University of California Berkeley 
 
NATALIE 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THAT LASS O' LOWRIE's," " THliO," 
 ETC. ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 FREDERICK WARNE AND CO, 
 
 BEDFORD STREET, STRANP 
 

 PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. 
 
 "NATALIE'' and other Stories published in this 
 volume have been reprinted from SCRIBNER'S 
 ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE. The Publishers have 
 been induced to undertake this owing to the 
 great success of the Authoress' previous works, 
 "That Lass o' Lowrie's," and " Theo," already 
 published in WARNE'S Shilling Series of 
 " Readable Books." 
 
 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, 
 May, 1879. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 NATALIE: A STORY OF THE LATIN 
 
 QUARTER 7 
 
 THE FIRE AT GRANTLEY MILLS ... 47 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO SAVED ME .... 85 
 
 "SURLY TIM'S TROUBLE 1 ' 139 
 
 ONE DAY AT ARLE 169 
 
NATALIE 
 
 A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. 
 
 " T T E is one of the Americans," his fellow 
 locataires said among themselves. 
 " Poor and alone and in bad health. A queer 
 fellow." 
 
 Having made this reply to those who ques- 
 tioned them, they were in the habit of dismissing 
 the subject lightly. After all it was nothing to 
 them, since he had never joined their circle. 
 
 They were a gay, good-natured lot and made a 
 point of regarding life as airily as possible and 
 taking each day as it came with fantastic good 
 cheer. The house which stood in one of the 
 shabbiest corners of the Latin Quarter was full 
 of them from floor to garret artists, students, 
 models, French, English, Americans, living all of 
 them merrily, by no means the most regular lives. 
 
8 Natalie. 
 
 But there were good friends among them ; their 
 world was their own and they found plenty oi 
 sympathy in their loves and quarrels, their luck 
 and ill-luck. Upon the whole there was more ill- 
 luck than luck. Lucky men did not choose for their 
 head-quarters such places as this rather dilapidated 
 building, they could afford to go elsewhere, to 
 places where the Quarter was better, where the 
 stairs were less rickety, the passages less dark and 
 the conceirge not given to chronic intoxication. 
 Here came the unlucky ones, whose ill-luck was 
 of various orders and degrees : the young ones 
 who were some day to paint pictures which would 
 be seen in the Palais de 1'Industrie and would be 
 greeted with acclamations by an appreciative 
 public ; the older ones who had painted pictures 
 which had been seen at the Palais de 1'Industrie 
 and had not been appreciated at all ; the poets 
 whose sonnets were of too subtle an order to 
 reach the common herd ; the students who had 
 lived beyond the means allowed them by their 
 highly respectable families and who were conse- 
 quently somewhat off color in the eyes of the 
 respectable families in question these and others 
 of the same class, all more or less poor, more or 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 9 
 
 less out at elbows and more or less in debt. And 
 yet, as I have said, they lived gayly. They 
 painted, and admired or criticised each other's 
 pictures ; they lent and borrowed with equal 
 freedom ; they bemoaned their wrongs loudly, and 
 sang and laughed more loudly still as the mood 
 seized them ; and any special ill-fortune befalling 
 one of their number generally aroused a display 
 of sympathy which, though it might not last long, 
 was always a source of consolation to the luckless 
 one. 
 
 But the American, notwithstanding he had 
 been in the house for months, had never become 
 one of them. He had been seen in the early 
 spring going up the stairway to his room, which 
 was a mere garret on the sixth story, and it had 
 been expected among them that in a day or so 
 he would present himself for inspection. But this 
 he did not do, and when he encountered any of 
 their number in his out-goings or in-comings he 
 returned their greetings gently in imperfect French. 
 He spoke slowly and with difficulty, but there 
 was no coldness in his voice or manners, and yet 
 none got much further than the greeting. 
 
 He was a young fellow, scarcely of midclel 
 
IO Natalie. 
 
 height, frail in figure, hollow-chested, and with a 
 gentle face and soft, deeply set dark eyes. That 
 he worked hard and lived barely it was easy 
 enough to discover. Part of each day he spent in 
 the various art galleries and after his return from 
 these visits he was seen no more until the follow- 
 ing morning. 
 
 " Until the last ray of light disappears he is at 
 his easel," said a 'young student whom a gay 
 escapade had temporarily banished to the fifth 
 floor. " I hear him move now and then and 
 cough. He has a villanous cough." 
 
 " He is one of the enthusiasts," said another. 
 " One can read it in his face. What fools they 
 are these enthusiasts ! They throw away life that 
 a crown of laurel may be laid upon their coffins." 
 
 In the summer some of them managed to leave 
 Paris, and the rest had enough to do to organize 
 their little excursions and make the best of the 
 sunshine, shade and warmth. But when those 
 who had been away returned and all settled down 
 for the winter, they found the "American," as 
 they called him, in his old place. He had not 
 been away at all ; he had worked as hard as ever 
 through midsummer heat and autumn rain ; he 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 1 1 
 
 was frailer in figure, his clothes were more worn, 
 his face was thinner and his eyes far too hollow 
 and bright, but he did not look either discouraged 
 or unhappy. 
 
 " How does he live ? " exclaimed the concierge 
 dramatically. " The good God knows ! He eats 
 nothing, he has no fire, he wears the clothing of 
 midsummer he paints he paints he paints ! 
 Perhaps that is enough for him. It would not be 
 for me." 
 
 At this time just as the winter entered with 
 bleak winds and rains and falls of powdery snow 
 there presented herself among them an arrival 
 whose appearance created a sensation. 
 
 One night, on his way upstairs, the American 
 found himself confronted on the fourth floor by a 
 flood of light streaming through the open door of 
 a before unoccupied room. It was a small room, 
 meagerly furnished, but there was a fire in it and 
 half a dozen people who laughed and talked at 
 the top of their voices. Five of them were men 
 he had seen before, artists who lived in the 
 house, but the sixth was a woman whom he had 
 never seen and whose marvelous beauty held him 
 spell -bound where he stood. 
 
12 Natalie. 
 
 She was a woman of twenty-two or three, with 
 an oval face whose fairness was the fairness of 
 ivory. She was dark-eyed and low-browed, and 
 as she leaned forward upon the table and looked 
 up at the man who spoke to her, even the bright 
 glow of the lamp, which burned directly before 
 her face, showed no flaw in either tint or outline. 
 
 " Why should we ask the reason of your return ?" 
 said the man. " Let us rejoice that you are here." 
 
 " I will tell you the reason," she answered, 
 without lowering her eyes. " I was tired." 
 
 " A good reason," was the reply. 
 
 She pushed her chair back and stood upright ; 
 her hands hung at her sides ; the men were all 
 looking at her ; she smiled down at them with 
 fine irony. 
 
 " Who among you wishes to paint me ? " she 
 said. " I am again at your service and I am not 
 less handsome than I was." 
 
 Then there arose among them a little rapturous 
 murmur and somehow it broke the spell which 
 had rested upon the man outside. He started, 
 shivered slightly and turned away. He went up 
 to the bare coldness of his own room and sat down, 
 forgetting that it was either cold or bare. Sud- 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 13 
 
 denly, as he had looked at the woman's upturned 
 face, a great longing had seized upon him. 
 
 " I should like to paint you I," he found him- 
 self saying to the silence about him. " If 7 might 
 paint you ! " 
 
 He heard the next day who she was. The 
 concierge was ready enough to give him more 
 information than he had asked. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Natalie, Monsieur means," he 
 said ; " a handsome girl that ; a celebrated model. 
 They all know her. Her face has been the 
 foundation of more than one great picture. There 
 are not many like her. One model has this 
 beauty another that ; but she, mon Dieu, she has 
 all. A great creature, Mademoiselle." 
 
 Afterward, as the days went by, he found that 
 she sat often to the other artists. Sometimes he 
 saw her as she went to their rooms or came away ; 
 sometimes he caught a glimpse of her as he passed 
 her open door, and each time there stirred afresh 
 within him the longing he had felt at first. So it 
 came about that one afternoon, as she came out of 
 a studio in which she had been giving a sitting, 
 she found waiting outside for her the thinly clad, 
 frail figure of the American, He made an eager 
 
1 4 Natalie. 
 
 yet hesitant step forward, and began to speak 
 awkwardly in French. 
 
 She stopped him. 
 
 " Speak English," she said, " I know it well." 
 
 "Thank you," he answered simply, "that is a 
 great relief. My French is so bad. I am here to 
 ask a great favor from you, and I am sure I could 
 not ask it well in French." 
 
 "What is the favor?" she inquired, looking at 
 him with some wonder. 
 
 He was a new type to her, with his quiet direct- 
 ness of speech and his gentle manner. 
 
 " I have heard that you are a professional model," 
 he replied, "and I have wished very much to 
 paint what what I see in your face. I have 
 wished it from the first hour I saw you. The 
 desire haunts me. But I am a very poor man ; 
 I have almost nothing ; I cannot pay you what 
 the rest do. To-day I came to the desperate 
 resolve that I would throw myself upon your 
 mercy that I would ask you to sit to me, and 
 wait until better fortune comes." 
 
 She stood still a moment and gazed at him. 
 
 " Monsieur," she said at length, " are you so 
 poor as that ?" 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 1 5 
 
 He colored a little, but it was not as if with shame. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I am very poor. I have 
 asked a great deal of you, have I not ?" 
 
 She gave him still another long look. 
 
 " No," she said, " I will come to you to-morrow 
 if you will direct me to your room." 
 
 " It is on the sixth floor." he replied ; " the 
 highest of all. It is a bare little place." 
 
 " I will come," she said, and was turning away 
 when he stopped her. 
 
 " I I should like to tell you how grateful I 
 am " he began. 
 
 " There is no need," she responded with bitter 
 lightness. " You will pay me some day when 
 you are a great artist." But when she reached 
 the next landing she glanced down and saw that 
 he still stood beneath, watching her. 
 
 The next day she kept her word and went to him. 
 She found his room poorer and barer even than 
 she had fancied it might be. The ceiling was low 
 and slanting ; in one corner stood a narrow iron 
 bedstead, in another a wooden table ; in the best 
 light the small window gave his easel was placed 
 with a chair before it. 
 
j 6 Natalie. 
 
 When he had opened the door in answer to her 
 summons, and she saw all this, she glanced quickly 
 at his face to see if there was any shade of con- 
 fusion upon it, but there was none. He appeared 
 only rejoiced and eager. 
 
 " I felt sure it was you," he said. 
 
 " Were you then so sure that I would come ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " You said you would," he answered. He placed 
 her as he wished to paint her, and then sat down 
 to his work. In a few moments he was com- 
 pletely absorbed in it. For a long time he did 
 not speak at all. The utter silence which reigned 
 a silence which was not only a suspension of 
 speech but a suspension of any other thought 
 beyond his task was a new experience to her. 
 His cheek flushed, his eyes burned dark and 
 bright ; it seemed as if he scarcely breathed. 
 When he turned to look at her she was conscious 
 each time of a sudden thrill of feeling. More 
 than once he paused for several moments, brush 
 and palette in hand, simply watching her face. 
 At one of these pauses she herself broke the 
 silence. 
 
 " Why do you look at me so ?" she asked. 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. i '7 
 
 "You look at me as if as if " And she 
 
 broke off with an uneasy little laugh. 
 
 He roused himself with a slight start and 
 colored sensitively, passing his hand across his 
 forehead. 
 
 " What I want to paint is not always in your 
 face," he answered. "Sometimes I lose it, and 
 then I must wait a little until until I find it 
 again. It is not only your face I want, it is your- 
 self yourself!" And he made a sudden uncon 
 scious gesture with his hands. 
 
 She tried to laugh again, hard and lightly as 
 before, but failed. 
 
 "Myself!" she said. " Mon Dieu ! Do not 
 grasp at me, Monsieur. It will not pay you. 
 Paint my flesh, my hair, my eyes, they are good, 
 but do not paint me" 
 
 He looked troubled. 
 
 " I am afraid my saying that sounded stilted," 
 he returned. " I explained myself poorly. It is 
 not easy for me to explain myself well." 
 
 "I understood," she said ; "and I have warned you." 
 
 They did not speak to each other again during 
 the whole sitting except once, when he asked her 
 if she was warm enough. 
 
1 3 Natalie. 
 
 " I have a fire to-day," he said. 
 
 " Have you not always a fire ? " she asked. 
 
 " No," he answered with a smile ; " but when 
 you come there will always be one." 
 
 " Then," she said ; " I will come often, that I 
 may save you from death." 
 
 " Oh ! " he replied ; " it is easier than you think 
 to forget that one is cold." 
 
 " Yes/' she returned, " And it is easier than 
 you think for one to die." 
 
 When she was going away, she made a move- 
 ment towards the easel, but he stopped her. 
 
 " Not yet," he said. " Not just yet." 
 
 She drew back. 
 
 " I have never cared to look at myself before,'' 
 she said. " I do not know why I should care 
 now. Perhaps," with the laugh again, " it is that 
 I wish to see what you will make of me /" 
 
 Afterward, as she sat over her little porcelain 
 stove in her room below, she scarcely compre- 
 hended her own mood. 
 
 " He is not like the rest," she said. " He knows 
 nothing of the world. He is one of the good. 
 He cares only for his art. How simple, and kind, 
 and pure ! The little room is like a saint's cell" 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. ig 
 
 And then, suddenly, she flung her arms out 
 wearily, with a heavy sigh. " Ah, Dieu /" she 
 said, " how dull the day is ! The skies are lead ! " 
 
 A few days later she gave a sitting to an old 
 artist whose name was Masson, and she found that 
 he had heard of what had happened. 
 
 " And so you sit to the American," he said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well and you find him ? " 
 
 " I find him," she repeated after him. " Shall I 
 tell you what I find him ? " 
 
 " I shall listen with delight." 
 
 " I find him a soul ! You and I, my friend 
 and the rest of us are bodies ; he is a soul ! " 
 
 The artist began to whistle softly as he painted. 
 
 " It is dangerous work," he said at length, " for 
 women to play with souls." 
 
 " That is true," she answered, coldly. 
 
 The same day she went again to the room on 
 the sixth floor. She sat again through an hour of 
 silence in which the American painted eagerly, 
 now and then stopping to regard her with search- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 " But not as the rest regard me," she said 
 to herself. "He forgets that it is a woman 
 
 P 2 
 
20 Natalie. 
 
 t 
 
 who sits here. He sees only what he would 
 paint." 
 
 As time went by, this fact, which she always 
 felt, was in itself a fascination. 
 
 In the chill, calm atmosphere of the place there 
 was repose for her. She found nothing to resent, 
 nothing to steel herself against, she need no longer 
 think of herself at all. She had time to think of 
 the man in whose presence she sat. From the 
 first she had seen something touching in his slight 
 stooping figure, thin young face and dark woman- 
 ish eyes, and after she had heard the simple un- 
 eventful history of his life, she found them more 
 touching still. 
 
 He was a New Englander, the last surviving 
 representative of a frail and short-lived family 
 His parents had died young, leaving him quite 
 alone, with a mere pittance to depend upon, and 
 throughout his whole life he had cherished but one 
 aim. 
 
 "When I was a child I used to dream of coming 
 here," he said, " and as I grew older I worked and 
 struggled for it. I knew I must gain my end 
 some day and the time came when it was gained." 
 
 " And this is the end ? " she asked, glancing 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 2 1 
 
 round at the poor place. " This is all of life you 
 desire ? " 
 
 He did not look up at her. 
 
 " It is all I have," he answered. 
 
 She wondered if he would not ask her some 
 questions regarding herself, but he did not. 
 
 " He does not care to know," she thought sul- 
 lenly. And then she told herself that he did know, 
 and a mocking devil of a smile settled on her lips 
 and was there when he turned towards her again. 
 
 But the time never came when his manner 
 altered, when he was less candid and gentle, or less 
 grateful for the favor she was bestowing upon 
 him. 
 
 She scarcely knew how it was that she first 
 began to know the sound of his foot upon the stair- 
 way and to listen for it. Her earliest conscious- 
 ness of it was when once she awakened suddenly 
 out of a dead sleep at night and found herself sit- 
 ting upright with her hand upon her heavily 
 throbbing heart. 
 
 " What is it ?" she cried in a loud whisper. 
 But she spoke only to herself and the darkness. 
 She knew what it was and did not lie down again 
 until the footsteps had reached the top of the 
 
22 Natalie. 
 
 last flight and the door above had opened and 
 closed. 
 
 The time arrived when there was scarcely a 
 trifling incident in his every-day life which escaped 
 her. She saw each sign of his poverty and 
 physical weakness. He grew paler day by day. 
 There were days when his step flagged as he went 
 up and down the staircase ; some mornings he did 
 not go out at all. She discovered that each 
 Sunday he went twice to the little American 
 chapel in the Rue de Berri, and she had seen in 
 his room a small Protestant Bible. 
 
 " You read that ?" she asked him when she first 
 saw it. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She leaned forward, her look curious, bewildered, 
 even awed. 
 
 " And you believe in God ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She resumed her former position, but she did 
 not remove her eyes from his face, and uncon- 
 sciously she put her hand up to her swelling throat 
 
 When at length the sitting was over and sh? 
 left her chair he was standing before the ease* 
 He turned to her and spoke hesitantly. 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 23 
 
 " Will you come and look at it ?" he asked. 
 
 She went and stood where he bade her and 
 looked. He watched her anxiously while she did 
 so. For the first moment there was amazement 
 in her face, then some mysterious emotion he 
 could not comprehend a dull red crept slowly 
 over brow and cheek. 
 
 She turned upon him. 
 
 " Monsieur !" she cried, passionately. " You 
 mock me ! It is a bad picture." 
 
 He fell back a pace, staring at her and suddenly 
 trembling with the shock. 
 
 "A bad picture!" he echoed, "/mock you 
 
 ir 
 
 " It is my face," she said, pointing to it, " but 
 you have made it what / am not ! It is the face 
 of a good woman of a woman who might be a 
 
 saint ! Does not that mock me ?" 
 
 
 He turned to it with a troubled, dreamy look. 
 
 " It is what I have seen in your face," he said 
 in a soft, absent voice. " It is a truth to me. 
 It is what / have seen." 
 
 " It is what no other has seen," she said. " I 
 tell you it mocks me." 
 
 " It need not mock you," he answered. " I 
 
24 Natalie. 
 
 could not have painted it if I had not felt it. It 
 is yourself yourself." 
 
 " Myself ?" she said. " Do you think, Monsieur, 
 that the men who have painted me before would 
 know it ?" 
 
 She gave it another glance and a shrill laugh 
 burst from her, but the next instant it broke off 
 and ended in another sound. She fell upon her 
 knees by the empty chair, her open hands flung 
 outward, her sobs strangling her. 
 
 He stood quite near her, looking down. 
 
 " I have not thought of anything but my work," 
 he said. "Why should I?" 
 
 The following Sunday night the artist Masson 
 met in going downstairs a closely veiled figure 
 coming up. He knew it and spoke. 
 
 "What, Natalie ?" he said. "You ? One might 
 fancy you had been to church." 
 
 " I have been," she returned in a cold voice, 
 " to the church of the Americans in the Rue de 
 Berri." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Has it done you good ?" he asked. 
 
 "No," she answered, and walked past him leaving 
 him to look after her and think the matter over. 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 25 
 
 She went to her own apartment and locked 
 cerself in. Having done so, she lighted every 
 candle and lamp flooding the place with a garish 
 mockery of brightness. She sang as she did it 
 a gay, shrill air from some optra bouffe. She tore 
 off her dark veil and wrappings. Her eyes and 
 cheeks flamed as if touched by some unholy fire. 
 She moved with feverish rapidity here and there 
 dragging a rich dress from a trunk, and jewels 
 and laces from their places of safe keeping, and 
 began to attire herself in them. The simple black 
 robe she had worn to the chapel lay on the floor. 
 As she moved to and fro she set her feet upon it 
 again and again, and as she felt it beneath her 
 tread a harsh smile touched her lips. 
 
 " I shall not wear you again," she stopped her 
 song once to say. 
 
 In half an hour she had made her toilette. 
 She stood before her glass, a blaze of color and 
 jewels. For a moment she sang no more. From 
 one of the rooms below there floated up to her 
 sounds of riotous merriment. 
 
 " This is myself," she said ; " this is no other." 
 
 She opened her door and ran down the stair- 
 case swiftly and lightly. The founder of the feast 
 
26 Natalie. 
 
 whose sounds she had heard was a foolish young 
 fellow who adored her madly. He was rich, and 
 wicked, and simple. Because he had heard of her 
 return he had taken an apartment in the 
 house. She heard his voice above the voices of 
 the rest. 
 
 In a moment she had flung open the door of 
 the salon and stood upon the threshold. 
 
 At sight of her there arose a rapturous shout 
 of delight. 
 
 "Natalie! Natalie! Welcome!" 
 
 But instantaneously it died away. One second 
 she stood there, brilliant, smiling, defiant. The 
 next, they saw that a mysterious change had 
 seized upon her. She had become deathly white, 
 and was waving them from her with a wild ges- 
 ture. 
 
 "I am not coming!" she cried, breathlessly. 
 "No! No! No!" 
 
 And the next instant they could only gaze at 
 each others' terror-stricken faces, at the place she 
 had left vacant for she was gone. 
 
 She went up the stairs blindly and uncertainly. 
 When she reached the turn of the fourth floor 
 where the staircase was bare and unlighted, she 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 27 
 
 staggered and sank against the balustrades, her 
 face upturned. 
 
 " I cannot go back," she whispered to the dark- 
 ness and silence above. " Do you hear ? I cannot ! 
 And it is you you who restrain me !" 
 
 But there were no traces of her passion in her 
 face when she went to the little studio the next 
 day as usual. When the artist opened the door 
 for her, it struck him that she was calm even to 
 coldness. 
 
 Instead of sitting down, she went to the easel 
 and stood before it. 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, " I have discovered where 
 your mistake lies. You have tried to paint what 
 you fancied must once have existed, though it 
 exists no longer. That is your mistake. It has 
 never existed at all. I remember no youth, no 
 childhood. Life began for me as it will end. It 
 was my fate that it should. I was born in the 
 lowest quarter of Paris. I knew only poverty, 
 brutality, and crime. My beauty simply raised 
 me beyond fheir power. Where should I gain 
 what you have insisted in bestowing upon 
 me ?" 
 
 He simply stood still and looked at hen 
 
28 Natalie. 
 
 " God knows !" he answered at length. " I do 
 not." 
 
 "God!" she returned, with her bitter little 
 laugh. "Yes God!" 
 
 Then she went to her place, and said no more. 
 
 But the next Sunday she was at the American 
 chapel again, and the next, and the next. She 
 could scarcely have told why herself. She did 
 not believe the doctrines she heard preached, and 
 she did not expect to be converted to belief in 
 them. Often, as the service proceeded, a faint 
 smile of derision curved her lips ; but from her 
 seat in the obscure corner she had chosen she 
 could see a thin, dark face and a stooping figure, 
 and could lean back against the wall with a sense 
 of repose. 
 
 " It is quiet here," was her thought. " One can 
 be quiet, and that is much." 
 
 " What is the matter with her ?" the men who 
 knew her began to ask one another. But it was 
 not easy for them to discover how the subtle 
 change they saw had been wrought. They were 
 used to her caprices and to occasional fits of 
 sullenness, but they had never seen her in just 
 such a mood as she was now. She would bear 
 
A Story of iJie Latin Quarter. 29 
 
 no jests from them, she would not join in their 
 gaieties. Sometimes for days together she shut 
 herself up in her room and they did not see her 
 at all. 
 
 The picture progressed but slowly. Sometimes 
 the artist's hand so trembled with weakness that 
 he could not proceed with his work. More than 
 once Natalie saw the brush suddenly fall from his 
 nerveless ringers. He was very weak in these 
 days, and the spot of hectic red glowed brightly 
 on his cheek. 
 
 " I am a poor fellow at best," he would say to 
 her, " and now I am at my worst. I am afraid I 
 shall be obliged to rest sooner than I fancied. I 
 wish first I could have finished my work. I must 
 not leave it unfinished." 
 
 One morning, when he had been obliged to 
 give up painting, through a sudden fit of prostra- 
 tion, on following her to the door, he took her 
 hand and held it a moment. 
 
 " I was awake all last night," he said. " Yester- 
 day I saw a poor fellow who had fallen ill on the 
 street, carried into the Hotel Dieu, and the 
 memory clung to me. I began to imagine how 
 it would be if such a thing happened to me 
 
3O Natalie. 
 
 what I should say when they asked for my friends, 
 how there would be none to send for. And at 
 last, suddenly I thought of you. I said to my- 
 self, ' I would send for her, and I think she would 
 come.' " 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur," she answered. " You might 
 depend upon my coming." 
 
 " I am used to being alone," he went on ; " but 
 it seemed to me as I lay in the dark thinking it 
 over, that to die alone would be a different matter. 
 One would want some familiar face to look 
 at " 
 
 " Monsieur !" she burst forth. " You speak as 
 if Death were always near you !" 
 
 " Do I ?" he said. And he was silent for 
 a few seconds and looked down at her hand 
 as he held it. Then he dropped it gently 
 with a little sigh. " Good-bye," he said, and so 
 they parted. 
 
 In the afternoon she sat to Masson. 
 
 " How much longer," he said to her in the 
 course of the sitting, " how much longer does he 
 mean to live this American ? He has lasted 
 astonishingly. They are wonderful fellows, these 
 weaklings who burn themselves out. One might 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 3 1 
 
 fancy that the flame which finally destroys them, 
 also kept them alive." 
 
 " Do you then think that he is so very ill ?" 
 she asked in a low voice. 
 
 " He will go out," he answered, " like a candle. 
 Shall I tell you a secret ?" 
 
 She made a gesture of assent. 
 
 " He starves ! The concierge who has watched 
 him says he does not buy food enough to keep 
 body and soul together. But how is one to offer 
 him anything ? It is easy to see that he would 
 not take it." 
 
 There was a moment of silence, in which he 
 went on painting. 
 
 " The trouble is," he said at last, " that a man 
 would not know how to approach him. It is only 
 women who can do these things." 
 
 Until the sitting was over neither the one nor 
 the other spoke again. When it was over and 
 Natalie was on the point of leaving the room, 
 Masson looked at her critically. 
 
 " You are pale," he remarked. " You are like 
 a ghost." 
 
 " Is it not becoming ?" she asked 
 
 "Yes." 
 
32 Natalie. 
 
 " Then why complain ?" 
 
 She went to her own room and spent half an 
 hour in collecting every valuable she owned. 
 They were not many ; she had always been 
 recklessly improvident. She put together in a 
 package her few jewels, and even the laces she 
 considered worth the most. Then she went 
 out, and, taking a fiacre at the nearest corner, 
 drove away. 
 
 She was absent two hours, and when she 
 returned she stopped at the entrance, intending to 
 ask the concierge a question. But the man him- 
 self spoke first. He was evidently greatly disturbed 
 and not a little alarmed. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," he began, " the young man on 
 the sixth floor " 
 
 " What of him ?" she demanded. 
 
 "He desires to see you. He went out in spite 
 of my warnings. Figure to yourself on such a 
 day, in such a state of health. He returned almost 
 immediately, wearing the look of Death itself. He 
 sank upon the first step of the staircase. When I 
 rushed to his assistance he held to his lips a hand- 
 kerchief stained with blood ! We were compelled 
 to carry him upstairs*" 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 33 
 
 She stood a moment, feeling her throat and lips 
 suddenly become dry and parched. 
 
 " And he asked for me ?" she said at last. 
 
 "When he would speak, Mademoiselle yes. 
 We do not know why. He said, in a very faint 
 voice, ' She said she would come.' " 
 
 She went up the staircase slowly and mechani- 
 cally, as one who moves in a dream. And yet 
 when she reached the door of the studio she was 
 obliged to wait for a few seconds before opening 
 it. When she did open it she saw the attic seemed 
 even more cold and bare than usual ; that there 
 was no fire ; that the American lay upon the bed, 
 his eyes closed, the hectic spots faded from his 
 cheeks. But when she approached and stood near 
 him, he opened his eyes and looked at her with a 
 faint smile. 
 
 " If I play you the poor trick of dying," he 
 said, " you will remember that the picture if 
 you care for it is yours." 
 
 After a while, the doctor, who had been sent 
 for, arrived. Perhaps he had been in no great 
 hurry when he had heard that his services were 
 required by an artist who lay in a garret in the 
 Latin Quarter. His visit was a short one. He 
 
 c 
 
34 Natalie. 
 
 asked a few questions, wrote a prescription, and 
 went away. He looked at Natalie oftener than at 
 the sick man. She followed him out on to the 
 landing, and then he regarded her with greater 
 interest than before. 
 
 " He is very ill ?" she said. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " He will die, of course, 
 sooner or later." 
 
 " You speak calmly, Monsieur," she said. 
 
 " Such cases are an old story," he replied. 
 " And you are not his wife ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I thought not. Nevertheless, perhaps you 
 will remain with him until " 
 
 " As Monsieur says," she returned, " I will re- 
 main with him ' until ' " 
 
 When the sick man awoke from the sleep into 
 which he had fallen, a fire burned in the stove and 
 a woman's figure was seated before it. 
 
 " You are here yet ? " he said faintly. She rose 
 and moved toward him. 
 
 " I am not going away," she answered, " if you 
 will permit me to remain." 
 
 His eyes shone with pathetic brightness, and he 
 put out his hand. 
 
A Story of the Latut Quarter. 35 
 
 " You are very kind to a poor weak fellow," 
 he whispered. " After all it is a desolate thing 
 to lie awake through the flight in a place like this." 
 
 When the doctor returned the next morning, 
 he appeared even a shade disconcerted. He had 
 thought it quite likely that, upon his second visit, 
 he might find a scant white sheet drawn over the 
 narrow bed, and that it would not be necessary 
 for him to remain or call again ; but it appeared 
 that his patient might require his attention yet a 
 few days longer. 
 
 "You have not left him at all," he said to 
 Natalie. " It is easy to see you did not sleep last 
 night." 
 
 It was true that she had not slept. Through 
 the night she had sat in the dim glow of the fire, 
 scarcely stirring unless some slight sound of move- 
 ment from the bed attracted her attention. During 
 the first part of the night her charge had seemed 
 to sleep ; but as the hours wore on there had been 
 no more rest for him, and then she had known 
 that he lay with his eyes fixed upon her ; she had 
 felt their gaze even before she had turned to meet 
 it. Just before the dawn he became restless, and 
 called her to his side. 
 
 C 2 
 
36 Natalie. 
 
 " I owe you a heavy debt," he said drearily. 
 " And I shall leave it unpaid. I wish I wish it 
 was finished." 
 
 " It ?" she said. 
 
 " The picture," he answered, " the picture." 
 
 Usually he was too weak for speech ; but occa- 
 sionally a fit of restlessness seized upon him, and 
 then it seemed as if he was haunted continually 
 by the memory of his unfinished work. 
 
 " It only needed a few touches," he said once. 
 " One day of strength would complete it if such 
 a day would but come to me. I know the look 
 so well now I see it on your face so often." And 
 then he lay watching her, his eyes following her 
 yearningly, as she moved to and fro. 
 
 In the studios below, the artists waited in vain 
 for their model. They neither saw nor heard any- 
 thing of her, and they knew her moods too well 
 to be officiously inquisitive. So she was left alone 
 to the task she had chosen, and was faithful to it 
 to the end. 
 
 It was not so very long it lasted, though to her 
 it seemed a life-time. A few weeks the doctor 
 made his visits, and at last one afternoon, in going 
 away, he beckoned her out of the room, 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 37 
 
 He spoke in an undertone. 
 
 " To-night you may watch closely," he said ; 
 "perhaps towards morning but it will be very 
 quiet." 
 
 It was very quiet. The day had been bitter 
 cold and as it drew to a close it became colder 
 still, and a fierce wind rose and whistled about 
 the old house, shaking the ill-fitting windows and 
 doors. But the sick man did not seem to hear it. 
 Towards midnight he fell into a deep and quiet 
 sleep. 
 
 Before the fire Natalie sat waiting. Now and 
 then a little shudder passed over her as if she 
 could not resist the cold. And yet the fire in the 
 stove was a bright one. She had smiled to herself 
 as she had heaped the coal upon it, seeing that 
 there was so little left. 
 
 " It will last until morning," she said, " and 
 that will be long enough." Through all the nights 
 during which she had watched she had never felt 
 the room so still as it seemed now between the 
 gusts and soughing of the wind. " Something is 
 in the air which has not been in it before/' she 
 said. 
 
 About one o'clock she rose and replenished the 
 
38 Natalie. 
 
 fire, putting the last fragment of coal upon it and 
 then sat down to watch it again. 
 
 Its slow kindling and glowing into life fascmated 
 her. It was not long before she could scarcely 
 remove her eyes from it. She was trying to cal- 
 culate with a weird fancy in her mind how 
 long it would last, and whether it would die out 
 suddenly or slowly. 
 
 As she cowered over it, if one of the men who 
 admired her had entered he might well scarcely 
 have known her. She was hollow-eyed, haggard 
 and pallid for the time even her great beauty 
 was gone. As he had left her that day, the doctor 
 had said to himself discontentedly that after all 
 these wonderful faces last but a short time. 
 
 The fire caught at the coal, lighted fitful blazes 
 among it, and crept over it in a dull red, which 
 brightened into hot scarlet. 
 
 And the sick man lay sleeping, breathing faintly 
 but lightly. 
 
 "It will last until dawn," she said, " until 
 dawn, and no longer." 
 
 When the first cinder dropped with a metallic 
 sound, she started violently and laid her hand 
 upon her breast, but after that she scarcely stirred. 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 39 
 
 The fitful blazes died down, the hot scarlet 
 deepened to red again, the red grew dull, a gray 
 film of ashes showed itself upon it, and then came 
 the first faint gray of dawn, and she sat with beat- 
 ing heart saying to herself 
 
 " It will go out soon suddenly." And the 
 dying man was awake, speaking to her. 
 
 " Come here," he said in a low, clear voice. 
 " Come here." 
 
 She went to him, and stood close by the bed- 
 side. The moment of her supreme anguish had 
 come. But he showed no signs of pain or dread, 
 only there was a little moisture upon his forehead 
 and about his mouth. 
 
 His eyes shone large and bright in the snowy 
 pallor of his face, and when he fixed them upon 
 her she knew he would not move them away. 
 
 " I am glad that it is finished," he said. " It 
 did not tire me to work as I thought it would. 
 I am glad that it is finished." 
 . " She fell upon her knees. 
 
 " That it is finished ?" she said. 
 
 His smile grew brighter. 
 
 " The picture/' he whispered" the picture." 
 
 And then what she had waited for came. 
 
40 Natalie. 
 
 There was a moment of silence ; the wind out- 
 side hushed itself, his lips parted, but no sound 
 came from them, not even a fluttering breath ; his 
 eyes were still fixed upon her face, open, bright, 
 smiling. 
 
 " I may speak now," she cried. " I may speak 
 now since you cannot hear. I love you ! I 
 love you !" 
 
 But there came to her ears only one sound 
 the little grating shudder of the fire as it fell 
 together and was dead. 
 
 The next morning when they heard that " the 
 American" had at last fulfilled their prophesies, 
 the locataires showed a spasmodic warmth of inte- 
 rest. They offered their services promptly, and 
 said to each other that he must have been a good 
 fellow after all that it was a pity they had not 
 known him better. They even protested that he 
 should not be made an object of charity that 
 among themselves they would do all that was 
 necessary. But it appeared that their help was 
 not needed that there was in the background 
 a friend who had done all, but whom nobody 
 knew. 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 4 1 
 
 Hearing this they expressed their sympathy by 
 going up by twos and threes to the little garret 
 where there was now only icy coldness and 
 silence. 
 
 Not a few among them were so far touched by 
 the pathos they found in this as to shed a tear or 
 so most of them were volatile young Frenchmen 
 who counted their sensibilities among their luxuries. 
 
 Toward evening there came two older than the 
 rest, who had not been long in the house. 
 
 When they entered a woman stood at the bed's 
 head a woman in black drapery, with a pale and 
 haggard face, which they saw only for a moment. 
 
 As they approached she moved away, and going 
 to the window stood there with her back toward 
 them, gazing out at the drifted snow upon the roof. 
 The men stood uncovered, looking down. 
 
 " It is the face of an Immortal," said the elder of 
 the two. " It is such men who die young." 
 
 And then they saw the easel in the shadow of 
 the corner and went and turned it from the wall. 
 When they saw the picture resting upon it, there 
 was a long silence. It was broken at last by the 
 older man. 
 
 " It is some woman he has known and loved," 
 
42 Natalie. 
 
 he said. "He has painted her soul and his 
 own." 
 
 The figure near them stirred the woman's 
 hand crept up to the window's side and clung to 
 the wooden frame. 
 
 But she did not turn, and was standing so when 
 the strangers moved away, opened the door and 
 passed, with heads still uncovered, down the dark 
 rickety stairs. 
 
 A fiercer cold had never frozen Paris than held 
 it ice and snow bound through this day and the 
 next. When the next came to its close all was 
 over and the studios were quiet again perhaps 
 a little quieter for a few hours than was their 
 wont. 
 
 Through this second day Natalie lived slowly : 
 through the first part of the morning in which 
 people went heavily up and down the stairs ; 
 through the later hours when she heard them 
 whispering among themselves upon the landings ; 
 through the hour when the footsteps that came 
 down were heavier still, and slower and impeded 
 with some burden borne with care ; through the 
 moment when they rested with this burden upon 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 43 
 
 the landing outside her very door, and inside she 
 crouched against the panels listening. 
 
 Then it was all done, and upon those upper 
 floors there was no creature but herself. 
 
 She had lighted no fire and eaten nothing. 
 She had neither food, fuel, nor money. All was 
 gone. 
 
 " It is well," she said, " that I am not hungry, 
 and that I would rather be colder than warmer." 
 
 She did not wish for warmth, even when night 
 fell and brought more biting iciness. She sat by 
 her window in the dark until the moon rose, and 
 though shudders shook her from head to foot, she 
 made no effort to gain warmth. She heard but 
 few sounds from below, but she waited until all 
 was still before she left her place. 
 
 But at midnight perfect silence had settled upon 
 the house, and she got up and left her room, 
 leaving the key unturned in the lock. " To- 
 morrow, or the day after, perhaps," she said, 
 " they will wish to go in.'' Then she went up the 
 stairs for the last time. 
 
 Since she had heard the heavy feet lumbering 
 with their burden past her door a singular calm 
 had settled upon her. It was not apathy so much 
 
44 Natalie. 
 
 as a repose born of the knowledge that there 
 was nothing more to bear no future to be 
 feared. 
 
 But when she opened the door of the little room 
 this calmness was for a moment lost. 
 
 It was so cold, so still, so bare in the moonlight 
 which streamed through the window and flooded 
 it. There were left in it only two things the 
 narrow, vacant bed covered with its white sheet, 
 and the easel on which the picture rested, gazing 
 out at her from the canvas with serene, mysterious 
 eyes. 
 
 She staggered forward and sank down before 
 it, uttering a low, terrible cry. 
 
 " Do not reproach me ! " she cried. " There is 
 no longer need. Do you not see ? This is my 
 expiation ! " 
 
 For a while there was dead silence again. She 
 crouched before the easel with bowed head and 
 her face veiled upon her arms, making no stir or 
 sound. But at length she rose again, numbly and 
 stiffly. She stood up and glanced slowly about 
 her at the bareness, at the moonlight, at the 
 narrow, white-draped bed. 
 
 " It will be very cold," she whispered as 
 
A Story of the Latin Quarter. 45 
 
 she moved toward the door. " It will be very 
 cold.'' 
 
 And then the little room was empty, and 
 the face upon the easel turned toward the 
 entrance seemed to listen to her stealthily descend- 
 ing feet. 
 
 The next morning, the two artists who had 
 visited the dead man's room together, were 
 walking together again upon the banks of the 
 Seine, when they found themselves drawing near 
 a crowd of men and women who were gathered 
 at the water's edge. 
 
 " What has happened ? " they asked as they 
 approached the group. " What has been found ?" 
 
 A cheerful fellow in a blue blouse, standing 
 with his hands in his pockets, answered. 
 
 <{ A v;oman. Ma foi / what a night to drown 
 oneself in ! Imagine the discomfort ! " 
 
 The older man pushed his way into the centre, 
 and a moment later uttered an exclamation. 
 
 "Mon Dieu /" 
 
 " What is it ? " cried his companion. 
 
 His friend turned to him, breathlessly pointing 
 to what lay upon the frozen earth. 
 
4 6 Natalie. 
 
 " We asked each other who the original of the 
 picture was," he said. " We did not know. The 
 face lies there. Look ! " 
 
 For that which Life had denied her, Death had 
 given. 
 
THE FIRE AT GRANTLEY MILLS, 
 
 NOT one of the neighbors knew where she 
 had come from that was the mystery, 
 and it was doubly a mystery because the people at 
 Grantley, who were mostly rough, busy men and 
 women, generally knew each other's business pretty 
 thoroughly. But this woman, Phillts Denham 
 her name, foiled them utterly, and remained a 
 mystery in spite of the efforts of the most curious. 
 She had appeared among them at the Mills one 
 Spring morning (Grantley was a village of mill- 
 hands), and those who lived on one of the most 
 respectable of the narrow streets had seen her 
 come out of a small house which had the day 
 before been unoccupied. And this was all they 
 knew, beyond the later discovery that the cottage 
 was scantily furnished, and yet had an air of neat- 
 ness not usually seen in Grantley houses, and that 
 
48 Natalie. 
 
 Phillis Denham lived alone, and was either a 
 "Quaker" or a "Methody." 
 
 "'Oo isna our loike, at onyrate," said one of 
 the wise ones. " 'Oo minces her words loike one 
 o' th' quality, if 'oo does ' thee' and ' thou.' " 
 
 She was a young woman, too, and, in a strange, 
 cold, saintly way, a beauty. She had the face of 
 the Madonna, without its soft warmth and tender- 
 ness. Her fine eyes were a little hard for the eyes 
 of a woman ; her fine mouth had a severe curve ; 
 her manner was grave and reserved. 
 
 "A woman of stone, my dear," said the good 
 old rector to his wife, after his first parochial call 
 upon the new arrival. "A woman with an injury, 
 I should say, or a woman not easy to understand." 
 
 " It was kind of thee to come," Phillis had said 
 to him ; " but I am not one of thy people. I belong 
 to the Society of Friends." And even at the end 
 of her visit he had learned not a whit more of her 
 history. 
 
 She lived a quiet life, and was a very regular 
 worker. She left her cottage at a certain hour in 
 the early morning, and re-entered it as regularly 
 each evening, never far deviating from her accus- 
 tomed time. She gained no friends, and made no 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 49 
 
 enemies. Her home was as neat and trim as her- 
 self, and she was the perfection of simple, almost 
 severe, neatness. 
 
 " How are we to ca' thee, lass ?" asked one of 
 the boldest of her fellow-workers. "Art tha wed 
 or single ?" 
 
 " Thee may call me Phillis Denham," she said, 
 a flickering color touching her fine, white skin ; 
 " that is my name." 
 
 So they felt it wiser to ask no more questions, 
 and she was called Phillis Denham and left to 
 herself. She had been living this sort of life for 
 three months when there came to the mills a new 
 hand, a handsome woman a year or two older 
 than herself, a woman of a class widely set apart 
 from her, a woman whose early fading beauty 
 was a shame, and who rebelled against the world 
 and tried to flaunt boldly, despite the haggard 
 misery slowly creeping upon her. They knew 
 her at the Mills. The overseer himself knew her, 
 and greeted her with rough familiarity when she 
 appeared at the offices and demanded work almost 
 as if she had the right to expect it. 
 
 " What !" he said. " Back again ! Going to 
 try work for a while, are you ? Well, I suppose 
 
 D 
 
50 Natalie. 
 
 we shall have to give you a place. There, go 
 along and behave yourself." And then he turned 
 to the owner's eldest son who stood by, and spoke 
 to him half apologetically. " She's a rough 
 enough customer," he said, " but she can do work 
 that few of them are up to, and if she was steady 
 we should be glad enough to keep her at good 
 wages. She has worked here, off and on, ever 
 since she was a girl ; and a handsome girl she 
 was, too, too handsome for her own good, as it 
 turned out," 
 
 The woman was not in PJiillis Denham's room, 
 and in the crowd that passed out of the iron gates, 
 at the ringing of the great bell at meal times, it 
 chanced that for several days each was hidden 
 from the other. But at the end of the week, in 
 going alone down the stairs one evening, Phillis 
 /bund herself face to face with the new-comer. 
 The woman started back, with something like an 
 oath upon her lips, a flush, half anger, half shame, 
 reddening her cheeks. Phillis whitened percep- 
 tibly, and drew back also, straightening her fine, 
 slight form, and holding aside the folds of her 
 dress with an unconscious gesture which spoke 
 worlds. 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 5 1 
 
 " Thee Janet Ayres ?" she said. 
 
 The woman laughed a laugh whose angry, 
 scornful sound had yet an undertone of miserable 
 humiliation. 
 
 " Aye," she answered, "it's me, Janet Ayres! 
 Has tha owt to say agen it ? If tha has, say it, 
 an' be done wi* it, though I dunnot see how tha 
 can help thysen agen my bein' here." 
 
 " Nor I," said Phillis, and she looked down at 
 the creature with a sudden, sharp indrawing of her 
 breath, a wild light leaping into her cold eyes for 
 one instant, then dying out. " Wilt thou let me 
 pass ?" she said in a curious, low voice. " I do 
 not wish to harm thee." 
 
 Janet Ayres drew back quickly, and almost 
 unconsciously glanced over her shoulder at the 
 great depth of steps below them. Harm her ! 
 For that instant the pure, self-righteous woman 
 had actually looked as if her last words might 
 have held a desperate double meaning. And it 
 would have been easy enough to harm her, with 
 that flight of stairs below. A touch would have 
 done it almost. And less deeply wronged women 
 had revenged themselves in such ways before. But 
 the light had died out of Phillis Denham's eyes, 
 
 D 2 
 
52 Natalie. 
 
 and she passed down the staircase without another 
 word. 
 
 She was even unusually pale and silent the next 
 day. The women who worked near her noticed, 
 indeed one of them remembered afterward, that 
 she only spoke once during all the hours of labor, 
 and this once was on hearing the name of Janet 
 Ayres from the lips of the woman at the loom 
 next to her^own. 
 
 "Th' mesters ha' no reet to tak' such loike 
 nowts," said the speaker roughly. " If it were na 
 for th' choild, poor little wench " 
 
 Phillis looked up with a slight start. 
 
 " Friend," said she, " do I understand thee to 
 say the woman has a child ?" 
 
 " Aye," was the answer, " as pratty a little lass 
 as any honester woman might wish fur th' Lord 
 help it ! Three year owd, or theerabout. Th' 
 parish owt to tak' it to save it fro' goin' its 
 mother's gate." 
 
 But though the matter dropped for the time 
 being, this was not the end of it. On her way 
 home that evening Phillis met with a little adven- 
 ture. One of the luxuries she allowed herself was 
 a weekly bouquet of common flowers, and she was 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 53 
 
 passing down a narrow street, with a handful of 
 roses and sweet peas, just purchased, when a small 
 hand, thrust through a fence, plucked at her 
 gown, and the sound of a child's voice stopped 
 her. 
 
 " Ooman," said the sweet, shrill little pipe ; 
 " ooman, gi' us a posy." 
 
 She stopped and looked down. She did not 
 often notice children, but the voice of this one, 
 and the soft touch of the small, bold, detaining 
 hand gave her a queer, new feeling. Children did 
 not often notice her, either ; she was not the sort 
 of woman to attract a child. The tiny hand 
 plucked at her dress again. 
 
 " Gi' us a posy ! Gi' us a posy !" 
 
 But for a moment or so Phillis did not answer, 
 though it was not the prettiness of the dirty, 
 dimpled face she was looking at so fixedly. It 
 was something else that held her silent some- 
 thing in the summer blue eyes that struck her with 
 a hard pang. 
 
 When she could speak she separated a rose 
 from her flowers and bent down, but the hand 
 with which she offered the blossom trembled, and 
 her voice was strangely unsteady. 
 
54 Natalie. 
 
 " What is thy name ?" she asked. 
 
 The child fell back a little, regarding her aLi'iOst 
 distrustfully the handsome face was so hard for 
 a baby to read. 
 
 "Will thee not tell me thy name?" Phillis 
 repeated. " See, here is a rose for thee." 
 
 The dimpled hand crept out for the flowers, 
 and then the pretty boldness came back. 
 
 "Jenny," said the child. " Ooman, did ta gi' 
 Jenny a posy ?" 
 
 Phillis stood up. 
 
 " Yes," she said, in a tone curious enough to 
 use in speaking to a child ; " I gave thee a posy." 
 
 That was all. .She did not stop to caress the 
 little creature. She passed on with the rest of her 
 flowers in her cold hand, and left it peering 
 through the fence at her. This was the child 
 the child, and its blue eyes had stabbed again the 
 one rankling wound of her life. The little house 
 had never seemed so quiet as it did when she 
 unlocked the door and entered it ; the stillness 
 was like the stillness of death. But Phillis did not 
 feel it. She laid her flowers upon the table, went 
 to the fire, stirred the coals, and sat down. The 
 flame shot up, and, lighting up the room, glowed 
 
The Fire at Grant ley Mills. 55 
 
 upon her face, but had not glow enough to flush 
 its pallor. 
 
 "It is the child," she said. "Her child has 
 lived, while mine " 
 
 Her lips closed, as if in stern resolve. It was 
 part of her creed to force herself to silence. If 
 she had suffered, she had not rebelled by word or 
 deed, she had not rebelled, even if, in her severe 
 struggle to be calm, she had learned to be cold 
 and hard as she was pure and just. 
 
 As she sat before the fire in silence she was 
 battling with herself. It was hard to understand. 
 The stained, lost creature's child had lived, per- 
 haps, to face her wretched mother's wretched fall, 
 and, perhaps, to fall and sin, and flaunt and die, 
 with scarcely a breathing space of innocent child- 
 hood to remember in her misery. Her own little 
 one, who had seemed the only breath of pure air 
 left in the world about her, had been torn from 
 her in the hour of her greatest anguish. It was 
 hard to understand. And then her thoughts went 
 back to the face of the child she had seen ; such 
 a pretty creature, with its innocent boldness and 
 the summer blue eyes which had so stung her. A 
 sudden thought flashing upon her made her start 
 
56 Natalie. 
 
 before she had been thinking of it two minutes. 
 The blood mounted to her cheeks. 
 
 " Nay, nay !" she cried out, as if uncontrollably. 
 " Not that ; I could not do that. Its eyes would 
 mock me every hour." 
 
 But she had no sooner spoken so than she 
 turned pale again, knowing that it was this thing 
 she must do, and no other. To such a woman 
 there could be only right and wrong ; and here, 
 in an instant, the right flashed upon her, and left 
 her no escape. The small, bold hand plucked at 
 her again ; but it plucked at her heart. Yet it 
 might have plucked at her heart for ever, if it had 
 not been for this sudden conviction. She had 
 never done a willing wrong in her life, and she 
 had never shirked the right. It was this thing 
 she must do, and no other. 
 
 She did not stay to ponder long. She rose 
 from her seat and went about her household tasks. 
 She prepared her usual simple evening meal, and 
 having partook of it, set the room in order. It 
 was her way to be quiet and orderly, and nothing 
 could have made her otherwise. It was quite 
 dark when she had completed her preparations for 
 the morrow, but she evidently intended going out, 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 57 
 
 for she went into the adjoining room and came 
 out again with a shawl thrown over her head and 
 shoulders. 
 
 Then she opened the door, and looked out into 
 the night. 
 
 " She may refuse me," she said, in a low, thought- 
 ful voice ; " but I must still make an effort. I 
 cannot understand why it is, and yet truly it 
 seems borne upon my mind, that if I should not 
 do this thing, this soul would be required of me." 
 
 And then she went out, closing the door after 
 her. She had not far to go, only a few rods 
 into another street, only to the cottage where 
 she had seen the child this evening Janet Ayres's 
 child. 
 
 There was a light burning in the room at the 
 front of the house, when she reached it, and as 
 she entered the gate she saw through the window 
 the woman she had come to seek. She was 
 sitting alone, apparently doing nothing, sitting in 
 a strange, listless attitude, her arms folded upon 
 the bare table, her face resting heavily upon them. 
 For one moment Phillis paused. Something in the 
 woman's posture struck her with a sudden sense 
 of discomfort, and made her hesitate suggesting 
 
58 , Natalie. 
 
 to her, however faintly, that even this brazen 
 creature might have her misery also. 
 
 She stepped to the door, and standing upon the 
 threshold, hesitated for a second again. Should 
 she knock and risk being refused admission ? No, 
 she dare not. 
 
 The next minute the door opened, and Janet 
 Ayres raised her head slowly and looked towards 
 it. A slight figure stood at the entrance, and as 
 the gray shawl slipped aside, it showed a face that 
 made her start. 
 
 "Thee Phillis Renders?" she exclaimed. 
 
 " Nay," said Phillis, calmly ; " Phillis Denham." 
 
 The woman laughed. 
 
 "Oh," said she, "so that's it, is it? Well, 
 happen th'art in th' right. I dunnot see that it 
 matters so much ; I dunnot see as owt matters 
 mysen. Have it thy own way." And then 
 sharply : " What dost ta want here ?" 
 
 Phillis stepped forward to the table, and laid 
 her hand upon it. 
 
 " I could only have come to thee for one thing," 
 she said. " The Lord has given me a work to do. 
 I saw thy child to-day, and I have come to make 
 an appeal to thee. I have come to ask thee to 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 59 
 
 let me save the little one from being what her 
 mother is." She had no pity on the wretched 
 woman, but it was because she was cold, not be- 
 cause she was cruel. " If the Lord spares her I 
 want to keep her life pure," she said. 
 
 Janet Ayres stared at her in blank amaze. 
 
 " What !" she cried out. " T/ia wants to tak 1 
 th' child that child ?" 
 
 "Ay," said Phillis, with a sudden sharpening in 
 her voice. "Wilt thou give me the child, and 
 keep the man ?" 
 
 " Th' mon ! " cried the woman, with a fierce 
 sneer. " I want neither th' mon nor child. Tha 
 may tak' both." 
 
 " Nay, but I will not take them both," answered 
 Phillis. a shrill tone breaking from her, quiet as she 
 tried to seem ; " I will not take them both. Wil- 
 liam Renders chose between me and thee, and he 
 chose thee, and he may stick to thee. He is 
 nought to me, but the child I want ; and if thee 
 has woman's blood in thy body, thou canst not say 
 me nay. Thee knows what thy own life has 
 been ; does thee want that little one's to be like 
 it ? Thee has fed her with thy own strength 
 unless such as thee are different from other women ; 
 
6o Natalie. 
 
 dost thou want to make her curse thee ? Nay, 
 but thou hast even a blacker soul than I fancied, 
 if thou dost." 
 
 Then Janet Ayres laughed a laugh even 
 scornful of the stainless, righteous, injured woman 
 who so scorned and taunted her. 
 
 "Tha art a good Christian, Phillis Renders," 
 she said ; " aye, but tha art a good Christian ; 
 religion and such loike were bred i' thy bones and 
 comes out i' thy flesh. I never knew a Methody 
 yet as didn't show th' breed, an' I never saw a safe 
 soul yet as would na' gi' a lost one a help down 
 th' hill. Look here," her voice shrilling and her 
 face flushing scarlet, " I'm one of th' lost ones 
 mysen, but I never gave a push to either lost or 
 saved yet ; an' so help me God, if God has owt 
 to do with such loike as me, if I could hurt an' 
 humble thee, even thee, with thy hard words an' 
 thy pride, if I could crush an' humble thee before 
 my face this minute, in raisin' my ringer, I would 
 na raise it ; nay, I would na." And she dropped 
 her head upon her arms again, her excitement 
 ending in a passionate burst of sobs and tears. 
 'Tak' th' child," she cried, "tak' her an' keep her! 
 Teach her what her mother is, an' train her up to 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 6 1 
 
 point her finger at her ! Aye, I would be willin' 
 fur that, if that would save her aye, an' thank 
 th' God as has nowt to do with such as me." 
 
 Surely some pang of conscience smote her 
 judge. Her pale face grew paler, and her eye was 
 not so steady as it had been. Some fine instinct 
 at work within her made her shrink, for sne 
 faltered as she spoke. 
 
 " He may have to do with such as thee if thou 
 would repent," she said. " There is time for thec 
 yet." 
 
 " Repent !" said Janet Ayres. " Repent thysen. 
 Hast tha nowt to repent on ? No, such as thee 
 never has ; tha'rt on the narrow path fro' first to 
 last ; it wur made fur such as thee. Dunnot tell 
 me to repent." 
 
 Phillis's hand trembled a little. That sense of 
 discomfort grew upon her strongly, and it was this 
 lost creature's words that stung her. 
 
 " I did not come here to contend with thee," she 
 said. " I came to plead for the child." 
 
 " Will Henders's child," put in the woman, with 
 a miserable effort at a taunt. 
 
 " Will Henders's child," said Phillis, without a 
 change in her voice. " Will thee give it up to me ?" 
 
62 Natalie. 
 
 Janet Ayres lifted her face with a strange irony 
 in her smile. 
 
 " Tha art na askin' much," she said. 
 
 " I ask thee for a human soul," answered 
 Phillis. 
 
 "Aye," said Janet Ayres, "but such as me 
 dunnot know much about that theer. Tha art 
 askin' me fur all as I've gotten i' th' earth thcc 
 has niver had a child o' thy own." 
 
 "Thou art mistaken," said Phillis, "I had a 
 child who died." 
 
 " Tha !" exclaimed Janet. 
 
 But Phillis stopped her with a gesture. 
 
 " It died," she said, " and it belonged poor 
 little one ! to a past that is all over. But this 
 child of thine is not so safe." 
 
 " If that is true I can trust thee better," said the 
 woman, " not but what I believe tha'd do reet by 
 th' little un, hard as tha art. It's thy way to do 
 reet." 
 
 There was a pause for a moment, and then she 
 looked up. 
 
 " I do not see what sent thee here to tempt me 
 to-neet," she said. " I have often thowt o 1 this, 
 but I niver thowt as I've done to-neet. I niver 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 63 
 
 thowt as I were thinkin' when tha came in. Aye, 
 Janie, little wench Janie !" with a gush of tears. 
 " Come wi' me," she said abruptly to Phillis, rising 
 and taking the lamp from the table. 
 
 Phillis followed her across the room to the 
 shaded corner where the child's cot stood, and 
 there they paused. 
 
 "Look," said Janet Ayres, holding the light 
 over the pink, flushed baby face. 
 
 Phillis did not speak ; the eyes that had mocked 
 her so were closed ; but it was not easy to forget 
 the pang they had given her. 
 
 " If I gi' her up to thee," said Janet, " I shall 
 gi' her up foriver. Her way will not be my way 
 either now nor nor after if theer is an after. 
 If I gi' her up to thee I shanna do it by halves. 
 I shall gi' her up to be led to heaven while I drift 
 down to hell. Aye, Janie ! Janie !" dropping upon 
 her knees, " thou'lt be further away fro' me then 
 e'en than tha art now but better one than two 
 better one than two better me than thee, my 
 lamb, for tha has na a spot upon thee." 
 
 Her weeping shook even Phillis Denham, though 
 it was neither loud nor long. It did not even waken 
 the child though it seemed as if the struggle tore 
 
64 Natalie. 
 
 her very soul. But suddenly she got up, and taking 
 the little one from its pillow, kissed it once, twice, 
 and placed it in Phillis's arms. 
 
 " Tak' it away," she said breathlessly. " I am 
 na of thy blood. I canna keep up long. For 
 God's sake tak 1 her out o' my sight before a' the 
 strength's wrung out o' me. I gi' her up, I tell 
 thee I gi' her up foriver." 
 
 And stricken dumb by the sight of the agony 
 in the mother's face, almost before she could 
 realize that her strange request had indeed been 
 granted, she found herself out in the night holding 
 
 the child in her arms ! 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 It was not many days before the women at 
 the Mills were gossiping among themselves con- 
 cerning what little they knew of the story of 
 Janet Ayres's child. Phillis Denham had taken 
 it to " fetch up," as they put it, though how she 
 had gained possession of it was a mystery. The two 
 women came and went as usual, but there was no 
 intercourse between them ; each going her separate 
 way when work was over, Janet to her desolate 
 house, Phillis to her cottage and the child, 
 who was cared for in her absence by a woman 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 65 
 
 whom she had taken into her house for the purpose. 
 Since the night Phillis carried the child away in 
 her arms, Janet had persistently avoided her. 
 Evidently she had not meant to do the thing by 
 halves when she said she gave the child up for 
 ever. As to the little one herself, she had soon 
 become accustomed to her new surroundings, 
 though the novelty disturbed her at first. With 
 Phillis she made friends in a way of her own 
 strangely enough, without a touch of baby effusive- 
 ness. They were the best of friends, but nothing 
 nearer. Perhaps Phillis's way was not exactly the 
 way to win a baby's heart perhaps she was too 
 calm and quiet, or perhaps some more subtle in- 
 fluence held her apart from this tiny creature ; but, 
 however that might be, she often felt a novel pang 
 that she was held apart. At first she felt it but 
 slightly, but as time went on, and the child crept 
 into her inner heart, the feeling became stronger. 
 How could the child fail to creep into her heart ? 
 She was a woman after all, and her slighted love 
 for handsome Will Renders had been a very 
 strong one. She had given up all for him : the 
 friendship of her people, the affection of her 
 friends all she had possessed. She had looked 
 
 E 
 
66 Natalie. 
 
 upon the great sorrow of her life as a just punish- 
 ment for her defections, but, though she had cut 
 herself off from this man whom she had so loved, 
 she had never forgotten him for an hour his 
 physical beauty, his dashing ways, so unlike the 
 ways of the grave young friends who had admired 
 her, the shade of poetic romance in his admiration 
 for her pure, high, self-contained style of beauty 
 she never forgot one attraction. And as this 
 little creature played about the room in her quaint 
 fashion, she fell into the habit of watching her 
 with a curious feeling almost a yearning. Nay, 
 more than once it was a feeling so strong that it 
 half angered her. The summer blue eyes mocked 
 her with their haunting likeness to other eyes as 
 warmly blue ; lifting themselves to her quiet face, 
 they stung her to the heart. They made her 
 restless, less calm, less coldly content with her 
 hard, unloved, unloving lot. She found old 
 yearnings she had thought subdued coming back 
 to her, conquered pains, long-struggled- against 
 memories, and it may be that her secret suffering 
 softened hen 
 
 Before the child had been with Phillis long, 
 Janet Ayres was missing. She was absent from 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 67 
 
 her loom one morning, and a woman who was her 
 neighbor said that she had shut up her house and 
 gone away. That was all that was known by 
 outsiders, but Phillis knew a little more. The 
 night before the woman's disappearance there had 
 come a light tap at her window, and going 
 outside to see what the summons meant, she 
 had found Janet Ayres standing as if waiting 
 for her. 
 
 " Aw f m goin' away," she had said abruptly. 
 
 Phillis's heart [beat somewhat more quickly. 
 Had she repented of her decision, and come to 
 claim the child ? 
 
 " Why ?" she asked. 
 
 The woman twisted a corner of her shawl 
 around her finger, and hesitated. 
 
 " I ha' a reason," she answered, half doggedly. 
 " An' it wunnot work no ill it may work good ; 
 but that's neither heer nor theer. I come to 
 speak to thee about th' child." 
 
 " Thee are not " faltered Phillis " thee does 
 not mean " 
 
 Janet Ayres stopped her. 
 
 " I dunnot mean no harm, I tell yo," she said, 
 (l so I canna mean that. I am na goin' to hurt 
 E 2 
 
68 Natalie. 
 
 it. I towd thee I'd gi'en it up furiver. I only 
 want to know to hear a word about it I hanna 
 heerd a word sin that neet. I want to know how 
 its doin'." 
 
 " It is well," said Phillis, " and happy." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, in which the 
 nervous hand dragged at the shawl. Then the 
 wretched creature lifted, in half-ashamed fashion, 
 her eyes to those of Phillis's. 
 
 " Has she forgotten ?" she faltered. And that 
 moment the shawl was dropped, her hands went 
 up to her face, and she burst into wild, yet almost 
 silent, weeping. 
 
 " Dunnot tell me," she whispered, in the midst 
 of her sobs. " Dunnot tell me ; I know wi'out 
 askin'. I dunnot see why I asked at a'. She 
 were only a baby. Let me be a minnet." 
 
 So Phillis waited, a curious contest going on in 
 her mind, as she watched the shaking, shrinking 
 form. She had not forgiven this woman yet ; but 
 she was beginning vaguely to recognise the stained, 
 bruised humanity, and thus to doubt her own stem, 
 just self. What if she was wrong after all ? What 
 if she had refused what it was her duty to have 
 given ? 
 
The Fire at Grantlcy Mills, 69 
 
 When the woman looked up again, she saw in 
 the eyes of her enemy a troubled questioning. 
 
 " If thee would like to see the child," Phillis 
 began. 
 
 The old dogged ness returned to the face. " I 
 did na come for that," was the answer. " I dare 
 na enter ; I dare na tempt mysen'. Happen' th' 
 time '11 come though I dunnot know " 
 
 She stopped and took from the bundle slung 
 upon her arm a little package, handing it to Phillis 
 with that touch of awkward shamefacedness in her 
 air. 
 
 "It's sumetin' as I made mysen'," she said, 
 "a dress and a few oddments. She she'll 
 niver know who made 'em, so they canna harm 
 her if you'll let her wear 'em," ending in a choked 
 voice. " There !" she said, suddenly, " that's a', 
 so I may as well be goin'. Good neet, if tha'll tak' 
 good neet fro' such as me." And she turned away. 
 
 Six months before Phillis Denham had spurned 
 
 this lost woman ; and now How was it that 
 
 this child had given them something in common 
 made them in some sense akin ? A sudden im- 
 pulse made her move forward and touch Janet 
 Ay res with her hand lightly. 
 
70 Natalie, 
 
 " I do not quite know what I owt to say to thee,'' 
 she said. " I do not know why I feel that I have 
 something to say, but if I have been wrong and 
 and hard, I ask thee to forgive me. I have needed 
 pity; I need pity now. I will deal tenderly by thy 
 child. Good-bye. God help thee; God help us both;' 
 
 And so they had gone their separate ways. 
 * * * # * 
 
 Who at Grantley has forgotten the fire at Grant- 
 ley Mills ? Who will ever forget it who lived in 
 the generation in which it occurred ? The fire ! 
 they call it to this day, though there were fires 
 before and have been since. " It was th' oil that 
 did it," the old mill-hands say. " Yo see, when th' 
 wenches oiled th' looms th' cans dripped, an' there 
 it were. Th' floors soaked through an' through 
 enow to set th' place afire, an' the first spark did 
 for it an' left no help. A' th' engines in Lanca'- 
 shire could na' ha' saved it. An' so it went." 
 
 As for Phillis Denham, to the last hour of dim 
 old age, if such old age should come to her, the 
 fearful day would be her most vivid memory. She 
 had come down to her w r ork in the morning in a 
 heavy mood. She had been disturbed the night 
 before strangely, and she had not been able to 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 71 
 
 overcome her excitement. Sitting before the fire 
 with the child in her arms, she had been startled by 
 a sound at the window, and turning suddenly she 
 had caught sight of a vanishing face a face that 
 had plainly been looking in upon her and her fire- 
 lit room. The sight made her heart leap and then 
 almost stand still. She could not force herself to 
 believe it fancy, and yet when she had opened the 
 door there had been no one in sight up or down 
 the moon-lit street. This was not all. So strangely 
 nervous and excitable was she, that in passing the 
 office she had been startled again by the mere 
 sight of a tall man standing at the desk, with his 
 back towards her, because his figure had seemed 
 familiar. 
 
 " Did tha see th' new overseer ? " she heard a 
 woman say, as she took her place ; and her com- 
 panion answered : "Aye, to be sure, an' a good 
 lookin' chap he is, too." 
 
 It was not more than two hours after, that a 
 girl at the loom next Phillis's looked up suddenly. 
 
 " What's that ?" she said. " Th' bell ringin' ?" 
 And almost the next instant, with a paling face : 
 " Th' engines stoppin'," she cried ; " sumat's up, 
 wenches," 
 
72 Natalie. 
 
 They were at the top story of the huge build- 
 ing, and so the alarm did not reach them until the 
 stopping of the looms, but a minute later a puff 
 of smoke and a sound of hurrying feet and women's 
 shrieks below told all the truth. 
 
 " It's fire !" shrieked the girl. " It's fire !" 
 shrieked another and another, until voice upon 
 voice took up the cry. 
 
 " Fire ! Fire ! Fire !" And every desperate 
 creature in the great room rushed towards the nar- 
 row stairway, with no thought but the hope of 
 being first. 
 
 But the stairway was crowded already, and the 
 heat and smoke were rolling upward, and beating 
 back those who were at the front, while the rest 
 were fighting on behind. If the fire had been 
 above they would have been safer ; but it roared 
 below and crackled, and poured out thick smoke 
 from the oil-soaked flooring, and so choked and 
 blinded the mass of struggling creatures that they 
 were panic-stricken. They fought, and strove, and 
 shrieked, and prayed, until some fell under foot, 
 and were trampled down, and some hung wedged 
 in the midst, neither able to move one way or the 
 other, 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 73 
 
 PhiiHs had been carried with the crowd. The 
 first instinct of self-preservation had made her 
 follow the rest to the door, and then she had seen 
 the mistake they all made, when it was too late. 
 She had no control over herself; the shrieking 
 women bore her with them until they reached the 
 next room, when she was crushed against the open 
 door, and through it, and flung against a woman 
 who had shared her fate. In the terror of the 
 moment Phillis scarcely saw the woman's face, but 
 the woman had seen her's, and caught at her with 
 a horrible cry. It was Janet Ayres. Phillis, all 
 bruised and shuddering, stared at her as if she had 
 been a spirit. 
 
 " Thee ! Janet Ayres !" she said, just as she 
 had done when they met upon the staircase. 
 
 The woman covered her face with her hands. 
 
 " I came last neet," she said, " an' this mornin* 
 I come heer, fur t/iJs" 
 
 There was no help for them, no place for 
 them among the writhing mass upon the stairway. 
 
 " We must wait," said Phillis. " It is certain 
 death to try the stairway ; it is on fire. They are 
 mad with terror." 
 
 "It is certain death ony wheer," said Janet 
 
74 Natalie. 
 
 Ayres. " Th' fire '11 be on us afore we can say a 
 prayer." 
 
 But Phillis caught her by the hand, 
 
 " Come to the window," she said, " and let us 
 cry to them in the yard, They must see or hear 
 us." 
 
 The floor was hot under their feet, the smoke 
 was suffocating and blinding them, but they made 
 their way to the window, and flung themselves 
 against it, beating the glass until the blood 
 streamed from their hands. But they were only 
 two women, and on the stairways there were 
 hundreds shrieking with voices as loud as theirs, 
 and in the yard the engines were rattling to and 
 fro, and firemen were shouting, and men and 
 women screaming to their children, who were 
 crushed or burning within. 
 
 " They cannot hear our voices," cried Phillis ; 
 " and the smoke hides us." 
 
 They waited for a while, and then tried again 
 and then again, and even again, and then there 
 came a fearful crash, and such a burst of shrieks 
 that women who were safe fainted, and men 
 turned sick as death. The staircase had fallen, 
 and with it its human burden. 
 
The Fire at Grant ley Mills. 75 
 
 Phillis sank down upon her knees, praying 
 aloud. Her companion sprang at the window 
 again like a wild animal, waving her arms franti- 
 cally through the broken panes. 
 
 " We canna burn heer," she shrieked. " They 
 mun see us. Help, lads ! Help, help !" And 
 then to Phillis : " Shut th' door an' keep th' 
 smoke out, or we shall choke." And when Phillis 
 had obeyed her : " Come here, and help me t' 
 mak' 'em hear." 
 
 And the terror in their voices made them so 
 wild and shrill that it was not many minutes 
 before they" were heard, even in the midst of the 
 roar of flames and voices. Some woman in the 
 crowd heard them first, and, looking up, saw the 
 waving hands. 
 
 " Eh, lads," she cried, " God help us ! thar's 
 some wenches on t' third flight crying fur help, an' 
 their hands is all cut to pieces wi' breakin' thro* 
 th' winder-glass." 
 
 It drew the crowd to their side of the building 
 in a minute's time rushing round with new cries 
 and wilder frenzy shouting to the desperate im- 
 prisoned creatures at the window yelling to the 
 Bremen and growing almost mad with excitement 
 
76 Natalie. 
 
 " Play on the room," they cried insanely. " Bring 
 the ladders ! That's Janet Ayres's voice ! Aye, 
 an' by God ! that's th' Quaker wench's ! Lasses, 
 it's Phillis Denham an' Jenny Ayres. Whar's the 
 new overseer ?" 
 
 They called for the overseer, for from the first 
 outbreak of the flames he had been the coolest 
 and most active among them. He seemed to 
 know what to do when every one else had lost 
 presence of mind. 
 
 " We can't save the place," he had said, " let 
 us save the lives," and he had worked amid 
 fire and smoke almost like a man with a charmed 
 life. 
 
 The news of the discovery flew to him at once, 
 and the next minute he was forcing his way 
 through the crowd a tall fellow, with blue eyes 
 and uncovered tawny hair. 
 
 "Stand back!" he shouted. "What is this 
 about these women ? " And then his eye was 
 caught by the frantic hands, and he broke off 
 with an exclamation of horror. 
 
 " Bring those ladders," he cried and then, to 
 the crowd, "Who are they?" 
 
 "There's two o' 'em," he was answered by a 
 
The Fire at Grant ley Mills. 77 
 
 dozen voices, " a Quaker lass and Jennie Ayres 
 Jennie Ayres and Phillis Denham." 
 
 "Dunnot see as theer's much use o' tryin' th' 
 ladders," said more than one man, doubtfully. 
 " It's a main dangersome work. It canna be long 
 afore th' walls crack in, an' then " 
 
 " Renders," said one of the owners, who had 
 just arrived, all in a hurry, " God knows it's a 
 sickening, horrible thing, but but it's a hard fate 
 to face, and it is a bad look out. The walls may 
 fall in, and " 
 
 " Let them fall," he cried. " It's not my way 
 to stand by and see women die. Good God, 
 Phillis ! to think it should be you." 
 
 And in spite of protestations and warnings, he 
 had the ladders against the wall, and when they 
 were ready he was ready too, a heavy hammer in 
 his hand to break in the frames of the fastened 
 windows. God knows what tumult rose in their 
 breasts, when, looking down upon their deliverer, 
 they beheld this man's face. Janet Ayres fell 
 back with a groan, turning to the woman whose 
 life she had blighted : 
 
 " Dost tha see ?" she said. 
 
 Phillis answered with white lips. 
 
7 8 Natalie. 
 
 " Aye ! I see," she said, " I see," and hid her 
 face. 
 
 There was a moment's pause, in which she 
 heard the woman at her side panting as if 
 for breath, and then Janet Ayres touched her 
 sleeve, and when she looked at her she saw 
 such deadly anguish in her face as made her 
 start aside. 
 
 "See," said the unhappy creature, "see thee 
 heer. Theer is na a moment he will be heer 
 he canna tak' two th' ladder will not bear it 
 and th' one as stays behind ." She broke off 
 with a shudder. But she began again, " I mun 
 be th' one as stays behind," she said. " He mun 
 tak' thee." 
 
 " Nay," cried Phillis, a passionate pity and a 
 passionate heroism rising within her. "Never 
 that. God forgive me for the hard words I have 
 spoken to thee ; I will stay." 
 
 The woman, crouching on her knees, wrung her 
 hands together. Was she tempted by an agonizing 
 thought of her own sin, and the purity of this 
 unstained creature whose soul was so much safer 
 than her own. 
 
 "Theer is na a minnet," she b^, "he is here 
 
The Fire at Granttey Milts. 79 
 
 now," and so he was beating in the window 
 frame. 
 
 " It is thee he mun tak' fur th' child's sake 
 I've gi'en her up. Happen it'll gi' me a chance 
 I dunnot know but I want a chance fur the 
 child's sake. I've axed fur one in my way an' 
 happen this is it. He mun tak' thee." 
 
 And then the man was in the room, black with 
 smoke, scorched with fire, almost blinded and 
 staggering, but it was Phillis his blinded eyes saw 
 not her rival. 
 
 "Phillis," he cried, " Phillis come with me. 
 You can forgive me for a minute's time. I have 
 come to save you." 
 
 But Phillis drew back. 
 
 " I forgive you," she said. " God forgive me 
 that I have been so hard ; but there is another 
 Janet Ayres." 
 
 Not a second's pause, but Janet Ayres rose up 
 and confronted him, with misery in her eyes. 
 
 " Tak' th' woman tha loves best," she said. 
 
 " Phillis," he cried, " for God's sake." 
 
 " I will not go," she said, and slipped fainting 
 upon the floor. 
 
 That moment Janet Ayres advanced towards hen 
 
So Natalie. 
 
 " Tha will go," she said. " Thecr is na a mo- 
 ment, an' I will na gi' my life fur nowt. Tak' her 
 in thy arms, Will Renders." 
 
 He had her in his arms already. He had her 
 through the window upon the ladder, and the peo- 
 ple were shrieking below. 
 
 Janet Ayres stood at the window looking down. 
 
 " I will come back," he shouted. 
 
 But she did not seem to hear him. She was 
 saying over something saying it with blanching 
 lips and dilated eyes saying it to herself in a 
 whisper : 
 
 " Fur th' child's sake fur th' child's sake." 
 
 He had thought he might return, but the 
 watching crowd knew he would not. Fire and 
 smoke pouring out at the windows fought against 
 him on his dangerous downward way. Twice he 
 nearly slipped. More than once his burden was 
 almost too much for him, and the frail support he 
 clung to tottered beneath his tread, and when he 
 touched the ground the fire had reached the third 
 floor room, and the ladder fell with a crash. 
 
 " Let me go back," he shrieked, when they tried 
 to hold him, and he was man enough to mean 
 what he said. But they held him fast, and one, 
 
The Fire at Grantley Mills. 8 1 
 
 more thoughtful than the rest, forced him away 
 with his back to the building. 
 
 The woman at the window stood still. The 
 people below watched her breathlessly, or hid their 
 faces in horror. The room grew hotter and hotter ; 
 there were rising tongues of flame here and there. 
 The heat scorched her flesh, and she had to press 
 close against the window for a breath. Oh, God ! 
 how safe they were below ! Then there was a 
 crash ; the flooring shook. 
 
 "Fur th' child's sake," she cried, "Jenny! 
 Happen this is the chance, Christ ! " and so 
 went down into the abyss with her arms flung 
 
 wildly upwards. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Phillis opened her eyes, and looked round. Her 
 first glance fell upon her husband's face, and 
 seeing it she looked no farther. 
 
 " Where is Janet Ayres ?" she asked. 
 
 His awed face answered her. 
 
 4< The Lord have mercy upon her," she said. 
 " The Lord have mercy upon her," and closed her 
 eyes again, her lips moving after her voice had 
 dropped. 
 
 But Will Henders, despite his awe and pain, 
 F 
 
82 Natalie. 
 
 was Will Renders still he could not wait r 
 had something to say, so he bent over her,an& 
 touched her hands with impetuous tenderness, 
 
 " Phillis," he said, " Phillis." 
 
 The tears slipped from under her lashes and 
 fell upon the pillow, but she did not speak, and 
 at sight of these tears Renders turned pale and 
 trembled. 
 
 "Phillis," he said, in a broken voice, "it shall 
 be as you say I will go or stay, as you decide ; 
 but I will say what I came to say before I go 
 if I must go. You were led astray with lies, 
 Phillis they told you lies. I was false to myself, 
 but never to you. The only wrong I did you was 
 in keeping that wretched story secret. I have 
 been a villain, but not to you. I swear to you 
 that this is true. God forgive me for my sin." 
 
 She opened her eyes. 
 
 " God forgive us both !" she cried, " Whose sin 
 has been greater than mine ? Why should I dare 
 harden my heart against the world, when I was 
 so full of wrong myself?" 
 
 He snatched at her hand, and knelt down, 
 kissing it in the old appealing way she knew so 
 well, 
 
The Fire at Grant ley Mills. 83 
 
 " You were too pure to understand " he said. 
 
 " I was too hard," she said, " too cold and proud, 
 and God has shown me when my little child 
 died " 
 
 " Your child ?" he said. " My girl my poor, 
 poor girl !" and he drew her into his arms. 
 
 She did not try to move, but lay upon his 
 breast. 
 
 " It died," she said, weeping, " perhaps through 
 its mother's angry sin it did not live a day." 
 
 He held her close, weeping himself as he 
 caressed her. 
 
 " I have searched for you every hour of my life 
 since I came home that day and found that you 
 had gone," he said. "And at last it was Janet 
 Ayres who made her way to the old place and 
 told me where you were. She did not know that 
 you had gone away believing a lie ; she fancied 
 your anger was all roused by hearing the truth ; 
 but something you had done for her had touched 
 her heart. I knew now what that something 
 was, and she told me that I could find you here. 
 Phillis, must I go or stay ?" 
 
 She clung to him, trembling all over. 
 
 " Take me home," she answered. " Let us take 
 F 2 
 
84 Natalie. 
 
 her child, and try to make its life all its mother's 
 might have been. She gave her life for mine 
 let me give mine to this little one. And if thou 
 canst forgive me, Will, the time may come when 
 I can forgive myself." 
 
THE WOMAN WHO SA VED ME. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 * | ^HE medical man was holding my wrist and 
 JL talking, and I was not listening. In the 
 first place, I knew more about myself than he 
 could tell me ; in the second, I should scarcely 
 have understood what he was saying if I had 
 listened ; and in the third, I was in so listless and 
 indifferent a condition of mind that I did not care 
 to listen did not care to answer did not even 
 care to look, as I was half unconsciously looking 
 at the dead brown leaves twisting in the eddying 
 wind that whirled them down the street. 
 
 How dull it all looked ! how dull the dragging 
 days were ! how I was beginning to hate the big, 
 obtrusive stone houses, and dread the long gray 
 patch of November sky showing itself over the 
 roof, and alternately drifting leaden clouds and 
 
86 Natalie. 
 
 drizzling leaden rain that made the wide flagged 
 pavement wet and shining with the slop of passing 
 feet ! I had always disliked the i^gliSh winter, 
 but I had never lost spirit in any other winter as 
 I had during this one. Three months of its slow, 
 dull birth had added a hundred-fold to the listless 
 misery which had become almost a part of my- 
 self, and more than once I had almost hoped that 
 its ending would end my life. If during that 
 wretched autumn I had hoped for anything, I had 
 hoped for this, however vaguely ; but the time had 
 often been when I had been so utterly indifferent 
 to life or death that I had not even cared to wish 
 for either. 
 
 I was in one of the worst of these moods to- 
 day, and when the doctor came it was at its 
 strongest ; so, as he talked to me, I scarcely lis- 
 tened, but looked out at the whirling leaves and 
 dust in silence. But, though I was not listening, 
 I could not help hearing his last words. 
 
 " And as I told Mr. Leith," he was saying, " I 
 cannot be responsible for the result if you do 
 not go." 
 
 I began to listen then, though I scarcely knew 
 why. 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 87 
 
 " Go ?" I repeated, " where am I to go, and 
 why ?" 
 
 " Anywhere," was his emphatic reply. " To the 
 sea-side to some country place to Yarmouth 
 to Swansea to Switzerland anywhere away from 
 London." 
 
 " But why ?" I asked again, beginning to wonder 
 if the man did not, after all, know something 
 more than I had fancied. 
 
 " Because," looking at me steadily, " if you re- 
 main here you will die in two months, and Mr. 
 Leith will blame me." 
 
 " Will he ?" I muttered, half unconsciously 
 " would he blame anybody ?" 
 
 Doctor Branaird looked at me again keenly 
 this time but he said nothing. 
 
 " And I may go anywhere out of London ?" I 
 said, after a short pause. 
 
 "Anywhere," he answered "though I should 
 advise the sea-side." 
 
 "And you have spoken to my husband about it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What did he say ?" I asked this unwillingly. 
 
 " He said that he hoped the change would 
 improve your health." 
 
88 Natalie. 
 
 I looked out at the leaves in the street again. 
 It was so like him. I knew what it meant. I 
 must decide for myself. He did not care. I 
 might live if I cared for life die if I chose. 
 
 " I have a friend in Bamborough," I said after 
 a while, " I will go there." 
 
 Dr Branaird rose and took his hat. 
 
 " Do," he advised " Bamborough is just the 
 place I should have chosen for you, had I not 
 thought it best to let you choose for yourself. 
 There is plenty of strong sea breeze on the 
 Cornish coast, and your friend will improve the 
 tone of your nervous system if she is anything of 
 a woman." 
 
 So he left me, and so I turned to the street 
 again and stared blankly at the dead leaves and 
 the patch of gray November sky. But I could 
 not watch it long. For the first time in many 
 long months a certain quiet excitement crept 
 upon me, brought about by the thoughts that 
 drifted into my mind concerning my friend at 
 Bamborough concerning Lisbeth Grant. 
 
 We had been girls together, and we had loved 
 each other. We had been to each other what 
 girls seldom are we had been faithful, though for 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 89 
 
 four years Lisbeth had been a wife, and though 
 she was the mother of three children. I knew 
 she was faithful to me still, notwithstanding that 
 since her wedding-day we had never seen each 
 other. 
 
 " My hands are full, Gervase," she had written 
 to me once, " and my heart is full, too to the 
 brim. Hugh and his children fill it as they fill 
 the hands. They give me no time to stagnate. 
 They keep the hands at work, and the heart at 
 work too loving, hoping, thinking for them 
 and I am sure the beating is more in time for the 
 work the children bring. But they have not 
 crowded you out, Gervase, you may be sure of 
 that. There is all the more room, because they 
 have made it larger. The children have made me 
 love you more than ever." 
 
 "Yes," I said to myself as I got up from my 
 chair "yes, I will go to Lisbeth. If I am going 
 to die, better die with Lisbeth than here." 
 
 I did not love my husband I had never loved 
 him, I told myself. It was not even love -that 
 had made us happy in the first months of our 
 marriage. It had only been a weak mockery after 
 all, and we had both learned the truth too late- 
 
go Natalie. 
 
 Even the little child that had scarcely drawn a 
 breath could not soften our hearts towards each 
 other. And, worse than this, out of my wretched- 
 ness had grown a shadow of sin and despair. I 
 looked backwards sometimes to a fancy I had 
 long left behind to a fancy that I thought my 
 husband had long blotted out, and looking back- 
 ward so, I fell into a wonder at what now seemed 
 my blindness. That man would have loved me ; 
 there would have come no bitter words from him, 
 that man would have been true to me through 
 life and death ; his love would never have died, 
 burning out the more rapidly for the very strength 
 of its first flame. 
 
 I did not often wait for my husband, but I 
 waited for him that night. I wanted to tell him 
 of my decision. Not that I fancied he would 
 care for my absence or presence, he was past 
 that ; we were both past it. Still I would show 
 just so much grace as to make a pretence of con- 
 sulting him. 
 
 " I am going to Bamborough," I said to him, 
 " to visit Lisbeth Grant. Dr. Branaird advises me 
 to do so." And I glanced at him carelessly. 
 
 He had just come in, and tossed his hat upon 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 9 1 
 
 a sofa in his careless fashion, and now he was 
 standing upon the hearth looking silently into the 
 fire. He did not raise his eyes. 
 
 " I hope you will find your health improved," 
 he said. 
 
 " I hope so," I returned briefly. 
 
 But he was not quite easy, I could see, and I 
 must confess to some slight surprise. The old 
 black lines came out on his forehead, but they 
 were not angry lines ; they were something new 
 to me in their changed expression. He was so 
 fidgety, too, and even more taciturn than usual. 
 But I took no notice of the change until after we 
 had supped, and he had been reading for half an 
 hour, when he suddenly broke the silence by fling- 
 ing his book upon the sofa after his hat, and 
 speaking to me abruptly : 
 
 " You are not worse than usual," he said, " are 
 you ?" I did not look up this time, but went on 
 working steadily. " I think not," I answered ; " I 
 am sure not." 
 
 I would not tell him the. truth. He should 
 have had sight clear enough to discover it for 
 himself. 
 
 He got up, and coming to the side of the hearth 
 
92 Natalie. 
 
 upon which I was seated, caught hold of my net- 
 ting silk, so stopping my work. 
 
 " That is not true," he said " it is one of your 
 fables." 
 
 " One of my fables ?" I returned quietly. 
 
 He took hold of my hand and held it up so 
 that my loose sleeve fell back from my arm. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " it is a fable. Look at your 
 arm look at your wrist, see how your bracelet 
 fits it. It was as round as a baby's before" and 
 here, seeming to recollect himself, he let my hand 
 drop. 
 
 I looked at it myself as I settled my sleeve 
 again, and as I looked I smiled faintly. My 
 beautiful arms had been my pride once, and now 
 the heavy gold bracelet slipped loosely up and 
 down over a white surface that was little more 
 than delicate skin and slender bone. Perhaps, 
 after all, Doctor Branaird was right I had better 
 leave London. 
 
 So the next day I went to Bamborough and 
 Lisbeth. But early in the morning, as I stood 
 before the mirror in my dressing-room, my hus- 
 band came to me. I was surprised again, for of 
 late there had been so little pretence at sentiment 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 93 
 
 between us that I had scarcely expected he would 
 care to make any farewells. But I discovered in 
 a very few moments that this was what he had 
 come for, and I felt myself excited and nervous. 
 This surprised me too. If we had loved each 
 other, I might have understood the feeling ; 
 but since we did not love each other, what 
 could it mean ? He stood by my toilet-table, 
 looking pale and agitated for a few minutes 
 after his entrance, and then he broke the awkward 
 silence : 
 
 " You will need money," he began. 
 
 I interrupted him. 
 
 " No," I said, " you mistake. I do not need 
 any. Thank you." 
 
 " Very well," he answered, " if that is the case, 
 I suppose it is useless to offer you any. But if 
 you should require anything wish anything I 
 hope you will write to me about it." 
 
 " Thank you again," I replied. " I will write 
 to you once a week whether I wish anything or 
 not." 
 
 He lingered a few minutes longer and then 
 turned to go. 
 
 " Then, as I shall not see you again, I will bid 
 
94 Natalie. 
 
 you good-bye," he said ; " you will not return 
 until 
 
 " I recover or die," I interrupted. "If Barn- 
 borough agrees with me no better than London 
 has done, Dr. Branaird says I shall die in two 
 months ; so good-bye." 
 
 I scarcely knew what feeling of desperation 
 prompted me to make a speech so reckless, but it 
 was a feeling desperate enough. 
 
 " Gervase !" he exclaimed. 
 
 I would not look at him, but in the mirror 
 I saw reflected on his face a pallor as ashen 
 as the pallor of death. Sometimes in after 
 months I wished that I had looked at him more 
 straightly. 
 
 But he said nothing more only waited a 
 moment, and then came to my side. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said. 
 
 " Good-bye," I answered. And the next mo- 
 ment he had touched my cheek lightly with his 
 lips and was gone. 
 
 It was late when I reached Bamborough, and 
 the tide was coming in under a red, fog-obscured 
 sun. I looked out of the carriage window as I 
 drove from the station through the narrow streets, 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 95 
 
 and looking I saw little more than an immense 
 expanse of sea, and a dry and wet brown beach 
 where fishermen where lounging, fishermen's 
 children shouting and playing, and fishermen's 
 boats drawn up and fastened upon the sand with 
 chains. I had always felt drawn towards the sea 
 with a curious sense of fascination, and this evening 
 the fresh salt air blew so coolly upon my cheeks 
 that I had a quiet, half-defined feeling that I was 
 not sorry I had come to Bamborough. 
 
 And at her open door Lisbeth stood ready to 
 welcome me, and my first glance showed me the 
 same handsome womanly face and handsome 
 womanly figure, neither face nor figure a whit un- 
 familiar or a whit less perfect for the crown of 
 comely matronhood. Two of her children clung 
 to her flowing skirts, her handsome baby clasped 
 her neck, and as she stood there smiling, I thought 
 of Cordelia, and my heart warmed, Lisbeth's 
 strength and beauty always warmed it. 
 
 She caught me in the one arm her child left 
 free, and drew me into the hall, pressing her warm 
 red lips to mine. 
 
 "My dear!" she said, "my dearest!" and it 
 seemed as though she had for the moment no 
 
96 Natalie. 
 
 other words to utter. Her very voice warmed me 
 and put life into my veins. I clung to her, 
 enjoying her tender caresses, but scarcely speaking 
 a word, for at least Lisbeth understood what my 
 silence often meant and would not reproach me with 
 it. She did not ask me any questions. It seemed 
 that in an instant she comprehended everything, 
 for she carried me to my room and took off my 
 wrappings as if I had been a child and she my 
 mother. I could not help noticing the mother 
 touch in her strong, gentle hands, and the mother 
 tone in her voice. 
 
 " I will show you my children as soon as you 
 are rested," she said, " but you must rest first, 
 Gervase. Your husband's telegram did not pre- 
 pare me for seeing you look so changed." 
 
 I felt a sudden pulsation of the heart. 
 
 " My husband's telegram !" I said " did he 
 send one ?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " very early this morning, 
 to say that you were coming." 
 
 I answered not a word. Why had he done 
 this ? If we had loved each other, I should have 
 known that it was because he could not brook 
 the thought of my meeting even the momentary 
 
The Woman ivho Saved Me. 97 
 
 chill of an unexpected reception ; but now the 
 news only startled me. 
 
 But though she spoke no word, Lisbeth's eyes 
 lost nothing. I knew that she was searching me 
 even when she spoke of other things, and I knew 
 that she was searching me when, after she had 
 called her children into the room, she stood near 
 me in her royal mother pride, with her little one 
 in her fair, strong arms. 
 
 "This is Hugh's boy," she said, touching the 
 crumpled brown curls of her eldest. " Look up 
 Lawrence. See, Gervase Hugh's eyes." 
 
 They were magnificent children. Lisbeth's 
 perfect, healthful nature had dowered them, and 
 her unwarped, fearless soul shone out of their 
 childish eyes. A desolate aching filled my breast 
 as Lisbeth stood near me with them. Her life 
 was so full mine so empty. I had never loved 
 children very much had seen very 'little of them 
 and of my own baby I had seen nothing but 
 the poor little cold body I had for one moment 
 caught a glimpse of as Roger bent over it, shaken 
 with a man's terrible weeping. I thought of this 
 when I looked at Lisbeth's children, but no tears 
 came into my eyes* I was wondering vaguely if 
 
 G 
 
98 Natalie. 
 
 I were a wicked woman, and if my faded, empty 
 life were my punishment. I do not think I had 
 ever loved my baby, or wept for it Roger 
 had ceased to love me long before its birth, 
 and I had learned to know what a mistake I 
 had made. 
 
 But I lived again that day as I talked to Lis- 
 beth. We sat by the fire after tea she with her 
 child on her breast, and I on a lounging chair 
 near her, until the heavy fog had crept over the 
 sands and up into the little town; hiding even the 
 red lights. We had so much to say, and we were 
 alone together for the first time since we had 
 parted four years ago. Hugh was absent on 
 business, and the children had gone to bed, so we 
 went over the four years again but until the 
 close of the evening Lisbeth said nothing of my 
 husband. At length, after a silence, she lifted her 
 eyes from the fire and looked at me tenderly 
 searchingly sadly. 
 
 " And you are happy, Gervase ?" she said. I 
 could not answer her at first, but after a silent 
 struggle the words came. I could not tell a lie to 
 Lisbeth. 
 
 " Happy ! no, I am wretched." 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 99 
 
 She looked at me for a moment longer and 
 then spoke again. 
 
 " Gervase," she said, " if your little child had 
 lived " I broke in upon her, losing all self-con- 
 trol in a wild, sudden passion of uncontrollable 
 weeping. 
 
 " No no !" I cried out. " Better as it is far, 
 far better as it is." 
 
 She moved her seat nearer to me and drew my 
 head down upon her lap with that tender mother 
 touch. 
 
 " Gervase," she said softly, " you think you do 
 not love your husband." 
 
 How did she know ? for she seemed to under- 
 stand me in an instant. I cried out again in the 
 midst of my passionate sobs. 
 
 " I have never loved him," I said " he has 
 never loved me. It was a mistake it was all 
 wrong from first to last, and he is wretched too." 
 
 It was all told then the miserable secret that 
 had grown to its full strength in my own heart 
 alone. It was all told in one brief, rash speech 
 no, not quite all. The rest would be a secret for 
 ever, even from Lisbeth. 
 
 But I had wept myself into calmness at last, 
 
 G 2 
 
loo Natalie. 
 
 and we had been talking together again, though 
 with longer silence between our words than there 
 had been before, when in one of these silences I 
 heard the front door open, and felt a great rioting 
 rush of the boisterous sea wind, and there were 
 sounds of a man's footsteps in the hall, and a 
 man's voice flung out a scrap of song : 
 
 " I am come, its deeps are learned 
 Come, but there is naught to say : 
 Married eyes with mine have met, 
 Silence ! Oh ! I had my day, 
 Margaret, Margaret?" 
 
 I was trembling from head to foot. 
 
 " The rush of night wind has made you shiver," 
 Lisbeth said. 
 
 But I scarcely heard her. 
 
 " Who is it ?" I asked breathlessly, though I 
 knew so well 
 
 " It is Hugh's cousin," was her answer. " I 
 forgot to tell you. It is Ralph Gvvynne." 
 
 PART II. 
 
 I had been nearly a month at Bamborough, and 
 my health was improving slowly. As Dr. Bra- 
 naird had prophesied, Lisbeth had strengthened 
 my nerves. Her perfect health and spirits roused 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 101 
 
 me as nothing else would have done, and I found 
 myself growing stronger from their force of 
 example. It might be, too, that since I was 
 relieved from my husband's presence a pressure 
 was removed that had been too heavy for me. 
 But, though I was so much better, I was creeping 
 towards the goal of health very slowly, and it 
 seemed that a breath of renewed pain would 
 undo all. 
 
 " You do not gain color fast enough," Lisbeth 
 said to me one morning. " You do not get 
 enough of the sea-breeze. You must go out with 
 Ralph again to-day, Gervase." 
 
 I had often been out with Ralph. 
 
 He looked up first at Lisbeth and then at me. 
 
 " I am entirely at Mrs. Leith's service," he said, 
 ' and I think you are right, Lisbeth ; she needs 
 more air." I got up and walked to the window, 
 so that my back was turned to both of them, but 
 Ralph Gwynne followed me and looked out over 
 my shoulder. 
 
 Bamborough looked better than usual this 
 morning. An adventurous ghost of sunshine was 
 casting a clear bright light over the brown sands 
 and gray waves, and over the huts and boats 
 
IO2 Natalie. 
 
 and sturdy brown-legged children. It gave to 
 Bamborough in November a pretence of fresh ani- 
 mation that three times as much sunshine could 
 not have been able to give to London. So I care- 
 lessly remarked to Ralph Gwynne. 
 
 " Is it bright enough to tempt you out with 
 me ?" he said in a low voice. 
 
 He knew I was not strong enough to refuse. 
 He had not changed. He was the very Ralph 
 Gywnne who had led me, years before, into a 
 girlish romance that was like a dream of heaven, 
 and had only ended when Fate separated us, and 
 put between us and our untold love a whole world. 
 But now it was different. There was more than 
 a whole world between us ; there was the past, 
 the present, and the future. I at least had suffered 
 since we bade each other an indefinite farewell 
 I at least could not love as I had once loved. 
 Sometimes before the very thought of love my 
 whole nature rose up and battled fiercely. At 
 first I think that I was only indifferent ; but in 
 the end I fancied that this man understood me a 
 little, and sorrowed a little over the woman's 
 blunder I had made. 
 
 "Let us ask no questions of each other," he 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 103 
 
 had said to me once. " We have both suffered. 
 Let us trust each other/' 
 
 It was just what I needed. I should never 
 have told him what I felt, but I was not sorry 
 that one human soul understood the misery, the 
 dragging days held for me. So this morning as 
 we walked along the beach we were both silent. 
 It was our custom to be oftener silent than 
 inclined to speak. We both listened to the moan 
 of the breakers and watched the long line of foam 
 out at sea ; and at last both by one accord stopped 
 where a cluster of rocks sheltered us from the 
 wind. I sat down, but Ralph Gwynne remained 
 standing, with his back against a rock and his arms 
 folded. At length he spoke to me. 
 
 " It is three years to-day," he said, " since you 
 were married." 
 
 The sudden, hurried beating of my heart almost 
 suffocated me. I had forgotten until this moment, 
 and the rush of old memories overpowered me. I 
 remembered the very day just such a day as this, 
 with sunshine warming even the leaden November 
 sky, and whitening the piled edges of the clouds. 
 I had thought it bright then. I remembered too 
 how the day had closed in as I stood at the win- 
 
IO4 Natalie. 
 
 dovv of my new home with Roger's arms folded 
 about me and his heart beating against mine. I 
 could scarcely speak steadily, but I managed to do 
 so at length. 
 
 " So long ?" I said coldly ; " yes, I believe you 
 are right. Where were you ? How did you learn 
 it ?" 
 
 He did not look at me ; his eyes were fixed 
 steadily on the far-away white line of foam. 
 
 " I was in Calcutta," he answered. " The news 
 had been a long time on its way and reached me 
 on this very day the day that was to be your 
 wedding-day. I shall not forget it easily." 
 
 I dropped my glove, and as I stooped to pick 
 it up a sudden recollection flashed across my 
 brain. One day, three months after our marriage, 
 Roger had come home with a budget of news from 
 Calcutta, and among other things had referred to 
 the intense heat and the prevalence of sunstroke 
 among the foreign inhabitants. 
 
 "My informant is one of the travellers for 
 Amboyse & Derig," he said, " and he tells me 
 that the very day he left the day we were married, 
 Gervase one of the salesmen was struck down 
 with it He was talking to one of our clerks who 
 
The Woman who Saved Me, 105 
 
 had just arrived from England talking about our 
 wedding too, Hegblase says and he saw the young 
 fellow change color and stagger, and in a minute 
 more he fell like a shot. Gwynne his name 
 was, I believe Ralph Gwynne." 
 
 So one man had suffered for me at least one 
 man's love had not died a natural death in a few 
 brief months. 
 
 Ralph put his hand into his pocket and drew 
 forth a letter. 
 
 " This was handed to me last night," he said. 
 " It bears a London post-mark." 
 
 I did not offer to take it for a moment. I 
 knew he had searched me to the core, that he 
 had seen every fruitless pang and bitter humilia- 
 tion of the past two years. My letters to my 
 husband had been regularly sent, but his answers 
 had been few and far between, and my pride had 
 forced a fresh sting upon me even while I was 
 otherwise indifferent to the neglect. So I hesi- 
 tated now, and the next moment Ralph Gywnne 
 came to my side as if drawn there by an uncon- 
 trollable impulse. A gleam of light shot over 
 his dark face. 
 
 " You do not care to take it," he said. " The 
 
1 06 Natalie. 
 
 very sight of it is a new torture. Let me throw 
 it into the sea, Gervase." 
 
 His vehemence actually startled me into self- 
 control. " That would be a new reading of old 
 laws," I said. " No, give it to me." 
 
 He submitted without a word. But I did not 
 read the letter. It had come too late for perusal, 
 I said to myself. So I held it in my hand care- 
 lessly, making a show of an ease I could not 
 feel. 
 
 It was in my hand when we returned, and I 
 sat down before the fire in Lisbeth's room. The 
 sea breeze had done me no good this morning. I 
 was tired and worn out, and drooping into a 
 chair before I removed my wrappings, sat silent, 
 resting my chin upon my hand, and holding the 
 letter loosely. 
 
 Lisbeth came in to find me sitting thus, and, at 
 her first glance at me, I saw a strange shadow 
 cross her face. 
 
 " Tired, Gervase ?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes," I answered briefly. 
 
 She crossed the room to the fire and knelt 
 down, on pretence of brightening the hearth a 
 little with the brush she held in her hand. The 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 107 
 
 next minute she turned her fair, gracious face full 
 upon me. 
 
 " And you have not read your husband's letter ?" 
 she said. " Why, Gervase ?" 
 
 " Because I am not going to read it," I replied, 
 and then, ruled by some sudden wretched impulse, 
 I flung it into the fire. 
 
 But Lisbeth said nothing. I wondered at the 
 time whether it was possible for her calm, healthful 
 nature to comprehend the morbid misery that 
 possessed me. I fancied not. The broad, even 
 current of her life's affection had swept on undis- 
 turbed, bearing on its smooth surface many 
 flowers. She could not understand me and my 
 weak miseries and weaker regrets. 
 
 I hid my face in my hands when she left the 
 room, and abandoned myself to thought. I could 
 not explain why it was that during this month at 
 Bamborough I had scarcely once thought of 
 returning to London and my husband. If ever 
 my mind had recurred to the thought, I had 
 shrunk from it with a misery almost intense. I 
 felt that I could not go back now unless, as I had 
 hoped, in a coffin, shut out forever from his sight 
 
 As I sat by the fire I was wondering vaguely 
 
io8 Natalie. 
 
 how he would meet me if treated thus whether 
 he would be touched for a moment with some 
 remembrance of those first days of our marriage, 
 when we had at least fancied we loved each other. 
 
 Two hot tears falling upon my hand startled me 
 from my reverie just in time to hear Lisbeth 
 coming down stairs with her child in her arms, 
 and singing to it softly. Should we have loved 
 each other better Roger and I if my baby had 
 not died, I asked myself with a pang. 
 
 Lisbeth came in and sat down near me again, 
 still singing softly, still holding her baby upon her 
 shoulder as she rocked her chair. O how I envied 
 her her strength and happiness ! She was so 
 strong and happy ; her handsome baby was so 
 light a burden in her arms ; her quietly busy ways 
 so womanly gracious. I looked at her lovely, 
 clear-browed face, and at the coronel of thick, 
 light-brown braids across her stately head ; I 
 looked at her peaceful eyes, and the soft mouth 
 that seemed made for children's kisses, and, remem- 
 bering her girlhood, gave the palm to the beauty 
 of her mother life. 
 
 Her calm, radiant face struck me to the heart's 
 core. Often during the last year I had told myself 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 109 
 
 that I was only one of the many, that my mistake 
 was only the mistake all women suffer from 
 the mistake of hoping for a happiness the 
 world cannot hold. But Lisbeth broke down 
 my theory. 
 
 I did not write to London again. The corre- 
 spondence had only been a matter of courtesy at 
 first, and a shadow of neglect could end it. 
 
 Ralph G wynne did not go away, as Lisbeth 
 had told me he intended doing. He had changed 
 his mind, he said. Bamborough agreed with him, 
 and the India house had prolonged his furlough 
 in consideration of his past services and present 
 ill-health. He did not look ill, I thought, and I 
 told him so. But he stayed at Bamborough from 
 day to day, and the longer he stayed the more 
 strongly his old power reasserted itself. Not that 
 I loved him. I was past that. Love could not 
 come back to me, but I had loved him once with 
 all the fervor of a girl's romance, and at least he 
 loved me, and had not forgotten the past. One 
 tithe of such love as he poured at my feet, in 
 actions that were unspoken words, might have 
 won me back to my husband and peace, 
 
 I did not repulse him. The listless wretched* 
 
no Natalie. 
 
 ness that ruled me would have prevented that, 
 even if there had not been a faint fascination in 
 the miserable aggrandizement of feeling that at 
 least one man had been true to me, and was true 
 to me yet. I used sometimes to wonder that 
 Lisbeth never guessed at the truth. She rarely 
 spoke to me of my husband never of Ralph 
 Gwynne and yet I was always conscious of a 
 restraining influence in her simple presence. A 
 glance from her would check my recklessness. 
 She held me back by a thread when nothing else 
 on earth could have controlled me. 
 
 And so the days drifted by, and I strolled upon 
 the sands with my old lover, and sat in the shelter 
 of the rocks with him, and let him say what he 
 would, scarcely listening, as I watched the waves 
 and the incoming and outgoing boats and dipping 
 sea-gulls. 
 
 After my husband's letters ceased coming I did 
 not grow better, even slowly. I grew nervous 
 and restless even more nervous and restless than 
 I had been in London. The old red spot came 
 back upon each cheek, I did not sleep well, and 
 when night came on I often spent hours at my 
 window watching the driving clouds, and listening 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. \ 1 1 
 
 to the chanting of the fishermen in the late- 
 returning Bamborough boat. 
 
 I was sitting thus one night when I heard a 
 low knock at my door, and opened it to find 
 Lisbeth standing there, shawl-wrapped, and with- 
 out a light. 
 
 " May I come in, Gervase ?" she asked. 
 
 I opened the door wider that she might pass. 
 
 " Of course," I said ; " you know that. What 
 is it, Lisbeth ?" 
 
 " It is nothing," she answered " only that I 
 heard you moving, and thought I would come and 
 sit with you. Hugh is out." 
 
 We both went back to the window, and she 
 knelt down in a girlish fashion of hers, resting an 
 arm upon the window-ledge, and turning her fair 
 face up to the night sky and the starlight. 
 
 " I hope you are wrapped up well, Gervase," she 
 said after a while. 
 
 " I am quite warm enough, thank you." 
 
 " You must take care of yourself, you know," 
 she said in her sweet, even voice, " for your hus- 
 band's sake." 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 " For my husband's sake," I said, " yes.'* 
 
m Natalie. 
 
 " When he wrote to me last," she began, taking 
 no notice of my words. 
 
 I started a little. 
 
 " When he wrote to you !" I exclaimed. " When 
 did he write to you ?" 
 
 " Yesterday," she said ; " last week, the week 
 before every week since you have been here. 
 He was afraid you would not speak quite freely of 
 your wants, and he was anxious to hear all about 
 your illness, and to be quite sure that no wish was 
 left ungratified." 
 
 I leaned back in my chair and held to the 
 cushioned arms for support. My breath was 
 coming quickly and a sudden heat had flashed to 
 my face. I could not understand this, but a 
 strange feeling of joy took possession of me - 
 though I told myself that I did not love this man 
 and had never loved him. 
 
 " Your illness has been a great anxiety to him, 
 Gervase," Lisbeth went on still, with her face 
 turned upward in the twilight "and it has 
 troubled him more since you came here. He has 
 felt your absence deeply." 
 
 I did not speak in answer, but I was weak 
 woman enough to feel another thrill of mingled 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 113 
 
 pain and pleasure. Lost as the past irrevocably 
 was, it had yet a strong power over me. As there 
 never was a husband colder than mine, so there 
 had never been a bridegroom more impassioned in 
 affection ; and, even in this winter of indifference, 
 I could remember days in the dead summer when 
 his untiring love had wakened me to a happiness 
 almost divine, ephemeral as it had proved. 
 Glancing at Lisbeth, the thought struck me that 
 under her quiet speeches and quiet manner there 
 lay a deeper thought for me than I had fancied, 
 and then there flashed across my mind a remem- 
 brance of times when she had silently stood 
 between me and the man who was my evil genius. 
 At this moment I recognized the man's power 
 for evil over me as I had never done before, and 
 a curious sense of repugnance came upon me with 
 my recollection of something I had sometimes 
 seen sleeping in his quiet persistence. I could 
 not understand the influence that stung me to 
 anger and roused my pride, but I never failed to 
 succumb to it, nevertheless, and it invariably 
 roused me to some fresh rashness of speech or 
 action. But though I said little to Lisbeth, the 
 pang of remembrance softened my heart, and 
 
 H 
 
H4 Natalie. 
 
 before she left me I had made up my mind to write 
 a few words to my husband, at least ; and when 
 she was gone I drew my desk towards me and 
 wrote them only a few words. 
 
 " Your wife, Gervase." 
 
 I had not ended a letter thus for two years, and 
 I hesitated a moment before I wrote the signa- 
 ture. But despite the lingering of pen over 
 paper they were written at last, and as I looked 
 at them I felt the warm blood beat into my 
 cheeks, and my head drooped upon my clasped 
 hands. Should I send them or not ? I thought 
 of Ralph Gwynne, and of what I had suffered, 
 and my letter's fate was almost sealed. But even 
 as I paused, a soft little cry from Lisbeth's room 
 broke upon my ear. It was hushed the next 
 moment, but the tiny voice had turned the scale. 
 
 I put the letter into its envelope, and sealed it 
 with a new resolution. I would try to retrieve 
 something of the past, at least. I would do no 
 new wrong. I would cherish no bitterness against 
 my dead child's father. If I could not be happy 
 I would endeavor to be patient. It might not be 
 for long it could not be for long, I knew. 
 
 " I will give it to Ralph Gwynne to post in the 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 1 1 5 
 
 morning," I said aloud " it will show him 
 that " 
 
 I did not finish my sentence, because I dared 
 not, even in the silence of my room. Even to 
 the readers of this record I have not told all that 
 my reckless misery drove me to. I could not 
 justify my weakness, and otherwise had better be 
 silent. 
 
 The sun was shining bright and warm into the 
 breakfast-room when I went down with my letter 
 in the morning, and the salt sea wind blew fresh 
 through the open window up from the beach. As 
 I had lain awake in the night a change seemed to 
 have come over me, and under its influence I for- 
 got the dull November days and pitiless November 
 skies in this one rare chance of morning warmth 
 and sunlight. 
 
 Ralph Gwynne was alone in the room, his 
 stubborn persistency showing itself as it always 
 did in his waiting for my coming. 
 
 I went to him at once, holding my letter in my 
 hand. 
 
 " I have a letter here I am anxious shall reach 
 London to-night," I said, looking straight into his 
 face, " I thought I would give it into your 
 H 2 
 
ii6 Natalie. 
 
 charge at once, as you generally go into Barn- 
 borough earlier than any once else. Will you 
 post it for me ?" 
 
 He held out his hand and took it from me, 
 slipping it into his vest pocket with scarcely a 
 glance, but I knew that he had seen the super- 
 scription by the instantaneous change in his face. 
 It was a very slight change, almost an imper- 
 ceptible one in fact, but I saw it notwithstanding 
 and caught its meaning. 
 
 " I envy your husband," he had said to me once 
 " I pity him I hate him." 
 
 And just at the moment this abrupt, passionate 
 speech, which was only one of many such, was 
 embodied in the faint change that passed over his 
 dark face, as he leaned upon the window ledge 
 and looked out calmly enough at the fishermen 
 working upon the beach. 
 
 He did not even refer to the letter in the 
 commonplace conversation we drifted into. The 
 momentary shadow left him so entirely that I 
 found myself wondering if he had altogether for- 
 gotten it. But though he did not refer to the 
 letter, before Lisbeth came in he spoke of my 
 husband. 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 117 
 
 "I did not know," he said, after an interval of 
 silence "until yesterday I did not know that 
 your husband had ever visited Bamborough." 
 
 The words were so unexpected that I glanced 
 up quickly to see what they might signify, but to 
 judge from his careless, averted face, they might 
 have held no significance at all. 
 
 "I did not know," I said coldly, "that my 
 husband had visited Bamborough at all. If he 
 has been here I have been kept in ignorance of 
 the fact." 
 
 " He has been here," he said indifferently, 
 "often." 
 
 I did not make any reply. I knew well enough 
 that he intended to force me to questioning him, 
 but I was not in the mood to question, and so was 
 silent. If my husband had been to Bamborough 
 in secret, whatever his motive might be, he had 
 hidden it from me, and the mystery was only a 
 new thread in the web of his distrust, so it might 
 pass. It was only a fresh sting, but I felt it at the 
 time all the more deeply because of my last night's 
 resolve and the three words with which I had 
 ended my letter. I made no comment, I did not 
 even speak of it to Lisbeth when she came. I 
 
1 1 8 Natalie. 
 
 buried it in my own heart, as I was prone to bury 
 my miseries. 
 
 When breakfast was over I wandered out on 
 the beach alone. I did not often walk alone, but 
 this morning even Lisbeth herself would have been 
 unwelcome. 
 
 Down upon the sands where the rocks clustered 
 together, and where the boats oftenest came up 
 to the little cove, was my favorite resting-place, 
 and there I took my seat as usual upon a large 
 flat stone. The brawny fishermen knew me, and 
 the bare-legged, shouting children knew me too, 
 and, as I sat there, there were few who passed me 
 without a good-natured greeting. I had amused 
 myself with watching them often, but they did 
 not amuse me now. I was dull and wretched 
 again. It was a trivial thing to be wretched 
 about, this slight concealment, which might have 
 had no motive, but it had dampened my spirit 
 and made me indifferent and miserable once more. 
 The brown, bare-legged fishermen passed to and 
 fro, mending their nets in the sun, and wading in 
 and out of the water, but I scarcely saw them ; 
 the children shouted and chased each other like 
 happy, uncouth young savages, but I did not 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 1 1 9 
 
 notice their play. I saw nothing but the sea and 
 sky, and a boat whose tiny sail seemed growing 
 larger as it n eared the shore, until a shadow fell 
 before me, and I glanced up half impatiently and 
 saw Ralph Gwynne. He took a seat at my side, 
 and then spoke to me carelessly. 
 
 " I thought I should find you here," he said. 
 
 " You did not go to Bamborough, then," was 
 my cold comment. 
 
 " No," hesitatingly and slowly ; " I thought I 
 would see you first" 
 
 I looked out at the boat again absently ; it 
 was coming nearer to the lai i, and I felt a faint 
 sort of interest in it, because I saw a woman at 
 the prow, and the woman had a child thrown over 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "Why?" I asked. 
 
 He did not answer me at first, but turned on 
 his elbow and spoke to one of the net-mending 
 fishermen who sat not far from us. 
 
 " Who is coming in, Gunnle ?" he asked ; 
 " your women don't fish, do they ?" 
 
 The man touched his hat good-naturedly. 
 
 " Some on 'em does," he said ; " this un doent 
 though, this un 'ats comin in. She's bin o'er to 
 
1 20 Natalie. 
 
 Bambro' fur work. It's Janey Janey an th' 
 child, little Roger." 
 
 I moved impatiently, though I scarcely knew 
 why. The boat was almost upon the beach, and 
 the next minute the man who was in it jumped 
 out and waded up, dragging it in by its chain with 
 a great splash of the sea water, and then the 
 woman turned her head, and as she got up I saw 
 her distinctly. She was a handsome young crea- 
 ture, tall and straight and shapely, and very unlike 
 the rest of the Bamborough women, with her long 
 violet eyes, and thick curling red brown hair. 
 
 " Look at her, Gervase," Ralph Gwynne whis- 
 pered, " and look at the child." 
 
 He had no need to tell me to do so, for I was 
 looking at them both. There was a certain proud, 
 steadfast sadness which attracted my attention in 
 the girl's face, and I could not help noticing that 
 she did not look at any of the bystanders when 
 she replied to their friendly greetings. But as she 
 passed the place where I sat my eye caught hers, 
 perhaps because I had looked at her so steadily, 
 and I observed that the instant she saw me a hot 
 deep color ran up to her forehead, and she walked 
 on hurriedly, holding her child more tightly. 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 121 
 
 As soon as she was gone Ralph Gwynne turned 
 again to the old fisherman, and spoke to him just 
 as he had spoken before. 
 
 "She's a handsome creature," he said, " and the 
 child is handsome too. Who is her husband ?" \ 
 
 The old fellow glanced up at me. 
 
 "Savin' the lady's presence," he said in a low 
 voice, " she haint got none Janey haint. We're 
 all sorry for her here. There haint one of us but 
 is sorry for Janey. She never was a bad 'un, but 
 she was handsome an' unfortnit, and she's seen a 
 sight o' trouble. She doent say much to none on 
 us, because she doent like to face us, but she knows 
 we feel friendly to'rds her, Janey does, and she 
 knows we feel friendly to'rds little Roger." 
 
 " Roger ?" I broke out abruptly, scarcely know- 
 ing what I said. 
 
 The old man looked up at me, rubbing his 
 weather-beaten forehead as if I puzzled him by 
 my vehemence. 
 
 " Yes'm," he said, " his name it's Roger Leith, 
 and its named fur " 
 
 I did not stop to hear the rest. For a moment 
 the whole horrible truth flashed upon me, and I 
 staggered to my feet blindly, clinging to Ralph 
 
122 Natalie. 
 
 Gwynne, who had risen too. " Come away," I 
 said ; " take me away somewhere farther down 
 the beach anywhere out of sight." 
 
 He did not speak to me, nor I to him, until he 
 had half carried, half dragged me to the very 
 rock shelter where we had sat the day he handed 
 me my husband's letter, and there I dropped 
 upon the sands, hiding my wretched face in my 
 hands. 
 
 " Tell me the truth," I panted ; " tell me You 
 knew this ! " 
 
 He looked down at me with some vague pity in 
 his eyes, and though I knew that he would have 
 forged a lie to suit his purpose, I knew that this 
 was no lie, and that he believed it even more 
 steadfastly than I did. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I knew it." 
 
 " And came to prove it to me ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 I knew then what I had never known before. 
 I knew that even in my misery I had mocked 
 myself with a delusion. I knew that I had never 
 loved this man, even as I fancied I did, through 
 the contrast of his warmth with my husband's 
 coldness ; I knew that through all I had been 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 123 
 
 Weaker than the weakest of women, for I had 
 loved my husband, and I loved him still. 
 
 I broke into a low, wretched, hysterical laugh. 
 
 " You might have spared me this much," I said. 
 " If my ignorance was not bliss, it was folly to be 
 wiser than I was to know more of my humilia- 
 tion than I did." 
 
 " It would have been folly to let you add to the 
 humiliation by relenting towards the man who has 
 trampled you in the dust," he said passionately. 
 " I swore that you should not send this letter 
 am I to keep my oath ?" 
 
 I held out my hand for it. 
 
 " No !" I cried out sharply, " give it to me." 
 
 He handed it to me, and as I touched it the 
 remembrance of what it contained, and how I had 
 been duped, rushed upon me with the force of a 
 whirlwind. I tore it into a hundred pieces, and 
 scattered it on the sand. 
 
 " There," I said, " it is gone for ever." 
 
 He came and bent over me, a little later, as I 
 sat with my face buried in my hands, and he 
 touched my shoulder, for I did not look up at 
 him. 
 
 " And you will listen to me, Gervase !" he said. 
 
124 Natalie. 
 
 I shook his hand off quickly, for his touch 
 angered me but I had made up my mind. 
 
 " Yes," I answered him, " I will listen." 
 # # * 4t # 
 
 I sat crouched before my window, feeling cold 
 and sick and weak, but still with my mind full of 
 my desperate resolve. I had written my farewell 
 letter to my husband, and it lay upon the table. 
 I had written my farewell letter to Lisbeth, and 
 told her all, in the faint hope that Lisbeth would 
 believe what no one else on earth would believe 
 in the faint hope that Lisbeth would believe 
 my solemn word, when I told her that even at the 
 worst I should not be so utterly lost as the world 
 would deem me. I had laid my things all back 
 into my trunks, even to the merest trifle. The very 
 dress I wore was one I had myself purchased. I 
 had not retained in my possession a single thing 
 my husband had ever given to me not even the 
 sapphire ring that had been the pledge of our 
 betrothal. And now that all my preparations 
 were made, I was waiting at my opened window 
 for the signal that was to come to me from the 
 beach below. I had thrown myself adrift on the 
 broad ocean of chance, and the waves might fling 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 1 2 5 
 
 me upon what shore they would, for the momentary 
 passion of misery had settled into passive despair. 
 "When women lose all, as I am doing," I had 
 said to Ralph Gwynne that night, " they generally 
 have something at stake, some love or hope, but I 
 have none ; I had risked all I had to risk, and lost 
 all I had to lose. You are clinging to a mad hope 
 if you think to win me even in the course of time. 
 I tell you I shall never love you. I will leave 
 England with you, not because I love you, but 
 because I love my husband and cannot bear to 
 see his face again. I will be honest with you. I 
 take all to give nothing. If you love me enough 
 to help me, well and good ; if not, leave me here 
 and I will go out into the world alone." 
 
 And he had held to his purpose and agreed. Of 
 course he did not believe me strong enough to 
 battle against his stubborn persistence, and of 
 course he was false in professing to be honest ; 
 but I knew my own steady strength of obstinate 
 endurance, and he did not. And here, in the dim 
 moonlight that streamed through the curtain of 
 sea fog into my window, I was waiting for his 
 signal, and Lisbeth was sleeping in the next room 
 with her baby on her breast and her little children 
 
126 Natalie. 
 
 near her. I thought of the abasement I had seen 
 in the handsome girl-face a few hours before, and 
 I thought of the child who had looked at me over 
 his mother's shoulder in his fearless baby way. 
 
 " Roger's baby Roger's ! " 
 
 I hid my face in my hands, stifling the low cry 
 that burst from me. I remembered the one 
 moment, on the night of my baby's birth, when 
 the delirious mists had cleared away from my 
 brain, and I had seen my husband bending over 
 the tiny form that lay upon the white pillow. 
 
 " If my baby had lived," I said aloud, " if my 
 baby had lived, I might have been like Lisbeth." 
 
 I got up after this and walked across the floor 
 and back again a dozen times. I was wondering 
 what he would say when Lisbeth gave him the 
 letter, and whether there would be a shadow of 
 self-reproach in his memory of the past. I did 
 not ask myself how my life was to be spent. I 
 had a vague feeling that it could not last long, 
 but I asked myself a hundred times how my hus- 
 band would spend his. He would not mourn for 
 me, I told myself, and some better woman might 
 make him happy ; but even in this my worst and 
 most reckless mood, my heart cried out aloud at 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 127 
 
 the thought. I had ceased pacing the floor and 
 gone back to the window again. I had even 
 waited in the chill moonlight an hour when the 
 signal came, and I rose with a fierce pulsation of 
 the heart to obey its summons. I took up my 
 shawl from the bed and folded it around me; I 
 went to the table where my husband's letter lay, 
 and I bent over and kissed it my last farewell. 
 I caught a glimpse of my face in the glass as I 
 did so, and saw that there was a great hollow 
 purple ring about my eyes, and a deathly pallor on 
 my cheeks. I laid my husband's letter back and 
 crossed the room to the door ; as I laid my hand 
 upon the key I heard a light footstep in the cor- 
 ridors, and as I turned the handle and stepped 
 out I started backward with a low cry, for I stood 
 face to face with Lisbeth. 
 
 We looked at each other breathlessly for an 
 instant in dead silence I at her with a wild 
 intense, unreasonable longing for some hope that 
 might rescue me even at this late hour she 
 at me with nothing in her tender, dilated 
 eyes but pity and wonder and love. Then she . 
 broke the strange stillness in a hurried, terrified 
 voice. 
 
128 Natalie. 
 
 " Gervase," she said, " Gervase, what does this 
 mean ?" 
 
 I met her gaze steadily. I do not think I was 
 in my right senses. 
 
 " I am going away," I said, and my voice 
 sounded strange and unnatural even to myself. 
 
 Another moment and she caught me in her 
 arms as if I had been a child, and so drew me 
 into the room and closed the door. 
 
 Her face was white as death. She was woman 
 enough to read at a glance how matters stood, 
 but her purely healthful nature could not at once 
 comprehend a recklessness so desperate. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" she demanded " I 
 cannot believe where are you going ?" 
 
 I answered her as steadily as before. 
 
 " I am going away," I said, " where I do not 
 know I do not even care. I am going away 
 from England with Ralph Gwynne. I am going 
 away with him that I may be lost to my husband 
 for ever. You think I am a wicked woman, 
 Lisbeth, and so I am, but God has laid his hand 
 upon me, and I am under a curse." 
 
 She gazed at me as if she believed I had gone 
 mad indeed. 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 129 
 
 " You are going away ?" she cried out " You ! 
 Gervase ! Gervase !" 
 
 Nothing more ; but the fullness of divine pity 
 and passionate appeal in her voice, in her face, 
 even in her clasped hands, overpowered me. I 
 sank into a chair, holding to its arms to steady 
 myself. 
 
 " Lisbeth," I said, feeling as though I had 
 turned to ice, " I saw a woman upon the beach 
 to-day a woman with a little child in her arms 
 and the child's name is Roger Leith. You cannot 
 save me, Lisbeth let me go." 
 
 She caught me in her arms and held me. She 
 thought that I was dying I thought I was, 
 myself, and it was only the sudden flush of com- 
 prehension in her face that helped me to retain 
 my consciousness. 
 
 "Who told you that the child's name was 
 Roger Leith ?" she cried out " Who could be so 
 cruel as to lead you astray with that ? My poor 
 Gervase, tell me ! " 
 
 I rested my face upon her bosom, panting for 
 breath in the darkness. 
 
 " It is true," I gasped ; " Ralph Gwynne was 
 with me and he knew. One of the fishermen 
 
 I 
 
1 30 Natalie. 
 
 upon the beach told us the child's name and its 
 mother's history." 
 
 " Listen," she said, and her voice rang out like 
 a command, " listen to me. Some one has told 
 you a lie. / can tell you the girl's history no 
 one knows it better than I, Gervase, as no one 
 knows better that the truth should prove to you 
 the wrong you have done your husband. It was 
 not through him that this girl was lost it was 
 through him that she was saved. He found her 
 in London, wandering in the streets with her child 
 in her arms, and he saved her from despair and 
 death. He brought her here back to her home 
 and helped her in her wretchedness so mercifully 
 that she prayed from him upon her knees that her 
 child might bear his name, since it could claim no 
 other. He has guarded her ever since ; he has 
 saved two human souls one for the sake of the 
 little child who died, Gervase his little child and 
 yours." 
 
 In an instant it flashed upon me that I had 
 not waited to hear the end of the fisherman's 
 explanation. And he would doubtless have 
 cleared away my misery with the next word, 
 lor they must all know the story, even the 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 131 
 
 roughest of them the story of my husband's 
 generous deed. And then the thought that I 
 had not been deemed worthy to hear it struck 
 me to the heart. 
 
 " I did not dream of this," I said ; " how 
 could I ? he has told me nothing. He has 
 never loved me even well enough to trust me 
 so far." 
 
 " He has loved you always," Lisbeth said, 
 " though you have both been wrong ; he has loved 
 you better than you have loved him, and he has 
 been wretched through your distrust and coldness. 
 It was his despair that made him seek me when 
 he brought Janey to Bamborough. He knew 
 that you had loved me, and so came to me for 
 comfort and help. And you would go away 
 you, with the past all unredeemed, and your hus- 
 band's love unsought, you, with your little child's 
 white soul to hold you to purity and faith ! Ger- 
 vase ! Gervase !" 
 
 There was a moment's silence in which I 
 crouched shuddering in my chair, my face buried 
 in my hands ! And then there came beneath the 
 window the sound of a man's footsteps, and the 
 sound of a man speaking in a low voice. His 
 I 2 
 
132 Natalie. 
 
 words might have been an echo of Lisbeth's but 
 that the one voice was the voice of the tempter, 
 and the other the voice of the rescuer. 
 
 " Gervase ! Gervase !" 
 
 It was Ralph Gwynne. 
 
 My strength was ebbing away fast. I could 
 not have spoken to him if I would ; but Lisbeth 
 rose and went to the window, as calm in her 
 womanly strength of purity as ever she had been 
 in her calm woman's life. 
 
 " Ralph ! " she said, her grave, pure-toned 
 voice dropping upon the still night air like 
 the voice of a spirit, " Ralph, Gervase is here 
 with me? 
 
 He did not reply, and not another word was 
 uttered between them. She came back to me as 
 his footsteps died away in the distance, and found 
 me shivering from head to foot, yet burning with 
 sudden fever. 
 
 "Better to have let me go, Lisbeth," I said 
 weakly, " better to have let me go away and die, 
 for I should have died, Lisbeth I am dying 
 now." And as she caught me in her arms 
 again the dark room seemed to blaze up into 
 sudden light and then fade out, and as the shadows 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. i 
 
 oo 
 
 closed around me I felt that the end of life 
 
 had come. 
 
 * # # # # 
 
 Weeks of interminable wanderings in some 
 mysterious, barren land of misery, weeks of inter- 
 minable watching hideous panoramas that seemed 
 to pass and repass and pass again, weeks, nay, it 
 appeared ages, of suffering through old wrongs, and 
 loves and hates, and weeks of waiting restlessly 
 with frantic impatience for something which never 
 came and never would come for some stopping- 
 place or shutting out of the crowding faces I did not 
 know and was constantly scanning and striving 
 to remember weeks of such suffering, with 
 now and then a blank or a dim sense of struggling 
 consciousness, and then one day a long blank 
 ended by my opening my eyes heavily, and 
 dimly seeing Lisbeth bending over the bed upon 
 which I lay. 
 
 I did not speak to her I could not. My 
 weakness was so great, my power over my languid 
 limbs so utterly lost, that I gazed up at her with- 
 out even trying to address her, only thinking half 
 unconsciously of stones I had heard of people who 
 had fallen into trances and retained the spirit of 
 
134 Natalie-* 
 
 life without the power of motion. Was I in such 
 a trance ? No, for Lisbeth was speaking to me 
 and I could hear her quite distinctly, though 
 I could not reply. 
 
 " You must not try to speak, Gervase," she was 
 saying " you must not try to think, even. You 
 are getting better and you must sleep." 
 
 I heard her first words plainly enough, but as 
 she ended her voice seemed to die away into the 
 distance, and as my eyes drooped she was lost to 
 me. 
 
 This was my first awakening after the night I 
 had fallen into her arms, and after this first 
 awakening there were no more of the interminable 
 wanderings, though I seldom was strong enough 
 to open my eyes. But as I lay there with my eyes 
 shut I grew strong enough in a day or two to 
 listen to the hushed voices of the people who were 
 in my room, and in the end to distinguish them 
 one from another. I heard Lisbeth's voice often, 
 calm and low and sweet. I heard Hugh's soft- 
 ened until it was like a woman's. I heard a 
 voice I knew to be the doctor's. I heard other 
 voices strange to me, but first of all and before all 
 I heard my husband's. I did not hear it once or 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 135 
 
 twice, or at stated intervals : day and night with- 
 out an hour of absence. I felt Lisbeth's touch 
 often : I felt Hugh's. I felt hands that were 
 kindly and tender enough, but there was one hand 
 that never touched me without drawing me farther 
 from the grave and nearer to life, and this hand 
 was my husband's. 
 
 And at length I found myself awake again, 
 far into the night, and this time my eyes fell first 
 upon my husband seated at my bedside, and when 
 I made an effort to speak I found strength enough 
 to utter a single word : 
 
 " Lisbeth." 
 
 He brought her to my side with a gesture, and 
 as he turned towards the light his haggard face 
 was a wonder to me ; but I had only power, when 
 Lisbeth bent over me, to say to her one thing, in 
 a whisper so weak that I scarcely could hear it 
 myself. 
 
 " If I live," I said, "he must know. If I die, 
 it cannot matter. Let him love me if he 
 will." 
 
 The weak tears began to roll down my cheeks, 
 and I could not stop their flow, and I saw that 
 Lisbeth's tears were falling too. 
 
136 Natalie. 
 
 " You will not die," she said ; " you will live to 
 retrieve the past. He knows all he read your 
 letter. Roger, speak to her." 
 
 He laid his haggard face near mine upon the 
 pillow, and the old glow of our bridal days was in 
 his eyes. 
 
 " You shall not die," he said, " you cannot die 
 you are mine I love you. I have followed you 
 down to the valley of death, and brought you 
 back, and I claim you, as God is merciful. I 
 have loved you through all our misery, but I was 
 not fit to understand your woman's heart. The 
 blame was mine, not yours. God forgive me for 
 the wrong I did your tenderness. You love me 
 yes, you love me. You must love me you 
 cannot help it. Do not try to speak. This shall 
 be my first sacrifice, that I will deny myself the 
 bliss of hearing your voice, since to speak might 
 fatigue you. Do not try to speak, but if you 
 love me and would give me hope, lay your hand 
 upon my cheek." 
 
 Not a word of the wrong I had done, not a 
 word of the misery I had wrought for him. not a 
 word of distrust or reproach : I had come up 
 from the grave, and the gates of Heaven seemed 
 
The Woman who Saved Me. 137 
 
 opening to me. I tried to speak, but could not, 
 for my soul was full and overflowing with the pas- 
 sion of a joy too divine for human words to 
 express. But I found strength at last to move, 
 and stirring a little in the very faintness of happi- 
 ness, I laid my hand upon my husband's cheek, 
 my head upon his arm, and so was clasped to his 
 breast. 
 
 He loved me he had loved me always, though 
 he had tortured himself with the belief that my 
 love for him had died. He was unlike most men 
 as I was unlike most women ; he could not speak 
 in common words of what lay so deeply locked 
 in his heart. But, tortured as he was, he had 
 hoped as I never hoped. He had come to Lis- 
 beth for comfort because she loved me, and she 
 had given it to him. Lisbeth knew what I did 
 not know myself, that it was my distrust and love 
 that was wearing my life away, and in her silent 
 woman fashion she watched and restrained me 
 when I was unconscious of her power. 
 
 I did not see Ralph Gwynne again until three 
 happy years had passed, and, in passing, had made 
 my life like Lisbeth's. Then, as I stood one 
 night in the brightly-lighted hall of our home, 
 
138 
 
 Natalie, 
 
 holding my child in my strong arms, as I greeted 
 my husband a man passed by upon the pavement 
 and looked in at me. As the light from the hall 
 lamp fell upon his face I saw it was Ralph 
 Gwynne, and that he knew me. 
 
SURLY TIM'S TROUBLE:' 
 
 A LANCASHIRE STORY. 
 
 ORRY to hear my fellow-workmen speak 
 so disparagin' o' me ? Well, Mester, that's 
 as it may be, yo know. Happen my fellow- 
 workmen ha made a bit o' a mistake happen 
 what seems loike crustiness to them beant so much 
 crustiness as summut else happen I mought do 
 my bit o' complainin' too. Yo munnot trust aw 
 yo hear, Mester ; that's aw I can say." 
 
 I looked at the man's bent face quite curiously, 
 and, judging from its rather heavy but still not 
 unprepossessing outline, I could not really call it 
 a bad face, or even a sulky one. And yet both 
 managers and hands had given me a bad account 
 of Tim Hibblethwaite. " Surly Tim" they called 
 him, and each had something to say about his 
 sullen disposition to silence, and his short answers. 
 Not that he was accused of anything like misde- 
 
140 Natalie. 
 
 meaner, but he was " glum loike," the factory 
 people said, and " a surly fellow well deserving his 
 name," as the master of his room had told me. 
 
 I had come to Lancashire to take the control 
 of my father's spinning factory a short time before, 
 and, being anxious to do my best toward the 
 hands, I often talked to one and another in a 
 friendly way, so that I could the better under- 
 stand their grievances and remedy them with 
 justice to all parties concerned. So, in conversing 
 with men, women, and children, I gradually found 
 out that Tim Hibblethwaite was in bad odor, and 
 that he held himself doggedly aloof from all ; 
 and this was how, in the course of time, I came to 
 speak to him about the matter, and the opening 
 words of my story are the words of his answer. 
 But they did not satisfy me by any means. I 
 wanted to do the man justice myself, and see that 
 justice was done to him by others ; and then again 
 when, after my curious look at him, he lifted his 
 head from his work and drew the back of his hand 
 across his warm face, I noticed that he gave his 
 eyes a brush, and, glancing at him once more, I 
 recognized the presence of a queer moisture in 
 them. 
 
Surly Tim's Trouble. 141 
 
 In my anxiety to conceal that I had noticed 
 anything unusual, I am afraid I spoke to him 
 quite hurriedly. I was a young man then, and 
 by no means as self-possessed as I ought to have 
 been. 
 
 " I hope you won't misunderstand me, Hibble- 
 thwaite," I said ; " I don't mean to complain 
 indeed, I have nothing to complain of, for Foxley 
 tells me you are the steadiest and most orderly 
 hand he has under him ; but the fact is I should 
 like to make friends with you all, and see that no 
 one is treated badly. And somehow or other I 
 found out that you were not disposed to feel 
 friendly towards the rest, and I was sorry for it. 
 But I suppose you have some reason of your 
 own." 
 
 The man bent down over his work again, silent 
 for a minute, to my discomfiture, but at last he 
 spoke, almost huskily. 
 
 " Thank yo, Mester," he said ; " yo're a koindly 
 chap or yo wouldn't ha noticed. An' yo're 
 not fur wrong either. I ha reasons o' my own, 
 tho' I'm loike to keep 'em to mysen most o' 
 toimes. Th' fellows as throws their slurs on me 
 would na understand 'em if I were loike to gab, 
 
142 Natalie. 
 
 which I never were. But happen th' toirne '11 
 come when Surly Tim '11 tell his own tale, though 
 I often think its loike it wunnot come till th' Day 
 o' Judgment. 
 
 " I hope it will come before then," I said, cheer- 
 fully. " I hope the time is not far away when we 
 shall all understand you, Hibblethwaite. I think 
 it has been misunderstanding so far which has 
 separated you from the rest, and it cannot last 
 always, you know." 
 
 But he shook his head not after a surly 
 fashion, but, as I thought, a trifle sadly or heavily 
 so I did not ask any more questions, or try to 
 force the subject upon him. 
 
 But I noticed him pretty closely as time went 
 on, and the more I saw of him the more fully I 
 was convinced that he was not so surly as people 
 imagined. He never interfered with the most 
 active of his enemies, or made any reply when 
 they taunted him, and more than once I saw him 
 perform a silent, half-secret act of kindness. Once 
 I caught him throwing half his dinner to a 
 wretched little lad who had just come to the 
 factory, and worked near him ; and once again, as 
 I was leaving the building on a rainy night, I 
 
Surly Tim's Trouble. 143 
 
 came upon him on the stone steps at the door 
 bending down with an almost pathetic clumsiness 
 to pin the woollen shawl of a poor little mite who, 
 like so many others, worked with her shiftless 
 father and mother to add to their weekly earnings- 
 It was always the poorest and least cared for of 
 the children whom he seemed to befriend, and 
 very often I noticed that even when he was 
 kindest, in his awkward man fashion, the little 
 waifs were afraid of him, and showed their fear 
 plainly. 
 
 The factory was situated on the outskirts of a 
 thriving country town near Manchester, and at the 
 end of the lane that led from it to the more thickly 
 populated part there was a path crossing a field 
 to the pretty church and church-yard, and this 
 path was a short cut homeward for me. Being 
 so pretty and quiet, the place had a sort of attrac- 
 tion for me, and I was in the habit of frequently 
 passing through it on my way, partly because it 
 was pretty and quiet, perhaps, and partly, I have 
 no doubt, because I was inclined to be weak and 
 melancholy at the time, my health being broken 
 down under hard study. 
 
 It so happened that in passing here one night, 
 
144 Natalie. 
 
 and glancing in among the graves and marble 
 monuments as usual, I caught sight of a dark 
 figure sitting upon a little mound under a tree and 
 resting its head upon its hands, and in this sad- 
 looking figure I recognized the muscular outline 
 of my friend Surly Tim. 
 
 He did not see me at first, and I was almost 
 inclined to think it best to leave him alone ; but 
 as I half turned away he stirred with something 
 like a faint moan, and then lifted his head and saw 
 me standing in the bright, clear moonlight. 
 
 "Who's theer?" he said. "Dost ta want 
 owt ?" 
 
 " It is only Doncaster, Hibblethwaite," I re- 
 turned, as I sprang over the low stone wall to 
 join him. " What is the matter, old fellow ? I 
 thought I heard you groan just now." 
 
 " Yo mought ha done, Mester," he answered 
 heavily. " Happen tha did. I dunnot know my- 
 sen. Nowts th' matter though, as I knows on, on'y 
 I'm a bit out o' soarts." 
 
 He turned his head aside slightly and began tc 
 pull at the blades of grass on the mound, and all 
 at once I saw that his hand was trembling ner- 
 vously* 
 
Surfy Tim's Trouble. 145 
 
 It was almost three minutes before he spoke 
 again. 
 
 "That un belongs to me," he said suddenly 
 at last, pointing to a longer mound at his feet. 
 "An* this little un," signifying with an indescrib- 
 able gesture the small one upon which he sat. 
 
 " Poor fellow," I said, " I see now." 
 
 " A little lad o' mine," he said slowly and 
 tremulously. " A little lad o' mine an' an' his 
 mother." 
 
 " What !" I exclaimed, " I never knew that you 
 were a married man, Tim." 
 
 He dropped his head upon his hand again, still 
 pulling nervously at the grass with the other. 
 
 " Th' law says I beant, Mester," he answered in 
 a painful strained fashion. " I canna tell mysen 
 what God-a'-moighty 'ud say about it." 
 
 " I don't understand," I faltered ; " you don't 
 mean to say the poor girl never was your wife, 
 Hibblethwaite." 
 
 " That's what th' law says," slowly ; " I thowt 
 different mysen, an' so did th' poor lass. That's 
 what's the matter, Mester : that's th' trouble." 
 
 The other nervous hand went up to his bent 
 face for a minute and hid it, but I did not speak. 
 
 K 
 
1 46 Natalie. 
 
 There was so much of strange grief in his simple 
 movement that I felt words would be out of place. 
 It was not my dogged inexplicable " hand" who 
 was sitting before me in the bright moonlight on 
 the baby's grave ; it was a man with a hidden 
 history of some tragic sorrow long kept secret in 
 his homely breast perhaps a history very few of 
 us could read aright. I would not question him, 
 though I fancied he meant to explain himself. I 
 knew that if he was willing to tell me the truth it 
 was best that he should choose his own time for 
 .it, and so I left him alone. 
 
 And before I had waited very long he broke 
 
 the silence himself, as I had thought he would. 
 * * * # * 
 
 " It wor welly about six year ago I cum 'n 
 here," he said, " more or less, welly about six 
 year. I wor a quiet chap then, Mester, an' had 
 na many friends, but I had more than I ha' now. 
 Happen I wor better nater'd, but just as loike 
 I were loighter hearted but that's nowt to do wi' 
 it. 
 
 " I had na been here more than a week when 
 theer comes a young woman to moind a loom i' 
 th' next room to me, an' this young woman bein' 
 
Surly Tim's Trouble. 147 
 
 pretty an' modest takes my fancy. She wor na 
 loike th' rest o' the wenches loud talkin' an' 
 slattern i' her ways, she wor just quiet loike and 
 nowt else. First time I seed her I says to mysen, 
 ' Theer's a lass 'at's seed trouble ;' an' somehow 
 every toime I seed her afterward I says to mysen, 
 1 Theer's a lass 'at's seed trouble.' It wur in her 
 eye she had a soft loike brown eye, Mester an 1 
 it wur in her voice her voice wur soft loike, too 
 I sometimes thowt it were plain to be seed even 
 i' her dress. If she'd been born a lady she'd ha' 
 been one o' th' foine soart, an' as she'd been born 
 a factory-lass she wur one o' th' foine soart still. 
 So I took to watchin' her an' tryin' to mak' friends 
 wi' her, but I never had much luck wi' her till one 
 neet I was goin' home through th' snow, and I seed 
 her afore fighten' th' drift wi' nowt but a thin 
 shawl over her head ; so I goes up behind her an' 
 I says to her, steady and respectful, so as she 
 wouldna be feart, I says : 
 
 " ' Lass, let me see thee home. It's bad weather 
 fur thee to be out in by thysen. Tak' my coat 
 an' wrop thee up in it, an' tak' hold o' my arm an' 
 let me help thee along.' 
 
 " She looks up right straight forrad i' my face 
 
 K 2 
 
148 Natalie. 
 
 wi' her brown eyes, an' I tell yo, Mester, I wur 
 glad I wur an honest man 'stead o' a rascal, fur 
 them quiet eyes 'ud ha fun me out before I'd ha' 
 done sayin' my say if I'd meant harm. 
 
 "'Thaank yo kindly, Mester Hibblethwaite,' she 
 says, ' but dunnot tak' off th' coat fur me ; I'm 
 doin' pretty nicely. It is Mester Hibblethwaite, 
 beant it ?' 
 
 " ' Aye, lass,' I answers, ' it's him. Mought I 
 ax yo're name ?' 
 
 " ' Aye, to be sure,' said she. ' My name's 
 Rosanna 'Sanna Brent th' folk at th' mill allus 
 ca's me. I work at th' loom i' th' next room to 
 thine. I've seed thee often an' often.' 
 
 " So we walks home to her lodgings, an' on th' 
 way we talks together friendly an' quiet loike, an* 
 th' more we talks th' more I sees she's had 
 trouble, an' by an' by bein' ony common workin* 
 folk, we're straightforrad to each other in our 
 plain way it comes out what her trouble has 
 been. . 
 
 " ' Yo p'raps wouldn't think I've been a married 
 woman, Mester,' she says ; " but I ha', an' I 
 wedded an' rued. I married a sojer when I wur 
 a giddy young wench four years ago, an' it wur 
 
Surly Tim's Trouble. 149 
 
 th' worst thing as ever I did i' aw my days. He 
 wur one o' yo're handsome fastish chaps, an' he 
 tired o' me as men o' his stripe allers do tire o' 
 poor lasses, an' then he ill-treated me. He went 
 to th' Crimea after we'n been wed a year, an' left 
 me to shift fur mysen. An' I heard six month 
 after he wur dead. He'd never writ back to me 
 nor sent me no help, but I couldna' think he wur 
 dead till th' letter comn. He wur killed th' first 
 month he wur out fightin' th' Rooshians. Poor 
 fellow ! Poor Phil ! Th' Lord ha' mercy on 
 him!' 
 
 " That wur how I found out about her trouble, 
 an' somehow it seemed to draw me to her, an' 
 make me feel kindly to'ards her. 'T wur so piti- 
 ful to hear her talk about th' rascal, so sorrowful 
 an' gentle, an' not gi' him a real hard word fur a' 
 he'd done. But that's allers th' way wi' women 
 folk th' more yo harry's them, th' more they'll 
 pity yo an' pray fur yo. Why she wurna more 
 than twenty-two then, an' she must ha' been nowt 
 but a slip o' a lass when they wur wed. 
 
 " Hows'ever, Rosanna Brent an' me got to be 
 good friends, an' we walked home together o' 
 nights, an' talked about our bits o' wage, an' our 
 
150 Natalie. 
 
 bits o' debt, an' th' way that wench 'ud keep me 
 up i' spirits when I wur a bit down-hearted* about 
 owt wur just a wonder. She wur so quiet an* 
 steady, an' when she said owt she meant it, an' 
 she never said too much or too little. Her brown 
 eyes allers minded me o' my mother, though th' 
 old woman deed when I wur nobbut a little chap, 
 but I never seed 'Sanna Brent smile 'bout thinkin' 
 o' how my mother looked when I wur kneelin' 
 down sayin' my prayers after her. , An' bein' as 
 th' lass wur so dear to me, I made up my mind to 
 ax her to be summat dearer. So once goin' home 
 along wi' her, I takes hold o' her hand an' lifts it 
 up an' kisses it gentle as gentle an' wi' summat 
 th' same feelin' as I'd kiss th' Good Book. 
 
 " ' 'Sanna,' I says ; ' bein' as yo've had so much 
 trouble wi' yo're first chance, would yo* be afeard 
 to try a second ? Could yo' trust a mon again ? 
 Such a mon as me, 'Sanna ?' 
 
 " ' I wouldna be feart to trust thee, Tim,' she 
 answers back, soft an' gentle after a manner. ' I 
 wouldna be feart to trust thee any time.' 
 
 " I kisses her hand again, gentler still. 
 
 " ' God bless thee, lass,' I says. ' Does that 
 mean yes ?' 
 
'Surly Tim's Trouble. 151 
 
 " She crept up closer to me i' her sweet, quiet way. 
 
 " ' Aye, lad,' she answers. ' It means yes, an' 
 I'll bide by it' 
 
 " An' tha shalt never rue it, lass,' said I. * Tha's 
 gi'en thy life to me, an' I'll gi' mine to thee, sure 
 and true.' 
 
 " So we wur axed i' th' church t' next Sunday, 
 an' a month fra then we were wed, an' if ever 
 God's sun shone on a happy mon, it shone on one 
 that day, when we come out o' church together 
 me and Rosanna an' went to our bit o' a home 
 to begin life again. I couldna tell thee, Mester 
 theer beant no words to tell how happy an' 
 peaceful we lived fur two year after that. My lass 
 never altered her sweet ways, an' I just loved her 
 to make up to her fur what had gone by. I thanked 
 God-a'-moighty fur his blessing every day, an' 
 every day I prayed to be made worthy of it. An' 
 here's just wheer I'd like to ax a question, Mester, 
 about summat 'ats worretted me a good deal. I 
 dunnot want to question th' Maker, but I would 
 loike to know how it is 'at sometime it seems 'at 
 we're clean forgot as if He couldna fash hissen 
 about our troubles, an' most loike left 'em to work 
 out theirsens. Yo see, Mester, an' we aw sec 
 
152 Natalie. 
 
 sometime he thinks on us an' gi's us a lift, but 
 hasna tha thysen seen times when tha stopt short 
 an' axed thysen, 'Wheer's God-a'-moighty 'at he 
 isna straighten things out a bit ? Th' world's i' a 
 power o' a snarl. Th' righteous is forsaken 'n his 
 seed's beggin' bread. An' th' devil's topmost 
 again.' I've talked to my lass about it sometimes, 
 an' I dunnot think I meant harm, Mester, for I 
 felt humble enough an' when I talked, my lass 
 she'd listen an' smile soft an' sorrowful, but she 
 never gi' me but one answer. 
 
 " ' Tim,' she'd say, ' this is on'y th' skoo' an' we're 
 th' scholars, an' He's teachin' us His way. We 
 munnot be loike th' children o' Israel i' th' Wil- 
 derness, an' turn away fra th' cross 'cause o' th' 
 Sarpent. We munnot say, " Theer's a snake :" 
 we mun say, " Theer's th' Cross, an' th' Lord gi' 
 it to us." Th' teacher wouldna be o' much use, 
 Tim, if th' scholars knew as much as he did, an' 
 I allers think it's th' best to comfort mysen wi' 
 sayin', Th' Lord-a'-moighty, he knows.' 
 
 " An' she allers comforted me too when I wur 
 worretted. Life looked smooth somehow them 
 three year. Happen th' Lord sent 'em to me to 
 make up fur what wur comin'. 
 
Surly Tim's Trouble. 153 
 
 " At th' eend o' th' first year th' child wur born, 
 th' little lad here," touching the turf with his 
 hand, "'Wee Wattle' his mother ca'd him, an' he 
 wur a fine lightsome little chap. He filled th' 
 whole house wi* music day in an' day out, crowin' 
 an' crowin' an' cryin' too sometime. But if 
 ever yo're a feyther, M ester, yo'll find out 'at a 
 baby's cry 's music often enough, an' yo'll find, 
 too, if yo ever lose one, 'at yo'd give all yo'd 
 getten just to hear even th' worst o' cryin'. 
 Rosanna she couldna find i' her heart to set th' 
 little 'un out o' her arms a minnit, an' she'd go 
 about th' room wi' her eyes aw leeted up, an' her 
 face bloomin' like a slip o' a girl's, an' if she laid 
 him i' th' cradle her head 'ud be turnt o'er her 
 shoulder aw' th' time lookin' at him an' singin' 
 bits o' sweet-soundin' foolish woman-folk's songs. 
 I thowt then 'at them old nursery songs wur th' 
 happiest music I ever heard, an' when 'Sanna 
 sung 'em they minded me o' hymn tunes. 
 
 " Well, Mester, before th' spring wur out Wee 
 Wat was toddlin' round holdin' to his mother's 
 gown, an' by th' middle o' th' next he was cooin' 
 like a dove, an' prattlin' words i' a voice like hers. 
 His eyes wur big an' brown an' straightforrard 
 
1 54 Natalie. 
 
 like hers, an' his mouth was like hers, an' his curls 
 wur the color o' a brown bee's back. Happen 
 we set too much store by him, or happen it wur 
 on'y th' Teacher again teachin' us his way, but 
 how'sever that wur, I came home one sunny 
 mornin' fro' th' factory, an' my dear lass met me 
 at th' door, all white an' cold, but tryin' hard to 
 be brave an' help me to bear what she had to tell. 
 
 " ' Tim,' said she, ' th' Lord ha' sent us a 
 trouble ; but we can bear it together, canna we, 
 dear lad ?' 
 
 " That wor aw, but I knew what it meant, though 
 t' poor little lamb had been well enough when I 
 kissed him last. 
 
 " I went in an' saw him lyin' theer on his 
 pillows strugglin' an' gaspin' in hard convulsions, 
 an' I seed aw' was over. An' in half an hour, just 
 as th' sun crept across th' room an' touched his 
 curls, th' pretty little chap opens his eyes aw at 
 once. 
 
 "'Daddy!' he crows out. 'Sithee Dad !' 
 an' he lifts hissen up, catches at th' floatin' sun- 
 shine, laughs at it, and fa's back dead, Mester. 
 
 " I've allers thowt 'at th' Lord-a'-moighty knew 
 what he wur doin' when he gi' th' woman t' 
 
Surly Tim's Trouble, 155 
 
 Adam i' th' Garden o' Eden. He knowed he 
 wor nowt but a poor chap as couldna do fur 
 hissen ; an' I suppose that's th' reason he gi' the 
 woman th' strength to bear trouble when it comn. 
 I'd ha' gi'en clean in if it hadna been fur my lass 
 when th' little chap deed. I never tackledt owt i' 
 aw my days 'at hurt me as heavy as losin' him did. 
 1 couldna abear th' sight o' his cradle, an' if ever 
 I comn across any o' his bits o' playthings, I'd fall 
 to cryin' an' shakin' like a babby. I kept out o' 
 th' way o' th' neebors' children even. I wasna 
 like Rosanna. I couldna see quoite clear what 
 th' Lord meant, an' I couldna help murmuring 
 sad and heavy. That's just loike us men, Mes- 
 ter ; just as if th' dear wench as had give him her 
 life fur food day an' neet, hadna fur th' best reet 
 o' th' two to be weak an' heavy-hearted. ? 
 
 " But I getten welly over it at last, an' we was 
 beginnin' to come round a bit an' look forrad to 
 th' toime we'd see him agen 'stead o' lookin' back 
 to th' toime we shut th' round bit of a face under 
 th' coffin lid. Day comn when we could bear to 
 talk about him an' moind things he'd said an' tried 
 to say i' his broken babby way. An' so we were 
 creepin' back again to th' old happy quiet, an* we 
 
156 Natalie. 
 
 had been for welly six month, when summat fresh 
 come. I'll never forget it, Mester, th J neet it 
 happened. I'd kissed Rosanna at th' door an' 
 left her standin' theer when I went up to th' vil- 
 lage to buy summat she wanted. It wur a bright 
 moonlight neet, just such a neet as this, an' th j 
 lass had followed me out to see th' moonshine, it 
 wur so bright an* clear ; an' just before I starts she 
 folds both her hands on my shoulder an' says, soft 
 an' thoughtful : 
 
 " 'Tim, I wonder if th' little chap sees us ?" 
 
 " ' I'd loike to know, dear lass/ I answers back. 
 An' then she speaks again : 
 
 " ' Tim, I wonder if he'd know he was ours if he 
 could see, or if he'd ha' forgot ? He wur such a 
 little fellow." 
 
 " Them wur th' last peaceful words I ever heerd 
 her speak. I went up to th' village an' getten 
 what she sent me fur, an' then I comn back. 
 Th' moon wur shinin' as bright as ever, an' th' 
 flowers i' her slip o' a garden wur aw sparklin' 
 wi' dew. I seed 'em as I went up th' walk, 
 an' I thowt again of what she'd said bout th' 
 little lad. 
 
 " She wasna outside, an' I couldna see a leet 
 
Surly Tim's Trouble. 157 
 
 about th' house, but I heerd voices, so I walked 
 straight in into th' entry, an' into th' kitchen, an' 
 theer she wur, Mester my poor wench, crouchin' 
 down by th' table, hidin' her face i' her hands, an' 
 close beside her wur a mon a mon i' red sojcr 
 clothes. 
 
 "My heart leaped into my throat, an' fur a 
 minnit I hadna a word, for I saw summat wur up, 
 though I couldna tell what it wur. But at last 
 my voice came back. 
 
 " ' Good evenin', Mester/ I says to him ; * I 
 hope yo ha'not broughten ill-news ? What ails 
 thee, dear lass ?' 
 
 " She stirs a little, an' gives a moan like a dyin' 
 child ; an' then she lifts up her wan, broken- 
 hearted face, an' stretches out both her hands 
 to me. 
 
 " ' Tim,' she says, ' dunnot hate me, lad, dunnot. 
 I thowt he were dead long sin'. I thowt 'at th' 
 Rooshans killed him an' I wur free, but I amna. 
 I never wur. He never deed, Tim, an' theer he is 
 the mon as I wur wed to an' left by. God 
 forgi' him, an' oh God, forgi' me !' 
 
 " Theer, Mester, there's a story fur thee. What 
 dost ta' think o't ? My poor lass wasna my wife 
 
158 Natalie. 
 
 at aw th' little chap's mother wasna his feyther's 
 wife, an' never had been. That theer worthless 
 fellow as beat an' starved her an' left her to fight 
 th' world alone, had comn back alive an' well, 
 ready to begin again. He could tak' her away 
 fro' me any hour i' th' day, an' I couldna say a 
 word to bar him. Th' law said my wife th' 
 little dead lad's mother belonged to him, body 
 an' soul. Theer was no law to help us it wur 
 aw on his side. 
 
 "Theer's no use o' goin' o'er aw we said to 
 each other i' that dark room theer. I raved an' 
 prayed an' pled wi' th' lass to let me carry her 
 across th' seas, wheer I'd heerd tell theer was help 
 fur such loike ; but she pled back i' her broken 
 patient way that it wouldna be reet, an' happen it 
 wur th' Lord's will. She didna say much to th' 
 sojer. I scarce heard her speak to him more than 
 once, when she axed him to let her go away by 
 hersen. 
 
 "'Tha canna want me now, Phil,' she said. 
 4 Tha canna care fur me. Tha must know I'm 
 more this mon's wife than thine. But I dunnot 
 ax thee to gi' me to him because I know 
 that wouldna be reet ; I on'y ax thee to let me 
 
Siirly Tim's Trouble. 159 
 
 aloan. I'll go fur enough off an' never see him 
 more.' 
 
 "But th' villain held to her. If she didna 
 come wi' him, he said, he'd ha' me up before th' 
 court fur bigamy. I could ha' done murder then, 
 Mester, an' I would ha' done if it hadna been fur 
 th' poor lass runnin 1 in betwixt us an' pleadin' wi' 
 aw her might. If we'n been rich foak theer might 
 ha' been some help fur her, at least ; th' law 
 might ha' been browt to mak' him leave her be, 
 but bein' poor workin' foak theer was ony one 
 thing : th' wife mun go wi' th' husband, an' theer 
 th' husband stood a scoundrel, cursing, wi' his 
 black heart on his tongue. 
 
 " ' Well,' says th' lass at last, fair weaned out 
 wi' grief, ' I'll go wi' thee, Phil, an' I'll do my best 
 to please thee, but I wunnot promise to forget th' 
 mon as has been true to me, an' has stood betwixt 
 me an' th' world.' 
 
 " Then she turned round to me. 
 
 " ' Tim,' she said to me, as if she wur haaf feart 
 aye, feart o' him, an' me standin' by. Three 
 hours afore, th' law 'ud ha' let me mill any mon 
 at feart her. ' Tim,' she says, * surely he wunnot 
 tefuse to let us go together to th' little lad's grave 
 
1 60 Natalie. 
 
 fur th' last time/ She didna speak to him but to 
 me, an' she spoke still an' strained as if she wur 
 too heart-broke to be wild. Her face was as 
 white as th' dead, but she didna cry, as any other 
 woman would ha' done. ' Come, Tim/ she said, 
 ' he canna say no to that/ 
 
 " An' so out we went, 'thout another word, an' 
 left th' black-hearted rascal behind, sittin' i' th' very 
 room t' little 'un deed in. His cradle stood theer 
 i' th' corner. We went out into th' moonlight 
 'thout speakin', an' we didna say a word until we 
 come to this very place, M ester. 
 
 " We stood here for a minute silent, an' then I 
 sees her begin to shake, an' she throws hersen 
 down on th' grass wi' her arms flung o'er th' grave, 
 an' she cries out as ef her death-wound had been 
 give to her. 
 
 " ' Little lad/ she says, ' little lad, dost ta see 
 thee mother ? Canst na tha hear her callin' thee ? 
 Little lad, get nigh to th' Throne an' plead !' 
 
 " I fell down beside o' th' poor crushed wench 
 an' sobbed wi' her. I couldna comfort her, fur 
 wheer wur there any comfort for us ? Theer wur 
 none left theer wur no hope. We was shamed 
 an' broke down our lives was lost. Th' past wur 
 
'Surly Tim's Trouble. 161 
 
 nowt th' future wur worse. Oh, my poor lass, 
 how hard she tried to pray fur me, Mester yes, 
 fur me, as she lay theer wi' her arms round her 
 dead babby's grave, an' her cheek on th' grass as 
 grew o'er his breast. ' Lord God-a'-moighty,' she 
 says, ' help us dunnot gi' us up dunnot, dunnot 
 We canna do 'thowt thee now, if th' time ever wur 
 when we could. Th' little chap mun be wi' Thee, 
 I moind th' bit o' comfort about getherin' th' lambs 
 i' His bosom. An', Lord, if Tha could spare him 
 a minnit, send him down to us wi' a bit o' leet. 
 Oh, Feyther ! help th' poor lad heer help him. 
 Let th' weight fa' on me, not on him. Just help 
 th' poor lad to bear it. If ever I did owt as wur 
 worthy i' Thy sight, let that be my reward. 
 Dear Lord-a'-moighty, I'd be wiilin' to gi' up 
 a bit o' my own heavenly glory fur th' dear 
 lad's sake.' 
 
 " Well, Mester, she lay theer on t' grass prayin' 
 an' cryin', wild but gentle, fur nigh haaf an hour, 
 an' then it seemed 'at she got quoite loike, an' she 
 got up. Happen th' Lord had hearkened an' sent 
 th' child happen He had, fur when she getten up 
 her face looked to me aw white an' shining i' th' 
 clear moonlight. 
 
1 62 Natalie. 
 
 " ' Sit down by me, dear lad,' she said, ' an' hold 
 my hand a minnit.' I set down an' took hold of 
 her hand as she bid me. 
 
 " ' Tim,' she said, ' this wur why th' little chap 
 deed. Dost na tha see now 'at th' Lord knew 
 best ?' 
 
 " ' Yes, lass/ I answers humble, an' lays my face 
 on her hand, breakin' down again. 
 
 "'Hush, dear lad,' she whispers, 'we hannot 
 time fur that. I want to talk to thee. Wilta 
 listen ?' 
 
 " ' Yes, wife,' I says, an' I heerd her sob when I 
 said it, but she catches hersen up again. 
 
 " ' I want thee to mak' me a promise,' said she. 
 * I want thee to promise never to forget what peace 
 we ha' had. I want thee to remember it allus, 
 an' to moind him 'at's dead, an' let his little hand 
 howd thee back fro' sin an' hard thowts. I'll pray 
 fur thee neet an' day, Tim, an' tha shalt pray fur 
 me, an' happen theer'll come a leet. But ef theer 
 dunnot, dear lad an' I dunnot see how theer 
 could if theer dunnot, an' we never see each other 
 agen, I want thee to mak' me a promise that if 
 tha sees th' little chap first tha'lt moind him 
 o' me, and watch out \vi' him nigh th' gate, 
 
Surly Tim's Trouble. 163 
 
 and I'll promise thee that if I see him first, 
 I'll moind him o' thee an' watch out true an' 
 constant.' 
 
 " I promised her, Mester, as yo' can guess, an' 
 we kneeled down an' kissed th' grass, an' she took 
 a bit o' th' sod to put i' her bosom. An' then we 
 stood up an' looked at each other, an' at last she 
 put her dear face on my breast an' kissed me, as 
 she had done every neet sin' we were mon an' 
 wife. 
 
 " ' Good-bye, dear lad,' she whispers her voice 
 aw broken. ' Doant come back to th' house till 
 I'm gone. Good-bye, dear, dear lad, an' God 
 bless thee.' An' she slipped out o' my arms an' 
 wur gone in a moment awmost before I could cry 
 
 out. 
 
 * & # % * 
 
 " Theer isna much more to tell, Mester th' 
 eend's comiiv now, an' happen it'll shorten off th' 
 story, so 'at it seems suddent to thee. But it were 
 na suddent to me. I lived alone here, an' worked, 
 an' moinded my own business an' answered no 
 questions fur nigh about a year, hearin' nowt, an' 
 seein' nowt, an' hoping nowt, till one toime when 
 th' daisies were blowin' on th' little grave here, 
 
 L 2 
 
1 64 Natalie. 
 
 theer come to me a letter fro' Manchester fro' one 
 o' th' medical chaps i' th' hospital. It wur a 
 short letter wi' prent on it, an' the moment I seed 
 it I knowed summat wur up, an' I opened it 
 tremblin'. Mester, theer wur a woman lyin' i' one 
 o' th' wards dyin' o' some long-named heart- 
 disease, an' she'd prayed 'em to send fur me, an' 
 one o' th' young soft-hearted ones had writ me a 
 line to let me know, 
 
 " I started awmost afore I'd finished read in' th' 
 letter, and when I'd getten to th' place I fun just 
 what I knowed I should. I fun her my wife 
 th' blessed lass, an' if I'd been an hour later I 
 would na ha' seen her alive, fur she were nigh past 
 knowin' me then. 
 
 " But I knelt down by th' bedside an' I plead 
 wi' her as she lay theer, until I browt her back 
 to th' world again fur one moment. Her eyes 
 flew wide open aw at onct, an' she seed me an' 
 smiled, aw her dear face quiverin' i' death. 
 
 " ' Dear lad,' she whispered, ' th' path was na so 
 long after aw. Th' Lord knew he trod it his- 
 sen onct, yo know. I knowed tha'd come I 
 prayed so. I've reached th' very eend now, Tim, 
 an' I shall see th' little lad first. But I wunnot 
 
Surly Tim's Trouble. 165 
 
 forget my promise no. I'll look out for thee 
 for thee at th' gate.' 
 
 " An' her eyes shut slow an' quiet, an' I knowed 
 she was dead. 
 
 "Theer, Mester Doncaster, theer it aw is, for 
 theer she lies under th' daisies clost by her child, 
 fur I browt her here an' buried her. Th' fellow 
 as come betwixt us had tortured her fur a while 
 an' then left her again, I fun out an' she were so 
 afeard of doin* me some harm that she wouldna 
 come nigh me. It wur heart disease as killed her, 
 th' medical chaps said, but I knowed better it 
 wur heart-break. That's aw. Sometimes I think 
 o'er it till I canna stand it any longer, an' I'm 
 fain to come heer an' lay my hand on th' grass, 
 an' sometimes I ha' queer dreams about her. I 
 had one last neet. I thowt 'at she comn to me 
 aw at onct just as she used to look, ony 
 wi' her white face shinin' loike a star, an' she 
 says, ' Tim, th' path isna so long after aw tha's 
 come nigh to th' eend, an' me an' th' little 
 chap is waitin'. He knows thee, dear lad, fur 
 I've towt him/ 
 
 " That's why I comn here to neet, Mester ; 
 an' I believe that's why FVQ talked so free to 
 
1 66 Natalie. 
 
 thee. If Fm near th' eend Fd loike some one 
 to know. I ha' meant no hurt when I seemed 
 grum an j surly. It wurna ill-will but a heavy 
 heart/' 
 
 ***** 
 
 He stopped here, and his head drooped 
 upon his hands again, and for a minute or so 
 there was another dead silence. Such a story as 
 this needed no comment. I could make none. 
 It seemed to me that the poor fellow's sore 
 heart could bear none. At length he rose from 
 the turf and stood up, looking out over the graves 
 into the soft light beyond with a strange, wistful 
 sadness. 
 
 " Well, I mun go now," he said, slowly. 
 "Good neet, Mester, good neet, an' thank yo 
 fur listenin'." 
 
 " Good night," I returned, adding, in an impulse 
 of pity that was almost a passion, " and God help 
 you !" 
 
 " Thank you again, Mester !" he said, and then 
 turned away ; and as I sat pondering I watched 
 his heavy drooping figure threading its way among 
 the dark mounds and white marble, and under the 
 shadowy trees,, and out into the path beyond. I 
 
Surly Tim's Trouble. 167 
 
 did not sleep well that night. The strained, heavy 
 tones of the man's voice were in my ears, and the 
 homely, yet tragic story seemed to weave itself 
 into all my thoughts, and keep me from rest, I 
 could not get it out of my mind. 
 
 In consequence of this sleeplessness I was later 
 than usual in going down to the factory, a^id when 
 I arrived at the gates I found an unusual bustle 
 there. Something out of the ordinary routine had 
 plainly occurred, for the whole place was in con- 
 fusion. There was a crowd of hands grouped 
 about one corner of the yard, and as I came in a 
 man ran against me, and showed me a terribly 
 pale face. 
 
 " I ax pardon, Mester Doncaster," he said in a 
 wild hurry, " but theer's an accident happened. 
 One o' th' weavers is hurt bad, an' I'm goin' fur 
 th' doctor. Th' loom caught an' crushed him 
 afore we could stop it" 
 
 For some reason or other my heart misgave me 
 that very moment. I pushed forward to the group 
 in the yard-corner, and made my way through it. 
 
 A man was lying on a pile of coats in the middle 
 of the bystanders, a poor fellow crushed and 
 torn and bruised, but lying quite quiet now, only 
 
1 68 Natalie. 
 
 for an occasional little moan that was scarcely more 
 than a quick gasp for breath. It was Surly Tim! 
 
 " He's nigh th' eend o' it now !" said one of the 
 hands pityingly. " He's nigh th' last now, poor 
 chap ! What'.s that he's sayin', lads ?" 
 
 For all at once some flickering sense seemed to 
 have caught at one of the speaker's words, and the 
 wounded man stirred, murmuring faintly but not 
 to the watchers. Ah, no ! to something far, far 
 beyond their feeble human sight to something in 
 the broad Without. 
 
 " Th' eend !" he said ; " aye, this is th' eend, 
 dear lass, an' th' path's aw shinin' or summat, an ! 
 Why, lass, I can see thee plain, an' th' little 
 chap too !" 
 
 Another flutter of the breath, one slight move- 
 ment of the mangled hand, and I bent down 
 closer to the poor fellow, closer, because my 
 eyes were so dimmed that I could not see. 
 
 " Lads," I said aloud a few seconds later, " you 
 can do no more for him. His pain is over !" 
 
 For with the sudden glow of light which shone 
 upon the shortened path and the waiting figures 
 of his child and its mother, Surly Tim's earthly 
 trouble had ended. 
 
ONE DAY AT ARLE. 
 
 ONE day at Arle a tiny scattered fishing 
 hamlet on the north-western English 
 coast there stood at the door of one of the cot- 
 tages near the shore a woman leaning against the 
 lintel-post and looking out : a woman who would 
 have been apt to attract a stranger's eye, too a 
 woman young and handsome. This was what a 
 first glance would have taken in ; a second would 
 have been apt to teach more and leave a less 
 pleasant impression. She was young enough to 
 have been girlish, but she was not girlish in the 
 least. Her tall, lithe, well-knit figure was braced 
 against the door-post with a tense sort of strength ; 
 her handsome face was just at this time as dark 
 and hard in expression as if she had been a 
 woman with years of bitter life behind her ; her 
 handsome brows were, knit, her lips were set ; from. 
 
1 70 Natalie. 
 
 head to foot she looked unyielding and stern of 
 purpose. 
 
 And neither form nor face belied her. The 
 earliest remembrances of the coast people con- 
 cerning Meg Lonas had not been over-pleasant 
 ones. She had never been a favourite among 
 them. The truth was they had half feared her, 
 even as the silent, dogged, neglected child, who 
 used to wander up and down among the rocks 
 and on the beach, working harder for her scant 
 living than the oldest of them. She had never a 
 word for them, and never satisfied their curiosity 
 upon the subject of the treatment she received 
 from the ill-conditioned old grandfather who was 
 her only living relative, and this last peculiarity 
 had rendered her more unpopular than anything 
 else would have done. If she had answered their 
 questions they might have pitied her ; but as she 
 chose to meet them with stubborn silence, they 
 managed to show their dislike in many ways, until 
 at last it became a settled point among them that 
 the girl was an outcast in their midst. But even 
 in those days she gave them back wrong for 
 wrong and scorn for scorn ; and as she grew older 
 she grew stronger of will, less prone to forgive her 
 
One Day at Arle. 171 
 
 many injuries and slights, and more prone to 
 revenge them in an obstinate, bitter fashion. But 
 as she grew older she grew handsomer too, and 
 the fisher boys who had jeered at her in her child- 
 hood were anxious enough to gain her good-will. 
 
 The women flouted her still, and she defied 
 them openly ; the men found it wisest to be 
 humble in their rough style, and her defiance of 
 them was more scornful than her defiance of 
 their mothers and sisters. She would revenge 
 herself upon them, and did, until at last she met 
 a wooer who was tender enough, it seemed, to 
 move her. At least so people said at first ; but 
 suddenly the lover disappeared, and two or three 
 months later the whole community was electrified 
 by her sudden . marriage with a suitor whom she 
 had been wont to treat worse than all the rest. 
 How she treated him after the marriage nobody 
 knew. She was more defiant and silent than ever, 
 and gossipers gained nothing by asking questions. 
 So at last she was left alone. 
 
 It was not the face of a tender wife waiting for 
 a loving husband, the face that was turned toward 
 the sea. If she had hated the man for whom she 
 watched she could not have seemed more unbend- 
 
172 Natalie. 
 
 ing. Ever since her visitor had left her (she had 
 had a visitor during the morning) she had stood 
 in the same place, even in the same position, with- 
 out moving, and when at last the figure of her 
 husband came slouching across the sands home- 
 ward she remained motionless still. 
 
 And surely his was not the face of a happy 
 husband. Not a handsome face at its dull best, 
 it was doubly unprepossessing then, as, pale and 
 breathless, he passed the stern form in the door- 
 way, his nervous, reluctant eyes avoiding hers. 
 
 " Yo'll find yo're dinner aw ready on th' table," 
 she said to him as he passed in. 
 
 Everything was neat enough inside. The fire- 
 place was clean and bright, the table was set tidily, 
 and the meal upon it was good enough in its way ; 
 but when the man entered he cast an unsteady, 
 uncomprehending glance around, and when he had 
 flung himself into a chair he did not attempt to 
 touch the food, but dropped his face upon his arm 
 on the table with a sound like a little groan. 
 
 She must have heard it, but she did not notice 
 it even by a turn of her head, but stood erect and 
 steadfast until he spoke to her. She might have 
 keen waiting for his words perhaps she was. 
 
One Day at Arle. \ 73 
 
 " Tha canst come in an' say what tha has to 
 say an' be done wi' it," he said at last, in a sullen, 
 worn-out fashion. 
 
 She turned round then and faced him, harder 
 to be met in her rigid mood than if she had been 
 a tempest. 
 
 " Tha knows what I ha' getten to say," she 
 answered, her tone strained and husky with 
 repressed fierceness. " Aye ! tha knows it well 
 enough. I ha' not much need to tell thee owt. He 
 comn here this morning an' he towd me aw I want 
 to know about thee, Seth Lonas an' more too." 
 
 " He comn to me," put in the man. 
 
 She advanced towards the table and struck it 
 once with her hand. 
 
 " Thast towd me a power o' lies," she said. 
 " Tha's lied to me fro' first to last to serve thy 
 own eends, an' tha'st gained 'em tha'st lied me 
 away fro' th' man as wur aw th' world to me, but 
 th' time's comn now when thy day's o'er an' his is 
 comn agen. Ah ! thou bitter villin ! Does ta 
 mind how tha comn an' towd me Dan Morgan 
 had gone to th' fair at Lake wi' that lass o' 
 Barnegats ? That wor a lie an' that wor th' 
 beginnin'. Dost ta mind how tha towd me as he 
 
174 Natalie. 
 
 made light o' me when th' lads an' lasses plagued 
 him, an' threeped 'em down as he didna mean to 
 marry no such like lass as me him as wor ready 
 to dee fur me ? That wor a lie an' that wor th' 
 eendin', as tha knew it would be, fur I spurned 
 him fro' me th' very neest day, an' wouldna listen 
 when he tried to straighten out. But he got at 
 th' truth at last when he wor fur fro' here, an' he 
 browt th' truth back to me to-day, an' there's th' 
 eend fur thee husband or no." 
 
 The man lay with his head upon his arms 
 until she had finished, and then he looked up all 
 white and shaken and blind. 
 
 " Wilt ta listen if I speak to thee ?" he asked. 
 
 " Aye," she answered, " listen to more lies !" 
 And she slipped down into a sitting posture on 
 the stone door-step, and sat there, her great eyes 
 staring out seaward, her hands lying loose upon 
 her knee, and trembling. 
 
 There was something more in her mood than 
 resentment. In this simple gesture she had 
 broken down as she had never broken down in. 
 her life before. There was passionate grief in her 
 face, a wild sort of despair, such as one might see 
 in a suddenly-wounded, untamed creature. Hera 
 
One Day at Ark. \ 7-5 
 
 was not a fair nature. I am not telling the story 
 of a gentle, true-souled woman I am simply 
 relating the incidents of one bitter day whose 
 tragic close was the ending of a rough romance. 
 
 Her life had been a long battle against the 
 world's scorn ; she had been either on the offen- 
 sive or the defensive from childhood to woman- 
 hood, and then she had caught one glimpse of 
 light and warmth, clung to it yearningly for one 
 brief hour, and lost it. 
 
 Only to-day she had learned that she had lost 
 it through treachery. She had not dared to 
 believe in her bliss, even during its fairest exist- 
 ence ; and so when light-hearted, handsome Dan 
 Morgan's rival had worked against him with false 
 stories and false proofs, her fierce pride had caught 
 at them, and her revenge had been swift and sharp. 
 But it had fallen back upon her own head now. 
 This very morning handsome Dan had come back 
 again to Arle, and earned his revenge, too, though 
 he had only meant to clear himself when he told 
 her what chance had brought to light. He had 
 come back her lover, the man who had con- 
 quered and sweetened her bitter nature as nothing 
 else on earth had power to do he had come back 
 
1 76 Natalie. 
 
 and found her what she was the wife of a man 
 for whom she had never cared, the wife of the 
 man who had played them both false, and robbed 
 her of the one poor gleam of joy she had known. 
 She had been hard and wild enough at first, but 
 just now, when she slipped down upon the door- 
 step with her back turned to the wretched man 
 within when it came upon her that, traitor as he 
 was, she herself had given him the right to take 
 her bright-faced lover's place, and usurp his tender 
 power when the fresh sea-breeze blew upon her 
 face and stirred her hair, and the warm, rare 
 sunshine touched her, even breeze and sunshine 
 helped her to the end, so that she broke down 
 into a sharp, sharp sob, as any other woman 
 might have done, only that the repressed strength 
 of her poor warped nature made it a sob sharper 
 and deeper than another woman's would have 
 been. 
 
 " Yo mought ha' left me that !" she said. " Yo 
 mought ha' left it to me ! There wur other 
 women as would ha' done yo, there wur no other 
 man on earth as would do me. Yo knowed what 
 my life had been, an' how it wur hand to hand 
 between other folk an' me. Yo knowed how 
 
One Day at Arle. 1 77 
 
 much I cared fur him an' what he wur to me. 
 You mought ha' let us be. I nivver harmed yo. 
 I wouldna harm yo so sinful cruel now." 
 
 " Wilt ta listen ?" he asked, laboring as if for 
 breath. 
 
 " Aye," she answered him, " I'll listen, for tha 
 canna hurt me worsen Th' day fur that's past 
 an' gone." 
 
 "Well," said he, "listen an' I'll try to tell yo. 
 I know it's no use, but I mun say a word or two. 
 Happen yo didna know I loved yo aw yo're life * 
 happen yo didna, but it's true. When yo wor a 
 little lass gatherin' sea-weed on th' sands I 
 watched yo when I wur afeared to speak afeared 
 lest yo'd gi' me a sharp answer, fur yo wor ready 
 enow wi' 'em, wench. I've watched yo fur hours 
 when I wur a great lubberly lad, an' when yo 
 gettin' to be a woman it wur the same thing. I 
 watched yo an' did yo many a turn as yo knowed 
 nowt about. When yo wur searchin' fur drift to 
 keep up th' fire after th' owd mon deed an' left yo 
 alone, happen yo nivver guessed as it wur me as 
 heaped little piles i' th' nooks o' th' rocks so as 
 yo'd think 'at th' tide had left it theer happen yo 
 didn't, but it wor true. I've stayed round th' 
 
 M 
 
1 78 Natalie. 
 
 old house many a night feared summat mought 
 harm yo, an' yo know yo nivver gave me a good 
 word, Meg. An' then Dan comn an' he made 
 way wi' yo as he made way wi' aw th' rest men 
 an' women an* children. He nivver worked an' 
 waited as I did he nivver thowt an' prayed as I 
 did ; everything come easy wi' him everything 
 allus did come easy wi' him, an' when I seed him 
 so light-hearted an' careless about what I wor 
 cravin' it run me daft an* blind. Seemt like he 
 couldna cling to it like I did, an' I begun to fight 
 agen it, an' when I heerd about that lass o' Barne- 
 gats I towd yo, an' when I seed yo believed 
 what I didna believe mysen it run me dafter yet, 
 an' I put more to what he said, an' held back 
 some, an' theer it wor an' theer it stands, an' if 
 I've earnt a curse, lass, I've getten it, fur fur I 
 thowt yo'd been learn in' to care fur me a bit 
 sin' we wor wed, an' God knows I've tried to 
 treat yo fair an' kind i' my poor way. I worna 
 Dan Morgan's way, I know his wur a better way 
 than mine, th' sun shone on him, somehow but 
 I've done my best an' truest sin'." 
 
 " Yo've done yo're worst," she said. " Th' 
 worst yo could do wur to part us, an' yo did it 
 
One Day at Arte. 
 
 Ifyo'd been half a mon yo. wouldna ha' been 
 content wi' a woman yo'd trapped wi' sayin' 
 ' Aye,' an' who cared less for yo than she did fur 
 111' sand on th' sea-shore. What's what yo've 
 done sin' to what yo did afore ? Yo cannot wipe 
 that out and yo cannot mak' me forget. I hate 
 yo, an' th' worse because I wor beginnin' to be 
 content a bit. I hate mysen. I ought to ha' 
 knowed" wildly " he would ha' knowed whether 
 I wor true or false, poor chap he would ha' 
 knowed." 
 
 She rocked herself to and fro for a minute, 
 wringin' her hands in a passion of anguish worse 
 than any words, but a minute later she turned on 
 him all at once. 
 
 " All 's o'er between yo an' me," she said with 
 fierce heat ; " do yo know that ? If yo wor h?lf 
 a mon yo would." 
 
 He sat up an' stared at her humbly and 
 stupidly. 
 
 " Eh ?" he said at last. 
 
 " Theer's not a mon i' Arle as is not more to 
 
 me now than tha art," she said. " Some on 'em 
 
 be honest, an' I canna say that o' thee. Tha 
 
 canst get thee gone or I'll go mysen. Tha 
 
 M 2 
 
1 86 Natalie. 
 
 know'st me well enow to know I'll ne'er forgie 
 thee for what tha's done. Aye" with the pas- 
 sionate hand-wringing again " but that wunnot 
 undo it." 
 
 He rose and came to her, trembling like a man 
 with the ague. 
 
 "Yo dunnot mean that theer, Meg," he said 
 slowly. "Yo dunnot mean it word fur word. 
 Think a bit." 
 
 " Aye but I do," she answered him, setting her 
 white teeth, " word fur word." 
 
 "Think again, wench." And this time he 
 staggered and caught hold of the door-post. " Is 
 theer nowt as '11 go agen th' wrong ? I've lived 
 wi' thee nigh a year, an' I've loved thee twenty 
 is theer nowt fur me? Aye, lass, dunnot be too 
 hard. Tha was allus harder than most woman- 
 kind ; try an' be a bit softer like to'rds th' mon 
 as risked his soul because he wur a mon an' dare 
 na lose thee. Tha laid tha head on my shoulder 
 last neet. Aye, lass lass, think o' that fur one 
 minnit." 
 
 Perhaps she did think of it, for surely she 
 faltered a little what woman would not have 
 faltered at such a moment ? but the next, the 
 
One Day at Arlc. 181 
 
 memory of the sunny half-boyish face she had 
 clung to with so strong a love, rushed back upon 
 her and struck her to the heart She remembered 
 the days when her life had seemed so full that she 
 had feared her own bliss ; she remembered the 
 gallant speeches and light-hearted wiles, and all at 
 once she cried out in a fierce impassioned voice : 
 " I'll ne'er forgie thee," she said" I'll ne'er for- 
 gie thee to th' last day o' my life. What for 
 should I ? Tha's broke my heart, thou villain 
 tha's broke my heart." And the next minute 
 she had pushed past him and rushed into the house. 
 For a minute or so after she was gone the man 
 stood leaning against the door with a dazed look 
 in his pale face. She meant what she said : he 
 had known her long enough to understand that 
 she never forgave never forgot. Her unbroken 
 will and stubborn strength had held her to enmi- 
 ties all her life, and he knew she was not to be 
 won by such things as won othdfr women. He 
 knew she was harder than most women, but his 
 dull nature could not teach him how bitter must 
 have been the life that rendered her so. He had 
 never thought of it he did not think of it now. 
 He was not blaming her, and he was scarcely 
 
1 82 Natalie. 
 
 blaming himself. lie had tried to make her 
 happy and had failed. There were two causes 
 for the heavy passion of misery that was ruling 
 him, but neither of them was remorse. 
 
 His treachery had betrayed him, and he had 
 lost the woman he had loved and worked for. 
 Soul and body were sluggish alike, but each had 
 its dull pang of weight and wretchedness. 
 
 " I've come to th' eend now, surely," he said, 
 and dropping into her seat, he hid his face. 
 
 As he sat there a choking lump rose in his 
 throat with a sudden click, and in a minute or so 
 more he was wiping away hot rolling tears with 
 the back of his rough hand. 
 
 " I'm forsook somehow," he said " aye, I'm 
 forsook. I'm not th' soart o' chap to tak' up 
 \vi' th' world. She wor all th' world I cared fur, 
 an' she'll ne'er forgie me, for she's a hard un she 
 is. Aye ! but I wur fond o' her ! I wonder what 
 she'll do I do wonder i' my soul what she's 
 gettin' her mind on !" 
 
 It did not occur to him to call to her or go and 
 see what she was doing. He had always stood in 
 some dull awe of her, even when she had been 
 kindest, and now it seemed that they were too far 
 
One Day at Arle. 183 
 
 apart Tor any possibility of approach at reconcilia- 
 tion. So he sat and pondered heavily, the sea 
 air blowing upon him fresh and sweet, the sun 
 shining soft and warm upon the house, and the 
 few common flowers in the strip of garden whose 
 narrow shell walks and borders he had laid out 
 for her himself, with much clumsy planning and 
 slow labor. 
 
 Then he got up and took his rough working 
 jacket over his arm. 
 
 " I mun go down to th' Mary Anne" he said, 
 " an' work a bit, or we'll ne'er get her turned o'er 
 afore th' tide comes in. That boat's a moit o' 
 trouble." And he sighed heavily. 
 
 Half-way to the gate he stopped before a 
 cluster of ground honeysuckle, and perhaps for the 
 first time in his life was conscious of a sudden 
 curious admiration for them. 
 
 " She's powerful fond o' such like bits o' things 
 posies an' such like," he said. " Them's some 
 as I planted to please her on th' very day as we 
 were wed. I'll tak' one or two. She's most fond 
 on 'em fur such a hard un." 
 
 And when he went out he held in his hand two 
 or three slender stems hung with the tiny pretty 
 
I 4 Natalie. 
 
 humble bells. Who knows whether some subtle 
 influence at work in soul or body, or even the air 
 he breathed, did not prompt the novel mood ? 
 
 i'.i sjj # sfc ;',i 
 
 He had these very bits of simple blossoms in 
 his hand when he went down to where the Mary 
 Anne lay on the beach for repairs. So his fellow- 
 workmen said when they told the story afterwards, 
 remembering even this trivial incident. 
 
 He was in a strange frame of mind, too, they 
 noticed, silent and heavy and absent. He did not 
 work well, but lagged over his labour, stopping 
 every now and then to pass the back of his hand 
 over his brow as if to rouse himself. 
 
 "Yo look as if yo an' th' missus had had a 
 fallin' out, an' yo'n getten th' worst o' th' bargain," 
 one of his comrades said by way of rough jest. 
 
 They were fond of joking with him about his 
 love for his handsome taciturn wife. But he did 
 not laugh this time as he usually did. 
 
 " Mind thy own tackle, lad," he said, dully, " an' 
 I'll mind mine." 
 
 From that time he worked steadily among 
 them until it was nearly time for the tide to rise. 
 The boat they were repairing had been a difficult 
 
One Day at Arle. 185 
 
 job to manage, as they could only work between 
 tides, and now being hurried they lingered longer 
 than usual. At the last minute they found it 
 must be moved, and so were detained. 
 
 " Better leave her until th' tide ebbs," said one, 
 but the rest were not of the same mind. 
 
 " Nay," they argued, " it'll be all to do o'er 
 again if we do that. Theer's plenty o' time if we 
 look sharp enow. Heave again, lads." 
 
 Then it was that with the help of straining and 
 tugging there came a little lurch, and then it was 
 that as the Mary Anne slipped over on her side 
 one of the workers slipped with her, slipped half 
 underneath her with a cry, and lay on the sand, 
 held down by the weight that rested on him. 
 
 With his cry there broke out half a dozen others, 
 and the men rushed up to him with frightened faces. 
 
 " Are yo hurt, Seth, lad ?" they cried. " Are 
 yo crushed or owt ?" 
 
 The poor fellow stirred a little and then looked 
 up at them pale enough. 
 
 " Bruised a bit," he answered them, " an' sick 
 a bit, but I dunnot think theer's any bones broke. 
 Look sharp, chaps, an' heave her up. She's a 
 moit o' weight on me, 
 
1 86 Natalie. 
 
 They went to work again one and all, so relieved 
 by his words that they were doubly strong, but 
 after toiling like giants for awhile they were com- 
 pelled to pause for breath. In falling the boat 
 had so buried herself in the sand that she was 
 harder to move than ever. It had seemed simple 
 enough at first, but it was not so simple after all. 
 With all their efforts they had scarcely stirred her 
 an inch, and their comrade's position interfered 
 with almost every plan suggested. Then they 
 tried again, but this time with less effect than 
 before, through their fatigue. When they were 
 obliged to pause they looked at each other ques- 
 tioningly, and more than one of them turned a trifle 
 paler, and at last the wisest of them spoke out. 
 
 " Lads," he said, " we canna do this oursens. 
 Run for help, Jem Coulter, an' run wi' thy might, 
 fur it wunnot be so long afore th' tide '11 flow. 
 
 Up to this time the man on the sands had lain 
 with closed eyes and set teeth, but when he heard 
 this his eyes opened, and he looked up. 
 
 "Eh," he said, in that blind stupid fashion. 
 " What's that theer tha's sayin', Hester ?" 
 
 "Th' tide," blundered the speaker. "I wor 
 tellin' him to look sharp, that's aw," 
 
One Day at Arle. 1 8 7 
 
 The poor fellow moved restlessly. 
 
 " Aye, aye," he said. " Look sharp he mun 
 do that. I didna think o' th' tide." And he shut 
 his eyes again with a faint groan. 
 
 They strove while the messenger was gone ; 
 they strove when he returned with assistance ; 
 they strove with might and main, until not a man 
 among them had the strength of a child, and the 
 boldest of them were blanching with a fearful, 
 furtive excitement none dared to show. A crowd 
 had gathered round by this time men willing 
 and anxious to help, women suggesting new ideas 
 and comforting the wounded man in rough earnest 
 style, children clinging to their mothers' gowns 
 and looking on terror-stricken. Suddenly, in the 
 midst of one of their mightiest efforts, a sharp 
 childish voice piped out from the edge of an 
 anxious group a brief warning that struck terror 
 to every heart that beat among them. 
 
 " Eh ! Mesters !" it said, "th' tide's creepin' up 
 a bit." 
 
 The men looked round with throbbing pulses, 
 the women looked also, and one of the younger 
 ones broke into a low cry. ' ( Lord ha' mercy !" 
 she said, " it'll sweep around th' Bend afore long 
 
1 88 Natalie. 
 
 an' an' " and she ended with a terror in her 
 voice which told its own tale without other words. 
 
 The truth forced itself upon them all then. 
 Women began to shriek and men to pray, but, 
 strange to say, the man whose life was at stake 
 lay silent, though with ashen lips, about which the 
 muscles were tensely drawn. 
 
 His dull eyes searched every group in a dead 
 despair that was yet a passion, in all its stillness. 
 
 " How long will it be," he asked slowly at last 
 " th' tide ? Twenty minutes ?" 
 
 " Happen so," was the answer. " An' lad, lad ! 
 we canna help thee. We'n tried our best, lad" 
 with sobs even from the uncouth fellow who spoke. 
 " Theer is na one on us but 'ud leave a limb 
 behind to save thee, but theer isna time theer is 
 na " 
 
 One deep groan and he lay still again quite 
 still. God knows what weight of mortal agony 
 and desperate terror crushed him in that dead, 
 helpless pause. 
 
 Then his eyes opened as before. 
 
 " I've thowt o' deem'," he said with a queer 
 catch of his breath. " I've thowt o' deein', an' 
 I've wondered how it wor an' what it felt like, J 
 
One Day at Arle. 189 
 
 never thowt o' deein' like this here." Another 
 pause and then 
 
 " Which o' yo lads '11 tell my missus ?" 
 
 " Ay! poor chap, poor chap !" wailed the women. 
 "Who on 'em will ?" 
 
 " Howd tha noise, wenches," he said hoarsely. 
 "Yo daze me. Theer is na time to bring her 
 here. I'd ha' liked to ha' said a word to 
 her. I' ha' liked to ha' said one word ; Jem 
 Coulter " raising his voice " canst tha say it 
 fur me ?" 
 
 "Aye," cried the man, choking as he spoke, 
 " surely, surely." And he knelt down. 
 
 " Tell her 'at if it wor bad enow this here 
 it wor not so bad as it mought ha' been fur me. 
 I mought ha' fun it worsen Tell her I'd like to 
 ha' said a word if I could but I couldna. I'd 
 like to ha' heard her say one word as happen she 
 would ha' said if she'd been here, an' tell her 'at 
 if she had ha' said it, th' tide mought ha' comn an' 
 welcome but she didna, an' theer it stands." 
 And the sob that burst from his breast was like 
 the sob of a death-stricken child. "Happen" 
 he said next " happen one o' yo women foak say a 
 bit o' a prayer yo're not so fur fro' safe sand but 
 
190 Natalie. 
 
 yo can reach it happen one o' yo ha' a word or 
 two as yo could say such like as yo teach yo're 
 babbies." 
 
 Among these was one who had thank God ! 
 thank God ! and so, amid wails and weeping, 
 rough men and little children alike knelt with 
 uncovered heads and hidden eyes while this one 
 woman faltered the prayer that was a prayer for a 
 dying man ; and when it was ended, and all rose 
 glancing fearfully at the white line of creeping 
 foam, this dying man for whom they had prayed 
 lay upon his death-bed of sand the quietest of 
 them all quiet with a strange calm. 
 
 " Bring me my jacket," he said, " an' lay it o'er 
 my face. Theer's a bit o' a posie in the button- 
 hole. I getten it out o' th' missus's garden when 
 I comn away. I'd like to hold it i' my hand if 
 it's theer yet." 
 
 And as the long line of white came creeping 
 onward they hurriedly did as he told them laid 
 the rough garment over his face and gave him the 
 humble dying flowers to hold, and having done 
 this and lingered to the last moment, one after the 
 other dropped away with awe-stricken souls until 
 the last was gone. And under the arch of sunny 
 
One Day at Arle. 1 9 1 
 
 sky the little shining waves ran up the beach, 
 chasing each other over the glittering sand, catch- 
 ing at shells and sea-weed, toying with them for a 
 moment and then leaving them, rippling and curl- 
 ing and whispering, but creeping creeping 
 creeping. 
 
 They gave his message to the woman he had 
 loved with all the desperate strength of his dull 
 yet unchanging nature ; and when the man who 
 gave it to her saw her wild, white face and hard- 
 set lips, he blundered upon some dim guess as to 
 what that single word might have been, but the 
 sharpest of them never knew the stubborn anguish 
 that, following and growing day by day, crushed 
 her fierce will and shook her heart. She was as 
 hard as ever, they thought ; but they were none 
 of them the men or women to guess at the long, 
 dormant instinct of womanhood and remorse that 
 the tragedy of this one day of her life had 
 awakened. She had said that she would never 
 forgive him, and perhaps her very strength made 
 it long before she did ; but surely some subtle 
 chord was touched by those heavy last words, for 
 
i9'2 Natalie. 
 
 vvhen, months later, her first love came back faith- 
 ful and tender, with his old tale to tell, she would 
 not listen. 
 
 " Nay, lad," she said, " I amna a feather to 
 blow wi' th' wind. I've had my share o' trouble 
 wi' men foak, and I ha' no mind to try again. 
 Him as lies i' th' churchyard loved me i' his way 
 men foak's way is apt to be a poor un an' I'm 
 wore out wi' life. Dunnot come here courtin' 
 tak' a better woman." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY BALI.ANTYNE AND HANSON 
 LONDON AND EDINBURGH