dead mother's face.
On a little table by the Avindow stood a china bowl of
sweet-scented roses, a portfolio of sketches, and a little
worn Bible with her mother's maiden name on the title-
page. In one corner reposed an easel, with palette hung
upon it ; in the other, the white-draped cot of little
Marian.
Ronald took in every detail of this simple room, and
did not fail to draw therefrom some index of the character
and tastes of its occupant. He was lost in a maze of con-
jecture and pitying wonder, when the door opened, and
Sister Agnes entered, with that noiseless and elastic step
of a gentle but self-reliant nature.
Reader, have you ever observed what expression there
is in a footstep? There are women, beautiful women
too, who stamp through the world on the nerves and
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 127
senses of their acquaintance, quite unconsciously; and
there are others who shuffle through hfe in an eternal
down-at-heel style, which causes one to wax profane when
its influence is brought to bear upon one's irritated sensi-
bilities; and again, there are women who glide along by
your side with the long, sinuous step which reminds one
irresistibly of the old serpent, and causes one to shrink
away involuntarily from its deadly fascination.
But there is a step which belongs only to the slender
foot with the arched instep, which almost invariably goes
in the set with the long, slender, tapering-fingered hand,
the small, well-set head, and the delicate-lobed ears, which
indicates poetic fancy, keenly perceptive faculties of mind,
ar,d tender acutely-sensitive properties of heart ; the silent
but springy, yet firm, footstep of a thoroughly harmonious
woman.
There has been much said in favor of a softly modu-
lated feminine voice; it is no doubt "an excellent thing;"
but, reader, when my nervous system breaks down, I fancy
I shall go to — Andalusia.
Ronald was not so far lost in his dream that he did not
note this peculiarity of the fair Sister, — as she moved
lightly about the room, preparing the draught which she
had procured, with deft fingers.
After it was administered, and the effect watched anx-
iously, Ronald, promising to return before evening, was
about to leave the room, when, actuated by a sudden
thought, he turned abruptly to Agnes and asked, "Pardon
me, via smir, but will you tell me where and how you
became acquainted with this poor girl?"
"I met her," she replied, "in the Gallery of the
Louvre immediately after she came to Paris ; I used to
go there frequently to paint. She was copying Murillo's
Madonna, so was I ; our easels stood side by side ; after
128 THE MILLS OF TILE GODS.
awhile our liearts touched, — and we have been friends
ever since. There has not been a day that we have not
met and talked together, and that I have not loved her
more and more." She stopped, blushing slightly.
"You did not go alone to the Louvre?" he asked.
"Oh, no; I was still at the Convent of the Sacred
Heart, where I was educated, and I had always one of the
lower order of nuns, who act as bonnes, to go with me ;
and," she continued, "it was a stipulation of my father's
before he died, and left me, a child of thirteen, together
with my mother's little fortune, to the good Sisters, that
when I became eighteen I should be free to cultivate my
taste for art, — which I had, even as a child, — and to choose
between the life of the convent and the life of honest labor.
I chose the labor !"
He looked at her admiringly. "You are right, per-
fectly right," he said; "the world is big, and there is
always room for you in it, outside that living tomb."
Many times, in the future years, Agnes recalled those
words of encouragement and cheer.
" Your father was a German, I think you told me?"
pursued Ronald.
"Yes; he was an author, a painter, an enthusiast, and
he shared the fate of most of these : he died poor and
unappreciated. He had no relatives living who were
willing to burden themselves with an orphan child, so I
was put in the convent, where I have been very happy, —
even though I have held fast to my promise made when
my father died, never to abjure his faith, and that of my
mother, — for I am a Protestant, monsieur, though I wear
this dress as a protection, and a means of doing some
good in the hospitals, since I left the convent."
"And where do you live now?" asked Ronald, sur-
prised at the young girl's intrepidity.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
129
She smiled. "I live here with Dora now, since these
riots began in Paris, in this dear little room; I spend
my days at the hospitals. I have seen you many times,
sir; but this screen,"' pointing to her snowy coif, "is
useful sometimes, in shielding one from observation."
"It shall not shield you again from me," he answered,
with a bright look. "You are too good a nurse to be
overlooked." He was watching her at that moment as
she raised, just enough, the head of her friend and gave
her a few drops of a cool tisane.
At that moment the door opened, and the old gentle-
man he had observed the evening before, entered, leading
by the hand a beautiful little girl of four years old.
"How do you find your patient to-day, doctor?" he
asked anxiously, but in a whisper.
"She has some fever," answered Ronald; "owing,
probably, to the length of time which elapsed before the
bone was set, or to her fright ; but I trust that the ano-
dyne she has just taken may produce sleep, and she will
before this time to-morrow be on the road to recovery."
" It appears," explained her father, "from the woman's
account who brought her home, that she was overtaken in
the Rue de Rivoli by a mob, and fell under their feet."
Ronald shuddered. "It is probable. These French
are very fiends in their fury." With a few more words,
and a last look at Dora, now calmly sleeping, he reiterated
his directions and went away.
F*
I30
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
CHAPTER VI I.
A FORTNIGHT has passed, a fortnight prolific in events
bearing upon the future destinies of the French people.
The Emperor, striving in vain to find consolation for his
misfortunes in his fatalistic theories, outwardly bore his
imprisonment at Wilhelmshohe with characteristic philoso-
phy. King William, proclaimed emperor, was following
up, by other victories, the conquest of Sedan. The Em-
press Eugenie had fled, and Lord Lyons was again advising
all English loiterers to follow her example. General
Trochu had accepted the position at the head of the
National defense.
Flourens, the idol of the Belleville insurgents, had been
placed at the head of five battalions of National Guards,
in which Dick Ogilvie held the rank of captain.
The discontent and rebellion in the heart of Paris
seethed and bubbled, and threatened to overflow every-
thing, when, on the 19th, the iron cordon was drawn
around her, — now passive through despair, — and she was
completely invested by the invincible enemy.
At first, people looked at each otlier in blank dismay ;
then the blood which had flowed on numberless victori-
ous fields, in the days gone by, rose in frantic indigna-
tion at the thought of a foreign yoke; and, with one
accord, they rent the air witli shouts of defiance, and
registered a vow in each individual heart that want,
disease, famine should be welcomed before the barbarian
horde should marcli exultantly tln-ough their beloved
Paris !
Of their indomitable courage, of their Spartan en-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
131
durance, they made no vain boast. There is something
classic in the French character when it rises to the
sublime !
Poor Dora, unable to escape from Paris, was just
emerging, white and frail as a spirit, from the dread valley
of the shadow, where she had wrestled through the last
fortnight with the great Destroyer, and now, thanks to
Ronald's skill and ceaseless vigilance and Agnes's careful
nursing, the fever had left her, and the poor brain was at
rest.
Weak and helpless as a little child she lay, watching
Marian as she flitted about in the sunshine, which poured
its cheering rays into her little room, creating a halo
around the golden head, and touching into a silvery glory
the white hair of her old father, who sat in an arm-chair
by the window, gazing listlessly into the street.
Agnes, with her coif laid aside and her rich, brown
hair tucked away behind her tiny ears in many a coil and
braid, sat at the bedside arranging, in a bowl, some fresh
Provencal roses which had just been presented by the
good old porteress.
Their fragrance filled the room, and Dora, stretching
out a fragile little hand, took one full-bloomed beauty
and pressed it to her lips and eyes, inhaling its perfume
with delight.
" How doubly sweet they seem to me !" she murmured.
"Oh, Agnes, is not the perfume of flowers the incense
offered up to God by the universe ? In the early morning
and the dewy evening, after the matin and the vesper
hymn, the flowers grow sweetest in yielding up their mute
thanksgiving."
"Yes, Dora, you are right; all growing things, from
the noblest tree to the tiniest blade of grass, point up-
ward, and have a solemn significance in so doing. In my
132 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
opinion, an atheist must be blind, eye-blind as well as
soul-blind, to Nature and her eloquent teachings. All
innocent things love and understand Nature : old people
who are standing on the threshold of heaven, and little
children, — and we must become like them we are told.
You remember what your favorite, Jean Paul, says, —
"Most people cannot see the sun, but it shines into the
heart of a little child."
"Yes, yes, I know it. Oh, those happy days in Italy,
when life seemed one eternal hymn of thanksgiving ; when
I sang in those grand choirs with such a joyous, untroubled
heart, I used to feel, Agnes, as if I needed only the
wings to soar away to perfect bliss! Ah me!" she
sighed deeply.
"You must think only of the sunshine, darling; let
the shadows pass away. You have youth and life, thank
God, and Marian and your father left."
" And you, Agnes, — ah, don't forget one of my greatest
blessings ; and you have no one in all this great, full
world but me."
"And God," murmured Agnes, reverently.
She rose to put by the flowers, as the door opened and
Buchanan entered.
An angelic smile lit up Dora's wan face as he approached
her, as she lay white and delicate as the rose she still held
in her hand. \
"Are you feeling a little stronger to-day?" he asked,
while his smile answered hers; "and have these noisy
fellows outside disturbed you much?"
A band of riotous gamins, accompanied by fife and
drum, and screaming women, and hooting children, passed
under the window at that moment. She waited a little,
and then replied, —
" Oh, yes, I am much better to-day. Indeed, you must
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 133
not let me be such a tax upon your time while so many
need you more. I do not believe you have a moment's
rest."
He looked worn and thin. During all those days and
nights of suspense, when her life had hung upon a thread,
he had not known rest indeed. But now, to see her smile
once more, to see the eyes beam with intelligence instead
of that fearful vacancy or that gaze of frantic terror, were
enough to renew his life within him. In these two weeks
of agony his existence had become absorbed into hers.
Surely the plant of love grows apace when watered by
tears !
"Will the siege last long, sir?" asked Mr. Fairfax,
coming forward feebly. "We wish to get away from
Paris as soon as possible ; indeed, neither Dora nor I
could bear a winter here."
" I cannot possibly tell," answered Ronald, " how long
we will be shut up ; possibly for many weeks. All de-
pends upon the success of the French army outside, and,
according to the last telegrams, there has been nothing
very encouraging."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! if we had only remained at
Tours ! Ah, Dora, it will be terrible for you, my
child."
She simply took his hand and kissed it silently; she
was thinking of him, not of herself. He smiled and
passed his hand softly over her hair once or twice, then
drawing a chair forward, — close to Ronald, — he continued
speaking in the low, dreamy tone of a thinker who sel-
dom finds opportunity of expressing his views: "It is
astonishing to me that France needs this baptism of blood
so often ; that she does require it from time to time is in-
disputable, — that the plethora which is so rapid in^ this
country should not produce apoplexy, and so terminate
12
134
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
the existence of this hot-headed people; — a metaphor
borrowed from your experience, doctor," he smiled.
And Ronald answered in the same vein : " So you think
that the sword is the point around which cluster the
greatness and power of a nation ? I agree with you
entirely ; a little blood-letting is indispensable to the
sanitary condition of the world.'/
"Undoubtedly; did not the Romans understand this
when they made valor and virtue synonymous? And
when — at the height of their glory, peace reigned and
luxurious voluptuousness crept in — the sword fell from
their enervated hands, was not their degeneration swift
and sure ?"
"And," pursued Ronald, "there is no doubt that the
warlike peoples — those that are strongest in standing
army and ready fleet — are the most progressive, and held
in highest respect."
"You are right," returned the old gentleman ; "look
at the Levant ; the Levantines, who know not the mean-
ing of the word war, are they not deep sunk in the sloth
of an indolent epicureanism ? Even the Alexandrians
rarely quit their homes: lapped in a characteristic inertia,
they drop into the decay of death before they ever behold
the country, the desert, or the sea. Or, dreaming in idle,
ignorant content outside the walls of the sleepy city, — on
the banks of the lovely Lake Mareotis, — they care not
even to penetrate inside. The Delta seems a far-off, in-
explorable myth to them, and the mighty Nile, with its
gorgeously-fringed banks, a fairy-tale."
" What infinite good would accrue to a nation such as
you describe," began Ronald, musingly, "if somebody
could be found philanthrojjic enough to i)ull Mohammed
All's nose for him at least once a year, and ob ige him to
draw his scimitar !"
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 135
"Ah, my young friend, when our flag is planted on the
shores of the N le, nous a lions changer tout cela. It is
only a question of time ; we must have a clear road to
India, you kninv. Eut it is indubitable that when a na-
tion keeps not its hand near the hilt of its sword, it ceases
to respect itself, and becomes servile, cringing, supersti-
tious, and degraded."
" It then appears to be the duty of a stronger people
to take possession of it and reinvigorate its torpid
energies," laughed Ronald. "I wonder if Prussia is
being actuated by this conviction in regard to Alsace and
Lorraine?"
He rose as he said this, and bade them adieu until the
evening, — departing with a brighter face than he had
worn lately. Mr. Fairfax accompanied him, with little
Marian, as far as the street, where in the sunshine they
daily took a stroll together.
" Shall I read to you, Dora? or would you like to sleep
a little ?" asked Agnes of her patient, when the door closed
behind the others.
"I should like you to read, Agnes. No, not that; I
am weary of German," as Agnes took up Goethe.
"Don't be vexed, only I feel like English to-day."
Her friend quietly took down Byron from the shelf,
and began a canto of " Childe Harold." Dora inter-
rupted her: "No, that won't do, Agnes. I hate that
arrogant, domineering egotist to-day ; he irritates me, —
and I want to be comforted."
"For shame, Dora; you do not deny the great poet?"
"Ah, no; but you see I am weak and ill, and I want a
wholesome breath of air, not a sigh of sentiment from a
diseased, morbid nature ! He is very beautiful as a poet
to be read in health and happiness, — but — Agnes, read
Keats."
136 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
''Is Keats, then, so wholesome in his fanciful, tender
sensibility?" asked Agnes, smiling.
"I don't know; perhaps sensibility without sensuous-
ness is less Byronic; — and, Agnes, is sensibility a curse
or a blessing?" She did not wait for an answer, but
murmured softly to herself, —
" Quanto la cosa h piu perfetta,
Piu senta '1 bene e cosi la doglieza."
Her friend opened the book at the " Eve of St. Agnes,"
and began to read in a sweet, musical voice with the
prettiest accent.
She had not completed one stanza before a voice from
the bed broke in : " Agnes, how can you be so unobserv-
ant ? Did you not see how thin and ill the doctor looked ?
Oh, what can be the matter? You say he has been here
every day since the very beginning of my illness ; he can-
not, then, be suffering himself." She raised herself on
her elbow and spoke in an eager whisper.
Agnes looked at her surprised, and answered, quietly,
" Oh, no ; he is quite well ; but of course anxious, as we
all are, about — these troubles in Paris, and the uncer-
tainty of everything. And, Dora," she continued, noting
the crimson spots which had returned momentarily to
Dora's cheeks, '* you must lie down now, and be quite
quiet; you will have a return of the fever else." She
shut up the book and laid it aside, darkened the windows,
and sat down close to the bedside. Dora held tight in
hers the kind hand which was so full of sympathy in its
pressure, and lay quite still for a moment or two. Then
these words of the laureate's fell from her lips, —
" No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever truly longed for death :
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 137
'Tis life whereof our nerves are scant, —
Oh, hfe, not death, for which we pant :
More hfe, and fuller, that we want."
The last line was almost inaudible, and her regular
breathing told Agnes that her weakness was finding
strength in sleep.
CHAPTER VIII.
With the exception of three or four unavoidable ab-
sences, Ronald Buchanan and Dick Ogilvie met daily at
the Cafe Henri Quatre, and generally dined together.
It was approaching seven o'clock on the evening of the
last day of October, 1870.
Ronald had waited much later than this, and been
waited for, on various occasions during the past month,
but to-day he had worked hard, and had scarcely tasted
food ; he was much exhausted, and determined to wait no
longer.
He had just given the order for dinner, when Ogilvie
entered hastily, with uniform bespattered, hands black-
ened, and appearance generally disheveled.
"Sorry to detain you, dear boy," he cried, after call-
ing for a bowl of water and a towel, and when in a corner
apart he made a rapid toilet, while Ronald supple-
mented the dinner by an additional horse-steak and pota-
toes. " You see," he continued, drawing his chair up to
the table, and speaking excitedly, " this morning after
the news came of Bazaine's treachery in giving up Metz,
and allowing hinxself to be taken prisoner, we, that is, a
party of our officers, went to the H6;cl dc Ville to find
138 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
out what the government meant to do, as things were
looking very serious. Well, we were received by M.
Arago — (I say, gar^on, tell them to put plenty of truffles
about that horse-steak, and bring a pint of Rcederer. Mark
my words, Ronald, if we are shut up here until we have
to fall upon and devour each other for lack of meat, we
X\'ill always find truffles, cliampignons, and champagne to
flavor the meal in Paris). Well, M. lago (or whatever
the fellow's name was) bowed and temporized and ex-
postulated, and finally promised to give us an answer
at two o'clock. Of course we were on time ; were you
there?" Ronald shook his head. "The Place was one
dense mass of human beings: National Guards, strong in
numbers, men, women, and children, shouting, yelling,
struggling ; Ronald, it was Pandemonium incarnate ! Our
men were exasperated by the bad news of the morn-
ing, and the fall of Le Bourget yesterday ; the rumor that
the government would proclaim an armistice maddened
them. Our banners bore the inscriptions, 'Vive la Com-
mune!' 'No armistice!' and 'Vive la Republique!'
Well, old boy, we waited some time, not patiently, al-
most deafened by the cries, ' Down with Trochu !' 'Vive
Trochu !' and the rest. At last Trochu appeared in plain
clothes, with Rochefort and other members of the govern-
ment behind him, at the principal gate, which was guarded
by a company of Mobiles. Trochu looked depressed, and
was greeted by yells of ' No armistice ! Down with traitors !
a la lanterne!' I never witnessed such mad frenzy; his
voice was drowned, and, in a few minutes, how I cannot
tell, we were all bursting into the Hotel de Ville. Then
there was confusion worse confounded j everybody speak-
ing at once, — some threatening to arrest the members of
the government should they refuse to resign. One man
in my regiment, a fiery Hercules, actually sprang for-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 139
ward, and laid bis hand upon one of the members as
they sat in council, — his name is Jacques Toquelet, —
'red' to the backbone. If it had not been for the
io6th Battalion there would have been blood shed ; tlicy
behaved well. I left them, Ronald, striving to eject my
confreres at the point of the bayonet, and came here to
relieve your anxious heart, and my hunger at the same
time. En route, I had a little skirmish with three gens-
d'armes, who sought to detain me to hear the news. Fancy
the rashness of men putting a spoke in the wheel of a
hungry Briton ! I soon sent them to the right-about.
Gargon, depechez-voiis done. Gad, I'm glad to see you !"
apostrophizing the steak which, smothered in truffles,
now made its appearance. The garcjon flew about the
table : he was serving a national guard !
"The capitulation of Metz seems to have been the spark
which has ignited all this gunpowder," said Ronald, who
had listened, much interested, to the account of a scene
he had been debarred from witnessing through an accumu-
lation of hospital work; "and yet, why should it? It is
not the first reverse ; luck has been against them all
along."
"Yes," replied Dick, with his fork poised half-way to
his mouth, "as Frederick the Great said, 'Providence
always takes the side of the strongest;' and that old duffer
knew something about this sort of things. No, no, it was
the taking of Le Bourget yesterday that riled them," con-
tinued Dick ; " they don't want much to set them off when
the steam is up, you kno\A4; great oaks often grow from
their tiniest acorns."
"Yes," replied Ronald, "Pliny tells us that the sight
of a fig caused the destruction of Carthage ; why should
not the loss of a village destroy Paris ? That Pliny also
vouches for the fact that a woman became mother to an
I40 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
elephant, does not incline us to doubt the truth of the
other incident."
Dick laughed, and filled Ronald's glass. " Here's a
health to anybody or anything that will open the gates of
Paris before these madmen butcher each other for lack of
somebody or something else to butcher. I hear meat is
getting scarce already; how long do you think one could
live on champagne and olives, Ronald?"
" Cela depend,'" answered Ronald. "I have heard of
cases where a man subsisted for a long time on shoe-leather ;
and there are plenty of rats in the sewers of Paris !"
" Pah ! don't, Ronald, there's a good fellow, — I haven't
dined for two days, you see."
He was indeed making up for lost time, and Ronald
was obliged to leave him, to make a visit to a poor woman
who had been frightfully injured in a riot, a night or two
before. Agreeing to meet the next day, they separated.
Alas, many days passed before Ronald again looked
upon the kindly face of his friend. He saw it then by
the light of a horn-lantern, blackened and distorted in
agony.
CHAPTER IX.
Before midnight, the io6th Battalion had restored
quiet in the Hotel de Ville, and the National Guards had
dispersed by command of Flourens and Megy, les oreilles
iant soit peu baissees.
The next day the people of Paris were called upon to
decide whether they would recognize the authority of the
government for the National Defense.
The majority of the votes were for the government, and
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 141
for once the populace of Belleville and Montmartre con-
trolled themselves. Later, they made up for this suppression
of their natural instincts, when hundreds of them were
killed at Montretout, at Garches, and at Buzenval.
The sufferings of the besieged were increasing daily ;
mid-winter with its cold rains and frost was upon them ;
black bread was being rationed out to them in insufficient
portions ; the famine that they had denied the possibility
of, was fast approaching.
General Vinoy had been named commander-in-chief
of the army of Paris. Trochu still continued President
of the government. Flourens had been imprisoned for
inciting rebellion, and released by a mob of his own men.
Riots were of daily occurrence.
Clement Thomas in vain issued his pacific proclama-
tions ; the people were desperate, the people were defi-
ant, the people were hungry.
The Place of the Hotel de Ville was often the scene of
idle discussion, fruitless argument, noisy demonstration.
In the afternoon of the 22d of January, a detachment of a
hundred or two National Guards drew up before the Ho-
tel de Ville, crying, " Down with Trochu ! Vive la Com-
mune !" After a few moments, an officer of the Gardes
Mobiles approached and tried to say a few words; in
vain. Suddenly a shot was fired, and through the great
door of the Hotel de Ville poured forth, as if waiting for
that signal, a volley of fire upon the Place, whence the
National Guard and idle by-standers fled, shrieking with
fury and fear.
Ronald Buchanan happened to be one of the spectators
of this coup de theatre, and, as the smoke cleared away, he
advanced to investigate the condition of the wounded
who lay upon the Place. He first attended to two women
142
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
who were injured, not mortally, and placed them on two
of the litters which were arriving from the Rue du Tem-
ple, and then turned his attention to the men. What was
his horror, in raising the head of a white-haired old man
who had flillen on his face, to recognize the features of
Mr. Fairfax, fixed, apparently, in the rigidity of death.
He raised him, with the assistance of a soldier who car-
ried one end of a litter, and strove to restore him, but
the heart had ceased to beat ; he had been shot through
the brain, and must have died instantly. Ronald gave
some directions to the soldiers who were to bear him
away, and turned, with an aching heart, to minister to
the relief of the other victims. About a dozen men still
lay groaning around him ; this man was dead, and could
feel no more ; he remained, and, with steady hand and
unclouded eyes, dressed their wounds, and then went
straiglit to the Rue de Vaugirard, to break the sad news
to Dora.
What desolating change has passed over Dora's pretty
chamber since we last glanced into it? Where are the
roses, the books, the filigree clock ? Where the pictures
which adorned the blank whiteness of the walls? and
where the laughing, golden-haired child, who danced so
gleefully in the sunsliine of three short months ago?
Who are these pale phantoms, robed in close-clinging
serge, with the red cross of Geneva on their sleeves ?
The one stooping over a handful of fire stirring some
miserable broth with an iron spoon, the other bending
over the little cot, whose curtains have gone long since to
supply some housekeeping deficiency, where the tangled
curls, white face, and hollow eyes of a child tossed
wearily upon its pillow.
" Make haste, Agnes ; she is awake now. Perhaps I can
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 143
induce her to take a spoonful. Is it done ?" Dora's voice
was harsh and strained.
Agnes replied, in her own sweet tones, " Yes, it is done,
and I think will be nourishing; that last piece of meat
good mother Benoit brought us has made it quite good."
She cooled a little in a saucer, while Dora took up the
fragile form of little Marian, and implored her with kisses
and caresses, the cooing tenderness a mother always
uses to hush a wailing infant, to take some of the broth
which had been so difficult to prepare. But no: Marian
turned her head away and closed the pretty little teeth
resolutely ; slie would not taste one drop. In vain Agnes
plead ; and Dora urged that Marian would surely die if
she did not eat something. The child only fretted and
wept. " Marian don't care; Marian wants to die," she
sobbed.
In despair the mother, motioned away the saucer with
the untasted broth thereon, and rocked her baby in her
arms, while great tears coursed each other down the thin
cheeks. Agnes carefully covered the little saucepan and
set it aside for after while ; she hoped still.
Marian had been very ill : a severe cold taken one even-
ing, when she had been obliged to wait with iK'r mother at
the corner of a street, in a pouring rain, until a mob which
had collected around Felix Pyat, and had changed into a
riot, had dispersed, settled on her lungs, and for two
weeks she had hovered on the confines of the angel-world.
After the fever left her, she seemed to sink ; insufficient
nourishing food, a cold room, and a delicate organiza-
tion all were against her; she could not rally, and for
nearly thirty-six hours had absolutely refused to taste
anything. The ornaments of the room, a few trinkets
of Dora's, and a little money she had saved of her father's
sufficed to provide them with the bare necessaries of
144
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
life until now. To-night they shared their last meal,
Agnes and Dora alone, for the father, who had gone
out in the afternoon to apply for aid at the English
Ambulance Office, had not yet returned. They knew not,
these two forlorn women, where another meal would come
from ; even Agnes's bright spirit was dimmed : she sat
with drooping head, quite silent. How joyful was the
sound of Ronald's step upon the stairs ! Even Dora
stopped crooning, and raised her head to listen ; Agnes
rose and lit the lamp.
But his step surely sounded differently this evening ; it
was slower, heavier, and destitute of that buoyancy so
characteristic of his temperament.
He came in quietly, sadly, and sank as if weary into a
chair near Dora and the child. " Did she seem to enjoy
the broth?" he asked, placing his fingers on the tiny
wrist, — " did she take any of it?" There was something
of alarm in his voice now, for the pulse indicated that the
flame of life was just flickering, no more.
"No, she has taken nothing, — nothing," sighed the
mother; "but I think she is better, decidedly better.
You see she does not moan at all now, or roll her head
about in that distressing way; and she has not a par-
ticle of fever, has she?"
"No, she has no fever," answered Ronald, "and I
think might sleep a little, if you will allow me to lay her
in her cot ; sleep will strengthen her, you know."
Instantly Dora rose, and with her own hands laid
her gently on the pillow. When she returned to her
seat she could not iielp noticing the attitude of deep
dejection into which Ronald had sunk. "You are ill,"
she said, softly, " or something new has happened in
this fated city. What have they done now ? We know
nothing."
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 145
He leaned towards her and took her hand in his.
"Dora," he began, — she shuddered slightly at this un-
wonted style of address, it made her fear she knew not
what, — "Dora, you must be strong and calm; in these
troublous days men and women are called upon to bear
terrible trials. For the sake of your child, who needs all
your care and strength" His voice broke down, and,
drawing her hand from his, she wailed forth, — ■
"Ah ! why do you not strike the blow at once? INIy
father ! he is hurt, wounded, killed, perhaps !" Her voice
rose at each word, and at the last it had grown into a
stifled shriek.
Ronald knelt on one knee before her, and said, striving
to speak calmly and firmly, " Your father did not suffer
one instant ; he has been saved all the tortures of a i)ro-
tracted siege ; in his old age he might have starved slowly
before your eyes ; he is now at rest, happy, perhaps, with
the wife that he has never ceased to mourn. Dora, it is
for the best. Oh, my friend, look up and tell me that
you feel it is best so." She answered nothing. Convul-
sive sobs shook her frail form from head to foot. Agnes
was wiping her own quiet tears away, in an obscure cor-
ner of the room. Ronald began again : " You will be ill ;
you are wringing my heart, Dora; have you no pity for
me?"
" Hush ! hush !" she cried, in anguish, " you must not
speak like this to me ! Oh, my God, is not my burden
heavier than I can bear?" She started to her feet with
streaming eyes, and paced up and down the narrow room,
moaning at intervals. Ronald sat with bowed head,
wrestling in his heart with the fiercest temptation he had
ever known. To go and take the desolate creature in his
strong arms, to be to her father, luisband, friend, all in
one, to hold her close to the heart which was bursting with
G 13
146 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
pity and with love for her in her helpless sorrow, the
heart which had never held another image than hers, that
was true and strong and noble to the core.
But this was not the time ; to take advantage of her
crushed heart in this hour of grief, when she might turn
to him through gratitude or loneliness, or for protection,
was foreign to his nature, and his voice was quite steady-
as he went towards her, saying, ''Should you like to see
him once more, dear? There is no wound that you can
see] he is quite near. Shall I come for you and Agnes in
half an hour and take you to him?" Dora bowed her
head in acquiescence, and Ronald went away.
He had ordered the litter-bearers to take the body to
his own number in the Rue de Vaugirard, and to request
the concierge to allow them to place it in the little salle
d^ aticnte on the rez de chaussee. There it lay, covered
with a snow-white pall which the good porteress had
thrown over it, after recognizing the features of the old
English gentleman who lived opposite. Ronald examined
the body attentively ; there was no drop of blood about it;
they had done their work neatly, those carbines of the
Gardes Mobiles. On the left side of the head the bullet
had entered, and gone out through the right, carrying life
with it. A few drops of blood had clotted the silver
hair ; the good woman liad washed these away and brushed
the soft locks over the wounds, completely hiding them.
The expression of the face was untroubled, almost a smile
lingered on the lips, and the eyes were closed naturally.
The white, slender, aristocratic-looking hands were folded
on his breast ; it was an image of rest and peace.
Ronald lingered awhile, giving orders for the burial on
the morrow, — explicit orders, paid for out of liis own
scant purse, — and then went to bring Dora to bid a last
farewell to her idolized father.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. j^-j
To his surprise he found her quite cahn, — very pale, and
with violet shadows under the heavy eyes, — but composed
and with an angelic softness about her manner. She
wished to go with him alone, she said ; " Marian cannot
be left without one of us, and Agnes shall go afterwards,
if she will."
With the same quiet calm, she entered the little room
where all that the world held for her of protection, love,
tenderness, lay cold and still in death ; then turned and
said, almost in a whisper, *' Will you leave me here a
little while alone, please?"
He went out silently and closed the door. After a
quarter of an hour, during which he had heard no sob or
moan, his anxiety conquered his will, and he opened the
door and entered. She was kneeling beside the litter,
with her face buried on the bosom of her father, one
of whose arms she had raised and placed around her
shoulders, holding it there firmly with one hand ; her
other arm she had slipped under the head, now, alas! so
heavy and unyielding to the tenderness of her caress.
As Ronald came near, she gently drew her arm away
and laid the dead hands together on the breast, and rising
slowly and painfully from her cramped position, said,
quietly, " Thank you very much. I will go, now ; and,"
stooping over the pale face once more and pressing a
kiss on the closed eyes, " it has been such a comfort to
me to I'/iow that he is so happy." He took her hand and
led her away, his heart too full for speech.
As they entered the little room where the sick child lay,
they trembled with apprehension ; perhaps the little one
had passed, in sleep, away. Agnes's voice, with a sub-
dued but cheerful ring in it, greeted them: "Oh, Dora,
I have had Marian up and fed her; and look." She drew
her to the table where the saucepan stood, half cinplicd
148 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
of its contents. "She seemed actually hungry and en-
joyed it, and went off to sleep immediately."
Dora listened eagerly, and then stepped to the side of
the cot where her darling seemed to be sleeping naturally.
In a moment she turned to Ronald, while a divine smile
broke over her pale features. ' ' You see, " she said, ' ' God
has pity upon me, after all. ' '
That night Jacques Toquelet, who had been one of the
litter-bearers of her poor father, brought a note from
Buchanan. It ran thus :
"Your father, dear friend, will be buried to-morrow
morning. Everything has been attended to ; should you
feel strong enough, I would advise your going with us. I
shall call with a carriage at nine o'clock a.m., and if
Marian continues to improve it will do her no harm, well
wrapped up, to go with you, if the weather should be
fine.
"Be brave, dear friend, and let the smile of hope and
faith I saw last in your face, rest in your heart forever.
"Ronald."
Jacques Toquelet also deposited with M6re Benoit, the
concierge, a basket containing a fowl, some potatoes,
white bread, and a couple of pots of prepared beef for
broth for Marian.
Dora, Agnes, and Marian breakfasted in the sunshine
which gilded the poverty of their denuded chamber the
next morning. At nine o'clock, a dingy fiacre, followed
by a hearse bearing a plain coffin, drew up to the door.
They were soon all on their way out to Fere la Chaise,
thankful for the inestimable privilege, denied so many
poor hearts in those days, of seeing their beloved dead
buried with the sacred rites of the Church.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 149
A simple wooden cross marked the last resting-place of
Dora's beloved father, bearing the following inscription:
To THE Memory of Vincent Fairfax.
Died January 22D, 1S71.
CHAPTER X.
A clear, crisp winter morning, without frost.
In front of the noble-pillared portico of one of the
"Stately Homes of England" which Mrs. Hemans sang
about, was drawn up a gay cavalcade of fair women and
brave men, mounted on fine horses, and moving about in
that state of suppressed excitement preliminary to a stun-
ning run and a sure find, on a hunting-day, when the
weather is not too gay for the scent, and the pack all that
could be desired.
There were half a dozen or more bright-faced girls and
young matrons, with sparkling eyes and peachy cheeks,
looking their very best in their perfectly-fitting habits
and neat hats, with tightly-braided blonde and chestnut
hair stowed away somewhere in the crown, and only just
appearing beneath the brim.
About twice as many gentlemen, — old, young, and
middle-aged, sitting square and firm in their saddles, — to
the manner born (if I may misquote), and looking a trifle
impatient at the slight delay before the hounds "throw
off."
The master of these canine beauties, with the keen eye
of a hunter from boyhood, stood a little apart, with one
l^o THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
or two other gentlemen, inspecting a favorite leash of
thorough-breds, lately added to the pack.
Reclining in an exquisitely-appointed pony-phaeton, en-
veloped in a rug of sable, velvet-lined, in one of her most
seduisante Parisian toilettes, lay Pauline de Courboisie.
She was unusually brilliant to-day, in exuberant spirits,
and monopolized the tiny carriage, driving herself (the
miniature groom was as ornamental as useless), for her
hostess, tlie Countess d'Hauteville, never missed a run
with the hounds on any occasion whatever ; and the man
she had hoped to have with her had resolutely refused to
double up his long limbs in her honor, and had ridden to
the meet, compromising matters by keeping steadily at
her side until now.
But she was not alone. Around her were gathered
together, on horseback and on foot, red coats, in all and
every phase of imbecility concerning her; and with them
all, in sparkling talk and brilliant repartee, she held her
own in French and broken English, which she lisped
with such beguiling simplicity. There were not wanting
women who asserted that, with her own sex, she could
speak their language volubly enough, and never wore that
delightfully na'ive puzzled expression, which arched her
brows and made her look so bewitching, as she asked,
"Can you not tell me what I mean?" with an appealing
glance at the best-looking man in the group. But then
these virgins were turned thirty who defamed her, and not
handsome.
A close observer would have detected, in Pauline's
brilliant eyes and coquettish manner, something a trifle
overstrained this morning; and, when she occasionally
allowed her lace parasol to droop a little between her
face and those of her adorers, she shot forth a rapid but
keen glance at the cavalier who had deserted her awhile
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
151
ago, and who was now absorbed in mounting, and ar-
ranging with much deliberation the folds of the habit
belonging to a foir, stately-looking'blonde, of a rare and
high-bred type of beauty.
As Lady Florence EUesmere gathered up her reins, and
thanked the tall, handsome man at her side, with a bright
smile and a few courteous words, granting him permission
to /eadher in the coming run, there flashed out from the
depths of Pauline de Courboisie's eyes a gleam as deadly
as ever brightened steel.
For the languid Adonis, who now vaulted into the sad-
dle of a superb chestnut, held in waiting by his groom,
was no other than Dyke Faucett, the man for whose sweet
sake she had come to wither in this cold, bleak, dreary
country.
What if she /lad been feted and courted, and passed
from one country-house to another as its choicest guest,
since her flight from Paris, carrying destruction every-
where, in the arch coquetry and charming viinaudcries
innate in her, and fostered by the exquisitely-polished
genre of the court circles of the Empire; turning men's
heads who might otherwise have gone down to respectable
graves ignorant of the song of the sirens, winning from
thwarted mammas and mortified daughters unequivocal,
and not unexpressed, disapproval: to say nothing of the
maledictions of many a neglected wife, who strove in
vain to attain the willowy grace of attitude and move-
ment, the delicate tapering waist, and that faint rose-
bloom on their own health-colored cheeks, which just
penetrated the ])olishcd ivory of Pauline's well-preserved
complexion ? And yet they could not see what the men
saw in that over-dressed, affected French doll; she was
certainly not good style, — and her husband abroad, too.
Indeed, they could not understand how the dear duchess
152
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
could have taken lier up with so much empresseinent,
etc. etc.
And she had forsaken her France, and all the delightful
chateaux which solicited her presence under the sunny
skies of her own land, for this.
True, there were piquant morsels in her daily fare, —
but would they not have been equally delicious away from
the fogs, and the east wind, and these horrible fox-hunts
which formed the staple of the winter's amusement, which
took all the men away from the house all day, and sent
them home tired and stupid, and red in the face, for the
eight o'clock dinner, more inclined for one more bottle
afterwards, than anything more stimulating and less sleep-
engendering in the drawing-room?
Yes, it was for this, — to sit and chafe inwardly, and
suffer in impotent anguish the pangs she had so ruthlessly
inflicted upon others, — chatting cheerily, and smiling
gleefully, while her heart wept sore within her, as she
noted the boundless devotion in every look and move-
ment of the man she loved towards a younger, fairer,
freer rival. Yes, retributive justice had seen fit to smite
her at last ; and the wily coquette, who had begun the
gz.vae pour s^ ami/ser, went down prone, in the abject idol-
atry of a woman who had never learned the lesson of
self-control. After she had given up speculating upon the
possibility of such a denouement, she struggled awhile
madly to disentangle herself from the meshes of a net
which restricted in a great degree her enjoyments, and
threatened to bind her down to the inthrallment of a
^i^rande passion ; but finding it hopeless, she resigned her-
self to the new experience, and poured into it all the
vehemence of her undisciplined nature.
Alas! not only was she willing to come at his beck to
these bleak shores of England, but even to the border-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 153
land of the great Unknown would she unhesitatingly have
followed his lead.
It did not make her pain less keen to know that in the
beautiful Florence Ellesmere she saw the woman chosen
by Sir Philip Standley as the destined bride of his adopted
son ; if one drop could be bitterer than another in the
cup which had of late been pressed to her lips, it was the
galling thought that one was free and the other bound,
and that Dyke loved himself better than either, therefore
he would be lost to her.
The hunting-party were all assembled ; many, especially
the younger members, impatient for the start, when Dyke
Faucett rode up to the side of the pony-phaeton to say
ail revoir to its fair occupant. She finished her gay speech
to an infatuated major of dragoons (why is the major in
a play or a novel inevitably a fool ?), on her other side,
long after she had felt Dyke's approach; and then, as he
addressed her, she answered in rapid French, which was
the signal for all the other men to disperse, who still hung
about her.
" I need not ask you how you have enjoyed the meet,"
he began; "only to look at you sparkling and brimming
over with witchery, and driving these poor fellows mad,
is indicative enough of your thoroughly amusing your-
self."
" Yes," she laughed, "yV ne m' eiinuyais pas irop ; I con-
trive to exist somehow ; but, oh, I do wnsh I could hunt !
You all look so very jolly, and it will be so insupi)ortably
triste a la maison, unless indeed that handsome sabrcur
has returned from town and will comfort me!" She
sighed.
"Pauline," Dyke began, impatiently, " you are making
yourself quite ridiculous with that American, of whom
you know absolutely nothing, — a conceited snob he is
154
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
too. Really, how you can spend hours in his society, in
a house so full of dels esprits as Grantly Manor is at
present, I cannot imagine !"
She waited patiently until he had finished speaking ;
every word \vas delightful to her ears ; he was really jeal-
ous enough to be unjust, and a trifle energetic !
"Pardon me, mon chcr,^' she rejoined in the sweetest
accents. " You are quite wrong; / do know absolutely
very much about this good-looking colonel. A gentle-
man who brings letters of introduction to the Duke of
L , and who is received at your best houses with ejn-
prcsscmeiit, is not unknown — or a snob."
"Perhaps," assented Dyke, ungraciously. "Still, that
does not alter my opinion of his priggish impertinence
and stupid assumption of superiority. I do not count
many Americans among my acquaintance ; but I cer-
tainly know no other of his stamp."
" Possibly," acquiesced Pauline, — " for he is decidedly
the most spirituel as well as the most fascinating man in
the house, and," she added, maliciously, "undeniably
he is the handsomest."
" Yes," replied Dyke, who instantly recovered his sang-
froid ; " he has a handsome face, of the style women
affect, I believe ; but the man is simply obnoxious to me, —
voild toutr^
"Strange!" murmured Pauline, meditativelj% "I
should have imagined you would have been great friends.
He is such a strong, noble, courageous creature ; and his
manners are simply charming. And oh, Dyke, what a
musical, trainante voice he has ! I have never heard one
to equal it !"
"And I am detaining you when you might be listening
to its dulcet tones!" cried Dyke, irritated in spite of
himself. " I have the honor to bid you good-morning."
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 155
As he put spurs to his horse and galloped after the party
who had just scattered, as the hounds threw off, and
Pauline saw him draw rein beside the Lady Florence,
she bit her li]j till it 4)Ied, while she smiled in her soul,
saying, "Yes, he is certainly jealous !" and drove quickly
home to transfix with a surer arrow the heart of that brave
gar(on, Percival Tyrrell.
But Madame la Marquise had met her match !
Ah, Pauline de Lenepvue, when you took to your arms
the decrepit form of the old Marquis de Courboisie, be-
cause his rent-roll and his pedigree were equally long,
when you echoed the shameless words of the beautiful and
ambitious de Pompadour when she married Lenormand
d'Etioles, untouched by his frantic love for her, — " I ac-
cept him with resignation as a misfortune which cannot
lasi long" (while her eyes were fixed upon the king), — and
stifled therein your last spark of true womanhood, you
lost forever the power to touch a heart like Percival Tyr-
rell's !
Had you also, like Madame d'Etioles, sworn eternal
fidelity to your husband ("unless his majesty should fall
in love with her !"), I doubt even then your being able to
blind a man of his quick perceptions to the rigid narrow-
ness of your soul ; and, as it was, he saw — and admired,
as we admire a conception of Rubens embodied in his
inimitable flesh-tints, — feeling through them — the clay !
For, although he was not that most intolerable bore, a
pedant, Percy Tyrrell was a deep student, and not only
of books but of that mysterious paradox — human nature.
With an intellectual capacity of a high order, he was
ambitious of acquiring knowledge, both for its own sake
and because of the legendary tradition — in which his be-
lief was firm — that it was poioer.
He was a very proud man, not mcrel)- in outward de-
156 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
velopment of character, but in the recesses of his heart
and conscience ; he held his own standard of right and
his own apex of honor, — and to both he was willing and
believed himself strong enough to sacrifice all that warred
against either. For he was that not uncommon antithesis,
— a Christian in form, at heart almost a pagan ! Rever-
encing religious faith as something divinely beautiful and
harmonious, and regarding its devout followers with a re-
spect and admiration not unmixed with envy, he had not
learned to regulate his own tlioughts, actions, and hopes
by the counsels drawn from divine inspiration.
In manner he was undemonstrative, quiet, and rather
cold ; one could rarely detect that he was disappointed,
annoyed, or grieved J beseemed perfectly self-reliant; it
appeared almost absurd to think that love's fitful fever
could ever sway the pulsations of that tranquil-seeming
heart.
And yet, had he once been able to trust a woman im-
plicitly, — to feel that he was all in all to one whom he
could thoroughly approve, — there were depths of tender-
ness in his nature which would make the "shallows"
which "murmur" seem but dry, barren soil. But that
woman had grown a shadowy, mythical creation of the
brain to his fastidious requirements, and his somewhat
cynical insight into human nature furnished no semblance
of the ideal he sought ; therefore, calmly and a little bit-
terly, he decided at thirty-five years to live out the rest
of his life, as fully as may be, alone.
That he reckoned without the consent of those weird
sisters who spend the strength in their bony fingers
tangling the skeins of life for most of us, he acknowl-
edged not — until afterwards.
And this was the man whom a Pauline de Courboisie
fancied she could bring into subjection by a few glances
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
157
of her brilliant eyes, a few murmured reproaches for a
coldness which repelled while it attracted her. For
Percy Tyrrell was a universal favorite with women, — per-
haps because he seemed so indifferent to their attractions,
— perhaps because all women worship strength and gentle-
ness combined; and these were his chief characteristics.
CHAPTER XI.
As the fairy-like carriage, with its spirited ponies, swept
swiftly around the drive shaded by grand old beeches,
and drew up before the entrance of an ancient pile, cov-
ered with moss and lichens and bearing on its noble face
the weather-marks of centuries, Pauline gave a rapid
glance around before she threw the reins to the tiny
groom and prepared to descend without the assistance she
had confidently expected would await her.
I fear her frame of mind was not angelic as she noted
the stillness which reigned about the deserted mansion, —
no sound save the cawing of the rooks in the rookery and
the plaintive moaning of the doves in the dove-cote to
break the silence. Not even a servant visible, of whom
she could make some inquiries. Ah, this was too much !
and poor Carlo, a handsome St. Bernard, who -liad cau-
tiously approached, received a vicious little kick from a
delicate satin boot, which ruffled his sweet, equable
temper only for a moment, and he walked away with
an eloquent dignity while the marquise pulled the bell
energetically.
" Colonel Tyrrell, — has he returned?" she demanded,
as the footman threw open the doors.
14
158 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
" Yes, my lady; he returned an hour ago ; he is in the
shrubbery somewhere, reading; I saw him a few moments
ago."
"Reading! always reading!" she muttered, as she
crossed the superb entrance-hall, which, by its vast pro-
portions, its high, carved chimney-piece, under which the
massive sideboard still stood, with its sculptured boars'
heads and wide-spreading antlers, indicated the dining-
hall of days of yore, where many a feast had been merrily
held, with wassail deep.
Through a second hall Pauline now sped, whose walls
were hung with favorite Landseers and large crayon like-
nesses of certain pets in the earl's stud and kennels, and
still she encountered not a human being. " It is like an
enchanted palace," she thought. " Where is Mignonne,
I wonder?" And she went on through the empty library
and into a small circular hall which separated it from the
billiard-room.
There, standing in the dim light, filtered into rainbow
hues through the magnificent stained-glass windows,
whence they fell upon the marble tessellated floor, she had
an excellent view of a tableau-viva7it, of which not the
smallest detail escaped her.
Three windows opening to the ground formed the south
end of the billiard-room, and in one of these, with the
sunshine falling here and there upon them through the
flickering leaves of the ivy which hung in festoons over
their heads, stood two figures who were worthy of an
artist's pencil.
A girl, slightly above the medium height, with one of
those lithe, willowy figures which it is a pleasure to watch
moving about ; with a small head bound tightly with dark
braids, the deep-blue eyes, black-lashed, and the rich-
colored cheeks and lips which showed her Celtic blood,
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 159
watched with loving glance a child who flew here and
there over the lawn, chasing a butterfly in. great glee.
Leaning slightly against the opposite side of the win-
dow, with his eyes fixed upon her eloquent face, Percival
Tyrrell completed the picture.
A man, tall, slender, wiry, — with not an ounce of su-
perfluous flesh about his well-knit, nervous frame, — witli
features clear-cut as a cameo, the lower part of the
face delicate, the nostrils arched and fine. His eyes, of a
clear blue-gray, expressed intelligence, and at times shone
with a cold, analytical severity; rarely did they soften as
at this moment, and more rarely still did the firm lips
curve into such a winning smile under the heavy mous-
tache that screened many a satirical expression which
rested there too often — for his own happiness.
And yet there was a languid grace in his manner, and
a tenderness towards all women and children, which con-
tradicted his cynical smile and proved an irresistible fasci-
nation. Few among the boisterous, muscular Christians
assembled at Grantly, who boasted so noisily of their
prowess on water and in the hunting-field, would have
guessed that this quiet, reserved, gentle-voiced and gentle-
mannered American — who gave but lame and impotent
enthusiasm to their dances, and smiled at their excitement
over the brush, and did not think the world well lost for
any da7iscuse that ever pirouetted — had through three years
of hard fighting, during the late civil war in his own
country, — leading into action sometimes three regiments
of almost undiscijjlined recruits, — spending the nights of
an American winter on the frozen ground, and sufi'ering
bitter privation of all kinds without a murmur, — shown
nerve and pluck which exceeds even that manifested in
the taking of fences in the fox-hunt or the pulling of oars
at a university boat-race.
l6o THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
That he had had seven horses killed under huii in
action, and that each hair of his head remained unin-
jured, was duly set forth only in the servants' hall by his
faithful mulatto servant, who went through the war with
him, and worshiped him accordingly, with the steadfast
devotion which is met with in his race.
For Tyrrell did not dilate upon his experiences, and
not even his hostess herself knew that she counted among
her guests one of the most distinguished officers who
figured in the late Rebellion, in the cold, quiet man in
whom she saw nothing more than a scholarly lassitude,
which, by contrast with the rampant spirits and exuber-
ant health of the other men, was delightful to her tired
nerves.
Tyrrell, upon his return from town, had taken a book
and sauntered out under the shade of a great copper-
beech, and tried vainly to resist the temj^tation to join
little Valerie and her governess, of whom he caught
glimpses through the billiard-room windows. He was
not loth to continue an acquaintance with the spirited-
looking girl, who had none of the depressed, dog-eared
look about her that he was accustomed to associate with
her vocation ; for when she accompanied her pupil to the
drawing-room after dinner, although she always chose the
shadiest corner therein, she did not seem to droop or look
bored. And if any one approached her, — which was rare
indeed, and 7iever done by women, — she showed an ease
of manner, and a certain stately grace in holding her own
in conversation, as though the blood of kings ran in her
veins.
And she was only the daughter of an Irish naval officer,
who died poor, and left her at eighteen, with her luckless
dower of beauty, upon the mercy of the world.
She had one brother, whom we have met before. Rich-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. i6i
ard Ogilvie, a ne'er-do-weel, who could just take care of
himself — no more — in those early days of his career.
Anne Ogilvie had been well educated, and for three
years remained as teacher in the school near London,
where she had already spent eight, of joyless life, and then
she accepted the position offered her by the superintendent,
of governess in the family of the Earl d'Hauteville. For
three years she had filled this somewhat trying position
with the unequivocal approbation of her patrons.
" She was beautiful, to be sure, but then she was modest
and retiring, and she was a lady, and that is so desirable,
you know, with a child of Valerie's age. Some of these
walking encyclopcedias are so very objectionable, my dear,
have such hands and feet, and dress quite shockingly, it
always makes me ill to see them about the grounds of the
places where I visit ; and as to having them in the draw-
ing-room, I should think that were quite impossible.
Now, Miss Ogilvie dresses like a lady; always quietly, like
a lady in reduced circumstances to be sure, but still, a
lady ; and then, her voice is very fine, and she is so
obliging about singing and playing accompaniments,"
etc. etc. So buzzed on her ladyship on those occasions
when her governess's beauty wagged the tongues of her
acquaintance, and silenced them.
As they stood together in the full glare of day (for
Anne's fresh bloom dreaded no sunlight, however search-
ing), Pauline de Courboisie took in the picture from the
open door ; and, setting her small teeth together firmly,
she registered a vow, in what she was pleased to call her
heart, "That girl shall leave this house. Last night Dyke
Faucett took her into the conservatory to show her the
new orchids, and — now — to-day " She turned sud-
denly, and mounted to her own rooms, where she spent
the remainder of the shining hours, alternately ill treating
14*
1 62 THE MILLS OF TILE GODS.
and caressing a hideous pug, Bijou by name, and extract-
ing from Mignonne, her precocious six-year-old daughter,
the gossip of the servants' hall, which her nurse faithfully
retailed to her.
Celestine, standing patiently behind her mistress, bene-
fited by the conversation, whilst she invented a coiffure
that should out-Venus Venus at the dinner-hour.
CHAPTER XII.
They were speaking of the book Tyrrell had been
reading, and, as he placed it in her hand, he said, —
" It is Lamartine's ' Confidences.' I have quite finished
it. You may like to look over it ; pray keep it. You
will find some beautiful thoughts there, and I think you
told me you knew French?"
"Yes," Anne replied; "I have read Graziella and
Raphael in the original ; they were very poetical. Is
this like them?"
"Yes; all his works are somewhat alike, in that they
are each but a beautiful setting for the gem, — Laviartine.
Even his 'Revolution of '48' is an exquisite bit of
egotism."
"Ah," she exclaimed, with a bright look, "then you
think with me that, however graceful his images or perfect
his ideals, Lamartine never loses sight of Lamartine !"
"Alas, yes," replied Tyrrell; "he is a profound self-
worshi[jer; a man who, even under the influence of the
divine afflatus, looks around the shoulders of the muse at
a reflection of his adorable self."
Anne laughed. "It is quite true," she said. "One
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 163
forgets to admire the poetry of his conceptions in wonder
at the sublime ingenuity of a vanity which would be
amusing were it not so pitiful."
"Like his compatriot, Montaigne," pursued Tyrrell,
"he studies himself more than any other subject. Do
you remember where he says, '/am my metaphysic, my
natural philosophy, my virtue, and my religion' ? "
" Yes, I remember, Montaigne always paraded his
faults, and he seems to me invariably to make a merit of
his selfishness, vanity, and skepticism. What a pity it
was!" she continued, musingly. There ensued a pause,
during which the little girl came up, and, leaning against
her governess, twined her arms about her waist. Anne
caressed her mechanically, her thoughts far off, and then
asked, "You would not compare Montaigne with Lamar-
tine, would you?"
"No, they are unlike in all things," replied Tyrrell,
"save that underlying current of self-worship, which we
find in German Goethe, in English Byron, and in our
great American giant, Emerson, who is indeed the Mon-
taigne of the New World."
"But without his coarseness, surely," remonstrated
Anne, " without that materialism which chains the French
skeptic to the earth, even in his most powerful efforts to
soar into a purer atmosphere?"
"Ah, yes," asserted Tyrrell; "Emerson is Montaigne
refined to an essence, which, while it contains a subtle
strength, is etherealized fragrance embodied in exquisite
language." Anne listened silently. "It is that," pur-
sued Tyrrell, presently, "which makes Jiim so attractive
and so dangerous, to women especially; who would turn
away uninjured by Montaigne, but who yield a loving
reverence to Emerson, saying, like Frederika Bremer, 'I
know he is not faultless; but then, — he is so lovely r "
1 64 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
At this moment Justine, little Valerie's French maid,
appeared, to take her young mistress to be dressed for the
early dinner which she took with Miss Ogilvie and their
young guest.
Anne also sped away to her pretty suite of rooms, carry-
ing with her her precious book, with "Percy Tyrrell"
scrawled on the fly-leaf.
That little book became a devoted friend of Anne's
during many dreary months of her life, and for many weeks,
when the burden of her days pressed very heavily upon
her, and when she felt very sad and lonely, Lamartine's
"Confidences" were stifled between her cheek and the
pillow, and sometimes drowned with tears. For her
lines were no longer cast in pleasant places, when they
crossed the path of Pauline, Marquise de Courboisie.
CHAPTER XIII.
The awful pause before dinner! When the guests are
all assembled, and the rustle of the ladies' dresses and
the stifled yawns of the men (who glance surreptitiously at
their watches every moment) are the only sounds that
break the stillness of expectancy. It is not worth while
to commence a conversation which may be interrupted
immediately by the appearance of the portly butler, and,
du reste, nobody has spirit enough to set the example.
A few tittered nothings from the mass of pink antl blue,
surmounted by blonde, crepe chignons in the corner, and
a laudable effort on the part of the hostess, are at last
checked by that most welcome Dius ex inacliina, — "Your
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. id-
ladyship is served;" and they file out, arm-in-arm, in
solemn procession, the etiquette of precedence being
rigidly observed, towards the brilliantly-lighted, warm,
flower-scented dining-room.
As they took their places at the sumptuous board glitter-
ing with gold and silver epergnes containing choice hot-
house flowers and fruits ; where the heavy plate was relieved
by painted china, equally costly, and glass whose exqui-
sitely-delicate form and tint shed faint flower-like hues over
the snowy damask underneath ; while the noiseless, liveried
footmen glided about observantly, and the pompous
butler waved his magisterial wand occasionally, animation
seemed to return magically to the exhausted energies of
the guests at Grantly Manor.
At either hand of the Countess d'Hauteville sat the
Duke of L and the Bishop of C , both men of
culture and conversational ability. The host was equally
well provided for, and the Ladies Florence Ellesmere,
Maud St. Main-, and Jane Evelyn, were supported by
Lord St. Maur, the Viscount Aguylar, and Colonel Stan-
bury, of the Rifles. The Marquise de Courboisie recovered
her good humor between Dyke Faucett and- Percival
Tyrrell, who, on his left, had the sparkling little widow
of the gallant Colonel Dundonald, of the 42d High-
landers.
Before the clear soup had disappeared the ball of con-
versation was rolling smoothly, and the hum of small-talk
and the subdued laughter of the ladies mingled pleasantly
with the popping of corks and the delicate aroma of the
pines and sweet-scented flowers, — not too powerful, how-
ever, to annihilate the bouquet of the priceless wines which
supplemented every course.
After awhile the small-talk grew into discussion, and in
one or two instances into argument, among the graver
1 66 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
members of tlie party. The duke and a vis-d-vis were
discussing the admission of a new member into the House
of Commons, — a mutual friend. This led to a complaint
on the duke's part of tlie engrossing nature of the duties
in both Houses to a conscientious member, drawing forth
the expression of Macaulay in relation to Horace Walpole,
that, "after the labors of the print-shop and the auction-
room, he unbetit his mind in the House of Commons,"
from his opponent, in a laughing contradiction of his
assertion.
"I am afraid," continued Lord St. Maur, who had
taken his seat in the upper House at an unusually early
age, and promised to be one of its brightest ornaments,
" that the pity wasted upon our arduous exertions is some-
thing akin to that one instinctively feels for the camel on
account of the hump on its back. I have heard that the
moment the smallest load is put upon the back of one of
these animals, he closes his eyes and bellows piteously,
although they can move along comfortably under a well-
packed burden of seven hundred-weight."
The duke smiled. " You speak with the ardor and
contempt of youth for obstacles of all kinds which beset
the earnest worker. To be anaccomplished statesman, —
to learn the disposition and genius of a people, and the
inclinations of his sovereign, diplomatists, and leading
minds ; to study the meaning of great treaties, the real
value and strength of the land and sea forces of all coun-
tries, — is not enough ! Principles, opinions, and interests
change, and one must be ever watchful, patient, and — un-
impulsive. To such young blood as yours, my dear Al-
gernon, I should always be tempted to utter Talleyrand's
warning to his impetuous friend who was just entering
upon his ministerial duties, — 'et 'awxiowi— point de zelc,
monsieur.^ "
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. iG-j
"Ah," laughed St. Maur, "if I were not by birth and
training as conservative as your Grace, I should imagine
you were pushing me for some daring innovation, you
speak so seriously. To my miml," he added in a lower
tone to Percival Tyrrell, who had been listening, while the
duke turned to answer a remark of his hostess, — "to my
mind, the infusion of young blood into both Houses is of
the greatest advantage — it reinvigorates them."
"Take care," answered Percival, smiling under his
heavy moustache; "you know the fate of the old bottles
^7hen new wine was poured into them."
"Combustion? Yes; but our bottles are iron-bound
and proof against accident of that kind," replied St.
Maur. "Why, earthquakes may swallow up kings, nations
may crumble all about us, the Prince Imperial may sit on
the throne of France, and the Czar of Russia in the chair
of St. Peter, but the house* of Parliament — those two
monuments to our wisdom — will be left standing in their
gloomy grandeur, breathing defiantly to the world,
' Aj>res nous, le deluge. ' " He stopped, out of breath, laugh-
ing with the rest, and turned abruptly to his neighbor, —
"Enough of politics; did you hunt to-day? I could not
get here in time."
"Yes," answered Lady Florence Ellesmere, "I did,
and enjoyed it amazingly. And," she added, with
sparkling eyes, " I have the brush ! I was in at the death,
and Mr. Faucett was good enough to secure it for
me!"
St. Maur suppressed a smile. " How very gratifying,"
he said. "I am sure you would not be willing to ex-
change it for the bay crown of Corinne at the capitol, or
even the sonnets of Petrarch's Laura?"
"Most certainly not," answered the beauty, disdain-
fully. "I consider a good run with the hounds superior
1 68 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
to either. As for Corinne, I cannot S3anpathize with her
morbid sentimentalism ; and, besides, I have an aversion
to her because she was an habituee of the school-room,
and is always associated with copy-books and the * use of
the globes' in my mind. As to Laura, who knows whether
she ever existed ? She was only a peg to hang Petrarch's
fancies on."
"Yes," replied St. Maur, "you are right. Every-
thing is dubious, and everybody mythical, in those days
before the institution of the fox-hunt. There is nothing
certain, any more than new, under the sun, excepting the
additional brilliancy and beauty of the fair Dianas them-
selves this evening ;" this to her, with an admiring glance,
and inwardly, "The fable of Prometheus is no myth, but
repeats itself eternally."
Faucett all this while was languidly laying himself
metaphorically at the feet of the Marquise de Courboisie,
and, as her neighbor on the other hand seemed absorbed
in an animated conversation with the pretty widow, she
bent herself to the employment of every art of witchery
known to the modern Circe, and had almost succeeded in
awakening him to a perilous animation, when the signal
was given, and tlie ladies were obliged to adjourn to the
drawing-room.
As she passed through the door held open by Faucett,
she murmured one word in his ear, which sent him back
to the table with a f^iint blush on his cheek and a danger-
ous glitter in his cold, blue eyes.
Pauline was not ignorant of the diabolical poison in the
Parthian shaft; and, as she swept across the hall to the
drawing-room, in her rich white silk covered with black
chantil/y, looped here and there with pomegranates as
scarlet as her lips, caught with diamond sjjrays less bright
than her triumphant eyes, she whispered to herself, "We
THE MILLS OF THE CODS. 169
shall see. No man ever trifled with mc with impunity;
Gare a vous ! Monsieur Faucett."
She endured the purgatory of an hour with the ladies
with cheerful resignation, and improved the occasion by
a few sweetly-delivered, spiteful speeches on a subject
which still rankled.
When the tea-service was brought in, Miss Ogilvie —
looking more than usually handsome in her ordinary dress
of rich black silk cut square at the throat, with a ruff of
rich old lace standing around the snow-white neck, with-
out other ornament than a pair of valuable pearls (her
mother's wedding-parure), which she wore in her small
ears, and the crown of dark hair which gave her a queenly
look — advanced with little Valerie from an obscure corner
and prepared, as was her custom, to make the tea.
" What a very handsome, ladylike creature that gov-
erness is!" commented the duchess, dropping her glass,
after a glance through it in Anne's direction. " She has
quite the ' grande air.' Indeed, she is far too beautiful
for most houses, but dear Earl d'Hauteville is so madly
in love with his own wife that he has no eyes for any
other woman !"
"Ah, really," murmured Pauline, with languid interest;
" and yet they say he is quite epris of the lovely governess
of late, although the dear countess docs not dream of it
herself."
" Is it possible !" whispered the duchess, horror-stricken
already. " Surely some one ought to warn the dear child.
What a snake the woman must be !"
"Your Grace has reason," replied Pauline; "some-
body ought to unmask the wicked girl. Did you ever see
a menial — yes, a menial, for, whatever her services, she is
paid for them, is she not? — with that air of the grafide
daiiic that she did not begin U) imagine herself mistress?
H 15
170
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
I never did. I had a maid once," she continued, " who
walked like an empress, and I dismissed her at once, before
she could imagine herself Marquise de Courboisie. I
regretted her, for she had superb taste, but que voulcz-vous ?
one must be careful."
"I shall certainly make it my business," said the
duchess, " to open this poor child's eyes before things go
any further. It is only a duty we owe each other, and I
should be rejoiced, if such a thing could be possible" (she
drew herself up, while the diamonds in her bosom flashed
with ducal indignation), "that anyone should warn me
under such circumstances."
"My Mignon tells me," drawled the marquise, "that
the earl is constantly in the school-room ; the little Valerie
is such a good excuse, you know. ' '
Her Grace fairly bristled. "It is infamous ! the earl in
the school-room ! Ah, I can scarcely contain myself!"
She contained herself just in time, for the footman
approached with a salver laden with cups of the chat-
inspiring beverage, and the door opened to admit a party
of gentlemen, among them Dyke Faucett, whom Pauline
summoned to her side by the faintest possible sign ; and
Percy Tyrrell, who, after a few words with the duchess,
now all smiles and graciousness, advanced to the corner
where the tea-maker rested from her labors.
"Has the 'cup that cheers' any attraction for you?"
she inquired, smilingly, as he sank into a causeuse whose
corner touched her table.
" Have you seen me show any marked predilection for
the rival cup," he asked, "that you should entertain a
doubt on the subject? I have been thirsting for this all
day," he added, trying to look in her eyes as he took the
fragile wonder in egg-shell china from her hand; and then
noting the deepening color in her cheek, fastened his eyes
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 171
upon the tiny thumb which appeared over the edge of the
saucer. " Did you know, Miss Oi^ilvie, that the thumb is
an index of character?"
"Indeed!" she laughed. "I am not versed in the
science of palmology. What does it denote?"
" D'Arpentigny says, 'L'animal superieur est dans la
main, V homme dans la potice,' " quoted Tyrrell, gravely
stirring his tea; " and variety of character and disposition
is determined by its dimensions. Now, a thumb such as
I was scarcely able to distinguish on the porcelain of this
saucer a moment since denotes that its owner is governed
in all things more readily by the heart ; while a person
with a large thumb, like mine, for instance, governs him-
self entirely by the head.'"
"In short," cried Anne, smiling, "the small thumbs
point out the amiable idiots among us, and the large ones
the Solons and Platos ! But is this test infallible?" she
asked. "Have you been under obligations to your
monstrous thumb for your merciful preservation all these
years from the weaknesses of small-thumbed humanity?"
"Love, I presume you mean by weaknesses?" de-
manded Tyrrell.
"Yes; but perhaps you do not believe such a thing
exists. La Rochefoucauld must have been /a;-^'-<?-thumbcd,
for he says, you know, 'True love is very like an appa-
rition ; everybody talks about it, but very few have ever
seen it.' "
"I agree with him," burst forth Tyrrell. ''The only
love-affair I ever had was p/atonic from beginning to end,
and discouraged me from any further attempt."
"Perhaps," rejoined Anne, "your admiration of this
man, with whose skepticism on sentimental subjects you
'agree' so completely, induced you to form a compact
similar to his own with Madame de Laf:iyettc. Nothing
172
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
could have been freer from weakness than that faithful
friendship."
Tyrrell knit his brows a moment, and then — "Ah, yes,
I remember ; madame acknowledges the platonic liaison,
on the ground, ' he gives me mind and I reform his heart.^
Was not that the tie?"
"Yes; very sensible, but unsatisfying, I fancy. A
woman's world cannot be peopled by her brain ; her
affections are her existence ; all the poets and romancers
are unanimous in that conclusion."
" And you? Do you share their opinion? You seem
to live and thrive, and yet I doubt the atmosphere about
you being over- freighted with affection or tenderness."
He glanced, as he spoke, at the coldly-impassive face of
the countess, who seemed absorbed in earnest converse
with her Grace, who, panting once more with righteous
wrath, delivered herself. Anne's face saddened ; with
eyes bent upon the hands lying clasped on her lap, she
remained silent.
Tyrrell, regretting that he had so clouded the brightness
of that face, changed the subject abruptly, and asked,
" Did you see the sunset this evening. Miss Ogilvie? It
was unusually fine."
"Oh, yes," she answered. "The superb sunsets here
compose my gallery of pictures ; I never miss adding one
to my collection if I can possibly help it. I have seen
the 'morning hours' called the 'prose of the day;' surely
our exquisite twilights are its 'poetry.' Valerie and I
generally walk to the ruins of the monastery to see the
sun go down behind the hills. Do you know the end of
the cloister where the great oriel stood?" He nodded.
"We sit there, on that crumbling ledge, and look out,
as it were, from the A'i.v of a theatre on the great pano-
rama which stretches out from that view. J think," she
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 173
went on, while a dreamy softness came into the blue eyes,
— "I think when that misty veil is drawn over the vivid
green of all those billowy meadows, reaching to the very
foot of the hills, while the sleepy cattle browse gently, or
lie about enjoying the rest and quiet, after the burden and
heat of the day, one cannot help drawing a part of that
peace and tranquillity into ©ne's very soul. I always come
back to the school-room feeling as if I had taken a fresh
draught of patience and strength ; and sometimes both are
needed," she added, smiling.
Tyrrell replaced his now empty cup on the table, and
then said, earnestly, " I have been trying to obtain some
information in regard to your brother. Miss Ogilvie. A
friend of mine, an American, is in Paris at this moment,
and I saw some of his people yesterday in town. They
are moving heaven and earth to get communication with
him, and if they succeed you will have tidings of your
brother."
~ " Oh, how can I thank you?" broke from Anne's lips,
as her face beamed with joy. " I have been so hopeless
lately of ever being able to discover any truth about my
poor Dick. How very good you are ! It was for this, then,
that you missed the hunt to-day?"
Tyrrell laughed. "It was not a heart-breaking disap-
pointment. There are plenty of foxes in the world un-
slain, but there are few opportunities of winning such
grateful smiles. May I not wear one of them in my
memory rather than the brush in my hat-band, if I please?"
That treacherous, quick Irish blood dyed Anne's cheek
again with its scarlet signal of distress, and once more
Percival came to the rescue.
" Poor Paris !" he murmured. "I fear there is but little
hope of her coming out of this fierce fire unscorched.
Everything seems against them; continual reverses,
15*
174
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
treachery, mistrust everywhere. And yet one's sympathy
is tempered by the thouglit that they brought all these
disasters on themselves, the madmen !"
"Oh, but that only makes it the more pitiable," urged
Anne. "A ship wrecked by a storm, with its crew on
board, is sorrowful enough, but a ship wrecked wantonly
by the grasping, cruel greed of a mutinous/t'W, is heart-
rending, — is it not?"
" You are right. Waterloo was less humiliating than
Sedan. I am afraid there is nothing left for poor France
now but Oliver Cromwell's dernier i-essort."
" What was that?" asked Anne, anxiously.
" His despairing command to his soldiers: 'Put your
trust in God, and keep your powder dry,' "answered Tyrrell.
Anne's smile was sad as tears. "Yes," she said, "all
earthly trust seems to have been misplaced ; they are un-
doubtedly doomed.' '
Before her companion had time to restore the cheerful
serenity of her habitual expression by a more successful
effort at changing the conversation, the earl had sauntered
up to the tea-table, and drawing little Valerie away from
Miss Ogilvie's side, where she always nestled contentedly
during the hour or two Anne was expected to remain in
tlie drawing-room, he asked, while he caressed gently the
golden curls, " What depth of metaphysics or philosophy
has Colonel Tyrrell plunged you into. Miss Ogilvie, — you
have both looked so solemn during this last quarter of an
hour?"
"Oh, nothing so abstract or so agreeable as those
interesting theories," replied Anne, rallying with an
effort; "we were speaking of the peril of poor France,
and her sufferings."
"And may I have some tea if I try to demonstrate to
the best of my ability that this scourging will ultimately
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 175
benefit 'poor France,' who undoubtedly needed to be
brought to her senses?"
Anne, smiling, handed him his tea, quite cold, but
sufficient pretext to warrant the earl's seating himself in
the chair Tyrrell had vacated at that moment.
As he stirred the unpalatable concoction, wondering
what he should say to this handsome girl a propos of
France's scourging, now that he had ousted Tyrrell,
Anne's eyes followed the latter as he lounged across the
room and sank with indolent grace into ?l fduteiiilhy the
Marquise de Courboisie, from whom Dyke Faucett had
craved leave of absence in favor oi Just one little cigar,
and I fear there was a wistful regret in their blue depths,
'' What could be expected?" the earl's voice broke in.
" Paris was pampered at the expense of the provinces;
the police and the press hampered with restrictions; the
supremacy of the priesthood daily increasing ; and all
these things, symptoms of a tottering government, were
ignored by the people until too late. The fact is, the
French were too completely bewildered by the magnitude
of their position of late ; they resorted to mean and futile
devices to increase it overwhelmingly, and their fall was
sure." The earl sipped his cold tea with a pleasant con-
viction that Anne must be duly impressed by these well-
ventilated sentiments. But she only sighed and said, —
"Ah, yes; it is very, very sad," — as she might have
assented to the most commonplace observation delivered
by any other than a peer of the realm, and a member of
the House of Lords, where his opinions were not denied
weight ! And then she asked : " Do you think, Lord
d'Hauteville, that the siege r^z;/ be prolonged to any greater
extent? Are not the people starving?'' Her voice
trembled, and a slight shudder passed over her as the last
word escaped.
1^6 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
"■ I very much fear they are," replied his lordship, — ''at
least the aged and the children, who cannot exist on coarse
food — and little of it. Some of the accounts are harrow-
ing indeed ; let us hope there is much exaggeration, which
is most probable." And the kind-hearted earl turned to
his little daughter again, and drawing her affectionately to
his knee : " Is this little girl all that can be desired, Miss
Ogilvie?" he inquired, pinching the dimpled cheeks with
gentle fondness.
"Indeed yes," the young governess replied, eagerly.
" She is as sweet and good and lovable as she can be. She
is improving so much in her French too. Speak to papa in
French, darling;" but Valerie hung her head and was mute.
" How do you manage to keep her so shy and retiring?"
the earl asked, well pleased, — "so different from the pert
forwardness of the precocious young ladies of her acquaint-
ance, who are only too obnoxiously ready to exhibit their
accomplishments
" I fancy there is a good deal of the violet in the na-
ture of my little Valerie," replied Anne, coloring with
pleasure at the faint word of praise which rarely greeted
her best endeavors. "She is naturally timid, and very
sensitive, — almost too much so, I fear, for her own happi-
ness." And she looked lovingly at her little charge.
Silence a moment, and then Valerie spoke, drawing
closer within her father's arms: " Why do you not go
out with us, papa, as you used ? It has been four weeks
(is it not four weeks, Miss Ogilvie?) since you walked to
the monastery with us I When will you come with us
again? We miss you so much; do we not?" nodding
appealingly at Anne for confirmation.
"It would be far pleasanter were papa to join your
rambles, darling, iox you ; but would it be so agreeable to
papa? that is the question," Anne remonstrated.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. ij-j
" 'To be, or not to be/ papa?" laughed Valerie, her
shyness vanishing before her father's affectionate glance
and the loving pressure of his arms about her. "Are we
to have you for one little, wee hour, away from all these
grand people, in the old jolly way, before they came here,
— every evening before dinner? Oh, yes; say yes, dear
papa. Do help me to persuade him. Miss Ogilvie ; nobody
could refuse _)w^ anything ; and Colonel Tyrrell is not half
so amusing as papa."
A quick gleam of intelligence shot forth from the earl's
eyes right into Anne's, as her cheek crimsoned. "Then
you have found a substitute for papa already ! Ah, in-
constant little girl ! How can you expect me to forgive
such treachery?"
Valerie's eyes filled. "Oh, papa, it was not I who
wanted him ; that is, I t/o like him very, very much ; but
I never asked him to fill jour place. I love you best,
of course, and he shall never go again if you will only
promise to come with us; shall he, dear Miss Ogilvie?"
Whether Anne would have perjured herself under stress
of severe embarrassment is not known ; for at that instant
Lady d'Hauteville approached, with an unwonted cloud
upon her placid brow, and the icy breath of the glacier in
her clear, cold voice, which seemed to cut deeper than
Anne's ears as these words dropped from her compressed
lips: "I should like a few moments' conversation with
Miss Ogilvie in the library, if she is disengaged."
The earl, whose practiced ear recognized the bugle-note
of danger, — with a pang of sympathy in his heart for
Anne, — arose, and, taking Valerie by the hand, strolled
into the conservatory, while the poor young governess,
struck dumb by this unprecedented summons, followed the
countess mechanically from the roo.n.
H*
178 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
CHAPTER XIV.
The library was but dimly lighted, and as her lady-
ship sank with an exhausted air into a large arm-chair
drawn up in front of the blazing wood-fire, the expression
of cold severity in her face was plainly distinguishable,
but of Anne's, as she stood by the chimney-piece with
one hand resting lightly on its carved surface, nothing
could be discerned save that her head was carried rather
more erect than usual, and the color seemed to have all
faded out of her poor face.
" Miss Ogilvie," began the countess, "I have desired
this interview, that I might acquaint you with the fact
that for the future your presence will not be required in
the drawing-room, or indeed outside your own apart-
ments, excepting during those hours when you walk with
Lady Valerie iJi the grounds, — outside of them I do not
wish her to go."
"Very well," were the only words Anne could force
her tongue to pronounce, and turned towards the door.
Her hand was on the knob, when with an effort she re-
traced her steps, and, coming close to the countess's side,
said, gently, " May I not know in what I have offended,
or failed in my duty?"
"I have no complaint to make," returned that lady,
wliile her white face, with its pale-colored eyes and straw-
colored lashes, and the thin-lipped small mouth, which
could smile so sweetly when it cliose, and could be so
very "firm" where tl-e convenances w^x^ assailed, seemed
to grow colder still in the fire-light. " Towards Valerie,
you arc all ihat can be desired ; I have nothing fui thcr to
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
179
say." She waved a thin hand, bloodless but begemmed,
in token of dismissal, and Anne, bending her head
slightly, left the room.
The earl's slumbers were somewhat protracted the next
morning, the natural result of having been called upon, in
the dead of night, to extenuate his marital probity to his
outraged spouse.
Her grace the duchess slept profoundly, and, I fear,
snored, for she was a bonne vivante, and inclined to cor-
pulence ; and
Lamartine's "Confidences" received their initiatory
baptism of — tears.
CHAPTER XV.
An unwonted darkness brooded over the distorted face
of suffering Paris on the night of the 25th of January,
1871.
Rain poured down in torrents; the guards who patrolled
the outer Boulevards and the Place de la Bastille were
chilled to the hearts, under their dripping water-proof
capes, and the soughing of the Avind, through the almost
deserted streets, sounded like the wail of a lost spirit.
The Communists, since their last defeat at the Hotel de
Ville, had been apparently tranquil ; but Flourens, cha-
fing at delay, was biding his time. The people of Paris
seemed stunned for the moment by the fact that the
enemy was at their very gates, but they soon rallied, and
capitulation was as strenuously opposed as ever. But, by
whom? The governor of Paris had sworn to die before
he would give up the city, it is true, but the National
I So THE MILLS OF THE CODS.
Guard, stirred up by that eloquent fire-brand, Gambetta,
and the starving, wretched, broken-hearted, but not
broken-spirited, population of women, cried out, "After
the forts the barricades, and after the barricades, we will
burn the city ; that resource remains to us !"
All this time the French and Prussian batteries were ex-
changing fire; mitrailleuse and cannon were stationed
before the Hotel de Ville and the Louvre, on the Rue de
Rivoli, and the various Places ; battalions of National
Guards assembled daily, while regiments of infantry and
cavalry, and Mobiles, occupied the other side of the
Champs Elysees.
Provisions were almost exhausted; meat, excepting the
high-flavored horse-flesh and the succulent rat, had en-
tirely given out ; the infirm and the aged were dying as
fast as the helpless children, of hunger and cold and
despair.
It was close upon midnight, and still the rain came
down, and the wind howled drearily, mingling its woeful
voice with the occasional booming of the cannon from
the forts.
Dora drew her watch from her bosom, and, leaning
towards the lantern hung against the wall, murmured to
herself, " Midnight, and he has not yet come ; what can
it mean? Agnes!" she called, softly.
It was a long room lined each side by narrow cots, in
each of which lay, in the sleep of exhaustion, or tossed in
the restlessness of pain, a victim to the chasscpots or the
nlidelirewehr of civilized warfare. Over the head of each
bed hung a little ticket, bearing the number by which its
occupant was designated.
Kneeling at the bedside of No. 16, Agnes was striving
to cool the burning head of a poor fellow who had suf-
fered amputation of both limbs the previous day, and
THE MILLS OF THE CODS. i8i
whom fever was fast destroying. He was a mere lad, —
not eighteen, — and had a comely, provincial face, whose
honest blue eyes filled with grateful tears more than
once, as Agnes bathed his forehead with iced water and
turned his hot pillow with dexterous hand.
At a little distance stood another angel of mercy, wear-
ing the Geneva cross on her sleeve, — a French lady of
rank, Madame de Bergeret. Her husband, in the army of
Napoleon, had fallen on that disastrous day at Sedan, and
when the news was gently broken to her, and she was im-
plored not to give way under her bitter trial, she drew her-
self up, and said, proudly, without a tear, "Give way?
Wherefore should I break down ? Had my Victor owned
a thousand lives they should each have been dedicated to
our France ! He died gloriously, as the Emperor should
have done, on the field of battle." If she ever wept her
Victor, it was in the dead watches of the night, and the
story of his life's sacrifice was recounted, dry-eyed, by
her to many a wounded soldier nursed by her unflinching
but tender hands. She was invaluable as nurse during
operations which caused both Dora and Agnes to grow
faint and useless ; her eagle eye and strong dark face
never blenched where nerve and pluck were imperatively
demanded.
"Agnes," asked Dora, in a whisper, approaching the
cot of No. 1 6, " is it not strange tliat Mr. Buchanan has
not been here all day, or to-night? Can anything new
have happened in Paris, do you think? and it storms so
terribly." She ceased, with a slight shudder ; it was chill
in that dim-lighted, carpetless room after midnight.
" Nothing new, dear, "answered Agnes; " but how pale
and weary you look, Dora ! Ah, give up to-night, and
rest a little. You have no right to destroy yourself; think
of little Marian. Where is she ?"
i6
iS2 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
"Come and see her," answered Dora; and, after a
few words to Madame de Bergeret (Soeur Therese, as
she was known in the ambulance), they left the room
together.
Just outside, in the corridor, was a little "cabinet"
devoted to the storing of lint, bandages, splints, etc., and
containing a sofix, a table, and a chair. On this sofa Dora
had obtained permission to lay her last remaining treasure,
wrapped in the woolen cloak (which covered her from
neck to heel when she went into the streets), on the three
nights weekly which were allotted to herself and Agnes
to watch by the bedsides of the wounded. Little Marian
slept here very comfortably, and on the alternate nights
shared tlie poor room which Dora and Agnes occupied
near by, where they tried to find rest on a mattress of
husks, and to warm their half-frozen feet and benumbed
fingers over a couple of miserable chauffereties.
But Marian was warm and comfortable to-night, for
there was a small stove in the room used for preparing
messes for the patients outside. There she lay curled up
like a little white rabbit, under the warm folds of the woolen
cloak ; all her golden curls in disorder, her thin little face
flushed with sleep, and the sweet, red lips parted with the
soft, regular breathing of health.
"How well she looks," whispered Agnes, "and how
lovely ! Could you not lie down with her there for a
little quarter of an hour? I will watch, and awake you at
one o'clock."
" Oh, Agnes, if she had died !" cried Dora, unheeding
the last suggestion, and gazing at her idol with love-
brimming eyes. " I could not have borne it ; indeed, I
could not."
" liut she (lid not die," returned the more practical
Agnes, " and you must try your very best to get stronger
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
1S3
yourself, or you may be called to bear a heavier sorrow
than that."
"Oh, what, Agnes, what do you mean? Could any-
ihi/ig be harder to bear than to see her die?"
"Yes: to die yourself, and leave her, as I was left, —
alone on the charity of the world," answered Agnes.
"Now, dear, you will rest awhile, and," taking from her
pocket a piece of dark-looking bread, "eat this; I had
more than I wanted to-day."
"Oh, Agnes, was there ever such an unselfish angel as
you on earth before?"
But Agnes had vanished to her post by No. 16, and
Dora, with a moan of real weariness, threw herself on the
hard couch beside little Marian, holding fast in her hand
the morsel of bread, lest her child should awake hungry,
as she very frequently did, poor little dear !
How long she slept she knew not ; but she was awakened
by the tramp of many feet outside in the corridor and
the subdued hum of many voices. The lantern hung in
the centre of the cabinet \\2iS, burning dimly, and a few
struggling rays of light through the persiennes assured
her of the commencement of another day.
It was five o'clock, that hour in winter the most chill
ami comfortless of all the twenty-four. Dora rose to her
feet stiff and un refreshed, and tottered to the door, for
there was certainly a fresh arrival of wounded, and her
services might be needed.
As she opened her door, four men carrying a litter, on
which was lying a form with a handkerchief thrown over
the face, wearing the uniform of a National Guard, passed
her. By the side of the litter walked Ronald Buchanan,
his face white and rigid. Dora trembled, and a fear shot
through her heart born of sympathy and cpiic k intuition.
"Can it be the friend — his fricntl — of whom he has
1 84 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
spoken so often to us, who was in the Gardes Nationales,
and whom he has not seen for days?" She waited breath-
lessly, until they had disrobed the senseless form and laid
him on his cot ; and then behind the screen which was
drawn around him, whence only a few stifled moans be-
trayed that he still lived, Buchanan was tenderly dressing
the frightful wound which had laid open poor Ogilvie's
skull by an inglorious sabre-cut in the hand of a drunken
Mobile. For, amid all the other horrors of famine, cold,
and want, the "wet damnation" of drunkenness had crept
into the ranks of the soldiery to a fearful extent.
That night a party of Mobiles had demanded entrance
at the house of a respectable bourgeois, whose two sons
had gone to fight for their country. The old man was
suspected of having stored up provisions, and these hungry,
absinthe-maddened wretches broke in upon his startled
family, devoured all they could get, and frightened the
women out of their senses. They were proceeding to
institute an orgie upon the relics of some old Burgundy
found in the cellar, when two or three National Guards
passed the open door. Hearing cries for help, and the
sobs of women, they entered unceremoniously, and soon
a terrible conflict was taking place in the comfortable
sitting-room of the family. The Mobiles were two to
one, and well-armed ; but, being all of them more or less
intoxicated, the contest was equalized. What the result
would have been, Heaven knows, had they not been in-
terrupted at the height of the melee by a posse of gens-
d'armes, whom the incessant screams of the women had
attracted to the scene.
The Frenchmen fought like devils ; Ogilvie fought like
a Briton. They fired here, there, and everywhere ; slashed
with their swords' and sacre'd in guttural gasps. Ogilvie
used his fists; down went a spluttering Gaul, who was
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 185
brandishing his sword over the young Englishman's head ;
down, as if dead at his feet, with one blow between the
eyes ; down went a second victim to muscular science, and
a third would have followed, had he not struck viciously
at Ocrilvie's uncovered head with his sabre. As the door
burst open to admit the gens-d'armes to the rescue, the
foremost one received in his arms the senseless form of a
man wearing the National Guard uniform, whose face was
deluged with blood from an ugly sabre-cut over the right
temple.
Buchanan's duties at the hospitals had been unremitting
that day, and he had just turned, tired and sick at heart,
into the narrow street leading to the ambulance hospital,
to refresh himself with a sight of Dora and her friend,
when the litter-bearers passed him, and a fragment of
their conversation caught his ear. "Yes," they were
saying, *' he is certainly dead, ce pauvre Anglais ; he is a
fitter subject for a pine coffin than an hospital ; que diable
allait-il faire a Paris ? If he had remained in his own
country he would have saved his skull. ' ' Buchanan waited
under the lantern at the entrance to the hospital, and
when they approached and he saw lying senseless, under
the pouring rain, the ghastly face of the jovial chum of
many long years, his heart quailed within him, and his
hand trembled as he threw over the poor, drawn face his
pocket-handkerchief. His voice was almost choked when
he addressed a few inquiries to the bearers of this sad
burden, and directed them where to place it.
The day was far advanced before Ronald stirred from
behind the screen which still sheltered poor Ogilvie from
the gaze of others, and when he came forth he looked wan
and ill, and very anxious, for he was very doubtful of the
success of the trepanning which had been necessary in this
case, and he had conceived a warm friendship for this
1 86 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
whole-souled, fearless, generous-hearted man, which he
was slow to form, and gave not lightly up when formed.
Dora had been watching for him all the morning, with
a heart full of sympathy, and eyes full of pity (for she
knew now that it was his English friend whose life was
apparently ebbing away); but she was engaged far off at
the bed of a convalescent, reading, as she had promised,
a page of the Gaulois to him.
She saw Agnes meet Ronald as he emerged, and hand
him the cup of coffee which they had prepared together,
and as she noted the sweet smile which lit his sad face for
a moment as he thanked Agnes for her thoughtfulness, a
sharp pang struck through her heart. She did not hear
Agnes's eager reply, — "It was Dora's suggestion; she
feared you would feel faint from exhaustion. Is the poor
man's wound fatal?"
" I fear so ; he seems sinking. It was a terrible gash ;
the only wonder is that he lived to get here."
He put down the coffee, untasted, and covered his face
with his hands. Agnes stood silent; she dared ask no
further question.
After a moment, — " It is Ogilvie ; my friend, and Sister
Agnes," — a little effort at a smile, — "I want to put him
under your charge until all is over, — may I ? He cannot
last long, and I should like him to be carefully tended ; I
will be with him as much as possible."
"I shall do my best; do not despair. Think how
many have been given up for dead who have recovered.
If careful nursing will save him he shall not die."
Ronald took her hand in his, as he had done once
before, when he confided Dora to her charge (how long
ago that seemed !), and said, " I thank you ; you are indeed
a sister of mercy and loving-kindne.ss."
Dora, afar-off, watching this little scene, bent her head
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 187
suddenly over the paper, the lines of which swam before
her tear-filled eyes.
Ronald gulped down the coffee in three mouthfuls, and
then disappeared again behind the screen with Agnes.
He lingered there long enough to give her careful direc-
tions, and then, with a long breath of relief, turned towards
the other end of the room where Dora still sat, reading to
the crusty little Frenchman, who commented and criti-
cised every article with the ironical spleen of his bilious
little nature, until she was ready to scream with impatience
and vexation.
She did not stop reading or raise her head as Buchanan
approached, she saw him taking Agnes's hand all over
the little sheet of the Presse ; and, when he came quite
near and addressed her, to his surprise she answered
coldly, with scarcely a glance, "I am very well, thanks;
and you?"
"I am not well," he replied. "I had a most exhaust-
ing day yesterday, — I have been up all night. Agnes's
coffee has restored me somewhat, but I feel shaky yet."
"Why do you not go home and sleep?" she asked,
anxiety getting the better of pique. " You could have a
few hours at least to-day."
"I cannot," he said. "I must not leave Ogilvie for
an hour."
" Is it " she began ; her voice broke down.
"Yes," answered Buchanan, shortly; "I have done
all I can for him, and left him in Agnes's hands ; there
will be no change for an hour, I feel sure. Could you get
out, do you think ? A turn in the sun would do us both
more good than sleep with anxious hearts."
She rose instantly, and, putting on her black bonnet
and cloak, and Marian's little hat and jacket, they turned
to the door.
1 88 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
The rain was over, and the clouds were breaking away
before the face of the sun. The streets looked clean and
bright, and people were filling them in every direction.
A long line of women stood patiently before the door of
a baker, each waiting her turn to get a little loaf or two
of a doubtful-colored bread. They passed a man who
had four rats tied on a stick ; he was selling them at one
franc each. This sight seemed to recall something to
Ronald's recollection. He thrust his hand into his sur-
tout pocket and drew forth two new-laid eggs.
" I forgot these," he said. "I brought them for Marian.
They cost me an hour's argument and an amputation.
Boil them for her dinner; but only one at a time: eggs
are very rare."
Dora placed them, with a bright look of gratitude, in
the little basket on her arm ; she was going to do her
marketing for the day.
"Will you dine with us to-day?" she asked, archly.
"We are to have ' pofage a la printaniere,^ ^ navets au
naturel,^ ^ pommes de terre sautees,'' and black bread."
To her astonishment he answered, gravely, "Thanks;
1 will dine with you with pleasure. At what hour?"
"At five o'clock, in the little 'cabinet,' " she replied,
with drooping head (there would not be enough for two,
let alone tliree, in her little basket, even with Marian's
eggs).
He watched her from under his eyelashes.
"You will not be offended if I supplement your very
good viemi with 2^ piece de resistance I was presented with
yesterday by the same person from whom I begged the
eggs. He is an old rascal, whose son was hurt on the
Place of the Hotel de Ville a week ago (I was obliged to
take off one of his arms, which was shattered by a chasse-
pot), and the old man wanted to pay me in money for
THE MILLS OF TILE GODS. i8g
my obliging services. But I had heard that in his garret
he had a poultry-yard, from which he occasionally sold a
fowl at enormous prices ; and I suggested, in view of this
dinner-party, that he should give me as a fee a couple of
good fowls. He consented, and gave me a pair (I have
them safe, don't fear). And then I asked for a few eggs ;
but the old fellow was immovable, and I could only extort
two for my little pet. But will you ask me to dinner as
long as the fowls last?"
"Indeed, yes. Oh, how glad I am! Agnes has been
actually starving."
"And you?" he said, tenderly. "You are not looking
as robust as you ought. You are getting so small and
frail that the wind will blow you away from us some day,
and then "
"And then," she returned, " you will still have Agnes
left, and she is the best nurse, you know, or you would
not have given her this important post."
"I gave it her," he replied, gravely, "because it will
require unwearying attention, and that you are not able
to endure just now, nor would I suffer it to be imposed
upon you."
Ah, Dora, keep those golden-gleaming eyes of yours
hidden under their long lashes, for they are speaking to
the heart of the man beside you in a language which you
never more may use.
She was so happy. It was not January, it was surely
June, the sun was so bright and warm. Her feet scarcely
touched the earth ; and, when she returned to her post in
the hospital, a lovely rose-color made her face radiant in
beauty, and there was a light in her eyes born of the
knowledge that she was beloved.
190
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
CHAPTER XVI.
To every man who has passed the rubicon of his first
'quarter century, whether by the pons asinorum, or other-
wise, there have been presented experiences, however
widely differing in tone and circumstance, of the same
general character. The tale of our daily life, if carried
back a few centuries and clothed in steel and fustian,
would appear to knight and yeoman as a specimen,
strange only from the extra bloom, forced in the hot-
house of civilization, the kernel being always the
same.
It will not, therefore, be necessary for me to explain
why the frugal repast, cooked and served by Dora's fair
hands in the petit cabinet at five o'clock precisely, ex-
ceeded in delight any banquet of the gods given on the
heights of Olympus.
They were all very hungry, to be sure, and this in itself
is a sauce piquante that Brillat-Savarin could not concoct.
The table was laid for four, with somewhat cracked parti-
colored china, and not much table to spare, but the nappe
Avas spotless, so were the napkins, and the poulet fricassee
delicious. The vegetable soup (vegetable pur et simple)
was delicately flavored and hot (two good qualities for
soup, rather rare), and, although it looked un pea niaigre,
the carrots and square bits of turnips bobbed up and down
in an effort to look jolly, which was laudable, if unsuc-
cessful. T\\t pommes de terrc sauiees could not have been
excelled at Philippe's, and the three hundred grammes
of black bread tried to hide themselves bcliind the soup-
tureen in a shamefaced sort of way.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 191
They were very happy, for the critical hour when poor
Ogilvie's life had hung in the balance with death, and a
straw's weight would have kicked the beam, had gone by
and left him conscious, and, although excessively pros-
trated from loss of blood, restored to a sense of outward
events, and on the hope-list of convalescents. Ronald
watched by him until five o'clock, and then begging
Soeur Therese to take his place, joined Dora, Agnes, and
little Marian at dinner.
Human nature is an insolvable enigma ; is it not ?
Here were three people, possessing not one pound
sterling between them, who had bartered away, one after
the other, every object of value they owned ; behind them
the past four months, one series of horrors, privations, and
trials ; before them the future, _a great, black, impenetrable
cloud of certain calamity ; around them the moans of
the suffering, and the murmurings of rebellion among the
people ; beyond these the incessant booming of the can-
non in the distance. And yet, these three people, the
imaginative, timid Dora, the thoughtful, gentle Agnes, the
earnest, provident Buchanan, with baby Marian on his
knee, were eating their fricassee and drinking their via
ordinaire (surely no Falernian ever tasted better), not
with long faces and lugubrious sighs, but with cheery
words, and soft, musical laughter, subdued from respect
to outsiders, but bubbling from the heart nevertheless,
while the glow in Dora's face reflected itself in each of
those about her.
In the life of almost every woman there comes one in-
terval of happiness as free from taint of earth as that
which filled Eve's soul as she gathered in the sunlight
of God's smile of all the fruits — save one — during the
guileless innocence of her first days in Eden, an hour
when the unacknowledged love in her heart finds its re-
192
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
flection in another, and the pure blossom, with the dew
still clinging to it, expands into full flower in the exotic
atmosphere of a mute reciprocation \ a divine flower, not
breathed upon by vows, nor robbed of its bloom by hand-
ling, however tender, nor placed on a level with vege-
tables and weeds by barter, or exchange, or the foot-
trampling which is inevitable in the dense crowd of a
careless-stepping humanity.
In this spontaneous offering of soul to soul, needing
no words or protestations, but stealing into her inner
consciousness, an intangible perfume of love, Dora saw
no danger, dreamed not of actualities, accepted the beau-
tiful present without a glance back or forward. It was
only long after, when life narrowed down to a blank
drawing of the breath, — nothing more, — when, while
the hands toiled patiently, the soul took its ease in the
slumbrous inaction of a dull despair, and the sacred fire
was quenched under the ceaseless dripping of the inane
platitudes which fell upon her with the stone-wearing per-
sistency of her forced surroundings, it was then that she
felt most bitterly the result of having walked, in joyful
ignorance, in that rarefied atmosphere which tries too
severely human lungs, and leaves them ever after more
sensitive to the chill breath of the world-mistral.
Had she known what it was that lifted the sad weight
from her heart, that gave the days wings, and made this
French ambulance refuge a very heaven of joy amid the
shrieks and groans and cries of a purgatory through
which she moved like an angel, carrying balm upon its
wings, her face lit up with the soft radiance of a loving
charity towards all the sorrowing, the suffering, and the
sinning, springing from the fount of love within, — had she
known whence sprang that fount, she would liave i)lucked
out this new life in her heart, then and there, unhesitat-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
193
ingly ; for she was pure and white-souled as her four-
year-old Marian.
But it is not thus that we are allowed to shape or de-
termine the weight of the crosses laid upon us. Our eyes
are sealed, until they assume such proportions as shall
chafe sorely the tender flesh, and bring from the heart
tears of blood, and bow the head humbly to the eventual
crowning — let us pray — of immortality.
And so they dined, and chatted, and shook out the
golden dust from the petals of a blissful present over the
grim, gaunt realities around them, until they even laughed
gleefully among themselves, and found as much pleasure
in the chocolate-sticks which served as dessert as could be
extracted from the pines and forced grapes of a bloated
sumptuousness.
"I do not think I ever shall regret," said Agnes, nib-
bling at her share of that delicacy, " having been in Paris
during the siege ; it is certainly an experience which {q\^
can count in their lives, and I confess to a leaning towards
the unusual in our daily walk."
" How very high the convent walls must have seemed
to you!" laughed Dora. "Do you imagine she could
have endured them d la perpetuite?'''' (to her vis-a-vis).
"I fear not," answered Ronald, smiling. "You re-
mind me, Sister Agnes, of a speech of George Sehvyn's
after a terrible orgie the night before : * I look and feci
villainously bad; but, hang it, it is life ! it is life T
You are willing to suffer all things for the sake of adding
to your experiences."
"Ah, not so bad as tliat," she protested, laughingly.
"I am not insatiable in search of adventure, though J
do soar sometimes above convent walls."
" I cannot help feeling that if one of us ivas to he shut
uphere,^' said Dora, " how fortunate it is that wehoth "
I 17
194 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
{"Both/ do you hear that, Marian? JVe are not counted
in," interpolated Buchanan) — " that we both," continued
Dora, unheeding, "should have been prevented from
escaping. What should I have done without Agnes?"
"And what would Agnes have done without you?" she
replied.
"And what would have become of Marian and me
without you both?" piteously cried Ronald, stealing
another chocolate-bar for his little friend. " It was all
foreordained," he continued; "you are aware that 'there
is a divinity which shapes our ends, rough-hew them as
we may' (so the Bard of Avon assures us), therefore the
inscrutable hand of fate has brought together these three
noble specimens of three separate nationalities ; for you
call yourself American, do you not?"
Dora raised her head a trifle proudly, as she answered,
"Certainly; I was born under the shelter of the great
republic, in its noble forest and among its kindly people;
surely I can be proud of my nationality, and of that glo-
rious country?"
" Yes," Ronald answered, gravely. " You own a noble
birthright in claiming as your native land this vigor-
ous offspring of dear old England. America has always
commanded my admiration, and of late years my
sincere respect ; she has wiped out gloriously the great
stain of slavery, which was the only grave blot on her
escutcheon."
Dora's eyes shone. " I do love to hear America praised
by an Englishman," she said; "generally they feel it a
bounden duty to snub us d V oiitrance ; I was always bris-
tling like a porcupine among the English residents in
Rome."
"Really," exclaimed Agnes, "I could not have im-
agined you would show so much spirit in waving your
THE MILLS OF TLIE GODS. ipt
'stars and stripes'; it is positively bringing some color into
your cheeks."
Dora laughed. " Let us have some of your ' Ach Gott !
mein liebe Vaterland,' from you now, Agnes, and then Mr,
Buchanan will sing ' God save the Queen,' and we will
disperse quietly."
"No," answered Buchanan, " you shall have no roar
from John Bull to-night ; he is in a quiescent frame of
mind, not to be piqued or driven into any enthusiastic
demonstration whatever: he is simply thankful that he
— exists."
"And yet," said Agnes, "I have heard of people,
under pleasanter circumstances than yours at present, re-
gretting that they ever had been born; how strange that
seems to me ! ' '
"And," Ronald rejoined, " I have no doubt there are
instances on record, of people who would feel grateful if
the same extinction of existence were extended to some
of their relatives and acquaintances."
"Oh, how dreadful !" exclaimed Agnes and Dora to-
gether; and the latter continued, —
" One who stands alone, without a connection or near
relative, feels this almost a blasphemy." She looked sad
for a moment.
Ronald regretted his last speech, and returned to the
first idea : "Do you not think that there are some people
in the world who care little for life? The great host of
Buddhists, who are probably the largest religious com-
munity on earth, look upon life as the greatest misfortune,
and upon death as a blessed release."
"Ah," exdaimed Agnes, "that is not peculiar to the
Buddhists; look at the starved lives in the convents,
simply waiting fur death."
" It is all very sad," murmured Dora ; " and the world
T96 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
seems so big, and so full of work to do ; and pleasant
work, too."
" That is quite true," assented Buchanan; " there is no
excuse for idle hands in this vast work-room, and still
there is no art so highly cultivated as that of killing
time without labors
"Is it not Auerbach who says that 'leisure is diviner
than labor, and the gods leave drudgery to mortals' ?" asked
Agnes.
"Yes," answered Buchanan, "you have some very
lazy dreamers in the fatherland ; but their dreams are
more effective than our steam-engines sometimes."
"Thanks" (with a mocking bow) "for qualifying
that first mild slander. Have not the Rhinelanders
proved lately that they can do sojnething more than smoke
and dream .?' '
"Ah, yes, Frdulein,^'' laughed Dora. "You can afford
to be magnanimous and overlook home-thrusts now ; you
think, alas, that the poor French people could not see
through your dense pipe-smoke the clinched fist which
has struck them to the earth."
"Don't grow melancholy about the result of their
short-sightedness, petite Anicricaine,^^ retorted Agnes.
"You know one of your favorites. La Rochefoucauld,
says, ' We all of us have sufficient fortitude to bear the
misfortunes of others.' "
" Pardon me," cried Buchanan ; " are you not mistaken
in attributing that cynical sentiment to La Rochefou-
cauld ? I have no doubt he thought it, but it is our
Swift who says, ' I never knew a man who could not bear
the misfortunes of others with the most Christian resig-
nation.' "
"I do not know," began Agnes, doubtfully; "I am
almost certain I have quoted correctly."
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 197
"You have," pronounced Dora, emphatically. " I have
often read that passage in La Rochefoucauld, and I have
seen it also in Dean Swift's works ; and," she hesitated a
moment, as if trying to recall something, "is it not Shak-
speare who says, ' Every man can master a grief but he
that has it' ? which is the same sentiment in another
dress,"
"And who shall deny, after this," cried Buchanan,
" that a literary kleptomania existed even among the
greatest minds? There must have been dishonesty some-
where; who was the thief?"
" That is a question," laughed Dora, "for graver heads
than ours. I should not like to accuse Shakspeare of
petty larceny."
They all laughed again at this, and felt rebuked imme-
diately, as a gentle knock sounded on the door-panel.
" Come in," was answered by Sceur Therese, who begged
Agnes to return to her post, as ChirHrgicn Sauter had
called for her, in the amputation-room.
Buchanan, handing her the last remaining glass of wine,
begged her to be seated, and little Marian pressed upon
her acceptance some chocolate.
Agnes had returned to the bedside of poor Ogilvie,
whose pale, pinched features lighted up with a faint smile
of welcome as she drew near.
"Shall I see you again to-night?" asked Buchanan, as
he lingered a moment after Madame de Bergeret had gone
to her i)ainful task, of Dora, who was busy removing the
traces of their late meal before retiring to her little
room across the way, for it was an off-night of her duty
at the hospital.
" No," answered Dora, with that hesitating, tremulous
intonation which makes tio more affirmative than yes.
"We are going home soon, Agnes and I, ami baby. I
17*
198 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
slept last night, but Agnes has not been in bed for two
whole nights."
"I am glad," he said (he looked rather sorry). "I
will watch Dick to-night, and, after I have just looked at
him for a moment, I will come and take you and Agnes
home. Shall you be ready in a quarter of an hour?"
"Oh, yes," Dora answered, gladly; she dreaded
above everything going into those dark, soldier-sprinkled
streets. Indeed, since her father's death she had never
been allowed to enter them without Ronald's protection
after dusk. Ogilvie had dropped into the slumber of
exhaustion when Ronald appeared behind the screen.
How changed he looked, — the ruddy complexion so pal-
lid, the genial blue eyes so dim and hollow, the muscular
frame helpless as an infant ! And twelve hours had done
this ; in such frail caskets are our souls enshrined.
Ronald observed him anxiously and critically for a
moment, and then beckoning Agnes to follow him, stepped
outside, and said, in that gentle, yet firm tone which no
one ever dreamed of disputing, " I shall send one of the
good Sisters of the inner ward here immediately, to take
your place until I can see you and Dora safely home. I
will watch Dick myself, to-night."
"But," she could not help remonstrating, "you are
utterly worn out; you look almost as badly as he does;
have you no mercy on yourself?"
He smiled and shook his head. " I am not to be sub-
dued by such a trifle as the loss of a night's rest. I will
expect to see you in the little cabinet in ten minutes."
And he went away in search of a substitute until his
return.
That night, Dora wept sorely on Agnes's bosom after
the light was put out, and the three helpless ones were
curled up in their warm nest together.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 199
"Why do you weep, my darling?" quoth gentle Agnes,
caressing, with a pitying tenderness (for the quick, sym-
pathetic nature had already divined the cause of those
tears), the bowed head of her friend. "What is your
trouble now?"
" My trouble, oh, Agnes, is that I have been so happy
to-day, — so happy ! — and the grass is not green on my
dear father's grave." And she sobbed afresh.
"Yes, dear," replied Agnes, "that is true; but, Dora,
do you not feel sure that your father has smiled before
to-day, in heaven? Wherefore should you grieve?"
Dora kissed her gratefully, and they slept.
CHAPTER XVII.
" Citizens :
" The enemy has just inflicted on Paris the most cruel
insult that she has yet had to endure in this accursed war ;
the too-heavy punishment of the errors and weaknesses
of a great people.
"Paris, the impregnable, vanquished by famine, is no
longer able to hold in abeyance the German hordes.
On the 2Sth January, the capital succumbed, her forts
surrendered to the enemy! The city still remains intact,
wresting, as it were, by her own power and moral grand-
eur, a last homage from barbarity !
"But, in falling, Paris leaves us the glorious legacy of
her heroic sacrifices. During five months of i)rivation
and suffering she has given to France the time to collect
hericif, to call her children together, to provide arms, to
200 THE MILLS OL' 7 LIE GODS.
compose armies. . . . Thanks to Paris ! we hold in our
hands, if we are but resolute and patriotic, all that is
needed to revenge, and set ourselves once more free !
"But . . . without our knowledge, without either
warning or consultation, an armistice, the culpable weak-
ness of which was known to us too late, has been signed,
thereby delivering into the hands of the Prussians the
departments occupied by our soldiers. . . .
" Prussia relies upon the armistice to enervate and
dissolve our armies, and hopes that the Assembly, . . .
under the impression of the terrible fall of Paris, will be
ready to submit to a shameful peace, . . .
" Frenchmen :
"Remember that our fathers left us France, — whole
and indivisible ; let us not be traitors to our history. . . .
" Who, then, will sign the armistice ? Not you, legiti-
mists, who fought under the flag of the Republic, . . .
nor you, sons of the bourgeois of 1 7S9 ; . • . nor you,
workmen of the towns, whose intelligence and generous
patriotism represent France in all her strength and grand-
eur; . . . nor you, tillers of the soil, who never have
spared your blood in the defense of the revolution. . . .
No ! Not one Frenchman will be found to sign this in-
famous act. The enemy's attempt to mutilate France will be
frustrated, for, animated with the same love for the mother-
country, and bearing our reverses with fortitude, we shall
become strong once more and drive out the foreign
legions ! . . .
" To arms !"
This stirring manifesto from the eloquent Gambetta,
like the hot breath from the cannon's mo ith, swci)t the
land witli increasing desolation. The National Guard
had obtained permission to retain their arms from Bis-
mark, — a concession perhaps not so magnanimous as it
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 20 1
looked at the time, — afterwards a frightful calamity ; — it
may be, not entirely unforeseen by that astute diplomatist.
May God forgive him !
From the issuing of Gambetta's war-cry, succeeded by
more pacific proclamations from the few lovers of order
who remained in this bedlam, Paris had been in a constant
ferment. Secret societies threw their death- fraught shells
from the ambush of incognito; men suspected of treachery,
or of being Prussians in disguise, were dragged to the
Seine and drowned without mercy ; sometimes as many as
twenty or thirty thousand persons were assembled on the
Place de la Bastille; (fortunately, the police had seized
some time previously ten thousand Orsini bombs, and
hundreds of others charged with fulminating mercury).
There seemed to be but one spirit among this indomitable
people, — the spirit of defiance !
At last, on the ist of March, the enemy fulfilled the
threat which had so excited the derision of the French,
and which had been their triumphant cry throughout the
war, "To Paris!" and kindled their bivouac-fires in the
beautiful Champs-Elys6es.
Alas ! what a sad contrast to the first opening spring
day of other years ! The leaves of the trees refused to
come forth, and the buds of the flowers to blossom, from
very shame !
During the three pitiful days of the unwelcome foreigners'
visit, the city mourned outwardly, as well as in the bitter
hearts of its people. The Bourse, the shops, the cafes
were closed ; the eight gigantic figures on the Place de la
Concorde, representing the towns o " France, were veiled
in black crape; from the windows hung black flags, or
the national flag draped with crape; few women stirre<l
without, and those wore complete mourning. Ah, it was
all as sad as it could be !
I*
202 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
The hospitals were crowded with the wounded and the
dying ; the labors of our three friends unremitting.
Dick Ogilvie, entirely recovered from his wound, had
rejoined his regiment, but carried with him that which
disabled him for all his future life from rejoicing in that
ir^Q gaiete de cceur, which had never been under the influ-
ence of any more serious passion than a momentary flirta-
tion would call for.
A week after his accident he had pulled Buchanan's face
down to his pillow with feeble hands, while he whispered,
"Who is this angel you have set to watch over me,
Ronald ? She has the sweetest face and the softest hands
I ever felt."
"Well !" exclaimed Buchanan, "for a half-dead man,
you do show a surprising amount of energy in your in-
vestigations ; it's the best symptom I have observed yet.
She is a dear, good little girl as ever lived, half English,
and with good blood in her veins, I fancy. None of your
larks with her, Dick, my boy."
"You mistake me utterly," returned Ogilvie. "I
meant no disrespect to her, bless her ! But not being
used much to women folks of her description, about me
(I scarcely remember ever hearing a sweeter voice than
hers), I appreciate the novelty, don't you know? Where
is she now, I wonder? I do wish you would not drive
her away, Ronald," he somewhat peevishly concluded.
Into such littleness does the mas.er-weakness of our hearts
betray even the sweetest tempers among us.
Agnes was just outside, preparing a bowl of broth for
the refreshment of No. 25 during the night. She turned
quickly at the sound of Ronald's voice, —
"Sister Agnes, will you just turn this poor fellow's
pillow for him, and give him a sup of that bouillo7i?
Meanwhile, I will visit my other patients,"
THE MILLS OF 7 LIE GODS.
203
No. 25 was smiling broadly when Agnes reappeared at
his side armed with soup-bowl and napkin, but pretended
to be still too weak to hold the spoon himself. Gravely
she pinned the napkin about him, and fed him as she
would have done a child. He delayed the consumption
of the rather tasteless bouillon as long as he decently
could, and took more than was good for him, devour-
ing, at the same time, with his eyes the sweet face of the
unsuspecting girl, whose thoughts, meanwhile, had strayed
to Dora and sleepy Marian, who were waiting for her in
the corridor.
At length Ronald returned and released her, and, with
a hastv touch or two to the arrangement of a little table
containing his tisatie, etc., and a "good-night," without
a glance in Dick's direction, she sped away to join Dora.
" She might have said good-night to a fellow decently,"
muttered Ogilvie, stung by her eagerness to escape, and
turned a moody face to the wall, where he nursed his
wrath to keei) it warm, until the sun looked in upon him.
During the ensuing weeks of his enforced idleness,
although he did not cease to regret the unlucky blow
which had struck his sword from his hand at this interest-
ing crisis of the siege, when strong arms and sane heads
were in demand, Dick Ogilvie could not deny that he
found some compensation for his seclusion in the intelli-
gent companionship of the Madonna-faced, sweet-voiced
Agnes.
And when the last day of his convalescence came, and
he was pronounced "whole," he came to say farewell to
his gentle nurse before returning to the fierce whirlpool
which hissed and seethed outside; a spasm seemed to con-
tract his heart, and he could only stammer out a few
incoherent words, and get himself away as quickly as
possible.
204 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
And Agnes, after watching him go forth, pale and thin
and weak-looking, to the imminent peril with which the
very air seemed charged at that time, went back to her
seat beside another poor fellow who had come to grief
(and who was no other than Jean Picot, poor Ernestine's
husband), and glanced over at the empty white cot of No.
25 with a sigh of genuine regret. " Shall I ever see him
again?" she asked herself. "What clear, honest eyes he
had, and what a sweet smile ! And how disputatious he
was ! — always arguing for the love of argument, and yet so
very good-natured about it. Ah me!" Another sigh,
and then a smile', at a folly which was so foreign to her
habit of thought. For Agnes was a very little nun at
heart, and knew not that through the long silent watches
of the night, and the days spent in tender ministration to
her patient's suffering requirements, — in those delightful
hours of convalescence which she passed in reading from
his favorite " Ingoldsby Legends" (a well-thumbed vol-
ume, his inseparable companion, and which he had, with
a laudable effort of generosity, presented to her as a token
of his gratitude before leaving), — she had let her heart
slip from her unawares.
And Agnes sighed and smiled, and sighed again, and
tended poor Jean Picot with mechanical assiduity, and
resisted not the temptation to compare the brown, knotty,
toil-hardened paws, which lay in jjassive weakness outside
the white bed-covering, with the comely-shaped, filbert-
nailed, large, white hands of her last patient ; nor did she
fail to wonder how there could be such vast difference
between the coarse, black, unkempt crop which veiled the
low, sunburnt brow of poor Jean, and the soft, luxuriant
silkiness of the wavy brown hair she had brushed with such
admiring care every morning, during those past weeks.
And when sleep closed the lids over the beady black
THE MILLS OF TILE GODS.
20:
6)63 of honest Picot, she drew from her pocket the dog-
eared "Ingoldsby," and lost herself in the inimitable hu-
mor of its quaint pages. Scarcely a day passed that Dick
did not appear at the hospital to report himself doing
well, as he explained ; and, on some precious occasions
when Ronald was unable to get away, he had the over-
whelming satisfaction of escorting Dora and Agnes to
their quarters for the night.
Indeed, of late, since the capitulation had stirred up to
boiling-point the city, he had considered it necessary to
accompany them nightly, even when Ronald was at lib-
erty ; and there existed a tacit understanding among the
four tliat, up to any reasonable hour in the evening, they
would each wait for the other; and Agnes had never been
known to offer objection to the plan, although Ogilvie
was almost invariably the latest of the quartette, through
his imperative subjection to roll-call and muster.
CHAPTER XVIII.
It was the night of the iSth March, when two women
with pale faces lined with that agony which ages one in a
single night, — suspense, — met for one moment behind the
screen whicli inclosed another dangerous case in their ward.
Neither dared acknowledge to the other, scarcely to
themselves, the fear wliich had drained the life-blood from
their cheeks and lips, but in that momentary meeting, two
cold hands met and crushed each other in a grasp of pain,
while, "God help you !" burst simultaneously from each
pitying heart.
iS
2o6 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
It was nearly midnight of that fearful day of horrors
which saw the assassination of General Le Comte and
poor old Clement Thomas.
Since early morning the cry of the Communists had
been echoing throughout the streets; Montmartre had been
occupied by some of the National Guards, who had taken
forcible possession of the cannon stationed there; skir-
mishes had been frequent throughout the city; drunken-
ness abounded among the demoralized soldiers; shouts,
menaces, bullets, filled the air.
In the afternoon, the two courageous generals who paid
so dearly for their efforts to restore order were conducted
by a hundred of the Nationals, supported by the hooting
rabble, to the top of the hill at Montmartre, and after a
mock- trial, or no trial at all, were shot.
The civilized world blushed at the manner of their
death, and their blood cried not to Heaven in vain. Is
not civil war with its ghastly train of evils looming in the
distance?
This evening the Hotel de Ville is filled by the National
Guard (the government has fled to Versailles), and the
Commune is proclaimed !
Liberte! Egalite! Fraternite! Under these three
banners, blood is to flow again !
In vain had those who sought to restore order amid
this chaos, placarded their proclamations and paraded the
streets, sometimes numbering among their ranks as many
as three thousand men, cheered by women from the
windows as they passed, bearing on their flags the pacific
sentence, "Meeting of the friends of order!" always
supplemented by the gopular " Vive la Republiquc T'
In vain ! The last attempt to organize a meeting on
the Rue de la Paix was frustrated by the madmen, who
confronted these tliree or four thousand unarmed citizens
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
207
by a body of the National Guard, armed to tlie teeth,
under orders from the Central Committee.
A pistol-shot, the usual signal (fired by whom? God
knows), was followed by a volley of musketry poured out
upon the defenseless crowd, who fled sli licking with
horror, leaving killed and wounded behind them.
The Hotel de Ville, where the members of tlie Central
Committee are sitting, is formidably defended; the Place
Vendome is thronged with insurgents, piles of stones here
and there through the streets suggest the barricade ; on
the Place de la Bourse are glittering piles of bayonets,
and crowds of people congregated, gesticulating fiercely.
Lines of National Guards and Mobiles defend the
entrance to the Rue Vivienne ; the Belleville fire-eaters
drag their cannon through the streets, yelling defiantly ;
more than ten thousand men well-armed, ready for the
spark which shall ignite their gunpowder, fill every quarter
night and day ; cries, groans, and curses, and the hideous
sounds of drunken revelry, resound throughout the doomed
city, — and the Commune is born !
Three days later, night again, — a beautiful moon-flooded
night ; an unnatural stillness, an ominous C|uiet, brooding
over the palpitating city, asleep on the mouth of a volcano !
Every hour the muffled sound of many feet is heard
passing l)y : it is the Mobile patrol making its rounds;
now and then the butt-end of a musket strikes the pave-
ment, or a cannon heavily rolls by ; no other sounds are
heard. It is the pause when the wind takes breath before
the storm breaks into fury; il is the calm, sultry liour
before the volcano bursts into eruption.
The new-made widows and the childless mothers dry
their tears and hush their sobs, to listen to the first rumble
which will warn them that the hour of ruin has struck.
2o8 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
The morning is breaking; all the east is waking up in a
glory of rosy flushes. After the golden serenity of the
night, the morning dawns full of a delicious balm, breath-
ing forth the very spirit of peace and good will towards
men.
But the eyes of these poor Sodomites are blinded ;
they saw nothing but the glitter of the sunrise on their
bayonets. Who shall see another day dawn ?
And this will be the fifth day since either Ronald
Buchanan or Dick Ogilvie have been able to visit for a
moment the ambulance hospital.
Dick, having been refused a half-hour's leave, in the
exigency of an excitement which threatened every moment
to become a revolution, had confided sundry billets to
Z-gatJiin, who for a slight consideration had promised to
deliver them faithfully, and who, being of that low order
of urchins who get more kicks than half-pence, with a
conscience long ago seared by the hot brand of cruelty,
kept the consideration and dropped the notes in the
sewer.
Unluckily, Buchanan, being detained over-night by a
press of work, had had the audacity to communicate
the fact to Dora, with some directions in regard to the
patients belonging to his ward, and to conclude with a
quotation in German, and " ScJdiifcn sic 7aohl ?'^
He was writing hastily in a ca/c which he did not usually
frequent, — a nest of bonnets-rouges. When he had finished,
he beckoned ^ gar^on, and, giving him some silver, urged
him to fly to the hospital on the Rue at once. The
man promised to do so, and Buchanan went away.
Scarcely had he turned liis back than murmurs arose
among the denizens of the cafe, who were busy imbibing
the columns of the Vengetir, the Cri du Peuple, and the vile
destroyer, absinthe.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 209
"Who is he? the aristocrat ! What does he do here
without a carbine ? He is a spy ! A Prussian ! Ah, sacre
viille tonnerres ! Give us that letter," etc.
The terrified gar(on yielded without remonstrance, and,
on opening it, the execrations burst forth afresh.
"Ah, did I not tell you so? Look at this! and he
dares to come among us, the cochon (V Allcmatid ! Here
is proof; this is German ! — and this, and this !"
He rose to his feet, a great, red-haired giant, in a uni-
form of the National Guard too small for him, out of
which seemed to overflow his great bony wrists and ankles,
his bull-dog neck, and great red beard.
" After him !" he shouted. " Stop him ! We want no
letter-writers among us ! No German dog shall rest in
Paris .'"
"Follow him! Stop him!" cried they all, dashing
down the street. In a moment they came in sight of him,
and he, hearing their fierce cries and wondering what it
all meant, turned calmly around and waited until they
came up to him. He did not look much surprised, but a
good deal contemptuous, as they Laid violent hands on
him; he only said, in excellent French, as he shook them
off as a great Newfoundland would a couple of curs, " It
don't require a dozen men to arrest one. What is my
crime ?"
" A la lanierne /" returned the fanatics. " To the Seine
with the (log of a German !"
"But I am not German !" In vain Buchanan repeated
this assertion. Through the increasing darkness of the
streets he was hustled on, — on he knew not whither, —
encircled by a mob which grew momentarily larger and
stronger. The red-haired giant held him firmly by the
shoulder : on his otlier side walked a man with a loaded
pistol. Buchanan ceased to struggle or remonstrate; he
iS*
2IO THE MILLS OF TLLE GODS.
walked silently, proudly, his head up. They were ap-
proaching the Seine; a roar of delight arose from the
madmen around him as the glimmer of the water shone in
the light of the rising moon. They pressed more closely
about him ; although this was not an uncommon occur-
ence — this drowning of suspected men, — it had lost none
of its zest yet, and they feared a surprise. One came !
As they passed a corner shop, brightly lighted, one of the
escort made a sudden movement of astonishment, and
ejaculated, catching firmly the right arm of the giant red-
beard, " Simon, we are wrong ! this man is English ! I
know him !" He tore back the cape of his top-coat and
showed the cross of Geneva on his sleeve. " I answer for
him ! Pierre ! Simon ! take your hands off this man !"
But Simon replied, with a hoarse laugh and an oath,
" What does he here with a cross on his arm in place of
a carbine in his hand ? What does your Englishman write
German for? To the Seine with him !"
"Not so !" shouted Jacques Toquelet, in a voice of
thunder. "You take him to the Seine over my dead
body ! He is a surgeon, I tell you; he has helped many
of our poor fellows back to life ; he is a good man and a
brave one ! He shall not die ! Jacques Toquelet has sworn
it!"
His voice, his earnestness, carried conviction even to
these half-maddened animals. There were murmurs, and
the man on the other side put up his pistol and took his
hand off Buchanan's arm.
A Mobile, just behind him, proposed that he should be
confined in the guard-house imtil further investigation
should be made, — accepted by a majority. In the guard-
house he spent the night, and they — forgot him. The
guard supplied him his rations during those five wretched
days and nights, and then, after repeated efforts, a com-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 211
munication reached the English embassy, and he was set
free.
How the flower of love expanded into perfection during
those hours of anguish and suspense in Ronald's heart,
and in poor Dora's, may be told by those who have loved
and suffered.
For forty-eight hours Dick Ogilvie and his men have
not slept, and, weary but resolved, have remained on duty
in the Place de la Bourse, to which now, however, a fresh
detachment have arrived, and these poor fellows will be
enabled, after five days of almost continuous duty, to get
a little rest.
But Dick prefers to refresh himself in his own way; he
makes a fresh toilette, after a plunge in the Seine, and
takes a hasty cup of coffee.
At six o'clock he might be seen walking slowly along
the quiet Rue de Valois with a slight little figure hanging
on Iws arm, and two lovely blue eyes raised to his with
more than a suspicion of tears in their depths.
Both Agnes's little hands were clasped on the sleeve of
her companion, and there was a little tremble in her voice
as she said, "You will never, — never do this again ? You
cannot think how anxious Dora and I have been !"
"You?" he said, suddenly stopping and turning a little
towards her. " Oh, my darling, I can scarcely realize the
fact that you did care so much. And to think that that
brown-faced imp never brought you a single line from me !
Did you think I was dead, little one?"
" I cannot tell you all the fears I had ; I was very
wretched ; but there were few hearts in Paris that were
not nearly broken during these last days. Why should I
complain?"
"Oh, Agnes," Dick burst forth suddenly, "this is, in
212 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
truth, no time for love-making or fine speeches, but if
death should be in store for me in the great struggle which
is inevitable now, and drawing very near, I think I would
die happier if I could feel that you would love and weep
for me."
This was a long speech for Dick, and not in his line at
all ; but when is a man consistent to his prejudices after
he has taken that leap in the dark, — fallen in love?
All the white purity of Agnes's face and neck crimsoned
for the first time in her life, at the stirring of a new-born
delight, as she said, timidly, "You will not expose your-
self unnecessarily, will you ? Ah, have pity upon those
who sit at home and wait for your return ; their pain is
deeper than any pang a bullet can bring to you !" There
was a ring of passion in her voice which betrayed how
great had been her loving anxiety for him. He bent his
head suddenly, and kissed the little hands upon his arm.
It was close upon ten o'clock when they parted inside
the outer door of the hospital ; in Agnes's liand was a
tiny bunch of early field-flowers, bouglit from a blind old
woman, Dick's first love-offering; in her lace was the joy
and freshness of the spring.
Ogilvie looked a little graver than usual, as he prom-
ised, come what might, to see her once in every twenty-
four hours that he lived ; and then, as the flush suddenly
faded from her face, the meaning of those words flashing
over her, and she broke down for a moment in hysterical
weeping, so unusual to her calm, tranquil nature, he folded
her in his arms and pressed kiss after kiss 6n her bonnie
brown liair, her tender hands, her snow-wliite eyelids,
and, with a " God bless you, my own darling !" he tore
himself away.
From that moment Agnes's peace was gone ; through
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 213
all the dreadful days and nights and weeks of terror and
despair through which Paris now wrestled for its life,
Agnes shared the sorrow of the wife, the mother, and the
sister of the soldier, whose life was menaced hourly in the
fratricidal frenzy of their own people.
As Agnes hung up her bonnet and cloak in the armoire
of the corridor, she became conscious that Dora was ap-
proaching her from the door of their ward, with a quick,
eager step. But, for the first time, she shunned those
loving eyes; how could she explain these traces of tears,
her long absence from her duties ? how breathe the story
which was so new yet to herself?
But Dora observed nothing ; she came quite close, and
asked, in a rapid whisper, " Have you heard where he is,
Agnes? — Mr. Buchanan, I mean, — why he has not been
here all these dreary days and nights ? Oh, tell me ; you
have seen Mr. Ogilvie ; what does he say?" She stopped,
breathless, ami wrung her hands together. Agnes's heart
ached.
"No, Dora, I have heard nothing. Mr. Ogilvie" —
her face flushed slightly as she named him — " has not
seen or heard from him since they walked home with
us that last evening."
A low moan broke from Dora's lips, and she grew even
whiter than be/ore. "Agnes," she said, solemnly, "I
have killed him, — /who would give my heart's blood to
save him from harm," she went on, wildly, — "that night
I sent him away from me wiih a cold, bitter falsehood.
I told him not to come near me any more. Oh, my God !
Agnes, he has only done what I commanded. He has
exposed himself to danger, and he is dead, dead, dead !"
She sank down on the wooden bench which stood in the
window of the corridor, and trembled from head to foot
as with an ague.
214
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Agnes was almost stunned by surprise, and pity of an
anguish whose bitterness she had never before known.
She bent over the bowed figure of her friend, but only
kisses and tender caresses seemed possible to her over-
full heart and strained nerves. A silent prayer for help,
and at last she found strength to say, " Dora, do not moan
so, darling ; be brave. He may come in at any moment,
and you would not care for him to see you thus. He
has been detained — you know his good heart — by some
suffering wretch whose pain he alone could relieve.
Surely, you would not wish to deprive any of these tor-
tured ones of his skill?"
"Oh, no, no !" sobbed Dora, to whom tears, blessed
tears, had come at last ; " but, Agnes, it is all my fault, my
sin, my sin ! I have let him love me, even after I saw
that he cared for me too much. I was so happy, I could
not thrust his love away ; and, oh, if he knew, — if he
knew how vile and weak and wicked I have been ! how
cowardly ! he would despise me."
"Oh, no, Dora; think what you are saying; he could
never despise you, my pure pearl, my true, noble-hearted
Dora !"
"Agnes, you are killing me! I tell you, you cannot
guess how wicked I have been, how I have sinned. I am
not worthy that your pure arms should touch me, or that
my Marian should rest upon my heart !"
" Hush, Dora ! hush ! you are too e.xcited now to rea-
son calmly. Come with me and lie down in the little
cabinet ior half an hour. Should he come, I will bring
him to you. Will you, dear ?"
" No, no, he will never come again ; and if he did,
Agnes,," — she raised her agonized face and spoke quite
quietly now, — "you must not bring him to me. I will
never willingly see his face again." She broke out afresh
THE MILLS OF THE GOES. 215
into bitter weeping : " I have deceived him and you, and
all who have been so good to me ; I am not what you
think me, Agnes." She buried her head in her arms
resting on the window-sill, and Agnes tenderly smoothed
the ruffled hair, and murmured, —
"No matter who or what you are, Dora, I love you,
and shall love you all my life ; everybody loves you,
darling."
At this moment the outer door opened, and a French
surgeon, followed by Buchanan, looking pale and de-
pressed, entered the corridor. He caught sight of Agnes
at once, and with an almost imperceptible motion of her
head, she summoned liini to her side. Then, with up-
lifted finger to enjoin silence, she drew herself away and
left him standing in her place, close to Dora, who still
wept bitterly.
Ronald stood silently, looking down at the frail figure
of the woman he loved with all the intensity of a first and
last passion of a lifetime, and a great hunger came into his
heart the while. At last Dora miumured, from the shel-
ter of her tear-drenched arms, " But, Agnes, if he had
been detained, and not hurt or angry, he would have sent
a messenger, or ' '
What is this? Has she died, and is she at last in the
haven of peace and rest with her dead mother's arms
about her? Has her suffering, maimed life cast off its
earthly shell, and is her soul free ?
For one brief, ecstatic moment Dora lies in those strong
arms, and weeps for joy on the broad breast in which the
heart beats so wildly ; for one sweet moment while an-
guish flies before supreme bliss, and anxiety and suspense
melt away under the Messed certainty that Ronald is here,
safe, well, and loves licr still ! For one moment ! . . .
It was a moment such as this whic h doomed Francesca
21 6 THE MILLS OF TILE GODS.
da Rimini to such terrible punishment, and for which
from time immemorial men and women have sacrificed
not only "all other bliss," but "all their worldly worth,"
Alas ! these moments are not to come within the province
of our human experiences; they are not " written in the
bond"of our Eve-sullied birthright. Bewareof them ! For
they take the savor out of all lesser moments to eternity.
And then Dora drew herself gently but firmly from that
restful embrace, and stood before Ronald trembling from
head to foot, but strong in her inward purpose to end all
this terrible deception and the consequences it involved,
at once, and forever. For dependent and clinging as she
seemed, this fragile Dora owned a firmness of character
and an inflexibility of decision where her conscience
battled with her inclinations, or where a question arose
which endangered the fair spotlessness of her pure life,
that would have led her unflinchingly to the stake in a
righteous cause, or would have submitted her to that
still more painful martyrdom, a sacrifice of all that makes
life other than a weary waiting for death.
She looked so young and weak and fragile, as she stood
before him with eyes heavy with weeping and tlie tender
mouth quivering, that Ronald's heart ached for her more
than for himself; for he knew, with that unfailing pre-
science of love, that she was about to pronounce his doom
— and her own.
She swiftly readjusted some tresses of golden-brown
hair which had fallen about her tear-drenched face, and
then, leaning a little against the casement to support her
trembling limbs, she said, in a voice husky and almost in-
audible from emotion, " I have been weak and wicked, but
it is not loo late to undo the evil I have done. You say
you love mc. I believe you do. Don't speak, please, yet."
She raised her hand a little to silence liim as he was
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 217
about to interrupt her. "Yes, I believe you do love me,
and therefore I dare to ask you to leave me, — now, at once,
— and not to come near me again, ever, ever ; for between
you and me there is a gulf as deep as death /"
He was standing now before her, with one hand resting
on the window-frame, and a grave, anxious expression on
his noble face, but not a sign of weakness in those firm
lines of mouth and chin.
"I will do as you wish, Dora, always, should we never
stand again on earth together," he said, gently; "but I
claim as my right a hearing before we part, — if part we
must. On the last evening we were together, I was
surprised into a betrayal of my love for you, — a love
which sprang up in my heart in the single night after your
accident, my darling; the only love of my whole life,
and the only one that will be with me in my last hour ;
and you will remember how you answered me ! It was
my hope — my intention — that if we both survived these
troublous times, in some quiet spot in Switzerland, per-
haps, or dear old England" (she shuddered), "I might
choose a more fitting time to plead my cause. But these
things are not ruled by our wills or governed by our
plans; the moment when I must speak has come, and I
tell you that there is no gulf so deep — save that only of
your own 7vill — that my arm will not span it and snatch
you to my heart. Once there, God alone can take you
from me. Oh, my little storm-beaten flower," he cried,
taking her hands with gentle force in his, " give yourself
up to me ! let me take you away out of Paris, — to my
dear sister's arms, that you may rest at last !" He stopped,
wondering at the burst of sobs which shook her whole form
in an anguish which only God and his angels should have
witnessed.
She tore her hands away from him. '•' Ah, do not," she
K 19
2i8 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
cried, — "do not try to tempt me 1 I cannot; I have no
right ; I am unworthy ! Ah, if you knew how false and
wicked I have been, you would not stand there and plead
for a heart that is broken through its own sin!" She
made a terrible effort, and resumed, more calmly : " There
is no use in prolonging this pain; you will believe me
when I say that your hope can never be 7'ealized, and that
I can no longer see you or accept your friendship (and it
has been very precious to me), after to-day."
She was turning away when he laid his hand upon her
arm, — "Dora, you are mad ; you love me, and you are
leaving me ! What is this mystery which overshadows
you? Give me at least a hint of its nature, that I may
dissolve it into air !"
" I cannot!" she moaned, "I cannot ! It is too late. I
should have told you long ago, — before things came to
such a pass as this ; but I did not, because I was weak
and lonely, and your love was so sweet to me ; and now,
look at what punishment I have brought upon myself;
not my pain only, but yours ^
"But I will not suffer it," he answered, in clear,
ringing tones. "Were I alone the sufferer, you might
have found me a marvel of patience ; but you are griev-
ing ; you, who have had so much to bear of late. Can I
allow you, then, to take the responsibility of deciding for
us both in this question? No, a hundred times no! I
will accept no dismissal in the dark. Give me your rea-
sons, and let me sift them for you ; otherwise you must
submit to my presence, and in time let me take all your
burdens on myself."
She looked at him, seeming to devour his words (what
a strong, masterful voice he had !), a death-like paleness in
her face ; suddenly she swayed backward and forward
slightly, and as he sprang towards her, sank down on the
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 219
bench beneath her. She had fainted ; the great strain had
relaxed j the decisive words remained unspoken; sleep-
less nights of anxiety and fatigue had done their work.
And as he raised her in his arms, Ronald scarcely could
restrain his tears from falling on her poor white face.
This was the second time he had held Dora in his arms
unconscious ; how long ago seemed that first sight of her
measured by the growth of his love since then ! And, as
he bent over his idol, it is characteristic of the man that
he did not venture to press his lips to the marble face, —
which could not then have repulsed him ; it seemed like
taking a mean advantage of her helplessness.
He carried her quickly to the little cabinet where they
had dined together so joyously a few days before, and,
laying her on the sofa, sent a passer-by for Agnes.
As he waited impatiently for her arrival, chafing Dora's
cold hands, and bathing her temples with water, the
while, he could not repress a shudder at the shrill treble
of Marian's bird-like voice, as she sang gayly, perched
upon the foot of Jean Picot's cot, a little French catizon,
of which she had caught perfectly the air and words. How
many hours had the little ambulance-fairy not cheated out
of gloom and despondency for those anxious sufferers, con-
demned to a trying inaction, by her bright prattle and
her sweet little French songs !
Agnes's efforts to restore Dora to consciousness were
successful ; but when she opened her eyes and looked
about her, — hoping and fearing to see Ronald's earnest
face, — she met only Agnes's pitying eyes and murmured
words of comfort.
He had deemed it best to spare her further agitation,
and, after visiting his patients in the ward adjoining, he
had gone away to other cases outside. A few words with
Agnes before he went showed the deep anxiety Dora's
2 20 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
incomprehensible conduct had cost him. " She is laboring
under some mistaken sense of duty, Sister Agnes," he
said, "and will listen to nothing I can say to change her
determination. You have been a faithful friend to her.
Can you see any reason for this strange refusal to let me
care for her? Tell me, Agnes, do you think she loves
me ?" She could barely catch the words, so low were they
whispered.
" I fear she does, and in that fact lies her reason for
denying you any share in her existence." Agnes spoke
hurriedly, and as if the words hurt her, but viust be spoken.
"I imagine that it is her past which is weighing her
down ; some fault, perhaps, or treachery, which she had
hoped to outlive alone, but would not shadow with it
the man she loved. There ! I have told you my sus-
picion, because I love her too dearly to see her suffer, and
because I believe you to be too noble to let xS^q past come
between you and her now !" She bent her head, and the
scarlet flush in her face told how great an effort had been
made in the cause of friendship.
"Agnes," he said, gravely, "Dora's life can hold no
foul sin ; her eyes are guileless as a child's; her heart is
pure as an angel's. But if it were not so; if I had to
stoop and lift her from the very dregs of crime, I would
do so ; for I love her, and would shield her from every
evil and danger and pain — in life. Tell her this for me;
and also, that should I wait for her until her chestnut hair
turns gray, I will wait, not patiently, but faithfully, until
that time comes."
Agnes cauglit his hand as the last word fell from his
lips, and, with an irrepressible impulse, laid her cheek
upon it, crying, " God bless you ! Oh, you have a great,
noble heart!" and fled back to poor Dora to pour this
balm into her wounded spirit.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 221
But, to her intense surprise, Dora only wept and shook
her head, and refused to be comforted. What could it
mean? Surely, such all-forgiving charity as that prom-
ised by the young Englishman should banish all doubts
and fears and fill her soul with peace ! What if her past
held one blotted page, as she had undoubtedly confessed
to Agnes, here was a love so deep that it could hide in its
great trust even such a secret as this, and cover with its
wings the penitent head which was bowed upon its bosom.
Was it not mad folly to cast away such shelter, such divine
compassion, such adoring devotion, as this?
"You will tell him," she said, in answer to Agnes's
pleadings, " that /'/ cannot be. Agnes, spare me any
further entreaties ; you are trying me too severely. Have
pity ; // cannot be /' '
And after Agnes had left her alone with her bitter pain ;
with the yearning in her desolate heart which was sin;
with a wild repining at the darkness of her days, after the
sunny brightness of all those former years before that fatal
mistake which wrought her woe for evermore, — the ques-
tion which tormented her, who could answer? Should
she betray the secret of her marriage? Was she not
absolved from the oath extorted from her by a man so
false and base as Faucett had proved himself? Had she
not told him that she would force him to acknowledge
her claims, if he had not come to do so voluntarily, after
a sufficient time had elapsed upon his return to England?
Had those last bitter words of his, that well-nigh broke
her heart, not sundered all tie between them ? AVas she,
in God's sight, this man's wife still? This man, who had
never loved her, who had coveted her, and married her
simply because she was pure ; who had wearied of her
before twelve moons had risen and wanctl ; who had sys-
tematically neglected her, exposed her to peril, crushed
I (J*
222 THE MILLS OF THE CODS.
her under the heel of his one-idead egotism, and then
abandoned her, ill almost unto death, with a heartlessness
not less cowardly than inhuman.
Yes, she felt sure that she was absolved from her prom-
ise of keeping thei; marriage an inviolable secret. She
would tell Ronald how it was that she seemed so cruel
and unreasonable in his sight ; and he would forgive her,
and love her still, and see that he must go away from her
— where? To England, where Dyke Faucett was? And
would it be possible for Ronald to live in the same land
with that man, who has so wrecked both their lives, and not
seek him out, and — then — then — all, what might not be the
result ? But she might suppress his name, and there could
be no danger of a meeting between these two men. Yes,
she would tell Buchanan all ; all the trials of those dread-
ful years when she lived under the shadow of a hopeless
disappointment, striving to fill her starved heart with the
caresses of her child, — all, save the name of the man who
had betrayed her trust in him. " For I must not let him
think me vile," she said. "And what did Agnes mean
by her 'He is willing to overlook the past and all the
pain in it, if you will let him do so?' Overlook the
past ! Ah, Ronald, my past can bear even your eyes into
its darkest corners ; there are plenty of tears, but no
blushes to be found there, thank Heaven !" And so she
slept.
THE MILLS OF THE CODS. 223
CHAPTER XIX.
It was the height of tlie London season. Half a dozen
crushes nightly, in the wake of just a "show" at the opera,
now in full-blown glory, which followed in due procession
"the horticultural," the afternoon concert, the kettle-
drum, or a hundred other divertissements in the offering up
of sacrifices to Moloch.
The streets smiled under the indefatigable efforts of a
regiment of scavengers (masculine and feminine bundles
of rags), happy in the rich harvest of coppers flung by
the munificent hand of "the season." Shops, gay with
their tempting wares, smiled out of their plate-glass win-
dows with the seductive leer peculiar to them. The great
casements of the West-End clubs were ornamented by
the array of manly beauty which suns itself in yawning
luxuriousness there, invariably, in the smiles and shy
glances of the passers-by : groups of whiskers, varying
little in style, but of an infinite variety of hue; coats of
irreproachable cut; a glass screwed into the near-eye, the
off-eye inevitably vacuous from exhaustion. Equipages
of every description, rolling magnificently, or gliding
sneakingly, along: the stylish landau, with its high-step-
ping, perfectly-matched animals ; the quiet victoria, and
the distinguished simplicity of the comfortable brougham,
interspersed with the plebeian hansom, or that despised
maid-of-all-work, the "growler."
Let us not stand stock-still gaping into those entrancing
shop-windows, or into the comical foce of the Punch who
is sending his wife to the devil persistently, at every corner
throughout the London season, exposing by our na'ivcii
224
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
our country origin, to the amusement of the genuine
cockney ; and, above all, let us not betray our amaze-
ment, otherwise than by a prolonged stare, at the appa-
rition, wonderful to behold, which reclines obesely on
the soft satin cushions of an open carriage, passing at this
moment.
Not in "purple and fine linen" only, is my lady of the
rubicund countenance clothed, — such a combination being
too pur et simple for the national taste, — but there is a
commiiigliir^ of the " seven pfimaries,^^ which would cause
actual t?ial au cceiir to a Parisienne pur sa?ig; the whole
surmounted by the favorite sky-blue parasol, from beneath
whose fringes peeps forth the deliciously-grotesque hideous-
ness of the inevitable///-^ — rose-ribboned.
The "British matron" is of all matrons (Roman in-
cluded), the most admirable. Of her. virtues, Heaven
forbid that I should insinuate a doubt ! All honor to
her, as a model wife and mother, as social law-maker, as
hostess, and as friend ! There were only three Hxiry god-
mothers forgotten at her christening, — the French chaus-
seiir, the French couturiere, and the French femnie-de-
chambre. Those fair daughters of Albion whose youth
has been more propitiously attended, and who boast these
acquisitions, are unrivaled in the world. The Channel
is less wide than formerly. There are many such divine
combinations as beauty, healtli, freshness, well-dressed,
well-shod, coijfee a ravir, on that deliciously-exhausting
tread-mill of London society this season.
Perhaps it is because the Parisians possess so little real
beauty, that they have elevated the toilet to a fine art,
and cultivate it to such perfection.
And yet taste in dress is an instinct more than an ac-
quired talent. See the Spanish and Italian peasantry, how
picturesquely they array themselves; and the simplest gri-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 225
sette in Paris boasts a certain toiirnurc in her cotton
gown, and in her snowy cap a dainty coquetry, with
ahvays a dash of color in her breast-knot, if only a sou's
worth of violets, or a pale pink rose. They are never
gaudy, the Parisians ; even the class which revels in the
costliest raiment is rarely "loud" in style; their love is
for neutral tints, soft grays and pearls and mauves, or
black velvets ; and, above all, they adore the cachemire
and priceless laces. Thousands of francs in a toilette,
if you please, but let it be disiingi/ee above all things.
Rarely is one's eye shocked by vulgar contrast of color
on their side of the Channel ; we must go for that start-
ling experience to sober England, or — to the Comanche
Indians.
And there, strolling slowly under the trees, over the
velvet turf of Regent's Park, with a golden-haired child
on one side and Percival Tyrrell on the other, is an illus-
tration of the theory of an innate, artistic taste in the
lower orders.
There is something inexpressibly refined and elegante
about that tall, willowy figure of Anne Ogilvie's. In her
simple morning-dress of fine white cambric, with its
neatly-fitting jacket, garnished with crisp, fluted frills,
with her white chip bonnet, destitute of other trimming
than a careless spray of the wild rose with its buds and
tender green foliage, Anne looked the incarnation of a
June morning. Between the folds of the lace fichu which
half revealed her snowy throat, nestled one great mellow-
looking tea-rose, half-blown, whose fragrance encom-
passed her about as if it belonged to her. She really was
'' gentiile a croquer,'' and Tyrrell thought, as he sauntered
by her side, that she looked fresh and fair and sweet as a
daisy with the dew upon it.
In the distance stood the brougham which had brought
2 26 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
the little lady Valerie and her governess to the Park for
an airing, as foot-exercise was deemed advisable for the
young lady. It has been their favorite resort for weeks,
and this is only one of many delightful walks and talks
Anne and Tyrrell had partaken of together. After the
prohibition of the countess, which precluded all possi-
bility of meeting Anne in the orthodox propriety of
drawing-room limits, Tyrrell, man-like, had desired all
the more ardently to encounter her in the more uncon-
ventional latitude of the Park at Grantly, to which her
walks were circumscribed.
Therefore he laid in wait for her in the grounds daily,
and never could be persuaded that it might cause dis-
pleasure, and bring down upon her the wrath of the auto-
crat who had decreed that she was unfit for such select
company as that which comprised the social circle of
" her betters." At first, Anne could not overcome her
feeling of shyness, and repugnance at being misconstrued
by her employers a second time, for she had soon begun
to comprehend the reason why she had been ostracised.
The countess's manner to her was invariably courteous
and kind when they met out of the presence of others,
after that evening in the library, but if there were wit-
nesses to their interviews, she was chilling, haughty, and
reserved.
Anne was not slow to read these signs ; her intuitions
had been forced prematurely in her solitary girlhood, and
she felt keenly this change in the aspect of her position.
She knew as well as if the countess had spoken, " My
dear Miss Ogilvie, I do not object to you personally, also
I feel sure that your duties are executed conscientiously,
and I would fain extend to you some little kindliness, but
my friends assure me that you are dangerous (you cannot
deny that they are just in their estimate of you), and.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 227
therefore, you must be suppressed. I am sorry, but — qtie
voulez-vous f I fancy Anne would have liked her lady-
ship better and respected her more, had these words been
audibly expressed. As it was, she trembled and sought to
evade the ^pertinacious attempts of Tyrrell to break
through the rigid seclusion which she believed her dig-
nity demanded ; but, after a time, his arguments pre-
vailed ; she saw through his eyes that there was no harm
in an occasional opportunity of conversation, which in
nowise interfered with the peace of any inmate of the
house of which he was a guest.
I fear she looked for him as eagerly as he for her, and
was perhaps more disappointed, when he failed to be found
lounging at the foot of their favorite copper-beech with
his book, than he would have been had he not perceived
the flutter of her white dress among the rose-bushes.
Their talk was of the most prosaic description ; no halo
of romance or sentiment lingered over a single interview ;
they might have been a couple of students, or a preceptor
and his pupil, so thoroughly void of all coquetry on her
part, or love-making on his, was their intercourse. They
talked of books, of art, of music, and even of the politics
of the nations ; of antiquities, and of his postponed jour-
ney to the East ; of all and everything which could prove
how congenial were their tastes, their thoughts, their as-
pirations; how thoroughly the one comprehended- the
complex nature of the other ; how like a fine instrument
under the hand of a master the grand chords of Anne's
harmonious character rolled out their deep-toned music;
and how all the sweetest, softest melodies in Tyrrell's un-
stirred silences, vibrated to the touch of Anne's gentle
fingers.
And this they both acknowledged in their hearts, al-
though their tongues had never whispered it or tlicir eyes
2 28 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
betrayed it all through those months when he had seen her^
constantly, even, after his visit to Grantly had terminated,
running down from London for the purpose. He had
always some plausible pretext for his visits, however; it was
a new book which she had desired to see, and he was going
fishing in the neighborhood, or, he was en route to an-
other country-house in the adjoining county, where he
would spend a fortnight and ride over occasionally.
He never came empty-handed ; and after a while Anne
came to have quite a little library of her own, of which
the pleasure was not decreased by the thought that, in the
pages of each book comprised therein, she could meet on
equal ground the spirit of the donor, — the ground of an
intellectual appreciation, the freemasonry which levels all
differences of station or fortune, — the fellowship oi mind.
For it seemed to touch Anne Ogilvie into a deeper
humility, the fact that this man, whose rare beauty and
fascination, whose fine intelligence and unexceptionable
introductions, had made him sought after and in request
at every dinner, ball, and social gathering where he or
his friends were known, should have so singled out and
distinguished by his preference a lonely, friendless orphan,
occupying the position of a dependent in the house of a
great lady, who would undoubtedly have swooned away
had any one suggested an equality between her and her
hireling governess.
But Tyrrell was an American, and democratic enough
to acknowledge that a pearl was a pearl when he stumbled
on one. An Englishman often drops the pearl in his
effort to open the oyster in an awkward but aristocratic
manner. And shall we censure him ? It has become such
a difficult and hazardous operation, this opening of the
oyster. Inexpert hands are often lacerated in the process,
and ofttimes, after the shell has at last yielded, the tempt-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
229
ing bivalve is just a trifle less fresh than one expected, or
the flavor is flatter than one anticipated, or there is a
great deal of salt and pepper to be laid on before one can
swallow the thing without a wry face. Meanwhile, alas !
the pearl worth a king's ransom rolls away, and hides
itself in some crevice out of sight !
"What is your name, Miss Ogilvie?" asked Tyrrell,
catechetically, — " your Christian name, as, I believe, it is
called?" on that June morning in the Regent's Park.
" My name is not an euphonious one," she replied ; " it
is Anne."
"Anne ! Anne !" He dwelt on the monosyllable lov-
ingly. "It is a homely name (I mean homely in the real
sense of the word ; why it should be otherwise used I
cannot tell). It is a simple name, full of comfortable
suggestions. Anne ! It has a ring of royalty about it
too; a smack of dignity and command. I like it."
Anne's smile brought into play the dimples on each
cheek, where the rose-bloom had deepened perceptibly.
" Few people like their own names," she said. " Mine
has often sounded very harsh to me."
" Indeed !" He looked down kindly at her. " It may
be that the voice which took )our name upon its rude lips
lent it harshness; there is much in that."
" Oh, yes," she assented, thinking what a musical caress
had sounded in his " Anne ! Anne !"
" Now I, on the contrary, have always fancied my name.
' Percival' would have been my clioice, had I been con-
sulted, even before I read the legend of the Holy Grail,"
he continued, smiling. " I always feel like buckling on
my armor and going forth to do battle for the right, when
I meditate on the responsibility my sponsors laid upon me
with this name and its associations."
"Yes, they are certainly very beautiful and fascinating,
20
230 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
in a poetical, visionary way," Anne replied ; "■ but do you
know, had I been a man, I should have chosen something
more rugged as ray model, — like Oliver Cromwell, or
better still, like Martin Luther. Ah, there was a great,
fiery soul, if you will ; a strong, fearless image-breaker,
as somebody calls him ; a soldier every inch of him,
— a soldier of the cross, — brave and strong and noble,
and yet with such tenderness and poetic sensibility at
times !"
Tyrrell looked at her, a glow of delight in his face.
*' You are quite right !" he exclaimed ; " that man was
inspired ; it is a grand character. He is always associated
with those words of Jean Paul " He hesitated, and
Anne said, softly, —
" Tell me them, please ; I cannot recall which you
mean."
"It is something like this: 'When, in one's last mo-
ments, all faculty in the broken spirit shall fade away and
die, — imagination, thought, effort, enjoyment, — then at
last will the night-flower of Belief alone continue bloom-
ing, and refresh with its perfume the last darkness.' And
this precious legacy Luther left to many a benighted soul.
Ah, yes, it was grand, this sturdy fighting for the great
truth of Christianity ! Why did you mention Cromwell?
Did you know that he has been compared to Luther by
Carlyle, I think?"
"No; I had forgotten it. But they are alike; they
are both rough, earnest, uncompromising warriors, with
the same stern conscientiousness and rigid ideas of disci-
pline."
"Voltaire ascribes 'something of the bully' to both of
them," continued Tyrrell ; then abru[)tly: "How did you
come to speak of Martin Luther, I wonder? He is one of
my great ideals. Strange ! Strange that you should creep
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
231
into the lumber-room of my oldest fancies and uncover
them, dusty from neglect, to the light of day."
Tyrrell had taken off his hat, and was striding on bare-
headed, with shoulders thrown back, and quickened steps,
as if to the sound of martial music, as was his habit when
excited. His thoughts were all with Martin Luther now.
He was subject to these fits of silence even with Anne,
which she was careful never to interrupt. She was con-
tent to wait until his thoughts stretched out towards her
again, even after she found that, when he recalled himself
to the fact that he was not alone, it was often to ejaculate
a farewell and leave her, without further parley.
Ten minutes passed. Little Valerie, walking behind
them with a young companion whose mamma had dropped
her from one of the carriages drowsing along in the dis-
tance, laughed out merrily at some remarks of her little
friend. Tyrrell awoke from his reverie, drew a long
breath, replaced his hat, and said, whilst he moderated
his pace to Anne's, —
" Do you remember his marriage? How characteristic
is his explanation of his choice of the ex-nun, Catherina
von Bora ! He ' wished to please his father, to tease the
Pope, and to vex the devil.' No mention of himself or
his own inclinations; he had crucified them all long
before."
"Not too gratifying to the lady," laughed Anne,
"and done very much in the same spirit in which he
glories in his obscure origin and poverty. I believe he
earned his bread, at one time, singing from door to door;
as he says, 'It is God's way to make men of power of
beggars, just as he made the world out of nothing,' you
remember. ' '
" How true that is !" commented Percival. " The great-
est minds of all ages have sprung from the attic or the
232 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
cellar, the highest and lowest rungs of the ladder of poverty
and obscurity, almost invariably."
"Yes," Anne assented, "genius seems to thrive in
poor soil, and a dried herring does not clog the imagina-
tion as the petits plats of an accomplished chef might. I
doubt if the ' Paradise Lost' could ever have been written
had Milton dined off eight courses and a chasse^
"And yet," returned Tyrrell, "the manuscript only
sold, at first, for five pounds."
"Is it possible? Can you imagine anything more em-
bittering than such a proof of ignorant stupidity ? Such
a want of appreciation must be maddening to a man of
genius."
" It is so," he answered ; " the knife that struck poor
Keats and Chatterton to the heart has dealt as certain, if
less swift, destruction to many an older and stronger man,
Milton was not blinder in his old age than the herd who
failed to recognize his godlike gifts during his lifetime;
and the adder is not so deaf as the multitude who listened
to Beethoven's music, without yielding him the crown of
his wondrous genius until his last hour; for Beethoven
only knew that one perfectly happy hour in his life, and
it killed him."
"Ah, yes, he had lived so long upon hope, you see,
that when the realization of his dreams came, he was too
weak to bear the shock. Hope is not a substantial diet,
and often grows most shadowy when one feels most
starved." Anne sighed ; she was thinking of her brother,
and the peril which she was so weary of picturing to her-
self.
"I have driven )ou into melancholy," cried Percival,
with a quick sympathy, self-reproachful, " with my maun-
derings about blighted geniuses and my mouldy recol-
lections of my boyhood's ideals. Even Martin Luther is
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 233
not worth such a plaintive sigh as that I caught just now.
After all, Miss Ogilvie, a later experience has brought to
my knowledge the physiological fact that ammoniated
tincture of assafoetida is an infallible prescription for
people who are inclined to religious enthusiasms and
new doctrines. Who knows how far a box of pills might
have cooled the ardor of the great reformer?"
" And you are sure," she rejoined, laughing, " that all
manias will yield to drugs? If so, what would you re-
commend to a Romeo or a Juliet ? Has your scientific
research reached that extreme of madness?"
" Do you call love a mania?" he asked, with one quick
glance into the dark-blue eyes. "If it were," he con-
cluded, as she did not reply, "there will be no need for
building additional lunatic asylums, for it is a rare type of
aberration nowadays." Still silence; and they walked
on side by side, but their thoughts on this subject far as
the poles asunder.
Can it be expected that the virgin heart of a girl of
twenty-three can view the dear, delightful subject through
the experience-clouded glasses of cynical thirty-five ? Ah,
no ; to one, it was a very El Dorado of unexplored
golden promise ; to the other, but a sandy desert where
no flower bloomed or fountain bubbled.
"Why did you mention Romeo and Juliet? Do they
form your idea of ' love's sweet madness' ? " Tyrrell asked,
presently.
" You will laugh at me if I tell you that I consider the
character of Juliet one of Shakspeare's best conceptions.
I do not see in her, as many do, a love-sick, silly girl,
misguided and pampered by a doting nurse. She loved
with all the fire and intensity of her Italian nature,
knowing no restraint or reason for restraint; she loved
for the first lime in her life, with her whole soul and
20*
234
TFIE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Strength and mind ; her thoughts were all absorbed with
the one fair picture of her gallant Romeo ; her eyes saw
only his face and form in the whole world ; there was no
vapid weakness in her love, but a fiery energy, — a wonder-
ful courage, — which was able, without shrinking, to carry
out the horrible stratagem that ended in her death !"
Anne stopped suddenly, blushing at her own enthusiasm.
"Yes," Tyrrell observed, quite gravely, "it is a very
beautiful picture of love's tragedy in those days, and
under the skies of Italy, — a masterpiece in its way; but
the love of to-day, in foggy England, — have you any
picture of that in the gallery of your imagination to show
me? I have a companion picture to yours somewhere in
a far-away corner of my memory, but I am afraid you do
not care to see it."
"You are not treating me quite fairly," she laughed,
blushing still ; "I dare say it is Dante and his Beatrice."
This with a slight scoff.
"No, not half so fine," he answered; "it is only, — on
my honor, Miss Ogilvie, — it is only Schiller's Max and
Thekla. I am very fond of them, and if I ever allow my
thoughts to wander into more than ordinary imbecility,
they fasten themselves upon Thekla. There is something
about the German character which inspires trust ; a solid-
ity, not graceful perhaps, but which is not devoid of a
certain restfulness, very captivatingto the storm-tossed."
Before Anne could answer, the carriage of the Honorable
Mrs. Somers drew up, and, the young girls being separated,
Anne felt that it was time to return to their brougham,
on which the coachman was dozing gently. He was
awakened rather rudely by a sharp elbow applied with some
force in thelocality of hisribs: "I say, Markham, wake up!
you'll be 'avin' the nightmare 'ere in this blessed Regent's
Park if you don't mind."
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 235
The obese, bottle-nosed individual thus rudely aroused
from his slumbers, shook himself up and replied, in gruff
tones, "Your imper'ance is surprisin', Thomas; I never
was wider awake in my life. Every day I have another
investigation of your imper'ant insurance; I won't bear
it much longer ! ' '
At this juncture, the governess and her charge were
seen approaching the carriage, accompanied by Tyrrell.
After they were seated, he lingered for a moment chatting
with Valerie, with whom he was a prime favorite. He never
tried to make her sit on his knee, or teased her to kiss
him, or pulled her long locks and then looked away, as
the other gentlemen did constantly; "he just treats me
as if I was a grown-up young lady, and not like a doll or
a poodle," exclaimed Valerie, when asked why she was so
fond of Colonel Tyrrell, and so still and silent with all
the other loungers in her mamma's drawing-rooms.
Just before the horses started, with their heads turned
towards home, Percival dropped Valerie's little gloved
hand rather abruptly, and said rapidly to Anne, —
"Can you not get a holiday — say Thursday — all day,
from the rising of the sun to the setting of the same? I
want you to go with me on the river, and to the Royal
Academy, and, you need an outing, and so do I."
Anne fluttered with delight and dread, lest she might
be obliged to refuse. " I will try," she said.
And he answered, witli a beaming gladness in his violet
eyes, "I shall come for you, then, on Thursday, before
the dew is off the grass. Surely they cannot refuse you
one day in the twelvemonth."
" I will ir)','' she repeated, and then they drove away,
and left him standing with raised hat under the shadow
of the trees.
"I am so glad, darling Miss Ogilvie !" whispered Va-
236 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
lerie, laying her cheek against Anne's shoulder. "You
shall go, and have a whole, long day to yourself."
Anne bent and kissed her silently ; her heart was full of
singing-birds, and her eyes with the tears of a great delight.
CHAPTER XX.
"Certainly, Miss Ogilvie, I can see no reason why
you should not avail yourself of his invitation, if you are
engaged to be married to this eccentric Colonel Tyrrell ;
otherwise, you are, I am sure, aware of the impropriety
of going about with a young unmarried man without a
chaperon. I imagine there a?-e governesses who could
do this sort of thing without criticism ; but you are far too
striking-looking to pass without remark. And really,"
(bridling a little), "I should not feel as if I could reconcile
it to my conscience to leave Valerie in the charge of a
person who could subject herself to imi)ertinent observa-
tion." This peroration concluded the lengthy argument
pro and con, — the projected holiday.
The "cons" had it, and there remained only a bow of
acquiescence on Anne's part, and her ladyship sat alone
sipping her matutinal chocolate with the self-satisfied air
of one who has done her duty manfully. (I am doubtful
about the sex of that last word. I fancy a man would
have looked at the monstrous proposition with a more
lenient eye, and from a larger point of view.)
That evening, Percival Tyrrell, enjoying his after-dinner
cigar in his rooms at the Albany, and dwelling with a
novel pleasure upon the prospect of a long day of summer-
idling under the trees at Hampton Court, or on the Thames
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 237
in a cockle-shell a deux, or on the greensward at Rich-
mond, with the handsomest and most intelligent woman
he knew, received the following extinguisher on his rosy
anticipations:
"Dear Colonel Tyrrell, — Lady d'Hauteville has
vetoed my holiday. I do not think she knows how great
a disappointment it is to me.
"Please accept my grateful thanks for this and all the
many kindnesses you have shown me.
"Yours very truly,
"Anne."
"Oh, the narrowness of these puppets in buckram!"
sneered Tyrrell, as he drew his letter-case towards him.
It was then ten o'clock. How many hours he sat there
with his head buried in his hands and his elbows on the
table, his portfolio open, and the pen ready to his hand,
he never knew ; but when he rose at last, he was cramped
and stiff, and very cold and pale, and a letter was lying
before him folded, addressed, and sealed.
Percival Tyrrell had spent those hours in closely ques-
tioning his heart and conscience. For many weeks past
he had been disturbed by the conflict which had been
waged between his feelings and the skeptical opinions,
which had become almost fixed convictions, in regard to
the truth and steadfastness of woman's nature. That this
high-spirited Irish girl attracted him irresistibly by her
beauty and intellectual capabilities was not enough ; other
women had won so much from him, but no more. Was
there heart underlying these surface-gifts? Heart, pure
and true and faithful, — Thekla's heart in foct, — and an
honest integrity, which would never be shaken by circum-
stance, time, or temptation ? And then : if, after all, this
jewel "more precious than rubies" existed, does he love
238 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
her as she would deserve, to the exclusion of every other
fancy or desire?
Out of the shadows of the past there steals the outline
of a head, — a fair girl's head, — with ripples of golden hair
and dewy violets of eyes, and the guileless mouth of a
cherub; a face, one would say, of an impersonation of
Spring, or of the dawn of the morning, so pure and deli-
cate and fresh it looked in its child-like innocence and
beauty. And Tyrrell, with closed eyes, gazed inwardly
at its loveliness, as he would have looked at a " bit" of
Greuze hung up against the background of his memory;
seeing its exquisite form and coloring, and feeling to his
heart's core that they were but canvas and paint after all.
For that angel face had beguiled him years ago, and
when he had looked beyond the fair exterior, deep down
into the heart, and seen the rottenness within, his whole
nature had received a shock which left it paralyzed for
nearly fifteen years; and now, when he had become almost
reconciled to a life free from the joys and torments of
love, behold the electric touch has reanimated his sapless
heart-fibres, and a new, strange life pours into them its
nourishing strength. All night he sat with the pale ghost
of his past love on one hand, dim and shadowy, and the
living, glowing presentment on the other of the woman
whose touch had stirred up the smouldering embers ofhis
heart into a blaze in which were fast disappearing all the
prejudices, resolutions, fears, and doubts which had stood
as sentinels at the outposts during all those years.
The letter ran tluis:
'■ The Albany, June 25.
" My dear Miss Ogilvie, — The Countess d'Hauteville's
decision, of which you have informed me in relation to
our projected holiday, has only confirmed my impression
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
239
of her ladyship's excellent taste and savoir-vivre. Pardon
my audacity in thoughtlessly having made the proposition,
and accord me, with her ladyship's permission, the honor
of an interview to-morrow afternoon.
" My servant will await your answer.
" Very truly yours,
' ' Percy Tyrrell. ' '
CHAPTER XXI.
" I PRESUME," Anne was saying, in a constrained voice,
as she tendered the precious little note reluctantly towards
the countess, who (with an absence of delicacy perfectly
justifiable towards a dependent), had requested permission
to read it, "your ladyship will not object to my receiv-
ing Colonel Tyrrell, — the man is waiting for an answer."
"A very proper note," deliberately i>ronounced the
countess, folding it leisurely; " for you perceive, my dear
Miss Ogilvie, Colonel Tyrrell acknowledges the justice
of my disapproval."
" Yes ; your ladyship will not forbid me to receive him,
I trust?" ventured Anne once more.
The countess looked pensive. " If he means marriage,"
she said, slowly (Anne writhed), " why does he not come
and talk with me about it? I am the proper person, — or
the earl. But I fear, I very much fear, that such are not
his intentions."
"Madam," began Anne, proudly, "the man is waiting;
will your ladyship be good enough to reply to this note?"
"Certainly not," answered the countess, flushing
slightly. " Colonel Tyrrell has not shown the good taste
which I supposed he possessed, in addressing his note to
240
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
you. You alone can reply to it ; but first let me warn
you. As a woman of the world, I tell you that man does
not mean to marry you ; and one cannot be too careful,
you understand ; put nothing on paper to commit your-
self. I have no objection to one interview — oJie, remem-
ber — in your own parlor. Cecile may be present, if you.
prefer it."
" Thanks," replied Anne; "■ there is no necessity; gov-
ernesses can dispense with such rigid etiquette. I require
no chaperon for a half-hour's interview."
"You are very self-reliant, Miss Ogilvie, too much so
for your years ; but I have warned you sufficiently, and
you are not devoid of good sense. Colonel Tyrrell is a
man of fortune and good family ; he can choose a bride
among the best people I know. Do not allow his pity for
your unprotected situation to lead to any folly on his part
or your own. You may go and write your note now."
The countess languidly closed the straw-colored fringed
lids of her pale-blue eyes, or she would have been startled
by the expression flashing from those blazing sapphires in
Anne's face and the scarlet flush on her cheeks as she
moved towards the door. She had only time to write
hurriedly on her card in pencil, " Come at four o'clock,"
and inclose it in an envelope, before the flood-gates of
her tears broke down, and she spent her passion in bitter
weeping.
Surely this was but the wraith of the beautiful, sparkling
woman, Tyrrell had closed the carriage-door upon but
yesterday ; this cold, proud, pale creature, looking so tall
in her sweeping black silk, and the crown of hair encir-
cling her perfect head. Why are her eyes so heavy and
her cheeks so white, and the hand which lies in his, a
moment, so limp and chill?
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
241
And yet never had she looked so attractive. There was
a charm in that statuesque repose, in that sad droop of
the red lips, in that tearful haze over the blue ej'es, which
affected Tyrrell more powerfully than all the rose-blushes
and dimples of his previous acquaintance with that elo-
quent face.
All that he had intended to say to her vanished out of
nis mind, and without preliminary he began, abruptly, —
" Miss Ogilvie, I have come to ask you why you were
prohibited from accepting my invitation,"
"Ah, surely," she replied, with a weary little smile,
"that need not all begone over again, need it?" He
bent his head, and she went on : "I am only a governess,
Colonel Tyrrell, who teaches the rudiments of the French
and English languages at so many pounds per annum ;
something a little above the lady's maid, and a trifle be-
neath the housekeeper; a well-treated, comfortably-lodged
hireling, but still, a hireling. Consequently, society does
not provide for such as me a chaperon, and should I
venture into the light of day without one in your escort,
society condemns me; that is all."
" But do you look forward to a whole, long life of
French verbs and black-boards?" he asked, with a smile.
"Is there no possible escape from such a ceaseless grind
as this?"
" Oh, yes," she replied : " I am laying up savings. Do
you know what that means? It means a tiny house, some
day, in a neat English village, furnished after my own
heart ] plenty of trees and flowers outside, plenty of books
and music within, and, if God has spared my poor brother"
(a tear trembled in her voice), "there will reside a con-
tented old maid and her gouty brother (for Dick had
twinges at twenty-five, and I feci sure will be one trouble
to keep me alive), and I shall "
L 21
242
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
''In short," interrupted Percival, "you will exchange
one slavery for another ! Anne ! you shall live no such
narrow, sordid life ! You shall come into my lonely heart,
and let me shelter you from all the trials in store for you;
Dick's gout not the least," he added, smiling a little.
"But, Anne, you are weeping! Why is this? have I so
grieved you ?"
Anne sat with bowed head, her whole figure averted,
while sobs shook her with uncontrollable emotion. Her
nerves had been strung up to their last capacity of tension
by the warning words of the countess, which found but too
sure an echo in her proud heart. The sudden revulsion of
feeling tried her too severely; she could not reason or
judge, she could only feel, and she felt that it was as the
countess had predicted, — this man pitied her ! She strove
hard to control herself, passed her handkerchief over her
face, and, rising, stood before him, with her head slightly
bent.
" Do you not see that you grieve me. Colonel Tyrrell?
You must not mistake me; I am very happy here ; they
are kind to me, and I love Valerie dearly. I have no wish
to leave the>n,^' she concluded.
A great fear shot through Tyrrell's heart; could it be
that this girl had not learned to love him as he had sup-
posed ? True, she had never in words, scarcely in looks,
given him any assurance that he was more to her than
another, — and there might be another, — she was so much
admired ! Had his self-conceit deceived him, and was
he again to blindly offer his hi art a sacrifice of no avail?
Were they all alike, these beautiful, treacherous fiends,
who steal men's souls to make sport of and desolate their
lives for evermore? His voice was very cold and his
face stern, as he said, gently, " There is no need for dis-
tress ; I a7n going. I have ma Ic a mistake; you will for-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 243
give me?" He stood quite still a moment devouring her
with liis eyes; her head drooped lower; she raised her
hand instinctively as though to ward off a blow; had she
been turned to stone, all power of speech or volition
could not have been more utterly denied her.
Pride, delicacy, a girl's shrinking from a first avowal,
each and all paralyzed her tongue, her movements, almost
her thoughts. The grace of her attitude appealed even
at that moment to Tyrrell's keen aesthetic sense ; he felt
he must begone, or in an instant he would gather her to his
heart. He seized her uplifted hand and pressed his lips
upon it, almost crushing the slight fingers in his frenzied
clasp, turned, — the door opened and swung shut, — he w^as
gone !
It was only after tlie closing of the door had sounded
the knell of departing happiness for her, that Anne started
from her trance, and the piteous cry burst from her lips,
whilst her arms stretched out to emptiness, *' Oh, Tyrrell !
Tyrrell ! come back to me !" But the ^\\k.Q\\ portih-es in
that house stifled all unseemly moans, and Tyrrell was
striding along with a curse in his heart and a set anger in
his face at the inconceivable folly which had so nearly
betrayed him for the second time.
As Anne stole along the corridor leading to the school-
room an hour or two later, she encountered the countess
and Valerie, who had just returned from driving. Tlie
countess could not resist commenting upon the swollen
eyelids and pale face Anne tried to hide, by the usual, " I
told you so. Miss Ogilvie. I was quite certain you were
needlessly exposing yourself to humiliation. Even these
Americans, when they are well-born and ricji, are not.
willing to sacrifice themselves to their democratic ideas,
you see. Ah, you will lake my advice next time, I fancy."
Anne drew herself up liaugluily : " Your ladyship must
244
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
pardon me; I decline to discuss this subject further."
And she glided by, leaving the countess stunned by her
audacity.
"That girl will certainly come to harm," she mentally
ejaculated, moving towards her own apartments ; " such
pride as hers must have a fall."
Little Valerie was very tender to her "dear Miss Ogil-
vie" that evening. She put the shades over the lights,
and poured out the tea, and spread the thin bread and
butter herself, waiting upon Anne Avith a loving assiduity
which was balm to her sore heart.
CHAPTER XXII.
But when night came, Anne wrestled, in the lonely
darkness, impotently with her anguish, for she knew as
surely as if she had read Tyrrell's heart and the litter
secret of his past, which had made him so intolerant
of doubt or hesitation, that the cup of joy which had been
held to her lips for one sweet moment would never touch
them again. She knew the character of the man she
loved as well, perhaps, as it is ever given to woman to
decipher the mystic lines of a man's nature, and she felt
that he had not lightly spoken, nor lightly resented, her
apparent indifference to his words. And still, mingled with
her grief was a spark of anger, that he should have been so
harsh, so precipitate. Surely he must have known that
her tears were tears of joy, restrained only by the doubt
which was natural to one for whom life had few such bliss-
ful surprises. "Ah, does he not regret?" she murmured,
when the morning came with its cheerful sunshine. "Now
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 245
that a night has passed away, and he has had time to
think, does he not know how it was that I could neither
speak nor stir?" Her doubts were soon dispelled.
Before mid-day, Toto, a bright mulatto boy who accom-
panied Tyrrell in his travels as valet (having proved his
fidelity and worth incontestably as his servant throughout
the war, showing an absorbing devotion to his master
which is often met with in his affectionate race), brought
and delivered into Anne's hand a letter from Percival
Tyrrell.
Anne smiled sadly upon the boy, whose appearance had
so often been the harbinger of good news to her, as she
took the missive from his hand, and then bidding him
await her summons in the servants' hall, she carried it
away with her into her bedroom, where, after locking
the door, she threw herself on her knees beside her bed,
and burying her face on its sealed pages, she prayed that
the sorrow which they held in store for her might be pa-
tiently borne. For a presentiment held her heart from
hope and its whisperings ; the letter was wet and crum-
pled before she opened it ; woman-like, she wasted tears
on an uncertainty, and spent in suspense moments that
might have been employed in allaying every doubt.
At last she broke the seal !
"I send Toto, my only faithful adherent (who lays
aside his banjo with alacrity at my bidding, for I believe
he is weak enough to love me), with this letter, which must
bear to you the burden of my farewell.
"With my orders to leave it only in your own hands
the boy will attain to the happiness of seeing you !
"The sight of you in the crisp freshness of your morn-
ing toilette will jewel this day for — him, an 1 you will also
speak — to him ! (I have observed in him a keen sense
of the beautiful, and his musical ear is wonderful.)
25*
246 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
"And this day, in another but not less heroic fashion,
will be always marked for Toto's master.
" For he bids you farewell to-day !
" 'Tis thus that Toto gains a smile from you, and so,
there appears to be no exception to the rule that in all
that you do, joy must come to somebody !
"Adieu ! Toto and I withdraw from before you !
" In the cloudy haze of your sublime indifference, can
you discern which is Toto and which is — I?
"Anne, I feel as if I were going mad ! When I com-
menced this letter the pride which your own soul has ere
this approved, upheld me, and with it a longing for the
peace which after fierce warfare comes to men when, life
ebbing, they give themselves over to death without a
groan ; but, it is with me now even as when I am beside
you (this talking with you on paper brings you so near
to me), and I lose that protecting sense of antagonism
which secures one's coolness at the least !
" I am quite undone under the influence of your sur-
rounding presence. I can see you before me ; I can
smell the tea-rose in your breast. ]\Iy dream of peace
and my pride have vanished ! Anne, I love you ! I love
you !
"You have done so much for me : you have rekindled
faith in woman — trusting love, implicit confidence — in a
heart which was arid as the desert 1
" Was it to slay them all again with your tender, white
hand ? . . .
" We parted abruptly twelve hours since. I have dwelt
upon your look then, your pallor, your reserved manner,
your pensive grace ! I cannot forget the drooped curve
of your unkindly sweet lips, the veiled sadness of your
love-denying eyes, the s'.adowof a grief which /was not
to know, in words, paling the roses in your cheek.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 247
"But you judged me correctly, Anne. I was not so
obtuse that I could not read those eloquent signs.
"(In the amazing system to which we poor mortals
are bound, why should I not share the common intelli-
gence which reads inconsistencies clearly, and which
awards the same weight precisely to a woman's smile or
frown ?)
"But I will not pain you by bitter words; they shall
lie quiet in my empty heart and disturb you no more.
For I have not forgotten the pale, tearful face which,
while it told me that you had rightly construed my
request for an interview, told me also the pain which it
caused your kind heart to wound me by refusing the gift
I sought.
"The cold, .proud reserve with which you armed your-
self against me was not needed, Anne ; your averted
head, your hand raised as if to ward off my words, were
expressive enough of your refusal to hear me. And
then, that bitter setting forth, of your position, to warn
me from approaching nearer ; your tears, your altered
voice, all, all are written on my heart, else I should not
find strength to say — farewell !
* ' Percival Tvrrell. ' '
The ecstasy in Anne's heart shone out in every feature
as she read the concluding lines of this letter. Pressing
it to her lips, she seized a sheet of paper, without a mo-
ment's delay, and wrote hastily thereon :
" And you called me cold ! God knows
Underneath the winter snows
Tiie invisible hearts of flowers grow ripe for blossoming!"
And, inclosing it in an envelope, with the most fragrant
of tea-rose-buds embalming it, she scaled it, and rang her
248 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
bell. "Send the boy who brought me a letter," she
commanded, in ringing tones, with the air of an empress
and the smile of a child. A moment later Toto entered.
"Toto," she said, — and the lad thought there was music
in those two syllables, — " you will give this letter to your
master as soon as possible, and • Well! what is it?"
His expression had become suddenly downcast.
" Massa Colonel Tyrrell has gone! I am so sorry; it
will be too late to catch him at the train." Glancing at
the clock.
"Gone!" Anne cried, faintly, — "gone! Where?"
" To Liverpool. He was took sudden with a wish to
go back to America, and I am to join him with his dogs
and luggage to-night. Miissa Colonel Tyrrell telegraphed
for our passage yesterday evenin'. We sail in the ' Russia'
to-morrow."
Anne still held her letter ; an ashy grayness spread over
all the roseate tinting of her face. She crushed the en-
velope in her hand, — the rose-bud died silently, — and
then she said, without a quiver in her voice, "Very
well, Toto, there is no answer; and," — she stretched out
a slim white hand suddenly, — " good-by, Toto! May
your voyage be safe and pleasant!" And then bent her
head in token of dismissal, while a smile, more sad than
tears, rested on her lips.
Such a smile as that which curved the tender mouth of
the Lady Jane Grey as she bade farewell to her weeping
maids of honor before she left the Tower to ascend the
scaffold. Toto went out with his head drooping, and his
melancholy, big, brown eyes swimming in tears.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
249
CHAPTER XXIII.
Fashionable London was putting itself in kid gloves,
— 7'ose-tendre and crcme-pdle, — and that bewitching siren,
Patti, caroling like a thrush to the ample shoulders and
diamond-besprinkled heads of the nobility and gentry ;
to the sweet English fcices, and less pretentiously-deco-
rated lower social scale of music-iovers, — was packing
"Her Majesty's" from pit to dome, on a somewhat
oppressive evening in mid-June.
With the exception of the Royal box, in which the popu-
lar and lovely Princess of Wales, with her suite, smiled
graciously on the performance, there were no other stars
of greater magnitude in that aristocratic firmament than
were diffusing their brilliancy from two boxes almost
directly vis-a-vis. One of these held the most beautiful
debutante of the season, the Lady Florence Ellesmere,
duly chaperoned by her mamma, a wary and vigilant (not
to say unduly suspicious) matron, with a ruddy counte-
nance, di parure of priceless emeralds, and an idolatrous
devotion to this third and last of her darlings to be disposed
of, amounting to f^Uuity. The opposite loge held, robed
in one of the most artistic creations of Worth's genius (he
does accomplish a marvelously-exquisite toilette sometimes),
fitly framed in costly bouquets, and backgrounded, as
usual, by the faultless simplicity of the male full dress, —
Pauline, Marquise de Courboisie. It was only after the
eyes became accustomed to the dazzling ensemble of that
picture, with its appropriate filling-in of fragrant exotics,
brilliant light, and the thrilling nu sic of Patti's warbling,
that one could perceive, sitting slightly in the shadow of
1.
250 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
the curtain (roses whose full-bloom leaves have begun to
grow slightly yellow must not be too prominently placed,
— the shaded light softens outline, and tells no tales of
pearl-powder), the sallow, bright-eyed, terrier-like face
of the Duchesse de Languedoc.
At last, she had lured her restless guest back to her
own roof-tree, and had most sincerely congratulated her-
self on the inspiration which impelled her to make of this
fascinating enchantress a decoy-duck to fill her daughter-
less house, from morn till dewy eve, with the gayest, the
wittiest, the most recherche ineligibles of the society in
which her soul delighted. For although the duchesse had
"had her day" in London circles, time, the inexorable,
had not passed her by ; and from young and entrancing
she had passed to middle-aged and fascinating {passee
but agreeable), and lastly, oh ! inevitable conclusion ! to
old and tiresome! Never handsome, but witli intelligent
eyes and a mobile expression, she, like De Stael, had
held in bondage by her sparkling wit and personal magnet-
ism, and cultivated esprit, men to whom pink cheeks and
rounded arms would have appealed in vain.
Her "petit soupers a la Regence" were the crowning
point of one's aspirations during the season not later than
ten years ago (for she was loth to abdicate, and the aroma
of her power lingered even after the vase was cracked
and discolored by time); and at her table met only the
harmonious elements of intellect and culture and wit.
Title, however high, yielded precedence to a diseur de
bon mots ; the epigrammatic style of her countrymen being
preferred and encouraged; and dearer to. her heart than
lovers or kudos, in those early days after her lord duke had
transplanted her (through official exigencies) to England
a bride, had she prized the little suppers, where she often
gathered members from the famous "King of Clubs" —
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 251
Sydney Smith, Romilly, Mackintosh — and other l>els-
esprits of tlie time, to give stamina and the wholesome
bitter to the "flow of soul," which might have palled
nauseatingly without tliem. For the young Duchesse de
Languedoc counted lovers by the score, but she was wont
to reverse the decision of Sir William Temple, who says,
" The first ingredient in conversation is truth ; the next,
good sense ; the third, good humor ; and the fourth, wit."
The two last \i€\\\g first in her consideration ; good sense
and truth might be together at the bottom of the well to
eternity, if they so willed, undisturbed by her Grace. But,
like her compatriot of famous (or infamous) memory, "she
sinned and supped so delightfully.'''
Just on the outer curve of ivory shoulder — which issued,
whiter by contrast, from the foamy, rich, old lace of Pau-
line's corsage — appeared the blonde, impassive face of
Dyke Faucett, who, in sleepy voice and with drooping
eyelids, was taking advantage of an "aria" into which
Capoul was throwing his whole soul, to whisper, —
" I am going now, Pauline ; I shall see you later at Lady
Emilie's. You will not stop for the last acts, — shall you?"
" Ah, surely not yet," pleaded the marquise, touching a
spring in her bracelet, which disclosed a tiny watch under
the jewels; " it is not more than eleven. Why do you go?"
She was not acting now ; all the strength of her nature
had become absorbed in this ceaseless struggle to keep
the only creature that she loved, and over whom her power
was not omnipotent, docile in the snare.
" I must say two words to the gra/uf -mere (oh, shades
of the past and spirit of de V Enclos ! are you convulsed
with merriment in the sulphurous regions of your just
condemnation, at tliis sobriquet attached to a kindred
soul?), and then I shall drop into the box en face to observe
the effect of your toilette from a better point of view."
252
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Pauline only smile 1 with her lips, — her heart burned
(Lady Florence looked more like a pale pond-lily than
ever this evening, but she was unusually lovely), — " ^«
plaisir,''^ she said, with her brilliant smile and glance.
^^ All revoi)-, cherie,^'' he whispered. "And your
Grace?" he asked, with his winning voice, — ''I shall
have the pleasure of seeing you at Lady Vivian's?"
" Sa?}s doute,^^ replied the duchess, with animation, —
Faucett was a favorite with her as with all women, — " the
Vivians boast the finest chef and the most genuine cellar
in town ; and la gourviandise is the last of my vices I have
retained."
Dyke smiled, and Pauline cried, "And pray what has
your Grace done with all the rest ? I should like to gather
some of them up; they were certainly more attractive
than other people's virtues."
The old duchess cackled, and showed her still perfect
teeth. "Ah, 7?ngnojine, you do not need them; and,"
addressing Faucett, "you know your Swift says that
* when we grow virtuous in our old age, it is merely
making a sacrifice to God of the devil's leavings,' and
that ' when our vices quit us, we flatter ourselves with the
idea that it is we who quit fhnfi /' "
"Your Grace is in a moralizing vein to-night; is it in
consequence of the dissipation of last evening, or as a
preparation for the banquet of to-night, — a taste of ver-
mouth to give you an appetite?"
" No, no," she replied ; " I have never habituated my-
self to the B. and S. of the 'next morning;' retribution
never attacks my digestive organs, — a consequence, mon
cher, of only dining and supping where I know the cuisine
is safe. Tell me," she continued, changing the subject
abruptly, as was her habit, "what do you hear from ce
pauvre Paris to-day? Has Proteus presented another and
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
253
more startling aspect? or are they taking breath for a
fresh denouement, these Communists?"
"I imagine the Commune has breathed its last," re-
plied Faucett; " the people are chastised sufficiently, and
are already hopeful about the accomplishment of the mil-
liards demanded by Prussia as indemnity. Wonderful, their
recuperative power !"
"Wonderful indeed," assented the duchess. "I see
they are jesting already in that irrepressible Mot d' Ordre.
Ce cher Lord Lyons figures as '■un vicux polisson^ in one
of its articles, through his benevolence in throwing open
his hotel to the Carmelite nuns Avhen other refuge was
denied them."
Dyke laughed. " One of Rochefort's illusions, I fancy ;
nothing more probable. The very air of Paris is full of
canards; it is tlie effervescence of their late excitement.
But I shall never get away unless your Grace is merciful ;
pray reserve me a corner of your causeuse later." He
brushed with his moustache her delicate glove and, without
a glance at Pauline, disappeared.
The view of a swan-like throat opposite, curving itself
to bring the small ear of Lady Florence on a level with
Dyke Faucett's lips, was not a sufficiently edifying sight to
detain the occujiants of tlie duchess's box longer from
dropping in at a reception at the Russian Ambassador's,
prior to the concluding engagement at Lady Vivian's.
When Dyke raised his lorgnette at length to take in the
full glow of Pauline's beauty, there were only vacant
chairs and broken sprigs of flowers lying about in the
deserted loge. He smiled sarcastically under the fringe
Nature provides to hide expression, and resumed his de-
cidedly lover-like conversation with the beautiful girl, who
was less coy than confident, and had long ago mentally
determined not to reject the future heir to one of the
22
254
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
oldest and finest estates in the south of England. The
course of tlieir love ran so smo thly that it almost became
wearisome in its sameness; Dyke drifting down the stream,
selfishly indolent, Lady Florence gliding gently over the
surface without any of those pangs and tremors, sighs and
blushes, which we are apt to consider concomitants of the
tender passion.
Papa and mamma smiled approval, for although Dyke
did not boast a title (titles had been laid at her feet
before now), he was in other respects unexceptionable,
and Ellingham Hall and Marsden Park lay side by
side, and the latter belonged to Lady Florence. "They
would form a very pretty property together," mused the
old earl, "and Faucett is a man of integrity and prin-
ciple, — a sterling good fellow ;" and he was eager to add,
"God bless you, my children!" and have the matri-
monial noose securely drawn about them. But Dyke
had not yet breathed the irrevocable words ; there had
not been the faintest allusion to settlements or orange-
blossoms. Still, the understanding between them all was
clear and well defined, and, with a plunge, he meant to
take the final leap that night. For he felt that he could
no longer stand off, dallying witli her prospects and his
own ; other suitors had dropped away, one by one, yield-
ing him place, and papa's affability was overshadowed of
late by a surprised coolness; each time they met now the
tall, slender figure of Florence's father assumed more and
more the appearance of an exclamation point of wonder
at this unnecessary and very embarrassing delay.
That Dora flitted like a phantom between Dyke Faucett
and the fulfillment of his ambitions, cannot be denied ;
but after he had recalled the fact related to him by his
concierge, on the day before he left Paris, of Dora's acci-
dent (that trifling incident when she was no doubt tram-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 255
pled to death under tlie feet of a French mob), he
reasoned logically, and with a sense of relief, that had she
not died then, she could certainly not have left Paris, and
therefore as certainly had not survived the siege. As for
her father, — old, infirm, and idolizing his daughter,— it
was most unlikely that he had outlived her loss. And
golden-haired little Marian? But he would not think of
her ; it was the one thought on earth which could pierce
through the crust of selfishness which had hardened on
this man's heart and draw blood. He put it resolutely
away from him, and began of the " funeral-baked meats"
of poor Dora's memory "to coldly furnish forth the
marriage-tables !"
It was with ungirlish self-possession and without a
fluttered eyelash, that the Lady Florence murmured, as
Dyke dexterously packed her mamma and herself, with their
voluminous drapery, into tlie brougliam, after the fourth
act had hinted with the fall of the curtain that the ultra-
fashionables might now retire to another entertainment,
" I shall be at home at two o'clock, to you alone,
to-morrow;" in reply to his request for a /<?/^-a-/<?/^, un-
disturbed.
"Thanks," he replied; "you have made me very
happy."
She smiled brightly, and, as their eyes and hands
met, they perfectly understood what that interview por-
tended. They felt betrothed from that moment, for
neither doubted what the result would be.
"My angel Florence !" cried delighted mamma, press-
ing an unctuous kiss upon the cold cheek ne.\t her, and
crushing, in an impulsive embrace, all i\\Q. point iV Alcufon
ruffles on the bodice inclosing that colder heart, "I con-
gratulate you; I am so happy 1"
"Don't be premature, dear mamma," suggested the
256 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
demoiselle. "And do not forget, above all things, that
we are en route to Mrs. Somers's last ball of the season;
and if there is one thing I prize above another, it is lace
which looks bought for the dress, and not crumjDled and
dt'fratchie. I'm not off your hands yet, mamma, so don't
rumple me." ....
" How late you are !" looked reproachfully from Pauline's
soft, dark eyes, as she stood like a queen, surrounded by
her courtiers, at the upper end of the ball-room that
night, as Dyke sauntered towards her.
" I believe this is the galop you have promised to give
me," drew her immediately out of the charmed circle;
and, as Faucett never danced, they soon wandered off
into a cool nook in the flower garden, which had been
roofed with canvas and mysteriously illuminated with
Chinese lanterns. When they were seated, and Pauline,
glancing about, was assured of their isolation from the
rest of the world, she drew from her bosom a letter,
and, leaning towards Dyke so that the perfumed tresses of
her hair almost touched his lips, she whispered, with a
beaming joy in her face, '' Dyke, I may be free soon !
He is ill, — too ill to remain in Paris, and has gone to our
chateau in Brittany. See, this letter is from his physician •
he urges me to return at once to France, and says, * The
excitement, anxiety, and deprivations of the siege have
undermined his health so that recovery is hopeless !'
Pauvre vieiix ! I should be sorry for him were he not my
husband, and — the only barrier between you, moii ami,
and myself." Dyke suppressed a groan.
" Read me the letter, Pauline, — all of it, every word !"
These were the only words that found utterance in this
terrible emergency. They were words full of another
significance to her. She rapidly, and in glad tones, read
the death-warrant of the man who had loved her unself-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
257
ishly, and given her all the good gifts of life which were
in his power to bestow.
By the time the letter was concluded, Dyke had recov-
ered from the shock, and prepared, with the recklessness
of a gambler, to play out the game, cost what it might.
"And must you go soon, ma mie?'''' he asked, tenderly.
" And you will let me hear from you constantly, — will you
not?"
"Ah, Dyke, why do you not tell me you are glad?
All through that hateful opera this letter was burning into
my heart, I so longed to tell you of it, and now you do
not even look glad." She fixed her eyes mournfully upon
his, and a cold chill struck through her veins. " Do you
not love me?" she burst out, in passionate, low tones.
" Have all your protestations and prayers and vows been
mere lip-service? and is it nothing to you that soon — very
soon, perhaps — I may be free, — free to acknowledge to
the world the love I have borne so long in secret?"
What could he do but fold her in his arms and hush her
with words of endearment ?
Before another twenty-four hours had measured another
day Dyke Faucett found himself engaged in honor (!) to
marry the Lady Florence Ellesmere, as well as the Marquise
de Courboisie (for her widowhood loomed forth drearily
certain), with the additional piquancy of a possibly-
living wife !
This was really becoming diverting; life was not such
a sapless thing after all.
Emilia, in looking at this man psychologically, as she
regarded lago after the grand denouement filled her soul
with loathing horror, might have been tempted to wish
Heaven's vengeance meted out at a more fberal ratio
than "half a grain a day."
BOOK III.
RETRIBUTION.
"Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord."
" La Vengeance est boiteuse, elle vient h pas lents, — mais— ^//ff
vient /"
CHAPTER I.
It is the festival of St. John the Baptist. The morning
sun streams down on the assembling multitude, chiefly
of women and children (for there are some left yet in
France), as they file slowly into the fine old Abbey-
Church, which is the pride of St. Denis.
There is the yellow glow of summer in the atmosphere,
and the sun-rays, when not filtered through the full-leaved
lindens, are somewhat oppressive even at this early hour;
whilst the drowsy hum of myriad insects intoxicating
themselves in fathomless wells of sweetness among the
honeysuckle and clematis, wreathing and flowering every-
where in the luxuriant prodigality of June, fills one, even
at the church-door, with delicious, somnolent suggestions,
and mutinous longings for the greensward and the rippling
brook, or the dense-shaded forest-haunt, where one could
offer up one's devotions in primitive fashion in a Temple
not made with hands, or idle the hours away in a moral
258
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
259
paralysis, the result of the o%^er-fullness of life in a perfect
summer day.
But, it is a holiday of obligation to-day, and one must
be happy according to the decrees of the good old man
in Rome ; therefore, under the sacred arches where the
kings of France lie buried, must one bend the knee, and
smother one's pagan yearnings for nature's altars and syl-
van sacrifices. Therefore airy fabrics of delicate hue com-
pose the toilettes of the devotes, with a touch of summer
splendor in their bright diaphanous effect (surely at four
miles' distance from Paris one need not punish one's self
with " <:<? triste deiiiV ?) and in every breast-knot, and
many childish hands, wilts languidly a festive flower or
a tiny bouquet of mignonette (that prized bit of sweetness
so dear to the work-people of the sense-fostering nation).
And many are the long wax-tapers interspersed amid
the more graceful floral offerings, particularly among the
sabot-shod, high-capped peasantry, whose lips move as
they furtively finger their rosaries, whilst their bright,
shrewd eyes wander about, taking note of everything,
from the texture of their neighbor's "polonaise" to the
size and quality of the candle which represents their pet
sin or most cherished hope.
The entrance to the ancient sanctuary is garlanded with
flowers and evergreens, and each representative of " our
Blessed Lady" is eblouissant with June roses and the fra-
grant white hyacinth, to which flower she is supposed to
be partial ; the emblem of purity and sweetness combined
fitting her sense of perfection.
For it is the Feast of St. John, and the war is over !
But, spite of sunshine, flowers, and fragrance (and fresh
toilettes), an unwonted gravity marks the countenances
of these worshipers. There is none of the brisk anima-
tion and lively chatter which prevails ordinarily among a
26o THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
concourse of French men and women ; even the most
coquettish-eyed brime among the girls wears a sedate
look, which fits her like her grandmother's cap, and there
are stern lines about the sallow-faced men, and tear-fur-
rowed cheeks amid the older women, which mark the
shadow cast by the recent storm, whose fury had well-nigh
wrecked their land. Paris recuperates rapidly, clears
away blood-stains, rouges artistically her horror-paled
cheek, and smiles through her tears heroically; but
throughout her environs, and in the provinces, heads are
bowed yet in shame and rage and grief; for although
the white dove of peace broods over stricken France, the
wounds it strives to cover with outstretched wings are
bleeding inwardly still.
The dim twilight in those lofty aisles is heavy with
the breath of incense, through which the consecrated
torches twinkle like stars, while the " kyrie eleison"
bursts forth, following close on the slow, solemn footsteps
of the benediction, swelling in harmonious accord from
the great choir above.
The congregation stood drinking in the glorious sounds,
which seemed to raise on their airy wings these earth-
bound souls to celestial peace and rapture, when suddenly
the voices died away and a stillness almost oppressive
supervened.
There was a slight rustle of expectancy, and many eyes
turned in the direction of the choir, iull of surprise at
this unusual interruption, when, like a prolonged, mel-
low flute-note, there pierced through the fragrant twilight
a soprano voice of superhuman sweetness and sustained
power, filling every corner of the sacred edifice with the
beautiful " Gloria," in solo.
The people, motionless, held their breath to listen ;
never, surely, had such sounds reached mortal ear before.
THE MILLS OF TILE GODS. 261
Was it child's or woman's or angel's voice? Ah, it was
enough to draw one's soul from purgatory ! Many of those
listeners trembled and grew pale with emotion as the
words of the wondrous thanksgiving swelled out in thrill-
ing music, while quiet tears stole down some hollow
cheeks which had been rarely dry of late. And when the
strains ceased, leaving the air still vibrating with melody,
the people, with a long-drawn breath, wiped their eyes,
and looked at each other as if just awakened from a
dream.
Near the entrance, in an uncushioned pew, stood lean-
ing against a pillar, with crossed arms and a look of rapt
delight on his sun-bronzed face, our ex-National Guard,
Dick Ogilvie, and by his side the figure of Sister Agnes,
dressed in black, but wearing no longer on her steadfast
arm the badge she had borne so nobly through many
months of peril and unflagging devotion, — the red cross of
Geneva ! Under its merciful banner, how many women
during those terrible days showed courage, patriotism,
endurance as unflinching as any that ever waved the tri-
color in field, while the death-cry, " Vive la France !''
pierced the din of battle !
There must be heroic stuff in the women of France
which might cover with a cloak of charity a multitude of
their frivolities. Something heroic and grand even when
it trenches upon eccentricity ; when it clothes its maiden
limbs in armor and sallies forth to battle as Jeanne
d'Arc ; or when it slays its tyrants en deshabille, as Char-
lotte Corday; even when it waxes demoniac in its wrath,
and shakes threatening fists in the fatally-fair face of the
hated Austrian, hounding her on to death ; or drags can-
non through the streets to the accompaniment of maledic-
tions, or pastes with vindictive leer its "billet condamne,"
" B. P. B." (Jfonpour bhiler), on the doomed sites where
262 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
tlie fiend of petroleum shall rage in flames. Something
grand and terrible, though horrible, a suspicion of the
tigress-blood which shows out so undeniably in the deadly
cmeiites, the wholesale massacres, which have dyed with
crimson the streets of their fairest cities !
And yet this anomalous mystery, this woman of France,
false, vain, frivolous, cruel, in the moment of her coun-
try's agony lays aside velvets and laces, and goes into the
hospitals, emptying therein larder, cellar, purse, crying out
to the last, "No armistice ! no capitulation ! We can suffer,
we can starve, we can die, but we must not be conquered !"
And she did suffer and starve and die, more than once,
as only that joy-loving woman can die, during those
months of carnage and famine and fire, holding high, un-
dauntedly, their motto "tout est perdu, fors I'honneur!"
Agnes's face had lost the pure curve of its outline, but
her expression of sweet repose was born of perfect happi-
ness and sense of rest after "the burden and heat" of a
troublous day; and over Dick's genial, ruddy counte-
nance had settled a seriousness which proved that his
rollicking, somewhat reckless nature held depths which
could be stirred by the scenes of suffering through which
he had come forth ennobled. He could never go back and
be the insouciant, devil-may-care " good fellow" of other
days, when he had always been more or less inebriated with
that vernal wine of life which is unmixed with the gall
of later experience; but if his smile was less frequent, it
had a new sweetness in it, and if his laugh was a trifle less
ready, it hatl a truer ring, — and the graceful, careless
bonhommic of old was not more charming than the quiet
dignity which sat so well upon him now.
And Agnes thought him simply perfect, and idolized
him, after the manner of her kind.
As the last echo of the " Gloria" died away Dick
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 263
aroused himself, and, approaching Agnes, whispered, "Is
the story of Orpheus a fable, think you? Would not that
voice draw one up — or down — as it pleased?"
Agnes smiled, and answered, whispering also, " Dora's
voice, like herself, could only draw one nearer heaven.
Listen !" For now flowed forth on the air the soul-stir-
ring words of the "Agnus Dei," with its pathetic appeal,
"Dona nobis pacem, pacem, pacem !" piercing every
heart with its grief-born pathos.
" Sainte mere de Dieu!" whispered one woman to
another, "this is no human voice!" And she hastily
crossed herself and muttered an ave.
Agnes's eyes filled with tears ; it seemed to her that
Dora' s heart was bleeding.
" Have we an angel among us, or one of the cantatriccs
of the opera?" murmured Madame la Baronne de St.
Lo to her son, leaning over her velvet cushion to reach
his ear, while she strove to pierce with her lorgnon the
obscurity of the choir from which this mysterious voice
issued.
"Mais non, maman," replied the youth, pale with ex-
citement; "it is a miracle, but a human being is the in-
strument ; a young English girl. I have seen her ; she is
beautiful as her voice, with a face of marble, and the eyes
of one inspired, and a "
"Silence, I pray thee, my son. This is not the place
for persiflage of this description." Aiul the baroness,
becoming uncomfortably red, fanned herself vehemently,
while she made a mental calculation of the remainintr
days which would intervene before this last, only scion of
her house should return to retirement and study at St.
Cyr, sublimely unconscious that the subject of her anxious
meditation, witli eyes monK-ntarily lowered from the choir
(and growing more unwholesome-looking than before, —
264 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
through a combination of concentrated emotions), was
vowing in his heart to escape by his window at an unholy
hour, and spend that very night promenading before the
house which contained this divinity with the statue-like
face, and the golden-gleaming eyes, and the voice which
had awakened the embryo man in his sluggish soul.
Dick Ogilvie and Agnes stood a little apart from the
outflowing congregation after service, waiting for Dora,
who, with Marian by the hand, soon appeared, and joining
them they hurried homeward, to escape the curious gaze
of many enterprising individuals upon whom her exquisite
voice had wrought its spell. Turning into a quiet, parti-
ally built-up suburb, lined on each side with villa-looking
buildings with the square, white bit of information ap^arte-
ments a louer, on most of their etages, and neat, primly-
kept, oblong suggestions of garden in front, into which
juts the inevitable balcony with its creeper in a perfect
state of preservation, its three iron chairs and round iron
table, they moderated their pace somewhat, and Dora
threw back the veil with which slie had shrouded herself,
to the imminent risk of suffocation, on that mid-day of
June. Agnes's cheek was quite flushed now from the
rapid walking and the heat ; but Dora's was free from the
faintest tinge as the snow-drop, while her eyes looked
preternaturally large and bright through the attenuation
of her features. Agnes, glancing at her, almost trembled,
so fragile and delicate she had grown, and so angelic was
the expression of
"That peaceful face wherein all past distress
Had melted into perfect loveliness."
but into a loveliness so unearthly, so spiritual, that her
friend's heart grew faint with fear at the thought of their
coming separation, which might be a longer one than either
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 265
anticipated. For Agnes and Dick were to be married
shortly, and Dora had steadfastly resisted their entreaties
to accompany them to England, where Dick could obtain
a livelihood in the practice of his profession in a country
town, and where he now felt that he must make his home
on his sister's account.
Dora was unable to think of England without a shudder
of horror and grief, not untainted by self-reproach ; for
she felt now that, however anxious her husband should be
to reclaim her, she would rather die than return to his
side.
The conviction of Dyke's base treachery towards herself
had destroyed all lingering vestiges of love and respect in
her heart ; but for her child's sake she would have crushed
down her aversion and walked steadily on in the path
beset with thorns on which she had entered, had not the
great, insurmountable barrier of this new cross which
barred her with its mighty power from following the
line of duty, — her love for Ronald Buchanan, and his
great love for her, — forced her to turn her agonized face
away from a greater anguish than she had strength to
bear.
"I may not even die," she moaned to herself in the
dark hours, as she heard Marian's soft breathing by her
pillow; but her slight figure grew more slender, and her
step slower, and her face resembled an alabaster vase
through which the lamp of the soul beamed forth, too
luminously for earthly uses.
At those rare times when Agnes found it impossible
longer to withliold her gentle reproaches and warnings,
and tried to awaken some anxiety for her state of health
in Dora, she would be answered by the very saddest of
sweet smiles, and words like these : " Never fear, Agnes ;
I am stronger than I look ; as long as Marian lives, God
M 23
266 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
will not take me to himself. Do not let my pale face
grieve you, dear ; remember —
" ' I have watched my first and holiest hopes depart
One after one ;
I have held the hand of Death upon my heart
And made no moan.'
Why, then, should you reproach me, or wonder that the
laughter has all died out of me forever?"
And Agnes was fain to be content and watch her silently.
As they approached the cottage where they had all taken
refuge after their escape from Paris, the tall figure of
Ronald Buchanan arose from an easy-chair which he had
drawn through the window out upon the balcony, and ad-
vanced to open the gate of the little garden for them.
He also bore the impress of suffering upon his frank face,
and his left arm was in splinters and hung in a silk scarf,
helpless; for it had been broken in two places, a fortnight
ago, when he had dashed into a burning house to rescue
from a frightful death a bed-ridden man and some helpless
children. He bore them all out uninjured in his strong
arms, and had just turned away, blackened, singed, burned
about the hands, when a wall fell in with a crash, and
part of the mansard-roof slipped into the street upon tlie
shrieking spectators.
Ronald knew nothing of what had happened ; many
were crushed, many more frightfully mangled, and he was
drawn out from the smoking debris for dead. But, for-
tunately, a sergent de ville took the precaution to ex-
amine him before he was cast upon the heap of bodies
consigned to the Morgue; and finding signs of life, dis-
patched him on a litter to the hospital of the English
aml)ulance. There poor Dora had the melancholy comfort
of nursing him until .so far recovered as to be able to
THE MILLS OF TILE GODS. 267
remove outside of Paris, of which they all were weary
unto death ; and in this quiet retreat, where all the hideous
sights and sounds of the last nine months could be at
times forgotten, they all rested.
Ronald Buchanan and Dick Ogilvie had each com-
municated with their men of business in London as soon
as the siege was raised, and had received ample remit-
tances.
Dora also had gone timidly to her father's banker in
Paris to draw their accumulated monthly installments from
America. The banker, an American who had known her
father well, and who had been absent from Paris during
the troubles, had just resumed business. He handed her
the sum accruing to her without demur, and she went
straightway and invested the greater portion of it in a
neat trousseau for her little friend Agnes, leaving barely
a margin to cover the rent of their rooms and weekly
boarding.
The day following their arrival at St. Denis, she offered
her services as choir-leader in the Abbey-Church, and a
few days later sought and obtained pupils, to whom she
undertook to give singing lessons three days in each week.
For Dora's was a staunch, sturdy heart, — far stronger to
endure than the frail casket which enshrined it.
And Agnes, overwhelmed by so much loving-kindness,
spent days, and parts of nights, too, in creating wonders
of convent needle- work wherewith to clothe little Marian,
who passed her happy days frolicking in the sunshine,
without more thought of raiment than the lilies of the
field.
How blessedly happy would these five hearts have been,
had it not pleased God to weave into the destiny of one
of them the dark thread of evil, which could not be
unspun !
268 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
As it was, both Dick and Agnes felt it almost an insult
to their dear friends to let the glory of their happiness
shine forth. Only when they were alone together did
they cast aside the sadness born of a true sympathy with
the sore trial, of which they both guessed the general
features.
No common tie bound these four souls together; for
months had they struggled, endured, suffered, hand-in-
hand. And during those last fearful weeks when the
Commune had ruled like the Genius of Destruction in
Paris, when the roaring of cannon, the whizzing of shells,
the screeching of the mitrailleuses, filled the heart with
dire forebodings, which the constant ringing of bells and
beating of drums served only to heighten, while the cry
of despair, ^^Noiis sommes trahis f^ from the frenzied
National Guards, was heard from time to time through
their expiring struggle, they had cheered each other.
For there was^fighting at Neuilly, at Bagneux, at Asnieres,
and the shells from Versailles scattered death through the
Champs Elysees. There, under the trees where children
had danced in glee, where bonnes had coquetted, and fine
ladies peeped from under their dainty parasols at the gay
cavaliers and the dashing equipages, on many a spring day
passed, lay now, stark and stiff in death, the bodies of
Frenchmen, slain by Frenchmen in fanatical fury.
The Royalists and P'ederals fought like tigers, thirsting
for each other's blood ; shots were exchanged from win-
dow to window ; there were encounters on the staircases,
on the roofs, in bath-houses, — it was a wild orgie of
murder.
The churrh<?s were closed, the cu7-es imprisoned, the
convents emptied ; sacrilege and blasphemy flourished
in such a hot-bed of crime. The Cathedral of Notre
Dame was invaded, the sacred vessels, the priests' robes,
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 269
the ornaments, handled with coarse jests and impious
sneers.
The spirit of Voltaire arose like the phoenix from the
ashes of corruption, and the Goddess of Reason, with
her saturnalia of blood, menaced France once more.
Buchanan, called upon to attend a prisoner whose soul
was nigh escaping through the bars of La Roquette, en-
countered on one of his visits the reverend Abbe ,
who was allowed to enter the cells of the condemned on
presentation of a passport, which bore these words, —
"Admit the bearer, who styles himself the servant of otie
of the name of God /' '
One could almost see Voltaire's contemptuous shrug, or
hear his impatient dismissal of the unanswerable argu-
ment of Christ, — "I pray you never let me hear that
w««'i- name again!" As Ronald returned the passport
to the white-haired priest, a shudder of dread ran through
him, and he smelt the smoke of the flames already which
were to devour this Gomorrah. Not long after, when
Archbishop Darbois was dragged forth and put to death
without cause, who was surprised ? He was only the third
Archbishop of Paris who died a violent death at the
hands of his flock !
Can one wonder that the barricade sprang up magically
in the God-forsaken city, writing the word riot in each
street, or that placards disgraced the walls calling upon
the women to take up arms "to stimulate the cowards
who hold back!" For the same noble end, no doubt,
women old and hideous (the refuse of "La Force" gen-
erally), in rags, and with red, Phrygian caps on their
disheveled heads, dragged about the deadly initrai/Icitse,
shouldered the musket, hurled forth curses more vocifer-
ously than could be possible to man.
In this horrible chaos the National Guard went mad.
23*
270
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Disheartened and disgusted, Dick Ogilvie unfurled the tri-
color, and, waving it wildly, called upon his regiment to
follow him ! They went over to a man to the Versaillais !
In those days Dora and Agnes rarely stirred outside,
fearing to leave the shelter of the hospital, where they
found ple'nty of work to do.
How weary they were sometimes of groans and moans,
lint and bandages ! How they longed for the blue sky
and the green turf, and the sweet, untainted air of the
forest ! And how many an hour of rare rest did each of
these friends sacrifice for the other ! Many a meal, too,
was divided by four to the satisfaction of — none, alas !
They had aFl been unwearying in sustaining the strength
and courage of Dora, who looked so terribly fragile, but
they found that she could circumvent tlieir tenderness by
a crafty unselfishness, which returned their kindness in
equal measure. And now, with life spared, with youth
and its quenchless hopes, they must separate, in all proba-
bility, forever.
They had talked it all over the night before this feast-
day of St. John, and Agnes had plead her hardest to
move Dora's heart towards England. "But it cannot be,
Agnes. I could walk down into my grave before I could
go to Oh, my darling, do not urge me; it cannot
do good, and it only tortures me."
" But, Dora, I cannot leave you here alone. Have some
pity upon me, dear, and tell me what I ought to do."
" I shall not be alone, Agnes ; I have Marian, and this
widow who owns the house is friendly and seems to be a
good sort of woman." ("Oh, Dora!" sobbed Agnes.)
"And you jnusi go with Captain Ogilvie; he is quite
right to return to England and make his home there.
You will be very haj^py, dear ; he is a noble-hearted
man." And she kisseil her tenderly.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 271
Of the keen pang which it cost Dora's sensitive, ch'nging,
timid nature to cut herself loose thus from her only friends,
she gave no sign ; it would only mar their happiness, and
nothing could be otherwise arranged. What could one
pain more signify to her? had not her life become
" A drear golgotha, wliere all the ground is white
With the wrecks of joys that have perished, the skeletons of delight"?
And so without one sigh or tear she set about preparing
for her friend's marriage and departure, with a strange,
calm serenity which was not natural to her years. One
would have imagined it was a mother whose tender voice
advised and suggested and encouraged a daughter's
manifold preparations for her wedding journey, instead
of a young creature of her own age, to whom it all seemed
the dreariest mockery.
The wedding-day was fixed for the 28th, — only five days
yet to be together, — and then, Agnes with her husband
were to start for England, and Ronald with them !
As she passed through the little gate held open for her
by the ever-ready hand, Dora could not resist sending
one swift upward glance at the pale, sad face of the man
she loved, and murmuring, "Have you been in pain?
Is the bandage easy ? You do not look as bright as when
we left you."
" Thanks, it is quite comfortable ; the heat is trying me
somewhat, and yet I have not stirred out of the shade of
this porch."
He spoke coldly, though courteously, and brought his
chair forward for her. But she gently declined it, and,
with a sadder expression in her face, slowly mounted the
stairs to Ikt room, followed by Marian.
Dora luitl asitle the child's hat and her own, and then
2^2 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
drew her to her knee, and said, "Marian, look at me ; do
you love me?"
"Oh, yes, mamma," answered the little one. "You
know I love you, dear, darling, sweetest mamma !"
" Then put }our arms about my neck and \ovt me tight.
Oh, my darling, creep into my heart and still its pain !"
she wailed.
Marian covered her with kisses, showering endearing
epithets upon her, lisping consolation with every breath;
and gradually the storm passed, — the sobs ceased, the tears
were dried, and smiles and nursery rliymes took tlicir
place. And then, at last, Dora yielded to her petition to
sing her to sleep, and her. mid-day nap was taken while the
prayer for peace rose up once more from the aching heart
upon which her curly head rested. " Do7ia 7wbis pacem /"
echoed through the cottage, and from the open windows
fell upon that other heart below, which would never more
know peace apart from her.
When the voice ceased, Ronald arose and left the porch,
going out into the acacia-lined road in a fever of unrest,
and presently Agnes and Dick sauntered away in an oppo-
site direction.
An hour afterwards, Dora stood at her window looking
out over the fields in their spring-tide beauty, with the
fair heavens smiling down upon them, and her heart grew
calm, and she bade Marian look at the little clouds which
lay still "like flocks of sheep, or vessels sailing in God's
other deep." "And shall mamma tell Marian some
pretty verses about those lovely clouds? and Marian may
learn to say them too. Now listen :
" ' Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver,
Clouds in tlie distance dwell,
Clouds that are cool for all their color.
Pure as a rose-lipped shell.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 273
" ' Fleets of wool in the upper heavens
Gossamer wings unfurl :
Sailing so high they seem just slipping
Over that bar of pearl.' "
"Ah, that is beautiful, mamma! Tell me it again,"
pleaded Marian.
And then came more verses, and some loving serious
talk of what lay beyond the bar of pearl ; and when
Agnes came in shortly after, Dora's smile of greeting
was radiant, for the peace she sought had been found,
and God had smiled out of the heavens upon her.
CHAPTER II.
" This is the last time that we may ever speak together,
Dora; to-morrow at this hour I shall be far away; answer,
then, I implore you, the one question I ask you."
They were walking together, Dora and Ronald, for the
fust time since they left Paris; but it was their last day
(to-morrow was to be Agnes's wedding-day), and Dora
had not been able to refuse his earnest request.
It was evening, the sun was setting, and the
" Sweet, calm day in golden haze
Melts down the amber sky."
They were walking along a country road, and Dora
leaned on his uninjured arm. She had laid aside her
mourning, to please Agnes, until after the wedding, and
her pure white muslin with its violet ribbons, and the
bunch of roses in her belt, made her look more like the
sweet Dora of the old Rome-days than she could have
believed possible.
2 74 THE MILLS OF 7 LIE GODS.
"1 will answer any question you desire answered," Dora
said, at last.
And Donald burst forth: "Tell me that man's name,
your husband.'''' How bitter the words were in his mouth !
"What is he? Who is he? Ah, I thought so. You
will answer any question exceJ>tingi\\Q one I wish answered,
— woman-like." For Dora had drawn her arm away from
his and walked on silently beside him.
"I cannot," she spoke in a constrained voice, — "I
cannot tell you ; forgive me, — it would fill my days and
nights with terror to feel thatjiw/ and ]ie might meet. Oh,
spare me this anxiety, if you can !" she plead.
His resolution wavered ; he took her hand gently and
replaced it on his arm. "I will not pain you again,
dearest ; and these minutes are too precious to waste in
fruitless argument. Dora, will you write to me?"
She thought a moment. "Yes, I will, — not often, and
of course not such letters as you would care to receive
from me; but I Vv'ill write, if you wish."
"Thanks; it will not be against your principles to say
that you and Marian are well and happy, will it ?" smiling
down at her. "And, Dora, is it necessary for you to
continue these singing-lessons?"
"Not absolutely; but why should I give them up? —
they give me occupation, and I must fill up the days some-
how, you know."
He looked away ; he could not speak. There was a
pathos too deep for tears in this acknowledgment of her
utter loneliness. And then they spoke of Ronald's future,
of his plans and prospects, speaking in that flat mono-
tone in which no note of gladness, hope, or ambition
could be traced, looking forward to it only as something
to be lived through, — a patient, hopeless, waiting for the
end.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 275
They walked slowly, arm linked in arm, so near in spirit
that the thought of one needed to be but partly expressed
to the quick comprehension of the other, with such perfect
^'rapport" existing between soul and soul, that their long
silences were more eloquent than speech ; and yet between
them stretched an impassable gulf ! Each realized fully
to-day, as they stood one on either brink and gazed across
with tear-blurred eyes at each other, that on the morrow
that dread gulf would have widened to such proportions
that they could see or touch each other's hands in this
world never more.
And so they talked together, wandering on in the soli-
tary, hay-scented, June twilight, sadly, but with an unself-
ish attempt at resignation, lest the anguish which lay in
either heart might overflow the barriers of self-control,
and so make endurance futile, knowing the while, to its
uttermost pang, what two poor souls have known, one of
whom was condemned to die before the sun should set
to-morrow.
Dora drew Ronald on to speak of his home, of his
family, each of whom she had known by name long since.
"You will find your greatest liappiness with Lydia," she
urged. " Go to her, and let her nurse you back to health
and strength ; the gayety and exuberant spirits of your
younger sisters at the parsonage will jar upon you after
all the pain yon have witnessed lately, but Lydia's calm
restfulness will soothe and heal you, I feel sure."
" Yes, Lydia is repose itself; the very soft rustle of her
garments has something of the flutter of angelic wings
about it. But would it be right for me to bring into her
new-born happiness, her bright, sweet home, my wounds
and scars, my broken health and broken spirit ? For,
oh ! Dora, I have felt lately that, morally and physically,
'there is no health in me;' and" — he wont on vehe-
276 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
mently, unheeding her gesture of remonstrance — " I al-
ways seemed to feel, through all former troubles or cares,
that God's hand held the thunderbolts of fate which are
sometimes hurled so crushingly at humanity. But now
all is dark ; I cannot understand ; the justice of God is
incomprehensible. I stumble about in a blind rebellion,
striving to find comfort in parallel cases throughout the
ages of pain since the Creation, — in history, in the ex-
perience of other men; and," he added, sadly, "I have
found them, but they do not comfort me. Yes, Dora,
suffering has existed since the world began.
" ' I have seen those who wore Heaven's armor worsted;
I have heard Truth lie ;
Seen Life, beside the fount for wlucli it thirsted,
Curse God, and die !'
and it has not made my pain less bitter !"
There was a little pause; they were resting now on the
top of a slight elevation, where the debris of a broken-up
camp still scattered the ground. On that spot, only a few
short weeks ago, had the Prussian troops held their orgies,
gloating over the sight of fair Paris in conflagration- in
every quarter; drinking deep ; their most rapturous toast
being, ^^ Paris, cuit dans son Jus /"
Dora, whose strength was soon exhausted, had seated
herself on a heap of demolished tent-props, and was
gazing now at the western sky, where the sun, just disap-
pearing, left his foot-prints in gold and purple.
"I know so well what you feci," she said, presently.
"I have gone through that dark valley before now. I,
too, have doubted everything, desi)aircd of everything, in
a dumb agony of hopelessness. But it has passed away;
there will always be a sad, empty pain in my heart, —
always, — but I shall never rebel as I have done again.
Ah ! what avails it to thrust one's self against the jagged
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 277
rock of Unbelief, — question the mercy and justice of the
God who has given us the power to suffer for His own
wise purposes? The end of it will come to you, as to
me, when, bruised and broken, —
" ' I heard Faith's low, sweet singing in the night,
And, groping through the darkness, touched God's hand.' '"
Ronald, looking in her rapt, upturned face, with its
transparent clearness and great, glowing eyes, with the
waved nimbus of gold-brown hair above her pure brow,
felt a sickening pang sho^t through him, which warned
him that this was well-nigh the last time his eyes would
rest upon that face, which bore even now God's seal
upon its beauty.
Instinctively he took the light shawl he had carried on
his arm and drew it tenderly about her shoulders, as
though by even that trifling action he could postpone the
coming of the dread messenger.
"There is one tiling more, Dora, you must promise
me," he began, huskily, after ten minutes' silence,
through which he dared not trust his voice.
"Yes, dear," she said, dreamily, drawing away her
eyes with an effort from the western sky, and fixing
them, full of solemn glory, on his heart-broken face.
"Should you fall ill, or Marian, should harm come to
her, will you have me sent for immediately?"
She answered, gravely, "No, forgive me! I cannot
promise this. Ah ! my friend, when you look at me
like that my pain is intensified so that I cannot bear it;"
and tears rolled down over the white face. Ronald's
composure was shattered at the sight.
"Then I shall not leave you. No, Dora, no pleading
of yours can move me now. I shall stay with you as
long as you are spared to me on earth, and then — well,
then I will stay with you still !"
24
2 78 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
A gleam of joy broke out over her sweet face as he
spoke, and the deep eyes gleamed through their tears, —
tears born of renunciation. So welcome, so dear to the
heart of woman is the iteration of the old, never worn-
out story, that she would draw back from the gates of
Paradise, or linger about the dread shores of Avernus, to
hearken once more to its faintest whisper.
"You are not yourself now," Dora said, gently strok-
ing with her cool, soft hand the strong, feverish one
which clasped hers like a vice. "You are not the strong,
noble, courageous man who would die before he would
stoop to dishonor, that I thought, or you would not
make my task so hard."
"But, Dora," he interrupted, "can you expect me to
look on your face for the last time to-morrow ? Is it not
bitterly cruel enough to leave you, delicate, unprotected
as you are, but I am to be possessed of superhuman en-
durance?"
"And would it comfort you to see me die?" she
asked. " Is that what you wish me to promise?"
He answered nothing, but loosed her hand and bowed
his head in his palms with a smothered groan. Then the
7uomaii in Dora reasserted itself, and she leaned eagerly
towards him, whispering, —
"Rest content. I could not die without bidding you
farewell. I will send for you when the end draws near.
/ will have no one by me at the last but you. Do you
hear? Oh, look up, and tell xsxo. you will come to me /''
He did not move or speak; his face was hidden, and a
strong shudder passed over his frame. Her voice broke
the silence in tones sweet and sad as the wail of an a;olian
harp :
" You will be patient and good for my sake. No one
knows what the future may bring to you of forgetfulness
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
279
or joy, of which no life is utterly bereft. You have much
happiness before you ; loving hearts await you in your
dear home. You have ;. outh and health and energy, and,
I hope, ambiti n. How many are there who can count
not one of these blessings! You will not let o)U' sorrow
crush you. One disappointment, however bitter, should
not wreck a man's life. Why else is strength given one
but to overtop misfortune and to conquer fate ? One is
so tempted to exaggerate one's misery. You know jny
favorite says, —
" ' W'e over-state the ills of life. We walk upon
The shadow of hills, across a level thrown,
And pant like climbers.'
Still Ronald sat mute, drinking in the sound of her
gentle pleading, unable to speak or move from the con-
centrated anguish which held him in an iron grasp.
When he arose at last, his face was drawn and white,
and the sad smile with which he offered her his arm,
saying, " The dew is falling, Dora ; you must go within
now," made her heart ache as it had never yet done
through all her sorrowful life.
These were almost the last words which passed between
them.
The next day after the quiet wedding — which had been
solemnized at the British Embassy, in Paris, Dora pre-
serving throughout perfect composure and even a cheerful
serenity — they drove, all four together, to the " Gare"
(Marian having been left in charge of the widow, their
landlady), where the happy couple and Buchanan were
to take the train for Boulogne, e7i route to England.
Agnes, when the moment of parting came, broke down
utterly; sobs shook her as she clung to her friend in wild
grief, and only Dora's firmness saved her from missing
the train. She it was who unlocked the frenzied clasp of
2 So THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Agnes's fingers upon her-, who whispered, "Agnes, Mr.
Ogilvie is pained by this sorrow of yours on your bridal-
day. Cahn yourself, my darling; I beg you not to un-
nerve me. Agnes, let me go, dear ; you are killing me !"
And she tore herself away, just pressing Dick Ogilvie' s
hand silently as she passed him, which he as silently re-
turned, and then sprang into the railway carriage, where
Agnes had thrown herself back in convulsive weeping.
Ronald Buchanan and Dora stood alone on the plat-
form, — alone in a rushing, scrambling, noisy crowd of
passengers scurrying for seats. Dora looked confused,
and put her hands for a moment to her temples. Ronald
quietly laid his valise on the seat next Dick's and ap-
proached her. " I will see you safely to your carriage,
Dora; there is suflficient time."
She took his arm, and, trembling violently, turned
towards the entrance of the station, before which the
hack stood which had brought them. Ronald placed
her in the carriage and gave the necessary directions to
the coachman to drive as quickly as possible to , St.
Denis, and then he leaned forward and said to Dora,
"Remember, your letters will be my one consolation, and
you promise to send for me when — if " His voice
failed, he shut the carriage-door and turned away.
"Ronald!" cried a voice piercing him to the heart,
and a death-white face, with eyes distended and wild,
gleamed on liim through the carriage-window. He
rushed forward, tore open the door, and seized her in
his arms. Then, out of the agony of his heart, for the
first time, were showered kisses and tears upon that
stricken white face.
Half fainting, he laid her back upon the cushions, with
a fierce effort closed tlic door upon her, and, drawing his
hat down over his eyes, he strode away into the station.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 281
There, with a porter's cap upon his head and a porter's
barrow in his hand, Jacques Toquelet stood awaiting the
incoming train. In less than two minutes his barrow
was transferred to a companion, and he was seated, by-
Buchanan's orders, on the box of the fiacre which con-
tained poor Dora.
From that hour Jacques deserted the corps of porters,
and became the faithful servant of Dora and the indefati-
gable slave of little Marian. He found the position far
more agreeable, as well as more lucrative, than his former
occupation, for Buchanan would have lived on a crust
rather than that Dora should be unprotected and in need
of a faithful servant.
CHAPTER III.
Anne Ogilvie sat in a brown study, with two open
letters lying in her lap.
Her duties in the school-room were over for the day,
and Lady Valerie had gone to drive with her mamma,
therefore it was permissible for the young governess to
indulge herself with a day-dream, growing out of the
astounding news which had just reached her through the
medium of the afternoon post.
The first of these letters had come from her brother
Dick, and informed her in half a dozen cheery lines of
his arrival in England with his bride ! The letter was
dated Folkestone, but they were coming at once to Lon-
don, where he begged lier to meet him the next day at
Batt's Hotel, Dover Street.
The other was a lawyer-like document, on stiff white
24*
282 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
paper, blue-lined, and written in the stereotyped legal
calligraphy. It informed her, on the part of Messrs.
Snodgrass and Phipps, that she had come into possession,
through the death of her godmother, the Lady Anne
Mclntyre, of an annuity of five hundred pounds, on con-
dition that she should at once resign her position as gov-
erness and take up her residence in a neatly-appointed
country-house, which was one of that kind but eccentric
lady's many possessions.
At first Anne felt stunned almost, by the shock of such
undreamed-of good fortune ; falling into her lap, too, just
at the moment when she would have greatest pleasure in
it. For here was Dick, dear, good, thoughtless, old fel-
low, having taken unto himself a wife, would be so glad
of a home for her and himself, and how happy they would
all be together! " I wonder what this Agnes is like?"
she thought, taking up the letter and glancing over its
hasty lines. " Of Agnes I will say nothing," Dick wrote ;
" you will love her almost as much as I do when you see
her. You must be great chums for my sake," etc.
And then Anne read over again the lawyer's note, and
sank once more into musings, over which many a smile
rijipled. The vivid color deepened in her cheek as she
drew towards her her escritoire, and, opening it with a
key hung on her watch-guard, she drew from its recesses
a letter written on thin foreign paper, and, dimpling into
a loving smile, she opened and read it for the sixtieth
time.
It bore the American post-mark, and it was signed by
Percival Tyrrell. With those three letters on her lap,
Anne's cup of joy overflowed in happy tears of thankful-
ness to the God of the fatherless.
For Toto had gone down to Liverpool that same day
when he had unconsciously dealt such a cruel stab to poor
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 283
Anne's heart, brimful of sympathy for the chief actors in
this drama, of which the pale, sad face of his master and
the sharp pang which the news of his sudden journey had
perceptibly caused the beautiful lady whom " Massa Percy
had been sweet on so long," had furnished him the key.
And he had poured out his vivid description of her joy
at the reception of Tyrrell's last letter, the ready answer
which she had been about to confide to his charge with
smiles and blushes, when, like a blow, his information of
his master's absence and return to America struck the
color from her cheek, the light from her eyes, and "she
just crushed up the letter in her little white hand as if it
had been a wasp stinging her; and she smiled at me so
sad, Massa Percy, — as if her poor heart was just breaking. ' '
And the great, big tears stood in Toto's brown orbs and
expressed more than his poor words.
How many times throughout the voyage Toto was called
upon to dilate u[)on the scene of that morning need not
be remembered, or \\o\\ often Tyrrell had regretted his
hasty conclusions, and longed to be back in England.
Scarcely a month had elapsed since Anne Ogilvie had
believed that love and hope and joy had gone out of her
life forever, when she received the following communica-
tion from Tyrrell :
" Brevoort House, New York.
"Toto tells me you forgot to give him the answer to
my letter. May I entreat you to delay no longer tlie
posting of that which will bring new life to one who has
been starving for ten da\s?
"Percy Tyrrell.
" Miss Ogilvie. June 22."
284 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
CHAPTER IV.
The parting between Anne Ogilvie and her little pupil
was a painful one on both sides. They had, through
nearly four years of constant association, become warmly
attached to each other. Even the cold, proud, unde-
monstrative countess's nerves were somewhat shaken at the
thought of the hiatus which would intervene between the
exodus of one such faithful servant and the very doubtful
possibility of the incoming of an equally trustworthy
successor.
It would be unfair to this lady not to mention that she
regretted also the withdrawal of the bright young face,
and the winning, high-bred manner, which, though the
antipodes of obsequious, never varied in its gentle,
respectful deference, — that somewhere, even in that
narrow heart through which the blood flowed languidly
in an admirably aristocratic pulsation, there glowed
something nearly akin to affection, differing from that
inspired by her pet poodle of years' pampering, in that
it was mingled with respect, which the pure tone and
innate dignity of Anne's character exacted from all who
were associated with her.
Her ladyship presented her, in bidding her farewell,
with a handsome watch bearing her monogram in brilliants ;
and Anne, in kissing the countess's hand, left tliereon two
crystal drops which all tlie brilliants of Golconda could
not purchase.
The little Lady Valerie would not be consoled by the
gift of a new necklace fur lier dear governess's departure,
and wept sorely all that last day, bedewing with her tears
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 285
each article which she laid in Anne's boxes, and insisting
upon embracing her every quarter of an hour.
Her little face was red and swollen with weeping when
Anne stooped under the lace and silken curtains of her
bed, to kiss her hot cheek for the last time, at midnight,
for she was to leave the next morning at six o'clock, and
she would not disturb her little friend.
A double dose of red lavender did not compose the
countess to slumber, and the earl was called upon, in the
small hours, to say how they ever could find a person to
fill Miss Ogilvie's place ; whether it was not too unfor-
tunate that she should have had a god-mother; and other
conundrums too numerous to mention.
His lordship devoutly thanked heaven when the sun
mounted into the sky to sufficient altitude to authorize his
adjournment to his dressing-room.
As Anne descended from the railway-carriage which had
borne her swiftly up to London, and entered the station,
her attention was attracted by a large party of ladies and
gentlemen, accompanied by stylish-looking lady's-maids
and valets laden with dressing-cases, traveling-rugs, etc.,
among whom she recognized Lady Florence Ellesmere,
on Mr. Dyke Faucett's arm. "Can it be a wedding-
party?" she wondered; but no, there loomed up in the
background papa and mamma with little Lord Lawrence
and his tutor.
Lady Florence was looking very delicate, and at the
conclusion of the season, to which she had contributed
almost her last spark of vitality, her physician had ordered
her to go at once to the Isle of Wight, where she could
absorb sea-air without the dissipations of Brighton.
Dyke Faucett, assiduous to the letter of his devotion,
was not to accompany them, but had promised to follow
them in his yacht, which was a new and all absorbing toy
2 86 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
at this moment, and Avhich was being fitted out in luxur-
ious magnificence at Southampton.
Lady Florence's marriage was arranged for the latter
part of September, and was to take place at their house in
Ventnor, as town is empty at that season ; and part of the
bridal-tour was to be taken in the superb " lo," a yacht
of some two hundred tons, furnished with a regal magnifi-
cence and at a regal cost.
Dyke had fully satisfied his not-over-sensitive conscience
that having failed in procuring any information respecting
Dora's existence, through his banker, after the siege had
exterminated the weak and helpless in Paris, the danger
of becoming a bigamist was so infinitesimal that it was
not worth a second thought.
He had, therefore, not a single care upon him, if we
may except the occasional violet-perfumed missives which
flowed in undiminished ardor from the chateau in Brittany,
where the beautiful marquise was saving her complexion,
and counting the sands of life which were running swiftly
through the hour-glass of her husband's life. " How
deuced unlucky it would be should the old man step out
before September !" ruminated Dyke, after the receipt of
the List effusion, in which a P. S. stated that they had
been ordered to take the invalid to St. Malo, "as he was
becoming daily weaker, and the sea-air might prolong his
life difew weeks ; longer they could not hope for." " I
very much fear," continued Dyke, addressing the familiar
demon in his soul, " that should such a contre-temps occur,
Florence would be obliged to go to the wall. I am
equally engaged to each of them, and — I cannot marry
them both." (Why not ? A man of such infinite resources
might do anything. A triple bigamist is an anomaly, to
be sure, even in a novel of the present day, but 1 have no
doubt it could l)e done, and has been. We have the
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 287
assurance of that keen student of moral anatomy, Solomon,
that "there is nothing new under the sun/' and in the
great menagerie of the world there glide monsters, be-
side whom the "wolf" would seem a meek household
pet, wearing the "sheep's clothing" of Poole and others
of his craft.)
"Yes," mused Dyke Faucett, complacently, as he
dawdled over his chocolate at mid-day, " Florence
would have to succumb to the force of circumstances
and the energy of that little bruiie, for Pauline zuoiild
marry me in spite of everything, even were we, Florence
and I, standing at St. George's chancel-rails, — she is such
a fiery little diablesse. She wouldn't suit me, by a long
shot, as well as the other ; she has fallen over head and
ears in love with me, and that is so deuced unfortunate
— in a wife. Her devotion was becoming oppressive
when that Deus ex machina arrived, recalling her to her
post at her lord's bedside. I wonder what he is worth?
.They lived well, but one cannot always tell. \\'ell,"
yawning, "I shall just look in at Tattersall's and at
White's, and then, ho ! for Southampton and the Isle of
Wight !" For a telegram had just announced to him that
the "Id" was in readiness, awaiting his commands.
CHAPTER V.
" ' There is nothing a man knows in grief, or in sin,
Half so bitter as to think, " What I mij[ht have been," '
" LvDiA, and this thouglit haunts me and troubles me
ceaselessly ; and even were it not so, can I ever hope for
peace whilst that poor child remains in that pestilent land
288 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
which reeks even yet with crime and rebellion? It is not
safe for her, it is not human to allow her to be so exposed,
— fragile, delicate as a flower, and alotte in a strange
land." And Ronald Buchanan, lying on a lounge in the
cool, shaded library at Woodland Parsonage, with Lydia
sitting on a low ottoman by his side, almost groaned
aloud.
His sister's tender eyes grew soft with sympathy as she
replied, in a sweet, low voice, "It is pitiful, but it is
better so. You tell me she has a man-servant with her ;
is he not entirely reliable?"
" I feel convinced that he is ; I have seen his fidelity,
his honesty, and his courage severely tested, and those are
three attributes of a good servant. I have sent him my
address, and bidden him write me each week."
"And Dora, — does she write also?"
"Yes. Ah, do not blame me, I must be able to judge
for myself in this case;" for a sadder look had shadowed
Lydia's face. She smiled a little now. " Do you think,,
my boy, that m this case you are an impartial judge ?
Do you not believe that passion may overthrow in a
moment the stores of wisdom laid up through years of
experience. You must not pride yourself upon reason,
when love has made you most unreasonable."
He took her hand and kissed it. " Ah, that is so like
old times, Lydia; just a wee bit of a lecture, tempered
by your sweet voice and loving eyes. But what would
you have me do?"
"Pray!"
" I cannot. There is no answer for such prayers ; there
is not even hope in the next world, since our lives must
be perfected here, or carry the incompletion into the life
beyond. It seems to me that there would be but the ghost
of our nature left after casting the shell of memory, hope
TIJE MILLS OF THE GODS. 2 89
and human love; and there can be none of these in
the heaven above, for 'there is perfect rest.' " He sighed
impatiently, and, rising abruptly, paced the room. It
was not difficult to see that rest and /le were no longer
friends ; the calm, phlegmatic temperament had become
nervous, irrritable, petulant ; the smooth, white brow was
wrinkled into a frown ; the clear, gray eyes looked
strained and sunken in their hollow sockets ; the firm
mouth was set in the stern lines of an unconquerable grief.
Lydia's heart grew sadder as she watched him, noting
the changes which had been wrought, and into her mem-
ory stole two lines of French cynicism, —
" Pres des femmes que sommes-nous ?
Des pantins qu'on ballotte !"
For it seemed to her strong, pure nature that love must
be void of selfishness, and that although it is surely the
sweetest, yet it is not the highest duty of man or woman;
and she saw clearly that in this case it should be reso-
lutely stamped out, even though the spark of Ronald's
life — or Dora's — should be crushed underfoot in the doing
of it. To her upright, uncompromising integrity of char-
acter, no half-measures were justifiable. " To dally with
wrong which does no harm" had always been an incon-
ceivable paradox to her unclouded reasoning. The demon
of sophistry fled before her steadfast out-look, and she
never ventured in those crooked labyrinths where wish-
fathered thought loses itself irretrievably, and the pale
shade of a self-constituted morality is seized, in lieu of the
stalwart substance girt about with the law and gospel of
one's inner consciousness.
If Lydia felt the tenderness of her affection for her
best-loved brother over-weighted in the faintest degree
by pity, and its twin, contempt, that so fine a nature
N 21;
290
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
should have succumbed in such disastrous fashion to pas-
sion for a woman, it was but for a moment, for quickly
her sense of justice interposed, and she remembered that
he was a man, of different quality of fibre, nerve, and a
lesser power of endurance than women, and therefore the
" mene tekel" of a woman's judgment could scarcely fail
to be faulty.
And then all other thoughts were swallowed up in the
great wave of sympathy for a trial so bitter as this, and
she spoke to him lovingly and comprehendingly, avoiding
the platitudes of condolence, which she felt would but
chafe him; withholding all remonstrance that in his pres-
ent mood would prove futile as unwelcome; and though
she dared not point at hope, and would not hint at the
possibility of forgetfulness, so exquisite was her tact, yet,
when he left her, he felt that the keenest agony had
passed away. Her last words rang in his ears exultantly
throughout the long, swinging walk which was to insure
him a good night's rest.
" So we'll not dream, nor look back, dear,"
she had whispered,
" But march right on, content and bold.
To where our life sets heavenly clear,
Westward behind the hills of gold."
CHAPTER VI.
"I HAVE nothing further to say to you, sir. You have
heard, and thoroughly understand, I believe, my decision;
either you give up this mad freak of yours, to go over to
France almost upon the eve of your wedding-day, or you
cut yourself adrift from me forever!"
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
!9I
Sir Philip's voice was strong and clear as these words
fell slowly from his lips, but his face had grown white
with the indignation and anguish which was biting
"sharper than a serpent's tooth" into his good heart.
Dyke Faucett, perfectly cool, calm, and handsome as
ever, indolently lounging in a great bamboo smoking-
chair whilst he enjoyed his delicious cigarette, glanced
through half-closed eyes at his guardian, who continued,
emphatically, —
"The whole course of your life has been a source of
self-reproach to me ; I have been culpably weak, and be-
cause I traced many of your faults of character to that
fact, I have been less harsh than you deserved. Of your
ungrateful neglect of myself, and the estate of which you
believe yourself to be the heir, I shall say nothing, but
of your profligate habits whilst abroad, of the stories
which are told of your extravagance and recklessness, I
am not ignorant as you imagine. You have disappointed
and grieveci me inexpressibly ; but to my knowledge you
have not yet brought my name into dishonor, and, by
Heaven, sir, you never shall !"
Dyke arose slowly to his feet, stretched himself, yawned
slightly, and pulled the bell.
Sir Philip grew a shade paler. Can it be believed he
loved this man with a yearning affection still? Mothers
of prodigal sons w^ho have killed the fatted calf seventy-
times-seven, read me this riddle !
Yet a flash shot forth from Sir Philip's gentle hazel
eyes as Dyke addressed the servant, desiring him to send
a messenger to the captain of the " lo" to command that
all should be in readiness to sail on the morrow.
After the door had closed and Dvke had resumed his
seat. Sir Philip, leaning slightly towards him, said, "This
is your- answer, then; you repudiate my ckiiui upon your
292
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
obedience, respect, gratitude; with your own hand you
sever all tie between yourself and me?"
"By no means," answered Dyke, at last. "I have
already explained to you that my temporary absence is
unavoidable j were it not so, I should not dream of caus-
ing this excitement. " He replaced his cigarette and smoked
placidly.
" How can it be unavoidable? If it is a question of
money, — there is my check-book ; if not, what could take
you away at such a time, at the risk of postponing your
wedding-day, or breaking off a marriage which was ar-
ranged by me and to which my honor is pledged ? Rest
assured, Dyke, Florence meant what she said when she
told me this morning that you had refused her request
and might accede to mine, but that she would find it
very difficult to forgive a discourtesy of such marked
nature."
Dyke raised his shoulders, and his lip curled slightly :
"All talk, — for effect; she Avill not let Ellingham slip
through her fingers for such arrant nonsense as this. I am
obliged to go, and 1 informed her of that fact. Should she
take exception to it, she may, and that is the end of it ;
she loses Ellingham — and w^. "
"But Ellingham is not yet yours, monseigncur," replied
Sir Philip, quietly. " And should you be so unfortunate
in wind or weather as to be absent from your post at this
place on the 2Sth — Ellingham never will be f
There was no oath, nor the slightest raising of the voice
to emphasize this determination, but anyone looking into
the drawn, resolute face (the face of the man who had
been true to his one love for forty-five years, who had
been faitliful and trustworthy through his fricndsliip for
her, living, constant and unfultering in his memory of her,
dead, who now looked into the heartless, beautiful face
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 293
of her boy, to whom he had never denied a wish, upon
whom he had lavished tenderness for her sake, and read
therein the cold, deep-seated egotism, the hollow nature,
the false soul), would never have doubted but that he was
able, and would be willing, to carry out to the letter his
intentions. He was not a man given to idle threats ; he
never used a mean weapon ; his sense of justice was correct
and keen, and he never wasted words.
Dyke felt that "the game was up," but he did not
relax a muscle, or change his languid attitude, or allow
his clear complexion to alter by a shade.
"Surely, sir, you do not imagine that I should so far
forget my position as to dispute your disposal of your own
property ! I am under endless obligations to you already.
You have called me ungrateful ; perhaps you do me injus-
tice there. I am 7iot ungrateful" (a little tremor in his
voice here, admirably done). " I will bid you good-day,
sir, until the 28th. Farewell."
He bowed low, and when Sir Philip raised his head
from his hand — he was alone. The air still vibrated with
the melodious, trainante voice of his adopted son ; he
almost regretted having spoken so harshly, — " the fellow
evidently had some feeling hidden away under that stoical
indifference. How sad his voice sounded, and how it
trembled with emotion ! Perhaps, after all, he was forced
to go off at this unseemly time; still, there would be a
\.^xx\\)\t fiasco should he f,\il to return before the 2Sth.
The earl would have an attack of apoplexy, and the storm
would burst upon my unlucky head !"
Dyke, alone on the sands, strode moodily back and
forth, with hands thrust into the pockets of his shooting-
coat and head bent in meditation.
At length he drew forth a letter, in which the Marquise
de Courboisie, in her indecipherable French griffonnage,
o -*
-0
294
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
shot forth from behind the bulwarks of an inch-deep
black- border of grief her last quiver- full of arrows.
If they were not poisoned, they were gold-tipped, there-
fore quite as deadly to Dyke Faucett's peace- For her
" pauvre marquis" in consenting to die, at last, had re-
compensed her for her impatience by several surprises.
He died at St. Malo, in his bath-chair on the beach,
whilst his wife sat at a little distance, absorbed in the
fertile invention of Mons. Balzac, and the sea sang a dirge
over him for some fifteen minutes before his servant knew
that the weary soul was free.
He had left ample instructions with his physician, who
telegraphed at once to Paris to his friends, the Baron de
R and the Marquis de H , also to his legal ad-
visers. They, in due course, appeared at St. Malo, and
were received by the charming widow drowned in tears
and crape. The will was read, and Pauline was com-
pelled to bear a succession of shocks which were far from
disagreeable.
She found that her husband had greatly underrated his
fortune to her; that instead of being simply large, it
was princely. In addition to this was the information
that his only brother, the Comte de C , who had gone
out, thirty years ago, to South America, and had amassed
a fortune there, had died recently, a bachelor, and be-
queathed all that he possessed to the marquis. Papers
substantiating the fact of his death, and his will, were
shown, and Pauline's dread of the long-absent brother
returning a beggar on her bounty, was forever dispelled.
After the reading of the wills and the necessary discus-
sion with the lawyers, the bereaved marquise announced
herself too ill to travel. The gallant gentlemen all de-
clared it would be very wrong for her to attempt to make
any further exertion after her heroic devotion to her poor
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 295
husband and the severe shock she had sustained in his
decease. They would attend to everything : accompany
the remains to Paris and see them interred with all due
honor in the family vault. Little Mignonne, whom she had
left with a friend in Brittany, should be informed imme-
diately of her sad loss, and as soon as her mourning was
completed should meet her mamma en route to Paris.
"In a fortnight I shall be quite able to travel, I trust,"
she murmured, gently, "and better to thank you all, dear
friends, for your goodness to such a desolate creature as
myself."
And as the "dear friends" kissed the slender hand of
the "desolate creature" with an income of one million
francs, they, one and all, thought her too divine to be
left on that bleak shore alone.
CHAPTER VII.
It was wonderful to see how rapidly animation returned
to the languid form and face of the widow when the last
echo of the carriage-wheels sounded through the porte-
cochere, bearing away from her sight her obsequious legal
advisers and her sycophantic friends.
Springing from her recumbent position on the lounge
before an untasted breakfast, and ringing the bell, she
ordered a comfortable dejeuner a la fourchette, and, fling-
ing wide the shades, opened her windows and stepped out
upon the balcony in the broad glare of noon. What
dtlicious, long inhalations of freedom she took in with
every breath ! How the light came back to her eyes,
and the color to her clear, dark cheek, as she stood there
gazing out over the illimitable sea!
296 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
"Ah," she sighed, " how happy would I be now did
I not love this cold-hearted Englishman ! With my free-
dom, my beauty, and my wealth, I could be queen of
society in Paris ! Quel inalheur that I ever met you,
monsieur ; that, spite of all / have, I still stand here,
straining my eyes and blistering my skin in the sun,
gazing across this cruel sea which lies between us ! Quelle
fatalife que V amour P^ And she hummed lightly, as she
re-entered her boudoir, —
" En I'amour si rien n'cst amer,
Qu'on est sot de ne pas aimer !
Si tout Test au degre supreme,
Quand est sot alors que Ton aime !"
and seated herself at once at her escritoire, where she
concocted a Machiavellian epistle, which covered its
thorns with flower-wreaths and its threats with kisses.
Through the English Court Journal she had heard of
Dyke's arrival at Ryde with his yacht. (She took most
of the English May-fair journals to keep herself au
courant with the movements of her friends.) She also
saw a notice of the Earl and Countess , with Lady
Florence and her brother, having arrived at Ventnor,
She was quick-witted enough to be little surprised when
the announcement of the approaching marriage of the
Lady Florence to Mr. Faucett appeared in The Queen;
arranged to take place at Ventnor on the 2Sth of that
month.
Not a moment was to be lost. Dyke should be drawn
cleverly out of that net into another more secure in its
meshes. The strongest possible incentive had been given
to her determination, — another tuoman had secured him
(as she thought) ; that cold, haughty Florence must be
taught that she could not poach upon a French siren's
THE MILLS OF TILE CODS.
297
preserves with impunity. And so the letter was written :
every word weighed carefully in that diplomatic little
head ; never a hint of any other engagement or a sus-
picion of the existence of Lady Florence, — only a
pathetic appeal in her loneliness, an entreaty that he
should come to her in her desolation. With just two
lines in postscript, veiled in tenderness, to say that should
he not be able to come to her, she would find the air of
the Isle of Wight necessary to her health, '■'■ and come to
Jiimr
To this, Faucett, groaning in spirit, had returned an
equally diplomatic reply, evading the invitation with
masterly adroitness, hoping to meet her in Paris in Jan-
uary, etc.
For once he had miscalculated the power of his oppo-
nent. A letter by return post, in which the "griffes"
were plainly discernible under the velvet skin, had the
effect of proving this fact to his entire (//^satisfaction.
"You 'hope to meet me in Paris in January,' you
say, moil ami,'" (she wrote), — "after the honeymoon has
waned, I conclude (for the news of your anticipated nup-
tials has reached me) ; but you will pardon me if I find it,
for the first time, impossible to agree Avith you.
'' jEcoutcs done, cheri ! you are a man of the world, and
as such I meet you on equal ground ; let us be done with
sentimentality and be reasonable. You are engaged to
marry a woman who does not love you, and who will not
suit you the least in the world ; to settle down in your
foggy England, drowse away your life as a country squire,
growing too stout even for the hunt (sole amusement of
that triste pays), or you will be forced into Parliament,
condemned to spend the remainder of your days listening
to the hum-drum orations of your port-fuddled aristocracy.
The very thought of it m' ctouffe !
29S THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
" Now, mon chcri, I would be ungrateful indeed did I
not hold very dear your repeated assurances of attachment
to my unworthy self; and I feel sure that I need not recall
to your recollection a certain evening at 'Grantly,' and
the pledge you then gave me of fidelity ! I have it still,
with the letter which accompanied it; and, although I
prize it beyond all other possessions, should I not see you
before this day week, I shall feel bound to convey it
by trusty messenger to the hand of my successor, the
Lady Florence Eliesmere.
"Accept, I pray thee, the assurance of my devotion.
"Ta Pauline."
CHAPTER VIII.
PERCIVAL TYRRELL TO ANNE OGILVIE.
" New York,
"Your friend Martin Luther tells us, 'The human
heart is like a millstone in a mill : when you put wheat
under it, it turns and grinds, and converts the wheat into
flour; if no wheat comes to it, it still turns; but then
it is itself \\. grinds and slowly wears away.' So was it
with me, until the arrival of that quaint little letter, from
which I have ground much useful and pleasant knowledge,
finding therein the germ of my 'staff of life' in all the
future years. For, Anne, even in the coy shyness of your
careful phrases I could see the true heart beating, and the
little hand I have sought so long held out to me at last !
Is it not thus we stand together? Nothing else in your
gift would content me now; naught in the gift of the
whole world would be able to purchase even the hope of
such happiness from me !
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 299
"I cannot write love-letters ; perhaps because I/c^/them.
You tell me you are about to leave the family of the
Countess d'Hauteville, and give me a new address. But
you do not state wherefore, or what your present plans
are. Of your future ones we shall talk together when I
return to England, which will be before the 'Yule' is
lighted or the mistletoe hung.
"I should like you to know this country, and riiy
countrymen and women; not the cock-crowing, 'woman's
rights,' 'man and brother' American; nor the jewelry-
bedizened, I^indley-Murray-annihilating 'shoddy' of Con-
tinental touring ; nor the irrepressible tobacco-chewing
Yankee, who dins his 'reckons' and 'guesses' to the ac-
companiment of Yankee Doodle and Hail Columbia in
a maddening fashion into one's every tortured sense;
but, Anne, I should like you, with your deep-seeing eyes
and your far-reaching comprehensiveness, to know this
vigorous offspring of old Mother England. The America
of Calhoun and Webster and Clay, of Longfellow and
Hawthorne and Emerson and Irving ; the America which
your Chatham, who was said 'to know nothing per-
fectly but Barrow's "Sermons" and Spenser's "Fairie
Queene," ' was wise and just and far-seeing enough to
defend with his 'mighty' pen.
" How surprised you would be at the natural wonders of
the country, — the enormous lakes, the mighty rivers, the
prairie, and the forest ! how amused at the ' learned igno-
rance' of its people ! (Tocqueville says, ' There is no
country so celebrated for so few men of great learning,
and so few ignorant men, as America;') and how delighted
would you be with some of those 'few' cultured ones in
whom we take pride, — among'our forty millions of edu-
cated people !
" How satirically you would handle our pet weakness,
^oo THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
conceit ! (Inherited from our Puritan and Cavalier ancestry !
for, altliough German, Celtic, Danish, and other blood
has inevitably infused itself in our veins, we prefer to trace
back all our small vices and foibles to the fundamental
basis of our nationality. And any Englishman will recog-
nize the transmitted tendency to a national vanity and a
bombastic self-laudation.)
"Let us hope that this 'acorn in our young brows will
not grow to be an oak in our old heads,' and so overshadow
us with a mental and moral blight.
" We have a pretty society in New York ; the men are
rarely visible out of Wall Street, therefore they need not
be mentioned ; the ladies are oi joUe tourmire, — grace-
ful, delicate, generally uninteresting; but one might apply
to them the description of Russian society, — de toiitcs
les facultes de V intelligence, la seule qiion estime ici, c' est
le tact ; for truly in savoir-vivre and gracious tact they
have no rival. There is beauty, but little soul ; brilliancy,
but no depth ; pedantry is abhorred, and the faintest
shade of blue in one's liose is considered mauvais genre.
"Judge, then, how eagerly I shall watch for your letters;
which, if they be (as they should) part of you, will alone
satisfy my soul until I come to crown you 'My Queen!'
"Percy Tvrrell."
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
301
CHAPTER IX.
DORA FAIRFAX TO RONALD BUCHANAN.
" Rue Bergere, St. Denis, September 22.
"You reproach me with an 'undue reticence,' and
*a prim setting forth of events in the style of Goldsmith's
"Vicar of Wakefield," — matter of fact, but eminently un-
satisfying,' — in my letters to you.
" How readily you discern, through the flimsy veil of
language, the effort it costs me to write according to the
dictates of those cold moralists, — Right and Reason !
"Only by the delight even these grim skeletons of
letters give me each week, can I gauge the joy it would
be to follow your command and write freely as I think.
" But the trivial details of my prosaic lite, my daily
walks with Marian and faithful Jacques, varied by sketch-
ing and botanizing, and the innumerable contes of our
French Hercules (in which he always figures as the hero),
are not brilliant materials for an entertaining correspond-
ence, and my delicate health and rigorous seclusion afford
no other.
"I dreamed last night of my dear father. So vividly
did I see him smile and stretch out his arms to me, that
all this day has been clouded by a new sense of loss and
loneliness. It was sweet to me, even in a dream, to creep
into the shelter of those fond arms, and lay my weary
head upon the breast that pillowed it so often ; for, dear
friend,
" ' My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired.
My heart oppressed ;
And I desire, what I have long desired,
Rest, only rest !'
26
302
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
Tell me, might not this dream have come to me as a
messenger of peace ? Is the ' sleep which He giveth His
beloved' to be mine at last? Ah, my friend, when I
awoke to the &ct2.xy facts of my existence, I cried out in
despair for the sleep which knows no waking ! Do not
censure me. Your letter of yesterday convinced me
overwhelmingly that // would be far better for you were I
dead.
" I begin to wonder at the tenacity of life in my frail
body. Marian is the pulse within my heart which keeps
it beating. Were it not for her, — my precious one, — I
could, like Mozart, with joy compose my own requiem, —
" ' The burden of my days is hard to bear,
But God knows best ;
And I have prayed, — but vain has been my prayer, —
For rest, for rest!'
"I fear you will be vexed with me for giving way to
the sadness which sometimes colors everything with its
dark shadow, but you will forgive me when you remember
that it was on this day, one year ago, that my beloved
father was taken from me.
"I have not been able to give singing-lessons to my
pupils to-day, or to listen calmly to the chatter of my
landlady ; but, from early morning, Marian and I have
been wandering through the forest (where Jacques served
our frugal breakfast), and where the spirit of the dead
seemed to whisper in the sighing of the wind.
" And now, looking out in the quiet evening from my
window, I can feel thankful that he is at rest ; that his
" ' Part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer-hills
Is, that his grave is green !'
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 303
"You will thank your sister for her loving letter to me.
In a few days I will be more able to answer it. When the
dear apparition which came to me last night shall have
faded a little before the sunshine of these fair autumn
days; when I have forgotten the sad hooting of an owl
just outside my window, which has filled me with dire
forebodings for weeks past; when, in short, 1 can feel
that Lydia will not laugh at ray morbid imaginings, and
I have grown peaceful once more, I shall write and tell
her how dearly I prize her friendship.
" Marian is well, and thanks you for the pretty English
nursery-tales you sent her,
<'DORA."
CHAPTER X.
RONALD BUCHANAN TO DORA FAIRFAX.
"Woodland Parsonage, Sept. 26, 18 .
''Your letter, breathing such hopeless sadness, such
weary impatience of life, has undermined the resolution
with which I had fortified my promise to you.
" / must see you ! Lydia will follow me immediately
if you are really ill, as I suspect from your letter. She
will nurse and care for you most tenderly.
" I have not been al)le to write you before to-day. All
the pain of these last three months seemed concentrated
since those sad lines reached me.
"Keep up your courage, brave little Christian heart;
let not the angel-wings droop which have borne you aloft
over all your troubles without soiling the tiniest feather.
In the dark hours when the waves threaten to overwhelm
you, remember the reply St. Theresa made to those who
304 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
compassionated her helplessness, her poverty, her loneli-
ness, — 'Theresa and two sous are nothing,' she said;
' but Theresa, two sous, and God, are all tilings.'
"Ronald."
As Dora, with hands trembling from excess of joy,
folded and replaced in its envelope this promise of a
happiness to which she had not dared to look forward,
no shadow of misgiving darkened the brightness of that
blissful anticipation during those first moments when the
one thought absorbed her, that she would see Ronald once
again.
For a brief space of time she sat feeding her hungry
heart upon this hope, — her eyes full of a wistful tender-
ness, her hands lying with the dear letter idly in her lap.
Presently her eyes fell upon those thin, transparent hands,
and she noted, with a little sigh, their extreme attenuation.
Her heavy wedding-ring had slipped almost off her slender
finger, and, as she replaced it, a look of sudden pain
marred the brightness of her face, while the bitter con-
viction forced itself upon her that, just in projDortion to
the joy which this letter seemed to pour into her desolate
life, was the necessity urgent for her to brace herself to
reject the happiness it offered.
"I cannot see him!" she moaned; "I cannot! It
would only make everything more difficult, and — there is
no use in disguising the fact — // would be wrong, and weak,
and selfish. It must not be. And yet " Great tears
rolled down over the patient face and fell upon the fragile
hands, while Dora fought anew with temptation the sorest
which had yet assailed her.
Long before Marian had crept into the shadowy room,
where the twilight had deepened into night, and nestled
herself in the loving arms which seemed to hold her with
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 305
a twofold tenderness, Dora had decided that she must
avoid the meeting which awaited her in the next few days,
even, if necessary, by flight.
CHAPTER XI.
The yacht " lo" lies at anchor in the port of St. Malo,
off the coast of France.
It is a superb night, the sea calm as a lake, gilded by
the full radiance of the moon. Like a huge silver swan,
the "lo" rests tranquilly on the golden waves, holding
herself slightly aloof, like a proud young queen, from the
crowded assemblage of more plebeian shipping, struggling
for precedence at the mouth of the harbor.
Touched into quaint beauty by the moon-rays, the old
fortified French town lay slumbering in the Ranee's
Mouth, although the ancient clock in the tower of the
Cathedral had not yet sounded forth ten o'clock.
But there was little fashion in St. Malo, and the hard
working "hewers of wood and drawers of water,." and
the net-makers, whose ideas never soared above marine
tackle, were primitive in their hours, as in their tastes.
Strangers rarely lingered long here ; after a glance at
the house where Chateaubriand was born, and at the
island w^here he lies buried, they were generally glad to
take the diligence for the beautiful drive to Avranches and
St. Lo, and to escape from the dreary streets crowded
with squalid but cheerful specimens of the embryo sailor
and fishmonger.
And yet the brilliant, courted Marquise de Courboisie
had contrived lo exist in this out-of-the-way old sea-port
26*
3o6 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
town, and her apartment on the first floor of the Hotel de
France was luxurious in its appointments as if situated in
the Faubourg St. Germain.
There are women who seem to exhale an atmosphere of
comfort, luxury, elegance, in which alone they seem able
to exist, under all circumstances, abroad, as well as in
their own sumptuously-appointed homes.
To their cultivated senses all ugliness is abhorrent ; it
creates a physical distress, which is restless until tact and
invention come to the rescue, harmonize colors, drape
angles, tone down glaring deformities, cover, in short,
with the imj^alpable veil of refinement those monstrous
defects of taste in which the vulgar soul delights.
" Chez jnoi,^^ to the belle marquise, meant comfort,
and '■'■ chez inoV accompanied her wherever she moved;
and so, when Dyke Faucett was ushered into her salons
on this night of his arrival, he could scarcely realize, as he
passed under the silken /(?r//^r^ into the brilliantly-lighted
suite of rooms, that he was not once more in Paris.
With a glance he took in the ensemble, — the delicately
tinted walls hung here and there with a glowing Claude or a
cool sea-view of Turner, the filmy-lace curtains; the \\xxm-
XKOwifaiiieuils, the graceful tables covered with objects of
art and bijouterie oi ^\ descriptions; the profusion of hot-
house flowers, the tropical foliage and creepers, with here
and there a gleaming statuette hidden amid the green.
And one other fact was patent to him at that first
moment of entering.
With every accessory of gorgeous toilette, of velvet and
lace, and jewels of unique design and variety, always
according well with her brilliant style of beauty, never
had Pauline looked so entirely irresistible as to-night,
when she swept swiftly across the room witli extended
hands to meet him, in her black crape robe, which seemed
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
307
to enhance the rich brune coloring of her complexion,
and to render dazzling the dead whiteness of her shoul-
ders, and the perfectly moulded arms, on which blazed
diamonds set in black enamel.
No widow's cap disfigured the contour of the well-
formed head, with its crown of raven hair bound simply
with a narrow band of black-enameled gold clasped with
a single brilliant (of a size and purity which could have
founded an orphan asylum in that town swarming with the
fatherless children of mariners, who, if they were not
lost at sea, sometimes forgot to come back to their native
town and interesting families).
In Pauline's eyes flashed the light of a great triumph,
and her exquisite lips curved in a victorious smile as she
drew Dyke Faucett gently down by her side on the cau-
seuse, crying, joyfully, " Allons ! nous voild ensemble enjin!
Are you not content, vion cher?'''
How could he be otherwise, with her beautiful face
before him, her silvery voice in his ears, her great dia-
monds flashing light all about her?
"Truly yes, Pauline," he replied, looking his admira-
tion; "and you are more bewitching than ever. Com-
ment ' is this the face of mourning and desolation you led
me to expect?"
In a moment a pensive expression crept over her laugh-
ing features: she sighed heavily. " Ah, yes; you are right,
it is very naughty of me to smile so soon ; but, que voulez-
vous ? I am so happy, so glad to see you again !" And as
she said this she caught up impetuously one of Dyke's
gloves which lay beside his hat on a table, and pressed it
to her lips.
Dyke laughed, while a wi( ked gleam came into his eyes.
"What a child you are, Pauline, after all! Really, you
must begin to put on dignil\- with your widow's weeds;
3o8
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
which, by the way, are excessively becoming." And then
followed some more earnest talk ; talk all arranged before-
hand on each side, and ending, as all such invariably does,
in accomplishing precisely the reverse of what was antici-
pated.
Pauline had poured out, as she had intended, a recital
of the various inducements she had to offer wherewith to
tempt Dyke to break faith with Lady Florence, even at
this late hour; determined, at all hazards, that this should
be the result of her machinations. But she had under-
estimated her attractions, or she had accredited Dyke
with a higher sense of honor than he possessed.
At the conclusion of their interview she found him,
figuratively, at her feet, utterly regardless of every claim
upon him elsewhere.
And Dyke^ who had parted with the proud high-
spirited girl whom he had bound himself to marry with
affectionate farewell and a promise to return to claim her
hand on the 2Sth of that same month; Dyke, who as-
sured himself that it was only necessary for him to run
over to the coast of France, see, and reason with this will-
ful Pauline, — if needful, break with her forever, — that he
might fulfill his engagement with his fiancee and thus
please his guardian, Lady Florence, and himself; now, to
his astonishment, caught himself actually pleading with
and suing this beautiful creature with an income of one
million francs per annum, as he had never sued before !
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 309
CHAPTER XII.
The 28th of September dawned tearfully; over the
lovely Isle of Wight drooped a misty veil, impenetrable
to the sun's rays, even had they tried to pierce its foggy
imperviousness, which they did not.
Great banks of leaden-colored clouds on every side ; a
depressing, drizzling rain falling upon the spirits of every-
body, and extinguishing the faintest spark of merriment ;
the sullen roar of the breakers as they dashed upon the
beach, and the scream of the sea-gull as he hoarsely threat-
ened storm, added their melancholy influences to the
bridal-morning of the Lady Florence EUesmere.
In a long room, lighted at either end by great oriels,
shrouded by pale-blue damask and lace, in a temperature
which would have better suited the brilliant exotics which
bent their fair heads in the chill rain outside on the bal-
conies than the human lungs of this pale creature who
shrinks closely to the open wood-fire in the soft, silken
depths of a low easy-chair, — screening her delicate face
with a feather screen from the heat, to which she grace-
fully stretches forth a pair of tiny embroidered brode-
quins, Lady Florence loses herself in conjecture.
Enveloped in a white cashmere 7-obe de chambre, whose
rose-pink lining casts a shade of color on the white cheek,
the bride-elect awaits, languidly, the arrival of her brides-
maids and her mother, that the important toilet should
be begun.
Of the appearance of the groom at the hour appointed
for his return she had never for one moment entertained a
doubt in her proud heart. At their parting he had taken
310
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
her hand, and, looking full into her eyes, had said,
gravely, "Florence, I need not ask you if you trust me
thoroughly. You have given me the highest proof of that
in consenting to be my wife. It is a great annoyance to
me to leave you at this time, but it is out of my power to
do otherwise. Do you believe me ?" " Assuredly," she
had answered, without one prick of conscience. Could it
be possible that any man should willingly leave her during
the last weeks of her engagement ? She felt sorry for
Dyke.
And then he took her in his arms, and kissed her cold
cheek tenderly, whispering, "However long I may be
detained, dearest, trust me ! I may not return before the
very day fixed for our Avedding, but, Florence, my own,
you will see me then, if I live.'' She trusted him without
the shadow of a doubt upon her tranquil heart, shielded
by her suspicion-proof amour-propre.
And yet, to the uttermost capacity of her dwarfed sus- ■
ceptibilities, Florence loved Dyke Faucett \ over her, as
over all women whom he strove to fascinate, his influence
reigned paramount. Had she not confessed in a calmly-
measured speech and with quickly-beating pulses to her
mamma, long since, that, undistinguished commoner as he
was, without other title to renown than such as it ac-
corded to the most rcnommc of carpet-knights, she pre-
ferred him and his simple name to a ducal coronet or a
superannuated marquisate ?
The earl and his countess dared utter no remonstrance,
however. Their ambitious hopes writhed in the death-
agony, for Florence, since her infimcy, had ruled the
household with a rod of iron, through the extreme deli-
cacy of her constitution, which could not abide restraint
or contradiction.
Sir Philip Standky had acted, loo, with a munificent
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 311
liberality in the matter of settlements, and \\\q fianciallcs
were formally celebrated in great state prior to the con-
clusion of "the season" and their adjournment to the
Isle of Wight.
Listlessly she sat dreaming on in her cozy room ; a
slight shudder passing over her whenever she glanced
through the windows at the dreary prospect without; a
faint gleam of interest waking in her eyes when they fell
occasionally upon the silvery sheen of satin and billowy
waves of lace which were extended in bridal splendor
upon her bed, awaiting the hour to strike when they
should deck the statue-like face and form of the girl who
looked white and cold and fragile as the waxen orange-
blossoms which were to crown her haughty head.
Listlessly, without smile or blush, she greeted her
cousins, who acted as bridesmaids, the Honorable Misses
Scmerville ; languidly she held forward her cheek to her
mother's eager caress ; serenely she yielded herself to the
hands of her maid to be prepared for the hymen ial sacrifice.
Only for a moment a pink flush crept over her cheek,
— when her mother, consulting every five minutes her
watch, or the clock on the chimney-piece, whispered,
"Have you received any letter or telegram from Mr.
Faucett, my love? We have only two hours to wait !"
She answered, petulantly, " How absurd you are,
mamma ! How could Mr. Faucett possibly telegraph from
his yacht, or send a letter, except, indeed, by a carrier-
pigeon, which has not yet arrived?"
" I cannot conceal from you, my dearest," the countess
went on, undaunted by the rebuff for once, "that I am
anxious, very anxious ; surely he should have spared me
this uneasiness."
Lady Florence reared her head proudly, and replied,
coldly, — " Pray keep your anxious fears to yourself, my
-12 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
dear mother ; they are not especially gratifying or compli-
mentary to me, and certainly utterly groundless."
"Heaven grant it !" sighed her ladyship, gazing wist-
fully from the window, against whose pane now rattled
rain in fitful gusts.
The guests were beginning to arrive; carriage after
carriage rolled up and deposited its burden on the velvet
carpet spread out through the garden, which separated the
entrance of their villa from the road.
His lordship, the bishop of L , who was to perform
the ceremony, had retired to his apartment to invest him-
self in the robes of his office ; ushers with white favors
were bustling about, actively doing nothing ; the brides-
maids had overlooked the trousseau, weighed it in the
balance, and enviously found it — not "wanting." Dyke's
gifts had been duly inspected, and their value appraised ;
those of the various friends and members of the family,
rapturously admired.
Nothing now remained to do but struggle strenuously
with the ten-buttoned gloves, striving to make their nar-
row proportions stretch over plump arms which never
"tapered gently" since babyhood. Elderly spinsters
gave the last surreptitious glance in the mirror to ascertain
whether the tint of their noses had faded to a rose-tendre,
and descended to the drawing-room, where they estab-
lished themselves in the best position for witnessing a
scene which they had been too sensible to enact in pj-opria
persona.
Mothers of families ranged themselves where the grand
coup d' (kH would move them to sympathetic tears, each
furnished with a large handkerchief, in a straw-colored
hand, wherewith to stem the torrent of grief which invari-
ably gushes forth ! For although the British matron is
proverbially imperturbable, and rarely relaxes into any
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
313
demonstration of emotion, the solemnization tjf tlie wed-
ding-service inevitably produces a lachrymose effect, even
among those who are in nowise connected by ties of
blood or affection to the bride.
But on this occasion the laced handkerchiefs were
doomed to return in their pristine crispness to the pockets
of those sadly-disappointed dames, and the patient
spinsters, weary at last of waiting and craning their necks
each time the doors of the drawing-room were thrown
open to admit everybody excepting the bridal party, were
fain to ejaculate their wonder and various surmises under
cover of their opera-hoods, and in the shelter of their own
broughams, wending their way steadily back to their
respective homes.
For the hour fixed for the ceremony struck, and Dyke
Faucett had not appeared ; a half-hour's grace had been
accorded, — still no tidings ; people began to murmur and
look significantly at each other. Another thirty minutes
passed, and then Florence EUesmere, surrounded by her
bridesmaids and family in an upper room (her own the
least agitated face among them all), calmly, and with a
faint little laugh, raised from her head the snowy crown,
saying, as she laid it aside, "There will be no wedding
here to-day, my friends ! ' A laggard in love' is the one
man of all others who can never wed with Florence
EUesmere ! It is all over, forever, between Mr. Faucett
and myself. Should he kneel at my feet, this moment,
he would have no other answer. And now, pray leave
me ; I would prefer to be alone !"
There was, not the slightest tremble in her clear voice,
nor the suggestion of a tear in the cold blue e\es ; just a
faint rose-tinge on the cheeks and a little curl about the
delicate lips told t)f her deailly wound.
Silently they passed, one after the ijthcr, from the
o -7
314
THE MILLS OF THE GODS,
chamber, one or two of them just pressing their lips in a
mute sympathy to Florence's cheek, for which she made'
no other acknowledgment than the faint smile which
still lingered on her face.
At last her mother alone stood beside her, with an-
guish written upon every feature. But when she attempted
to take her child in her arms and solace herself by plen-
tiful weeping over her stricken idol, Florence gently
disengaged herself from the moist embrace, and said,
without a quaver in her soft tones, " Mamma, you must
go too; I wish to be alone;" and then, a little wearily:
"Ah, if I could only convince you that this grief is
most humiliating to me ; that all is as it should be. My
heart is not broken, — believe me ! Ha ! What can this
be?" And with a sudden spring, which contrasted strangely
with her words and her habitual languid grace, she reached
the window, as a horse, hard-ridden, stopped suddenly
before the door, and a man sprang to the ground, carrying
in one hand a telegram.
While and breathless, but outwardly still, the poor girl
stood like a statue of expectation, with eyes strained in
their gaze, fixed upon the open door of her room, through
which her mother had rushed, in uncontrollable impa-
tience, to hear the news.
What an eternity of suspense lay in those few moments !
how the pearly teeth clinched, and the delicate hand
bruised itself in a frenzied clutch at the bronze quiver of
a Cupid which held back the curtain from the oriel ! ■
And when, at last, steps were heard ascending the stair-
case, and Sir Philip Standley entered, with ghastly face
and trcml)ling hand, in wliich still rested the terrible
message wliich had so shocked him, Florence drew herself
up to her full heiglit and awaited the crowning blow with
majestic Lalumess.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 315
But she had not dreamed of the truth. Treachery, dis-
honor, unpardonable forgetfuhiess or neglect, she could
have met with a sublime scorn and an outward indiffer-
ence; but when Sir Philip quietly answered her cold,
authoritative "The triitli, if you please, without reserve,
and immediately," by placing in her hand the telegram
he held crushed in his, and her eyes had glanced over its
contents, there rang throughout that festively-garnished
villa a cry so terrible in its anguish that in every heart it
found an echo, from the stateliest dame among the guests
to the tiniest page in the servants' hall.
As Sir Philip raised in his arms the slender figure in
its gorgeous bridal-robe and laid her on the bed paler
than the pearls about her throat, his heart smote him for
a too-ready belief in her coldness and apparent heartless-
ness.
He looked at her, lying there like a broken lily, and
the vision of his dead love swam before his tearful eyes
as he sank on his knees beside the bed, bowing his head
with an irrepressible groan as that never-fading memory
stirred in his heart with a newly-added bitterness of
grief.
CHAPTER XIII.
The sun was smiling. serenely, bathing the rugged coast
of France with its cheery glow; the white sails of the
ships, the spars and the rigging, stood out clearly in the
transparent atmosphere, while the gilt decorations of a gay
little pinnace, wliich was being piilhd into shore by four
English sailors, glillcred in the sunlight.
3i6 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
A (qw moments before the pinnace had put off from the
yacht " lo," still lying somewhat aloof in solitary grand-
eur, a carriage containing a lady, closely veiled, and her
maid, drove swiftly through the town of St. Malo to the
point of embarkation on the wharf. There they soon
transferred themselves, by the aid of the gallant skipper,
and with many suppressed little shrieks of terror, to the
exquisitely-appointed barge, and were pulled gently out
towards the yacht, where, standing at the gangway to wel-
come them, they perceived Dyke Faucett. As she threw
back her veil a beaming smile parted Pauline's lips, and
she caught the hand he extended with a murmured ejacu-
lation of delight, while Dyke, tranquil, pale and calm as
ever, assisted her on board, and directed all things for her
comfort and convenience.
While the yacht was getting up steam, and Pauline's
maid was attending to the arrangement of those indis-
pensable auxiliaries to a lady's toilette, and unpacking as
much of the luggage as would be needed during a cruise
of several weeks, her mistress, leaning on Dyke's arm,
paced the snow-white deck, admiring everything with
childish glee, clapping her hands and trilling forth musical
laughter. And when he took her below, and she saw the
luxuriously-fitted cabin, with its delicate frescoes, and its
gold-colored damask divans and lounges, its innumerable
mirrors, and its piano, its book-case, and card-tables, — all
made of the beautiful wood mosaic, — and afterwards,
when she penetrated still further into compartments, each
furnished with the same magnificence, her delight knew
no bounds.
Her own state-room, lined with wliite satin, carpeted
with a great white bear-skin, with all its decorations in
silver and ])carl, enchanted her. No single th.ought of
the proud heart of tlic woman fur whom this had been
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 317
designed in its bridal outfit crossed the mind of the
triumphant Pauline, who had accomplished the sum total
of her wishes the previous day, and married Dyke Faucett
in the quiet little Church of St. Sulpice in that forlorn old
sea-port town.
It was to save ce cher Dyke from a fate worse than
death — his marriage with a woman he did not love — that
she had consented to sacrifice the conventionalities and
secure him from further persecution ; and so she had
yielded to his persuasions, and they were together at last.
Then, for the first time in her life, Pauline almost
learned the true taste of real happiness. Many of her
little petulant ways left her ; she grew softer and gentler
to her maid, and all about her, — under the influence of an
unruffled content.
And Dyke also experienced a bicn-ctre which had been
foreign to him for some time : Pauline was irresistibly
bewitching ; the sea was calm and the wind fair ; his
cook was a cordon-bleu, and his conscience was numb ;
what more could the gods bestow?
And noAV they were out at sea ; the outline of the coast
was fading from sight ; the green hills were no longer
visible, and a soft autumnal haze settled down over the
dark line by which, only, they could distinguish where
France lay.
It was like a dream, Pauline said, so tranquil were the
sea and the sky, and so still was everything. And when
through the pale grayness of the evening the stars came
out, and Dyke watched them mirror themselves in the sea,
I wonder if a vision of the past glided before him, and
he thought of tliat /ofig-ago, when he a/id anotJicr had
eazed together at these same stars, reflected in another
sea? If it did, he thrust it aside as he would have done
a disagreeable insect, and in the lively chatter of Pauline,
27*
31 8 THE MILLS OF THE CODS.
her witty repartee and caroling French chansons, he soon
distracted his thoughts from all disturbing reminiscences.
Pauline had resumed her brilliant toilettes, — and never
had Hebe herself looked more utterly beguiling than this
beautiful creature, as she filled Dyke's glass with ruby
wine during their tete-a-tete dinners and the delightful
little suppers with which their chef regaled them ; for in
the glow of happiness which added to her beauty Pauline
grew young again.
CHAPTER XIV.
Sunny days and starlit nights followed each other in
swift succession, and out from the treacherous Bay of
Biscay the " lo" emerged safely upon the broad bosom
of the Mediterranean.
They stood one morning together. Dyke Faucett and
Pauline, leaning over the taffrail, talking in low, musical
murmurs to the accompaniment of rippling laughter, look-
ing out on the sapphire-colored waves sparkling in the
sunlight.
Never "since the morning stars sang together" had
that deceitful Delilah of seas smiled more seductively than
to-day, as she sunned herself, dim]^ling all over under the
ardent kisses of faithful, unsated Phoebus.
Ah, fair, tideless sea !
" Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow;
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now !"
blue and laughing in the sunshine of today, as when thy
waves lapped caressingly the four great empires of the
earth in tlieir noontide glory (now, alas ! standing grim
and stark, like skeletons, amid the ashes of dead Ambi-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 319
tion !), — clasping in fickle embrace the storied lands of
classic lore ; kissing as of old the blossoming shores of
^gina, of Pirajus, of stately Corinth ; cociuetting still
with the blooming triplets, Capri and her sisters. Are
there no tears under those surface-smiles? and are thy
briny depths not sometimes shaken with the sob of woe?
When the zephyrs bring thee a sigh from crushed Attica,
from snow-capped Liakura, or the plains of Marathon, or
when a plaint from that vaster sepulchre of the majesty of
Man — the East — reaches thee, dost thou not rise up in thy
wrath and roar like a lioness robbed of her young, re-
fusing consolation because /hey arc not? Alas for thy
whelps ! Cruelly entreated have they been ! In the ruins
of Babylon, wild foxes, owls, and serpents make their hab-
itation, while the cry of the bat and the cushat re-echoes
in her temples ; for the glories of past ages serve but as
monuments to the vandalism of the warrior, as well as of
the highly-educated Christian, — the history-grubber, the
antique-robber, of the last centuries.
Did not a pair of rival painters deal less gently with
the pride of Greece — the Acropolis — than did Philip,
Xerxes, or the Venetian bombs?
Only one man, with a soul, could look upon the wrecks
which strew this fair shore unmoved, — and he was a syno-
nym for patience and had no definite ideas of art, — the
patriarch of Uz.
But Pauline's joy-brimming eyes saw no spectres of the
past to disturb the serenity of her blissful present, nor did
she even try to look pensive while Faucett told her the
story of Penelope, whose sad, questioning gaze had swept
these same shimmering billows long ago, or pointed out to
her the towering rock from which Sappho took her fatal
leap. I fear she even felt somewhat bored when Dyke's
adulation of herself was momentarily interrupted to show
320
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
her the various objects of interest all about them. She
did not care to see the island where Homer dreamed his
grand old dreams with sightless eyes turned ever towards
this murmuring sea; nor to hear how Virgil, drinking
inspiration from its illimitable beauty, wrought out upon
its shores his ^neid, and peopled every glen and cave and
stream with nymphs and sibyls and nereids, centuries ago.
" And now the land where Tasso sung is silent," Dyke
would conclude, "and only the song of the mermaid
breaks the monotonous murmur of the waves, or perhaps
the wail of the mariner whose trust has been betrayed by
this treacherous sea, which has lured many a brave ship,
many a fisher's ca'ique, to sudden doom."
"And these beautiful, cruel waves close over their
nameless graves and leave no sign I" cried Pauline, shud-
dering. "Ah, Dyke, you terrify rael" And she glanced
fearfully over the sun-lighted sea. Instantly she shook
off the momentary depression, and, with a beaming smile,
took up once more the thread of conversation.
"And what if these 'classic shores' yield us no more
poets, do they not furnish us with an indispensable hors
d'ceuvre, the olive? And if those 'sacred groves' you
speak of boast no more temples, I am sure it is from them
you procure this delicious honey in the comb, which is
my delight ! Que voiilez-vous , man ami?''''
And Dyke would be forced to smile at this utilitarian
view of things and change the subject.
And now the sun is setting in sheets of lurid flame.
Dyke and Pauline are pacing the deck together, arm-in-
arm, feeling strangely happy; wondering. a little at their
own content ; noting not the unusual oppressiveness of
the atmosplure.
It was the last day of their cruise ; to-morrow they were
to enter port.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 321
Through the stiUness of the evening they could hear
the whistle of the curlew as he flew over their heads, while
the sound of a fish leaping from the water and falling
back into it again was as distinctly audible. A faint veil
of cloud dimmed the light of the stars, and towards the
east there arose a dark outline against the sky.
Pauline had been gayer, brighter, more amusing than
ever, all through that day; and now she broke forth with
unwearying vivacity into the refrain of a chansojinette
which was set to a charming little air of which Dyke was
very fond.
" ' Jeunesse trop coquette,'
she warbled in the soft twilight,
" ' Ecoutez la lecon
Que vous fait Henriette
Et son amant Damon '
Oh, Dyke ! What is ihatf
Abruptly the song was hushed as she crept closer to
Faucett's side, fairly cowering with terror as a strange
sound suddenly arose in the air. It seemed to her that
the darkness all at once had spread over the twilight, and
that all about them sounded threatening voices, muttering
hoarsely, ominously, of danger to come ! A moment she
stood, and listened with awe-struck eyes, and then she
clung to Dyke, crying out in French, " Why do you not
answer me? What is this roar and sudden darkness?"
"It is nothing, ma mie T replied Dyke, caressing her,
while his eyes anxiously noted the quick-gathered clouds.
A sudden gust of wind now struck the yacht on the bows,
causing her to stagger and reel for an instant. Pauline
gave a little hysterical scream and hid her face on Dyke's
breast.
" Do not be frightened !" he urged. " There is no pos-
sibility of danger in a yacht of this size, even if we sliould
322
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
be in for a squall. You must come down below, cherie,
and in the lighted cabin 3'ou will forget the storm out-
side."
Silently she allowed him to lead her down the com-
panion-way to the cabin, where dinner was served, and
where brilliant lights and the air of luxurious comfort
for a moment seemed to dissipate her fears.
But only for a moment. Dyke poured out a glass of
wine and held it towards her; and, as she took it, a
hissing, bubbling noise sounded directly about the yacht,
as if she had been suddenly plunged into a huge boiling
caldron, and she rolled and tossed and pitched franti-
cally for some minutes. The glass fell from Pauline's
trembling hand and lay shivered amid tlie fragments of
costly bits of Sevres and crystal which, during this last
convulsion of the sea, had been dashed off the table.
All traces of confusion in the cabin were quickly cleared
away by the well-trained servants, who, with white, scared
faces, found comfort in bustling about.
Pauline had thrown herself prone on a couch, and, with
hands pressed tightly over her ears, was sobbing hysteri-
cally. Dyke, after directing her maid to bring a warm
shawl to cover her mistress, and bidding her remain with
her, mounted hastily to the deck.
The sky was now one entire black pall, through which
an occasional flash of lurid lightning struck like a tongue
of flame. All the winds of heaven seemed to be engaged
in a wild warfare, — roaring through the black mountains
of waves, sweeping before their fierce gusts the well-built,
graceful yacht like an egg-shell on these hissing billows
of foam.
Dyke Faucett, drenched to the skin, — for they were
shipping seas every moment, — could scarcely make him-
self heard above the roar of the tempest, as lie addressed
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 323
the captain, a good sailor, and with some experience of
these sudden, treacherous squalls for which the Mediter-
ranean is noted. "Will it be serious, think you?" called
out Faucett ; and he was answered, —
" Cannot tell yet, sir. The wind may go down as
suddenly as it rose." Then followed some orders to the
sailors, and he resumed : " We are off a bad bit of coast
here, sir. I am sorry you would not consent to remain
out at sea to-day, but madame would not hear of it, and
now the gale is driving us into shore ; but, please God,
the wind may veer at any moment."
"But the engines?" began Dyke.
" Fires out, sir ; couldn't stand against these seas ; our
only hope is in the wind. I told you I didn't like those
curlews flying about us all day."
When Dyke re-entered the cabin, his blanched face told
its tale to the terrified woman, who raised her head as he
knelt on the floor beside the couch and called her by
name, — " Do not leave me again," she entreated, piteously.
" Oh, Dyke, do not let me drown ; save me 1 save me !"
she wailed.
"Pauline, I can do nothing," he said. "We must
hope for the best; perhaps at midnight the wind may
change."
"Oh, why did I come?" she cried. "Why did I
tempt you to bring me here on this cruel, treacherous
sea? Oh, Dyke, I cannot die; I must not! 1 tell you
you must save me!" And she started to her feet, and
stood before him, in her satin and lace, with the jewels
flashing in her ears and about her snow-white throat, with
her soft, dark eyes wild with fear, and the crimson struck
out of her lips with terror. And then broke over the
deck a mountain-wave, and the yacht shivered and
creaked in every timber, while the sullen roar of the
324
THE MILLS OF THE CODS.
waters was deafening. Down on her knees Pauline sank
with a shrill cry.
Dyke felt that they were going clown. He sat quite
still, awaiting his doom. And in those dread minutes,
before the yacht righted herself and once more rode
gallantly over the surging waves, there arose before this
man a condensed panorama of his life.
Of the faces which passed in review before him, of the
lives he had wrecked and the hearts he had broken, there
was not one missing. Of the wasted talents and the ill-
spent years, of the heartless selfishness and the base in-
gratitude, and the great mistake he had made of his life,
he realized to the very uttermost extent in those dreary
moments whilst he sat waiting for death, with Pauline lying
crouched at his feet in merciful insensibility till the end.
Boom ! went the signal-gun of distress, but the hoarse
voice of the storm drowned its sad call for aid ; — still the
tempest raged with unabated fury. The " lo" deserved
the encomiums which had greeted her appearance every-
where, by weathering the assaults of wind and sea for
hours after another vessel would have gone surely to its
doom.
Boom ! Boom !
And still Dyke Faucett sat there motionless, with one
hand covering his eyes; and still the book of his life lay
open before his mental gaze and tortured him. Now and
again a low moan broke forth from his lips, as out of the
crowded phantoms of the past the white, tender, pleading
face of Dora, as he saw it last, stood distinct and clear as
marble against the black background of his memories.
Like the angel of Retribution she stood before him, with
her sad, reproachful eyes fixed full upon his, muruuiring
always in his ear, "You did love me once, Dyke; you
did love me then."
THE MILLS OF 771 E GODS. 325
How differently would she have met this fate ! And he
had cast her aside for this weak creature who lies at his
feet faint from fear !
"Oh, God! Dora, turn your eyes away, or I shall go
mad!"
CHAPTER XV.
The morning dawned grayly. Fierce gusts of wind
were still blowing, but rain was falling and the sea was
growing calmer, sobbing sullenly like a child after a terri-
ble fit of passion.
In spite of the weather, all along the coast people were
swarming from all directions.
The demons of the storm had been wildly active on the
sea over-night. Barrels, planks, bits of spars, were float-
ing about, telling the story of the wrecks on that dread
coast. And there, where the people crowd most eagerly,
lies stranded on the rocks the saddest wreck of all, — the
bruised and broken carcass of the beautiful yacht "lo,"
— from which is speedily being stripped every article of
value, and from whose cabin have been removed at early
dawn three bodies, drowned within a step of land.
The cure of the village had taken possession of the
bodies, and, finding in Dyke's pocket-book full particulars
of his guardian's name, address, etc., had sent imme-
diately the telegram which was forwarded from Ellingham
to the Isle of Wight, and which, on her bridal morning,
struck with fatal cruelty the heart of Florence EUesmere.
So, even after his death, this man had power of evil !
With the exception of the cook (an obese Frenchman
of the fatalistic school, who (quietly awaited death amidst
2S
326 THE MILLS OF TILE GODS.
his saucepans), the bodies of Pauline, Dyke Faucett, and
Celestine, the maid, were the only ones which escaped
being washed away from the wreck. During the following
day, the sea gave up the dead forms of the stalwart English
sailors, who had spent their futile strength in battling with
those angry waters, in a vain effort to swim to shore.
Lying in a ghastly row on the sandy beach, those
noble-looking fellows, with wide-open eyes staring up into
the blue heavens, whence the sun poured down its glory
on the rippling, dancing waves, which scarce forty-eight
hours ago had beaten the life out of their sturdy limbs
and stifled the pulses of their brave hearts forever !
CHAPTER XVI.
Sir Philip Standley sat alone in his study at Ellingham
Hall.
Beside him on the floor stood an empty dispatch-box
with the name of his adopted son engraved upon a brass
plate on the lid, and strewn over the table were piles of
bills, letters, notes, receipts, unfilled checks, and the cus-
tomary accumulation of a careless business man.
Patiently Sir Philip had gone over each document ;
methodically and neatly arranged in separate piles the
paid and unpaid bills; he had laid the loose cash in a
corner apart; he had glanced with a sigh over sundry
PVench notes, redolent of mille-flcurs and the Quartier
Brdda ; he had mastered the contents of sundry missives
from the Marquise de Courboisie, bearing dates as late^as
the past month and addressed to the Isle of Wight ; and
he had carefully laid aside a few letters written in a deli-
cate, clear English hand, and signed, "Your loving wife,
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 327
Dora Fairfax Faucett," until such time as lie could clear
away this rubbish, which he felt was unworthy to be asso-
ciated with her correspondence.
At length all was arranged ; the French and English
billets-doux had perished in the wood-fire which burned
by Sir Philip's side ; notes had been carefully made which
might be useful, and a list of indebtedness stood ready
with frlled-up checks upon it. And then Sir Philip drew
towards him the fair, clean pages on which Dora had poured
forth her girlish fondness,her wifely devotion, her frenzied
grief at Dyke's desertion of herself and child. These
letters, dated Rome, Tours, and Paris, revealed the whole
agonizing truth to him. This man, on whom he had
wasted the entire affection of his nature, to whom he
had transferred the whole-souled devotion which, had he
been able, he would fain have bestowed upon Dyke's
mother, had deceived him basely; through all those last
six years he had been a living lie ! "Pah! it makes me
shudder to think of him, even though he is dead I" And
Sir Philip laid the letters gently down, and paced the
room in a wild tumult of grief, disgust, and indignation.
"And this poor girl, — this inn-e-hearted, high-spirited
creature, whom he must needs crush under his merciless
heel ! Oh, Dyke, Dyke, what a curse did my beloved
Constance leave behind her 1 May God have mercy on
you, my poor boy!" And tears coursed down the old
man's cheek as he sank again into his arm-chair, while the
picture of a noble-looking child, with one arm thrown
across the back of a superb St. Bernard dog, — with the
sunlight bringing out the gold in his curls and lighting up
the laughing blue eyes, — caught his gaze, hanging, as it
did, directly over his study-table.
A long time Sir Philip sat dreaming, with his eyes fast-
ened upon the fair boy who had fdled his lonely heart, and
328 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
gradually his anger fled, his feelings softened, and never
again did a harsh thought of the dead cross his mind.
And then his thoughts turned to the living, and, taking
up a delicately-tinted photograph of Dora, he studied her
sweet face and graceful figure carefully. " She is a lady,"
he said to himself, — " thank Heaven for that, for she must
be found, and immediately." He arose slowly, and,
jmtting aside her letters in a locked drawer, pulled the
bell.
"Has Burrows returned?" he inquired of the servant.
"No, Sir Philip. Ah, yes, there he is now, coming
through the park. Shall I call him, sir?"
" Send him to me at once," answered his master.
A moment later. Burrows entered.
He was a small, wiry individual, with the face of a
terrier, a clear brain, indomitable perseverance and energy,
and a great power of holding on. By profession he was
an attorney, by inclination he was factotum in the house
of Sir Philip Standley, for whom he had a real respect
and affection. He was honest and thoroughly trustworthy,
and in Sir Philip's absences from home it was an under-
stood thing throughout the establishment that Mr. Jonas
Burrows acted as vicegerent. Strange to say, the servants
liked him, and even Sir Philip's own man and the gray-
haired steward, who had grown old and feeble on the estate
which he now only nominally managed, were condescend-
ingly cordial to him. For Burrows never put on any airs,
and was kindly disposed towards everybody.
"Good-morning, Burrows. Pray seat yourself near the
fire ; this is cold weather for October. Did you return
by the 10.30 train ?'
"Yes, Sir Philip; I made no delay, knowing how
anxious you would feel."
"Thanks. You saw — the bodies yourself?"
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
329
" I saw them, and recognized Mr. Faucett. There were
several friends of the lady's who arrived before me, having
been telegraphed by the hotel-keeper at St. Malo, where
I believe the yacht lay for a time, and where they embarked.
These gentlemen took possession of the bodies of the lady
and her maid, and their luggage, some of which had been
washed ashore. I believe they started for Paris last night."
"And you," asked Sir Philip, — "you fulfilled my in-
structions?"
"To the letter, Sir Philip. Mr. Faucett's remains are
now at the Ellingham Station, and I am awaiting further
instructions."
Sir Philip silently extended his hand and pressed that
of the little attorney, whose shrewd gray eyes glistened
with delight at this mark of approval.
"You will make all preparations for the funeral, if you
please. Burrows," began Sir Philip, after a few moments,
during which he had covered his eyes with his hand. " I
should prefer it to be as quiet as possible, and to take
place immediately. Can — can I see the body?"
" I think it better not, my dear sir; there is much dis-
coloration, and — it would be a very painful sight to you
now."
"Very well," replied Sir Philip, with a deep sigh. "And
now, my good friend, leave me for a little while. You will
find luncheon laid in the dining-room ; and afterwards
1 wish to consult you on another very important matter."
" And you, Sir Philip? Shall you not take anything?
Let me send you at least a glass of port and a biscuit."
" As you please," answered the old gentleman, wearily.
But when the glass of port and biscuit presented them-
selves, supplemented by a couple of delicate slices of cold
fowl, Sir Philip mechanically regaletl himself for the first
time that day. And when little Burrows answered his sum-
2S*
330 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
mons, feeling immensely refreshed by his hearty luncheon,
he found his patron looking far brighter and more busi-
ness-like than when he had left him.
5}i ^ 5jc 5j^ jji jp yf- *I*
"We must employ detectives, Sir Philip; there lies
your only hope of ever discovering this lady, who, you
say, does not even bear her husband's name."
" No," answered Sir Philip, referring to one of the pile
of letters scattered before him, in which poor Dora re-
proaches Dyke for this unwarrantable exaction, — "no,
she goes by her maiden name, Fairfax. This last letter
written in Paris, addressed to No. lo Rue Royale, where
Mr. Faucett was living at this date (September 2, 1870),
— for I corresponded with him at that time, — comes
from a street in the Latin quarter, Rue de Vaugirard,
No. 7."
"And this is the last trace you have of her, — and just
prior to the siege ; I have very little hope. Sir Philip, but
I shall do my very best."
"I am sure of it," answered the old gentleman, heartily.
"And, Burrows, spare no expense; employ detectives;
use the telegraph. Remember only this, she mustbefoiuid.
Justice must be done — if she lives ! Shall you require
these letters?"
"No, Sir Philip; I have made all necessary extracts,
and now I must leave you, if you please, to arrange for
the funeral to-morrow. To-night I go up to London,
and before to-morrow mid-day you shall hear from the
Rue de Vaugirard. Good-morning, Sir Philip. Ah,
many thanks!" as his grateful patron pressed into his
hand a well-filled check, and, rising, bowed him out as
politely as if he had been an ambassador from a foreign
court.
That night a telegram from London reached Sir Philip,
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 331
and proved to his satisfaction that the machinery was
working already which was to atone for part of the evil
done by his too fondly-trusted adopted son. It contained
these words :
"Send the photograph of the lady by first express to
No. Street, London, under cover to me. Coll-
yers is hopeful of success ; leaves to-night for Paris.
' ' Jonas Burrows. ' '
CHAPTER XVII.
" Oh, mais oui, monsieur ! I remember her perfectly,
bless her pretty face ; she rented two rooms of me, au
quatrieme, for herself and her father (poor old gentle-
man, he was killed, you see, sir, during the siege), and
the beautiful little child. What has come to that angel, I
wonder?"
"When was this?" broke in Mr. Collyers, impatient
of the old woman's garrulity, — "in September last?"
"Yes, monsieur, the old gentleman was killed in Sep-
tember; shot down just in front of the Hotel de Ville,
where he was standing as peaceable as a lamb ; and was
just brought home by the young surgeon, as if he was his
own son, sir, so tender was he with the body, which I
helped to lay out ; and I must say, a more beautiful
corpse and a more natural I never "
" Voyons !'" again interrupted the detective, "do you
see these?" And lie took from his pocket-book a couple
of gold coins. "You shall have these if you can give me
two plain answers to two cjucstions without <?//)• more iin-
332 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
necessary talk. How long ago did Madame Fairfax leave
your rooms ?"
"She left them and went to the English Ambulance
Hospital about the first of October. I know, because she
came to me in July and she paid me for two months in
advance, and when they had expired, Paris was besieged,
— she could get no more money; and you know, mon-
sieur, I could not let the rooms without pay, being a poor
widow, and "
" Did you ever see her after she left you ?"
" No, monsieur, I never saw her again. I fear she died
of want, — she and the little one, — for they were both very
delicate — and meat was dear ; and indeed I have made
my dinner of a rat-pate, and been glad to get it "
" Tiens !'' broke in Collyers, dropping the gold pieces
into her outstretched palm. " Where does this English
Ambulance find itself?"
" Ah, it is all broken up now, monsieur; it was only a
temporary hospital during the war. Bonjour, monsieur,
mille remerchnents.'^ And she turned to re-enter the
porte-cochere, leaving Mr. Collyers in a rather despairing
frame of mind. At that moment the concierge of the
house opposite appeared in the gateway ; at a signal from
her neighbor she crossed the street ; Mr. Collyers waited.
Old Benoit approached her cap-frills to those of her
comrade, and whispered, " Void tin milord Anglais ; he
wants information concerning cette pativre petite dame
Fairfax. He pays well, my dear."
Her friend took the cue instantly. With a low curtsy
and a suave smile she addressed Collyers: ^^ Pardon,
monsieur ; but perhaps I may be able to assist you. In
my appartement an cinqideme lodged Monsieur Buchanan,
monsieur /' ' Triumphantly she spoke, while her eyes glis-
tened at the prospect of English gold.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. ^^2,^
"And who the devil is Buchanan?" quoth Collyers,
mildly surveying her appartcmcnt an ciitquicnie from the
street, and trying thereby to deduce some important in-
formation respecting its former occupant.
"Monsieur Buchanan was the surgeon, sir, — the sur-
geon, and the bon ami of Madame Fairfax ! He it was who
took her to the Hospital, and who sent me to her constantly
with food and wine, when we were all starving in Paris.
He it was who, in saving a family from death in a burn-
ing house, was injured so badly that he was obliged to give
up his practice and leave Paris. And he did not leave sa
chere aiiiie behind him. They went away a party of four,
and the little child , and I knoiu where they went f She
stopped suddenly, and closed her lips resolutely.
"This becomes interesting, ma bonne dame,'' began
Collyers, again having recourse to his well-supplied
pocket-book. " Will you do me the honor of drinking a
bottle of wine with your good man to my health?" And
he handed her a glittering testimonial of his appreciation
of her valuable reticence. " They went, you said, out of
Paris?" he began.
'' Merci mille fois, monsieur .' Yes, they drove out to St.
Denis, where I afterward sent part of Monsieur Buchan-
an's luggage ; the remainder — his instrument-cases and
books — I sent only last week to him in England."
"What street and number did you say at St. Denis?"
queried Collyers, with note-book in hand.
" No. Rue de la r>ergere," replied the old woman.
" Thanks. I have the honor to bid you good-morning,
mesdamcs!" And, saluting them profoundly, the milord
Anglais jumped into the fiacre which awaited lum, and
directed tlie man to drive out to St. Denis.
En route he stopped at the telegraph-office, and sent
the following lines to —
334 ^-^^^ MILLS OF THE GODS.
"Jonas Burrows, Ellingham, Kent:
"On the right scent. The lady lives, — interview her
in half an hour.
"COLLYERS."
As the gentleman-like detective reseated himself in the
fiacre, after dispatching the above bit of encouragement
to England, he took off his hat, and passed his fingers
through his crisp, sandy locks with a smile of complacent
content on his mild physiognomy. He was most agree-
ably disappointed. This had looked a discouraging under-
taking, seen from the other side of the Channel, only
yesterday, and now here he had his bird in his hand
already, all owing to his patience with the voluble old
Frenchwoman ; and he sank into a pleasant reverie,
which was brought to an abrupt conclusion by the stop-
ping of the fiacre at the door of a villa-looking house in
a suburb of St. Denis.
He alighted, and smiling graciously at the neat bonne
who answered his ring, he inquired for Madame Fairfax,
who resided there. But the girl shook her head, and
assured liim that there was no lady of that name in the
house at present ; there had been an English lady, with
her little girl and man-servant, but she could not say
that the name was Fairfax; perhaps she had better call
madame ?
" Do so, ma chere fiUe, I beg of you ; time presses, and
I must have the address of this lady you speak of."
The girl retreated, and soon the proprietress of tlie
villa appeared in her widow's weeds and cap. She invited
the gentleman to enter, and, seated in her cosy parlor,
she told him all she knew of the lady he sought.
" Madame Fairfax occupied rooms in my house during
the past four months, and I had hoped lo have kept her
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 335
for the winter, but letters from England seemed to liave
troubled her somewhat, and she left quite suddenly, pay-
ing a fortnight in advance, although I did not wish her
to do so, and left no address with me."
" Do you mean to say that you have no idea where she
intended to go? Was there no address on her luggage?
What train did she take?" asked the crest-fallen detective,
eagerly.
" No, monsieur, her boxes had no address ; and when
I asked her where I should send her letters, she smiled
very sadly, and said ' there will be no letters for me now,'
and then she drove away in a fiacre, but where I know not. ' '
"Was it one of the cabs from the station?" asked
Collyers, desperately.
" Indeed, monsieur, I could not possibly say; they all
look alike, and I, never dreaming that inquiries would be
made, took little interest in it."
" Was it the servant who opened the door who went
for the cab?" he asked.
"Oh, no; madame had her own man-servant who
always attended to everything for her. Perhaps, sir, they
have gone to England ; her letters were all English,"
volunteered the kind-hearted landlady.
" Perhaps," assented the detective, dubiously. " I am
under infinite obligations to you, madame," rising and
bowing low, "and should feel grateful if you would send
me word to this address, should any letters arrive for or
from Madame Fairfax, or should you gain any information
regarding her whereabouts."
Madame promised to do so, and, taking the card he
offered, she bowed him out.
As he repassed the telegraph-ofifice he stopped the
carriage, hesitated a moment, and finally scrawled the
following message :
336 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
"To Jonas Burrows, Esq., Ellingham, Kent:
" Bird flown, — all trace lost. Believe her to be in Paris.
If so, will find her.
"COLLYERS."
As the detective, feeling very hungry and somewhat
discouraged, descended from his fiacre in front of Meu-
rice's, a lady with a little girl were at the same moment
alighting from an omnibus just before him. Suddenly
the lady gave a slight scream. The child had slipped off
the step of the omnibus, and would have probably been
injured in the crowd of vehicles had not Mr. Collyers
sprung forward, seized the little girl in his arms, and
restored her to her mother, who waited in breathless
anxiety on the pavement.
''Je vous remercie, monsieur!" cried Dora, pressing
her darling to her bosom, while a sweet smile of gratitude
lighted up her pale, sad face.
Mr. Collyers raised his hat, with a muttered "II n'y a
pas de quoi, madame," and entered \\\c porte-cochere of
the Hotel Meurice, whilst his thoughts reverted to the
puzzling question, "Where under heaven has that woman
hidden herself?"
After an excellent /a/V^-^V/^Vif dinner, Mr. Collyers took
a stroll on the Boulevard des Italiens, and finally dropped
into the "Varietes," where he spent the entr'actes in
conjecture and vigorously plying with questions a French
detective with whom he had once been associated and
whom he met at the entrance to the theatre. The latter
obligingly gave him all the information in his power, but
strongly advised his returning to England, as it was more
than probable the object of his search had left France.
But there was something of the bull-dog about Collyers.
He had got the idea firmly rooted in his mind that Dora
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
337
was in Paris, and he meant toiind her ther-c. Before he
retired to rest that night, he had resolved to pay another
visit to the elderly concierge who had rented her apparte-
ment au cifjquicme to the young surgeon Buchanan. He
was far from despairing yet.
. CHAPTER XVIII.
FROM DORA FAIRFAX TO AGNES OGILVIE.
" St. Denis, September 28.
"Agnes, I am wretched! My burden is too heavy
for me to bear. You are right ; I have been writing you
with a feigned cheerfulness of late. How could I bear to
cast a shadow on your joyousness? And now my strength
is all gone, and I am sinking. I feel like a frail bark
tossed on a wild, stormy sea. Another wave, a little
stronger than the last, will wreck me utterly.
"For, Agnes, I am forced to leave this peaceful shelter
in which I rested ; I am obliged to go out once more into
the great, troubled Avorld, where I feel such a mere help-
less atom in the great whirling rush of humanity. When
this letter reaches you, I shall have left St. Denis forever.
" You will have guessed before my pen traces the words,
dear, why I have thus resolved. You will feel with me,
my strong, pure-hearted Agnes, that Ronald Buchanan
and I have met for the last time in this life; and you, too,
know well the anguish these words cost me. Never to
see him again ! never to hear that low, firm voice which
always brought strength and comfort in its tones; never
to see that noble, earnest face, those clear blue eyes,
that kindly smile! Oh, Agnes, is this sin? Can it be
p 29
338
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
wrong for me to love him, to reverence him, to pray for
him in my loneliness, my desolation ? If so, the God of
Mercy who forgave much to her who ' loved much' will
pardon me.
"What agony it causes me to fly from him ! — for he writes
me that he will come (he may be here any day, Agnes),
and I have not courage to warn him that he will not find
me ! For I shall leave no address, and no one shall be
told, save your dear self, in what corner of the wide world
I will hide myself and Marian. There I will strive to live
patiently until the end, which, please God, may not be
far off; for now, Agnes, since your last dear letter brought
me the blessed promise of your loving care for my little
one, I feel that I can wait calmly, thankfully, with just the
same
' Patience as a blade of grass
Grows by, contented in the heat and cold"
until the day comes when I can creep into my mother's
arms, in the land where the weary and heavy-laden are
promised rest at last.
" Farewell, dear Agnes. Ah, what would I give to feel
your loving arms about me ! How often do I live over
those dear, sad days in the Hospital !
" ' When I remember something which I had,
And which is gone, . . . and I must do without;
When I remember this, I mourn, . . . but yet.
My happiest days are not the days when Y^forget.'
" Good-by again, dear. I will write )0u from our new
home.
" Dora Faucett."
(For to Agnes alone had Dora confided her true name
and the entire sad story of her life at last !)
The tears fell fast upon this letter as her friend perused
THE MILLS OF TILE GODS. 33Q
its sad lines, and when Dick gayly entered his wife's little
sitting-room, shortly after, he found her weeping bitterly.
He threw himself down beside her on the lounge and
took her little figure in his strong arms, whilst he half
coaxed, half commanded her to "dry up those tears and
not make a fright of yourself, my darling, for I have got
some glorious news for you, Agnes, and you shall not
hear it until I've seen you smile."
Agnes had some of a woman's weakness, although she
was very nearly perfect, so she smiled instantly through
her tears, crying, " What is it ? Oh, do tell me ! Is she
coming here?"
"Now just listen to her!" cried Dick, apostrophizing
an imaginary being in the background. " ' Is she coming
here?' Who?"
"Why, Dora, of course," replied Agnes. "Oh, Dick,
I have had the most broken-hearted letter from her to-day !
Dick, I must go to her, or she must come here ; she is ill,
and obliged to leave St. Denis, and— oh, Dick!" And,
hiding her face on his broad chest, she sobbed again.
" All right, Agnes !" cried Dick, who never could abide
hysterics. "Cheer up, my girl ! Dora is all over her
trouble now; that ras — that husband of hers is dead !"
" Dead !" exclaimed Agnes, starting to her feet with
excitement. " Dead ! Oh, thank God !"
" Pious," ejaculated Dick, " but uncomplimentary."
" Dead !" again exclaimed Agnes. " Can it be possi-
ble? How? When? Where?"
"One at a time, please," urged Dick; " I never was
good at multiplication. It seems he was wrecked in his
yacht, off the coast somewhere. The Times has a full
account of it; here it is." And he drew from his pocket
a copy and spread it out before Agnes, who, without
glancing at it, went on :
340
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
"Oh, Dick, I am so glad ! Does she know it, do you
think? I will write to her at once; but," here her face
grew troubled again, " where is she?"
" At St. Denis, to be sure," said Dick.
" Ah, no, she left there yesterday ; but she has promised
to write to me immediately. Dick, would you mind
sending to the post now ? there may be a letter, you
know."
Dick smiled. "It would be useless, dear; there can-
not possibly be another mail from France already. See
here, Agnes, if you will be good, and stop crying di-
rectly, 1 will do something towards finding your friend for
you."
"How? What can you do? Oh, Dick, if she were
only in England, safe and well, I should be content !"
" No, you wouldn't ; even if she were here, and safe, you
two would find something to wail over, — unless Buchanan
were on the programme ! Now, I'll tell you what I shall
do : I mean to run up to London to attend this great
lecture on anatomy, and afterwards I shall take the train
down to ' Scrooby' (that's where the brother-in-law par-
son holds forth, is it not ?) and have a talk with Ronald,
and tell him that the coast's clear at last !"
" Oh, you dear, blessed Dick !" cried Agnes, enthusias-
tically. " How good you are! When will you go, — to-
day?"
" Don't be impatient ; I must have some cold pasty and
a bottle of Bass before I can move, and then I shall catch
the express up to town."
Agnes bustled about waiting on her beloved, packing a
small valise for him, while bright smiles now chased each
other over her sunny face. Dick watched her, through
half-closed lids, with an expression of serene content upon
his honest features.
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 341
Presently there was a tap at the door of their sitting-
room, and a blithe voice asked, " May I come in?"
As Dick sprang forward to meet her, Anne Ogilvie
entered, carrying a light wicker basket filled with ferns
and orchids from her little conservatory, wherewith she
meant to "decorate the shrine of St. Agnes," she said,
and forthwith commenced to arrange the exquisite speci-
mens tastefully about the pretty sitting-room, which, with
the rooms en suite, Anne had dedicated exclusively to the
occupation of her brother and his wife, — " So that you can
feel perfectly at home,'" she said, with her winning smile,
to Agnes on that first day of her meeting with the bride.
"A region where you and Dick can be all by yourselves
when you choose, and where even / must be expected to
be invited to join you sometimes." For Anne had taken
Agnes to her heart not only outwardly, during those first
hours together: she had so longed for a sister all her life,
and now, here was one with whom she could find no fault.
They suited each other admirably, and Dick was as happy
as a king (in a fairy-tale !).
And when, after her husband had discussed the better
part of a cold game-pie and gone off on his errand of
mercy, Agnes and Anne sat cosily together in the pretty
drawing-room, each occupied with needle-work, and Agnes
recounted the story of Dora's life, she brought ready tears
of sympathy from the deep-blue eyes of her eagerly inter-
ested friend.
"Something must be done immediately," concluded
Agnes; "for, Anne, I feel sure she is dying; her letters
lately have been. so sad, so despairing !"
"I agree with Dick, " began Anne, wiping her eyes,
and drawing nearer to Agnes. "I think Mr. Buclianan
will move heaven and earth to find the jjoor child — now,
— and we must just sit at home, and wait patiently until
29*
342 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
he does find her, and then we will all strive to comfort
her, and fill the rest of her life with joy and peace. Poor
Dora ! I never heard anything so sad, so pitiful !" And
in her heart Anne wondered how she could bear to have
had such a barrier as that which parted Dora and the man
she loved, rise up between her life and that of the man
who had brought "the gold and purple of his heart,"
and laid all at her feet. Her great wealth of happiness
but made her pity more tender for the bare poverty of
poor Dora's lot.
"If Percy were only here, with his clear, strong judg-
ment and his dauntless energy, all would be well. He
could tell us what to do, and would direct Dick's impetu-
osity, which may only alarm Dora and put her on her
guard, and so farther out of reach. She doubtless has
heard nothing of her husband's death, and may imagine
he is seeking her !"
"Ah, Dick will be very careful not to startle her; he
is not devoid of judgment, if he is a little impulsive,"
cried loyal Agnes ; " and Mr. Buchanan knows her better
than any of us, I do believe ; ]ie will be most guarded
and indefatigable."
"No offense to Dick, darling!" laughed Anne, stoop-
ing forward to kiss Agnes's cheek; and then gravely again :
"But should they find her and the little one, must they
not come here, to us, Agnes?"
Her sister's eyes filled with grateful tears, " Oh, Anne,
what joy that would be to me, and to Dora!"
"And to Anne," concluded the latter, with a smile.
And then they discussed the question of which room in
the rambling old house would be most cheerfiil and com-
fortable for Dora, and how delighted Marian would be
with an English poultry-yard ; and what a blessed angel
it was who had invaded the recesses of Anne's aged god-
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
343
mother's heart in her last days, and bestowed through her
so cheery and delightful a home upon three as homeless
and desolate creatures as the world contains !
And after they had talked over everything appertaining
to their expected guests, Agnes delighted Anne's heart by
counting up on her fingers the exact number of days
which must intervene before the good ship " Java" should
land her passengers at Liverpool, and bring into their
joyous circle that one other link which (Dora found)
would complete the golden chain of love which bound
them all together.
CHAPTER XIX.
It was a murky, foggy night in London ; the windows
of the brilliantly-lighted shops, dripping with moisture,
allowed little of their cheerful glow to brighten the hearts
of the passers-by, or direct their slippery footsteps, while
the gas-lamps at the street corners gave forth a blear-eyed
and dejected twinkle. So thick was the fog, that had it
not been for the glaring transparency over the entrance to
Exeter Hall, Dick Ogilvie never would have recognized
in the crowd pouring itself out after the great anatomist's
lecture the form and features of the very man of all others
he wished most to meet.
Ronald Buchanan's face, under the glare of a great green
letter "A," looked wan and careworn; and when Dick,
pushing his way violently through the crowd, laid a hand
on his friend's shoulder, he could not but feel struck by
the languid, listless greeting which he received.
Linking his arm in that of Buchanan, he said, " I'm in
luck, dear old boy, in meeting you by chance in this way.
344
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
I was just about to start for Scrooby, anci you have saved
me a day, and some impatience, by turning up at the very
right moment."
Ronald looked surprised. "You were about to start
for Scrooby?" he asked.
"Yes. Haven't you meant all those invitations you
have extended to me?" smilingly asked Dick.
"Of course; you know that; but "
"But what brings me down now? Well, we will just
step in here and have a bit of supper quietly, and then I
shall tell you some news which will gladden your heart,
my boy ! Gad, I can scarcely keep it !"
"You can tell me nothing I care to hear," answered
Ronald, wearily, seating himself at a little table, while
Dick gave orders for supper.
"We shall see," returned Dick, sententiously.
"And now, Ronald," began his friend, as the waiter
bustled away. "Do you know where Mrs. Fairfax is?"
Buchanan started, and, leaning eagerly forward, said, in
a low voice, "Is it about her? Can you tell me where
she is? If so, for God's sake do not keep me in sus-
pense !" His face grew wild and haggard as he awaited
Dick's reply.
"I cannot," his friend answered, gravely. "Have
you been to France ? or how did you guess she had left
St. Denis?"
"Yes. I have just returned from that fool's errand."
Ronald spoke bitterly, and Dick sympathized thoroughly
with his exasperating disappointment.
" Could you gather no clue from the people in the
house of her probable destination at present?"
" None; I saw the landlady and all the servants about
the place. Nobody seemed to know anything, excepting
the fact that Dora's husband (the villain !) had tracked
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 345
her to this place, but fortunately after she had been warned
and fled."
" When was this? I had not heard anything of this !"
cried Ogilvie, astonished.
" It was the day before I reached St. Denis (that is the
day before yesterday), that this man called and demanded
to see Mrs. Fairfax; but she was then out of his reach,
thank God!"
"Yes," said Dick, with an unusual solemnity for him.
"She was certainly out of his reach then, Ronald, for —
the man was dead !"
"What!" exclaimed Ronald, starting to his feet and
almost overturning the table in his excitement. "What!
dead?"
"Yes, dead! He was drowned in his yacht off the
Mediterranean coast more than a week ago. You have
seen it all in the papers, Ronald, — the loss of the ' lo',
and its owner's death by drowning."
"And is it — can it be? — Is Faucett the name of Dora's
husband? Is it this man? — whom I have met in Paris, —
talked with, sliaken by the hand ! to whom I owe the
wreck of my whole life ; the vengeance which God has
taken out of my hands 7iow fo7-ever I Can it be? Oh,
Dick, this seems too improbable !"
"True, nevertheless, dear boy. Come, sit down and
take it quietly. There is something to be done now. We
must find the widow P''
And now for the first time the joyful part of this sudden
intelligence struck upon Ronald's comprehension. " The
widow !"
No more wrong, no more sin in loving her, no more
flying from him, or speaking coldly to him. She was his
now, — his own for evermore !
And Ronald's head bowed down until it rested on his
p*
346 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
clinched hands, utterly oblivious of Dick's presence, of
place, of time, of everything, save the one great, joyful
fact, that Dora was free at last !
Dick waited patiently. There was great depth of ten-
derness in his nature, — and his sympathy was very per-
fect.
When Ogilvie and Buchanan separated for the few
hours which remained before the dawn, each felt certain
in his heart that if Dora lived in this little world still, she
surely would be found, right speedily.
Ronald slept during those precious hours, as he had not
slept for months, with his head pillowed on the bosom of
hope and the dream-angel whispering of joy to come.
CHAPTER XX.
The next morning Dick and Ronald parted in ex-
uberant spirits; Ogilvie returning home, and Ronald
going on to the parsonage to make a few preparations for
another trip to the Continent which might possibly be
prolonged, and to tell Lydia the news of Faucett's death
and gain her counsel as to his own future movements.
A dozen miles to the south of Doncaster, on the great
Northern Railway line, just at the junction of three
counties, and bordering the fenny districts of Lincoln-
shire, lies the little village of Scrooby, where Paul Wyn-
gate had established himself and his wife in a newly-built
parsonage adjoining the ancient stone church, which had
stood steadfast there for centuries.
Taking no note of the monotonous scenery through
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
347
which he was whirling at the rate of fifty miles an hour,
and which had always reminded him of the flat and unin-
teresting country of Holland, Ronald, with hat drawn
down over his eyes and with folded arms, leaned back in
the cushioned seat of the railway-carriage, plunged in
profound reflection.
When the train stopped, for a moment, on a wide plain,
at a miniature station-house, with just a suggestion of a
village in the distance across some rushy fields, Ronald
barely woke up in time to escape being carried on beyond
his destination.
Walking swiftly along the country-road bordered with
poplars, with head a little more erect than usual, and his
clear eyes filled with joyful light, he looked very unlike
the pale, haggard, drooping figure who emerged in the
foggy night from Exeter Hall only a few hours ago.
Such puppets are we all, responding accurately to the
slightest wire-pulling ; brain acting on physique, phy-
sique reacting upon brain. For, humiliating as it seems,
not only does the body tremble and bow and sink under
the influence of the mind, in abnormal conditions, until we
are forced to acknowledge not only that grief sometimes
kills (as in the case of Louis of Holstein, who yielded up
the ghost as he knelt by his wife's dead body), or that joy
can be equally fatal (as when Chilo, one of the seven
wise men of Greece, died from excess of happiness in
seeing his son gain the victory of Olympia), but also tliat
the mental powers are direfully swayed by the amount
of phosphorus in the bones, the action of the various
vital organs, and the ganglionic centres !
Are not the judgment warped, the affections narrowed,
the "milk of human kindness" soured, and the charity
which cloaks infirmities shriveled up, when dyspepsia
fastens its fangs upon its victim?
348 1'i!^ MILLS OF THE GODS.
And how many cases of suicide, when the brain, reeling
from its throne, clutches at the mysterious Unknown,
have resulted from some cog in the wheel of internal
machinery going awry?
And although
" Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them ;
But not for love," —
because that malady does not enter into the diagnosis, — it
is not less true that the mental depression has so sympa-
thetically affected the nervous and spiritual condition, that
men have died, and women too, of love betrayed, dis-
honored, or rejected.
What are we, then, but puppets strung on the wires of
circumstance, with hope, joy, conscience itself, centred in
the sphial cord ?
Lydia, clipping the dead leaves from the evergreen
hedge inclosing the neat grounds about the parsonage,
could scarce believe that this was Ronald who sprang up
the steps before her with the gay lightness of a boy, call-
ing out, in cheery tones, " Lydia ! where are you, Lydia!"
" Here I am, Ronald. What has happened, dear, since
you sent me that sad note yesterday?" she asked, coming
through the window which opened from the study on the
lawn.
Her brother came quite close to her, and, first stooping
to kiss her soft cheek, he said, simply, " Lydia, my Dora
is free ! Her husband perished in the wreck of the yacht
'lo.'"
''Oh, Ronald! May God have mercy on his soul!"
She closed her eyes a moment as though that prayer sprang
from her heart.
" Can you guess how happy I am, Lydia? I wrote you
how she had fled from me ; but nothing on earth shall
come between us now P^
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 349
"Take care, my darling," urged his sister, "do not
speak so positi\ely ; leave everything in the hands of Him
who has removed this great obstacle to your happiness
and hers. All will be for the best in the end."
"I must go back to France immediately," he answered,
only replying by another kiss to her earnest speech. "And,
Lydia, should I find Dora ill, or should I want yoji, ivill
you come to me there .?' '
"Certainly I will, "she answered, cheerfully. "And now
I must give you your letters and papers which have arrived
since you left." She opened a drawer in the writing-
table and produced a budget of medical journals and
letters. Ronald glanced at them carelessly, — his thoughts
were straying elsewhere, — and mechanically opened one
with whose handwriting he was unfamiliar. He soon be-
came absorbed in its contents, and his sister stole softly
from the room. The letter was dated the previous day,
and bore the signature of Sir Philip Standley.
"Oct. 10.
"To Ronald Buchanan, Esq.
" My dear Sir, — You will pardon my addressing you
in order to gain information which I have been assured
you will be able and willing to furnish, viz., the present
address of the lady to whom you showed much kindness
during the late troubles in Paris, — Mrs. Dora Fairfax
Faucett.
"During the past week my agents have been employed
in seeking her, to no avail, and I am now driven to accept
the last expedient open to me, and beg your aid.
" Having ascertained that you were in correspondence
with Mrs. Faucett (having obtained your address through
the concierge of your apartments in Paris), I feel encour-
aged to hope that through your instrumentality I may
350
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
soon have it in my power to receive the wife of my
adopted son and heir (had he lived), Mr. Dyke Faucett.
"To this end I ask your co-operation, and, hoping to
hear from you by return of post,
" I remain, sir,
" Very truly yours,
"Philip Standley, Bart.
" Ellingham Hall, Kent."
" And I thank God that I cannot give you the informa-
tion you seek !" cried Ronald, excitedly, while he thrust
the letter away from him as if it had burned his hands.
"While she was wretched, forsaken by that villain,
lonely, ill, and desolate, her great relations could ignore
her existence, and leave her to perish with a broken heart
in a foreign land ; but now, just as she is left free to turn
her sweet face towards me, — instead of hiding it away from
me, — these grand folks must step forward to claim the
widow of the heir ! But they shall not have her ; even
should I find her immediately, they shall never know it ;
I will keep her safely ; I will not let them hear from me.
Oh, Heaven ! have I not suffered enough yet?"
These were the rebellious, angry thoughts which surged
in Ronald's heart, as he felt the keen anguish of losing
Dora a second time through the impassable gulf which
rank and wealth would create between the heiress of Sir
Philip Standley and the poor surgeon of a country-town.
" Could the mistress of Ellingham Hall stoop to the
village apothecary ? She could scarcely deign to employ
his services save for the hirelings about her grand estab-
lishment ! Ah, little Dora, I cannot let you go now; I
have waited too patiently for that." Thinking thus, he
drew towards him his letter-case, and indited a few con-
cise lines to Sir Philip Standley, assuring him of his utter
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
351
ignorance of Mrs. Faucett's place of abode; tacitly de-
clining to aid him in his search for her; politely but
firmly giving Sir Philip to understand that no future in-
formation need be sought from him.
He signed and sealed this epistle, and then laying it on
the rack where the letters for the next post awaited col-
lection, he paced up and down the room, with a look of
weary pain once more gathering about his lips and eyes.
Before very long he took his letter once more in his
hand, looked at it lingeringly a moment, and then tore it
across and tossed it into the fire.
" ' God and man and hope abandon me !' "
he muttered,
" ' But I to them and to myself remain constant!'
I have no right to decide for her ; it seems that my
love is growing selfish, and — I think only of my own
pain. This shall not be. I will do all in my power to
restore her to her friends, and leave the rest to — God !"
As if in answer to this resolution the servant brought
in that moment the mid-day mail; and a few lines from
Dick, written immediately upon his return home that
morning, ran thus :
"Have this moment arrived, dear old boy, and Agnes
greets me with the tidings that she has heard from Mrs.
Faucett. She is well, and living in Paris, No. 13 Fau-
bourg Poissonnicre ; has heard nothing of Faucett's death.
"Agnes leaves you to break the news to her, and joins
me in good wishes for your happiness.
" Faithfully yours,
"Richard Ogilvie."
352
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
And then Ronald took a fresh sheet of paper and wrote
a courteous letter to Sir Philip, giving him the address of
the woman he loved well enough to sacrifice his own
selfish longing to be the first to tell her of her altered
prospects, and to stand quietly by and see her go out of
his life into another which lay open to her,. — far away —
from him — and his small world.
When Lydia came in later, she saw in his face that he
had fought a battle with himself — and coiiquered ; and
though she did not know the grounds of strife, she felt
that he had won a victory over himself, and caressed him
with loving words and tender hands. And then he told
her all.
CHAPTER XXI.
" Oh, mamma ! What is this ? Look at this beautiful
brooch !" cried Marian, jumping off the bed, where she
had been extracting the contents of Dora's dressing-ca.se,
which contained also her only jewel which survived the
siege, — the diamond pin which had belonged to her
mother.
"Yes, darling," said Dora, taking the trinket in her
hand, sadly; "put it away again carefully in its little
case; and, Marian, replace all those things again and lock
the box."
"Yes, mamma; but see, this mirror in the lid is loose,
and, oh, mamma, here is a letter behind it ! Don't you
want to read it?"
"A letter?" cried her mother, stretching forth her
hand from the couch where she lay resting after a long
day spent in seeking pupils. "What letter can it be?
Ah !" Almost with a sob she seized the yellow, time-worn
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
353
envelope, still sealed as when her motlier's hand last
touched it. "I had forgotten it," she murmured, kissing
it over and over. " I had forgotten all about it, and
now here it comes back to me at the time when I am most
sad, most desolate. Comes to me like a touch of my dear
mother's gentle hand upon my weary head. Oh, mamma!
mamma!" And the tears fell fast on the old faded lines
as she broke the seal and opened its pages — with "To
be opened only in case of trouble befalling you after your
father's death" inscribed upon the outside :
"My life is waning, little Dora, day by day, and, as I let
my eyes rest on your golden head, my one ewe-lamb (spared
to us of all the flock !), I tremble at the thought of leaving
you behind me. And yet I dare not murmur, knowing as I
do that there is an Arm so loving and so powerful that, be-
fore its cherishing, the most tender mother's care grows
impotent and vain. To its protection I confide you, Dora,
happy in the knowledge that in your pure nature'and in-
nocent heart rests now no germ of evil. Oh, may they
long be kept 'unspotted from the world' ! It is to aid
you in doing this, my chikl, that I have refrained from
offering the key which might open to your untried sim-
plicity the great, false, tempting gates of the world ; the
world to which by birtli you belong, and in whose gaudy,
meretricious, treacherous enticements you will never find
the inexpressible joy and repose which, in our humble
home, where the sunshine of love has never been clouded
for a day, have filled my heart to overflowing, and
which, in this sweet, calm twilight of my life, while the
shadows of night encompass me about, fill the air with
angel voices, whispering of duty done, and the promise
of life everlasting with the darlings who have ' gone be-
fore!'
30*
354
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
"And you, and my beloved Vincent, will come to us
there ! Ah, Dora, my crown of glory would be incom-
plete Avere one single jewel missing at the last great day !
" And so, perhaps through erring judgment, I leave you
to live out your Hie in the primitive simplicity of your early
childhood, with your dear father's approval and consent.
"God grant that the day may never come to you when
you will feel authorized to read this letter !
" My strength fails me. I will put, in few words, the
knowledge of your father's antecedents, and my own,
which may prove useful to you should your path grow too
rugged for your tender feet.
"Your father is the only son of Marmaduke Vincent,
of Maudley, Leicestershire. We have never held any
communication with either his family or my own since we
left England, — forty years ago. My marriage with a
nobleman, whom I need not name, was thwarted almost
at the last moment by my elopement with your father 1 For
this we were cut off forever from our own kin.
"I am the fifth daughter of Lord Laurence Vavasour,
thus my maiden name was Marian Adelaide Vavasour. My
father's estate is encumbered, I believe ; it lies in shire.
" My mother died when I was born. My youth was a
sad one ; only one face stands out in my memory with an
expression of kindness in it, — that of my godmother,
Lady Marian Oglethorpe, of Oglethorpe Manor, Shrop-
shire. Should she live still when you open this letter —
go to her !
"And now, my precious one, my hand is weary, and
my sight grows dim. To the loving Father, who is now
stretching out His arms to me, I commend you, my frail
flower, my lily-blossom, fit only to bloom in the garden
of our Lord.
"Your Mother."
THE MILLS OF 7 HE GODS.
355
(Inclosed were a marriage-certificate and that of Dora's
birth.)
As Dora concluded reading the tender words which fell
like dew from heaven on the parched flower of her barren
heart, Marian, who had been gazing at her with startled
eyes since she had given up the terrible yellow letter,
which seemed to contain cause for all these tears, now
drew near to her mother's side, and, drawing her head
down on her childish breast, poured forth a torrent of
loving epithets ; kneeling on the floor beside her, her
head raised, and tears of sympathy in her bright eyes, she
implored Dora to speak to her and tell her what that cruel
letter held to distress her so. Dora caressed her, and
strove to smile and explain the contents of the mysterious
packet. So absorbed were they in conversation, that
neither heard the door open behind them, or perceived
the figure of a gray-haired gentleman, who stood quietly
taking in every detail of the most exquisite picture he had
ever seen, on, or off, canvas.
In a low chair, near the window, sat Dora, in an atti-
tude of willowy grace which belonged to her, — a little
languid, perhaps, in pose, but with a face instinct with
life, — changing momentarily in expression. Against her
black dress leaned a child with the head of an angel ;
liquid blue eyes lifted with adoring love to her mother's
face; lips half parted showing pearly teeth between; a
golden cloud of hair falling nearly to the ground as she
knelt with head thrown back in eager listening. For Dora
was telling her the story of her childhood in the great
forest of Virginia (for her father and his bride had fled to
America, and there built up their humble, happy home,
unmolested by their indignant kindred, who looked upon
them henceforth as dead); and as the sweet voice went on
like a strain of music to which beautiful thoughts were set,
356 THE MILLS Ov THE GODS.
the tears gathered in Sir Philip Standley's eyes, and he
with difficulty restrained himself from stepping forward
and taking the wife of his dead boy in his arms.
But her extreme delicacy was so apparent to him, so
fragile she looked, he dreaded the effect of startling her
even by his unannounced presence; and so he stole
gently out of the still-open door, and, encountering a
servant in the passage, begged her to carry his card to
the lady in the little room beyond.
When, after a couple of hours of quiet talk, Sir Philip
stood holding Dora's hand in his, while he reiterated his
request that she should be ready to accompany him home
to England on the morrow, the sweet face raised towards
him wore a bright flush of happiness, and the light of the
glorious eyes shone through a mist of grateful tears.
He had told her all, not excepting Dyke's death, —
lightly touching upon his reticence concerning his mar-
riage, — breathing no word of his unworthiness ; and
Dora had wept, feeling shocked and pained that her
child's father could never now hear her say, " I forgive
all.'" And then she had given Sir Philip her mother's
letter, and they talked reverently of her, and of the om-
nij)otent hand of Providence which had at last brought
him this solace in his solitary old age. With Marian on
his knee, and sweet Dora close beside him, the old gen-
tleman looked happier and brighter than he had done for
many a long year.
After the door had closed behind him, Dora, still
radiant, drew Marian to her side, whispering, "My dar-
ling, God has been so good to me ;" and then, falling on
her knees, tried to pray for strength to bear this happiness
meekly, through intermittent smiles and tears.
Oh, God of Strauss ! God of Renan ! of Herbert Spen-
THE MILLS OF TLIE GODS.
357
cer, of Carlyle, of Emerson, — or of any of those others,
"wise in their own conceit," to whom the name of Jeho-
vah has become as unjironounceable as to the Israelite of
old, — is it at the feet of any of your "strange gods" that
Dora cast herself, in the first impulse of a gratitude which
acknowledged the source from which sprang every joy and
love ?
Or was it from the great " Universum" of one of these
Deity-creators, or the "Absolute," the "Ideal," of the
other, or from the " Unknowable" of the rest, — who spend
God-given brains in the vain effort to establish a higher
form of religion than that of Christ, — that Dora (as a type
of suffering humanity), in the dark night of her adversity,
drew comfort and balm for her grievous wounds?
The mutilators of our beautiful faith, throned on the
apex of their own sovereign intellectuality, which has
submerged long since the weak emotions of the heart,
offer nothing adequate in exchange for the marred and
broken image they have desecrated ; but, wrapped in an
egotistic beatitude, they look down calmly from their
heights upon the surging, throbbing sea of humanity
beneath them, breathing over their heads and oitt of their
range of vision their hazy intangibilities, their misty illu-
sions, wondering, in their own sublime serenity, at the
blindness of those who see not through their eyes.
In abstract theory, these men sparkle dazzlingly in the
blue ether of an intellectual elevation above the herd they
lead ; some of them forming a constellation which tlireat-
ens almost to extinguish the steady, trantpiil, world-
flooding light of the moon; others, brilliant satellites
only, revolve aroimd a larger planet of wider-diffusing
radiance.
And their god seetns a "very God" in his noble pro-
portions, his grand attributes, his "spiritual essence"
358 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
(than which nothing is more volatile) ; but, when the
eyes rain tears, they are blind to the glitter of those far-
off, unapproachable stars ; and, when the heart is bleeding,
it is surely only on the breast where the loved disciple's
head rested, \\\zX peace is to he found.
And it was there, at the feet of the loved " Master" of
Paul and Luke and John, that Dora's tears were wiped
away ; and there, also, did she cast herself in an involun-
tary impulse of grateful homage, which in His sight was
more eloquent than words.
Marian stood by her, gently stroking her cheek with
one little hand, while the other stole about her neck.
Young as she was, this child had learned the true, sweet
sympathy of silence.
As Dora knelt with her head buried in her arms, the
past years returned to her with all their bright and bitter
memories. She thought of her childhood in America,
that joyous season which knew not a single cloud ; of her
life in Rome before she met Dyke Faucett ; of her blind
idolatry of him, and the subsequent breaking of her idol ;
of poor Trelawney's sad fate; of Agnes and her sisterly
affection ; and lastly, with a deep, hot blush, of Ronald
Buchanan. "Would he ever forgive her flight, — would he
understand it?" she wondered. "And if he did, and
we should ever meet again But what folly is this?
— that I, with my broken life, the wreck of what I was
once, could ever dream again of love ! Oh, that is all
over, all passed away forever !
" ' Who can undo
What time hath done?
Who can win back the wind ?
Beckon lost music from a broken lute ?
Renew the redness of a last year's rose ?'
Ah, it is all over for me !"
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 359
For Dora was very human and very womanly in her
great new glory of happiness. She could not grieve for
Dyke's death, although she reproached herself for the
want of power to do so ; she could not feel sorrowful
about ajiy thing ; she could not regret the past, and she
dared not look far into the future which stretched now
before her, wrapped in rose-colored clouds.
The evening came on imperceptibly, and Dora was
startled when a clock in the neighborhood chimed forth
six o'clock.
She hastily prepared and gave Marian her dinner,
touching little herself, — so over-strained were her nerves
that she felt no need of food. And then, giving the child
some pictures to amuse her, she sank once more into a
reverie, which was only broken by two little arms twining
themselves about her neck and a sleepy whisper begging
that Marian should be put to bed.
But there was no possibility of sleep for Dora that
night ; she paced the room in partial dishabille, with a
restlessness upon her which almost amounted to fever.
She unbound her luxuriant hair, and lighting with unscru-
pulous extravagance half a dozen candles, improvising can-
dlesticks with fertile invention, she sat down before the
two-feet-square bit of mirror which decorated her toilet-
table and studied her own beautiful face with the critical
eye of an artist. She was almost alarmed when she first
caught the feverish glitter of her great lustrous eyes, and
the deep flush which burned on either cheek, to whicli the
faintest rose had been strange so long. At last she threw
back the masses of hair from her face, and, still gazing at
its brilliant beauty, opened her lips and caroled forth in
the stillness of night, to that face in the glass, a few bars
of a new " Ave Maria" she had been practicing that day;
for song was as natural an expression of joy to her as to
36o
THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
the little brown wren, who bursts into trills of melody,
with plumage all " ruffled with the whirlwind of his
ecstasies!" . . .
She wondered, as she suddenly checked herself, if her
brain were giving way, — if she were mad! This was
strange mourning for a widow of a fortnight ! How
wicked, how cruel, how selfish she was growing ! she
thought, as she extinguished part of the illumination, and
bound up her tresses, growing pale and chilled as she did
so, and concluding her unnatural emotions by a convulsive
fit of weeping, which left her weak and weary, — too weary
to make her preparations for departure, as she had intended
to do, that night ; too weary for anything but lying awake
the greater part of it, thinking, dreaming, wondering 1 in
a glad, restful consciousness, which was more refreshing
than sleep, and which even the sighing of the autumn
wind outside her persiennes had no power to sadden.
For
" Not all the whispers that the soft winds utter
Speak earthly things.
There mingleth there, sometimes, a gentle flutter
Of angels' wings." . . .
CHAPTER XXII.
A CHEERY group of four was assembled in the cosy
library at "The Oaks," where the leaping flame of the
great wood-fire paled the soft light of the shaded lamp
and brought out the scarlet of the holly-berries, which
gemmed the evergreen garlands decorating with festive
luxuriance every arch and angle and picture-frame in that
crimson-glowing room.
THE MILLS OL- THE GODS. 361
How exquisitely the shining holly-leaves contrasted with
the carved black-oak bookcases against which they were
festooned, and how coquettishly peeped forth, here and
there, the branches of the mistletoe ! while the deep
crimson of the curtains, shutting out of sight the storm
outside, and the rich carpet of the same warm hue, seemed
to fill the room witli a smile of tranquil comfort.
It is Christmas eve. For a month past Anne Ogilvie
and Agnes had been busy in the preparation of joyful sur-
prises which would bring a tithe of the happiness in their
full hearts to the desolate ones to whom even this merry
season rarely brings good cheer.
And now the last button had been sewed upon the neat
little suits (masculine and feminine) ; the last plum-pud-
ding had been satisfactorily turned out ; the last gallon
of soup and the final form of jelly had been pronounced
all that could be wished ; and, a little tired, but most
supremely content, Agnes and Anne rested from their
labors, each in a great arm-chair, whilst Dick read aloud
a legend from his favorite "Ingoldsby," and a low laugh
occasionally issuing from the shadowy depths of another
easy-chair not far from Anne's proximity revealed the
presence of Percy Tyrrell, who made the fourth in this
happy quartette.
" Gad !" exclaimed Dick, springing to his feet and fling-
ing the book upon the table, "if ' Ingoldsby' isn't the
jolliest book I've ever read, I would like to know where
the other is !" Then stretching himself and yawning
audibly, "Beg pardon! But do you girls know that
the dressing-bell has rung? and if there is one thing that
disturbs my equilibrium more than another, it is cold
fish."
Laughingly they all scattered to dress for dinner; not,
however, before Percy, detaining Anne by a look, after
Q 31
362
THE MILLS OF THE GOBS.
the others had disappeared, had whispered, "You have
given me no Christmas gift, Anne, do you know it?"
"Certainly I know it; but why this impatience? No
gifts are distributed before midnight. See what the
morning will bring you !" she laughed.
But he would not be pacified or patient. " No, no ;
my Christmas gift is here, behind these lips. A promise,
Anne, — a promise only, I want from you. Will you nol
give it me, darling?"
"And what is this promise you wish to extort from me?"
she asked, demurely.
"Oh, Anne, you know it well ; that a fortnight from
to-day shall be our wedding-day ! Shall it, little Anne?"
He leaned forward eagerly, his deep eyes gleaming in the
firelight, his face pale with suspense, his lips smiling.
Anne, looking at him, blushed, and then suddenly,
shyly, stretched forth both hands to him, murmuring,
" What can I say ? You 2c///have your own way." The
last word was smothered in a tender embrace, from which
Anne, extricating herself all blushes and smiles, began,
with mock indignation, to reprove him.
" And what were you doing just under the mistletoe .?" he
cried out, with a joyous laugh, as she fled up the stair-case,
looking like a sweet wild rose which had been gently
ruffled by the wind.
One more interieure, and tlien, dear reader, we will
shake hands and wisli each other God-speed.
A year and a half have passed swiftly away since the
wreck of the " lo" and the subsequent alterations in
Dora's life and prospects, and the earth has thrown off its
dun-colored garments and re-clothed itself in the green
mantle of spring.
All the country about EUingham, whether over hill or
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 363
through dale, was lined by the blooming hedge-rows,
where hawthorn, brier, and the wild rose form a tangled,
compact, green w^all, impervious to anything but the fox-
hunters' rush, and which causes the English landscape " to
blossom like the rose!"
And now the delicate perfume of the hawthorn-blossom
fills the breeze, sweeping gently over the vivid green fields,
where the blackberry with its colored flowers, the stone-
bramble, and the spiked leaves of the holly, add their
spring offerings to the sweet English hedge.
All about " The Plall" the young year wore her fairest
aspect; never had lawn been rolled to smoother perfection ;
never had flowers bloomed in such wild profusion; never
had the trees in the park worn such vari-tinted green in
their foliage ; and was water ever so limpid before, as this
calm lake, on whose bosom rest great water-lilies, with
their broad, beautiful leaves? So Dora asked herself,
as she sat under the shade of the old cedars, watching
Marian as she stooped to caress a proud peacock, who
strutted with gorgeous feathers spread out in the sunshine;
and as the gentle little girl failed to make friends with his
highmightiness, Dora was about to recall her to return to
the house, when two gentlemen emerged from a walk
divided by shrubbery from the lawn and approached lier.
Dora tried in vain to keep her dimples under proper
control as she turned to greet Ronald Buchanan, whose
arm was linked in that of Sir Philip Standley.
" We have come, my dear," began the old gentleman,
"to suggest the propriety of your going within, as the sun
has become somewhat overpowering since mid-day; and
Ronald has confided to me the fact that he is perishing
for a little music ! Come, Marian, my pet ; grandpapa
and you will lead the way."
"What shall I sing?" cried happy Dora, improvising
364 THE MILLS OF THE GODS.
a triumphant prelude, raising her beaming eyes to Sir
Philip's face as he and Ronald stood eagerly waiting be-
side her.
" Sing the little Scotch ballad you were so fond of
crooning through the long winter evenings; it begins "
"Oh, I know !" she interrupted Sir Philip; and, striking
a few lively chords, she began, —
" ' Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea,
By niony a flow'r and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, — the lad for me,
He is a gallant weaver !
Oh, 1 had wooers aught or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ;
And I was feared my heart would tine,
And — I gied it to the weaver!' "
As Dora's voice, sweeter, fuller in tone than ever before,
lingered over this last line, Sir Philip gently raised her
chin with one finger until she was forced to look into his
eyes, and then he said, "Ah, wicked Dora! to cheat me
so ; this is not the song you sang so often in the gloaming.
Will you not sing that very one for me now?"
She drew his hand tenderly to her lips and kissed it,
while her cheek grew crimson. " Yes, Sir Philip," she
said, after a silent struggle; and after a plaintive little
prelude, she began, —
" ' My heart is sair, I darena tell,
My heart is sair for somebody ;
I could wake a winter-night
For the sake of somebody.
Oh, lion ! for somebody !
Oh, hey ! for somebody !
I wad do — what wad I not ?
For the sake of somebody.
Her voice trembled slightly in the first lines, but before
the old song ended she had forgotten her audience and
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. xd"^
everything but the sweet, quaint melody, which rang out
unfettered by the faintest self-consciousness. And then,
without moving, she glided into a stirring march from
Saul, which she as suddenly abandoned, turning quickly
around to where Ronald sat, still absorbed by the little
Scotch ballad (Sir Philip had yielded to Marian's entreaty,
and wandered off into the conservatories), —
" Ronald !" began Dora, timidly. " Will you be good
enough to tell me what first induced you to call upon Sir
Philip? Where did you meet him?"
"I met him for the first time in his study, here, at
EUingham, by his own invitation."
"Invitation? Were you not strangers, then?"
"Yes. It was in my power on one occasion to do Sir
Philip a service; he did not forget it, and wished to tell
me so. I was invited to come here ; after some demur, I
came."
"'After some demur,' — oh, Ronald!" remonstrated
Dora.
" Yes, darling, after a great deal of very serious demur,
during which I almost went mad ; for, Dora, you see, I
was then but a country surgeon, and you were lady of
EUingham Hall ! And even now that this noble-hearted
old gentleman has given me the stewardship of this vast
estate, and treats me in all things as his son, I feel still at
times a weight of obligation which "
"Oh, foolish boy!" cried Dora, stroking back with
loving hand the bonnie brown hair which had fallen over
his broad brow, "do you not know that you help me to
fill this great, lonely heart, which without love would
starve to death? Sir Philip /oz<es and trusts you, Ronald ;
and if you have given him those inestimable blessings, the
power to love and trust a7iothrr human being implicitly,
your obligations are canceled forever."
31*
366 THE MILLS OF -THE GODS.
"Do you really think so, my beloved?" he asked,
smiling. "Then what do you not ojue to mc, for with
that power you have also invested me in fullest measure?"
Dora's reply was unheard, save by Ronald, and he told
nobody !
Farewell, little Dora ! We leave you now basking in
the sunshine of happiness. May those beautiful eyes
nevermore have their light quenched by tears ! May
those tender feet nevermore be blistered in the stony
paths through which they walked so courageously in the
past ! We hope that
" All is over now, — the hope and the fear and the sorrow;
All the aching of heart, the weary, unsatisfied longing ;
All the dull, deep pain, and the constant anguish of patience;"
for the future years seem strewn with Love's fair flowers,
and " in all the welkin is no cloud."
THE END.
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Dorothy Fox. A novel. By Louisa Parr, authot
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" The Quaker clKiracter, though its
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charming novel. The story is dramat-
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The Quiet Miss Godolpliin, by Ruth Garrett; and
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Held in Bondage. A
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**Itis the Fashion r A Novel. From the German
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Folic-Farine. A Novel. By ''Oiiida^ author of
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lliese short stories contribute largely 1 — New Haven Journal.
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