FIGURES FAMED IN 
 FICTION 
 
 Drawn from the original sources 
 
 by 
 
 H. G. PILLSBURY, D.D. 
 
 RAND McNALLY & COMPANY 
 
 CHICAGO NEW YORK
 
 Copyright, 19I4 
 By Rand, McNally & Company
 
 AN INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 TTO present with few but vivid strokes a number of 
 graphic deHneations of noted figures in fiction is the 
 aim of this series of character sketches. These outHnes, 
 brief but retaining every essential, have been drawn from 
 the best and most celebrated offerings in the world of nov- 
 els and are here presented in the hope that they may direct 
 attention to the larger works from which they have been 
 derived and incite desire to become familiar with the 
 originals. Equally important is their mission to those 
 overwhelmed by the multiphcity of demands upon their 
 time in this age of feverish activity. Familiarity with 
 the great characters in story is not only desirable but 
 practically indispensable for intelligent social intercourse, 
 and, in general, for a clearer understanding of life. There- 
 fore these outlines of the famous personnel of the foremost 
 novels of modern times are designed to be of service to 
 the general reader whose acquaintance with the best in 
 Uterature must be won with the least possible expenditure 
 of time if, indeed, at all. 
 
 Throughout the series it is the intent to preserve unim- 
 paired the moral strength and the inherent beauty of the 
 original writings, and even in such brief presentations 
 to retain the breadth of the author's conception and a 
 firm grasp on scene and situation. A boon to be coveted 
 indeed is intimacy with the heroes and heroines who 
 always leave an indelible impress on every open mind 
 as they live and act their fascinating roles in the realm 
 of fiction. 
 
 Acknowledgments are gratefully made to the Houghton 
 Mifflin Company for permission to use "Donald Marcy,"
 
 6 AN INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 from book of the same title by Elizabeth Phelps- Ward, 
 and "Dr. Hopkins," from TJie Minister's Wooing by 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe; to Little, Brown and Company 
 for "Marcus Vinicius," from Quo Vadis ^by Henryk 
 Sienkiewicz, and "Clement Vaughn," from The Sage 
 Brush Parson by A. B. Ward; and to Longmans, 
 Green and Company for "Berault," from Under the Red 
 
 Robe by Stanley Weyman. 
 
 H. G. P. 
 
 Morris, Illinois, March is, 191 4
 
 THE CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Jean Valjean 9 
 
 From Les MiseraUes, by Victor Hugo 
 
 John Halifax 40 
 
 From John Halifax, Gentleman, by Dinah Maria Mulock 
 Craik 
 
 Tom Brown ... 67 
 
 From Tom Brown's School Days, by Thomas Hughes 
 
 Donovan 97 
 
 From Donovan, by Ada Ellen Bayley 
 
 Marcus Vinicius 123 
 
 From Quo Vadis, by Henryk Sienkiewicz 
 
 Robert Falconer .... .... 151 
 
 From Robert Falconer, by George Macdonald 
 
 Donald Marcy 174 
 
 From Donald Marcy, by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps- Ward 
 
 Sheila Mackenzie 202 
 
 From A Princess of Thule, by William Black 
 
 Sydney Carton 226 
 
 From A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens 
 
 Clement Vaughn 252 
 
 From The Sage Brush Parson, by A. B. Ward 
 
 Berault 284 
 
 From Under the Red Robe, by Stanley Weyman 
 
 Lorna Doone 307 
 
 From Lorna Doone, by R. D. Blackmore 
 
 7
 
 8 THE CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Angela Messenger 332 
 
 From All Sorts and Conditions of Men, by Sir Walter Besant 
 
 Dr. Hopkins 363 
 
 From The Minister's Wooing, by Harriet Beecher Stowe 
 
 Mr. Crupp of Barton 384 
 
 From The Barton Experiment, by John Habberton
 
 JEAN VALJEAN 
 
 T TE was a French peasant, who for burglary and 
 -^ -*- theft — the theft of a loaf of bread — was 
 sentenced to the galleys at Toulon for a period of five 
 years. While the bolt of the iron collar was being 
 riveted behind his head, the strong youth could not 
 restrain his tears. His convict life — the chain-gang, 
 the hard labor, the burning sun of the galleys, the 
 plank bed of his cell, the galley-sergeant's cudgel for a 
 look or a word — this was severe enough, but it was 
 more; it was oblivion. The world was shut out; he 
 was lost to life; his very name was effaced — he was 
 simply number 60 1. His incarceration was a living 
 death. It was a burial alive. Several unsuccessful 
 attempts at escape added to the duration of his 
 servitude, until at his release the period had been 
 nineteen years. 
 
 The result in him was a profound, unreasoning 
 sense of injustice, of burning wrongs. He cherished 
 a bitterness of soul, a hatred of law, of society, of 
 God. He was a man transformed little by little by 
 those awful nineteen years into something more 
 animal than human. It is not the first time that 
 the ancient penal code of France has wrought in 
 the interest of damnation. Unfortunate in his 
 youth, he had never known human love. For 
 nineteen years at least he had not shed a tear; and 
 now, at the age of forty-four, with the instincts of
 
 lo FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 hatred and savagery abnormally alive within him, 
 he found himself set free only to be spurned or 
 avoided by men. 
 
 He was a man of forbidding aspect; thickset in 
 physique, a strong, determined face, straggling 
 beard, closely cropped hair, a scowl upon his brow, 
 his coarse clothing patched and torn, iron-shod 
 shoes on his stockingless feet, and an enormous 
 knotty stick in his hand. The children in the 
 street fled at his approach. 
 
 When set at liberty he was furnished with the 
 yellow passport which he must show to the author- 
 ities of every town. Described in it as "a very 
 dangerous man," it sufficed to close the public 
 houses against him. Arriving at a certain village 
 as evening came on, he was repulsed again and 
 again. His arrival was noised abroad. 
 
 "Something to eat, for the love of God, if I pay!" 
 he implored a peasant. 
 
 The latter fixed his eyes upon him, exclaiming, 
 "What! are you the man? Something to eat! A shot 
 from my gun!" 
 
 He was directed at length to the house of the 
 Bishop, and certainly with the best of reason. This 
 man was known far and near for his rare goodness 
 of heart, his utter self-abnegation, his devotion in 
 work for humanity. Many are the stories told of 
 his unselfishness. He received from the state a 
 salary of fifteen thousand livres; he lived on one 
 thousand and gave away the rest. The small hos- 
 pital was overcrowded; he gave up the large
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN ii 
 
 episcopal residence for that use, and himself lived in 
 the hospital. He did good to all men; he was 
 afraid of no man. Unearthly in the goodness of his 
 life, he was held in the utmost love and veneration. 
 
 The ex-convict knocked at the good Bishop's 
 door and stood before him. "See here!" said he 
 abruptly. "My name is Jean Valjean. I am a con- 
 vict from the galleys; I was nineteen years there. 
 I have traveled all day on foot and have had nothing 
 to eat. At the public inns they said 'Be off ! ' because 
 of my yellow passport. I am very weary and very 
 hungry. But, do you understand? I come from 
 the galleys. My passport says I am a very danger- 
 ous man. There ! Now you, too, will turn me away ! " 
 
 "Sit down, monsieur, and warm yourself. We 
 shall sup in a few moments, and after that your bed 
 will be ready," was the Bishop's gentle reply. 
 
 The man's hard face bore the imprint of stupe- 
 faction ; he began stammering like a crazy man. 
 
 "What! You will keep me? You do not say 
 'Get out of here, you dog'? I have told you who 
 I am, and yet you receive me into your house?" 
 
 "My friend, this is not my house; it is the house 
 of Jesus Christ. It belongs to you as well as to me. 
 What need had I to know your name? Before you 
 told me, you had one which I knew." 
 
 "What? You knew what I was called?" 
 
 "Yes," replied the Bishop, "you are called my 
 brother." 
 
 The look of astonishment on the coarse, hard face 
 deepened. Bewilderment, love, gratitude, incredulity
 
 12 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 mingled in its expression. He ate as one who 
 is starving, and afterward rested upon a comfortable 
 bed for the first time in nineteen years. He woke 
 soon after midnight. The bed was unnaturally soft ; 
 therefore he woke. His thoughts were confused. 
 He had looked into heaven for a moment, and was 
 blinded by the sudden light. Human love and good- 
 ness were utterly new in his life; they did not seem 
 real. But there was one thing that was real, — the 
 cruelties he had suffered, the injustice of law, the 
 bitterness of his soul. He had been robbed by 
 society; he owed reprisal. The beast in him was 
 rampant. All this was real; the angelic goodness 
 which had just flashed upon him was but a dream 
 to him. And his mind dwelt upon this one thing: 
 he had been robbed by society ; he would rob society 
 in return. Urged by this blind, brute instinct, he 
 was actually led to rob his benefactor. Seizing a 
 small basket of silverware, he fled through the 
 darkness. 
 
 When, arrested some hours later, he was brought 
 back by three gendarmes, "Ah! here you are!" 
 exclaimed the Bishop. "I am glad to see you. 
 But how is this ? You did not take the candlesticks 
 which I gave you. I gave you them as I did the 
 other silver." 
 
 Jean Valjean stared at the venerable Bishop with 
 an expression of which no human tongue can render 
 any account. 
 
 "So, then," said the gendarme, "what this man 
 said was true. We stopped him ; he had this silver — ' '
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 13 
 
 "And he told you I had given it to him. I see 
 how it stands. It is all a mistake, you see." 
 
 As the officer released him the Bishop brought 
 him the silver candlesticks. 
 
 "My friend, before you go, here are your candle- 
 sticks; do not forget them." Then, drawing near 
 to him, he said in a low voice, "Do not forget, never 
 forget, that you have promised to use this money 
 in becoming an honest man." 
 
 The poor man could not remember having prom- 
 ised anything. 
 
 The Bishop resumed: "Jean Valjean, my brother, 
 you no longer belong to evil but to good. It is your 
 soul that I buy from you. I withdraw it from black 
 thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I give it to 
 God. Go in peace." 
 
 As Valjean went on his way he was the prey of a 
 throng of novel sensations. Unutterable thoughts 
 assembled within him. He had looked for one mo- 
 ment through an open door into the realm of virtue, 
 and even now almost doubted what he saw. Travel- 
 ing far beyond the town, he sat down beside a bush 
 by the wayside. A lad of ten years passed along, 
 merrily singing and tossing some coins and catching 
 them. One of them — a large one — rolled near Val- 
 jean as he sat there, and, more from the instinct of 
 his old life than anything else, he set his foot upon 
 it. The lad hunted for it, and finally suspected him. 
 
 "Give me back my money!" said he. 
 
 Valjean looked at him in a dazed way. "What is 
 your name?" said he.
 
 14 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Gervais is my name. Will you give me back 
 my money?" 
 
 The man stared at him as if dreaming. Finally 
 rousing himself, "Off with you ! " he cried in a terrible 
 voice, and the scared child turned and ran. Then 
 the sun set and the darkness came, and a deeper 
 darkness came over the man's soul. 
 
 Why had he robbed Gervais? He could not tell. 
 Let us say it was not he, but the instinct that wrought 
 of itself, the result of his terrible life. He picked 
 up the coin in a dazed way, and a great revulsion of 
 feeling came over him as he realized what he had 
 done. Then he sought to overtake the lad, fran- 
 tically calling out to him, "Gervais! Gervais! 
 Little Gervais!" but all in vain. Finally, as he sank 
 exhausted, some thought of what he was came over 
 his dull mind. "Oh, I am indeed a wretch!" he 
 cried, and burst into weeping for the first time in 
 nineteen years. 
 
 He seemed to see himself there before him, the 
 repulsive galley convict, cudgel in hand, with his 
 evil face and with stolen objects about him. He 
 almost asked himself who that man was. He was 
 hideous. Then a bright light like a torch seemed to 
 shine athwart this hallucination, and as he gazed 
 and gazed, the torch seemed to be the holy man, the 
 Bishop. And there, as his revery went on, were the 
 two forms before him — that hideous Jean Valjean 
 and the other blessed, great soul. And the former 
 seemed to fade, while the latter increased in glory. 
 By and by the cursed Jean Valjean seemed to vanish
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 15 
 
 and the glory only remained ; and he seemed to hear 
 again the words of the holy man: "Jean Valjean, 
 my brother, you no longer belong to evil but to good. 
 It is your soul that I buy from you. I withdraw 
 it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, 
 and I give it to God." 
 
 He sobbed and wept for a long, long time as 
 if his heart would break. And as he wept, his 
 life stood out before him under the holy radiance 
 of the Bishop's soul. It seemed to him that he 
 beheld Satan by the light of paradise. It was 
 the supreme crisis of his life. We know nothing 
 more about it except that he was, from that 
 time forth, in the spirit that possessed him, a totally 
 different man. 
 
 The provincial town of sur M — had long possessed 
 an industry which was more or less profitable, the 
 imitation of English jet. Trinkets in black glass — 
 pins, bracelets, and the like — were manufactured 
 even as they were in Germany. But the industry 
 languished on account of the expense of the raw 
 material as well as of the process. 
 
 Eight years have passed in the course of our story. 
 A great revolution has taken place in the industry 
 of this manufacturing town. A stranger had quietly 
 established himself there, and, by one or two simple 
 changes in the process of manufacture, had made 
 it possible to compete with Germany, and a wonder- 
 ful industrial prosperity was the result. 
 
 This stranger, on his arrival at sur M — , had only
 
 i6 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 the garments, the appearance, and the language of a 
 workingman. He was a kindly, quiet man with a 
 preoccupied air, and was known as Father Madeleine. 
 His own share in this great and general prosperity 
 made him rich, and yet he lived a quiet life and 
 seemed to delight in deeds of charity whenever the 
 opportunity offered. Besides establishing a hospital 
 and a school and a dispensary, he personally sought 
 out the needy and the sorrowing. In his quiet 
 rooms he had a shelf of useful books. In proportion 
 as leisure came to him with fortune he seemed to 
 take advantage of it to cultivate his mind. It was 
 observ^ed that his language had grown more correct, 
 his peasant vocabulary gradually disappearing. 
 The entire town held him in high esteem, not only 
 for his goodness but as the author of its prosperity. 
 Honors were offered him but were refused. At 
 length he was prevailed upon to accept the mayor- 
 alty of sur M — , and there is small need to say that 
 he used his office well. In his room might be seen, 
 among other simple furniture, two silver candle- 
 sticks; they were never used, but were kept with 
 the utmost care. You and I have seen them be- 
 fore. One day the announcement appeared in the 
 provincial journal of the death of the Bishop of 
 D — , and the singular fact was noted that Father 
 Madeleine went into mourning. 
 
 As he went about here and there, a certain man 
 followed him with an evil eye. "Where have I 
 seen that man?" said he. "Somewhere. Good 
 God ! Was it at Toulon ? " This man of the evil eye
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 17 
 
 was one of the inspectors of the police, and his name 
 was Javert. 
 
 Let us say of him that he was not an evil man, 
 at least not a corrupt man. He was compounded of 
 watchfulness, sternness, and conscience. He was the 
 very incarnation of law. It was his business to lay 
 hands on the criminal, and he knew no other busi- 
 ness. His face was more wolfish than human. His 
 hair nearly covered his eyebrows; his whiskers were 
 black and bristling. When he smiled — which was 
 seldom — he reminded one of a tiger; he showed his 
 teeth and his gums. As for his glance, it was like a 
 gimlet, cold and piercing. He would have appre- 
 hended his own father, nay, even himself, had that 
 been called for. 
 
 He entered the mayor's office one day. "Your 
 honor," said he, "it is my duty to report to you that 
 a great wrong has been committed, and to request 
 you to instigate the authorities to dismiss me from 
 the service." 
 
 The mayor was naturally astonished. "Mon- 
 sieur Javert," said he, "may I ask the reason?" 
 
 "Your honor, I had some little difference with you, 
 as you will remember, six weeks ago. In a fit of 
 passion I informed against you. That was the 
 wrong. Suspicion is permitted to the servants of 
 justice, but personal enmity, never! I am unfit to 
 be inspector of police." 
 
 Father Madeleine was pale and calm. "Informed 
 against me, you say?" 
 
 "Informed against you as an ex-convict. I 
 3
 
 1 8 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 thought it was so for a long time. There was a 
 certain resemblance; you drag your leg a little, for 
 one thing. At all events, I took you for a certain 
 Jean Valjean." 
 
 "A certain — What did you say the name was?" 
 
 "Jean Valjean. He was a convict whom I used 
 to see years ago in the galleys at Toulon. After his 
 release this man robbed a lad on the public highway. 
 The penalty for this offense is — for an ex-convict — 
 the galleys for life. This Valjean disappeared eight 
 years ago, and the police could not find him. Well, 
 when I informed against you they told me I was mad, 
 for the real Jean Valjean had just been found." 
 
 Father Madeleine could hardly control himself. 
 He said nothing. 
 
 "It is this way, your honor. A wretched fellow, 
 one Champmathieu, was arrested for theft and has 
 been completely identified as Jean Valjean. The 
 old scamp denies it, of course, but that will avail 
 nothing. The case comes on at the assizes at Arras 
 to-morrow." And the police inspector left the 
 mayor to reflections more strange and more itumul- 
 tuous than he could possibly have imagined. 
 
 Now you and I have divined already that Father 
 Madeleine was no other than Jean Valjean. We 
 have some idea of what his moral effort must have 
 been during these recent years. He had found 
 goodness to be a reality, for he had known it in his 
 life. He had lived in holiness and happiness; he 
 had effaced his name; he thanked God that that 
 awful past was buried forever.
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 19 
 
 But what was this? The ghost of his past was 
 walking the earth again! Upon hearing Javert's 
 story he confusedly saw the whole tragic drama 
 reopen. He dimly knew that awful things were 
 coming, and, bending like an oak at the approach of 
 a storm, he felt the black clouds charged with thun- 
 ders and lightnings descending upon his head. 
 
 But why such apprehensions? Was he not safe? 
 Was not the hated name now fastened upon another 
 man? Where was the occasion for any trouble? 
 Ah! it lay in the fact of conscience, that vicegerent 
 of God in the soul of man, that solemn thing 
 which every man bears within himself and which he 
 measures with despair against the passions of his 
 being and the actions of his life. There is a spectacle 
 more grand than the sea; it is heaven. There is a 
 spectacle more grand than heaven; it is the inmost 
 recesses of the human soul. 
 
 That night Valjean shut himself up in his room, 
 and there was the battle of the giants within him. 
 At the very first glance of his abnormally quickened 
 sense he saw what he might and ought to do : namely, 
 appear at the court, declare the truth, deliver the 
 innocent from prison, and deliberately take his place. 
 Adieu, then, to his useful life, to the enterprises 
 which depended upon him, to the happiness which 
 he had begun to know. And then — the living tomb 
 at Toulon ; the galleys for life ! 
 
 But he recoiled. He saw the other side of the 
 question. He saw that he was master of the situa- 
 tion. Verily Providence had placed the key in his 
 2
 
 20 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 hands. Surely God was good! Had he the righl to 
 disarrange His plans? What impertinence! Well, 
 then, let the good God do as He likes ! Let things 
 take their course; all will be well. 
 
 But yet again there was revulsion. Heavens and 
 earth! It was horrible! It was murderous! He 
 would thus be the means of inflicting upon an inno- 
 cent man that frightful living death, the galleys. 
 Great God! it was infamous! To let things take 
 their course, to allow this error of fate and of men 
 to be carried out, to lend himself to it through his 
 silence — this was hypocritical baseness in the last 
 degree. It was a cowardly, abject, hideous crime. 
 And, more than all, it was disobedience to his con- 
 science ; to the voice of God in his soul. 
 
 Well, then, he must appear at the court, declare 
 himself, and save the innocent. He saw his duty 
 clearly written in luminous letters. But he recoiled 
 yet again. What of those dependent upon the busi- 
 ness he had created? "I must think of others," 
 said he, "of the larger question. What about my 
 duty to the hundreds who will suffer if I disappear? 
 And this old Champmathieu — he is a thief at best, 
 a wretch doubtless. Suppose I remain here. In ten 
 years I shall have made ten millions, and scattered 
 them through a thousand homes. Was I not selfish 
 to forget all this? Ah! now I am on the right road. 
 I am Madeleine, and Madeleine I remain. Woe to 
 the man who happens to be Jean Valjean." 
 
 And he began to act as if this were his final decision. 
 He must destroy all evidence of his former life.
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 21 
 
 He had preserved his old convict clothing, his knap- 
 sack, his huge thorn cudgel ; he threw them into the 
 fire. The Bishop's candlesticks alone remained. 
 He seized them also, when it seemed to him he heard 
 a voice within him saying, "Jean Valjean! Yes, 
 that is it ! Finish ! Destroy this souvenir ; forget the 
 Bishop; forget everything! Let an innocent man 
 bear your name in ignominy and drag your chain 
 in the galleys! Ah, wretch! There will be around 
 you many voices which will sound your praises, and 
 one voice which no one but yourself will hear, but 
 which will curse you in the dark!" 
 
 The perspiration streamed from his brow. He 
 fixed a haggard eye on the candlesticks. 
 
 "Is there any one here?" he exclaimed. Then 
 with a strange laugh, "How stupid I am! There 
 can be no one." 
 
 There was some one. But the Person who was there 
 was of those that the human eye cannot see. 
 
 All night long the agony went on. Should he 
 continue his beneficent life, dispensing happiness 
 among men, or, good God! instead of that the 
 convict gang, the chain on his ankle, the cell, the 
 plank bed — all those horrors which he knew so 
 well ! Should he remain in paradise, and become a 
 demon? Should he return to hell, and become an 
 angel? And when morning dawned on the conflict 
 he was no further advanced than at the beginning. 
 Thus did this unhappy soul struggle in its anguish. 
 Eighteen hundred years before, the Mysterious 
 Being in whom are summed up all the sanctities
 
 22 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 and all the sufferings of humanity had also — for a 
 time, while the olive trees quivered in the wild wind 
 of the Infinite — thrust aside the terrible cup which 
 appeared to him dripping with darkness and over- 
 flowing w4th shadows, but in its depths all studded 
 with stars! 
 
 The result of the long struggle was that he made 
 the day's journey to Arras where the court was 
 sitting. Still undecided, he resolved dully and 
 blindly that at least he would go. Arrived in the 
 courtroom, he listened for an hour to the evidence 
 and the arguments, and listened in torture. Champ- 
 mat hieu was proved to the satisfaction of the jury 
 to be the ex-convict. Finally Father Madeleine 
 arose and addressed the court : 
 
 "Monsieur President, I have the honor to request 
 you to release the prisoner at the bar and to arrest 
 me upon the indictment before the court. Mon- 
 sieur President, I am Jean Valjean." 
 
 There was silence like that of the grave. Father 
 Madeleine stood before them, and the officials, who 
 knew him well, saw that during the past hour his 
 hair had turned perfectly white. 
 
 "Chenildieu," said he to a convict who had been 
 brought from the galleys as a witness, and who had 
 identified the prisoner as Jean Valjean, "do you 
 not know me? Do you remember the knitted sus- 
 penders with a checked pattern which you wore in 
 the galleys? Let me tell you also that you have 
 on your left arm, branded in blue powder, the date 
 March i, 1815. Will you pull up your sleeve?"
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 23 
 
 He did so, and a gendarme held a light close to it. 
 There was the date! The unhappy man smiled in 
 a way which went to the hearts of those who beheld, 
 a smile in which despair and triumph were mingled. 
 
 "You see plainly," he said, "that I am Jean 
 Valjean. I shall withdraw, since you do not arrest 
 me here. I have many things to do. The District 
 Attorney knows where I am to be found, and can 
 have me arrested at any time." 
 
 As he passed out not an arm was raised to hinder 
 him. At that moment there was about him that 
 divine something which causes people to stand aside 
 and make way for a man. It had been almost a 
 drawn battle ; in it the man had been sadly bruised 
 and torn, but conscience was victor. 
 
 The court, after prolonged consultation, decided 
 that justice must take its course ; and police inspector 
 Javert, in accordance with its instructions, duly 
 presented himself at the rooms of Father Madeleine. 
 His grim, terrible smile, the baleful light in his eye — 
 it was the visage of a demon who has just found the 
 damned soul he has been seeking. 
 
 In his eagerness he had come sooner than he was 
 desired, for Valjean had one matter to attend to that 
 required time, to say nothing of secrecy. Still he 
 quietly went with the officer; and the same night 
 broke with his iron strength a bar of the prison 
 window and escaped. How he managed to get 
 through the big gates into the courtyard no one 
 ever knew. He came to his rooms, arranged cer- 
 tain matters, and set out for Paris in disguise. One
 
 24 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 week later he was arrested again. But previous to 
 that time he succeeded in withdrawing his deposit 
 with his Paris banker — a sum of 600,000 francs — 
 and burying it by night in the lonely forest of 
 Montfermeil. This sum, in banknotes, inclosed 
 in a box, he placed in a coffer filled with chestnut 
 shavings, and with it his other treasure, the Bishop's 
 candlesticks. He had just completed this disposal 
 of his fortune when he was rearrested and com- 
 mitted to the galleys. 
 
 Not long before this great crisis in his life he had 
 become aware of the sad case of a poor woman who 
 had been obliged to leave her child some years before 
 in the care of strangers in order to obtain work to 
 support it and herself. He had learned of her 
 when it was too late to be of any material aid, and 
 she died before her child could be sent for. He felt 
 it to be his duty to care for this child ; it was almost 
 in the form of a solemn promise made to the dead. 
 With this motive present to his mind, considering 
 also his sharpened sense and his better knowledge 
 of the world, not to speak of his giant strength, one 
 might well expect his escape, either soon or late. 
 
 As a matter of fact, five months after his commit- 
 ment the Toulon newspaper contained these lines : 
 
 "Yesterday a convict belonging to the detach- 
 ment on board the Orion, on his return from 
 rendering assistance to a sailor suspended in the 
 rigging, fell into the sea and was drowned. The 
 body has not yet been found. It is supposed that 
 it is entangled among the piles of the Arsenal Point.
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 25 
 
 The man was committed under the number 9430, 
 and his name was Jean Valjean." 
 
 Thirty days later the night coach from Paris for 
 Lagny had as an outside passenger a man with white 
 hair, in poor and scanty clothing, with a bundle and 
 a cudgel. He said little, replying to all questions 
 in monosyllables. Leaving the coach at Chelles, he 
 did not enter the inn, avoided the principal streets, 
 and took a cross-road for Montfermeil. Had one 
 followed him, one might have seen him taking long 
 strides through the depths of the forest as one who 
 was well acquainted with its mazes. He finally 
 paused, examined certain waymarks, apparently 
 satisfied himself that the soil had not been recently 
 disturbed, and returned as he had come. 
 
 One idea possessed him now; it was to secure 
 and provide for the child whose poor mother had 
 died six months before. From information given by 
 the mother he knew she must be about eight years 
 of age. It was, indeed, high time that he came to 
 the rescue. The poor waif had known nothing but 
 unkindness and hardship. Cruelties past belief 
 had been her lot during all her childhood, and for 
 the kind old man who took her from curses and 
 blows and burdens and cold and hunger her love 
 amounted almost to worship. As she walked away 
 with her little hand in his, leaving behind her the 
 curses and the blows and the hunger, her child heart 
 was full. She felt something as though she were 
 beside the good God. 
 
 He took humble lodgings in the outskirts of Paris ;
 
 26 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 and their life, for a time quiet and uneventful, was, 
 for both of them, a foretaste of heaven. Jean 
 Valjcan had never loved anything; he had never 
 been lover, husband, or father. When he had deliv- 
 ered little Cosette and now possessed her, all the 
 dormant affection within him awoke and rushed 
 toward the little child. The singular experience of a 
 starved heart which, thus late, begins to love, is a 
 very obscure and a very sweet thing. The love that 
 might have been, was transformed. His years were 
 five and fifty, and Cosette was eight; and so this 
 love flowed together into a sort of ineffable light: 
 Cosette had never known love, and so the union of 
 their two hearts was complete. Her instinct sought 
 a father as his instinct sought a child; and so he 
 became her father after a sort of celestial fashion. 
 He taught her to read, and it gave him a rare pleasure. 
 At such times the ex-convict would smile with the 
 pensive smile of the angels. And then he talked 
 of her mother, and he made her pray. Who knows 
 whether Jean Valjean had not been on the eve of 
 growing discouraged and of falling once more? 
 But now he loved, and grew strong again. Surely 
 he needed the child as much as she needed him. 
 Oh, divine mystery of the balances of destiny! 
 
 He was prudent enough never to go out by day. 
 The two walked deserted streets in the evening. 
 After a time his suspicions v/ere aroused. A poor 
 beggar to whom he gave alms gave him a strange 
 look one night by the light of the street lamp. It 
 made him think of Javert, he knew not why. That
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 27 
 
 night there were footfalls in the corridor; the next 
 night he took his departure. Leading Cosette, he 
 walked through intricate and deserted streets, return- 
 ing on his track at times — like the hunted stag — 
 to make sure he was not followed. Cosette asked 
 no questions; and he knew no more whither he was 
 going than did she. He trusted God as she trusted 
 him. Presently he became aware that he was fol- 
 lowed by four men. At one time they paused in an 
 open space in consultation. As one of them turned, 
 the light of the moon fell full upon his face. It was 
 Javert. 
 
 It is necessary to bear in mind the great physical 
 strength of our hero and also the fact that, among 
 other things, he was a past master in the art of 
 climbing walls by sheer muscular force, without 
 ladder or climbing-irons. He could brace himself 
 in the right angle of a wall, using chiefly his knees 
 and elbows, and raise himself to a great height, the 
 more surely if it were a roughened surface. 
 
 On this desperate night he threw his pursuers 
 off the track again and again, but in vain. In a 
 desolate quarter of the city he arrived at a walled 
 inclosure containing a large building. The wall — 
 about eighteen feet in height — met the side of the 
 building at a right angle. Here was his only hope. 
 He knew the men were on his track; in fifteen min- 
 utes they would be there. Cutting a rope from the 
 pulley of a street lamp, he tied it around Cosette, 
 took the end in his teeth, and in one minute was at 
 the top of the wall and had drawn the child up after
 
 28 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 him. When the detectives arrived some minutes 
 later the two had disappeared as completely as if 
 they had dived into the earth. 
 
 Valjcan found himself in a large garden; it was, 
 in fact, the grounds of an old convent. The order 
 of the nuns was of the very strictest, and but one 
 man was employed there, the gardener. Upon 
 meeting him in the early morning he proved to be a 
 good, ignorant soul, one Fauchelevent, whom Father 
 Madeleine had befriended in other days. He now 
 paid his debt of gratitude, securing for his benefactor 
 a position as assistant gardener — under the name of 
 Fauchelevent — and for Cosette a place in the 
 convent school. And during the five years that 
 followed, Jean Valjean — Fauchelevent, as he was 
 now known — was as completely shielded from his 
 enemies, the police, as if he had been in a tomb. 
 
 God has his own ways in the moral life of men. 
 There were two things which tended to complete 
 and uphold the Bishop's work in Jean Valjean. 
 The one was Cosette — love of the child kept at bay 
 that hatred of humanity which assailed him again; 
 the other was the convent. He could not have told 
 the reason; but the pure and holy life there, year 
 after year — an expiation, as it seemed, for the sin 
 of men — stole into his soul like the perfume of the 
 flowers. And to this refuge, with its silence and 
 purity, he had been mercifully led at the very time 
 when the galleys yawned again for his body and his 
 soul. Verily God was merciful, and his heart melted 
 in gratitude. He began to try to pray.
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 29 
 
 Cosette, meanwhile, was religiously cared for; she 
 was receiving an education. She passed an hour 
 with him daily, and for the present he was content. 
 
 The time came, however, when he asked himself 
 if it were right to arrange that she should grow up 
 to be a nun, taking advantage of her ignorance of 
 life and depriving her in advance of its joys and its 
 freedom? He settled it with his conscience and 
 resolved to leave the convent. He presented the 
 prioress with the sum of five thousand francs in 
 compensation for Cosette 's five years in her care 
 and — still bearing the name of Fauchelevent — 
 took rooms in a quiet street in Paris. 
 
 Two or three years passed, uneventful and happy. 
 The old man began to perceive — and, it must be 
 confessed with a kind of vague foreboding — that 
 his Cosette was no longer the little child; woman- 
 hood was dawning. As a child she possessed no 
 marked personal attractions, if we except her won- 
 derful eyes and lashes. But there is a time when 
 girls blossom out in the twinkling of an eye and 
 become roses all at once. One left them children 
 but yesterday; to-day one finds them disquieting 
 to the feelings. Cosette in her girlhood had heard 
 her plainness remarked upon, and seemed to accept 
 it quietly without question. One day she chanced 
 to look at herself in the mirror and said to her- 
 self, "Really!" Another day she heard the old 
 housekeeper say to her father — for so she called 
 him, "Do you notice how pretty Cosette is grow- 
 ing, sir?"
 
 30 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Mariiis Pont mercy, the ?on of a general under 
 Bonaparte, a most worthy young man, was at that 
 time a student of law in Paris. Although suffering 
 from reverses of fortune and very poor, he was all 
 that a young man should be. He noticed from time 
 to time in his walks in the Luxembourg a beautiful 
 girl in the company of a man many years her senior. 
 The fact that he saw them daily served to fix his 
 attention. A glance from her wonderful eyes one 
 day — well, he could not quite forget it. He was in 
 his first youth, impressionable, romantic, and lo ! the 
 sacred fire was kindled. 
 
 Valjean was aware of him, and trembled. Who 
 was he ? A prowler come to bear away his happiness ? 
 This was the unreasoning jealousy and fear that 
 claimed him. It was not merely that her heart 
 might come to know another; there was a darker 
 trouble involved, that he could as yet but dimly see. 
 And yet, notwithstanding his precautions, Marius 
 found means to form her acquaintance and the old, 
 old story was told again. 
 
 Meanwhile Valjean had become apprehensive 
 for his own safety, but whether of the police or of 
 possible burglars he hardly knew. He thought 
 at one time to leave the country for England. On 
 learning of it through Cosette, Marius was in despair, 
 for he was too poor to follow. 
 
 "Of one thing I am certain," said he. "If you 
 leave France I shall die." 
 
 Valjean 's plans grew more definite. One day 
 as he paced his room, anticipating the details of
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 31 
 
 the journey, he glanced in the inclined mirror which 
 surmounted the sideboard and read these lines: 
 
 "My Dearest: Alas! my father insists upon 
 setting out immediately. In a week we shall be in 
 England. "Cosette." 
 
 It was as if he had seen a spirit! He could not 
 believe his eyes! He finally understood that the 
 lines were reflected from Cosette's blotter, which she 
 had left upon the sideboard. The writing, reversed 
 on the blotter, was righted in the mirror. 
 
 It was a terrible blow ! Who was he ? He divined 
 the identity at once; it must be the young man of 
 the Luxembourg. 
 
 That night a note was brought, addressed to her, 
 and which she was evidently expected to read in the 
 morning. He read as follows: 
 
 "My love, I die. When thou readest this, my 
 soul will be near thee." 
 
 In those days there was rioting in Paris. It was 
 the revolution of '32. Even at that moment the 
 sound of the strife reached Jean Val jean's ears. 
 Why was it, pray, that, even while a thrill of joy 
 went through him that the youth — whoever he 
 was — would be dead in the morning, he yet set 
 out immediately for the barricade where the fighting 
 was in progress, thinking he might be there? 
 
 The insurgents, in a pause in the fighting, had 
 seized a man as a spy, and found upon his person 
 the name, "Javert, inspector of police." They 
 bound him to a pillar, saying as they left him, "If
 
 32 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 we are worsted, you will be shot ten minutes before 
 the barricade is taken." 
 
 "Why not at once?" said he in his imperious tone. 
 
 "Because," was the reply, "we are saving our 
 powder." 
 
 An hour later, as the insurgent leader passed him, 
 "When are you going to kill me?" said he. 
 
 "Wait," was the reply. "We need all our cart- 
 ridges just at present." 
 
 At that moment a stranger, just arrived, was sur- 
 veying the prisoner with singular attention. The 
 latter raised his eyes, and Javert and Valjean recog- 
 nized each other. 
 
 "May I ask a favor?" said Valjean to the insur- 
 gent captain. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "That I may shoot that man." 
 
 "No objections, no objections. Take him out- 
 side." 
 
 Javert was pinioned, as well as bound to the pillar. 
 Valjean cut him loose, marched him outside, and, 
 as they stood there, fixed upon him a penetrating 
 gaze. 
 
 Javert said calmly, "That is right; take your 
 revenge!" 
 
 Valjean cocked his pistol, then cut the cords which 
 bound the arms of the prisoner and said to him, 
 "You are free." 
 
 Javert was a man not easily astonished. Still, 
 he could not repress a start. 
 
 "Go!" said Valjean; and when his prisoner had
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 33 
 
 disappeared he discharged his pistol in the air. Re- 
 turning to the barricade, he said, "It is done." 
 
 And there he found the young man of the Luxem- 
 bourg, and in the thick of the fight. Why was it 
 that he kept his eye upon Marius? Why was it 
 that, when the latter was desperately wounded and 
 on the point of being made prisoner, he seized him 
 and bore him out of the melee? Was it because 
 he had begun to think — had begun to struggle to 
 think — of Cosette's happiness, whatever the cost 
 of promoting it might be, whatever it might mean 
 of suffering to himself? 
 
 There was not a moment to lose if he would rescue 
 this man. And indeed that seemed impossible. Sud- 
 denly he perceived, partially concealed by a heap of 
 stones, an iron grating some two feet square. His 
 old instinct of escape was alive. To remove the 
 grating and to descend into the aperture, bearing 
 with him the unconscious form, was, thanks to his 
 herculean strength, but the work of a moment. He 
 had literally dived into the earth! He found him- 
 self in the sewers of Paris. 
 
 He traversed them for hours amid the damp and 
 the darkness and the foul gases — still bearing the 
 apparently lifeless form — in the faint hope of 
 escaping. Arrived at an outlet on the river Seine, 
 and gaining the open air, he rested, almost exhausted 
 by his incredible labors. And while he debated 
 with himself as to his best course, he perceived some 
 one approaching through the darkness. It was a 
 form which he knew too well.
 
 34 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Inspector Javcrt," said he, "you have me in 
 your power. I have only one request, that you 
 help me carry him home," pointing to the wounded 
 man. "The address is to be found on his person." 
 
 The grim Javert was the prey of exceedingly 
 strange emotions. Without consenting or declining, 
 he hailed a hackney coach and within an hour the 
 young Marius was safe with his friends. 
 
 "One more favor," said Valjean as they reentered 
 the carriage. "Accompany me home for one 
 moment. Then do with me what you will." 
 
 Again, without consenting or declining, he gave 
 the necessary directions to the driver. Arrived 
 there, "I will wait for you here," said he, as he dis- 
 missed the carriage. 
 
 Valjean entered the house, and when he returned 
 to the street, lo! there was no one to be seen. 
 The grim, inexorable soul had, in a way, been con- 
 quered by kindness. He was, in fact, almost 
 paralyzed by what had happened to him. Here 
 was a convict giving back pardon for hatred, 
 preferring pity to vengeance, preferring to ruin 
 himself rather than ruin his enemy, kneeling on 
 the heights of virtue more nearly akin to an angel 
 than to a man! He was dumb with amazement. 
 He could neither deny nor explain the fact before 
 him. We will not dwell upon the conflict within 
 him between his professional duty on the one hand, 
 and common gratitude on the other. Suffice it to 
 say, he found it impossible to apprehend and send 
 to the galleys one who had freely given him his life.
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 35 
 
 And now this our peasant-hero, scarred in more 
 than one moral battle, more than once well-nigh 
 overthrown, yet emerging in victory, entered the 
 final struggle of his life. He had seen it approaching 
 in the shadows, and yet instead of seeking to avert 
 it, he had deliberately made it possible. And this 
 was the way it came. 
 
 The young man Marius slowly yet surely came 
 back to life, and through Valjean's personal agency 
 the lovers were reunited. He made now a last 
 midnight visit to the forest of Montfermeil, bearing 
 home the treasure buried there ten years before; 
 and on Cosette's wedding day he gave her as her 
 dowry the princely sum of six hundred thousand 
 francs. This accomplished, Cosette more than 
 fortunate in her home and in her fortune, what 
 remained but a beautiful evening of life for him? 
 He was secure of her love; the bright, beautiful 
 creature adored him, and lavished upon him an 
 affection that her new happiness but served to 
 intensify. What more could he desire? 
 
 Ah, now it was, even now, that the mortal struggle 
 was on ! This was the question. What was to be 
 his future relation to this household? Should he 
 enter it, thrice welcome as he was, and enjoy its 
 peace and love? Why not, indeed? What reason 
 could he give? This reason. He was a man under 
 the ban of the law. At any time the unspeakable 
 might happen. Should he, then, impose his past on 
 their happiness? Should he place his overhanging 
 fate as a third associate in their felicity ? Should he 
 8
 
 36 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 be the sinister mute of destiny beside these two 
 happy beings? 
 
 It resolved itself into a matter of conscience, and 
 as such it was fought out and settled. But how 
 shall one mirror the conflict? Cosette was the very 
 light of his eyes, the one joy of his life, and 
 now to live apart, to raise a barrier, to say to his 
 heart, "Be still!" It was fighting down his natural 
 being. It was almost beyond human nature. Al- 
 though he had foreseen and planned this course, 
 yet the night of the crisis was a Gethsemane which 
 well-nigh took his life. 
 
 On the morning after the wedding he sought an 
 interview with Marius. The latter welcomed him. 
 
 "We have been talking about you," said he. 
 "Cosette loves you so dearly! She has furnished 
 a room for you, and, you must understand, we are 
 all to live together." 
 
 "Monsieur," said Valjean, straightway striking 
 into the terrible question, ' ' I have something to say 
 to you. I am an ex-convict." 
 
 Marius was the picture of consternation . ' ' What ? 
 What? You are driving me mad!" he exclaimed, 
 as Valjean went on to explain the situation. 
 
 "Monsieur Pontmercy, I was in the galleys for 
 nineteen years. It was for theft. I was again 
 condemned for life, for it was a second offense. At 
 the present moment I have broken my ban." 
 
 A fearful suspicion crossed the young man's 
 mind. "Say all, say all!" he exclaimed. "You 
 are Cosette's father!"
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 37 
 
 "Before God, no," said Valjean. And as he told 
 the story of their relation it was impossible to dis- 
 believe him. 
 
 "But why do you tell me all this?" said Marius. 
 "You had no need to do it. You might have 
 kept your secret. What should compel you to dis- 
 close it?" 
 
 "Monsieur Pontmercy, my conscience. It is a 
 stark question of the right and of the wrong. What 
 should make it right to do as I have done? Every- 
 thing. Imagine this: I say nothing. I take my 
 place in your home. I enjoy life with you; we go 
 together to the play or to the Place Royale; and 
 one fine day as we are conversing and laughing, lo! 
 that terrible hand, the police, is laid upon me! 
 What do you say to that ? Do you not see that there 
 is only one right way to decide such a question? 
 You ask why I speak. I am neither denounced, 
 nor pursued, nor tracked, you say. Yes! I am 
 denounced! I am tracked! By whom? By my- 
 self. It is I who bar the passage when I would 
 flee, and I drag myself and I push myself and I 
 arrest myself and I execute myself, and when one 
 holds one's self, one is firmly held. Do you know 
 now what conscience means? Do you make to 
 yourself any picture of what suffering means ? May 
 the good God forbid that you should ever know." 
 
 Valjean exacted of Marius the promise that 
 Cosette should never know the secret. It was 
 arranged that the old man should visit her each day ; 
 that concession was made to human weakness.
 
 3S FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Cosette was puzzled, annoyed; she scolded, she 
 questioned; and she ended in considering her father 
 an eccentric person whose whims must be duly 
 regarded. Gradually his visits grew more brief, 
 more infrequent, and, after a time, ceased altogether. 
 Cosette loved him; and, perplexed and regretful, 
 would question Marius only to be reassured and 
 diverted. If an estrangement could be brought 
 about between them it would be well, so it seemed 
 to him. 
 
 And let us try to do him justice. It is hardly 
 surprising that he should regard Valjean with 
 aversion when we consider that, in addition to what 
 the latter had told him, from what he had seen at 
 the barricade he believed Valjean to have been the 
 murderer of Javert; and further, inquiries of the 
 Paris banker had led him to believe that Valjean 
 had acquired his fortune by robbery of Father 
 Madeleine. 
 
 The time came, however, when, partly by acci- 
 dent, he learned not only that Valjean had spared 
 Javert, that Valjean and Father Madeleine were one 
 and the same person, but also that Valjean had 
 saved his life and restored him to Cosette, even 
 though this last had brought the greatest suffering 
 the man's life had known. 
 
 He could hardly wait to tell Cosette the story, 
 and together they now sought their common bene- 
 factor. But alas! the powers of soul and body were 
 worn and failing, and the end of the grand life was 
 not far away.
 
 THE STRUGGLE OF JEAN VALJEAN 39 
 
 Marius, beside himself with remorse and sorrow, 
 implored the forgiveness of one he had so blindly 
 wronged. Cosette, bathed in tears, insisted that he 
 should live and not die. 
 
 "Draw near, both of you," said he. "I love you 
 dearly. I feared I should not see you. God is good 
 that He has sent you. Cosette, thine are the candle- 
 sticks yonder. I do not know whether the person 
 who gave them to me is pleased with me yonder on 
 high, but I have done what I could. My life has 
 been hard, I know not why; but God apportions all 
 things. He is there on high. He sees us all, and He 
 knows what He does in the midst of his great stars. 
 I am on the verge of departure, my children. Think 
 of me sometimes, and love each other well and 
 always." 
 
 The white face looked up to heaven, whither the 
 white soul had gone. 
 
 The night was starless and extremely dark. No 
 doubt, in the gloom, some immense angel stood 
 erect with wings outspread, awaiting that soul.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 
 
 T KNOW all about him, for I was his life-long 
 -*- friend. I loved him and, please God, every 
 one shall love him who hears my story. He was a 
 poor boy who grew up to be a gentleman — a real 
 gentleman — because it was in him to be one. I want 
 to tell you all about him in order to make you feel, 
 if I can, what a right manly youth he was, and how he 
 grew up into a manhood pure and true and strong. 
 The rare dignity and beauty of it — I thank God for 
 having known it through all the years. And now let 
 me tell it all in a simple way, just as it happened. 
 
 One day my father was pushing me in my hand- 
 carriage — I was never strong like other boys — when 
 a shower overtook us and we hastened into an alley 
 under cover. A lad of about my own age sought 
 shelter there at the same time. He was ragged and 
 muddy, and he looked very hungry. But he was 
 tall and strongly built, and his face was one you 
 never could forget ; his brown eyes, strongly marked 
 brows, his lips lying one upon the other, firm and 
 close, and his square, resolute chin — all this would 
 cause any one to look at him a second time. My 
 father was a worthy man, just and stern withal, 
 never wasting sympathy anywhere, and absorbed in 
 his business. He hardly noticed the lad at all, and 
 when the shower was over — 
 
 "Twenty-three minutes lost by this shower. 
 
 40 
 
 \
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 41 
 
 Phineas, my son, how am I to get thee safe home? 
 Here, Sally Watkins! Do any of thy lads want to 
 earn an honest penny?" 
 
 "Sir, I want work; may I earn the penny?" said 
 the boy stranger, speaking for the first time and, 
 taking off his tattered old cap, looked straight into 
 my father's face. The old man scanned him closely. 
 
 "What is thy name, lad?" 
 
 "John Halifax." 
 
 "Hast thee any parents living?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Thee art used to work?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Whatsort of work?" 
 
 "Anything I can do, sir." 
 
 "Well, thee shalt take my son home, and I will 
 give thee a penny. Let me see ! Art thou a lad to 
 be trusted?" And he held him at arm's length 
 and looked him through and through. The boy 
 met his gaze in a way so utterly honest that he con- 
 quered. My stern father smiled a little. 
 
 "Lad, shall I give thee thy penny now?" 
 
 "Not till I 've earned it, sir," was the steady reply. 
 
 On the way home we became quite sociable. I 
 got him to tell me of his weary life, all alone in the 
 world and trying to get work from day to day. As 
 we reached the house I tried to get out of my little 
 carriage and to mount the steps to the house door. 
 He came to my aid. 
 
 "Suppose you let me carry you. I could and — 
 and — it would be great fun, you know."
 
 42 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 He tried to turn it into a jest so as not to hurt me, 
 but the tremble in his voice was tender as any 
 woman's; tenderer than any woman's I ever heard. 
 I put my arms about his neck and he, Hfting me 
 gently, set me carefully down at my door and turned 
 to go. 
 
 "So here thee be," said my father, coming up at 
 the moment. "Here is thy penny, and a shilling 
 added for being kind to my son." 
 
 "Thank 3'ou, sir, but I only want payment for 
 work." He put the shilling back into my father's 
 hand. 
 
 "Eh! Thee'rt an odd lad; but I can't stay talk- 
 ing with thee. Come in to dinner, Phineas." Then 
 suddenly turning to John — "Art thee hungry?" 
 
 "Very hungry, sir; nearly starving!" And the 
 great tears came into his eyes. 
 
 ' ' Bless me ! Then get thee into the kitchen and have 
 thy dinner! But, hold — thee art a decent lad, come 
 of decent parents?" My father was so severe. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Thee works for thy living?" 
 
 "I do, whenever I can get work." 
 
 "Thee hast never been in jail?" 
 
 "No!" thundered the lad with a furious look. 
 "I don't want your dinner, sir! I would have 
 stayed, because your son was kind to me and because 
 I was so hungry. Now I think I had better go. 
 Good day, sir!" 
 
 Oh, how my heart went out to him! I caught 
 him by the hand, and would not let him go.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 43 
 
 There are words in a very old Book — even in its 
 human histories the most pathetic of all books — 
 which run thus: "And it came to pass when he 
 had made an end of speaking unto Saul that the 
 soul of Jonathan was knit unto the soul of David; 
 and Jonathan loved him as his own soul." I, 
 surely, had found my David. That very first day 
 I met him, I loved him as my own soul. 
 
 After dinner our housekeeper said to me, "Don't 
 keep him long; we don't want beggar boys around 
 here." 
 
 I hoped John had not heard her; but he had. 
 
 "Madam," said he with a bow of perfect good 
 humor, "you mistake. I never begged in my life. 
 I'm a person of independent property, which con- 
 sists of my head and these two hands, out of which 
 I hope to make a fortune some day." 
 
 He stayed with me an hour, and my father — who 
 was a prosperous tanner — finally hired him to drive 
 a cart at the tannery. I could have wept, I was so 
 glad. 
 
 I wish I had the time to tell how he served my 
 father; with how much conscience he did his work, 
 doing it always somewhat better than was required 
 of him. One knew from every tone of his voice, 
 every chance expression of his honest eyes, that his 
 was a character the keystone of which was depend- 
 ableness. And on this solid rock is built, not only 
 value to one's employer, but also all Hking and all 
 love — that lasts. He was one whom you may be 
 long in knowing, but whom, the more you know the
 
 44 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 more you trust; and, once trusting, you trust forever. 
 
 I was confined to my room and did not see him 
 for a month. I was taken to the tan-yard one day, 
 and my father allowed him to stay by me for a time. 
 I found he had two distinct moods. Sometimes he 
 was a regular boy ; as when I asked him did he like 
 the tan-3'ard, he said, "To tell you the truth, I hate 
 the tan-yard," relieving his feelings by kicking a 
 small heap of tan down into the river. And then 
 he sobered down, saying he supposed he ought not 
 to feel so. 
 
 "What should you like to be, John?" I asked him. 
 
 "Well, I'd like to be anything that is honest and 
 honorable. I'm only a lad, and I can't see things 
 clear yet; but I grow sure of this; that, whether I 
 like it or not, I'll stick to the tarming as long as 
 I can." 
 
 "Oh, dear! Look! There's a young gentleman 
 coming, and here I be in my dirty gown," said our 
 housekeeper. She and I were in the garden. I 
 turned my head, and there was John Halifax coming 
 up the garden walk. He was newly clad, and looked 
 so bright and manly as he approached us; and the 
 housekeeper was disgusted at her mistake, for she 
 never liked him. 
 
 It was long since I had seen him. My father had 
 found he was one to be trusted, and he now employed 
 him in making money collections. 
 
 "Mr. Fletcher has given me a holiday to spend 
 with you," he said. "Is n't that grand!"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 45 
 
 And then as we went I had many things to ask 
 him. "John, what have you been doing all win- 
 ter?" for I had seen little of him. 
 
 "Oh, working from daylight till dark, and then 
 at odd minutes, learning to read. And I have read 
 the books you sent me, Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson 
 Crusoe, and the Arabian Nights. And the one you 
 gave me at Christmas; I have read that a great 
 deal." 
 
 I liked the tone of quiet reverence in which he 
 spoke. I liked to hear him own, nor be ashamed 
 to own, that he read a great deal in that rare boc 
 for a boy to read, the Bible. 
 
 "But I cannot write," he said, with an accent of 
 shame that went to my heart, "and I do so want 
 to learn." 
 
 "I'll teach you," said I. "Give me your stick. 
 Here goes for our first lesson!" And we covered 
 the sand with J O H N in all directions. 
 
 "Bravo!" he cried as we turned homeward, "I 
 have gained something to-day. " 
 
 One day that spring the river was rapidly rising; 
 and although John watched it that night, and 
 warned my father, yet when the morning came one 
 half his property was swept away. 
 
 "Never mind, father," said I; "it might have 
 been worse." 
 
 "Of a surety, my son. I should have lost every- 
 thing save for — Where is the lad? Come in! 
 Come in." 
 
 John came in, wet and cold, to the fireside. My
 
 46 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 father ordered breakfast; and when the housekeeper 
 brought the mug of ale and the bread and cheese 
 for one only, "Another plate!" he said, sharply. 
 
 "The lad can take his meal in the kitchen," 
 said she. 
 
 "Nay, woman; bring another plate and another 
 mug of ale!" And to her great wrath and to my 
 great joy John sat down for the first time to the same 
 board with his master. It was a red-letter day in 
 our household. 
 
 "John Halifax, thee hast been of great service to 
 me this night. What reward shall I give thee?" 
 
 "Thank j^ou, sir; it is enough reward for me that 
 I have been useful to my master, and that he ac- 
 knowledges it." 
 
 jMy father thought a minute, and then offered 
 his hand. "Thee'rt in the right, lad. I am very 
 much obliged to thee, and I will not forget it." 
 And there was a light in John's eye that no payment 
 of reward could have kindled there. 
 
 One June evening we were together out of doors. 
 "Phineas," said he, sitting in the grass, v.^ith the one 
 star — I think it was Jupiter — shining into his eyes, 
 ' ' Phineas, I wonder how soon we shall have to really 
 begin to fight our battles in the world, and if we are 
 ready for it," as if he had not been doing it always. 
 
 "I think you are ready," said I. 
 
 "I don't know. I'm not clear how far I could 
 resist doing a wrong thing if it were pleasant; so 
 many wrong things are pleasant, you know. Just 
 now, instead of rising at six to-morrow morning
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 47 
 
 and going to the tannery, should n't I like to break 
 away, dash out into the world, do all sorts of grand 
 things, and perhaps never come back to the tanning 
 any more!" 
 
 ' ' Never any more ? " 
 
 "Oh, no! Not that I would do it, but that some- 
 times the wish comes over me." And I couldn't 
 help thinking what a romantic youth he was, after 
 all, albeit he seemed so sedate and steady in doing 
 the work appointed him. 
 
 I have not the time to tell of the terrible days of 
 the year 1800, the year of famine and the bread 
 riots. God knows what madness there was when 
 men took up arms because their families were 
 starving. My father had a large store of wheat; 
 and when the mob demanded bread he was wrath- 
 ful, hating mob rule, and resisted them night and 
 day. At length he was broken by the strain, and 
 for a day or two was confined to his room. Can I 
 ever forget that night when the mob came to burn 
 our house over our heads! Out through the door 
 John went, and closed it behind him. 
 
 "Hungry, are ye, men? God pity ye! I, too, 
 know what it is to be hungry." 
 
 "Yea, yea; Mr. Halifax were a poor boy," said 
 some one in the crowd. 
 
 "He were kind to my lad, he were; don't hurt 
 him," said another. 
 
 "Men," said John, "suppose I give you some- 
 thing to eat; would you Hsten to me afterward?" 
 And then he ordered the housekeeper to pass out
 
 48 FIGURES FAiMED IN FICTION 
 
 to him all the food the house contained. When 
 he had fed them he hastily consulted with me as to 
 a plan, asking if my father would approve. It was 
 to give them, each and all, a portion of fiour at the 
 storehouse the next morning. I sanctioned it in 
 my father's name, and with the promise he sent 
 them away. 
 
 "Thank God that is over," said he as he came into 
 the house almost staggering. And when my father 
 arose the next morning, and found the tannery 
 and the warehouse were not burned down, he was 
 not the man to pass it lightly by. 
 
 "John, how old art thou?" 
 
 "Twenty, sir." 
 
 "Then I will take thee as my 'prentice from this 
 time, and partner, if thee like, at twenty-one. My 
 days may be numbered — God knows. But remem- 
 ber," — and he looked, in his stern way, into John's 
 eyes, — "thou hast in some measure taken that 
 lad's place. May God Almighty deal with thee as 
 thou dealest with him, my only son!" 
 
 "Amen!" was the solemn answer. 
 
 And God who sees us both, even now, in the light 
 of His own eternal truth, knows, as men cannot 
 know, how John Halifax kept that vow. 
 
 I must tell you what a goodly young man he had 
 grown to be. I do not suppose he was handsome; 
 indeed, I have heard people say he was plain. But 
 the charm of his face was in its variety of expression. 
 When you believed you had learned it, line by line, 
 it would startle you by a phase quite new and
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 49 
 
 beautiful. True, it had its reticences, its disguises, its 
 noble power of self-control; and yet one could read 
 it often, like an open book; only, in order to do it, 
 one must come from its own country and know its 
 language. He dressed simply yet with the greatest 
 taste and care. Something of this was required, 
 indeed, going often out of town on my father's 
 business. To-day he was taking me to see a country 
 house a few miles out — for Dr. Jessop had insisted 
 upon country air for me — and I cannot forget his 
 manly, graceful figure. His brown eyes — the win- 
 dows of his soul — and his hair a little darker than 
 it used to be, but of the true Saxon color still and 
 curly as ever, blown about by the wind under his 
 broad hat. I thought any father might be proud 
 of such a son, any sister of such a brother, any 
 young girl of such a lover. Ay! that last tie! I 
 wondered how long it would be before times would 
 change, and I would cease to be the only one who 
 was proud of him. 
 
 We came to Enderly. It was beautiful there, 
 and the fresh air was delightful. We secured rooms 
 in a large country house, occupied by the housekeeper 
 and by one other family beside ourselves. John 
 spent his days in town, coming out at night to me. 
 How I used to watch for his coming ! 
 
 I come now to tell the story of the romance that 
 came into his life. I love to tell it, because it is so 
 infinitely sweet and pure. It brought out the 
 hidden qualities of his nature, awaking that in him 
 which till then had slumbered, setting him before
 
 50 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 me as a new and a nobler man; me, who knew him 
 so well ! 
 
 The other tenants in the house were an English 
 gentleman and his daughter. Mr. March was an 
 invalid, late returned from the service of the govern- 
 ment in India, and his daughter Ursula was his 
 constant companion. For some time a mystery- 
 seemed to surround her; we half saw her a half- 
 dozen times. And this aroused our attention the 
 more as we were of that susceptible age when 
 romance is so natural, at least to a healthy nature; 
 the time — a sweet time too, although it does not 
 last — when the grand old folio of Shakespeare seems 
 to open of itself at Romeo and Juliet — John read 
 it all through to me. We had both escaped the 
 follies and the wickedness of youth; I am glad we 
 could look up in the face of heaven and say so. 
 Many may doubt or smile at the fact; but I state 
 it now in my old age with honor and pride that we 
 two young men in those days trembled on the sub- 
 ject of love as shyly, as reverently, as delicately as 
 any two innocent maidens of sixteen. 
 
 We first really saw her by accident one morning. 
 She was standing by the gate, playing with a little 
 child, and did not notice us till the housekeeper said, 
 "Please, Miss, let the gentlemen pass." 
 
 With a slight start, she stepped aside. She was 
 a girl in early maturity, rather tall, with a figure 
 built for activity and energy; dark-complexioned, 
 dark-eyed, dark-haired — the whole coloring being 
 of that soft darkness of tone which gives a sense of
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 51 
 
 something warm and tender; at one and the same 
 time strong and womanly. Thorough woman she 
 seemed; not a bit of angel about her. As for her 
 attire, it was rich and simply made, with no frip- 
 peries or fandangoes of any sort, reaching up to her 
 throat and down to her wrists, where it had some 
 trimming of white fur. We met her on our walk 
 next morning. She bowed with remarkable grace 
 and self-possession, and I could not help remarking 
 it to John. 
 
 Mr. March was alarmingly ill one night, and John, 
 on learning of it through our landlady, insisted on 
 going for the physician, a ride of eight miles. "Oh, 
 you are the kindest young gentleman in the world; 
 I will tell Miss March so. 'Miss,' said I to her the 
 very first day you came looking for lodgings, 'who 
 Mr. Halifax may be I don't know; but depend upon 
 it, he's a real gentleman.' " 
 
 We lingered in our landlady's rooms that night 
 to learn of his condition, when Miss March herself 
 came suddenly in. There were no introductions 
 and, strange to say, no awkwardness. She acknowl- 
 edged us by a slight bow. John came forward, and 
 he was thinking so little of himself that his demeanor 
 — earnest, gentle, kind — was the sublimation of all 
 manly courtesy. 
 
 "I hope, madam, that Mr. March is better. We 
 were unwilling to retire until we had heard." 
 
 "Thank you, my father is much better; you are 
 very kind," said she, with a maidenly drooping of 
 the eyes. 
 
 4
 
 52 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Are you sure, madam, there is nothing else I 
 can do for you?" 
 
 His sweet, grave manner, softened with that quiet 
 deference which marked at once the man who 
 reverenced all women simply for their womanhood, 
 seemed to reassure her. Nature, sincerity, and 
 simplicity conquered all conventional trammels. 
 She held out her hand to him. 
 
 "I thank you very much, Mr. Halifax. If I 
 wanted help I would ask you; indeed, I would." 
 
 "Thank you,'' said he. "Good night." 
 
 Years afterwards John confessed to me that the 
 touch of that hand was the revelation of a new world 
 to his soul. 
 
 After this we met them often, the invalid and his 
 daughter. She asked me about John one day. 
 
 "You and he seem to be great friends," said she. 
 
 "John is brother, friend, everything in the world 
 to me." 
 
 "Is he? He must be very good; indeed, he looks 
 so," she replied thoughtfully. "And I believe — 
 at least I have often heard — that good men are rare." 
 
 He joined us just then. "I beg pardon for 
 intruding," said he. "I just heard my own name. 
 What terrible histories has this friend of mine been 
 unfolding to you?" 
 
 There was the mischief and fun of girlhood in her 
 eyes as she replied, "I have a great mind not to tell 
 you, Mr. Halifax." 
 
 "Not when I ask you?" He spoke so seriously 
 that she could not choose but answer.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 53 
 
 "Well, Mr. Fletcher was telling me, first, that 
 you were an orphan; secondly, that you were his 
 dearest friend; thirdly — well, I never compromise 
 truth — that you were good." 
 
 "And you— ?" 
 
 "The first I was ignorant of; the second I had 
 already guessed; the third" — he gazed at her 
 intently — "I had likewise not doubted." 
 
 Her poor father came to his end, and she was 
 alone with her grief. All that John did in arranging 
 and superintending I cannot try to tell. In his 
 whole bearing was such grave purity, such honest 
 truth, that no wonder, young as they both were, 
 even though she knew so little of him, this orphan 
 girl should not have feared to trust him entirely. 
 And need I say again, what I have implied before, 
 that of all men John Halifax was the one to be 
 trusted, in time of trouble or at any time? 
 
 There was no disguise now ; none at least from me. 
 I saw him under the power of his first passion, and 
 it was hopeless, and I was helpless to minister peace. 
 
 Now I shall despair of making clear the situation 
 to any who do not realize the gulf of separation 
 between classes in England, especially in the time 
 of which I am writing. On the one hand were the 
 common people, laborers, artisans, tradesmen; on 
 the other, the gentry. The words "lady" and 
 "gentleman" were titles. A gentleman and a 
 tradesman were not regarded as equals; there was, 
 socially, a gulf between them. You see now what 
 I mean in speaking of my friend's hopeless passion.
 
 54 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Ursula March was a "lady" and an heiress, and 
 John — 
 
 The next time we met we learned that she had 
 relatives in our town. But when she inquired about 
 them, John informed her that he was not. supposed 
 to know them. 
 
 She smiled. "Why? Because you are not very 
 rich? What can that signify? It is enough for 
 me that my friends are gentlemen." 
 
 "But your relatives would not allow my claim 
 to that title. Let me explain," he went on, as she 
 gazed at him in astonishment. "You and I have, 
 indeed, met here as friends, as equals; but society 
 would not regard us as such, and in society I doubt 
 if even you would wish us to be known as friends." 
 
 "And why not?" said she, more astonished than 
 ever. 
 
 "Because you are a gentlewoman and I am a 
 tradesman." 
 
 It was evidently a shock to her. To one of her 
 social training it could not have been otherwise. 
 She was silent. 
 
 Many words would not suffice to tell of his suffer- 
 ing in the months that followed. I said little to him ; 
 it was best so, I thought. Surely he would in time 
 forget. But it was not in his nature to forget. 
 
 "Nothing can do me any good," said he one day, 
 "nothing but bearing it. God forgive me! but I 
 sometimes think I could give myself body and soul 
 to the devil for one glimpse of her face or one touch 
 of her hand ! Oh, lad, if I could only die ! "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 55 
 
 Now I want to tell you of a time when I was so 
 proud of John; when the nobility in him shone out 
 so clear that even I wondered as I saw. 
 
 It was at a little social evening at Mrs. Jessop's, 
 the wife of our good doctor. The doctor and his 
 wife both knew us, were always glad to see us, and 
 yet, strange to say, they were in good social standing. 
 Thus it came about that one evening we found our- 
 selves in the lighted drawing room, where we were 
 to meet, among others, Lady Caroline Brithwood, a 
 relative of our friend Miss March. Whether she 
 would be there, we did not know. 
 
 "Mr. Halifax! It is kind of you to come; Lady 
 Caroline will be delighted to make your acquaint- 
 ance," said good Mrs. Jessop, in tones that every 
 one might hear; and straightway people became 
 exceedingly attentive. It was John's introduction 
 to the social world, but he bore himself with a quiet 
 self-possession that became him passing well. Lady 
 Caroline was in the zenith of her charms, a lady at 
 least in name. She floated about, leaving an 
 impression of pseudo Greek draperies, gleaming 
 arms and shoulders, sparkling jewelry, and equally 
 sparkling smiles. She was an earl's daughter and, 
 although we instinctively felt there was something 
 wanting, yet she was certainly brilliant and charming. 
 
 "Mrs. Jessop, my good friend, one moment," I 
 heard her whisper. "Where is your young hero, your 
 man of the people? Does he wear clouted shoes 
 and woolen stockings? Has he a broad face and 
 turned-up nose ? ' '
 
 56 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Judge for yourself, my lady; he stands at your 
 elbow. Mr. Halifax, allow me to present you to 
 Lady Caroline Brithwood." 
 
 If Lord Luxmore's fair daughter ever looked con- 
 founded it was at that moment. She half extended 
 her hand; but no, it was impossible to patronize 
 John Halifax. And so, as he bowed gravely, she 
 made a gracious curtesy. They met on equal 
 terms, a lady and a gentleman. 
 
 And somehow or other she liked him, and sum- 
 moned all her arts to please him. Here was 
 something new and unique to her in the social 
 world. His quiet dignity and rare good sense 
 made him master of the situation. She spoke occa- 
 sionally in French, and to my surprise he answered 
 her in the same; how he had learned it I could not 
 imagine. 
 
 After a time, "Mr. Brithwood," said she, "let 
 me introduce you to a new friend of mine." The 
 coarse, bloated young squire, her husband, lounged 
 up to them. "He lives in town; you must have 
 heard of him." 
 
 "By Jove, I think not! What is the name?" 
 
 "Mr. John Halifax." 
 
 "What, Halifax the tanner?" 
 
 "The same," said John in reply. 
 
 "Phew!" — and he turned on his heel. Lady 
 Caroline laughed an amused laugh. "Look here, 
 Richard, Mr. Halifax is to dine with us next 
 Sunday," and she whispered a word or two to con- 
 ciliate him.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 57 
 
 But John heeded not, for there, entering with the 
 hostess, was one he knew. As she passed they 
 bowed to each other, but not a word was spoken. 
 
 Soon the squire called across the room in a patron- 
 izing tone , ' ' My good fellow ! I say, young Halifax ! ' ' 
 
 They stood face to face — the gentleman by title 
 and the gentleman by nature ; and every one could 
 see the difference between them. 
 
 "On my soul, it's awkward. I think I'll— I'll 
 call at the tan-yard and explain." 
 
 "I do not understand you, sir." 
 
 "Well, now, look here. You may be a very 
 respectable young man for aught I know. Still, 
 rank is rank, and so that nonsense of my wife's 
 about inviting you to my table, I hope you 'II forget 
 entirely, you know." 
 
 ' ' Do not trouble yourself, sir ; I could not humili- 
 ate myself by accepting such an invitation." 
 
 The squire started as if pricked by a dagger, and 
 could think of no refuge but abuse. He grew violent, 
 while John grew even more superior in his quiet 
 dignity. 
 
 * ' Now mark me, you — you vagabond. ' ' 
 
 Ursula March had been listening. She rapidly 
 crossed the room and caught his arm, her eyes 
 gleaming fire. 
 
 "Cousin, in my presence this gentleman shall be 
 treated as a gentleman. He was kind to my father." 
 
 "Curse your father!" and with that the "gentle- 
 man" turned and struck the other. In that time 
 a duel was the uniform result.
 
 5S FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Jolin staggered. But in a moment he quieted 
 himself by an almost superhuman effort. 
 
 "He won't fight; he's a Quaker," whispered some 
 one. 
 
 "No," said he, "I am a Christian," and he stood 
 erect and very pale. Ursula watched him with 
 evident admiration, then approached him and gave 
 him her hand before them all! It was worth all 
 he had endured. 
 
 "Is there a man in all England who would have 
 borne so charmingly such a degradation?" said 
 Lady Caroline. 
 
 "Cousin," said Ursula, "the only real degradation 
 that can come to a man is when he degrades himself." 
 
 John, as he passed out — for he took leave imme- 
 diately — caught her words, and no crowned victor 
 ever wore a prouder face. 
 
 "Mrs. Jessop," said he, " I ought not to have come : 
 your social world is a hard world for such as I. I 
 shall never conquer it, never." 
 
 "Yes, you will," and Ursula stood by them with 
 crimson cheeks and flashing eyes. * ' Mr. Halifax, you 
 have shown me to-night, what I shall remember all my 
 life, that a Christian only can be a true gentleman." 
 
 She understood him — he felt she did; understood 
 him as, if a man be understood by one woman in 
 the "world, he — and she too — is safe and strong and 
 happy. They clasped hands once more, and gazed 
 unhesitatingly into each other's eyes. All human 
 passion for the time being set aside, these two 
 recognized each in other something higher than love,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 59 
 
 something better than happiness. It must have 
 been a blessed moment for them both. 
 
 And yet the months that followed were terribly 
 hard for John. To live in the same town, to see 
 her now and again at a distance and nothing more, 
 and to know that nothing more could ever be. He 
 came home one night in a strange humor. 
 
 "Now, Phineas, it is all ended." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I have looked on her for the last time." 
 
 "Why, is she going?" 
 
 "No, but I am — fleeing from the devil and all his 
 angels. Let's have a merry night; I shall sail for 
 America to-morrow!" 
 
 With a mad laugh he dropped heavily in a chair, 
 and an hour later was lying on my bed in a fever. 
 He would not have Dr. Jessop, and we called in a 
 stranger. But he did not mend. Days slid into 
 weeks, and still he lay there, never complaining, and 
 seemingly possessed of a longing for rest. And as 
 I saw him sinking day by day — Qh, God of mercy ! 
 if I were to be left in this world without my brother ! 
 I fell upon my knees, and the dumb cry of my agony 
 went up to God. 
 
 How could I save him? There was but one way, 
 and I sprung at it, not thinking whether it were 
 honorable or no. 
 
 Thirty minutes later I had called upon her. 
 She was glad to see me; she had not seen either of 
 us lately. That sweet, shy look, that soft, tremulous 
 smile — I could have hated her !
 
 6o FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "No wonder you do not see us, Miss March. 
 Mr. Halifax is very ill — is almost dying." 
 
 I hurled the words at her like javeHns, and watched 
 them strike. I could see her shiver. 
 
 " 111 ? And no one ever told me ! " 
 
 "You! How could it affect you! But me! It 
 is life or death!" And then I let loose the flood of 
 my misery; I dashed it over her. She shuddered, 
 terror-stricken. We must have further medical 
 aid, she said. Was there nothing she could do? 
 
 "Nay! Nay! It is not his body, it is his mind. 
 Oh, Miss March!" and I looked up at her like a 
 wretch begging for life, "do you not know of what 
 my brother is dying?" 
 
 "Dying!" she repeated, and a long shudder went 
 through her. What I said more I know not, but 
 she began to understand. A deep color came all 
 over her face and neck. She looked at me just once, 
 with a mute but keen inquiry. 
 
 "It is the truth. Miss March, ever since last 
 year. You will respect it; you must; you shall." 
 
 She bent her head in silence. I asked her for a 
 message for him. Silent still. 
 
 It made me desperate. "And such a man," I 
 said, "such a man! Too noble a man is he to die 
 for any woman's love." And I left her. 
 
 I found, on my return, a change had come over 
 John. "I mean to be quite well to-morrow," said 
 he. "You would smile if I told you the cause of it. 
 I dreamed that she sat right there; she told me she 
 knew all about it, but that I must not die, but rise
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 6i 
 
 up and do my work in the world — doing it for 
 heaven's sake, not for hers. And, God helping me, 
 I will." 
 
 Mrs. Jessop called next day and brought a note 
 from her. She wrote that she did not know he had 
 been ill; she had not forgotten all his kindness to 
 her father, and might she come and see him? This 
 was all the note. I saw it more than thirty years 
 afterwards, yellow and faded, in the corner of his 
 pocketbook. 
 
 She came the next evening. As they met they 
 did not speak; but when I saw the look in their 
 eyes I knew how it would all end. 
 
 We all passed a pleasant hour; and when, later 
 in the evening, they were sitting apart, talking of 
 things seemly — she hoped he would be better and 
 grow strong. 
 
 "Thank you, I have need for strength." 
 
 "And you will have what you need to do your 
 work in the world; you must not be afraid." 
 
 He spoke of going to America. "I have reasons 
 for so doing," he said. 
 
 "What reasons?" 
 
 "I am going because there has befallen me a 
 great trouble, which, while I stay here, I cannot 
 get free from or overcome. It is the only way to 
 do my work in the world — nay, do not question. 
 If I stay here I shall become unworthy of myself. 
 Forgive me for speaking thus, but you have called 
 me 'friend,' and I would like you to think kindly of 
 me always; because, because — " Then he broke
 
 6: FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 down utterly. "God love thee and take care of 
 thee, wherever I may go." 
 
 "John, stay!" 
 
 It was but a low, faint cry, but he heard it in his 
 soul." In the silence of the dark she leaned toward 
 him, and he took her into the shelter of his love 
 forevermore. I cannot think of it, even to-day, 
 without the joy of tears. 
 
 They were out gardening, in the rear of their 
 humble home, John Halifax and his wife. They 
 looked so young, both of them. He kneeling, plant- 
 ing box-edging, she standing by him, her hand on 
 his shoulder — the hand with the ring on it. 
 
 He welcomed me warmly, and so did she. As 
 she slipped away into the house soon after, John 
 glanced after her till she was out of sight. Then 
 he looked at me, and in his emotion placed his hands 
 upon my shoulders. 
 
 "Art thou happy, John?" 
 
 "Ay! lad, almost afraid of my happiness. God 
 make me worthy of it and of her." She returned, 
 bringing him a letter. 
 
 "May I?" she said, peeping over as he read. 
 For answer he put his arm about her, half proudly, 
 half shyly. It was beautiful to see what a soft, 
 meek matronliness had come over her high spirit. 
 
 It was a letter — an insulting one — from the 
 squire, her executor, withholding her fortune because 
 of her marriage. And they discussed it all so bravely. 
 
 "We are not going to be afraid of poverty nor
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 63 
 
 ashamed of it, " said he. " We consider that respect- 
 ability Hes solely in our two selves!" And she 
 agreed with him so heartily, tossing her head in 
 merry defiance. 
 
 "But, no more silk gowns?" said her husband, 
 half fondly, half sadly. 
 
 "You would not be so rude as to say I would 
 not look equally well in a cotton one. And as for 
 being happy in it, why, I know best." 
 
 He smiled at her once more, that tender, manly 
 smile which made all soft and lustrous the inmost 
 depths of his brown eyes. Truly no woman need 
 be afraid, with a smile like that to be the strength, 
 the guidance, the sunshine of her home. 
 
 We went in, and she showed me the rooms. As 
 we went about he chanced to mention his mother's 
 name. 
 
 "You never told me about her and your father," 
 said she. 
 
 "Dear, there was little to tell. And you knew 
 you were to marry John Halifax, whose parents 
 left him nothing but his name." 
 
 "I should like to have known his parents," she 
 said, when John had left the room for a moment. 
 ' ' But still, when I know him — " She smiled, tossing 
 back the coronet of curls from her forehead — her 
 proud, pure forehead, that would have worn a 
 coronet of jewels more meekly than it now wore the 
 unadorned honor of being John Halifax's wife. I 
 wish he could have seen her then! 
 
 I would tell, had I the time, of his growing influence
 
 04 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 as the years went by; how respected and honored 
 he was by high and low; how people came to him, 
 time and again, to have their differences settled 
 instead of going to law. His wife had reason to be 
 proud of him, and I was glad it turned out so. 
 
 ' ■ See how he is consulted and his opinion followed 
 by rich as well as poor," said she to me, while John 
 sat listening. "I am sure he has as much influence 
 as any member of Parliament" — while John smiled 
 and said nothing. The beauty of his life was its 
 unconsciousness of itself. 
 
 As for Parliament, let me tell you about that. 
 Lord Luxmore called one day — thinking it would be 
 well to make friends in political life with a rising 
 young man like Halifax — and offered him a seat 
 in Parliament from one of the rotten boroughs of 
 that time — a merely nominal constituency. "Mr. 
 Halifax, you ought to be in Parliament; will you 
 accept my borough ? ' ' 
 
 "No, your lordship, not on any consideration 
 you could offer me." 
 
 "My dear sir! I am confounded! May I ask 
 your reason ? ' ' 
 
 "Certainly, sir. Until political conscience ceases 
 to be a thing of traffic, until the people are honestly 
 allowed to choose their own honest representatives, 
 I must decline being of that number. Shall we dis- 
 miss the subject?" 
 
 "The Hon. John Halifax, Member of Parliament." 
 It would have been music to her ears, and he knew 
 it. He was human, and he had said he would set
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 65 
 
 her one day among the ladies of the land. But the 
 honor that comes unworthily — he would none of it, 
 nor, indeed, would she enjoy it. John Halifax was a 
 gentleman. 
 
 His business prospered as the years went by, and 
 he came to be the largest mill owner in Enderly. 
 What a father he was to the ' people in his employ ! 
 How he won their confidence, and how implicitly 
 they trusted in the mere name of the man whom all 
 the country round knew as "a gentleman." When 
 the great panic came, and there were suspicions of the 
 bank, and the "run" upon it had begun — shall I 
 ever forget the time when John Halifax made his 
 way through the crowd of excited, ignorant, clam- 
 orous men and women? 
 
 "Sir," said he, addressing the banker and speaking 
 so that scores could hear him, "I have the pleasure 
 to open an account with you. I feel satisfied that, 
 in these dangerous times, no credit is more safe than 
 yours. Allow me to pay in to-day the sum of 
 five thousand pounds." 
 
 Five thousand pounds! It went from mouth to 
 mouth, and the bank was saved. They told the 
 story the length of Cornwall and Devon. 
 
 His kindness to the poor, his love of justice, his 
 noble, even temper, his dignity, his wisdom — I 
 might tell how in these things he served his genera- 
 tion. And yet, to me the man seemed noblest in 
 his home, that home that grew more and more like 
 heaven as the years went by. A sweeter, steadier 
 love than the love that reigned there never was in
 
 66 FIGURES FAIMED IN FICTION 
 
 England. I can see Ursula, even now, standing 
 amidst her three sons with the smile of a Cornelia — 
 proud of her jewels — and I can see her husband's 
 eyes resting on her with that quiet perfectness of 
 love, the fullness of a stream that knew no fall. 
 
 And so I say — what I have heard said many, 
 many times — God give us men like him, men of 
 truth and honor and steadfast mind; men like him, 
 on whose brow Nature herself had placed the seal, 
 "This is a gentleman."
 
 TOM BROWN 
 
 T TE was a regular boy — not one of the goody 
 -*- "*- sort, I promise you, but abounding in animal 
 spirits, always getting into no end of scrapes, and 
 getting out of them if he could; good resolutions 
 when the mood was on him, but which generally 
 failed to blossom out. Full of honest impulses, 
 hatred of meanness, contempt of cowardice, loyalty 
 to his friends, and thoughtlessness enough to sink a 
 three-decker! But yet at bottom sound; made of 
 good stuff that told in the long run. 
 
 When, at the age of thirteen, he was sent away 
 from home to school, his mother doubted if he were 
 old enough to travel alone, to say nothing of estab- 
 lishing himself in the strange surroundings. But 
 Tom thought otherwise, and his father did not 
 object. It was in the old coaching days, and at 
 three in the morning he was to take the tally-ho 
 for Rugby at the Peacock Inn. The squire, his 
 father, took counsel with himself as to the thing to 
 say to the boy by way of parting counsel. 
 
 "I won't tell him to read his Bible and serve and 
 love God; if he don't do that for his mother's sake 
 and teaching, he won't for mine. I won't warn him 
 against the particular sort of temptations he'll meet 
 with; he won't understand me; do him more harm 
 than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him to get his 
 lessons well? But that isn't the main thing. If 
 
 6 67
 
 68 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 he'll only turn out a brave, honest, truthful gentle- 
 man and a Christian, that's all I want." So he 
 said to him — 
 
 "Now, Tom, my boy, you are going to be chucked 
 into this great school, like a young bear with all your 
 troubles before you. You'll see mean things done 
 and hear bad talk now and then; but never fear. 
 Just tell the truth, keep a brave and kind heart, 
 and never listen to anything or say anything you 
 would n't have your mother and sister hear, and 
 you'll never feel ashamed to come home or we to 
 see you." 
 
 The horn of the coach sounded in the distance. 
 Boots looked in, calling out, "Tally-ho, sir!" and 
 they heard the rattle and the ring of the four fast 
 trotters as they dashed up to the door. 
 
 "Anything for us, Bob?" 
 
 "Yes; young gentleman for Rugby, three parcels 
 for Leicester, hamper of game for Rugby." 
 
 "All right! Tell young gent to look alive. Up 
 with you, sir." 
 
 "Good-by, father!" And up goes Tom, the coach 
 horn sounds again, the hostlers let go the horses, 
 and away goes the tally-ho into the darkness forty- 
 five seconds from the time they pulled up. 
 
 Three hours before dawn, and the air is frosty; 
 no joke on a fast coach in November in the reign of 
 King William. Tom becomes chilled through and 
 his legs are numb ; and yet it had its pleasures even 
 for him, the dark, romantic ride in the cold. There 
 was the consciousness of silent endurance, so dear
 
 TOM BROWN 69 
 
 to every Englishman, even a young one, of standing 
 out against something and not giving in. Then 
 there was the music of the rattHng harness and the 
 ring of the horses' feet on the hard road, and the 
 occasional sounding of the guard's horn, not to speak 
 of the breaking of the dawn and the sunrise. It was 
 all so new to Tom! And a boy likes change and 
 action; only, now and then, he fell to speculating 
 on what kind of a place Rugby was, and what kind 
 of fellows the boys would be. 
 
 ' ' And so here 's Rugby, sir, at last ! ' ' And the guard 
 sounded his horn, the coachman shook up his horses, 
 and in they went, past the school gates and the 
 grounds and down High Street to the Spread Eagle, 
 the wheelers in a spanking trot and the leaders 
 cantering. Tom's heart beat quick as he passed 
 the school buildings and saw the boys all about, 
 looking as if the town belonged to them. 
 
 One of them ran out from the rest and scrambled 
 up behind; after looking Tom over for a minute he 
 began, "I say, you fellow, is your name Brown?" 
 
 "Yes," said Tom, considerably astonished, yet 
 rather glad to find some one who seemed to know 
 him. 
 
 "Ah! I thought so. My name's East. You know 
 my old aunt; she lives down your way somewhere. 
 She wrote me that you were coming to-day, and 
 asked me to give you a lift." 
 
 Tom didn't like this patronizing tone; but the 
 transcendent coolness and assurance of the fellow — 
 he couldn't for the life of him help admiring it.
 
 70 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Especially as he said to one of the porters, "Look 
 here, Cooey, take Brown's luggage up to the school 
 for sixpence ? And hearkee, it must be in ten minutes 
 or no more jobs from me! Come along, Brown!" 
 and away he swaggered with his hands in his pockets. 
 Frank, hearty, goodnatured, chock full of life and 
 animal spirits, and acquainted with all the ropes — 
 Tom felt himself immediately on the best of terms 
 with him. 
 
 East showed Tom to his room; then, at the dinner 
 bell, they went down to the big hall and the boys 
 came pouring in. After dinner East proposed a 
 look at the great playground. 
 
 "That's the chapel, you see," he said, "and there 
 just behind it is the place for fights. It 's the most 
 out of the way of the masters, you see. Over beyond 
 the trees is the great football ground. I say, it's 
 horrid cold; let's have a run across," and away he 
 went, Tom close behind him. East was evidently 
 up to it to show what he could do, and Tom, bound 
 to show that he had the gimp in him if he was a new 
 boy, laid himself down to the work in his very best 
 style, and there was n't a yard between them when 
 they pulled up. 
 
 "Well," said East as soon as he got his wind, and 
 looking with much increased respect at Tom, "you 
 ain't a bad scud, not by no means. I say, do you 
 play football?" 
 
 "Well, I should say!" said Tom. 
 But you '11 find it no joke playing it here, now I 
 tell ye. Why, there's been two collar bones broken
 
 TOM BROWN 71 
 
 this year, and a dozen fellows lamed; and last year 
 a fellow had his leg broken. There's to be a game 
 this afternoon." 
 
 It was old-time football, with three hundred in 
 the fight. Tom stood with one of the goal keepers, 
 watching the rushes and the scrimmage and the 
 plunges, waiting for his chance if it should only come. 
 Soon it came. The ball rolled slowly near him, and 
 directly in front of a column of the opposition. Now 
 is his time ; his blood is up and he throws himself on 
 the ball, the other boys piling on. 
 
 "Our ball!" says Tom's captain. "But get up 
 there! The little fellow's under you." 
 
 The captain picked Tom up, the wind fairly 
 knocked out of him. 
 
 "Stand back, and give him air! No bones 
 broken," feeling his limbs. "How do you feel, 
 young un?" 
 
 "Hah — hah!" gasped Tom as his wind came back, 
 "Pretty well, thank you — all right! " 
 
 "Who is he?" asked the captain. 
 
 "Oh, it's Brown; he's a new boy; I know him," 
 said East, coming up. 
 
 "Well," said the captain, "he 's a plucky youngster 
 and will make a good player." Which was all the 
 reward that Tom could ask for. 
 
 "I say, Tom," said East that night after chapel, 
 "were you ever tossed in a blanket?" 
 
 "No," said Tom; "why?" 
 
 " 'Cause there'll be tossing to-night, most likely. 
 So, if you funk, you can come along and hide,
 
 73 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 or else the big boys will catch you and toss you." 
 
 "Look here, East," said Tom as they reached their 
 room, "I shan't hide." 
 
 "Very well, old fellow; no more shall I." 
 
 Soon in came a half-dozen strapping fellows. 
 There were a dozen beds in the room, but the little 
 boys were all hidden except East and Tom in the 
 farther end. They began to snake them out from 
 under the beds, amid cries for mercy and so on. 
 
 "Now hold," said one. "You know the Doctor 
 don't like this bullying; and so I '11 be hanged if we'll 
 toss any one against his will." 
 
 "There's plenty of them that don't care," said 
 another. Here's East — you'll be tossed, won't 
 you, young un?" 
 
 "And here's another who didn't hide. Hullo! 
 new boy, what's your name?" 
 
 "Brown." 
 
 "Well, Whitey Brown, you don't mind being 
 tossed?" 
 
 "No!" said Brown, setting his teeth. 
 
 Off they went with them to a large room. Then 
 a dozen big boys seized hold of a blanket, and taking 
 Tom, they chucked him in. "All ready!" and up 
 he went like a shuttle-cock, slap! to the ceiling! 
 The moment's pause before descending was the rub 
 — the feeling of utter helplessness, the not knowing 
 where he was going to. He almost cried out, but 
 the next instant found himself in the blanket, and 
 so he didn't; but took his three tosses without a 
 kick or a cry, and was called a young trump for his
 
 TOM BROWN 73 
 
 pains. And so they went on with some others, and 
 Tom stood and watched them. And when he re- 
 tired to rest that night he considered that he had 
 had quite a day of it for the first one in his new Hfe. 
 
 Next day was Sunday. At a quarter of eleven 
 the chapel bell rang, and then came that great event 
 in Tom's life — as in every Rugby boy's life of that 
 day — the first sermon from Doctor Arnold. 
 
 I am not going to preach the sermon over again; 
 but I can tell you it was just the sort of sermon to 
 win a boy, heart and soul. There he stood, the tall, 
 gallant form, the kindling eye, the voice — now soft 
 as the low notes of a flute, now clear and stirring 
 as the blast of the Light Infantry bugle. But what 
 was it that moved and held us, three hundred reck- 
 less, childish boys, who feared the Doctor with all 
 our hearts, and very little in heaven or earth besides ; 
 who thought more of our sets in the school than of 
 the Church of Christ, and put the traditions of 
 Rugby above the laws of God ? We could n't take 
 in the half that we heard; but we listened, as all 
 boys in their better moods will listen to a manly 
 man, one whom we felt to be, with all his heart and 
 soul and strength, striving against whatever was 
 mean and unmanly and unrighteous in our little 
 world. And so, slowly, but surely and steadily 
 on the whole, was brought home to the young boy 
 the meaning of his life; that it was no fool's or slug- 
 gard's paradise into which he had wandered by 
 chance, but a battlefield ordained from of old, where 
 the youngest must take his side, and the stakes
 
 7.| FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 are life and deatli. And the preacher showed them, 
 too, by his whole daily life, how that battle was to 
 be fought, standing before them their fellow-soldier 
 and the captain of their band — a captain who had 
 no misgivings and gave no uncertain word of com- 
 mand, and, let who would yield or make a truce, 
 would fight the fight out to the last. It was this 
 thoroughness and gallantry and undaunted courage 
 which won his way to the hearts of the great army 
 of those boys on whom, first and last, he left his 
 mark, and made them believe, first in him and 
 then in his Master. 
 
 Tom was fascinated by him. And during his 
 first two years of the school, when it was more than 
 doubtful whether he would get good or evil from it, 
 and before any steady purpose grew up within him, 
 whatever his week's shortcomings might have been 
 he hardly ever left the chapel on Sundays without 
 a serious resolve to stand by and follow the Doctor 
 in everything, and a sneaking feeling also that it 
 was only cowardice that hindered him. 
 
 In their first years at Rugby, East and Tom 
 were fair specimens of the mischievous and reckless 
 age of British youth. They were as full of tricks 
 as monkeys and as full of excuses as Irish women. 
 Making fun of their masters, of one another, and 
 of their lessons, Argus himself would have been 
 puzzled to keep an eye on them; and as for making 
 them steady or serious for half an hour together. 
 it was simply hopeless. 
 
 Tom had come up from the third grade — his first
 
 TOM BROWN 75 
 
 half year — with a fairly good character, but the 
 mischief that ran riot in the fourth proved too much 
 for him, and he was soon as much of a scapegrace 
 as any of them. He and East would attempt almost 
 anything that was against the rules, simply because 
 it was against the rules, and out of pure love of 
 adventure. 
 
 In the large schoolroom there stood in one corner 
 a wide desk which would hold four boys. On a 
 platform three steps high, above the rest of the 
 room, there was such a hot contest to secure and 
 occupy it that, finally, its use was forbidden al- 
 together. This of course acted as a challenge to 
 the daring ones, and as two boys could easily hide 
 behind it, there was no end of fun. Small holes 
 were cut in the front through which the occupants 
 watched the master as he walked up and down, 
 and, as recitation time approached, one boy at a 
 time stole out and down the steps, as the master's 
 back was turned, and mingled with the rest. 
 
 Tom and East had occupied the desk some half- 
 dozen times, and were grown so reckless that they 
 were in the habit of playing games of five-balls 
 inside, when the master was at the end of the big 
 room. One day, as ill luck would have it, the game 
 became more exciting than usual, and the ball 
 slipped through East's fingers and rolled down the 
 steps and out into the middle of the schoolroom, 
 just as the master turned in his walk and faced 
 round upon the desk. The young scamps watched 
 through the lookout holes and saw the master march
 
 76 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 slowly down uiK)n their retreat, while all the boys 
 stopped their work to look on; and not only were 
 they ignominious] y drawn out and caned then and 
 there, but their characters for steadiness were gone 
 from that time. 
 
 And a character for steadiness in a school once 
 gone is not easily recovered, as Tom found, and for 
 a year or two afterward he went up to the school 
 without it, and the masters' hands were against him 
 and his against them, and he came to regard them 
 as his natural enemies. 
 
 In those early days at Rugby there was a practice 
 among the boys which occasioned no little friction, 
 known as "fagging." Many of the upper classmen 
 would lay claim, each to one or more of the new 
 boys to perform certain menial duties, in return 
 for which they were supposed to receive protection 
 and counsel, w^hich they never got. The custom 
 ran into abuses, and was abolished in later years. 
 
 Fl ashman was seventeen years old, and big and 
 strong for his age. He would pitch upon Tom and 
 East to fetch his hat or black his boots or sweep his 
 room, and was unbearably domineering and oppres- 
 sive. There w^as a growing disposition to revolt 
 against his tyranny and that of his set. 
 
 "Look here. East," said Tom, "I won't stand 
 this any longer. I've made up my mind that I 
 won't fag for these fellows." 
 
 "Quite right, my boy," said East, "but a pretty 
 peck of troubles you'll get into if you're going to 
 play that game. The bother is, you can't get others
 
 TOM BROWN 77 
 
 to join. But if we only can, I'm in for revolution 
 and independence." 
 
 "Well, I know one thing; that blackguard Flash - 
 man, I '11 never fag for him again," said Tom, thump- 
 ing the table. 
 
 Just then, "F-a-a-g!" called Flashman from his 
 study. The two boys looked at each other in 
 silence. East began to look comical, as he always 
 did under difficulties. 
 
 "F-a-a-g!" again. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Here, Brown! East! You young skulks, I 
 know you're in. No shirking." 
 
 Tom stole to the door and drew the bolts. East 
 blew out the candle. 
 
 "Now, Tom," said he, "mind, no surrender ! " 
 
 "Trust me for that," said Tom, betweeen his teeth. 
 
 Then followed an assault on the door, slam ! bang ! 
 with kicks and calls. The door was damaged, but 
 resisted, while East and Tom held their breath and 
 set their teeth. Finally the besiegers gave it up, 
 and our heroes had a respite. 
 
 Later they talked it over in the hall with the other 
 boys, and some were for consulting the upper class- 
 men, those of them who cared little for the custom, 
 
 "I'll give you fellows a piece of advice," said a 
 voice from the end of the hall. They all turned 
 round with a start. The speaker — "Diggs" they 
 called him — a big, loose-made fellow, got up and 
 shook himself. "Don't you go for anybody's 
 advice. You just stand out and say you won't
 
 78 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 fag. They'll soon get tired of licking you." 
 
 The young fellows were grateful for his advice, 
 and decided to follow it. Flashman, however, made 
 life a burden to them. Finding Tom and East in 
 the hall one day, he ordered them off, and struck 
 one of them because they did not move ; and the war 
 of words waxed warm. 
 
 "I say, you two," said Diggs, who had entered 
 the hall at the other end, "you'll never get rid of 
 that fellow till you lick him. Go at him, both of 
 you. I '11 see fair play." 
 
 The two deliberated a moment, and finally got 
 up pluck and went in. Flashman called them all 
 the blackguard names he could think of, and the 
 two pummeled him wherever they could hit him. 
 But he was big and strong, and soon Tom went 
 spinning over backward. As Flashman tackled East 
 alone, Diggs interfered to see fair play. 
 
 "What is it to you?" growled Flashman. 
 
 "I'm going to see fair play, I tell you. 'T is n't 
 fair for you to be fighting one at a time. Ready, 
 Brown? Time's up." 
 
 And at it they went again. While Flashman 
 grasped East by the throat, Tom got him by the 
 waist and, remembering a throw he had learned, 
 crooked his leg inside Flashman's, threw his whole 
 weight forward, and over they went, all three, Flash- 
 man striking his head against one of the benches. 
 
 Tom was scared out of his wits. "Oh, he 's bleed- 
 ing a^-f ully , Diggs ! He 's dying ! ' ' 
 
 "Not he," said Diggs, coming up leisurely. "It's
 
 TOM BROWN 79 
 
 all sham; he's afraid to fight it out, that's all." 
 
 And so it proved. After making a great fuss, 
 the bully walked off, surly enough. 
 
 "You shall pay for this, I can tell you, both of 
 you!" But they never did, for he never laid finger 
 on either of them again. 
 
 Well, it was a righteous cause, and the decent 
 boys in the upper classes couldn't help feeling so; 
 and yet they could n't quite pardon East and Tom, 
 the ringleaders in the revolt. "Confoundedly coxey 
 those young rascals will get, if we don't mind," was 
 the general feeling. The result was that East and 
 Tom and one or two more became a sort of young 
 Ishmaelites, their hand against every one and every 
 one's hand against them. 
 
 And so it is always. If the angel Gabriel should 
 come down from heaven and head a revolt against 
 the most unrighteous vested interest which this 
 poor old world groans under he would most probably 
 lose his character with a great many respectable 
 people. They would n't ask him to dinner or be 
 seen on the street with him. What can we expect, 
 then, when we have only poor, gallant, blundering 
 men like Kossuth, Garibaldi, Mazzini; men who 
 have holes enough in their armor, God knows, easy 
 to be hit by respectabilities sitting in their easy- 
 chairs and having large balances at their bankers. 
 But you, brave, gallant boys, who hate easy-chairs 
 and have no balances or bankers, you only need to 
 have your heads set right in order to take the right 
 side; so bear in mind that majorities, egpecially
 
 So FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 respectable ones, are nine times out of ten in the 
 wrong ; and that if ever you see a man or a boy striv- 
 ing earnestly on the weak side, however wrong- 
 headed or blundering he may be, you are not to go 
 and join in the cry against him. Remember he is 
 doing — in his own way — what you ought to do; 
 namely, he has found something in the world which 
 he will fight for and suffer for. 
 
 I cannot stop to tell of the series of scrapes which 
 Tom now managed to tumble into — about his fish- 
 ing where it was forbidden, and how the under keeper 
 threatened him, suspecting something wrong; and 
 how Tom, forgetting that a boy ought to be a gentle- 
 man, called him "Old Velveteens," and set the boys 
 laughing at him; and how the aforesaid keeper 
 actually caught Tom one day up a tree where he 
 had hidden as he saw him coming. And when the 
 keeper took him before the Doctor — well, Tom 
 never forgot the flogging he got next morning. 
 
 And it wasn't three weeks before Tom — and 
 East with him — were in the terrible presence again. 
 In one of the games several new balls were lost on 
 the roof of the great school building. The two boys 
 put their heads together to climb there somehow; 
 and when there they scratched their names on the 
 tower, and also — as it took their fancy — on the 
 minute hand of the tower clock, in doing which 
 they held the minute hand. This disturbed the 
 clock's economy, and next morning half the school 
 was late. Investigation showed the two names on 
 the minute hand, and the offenders got thirty lines
 
 TOM BROWN 8i 
 
 of Homer to learn by heart, and a lecture on the 
 likelihood of such exploits ending in broken bones. 
 
 And almost the next day came another. The 
 Annual Rugby Fair had opened, and the Doctor 
 gave out that no boy was to go down town. Where- 
 fore East and Tom, for no earthly pleasure except 
 that of doing what they were told not to do, started 
 away, making a wide circuit through the fields, and 
 ran plump into one of the masters as they emerged 
 into the street, were taken to the Doctor, and got 
 another flogging. 
 
 "I want to speak to you," said the Doctor to one 
 of the masters, "about two boys in your room, East 
 and Brown. I have just been giving them a lecture. 
 What do you think of them?" 
 
 "Well, they are not hard workers and are very 
 thoughtless and full of spirits; but I cannot help 
 liking them. I think they are good, sound fellows 
 at bottom." 
 
 "I am glad of it; I think so too, but they make 
 me very uneasy. I should be sorry to lose them, 
 but I shall not allow them to remain in the school 
 if I do not see them gaining in character and man- 
 liness. In another year they may do great harm 
 among the younger boys." 
 
 "I think," said the master, "if either of them had 
 some small boy to care for, it would steady them. 
 Brown is the more reckless of the two. East would 
 not get into so many scrapes without him." 
 
 At the beginning of the next year came the turning 
 point in the school life of our hero. 
 
 6
 
 82 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Oh, Master Brown," said the little matron, 
 "you're to have that nice study this year that you 
 wanted, and Mrs. Arnold says she wants you to 
 take in this little fellow. He's a new boy, and not 
 ver>' strong, and he has never been away from home 
 before." 
 
 Tom was rather put about by this speech. Not 
 to have East for a chum ! Where were all his plans 
 of night-lines and slings for getting bottled beer up 
 through his window? What about the night expedi- 
 tions — just for the fun of it, you know — and so 
 on and so on ? Why, life would be pretty tame with 
 this fellow tied to him. He looked across the large 
 room and saw the slight, pale boy with his blue 
 eyes and fair hair who seemed so ill at ease in his 
 new surroundings. 
 
 The matron watched him, and skillfully threw 
 in an appeal to his heart. "Poor little fellow," she 
 whispered, "his father's dead and he's got no 
 brothers. And his mother, such a sweet lady, 
 almost broke her heart at leaving him this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Well, well," burst in Tom with something of a 
 sigh at the effort, "I suppose I must give up East. 
 Come along, young un! What's your name?" 
 
 "His name is George Arthur," said the matron, 
 walking up to him with Tom. "And Mrs. Arnold 
 told me to say," she added, "that you were to come 
 up and take tea with her this evening." 
 
 Here was an announcement for Master Tom! 
 Instead of being regarded as the most reckless
 
 TOM BROWN 83 
 
 young scapegrace in the lot, he was treated as of 
 some consequence. He felt himself lifted to a higher 
 social and moral platform. 
 
 "Hullo, Brown! Where do you come from?" 
 was the shout an hour later as he and Arthur entered 
 the hall. 
 
 "Oh, I've been to tea with the Doctor," says 
 Tom, with great dignity. 
 
 "My eye!" cried East. "So that's why Mary 
 called you back." 
 
 "I say, young fellow," said another, detecting 
 Arthur and catching him by the collar, " what 's your 
 name ? Where do you live ? How old are you ? ' ' 
 
 Tom saw Arthur shrink back, but thought it best 
 to let him answer for himself. 
 
 "My name is Arthur, sir; I come from Devon- 
 shire." 
 
 "Don't call me 'sir,' you young muff. How old 
 are you ? Can you sing ? ' ' 
 
 The boys crowded around, and the poor fellow 
 was trembling and hesitating, when Tom struck in: 
 ' ' You be hanged, Tadpole. There '11 be time enough 
 for you to find out about him. He's my chum, 
 and we have n't had a look at our room yet. Come 
 along, Arthur." 
 
 "What a queer chum for Tom Brown," was the 
 comment after they had gone. 
 
 There were twelve beds in each of the sleeping 
 rooms. That night when the boys were preparing 
 for bed Arthur seemed embarrassed by the novel 
 situation. Everybody was talking and laughing. 
 
 6
 
 84 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Finally Arthur was ready for oed, and looked around 
 Inni nervously. It was a trying time for the little 
 fellow, but a moment later he knelt at his bedside, 
 as he had done every day from his childhood. A 
 sudden silence fell upon the room. Tom's back 
 was toward Arthur, and he looked up, wondering 
 what was the matter. Then two or three boys 
 laughed and sneered, and one big, brutal fellow 
 picked up a slipper and shied it at the kneeling boy, 
 calling him a sniveling young shaver. Then Tom 
 saw the whole, and the next moment the boot he 
 had just pulled off flew straight at the head of the 
 bully, who had just time to throw up his arm and 
 catch it on his elbow. 
 
 "Confound you. Brown, what's that for? What 
 do you mean?" he roared, stamping with pain. 
 
 "No matter what I mean," said Tom, stepping 
 on to the floor, every drop in his body tingling. ' ' If 
 any fellow wants the other boot, he knows how to 
 get it!" 
 
 What the result might have been is doubtful, but 
 the janitor came in to put out the candle, punctual 
 as the clock, and no more could be said. 
 
 There were many boys in the room by whom that 
 little scene was taken to heart before they slept. 
 And Tom! He could not sleep for the flood of 
 memories in his brain. There was his promise to 
 his mother never to omit his evening devotions. 
 He had kept it for a while, getting up quietly after 
 the Hghts were out, but he had gradually given it 
 up. He thought about it, troubled and unresting,
 
 TOM BROWN 85 
 
 and finally — poor Tom! — he just cried as if his 
 heart would break. The bitterest thing in it all 
 was the sense of his own cowardice. The very 
 thing which he despised most utterly, he himself was 
 guilty of. And he could not go to sleep that night 
 without resolving that he would begin straight and 
 fair the next morning. And when the morning 
 came and his toilet was finished, in the face of the 
 whole room he knelt by his bedside. His mind was 
 confused, he could think of little to say; but he 
 arose comforted and humble and ready to face the 
 whole world. For the lesson had already come to 
 him that he who has conquered his own coward 
 spirit is ready to conquer everything beside. 
 
 The effect produced upon the boys was remark- 
 able. All but three or four of them followed the 
 good example thus set them. If there was any 
 tendency on the part of the careless ones to laugh 
 or sneer, it soon passed. I fear that this was in 
 some measure due to the fact that Tom could prob- 
 ably have thrashed any boy in the room; at any 
 rate, the boys knew he would try upon very slight 
 provocation, and they did n't choose to run the risk 
 of a fight just because Tom Brown had taken a 
 fancy to say his prayers. 
 
 Well, to make a long story short, Tom stuck to 
 Arthur, feeling himself, in a way, responsible for 
 him. He watched that no tricks were played on 
 him, kept the bullies off, and did everything to 
 smooth the way for the sensitive, nervous boy. It 
 was difficult work, in some ways, for Arthur did
 
 86 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 not thaw out easily, was very timid and reserved; 
 but Tom had taken up the work, and meant to see 
 it through. 
 
 "Tom," East would say, "you'll spoil Young 
 Hopeful w4th too much coddling. Why don't you 
 let him go it alone?" 
 
 "Well, but he isn't fit to fight his way yet; he's 
 all nerves, and things here are new to him. And 
 yet, once in a w^hile, a fellow can see that he's got 
 pluck in him. That's the only thing that'll w^ash, 
 ain't it, old boy? But how to get at it and bring 
 it out!" he added in a perplexed tone, taking one 
 hand out of his breeches pocket, and sticking it in 
 his back hair for a scratch, and giving his hat a tilt 
 over his nose, his one method of invoking wisdom. 
 
 He stared at the ground with a ludicrously puzzled 
 look, and presently looked up and met East's eyes. 
 To his surprise that young gentleman slapped him 
 on the back and then put his arm around his shoulder 
 as they strolled through the grounds together. 
 
 "Tom," said he, "blest if you ain't the best old 
 fellow that ever was! I do like to see you go into 
 a thing. Hang it! I wish I could take things as 
 you do — but I can never get higher than a joke. 
 Everything's a joke. Of course, if I was going to 
 be flogged next minute I should be in a blue funk, 
 but I could n't help laughing at it for the life of me." 
 
 Now it gradually grew clear to Tom that this 
 trust which he had taken upon himself, this care 
 for one who so evidently needed it, was the turning 
 point of his school life. The fact is he was gradually
 
 TOM BROWN 87 
 
 becoming a new boy, though with frequent tumbles 
 into the dirt and perpetual hard battle with him- 
 self. He was daily growing in manliness and 
 thoughtfulness, as every genuine boy must when 
 he finds himself at grips with himself and the devil. 
 
 I am going to give you a fair account of Tom's 
 first and only single fight during his sojourn at 
 Rugby. I confess I like him the better for it; and 
 if any do not, why, I am sorry for them. It came 
 about in this way. The regular lesson in Homer 
 was forty lines, with the understanding that more 
 was to be read if there was time. It hardly ever 
 happened, however, that they got beyond the forty. 
 Arthur was a faithful student, and not infrequently 
 learned more than the usual lesson. One day the 
 master was ill, and the teacher who was his sub- 
 stitute went through the lesson at a great pace. 
 Toward the close he called on Arthur, who read 
 beyond the limit, and the boys devoutly hoped he 
 would occupy the remaining minutes of the hour. 
 But a strange thing happened, for the boy was 
 affected to tears by the pathos of the passage — 
 it was Helen's lamentation — and could not finish. 
 
 The boy who stood next to Tom — " Slogger Wil- 
 liams" they called him, on account of his physical 
 prowess — was exceeding wrathful. * ' Sneaking little 
 brute ! " he muttered. ' ' Turning on the water- works 
 in the hardest place! I'll punch his head after 
 school." 
 
 "Whose?" said Tom.
 
 8S FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Why. that httle sneak Arthur's." 
 
 "No, you won't," was the reply. 
 
 "Hullo!" whispered Williams back again, and 
 gave Tom a dig with his elbow which sent his books 
 flying on the floor. The master saw it. 
 
 "Williams, go down three places and read on." 
 
 ' ' I have n't learned any more, sir. The lesson is 
 only forty lines." 
 
 "Is that so?" said the master. The boys did 
 not answer. "Arthur, what is the regular lesson?" 
 
 Arthur hesitated a moment, and then said, "We 
 call it forty lines, sir." 
 
 "How do you mean, 'you call it'?" 
 
 "Well, sir, the master says we are not to stop 
 there when there is time to read more." 
 
 "I understand," said the master. "Williams, 
 you may go down three more places, and write me 
 out the lesson in Greek and English." 
 
 "Oh," said some of the small boys, "I wouldn't 
 like to be in Arthur's place after school." 
 
 Tom was detained a moment at the close, and 
 the first thing he saw on coming out was a ring 
 of boys, and Williams holding Arthur by the 
 collar. 
 
 "There! You young sneak," giving him a cufiE on 
 the head, "what made you say that?" 
 
 "Hullo!" said Tom, shouldering into the crowd. 
 "You drop that, Williams! You shan't touch him." 
 
 "Well, who'll stop me?" 
 
 "I will!" said Tom, striking off Williams's arm 
 from Arthur.
 
 TOM BROWN 89 
 
 The bully turned on him. "Look here, will you 
 fight?" 
 
 "Yes, of course I will." 
 
 "Huzzah! There's going to be a fight between 
 Slogger Williams and Tom Brown!" 
 
 The news spread like wildfire. 
 
 "Just you run and tell East to come and back 
 me," said Tom to a small boy, who was off like a 
 rocket, just stopping to poke his head into the dining 
 hall and sing out, "Fight! Tom Brown and Slogger 
 Williams!" 
 
 They all congregated back of the chapel. Tom 
 felt that he had his work cut out for him as he 
 stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, and braces. 
 
 "Now, old boy," said East, "don't you waste 
 your breath ; we '11 do the yelling. You save all your 
 strength for the Slogger." 
 
 It did n't look like a fair match, for Williams was 
 a year older and two inches taller. But they made 
 a ring, chose a timekeeper, and at it they went. 
 Tom went for him, hammer and tongs, and, as 
 Slogger was the stronger, got the worst of it, and in 
 the second round was hit clean off his legs. 
 
 "Tom, old boy," whispered East, "this may be 
 fun for you, but it's death to me. He'll hit all the 
 fight out of you in another five minutes, and then 
 I shall go drown myself in the island ditch. Feint 
 him, use your legs, draw him about; then he'll lose 
 his wind and you can go into him." 
 
 Tom took the advice and, avoiding his antagonist, 
 began to wind him.
 
 go FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "All right!" whispered East. "Keep your head, 
 old boy, and you've got him." 
 
 All at once Tom closed with his man and threw 
 him. That trick he knew in wrestling was a sur- 
 prise to Williams, and he began to get nervous. 
 They had pounded each other somewhat, and Tom 
 had just thrown him for the third time, when "The 
 Doctor! The Doctor!" sung out a small boy, who 
 had just caught sight of the head master. And 
 the ring melted away in short order, the two com- 
 batants and their friends scattering in different 
 directions. 
 
 A little later Brooke, one of the upper classmen, 
 sent for Tom, who found him and some of his class 
 with him at supper. 
 
 "Well, Brown," said Brooke nodding to him, 
 "how do you feel?" 
 
 "Oh, very well, thank you; only I've sprained 
 my thumb, I think." 
 
 "Sure to do that in a fight. Well, you had the 
 best of it, I could see. Where did you learn that 
 throw?" 
 
 "Oh, down in the country when I was a boy." 
 
 "Well, well! What are you now? But never 
 mind, you're a plucky fellow. Sit down and have 
 some supper." 
 
 Tom did so, nothing loath, I can assure you. He 
 felt as if he had grown two or three years older 
 within two hours. He ate a famous supper, drank 
 beer, and had a great time. 
 
 As he got up to leave, Brooke said, "You two
 
 TOM BROWN 91 
 
 must shake hands in the morning. Now remember." 
 And so they did, with great satisfaction and 
 mutual respect. And for the next two or three 
 years, whenever fights were talked of, those who 
 had been present shook their heads wisely, saying, 
 "Ah ! but you should just have seen the fight between 
 Slogger Williams and Tom Brown." 
 
 And now, boys all, three words before we quit 
 the subject. I have told you this story of the fight, 
 partly because I want to give you a true picture 
 of what everyday school life was in my time, and 
 not a kid-glove-and-go-to-meeting picture; partly 
 because of the cant and twaddle that's talked of 
 boxing and fighting with fists nowadays; and also 
 because I would like to leave with you this word 
 of advice. Keep out of fighting if you can, by all 
 means. When the time comes — if ever it should — 
 that you have to say yes or no to a challenge to fight, 
 say no if you can — only take care that you make it 
 clear to yourselves why you say no. It is a proof 
 of the highest courage if done from Christian mo- 
 tives. But don't say no simply because you fear 
 a licking, saying or thinking that it's because you 
 fear God, for that's neither Christian nor honest. 
 And if you do fight, fight it out; and don't give in 
 while you can stand and see. 
 
 Tom never forgot the time when the fever was 
 in the school and one of the fellows died, and Arthur 
 himself was very ill. When the crisis had passed, 
 and Tom was permitted to see him — how like an 
 angel he looked, with his white face and golden hair ;
 
 92 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 and how Tom loved him ! He realized it at that mo- 
 ment as he never did before. He stole across the 
 room and threw his arms about him. They talked 
 about the school and the boys and the games and 
 how things had gone. "And I'm in the eleven, old 
 boy, but I don't care, one way or the other, now 
 that you are getting well." 
 
 "Tom," said his friend after a little, "will you 
 be angry if I talk with you very seriously?" 
 
 "No, dear old fellow, not I." But, all the same, 
 he talked of everything under the sun so that Arthur 
 might forget his exhortation. 
 
 "Oh, please, Tom, stop, or you'll drive all I had 
 to say out of my head. But I'm so afraid I shall 
 make you angry." 
 
 "Now hold," said Tom. "You know you never 
 did anger me. Now I 'm going to be quite sober 
 for a quarter of an hour, which is more than I am 
 once in a year. So make the most of it; heave 
 ahead, and pitch into me, right and left." 
 
 "Dear Tom, I'm not going to pitch into you. 
 And it seems so cocky in me to be advising you, 
 who've been my backbone ever since I've been at 
 Rugby, and have made the school a paradise for 
 me. Ah! I shall never do it unless I go in heels 
 over head at once. Tom, I wish you would give 
 up cribs in getting out the lessons in translating." 
 
 Tom was considerably taken aback. He leaned 
 his elbows on his knees, stuck his hands into his 
 hair, whistled a verse of "Billy Taylor," and then 
 was silent for another minute. Looking up, he
 
 TOM BROWN 93 
 
 caught Arthur's anxious look and said simply, "Why, 
 young un?" 
 
 "Because you are the honestest boy in Rugby, 
 and that is n't honest." 
 
 Tom argued the question, but it was useless. He 
 saw that Arthur was right; but how to get along 
 in his Greek without the help of an English trans- 
 lation he could not see for the life of him. He had 
 half promised when Arthur's mother came in, and 
 the subject was dropped. But he gazed at the new- 
 comer with his heart in his eyes; he thought he had 
 never seen any one who was so sweet and lovely. 
 
 "Mother, here's my dear friend, Tom Brown; 
 you know him?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, I feel as though I had known him 
 for years," was her reply, as she held out her hand 
 to him. And when the time came for him to go 
 she rose and walked with him to the door, and there 
 gave him her hand again, and that deep, loving look 
 that was like such a spell upon him. And as she 
 thanked him so warmly for his kindness to her boy, 
 Tom felt repaid for all that he had done. He was 
 quite upset, murmured something about owing 
 everything that was good in him to Arthur, looked 
 in her face again, kissed her hand, and was gone. 
 
 But he had a time of it with the boys — East and 
 another fellow — who with him learned their lessons 
 in Greek together. Tom talked straight on and 
 said some pretty plain things about the dishonest 
 way they had gotten out their translations hitherto. 
 After chaffing awhile. East delivered himself of the
 
 94 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 opinion that it was all straight and fair because 
 they were expected to use cribs more or less. 
 
 "Well, old fellow," said Tom, "you are a good 
 old brick to be serious and not put out with me. 
 I said more than I meant, I dare say, only you see 
 I know I'm right. Whatever you fellows do, I 
 shall hold on — I must. And as it's all new and 
 an uphill game, you see, one must hit hard and hold 
 on tight at first." 
 
 "All right," said East, "hold on and hit away, 
 only don't hit under the line." 
 
 "But, East, I must bring you over, or I shan't 
 be comfortable," said Tom. And win him he did, 
 after a good deal of discussion. As he said to Arthur 
 afterwards, "Oh, East is all right. He always comes 
 through the mud after us, grumbling and sputtering." 
 
 The time came — it was just before Tom bade a 
 final good-by to Rugby — when he learned of what 
 the Doctor had done for him which had served to 
 turn the current of his life. 
 
 He was talking with one of the masters, one who 
 had been his teacher in the scapegrace days. They 
 were speaking of Arthur. "Nothing has given me 
 greater pleasure," said the master, "than your friend- 
 ship for him; it has been the making of you both." 
 
 ' ' Of me, at any rate, ' ' said Tom. * ' It was a lucky 
 chance that gave me him for a chum." 
 
 "Why do you talk of lucky chances, Tom? I 
 don't know that there are any such things in the 
 world; at any rate, there was neither luck nor chance 
 about that matter."
 
 TOM BROWN 95 
 
 Tom looked at him inquiringly, and he went on. 
 
 "Do you remember when the Doctor lectured 
 you and East at the close of the term when you had 
 been getting into all sorts of scrapes? Well, I was 
 with him a few minutes afterwards, and he was in 
 great perplexity about you two. And after talking 
 it over he determined to give you something to do 
 that would correct the trouble. And so he gave 
 you Arthur in the hope that, having him to care 
 for, you would stand a little steadier yourself. And 
 I can assure you he has watched the experiment 
 ever since with great satisfaction." 
 
 It was a revelation to Tom Brown. He had, 
 indeed, grown to respect the Doctor, but was in- 
 clined to think him a little fanatical in his school 
 reforms. As for his own progress, while he acknowl- 
 edged his indebtedness to Arthur, still he took a fair 
 share of credit to himself. But now the fact stood 
 revealed to him, clear as the light of day, that it 
 was the Doctor's foresight and wisdom that had 
 been the making of him. From that moment the 
 Doctor's victory over him was complete. He gave 
 way at all points, and the enemy marched right over 
 him, infantry, cavalry, and artillery, the land trans- 
 port corps, and the camp followers. There was n't 
 a corner of him now that did n't believe in the Doc- 
 tor. And he began not only to believe in Divine 
 Providence as he had not done hitherto, but he left 
 Rugby a veritable hero-worshiper, one who would 
 have abundantly satisfied even the soul of Thomas 
 Carlyle.
 
 96 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 And this his great ideal, toward which his boy's 
 soul went out with the abandon of devotion, repre- 
 sented not merely a wise and strong manliness but 
 also faith in God. And so the youth, like so many 
 in all the years, won his way through hero-worship 
 such as this to the worship of Him who is the King 
 and Lord of heroes.
 
 DONOVAN 
 
 A T the age of nineteen he was handsome and 
 -^^ intellectual and cynical — these three things 
 in one. His features almost classical in their severe 
 beauty, clustering black curls about his pale, square 
 forehead, his piercing eye and determined, grave, 
 haughty expression — his cousin Adela, meeting 
 him for the first time, declared he was Augustus 
 Caesar come to life again! His mental powers were 
 such that at school he took whatever prizes he 
 chose, and he became such an expert at whist that 
 few cared to play against him. But the interest in 
 his history centers in his cynical attitude of mind, 
 which took the form of religious skepticism. How 
 this wrought in him and how his deliverance came 
 is the story we have to tell. 
 
 His father was dead and his mother was good for 
 nothing; a woman of society, absorbed in herself 
 and languidly indifferent to domestic duties — again 
 we say, good for nothing. When, at the age of 
 nineteen, Donovan was expelled from school, his 
 sense of honor, forbidding an appeal from the partial 
 injustice of it, covered it all with a hard, haughty 
 reserve. 
 
 He came home under a cloud; people were ready 
 to distrust one who was in disgrace. There were 
 stories, too, of his opinions, that he had been seen 
 at an infidel lecture, and was said to express himself 
 
 7 97
 
 98 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 now and then in a sweeping way. As people avoided 
 him from time to time, he grew cold and even bitter 
 in his thought of the world. His early religious 
 training had been worse than none at all. 
 
 Even in childhood his active mind suggested 
 questions about God and heaven which received no 
 answer worth the name. Some people were happy 
 and others were miserable. Why was it, if God were 
 good? and he got no satisfaction. He was taught 
 that the principal occupation of Almighty God was 
 to detect and punish sin; a Judge, watchful, hard, 
 and stem, who admitted fortunate people to heaven 
 and dismissed unfortunate people to hell with strict 
 impartiality and entire absence of feeling. And, 
 worst of all, he had never met with genuine Christi- 
 anity. His mother's religion was conventional; she 
 went to church because it was proper so to do, and 
 he attended her at her wish to carry her prayerbook. 
 
 But now, at the age of nineteen, that was all over. 
 Possessed of a disgust with anything that savored 
 of hypocrisy, he declared the whole thing to be a 
 mockery and took some pride in that skepticism 
 which, as his private tutor assured him, was "not 
 bad form nowadays." 
 
 There was, however, one bright spot in his life; 
 and it showed the real Donovan more clearly than 
 this temper and these opinions into which he had 
 grown. It was his tender love for his invalid sister, 
 now at the age of twelve. Her face was pale and 
 beautiful ; her hair, pushed back from her forehead, 
 just fell to her shoulders in soft, brown masses; her
 
 DONOVAN 99 
 
 eyes were almost exactly like Donovan's, and her 
 love for him amounted almost to worship. 
 
 "Darling Dono," she wrote when he was in dis- 
 grace at school, "I'm so sorry. It is too bad they 
 say such horrid things of you. I don't believe them, 
 and I never, never will!" 
 
 It brought the tears to his eyes to see her implicit 
 faith in him. 
 
 "Dear little Dot," he said in his heart, "you and 
 I understand each other, don't we?" 
 
 Poor, dear, bright little thing. All day long, day 
 after day, she lay unmurmuringly upon her couch 
 of pain. 
 
 "Oh, Dono! I'm so glad you've come; the 
 hours do seem so long!" This was her greeting 
 one day when he had just accepted an invitation 
 from an old friend to make a tour of Switzerland. 
 
 "And so you miss me when I am away? I hope 
 you don't cry, little one." 
 
 "Oh, no, only when you go to stay a long time, 
 like when you went away to school." 
 
 "Why, how foolish, darling. What makes you 
 cry?" 
 
 "Because I love you so," she answered, looking 
 wistfully up at him with her wonderful eyes. And 
 then and there, after a struggle with himself — for 
 he had set his heart on the journby — he registered 
 a silent vow that he would never leave her. 
 
 One beautiful thing about the child was a certain 
 kind of spiritual life. Notwithstanding the influ- 
 ences about her, she had felt her way to love and 
 
 7
 
 loo FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 trust. Donovan said little to her about his skepti- 
 cism, yet the fact of it perplexed her now and then. 
 
 "Dono, dear, when it is all over and we die, shall 
 I have to stop loving you?" A shadow passed over 
 his face, and he did not answer. "Oh, Dono, I 
 could n't bear to stop loving you. Perhaps I shall 
 love you always. How do you know?" 
 
 One evening they were together in the dusk as 
 the stars were coming out. 
 
 * ' How good you are, Dono ! How you have given 
 up all your life for me!" 
 
 ' ' But do you think I could be happy to go away 
 and enjoy myself, leaving you alone?" 
 
 "No, Dono," she replied, nestling closer to him, 
 "I am quite sure you never could; and when I 
 think of you," she added, looking up among the 
 stars, "then I grow sure as can be that the greatest 
 love of all will never leave us." 
 
 For two years he ministered in the most beautiful, 
 tender way to her who thus became a part of his 
 very life. But the time came — the sad, terrible 
 time — when she was taken from him. 
 
 "Put your arms about me, Dono," she said, "it 
 is so cold. Now say me the hymn about the light." 
 And he with breaking heart and trembling voice 
 repeated the immortal hymn which she had come 
 to love: 
 
 *' Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 
 Lead thou me on" — 
 
 And through the gloom, with the Kindly Light to lead 
 her, she went beyond the power of his love to follow.
 
 DONOVAN loi 
 
 And it was dark for him, and desolate and despair- 
 ing. And the funeral — he went to the church, of 
 course, but while the mourners knelt, he could not. 
 He could not weep. And as the procession left 
 the church he heard some one whisper, "Of course; 
 atheists are always hard and imfeeling." With 
 set face and hardening, bitter soul he turned toward 
 the uninviting, empty life that opened before him. 
 
 Meanwhile his cousin Ellis — an older man and a 
 frequent visitor at the manor — had succeeded in 
 winning his mother's hand and establishing himself 
 as the head of the household. Donovan had 
 regarded him from the first as a scheming, treacher- 
 ous man, and the time came when his suspicions were 
 justified. Donovan's father had left his handsome 
 property to his only son ; the supplanter secured and 
 destroyed the will. And when, some months after 
 Dot's death, Donovan attained his majority, the 
 rupture came. He found himself actually cast 
 adrift, turned out of his father's house, and with no 
 allowance for his maintenance; and this by a man 
 who was a patron of charities and who was con- 
 sidered a very good churchman! Appeal to his 
 mother was in vain. She wept, and was helpless. 
 And so, with set, white face and mingled hatred, 
 rage, and contempt of life, he took the first train for 
 London, and a bitterer spirit never went into exile. 
 
 Alone in London! The seething life of the great 
 city almost tossed him, like a feather, on its current. 
 His pride forbade application to his father's friends, 
 and all efforts to secure a situation were doomed to
 
 I02 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 failure. As ill fortune would have it, he fell in 
 with a man, a kindred spirit, one whom the worid 
 had used in the same way as himself and who had 
 been led by the contempt and misanthropy thus 
 born within his soul to take from men what men 
 had so unjustly taken from him, — a professional 
 gambler. And when this man, in his hard, cynical 
 way, had told his story and made his proposition 
 to Donovan, the latter in sheer desperation accepted 
 a partnership in the nefarious business — the work 
 of fleecing those whom they could decoy into playing. 
 He well knew the step was a wrong one; he would 
 never excuse it in after years. And indeed it was 
 strange that his usually high sense of honor did 
 not make it impossible. But he acted on the impulse 
 of the time, and entered on the lowest and most 
 painful phase of his life. 
 
 Let no one think it was a congenial life. While 
 there were times when his masterly knowledge of 
 gaming proved a source of excitement and pleasure, 
 yet the reaction of disgust would come, and for days 
 he would not play. One evening on a late train 
 from Manchester which they had taken in order 
 to ply their trade, he saw a placard bearing words 
 which burned themselves into his brain : ' ' Caution ! 
 Passengers are warned to beware of card sharpers 
 dressed as gentlemen." He, his father's only son, 
 had fallen so low that this description would apply 
 to him! Why, these hands of his — the hands that 
 had waited on Dot, his pure, bright little angel, 
 now gone forever — these hands had stooped to
 
 DONOVAN 103 
 
 the work of taking money won by cheating at play. 
 He cursed himself, and longed to be free. 
 
 The time came when, with a supreme effort of his 
 iron will, he cut loose from his life of dishonor. He 
 found himself again in the streets of London on the 
 same quest as that of a year before, and with the 
 same barren results. A certain charitable institute 
 found him to be admirably qualified for the position 
 of secretary. "And your religious views, sir?" 
 asked the president. "Do you belong to the High 
 or Low Church party?" 
 
 "To neither," said Donovan; "I am an atheist." 
 And in those four words lay his doom. And so it 
 was from day to day. Hungry, penniless, wet, and 
 cold, he still set his face like a flint toward an honor- 
 able life. Worn with labor, exposure, hunger, and 
 soul-anguish, how it happened that he reached 
 the little town of Porthkerran and was befriended 
 by Dr. Tremain we may not pause to tell. Suffice 
 it to say that it was none too soon ! When the fever 
 had left him he protested most earnestly. 
 
 "But I'm not fit to stay here. I must be moved 
 somehow. No, no ! Listen ; then I think you will turn 
 me out. Do you know what I am ? I was once what 
 men call a card sharper; I have n't a penny in the 
 world; and, more than all, I am an atheist! There!" 
 
 "Never mind," said Dr. Tremain in an odd, 
 quiet voice. "Do not think you are not welcome." 
 
 "What? It seems to me you are different from 
 other people. I cannot imagine a Christian taking 
 me in."
 
 104 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "That's the very reason why we do, my dear 
 fellow." 
 
 As Donovan listened and lay, silently watching 
 the doctor, a great love for the man sprang up in 
 his heart. The reason — he did not know it then, 
 but it was true — the deep reason was this: he had 
 met with Christianity for the first time. 
 
 The doctor induced him to tell his story. He 
 gave the outline with no attempt whatever at con- 
 cealment or excuse. 
 
 "Ah! my boy, you've taken no care of yourself!" 
 
 "Well, life is n't worth much extra fuss, anyway." 
 
 "There's another side to that question. We'll 
 help you to look at it differently," was the reply. 
 
 Strange! But the touch of Mrs. Tremain's soft 
 hand smoothing his hair, doing it simply because 
 he w^as in trouble and she was a Christian, did more 
 for him than all the argument in the world could 
 have done. How like a mother she seemed! And 
 when she got him to tell her of Dot one day, how good 
 it was to weep without restraint as he echoed again 
 her unforgetable words: "I know you love me, 
 Dono, and when I think of that I grow sure that the 
 greatest love of all will never leave us." 
 
 "I have brought you some flowers again. You 
 must not be cheated out of them just because you 
 are getting better." The speaker was the doctor's 
 daughter, a girl of eighteen summers. Donovan, 
 from the very first, had been impressed with her 
 clear mind and the spiritual quality that clung to
 
 DONOVAN 105 
 
 her. And as the days went by he grew sure that 
 she must be a genuine Christian like the rest of them. 
 
 They were talking one day of little children. 
 "Tell me about little Dot," said Gladys. "How I 
 wish I could have known her." 
 
 For answer he placed in her hand a little miniature 
 of Dot which he always carried with him. She 
 looked at it in silence, fascinated most of all by the 
 glorious hazel eyes. 
 
 "Thank you so much for letting me see it," she 
 said. 
 
 "It was taken only a few months before she died," 
 he said quietly. 
 
 "And she left you believing she would meet you 
 again?" said Gladys, the tears welling up in her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Isn't it strange how easily belief in 
 God and heaven comes to some souls? I wish it 
 might come to me, but that is impossible." 
 
 "Oh, don't say that!" said she quickly. "Leave 
 yourself at least a hope. It may not always seem 
 impossible." 
 
 Her sweet, eager face, with its entire absence of 
 self -consciousness, took Donovan's heart by storm. 
 So concerned, so innocently anxious that he should 
 not fail in the search for spiritual truth and life! 
 She had found it, he was sure. 
 
 Meanwhile the treacherous supplanter, his cousin 
 Ellis, lived in Donovan's mansion and was distin- 
 guished for his charities with Donovan's money. 
 Dr. Tremain made every effort to have justice 
 done, but in vain. The most he could secure for
 
 io6 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Donovan was an allowance of one hundred pounds 
 a year; a pitiful sum, but better than nothing. 
 Recovering his health and strength, the latter began 
 to plan for the future; and it was with the doctor's 
 hearty approval that he entered the medical school 
 in London. 
 
 "I came to scold you!" said Gladys one evening. 
 "Why are you here alone in the froggiest part of 
 the garden? This is n't the way to spend vacation. 
 It was so stupid of me to forget that you would be 
 sure to leave the house just because my long-lost 
 brother has come!" 
 
 "Well, don't be too hard on me for it, will you? 
 I thought I might be out of place, you know, in a 
 family reunion. And then you must remember 
 how I've been shut out of things all my life. No 
 one has ever loved me but a few children and a dog 
 or two." 
 
 "Oh, you must not say that!" she exclaimed in a 
 voice so full of pain and sympathy that it startled 
 even herself. "You know — you know that it is 
 not true!" 
 
 As the words passed her lips her own heart stood 
 suddenly revealed to her. She could hardly under- 
 stand the strange, tumultuous feehng that the mere 
 uttering of the words had seemed to bring. How 
 glad she was that he could not see her clearly in the 
 dusk. 
 
 Donovan was the first to speak. She knew by 
 his manner that she had not betrayed herself.
 
 DONOVAN 107 
 
 "I was wrong to speak bitterly, for I can never, 
 never forget the love I have found here. I can 
 never forget your father." 
 
 And — it is not cant, it is not sentiment, it is 
 not anything other than a fact of the very finest 
 and deepest — Gladys that night pra3^ed for Dono- 
 van. 
 
 It is evident enough that Donovan, with his clear, 
 active mind, could not live as he did for a few months 
 in this home without perceiving that the Christian 
 faith of these souls had something to do with their 
 lives — so different from any others he had seen. 
 And by and by it came to this : he longed, earnestly 
 longed, to possess that which meant so much to them. 
 
 "But religious people are so dogmatic," he com- 
 plained in one of his conversations with the doctor. 
 "They assert that this is so, or that is so, believe 
 it or perish!" 
 
 "I confess that what you say is true but, believe 
 me, there is a better way. My dear fellow, / have 
 known something of this darkness which is about 
 you, / have felt what you are now feeling; and I 
 want to say to you. Do not grudge the suffering or 
 the waiting, but go on patiently." 
 
 "Go on doubting?" questioned Donovan. 
 
 "Go on living; by which I mean, doing your 
 duty. Depend upon it, Donovan, that is the only 
 thing to cling to in perplexity like yours." 
 
 "Well, the true life; in that I certainly believe. 
 But tell me honestly, doctor, do you think the per- 
 plexity will ever end?"
 
 io8 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 The noble face of his friend seemed to shine as 
 he replied: "I am certain that it will end; soon 
 or late all will grow plain. Only be patient, be 
 patient, Donovan, and in the right time the truth 
 will make you free. Meanwhile you have one unfail- 
 ing comfort. You can live at your best, you can 
 act up to your conscience, and to any man who 
 desires to do His will, a knowledge of the truth is 
 promised." 
 
 When Donovan returned on his first vacation 
 from London it was with the great questions still 
 unanswered and his heart unsatisfied. He had 
 found — what the doctor had intimated to him — 
 that opinions are not to be changed at will. But 
 with severe, almost haughty determination he had 
 tried to live an honorable, studious life, faithful to the 
 duties that came before him. On this his return 
 to the friends who had grown so dear to him he 
 found Gladys more reserved. Something of the 
 old, delightful frankness had disappeared from her 
 manner. She seemed to him more womanly and — • 
 if that were possible — more Christian. Small won- 
 der that he idealized her, for she was, in truth, the 
 noblest woman he had ever known. 
 
 He was the soul of honor, and his treatment of her 
 was so courteous and brotherly that the days passed 
 smoothly, even for her who lived with tumult in 
 her heart. One day, however, a chance word 
 betrayed her, and Donovan guessed her heart for 
 the first time. And then — for was he not the soul 
 of honor? — came the bitterest struggle of his hfe.
 
 DONOVAN 109 
 
 This was the issue before him. Was it right for 
 him to go on with this attachment and to make her 
 wretched all her life by his cynical, skeptical views 
 of all she held dear and sacred? Was it possible 
 for her to be happy in such a union? He felt con- 
 vinced that it could not be. Then came the duty — 
 was any duty ever harder? — to climb the steep of 
 honor, to set his face toward the wilderness, to cut 
 short his stay in their home. Might not this be a 
 part of the duty in doing which he should come to 
 know the truth? It might be — he was not sure — 
 but in his heart he believed it to be duty, and, 
 fighting down his natural being, with set face and 
 aching heart he bade them all good-by. How hard 
 it was to leave them ! 
 
 She stood leaning against the doorway, sick at 
 heart. A few commonplace words were spoken, 
 and he was gone. Gone! But utterly faithful to 
 duty as it seemed to him, and with his heart almost 
 breaking. If she only could have known! 
 
 Among his acquaintances in London was a young 
 man — a neighbor and friend of the Tremains — 
 who was known as Stephen. Although reared in 
 the straitest way of the Evangelicals, he was 
 morally weak and inclined to be vicious. Donovan, 
 for the sake of his friends in Porthkerran, did what 
 he could in dissuading the fellow from evil courses; 
 but in vain. 
 
 "Good evening. I've brought you a lot of news 
 from Porthkerran," said Stephen one day. "All 
 well and send love, and so on. What a fine girl
 
 no FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 that Gladys has grown to be! Awfully jolly, and 
 uncomfortably pretty, too! By the way, I'm all 
 right on the doctor's books, and my mother wants 
 Gladys for a daiighter-in-law; so you see I'm right 
 all round. What do you think? Hey ? " 
 
 Donovan longed to kick him. 
 
 "Discuss your love affairs with whom you please, 
 but not with me," he said, reining in his voice with 
 difficulty. "You ought to have found out before 
 now that I 'm made of cast iron, and have chosen 
 your confidant better." 
 
 Nevertheless Donovan did not remit his watch- 
 fulness, occasionally warning the graceless youth 
 against the set who some day would be sure to 
 ruin him. 
 
 There was still another whom he sought to 
 befriend. 
 
 "My son Jack has gone wild in London, Mr. 
 Donovan," said Trevethan, the Porthkerran black- 
 smith. ' ' Could ye ever find 'im, it would be servin' 
 the Lord an' me too." And Donovan promised to 
 do whatever he could. 
 
 One evening as the Westminster chimes rang out 
 on the night. Big Ben booming the hour of nine, 
 Donovan stepped into the street resolved to follow 
 Stephen, aware that he was at play in a certain 
 billiard saloon. As he entered he was attracted by 
 the face of the billiard marker, a rough, dark-haired 
 young man. Surely that must be the prodigal son of 
 the honest blacksmith ! He leaned forward, and said 
 in a low voice, "Is your name Jack Trevethan?"
 
 DONOVAN III 
 
 The man started violently. 
 
 "No! My name's Smith. What do you want 
 o'me?" 
 
 "Nothing. But I have a message for a man 
 named Jack Trevethan from his father. If you 
 happen to know him, here is my card." 
 
 Passing on into the room, he found Stephen 
 losing heavily at the game. By skillful, off-hand 
 persuasion he finally induced him to attend a con- 
 cert with him which, as he said, he could not afford 
 to miss. 
 
 This was only one incident of the year — a year 
 of constant care on Donovan's part for this fellow 
 simply because he was her friend. And there, too, 
 came another struggle. He was orthodox and 
 presumably acceptable; there were doubtless no 
 matrimonial objections. Why not let him go his 
 own way, and ruin himself as he was sure to 
 do? Then again there came before him the idea of 
 duty; and Dr. Tremain's words lingered in his 
 mind, "Depend upon it, Donovan, it is the only 
 thing to cling to." 
 
 Stephen, meanwhile, had succeeded in main- 
 taining his good name at home. His mother con- 
 sidered him an exemplary youth, but in great danger 
 from his friend Donovan. She did not forget that 
 he had once been a gambler and then, what could 
 one expect from an atheist, anyway? And when 
 Stephen was seriously injured by an accident at the 
 races, the question occurred, Why was her son in 
 such disreputable company? She came to the
 
 112 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 conclusion that Donovan had led him astray, and 
 Stephen found it convenient not to undeceive her. 
 She induced Gladys to come to London with her to 
 assist in caring for her son. And so they met again, 
 Gladys and Donovan. 
 
 "I did hope that Stephen would have a good 
 influence over you," said his mother to Donovan, 
 "but now I see it is you who have led him astray. 
 You have cruelly abused my trust. No; I think 
 there is nothing you can do for us." 
 
 "I should be very sorry to annoy you by staying," 
 said Donovan, with compressed lips and pale face, 
 "and I bid you good day." 
 
 For one moment Gladys sat still. But she could 
 not let him go like this; there was surely some mis- 
 take. She called to him as he was going down the 
 stairs, "Donovan!" 
 
 He paused. He knew not what to do. The 
 very sound of his name on her lips had reawakened 
 the wildest longing for what he knew must never be. 
 
 "Do not go like this," she said pleadingly. "I 
 know you can explain it all. Please wait till papa 
 comes." 
 
 The bitterness of the struggle in that moment 
 God only might know. Why not explain, indeed? 
 But in that case Stephen would stand exposed and 
 condemned. Perhaps the present experience would 
 itself save him; who could tell? No! The dis- 
 closure must come from him if it came at all. And 
 so he merely said to her, controlling his voice as best 
 he could, "BeHeve me, it is better that I should go."
 
 DONOVAN 113 
 
 She looked steadily up at him, and wondered as 
 she gazed. For there was that about him that went 
 to her very heart and raised her out of herself. He 
 looked utterly noble. The very light of Christ 
 shone in his face. She could never describe it in 
 after years, but it not only confirmed her implicit 
 faith in him; it revealed also the beginnings of a 
 new life. She was sure he was not far from the 
 kingdom of heaven, and her heart sang for joy. 
 
 "Good -by!" she said softly; that was all. 
 
 "You will believe in him when you see him, 
 papa," said she. But the doctor in an interview 
 failed to gain any light or satisfaction. Donovan 
 believed it to be his duty to maintain silence, and 
 his face was hard and dark and very cold. The 
 doctor was completely misled, and of course was 
 deeply grieved. 
 
 "God forgive me, Donovan, if I am harsh with 
 you, but I confess I am disappointed in you." 
 
 "Just forget me; that is best, and that is all I 
 ask," was the reply. 
 
 "Just one more question. Why would you not 
 come to us last summer ? Do you mind telling me ? " 
 
 "I regret to say I must decline to do so." 
 
 The doctor wrote him a letter — and such a 
 letter — upon his return home. Mrs. Tremain wrote 
 him also, as only a mother can write to a son, urging 
 him to tell her all. But he had settled the question 
 of duty, whether wisely or unwisely it matters not, 
 and the letters were unanswered. 
 
 "Stephen," said Gladys — for the time came when 
 
 8
 
 114 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 he urged his suit — "I would Hke to be your friend, 
 but I cannot say that I even respect you. After 
 your course last summer — " 
 
 "You are very hard on me, Gladys. You forget 
 what excuse I had; you forget that I was left alone 
 with Donovan, and that he led me into temptation." 
 
 Her eyes searched him like those of an accusing 
 angel. There was a moment's silence. Then with 
 a thrill of indignation in her low voice she said, 
 "Stephen, you are lying to me, and you know it!" 
 
 When he recovered from his confusion he found 
 that she had left the room. 
 
 About this time Donovan chanced to form an 
 acquaintance with a clergyman who, strange to 
 say, cared little for creeds, doctrines, scripture 
 texts, and the like, but who loved God and loved 
 men, and his love of men was pervaded by a sym- 
 pathy with such as Donovan that was almost per- 
 fect. He did something for him by showing him the 
 unscientific basis of atheism; but his chief service 
 was in showing him that the idea of duty — which 
 had become almost a goddess to Donovan — included 
 the grace of forgiveness. 
 
 Donovan grew so deeply interested that he told 
 the story of his wrongs and asked, "Now, tell me, 
 what does the law of duty require a man like me 
 to do?" 
 
 "The law of duty, as Christ reveals it, makes it 
 your privilege to cherish a forgiving spirit in your 
 heart, so that whenever the fitting time may come 
 it will become instantly manifest."
 
 DONOVAN 115 
 
 "Impossible! Impossible! The man is a hypo- 
 crite, a liar, a schemer, a perfect scoundrel!" 
 
 "I will acknowledge it is hard. But, my dear 
 fellow, the ideal is high. It must be high, you see, 
 if Christ came to reveal God to you and me. Did 
 you ever climb a mountain? It was, indeed, a 
 great labor, but when you reached the summit 
 and saw the vision — ' ' 
 
 ' ' If there be a summit and a vision," said Donovan, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 "Though it tarry, wait for it," was the answer. 
 
 The time came at last; opportunity for the 
 supreme duty of all. News reached Donovan that, 
 by some strange fatality, his cousin Ellis, the 
 defrauder, had become infected with the smallpox 
 and was ill in a distant quarter of London. 
 
 Here it was, thrust upon him, the crucial test 
 according to his friend. Hitherto he had shrunk 
 from nothing; he had been utterly loyal to the best 
 he knew. What about this now before him ? What 
 should he do? What would He do who had said, 
 "Love your enemies"? He thought it over and 
 over. He fought it over and over! There was his 
 enemy dying; he richly deserved to die. Suppose 
 he should be able to save his life? What then? 
 Practical obstacles reared themselves. And yet 
 all the while the majestic figure of Christ would 
 stand out before him, expressing the ideal of duty 
 which included all others. Thank God, the great 
 Christ did not live for nothing! 
 
 And so in utter sincerity of heart Donovan made 
 
 8
 
 ii6 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 his decision. He found his enemy in delirium. In 
 his lucid moments the wretch refused to believe him 
 to be sincere. "Why did you come? Why do you 
 stay? You know you hate me ! " But by days and 
 nights of persistent care and kindness Donovan 
 partially overcame his prejudice. 
 
 "Surely you can believe in me now," he said 
 one night, after days and nights of watching. And 
 then there came to his own soul that which he had 
 never thought to know. The words he had just 
 used seemed to echo in his own heart as if God were 
 repeating them — "Surely you can believe in me 
 now!" 
 
 He began to see that his pain in trying to deal 
 with this his enemy was but the shadow of the 
 pain which he himself had given to One who was 
 higher and nobler than any earthly soul. His 
 thought enlarged; there were more things in 
 heaven and earth than he in his philosophy had 
 dreamed. The veil was lifted, and in the place of 
 the dim unknown stood One who had always loved 
 him with an everlasting love. And he seemed to 
 hear over again the words of little Dot : " It is all 
 true, Dono. The greatest love of all will never 
 leave us." 
 
 The poor, sick man drew near his end. His 
 remorse was fearful, his fears were real, and, strange 
 thing, Donovan became his spiritual counselor. 
 
 He must say something. What was he to say? 
 He caught in his own mind at the truth which had 
 just come to him, namely, that the human love is
 
 DONOVAN 117 
 
 a faint image of the divine. And he found himself 
 telling the dying man of the Great Father whose 
 love would never, never leave us. 
 
 The minutes passed; the clock struck three. "I 
 should like you to say the Lord's Prayer," said the 
 dying man; and the two men repeated the "Our 
 Father," and sealed their reconciliation. In the 
 morning he was gone. 
 
 When all was over, Donovan felt a craving for 
 the frosty air of the early morning. 
 
 The dawn was just breaking. As he walked on 
 alone he thought of what had come to him. The 
 dawning of the Light Eternal upon his soul — nothing 
 less than that it was and, with a kind of strange 
 exultation, he felt himself living a larger life. Ah! 
 there are more resurrection days than the world 
 dreams of — Easters which are none the less real 
 though church bells do not ring ! 
 
 Before Donovan was called to this ordeal he had 
 the opportunity to befriend Jack Trevethan. He 
 was ill, and owed his life to Donovan's care. He 
 had now returned to his father. A shrewd fellow, 
 he had begun to guess a good deal that you and I 
 are supposed to know. He was devoted to Donovan, 
 and eager to serve him. 
 
 "Dr. Tremain," said Jack, "I have a notion — well, 
 how shall I tell it? Doctor, you used to know 
 young Mr. Donovan? 
 
 The doctor bowed gravely. 
 
 "Have ye heard from him lately at all?" 
 
 The doctor shook his head.
 
 ii8 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "He and Mr. Stephen used to be chums till Mr. 
 Stephen got into trouble." 
 
 "Yes," said the doctor; "and I confess I am very 
 sorry." 
 
 "Sorry that they were chums? And may I ask, 
 sir, why you should be sorry?" 
 
 "Oh, never mind. Jack. It's a long, sad story. 
 I had hopes of Donovan once, but I confess I have 
 been disappointed." 
 
 "Now, look here, doctor. I've seen some things, 
 and I've guessed some things, and would ye mind 
 if I tell ye one or two things I know? Ye would n't 
 mind? Well, one thing is this, that I was going 
 to the devil in London, and he found me out, just 
 because he promised my old father he would. And 
 when I was down on my luck and sick and most 
 a-dyin', he was God's own angel to me, and brought 
 me through. And another thing. One night long 
 afore that, he came into the billiard room where 
 Mr. Stephen was playin'. I was there markin' 
 for the game. There was a gang had got hold of 
 Mr. Stephen — I knew 'em all — and I said to myself 
 it was all day with him. But Mr. Donovan came 
 in and talked with him, and after quite a spell he 
 got him away from 'em." 
 
 "Wait a minute, Jack. Did Mr. Donovan play 
 with any of them?" 
 
 "Not a bit of it. Play! Why, all he seemed to 
 want was to get Mr. Stephen away from 'em." 
 
 The doctor could hardly believe he heard aright.
 
 DONOVAN 119 
 
 "But did not Mr. Donovan come there many 
 times to play with him?" 
 
 "No, sir! That's what I'm a-comin' to. He 
 only came that one night, and then he got him away." 
 
 It chanced that Stephen that very evening was 
 paying one of his visits to the doctor's house — 
 visits that Gladys so dreaded. 
 
 "Stephen," said the doctor, "I should like to see 
 you in my study, if you please," 
 
 Stephen had a vague presentiment that his time 
 had come. 
 
 "I have nothing very pleasant to say to you. I 
 have just had a talk with a man who was employed 
 in a billiard room where you used to play, and he 
 has told me of the one evening when Donovan came 
 there and induced you to leave. Is that what you 
 call being led into temptation?" 
 
 Stephen turned pale. He tried to outface the 
 story. He tried to throw discredit upon the witness. 
 
 "Anyhow," said he at last, "Donovan had no 
 business to spy on me." 
 
 ' * Take care ! ' ' said the doctor. ' ' Your own words 
 are condemning you!" 
 
 After a long and sullen altercation the fellow broke 
 down in a humiliating confession. The truth was 
 out at last, and the dawn of a brighter day was at 
 hand. Gladys trembled for joy when her father 
 told her. He prepared to go up to London at once. 
 He longed to see Donovan. 
 
 "Donovan, my dear boy, I have come to ask your
 
 120 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 forgiveness. I want to tell you that we know the 
 whole truth now. I could not wait, but started 
 immediately to hunt you out. My dear fellow% can 
 you ever forgive us for misjudging you so cruelly?" 
 
 "Well, it was my own doing," said Donovan, 
 while a new light shone in his eyes. ' ' You were very 
 slow to condemn me, but it seemed best that you 
 should forget me, both on Stephen's account and 
 in every way." 
 
 "But w^hy 'in every way'? I can't understand. 
 Why did you refuse to come to us last summer? 
 Can you not tell me now?" 
 
 "Yes, now I think I can tell you. I could not 
 come because I loved your daughter. I was not 
 sure I could help showing it. I thought — it may 
 have been presumption — that she might possibly 
 care for me. I felt sure that a life with a cynic 
 and skeptic such as I would make her miserable; 
 and so I hoped that she — that you all — would 
 forget me." 
 
 ' ' And little Gladys is the very one who has insisted 
 from the first that we were mistaken. But we could 
 not forget you. Will you not come back to us now ? ' ' 
 
 "I can only say, doctor, that the reason for not 
 coming does not trouble me as once it did. I say 
 it in all humility. I do see a little light. I am 
 trying to believe in God; and if you could trust 
 Gladys to one like me — " 
 
 "She must speak for herself; for my part, I would 
 gladly trust her to you unreservedly. I will not 
 thank you for the course you have taken but — "
 
 DONOVAN 121 
 
 and he struggled with his emotion — "it has made 
 you very dear to me, Donovan." And the two 
 men wrung each other's hands. 
 
 It was dark when they reached Porthkerran. 
 "Gladys," said Donovan, "I want to ask you, if I 
 may, for something more than friendship. Tell me 
 if I may speak." Her heart was dancing with 
 happiness! She could not answer. 
 
 "I fled from you once because I would not offer 
 myself, a cynical unbeliever, knowing that I should 
 make you miserable. I loved you too well to do 
 that. But, Gladys, I can now say, with all humility 
 and sincerity, I do begin to believe in God; I am 
 learning something of the Everlasting Love, and I 
 do want you to help me." 
 
 "I think I have always loved you," she answered 
 simply, in her rich, low voice, "and I was always sure 
 the light would come to you." 
 
 "But, dear, can you put up with my incomplete- 
 ness? Can you trust one who is at the beginning 
 of everything?" 
 
 "After trusting in the darkness, it is easy to trust 
 in the light," said Gladys softly. 
 
 As he stood with her under the stars he thought 
 of the possibilities of life, with God in his heaven 
 and her to walk with him here. 
 
 "How glorious life is!" he exclaimed. "And 
 what a grand old working place the world is! Oh, 
 if we can only do the half we long to do! And, 
 best of all, the greatest love of all will never leave 
 us!"
 
 122 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 She looked up at him, her bright eyes shining 
 like stars through a mist. 
 
 "Oh, Donovan, how glad little Dot will be!"
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 
 
 T TE was a young Roman of the time of Nero, the 
 -*• -^ type of Roman soldier of the better class. 
 Although still in his youth, he was a military tri- 
 bune — a position which was easily commanded by 
 his vast wealth as a patrician — and he had also 
 covered himself with glory in a campaign against 
 the Parthians. A young Roman of the better class, 
 we say. The moral corruption then almost univer- 
 sal had hardly reached him, for his life had been 
 one of strenuous exertion in camp and field; per- 
 sonally he had known little of the debauchery 
 and sensualism of the court of the Caesars. Never- 
 theless he was a pagan, with pagan ideals. A Roman 
 soldier, he knew no such thing as forgiveness of an 
 enemy, no such thing as pity for the captive, nothing 
 other than arbitrary control of his hundred slaves. 
 
 He was an Apollo for manly grace and strength, 
 and was everywhere admired. Returned from the 
 wars in the East, he was in favor at the imperial 
 court, flattered and tempted on every hand. A 
 strong, gracious, manly soul he was, — among 
 Romans, according to Roman standards, — with his 
 life opening before him. 
 
 "Welcome to Rome, and sweet peace to thee after 
 war!" said his uncle Petronius as Vinicius called 
 upon him. He had been pro-consul in Bithynia, 
 but had retired with his great wealth to live in the 
 
 123
 
 124 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 luxury of the sensual court. "How is my health?" 
 he continued, as the young man made his inquiries, 
 "Not very good. Dost commend me to the god 
 Asklepios? But I do not believe in him. Oh, yes, 
 I sent gifts once — three dozens of well-fed chickens 
 and a golden gimlet. I said to myself, it will do no 
 harm. I tell thee, they are tricksters, all of them, 
 gods and priests; but it did no harm. Life is a 
 deceit, and the soul itself is a fancy. By the dead 
 gods, I am weary of life — sometimes." 
 
 They went to the bath together. "By the beard 
 of Caesar! What a body thou hast!" said the elder 
 man. " It is as if cut out of marble. Had Lysippos 
 seen thee he would employ thee as a model for a 
 statue of Hercules to adorn the gate leading to the 
 Palatine." And he looked at the youth with the 
 pleased eye of an artist. 
 
 "Tell me," he added, "hath the goddess of love 
 never marked thee ? ' ' 
 
 "In truth, Petronius, I came to tell thee; to make 
 confession and to ask thy counsel. I have been 
 shot at unharmed by the arrows of the Parthians, 
 but those of Amor struck me but a few stadia from 
 the city gate." 
 
 "Well, then, and who is she?" 
 
 Vinicius composed himself to tell his story. 
 "Thou knowest the matron Pomponia, the wife of 
 Aulus? Well, she is good as she is wise, and thou 
 knowest there are not forty in Rome of whom thou 
 canst say as much. Her brother the consul brought 
 home from the wars on the Danube a hostage from
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 125 
 
 the Lygians. She is a king's daughter, and beautiful 
 as the day. I swear to thee by the graces that since 
 I have seen her I cannot rest. I have no wish to 
 know what Rome can give me, neither wine, nor gold, 
 nor Corinthian bronze, nor amber, nor pearls, nor 
 Grecian maidens — I want only Lygia. And how 
 to possess her, verily I know not." 
 
 "What? And thou a Roman soldier! Take her, 
 thou foolish boy, and transfer her to thy palace." 
 
 "That cannot be; Pomponia loves her, and is 
 the guardian of her soul. More than that, I cannot 
 take her as my mistress; she must be my wife or 
 nothing. Thou seest my dream of virtue." 
 
 "Oh, boy, learn wisdom, and forget thy dream. 
 Let me tell thee. I am in favor with Nero. She 
 shall be brought to the palace at his command — 
 never fear; I can divert his mind — and thence 
 thou shalt take her. Only be patient. I will do 
 this for thee, for I love thee." 
 
 It was done. All too common a thing was it in 
 those days for the daughters of Rome to be seized 
 at Nero's command. Her friends feared the worst, 
 but they were helpless. We will not describe the 
 feast in Nero's palace at which her presence was 
 commanded. It was a magnificent revel, yet one 
 which gave loose rein to the passions, and which 
 ended in a wretched debauch. Vinicius was seated 
 next to Lygia. A Roman of the better class, he 
 was yet a pagan, he was at Cassar's feast, and he 
 was full of wine and folly. What would you have? 
 Were not follies a part of the life of pagan Rome?
 
 126 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 The beautiful girl had been lovingly cared for by 
 Pomponia, and kept from evil. When she had first 
 met Vinicius, although shy as the deer upon her 
 native mountains, she yet had been charmed with 
 him, as who would not have been? But now he was 
 not himself. He was no longer the high-minded 
 Roman youth, but was half-drunken, impertinent, 
 repulsive. All was confusion and shameless aban- 
 don; and Lygia felt as if the judgment of heaven 
 must strike as a thunderbolt soon or late. 
 
 But her good angel was with her, and was watch- 
 ing. A great Lygian giant was her attendant and 
 protector. His strength was immense, and he was 
 wholly devoted to his beautiful queen. Suddenly 
 Vinicius felt himself hurled aside. Glancing up, he 
 saw the giant Ursus looking at him in such a way 
 that the blood chilled in his veins. Then the great 
 Lygian deliberately took his queen upon his arms 
 and with even stride bore her from the bacchanalian 
 revel, and she imagined she had been snatched from 
 the brink of perdition. Her rescuer was unmolested; 
 every one supposed him to be a slave obeying orders. 
 
 The next day she received a message from Vinicius. 
 He would entertain her at his house and, with her 
 permission, would send for her in the evening. The 
 giant Ursus knew of his queen's despair. And when 
 that evening the slaves that flanked the curtained 
 litter in which she was borne through the crowded 
 streets were crying, "Make way for the noble 
 Marcus Vinicius!" clearing the way for his well- 
 known palanquin, suddenly there was an assault
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 127 
 
 which the bodyguard of slaves was powerless to 
 repel. There was great confusion in the darkness. 
 One and another of the slave guard were struck 
 blows that would have felled an ox, and Lygia was 
 borne by Ursus out of the fray. 
 
 Vinicius impatiently awaited them. His slaves 
 were stricken with fear at the result of their mission. 
 "Let Gulo tell him," they said. "He is the old 
 and faithful servant of the house; let him tell." 
 
 "Where is Lygia?" cried Vinicius, leaping for- 
 ward. His voice was strained and hoarse. 
 
 Gulo stepped forward, showing the blood on his 
 face and arms. "Behold our blood, my lord! We 
 have fought. Behold our blood." 
 
 Before he had the time to finish, Vinicius had 
 seized a lamp of bronze, and shattered his skull at 
 a single blow. His face became livid and distorted. 
 "Bring the scourges!" he cried in a terrible voice. 
 
 "Have pity, lord! Have pity!" moaned the 
 slaves ; but they moaned in vain. 
 
 Have we said he was a Roman of the better class ? 
 Have we praised him? But what can one expect 
 of a pagan in pagan Rome in the days of Nero? 
 
 Now, of course, he lived for only one thing — to 
 discover Lygia's retreat. His passion for her, 
 although it amounted to infatuation, was the purest, 
 noblest feeling he had ever known. The detective 
 Chilo, whom he employed, at length informed him 
 to his great astonishment that Lygia was a Christian, 
 and that her giant keeper had been aided by Chris- 
 tians in her rescue. A Christian, a member of that
 
 I2S FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 infamous order currently reported and believed to 
 be enemies of the human race, worshipers of an ass's 
 head, poisoners of wells and fountains, and mur- 
 derers of children! He said it was impossible, and 
 yet the proof was laid before him. 
 
 "What!" said Petronius. "Pomponia and Lygia 
 Christians, therefore they are vile as all this? I say 
 it is stupid nonsense. If they are Christians — 
 which it seems difficult to deny — then, by Proserpina, 
 Christians are not what we thought them to be." 
 
 Inasmuch as she would probably be defended by 
 Ursus, it was needful to match his great strength, 
 and Petronius secured the giant Croton from the 
 pretorian guards. 
 
 "It is well, lord, that thou didst send for me 
 to-day," said Croton, "for I start to-morrow for 
 Beneventum, whither Nero hath summoned me to 
 wrestle with Syphax, the most powerful Moor in 
 all Spain. By Hercules ! I can hear his bones crack, 
 what time I shall lay hold upon him!" And the 
 athlete drew himself up, and stretched out his arms. 
 
 Lygia 's retreat was discovered. Arrived at the 
 place, "Croton, hast thou the courage to enter?" 
 asked Vinicius. 
 
 "Yea, verily, my lord. And if I do not succeed 
 in breaking the back of that Lygian bull who guards 
 this maiden, thou canst have me for thy slave." 
 
 Entering into an inner court, in the dim morning 
 light, Vinicius perceived Ursus at the fountain. 
 He turned as he saw them, quietly asking, "What 
 want ye here?"
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 129 
 
 Croton rushed on him, and there was battle royal. 
 Vinicius stayed not, but sought Lygia and, returning 
 with her, a strange sight met his eyes. For a moment 
 he could not believe what he saw. There in the 
 courtyard was Ursus, with the body of Croton 
 doubled back upon itself and dead. The giant 
 rushed at Vinicius and struck a blow that stunned 
 him, and another that broke his arm. One more 
 would have been the last, had not Lygia exclaimed, 
 "Do not kill." 
 
 When he awoke from his swoon he could hardly 
 believe his eyes, but thought he saw a vision. She 
 was standing by his couch, cooling his fevered head, 
 and her touch was like life or heaven. She had 
 never seemed to him one half so beautiful; her 
 patrician head, her noble bearing, and an indefinable 
 loveliness which he dimly knew must be the beauty 
 of her soul. 
 
 "Lygia," he whispered, "thou didst not permit 
 him to kill me." 
 
 "Peace be with thee! May Christ restore thee!" 
 was her only answer. 
 
 And now for a time she became his nurse, quiet, 
 reserved, concerned only that he should recover. 
 And then, if by God's mercy he should become a 
 Christian — but for this she hardly dared to hope. 
 But it was here he was to learn the true spirit of 
 Christianity; its message for the pagan world was 
 to find its way to his Roman brain. 
 
 Suddenly there was an exclamation in the outer 
 room, "Dost know me, Chilo?" — the detective 
 9
 
 I >o 
 
 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 whom X'inicius had employed had failed to escape — 
 "Dost know me?" followed by protestation from 
 the other, "No! No! No! I am not he. Nay, 
 nay, I am not! Mercy!" 
 
 "My friends," said the other — Glaucus was his 
 name — "my friends, this man betrayed and ruined 
 me and my whole family." 
 
 The giant Ursus strode up at the moment, exclaim- 
 ing, ' ' Verily, he is also the man who tried to persuade 
 me to kill thee, Glaucus." 
 
 "Oh, mercy! I will give thee — Oh, save me, 
 lord!" exclaimed Chilo, turning to Vinicius. "I 
 trusted in thee. Take my part, save my life, I pray 
 thee." 
 
 Vinicius was wholly unconcerned, for his heart 
 knew nothing of pity. He regarded Chilo as fairly in 
 the hands of his enemy, and therefore doomed. And 
 so this was his only response to his frantic appeal: 
 "Bury him in the garden; I have no need of him." 
 
 Chilo, trembling in the iron grasp of Ursus, was 
 still piteously begging for his life when a venerable 
 man whom the Christians called the apostle — Vini- 
 cius had heard his name and knew it to be Peter — 
 arose and said, "Glaucus, the Redeemer said unto 
 us, 'If thy brother hath sinned against thee and 
 repent, forgive him.' " 
 
 There came a still, great silence in the room. 
 Glaucus stood for a moment, with his hands cov- 
 ering his face, struggling with himself. Then he 
 removed them, saying, "Chilo, may God forgive 
 thee, as I forgive thee, in the name of Christ."
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 131 
 
 Chilo could not believe what he heard and, not 
 yet daring to hope for mercy, seemed unable to move. 
 The apostle turned to him with the words, "Go in 
 peace!" and the astonished man departed, hardly 
 knowing what had happened to him. 
 
 As for Vinicius, he could not account to himself 
 for what had occurred. Why did not the Christians 
 kill the man? According to his moral code they 
 should by all means have done so. Although pity 
 was not wholly unknown in -that world to which 
 Vinicius belonged, still revenge for a personal wrong 
 seemed to him wholly just, and a matter of course. 
 And yet this strange thing had happened before his 
 very eyes. The words of Glaucus still sounded in 
 his ears, "May God forgive thee, as I forgive thee, 
 in the name of Christ." Why? Why? he asked 
 himself again and again. Then he recalled the words 
 of Peter, that it was Christ's command. And even 
 while he was thinking, the apostle placed his hands 
 on the head of Glaucus, saying, "My brother, Christ 
 hath triumphed in thee!" And some strange, 
 dawning conception of Christian love began to come 
 over the mind of the young patrician. 
 
 When evening came again a company of Christians 
 gathered in the room, and Peter exhorted them in 
 the name of Christ, telling, as he did so, the story 
 of Him who came to love, to save, and to forgive. 
 " 'Love your enemies,' said the Master, 'do good to 
 them that hate you, and pray for them that despite- 
 fully use you.' " This was Christianity, then! And 
 Lygia was a Christian ; she had laid hold upon these 
 9
 
 112 
 
 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 new, great things; she was living the strange, exalted 
 life. To his thought it set her apart from him, and 
 far above him. He dreamed that night that he 
 traversed seas and deserts in the dark, and that she 
 was his guide, seeing a far-off beacon light where 
 he could see none at all, and finally leading him to 
 the day and to safct}-. 
 
 When he awoke she approached him, saying, "I 
 am wdth thee!" 
 
 He replied, "Verily, my love, thou art beautiful 
 with the inner beauty, for in a dream I have seen 
 thy soul." 
 
 These changes, then, were going on in the hearts 
 of both. Vinicius now so loved her that to effect 
 her capture by force was the last thing he would 
 have done. She, on her part, began to know that 
 her soul was held in love of him. She struggled with 
 herself, she spent the night in prayer, for was it not 
 a sin for a Christian to be mastered by a w^orldly 
 love? She resolved to seek another abode, thus 
 doing her best to overcome her love. The severe 
 Crispus, to whom she went for counsel, had nothing 
 but w'ords of reproof and denunciation, which filled 
 her with despair. But just then a ray of hope 
 seemed to come to her, for Peter the apostle entered 
 and, falling at his feet, she hid her tortured face in 
 the folds of his mantle while Crispus told her story. 
 The venerable apostle listened to the end. 
 
 "Crispus," said he, "knowest thou not that our 
 beloved Lord blessed love between man and woman ? 
 And thinkest thou that He w^ho allowed Mary
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 133 
 
 Magdalen to lie at his feet, would turn from this 
 child, who is pure as a field lily?" 
 
 And turning to Lygia, he said, "My daughter, 
 while the eyes of the one thou lovest are closed to 
 the truth, avoid him, that he may not lead thee into 
 unbelief. But pray for him, knowing that there 
 is no sin in thy love. And do not weep, for I tell 
 thee the grace of the Redeemer is with thee, and 
 thy prayers will be heard, and though sorrow abide 
 for a night, joy cometh in the morning." 
 
 "Thou dost ask me to write minutely of myself, 
 carrissime," wrote Vinicius to Petronius at Bene- 
 ventum, "but it is not easy, since there are many 
 knots which I know not myself how to loosen. 
 Here I am, recovered and returned to my house 
 from the Christians. I say to thee, my friend, the 
 world has never seen people like them, and he who 
 measures them with our yardstick will surely err. 
 Where their teachings begin, there our dominion 
 ends. In the place of power and the sword and 
 revenge and Caesar's decrees, there appears Christ, 
 and a kind of mercy which hath not hitherto been 
 seen; a kindness contrary to our Roman instincts. 
 I am not a philosopher, but neither am I a fool ; and 
 I swear to thee that this of which I write is a fact 
 which I have seen. Know thou also that Lygia, too, 
 is filled with this spirit, and I think therein lieth the 
 reason why she seemeth unto me an angel of light. 
 She loves me — that I know — and yet she fled from 
 me. I cannot understand that. I would not have
 
 134 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 interfered wnth her belief; one new god would not 
 be in my way, since I am not a strong believer in 
 the old ones. I suspect that nothing will do, for 
 her, except that I become a Christian and feel this 
 new love and pity in my soul. But, I take the gods 
 to witness, it seemeth unto me impossible. 
 
 "And yet I see a little light. Let me tell thee. 
 When I returned home I found my slaves drunk in 
 the halls of my palace, thinking I was in Beneventum. 
 They were stricken with fear, and implored forgive- 
 ness. At first I was about to have them flogged 
 and branded with hot irons. But — wilt thou be- 
 lieve it? — I felt ashamed, and was filled with a 
 sort of pity for them. The next day I told them I 
 forgave them, if so be they would be more faith- 
 ful. And they fell on their knees, calling me their 
 father, and now serve me better than ever before. 
 Then, too, my vassals who depend upon my bounty; 
 but yesterday it was — their poverty seemed hard 
 to me, and I felt compassion. I inquired about their 
 wives and children, and, I swear to thee, the tears 
 came into my eyes. I cannot think of Gulo, whom 
 I slew, without reproach and sorrow. I have ordered 
 a tombstone for him. From all this thou canst 
 judge that something is gnawing at my vitals. And 
 if what I write astonish thee, I reply it astonishes 
 me no less, but I write pure truth. Farewell." 
 
 To see this young, stalwart Roman, this honest, 
 pagan soul, seeking to understand and to feel what 
 seemed so dense and beyond feeling — albeit he was 
 moved thereto by a human love — was both pitiful
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 135 
 
 and beautiful. He would not embrace Christianity 
 in name and receive baptism merely to win his 
 Lygian queen. It was not honorable, and something 
 in even his code of honor forbade it. It was a matter 
 between her soul and his own, and there could be 
 no lie nor shadow of a lie. No ! He must set him- 
 self to understand this new, strange life of virtue 
 and love of enemies and worship of one God. 
 
 "My son," Peter had said to him, "do the truth 
 which thou knowest so far as thou canst; thus shalt 
 thou learn the way." 
 
 What could he do? One day he summoned his 
 hundred slaves, and unto those who had served him 
 twenty years he gave their freedom. Unto the 
 others, each three pieces of gold and double rations. 
 And while the portico rang with rejoicing, the tears 
 came into his eyes again. 
 
 "Verily," said he, "this way leadeth toward 
 happiness." 
 
 But as the days went by he was distracted. Lygia 
 could not return to the house of Pomponia, for 
 Ccesar would learn of it and at the least would take 
 her again. At length he sought the company of 
 Christians at the house where he had lain wounded 
 and, finding Peter with them, laid his case before 
 him. 
 
 "Once," said he, "I would have taken her by 
 force; now I will not think of it. I might confess 
 Christ, receive baptism, and so secure her with your 
 approval; but that would be a lie. O my father, 
 I come to thee in my darkness, saying. Enlighten
 
 I ^^6 FIGURES FAMED TN FICTION 
 
 mc. I see that ye believe in mercy and love and 
 virtue. I cannot understand it, still I am begin- 
 ning to learn that way. I forgave my slaves when 
 I hey angered me; I am disgusted with the feasts 
 and the revels; I believe in violence no longer. And 
 now I ask thee — for I am much perplexed — is it 
 sinful to love? Is it sinful to be happy? Are ye, as 
 men say, enemies of life? Must I renounce this 
 maiden who is to me like the snow upon the moun- 
 tains? I come to you in my darkness, and I swear 
 I am sincere. And I say not unto you, Baptize me, 
 but rather, Enlighten me." 
 
 The heart of the great apostle was moved as he 
 looked upon the young man in his suffering. He 
 held out his hand to him. 
 
 "My son, I love thee. Verily, thou art not far 
 from the kingdom of God. The grace of God is upon 
 thee; and I bless thee, thy soul, and thy love in the 
 name of the Redeemer of the World." 
 
 Sending for Lygia, he gave her to him, saying, as 
 he placed his hands upon their heads, "My children, 
 love each other in the Lord, and to His glory, for 
 therein is no sin." 
 
 One need not recount the happiness of the days 
 that followed; the mutual explanations, the love 
 and peace unspeakable. The two were standing 
 like two white statues among the cypresses in the 
 garden, and Lygia's eyes in the moonlight seemed 
 like azure flowers glittering with dew. The voice 
 of Vinicius was broken with emotion. 
 
 "Thou wilt be to me the very soul of my soul,
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS • 137 
 
 and the dearest thing in God's creation. We shall 
 worship the same God, breathing the same prayers. 
 O my love, could fancy picture anything sweeter 
 than this — to live together in the love of God, and 
 to know that after death we shall awake, as from 
 a pleasant sleep, to a new life? What is there can 
 stand against this new religion, with its one God, 
 its life of virtue, and its heaven eternal! Surely 
 Jupiter will one day be forgotten, and all his temples 
 will belong to Christ. I confess to thee I cannot 
 yet understand it all — this love and pity and virtue, 
 and this one God, and this Christ his son who rose 
 from the dead; but with thee for my teacher, I shall 
 learn." 
 
 To hear him speak like this, to know his entire 
 sincerity, assured he would one day be wholly a 
 Christian, filled her soul with a love that was more 
 than love, even that which is heaven-born. 
 
 "Thank God! Thank God!" she whispered. 
 "Believe me, Marcus, Christ hath led thee hitherto, 
 and will lead thee to Himself." 
 
 "What hath come over thee, Vinicius?" said 
 Petronius at their next meeting. "Tell me, art thou 
 a Christian ? ' ' 
 
 "Not yet. But, before the gods, I would I were 
 one. It is a strange faith, and my Roman brain is 
 dense. It may be that I shall learn." 
 
 "It is a marvel," said the other musingly, "how 
 fast the sect is growing." 
 
 "Verily it is a marvel," said the young man,
 
 I3S FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "and there are many converts, I find, among the 
 patricians. Shrug not thy shoulders, for presently, 
 mayhap, thou wilt embrace it thyself." 
 
 "I? By Minerva, I decline. Did it include all 
 truth and all wisdom, human and divine, I would 
 not accept it. It would be necessary that I work, 
 and also practice self-denial, and that I do not love. 
 Embrace it myself! Venus! I love my jewels, my 
 bronzes, my perfumes, and my beautiful Greek slave 
 too well. The poetry of the gods also, and music 
 and sleep and wine — Oh, by the graces, Marcus, 
 I am not yet a fool." 
 
 But dark days were coming, days of trouble that 
 were to try the souls of men. The great tragedy 
 of the first century was waiting, and the Christians 
 were to fall its innocent victims. The beginning 
 of it was that red night in the history of the world 
 when the great city of Rome was discovered to be 
 on fire. The six days that followed sufficed to create 
 desolation wide and terrible. Nero with his court 
 was at Antium at the time, and Vinicius was attend- 
 ing at Caesar's command. 
 
 When the news came by courier that the city was 
 burning, the young soldier rushed from the palace 
 and, commanding a few slaves to follow, he took 
 horse and set out for Rome. He had but one thought, 
 that of her possible danger. He plunged into the 
 burning city. The perils that he faced were a^^ful; 
 his exertions almost superhuman, until, by a good 
 providence, he found the company of Christians, 
 led by Peter, in the quarries of Janiculum, outside
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 139 
 
 the city gates. And Lygia was with them, safe from 
 harm. 
 
 "My father," said Vinicius, turning to Peter, 
 "Rome is burning at the command of Caesar. The 
 end is not yet. What it will be, I know not ; but it 
 will be blood as well as fire. Listen to me. Come 
 with me and Lygia, and await in Sicily the passing 
 of the storm." 
 
 "Go thou and Lygia," said the apostle, "and let 
 the sick Linus here also go with you. As for me, 
 I must not desert those of our brethren who are in 
 peril." 
 
 "But I swear to thee, my teacher, thou wilt stay 
 here to thy destruction." 
 
 "Be it so, my son. But Christ, who said unto 
 me, 'Feed my lambs,' would look upon me again in 
 sorrow did I abandon them to their fate." 
 
 Vinicius passed his hand across his forehead as if 
 in mental struggle, and then spoke in a voice ringing 
 with the energy of a Roman soldier: "O father of 
 my soul, and thou, Lygia, life of my life, and the 
 rest, my brethren, listen. I spoke as my human 
 reason dictated, but your reason is different. It 
 does not think of personal safety but of the com- 
 mands of the Redeemer. I did not understand 
 that, because my eyes were not opened and the 
 former man is still in me. But I love Christ and 
 wish to be His servant; and here, in the face of life 
 and death, I kneel before ye and swear that I will 
 carry out the commands of love, and will not forsake 
 my brethren in the day of trouble."
 
 MO FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 As he kneeled before them he seemed possessed of 
 an inspiration. His hands and his eyes were raised, 
 and he cried, "Is it possible that I understand thee, 
 O Christ? Am I worthy of thee?" 
 
 His hands trembled. Tears were running down 
 his checks. Peter took an earthen vessel of water, 
 approached him, and said triumphantly, "I baptize 
 thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the 
 Holy Ghost! Amen." 
 
 The terrible issues of the great conflagration which 
 Vinicius foresaw, shaped themselves ere long. The 
 Emperor Nero, with his insufferable egotism laying 
 claim to the genius of poet, tragedian, and singer, 
 was at work upon his Troy ad, and hailed the 
 conflagration with joy as an aid to his marvelous 
 powers! For, in full view of the holocaust, at the 
 darkest hour of the night, he would sing of burn- 
 ing Troy. 
 
 On that night, assembled with his court, the spec- 
 tacle was, indeed, awful and inspiring; but there 
 was another side to the picture. It was the people, 
 the homeless, starving people, clamoring for bread. 
 For a time, indeed, they were pacified. But the 
 smouldering rage against the emperor was contin- 
 ually breaking forth, for, whether with reason or 
 not, it was generally believed that the imperial 
 tragedian had fired the city in order to secure dra- 
 matic inspiration of the realistic order. To divert 
 their wrath from himself — anything to accomplish 
 this end was eagerly welcomed. 
 
 "Listen to me, O Caesar," said his courtier
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 141 
 
 Tigellinus. "Thou hast heard of that accursed sect, 
 the Christians. Have I not told thee of their crimes 
 and dissolute ceremonies; of their predictions that 
 fire would cause the end of the world? The people 
 hate and suspect them, for they never go to our 
 temples; they consider our gods evil spirits; they 
 despise the races in the stadium, and they honor 
 not. thee, the emperor. Who burned the imperial 
 city but they? The people demand vengeance; 
 let them be gratified." 
 
 And so, at the imperial order, the Christians 
 were arrested and imprisoned by the hundreds. 
 Vinicius, still in attendance at the court of Caesar, 
 escaped arrest, but Lygia, having by her beauty 
 become an object of suspicion and hatred to the 
 infamous Poppea, the mistress of Nero, was hunted 
 down and incarcerated; although, fortunately for 
 her, with the devoted Ursus to care for her so far as 
 he was able. The ignorant populace was infuriated 
 beyond all bounds against these peaceable and 
 innocent ones, and continually demanded vengeance. 
 Day after day there were mobs here and there, 
 drunken, turbulent, and brutal, whose shouts and 
 yells gradually settled into one fierce roar: "To the 
 lions with the Christians ! ' ' 
 
 The distraction and agony of Vinicius must be 
 imagined. He could not rest, night or day. He 
 attempted again and again to bribe the guards, but 
 in vain. It was death for a soldier if such tampering 
 came to light. 
 
 "Thou hast not offered enough," said Petronius.
 
 142 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "I can tell thcc this much: the case is desper- 
 ate. Lygia is imprisoned, rest assured, by order of 
 Poppea. We must do this work now; it may be 
 too late to-morrow. Give ten thousand sestertia to 
 the guards, yea, twice or five times as much. I tell 
 thee, the case is desperate." 
 
 They went on their way, but as they turned a 
 comer, coming in sight of the prison, Petronius 
 suddenly stopped, exclaiming, "We are too late! 
 There are the pretorians." 
 
 In fact, a double line of them now surrounded 
 the prison. Their helmets and javelins shone mist- 
 ily in the dim light of the morning. 
 
 On the following night, in the quarries of Jani- 
 culum, "What dost thou wish, my son?" said Peter, 
 as Vinicius embraced his feet. 
 
 The young soldier in his despair knew not where 
 else to go for succor. 
 
 "My father," he moaned, "they have taken her 
 from me. Thou didst know Christ; implore Him 
 to save her." 
 
 "My dear son, I will pray for her, but I know 
 not the end. Even the Master said, 'Let this cup 
 pass from me,' but in vain." 
 
 "I know, I have heard; but, my father, I cannot 
 understand. If blood must be spilled, implore 
 Christ to take mine. I am a soldier; I can bear the 
 tortures, even if they be doubled. But let Him 
 save her. He is more powerful than Caesar. Will 
 He not save an innocent child who trusts in Him?" 
 
 Peter closed his eyes, and fervently prayed for
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 143 
 
 the life so dear to the soldier bowed before him. 
 Lightning shot across the sky! In the silence, the 
 chirping of a bird was heard in the vineyard, and 
 the distant sound of treadmills in the via Salaria. 
 
 "My son," said the apostle, "hast thou faith?" 
 
 "Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief!" was 
 the agonizing answer. 
 
 "Then have faith to the end, for faith removes 
 mountains. And though thou wert to see the 
 maiden in the jaws of a lion, yet believe that Christ 
 can save her. Believe, and pray to Him, and I will 
 pray with thee." Then raising his eyes to heaven 
 he exclaimed: "Merciful Christ! Look on this 
 aching heart, and console it. Merciful Christ, thou 
 didst implore the Father that the bitter cup might 
 pass from thee; turn it now from the lips of thy 
 servant! Amen." 
 
 "O Christ, I am thine! Take me instead of her!" 
 was the cry from the suppliant before him. 
 
 And the morning was coming. 
 
 Lygia in the prison found means to write to Vini- 
 cius, bidding him farewell. She was awaiting, with 
 others, her turn to be sent into the arena to her 
 death. She begged him to be there, if possible, 
 that she might look upon his loved face once more 
 in life. She bade him farewell, but not forever, for 
 in the life immortal she would see him and know 
 him for her own. Her whole letter breathed happi- 
 ness and hope. He read it with a broken spirit, 
 but at the same time it seemed inconceivable to him
 
 144 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 that she should perish under the claws of wild beasts ; 
 that Christ should not have pity on her. He wrote 
 her to be brave, and to believe — with him — that 
 Christ could save her, even in the arena itseli. 
 
 At length, when the amphitheater was ready, 
 the terrible scenes began which were to pacify the 
 infuriated people. The ignorant masses, led to 
 believe that the Christians had burned the city, were 
 ready to exult in their torture. We will not paint 
 the awful scenes of the slaughter of these innocent 
 victims by wild beasts, starved into fury, or their 
 crucifixion on a forest of crosses. Amid the applause 
 of the vast multitude of spectators, the uproar, the 
 terror, the bloodthirsty yelling, as if all the demons 
 of pandemonium were let loose upon the accursed 
 scene, were heard the hymns of the dying Christians 
 and the words, ' ' Pro Christo ! Pro Christo ! ' ' 
 
 In the court of Nero the history of Lygia and Vini- 
 cius was well known, including her imprisonment 
 and his despair. Petronius had done what he could 
 for them, exerting his immense influence in their 
 favor, but in vain. At one time he had secured an 
 imperial command that their marriage should occur, 
 but Nero had apparently changed his mind. This 
 became too evident when, upon Petronius remind- 
 ing him of the wedding which had not yet taken 
 place, Nero replied with half-closed eyes, and an 
 expression of malignity upon his features : 
 
 ' ' Very true. The gates of the prison shall be open 
 to her to-morrow, and the next day at the amphi- 
 theater we will discuss the wedding feast."
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 145 
 
 The report spread through the court, and thence 
 throughout patrician circles in Rome, that the 
 affairs of Vinicius had probably come to a crisis, 
 and it was whispered that something extraordinary 
 would occur at the amphitheater that day. Assem- 
 bled there, those who had seen the Lygian princess 
 in the house of Pomponia were telling extravagant 
 stories of her beauty, and all eyes were turned toward 
 the unfortunate suitor, who sat as usual with Caesar's 
 retinue, and who was just as uncertain as the rest. It 
 was noticed that Nero had doubled his pretorian body- 
 guard, as if anticipating an attack by Vinicius, and 
 that the giant among them all stood near to himself. 
 
 Vinicius knew from the curious glances bent upon 
 him that there was reason for dreadful apprehen- 
 sion. He sat with the cold perspiration upon his 
 brow, alarmed to the depth of his soul. He recalled 
 the prayer of Peter, and said to himself that Christ 
 could not permit that Lygia be tortured in the arena. 
 He began to silently implore Christ for help. "Thou 
 canst!" he whispered to himself, convulsively clench- 
 ing his fists. ' ' Thou canst ! " 
 
 Before the moment arrived he had not thought 
 it would be so terrible; but now he began to fear 
 that if he were to see the torture of Lygia his love 
 for Christ would turn to hate, and his faith to despair ; 
 and at length he no longer prayed for her rescue, 
 but only that she should die before they brought 
 her into the arena. And yet, had not Peter said 
 that faith could remove mountains? And as the 
 supreme moment approached he concentrated his
 
 14^ FIGURES FAMED TN FICTION 
 
 wliolc being on this one word, faith; and waited for 
 a miracle. 
 
 He grew faint, became deathly pale, and his body 
 grew cold. "Thou art ill," said Petronius; "give 
 command to bear thee home." 
 
 Vinicius shook his head. He might die here, but 
 he could not go out. 
 
 The prefect of the city waved a red handkerchief, 
 the gate opposite Caesar's podium opened, and the 
 giant Ursus stepped into the arena. He walked to 
 the center, and looked around as if to see what he 
 had to meet. He was known to the court and the 
 Augustians as the man who had killed Croton, and 
 a murmur passed along the benches as they looked 
 at his mighty limbs, his immense stature, and his 
 breast which was like two shields joined together. 
 Like a marble colossus he stood, looking inquiringly, 
 now at Caesar, now at the spectators. 
 
 Suddenly the trumpets sounded, another door 
 was opened, and an enormous German buffalo, 
 known as the aurocks, amid the shouts of the besti- 
 ari rushed into the arena, with the body of a naked 
 woman fastened to his back. 
 
 ' ' Lygia ! Lygia ! ' ' cried Vinicius. 
 
 And then his senses seemed benumbed ; he did not 
 even feel that Petronius at that moment mercifully 
 covered his head and face with his toga. He was 
 incapable of thinking; only his lips unconsciously 
 repeated : " I believe ! I believe ! I believe ! ' ' 
 
 The great amphitheater grew silent. The Augus- 
 tians, like one man, rose from their seats; for on the
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 147 
 
 aiona something unusual was transpiring. The 
 mighty Lygian, seeing his queen on the horns of a 
 wild beast, sprang at the raging animal as if touched 
 by a red-hot iron, and in another moment had seized 
 him by the horns. 
 
 "Look!" cried Petronius, and removed the toga 
 from the head of Vinicius. The latter rose, and, 
 throwing back his head, fixed his vacant stare upon 
 the scene before him. 
 
 The Lygian held the beast by the horns. The 
 man's feet sank into the sand to his ankles, his back 
 was bent like a drawn bow, his head sank into his 
 shoulders, his muscles stood out, almost bursting 
 the skin, but he held the animal down. They re- 
 mained as motionless as a marble group. The beast 
 as well as the man was in the sand to his knees, and 
 his dark, shaggy body was drawn into a ball. Whose 
 strength would first give out? That was the ques- 
 tion in the minds of all. And all was still. Only 
 the crackling of the fire in the torches and the fall 
 of the cinders was heard in the circus. It seemed 
 to all that the struggle was lasting for ages. 
 
 A dull roar resembling a groan was heard, and 
 again there was silence; and the astonished specta- 
 tors saw the enormous head of the buffalo begin to 
 turn in the hands of the Lygian. 
 
 The giant's face, neck, and hands turned purple, 
 his back bent still more, and his whistling breath 
 mingled with the dull roar of the buffalo. The head 
 of the beast kept turning. In another minute the 
 cracking of breaking bones was heard, and soon the 
 10
 
 I4S FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 combat was over. Quickly the victor removed the 
 unconscious form from the dead animal. His face 
 was pale, and the perspiration was streaming from 
 his shoulders and arms. He stood unconscious for 
 a moment, then raised his eyes and cast a glance 
 around the amphitheater. 
 
 The multitude had gone wild. The applause 
 sounded like the roar of the ocean. And everywhere 
 were heard cries for mercy, passionate and stubborn, 
 which soon turned into one unbroken chorus. The 
 people worshiped physical strength, and to them 
 the giant was a demi-god. 
 
 In the midst of the clamor Ursus approached the 
 podium of Nero and, holding out the body of the 
 maiden, raised his imploring eyes as if to say : ' ' Have 
 mercy on her! Save her! It was for her sake I 
 did that!" 
 
 At sight of the fainting girl the imperial court, 
 the knights, and the senators became equally agi- 
 tated. Her pathetic, unconscious figure, as white 
 as alabaster, her beauty, the danger from which she 
 had been saved, touched every heart. 
 
 Meanwhile Ursus walked around the arena, hold- 
 ing out the form of his queen as if begging that her 
 life might be saved. 
 
 Vinicius sprang from his seat, jumped over the 
 barrier into the arena, ran toward the giant, and 
 threw his toga over the naked body. Then he tore 
 the tunic from his breast, showing the scars he had 
 received in battle in Armenia, and stretched out his 
 hands to the people.
 
 MARCUS VINICIUS 149 
 
 At this the enthusiasm of the thousands burst 
 all bounds. They not only took the part of the 
 giant but rose in defense of the girl, the soldier, and 
 their love. The depraved, malignant passion of 
 Nero, which rose in angry opposition to their de- 
 mands, was finally overborne, and the sign for for- 
 giveness was given. 
 
 The rescue was assured. 
 
 As Lygia was borne by four Bithynians to the 
 house of Petronius, Vinicius walked alongside as if 
 in a dream. Again and again, looking on her dear 
 face as she lay seemingly asleep, he murmured, "It 
 was Christ that saved her." 
 
 "My Lord," said Ursus as he walked with him, 
 "it was the Saviour who rescued her. When I saw 
 her fastened on the horns of the aurocks, I heard 
 His voice saying, 'Defend her'! The prison had 
 taken my strength, but He gave it back to me, 
 blessed be His name!" 
 
 When, that night, she regained consciousness, she 
 thought at first she was in heaven. Vinicius was 
 kneeling beside her, and she smiled and tried to ask 
 where they were. 
 
 "Christ hath saved thee," said he, "and hath 
 given thee back to me." She smiled again, and fell 
 into a deep slumber. 
 
 Vinicius remained on his knees beside her, uncon- 
 scious of those who came and went. His soul was 
 at Christ's feet in an ecstasy of gratitude. 
 
 When, at the last, they were safe in Sicily, "Car- 
 rissime," he wrote to Petronius, "we are living here
 
 i=;o 
 
 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 in peace and the love of Christ. We often talk of 
 the past as if it were a dream, thanking God for this 
 blessed, new faith that it brought us. Thou hast 
 seen what fortitude and consolation that faith can 
 give when trouble and death look in at the door. 
 Come, then, and see what happiness it can give in 
 the life of the common days. Hitherto people had 
 no knowledge of a God who could be loved by man; 
 therefore they loved not one another. It was Christ 
 first taught me how to love. Canst thou understand 
 me, O Epicurean, when I tell thee that my love for 
 Lygia is love of her immortal soul ? When youth and 
 beauty fade away, this love remains, and will never 
 pass away. Verily, I say unto thee, it is a love thou 
 knowest not. Come to us, my friend, and learn of 
 Christ, and know this love and this peace and, 
 besides all, the hope of heaven." 
 
 But he came not; for the sensual life and unbelief 
 had claimed him for their own. 
 
 Thus did Christ triumph in the young Roman 
 tribune — one of the many Christian conquests of 
 those early days. There entered into it, indeed, 
 a beautiful human passion. But the story of his 
 life is the story of the development of a Roman soul. 
 A growth out of paganism, with its sensualism and 
 cruelty, into the purity and pity and conquering 
 love which Christianity gave the world.
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 
 
 ROBERT FALCONER, at the age of four- 
 teen, thought he had never seen his father. 
 And yet after a time the memory grew of a man 
 who called at the house one day and had a private 
 interview with Robert's grandmother, with whom 
 the lad then lived. That was years ago, and the 
 man had completely disappeared, and Robert's 
 grandmother never spoke of him. That mystery 
 hovered around his boyish mind and grew in fas- 
 cination with his growing years, until the desire to 
 solve it became the purpose of his life. 
 
 Mrs. Falconer, his father's mother, was a beauti- 
 ful old lady. Robert in after years held her to be 
 one of the noblest women God ever made, but this 
 was because he came to know her heart. To most 
 people she was severe, unsmiling, as full of con- 
 science as one could be. In doing the kindest thing 
 in the world she would speak in a tone that suggested 
 unpleasant obligation, and the one receiving the 
 kindness felt a chill. But her grandson was not an 
 ordinary child ; and his large, deep nature gradually 
 finding out the deeper things in her, he came to 
 regard her as a right noble soul. 
 
 The story of Robert's hfe gains its deepest charm 
 from this, namely, that the boy, reared in hard, 
 practical, severe, prosaic Scotland, yet had a poet's 
 soul. This appeared especially in his passion for 
 
 151
 
 152 FTCURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 music. Little of it had he heard, to be sure; the 
 church pi-ahii singing was not musical. But the 
 old shoemaker — Dooble Sandy, they called him — 
 possessed a violin and was no mean performer. To 
 be sure he had sold it for drink just now, but Robert 
 never could forget the waking of his soul when first 
 he heard its low, sweet strains. One day, in the 
 old attic, he made a discovery. It was nothing less 
 than a violin that had belonged to his grandfather; 
 for there was music in the family line — his great- 
 grandfather had played the pipes at the battle of 
 Culloden. It was absolutely necessary that the 
 discovery be kept a secret from Mrs. Falconer, for 
 she regarded the violin as the handmaid of Satan, 
 and would as soon he had been taught gambling 
 as music. So he took it to Sandy, who welcomed it 
 with enthusiasm. The moment he began to play, 
 his face began to shine. He drew a long, low note. 
 
 "Just hear her, will ye?" said he. "To breathe 
 music like that! She's a bonny leddy," and he 
 played on and on, while Robert almost held his 
 breath. "Ay, she's beautiful!" stroking the back 
 of the violin with his open palm. 
 
 "Hoots, mon!" he would say to Robert, "don't 
 handle her like that! Take hold of her as if she 
 was a leevin' crater. Ye must stroke her canny, 
 and while the music out of her. Come to me, my 
 bonny leddy; ye '11 tell me yer story now, won't ye, 
 my pet?" And it all fell in with the lad's own feel- 
 ing, and gave it expression. He made astonishing 
 progress with the instrument.
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 153 
 
 Robert could not remember his mother; but he 
 had heard or dreamed that she was a lovely woman. 
 One day in the garret among some old bundles he 
 found a little workbox, and in it his mother's picture. 
 Such a beautiful, loving face, with dark hair and 
 blue eyes ! The miniature was set in pearls. Robert 
 knew they were pearls — how, he could not tell — 
 and that pearls had something to do with the New 
 Jerusalem. With the picture he found some faded 
 writing — the copy of a well-known hymn — and 
 underneath, the words, "O Lord, my heart is very 
 sore." 
 
 He knew little about it, but felt sure it was her 
 grief for the husband who had left her. The sad- 
 ness of it all so overpowered him that he burst out 
 crying. Certain it is that in that hour the boy made 
 a great stride toward manhood. 
 
 "Well, Robert, how's the violin?" said Mr. 
 Lammie, a gentleman who took some interest in 
 Robert, and whom he was allowed to visit. "Can 
 ye play 'The Flowers on the Forest' now? That's 
 a bonnie tune." 
 
 "Ay, can I," said Robert, and played it through 
 without blundering a single note. 
 
 "That's verra weel, Robert, but ye should 'a 
 heard yer grandfather play it. He would take his 
 violin and draw the verra soul out of her. To 
 hear the bow cooin' an' wailin' an' grievin' over the 
 strings — why, it would ha' made ye see the desolate 
 lands o' bonnie Scotland, with all the lasses out in 
 the harvest fields doin' the men's work as well as
 
 154 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 their own, an' a-grievin' for the brave lads that lay 
 upon red Flodden field. Ah! but he put his soul 
 into his playin', he did! I tell ye, Robert, ye can o 
 play the violin till ye can make her weep." 
 
 Boy though he was, Robert half knew this before. 
 That evening he walked through the fields, his 
 imagination full of the old Scottish history. Sud- 
 denly the wind arose with a low sough out of the 
 northwest, and rustled the heads of the barley. 
 There was no moon. He thought of the old sadness 
 of other days, and then the thought of his mother's 
 written words, "O Lord, my heart is very sore," 
 made the tears start. 
 
 The meaning, the music of the night arose in his 
 soul. He went straightway to his room, seized the 
 violin, nor laid it down again till he could draw from 
 it at will a sound like the moaning of the wind through 
 the barley sheaves. Then he went downstairs. 
 "I think I can play it now," he said; and when the 
 tune was over his friend exclaimed, "Well dune, 
 Robert; ye 'II be a player yet." 
 
 And then, too, in those early years, the boy's 
 soul — growing as it was — began to wake to the 
 mystery of nature. He loved the grass and the 
 water and the trees. The great sky bending above 
 him, the clouds of the east with their edges gold- 
 blasted with sunrise, the gentle wind waving its 
 light wing in his face — the divinity of it all entered 
 his soul along with the music he loved so well. 
 
 A strange longing after something he knew not 
 nor could name, awoke within him. The soul in
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 155 
 
 nature, the spirit that moves in the wind — the 
 great power in the sky — the boy with his growing 
 years grew into a loving, reverent sense of it all. 
 Was it not the Divine Spirit stirring within him 
 which was to lead him, through much conflict, to 
 the broad, deep truth of the Christian faith? 
 
 The mystery that surrounded his father was 
 lightened a little, one night, in a strange way. It 
 chanced that he was passing through the hall late 
 in the evening when he heard a sound from Mrs. 
 Falconer's room. 
 
 "O Lord!" he heard her saying, "I've a sore, 
 sore heart. My own Andrew — to think o' him as a 
 reprobate! O Lord, couldna he be elected yet? 
 Is there no turnin' o' Thy decrees? Who knows if 
 he be livin'? Oh, the drink an' the ill company 
 that took him from us! But, O Lord, I canna bear 
 that his soul is among the lost. Eh! to think o' 
 the torments o' that place, an' the smoke that goes 
 up forever, smothering the stars! An' my Andrew 
 down in the heart of it, cryin', an' me no able to go 
 to him! O Lord, I canna say 'Thy will be done'! 
 But dinna lay it to my charge ; for if ye were a mother 
 yersel' ye wouldna put him there. O Lord, turn 
 him, turn him from the error o' his ways, before 
 it is too late, too late!" 
 
 Robert felt he ought not to listen, and yet he could 
 not help listening. His father, then, was one of 
 the wicked, and the awful God was against him. 
 And when he died he would go to hell. But he 
 was not dead yet; and a great resolve came to
 
 156 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Robert that when he should become a man he 
 would seek him, and bring him back to goodness 
 and to God. 
 
 The history of Robert's soul had been a barren 
 one. Its life had been repressed by the sternness 
 of duty and by a religion without love. He could 
 not remember that anybody had ever kissed him ; he 
 had no idea that God loved him. His soul was sad 
 and hungry; but now it had begun to grow. The 
 finer faculties, the sense of beauty, the longing for 
 love, the deeper, richer, holier life with all its wonder 
 and mystery and sacredness — all this was coming. 
 
 And this blessed, divine unfolding was met and 
 chilled by the wretched theology of the time, the 
 low conception that made God to be little other 
 than a demon. Hell was the deepest truth of the 
 system, and the love of God was thought of as not 
 so deep as hell. True — let us acknowledge it — 
 they said they believed that God is love, and some 
 there were who lived as if they believed it. Still 
 the creed they taught their children had as its first 
 article, "I believe in hell." As only the elect were 
 able to escape the awful afterwards, the boy made 
 frantic efforts to believe himself one of them. He 
 had fits of doing religious ofifices in order to save 
 his soul, — such as going to church three times on 
 Sunday ; keeping the Sabbath strictly ; never reading 
 any but religious books; never whistling on the 
 Sabbath; by religious talk chiefly theoretical, — all 
 the time feeling that God was watching, and ready 
 to pounce upon him if he failed once.
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 157 
 
 The horrible vapors of these vain endeavors sug- 
 gested Tartarus, and God was very Hke to Satan, 
 although Robert never dared to really think so. 
 Nevertheless his soul was growing, and the current 
 religious teaching grew more and more impossible 
 of belief. The pity of it was that no one dreamed of 
 telling him of the great father heart that finds its 
 very life in loving; how for this the Lord Christ 
 came; how He revealed God as living and loving 
 like the most loving man or woman in all the world, 
 only infinitely more, and in ways that we cannot 
 understand, so that even to live in this His world 
 is the soul of eternal jubilation, 
 
 Robert had strange thoughts sometimes which he 
 never dared express because he knew enough to 
 know they were rank heresy. Yet ever since he had 
 heard his grandmother's prayer— that out-pouring 
 of her great sorrow — it occurred to him that some 
 of his thoughts, if he expressed them, might serve to 
 comfort her. After their frugal meal one evening, 
 at the family worship that followed, Robert suddenly 
 looked up from his Bible. 
 
 " Grandmither, do ye think that ither folk than 
 Christ might suffer for the sins o' their neebors?" 
 
 "Ay, laddie, many a one has to do that, but not to 
 mak atonement, ye know; it wouldna satisfy the Lord. 
 That must be the innercent to suffer for the guilty." 
 
 "I understand that, " said Robert, who had heard 
 it so often that he had never thought of trying to 
 understand it. "But if we go to the gude place 
 we'll be all innercent, won't we, grandmither ? "
 
 158 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Ay, that we will! Washed spotless an' pure, an' 
 set doon at the table with Him an' His Father." 
 
 "Well, now, grandmither, I've been a-thinkin' of 
 a plan for almost emptyin' hell." 
 
 "God save us! What's in the lad's head now? 
 Dare ye meddle wi' such things, Robert!" 
 
 "But, grandmither, all them that sits doon to the 
 supper o' the Lamb will sit there because Christ 
 suffered the punishment due to their sins?" 
 
 "Dootless, laddie." 
 
 "But it'll be some sore upon them that sit there 
 aitin' an' drinkin' an' enjoyin' themselves, when 
 every noo an' then there'll come a sough o' wailin' 
 up fra' the ill place, an' a smell o' burnin' ill to bide." 
 
 "What put that in your head, Robert? There's 
 no reason to think hell's so near to heaven as that." 
 
 "Well, but they'll know all the same, whether 
 they smell it or not. Grandmither, do ye think 
 that a body wud be allowed to speak a word in 
 public there — at the lang table, I mean?" 
 
 "What for no, if it were done with modesty and 
 for a gude reason?" 
 
 "Well, if I am let in there, the verra first night I 
 sit down with the leave of them, I am goin' to rise 
 up an' say: 'Brethren an' sisters, the whole of ye, 
 hearken to me for just one minute; an', O Lord, if 
 I say wrang, just rebuke me an' bid me sit down. 
 We're all here by grace an' not by our own merit, 
 as ye all know better nor I can tell ye. But it's 
 just ruggin' an' rivin' at my heart to think o' them 
 that's down there, a-sufferin' an' a-wailin'. Now
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 159 
 
 we have no merit, an' they have no merit, an' what 
 for are we here an' they there? We're washed 
 clean an' innercent noo; an' it seems to me we might 
 bear some o' the sins o' them that has over many. 
 I call upon every one o' ye that has a fren' or a 
 neebor down yonner to rise up, nor taste nor bite 
 nor sup more till we go up a' togither to the fut o' 
 the throne an' pray the Lord to let us go an' du as 
 the Maister did afore us — an' bear their griefs an' 
 carry their sorrows down in hell there, if it may be 
 they will repent and get remission o' their sins, an' 
 come up here with us at the lang last, all through 
 the merits of oor Saviour Jesus Christ, at the heid 
 o' the table there. Amen!' " 
 
 Half ashamed of this long speech, half overcome 
 by the feelings fighting within him, and altogether 
 bewildered, Robert burst out crying like a baby, 
 and ran from the room. By and by, when he came 
 back, Mrs. Falconer was very gentle with him; it 
 was a new sensation. 
 
 She gently warned him against trusting to such 
 fancies, and above all of judging the Almighty, 
 adding, "Pray fer yer father, Robert. Gie the 
 Lord no rest, till He lead him to see the error of 
 his ways." 
 
 And then they knelt together, as they did every 
 Sabbath evening. And afterwards she wiped the 
 tears from Robert's cheek and then from her 
 own; and from that moment Robert knew that he 
 loved her. 
 
 As we have been trying to say, the sweetness of
 
 i6o FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 music and the beauty of nature were opening the 
 gates of paradise to the boy's poet-soul, while an 
 unlovely and untrue theology tried to close them. 
 The time came in his life — as it not infrequently 
 comes in the life of a susceptible boy — when a 
 lovely woman threw them wide open. 
 
 Mary St. John was an English lady who had come 
 to the village to live with relatives for a time. The 
 people of the kirk were prejudiced against her for 
 at least two reasons — she had a popish name and 
 she played the piano. Robert soon found out this 
 last, for she lived near to Mrs. Falconer's. He 
 would stand in the darkness by her window, his 
 boy face transfigured by the passage of the sweet 
 sounds through his brain, which they swept like the 
 wind of God. And sometimes the old shoemaker 
 listened with him. 
 
 "Lord, man! Put yer soul in yer ears, and 
 hearken!" he would say, and the two would drink 
 in the beauty and the glory as the gates swung 
 wider. 
 
 He used to steal away from the house to play his 
 loved violin. On one of these expeditions he sud- 
 denly came upon the lady, and hesitated whether 
 to speak or to fly. But she spoke, and the tones of 
 her voice, with its beautiful English, enchanted him. 
 He was a Lowland country boy, his rude speech 
 almost unintelligible, and yet she managed to under- 
 stand him. The first sight of his singularly noble 
 face attracted her; and learning of his passion for 
 music, she became deeply interested in him. She
 
 ROBERT FALCONER i6i 
 
 met him at her gate one day. He pulled off his cap 
 and would have passed her, but she stopped him. 
 
 "I am going to walk a little way. Would you 
 like to go with me ? ' ' 
 
 "That I would!" he said, and walked on as if in 
 another world. 
 
 "Robert," she said, "would you like to play the 
 piano?" 
 
 "Eh! mem!" said he, with a deep suspiration. 
 "But do ye think I could? I'm feared I shall clean 
 disgust ye." 
 
 "If you really want to learn, there will be no fear 
 of that," she said. 
 
 But oh, the strangeness and the beauty! To 
 hear her wake the soul of her instrument, and to 
 really touch it himself! The elegance of the sur- 
 roundings — what to do with himself — the ill-at-ease 
 feeling! The lady of the house, when Miss St. John 
 presented him, gave him two of her finger tips to 
 do something or other with; Robert did not know 
 what, and so let them go. As for his teacher, his 
 divinity, I can hardly describe her as she seemed to 
 him. She was tall, and could not help being stately 
 as well as lovely; as full of repose as Handel's music, 
 with a contralto voice to make you weep, and eyes 
 that would have seemed, but for their maidenliness, 
 to be always ready to fold you in their clear, gray 
 depths. She had suffered grievous disappoint- 
 ment — how, I do not know — and had withdrawn to 
 the Scottish Lowlands, weary of some things, but 
 believing in God's love and in music.
 
 i62 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 When she would worship God it was in music 
 that she found the chariot of fire in which to ascend 
 heavenward. Music was the divine thing in the 
 world to her, and to find one loving music with his 
 inmost soul was to find a fellow believer. And 
 Robert loved the tasks she set him, hardly conscious 
 of time or sense as he sat at the piano. 
 
 But Mrs. Falconer found out the use of the violin — 
 he had incautiously played some soft strains in the 
 garret one day — and when he saw his loved in- 
 strument in the flames upon the hearth, the strings 
 bursting and shriveling, and his grandmother sitting 
 stem as a Druidess, watching the sacrifice with a 
 grim satisfaction, for a moment he could hardly 
 believe his eyes. Then as it all came over him he 
 rushed away with a great, helpless cry. Where 
 he went he knew not, but ere long he met his teacher 
 and friend. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, Robert?" she 
 asked kindly. 
 
 His answer was a storm of weeping. Her heart 
 was sore for the despairing boy as he stood sobbing 
 before her. She drew him to a seat, and did her 
 best to soothe him. When he had told her the story 
 she was silent a moment, and then in a gush of 
 motherly indignation she kissed him on the forehead. 
 From that chrism he arose a king ! 
 
 Thus, as the days came and went, the love he 
 bore his teacher — he was fourteen and she was 
 twenty-six — and the influence of her beauty began 
 to mold him after her likeness, so that he grew nice
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 163 
 
 in his person and dress, smoothed the roughness 
 and broadness of his speech, learning the English 
 which was so sweet upon her tongue. Rough 
 diamond of a Scotch boy that he was, he came thus 
 under the hand of this tender, beautiful, sweet- 
 hearted English woman. Had she been an angel 
 from heaven he could not have worshiped her 
 more. And was she not sent of heaven to continue 
 the work his sweet mother had early laid down? 
 
 News was brought one day of his father's death; 
 it seemed to be a true report, and Mrs. Falconer 
 believed it. The agony resulting was terrible. He 
 was gone! gone! her Andrew! gone down into the 
 pains of hell forever! Her prayer was one great 
 and bitter cry for submission to the divine will; 
 and the words found voice again: "O Lord, I canna 
 say 'Thy will be done'! But dinna lay it to my 
 charge, for if Ye were a mither ye wouldna put him 
 down there in the burnin' an' the cryin'." 
 
 Thus was the poor soul divided against itself — 
 one moment in submission to the will of the dread 
 God; the next, all the human tenderness rushing in 
 like a flood ! 
 
 Oh, rebellious mother heart, dearer to the Infinite 
 Love than that which beats laboriously under Gen- 
 evan gown or Lutheran surplice! If thou wouldst 
 read by thine own large light instead of by the 
 phosphorescent glimmer of the brains of theologians 
 thou mightest look into the eyes of the Infinite 
 Love and begin to understand that the God who had 
 given His Son to save his brethren would do more 
 11
 
 1 64 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 for thy lost one than thou canst ask or even think! 
 
 Now all this — the hard dogmas, and the awful 
 God, and the severity of life as under his eye — began 
 to work a storm in Robert's soul. Music and nature 
 and love had begun to open the gates of paradise, 
 but there was something wrong about the God of 
 music and nature and love and paradise. A God 
 who was awful; who chose from the first to send 
 some souls into the burning; a God who did not 
 love everybody ! 
 
 The boy prayed to God, but had no heart in it; 
 and finally said, in his boy's heart, "I don't want 
 Him to love me if He don't love everybody." And 
 then came the grave doubt whether God heard him 
 at all. He had yet to learn that God was the great 
 father heart ; and that as to prayer, He answers it in 
 general terms of life, uplifting the spirits that with- 
 out Him would droop and die. 
 
 When Robert grew to man's estate he looked 
 back over the years and knew that God was the 
 heart of the universe, that worship was something 
 more than a name, and that God had really been 
 present in all his life. 
 
 There was another thing in his character that grew 
 with his growing years, namely, his love for the un- 
 fortunate, the sinning, the despairing. There was 
 the little homeless boy, somewhat younger than 
 himself; he persuaded Mrs. Falconer to give him 
 shelter for a time. It was pure pity, out of the 
 boy's tender heart ; nothing less or more. And when 
 the peasant girl Jessie went wrong and was scorned
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 165 
 
 of men, the boy — large-hearted beyond his years — 
 implored help of Mary. 
 
 "Dinna be angry wi' me," he pleaded, "but be 
 merciful to the lassie. Who's to help her that can 
 no more look any one in the face but the clear-eyed 
 woman that would look the sun himself oot o' the 
 sky if he dared say a word against her? It's one 
 woman that can save another." 
 
 "But what can I do, Robert?" 
 
 "I ca,nna tell ye that; ye must find oot for yer- 
 self. Would it be strange if a kiss would be the 
 savin' of her, poor thing?" 
 
 But it proved to be too late for such loving min- 
 istry ; the poor girl had disappeared. Years afterward 
 Robert found her in the streets of Aberdeen, and 
 restored her to her home. 
 
 And the same compassionate instinct led him to 
 the bedside of poor Sandy when a paralytic stroke 
 had laid him low. Mrs. Falconer was perfectly sure 
 it was a judgment for playing the violin ; and Sandy 
 himself was sure he was on the road to the kirkyard, 
 and that beyond that was hell. The man had been 
 given to drink and abuse of his good wife. The min- 
 ister talked with him very faithfully as to his sins, 
 the only pity being that he misrepresented God. 
 
 "Man, Robert," said Sandy, "dinna ye think he 
 was some sore upon me?" 
 
 "I du think it," said Robert. 
 
 * ' Somethin' bears it in upon me that /He wouldna 
 be so sore upon me. It 's somethin' or other in the 
 New Testa»ment. Couldna ye find it for me?"
 
 i66 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Robert could think of nothing but the parable of 
 the prodigal son. 
 
 "There," said Sandy, "I telled ye so! Not one 
 word aboot the poor lad's sins! It was all a hurry 
 and a scurry to get the best robe an' the ring, an' 
 then the feastin' an' the dancin'. O Lord," he 
 broke out, "I'm comin' home as fast as I can, but 
 my sins hang aboot my feet and winna let me. I 
 expect no ring, an' no robe, an' no feastin' ; but would 
 ye just let me play a violin wi' the ethers when the 
 next prodigal comes home?" 
 
 Robert walked home sorrowful. Sandy, the drink- 
 ing, ranting, swearing shoemaker, was safely inside 
 the wicket-gate and he, for all his prayers, was left 
 outside. 
 
 "Play for me, Robert, the 'Land o' the Leal,'" 
 said the poor fellow on the day when he neared the 
 dark river, and on the low, sweet strains the spirit 
 went to the great-hearted Father of the prodigal. 
 Robert knew not at the time, but it was one of the 
 ways by which God was coming into his life. 
 
 Dr. Andersen, a physician of Aberdeen, a distant 
 relative of Robert's, visited the little village in the 
 Scottish Lowlands. The good man was strangely 
 attracted by the youth who carried his soul in his 
 great, black eyes. And it came about at the last 
 that he took Robert to the college at Aberdeen. 
 
 And so it was good-by to Mary, his friend and 
 teacher, as he set his face eastward, the west 
 behind him tinged with love and death and music, 
 and God in the future either a misty something,
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 167 
 
 hard to see, or a terrible being hard to beHeve in. 
 
 His years at the school passed all too quickly. 
 They were years of intense labor which delighted 
 his teachers and his patron. During this period he 
 came to know the city of Aberdeen and, now and 
 then, to reach a helping hand to some unfortunate 
 lost in its sin. Among them, the wretched gypsy 
 mother of the boy he had befriended years ago. 
 
 "And who be ye?" said she. 
 
 "My name is Robert Falconer," he replied. 
 
 "Not Andrew Falconer's son?" she said. 
 
 "Did you know my father?" he asked eagerly. 
 
 "Ay, I knew him well enough; more by token that 
 I saw him last night." 
 
 Robert was beside himself with eagerness, but 
 not a word of information could he gain. 
 
 "I saw him, I tell ye. I know not where he is. 
 He is in London somewhere, I'll warrant." And 
 that was all. 
 
 And now Robert had grown to be a man. More 
 than six feet he was, broad and grand and strong, 
 with great, deep black eyes and a face you could 
 never forget. His heart was big as ever, and every 
 poor, undone sinner, man or woman, found in him a 
 friend. He had not yet come into the clearness of 
 religious life, inasmuch as the life of his soul — music 
 and nature and love and pity — gave the lie to the 
 God of the theologians. But he read his New Tes- 
 tament, and with his mind full of all sore unrest he 
 read of the peace of God which the great Christ 
 gave to men.
 
 i6S FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Then it slowly dawned on him that this peace was 
 something that came from doing the will of the 
 Father ; and that if a man should do the will of God 
 just as well as he possibly could know it, might he 
 not safely leave the rest with Him? Obedience! 
 Obedience! It grew to be a great w^ord. What 
 more could a body do? And, doing it, could not a 
 body trust ? 
 
 Now and then some great vision gleamed across 
 his soul of the working of all things toward a far-off 
 goal of love and obedience mingled, w^hich God 
 knew, and which His Son had justified through 
 sorrow and pain. He, Robert, could pity and love 
 with all his heart — should God do less? He loved, 
 and pitied, and prayed; and in proportion as the 
 theological God of his childhood faded, the God of 
 his heart — of nature, of the still night, of music and 
 love and death and Jesus — surged into his soul. 
 
 I cannot prolong the story of his spiritual life; 
 but it came to rest solidly on this one thing, namely, 
 that the truth of God must rise in man as powers of 
 life. That the way to know God is to try to do His 
 will. The form of this last that appealed to Robert 
 was compassion and help for the broken-hearted and 
 the sinning. Could his poor, human heart go out in 
 pity, and God's heart be cold? His emancipation 
 was hard and slow and painful; it came by growth 
 and not by crises, but, thank God, it came. 
 
 Robert's plan of life — the pity and the love that 
 ruled it — was very near to the heart of Dr. Andersen, 
 his patron. He loved Robert for it, even as a son,
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 169 
 
 and upon his death bequeathed him his fortune to 
 be used in helping the fallen. 
 
 Robert removed to London, took lodgings in 
 John Street, and soon was known for a very angel of 
 God. He haunted the streets at night, and made his 
 way into the lowest forms of life without intro- 
 duction or protection. There was a stately air 
 of the hills about him, a nobility in his face and 
 head and frame, a thoughtfulness and humanness in 
 his eyes — he seemed almost like God to the broken- 
 hearted, and no woman ever feared to trust him. 
 
 I cannot forget that night when I saw him on the 
 bridge with the poor creature he had arrested in the 
 act of suicide. "Please let me go!" she said. "I 
 would rather go. They would not be so cruel there 
 as men are here!" looking into the dark river below. 
 
 "But all men are not cruel," he said; "I am not 
 cruel," as he still held her lightly, fearing some 
 desperate act. 
 
 She drew herself back, and Falconer, instantly 
 removing his hand, said to her. "Look in my face, 
 child, and see whether you cannot trust me!" 
 
 As he uttered the words he took off his hat and 
 stood, bareheaded, in the light of the moon. The 
 wind blew his hair from his forehead. It was 
 nobility itself; and she was saved. 
 
 And all this while he was looking and searching 
 for his father. He wandered into all sorts of places ; 
 the worse they looked, the more attractive he found 
 them, for he might be there. And, hoping against 
 hope, he labored on.
 
 I70 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 One night the friends who often aided him in his 
 good work found a man drunk with opium under 
 a railway arch, and when Robert returned home 
 they told him. A clew had been followed, and, they 
 hoped, with success. They went with him to the 
 room where lay a man worn with dissipation, uncon- 
 scious as yet, the wreck of what he might once have 
 been. 
 
 "Are we right?" they asked. 
 
 "I do not know; I think so," was Robert's answer. 
 
 There was nothing about the man by which he 
 could be identified. When, after long hours, the 
 narcotic sleep left him, he was ill, due to his ex- 
 posure, and for a week Robert nursed him. Begin- 
 ning to amend, his diseased craving returned. He 
 insisted that he could and would go his own way; 
 and Robert controlled him with all the tenderness 
 and sternness of love. As yet he knew not that he 
 was his father, and no amount of skillful question- 
 ing could induce the man to talk about his child- 
 hood. As to his name, he insisted that it was John 
 Mackinnon. 
 
 Long years before, Robert had found a sealed 
 letter written by his mother on her dying bed to the 
 wayward husband she had never ceased to love. 
 This letter, together with her picture, the attendant 
 was directed to bring in to the patient, saying the 
 package had been left for him. Robert took his 
 seat in the adjoining room, and while the man read 
 the letter from heaven — almost that it must have 
 seemed — he took his violin and played softly the
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 171 
 
 airs of Scotland, the old, old songs of his father's 
 boyhood days. 
 
 An hour went by. Robert looked in, and the 
 man was sobbing, with his face in his hands. If he 
 were indeed his father, what other result was possible, 
 with the letter from his lost one in his hands and 
 the music of those days sounding sweet and low? 
 For the letter — Robert read it afterwards — in its 
 beautiful constancy, its sweetness, and longing of 
 love was enough to melt a heart of stone. It was a 
 passionate exhortation to give up his sinful life and 
 to meet her before High God, where all is pure. 
 
 "Oh, Andrew," she wrote, "I couldn't be happy in 
 heaven without you. I am afraid I love you too 
 much to be fit to go to heaven. Then perhaps God 
 will send me to the other place, and all for love of 
 you; and I do believe I should like that better. But 
 I pray God we may find each other in heaven." 
 
 Thus the letter breathed the deep love and long- 
 ing of the beautiful, sainted dead. 
 
 Robert felt quite sure now of the man's identity, 
 and something within him moved him to try the 
 rusted lock of his father's heart. He went around 
 in front of him, kneeled on the rug before him, and 
 uttered one word, "Father!" 
 
 The man started violently, raised his trembling 
 hand to his head, stared wildly, but did not speak. 
 Robert repeated the one, great word. 
 
 Then the man said in a low, trembling voice, 
 "Are you my son, my boy Robert, sir?" 
 
 "I am! I am! Oh, father, I have longed for you
 
 172 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 by day and dreamed about you by night, and 
 searched for you everywhere for years and years. 
 And now I have found you." 
 
 And the tall young man, in the prime of life and 
 strength, laid his head down on the old man's knee 
 as if he had been a child. His father said nothing, 
 but laid his hand on his head. There was silence, 
 and the father was the first to speak; and his words 
 were the words of the spirit that striveth with man. 
 
 "What am I to do, Robert ? " 
 
 No other words could be half so precious in the 
 ears of his son, for they indicated something like an 
 awakening of the feeble will. 
 
 "You must come home to your mother," he said. 
 
 ' ' I cannot ! I dare not . She will never forgive me . " 
 
 "Nay, nay, father; she loves you more than her 
 own soul. She loves you as much as God loves you." 
 
 "God can't love me. Oh, no! Oh, no!" said the 
 father, mournfully and decisively. 
 
 "God?" said Robert. "He loves you with an 
 everlasting love. It must be so — it is so! — never 
 losing sight of you, filling my heart with the pur- 
 pose to find you. And now I have found 3^ou ! And, 
 father, one thing more; there is no refuge from the 
 compelling love of God, You must repent and 
 turn to Him; you must. There is no other way. 
 And I am not going to leave you, and God is not 
 going to leave you, and surely, surely, you are com- 
 ing back to Him." 
 
 I have not the time to tell how slov/ and discour- 
 aging was the work of dealing with the clouded mind
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 173 
 
 and the enfeebled will. How the man could not 
 be left wholly to himself for a single moment, lest 
 he should escape to gratify his old craving. How 
 he did escape more than once, and was found again. 
 How, with a patience inspired by an unconquerable 
 love, the son kept him and nursed him, and braced 
 his nerveless will. How he grew into self-respect 
 and into penitence before God, and how at last he 
 came to the old mother who waited for him. 
 
 "O Lord! My Andrew, my Andrew ! " The tears 
 rained unheeded, "I'm just as happy as a little 
 child. Now I can go hence in peace!" And when 
 she entered paradise it was in the midst of radiant 
 weeping. 
 
 The accomplishment of this great purpose of 
 Robert's life served for him at least this useful 
 end — it completely swept away his last doubt of 
 the love of God. God the father of us all ; God the 
 great seeker of His wayward children; God the 
 master of infinite resources — such He increasingly 
 seemed to be. And he asked himself this question, 
 which brought its own answer: If he, a poor, 
 human soul, could seek, unresting, for the lost one 
 so dear to him, when shall a man dare to say that 
 God has done all He can ?
 
 DONALD MARCY 
 
 A T the time our story opens he was a sopho- 
 ■^^ more in the Harle University. We are bound 
 to say of him, to begin with, that he was a royal 
 good fellow. With his lithe form, straight and 
 graceful, his square shoulders and athletic bearing, 
 his brown curls, merry blue eyes, and fine, clear-cut 
 face he was a familiar figure wherever there was 
 college fun. The son of Thomas B. Marcy of 
 New York — and Wall Street — he had never 
 known the necessity of hard work or the meaning 
 of economy. His room, with its heavy Axminster 
 carpet, Persian rug, and brass fender at the fire- 
 place was a beauty, and Don was at home in it. 
 As for study — which is supposed to be one of 
 the occupations of boys at college — we are 
 obliged to confess that he did not take to it any 
 too kindly. 
 
 "Oh, pshaw!" he exclaimed. " What 's the use in 
 a fellow wearing himself out prematurely?" 
 
 He was a lad of such good breeding and good sense 
 and good fellowship that his popularity in college 
 circles was a foregone conclusion. 
 
 When he was a freshman it was hard for the upper 
 classmen to make out a case against him as, of 
 course, they wished to do. Finally a sophomore 
 raised the objection that he was too well dressed, 
 and that he had taken a professor's daughter to 
 
 174
 
 DONALD MARCY 175 
 
 drive. Thereupon his case was decided, and a 
 hazing party knocked at his door. 
 
 * ' Come in ! Come in ! Why, fellows, I 'm honored. 
 Have cigars? No? What will you have? Me? 
 Stand upon that table and sing Mother Goose? 
 But I'm not in voice to-night. What? No, thank 
 you, I don't undress before strange guests. I don't 
 care to go downstairs with you, either, and out to 
 the pump." 
 
 Gay and debonair, he smiled at them serenely. 
 Then, "See here, fellows!" suddenly changing his 
 tone, "do you see this crowbar? It is a new one. 
 I bought it last week. Well, gentlemen, I don't 
 want to be disturbed to-night, and the first man of 
 you that enters this room gets the crowbar!" 
 
 There was no mistaking the fire in his eye. After 
 a whispered consultation, the party thought they 
 would try another room. 
 
 But the time came when Donald himself became 
 a sophomore, and it is quite needless to say that he 
 was responsive to the traditions of that academic 
 estate. And so, when Calhoun, the aristocratic, 
 black-haired Southerner, was to be put through the 
 mill, Donald was on hand. It was a very dark 
 night. After they had tossed the victim in a blanket 
 and ducked him, they took him into the cemetery 
 to bury him. A grave was dug and a coffin was 
 ready. He was placed in the coffin, called upon to 
 say his prayers, and dirges were chanted. Lowered 
 into the grave — with the head of the coffin left 
 open — the earth began to fall upon it, a spadeful
 
 176 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 at a time. The fellow was in mortal fear. All his 
 aristocratic pride deserted him, and he cried out in 
 his terror, begging for mercy. The party quietly 
 left him, with the result that, overcome by fright, 
 he lost consciousness. 
 
 It is the simple truth, however, that Donald had 
 no heart in these extreme measures. It was carrying 
 the joke too far, and he protested, but to no purpose. 
 Trouncey McGrian, the big bully among them, had 
 had the sense to quit before the burying business 
 began. Donald wished he had done the same. 
 
 When they had withdrawn that their victim 
 might gain the full benefit of the situation, Donald, 
 in the darkness, slipped away and hurried back. 
 Arrived at the grave, "Calhoun!" he called. There 
 was no answer. Thoroughly alarmed, with infinite 
 pains he got the fellow out, and after a time began 
 to note signs of returning consciousness. Then he 
 heard a party approaching. He heard them talk- 
 ing. He was certain they were not the boys. 
 Needless to say, he saved himself, but by a narrow 
 margin. 
 
 When Calhoun nearly died of brain fever there 
 was commotion and investigation. One evening 
 Trouncey McGrian came into Donald's room. 
 
 "The game's up, Don! They've expelled me." 
 
 ' ' Expelled you ! What f or ? " said Donald sharply, 
 wheeling around. 
 
 "Oh, the graveyard business." 
 
 "But you weren't in that at all." 
 
 "That's what I told 'em. Prexy said it would
 
 DONALD MARCY 177 
 
 be better for me to own up. I said I 'd be blanked 
 first, for I was n't there! But it was no good." 
 
 ' ' Did they say anything about me ? " asked Donald. 
 
 "No. Didn't seem to spot you at all." 
 
 "You just wait here a few minutes, will you?" 
 said Don. "I have something to attend to." 
 
 "Sir," said Donald Marcy to the president when 
 at last he stood before him, "it is only just a word, 
 because I want to see justice done. I only want to 
 say that Trouncey McGrian was n't in that scrape. 
 I know he was n't there because, you see, I was there 
 myself." 
 
 Well, that settled it. 
 
 "It's all right, Trouncey," said Donald when he 
 returned. "You won't have to go." 
 
 "What in thunder! Seen the president ? Donald, 
 you beat the Dutch! Well, what did he say?" 
 
 ' ' He said the faculty would consider my case in a 
 few days," said Donald. 
 
 When the verdict came, it was this: suspended 
 and rusticated for two months ! 
 
 "Donald, " said his father, for he had come on to 
 attend to the miserable business, "I've nothing to 
 say. It's bad enough, but it might be worse. So 
 you've got to go into rustication. I know of just 
 the place for you. My old classmate. Dr. Fleet, 
 lives at Tipton, Vermont. I '11 get him to take you 
 in, and tutor you. Vermont is a deuced hole, of 
 course, but they '11 send you to some such place any- 
 way. I '11 arrange it with the president. " 
 
 Donald had heard of the family. In fact, a son,
 
 I7S FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Jam^s, was in the college at the time. He knew 
 them to be people of character, but also of limited 
 means. And when he arrived there one day in 
 early winter, the world did look desolate and the 
 future dreary. Nothing ever happened in Tipton. 
 The little parsonage was rather bare, rather poorly 
 furnished, rather cold. 
 
 "The — Dickens!" cried the boy, as he took a 
 dive under the bedclothes. In the morning the frost 
 was thick on the windowpanes, the straw matting 
 on the floor seemed like a glazed sheet of ice, and the 
 water in his pitcher was frozen. He kindled a fire 
 in the little stove and warmed himself, one side at a 
 time, while dressing. 
 
 Dr. Fleet was a man of high character and scholar- 
 ship, that was evident enough. Daily lessons were 
 a part of the program — for Donald must keep up 
 with his classes — and the doctor proved himself to 
 be a fascinating teacher. Don really thought that 
 he might come, in time, to find study interesting. 
 To the end of his life he remembered the old parson- 
 age study and the refined, strong, classic face of his 
 teacher, aglow with enthusiasm as he talked to the 
 careless lad of scholars and of scholarly thoughts 
 and deeds and dreams. And there stole into the 
 boy's soul the beginnings of a passion he did not 
 at first recognize — that of aspiration in its nobler 
 forms. 
 
 Mrs. Fleet was a cultured, quiet woman, and 
 just as sweet as a woman could be. She realized 
 what a change their mode of life must be for the
 
 DONALD MARCY 179 
 
 son of Thomas Marcy, and she mothered him from 
 the first. Donald wondered at her, and he came to 
 love her ; as who would not ? 
 
 But for all this the days passed rather tamely 
 for the city-bred youth. And so it was with a new 
 interest in life that he looked forward to the coming 
 home for the holidays of the daughter of the house, 
 Miss Fay, now in Smith College. He imagined her 
 to be a kind of bluestocking, and that she probably 
 wore spectacles. It occurred to him to cram a 
 little on Xenophon that morning; he believed the 
 Smith girls were very learned. She would probably 
 call him out on his Greek at once, and floor him, too ! 
 
 When he went to the post office for the mail there 
 was a postal from Fay saying that she was coming 
 on the morning express instead of the afternoon 
 train as she had planned. 
 
 ' ' Great Scott ! It must be due now ! The station is 
 three miles away, and there's nobody to meet her!" 
 
 In a twinkling he ran to the stable and ordered 
 out the only hack in town, an ancient vehicle on 
 runners, for the snow was a foot deep, and drifted, 
 and somebody must do something! And so it was 
 that he met her, a quarter of a mile from the sta- 
 tion, bravely trudging through the snow. Donald 
 leaped down and stood before her, cap in hand, his 
 brown curls blowing madly in the winter wind. 
 
 "Excuse me. Miss Fleet," he began, with his 
 best bow, "but I—" 
 
 The girl — tall, shapely, vigorous — had been walk- 
 ing with her head bowed, the better to pick her way. 
 12
 
 i8o FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 But when the old hack stopped and the young 
 stranger suddenly jumped before her, she lifted her 
 face and looked straight at him with a perfectly 
 unconscious, pretty look of girlish amazement, at 
 once so modest and so straightforward that it was 
 bewitching. 
 
 "I don't know who you are," said she sedately, 
 but her eyes twinkled. "Are you anybody in par- 
 ticular?" 
 
 "I'm a rusticated college boy from Harle, just 
 now your father's guest. My name is Marcy, at 
 your service. I came to drive you home." 
 
 "Oh, how nice of you!" she cried delightedly. "I 
 am pretty wet." 
 
 Once within the hack, Donald hurriedly explained 
 the circumstances. 
 
 "Do you know," he said at last, "I wondered 
 what you w^ould be like, and I imagined you would 
 begin to talk about the Anabasis directly." 
 
 "And I never thought about you at all," said 
 Fay saucily. 
 
 "I'm awfully glad you've come, though," he 
 replied, "and with your permission I'll make you 
 think about me now you have got here." 
 
 Life at the parsonage that day turned over a 
 fairy leaf. Fay had come! Her father stayed out 
 of his study for two hours after dinner, laughing at 
 college stories. "Your girls' stories," he said, "with 
 the fun and without the devil!" 
 
 As for Donald, a new heaven and a new earth 
 opened at once for him.
 
 DONALD MARCY i8i 
 
 "What is your class in college?" he asked her. 
 
 "Oh, I'm only a junior," she replied, "I should 
 be a senior, but I had to stay out a year." 
 
 "Dropped?" asked Don. 
 
 "Do I look it?" Turning sharply around and 
 facing the mischief in his eyes, she stood straight 
 and still before him, a fine figure and a winsome face, 
 melting with innocent coquetry while you looked at 
 her and withdrawing into delicate dignity before 
 you could speak to her. A girl made up of mischief 
 and good sense — that was Fay. 
 
 "You look," said Don, with a low bow, "as if 
 the faculty of Smith might have had their hands 
 full with you" — Fay's delicate eyebrows arched 
 disdainfully— "but didn't," he finished. "I'm 
 afraid you've been the other kind of girl. I'm 
 afraid you've learned your lessons, and stood well, 
 and all that." 
 
 "And why, Mr. Don, do you suffer from fear on 
 this account?" 
 
 ' ' Because, ' ' said Donald, ' ' I have n't. I 'm not a 
 scholar at all." 
 
 "Dear me!" said Fay, lifting her black eyebrows 
 as innocent as a lamb. "Are you stupid?" 
 
 Don flushed. He certainly did. When had a 
 girl's tongue ever made Donald Marcy blush before? 
 
 "I'm sorry for you," pursued Fay blandly. "It 
 must be annoying not to be able to learn things 
 like other people." 
 
 "I don't know that I'm a born fool!" exploded 
 Don viciously.
 
 iS2 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Then why in the world don't you learn your 
 lessons? Why do you act as if you were a — " 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "Why, that word you said just now. Don't com- 
 pel me to use it. But have I been impolite? I 
 didn't mean to be. Shall I beg your pardon?" she 
 concluded in a gentle and repentant way. 
 
 Donald thought her adorable, and he thought he 
 would tell her so, but something in her fine, far eyes 
 checked him. 
 
 "No," he said humbly, "don't beg my pardon. 
 I deserved it. I 'm a harum-scarum chap. But I 'm 
 not a bad fellow, Miss Fay." 
 
 "Oh, I know that," she said eagerly. "Let me 
 tell you why I was out for a year," tactfully changing 
 the subject. "I'm not ashamed of it. They have a 
 hard time here at home, and there are two of us in 
 college, so I stayed out to earn some money." 
 
 "What did you do to earn money?" asked Donald 
 with unwonted seriousness. "/ never earned more 
 than fifty dollars in my life. Father gave me that 
 once for knocking off cigarettes." 
 
 "Oh, I taught music," said Fay carelessly. "I'm 
 not a good musician, but I'm accurate, and I can 
 get classes. I don't mind hard work; indeed, I 
 think I like it. Don't you?" 
 
 "I begin to think I might be made to," replied 
 Donald forlornly, "if I should take a few quarters' 
 lessons in 'How to Do It' from a girl like you." 
 
 Fay looked at him very soberly and charmingly. 
 He wondered what her sweet, womanly thoughts of
 
 DONALD MARCY 183 
 
 him were, and what she would say. But she said 
 nothing at all. 
 
 She never preached to him from first to last. She 
 did something for him infinitely better; she flashed 
 over the panorama of his young life the ideal of a 
 strong, sweet girl, intellectual, womanly, tender, 
 and true — and, best of all, not in the least afraid of 
 life or afraid of work. 
 
 He reached the point in his confidences one day 
 when he said to her, "Miss Fay, I wish sometimes I 
 could be a different kind of fellow; the kind that is 
 bound to amount to something; the kind — well, 
 your kind," he explained, turning to look straight 
 at her. 
 
 "Do you, really? Well, then, be the other kind." 
 
 "Miss Fay, will you be my friend, true blue, if I 
 try it for all I am worth? " 
 
 "I do not know. I never promised that before 
 to any — to any young man, you know." 
 
 "But you'll promise it to me!" pleaded handsome 
 Donald. "I never asked it before, either. I dare 
 say I 've done my share of flirting, and all that, but 
 I never wanted a girl to be my friend before." 
 
 "It's a solemn sort of a word," said Fay in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "That's so," said Donald. "I'll tell you," he 
 continued with a very original air, as if he were the 
 first boy that had ever talked friendship with a 
 girl in all the history of the old, dear, foolish world, 
 "I want to be the other kind of fellow and I want 
 you to stand with me, to help me, to make me think
 
 iS4 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 of different things. It will be so much easier if 
 you only will." 
 
 "You won't let me be ashamed of you," suggested 
 Fay gently, "if I do this?" 
 
 "There's my hand on it!" said Donald. 
 
 Their hands clasped, they looked into each other's 
 eyes a moment, and straightway began to talk of 
 other things. 
 
 When Donald returned to college from Vermont 
 and took to his books in good earnest, doubled his 
 electives, wTote one or two themes that won the ap- 
 proval of the professors, and brushed up his naturally 
 fine elocution — well, the fellows rubbed their eyes. 
 What had come over Marcy? It was thought to 
 be a pity that the handsome, graceful fellow, the 
 life of the college fun, should give his mind seriously 
 to the trifles of the recitation room. 
 
 A certain Smith girl, with the scholar in her brows 
 and the woman in her eyes, had faithfully kept her 
 promise of friendship. Through her brother in the 
 college she kept herself informed of Don's work, 
 and was secretly proud of him. Don knew of her 
 interest, and had set up in his own heart some of 
 her ideals. And her power over him, increased 
 tenfold by her sweet unconsciousness of it, was the 
 dynamic of his life. 
 
 In the spring vacation she stopped over a day at 
 Harle to visit her brother. 
 
 "Mr. Don," she said in the most innocent way, 
 "there's a question in my mind. Why don't you 
 enter for the DeCourtney prize?"
 
 DONALD MARCY 185 
 
 "The DeCourtney!" gasped Don. "Why, no- 
 body but the brilHant fellows go in for that ! Why, 
 why, I couldn't, you know." 
 
 "And pray, why not?" demanded Fay. 
 
 He argued the question further, but finally ex- 
 claimed, "Why, if you say so, Miss Fay. But then, 
 there's no chance to win, you know." 
 
 "Mr. Don," said Fay with a strange light in her 
 eyes, "I don't know any such thing!" 
 
 The prize was for the best oration. There was 
 but one competitor whom Donald really feared. 
 Tom Hallowell was four years older than himself, 
 and a more practiced writer. Donald, on the 
 other hand, excelled in elocution. He chose as 
 his subject, "The Influence of the Imagination 
 upon Science," one of those extraordinary themes 
 which college boys illuminate with so much wis- 
 dom. Donald wrote all he knew about it and a good 
 deal more. In fact, he stood very much in awe 
 of that oration. 
 
 The June day, the great day of the competition, 
 dawned gloriously. The college town was thronged 
 with strangers. The day wore on to the afternoon. 
 The house began to fill. An hour before two o'clock 
 not a seat was to be had. 
 
 Fay graduated from Smith the day before. She 
 was to come down with her father for the occasion; 
 but the train was late. Don watched and waited 
 in a perfect fever. Where were they? Six minutes 
 of two! Ah, there, there they come! 
 
 The carriage drove up from the station. A pretty
 
 iS6 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 figure in a summer traveling dress alighted, and 
 impulsively held out both hands to Donald. 
 
 "I thought you'd never come!" cried Don. "I 
 will win, now yoitrWe here!" 
 
 "Of course you'll win, anyhow," said Fay, blush- 
 ing delightfully. 
 
 They talked in hurried snatches. 
 
 "You are not scared, are you?" she flung at him. 
 
 "Not a bit. I was — a little. I'm not now." 
 
 "Success to you, Mr. Don!" And the strange 
 light in her eyes sent a thrill through him as her 
 brother hurried her away to the seat reserved for 
 her beside her father. 
 
 Several competitors were to speak. Tom Hallo- 
 well was to come last, with Donald just preceding 
 him. The minutes passed; the wait seemed almost 
 interminable. Then came the momentous an- 
 nouncement, "Donald C. Marcy, New York City; 
 The Influence of -^ " 
 
 But Don heard no more. In a moment he was 
 upon the stage, facing a thousand people. For two 
 or three awful minutes he knew what stage fright 
 meant; after that he was all right. While he spoke 
 he saw everything. There sat the president near 
 the front, and he knew by the hitch in Prexy's left 
 eyebrow that he was doing fairly well so far. He 
 saw the professor's daughter whom he used to take 
 for a drive ; he thought she looked rather older to-day. 
 There was Trouncey McGrian. He was listening 
 with his soul in his eyes, hoping with all his might 
 that Don would "get there." Dr. Fleet, too, his
 
 DONALD MARCY 187 
 
 fine, scholarly face illuminated with critical pleasure ; 
 and there, seated next him — 
 
 After his eye had first dared meet hers, it seemed 
 to Donald that he knew nothing, felt nothing, in 
 all this great, still assembly, but Fay. She simply 
 filled the place. She sat leaning forward a little, 
 her head slightly bent, her small blue fan, with its 
 white lace edge, held poised, like a thought arrested, 
 against the curve of her soft cheek. Her eyes 
 seemed to veil themselves, as if there were something 
 more within them than she cared to reveal in public. 
 Her attitude, her breathlessness, her half-averted 
 look all seemed to say, "I believe in you! But I'm 
 not going to tell. You're doing well. Steady, sir, 
 steady. Don't look at me so hard. Steady! You'll 
 get it." 
 
 The inspiration that came to him from her was 
 finer than wine. Donald felt as if the sky were 
 filled with rainbows, and that he lived upon hopes 
 of paradise. But he came to the end all too soon, 
 made his bow, and turned to go. A thunder of 
 applause recalled him. He turned, surprised. He 
 had not expected such an ovation. 
 
 As the courtly, debonair fellow stood there, smil- 
 ing and bowing, flowers fell about him. The pro- 
 fessor's daughter threw him a wreath of laurel and 
 another girl — an old friend of his — stood upon a 
 seat and threw with precision a blazing bouquet of 
 red roses. Fay sat with downcast eyes. Was she 
 proud of him amid the storm of approval? She 
 made no sign, threw no flowers. Donald felt a
 
 iSS FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 momentary pang; when softly, almost unobserved, a 
 tiny cluster of white violets fell at his feet, almost hid- 
 den in their own leaves. Dr. Fleet had quietly thrown 
 them, Donald knew. He hid them quickly in his 
 breast pocket as he bowed himself off the stage. 
 
 "Good elocution," he heard one of the committee 
 whisper. "The oration was well constructed, too." 
 
 Tom Hallowell followed with perfect self-posses- 
 sion. His grave self-confidence compelled attention. 
 His elocution was inferior to that of his rival; three 
 sentences settled that. But the material of his 
 oration was remarkably excellent. His thought was 
 clear and strong, and some periods were eloquence 
 itself. When he retired from the stage there were 
 anxious faces among Donald's friends. 
 
 Fay did not look anxious; she looked startled. 
 Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and her eyes 
 flashed with a singular look. She bent as if to speak 
 to her father, but finally said nothing. 
 
 It was a shock but not wholly a surprise when the 
 committee reported that the DeCourtney prize was 
 awarded to Thomas Hallowell. To say that the 
 announcement was a terrible blow to Donald is to 
 say nothing at all about it. He tried to hold his 
 head up and smile among the fellows, and he con- 
 gratulated his successful rival in manly fashion. 
 
 Pretty soon an usher whispered to Donald that 
 he was wanted at the side entrance by an elderly 
 gentleman and a young lady. He believed the 
 young lady did not feel well, although she didn't 
 look like the fainting kind.
 
 DONALD MARCY 189 
 
 Dr. Fleet was warm in his greeting. 
 
 * ' Cheer up, my boy, he was older than you. Your 
 oration was a piece of good, downright, conscien- 
 tious work. I congratulate you." 
 
 "Thank you, sir; it doesn't matter," said Donald, 
 trying to smile. 
 
 He turned to Fay. She seemed unaccountably 
 excited, and gave him her hand in silence. 
 
 "Don't speak to me!" she said under her breath 
 as they turned to walk down the street. "I have 
 something on my mind. I can't talk yet." 
 
 "Are you ashamed of me?" pleaded poor Don. 
 humbly. 
 
 "I am proud of you! " exploded Fay. 
 
 "Oh, then, I don't care!" cried Donald. "What's 
 the DeCourtney if I haven't disappointed you?'' 
 
 "James," said Fay to her brother, who was walk- 
 ing with them, "is it too late to get into the college 
 library?" 
 
 ' ' Why, no, I think not ; but why in the world — I 
 confess I 'm tired out. Here, Donald, will you take 
 my sister over there? I suppose she has a right to 
 be so all-fired literary if she wants to. She got her 
 diploma yesterday, you know." 
 
 "Ask the librarian, please, to get me Rufus 
 Choate's addresses," said Fay. She plunged into 
 the volume. 
 
 ' ' There, there ! I thought so I " 
 
 xier face crimsoned suddenly from brow to chin. 
 She read a page to herself, skipped, read another, 
 shut the book, with her finger to keep the place, and
 
 iQo FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 l(X)kcd with blazing eyes at Donald. He had been 
 waiting her pleasure, consumed with curiosity. 
 
 "It is just as I thought!" she cried. "Only I 
 wanted to make sure of it. I didn't dare say so, 
 seeing father did n't find it out. I didn't know but 
 I might be mistaken, since he didn't get up there 
 and shake that fellow by the coat collar, and tumble 
 him off the stage." 
 
 "What in the name of — Rufus Choate — do 
 you mean?" cried the astonished Donald. 
 
 "I mean," said Fay more quietly, "that Tom 
 Hallowell has no more right to that DeCourtney 
 prize than — than — I have." 
 
 "Perhaps I'm rather stupid, but I don't under- 
 stand you at all," said Don. 
 
 "The fact is this," she cried. "That fellow has 
 copied a great part of one of Choate 's orations. 
 Mr. Don, the DeCourtney prize is yours!" 
 
 "Let me see," he whispered. He was trembling, 
 and all the color had left his face. 
 
 Fay opened the volume, and together they looked 
 it over. There it was, passage after passage just 
 as they had heard it that afternoon. 
 
 "The idea," said Fay, "of supposing that a fellow 
 with that kind of a mustache — waxed on the ends 
 — could write like that ! I hope," she added, looking 
 perfectly magnificent, "that he hasn't got a sister 
 or a — a real nice girl friend to be mortified dead 
 ashamed of him, the scoundrel." 
 
 "Why, this is dreadful," said Donald. He was 
 thinking more of his rival's disgrace than of his own
 
 DONALD MARCY 191 
 
 triumph. "How — in — the world — did you ever 
 find it out? " he asked in an awed voice. He felt at 
 that moment that Fay's learning was positively 
 appalling. Think of it! A girl who knew more 
 than the faculty of the college and the DeCourtney 
 committee ! 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing," said Fay carelessly. "I 
 had a thesis on Rufus Choate, and I got crammed, 
 you know." 
 
 Then — what next? The same thought was in 
 both their minds — exposure! As they were walk- 
 ing back, all at once Don stopped short. 
 
 "I don't want to do it!" he cried. "I just can't 
 doit!" 
 
 She knew his meaning. 
 
 "I think you ought to do it, for the honor of the 
 college." 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "and dishonor myself! I tell 
 you, Miss Fay, nobody but a cad would stoop so low 
 to get a prize." 
 
 Fay was distressed as they argued the question. 
 
 "Well, what will you do?" 
 
 "I'll tell you," said Donald at length. "I'll go 
 straight to Hallowell himself. It's the only square 
 thing to do." 
 
 By an odd chance he found Hallowell alone. 
 Donald found it hard to introduce the subject. At 
 length he said: "I've got something to say, Hallo- 
 well, and I don't quite know how. Anyway, I may 
 as well tell you that I know all about it, and the 
 game is up!"
 
 19.' FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 It was difficult to say which of the boys was the 
 paler at that moment. 
 
 "I don't understand you!" 
 
 "Oh, come, don't be a fool. I tell you I know 
 everything." 
 
 "What do you know, please? Be kind enough to 
 explain." 
 
 ' ' I know that it was not Tom Hallowell who won 
 the DeCourtney to-day," said Don in a low voice. 
 
 ' ' And who, then ? Donald Marcy ? ' ' 
 
 "It was Rufus Choate, sir." 
 
 It was astounding to see how the fellow tried to 
 brazen it out. He seemed to think it might be Don's 
 clever guess, after all. 
 
 "Well," he said, but his voice trembled, "your 
 proofs." 
 
 "I read Rufus Choate's address at five this after- 
 noon in the college library." 
 
 "How did you find it out? Somebody told you. 
 You are not familiar with such books." 
 
 "Yes, somebody told me." 
 
 "Who told you? How many know about it? 
 All over college, is it?" 
 
 "I assure you, Hallowell, I have not told a soul, 
 but I came straight to you. And the — the person 
 who told me will not tell." 
 
 "Marcy!" exclaimed the other, looking keenly at 
 him, "I know! It's a woman!" and he brought his 
 fist down heavily on the table. "If it's a woman, 
 he'll tell." 
 
 "^here was a long silence.
 
 DONALD MARCY 193 
 
 "Marcy, it's all up with me. I'm disgraced. 
 I'm ruined for life." 
 
 The proud, handsome fellow groaned, and hid his 
 face. He was the picture of misery. The sight of 
 him went to Donald's heart. 
 
 "Hallowell," he said, "I won't tell, and she will 
 not if I ask her not to. So cheer up! You've had 
 your lesson, and I know you wouldn't do such a 
 thing again." 
 
 "Do you really mean, Marcy, that you would 
 give up the DeCourtney just to save a fellow from 
 disgrace? Why, man, it's yours, you know, if you 
 claim it." 
 
 "Hallowell, I want it very much, but I've made 
 up my mind that I don't want it at the expense 
 of telling on a classmate. So that's settled, once 
 for all." 
 
 "Marcy, you're a good fellow. I don't deserve 
 it. Before God, if I ever get well out of this I'll 
 never be caught in such a scrape again." 
 
 "Well, I guess there's nothing more to say," said 
 Don slowly. ' ' I think I '11 be going. ' ' 
 
 When he returned to Fay he found a state of high 
 excitement. Her brother was mad as a March hare. 
 Dr. Fleet, pale and stern, was seated, writing a note. 
 Fay came to Donald instantly, 
 
 ' ' Donald, I had to tell my father. I have n't told 
 another soul. But I knew you'd let me tell him. 
 Are you angry with me?" 
 
 "I am sorry," said Don. How could he be angry 
 with Fay? He stood quite still, looking upon them
 
 IQ4 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 all, his face ennobled by a high and beautiful ex- 
 pression. Tve seen Hallowell," he said quietly, 
 "and told him I wouldn't tell." 
 
 "Now look here, Don," said James, "you just 
 leave it with father. He is older and wiser, and will 
 know what to do. He will see the president — " 
 
 "No, sir,'' said Donald, "that will never do. 
 This is my afTair." 
 
 "No, no, Donald! No, no! It is not your affair," 
 exclaimed Dr. Fleet, suddenly rising with a force 
 that upset his chair. "It is the aflair of the college 
 and the alumni. See here, sir," Dr. Fleet drew his 
 form to its full height, and his scholarly face was 
 aglow, "I am an alumnus of this college, sir. And 
 what is more, I won the DeCourtney myself thirty 
 years ago. Do you suppose I am going to stand by 
 and see it dishonored, to say nothing of the college? 
 No, sir!" 
 
 As Dr. Fleet walked rapidly toward the president's 
 house, turning a street corner he came suddenly 
 upon the president himself. 
 
 "I was on my way to tell you — "exclaimed 
 Dr. Fleet. 
 
 "I know it," interrupted the president, "and I 
 was just coming to tell you." 
 
 "How in the world — how did you hear about it?" 
 
 "Hallowell has confessed. He came to my house 
 an hour ago, confessed the whole business, and is 
 on his way home by the night express. I have 
 made it known," continued the president. "It will 
 be all over the university in half an hour. I believe
 
 DONALD MARCY 195 
 
 I '11 go with you and congratulate Marcy. I shouldn't 
 object to arriving there before the committee." 
 
 "There, Miss Fay, there's your father coming," 
 said Donald, looking out of the window. "And, I 
 declare, Prexy is with him!" 
 
 Three minutes later her father was presenting 
 the president, 
 
 "So this is the young lady who has detected the 
 college in a literary blunder," smiled the presi- 
 dent, with a very low bow. "I am honored, Miss 
 Fleet. And you, sir," turning to Donald, "I came 
 to congratulate you on winning the DeCourtney 
 prize. You did yourself credit, sir, to-day. You did 
 good work, and you deserve it." 
 
 "Thank you very much, sir," said Donald mod- 
 estly, "but I wasn't going to tell." 
 
 "You didn't tell. A Higher Power looks after 
 such things, and has saved the honor of the college. 
 I think," added the president, with one keen eye on 
 the street, "that I see the committee coming. I 
 don't know that I envy them," he murmured, 
 smiling. 
 
 That committee — well, they made the best of a 
 bad business. When they had explained their 
 errand, which they did as if they were in a hurry to 
 get through, the chairman made the official announce- 
 ment to Donald. 
 
 "Owing to the fact that your competitor, by the 
 
 dishonest use of material — a piece of deception 
 
 which was not detected by the committee of award 
 
 nor by the college authorities" — he glanced grimly 
 
 13
 
 196 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 at the president — "owing to the fact, I say, that 
 your competitor is debarred, to you, Mr. Marcy, is 
 hereby awarded the DeCourtney prize." 
 
 As Donald received the medal and the one hun- 
 dred dollar gold piece he heard Fay suffocating with 
 stifled merriment behind him. 
 
 "The young lady seems amused," growled the 
 chairman, growing red in the face. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon!" she cried in the midst 
 of her mirth. "But I just can't help it! I can't 
 help laughing! It's so — so — so funny!" 
 
 This was the one thing needed to relieve the 
 tension of the situation. The president joined her, 
 laughing right heartily. 
 
 "We're all in the same box, gentlemen," he said. 
 "This young lady has the laugh on us, and I think 
 she is entitled to whatever fun she can get out of 
 the situation," which they were forced to agree was 
 a very sensible view. 
 
 When the truth became known, the college boys 
 came for Donald, a great crowd of them. It was a 
 serenade to be long remembered. They sang the 
 DeCourtney song, as only college boys can sing. 
 And then, slowly and sweetly, to the classic air of 
 "Nelly was a Lady," they recounted the memorable 
 fact that it was a lady who read Rufus and took the 
 trick, to the undying honor of the college. 
 
 They were all there, Donald's loyal friends, 
 Trouncey McGrian of course among them, his big, 
 honest soul as full as it could hold. There were 
 members of the distinguished Senior Literary Society
 
 DONALD MARCY 197 
 
 to which Donald himself aspired, and some of the 
 professors too ! There they all were, a great tumul- 
 tuous crowd massed on the green before Donald's 
 windows. And when they had serenaded to their 
 heart's content, of course there were calls for Donald. 
 
 Out he came, and there he stood before them in 
 all his manly grace, tossing back his curls with his 
 fine, strong hand. His eyes flashed out over the 
 boys. Who would have thought that a fellow had 
 so many friends! Behind him, forming a back- 
 ground, stood Dr. Fleet, the committee of award, 
 and the president of the college. It was the proudest 
 moment of Donald Marcy's young life. He stood 
 very modestly, something misty gathering in his 
 bright eyes. Why was it, pray, that he felt so 
 deeply touched by this demonstration? He took a 
 step forward. 
 
 "Boys, I can't make a speech, but I do want to 
 thank you for your good wishes. Of course it is 
 this peculiar situation that has brought you here 
 to-night. We all love fair play, and the manly 
 spirit, and the honor of the college, and we are all 
 glad to say so. With all my heart I thank you, 
 fellows, one and all. And now, three cheers for the 
 college! " And they cheered till the night rang again. 
 
 "Mr. Don," said Fay in a whisper just behind 
 him, "you ought to be perfectly happy." 
 
 Donald had turned his handsome head to look at 
 her, when suddenly a new cry arose. They all knew 
 the story of the Smith College girl and the hand she 
 had taken in the affair. They knew as well as they
 
 iqs figures famed in fiction 
 
 cared to know that she was in that room, very much 
 protected by her father and her brother and the 
 president and the committee, and they did not 
 propose to let her ofif altogether. Vigorously the 
 cry arose: 
 
 "The young lady! The young lady! Three 
 cheers for the girl graduate! Three cheers for the 
 girl who cleaned out the committee! Three cheers 
 for Smith College!" 
 
 Fay blushed divinely and shrank quite out of 
 sight behind her brother, who held her proudly. 
 Donald, who could not touch her, looked at her 
 through a mist in his young eyes, blind with love 
 and delight and adoration. 
 
 "I think," said her brother, "you might as well 
 let them see you. The fellows mean all right. In- 
 deed, it's awfully nice of them. And I am here, 
 and father, and you are where you belong." 
 
 And so, just for a moment, there flashed before 
 them the swift vision of a modest girl leaning, blush- 
 ing, on her brother's arm, and then, fluttering and 
 frightened, she hid in the big chair behind the pres- 
 ident and the committee, while the cheering outdid 
 all that had gone before. 
 
 What a day it had been ! And what a magnificent, 
 triumphant ending! How it lived in the memories 
 of those young souls through many, many years! 
 Little did they know what was immediately before 
 them, and there is not the time for me to tell — how 
 the crash in Wall Street came almost at the very 
 hour when the college boys were cheering; how the
 
 DONALD MARCY 199 
 
 gay Donald Marcy, summoned home to New York, 
 found not only his father's fortune wrecked, but his 
 father taken suddenly from him by death and 
 himself thrown entirely upon his own resources. 
 
 After a time he paid one more visit to the little 
 town in the Vermont hills. 
 
 "I had to come!" he said to Fay. "Somehow I 
 felt that I must see you just once." 
 
 In the afternoon he asked her if she felt like 
 walking in the garden with him. She was charming 
 that day — simply charming. There is no better 
 or more womanly word to express the kind of sweet- 
 ness, of delightfulness, that belongs to a girl like 
 Fay. She was so quiet — in deference to Don's sor- 
 row — yet she was so cheerful, to put him at his ease; 
 she was so modest, yet so frank and friendly; she 
 had such girlish cheeks and yet such deep, intelligent 
 eyes; she laughed so, and yet she looked so. Donald 
 felt as if he were caught in an undertow of loveliness. 
 and carried off his feet. He had never seen her in 
 the halo of summer robes before, and she was divine 
 in her filmy white gown. 
 
 She sat down, and Don threw himself upon the 
 grass at her feet, and looked up at her with the sun- 
 light flickering through the apple trees upon his 
 face. It had grown older, that handsome face ; five 
 years older since Fay saw it last, five weeks before. 
 
 "Now," she said in her decided voice, "tell me 
 all about it." 
 
 "Well, Miss Fay, it is just as I wrote you, only 
 worse. Father didn't leave a cent of all his fortune.
 
 200 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 It's all gone! I'm just as poor as any bootblack." 
 
 *' You \\TOte me of your uncle," said Fay. "Why 
 doesn't he do something for you'" 
 
 "Oh, he has offered me a place on the paper as a 
 night reporter. If I am extraordinarily successful 
 I may make two or three hundred dollars a year!" 
 
 "Well, that is a beginning," said Fay hopefully. 
 "Perhaps your uncle means to test you; how do 
 you know? How do you know but that you will 
 be writing editorials on state questions in the course 
 of a few years?" 
 
 "Well, you are a good, sensible, cheerful girl, any- 
 how," said Don. "I feel better already for listening 
 to you. If I ever amount to anything it will all be 
 owing to you, you know." 
 
 "Oh, no!" cried Fay. 
 
 "Oh, don't you see?" exclaimed Donald, suddenly 
 springing up an4 standing before her. "Don't you 
 see why I'm so terribly cut up? Don't you see it's 
 all because, because — " 
 
 "Oh, don't!" she cried, blushing. 
 
 "Well, I won't if you don't want me to," and 
 then there came a dead pause and a long silence. 
 
 Fay cast down her eyes, and her breath came a 
 little short. 
 
 "I — didn't say I — didn't ii'ant you to — " she 
 admitted in a thrilling whisper. 
 
 Oh, then the boy was at her feet! Then his full 
 young heart foimd voice. He told her how he loved 
 her, how he loved her, how he had dreamed of her; 
 and now how the long years stretched away so
 
 DONALD MARCY 201 
 
 dreary, and how unmanly he felt it was to ask such 
 a girl to wait for him. 
 
 "Why, you could marry anybody!" he cried in 
 mingled rapture and despair. 
 
 "I can wait and I can help," she suggested softly. 
 
 Donald suddenly realized the great thing that had 
 come to him. 
 
 "Oh, kiss me. Fay," he said in a low, awed voice. 
 
 He kneeled before her as if she had been the saint 
 of his young life, and she touched her lips to his 
 bared forehead. 
 
 "Would you wait for me. Fay? Would you 
 really? Is that what you meant to say?" 
 
 "Donald, dear, I would wait for you all my life," 
 was her answer.
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 
 
 T T was at the little Isle of Borva in the Hebrides, 
 -^ five hundred miles north from London. Two 
 men from the city were approaching it in a boat 
 from the Isle of Lewis, where they had landed from 
 the steamer. One of them, Edward Ingram, was 
 a clear-headed, quiet man of forty years; the 
 other, Frank Lavender, a young artist with the 
 romance of his youth upon him. The older man 
 had passed his vacation seasons here before; the 
 other was on his first visit. 
 
 "Do you know, Ingram," said Frank, "that I am 
 just dying to see this Highland princess of yours 
 whom I have heard so much about. For ages 
 back you have talked of nothing but Sheila Mac- 
 kenzie. In the club and out camping and travel- 
 ing — everywhere — it has been descriptions of her, 
 stories of her, praises of her. And there arc so 
 many opposite and contradictory perfections. She 
 is romantic and susceptible, and then, again, she is 
 practical in a hundred useful ways. Or, she is shy 
 and quiet and looks unutterable things with her 
 soft and magnificent eyes, and then again, she can 
 sail a boat or play her sixteen-pound salmon in a 
 way that would put us all to shame. You say they 
 call her grand old father King of Borva, and so, of 
 course, she is a princess, and I must say you talk 
 as if she were one."
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 203 
 
 The other smiled indulgently. Soon he pointed 
 to a long, low line of rock and hill. 
 
 "There is Borva." 
 
 They spied a smaller boat rounding the point 
 from Borvabost. One of the old boatmen regarded 
 her with his eagle eye. 
 
 "Yes, it iss Miss Sheila." 
 
 The boat from the Lewis came in first, and 
 Lavender watched the princess in her boat as she 
 sailed it gracefully in. He was ready — half artist, 
 half poet, and wholly romantic — to see a mermaid 
 and a princess in one. He made out that she had 
 an abundance of dark hair, looped up ; that she wore 
 a small straw hat with a short white feather in it; 
 that her costume was a rough and closely fitting 
 one of dark blue, a narrow red band about her neck. 
 Laughing and blushing, she stepped on shore and 
 approaching Ingram, without a word she gave him 
 both her hands in welcome. It was a face at once 
 strong and fine, the head well poised, the form well 
 knit and athletic. The gray-blue eyes under their 
 long, black lashes were perfectly honest. In the 
 low, sweet brow, the short and exquisitely curved 
 upper lip, and the deep light of the blue eyes there 
 was singular suggestion of sensitiveness and meek- 
 ness. But somehow the face also impressed one 
 as indicating a large reserve of strength and pride 
 and Highland fire. 
 
 "Well, Sheila, you haven't quite forgotten me? 
 And you are grown such a woman now! I must n't 
 call you 'Sheila' any more. But let me introduce
 
 204 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 my friend, who has come all the way from London 
 to see this wonderful land of Borva." 
 
 If there was any embarrassment during that simple 
 ceremony it was not on the part of the Highland girl; 
 for she shook hands frankly with him and said : 
 
 "And are you ferry well?" 
 
 And there was her father; no wonder they called 
 him King of Borva! His heavy, square, command- 
 ing frame and big, gray beard, aquiline nose, and 
 eagle eyes set him apart as one man of a thousand. 
 He was sometimes seen in the distant town of 
 Stornaway on the Isle of Lewis, the city of the region, 
 the calling-port of the Glasgow steamers; and the 
 children playing within the shelter of the cottage 
 doors called to one another in whispers and said: 
 
 "That is the King of Borva!" 
 
 "Now, Sheila," said Ingram as they walked on 
 together, "tell me all about yourself. What are 
 you doing? How are your schools getting on, and 
 have you bribed or frightened the children into 
 giving up the Gaelic yet? And how are your poor 
 people at Borvabost? And have you caught any 
 more wild ducks and tamed them? And are there 
 any gray geese up at Loch-an-Eilean ? " 
 
 "Oh, that is too much at once," said Sheila, 
 laughing. Adding after a little, "I am afraid your 
 friend will find Borva very lonely and dull. All 
 the lads are away at Caithness, fishing." 
 
 But they now approached the house. It was large 
 and of dark, rude stonework, the most pretentious 
 on the island.
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 205 
 
 After dinner they sat outside while the northern 
 night began to fall. How strange it was in these 
 high latitudes — a night which was twilight all 
 through. The sea, and the mountains, and the 
 clear air like wine, and this mysterious land! And 
 here was the King of Borva, with his daughter the 
 princess, herself the romantic incarnation of all the 
 mystery. 
 
 "By Jove, Ingram," said Lavender that night, 
 the light of enthusiasm on his handsome face, 
 "what a princess she is, and what a royal way she 
 has, how frank and sincere! And what a voice 
 and intonation! To hear her say ' Styornaway ' ! 
 And then those softened consonants — how quaint 
 and pleasing — and that bewitching future tense. 
 'And iss it about Styornaway you will wish to ask?' 
 she said." "Now look here, Frank," said the other, 
 "for heaven's sake don't begin with your imagina- 
 tive nonsense. They are honest, practical, sensible 
 people here. But you! Fancy and poetry and 
 whatnot just fly away with you. But I don't mind 
 telling you that if you are friendly and straight- 
 forward with Sheila, and treat her like a human 
 being instead of trying to envelop her in a cloud of 
 romance and sentiment, she will teach you more 
 than you could learn in a hundred drawing rooms in 
 a thousand years," 
 
 But the young man never took the advice. Im- 
 pelled by his temperament, by his artist's habit of 
 daydreaming, by the weird northern land with its 
 dim legends — it was inevitable — he made this child
 
 2o6 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 of nature a figure in the wildest romance. In the 
 house that evening there sat the King of Borva, 
 and his daughter the princess had the glamour of 
 a hundred legends dwelling in her beautiful eyes. 
 And when she sang "The Wail of Dunevegan," 
 "The Farewell to Mackrimmon," and "Lochaber 
 no more," simple, sad songs of the northern sea — it 
 was the voice of romance itself. One evening they 
 all went down to Borvabost. And lo! he found 
 himself walking with a princess in this wonderland, 
 through the magic twilight of its northern clime, 
 and she talking with him lightly and frankly with 
 her silvery voice and the softened consonants. It 
 was all like the enchantment of a dream. Or, on 
 that night when she — with the tall keeper Duncan — 
 took him in her boat round the point to Borvabost; 
 then home again in the evening with the moon in 
 the clear sky over the liquid plain of Loch Roag 
 with its pathway of yellow fire that quivered in the 
 deeper shades of violet, while off to the west were 
 the gray shoulders of the mountains, clear and sharp 
 in the northern twilight. It was enchantment 
 itself, and the wonderful princess was glorified in 
 its light. 
 
 To be sure, he had to confess that she would 
 persist in talking in a very matter-of-fact way. While 
 he was weaving a luminous web of imagination 
 around her, she was continually cutting it asunder 
 and telling him of her schools, of her plans for the 
 poor people — how to improve their dismal homes 
 and brighten up their lives. And yet the romance
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 207 
 
 refused to vanish. To live forever in this magic 
 land, to sail with this sea-princess, attended only 
 by her great deer hound and the faithful Duncan, 
 over the moonlit waters, under the shadow of the 
 great hills, in the calm of this beautiful and distant 
 solitude, forgetting the nightmare of godless and 
 artificial London — might there not be possible 
 something of a nobler life? And then, some day 
 or other he would take this island princess down to 
 London, and he would bid the women that he 
 knew — the scheming mothers and frivolous daugh- 
 ters — stand aside from before this perfect work of 
 God. She would carry the mystery of the sea in 
 the depths of her eyes, and the music of the far hills 
 would be heard in her voice, and all the sweetness 
 and brightness of the clear summer skies would be 
 mirrored in her innocent soul. What a sensation 
 would the Princess of Borva create in the London 
 drawing rooms ! Would not every one wish to know 
 her? How they would listen to her singing of those 
 Gaelic songs! And would not all his artist friends 
 be anxious to paint her? And when she went down 
 to the Academy, how every one would remark the 
 failure of the canvas to catch the light and dignity 
 and sweetness of her face ! 
 
 Now we cannot pause to dwell upon her real 
 worth. Distorted though she was in the artist's 
 imagination, she yet really surpassed his concep- 
 tion. With a sound mind and a pure life, she 
 possessed a heart of gold, unselfish, brave, and ut- 
 terly true. Her simple frankness and self-possession
 
 2oS FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 — the strangeness of it almost baffled him. Frank 
 Lavender confessed to himself that Sheila Mac- 
 kenzie was either a miracle of ingenuousness or a 
 thorough mistress in the art of assuming it. On 
 the one hand, he considered it almost impossible 
 for a woman to be so ingenuous. On the other 
 hand, how could this girl have taught herself, in 
 the solitude of this northern island, a species of 
 histrionicism which ladies in London social circles 
 strove for years to acquire, and rarely acquired 
 in any perfection? 
 
 The result of this romantic acquaintance was what 
 might have been expected. But when the young 
 man informed his friend that he intended to make 
 Sheila Mackenzie his wife, if that were possible, he 
 received a lecture on the folly of it ; a piece of advice 
 very plain and very sensible. 
 
 "I tell you, my dear Frank, you know nothing 
 about her as yet, and if you marry her you will be 
 disappointed — not through her fault, but your own. 
 Why, a more preposterous notion never entered a 
 man's head. She knows nothing of your friends 
 or of your ways of life; and if she does not succeed 
 in conforming to the elaborate conventions of your 
 social circle — then what? Why, you will be in a 
 state of mind, and she will make herself miserable 
 in trying to please you, and the whole thing will end 
 in pitiable failure. So, now, do give up your mad 
 notion, like a sensible fellow." 
 
 But no; romantic infatuation had its way. And, 
 to do the young man justice, he seemed to have
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 209 
 
 some glimmer of good sense in the method of his 
 suit. He told her one day, very simply, that he 
 had a request to make of her, a very little one. She 
 knew so little of him that he had no right to ask her 
 much, but would she, at some distant, future day 
 let him come and ask her to be his wife? 
 
 It was a little thing, it committed her to nothing, 
 and, meanwhile, if she felt that she must, she could 
 write him that he must not come. Even so, she 
 was troubled, wishing to be simply his friend, 
 dreading anything that would make his visits 
 impossible in the future, regretting that his disturb- 
 ing question had ever intruded. To live with her 
 father always — his only child and only companion — 
 was her one desire. To his question, might he not 
 come and ask her at some distant day, she only 
 said, "Perhaps," giving him a long, troubled look 
 out of her deep eyes. 
 
 Vacation at length was over; the stay of the 
 visitors came to an end, and the morning came 
 when Sheila and her father bade them good-by 
 on the deck of the steamer at Stornaway. On 
 the journey home the younger man could talk of 
 nothing but romance, while the other sought to 
 supply the corrective. 
 
 ' ' I want to tell you frankly, my friend, that with 
 all your high-flown notions you have no idea of 
 what you have possibly won. You do not know 
 the magnificent single-heartedness of that girl, 
 her keen sense of honor, her self-reliance, and how 
 true she is to her friends. If you know how to
 
 210 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 value such a treasure there is not a king in all Europe 
 who should not envy you ! The character, the mind, 
 the wisdom that lie beneath her simplicity! Why, 
 I have known Sheila now — but what's the use of 
 talking?" 
 
 Well, six months later, although it was winter, 
 Lavender made the journey to the northern isles. 
 And on the steamer's dock at Stornaway there 
 stood old Mackenzie, stamping up and down in 
 the snow. And that other figure near him! Surely 
 there was something about the graceful form, the 
 white feather, the set of the head that he knew! 
 
 "Why, Sheila," he cried, jumping ashore before 
 the gangway plank was laid, "whatever made you 
 come over to Stornaway on such a winter day?" 
 
 "And it iss not much, my coming to Styornaway, 
 if you will come up all the way from England," 
 she said, looking up with her bright and glad eyes. 
 
 "Aye! aye!" said Mackenzie. "It wass a piece 
 of foolishness, her coming over to meet you in 
 Styornaway; but the girl will be neither to hold 
 nor to bind when she teks a foolishness into her 
 head." 
 
 And then the pleasant days and evenings, even 
 although it was winter and in the north. For it 
 did not take very long to explain things, you know. 
 And it was settled that some time in the spring 
 the young artist was to come and claim his bride, 
 and bear her away from her northern home. But 
 not to stay all the year through. Oh, no! They 
 would come for long sojourns in the Lewis, and the
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 211 
 
 painter would immortalize the glorious Northern 
 Isles, and his sea-princess should be proud of him, 
 and should be happy in not being a perpetual exile 
 from her native shores. 
 
 The coming of the springtime brought another 
 journey from London. The wedding ceremony was 
 in Stornaway, the good-by, so hard to say, was over, 
 and the young bride sailed away for her southern 
 home, to enter the new and untried life. 
 
 But the world of wonder ! The strange, new world 
 of London ! The enormous houses, the hurry of the 
 people, the deafening noises! 
 
 "You are in a trance. Sheila," said her husband 
 as they were driven through the streets; and she 
 did not answer. 
 
 And this was her home! This section of a bar- 
 rack-row of dwellings, all alike in steps, pillars, 
 doors, and windows! The servant opened the door 
 politely, and Lavender hurried his wife up the 
 stairs, fearing she would shake hands with the girl 
 and say, "And you are ferry well?" 
 
 As soon as they were fairly settled they received 
 a visit from Ingram. The delight with which he 
 was received! The questions he had to ask about 
 the islands and all the old friends there! 
 
 "Just wait, now, till I will get a little lunch for 
 you," said the young wife. 
 
 "Sheila, you can ring for it," said her husband; 
 
 but she had already gone. Returning, she placed 
 
 a small table close by the large window, drew back 
 
 the curtains as far as they would go, and wheeled 
 
 14
 
 212 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 three low easy-chairs into place. Her husband 
 was inwardly disquieted. If she had only been 
 taught the necessity of cultivating the art of help- 
 lessness! But perhaps that, with other social 
 graces, would come in due time. And yet his eyes 
 were not quite blinded to the simple grace and dig- 
 nity with which she served them. 
 
 "You see we are not in society yet," said Lavender. 
 Sheila had left the room for a moment on some 
 errand. "No one is supposed to know we have 
 come to London. I must get Sheila dressed prop- 
 erly, you know, before I can introduce her to my 
 friends." 
 
 The other began to smile contemptuously. 
 
 "Why, of course you wouldn't have her wear 
 those things she brought from the Lewis, would 
 you?" 
 
 "That is precisely what I would have," said 
 Ingram. "She couldn't possibly look better in 
 anything else." 
 
 "Why," said the young man, "my friends would 
 think I had married a savage." 
 
 And now began the work of getting ready for 
 that awful thing, "Society!" Time was, indeed, 
 when the young man used to picture to himself 
 those scenes when the wonderful sea-princess would 
 enter crowded drawing rooms and create such a 
 sensation. How people would gaze at her admir- 
 ingly, and talk in undertones of suppressed enthu- 
 siasm; beautiful creature from the strange northern 
 land! And the anticipation of it all had been a
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 213 
 
 kind of intoxication. And yet he already found 
 himself secretly wishing she were more like the 
 women he knew; and to aid in this desired consum- 
 mation he was invoking the art of the dressmaker 
 and the milliner, regardless of expense. 
 
 Her peculiarities of speech also disturbed him. 
 The time was when he had earnestly assured her 
 that the speech of English folk was as the croaking of 
 the raven compared with the sweet tones and delight- 
 ful pronunciation of the northern isles. But now — 
 
 "Sheila," said he, as they were preparing to 
 attend their first dinner party, "why do you say 
 'like-a-ness'? There are only two syllables in 
 ' likeness. ' It really does sound absurd to hear you. ' ' 
 
 She looked up to him with a quick trouble in her 
 eyes. Then she cast them down and said submis- 
 sively : 
 
 "I will try not to speak like that. When you go 
 out I take a book and read aloud, and try to speak 
 like you. But I cannot learn all at once." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind; but you know other people 
 must think it so odd. I wonder why you should 
 always say 'gyarden' for 'garden' and 'Styorn- 
 away' for 'Stornaway,' when it is just as easy to 
 speak them right." 
 
 She did not remind him that once he had singled 
 out these very words as delightful in their softened 
 sound when she uttered them. She only said, in 
 the same simple fashion : 
 
 "If you will tell me my faults, dear, I will try to 
 correct them."
 
 214 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Oh, it will all come right at last," he replied. 
 "If you should startle or puzzle the ladies a little 
 at first by talking of salmon fishing or the catching 
 of wild ducks or the reclaiming of bogland, you will 
 soon get over all that." 
 
 She said nothing; but she made mental note of 
 the things she was not to talk about, and the words 
 she must not mispronounce. 
 
 "Now when we are at this soiree," he continued, 
 "above all things mind you take no notice of me. 
 Another man will take you in to dinner, of course. 
 I shall take in somebody else, and we shall not be 
 near each other. But it's after dinner, I mean — • 
 when we are in the drawing room. Don't you come 
 up to me or take any notice of me whatever." 
 
 "Mayn't I look at you, Frank?" 
 
 "Why, if you do, you'll have half a dozen people 
 all watching you, saying to themselves, 'Poor thing, 
 she hasn't got over her infatuation yet,' and so on." 
 
 "But I shouldn't mind them saying that," she 
 said with a smile. 
 
 "Oh, well, dear, it wouldn't do, you know." 
 
 The dinner was of the usual formal kind, where 
 people make believe they enjoy themselves. Sheila 
 made no fatal blunders, but she certainly created no 
 sensation. Lavender had to acknowledge to himself 
 that she was just like anybody else in the drawing 
 room, forgetting that he had been teaching her to 
 conform to the dress and customs of the people about 
 her so that she might avoid singularity. Where
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 215 
 
 was the social triumph he had imagined? He had 
 to confess to a certain sense of failure. 
 
 And there is little need to say that the High- 
 land girl found it exceedingly tiresome. What 
 with observing all the proprieties so new to her, 
 and the subjects of conversation to be avoided, and 
 the difficulties of pronunciation — it was a strain 
 upon her day after day which, to say the least, did 
 not minister to happiness. 
 
 "Sheila," said her husband one day, "it is really 
 too bad — do you know whom I found in the hall 
 when I came home this afternoon? Why, it was 
 that wretched hag who keeps the fruit stall. Sup- 
 pose I had brought any one home to dinner." 
 
 "She is a poor old woman," said Sheila humbly. 
 
 ' ' But what must the servants think of you ! They 
 say you had her whole family in the kitchen to 
 supper last night. Do not make yourself ridiculous, 
 I pray." 
 
 She hesitated a moment, as if she did not under- 
 stand. And then she said, with a touch of indig- 
 nation about the beautiful Hps, "And if I make 
 myself ridiculous by attending to poor people, it 
 is not my husband should tell me so," and going 
 up to her room, unable to restrain herself, she burst 
 into tears. 
 
 Her heart was bitter, not against him, but against 
 the false and conventional social life which so held 
 him in its power and made him so different from 
 his real self. And then she thought of the old and 
 beautiful days up in the Lewis, when he so approved
 
 210 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 of her siniple ways and her charitable work. What 
 had happened? There was no great gulf of time 
 since then. She had not changed; she loved her 
 husband with her whole heart and soul. But all 
 about her was changed. She was in a new world, 
 and surely not a better one. And a great yearning 
 arose within her to go back to her own land. Her 
 heart was breaking w4th thought of the sea and the 
 hills, and the rude and sweet and simple ways of the 
 dear old life she had left behind her. 
 
 "Do you know. Sheila," said her husband one 
 day, "it occurs to me you are not quite comfortable 
 here. You seem to have a perverse fancy that you 
 are different from the people you meet; that you 
 cannot be like them, and all that sort of thing. Now 
 it will be all right if only you will take a little trouble. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, Frank," she said, going over and putting 
 her hand on his shoulder, "I cannot be like these 
 people ; it is no use that I will try. But if you could 
 only be like what you used to be ! Up in the Lewis 
 you were yourself, and I am sure you were happier." 
 
 And yet she was so loyal! Any slight put upon 
 her husband would strike the Highland fire in her 
 eyes. When she was introduced to his eccentric 
 aunt, the latter questioned her as to why she left 
 her northern home. 
 
 "Because my husband wished me." 
 
 "Oh, you think your husband should be the first 
 law of your life?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 "Even when he is only silly Frank Lavender?"
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 217 
 
 Sheila rose. Her lips quivered, and her proud 
 eyes flashed with indignation. 
 
 "What you may say of me, that I do not care. 
 But if you will insult my husband — " 
 
 "Well, well! You are a little mad, but you are a 
 good girl, and I want to be friends with you. You 
 have in you the spirit of a dozen Frank Lavenders." 
 
 "You will never make friends with me by speak- 
 ing ill of my husband," said she, with the fire still 
 in her eyes. 
 
 They were conversing one day, Sheila and her 
 old friend Ingram. He had his suspicions of the 
 trouble in her life, and was wondering whether he 
 could help her. 
 
 "Sheila," he said, in his old, paternal way, "I 
 know you'll think me impertinent, but you do know 
 I am your friend. Now I am sure there is something 
 wrong, and I cannot help wishing you would be 
 frank with me and tell me what it is." 
 
 She was grateful in her inmost heart; she trusted 
 this man as she would have trusted her own father; 
 and yet she hesitated. How could she do it! And 
 yet, he might be able to help her. So she told the 
 whole sad story, putting the most favorable con- 
 struction upon every act of her husband, and pro- 
 testing that her love for him was still unchanged. 
 The situation, as it appeared to her listener, was 
 alarming, for he knew the latent force of character 
 that underlay all her submissive gentleness. He 
 knew the keen sense of pride her Highland birth 
 had given her. And he feared what might happen
 
 2iS FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 if this sensitive, proud heart of hers should be driven 
 to the Hmit of its endurance. Still, he put on a 
 bright face, said no word against her husband, and 
 told her to cheer up, promising to do whatever he 
 was able. 
 
 "Look here, Lavender," said he when they met, 
 "it is an awkward thing for one to interfere between 
 husband and wife, I am well aware; he generally 
 gets more kicks than thanks. I am sure I do not 
 want to say anything uncalled for, but if I were you 
 I would try to see and to feel what your wife is 
 enduring these days." 
 
 As he went on in a guarded way, the younger 
 man lost all patience. 
 
 "Oh, so she has been complaining to you, has she, 
 appearing in the character of an injured wife? I 
 prefer that she should come to me instead of calling 
 in a third person to humor her whims and fancies." 
 
 The dark eyes of Edward Ingram blazed with a 
 quick fire, for a sneer at Sheila was worse than an 
 insult to himself. 
 
 "Whims and fancies!" said he. "Do you know 
 what you are talking about? Do you know that 
 while you are wasting your time in these confounded 
 tomfooleries of social life you are breaking the 
 heart of a girl who has not her equal in England? 
 Good heavens! I wonder sometimes how she has 
 endured — " 
 
 He checked himself; but the mischief was done. 
 They were not prudent words, but he could not un- 
 say them^
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 219 
 
 "Sheila," said her husband when he went home, 
 "I have something to ask of you. It is that you 
 will henceforth hold no communication with Mr. 
 Ingram." 
 
 It was the most cruel requirement he could have 
 laid upon her. It seemed like the cutting of the 
 last bond that reached back to the old times and the 
 unforgotten northern home. For a moment her 
 heart was in a tempest of surprise and doubt and 
 indignation. Then her superb self-control came to 
 her aid. She cast down her eyes and said meekly; 
 
 "Very well, dear." 
 
 He was surprised, and somewhat mortified. He 
 had expected something of protest, and then he 
 would air his grievances. As it was, he could say 
 nothing. 
 
 This kind of life could not continue indefinitely. 
 One day the crisis came. It was when Sheila's 
 cousin Mairi came on a visit from Borva. 
 
 "Who is in the house?" said Lavender, seeing 
 some wraps in the hall. "Have you asked some 
 washerwoman in to lunch?" 
 
 "It is Mairi come from Stornaway," said his wife. 
 "I was thinking you would be surprised to see her 
 when you came in." 
 
 "Look here, Sheila. I have asked some friends 
 to luncheon at two. I hope to goodness you don't 
 expect to bring her in, and have her sit at the table 
 with us." 
 
 "Mairi is my cousin," said Sheila quietly. 
 
 "Now, don't be ridiculous, Sheila. You know
 
 2 20 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 very well that she is nothing but a kitchen maid. 
 And if she is to be introduced to my friends and all 
 that, I say it is too bad." 
 
 "Do not fear," said his wife; "it shall not be that 
 she will annoy you. There will be luncheon for 
 your friends at two; but we will not trouble them — 
 Mairi and I — for if my relations are not fit to meet 
 them, I am not." 
 
 There w^as the perfect self-control again. There 
 was no passion in the quiet voice nor in the down- 
 cast eyes. But the crisis had come. The strong, 
 clear mind saw that the situation was untenable. 
 Within an hour after Lavender's departure his wife 
 and her Highland cousin had left the house together, 
 never to return. 
 
 The clock struck the midnight hour, and she did 
 not come. Frank Lavender began to realize that a 
 terrible thing had happened to him. 
 
 "Ingram," said he — for he went direct to his 
 friend — "you don't know anything about it? You 
 don't know where she has gone ? What am I to do, 
 Ingram? How am I to find her? Good God, don't 
 you understand what I tell you? It's past midnight, 
 and my poor girl may be wandering about the 
 streets." 
 
 ' ' Gone from your home ? ' ' said the other. ' ' What 
 made her do that?" 
 
 "I did. I have acted like a brute to her. You 
 needn't reproach me now; do that by and by all 
 you please, but just now tell me what to do. Help 
 me to find her. All I want is to see her for just
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 221 
 
 three minutes to tell her it was all a mistake, and 
 that she will never have to fear anything like that 
 again." 
 
 "Do you mean to say," said his friend slowly, 
 "that you fancy all this trouble is to be got over 
 that way? Do you know so little of Sheila as to 
 imagine that she has taken this step out of a momen- 
 tary caprice, and that a few words of apology and 
 promise will cause her to rescind it? You must be 
 crazed, Lavender; or else you are actually as ig- 
 norant of the nature of that girl as you were up in 
 the Highlands." 
 
 The young man sat ashamed and repentant. He 
 did not answer. 
 
 "Now, my friend, let me tell you something," 
 continued the other. "You remember the time 
 when I said that you should consider yourself more 
 fortunate than if you had been crowned an emperor? 
 You had won the noblest woman I ever knew. And 
 then, when she staked her faith in human nature 
 on you, and gave you all the treasures of hope and 
 reverence and love that lay in her pure, true soul — 
 good heavens! what have you done with these? 
 How you came to hold the treasure so lightly — well, 
 God only knows. The thing is inconceivable to me. 
 With your insane social ambitions you dragged her 
 into an artificial life that was — Frank, I have no 
 patience when I think of it ! The child did her dead 
 best to live this strange life, and failed, and I honor 
 her in the failure. And now you may rest assured 
 of this one thing: she has thought the matter
 
 222 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 through, and she is not going into that hfe again." 
 
 "But is there any hope of my getting her back? 
 That is the question." 
 
 "How do I know? If you have not already de- 
 stroyed her faith in you, there may be some hope. 
 I happen to know that some months since she be- 
 lieved in you, and laid all the blame at the door of 
 "Society" that so had you in its power, and believed 
 that if you could cut loose from it you would be 
 yourself again. Perhaps she was mistaken; I don't 
 say anything about it myself." 
 
 The terribly cool way in which the man talked 
 was frightful ; and he concluded by saying : 
 
 "I will find her if she is in London, but I should 
 advise you not to attempt to see her. If you should, 
 you could give her nothing but promises, and she 
 would very justly hold them to be of no value. 
 Perhaps she will never consent to see you again. I 
 do not know. But my suggestion to you is this; 
 that you actually begin to live a natural life, a life 
 of work and good sense and earnestness and freedom 
 from these accursed conventional shackles. And 
 then, when you are established in this new and 
 w^holesome life, perhaps — I do not know — perhaps 
 you can win Sheila Mackenzie over again. At least 
 you can try." 
 
 It was sound advice, and the young man followed 
 it. How he left London for the Scottish coast and 
 wrought in his artist's profession with a diligence, 
 an ambition, and a success that he never thought to 
 know, we cannot pause to tell. And how Ingram
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 223 
 
 found Sheila in London ; how she quietly and stead- 
 fastly refused to see her husband, saying only, 
 "Tell him I am well, and not to be anxious 
 about me"; how she returned to her home in the 
 Lewis, taking up the old life again — the life she 
 knew before her great happiness and her great 
 trouble came together — of all this there is not the 
 time to tell. 
 
 "Now, Lavender," said two or three of his friends 
 who had found him out, "what is the use of your 
 working so like all possessed every minute of your 
 life? On this desolate Scottish coast, too! Come 
 with us for an outing ! We are going on a little tour 
 among the northern islands." 
 
 And when they anchored off Borvabost — for 
 Lavender said to himself that he must see it at 
 least once more — "I say," said his artist friend 
 John Eyre (he called him "Johnnie," and, by the way, 
 he had told him his story), "I say, I am going ashore 
 and call on Mackenzie, and I '11 see what I can find 
 out, you know." 
 
 "And now what is this," said old Mackenzie as 
 they sat at supper, "what is this I see in the papers 
 about pictures painted' by a gentleman named 
 Lavender? Perhaps you hef seen the pictures?" 
 
 ' ' Well, I should think so ! " said Johnnie. ' ' Every- 
 body is talking of them." 
 
 There was a strange, proud look on Sheila's face. 
 Johnnie saw it. 
 
 "I know some folks who know the man," he said. 
 "Famous? He got eight hundred pounds for his
 
 224 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 last picture. And of all places to spend the winter 
 in, Jura is about the very — " 
 
 "Jura!" said Sheila quickly, and growing pale. 
 
 It was two hundred miles away, but it seemed so 
 near, compared with London. 
 
 That night Sheila dreamed that an angel of God 
 stood before her saying, "Are you a woman, and 
 yet slow to forgive? Has not the man you love 
 suffered enough? Have you no word of hope to 
 send him? What would become of us all if there 
 were no such thing as forgiveness?" 
 
 She woke, and slept again, and dreamed that she 
 went to the angel whom she had seen before, and 
 with her head bowed down she promised to forgive 
 and welcome and love the wanderer if only the 
 opportunity were given. 
 
 Lavender went ashore in the early morning. 
 Sheila, with her father, paid a visit to the yacht in 
 the harbor. And when, returning to the house, she 
 entered it alone, there sat her husband, his face 
 buried in his hands. He did not hear her light 
 footstep; and she stole silently in, knelt by his side, 
 and bowed her head upon his knee, saying simply, "I 
 beg for your forgiveness." 
 
 He started as if a spirit had touched him. 
 
 "Sheila," he said gently, "it is I who ought to be 
 there, and you know it. I have no right to ask for 
 your forgiveness yet. All I want is this ; if you will let 
 me come and see you just as before we were married, 
 and if you will give me the chance of winning your 
 consent over again. This is the only thing I ask."
 
 SHEILA MACKENZIE 225 
 
 "No," she said with streaming eyes, "no, not that, 
 not that at all! If we are to begin together a new 
 life, will you promise me never to say one word 
 about what is past — not a word — to shut it out 
 altogether — to forget it?" 
 
 He protested that he could not. But when he 
 saw the great love in her eyes he promised her what 
 she asked, hopeless of making any other or better 
 reparation. 
 
 And that evening was delightful, with the old- 
 time songs and stories, and the planning of the new 
 house at Borvabost that was to be. The music in 
 Sheila's voice, and the beautiful light in her eyes, 
 told of a new and a different life already begun. 
 She was now to the young husband not the wonder- 
 ful sea-princess, with dreams in her eyes and the 
 mystery about her of the night and the stars and 
 the sea. No; she was a woman with a heart of 
 gold; a wife, sweet and strong and loyal, the very 
 best of heaven's blessings. And he was as grateful 
 for it as a man could be.
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 
 
 TN the year of grace seventeen hundred eighty, 
 -■• a young man stood before the bar in the Old 
 Bailey, London, on trial for his life. He was a 
 Frenchman of about five and twenty, of distin- 
 guished bearing, with a sunburnt cheek and a dark 
 eye. The name under which he was arraigned was 
 Charles Darnay. The charge was treason; or, 
 more definitely, that of being a spy, coming and 
 going between Paris and London and doing infinite 
 damage to the cause of our Serene Lord, the King 
 of England. Among other witnesses the prosecution 
 brought forward a young woman. Leaning upon 
 her father's arm, her striking beauty and her evident 
 solicitude for the prisoner so impressed the spectators 
 that those who had no pity for him were touched by 
 her; and the whisper went about, "Who is she?" 
 
 She testified that five years before she was travel- 
 ing from Paris to London with her father, then an 
 invalid, and that the prisoner was attentive and kind 
 to them. "I hope," she added, bursting into tears, 
 "that I may not repay him by doing him harm 
 to-day." Under rigid questioning she testified that 
 the prisoner had told her that his mission was of a 
 delicate and difficult nature which made it necessary 
 for him to travel under an assumed name. 
 
 Another witness testified to the effect that the 
 prisoner had been seen in the Dover mail coach on 
 
 226
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 227 
 
 a certain night, and that he had got out and trav- 
 eled back some dozen miles to a point where he had 
 collected information. The prisoner's counsel was 
 cross-examining this last witness rather ineffec- 
 tually, when a young lawyer associated with the 
 defense who had been occupied with idly gazing 
 at the ceiling, wrote a little note and tossed it over 
 to him. Opening it and glancing at it, he looked 
 with great attention and curiosity at the prisoner. 
 
 "You say you are quite sure it was the prisoner?" 
 he asked the witness. 
 
 "Quite sure." 
 
 "Did you ever see anybody very like the pris- 
 oner?" 
 
 "Not so Hke that I could be mistaken." 
 
 "Look well upon that gentleman," pointing to 
 the lawyer who had thrown the note, "and then 
 look well upon the prisoner. What do you say?" 
 
 The resemblance was so striking that the witness 
 was confounded. The defense took full advantage 
 of it, and when at last the jury concluded its delib- 
 erations it returned a verdict of "Not guilty." 
 
 As the friends of Darnay came to congratulate 
 him, not the least interesting among them was the 
 witness whose evident sympathy had so touched 
 the hearts of the spectators. Miss Lucie Manette, 
 still leaning upon her father. Charles Darnay 
 kissed her hand fervently and gratefully. He had 
 been deeply moved by her solicitude for him — 
 albeit she had done little toward turning the tide 
 in his favor — and her joy in his deliverance was 
 16
 
 228 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 unmistakable. The young lawyer who bore the 
 strong resemblance to him also approached with 
 extended hand. 
 
 "My name is Carton, Mr. Darnay, Sydney Carton. 
 It is a strange chance that throws us together." 
 
 "I am deeply indebted to you, sir, and I thank 
 you," returned Darnay. 
 
 "I neither want any thanks nor merit any," 
 was the careless rejoinder. "By the way, Mr. 
 Darnay, how does it feel to be restored to life?' 
 
 "I am confused as yet, but certainly life is sweet." 
 
 "I can hardly agree with you," rejoined Carton 
 carelessly. "The greatest desire I have is to forget 
 that I belong to this terrestrial scheme." 
 
 "And may I ask w^hy?" said Darnay. 
 
 "Come with me, and I will tell you. Are you 
 not hungry?" 
 
 "I begin to think I am faint." 
 
 "Then why the devil don't you dine? Come; I 
 will show you where you may dine well." 
 
 "Now, then," said Carton when they were seated, 
 "as to why I find no pleasure in life. I am a failure, 
 sir. I am a disappointed drudge. I am likewise 
 a heavy drinker. I care for no man on earth, and 
 no man on earth cares for me." 
 
 "That is indeed much to be regretted. Might 
 you not have used your talents better?" 
 
 "Maybe so, Mr. Darnay; maybe not. Don't let 
 your sober face elate you, however. You have had 
 a glimpse of tragedy in your life, and you may have 
 another. Who can tell?"
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 229 
 
 What Sydney Carton had said of himself was quite 
 true. Endowed with unusual talent, he lacked 
 initiative, was the victim of drink in a time when 
 heavy drinking was the custom, and was the drudge 
 of a rising young lawyer who profited by employ- 
 ing him. Sometimes a fair vision rose before him 
 of honor, ambition, and success. But in a moment 
 it was gone, and the dead, hard reality environed 
 him. Sad spectacle for gods and men — a man of 
 the noblest possibilities, with such a blight upon 
 him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away! 
 
 As time went on, both these young men became 
 attracted by the charm of Lucie Manette. Both, 
 although in different ways, perceived the beauty of 
 her character and found pleasure in her society; 
 indeed, they met occasionally under her father's 
 roof and came to know each other well. Charles 
 Darnay confessed to himself that he had never heard 
 a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of Lucie's 
 compassionate voice in the courtroom; nay, that 
 he had loved her from the moment of her burst of 
 solicitude lest she bring harm to him who had been 
 kind to her and to her father. 
 
 It was the old, old story which has repeated 
 itself ever since the days when it was always summer 
 in Eden. With the delicate deference and courtesy 
 of a gentleman, he asked her father's leave to pay 
 his addresses. But while the fine old man admired 
 him and believed in him, yet there seemed to be 
 a something in his mind which was averse to the 
 young man's suit and which it was hard for him to
 
 230 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 overcome. He struggled with it in a most pathetic 
 way while Darnay, the embodiment of chivalry, 
 waited and hoped and persuasively urged his suit. 
 The situation was sufficiently tragic, and may be 
 partly understood by a glance at the life history of 
 the two men. 
 
 The doctor himself was a Frenchman. Some 
 twenty-five years before he had incurred the ill 
 will of certain nobles, was incarcerated in the infa- 
 mous Bastille, and there suffered a living death for 
 eighteen years. To be more specific, the Marquis 
 of Evremonde and his brother — aristocratic, over- 
 bearing, pitiless in their dealings with the peasantry, 
 their dependants — had outraged a lovely peasant 
 girl and brought her to her death. Her young 
 brother challenged and fought the marquis, and 
 fell. Dr. Manette, a rising young physician, was 
 called in each case, and came to be distrusted by 
 the two noblemen as one who knew too much ; hence 
 his seizure and long imprisonment. 
 
 Broken in health, a shadow of his former self, he 
 at length attained his freedom, to find that his 
 lovely English wife had died of grief and his daughter 
 had grown to womanhood. The latter, small need 
 to say, loved him with all her soul and ministered 
 to him like an angel. 
 
 As for the young man, he was as we have 
 already said, a Frenchman, of noble birth, Charles 
 Darnay being the name he had assumed on coming 
 to England. His real name was none other than 
 Evremonde, for, tragic and fateful in its bearing
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 231 
 
 upon his life and happiness, he was the son of the 
 brother already mentioned as bearing the hated 
 name. However, he had come to see the iniquity 
 of his house and had turned his back upon it as 
 verily accursed of God. His young heart went out 
 in sympathy toward the downtrodden peasantry, 
 albeit he was powerless to help them. But their 
 wrongs and the wrongs of their brothers all over 
 France were crying to heaven for vengeance, and 
 the mills of the gods were grinding. 
 
 Something in his features or his carriage, or the 
 allusions in his conversation to his life in France, 
 had led the doctor to suspect his family connection; 
 and this it was which threw a cloud over their 
 intercourse as Darnay urged his claim. Suffice it 
 to say, however, that love triumphed in the end and 
 the maiden herself was won. 
 
 It was by no means a strange thing that Sydney 
 Carton had also come under her spell, and although he 
 professed the most elaborate indifference, neverthe- 
 less he was obliged to confess co himself the sweetness 
 of her charm. She seemed to represent to him the ideal 
 realm, the vision of which tormented him but into 
 which his feet did not enter. Many a night after 
 a senseless carousal he had haunted the street on 
 which she lived, vaguely thinking of her in the same 
 way that he did of heaven, as sweet, beautiful, and 
 unattainable. 
 
 One summer evening he called upon her and found 
 her alone. A glance at his face showed her a change 
 in it.
 
 232 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton," she said. 
 
 "It is true, but the life I lead is not conducive to 
 health." 
 
 "Then," she replied, "forgive me, but why not 
 lead a better life?" 
 
 "It is too late for that. I shall sink still lower. 
 There is no hope!" 
 
 He said it in a low tone, with trembling voice. 
 Quickly glancing at him, she saw that there were 
 tears in his eyes. She had never seen him so moved, 
 and she was touched with the deepest sympathy. 
 
 "Pray forgive me," he continued. "May I 
 speak briefly of what is on my mind?" 
 
 " If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, I shall be 
 very glad to listen." 
 
 "God bless you for your compassion," he replied. 
 "It is only a word that I wish to say. My life has 
 been a failure, as I said, but I want you to know 
 that you have been the good angel beckoning me to 
 better things. I shall never forget you." 
 
 She was trembling, and much embarrassed, but 
 he came to her relief. 
 
 "Even if it had been possible for you to have 
 returned the love of the man you see before you, it 
 could not have reversed his fate; indeed, the chances 
 are that he would have dragged you down w^ith him. 
 Nevertheless you have been the one vision of the 
 true life which has wakened pure desires again and 
 again, and I have heard whispers from old voices 
 that I thought were silent forever. But all in vain. 
 And I have come here to tell you this, so that I may
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 233 
 
 have the comfort of knowing that one soul — the 
 one star of my Hfe — knew my story, and knew that 
 I was not a stranger to aspiration. May I ask if 
 you will regard this as a sacred confidence?" 
 
 "If it will be a consolation to you, yes." She 
 was distressed beyond measure, for she was deeply 
 interested in him. He. raised her hand to his lips 
 and moved toward the door, while she looked at 
 him through her tears. 
 
 "There is one thing more," he said, "that I would 
 like you to know. For you and those dear to you 
 I would do anything, anything conceivable that a 
 man may do. You have been the one good angel 
 that my poor life has known. I entreat you to 
 believe me to be sincere when I say that for you or 
 yours I would gladly give my life if the need should 
 ever arise. Think of this now and then. Perhaps 
 it will bring you satisfaction to know that one soul 
 cares for you like this." 
 
 Could he have dreamed that the words were 
 prophetic? He certainly did not as he turned and 
 went his way. 
 
 The wedding day came, as such days do, and the 
 years went by. Charles Darnay, renouncing all 
 claim to his ancestral estates, founded as it was 
 upon wrongs that cried to heaven, lived on in Eng- 
 land, supporting himself and his by teaching the 
 language of which he was a master. Children came 
 to bless his home, and the happiness of it all seemed 
 too good to be real and too great to last. 
 
 Sydney Carton kept up his acquaintance with
 
 234 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 them, and at infrequent intervals was a guest in 
 their home. He never came heated with wine and 
 was always welcome. There was in these visits 
 one notable feature — his companionship with the 
 children. No man ever really loved a woman, lost 
 her, and knew her with a blameless though an 
 unchanged mind when she was a wife and mother, 
 but her children had a strange sympathy with him — 
 an instinctive delicacy of pity for him. What fine, 
 hidden sensibilities are touched in such a case, no 
 echoes tell ; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton 
 was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out 
 her chubby arms, and he kept his place with her as 
 she grew. 
 
 Meanwhile the tremendous storm which was to 
 burst upon France was gathering. The pitiless, 
 accursed despotism that had taken the bread from 
 the himgry thousands while itself reveling in luxury, 
 began to see the handwriting on the wall. The 
 Third Estate, the downtrodden, starving, maddened 
 multitude, was boiling and seething in its fury like 
 the ocean in a storm. The vortex of the storm was 
 the Faubourg Saint Antoine. Not far from the 
 palaces and boulevards of Paris lay the narrow, 
 crooked, dirty streets and the squalid huts of poverty. 
 A tide of frantic humanity rose in a storm of blind, 
 convulsive, senseless protest against the brutal 
 reign of the Devil, surnamed the Privileged Orders. 
 The storm had been long in coming. Knots of 
 hungry men would gather on the street in violent 
 and futile imprecation.
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 235 
 
 The wine shop of one Defarge was a veritable 
 hotbed of sedition, Madame Defarge its presiding 
 genius, another Lady Macbeth, nerving her husband 
 to the bloody work which she meant should come 
 if such a consummation lay within the power of 
 man. Her motive in all this — deadly and relentless 
 — lay in the woman's history. She belonged to 
 the very peasant family so cruelly outraged by the 
 Marquis of Evremonde. Her own sister and brother 
 had been sent to their last sleep by him; and he 
 and his kind were written down in her book of fate 
 and vengeance. One of her emissaries had already 
 driven a dagger to its home in his heart, and others 
 at her bidding had burned his magnificent chateau. 
 But this was only the beginning. His kind wherever 
 found, — the devil's own brood, the accursed, the 
 damnable, the doomed, — were all in her book of 
 vengeance. 
 
 And now the storm so long brewing had come. 
 Saint Antoine, on one memorable July morning 
 in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred eighty- 
 nine, became a vast, dusky mass of scarecrows. 
 Weapons gleamed in the sun, and a forest of naked 
 arms struggled in the air. A tremendous roar 
 arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, fit expression 
 of its fevered pulse and demented brain. Defarge 
 himself, begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, — 
 Madame at his side, an ax in her hand, — appeared 
 as the leader. 
 
 "Come, then!" he cried. "Patriots and friends, 
 we are ready ! The Bastille ! ' '
 
 236 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 And with alarm bells ringing, drums beating, guns 
 booming, and the roar from the throat of Saint 
 Antoine, the attack began. Deep ditches, double 
 drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers, 
 fire and gunpowder and blinding smoke — mad with 
 fury, Saint Antoine smote upon it like the waves of 
 the sea. How this grim symbol of oppression went 
 down before the maddened fury of that great throng 
 is matter of history. 
 
 Defarge was possessed by a burning desire to 
 examine the cell number One Hundred and Five, 
 North Tower. He had learned in some way that 
 one Dr. Manette, whom he knew well, had been 
 confined there. He searched the damp, dark cell, 
 the lurid torches flashing here and there. The 
 initials "A. M." were revealed, cut in the stone. 
 "Alexandre Manette!" shouted Defarge. "Here 
 the devils who are already damned held him in 
 chains for eighteen years." With a crowbar he 
 tore down the stones. One after another they 
 yielded to his fury until, embedded in the wall, he 
 discovered a written document, of which more 
 hereafter. 
 
 But this day's work, furious though it was, even 
 to madness, was only the beginning. That epoch 
 in history known as the Reign of Terror was ushered 
 in. "Liberty, Fraternity, Equality — or Death!" 
 was the watchword, and to be suspected of dis- 
 loyalty to the republic — that is to say, to the mob — 
 was to die. 
 
 One night Darnay received a letter which turned
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 237 
 
 the current of his Hfe. His trusted servant, Gabelle, 
 whom he had left in charge of the estates, had been 
 seized by the mob and imprisoned, Ahhough he 
 had dealt generously with the tenantry — following 
 Darnay's instructions — still the fact that he was 
 known to be the agent of an emigrant was sufficient 
 to inflame the senseless populace against him; and 
 now, in prison, awaiting his death, he sent the most 
 impassioned entreaty for his master to come to his 
 rescue. 
 
 "For the love of Heaven, of generosity, of the 
 honor of your noble name," was the appeal. It was 
 irresistible. All that was honorable and manly 
 in Darnay responded to it, and his resolution was 
 taken. He would go to Paris, right the wrong, and 
 save from death an innocent, loyal servant. For 
 he did not seriously doubt that the dread tribunal 
 would listen to reason and refrain from slaughtering 
 its friends. 
 
 There was no time to be lost. That night he 
 wrote two letters — one to his wife, the other to her 
 father — stating his imperative reasons for going 
 and also his full belief that it involved no personal 
 danger. He could not trust himself to say a per- 
 sonal good-by to his loved ones, anticipating their 
 pleadings with him to forego his perilous journey 
 and fearing their importunity. 
 
 From the moment of his arrival upon French soil 
 he came under suspicion. He was awakened at an 
 inn about midnight by three armed patriots in red 
 caps.
 
 238 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Emigrant, we are going to send you to Paris 
 under an escort." 
 
 "Citizens," replied Damay, "I desire nothing 
 more than to get to Paris, though I could dispense 
 with an escort." 
 
 "Silence!" growled a red-cap, striking the bed 
 with the butt end of his musket. "Peace, aris- 
 tocrat! You must have an escort, and must pay 
 for it." 
 
 Into the wet night they went, forging onward 
 toward Paris. Arrived at Beauvais, a crowd had 
 gathered and voices called out, "Down with the 
 emigrant! To hell with the aristocrat!" 
 
 ' ' My friends, I am here of my own free will. I am 
 the friend of the people. Why should you curse me ? ' ' 
 
 "Why? Because the emigrants belong to the 
 devil. Because there is a decree confiscating all 
 their property and condemning to death all emi- 
 grants who return. That is why." 
 
 Early one morning they arrived before the walls 
 of Paris. "Citizen Defarge," said the registrar 
 to Darnay's conductor, "is this the emigrant 
 Evremonde?" 
 
 "This is the man." 
 
 "Evremonde, you are consigned to the prison of 
 La Force." 
 
 * ' Just Heaven ! ' ' exclaimed Darnay . ' ' Under what 
 law, and for what offense?" 
 
 "We have new laws and new offenses since you 
 were here." He said it with a hard smile, and went 
 on writing.
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 239 
 
 "But surely I have the right to be heard?" 
 
 "Emigrants have no rights," was the stoHd answer. 
 
 "Is it you," said Defarge in a low voice as they 
 went down the guardhouse steps, "who married 
 the daughter of Dr. Manette, once a prisoner in the 
 Bastille?" 
 
 "Yes," said Darnay, looking at him in surprise. 
 
 "By heavens, man, in the name of that sharp 
 female, newly born and called La Guillotine, why 
 did you come to France?" 
 
 "You heard me say why, a minute ago. Did you 
 not believe me?" 
 
 "I believe nothing." 
 
 "Citizen Defarge, I have a friend here in the city. 
 Will you inform him that I have been thrown into 
 the prison of La Force, simply that fact, with no 
 comment?" 
 
 "I will do nothing for you," was the grim reply. 
 "My duty is to the people." 
 
 In the English home which Darnay had left, it is 
 needless to say that grief and consternation reigned. 
 Small need to say, also, that his wife and her father 
 followed him to France without delay. 
 
 Dr. Manette was confident that his tragic history 
 would appeal irresistibly to Saint Antoine. "My 
 dear child," said he, "I have been a Bastille 
 prisoner. I have suffered for the cause. There is 
 no patriot in Paris who would not carry me in tri- 
 umph. I am sure I can save your husband. They 
 will grant me anything I may ask them." 
 
 While his appeal to the tribunal was not in vain —
 
 240 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 they remembered him and revered him — still the 
 only satisfaction he could gain was this, that Darnay 
 should be held inviolate in safe custody. 
 
 The days and the weeks and the months went 
 by, while the awful work of death went on. The 
 black flag waved night and day from the great towers 
 of Notre Dame. Night and day the dread tribunal 
 and the guillotine did their awful work. The 
 tumbrils carried their loads of precious lives to 
 the place where the remorseless knife was waiting. 
 There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval 
 of relenting rest, no measurement of time. The 
 king, the queen, the bravest and the fairest fed the 
 raging fever of the nation. 
 
 The day came at last when the name was read out 
 before the tribunal — ' ' Charles Evremonde, called 
 Darnay." 
 
 The case was rapidly reviewed. Darnay avowed 
 himself a friend of the people, the reason for his 
 exile being that he could not and would not live 
 by oppression of the people. He had married the 
 daughter of the hero of the Bastille, Dr. Manette, 
 there present and known to them all. The doctor 
 himself was next questioned. He declared that 
 Darnay was his faithful friend in his misfortune since 
 his liberation and that he, Darnay, had been actually 
 tried for his life as the foe of the aristocratic govern- 
 ment of England. The doctor's distinguished bear- 
 ing and his reputation as the martyr of the Bastille 
 gave weight to his words. The jury declared they 
 had heard enough, the populace shouting their
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 241 
 
 approval. Every juryman voted for acquittal, and 
 the president declared him free. 
 
 His wife had awaited the result in her rooms. 
 And although her father had gone before to prepare 
 her, yet when her husband stood before her, she 
 fell insensible in his arms. Dr. Manette was proud 
 of his triumph. 
 
 "I have saved him! No other man in France 
 could have done it in the face of that fever for 
 blood; but they needs must listen to the martyr of 
 the Bastille." 
 
 Charles Darnay was saved. And yet a vague 
 and heavy fear was upon the mind of his loving wife. 
 Overwrought by the tense strain, she started at every 
 sudden noise. The group was sitting by the fireside 
 when there came a heavy knock upon the door, and 
 four armed men in red caps entered the room. 
 
 "Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay, "you are 
 again the prisoner of the republic." 
 
 "And may I ask the reason?" said Darnay. 
 
 "You are denounced by citizen and citizeness 
 Defarge, and by one other." 
 
 "And who is that other?" asked Dr. Manette. 
 
 "Do you ask, citizen Doctor?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 "Then," said the guard with a strange look, "you 
 will be answered to-morrow. To-day I am dumb." 
 
 We may be very sure that these proceedings in 
 Paris — including the long imprisonment of Darnay 
 — were not unknown to Sydney Carton. Far away 
 in England he had carefully watched and waited.
 
 242 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Uncertain of the final issue, he was drawn at last 
 by the one magnet of his life to Paris, thinking that 
 he might be useful — how he could not imagine. 
 
 One day he was idly gazing upon the walls of the 
 Conciergerie, through whose doors so many had 
 passed to the scafTold, when he noted one of the 
 turnkeys leaving the prison. Struck with the face 
 of the man — Carton had a good memory for faces — 
 he followed him. The man entered the wine shop 
 of Defarge, Carton close behind him. It appeared 
 to be somewhat clear — and it grew clearer as he 
 watched his man — that although ostensibly serving 
 the republic, he was, probably, a spy in the pay of 
 the English government. Carton remembered hav- 
 ing seen him in London, and even recalled the name 
 by which he was known there. 
 
 From the talk in the wine shop Carton learned 
 that Darnay had been rearrested. He knew enough 
 of the spirit of the dread tribunal to fear the worst. 
 Events were swiftly coming to a crisis — the crisis 
 of fate; and a purpose, together with a plan of 
 action, gradually shaped itself in his mind. 
 
 He accosted his man upon the street. "Mon- 
 sieur Barsad, may I have a little chat with you? I 
 take a deep interest in gentlemen of your profession." 
 
 The man started, and his pale face turned paler. 
 "What, sir, do you dare insinuate — " 
 
 "I can hardly explain here on the street. Will 
 you do me the favor to step into the office of a friend 
 of mine?" 
 
 "Why should I do so, pray?"
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 243 
 
 "Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't." 
 
 "Do you mean that you won't say, sir?" the man 
 irresolutely asked. 
 
 "You apprehend me very clearly, my friend. I 
 won't." His negligent recklessness of manner in- 
 vested the speaker with an air of mystery. He 
 saw his advantage, and used it. 
 
 "Well, my friend, do you come with me?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; I'll hear what you've got to say." 
 
 "Now, then, my man," said Carton when they 
 were seated, "here's a game I shall be interested to 
 play with you. The stake I propose to play for 
 is a friend in the Conciergerie, and that friend is 
 yourself." 
 
 "You need have good cards," said the spy. 
 
 "Let me see what I hold," returned Carton. 
 "I'll run them over. Mr. Barsad, spy and secret 
 informer, working under a false name; that's a good 
 card. Mr. Barsad, actually in the employ of the 
 aristocratic English government, the enemy of 
 France and freedom; that's a card not to be beaten. 
 Have you followed my hand, sir?" 
 
 "Not to understand your play," returned the 
 spy, somewhat uneasily. 
 
 "I play my ace, denunciation of Mr. Barsad to 
 the nearest Section Committee. What do you say ? " 
 
 The spy was astounded. He knew too well that 
 a word would seal his fate, for to be suspected was to 
 die. So he simply said with a stolid air, "What 
 do you want with me?" 
 
 "You are a turnkey of the Conciergerie?" 
 16
 
 244 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "I tell you, once for all, there is no such thing 
 possible as effecting the escape of a prisoner." 
 
 "I am not discussing that, if you please. I 
 simply propose that you give me access to one of 
 the prisoners, one Evremonde, at such time as I 
 may choose." 
 
 "But that will not help him." 
 
 "I am not saying that it would," was the reply. 
 
 The wretch saw with the certainty of fate that 
 the alternative was denunciation to the Committee, 
 which was another way of spelling death, and he 
 gave his consent. 
 
 That night Sydney Carton wandered through 
 the streets. "There is nothing more to do until 
 to-morrow," he said to himself, "and I can't sleep." 
 He said it with the air of a tired man who had 
 wandered and struggled, but who at length saw 
 the last reaches of his journey. His steps almost 
 unconsciously tended toward the temporary abode 
 of the one who was uppermost in his thoughts. As 
 he approached the gateway he said to himself, 
 "She must have trod on these stones often." The 
 one holy passion of his life still wrought in his soul. 
 And he wandered on. 
 
 As he went down the dark streets amid the heavy 
 shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing on 
 high above him, he recalled the solemn words which 
 had been read years ago at his father's grave, — "I 
 am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord." 
 Over and over in his brain sounded the same solemn 
 music, — "I am the Resurrection and the Life."
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 245 
 
 Day came at length, and he went to the place of 
 trial. Dr. Manette was there. She was there also, 
 the angel of his life, and he gazed upon her face 
 unrebuked from his place among the spectators. 
 When her husband was brought in she turned upon 
 him a look so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of 
 admiring love and pitying tenderness, yet so coura- 
 geous for his sake, that it brought a flush into his 
 cheek and a light into his eye. And — shall we call 
 it strange? — it did the same thing for Sydney 
 Carton. 
 
 The case was called. "Charles Evremonde, called 
 Darnay, openly denounced as a traitor to the 
 republic." 
 
 "By whom?" was the question. 
 
 "By Alexandre Manette, physician." 
 
 It was like a thunderbolt from the blue. There 
 was a great uproar, but the doctor made himself 
 heard. He indignantly protested that it was a 
 forgery and a fraud. 
 
 With a grim smile, the president of the tribunal 
 exclaimed, "Citizen Manette, be silent and listen." 
 
 The testimony that followed was astounding. 
 Defarge, being brought forward, testified to his 
 part in the destruction of the Bastille and to his 
 discovery in the walls of the cell known as One Hun- 
 dred and Five, North Tower, of a written paper. 
 This paper was an account, penned in his captivity 
 by one Alexandre Manette, of the cruel things that 
 had brought him to that living death and had kept 
 him there for eighteen years. It was a simple,
 
 246 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 terrible, heart-rending story, and it concluded with 
 a blasting curse upon the house of Evremonde. 
 "Them and their descendants, to the very last of 
 their race, I, Alexandre Manette, in my unbearable 
 agony, do denounce before high Heaven." 
 
 The effect was simply overwhelming. The awful 
 story called into full play the worst passions of that 
 frenzied assize, and Darnay's fate was sealed. 
 Back to the Conciergerie, and death within twenty- 
 four hours ! 
 
 The wretched wife of the doomed man fell under 
 the sentence as if she had been mortally stricken. 
 Then, issuing from his obscure corner, Sydney Car- 
 ton came and took her up. 
 
 "Shall I take her to a coach?" he asked her 
 father. "I would be glad to serve her." 
 
 He carried her tenderly to a conveyance, assisting 
 her poor father to a seat beside her. Arrived at her 
 home — at the very gateway where he had paused 
 not many hours before to picture to himself on which 
 of the rough stones of the street her feet had trodden 
 — he lifted her again, and carried her up the stair- 
 case to her rooms. 
 
 "Do not recall her to herself," he said softly. 
 "It is better so." 
 
 "Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!" cried the 
 child Lucie, throwing her arms around him in a 
 burst of grief. "Now that you have come I know 
 you will do something to help us. Oh, look at her, 
 dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who love 
 her, bear to see her so?"
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 247 
 
 He patted the child, and pressed her blooming 
 cheek against his face. He put her gently from 
 him, and looked at her unconscious mother, 
 
 "Before I go," he said, and paused — "I may 
 kiss her?" 
 
 It was remembered afterwards that when he bent 
 down and touched her face with his lips, he mur- 
 mured something. Little Lucie heard the words, 
 and told them afterwards to her grandchildren when 
 she herself was a beautiful old lady. She said 
 they were these, — "A life you love." 
 
 Very early the next morning Sydney Carton called 
 upon Dr. Manette. The man was nearly crazed 
 with grief and consternation. 
 
 "My dear friend," said Carton, "I do not dis- 
 guise it from you nor from myself; there is no hope. 
 Still I am going myself to the prison to make one 
 effort more. But before I go I have one request to 
 make. Do not ask my reasons for it; they are 
 good ones." 
 
 "And what may this request be?" 
 
 "It is this. Here is my passport to England." 
 He produced a paper from his pocket. "Will you 
 keep it for me until to-morrow? And one thing 
 more. Will you see to it that preparations are made 
 for us all to leave Paris to-morrow morning?" 
 
 Having done whatever might be done to make 
 effective the thing which he had planned, he turned 
 with a firm step toward the black prison where the 
 doomed for the day awaited their fate. 
 
 Charles Darnay, alone in his cell, was under no
 
 24S FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 illusions as to his fate. He fully understood that 
 no personal influence could possibly save him. His 
 hold on life was strong, and it was immeasurably 
 strengthened by the vision of his beloved one ever 
 before him. Still the assurance that there was 
 no disgrace in his fate, and that many noble souls 
 had trod the way bravely before him, came to him 
 with its inspirations. 
 
 The time was approaching for the dread summons. 
 A key was put in the lock and turned. The door 
 opened, and closed quickly. And there stood before 
 him, with the light of a smile upon his face, none 
 other than Sydney Carton. 
 
 "Of all persons in the world, you least expected 
 to see me?" he said. 
 
 "I can hardly believe my senses! You are not 
 a — prisoner?" 
 
 "No; I happen to have some power over one of 
 the keepers here. I come from her, your wife, and 
 I bring you a request from her." 
 
 "Ah! My wife, my wife! What message does 
 she send?" 
 
 "It is a very urgent request, and you must not 
 ask me the reason. First, take off those boots you 
 wear and draw on these of mine." 
 
 He had already pressed Darnay into a chair, and 
 his own boots were removed. 
 
 "But, Carton! There is no escaping from this 
 place. You will only die with me. It is madness." 
 
 "But I am not asking you to escape. When I 
 do you may talk of madness. Here, change your
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 249 
 
 coat for this of mine. Quick! Lose no time! It 
 is her request, you know." 
 
 When his clothing had been changed the final 
 act began. "Here are pen, ink, and paper. Steady 
 your hand and write at my dictation." 
 
 What was written is of no consequence. But 
 Carton, taking his hand from his breast pocket, 
 moved it slowly down close to the writer's face; 
 and still the dictation continued. The pen dropped 
 absently from his fingers. 
 
 "What vapor is that?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, nothing. Go on." And again the writing 
 was resumed, and the narcotic fumes increased. 
 
 Suddenly the prisoner sprang up with a reproachful 
 look, but Carton's hand was firm at his nostrils, 
 and after a feeble struggle he lay unconscious. 
 Quickly dressing himself in the prisoner's clothing. 
 Carton called softly, "Come in." The spy pre- 
 sented himself. 
 
 "You see!" said Carton. "Is your hazard very 
 great?" 
 
 "Not if you will be true to your bargain." 
 
 "Never fear. I will be true to the death. Now 
 take this man out. The open air will soon revive 
 him. Get some help, and take him out. I was 
 faint when you brought me in, you remember, and the 
 parting interviev*^ has overpowered me. Quick, now ! ' ' 
 
 The jailer withdrew, and Carton seated himself 
 at the table, resting his forehead in his hands. 
 Returning with two men, the jailer removed the 
 fallen man.
 
 250 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "The time is short, Evremonde!" he said in a 
 warning voice. 
 
 "I know it well," was the answer. "Be careful 
 of my friend, and leave me." 
 
 It was not long before the words rang out, "Evre- 
 monde, called Darnay!" 
 
 It was the note of doom. 
 
 Assembled with the condemned, and waiting for 
 the tumbrils, a slight girlish form approached him. 
 
 "Citizen Evremonde," she said, "I was with you 
 in La Force. I heard you were released. I hoped 
 it was true." 
 
 "It was; but I was again taken and condemned." 
 
 Just then the bright eyes examined his face more 
 closely. He saw a sudden doubt in them, and then 
 astonishment. 
 
 "Are you dying for him?" she whispered. 
 
 "And for his wife and child. Hush! Yes." 
 
 "Oh, will you let me hold your brave hand, 
 stranger? It will give me courage." 
 
 "Yes, my poor girl; to the last." 
 
 They are in the death-carts on the way to the 
 guillotine. Six tumbrils carry this day's sacrifice. 
 We give them one long look, deploring the madness 
 of the time, then drop the curtain and turn away. 
 
 "I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the 
 Lord!" And we lift the curtain on the confines 
 of the eternal shore. 
 
 A carriage waited at the Barrier. 
 "Papers!" was the demand.
 
 SYDNEY CARTON 251 
 
 "Alexandre Manette, physician, Lucie his daugh- 
 ter, wife of Evremonde. Lucie, her child. Sydney 
 Carton, Advocate, English. Which is he? Ill, is he 
 not?" 
 
 "He is. He has just separated from a friend who 
 is under the displeasure of the republic." 
 
 "Is that all? It is not a great deal, that." The 
 papers are countersigned. 
 
 "Forward, postillions!" 
 
 And after days and nights of racking anxiety, the 
 blessed shores of England are underneath their 
 feet. Amid the strange, strange emotions that 
 possess them, there lives this strong, engrossing, 
 moving thing, namely: that one human being 
 deliberately laid down his life that another might 
 live and love. And the sacredness of it, and the 
 greatness, do not abate as the years go by.
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 
 
 T TE came from England to a mining town in 
 -*- ■*■ Nevada. His figure, his manner, his air un- 
 mistakably indicated the gentleman, while his soft, 
 lustrous eye and his sensitive mouth and nostril 
 made one think him a poet, one knew not why. 
 Educated to be a preacher in the Wesleyan connec- 
 tion, he had been tormented with doubt as to his 
 fitness for the work, and an unhappy marriage had 
 made everything harder. His wife, frivolous, un- 
 sympathetic, and opposed to his work, intensified 
 his self -distrust as he thought of his holy calling. 
 His health had failed, and an urgent summons from 
 his sister in Nevada had brought him here. And 
 now the dearest wish of her heart for him — that 
 he might continue in the work which two years 
 before he had so earnestly begun — was to be grati- 
 fied. The superintendent of Home Missions had 
 appointed him to the little chiirch in the godless 
 mining town of Eureka. 
 
 Jack Perry stood in the door of his saloon and 
 looked up the street, swearing softly at what he 
 saw. Jack was not a man to swear volubly and 
 exuberantly on every slight occasion. When he 
 swore it was with much definiteness and because 
 the occasion demanded it. What he saw was 
 the open door of the unused church a little dis- 
 tance away, and a slender figure in dark clothing 
 
 252
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 253 
 
 taking certain articles of furniture in at the rear 
 door. 
 
 "I'll be blanked," said Jack, "if he ain't settin' 
 up housekeeping right in the shop. Looks as if he 
 means to stay with it." 
 
 And so he did. It was a measure of economy — 
 this taking up his quarters there — and it also served 
 to identify him with the church; he thus seemed to 
 himself to cast in his lot with it. Having chosen 
 his work here, he went into it with characteristic 
 abandon. It was, indeed, discouraging enough at 
 the first; ten persons in the congregation the first 
 Sunday, and twelve the second. This would never 
 do. He must advertise. Going over to the saloon, 
 he inquired for the proprietor. Jack Perry appeared, 
 six feet four, heavy shoulders, square jaw, firm 
 mouth, and steel-gray eyes. Years ago he had 
 been sheriff in Virginia City, where it was necessary 
 to shoot a man occasionally to save the lives of the 
 rest. He was a born master of men. 
 
 "I'm Vaughn, the new preacher," said our hero, 
 holding out his hand. "I came to ask if there is 
 any objection to my posting a little notice in your 
 place, inviting men to church." 
 
 Jack's eyes twinkled. "I ain't never advertised 
 your kind of wares; they most generally conflict 
 with mine." 
 
 "But everybody comes here, and it would do no 
 harm for a few of them to come over to church, 
 once in a while." 
 
 "Certain! 'T won't hurt 'em." And there was a
 
 254 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 whimsical light in Jack's gray eyes as Vaughn has- 
 tened home to prepare the notice. 
 
 "Wat is it?" asked Mat Kyle, the sheriff. 
 
 "Wants to advertise his gospel shop in my saloon. 
 Sent here by the missionary folks to spile my busi- 
 ness, and will I help him do it!" 
 
 "Gall!" said the other. 
 
 "Never mind! Let him work, let him work! 
 Let's see what '11 happen." 
 
 Just as Vaughn, returning with the notice, had 
 tacked it up below a flaming advertisement of High- 
 land Whisky, there was a sound in the street of the 
 lowing of cattle, and the muffled tread of a hundred 
 of them, and then the cry of a child. 
 
 They rushed to the door. Down the road from 
 the Geiger Grade poured a mass of shaggy heads 
 and tossing horns. 
 
 ' ' Good God ! Look at that ! " cried Mat Kyle. 
 
 Right in the path of the furious herd a little girl 
 on a tricycle was doing her futile best to get out of 
 the way, while the maid-servant was frightened and 
 useless. The men sprang forward, but Vaughn was 
 there before them. Snatching the child from death, 
 he bore her to the sidewalk. 
 
 Although uninjured, Miss Elsie clung to him. 
 
 "I '11 carry her home," said Vaughn to the servant. 
 "Where do you live?" 
 
 * ' On Richmond Hill, sor. 'Tis too far to carry her. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I'll at least carry her a little way." 
 
 As they walked on, he learned that Mrs. Chis- 
 holm, Elsie's mother, lived in the big house on the
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 255 
 
 hill with her brother's family, that Mr. Chisholm 
 had died the year before, and that after traveling 
 for some months with her elfin daughter, her mistress 
 had settled down in Eureka. 
 
 "She owns one half of the Richmond mine, and 
 her brother owns the other half. Oh, but when she 
 sees us coming like this she will think something 
 awful has happened! There she comes now." 
 
 A charming figure came slowly down the steps of 
 the mansion, but, catching sight of the party, came 
 on hurriedly. 
 
 "What is it, Elsie, dearest? Are you hurt?" 
 
 Nora protested that she was not, and appealed 
 to Vaughn. 
 
 "She has been badly frightened, madam; that is 
 all," said Vaughn, removing his hat. 
 
 The lady looked at him with slow, curious gaze. 
 She was evidently pleased with what she saw. The 
 rescue was briefly told. 
 
 She extended a firm, white hand and smiled as 
 she said, "You will let me thank you with all my 
 heart. I am very, very grateful, and can never, 
 never repay you." 
 
 Vaughn declined a pressing invitation to come in, 
 an invitation which Elsie seconded most earnestly. 
 
 "Not to-day, thank you, my little friend. Some 
 other day," said he, as she clung to him; "some 
 other day." 
 
 Mrs. Katherine Chisholm repeated the story of the 
 rescue at a little social gathering that evening in 
 the parlor. She did it with sundry embellishments.
 
 2s6 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 for already she unconsciously idealized the hero. 
 Haverford the Episcopal rector, young Winslow the 
 lawyer, and Wilkins the mine superintendent were 
 among the interested listeners. 
 
 "Look sharp, Haverford! You'll lose your lead- 
 ing lady member!" laughed her brother Arthur. 
 "Kate will go to his church now, sure." 
 
 "I'm just crazy to see him," said Mabel, Arthur's 
 wife, "after hearing Kate's description." 
 
 "How did she describe him? " they cried in chorus. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not going to tell, Kate. You needn't 
 look at me like that," said Mabel. 
 
 "Have you seen him?" asked one of Winslow. 
 
 * ' Oh, yes ; I see him every day. He lives in the rear 
 end of the church. There is something outre about 
 him — has a queer look out of his eyes. Strange 
 mortal! Kind of a nondescript, anyway." 
 
 "He came from England," said Wilkins quietly. 
 "He is an educated man and a gentleman." Kath- 
 erine gave him a grateful glance. "And he's an 
 eloquent preacher, if I'm any judge, and quite a 
 musician, too." 
 
 "Oh, no doubt the fellow's all right," said Haver- 
 ford. 
 
 "If you want that kind," said Winslow. 
 
 "How horrid you all are!" exclaimed Katherine, 
 going to the piano. "I'm going to play you into 
 another mood!" 
 
 "Mabel," said her husband when they were 
 alone, "what was it Kate said to you about the 
 preacher?"
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 257 
 
 Mabel was taking down her hair, and she shook 
 it about her face. 
 
 "I'll never, never tell you!" 
 
 Her husband coaxed her and petted her, and 
 finally turned with an injured air. 
 
 "Oh, well, don't tell me unless you wish to." 
 
 "You know I never have any secrets from you, 
 Arthur, but really Kate would be furious if she 
 should know I told you. Well — if I must — she 
 said that he might have been Tristram on his way 
 to Isolde or a Holy Father with the sacrament. 
 There! But if she ever finds me out — " 
 
 "She never will, I promise you," said her husband, 
 while a troubled look came into his eyes. Was 
 not Kate his own sister, and was she not a dear, 
 romantic, impressionable soul, and could he help a 
 more than curious interest? 
 
 Meanwhile the preacher's work was most dis- 
 couraging. The notice in Jack Perry's saloon only 
 slightly increased the congregation. Vaughn lay 
 awake all one Sunday night thinking of what he 
 should do next. Something must be done; in some 
 way he must reach the people! The idea of an 
 open-air service on the street corner struck him all 
 at once as the thing to do. 
 
 Dashing into Jack Perry's saloon, he asked for 
 help to bring the organ from the church. 
 
 * ' Here, you ! Dick ! Tom ! ' ' called Jack. 
 
 Four other men. Jack himself among them, fol- 
 lowed to the church and brought out the organ. 
 
 "Jack's got some one singin' fer him to draw,"
 
 258 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 was the comment when Vaughn's clear voice rose 
 on the air in harmony with the organ music. As he 
 sang hymn after hymn, people began to gather. 
 Then he talked to them for a little, explaining his 
 work in simple, earnest fashion, and asking them to 
 give him a fair show. He invited them to the 
 church; out of sheer curiosity they followed as he 
 led the way. 
 
 Assembled there, he spoke to them out of his full 
 heart. "I have no doctrines to urge," said he, 
 "except the one duty of following Christ, the divine 
 man, who taught us how to live and how to die." 
 
 Jack had taken his station near the door. He 
 smiled grimly as he critically scanned the crowd. 
 
 "It's a fifty-dollar house if they don't dead-head," 
 he mused, "and, by jimminy, they shan't!" 
 
 As soon as the benediction was pronounced Jack 
 was on his feet, "Parson," said he, in his slow 
 drawl, "you've done your part; now we'll do ourn. 
 Here, Ned!" he called to Wilkins. No one ever 
 disobeyed Jack Perry, and Wilkins came forward. 
 "Now, take this box and go down that aisle and 
 see that every feller tips up ! I '11 go down the other. 
 'T ain't often that Jack Perry acts as deaking, but 
 when he does, it's business!" 
 
 When the rounds were made, the contents of the 
 boxes were emptied upon the table. "Fifty-seven 
 dollars and six bits!" announced Jack. "If that 
 ain't enough, parson, we'll go the rounds again!" 
 
 Enough! It was more money than he had seen 
 since arriving in Eureka.
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 259 
 
 The Eureka Sentinel the next morning contained a 
 picturesque account of the service, and in conclusion 
 welcomed to the town of Eureka the talented young 
 preacher, prophesying that he would find the harvest 
 great, the laborers few, and the pay blanked little! 
 
 Meanwhile the child Elsie had not forgotten her 
 gallant rescuer. She had clung to him, loved him, 
 and he had loved her and — could she forget him? 
 One day she eluded Nora's vigilant care, wandered 
 far down the hill, and, as good fortune would have 
 it, saw the tall form of her hero at a distant street 
 crossing. Away she went like the wind, and fol- 
 lowed him into the church. There, an hour later, 
 after an anxious search, her mother found her fast 
 asleep in his arms, his delicate, sensitive hand rest- 
 ing upon her curls. He asked permission to ac- 
 company them home. 
 
 "Come up and meet my friends," said Katherine 
 as they approached the wide veranda where a com- 
 pany awaited them. Somehow she felt sure of 
 him and proud of him. They received him as be- 
 came well-bred people, and yet with a covert air of 
 inquiry. This put him on his mettle, for this was 
 her world. It was a world not altogether unfamiliar 
 to him, and he entered it confidently. He talked 
 in their language, told stories from their point of 
 view, put on their armor, skirmished with a skill 
 that challenged theirs. He touched Haverford, the 
 rector, where he was most sensitive ; showed Winslow 
 to them at his dullest — for the young lawyer was 
 also there ; charmed the hostess, Mrs. Mabel Sinclair, 
 
 17
 
 26o FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 and made her husband wonder what was this man's 
 family and what the circles in which he had moved. 
 
 As for Katherine, her eyes glowed like stars ! She 
 was proud of him ! She exulted in her joy. 
 
 "You will come again; you must," she pleaded. 
 
 He laughingly promised, and hurried away, won- 
 dering at the new light and fire in himself evoked 
 by this new atmosphere. It was, indeed, her king- 
 dom ; he was willing she should know it was his also. 
 
 On his return through the darkness two men in 
 miner's garb accosted him. 
 
 "Be you the man as runs the hallelujah outfit?" 
 said one. 
 
 "The what?" 
 
 "The saint factory, the sinner-be-damned place," 
 said the other. 
 
 "Oh, the church! Yes, yes; I'm the parson. 
 What can I do for you?" 
 
 "Why, ye see, parson, Charlie Davenport's passed 
 in his checks and dropped out of the game. The 
 boys want him planted in fine style, and Jim and 
 me's a committee to see if you will do the job 'way 
 upinG." 
 
 " 'Way up in G? I don't understand. What has 
 Mr. Davenport done?" 
 
 "Don't you savvey? Why, Charlie's dropped out 
 of the game, gone up the flume, passed over the 
 divide! Blank it, ain't that clear?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Davenport is dead, and you want me 
 to bury him. Is that it?" 
 
 "That's it; you've tumbled. We want a little
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 261 
 
 business at the church, and some more at the grave. 
 That 's where you want to do your hollerin'. An' we 
 want plenty o' singin' o' the real, techin' kind. And 
 we want ye to understand the boys '11 all be there. 
 It'll be the biggest send-off ever got up in Eureka." 
 
 "Did Mr. Davenport have any children?" 
 
 "Well, now, maybe. They say that kid at 
 Mclntyre's— " 
 
 ' ' Parson did n't mean that," said the other. ' ' No, 
 Charlie didn 't leave any children." 
 
 ' * Is there a widow ? ' ' 
 
 "They don't go by that name," said the first 
 speaker grimly. 
 
 "What were some of Mr. Davenport's character- 
 istics?" asked Vaughn. "He seems to have had a 
 good many friends. ' ' 
 
 "Well, now, parson, first and foremost, he bucked 
 the tiger. There ain't a miner nor a cowboy in 
 this here region but has met Charlie at the cards 
 and been cleaned out, soon or late. He was dead 
 on the trigger, too. And, I tell ye, parson, when it 
 came to cussin' a man there was no feller could use 
 words like Charlie. And, speakin' of the trigger, 
 he was that cool! He had nerves like steel wire!" 
 
 "But, my friends, what can I say at the funeral 
 of such a man?" asked Vaughn helplessly. 
 
 "Why, parson, ye can say he was a good feller. 
 He'd give his last cent to pull ye out of a hole; 
 and, more than all, he never went back on his 
 friends." 
 
 The day came. The whole county was there.
 
 362 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "I am the resurrection andthe life I" The words 
 of the solemn liturgy never sounded more solemn. 
 Then the committal service, followed by the Lord's 
 Prayer, and the benediction. Then came a pause. 
 The committee edged up to the preacher. 
 
 "Why don't ye give it to 'em? The boys expect 
 ye to give 'em hell! Make it hot as the devil, and 
 be blamed quick about it." 
 
 So that was what they wanted! The scorching, 
 burning word; something that would stir the blood, 
 that would scarify and make clean; they wanted 
 hell. Very well, they should have it! 
 
 "My friends, Charlie Davenport is dead. He is 
 gone, nevermore to return. Gone where? you ask. 
 He has gone to be judged. The book of his life 
 will be opened, and sentence will be given. And 
 let me tell you, the same thing will come some day 
 to you; perhaps it will be soon. You will be dead 
 and gone hence to the judgment bar." 
 
 Then he let himself go. He freed his mind, de- 
 nouncing sin as he never had done before. They 
 wanted it hot, and they should have it; righteous- 
 ness, temperance, and judgment to come! And he 
 concluded with a fervent exhortation to turn from 
 sin to the divine mercy and the clean life. 
 
 To his astonishment it was received with a stir of 
 satisfaction. The committee thanked him warmly. 
 
 "You done it up brown, parson, that's what you 
 did. If Charlie ain't a-settin' on a cloud with a 
 liarp an' a crown 'tain't our fault nor yourn." 
 
 What could he say? What could he do with
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 263 
 
 such men ? Such lack of comprehension ! Such utter 
 failure to see the ideals which meant so much to him ! 
 
 "I've been hearing all about the great funeral," 
 said Katherine, when he called upon her that after- 
 noon. "The senator and the governor were both 
 there, and they say it was the most wonderful 
 funeral sermon they ever heard. But, Mr. Vaughn, 
 why did you come to a place like this ? ' ' 
 
 "Would it surprise you very much if I should tell 
 you that I came because I thought God wanted me 
 to do so?" 
 
 "It wouldn't surprise me — in you," she answered. 
 
 Then the poetic mood came over him. His face 
 took on a rapt expression. "Do you mind if I try 
 the piano?" he said. 
 
 She stood beside him, and noted the kindling of 
 his eye, the clinging touch of those magnetic fingers. 
 He threw back his head and burst into a song; 
 beautiful, tender, romantic! Poor, overburdened, 
 troubled heart ! It was finding relief and exjjression 
 now, and his beautiful listener was spellbound. He 
 drifted into a little, plaintive melody. 
 
 "What is that?" she cried. 
 
 "I don't know. I never played it before." 
 
 "Oh, it is so sweet! Won't you write it forme?" 
 
 He did so. 
 
 "I wonder what words belong to it," she said. 
 
 "You must find that out for me," was his reply. 
 
 It was so good to know this relaxation, this 
 expression of himself, to breathe this native air, to 
 meet this kindred spirit. Some day he would tell
 
 264 FIGURES FAMED TN FICTION 
 
 her his sad story; some day he would tell her abouL 
 his wife — the dead weight in his Hfe. His was too 
 sincere a heart to wish to appear other than what he 
 really was. Some day she should know. 
 
 Meanwhile he was winning his way with the rough 
 men of the street. Jack Perry, for one, knew a 
 man when he saw him; and just now Jack's gray 
 eyes were seeing things. 
 
 There was one man, however, who felt otherwise. 
 Martin Young was out of sorts. His sweetheart 
 had asked the parson if she should marry one whom 
 she did not love. Vaughn thought of his own sad 
 history, and assured her that a loveless union was 
 awful. Martin had laid it up against him. 
 
 The social life which Vaughn encouraged among 
 the people had Jack Perry's backing. A barrel of 
 lemonade for each occasion was his contribution. 
 Vaughn had insisted that there should be no spirits 
 in the compound, and Jack had consented. 
 
 "They say Jack's struck on the parson," said 
 Martin to Mat Kyle; "furnishes the liquor for his 
 church parties." 
 
 "Look here! You better let up on that. It's a 
 lie, and Jack would skin ye alive!" 
 
 Martin had been drinking, and grinned mali- 
 ciously. He disregarded Mat's advice, and spread 
 the story. 
 
 "Go on!" said Jack, while his eyes blazed. He 
 had come upon Martin in one of his tirades. "Go 
 on!" The man was not so drunk but that he saw 
 trouble.
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 265 
 
 "Well, it's the truth. Jack Perry furnishes the 
 liquor for the parson's sociables. Oh, I was only 
 foolin', Jack! For God's sake, don't shoot!" 
 
 "Get down on your knees!" thundered Jack, with 
 his revolver at Martin's head. "Down, and say, 
 *I confess I'm a blanked liar!'" 
 
 Down Martin went, and repeated the words. 
 
 "Now crawl to the parson's study and say the 
 same thing! Go on, now! Crawl! I '11 see that ye 
 get there ! ' ' 
 
 The strange thing was accomplished, but it made 
 a bitter enemy of Martin Young. 
 
 "Is it true that the French saloon keeper at the 
 'Morning Star' drew his revolver on you?" A 
 friend who was visiting Vaughn asked the question. 
 
 "How did you hear that?" 
 
 "Will Dower heard it at Battle Mountain. Is it 
 true?" 
 
 "Yes; the fellow said I'd spoiled his business. I 
 unbuttoned my coat and said, 'Shoot away! You 
 can't hit me' ; and somehow he let it pass." Vaughn's 
 eyes shone like stars in their dark setting. 
 
 Katherine heard the stories. She was filled with 
 fears for him. Others there were who, with less of 
 fear for his safety, gloried in him. 
 
 "I tell you, the parson's good stuff!" said Ned 
 Wilkins. ' ' Down on the corner to-day a fellow was 
 mad as the devil with him. He was going for him, as 
 the Frenchman did at the * Morning Star. ' He 'd just 
 whipped out his revolver, when a pair of runaway
 
 266 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 horses came down the hill. The parson jumped for 
 'em and got 'em, all right, but if it had n't been for 
 that, the fellow would have hit him, sure. We 
 fixed him all right before the parson got back." 
 
 And so the work went on. Sir Galahad was in 
 the saddle, and there was no such thing as fear. 
 
 One dark night Clement Vaughn saw that which 
 astonished and pained him. It was young Winslow, 
 the la\\yer, approaching the cottage where sweet 
 Ellen Brady was staying with her brother, and he 
 saw her girlish welcome as she opened the door. His 
 blood boiled with indignation, and none the less 
 because the man was one of the suitors for the hand 
 of Katherine. 
 
 They laid a plot for the preacher, Winslow one of 
 the ringleaders. A wager was laid that there were 
 certain chapters in the Bible that the preacher 
 would not dare to read in public. Jack Perry, 
 while not active in the plot, was nevertheless some- 
 what mystified and tremendously interested. He 
 sent for him. When \^aughn arrived he found quite 
 a little company gathered, and he braced himself, 
 suspecting mischief. 
 
 "Do you believe in the whole of the Bible?" 
 asked Jack. 
 
 "I do, Jack. You ought to know that." 
 
 "You don't throw out none of it?" 
 
 "Not a word. Why do you ask ? " 
 
 " 'Cause they've been a-sayin' as there's chapters 
 that ain't decent to be read in public, and that you 
 wouldn't read 'em. They said as how the Old
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 267 
 
 Gentleman didn't put 'em in, but that 'twas the 
 work of the other fellow." 
 
 Vaughn looked over the list of chapters. He saw 
 the pit they had digged. Winslow chuckled. 
 
 "Well, I suppose you will bring your wives and 
 daughters to hear me." 
 
 ' ' Not much ! ' ' said Barker. Louise Barker was the 
 most beautiful girl in Eureka, and the best beloved. 
 
 "Oh, it's to be all men. Very well." This was 
 the point he had wished to gain. He appointed an 
 evening. Some forty men assembled. He locked 
 the door. He had prayed for strength and wisdom, 
 and was ready for them. He read the chapter and, 
 in a commentary upon it, he attacked the vices of 
 the men before him. He did not spare. He gave 
 facts and dates, and his audience thought that verily 
 the Judgment Day had come. Winslow watched 
 them with a bitter smile. He had not stooped to 
 this low life. Oh, no. But his turn came also. 
 Vaughn suddenly exclaimed, pointing him out with 
 his long finger, "All these are venial sins compared 
 with the sin of him who takes an innocent young 
 girl-" 
 
 "Say another word, and I'll blow your brains 
 out!" cried Winslow, drawing his revolver. In- 
 stantly the room was in confusion. In the midst of 
 the uproar Jack Perry's voice rang out, clear and 
 steady as a trumpet-call. 
 
 "I'll take care of this case, gentlemen. Gene 
 Winslow, give me that shootin' iron or I '11 pump 
 you as full of lead as a lead mine!"
 
 268 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 While and shaking, Winslow obeyed. No man 
 ever dared disobey Jack Perry. 
 
 "You're a dirty dog, if ye are Eugene Winslow!" 
 he said, as he took the revolver. 
 
 The meeting was at end, but Clement Vaughn 
 was stronger among them than he ever was before. 
 
 But Winslow was beside himself with shame and 
 confusion. He laid one more snare which, had it 
 not been for Clement Vaughn's genius, would have 
 succeeded. It was this way. The leading nation- 
 ality in Eureka was Irish. Vaughn was known to 
 be from England. In the debating club on a certain 
 evening the question discussed was the right to 
 suppress revolution. It was sprung upon the meet- 
 ing, or, rather, upon Vaughn, who was kept in 
 ignorance until the last moment. Although put in 
 general terms, the real question was the right of 
 England to trample upon Ireland. 
 
 The plot came to Katherine's ears. She induced 
 her brother to take her to the meeting. In fact, 
 every one was there. The animus of the thing 
 came out in the opening speech. Vaughn's turn 
 came. He saw it all now, and his active brain was 
 never more alive. He bowed to the chairman and 
 to the audience, and his gaze wandered to the place 
 where sat the people from Richmond Hill. Here 
 one pair of keen, earnest gray eyes held his own for a 
 moment with an expression of indignant sympathy 
 and resolute good will. They gave him all he needed 
 and more. For a time he played with the question 
 with mock courtesy; showed that he saw through
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 269 
 
 the plot and then, with a perfect stroke of genius, 
 dropped into the Irish accent as he said : 
 
 "Ah, me friends, I, too, have Irish blood in me 
 veins. I, too, love the Emerald Isle. The gentle- 
 man has eloquently portrayed the sufferings of Ire- 
 land but — I beg his pardon — his eloquence lacks 
 something. Sure, he has niver felt the charm of 
 that land. Can he shut his eyes and see the shores 
 of Killarney when the morning sun gilds the slopes of 
 Eagle Mountain ? Can he in his dreams watch the 
 McGillicuddy Reeks fade into the sunset glow ? Can 
 he picture the fair vale of Avoca ? ' T is the Garden 
 of Eden, gentlemen. God never made a fairer land ! ' ' 
 
 By this time the audience was aflame. The 
 others might talk about the Irish; this was Irish. 
 No one but an Irishman could have said it in that 
 inimitable way. Then he went on to discriminate 
 between the revolutionist on the one hand and the 
 reformer on the other, condemning the former and 
 commending the latter. Then he called the roll of 
 the Irishmen who had fought England's battles in 
 Parliament and on the field — Wellington, Wolseley, 
 Edmund Burke, Sir Richard Steele. 
 
 "The two countries are one, gentlemen! Cut 
 England, and Ireland bleeds. What would England 
 do, pray tell me, if half the foremost Englishmen 
 to-day were n't Irishmen?" and he ended by calling 
 for three cheers for England and Ireland. 
 
 Katherine's feelings may be imagined. He had 
 triumphed magnificently! Her eyes were brimming 
 over with light and laughter. "It was delicious!"
 
 2:o 
 
 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 she said to him after it was over; and those short 
 words were guerdon enough. 
 
 As his work went on, it grew more and more 
 strenuous. There were so many to comfort, to en- 
 courage, to warn. There seemed to be a conspiracy 
 to prevent him from sleeping ! His poetic soul gave of 
 its best and then — felt the reaction. He was tired, 
 so tired ! He wished he could see his sister, but she 
 was miles away. Then — ah ! that was it ! He would 
 visit the one womaii of all Eureka, at Richmond 
 Hill. She would sing to him if he should ask her. 
 
 "I knew how it would be," she said softly when 
 at last he came. "Life is too hard, too exacting, 
 for a man like you." 
 
 How pale he was! How sad the lines about his 
 mouth ! How pathetic the appeal in his eyes ! And 
 when he asked her would she sing, there was a 
 light in her eye that was almost as good as music. 
 She went to the piano. 
 
 "You've never asked me for the verses I was to 
 write for your melody, the music you wrote out for 
 me. Would you really like to hear them?" for his 
 eagerness was unmistakable. 
 
 She struck a few chords. "Yes, yes, that's it, 
 that's right; B fiat." And then she sang — and her 
 soul was in her voice : 
 
 " Along the silent ways there came 
 
 A troubadour, a troubadour, 
 As out of darkness shines a flame, 
 
 And in his hand a harp he bore! 
 
 He sang of Joy in overflow. 
 
 He sang the Pain mankind must know, 
 And they who listened to the voice 
 With it did mourn, with it rejoice."
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 271 
 
 He was at her side in an instant. "They are one, 
 the words and the music ! You have told my secret. 
 You have expressed just what I am. I do beHeve 
 I am nothing but a troubadour. Why, oh, why 
 should I pretend to call myself a priest of God?" 
 
 There was an ineffable sadness in his voice. 
 
 "Nevertheless you are a minister of God, and a 
 true one. You are much more than a troubadour." 
 
 "I cannot believe it!" he exclaimed. "I'm kind 
 and sympathetic and I mean well, so they say. 
 But — do I convict the sinner? Have I sent great, 
 searching waves of penitence through this unholy 
 town? No, they come to hear me say touching 
 things. They come to hear me sing ! " He laughed, 
 oh, so bitterly. 
 
 ' * Don't ! ' ' she cried. ' ' I cannot bear it ! " 
 
 "But, tell me, what single life have I renewed? 
 What heart have I changed?" 
 
 "Mine!" she answered solemnly. "Mine. Just 
 wait, there is another stanza. I have never sung it 
 aloud, even alone, but I will sing it now." 
 
 Tremulously, her soul in tumult, but resolutely 
 she sang; 
 
 " But more than this thou gavest me, 
 
 troubadour, O troubadour! 
 All that I hoped and meant to be, 
 
 Like flooding waves returns once more. 
 
 1 take the Joy, I dare the Pain, 
 Content to be myself again. 
 
 Sing on, sing on, as God hath meant. 
 My heart shall be thy instrument." 
 
 With the last word she arose and stood before 
 him. Ah! but he was alive now, with the life of
 
 272 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 stars and meteoric flames and the vitalizing, mag- 
 netic forces. Oh, if he had only told her his story 
 before this revealing came! He would have spared 
 her ; but now he must do his best to repair the wrong 
 of silence. 
 
 "Now I will be strong in this," she heard him 
 saying, and his voice thrilled her through and 
 through. His eyes — those wonderful, star-like eyes — 
 were bent upon her. It was not a time for the 
 explanations that must come; it was simply a time 
 for conscience and the strong moral forces. For 
 at last he knew all, without a shadow of conceal- 
 ment, and the knowledge was a mingling of the 
 Supreme Joy and the Supreme Pain. 
 
 "Parson," said Jack Perry, "I want to ask ye 
 somethin', an' I don't know how to begin." 
 
 "Well, come straight to it, Jack. Put the thing 
 pointblank." 
 
 "God Almighty," groaned Jack, "I can't! I'm 
 hard hit." 
 
 He looked it. He had aged ten years. 
 
 "If it had been anybody else, parson! But I 
 thought I knew you. I've said, 'Here's a feller 
 that 's made of the right stuff, an' we can f oiler him ! ' 
 An' I 've foUered — every step of the way." 
 
 "But I don't understand. In what way am I 
 different now?" 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" groaned Jack, and for a moment 
 turned away. "Mr. Vaughn, if anybody 'd told me 
 yesterday that I'd a smelt fire on yer clothes, I'd
 
 CLEMENT v^JGHN 273 
 
 have blowed his blanked brains out. My God, 
 parson, what are yef" Jack stood up and looked 
 down at him. "I've believed in ye, an' loved ye, 
 an' trusted ye till now. But now, by the Eternal, 
 ye've got to explain. If you're one o* them cusses 
 after women — " 
 
 With an imperious gesture Vaughn stopped him. 
 "I refuse to explain," he said haughtily. Of course 
 Jack had seen him with Katherine and had mis- 
 judged him. 
 
 "All right," said Jack grimly. "Then that 
 Forington woman over at the hotel can go ahead 
 and rouse the town if she wants to." 
 
 Vaughn reeled as if drunken. "What did you 
 say ? A woman ? What did you say was the name ? ' ' 
 
 "Forington. An' she tells a pretty straight 
 story, too." 
 
 Verily, this was the sledge-hammer blow of Fate! 
 Vaughn was dumb. Then he heard Jack's voice — 
 it sounded far away : 
 
 "I'll fix things up any way ye say. I'll tell 
 everybody — what in hell will I tell 'em?" 
 
 "She is my wife," said Vaughn. 
 
 "Parson, ye don't need to lie, ye know. She can 
 be got out o' the way somehow, an' nothin' said, 
 an' you can pervide for her. Understand? Ye 
 don't need to bluff with me." 
 
 ' ' Oh, Jack ! Oh, Jack ! ' ' cried Vaughn. His head 
 was on the big, gray shoulder, the strong, gray arm 
 was about him. The whole sad story came out, 
 from beginning to end.
 
 274 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Some uf 'em are like that," was Jack's comment. 
 
 A great tenderness had come into his heart in ad- 
 dition to all the old admiration and confidence. The 
 parson n-js pure gold, after all. Thank God for that 
 
 Of course Clement Vaughn went to see her; of 
 course he remembered that he was her husband; 
 of course, too, he tried to win her interest in the 
 work he was doing, and to secure her presence and 
 her help in it. But no; she was imperious and 
 frivolous and cold. She would die if she lived in 
 Eureka. She could n't stand the foolishness of his 
 religious work anyway. Now the question was, 
 would he or would he not go back with her to Eng- 
 land where he belonged? And he, who asked his 
 conscience again and again what was and was not 
 right and duty — w^hat should he do? 
 
 Meanwhile the most distorted stories were rife 
 in the town. It was said that this woman was not 
 his wife, but had, none the less, a claim upon him. 
 Indeed, she had said when she first came that she 
 had a claim upon him. The result was simple and 
 inevitable. The deplorable, pitiful conviction stole 
 into the minds of men that the parson was, after all, 
 no better than the rest of them. Jack Perry, 
 indeed, knew better; so did a dozen others who 
 had sense enough to see the truth in all its bearings. 
 But the hard fact remained that Eureka had 
 changed front, and the little church went down, 
 down, down ! The superintendent paid a visit and 
 gave to Vaughn his remorseless verdict; the exigen- 
 cies of the case required that he leave the field.
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 275 
 
 And so it had come to this! He was driven out, 
 dishonored, where he had been trusted and loved! 
 How could he bear it? Sensitive soul that he was, 
 the suffering bore some resemblance to agony. He 
 hurried out, blinded by a rush of tears, and climbed 
 the Geiger Grade. The -gray day was closing. The 
 canon lay in shadow. The lights of the town 
 twinkled in the darkness. And so it was all over! 
 He had done his best, he had fought the good fight 
 and kept the faith, and yet the end was defeat. A 
 turn in the road brought him to the great rock 
 which marked the highest point of the grade. Some 
 one was sitting there, a woman alone, and it was 
 his wife. 
 
 And Katherine? At first she laughed at the 
 stories, then was forced to see that something ugly 
 was true. And then — after all her faith in him, 
 her utter surrender, her almost ecstatic joy, there 
 was humiliation too deep for words. 
 
 "Don't look like that, Katherine, don't!" said 
 her sister. 
 
 "Why, how do I look?" 
 
 "Oh, I can't tell you. One would think you had 
 lost everything." 
 
 "I have lost everything! I have lost all faith in 
 God and man. I have said of him, 'He makes me 
 believe in the Immaculate Conception ! He is what 
 Christ would have been with a human father! His 
 is the realization of the sins of the world which he 
 cannot take away, and the burden of its sorrow.* 
 18
 
 2 76 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 And now, God in Heaven! it has come to this!" 
 Why did he not tell her, long ago, she asked her- 
 self. Why, indeed? Why should he? What had 
 he done, anyway? Was it not all her doing, from 
 first to last? She saw, now, that he came to her 
 simply for rest, for courage, for inspiration. Of any 
 wrong, then, with reference to herself, she could 
 acquit him. Perhaps he could be acquitted of all 
 wrongdoing. Was it wrong for one to leave a 
 wife in England? She would wait and hope then. 
 Why not? 
 
 "Seen a ghost. Mart?" asked one of Martin 
 Young as he stumbled, white as a sheet, into the 
 saloon. 
 
 "Ghosts be blanked!" he said solemnly. "It's 
 wuss'n that." 
 
 "What was it, Mart? Come, out with it!" 
 
 "I see an orful sight! I see — a man — push a 
 woman — over the Geiger Grade — an' then jump 
 over himself!" 
 
 They crowded around to hear the rest. 
 
 "What man? What woman?" 
 
 " 'Twas the parson an' — an' — " In a second 
 Jack Perry had him by the collar. "Lemme go, 
 Jack. It's Gawd's truth. Go down on the lower 
 road, an' you'll find 'em." 
 
 They found them, Vaughn bending over her dead 
 body. He looked up piteously, exclaiming, "She's 
 dead!" 
 
 Martin Young's story went like wildfire through
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 277 
 
 Eureka. He told his story at the inquest, and 
 nothing could shake it. He evidently believed it 
 himself. Vaughn gave himself up. 
 
 His friends said the story simply could not be 
 true. " 'T ain't in him. What if he did give him- 
 self up ? ' T was just like him to do some such thing. ' ' 
 
 On the other hand, there was Martin's solemn 
 oath as to what he saw, and his evident sincerity. 
 Eureka could see Vaughn's possible motive plainly 
 enough, and the tide turned against him. And, to 
 crown all, when the trial came the prisoner pleaded 
 guilty and would not explain. 
 
 "Arthur, tell me, what was the sentence?" asked 
 Katherine. She was pale and trembling. 
 
 "The extreme penalty, my dear; nothing less." 
 
 ' ' But is there no way out, no way at all ? Is there 
 nothing that can be done?" 
 
 "Nothing, my dear. His friends begin to gather 
 now, and there's weeping and wailing in Eureka. 
 They remember how he loved them and prayed for 
 them, and they are urging him to escape. But he 
 won't do it, and there's no hope." 
 
 "Arthur," said she, and her face was like marble 
 while her eyes shone like fire, "Arthur, I am going 
 to the jail. I don't care who sees me. I don't 
 care who knows." 
 
 "Yes, you do!" he answered steadily. "You 
 think just now that you don't care, but you do. If 
 I should let you go down there into that mob hang- 
 ing around the jail, they would say, "There she 
 comes, the other woman! You could not bear it."
 
 2 78 FIGURES FAiMED IN FICTION 
 
 "I can bear anything. I don't care what they 
 say if I can help him." 
 
 "But my dear, dear sister Kate, you wouldn't 
 help him. His case would grow so much the blacker 
 if they saw you there. No, dear; your place is here 
 under your brother's roof, and under his protection." 
 
 It was the night before the day set for the ex- 
 ecution. Twenty masked men rode up to the jail 
 and demanded to see the jailer. "We want to send 
 a man to see the prisoner," they said. 
 
 "Mr. Vaughn, the boys are here, and they're 
 ready! Come, we're goin' to do it! We're goin' 
 to get you out of this! Got some mighty good 
 horses. Come!" 
 
 "Tell the boys I thank them from my heart, but 
 if they take me away, as God lives, I will come back! " 
 
 And so the last hope fled. 
 
 Mat Kyle, the jailer, in an agony of sympathy, 
 asked his prisoner if he could do anything for him, 
 for he loved him as his own soul. 
 
 "Yes, Mat; there is one thing. Let me say my 
 last words to you. They may ask you — after- 
 wards — what I said. I won't burden your memory 
 with many words, but just tell them this: It isn't 
 what a man says or does, hut what he thinks! Tell 
 them that." 
 
 Mat was puzzled. Thinking ! What had that to 
 do with the case? To Mat "thinking" meant sit- 
 ting down and getting all snarled up. 
 
 "It is the secret thought that kills," continued 
 Vaughn. "I hated; therefore I was a murderer."
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 279 
 
 Mat winked hard. What did the parson mean by 
 that? He was trying hard to understand. 
 
 "Hold on, parson. Didn't yer — didn't yer push 
 her over?" 
 
 "No," said Vaughn sadly. "She jumped. She 
 said it was my fault, and that she hoped I'd be 
 hanged for it. Why, Mat, where are you going?" 
 
 "Parson, parson — you'll have to excuse me. 
 I — I've got something to do." 
 
 "Jack! Get up quick. I — I — I — there's some- 
 thin' I must tell ye!" 
 
 ' ' Well, out with it ! Hev they lynched him ? ' ' 
 
 "No! No! It's this. He— he didn't do it T' 
 
 "What! What! Didn't do it?" 
 
 "That's it. She jumped. Ye see, the parson was 
 tellin' me somethin' to tell the boys — afterwards. 
 An' he says, 'Mat,' says he, 'it ain't what a man 
 does, but what he thinks, that Almighty God judges 
 him by.' Did ye ever look at it in that light. Jack? 
 What do ye think?" 
 
 "Go on! What did he say? There ain't any 
 time to fool away on what I think." 
 
 "That's what he said. 'I hated her; consequen- 
 tially I 'm a murderer!' " 
 
 "But he said she jumped?" 
 
 "That's what I'm tellin' ye, over and over!" 
 
 ' ' All right ! Who 's downstairs ? ' ' said Jack. 
 
 ' ' Dick, Tim, Joe, — all the boys. 
 
 ' ' Send up them three ! ' ' 
 
 "Boys," said Jack, "we've got just ten hours to 
 run to Palisade, see the governor, and get back."
 
 28o FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Tlie II :3o's gone!" said Dick. 
 
 "I know that. Joe, you go over to the station 
 agent and tell him that Jack Perry wants a hand 
 car. Dick, you rout out the telegraph operator, 
 and tell him Jack Perry says to clear the tracks 
 to Palisade. Now, Mat, here's a job for you. 
 When we get started, you just holler fer a special 
 Providence." 
 
 "What's them?" said the sheriff, dumfounded. 
 
 "Them? That's where the Old Gentleman steps 
 in. I tell ye. Mat, we can't get that blam-jam hand 
 car up to Palisade an' back without somethin' 
 more 'n four-man power ! Parson says there is such 
 things — him an' me talked it over once. An' so 
 your job is to get right at it ! Do ye hear ? " 
 
 "All right, Jack." Mat stood by the track as the 
 car went by for Palisade. He fell upon his knees. 
 "O God! O God!" he cried, and that was his prayer. 
 But if ever a human heart went up to Almighty 
 God in a cry for help, it was then. 
 
 "See that, will ye!" cried Jack. "The wind's 
 changed! 'T ain't in our faces now!" 
 
 And Katherine! How she ever lived through 
 that awful night she never knew. She thought she 
 would go mad. Ten in the forenoon ! That was the 
 awful hour. In the gray of the morning she stole out 
 to the stables. She remembered the childish romps 
 and games there in other days. A woman now, she 
 stood there, paying the price of her womanhood. 
 
 "Jerry!" she called softly to the stableman.
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 281 
 
 ' ' Yes, ma'am. Right here ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' I want you, Jerry, to go down to the jail by and 
 by, and bring me word after — as soon as — " 
 
 "I will, ma'am, I will. Anything else, ma'am?" 
 
 "No, no! That is all." 
 
 The hours wore away. Eight o'clock, nine o'clock 
 came. "Oh, this is awful! This is unendurable!" 
 she cried. Glancing at the wall, she saw a picture 
 of the Madonna. In her agony she threw herself 
 upon her knees. "O Mother of Sorrows!" she 
 prayed, "even Christ did not bear what you bore — 
 to stand by — to wait — till it was done! Help, oh, 
 help, Mother of Christ!" 
 
 Was that a bell tolling? Was there no power on 
 earth to stop this monstrous thing? She flung out 
 her arms, and prayed again. "O Lord most holy, 
 O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour! 
 Let not this deed of violence be done! Take him, 
 oh, take him gently to Thyself." 
 
 A horse ! Jerry was coming. 
 
 "Come in!" she faltered. 
 
 "Jack Perry — brought — a reprieve — from the 
 governor. But the parson — dropped dead — when 
 he heard the news!" 
 
 Katherine clutched the back of the chair. 
 
 "Jerry," she said, with tense lips, "put the grays 
 into the surrey and drive me down to the jail." 
 
 Arrived there. Jack came to the door, "This 
 ain't no place for you, ma'am," he said roughly. 
 
 "Mr. Perry, please be good to me. All I ask you 
 is this : please give me his precious body. No woman
 
 282 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 ever claimed so little. Just to care for it, to prepare 
 it for the long sleep." 
 
 She stretched out her hands with an indescribably 
 pathetic gesture. Her great beauty was never more 
 appealing. 
 
 "What '11 — folks — say?" he asked slowly. 
 
 Then she blazed at him. "We've had enough of 
 that. It was that that sent him to the gallows! 
 Him to the gallows, and he gave you his love and 
 his prayers and his heart's blood." The tears 
 rained down her face. 
 
 "They say," said Jack, "that 'twas because he 
 wanted to please you that he done the deed. I've 
 thought so myself sometimes." 
 
 He said it to prove her. 
 
 "To please me?" she cried out bitterly, "He 
 never so much as touched my hand, except as cour- 
 tesy demanded it. And I adored him! I don't 
 care who knows it, now that he is gone. You will 
 give me the body now?" she added wistfully. 
 
 A strange look came over his face. 
 
 "What if I tell you — there's life in it?" 
 
 "What? What? Life?" she cried with parted lips. 
 
 "Yes; we thought he was dead for sure, but the 
 good Lord eaved him. He's sleepin' like a child. 
 Do you want to look ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh, no! No! He might not like it." 
 
 And then came the great revulsion of feeling. 
 She clasped her hands in a fervor of thanksgiving. 
 Jack Perry thought he had never seen a more 
 beautiful face.
 
 CLEMENT VAUGHN 283 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Perry! if there's anything he wants — 
 or that you think he ought to have — " 
 
 "He'll have it, ma'am! Don't you fret. You 
 ain't the only one that sets store by him." 
 
 "Mr. Vaughn," said Jack, "the lady at Richmond 
 Hill sent ye these flowers. She sends to get word 
 from ye every day. I thought ye might like to 
 know. An' there's another thing. When they said 
 ye was dead she came here to beg for yer body. 
 Mr. Vaughn, I've thought hard things about her, 
 and perhaps I 've said things, but I 've changed my 
 mind. I'll take 'em all back. When she talked 
 about you and yer work here she cried like a baby ! 
 The tears just rained down her face! She's pure 
 gold, that's what she is, nothin' more nor less." 
 
 "God bless you. Jack! God bless you! I've 
 been hungry for some little word from her. You 
 have told me more than I ever hoped to know." 
 
 "An', parson, here's another thing. Eureka's 
 come to its senses at last, and every blanked soul in 
 it has petitioned the Mission feller to give ye back 
 yer church. He done it, all right; here's his letter. 
 Now what do ye say to goin' down the valley fer a 
 couple o' months till ye get good an' strong?" 
 
 "Oh, Jack, I'd like it! I can't tell you how much! 
 And Jack, would you mind telling her that the 
 black night is going, the dawn is coming, and the 
 day will be glorious? Tell her this. Jack, and let 
 her be her own interpreter."
 
 BERAULT 
 
 A S I tell you, my friends, this my tale of adven- 
 ■^^ ture, I confess to a good deal of shame. I had 
 a strange battle to fight — a struggle with myself — 
 and, though the Lord knows some of the conflict 
 was humiliating enough, still I confess also that I 
 am — and ever have been — glad and proud of the 
 outcome. I am but a soldier, and a stranger to fine 
 phrases, and I talk straight on as I tell you my story. 
 
 Although of noble birth I w^as — like so many of 
 my time — a soldier of fortune. When there was 
 no campaigning I ranged the streets and resorts 
 of Paris, and the gaming table was my mainstay. 
 One night a youth insulted me in the midst of the 
 game. He should have known better, me, the best 
 swordsman in Paris! However, we went out into 
 the court back of old St. Jacques and settled it. As 
 he lay on the ground, wounded but not dead, some 
 one cried, "The cardinal's guards!" and before you 
 could say a pater noster, they had me fast. 
 
 For you see the cardinal had made a stringent 
 law against dueling; the punishment was death. I 
 was an old offender — had already killed some half- 
 dozen men — and I feared there would be no mercy. 
 That night I had cold chills in the dungeon, for the 
 more I thought upon it the surer I grew that the 
 cardinal would make of me an example to strike 
 terror through Paris. But when, after a three days' 
 
 284
 
 BERAULT 285 
 
 suspense, I was summoned into his presence I put a 
 bold face on it ; that is, as bold as I could, consider- 
 ing the man into whose presence I was brought. The 
 great Cardinal Richelieu! The man of unbending 
 will, cold heart, and almost superhuman penetration! 
 There he stood, with his keen, pale face and his 
 brilliant eyes that pierced me like cold iron. He 
 had humbled the great Duke of Orleans, he had 
 curbed the queen mother; a dozen heads, the noblest 
 in France, had come to the block through him. His 
 enemies plotted and raged in vain. 
 
 He looked me through, and smiled in his cynical 
 way. "I could not have made a better catch, M. 
 de Berault. You have killed six men in duels and 
 now, let me tell you, the law must take its course." 
 
 This he said after questioning me with a view 
 to learning something, I suppose, and he turned 
 with a cold air of finality to collect certain papers. 
 I declare I was never so near to fear — the cold chill 
 of it, I mean — in all my life. I saw the scaffold 
 swim before my eyes. If I said aught I must say 
 it quickly; another minute, and it would be too late. 
 
 "Your eminence! If you would but give me one 
 minute alone!" I cried in my desperation. 
 
 "Ah, ha! You know something?" he said in his 
 quick way. "But, no, no. I have better spies 
 than you." 
 
 "But no better sword, your eminence!" I said 
 hoarsely. "No, not in all your guard." 
 
 "That is true," he said, in a reflective tone. 
 "True, you are a good sword. Let me think, my
 
 286 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 friend. Yes, M. de Berault, you are a good sword; 
 and you might be useful to me. You might be, if 
 you would. " 
 
 "Your eminence, I can and I will," I said. 
 
 "Well, monsieur," — he still spoke in that cold, 
 deliberate way of his — "I believe 3'ou to be a man 
 of honor, notwithstanding all your folly. I am 
 minded to trust you. No, no; do not answer me. 
 I think I will give you one more chance. Woe be 
 to you if you fail me ! 
 
 "I have a piece of business for you," he continued. 
 "There is a certain man, one M. de Cocheforet, 
 who has given me more trouble than I care to tell. 
 He has been engaged in every Gascon plot since 
 the king's death, and is most dangerous to the state. 
 He is at present in Spain, just over the border. He 
 visits his wife occasionally at the chateau near Auch. 
 On one of these visits he must be arrested." 
 
 "That should be easy," I said. 
 
 " Little >'ow know ! Why, man, the whole prov- 
 ince is a hotbed of treason! If a soldier crosses 
 the street in Auch it is whispered at the chateau. 
 The arrest must be made secretly, for a spark might 
 kindle a fresh rising." 
 
 I bowed. 
 
 "One resolute man inside the house," he con- 
 tinued, "with the help of two or three servants if he 
 could win them over, might effect it. He must 
 deceive the household, and play a sharp game. He 
 must have nerve and courage, and no conscience to 
 speak of. The question is, will you be the man?"
 
 BERAULT 287 
 
 I hesitated, not because of fear, but in dislike of 
 the low trickery. 
 
 "Well," said the cardinal, "yes or no?" 
 
 "Yes, your eminence; I engage to do it." 
 
 For, in all goodness, what choice had I? It was 
 this enterprise, such as it was, or death on the 
 scaffold. 
 
 I went on my long journey to the south of France 
 attended by only two servants. I had ample 
 leisure to think about my errand, and I swear I 
 had little taste for it. In good faith, it was not a 
 gentleman's work, look at it how you might. Ar- 
 riving at the little village not far from the chateau, 
 I went to the inn — a rather mean affair — and found 
 myself at once the object of suspicion. I did my 
 best to disarm it, sounded the praises of Henry IV, 
 denounced the cardinal, and hinted mysteriously 
 of work to be done over the border. I had brought 
 some choice Armagnac in my saddle bags. I offered 
 the landlord a glass, and presently he accepted an- 
 other. This loosened his tongue, and we talked, he 
 boasting of his southern province, I of the north. 
 
 "Look at your horses!" said I. "We have some- 
 thing better in the north than scrubby ponies." 
 
 "So!" he exclaimed. "Think you so? Why, 
 man, I can show you now in the inn stable a better 
 horse than your own." 
 
 I laughed in his face. It stung him, and he 
 started for the door. Of course I followed him out 
 to the stable, where he showed me as beautiful a 
 thoroughbred as one often sees. At the moment,
 
 288 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 however, his sober second thought changed him, 
 and he abruptly closed the stable door. But I had 
 seen enough. That horse was not owned in the 
 village. That horse must belong to Cocheforet, the 
 man I was seeking. He must be here even now on 
 one of his visits from Spain ! That was quite clear to 
 my mind. And now for the next move in the game. 
 
 I watched a long time from my attic window that 
 night, expecting to see my man; nor was I disap- 
 pointed. About midnight I heard voices, and after 
 a time made out the figure of a man — a gentleman, 
 I knew from his bearing — and near him a woman 
 with whom he was speaking. Soon a light from 
 the window flashed upon them, and I saw her form 
 and face. The night was warm, and she wore no 
 outer garment. Her white dress, her queenly bear- 
 ing, the turn of her head as she talked — I can see 
 them now. I knew for almost a certainty that 
 these were the people with whom I was to deal. A 
 few minutes, and they were gone; and I lay down 
 upon my bed, wondering how I was to gain entrance 
 to the chateau. I could not sleep, and at early 
 dawn I arose and went out. 
 
 Just as I stepped into the street I saw something 
 lying on the ground, and picked it up hastily. I 
 thought it might possibly be a little note, or at least 
 something that might help me. It proved to be a 
 small orange-colored sachet such as women carry, 
 usually filled with scented powder. Doubtless 
 she had dropped it last night. I turned it over 
 curiously, and put it in my pocket. Little did I
 
 BERAULT 289 
 
 imagine the part it was to play in my adventure. 
 
 Well, I reconnoitered a little, found the way to 
 the chateau, and even got a glimpse of it. The 
 next question was how to secure admission there. 
 I made my plan, and this is the way I carried it out. 
 That day a company of men rode up to the inn. 
 They were well armed, as was needful in those 
 times, and that evening it suited me to pretend to 
 be drunken and to pick a quarrel. From words 
 we came to blows, and I was handled roughly. At 
 length, bruised, cut, and bleeding, but not seriously 
 hurt — I took good care of that — they pitched me 
 out of the house and fastened the door. After a 
 time I made my way into the woods and, after long 
 tramping in the rain and the darkness, knocked at 
 the door of the chateau. 
 
 After much ado I aroused some one within. 
 
 "Who is there?" said a voice. 
 
 "A gentleman in distress! They abused me at 
 the inn, and I have been wandering in the woods." 
 
 The door was opened by a servant, and a woman's 
 voice from under the gallery said, ' ' I am afraid, sir, 
 that you are hurt." 
 
 "It is true, madame, but all I ask is shelter for 
 the night." 
 
 "You shall have it, sir. We do not turn the un- 
 fortunate from our doors." 
 
 This was my welcome to this house upon which 
 I had such infernal designs. How I despised myself 
 for a mean, dishonorable knave, unworthy of the 
 name I bore!
 
 2QO FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 The next morning I met the lady of the house 
 and also another whom she introduced as her sister. 
 I introduced myself as M. de Barthe, a gentleman 
 of Normandy. The ladies were as gracious as 
 they were refined and beautiful. I sat at their 
 table an honored guest, not that day only but the 
 next day and the next. Their frankness, their 
 sweetness, their evident trust in me, a gentleman 
 — I do not mind saying it got on my nerves! 
 They had a trusted servant, however, who looked 
 upon me with an evil eye, and dotibtless made no 
 secret to them of his suspicions. Nevertheless, 
 whatever they may have suspected, they treated 
 me even as high-minded ladies would treat a 
 gentleman. 
 
 One afternoon, as I was seated in the garden, one 
 of the ladies crossed the lawn and entered the wood. 
 It was the one whom I supposed to be Mme. de 
 Cocheforet, and I immediately suspected that she 
 was on her way to meet her husband. Quickly I 
 followed her, keeping well out of sight — or thinking 
 I did so. She went a long, long way, turning sharp 
 comers in the woody lane that seemed to have no 
 end. As I turned one of these corners in my pursuit 
 I came suddenly face to face with her! I was 
 astounded. I understood it then. She had pur- 
 posely lured me away. 
 
 Then she confronted me with infinite scorn and 
 anger, pouring out upon me the vials of her wrath. 
 "You spy, you hound, you — gentleman! Oh! 
 Men Dieu! We will pay you for this some day!
 
 BERAULT 291 
 
 I did not think there was anything so vile as you 
 in all this world." 
 
 I stammered I know not what. I tried to right 
 myself, but she would none of it, 
 
 "But, madame," I said. 
 
 "I am not madame, thank you. I am made- 
 moiselle. Madame is now having an interview with 
 her husband. As for you, sir, you will spend the 
 night at the inn, and to-morrow you will get you 
 gone to your master, you spy, you coward, you 
 hound, you — gentleman!" 
 
 She was magnificent in her fury as she swept past 
 me fearlessly and left me alone. 
 
 Shame and rage fought together for my soul. I 
 reached the inn after long wandering in the wood, 
 ate my supper, and to bed. As I opened my doublet 
 something fell to the floor. It was the little bag 
 I had picked up on the night of my arrival. I had 
 not thought of it since. I opened it curiously, and 
 was astonished to find more than a dozen of the 
 finest gems I had seen in a long time. Now I remem- 
 bered that they had been searching for something 
 at the chateau while I stayed there, and were evi- 
 dently much concerned at the loss. This must be 
 the lost treasure. 
 
 I found an escort waiting for me in the morning, 
 and I was started on the road without ceremony. 
 I swore at them roundly, only to be told with a grin 
 that we were going over the border into Spain. For 
 a time I made the best of it. How I outwitted my 
 guards and finally made my escape I have not the 
 
 19
 
 292 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 time to tell. But I had a beautiful scheme in my 
 head, and I put on a bold front as I returned to the 
 inn from which I had been led away under guard 
 the day before. 
 
 Arrived there, I found quite a detachment of the 
 cardinal's guards. Some of them were at the chateau 
 itself, as I afterwards found. They had evidently 
 been sent to do what I had thus far failed to do. 
 Well, never mind; I was in for something exciting, 
 that was plain. 
 
 After eating my supper I was sitting by the fire, 
 for the night was cool, when a woman came in. She 
 was shabbily dressed ; a shawl over her head was held 
 together by a dirty brown hand ; her feet and ankles 
 were bare. She carried a pitcher, which the inn 
 keeper's wife filled with broth for her. As she 
 turned away, something in the pose of her head and 
 her carriage — a little trick of graceful movement — 
 caught my eye. Quickly I arose and barred her 
 exit. She shrank from me with a low cry. It was 
 none other than Mademoiselle. 
 
 "This is too heavy for you, my girl. Let me 
 carry it for you," I said in a curt, familiar way. 
 Outside, alone in the darkness, I said more cour- 
 teously, "It is late for you to be out, mademoiselle. 
 Permit me to attend you home." 
 
 Trembling with rage or fear — impotent rage, for 
 the most part, I am sure — she went with me and, 
 as we entered the wood, she stopped and turned on 
 me like a wild creature at bay. "What do you 
 want?" she cried hoarsely.
 
 BERAULT 293 
 
 " Simply a brief interview," said I. "That is all 
 I ask." 
 
 "Well, speak, and be quick about it! I cannot 
 breathe the same air with you. It poisons me!" 
 
 ' ' Mademoiselle, not so bitter, if you please. Allow 
 me to remind you that I am one to be feared. Do 
 I not know that, your house being full of soldiers, 
 you were forced to come in disguise to the inn to 
 procure a supper for your brother in hiding? What 
 if I should tell the captain?" 
 
 She trembled, and almost fell. 
 
 "Your price!" she murmured faintly. 
 
 Now had come the moment of my revenge. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, about a fortnight ago M. de 
 Cocheforet lost a little orange-colored sachet. You 
 know what the bag contained. You all searched 
 for it in vain." I took the packet from my doublet 
 and held it toward her. "Will you open it, made- 
 moiselle, and see if the gems are all there?" 
 
 She took it like one in a dream. Finally she 
 repeated again the words in a tragic whisper, "Your 
 price!" 
 
 "It is this, my lady. You remember when, the 
 day before yesterday, I followed you through the 
 wood to restore these things, you were very angry 
 with me and called me some very harsh names. 
 The only price I ask for restoring your jewels is this ; 
 that you recall those names, and say they were not 
 deserved." 
 
 She stood dumfounded, trembling. 
 
 "What! I do not understand. Is that all?"
 
 394 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Only one thing more, mademoiselle. I ask per- 
 mission to be the protector of yourself and your 
 sister while the soldiers are here. You will not 
 refuse me the privilege, I hope." 
 
 She raised her hand to her head. After a long 
 pause she murmured hoarsely, "The frogs! They 
 croak ! I cannot hear ! ' ' 
 
 Then she turned suddenly from me and walked 
 away. After a minute she returned, sobbing and 
 weeping. 
 
 "Oh, my friend!" she cried, "what shall I say of 
 your generosity? How shall I tell of my shame? 
 Forgive me! Forgive me! I cannot talk now. I 
 am overwrought, and we are so sunk in trouble. 
 Will you take me home?" 
 
 And so I returned, a guest, to the chateau. I 
 will not stay to tell of the high and mighty time I 
 had with the captain of the soldiers. The squad 
 of men had overrun the house, and were overbearing 
 and insulting. I took a high hand with them as 
 intruders, the captain quarreled with me, and we 
 met in the garden to settle it. 
 
 I had my own reasons for not wishing to fight. 
 He thought me irresolute, and taunted me. 
 
 "Well, " I said coldly, "I do not know what to do. 
 On the one hand, I have not much to gain by killing 
 you; on the other hand, it would not hurt me to let 
 you go." 
 
 "Indeed!" said he with a sneer. 
 
 "No; for if you were to say that you had struck 
 down Gil de Berault no one would believe you."
 
 BERAULT 295 
 
 He stared like one demented. 
 
 "What! I thought your name was de Barthe." 
 
 "It suits me to take that name down here," I said. 
 I read the fear in his eye ; I had seen it in men's eyes 
 before. "And more than that," I continued, "I 
 have the cardinal's commission for this business. 
 There are several things for you to think of." 
 
 "Well," he said with a swagger, "if you have 
 orders from the cardinal — Oh, to the devil with 
 you ! Stay here, if you will, and I will take my men 
 to the inn. But by all the holy saints! there is one 
 question. Are you playing traitor to those two 
 women, or to the cardinal?" 
 
 Little did he know how it struck home. Which 
 was I doing, and what would I do next? Would 
 to God I knew ! 
 
 When the captain ordered off the soldiers the 
 amazement of the ladies was unbounded. And, 
 strangest of all, there had been no duel. 
 
 "What magic did you use?" asked Mademoiselle. 
 
 "My lady, did you ever hear of one de Berault, 
 known in Paris by the soubriquet of 'The Black 
 Death'?" 
 
 "The duelist? Yes; I have heard of him. A 
 man to be dreaded." 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I am he." 
 
 She was astounded, and for a moment knew not 
 what to say. 
 
 "I misjudged you once," she said in a low voice. 
 "Heaven forbid that I should do it a second time. 
 You may have been a terror to your foes," she
 
 296 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 added, "and the blood of rash mm be found on you. 
 Still, you may have guarded your honor. When a 
 man has not lied, nor betrayed the innocent, nor 
 sold himself to others, I could forgive him all else." 
 
 Before God, I had rather she had stabbed me ! I 
 turned away my face that she might not see how 
 I winced under her words. Great heavens! How 
 was I ever to do that which I came to do? 
 
 The captain was downright mad with me, and 
 every time our paths crossed the madder he grew. 
 He could not flout my authority, for I held the car- 
 dinal's commission. But there was one thing he 
 could do — or thought he could do; he could dis- 
 credit me with Mademoiselle. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she asked him. "If you 
 think you can prejudice me against that gentle- 
 man — " 
 
 "That's what I do think. He is a black-hearted 
 scoundrel, a sneaking spy. He is the meanest, 
 lowest knave alive. He is here in the cardinal's 
 pay to deceive you and ruin you!" 
 
 "Go on, monsieur," she said as he paused. "Go 
 on! You will have done the sooner." 
 
 "You do not believe me? Mon Dieu! Why, his 
 very name is not his own. It is not Barthe; it is 
 Berault, the duelist of Paris." 
 
 "I know it," she said coldly; "and if you are done 
 with your vile slanders, you may go. Suffice it to 
 say, I do not believe you, and I despise you." 
 
 "Sacre! You are mad," he cried, "or else be- 
 witched ! Well, God help you when the time comes ! ' '
 
 BERAULT 297 
 
 He turned and left us. We two were alone in the 
 gloom. The frogs were croaking in the pool. The 
 house, the garden, the wood all lay quiet in the dark- 
 ness. As for me, the tortures of the damned were 
 raging in my soul. Oh, would to heaven I had never 
 met this woman, whose nobility and faith and truth 
 were a continual shame to me! At length I roused 
 myself. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," I said in a hoarse voice, "do 
 you believe this of me? Is there no suspicion in 
 your heart?" 
 
 "Come in," she replied, "and I will show you if 
 I believe it." 
 
 She led me in to the blazing hearth and there, in 
 the full light, no longer a shadowy creature but 
 brilliant and throbbing with life, she stood opposite 
 me, her eyes shining, her color high, her breast 
 heaving. 
 
 "Do I believe it?" she said. "I will tell you. 
 M. de Cocheforet's hiding place is in the hut behind 
 the fern stack, two furlongs from the village on the 
 road to Auch. You now know our secret. You 
 hold our fate in your hands. And you know also, 
 M. de Berault, whether I believed that tale." 
 
 Even while she was speaking there was a knock 
 at the door, and one of my men took me outside. 
 "They have found him!" he cried. "That is, they 
 know where he lies. Come quick, and we may be 
 the first! We can follow them, and then dash in." 
 
 Hardly knowing what I did, we went through the 
 wood, my man and I, cutting off the distance,
 
 298 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 arriving long before the soldiers. So far were we 
 in advance of them that I had the fugitive under 
 arrest when they arrived. The captain was in high 
 dudgeon, but I produced my commission, and he 
 was forced to make the best of it. In the midst of 
 our altercation, by the light of the torches I caught 
 sight of a white robe, and Mile, de Cocheforet 
 glided forward. She recoiled from me as if I had 
 been a viper, with such a look of hate and loathing 
 that I stepped back as if she had struck me. 
 
 "Do not touch me!" she hissed, and crossing over 
 to where her brother stood, she hung sobbing upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 I took them back to the chateau, and the next 
 day we started on the road to Paris. They had 
 arranged that Madame should stay behind, and that 
 Tvlademoiselle should accompany us. She wore a 
 mask most of the time, and when I could see her 
 face it was like stone. Once she cast me such a look, 
 conveying disgust and loathing so unspeakable that 
 scorn beside it would have been a gift. At another 
 time I saw her face flame in deep color; at her 
 thoughts, I suppose, of all that had been between 
 herself and me. 
 
 Now I need not say — at least, I hope not — that 
 I had formed my own plan of what I would do when 
 the right time should come. It comforted me some- 
 what that I was to make atonement for all the harm 
 I had done, albeit the thought o: what was to come 
 to me afterwards made my heart grow cold. 
 
 Those who know the great south road to Agen
 
 BERAULT 299 
 
 will remember a place where the road, two leagues 
 from the town, runs up a long hill. At the top of 
 the hill four ways meet, two of them leading to 
 Montauban and to Bordeaux. There would be the 
 place for my atonement. Even now we could see 
 it in the distance. I was riding ahead. I pulled 
 up and, letting Mademoiselle pass me, I detained 
 M. de Cocheforet a moment. 
 
 "Pardon me," said I, "I want to ask a favor." 
 
 "Well, what is it?" said he. 
 
 "I wish to have a few words with Mademoiselle — 
 alone." 
 
 "Alone?" he replied, frowning. "But why not 
 speak those few words to me?" 
 
 "That will not do," said I. "I want a private 
 word with her." 
 
 "No!" he cried, his anger rising. "I know what 
 you want. You would have her sell herself, to you 
 soul and body, to save me! And you would have 
 me stand by and see the thing done! And my 
 answer is — never, though I go to the wheel! Oh, 
 I am not a fool; I have seen the drift of things; I 
 have used my eyes." 
 
 "Then be good enough now to favor me with 
 your ears," I answered dryly, "and listen when I say 
 that no such bargain ever crossed my mind. I 
 simply wish to speak with her. I have no favor 
 whatsoever to ask of her. Heavens, man! What 
 harm can I do her here in the road in your sight?" 
 
 Without a word, he made me a gesture to go to her. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," I said, approaching her where
 
 ^oo FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 she sat lier horse, "will you grant me the privilege 
 of your company for a few minutes as we ride?" 
 
 "To what purpose, sir?" in the coldest voice, I 
 swear, in which woman ever spoke to man. 
 
 "That I may explain to you some things which 
 you do not understand." 
 
 "I perfer to be in the dark, sir," was her icy reply. 
 
 "But, mademoiselle, you told me one day that 
 you would never judge me hastily again." 
 
 "Facts judge you, not I, sir. I am not on a level 
 low enough to judge you, thank God." 
 
 "But you were wrong once, mademoiselle. You 
 may be wrong again." 
 
 "Impossible!" she exclaimed, and then she said 
 things to me that rankled. All her scorn and loath- 
 ing found a voice. In my heart I could not blame 
 her. Nevertheless it cut to the quick. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said I sternly, "do you love 
 him ? ' ' pointing to her brother in the rear. ' ' Because 
 if you do, you will let me tell my tale. Refuse me 
 but once more, and you will repent it all your life." 
 
 She cowered a little at that. "I will hear you," 
 she answered in a low voice. 
 
 "This is my story, then. To begin at the begin- 
 ning, two months ago there was living in Paris a 
 soldier of fortune. This man was arrested for duel- 
 ing. The cardinal's edict against it had been broken, 
 and death was the penalty. It chanced, however, 
 that the cardinal himself made him an offer. If he 
 would seek out and deliver up another man he 
 might himself go free.
 
 BERAULT 301 
 
 "Mademoiselle," I continued, looking, not at her 
 but into the distance, "it seems easy now to say 
 what coarse he should have chosen. It seems hard 
 now to find excuses for him. Suffice it to say that 
 he took the baser course, and on his honor — on his 
 parole — he went forth to do the work he had prom- 
 ised to do. 
 
 "Some portion of the rest of this story you know, 
 mademoiselle, but not all. Arrived at his destina- 
 tion, this man pressed his way into his victim's 
 home. He found there two helpless, loyal women; 
 and I want to tell you that from the first hour of 
 his entrance into that home he sickened of the work 
 he had in hand. Nevertheless he had given his 
 word; and there was one tradition of his race that 
 this man had never broken ; it was to keep his prom- 
 ise, whatever it might be. But he pursued his 
 mission — if you will believe me — in agonies of 
 shame. Gradually, however, the drama worked it- 
 self out before him, until he needed only one thing 
 for the hunger of his soul." 
 
 I turned and looked at her, but her head was 
 averted; and I went on. "Do not misunderstand 
 what I am about to say. This is no love story 
 with a happy ending. But I am bound to say, 
 mademoiselle, that this hard man, this soldier of 
 fortune, met for the first time in years a good woman; 
 and by the light of her loyalty and devotion he 
 came to see even clearer than ever the accursed 
 shame of the work he was set to do. And I am 
 bound to say also that it added a hundred fold to
 
 302 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 his misery that when he learned at last the secret he 
 had come to surprise, he learned it from her lips, 
 and in such a way that had he felt no shame, hell 
 itself would have been too good for him. But in 
 one thing she misjudged him. She thought, and 
 had reason to think, that the moment he knew her 
 secret he went out and used it. But the truth was 
 that, while her words were still in his ears, news 
 came to him that others had the secret; and had he 
 not gone out on the instant and forestalled them, 
 M. de Cocheforet would have been taken, but by 
 others." 
 
 "Would to heaven he had!" she wailed. 
 
 I could not understand. 
 
 "Oh, yes! yes! Why did you not tell me then? 
 I — Oh, no more! no more! You are racking my 
 heart, M. de Berault. Some day I will ask God to 
 give me strength to forgive you. But not now, not 
 now, with him behind us going to his death." She 
 drooped over her horse's neck as she spoke, and 
 wept like rain. I thought she would fall, and put 
 out my hand to steady her. "No!" she cried. "Do 
 not touch me! There is too much between us." 
 
 "Yet there must be one thing more between us," 
 I answered firmly. "There is one course still open 
 to me by which I may redeem my honor. I thank 
 God that it is still in my power to undo what I have 
 done. I am going back to him that sent me, and 
 tell him that I have changed my mind and will pay 
 the penalty." 
 
 "What? What?" she cried. "What did you say?
 
 BERAULT 303 
 
 I cannot hear." And she began to fumble with the 
 ribbon of her mask. 
 
 * ' Only this, mademoiselle. I give to your brother 
 his freedom. You shall tell him so from me. There 
 is the road to Montauban, where you have many 
 friends and will be safe. And now, my lady, I 
 hope your troubles are over." 
 
 She tried to remove her mask, but the ribbon was 
 knotted and she gave it up. "And you? You?" 
 she cried, with a voice so changed that I would not 
 have known it for hers. "What will you do?" 
 
 "There," said I, "is the road to Paris. That is 
 my road. We part here." 
 
 ' ' But why ? Why ? ' ' she cried wildly. 
 
 "Because I go to redeem my honor. Because I 
 dare not be generous at another's cost. I must go 
 back to the cardinal and pay the penalty. " 
 
 She cried out in dismay, and swayed so in her 
 saddle that I sprang to the ground and was just in 
 time to catch her as she fell. She was not quite 
 unconscious, for she murmured, "Leave me! Leave 
 me! I am not worthy that you should touch me!" 
 
 Those words made me happy. I laid her gently 
 down, and just as her brother came up I rode away. 
 
 "Well," said the cardinal, when at last I stood 
 before him, "where is he? What have you done 
 with him? Are your men bringing him?" 
 
 "No, your eminence," I said with the courage of 
 despair, "I have not brought him. I am here to 
 confess to you that I have set him free."
 
 304 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Set him free! And why was that?" His eyes 
 pierced me through. 
 
 "Because, your eminence, I took him unfairly. 
 Because I am a gentleman, and this task should have 
 been given to one who was not. I took him by dog- 
 ging a woman's steps, and winning her confidence, 
 and then betraying it. And whatever I have done 
 ill in my life, I have never done that, and I will not 
 do it now." 
 
 "Then what of the trust I placed in you, sirrah? 
 What of that?" 
 
 "The answer is simple," I replied. "I am here to 
 make atonement and to pay the penalty." 
 
 For a while he seemed to forget me. He stood 
 brooding on the hearth, with his eyes on the embers, 
 preoccupied, abstracted. Suddenly he turned to me. 
 
 "Well, my friend," he said with his slow, inscrut- 
 able smile, "I really cannot afford to hang you. 
 But, for your liberty — that is another matter." He 
 turned to the table and wrote a few lines on a slip 
 of paper. Then he rang for the guard. 
 
 "Take this gentleman and this note to the upper 
 guardroom. I can hear no more!" He interrupted 
 what I would say. "The matter is ended, M. de 
 Berault. Be thankful." 
 
 At the door of the guardroom the attendant gave 
 me the note, and signed for me to enter. As I did 
 so I halted in utter amazement and confusion. Be- 
 fore me, alone, just risen from a chair, with her face 
 one moment pale, the next suffused with blushes, 
 stood Mile, de Cocheforet. I cried out her name.
 
 BERAULT 305 
 
 "M. de Berault," said she, visibly trembling, "you 
 did not expect to see me?" 
 
 "I expected to see no one so little," I managed to 
 say. 
 
 "Yet you might have thought that we would not 
 utterly desert you," she replied with a reproachful 
 humility that went to my heart. "We should have 
 been base indeed if we had not made some attempt 
 to save you. That strange man has promised me 
 your life, and I am thankful even for that." 
 
 The thought that she had abased herself for me 
 was more than I could bear. And then, too, I 
 thought of her good name. 
 
 "Mademoiselle!" I cried. "You have done for 
 me a hundred times more than I deserve, and have 
 made me forever your debtor. But I wish you were 
 not here where your story will be twisted by foul 
 tongues. Please, will you set out immediately to 
 rejoin your friends? And so God bless you, and 
 good-by to you." 
 
 She looked at me with a kind of wonder, and a 
 growing smile. 
 
 "It is too late," she said gently. 
 
 "Too late?" I exclaimed. "How, mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Because — Do you remember, M. de Berault, 
 what you told me of your love story down by Agen — 
 that it could have no happy ending? For the same 
 reason I was not ashamed to tell mine to the car- 
 dinal. By this time it is common property." 
 
 I looked at her as she stood facing me. Her eyes 
 shone, but they were downcast.
 
 3o6 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "What did you tell him, mademoiselle?" I whis- 
 pered, my breath coming quickly. 
 
 "I told him that I loved," she answered boldly, 
 raising her clear eyes to mine, "and therefore that 
 I was not ashamed to be with my lover, even in 
 prison." 
 
 I fell on my knees and caught her hand before the 
 last word had passed her lips. For the moment I 
 forgot king and cardinal, prison and the future, all — 
 all except that this woman, so pure and so beautiful, 
 so far above me in all things, had given me her love. 
 It was like an impossible dream. 
 
 I was wholly unworthy of her, and told her so, 
 but she would not listen. The cardinal's note had 
 fallen to the floor. 
 
 "Open it!" she cried, turning pale as she spoke. 
 "Let us read the book of fate!" 
 
 It ran thus: 
 
 "The king's pleasure is that M. de Berault, hav- 
 ing mixed himself up with affairs of state, retire 
 forthwith to the chateau of Cocheforet and confine 
 himself within its limits until the king's pleasure be 
 further known. "Richelieu." 
 
 We were married next day; and Cocheforet was 
 Eden over again for my bride and me. And I 
 thanked God every day that I did not fail what 
 time my testing came, but that I had kept my honor. 
 I thanked God, I say, albeit I did not in any wise 
 deserve my unspeakable reward.
 
 LORNA DOONE 
 
 T LOVE to tell the story, so much of my own 
 -■- happiness does it bring to mind. And if I, 
 John Ridd, yeoman, of the county of Somerset, but 
 little versed in the art of fine writing, tell the story 
 in halting words, yet I dare to hope that many 
 besides my own kinsfolk will read it with pleasure. 
 As I look back over the years that are behind me 
 there is one good thing that comes to me out of 
 them. It is this, and I often say it, "Verily, I believe 
 in God; and I think it is because I believe in love." 
 
 It was in the year of grace 1660 that I was born 
 and thence grew up, a strong lad, upon the plains 
 of Exmoor. At the school at Tiverton, along with 
 the sons of gentlemen, I learned some Latin and a 
 few other things; so that I was far from being an 
 ignorant peasant as were most of our neighbors in 
 those days. I grew to a great stature and of giant 
 strength, and became known throughout Somerset 
 and Devon as "the great John Ridd." And I want 
 to add — although it becomes me to be modest in 
 speaking of myself — that I have ever kept my good 
 name. I can say before Heaven that there is naught 
 in my life that I would be abashed to have known 
 by my mother and my sister Annie. 
 
 But this is the story of Lorna Doone, and I must 
 tell of the romantic home of her youth and of the 
 tribe of the Doones from which she took her name. 
 
 20 307
 
 3o8 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 It is indeed a strange story. About the year of our 
 Lord 1640 there were troublous times, and some 
 estates in the north of England were confiscated. 
 One man thus dispossessed — Sir Ensor Doone — 
 became an outlaw, through some violence ensuing 
 and, with his family and retainers — about a score 
 in all — he left that region, swearing hard at every- 
 body. He turned his face toward Somerset and 
 Devon, knowing that it was a w^ld and rugged 
 country, and close upon Exmoor he found a place 
 which seemed almost created for him ; a deep, fertile 
 valley surrounded on all sides by clifl and crag, 
 secure from attack and entered by a narrow pass, 
 since called "the Doone Gate." Here they took 
 possession and, in the course of years, increased in 
 numbers. And, you must understand, they lived 
 by preying upon the country. Throughout our 
 region they bore a dark name; they were haughty, 
 daring, cruel, scorning God and man; until every 
 mother clasped her child and every man turned 
 pale at mention of the Doones. 
 
 One day when I was fourteen, or maybe fifteen, 
 I set out to spear some fish in the Bagworthy River. 
 It is quite a stream, but shoal except in the channel, 
 and I waded on and on, a long way up, but much 
 farther than I had been before. The water was 
 cold and I was cold, but still I kept on, why I scarcely 
 know. I look back upon it with quickened heart- 
 beat, for the fate of my life hung upon my course. 
 The course of the river was through a dense forest. 
 At length I came to a dark whirlpool full of danger
 
 LORNA DOONE 309 
 
 and saw ahead of me a long, steep cascade of one 
 hundred yards. And I said to myself, "John Ridd, 
 the sooner you get yourself out by the way you 
 came the better it will be for you." But having 
 begun the ascent I found I must keep on or be 
 washed into the pool to my death. So, having 
 said the Lord's Prayer, which was all I knew — and 
 making a bad job of it — I labored hard to win out. 
 But my legs became numb, I fell on the slippery 
 footing, and clawed and scrambled in most desperate 
 way. How I did it I know not; but I did not love 
 to die and, though the ascent was steep and the 
 water a torrent, and a bad cramp in my limbs, yet 
 by putting forth all my desperate strength I reached 
 the upper bank and fell unconscious. 
 
 When I opened my eyes the loveliest creature in 
 the world was bending over me and the sweetest 
 voice I had ever heard whispered low, ' ' Oh, I am so 
 glad! Now you will try to be better, won't you?" 
 Her large, dark eyes were bent upon me — those 
 wonderful eyes! shall I ever, ever forget them — and 
 where the black shower of her hair fell on the turf, 
 among it, like an early star, was the first primrose 
 of the season. And since that day, through all the 
 rough storms of my life, I think of her and of God 
 and of love whenever I see an early primrose. 
 
 Perhaps she liked my countenance; and indeed I 
 know she did because she told me so afterwards and 
 how she pitied me in my half-dead condition. But 
 I was soon myself again and laughed at my plight. 
 Still as I looked at her I was spellbound with wonder;
 
 310 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 for, boy as I was, I could see, plain as anything 
 could be, that she was a lady born. There was that 
 in her bearing — although but a mere girl — that 
 told me she was a thousand years in front of me. I 
 was but a yeoman lad after all. They might have 
 taken me and trained me until it was time for me 
 to die; yet never could I have got that look upon 
 my face and that carriage of the head which she had 
 naturally by the fact of her birth. And besides her 
 dress was pretty enough for the queen of all the 
 angels. 
 
 "What is your name?" I asked when I could 
 find my voice. 
 
 "Lorna Doone," she murmured low, and with 
 bowed head. "I thought you must have known it." 
 
 And then it dawned on me that I had penetrated 
 the Doone Glen. The next moment there were 
 cries of several men searching for the child. ' ' Queen ! 
 Queen!" they called. Child though she was, she 
 was alarmed for me. She hastily pointed out a 
 secret cave through which I might escape; and our 
 interview was over. 
 
 The fright I got there lasted me some time, I 
 can tell you. As for the beautiful child, it was 
 years before I saw her again. Not that I did not 
 think of her and very often, and wish to see her; 
 but I was only a boy as yet and therefore inclined 
 to despise young girls, who were well enough in their 
 way, perhaps, but who for the most part were 
 meant to stand aside and listen to orders. 
 
 And so the summers and the winters went by
 
 LORN A DOONE 311 
 
 until, seven years after, the Doones having done 
 some highwayman work that set Exmoor ablaze, 
 some of us set out through the Bagworthy forest to 
 climb if possible to the summit of the cliffs that 
 walled in Glen Doone. We managed to reach it 
 when, far out on the other side, I saw a lithe, beauti- 
 ful figure in white pass to the secret cave where I 
 had last seen the child with the wonderful eyes 
 whom I had never quite forgotten. Just a glimpse, 
 and she was gone. Yet in that moment my heart 
 beat like a war drum, all my blood was in my face, 
 and pride within me fought with shame. Seven 
 years had gone, and I from boyhood had come to 
 manhood; and I knew well enough, though I could 
 scarce have put it into words, that I was face to 
 face with fate in Lorna Doone. 
 
 Do I need to say that the next day, or maybe the 
 next but one, I climbed the rocky, steep cascade 
 again! Before I got sight of her I heard her sing- 
 ing; the tremulous thrill of it, sweeter than thrush 
 or ouzel ever wooed a mate in ! By the side of the 
 stream she was coming toward the place where I 
 was waiting, and I marked again the grace of her 
 carriage as of a princess born. Suddenly seeing me 
 she turned to fly, when I fell on the grass, even as I 
 had done on that day, seven years gone, and just 
 said, ' ' Lorna Doone ! ' ' 
 
 She knew me at once; but said with some con- 
 straint and maidenly reserve, looking away the 
 while, "I think. Master Ridd, you cannot know 
 what the dangers of this place are and the nature
 
 312 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 of the people," and I could see that she trembl©d 
 with fear lest I should be discovered. It occurred 
 to me, moreover, to leave her without more ado, 
 assuring her that I would come again. Thus would 
 she keep me in mind in looking for me, for well I 
 knew her life there must be lonely. 
 
 That week I could do little more than dream and 
 dream and rove about, seeking by perpetual change 
 to find the way back to myself. Every one laughed 
 at me, not being able to comprehend the greatness 
 of it all nor the loftiness; and John Fry, for the 
 sake of being bright, declared that a mad dog had 
 bitten me. 
 
 Oh, goodness ! That was too much ! To make a 
 mad dog of Lorna and to count the raising of my 
 soul no more than hydrophobia! John Fry got so 
 sound a thrashing that he was laid up for one day, 
 or maybe two. 
 
 But I could not settle it, turn and twist it how I 
 would, how soon I should again visit Glen Doone. 
 I waited for weeks, torn between doubt and love 
 and fear. And the upshot of it all was this; that 
 as my life was good for nothing with no word of her 
 or sight of her, forth I must again to find her and 
 say more than a man can tell. 
 
 ' ' Master Ridd ! Are you mad ? " she cried. ' ' They 
 will soon pass this way. Quick, if you care for life ! 
 Let me hide you!" It was a grotto which she called 
 her bower, a cave in the great cliff. No man of the 
 Doones did dream of such a place, and we were safe. 
 I had brought her a little present, and she was
 
 LORNA DOONE 313 
 
 touched, confessing herself unused to kindness, and 
 in the course of our brief talk she wept a little. 
 Now while I worshiped her, esteeming her more 
 sacred than did Israel the ark of the covenant, her 
 grief and confusion made me long to comfort her, 
 but something said within my heart, "John Ridd, 
 be on thy best manners with this lonely maiden!" 
 She liked me the better for my forbearance — as in- 
 deed she told me afterwards — and then, in response 
 to my questioning she told me, with that sweet 
 dignity — that native princess air — all the sad story 
 of her life. Her mother was long dead. Her grand- 
 father. Sir Ensor Doone, was growing feeble with 
 years. The Doones were turbulent; more than one 
 of them aspired to her hand, chief among them the 
 awful Carver Doone. She had no near, true friend 
 among them; and sometimes she wondered in her 
 soul what would the future be. 
 
 But I must needs go, for the dusk was coming; 
 and to quiet her fears for me I promised not to come 
 again for a long time. And I told her where to 
 throw a dark shawl on the white rock as a signal 
 if she should need me. I knew very well that she 
 would not come to love me for a long time yet — if 
 ever — and I said to myself, "Thou peasant lad, 
 she is a princess born. Be thou of high honor; be 
 brave and be patient also. If God wills — not 
 otherwise — thy time shall come." 
 
 And right at that time I had a summons to Lon- 
 don by king's messenger to tell what I knew of 
 those disturbers of his majesty's peace, the Doones.
 
 314 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 It was a long journey, and they kept me there so 
 long before they questioned me that I thought for 
 certain they had forgotten me; and when they did 
 hold inquisition it was nothing at all, except to ask 
 questions that anybody in Exmoor could answer. 
 "With all this, and the long journey, it was weeks 
 and weeks before I saw her again. 
 
 I fretted and fretted about my angel of the Doone 
 Glen, and the first chance I got I climbed to the 
 crest of the highland and there, sure enough, the 
 dark mantle lay on the w^hite stone, the sign that 
 she needed me. Nothing could stop me! I went 
 by the old way of the river and the cascade — a 
 long circuit — and finally stood again in the Glen. 
 After long waiting I saw her and, for the soul of me, 
 knew not what to say. At last the common words 
 came to my lips. 
 
 "Mistress Lorna, I had hope you were in need of 
 me." 
 
 "Oh, yes; but that was long ago, two long months 
 or more, sir," and saying this she looked away as if 
 it were all over. 
 
 I cannot tell you what I felt — it was a kind of 
 dumb despair — but as I turned to go I could not 
 help one stupid sob, though mad with myself for 
 allowing it, and it told a world of things. Lorna 
 heard it, and ran to me with her bright eyes full of 
 pity. 
 
 "Master Ridd, I did not mean to vex you," she 
 whispered as if to comfort me. 
 
 I looked at her in a way she could not mistake if
 
 LORNA DOONE 315 
 
 she would; and with the power of my love thus 
 abiding on her she could not look at me, and was 
 put out with herself. I tried to learn my fate. But 
 no. She liked me very much; she declared me to 
 be a kind, brave, honest youth; and for changing of 
 the subject she told me why she had given the sig- 
 nal that she had need of me. They wanted her to 
 promise to wed the young giant Carver Doone, as rank 
 a villain as ever cursed the kingdom. Some were for 
 using force with her, but old Sir Ensor Doone would 
 not hear of it. And here she was in evil case; spied 
 upon and followed, and her life made a burden. 
 
 I tried to comfort her what way I could. The 
 words were blundering but honest. And at last I 
 managed to slip upon her finger a ring of sapphire 
 and pearls. I had brought it from London. She 
 blushed with pleasure, then gravely shook her head 
 as, with large tears in her eyes, she kissed it and 
 gave it back to me. 
 
 "John, I dare not take it now; I should be cheat- 
 ing you. Keep it for me, will you? Something 
 tells me I shall wish to wear it some day," and then 
 she dismissed me, with such quiet command of her- 
 self, yet with beginning of quick blushes which she 
 tried to laugh away. You may think me a great 
 egotist — as they say who know Latin — but I 
 knew, as in a glory, that some day this princess 
 would come to love me. 
 
 Now if you think I am going to tell you of that 
 sacred time and the holy joy of it when Princess 
 Lorna confessed her love for me, you are very much
 
 3i6 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 mistaken. How, at my insistent question, she 
 glanced up shyly through her fluttering lashes as if 
 to prolong my doubt one moment and then opened 
 upon me all the glorious depth and softness of her 
 loving eyes as she told me what I longed to know. 
 As I walked homeward the glory of the morning 
 upon the w^oods and the river seemed to tell of God 
 and hope and love; every flower and bud and bird 
 had a fluttering sense of them. So, perhaps, will 
 break upon us that Eternal morning when wood and 
 vale and river shall be no more; whose glory will 
 be the glory of love and all things pure because it is 
 the glory of God. 
 
 After this I watched for her signals and saw her 
 when I could. Suddenly the signals ceased. Three 
 times I waited long at our meeting place in the 
 Glen, but no light footstep sounded; all was lonely, 
 dreary, and drenched with a sudden desolation. It 
 seemed as if my love were dead, and the winds were 
 at her funeral. Where was she if she were living? 
 God knew what trouble might have come upon her. 
 Verily, it was no time for the balance of this or that, 
 for a man with blood and nerve to rub his nose and 
 ponder. If I left my Lorna so; if the heart that 
 clave to mine could find no vigor in it — but what 
 need of words ? Suffice it to say that the next night 
 I passed the sentries at the Doone Gate, penetrated 
 to the heart of their camp, and stood under Lorna's 
 window. I knew the house from her description. 
 When she came to the window she could hardly 
 believe her ears as I whispered her name.
 
 LORNA DOONE 317 
 
 * ' Why, John ! Are you mad ? The sentries ! ' ' 
 
 "Do you think I would forget you? Of course 
 you knew I would come." 
 
 "Well, yes, I thought, perhaps — but, John!" 
 
 Her new trouble was this: Sir Ensor Doone was 
 ill and near to death. Carver Doone was master of 
 the Glen and she had barred the house in fear of him. 
 
 "The only thing to do now, John, is to watch for 
 my signals," she said. "I can trust my little maid 
 to give them. If they force the house you will 
 find me unharmed if you come in season. If too 
 late you will have no cause to blush for me," and I 
 saw a gleaming knife in the darkness. 
 
 Not many days thereafter I was astounded by a 
 summons from Lorna's little maid in person. Sir 
 Ensor Doone was dying, and must see me. It seems 
 Loma had told him of me. As I stood before him — 
 for, accompanied by Lorna's maid, the sentries let 
 me pass — "Ah!" said the old man, with a voice 
 that seemed to come from a cavern of skeletons, 
 "are you that great John Ridd?" 
 
 "John Ridd is my name, your honor; and I hope 
 your worship is better." 
 
 "Child!" he exclaimed. "Have you sense enough 
 to know what you have been doing?" 
 
 "I know right well," I answered, "that I have 
 set my eyes above my rank." 
 
 "Know you, sir, that Lorna Doone is bom of one 
 of the oldest families of northern Europe?" 
 
 "I knew not that, your honor, but I knew of her 
 high descent from the Doones."
 
 3i8 FIGURES FAMED TX FICTION 
 
 "And what about your own low descent from the 
 Ridds of Devon'" 
 
 "Sir," said I, something of the dare-devil getting 
 into me, "the Ridds of Devon have been honest 
 men twice as long as the Doones have been rogues." 
 
 "Well, well," said he, "perhaps thou art not 
 altogether the clumsy yokel that I took thee for"; 
 and then Loma sang my praises with a spirit and a 
 love that dared anything. The old man was dumb 
 for a moment, and then declared that we were a 
 pair of fools anyway. I think it pleased Lorna that 
 he did not sternly forbid our union, as he had surely 
 meant to do. 
 
 Very soon thereafter came on that great winter 
 which the old men have not forgotten. There was 
 snow! snow! snowM mountains of snow! The air 
 was full of snow. That three weeks' snowstorm 
 piled the country full. Not that it snowed night 
 and day, but nearly that. And I should never have 
 found my way to the Doone Glen had it not been 
 for the trick of snowshoes of which I had read and 
 which I made after a rude fashion. I have also 
 somewhere read that nothing is impossible to love. 
 I know not the truth of that, but I know what I 
 felt in my soul; and, as I have said once before, 
 nothing could stop me ! 
 
 It seems almost like a dream to me now, that 
 voyage of mine over the mountains of snow and my 
 discovery at the end; how I found my Lorna starv- 
 ing, for thus was Carver Doone seeking to force her 
 into submission. Then I knew the time had come
 
 LORNA DOONE 319 
 
 for the one, last, desperate thing. I must come by 
 night to the rescue and take her from among them, 
 cost what it might. 
 
 How I came on snowshoes with my big sled and 
 fur robes, and came not one moment too soon, 
 seems like another dream. The strength of ten men 
 was in me as I drew my traces tight and took my 
 load over the mountains of snow to my mother's 
 home. What with her starved condition and her 
 fright, Lorna slept or fainted, I knew not which. 
 But when, arrived in our great hall, I turned back 
 the fur robes and uncovered the fairest face in the 
 British kingdom, my sleeping princess went straight 
 to my mother's heart. "God bless her, John," she 
 cried, kissing her on the forehead while she wept 
 for pity and partly for joy. 
 
 But it was not many days before the Doones 
 found her out and made a night attack. I made 
 out Carver Doone in the moonlight; I raised my 
 gun, and my aim was sure as death. But I have 
 ever had a dread of killing my fellow-man. I 
 could not bring myself to shoot. Instead, I plunged 
 across the yard — 't was a miracle they did not shoot 
 me — took Carver Doone by the beard, and asked 
 him if he called himself a man. He tried a pistol 
 on me, but I was too quick for him. Then by a 
 trick of the inner heel I flung him upon his back 
 and bade him begone! The rest fled at seeing him 
 down, and he was fain to follow. 
 
 Now came about a most astounding piece of — 
 detective work, shall I call it? — which let the light
 
 320 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 in on everything and changed the face of the world. 
 A friend of mine, on one of his long journeys spend- 
 ing a nightin a cottage for want of an inn, came 
 upon a discovery that considerably astonished him. 
 The peasant hostess was an Italian woman and he 
 got her to tell him the strange story of her life. The 
 short of it was this: an English nobleman and his 
 lady were traveling in Italy and she — the Italian 
 woman herself — was in their service. The noble- 
 man died of a sudden and the lady with her little 
 daughter traveled to England to claim the vast 
 estates and to live — by right — in her husband's 
 castle. On the road through Devon the coach was 
 robbed, the lady died from wounds and exposure, 
 and the robbers carried away the little daughter; 
 and the robbers were the Doones ! 
 
 This was Benita's story which my friend retold 
 to me. He believed it, and so did I, and between 
 us we made out that the little babe was none other 
 than Lorna Doone. When I told Lorna the story 
 she wept bitterly for the fate of her dear mother 
 whom she never knew. Afterwards she thought 
 upon the mystery of her noble birth — should the 
 story prove to be true — and in her returning high 
 spirits would fain make sport of me. 
 
 "Ah, John! I am sorry for you. For surely if I 
 have birth and rank and wealth and all kinds of 
 grandeur, you will never dare to think of me. Poor 
 John!" She drew herself up with that princess air, 
 gathered her robes, and gave me a haughty glance. 
 I watched her, amazed and grieved and well-nigh
 
 LORN A DOONE 321 
 
 heartbroken. When she flew to me in a moment. 
 
 "Oh, you stupid John, you inexpressibly stupid 
 fellow ! My dearest love ! Will you never know me 
 for what I am?" 
 
 In after days, when I heard of Lorna as the rich- 
 est and noblest and loveliest lady to be found in 
 London, I often recalled that little scene. Of course 
 it was impossible to doubt her, and yet I was trou- 
 bled. I knew what the world of rank and power 
 would have to say, and how the best and truest 
 people cannot shake themselves quite free. 
 
 Of course I followed up the matter. I found 
 Benita and brought her home. As good luck would 
 have it Lorna was the first to meet us at the gate, 
 with nothing upon her head, and her glorious hair 
 waving about her shoulders. At one glance the 
 old nurse knew her! "Oh, the eyes! The eyes!" 
 was her cry. Lorna looked at her with some doubt 
 and wonder. But when Benita said something in 
 the Roman tongue and flung new hay from the cart 
 upon her as if in a romp of childhood, then some old 
 memory stirred to life. "Oh, Nita! Nita!" she 
 cried, and wept upon her in a passion of recognition. 
 
 We gathered from what Benita could tell us that 
 Lorna' s father was the Earl of Dugal and that her 
 mother was of yet more ancient and renowned de- 
 scent, being the last in line from the house of Lome. 
 In some way unknown to us the story got abroad — 
 of course it was all over Exmoor — but abroad, I 
 mean, to London. And while I was away on a 
 long journey the Earl of Brandir — her uncle and
 
 322 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 now appointed her guardian — had sent for Lorna 
 and she was gone. Gone, but leaving a note for 
 me to assure me that her heart was true. I will 
 not tell you all that was in it— too sweet and sacred 
 it was to open out to strangers — but at the last she 
 wrote: "And now, my own love and lord, of one 
 thing rest assured; no difference of rank or fortune 
 shall ever make me swerve from truth to you. We 
 have passed through too many hardships and dan- 
 gers together for doubt or evil to come between us. 
 Though they tell you I am false, and though your 
 own mind harbors it from what you see of show and 
 grandeur and folly, never, never believe it, for I 
 am yours and yours only." 
 
 Nevertheless when a whole year went by and I 
 had no word from her, not one — what then? Why, 
 then, on I went to London, for my heart would 
 not be quiet and hope would not die out of me. It 
 did not take me long to learn that she was the talk 
 of London — even the queen had taken a liking to 
 her — and that she attended the service at White- 
 hall with the court almost every Sunday. As I 
 stood with the crowd of people in the great chapel 
 my heart beat high when the king and queen 
 entered, followed by the Duke of Norfolk and the 
 Knights of the Garter. Then came the queen's 
 retinue, my Lorna among them. She walked mod- 
 estly and shyly, gowned in purest white, sweet and 
 simple, and though without a single ornament, her 
 white hand bearing one red rose, she was the star 
 among them all. That carriage of the head, the
 
 LORNA DOONE 323 
 
 way she walked, the native princess air were enough 
 to show at a hundred yards that she was none other 
 than Lorna Doone. How my heart was beating! 
 Would she see me? And if she did, what then? 
 Sure enough! She happened to look up as she 
 passed me, and her eyes met mine. Straightway 
 she made me the most courtly bow, the surge of 
 color in her cheeks and an unpaid debt of tears 
 shining in her eyes. 
 
 After a little while some one slipped a little note 
 into my hand. I will not be hired to read it out to 
 whoever would hear, but I will tell you this much; 
 it shall lie with me in my coffin. Enough that, in 
 closing, my love bade me come and see her. 
 
 When I called at Brandir Hall, Lorna's maid 
 admitted me. While I waited — fear and hope so 
 entangled that they hindered each other — the vel- 
 vet hangings of the doorway parted slowly and 
 Lorna in her perfect beauty stood before me. She 
 stood still a fraction of a second — her white gown 
 with the crimson background — and then came 
 toward me. I took the hand she offered and raised 
 it to my lips with fear, as a thing too good for me. 
 
 "Is that all?" she whispered, her eyes gleaming 
 up at me, and in another instant she was weeping 
 on my breast. "Oh, John! How glad I am!" she 
 said again and again, and as for me, I could only 
 pronounce her name many times, as being so full 
 of music. After a time she drew back proudly and 
 proceeded to cross-examine me. 
 
 "Now, Master John Ridd, you shall tell me the 
 21
 
 324 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 
 Why is it that for more than a twelve-month you 
 have taken not the smallest notice of your old friend, 
 Mistress Loma Doone?" She spoke lightly, but I 
 knew that her soul was deeply stirred. 
 
 "Simply for this cause," I answered, "that my 
 old friend took not the smallest notice of me; nor 
 knew I where to find her." 
 
 "What!" she cried, and asked me over again. 
 And I told her again that not a word from her had 
 reached me. 
 
 "Oh, you poor, dear John!" she exclaimed, with 
 a world of pity in her voice. With that she touched 
 something such as I had not seen before, which 
 made a ringing noise at a serious distance. Forth- 
 with appeared her little maid. 
 
 "Gwenny," said Lorna, in a tone of high rank 
 and dignity, "go and fetch the letters which I 
 gave you at various times to dispatch to Mistress 
 Ridd." 
 
 She denied having any, of course, but Lorna 
 sternly faced her down until she brought them all, 
 and laid them before us. I was astounded out of 
 measure. 
 
 "Why did you treat me so, Gwenny?" I asked. 
 
 "Because thee be 'est below her so! Her shanna 
 have a poor farmarin' chap! All her land and all 
 her birth, an' who be ye, I'd like to know?" 
 
 Lorna reddened in anger, reproved her right 
 soundly, and banished her for three days. "It's 
 the only way to punish her," she explained.
 
 LORN A DOONE 325 
 
 And then we discussed the situation. 
 
 "Now, John," said she, "in the first place it is 
 quite certain that neither of us can be happy without 
 the other. What, then, stands between us ? Worldly 
 position and nothing else. Your education is as 
 good as mine and your ancestry as pure, only mine 
 is better known. As for the fine court gentlemen 
 here, I distrust them; I doubt if they have any soul. 
 I compare them with you. I know you, John. I 
 have read your soul through and through. It is 
 pure as the snow, and it is honest. Oh, John, you 
 must never forsake me. It would break my heart." 
 
 How do you think I felt, and what do you think 
 I thought as the star of London, the admiration 
 and envy of the court, bent her gaze upon me and 
 told me all her heart? 
 
 "Now," said she, "we have talked a good while 
 and you must go. But when my uncle, the Earl 
 of Brandir, comes home I shall tell him that you 
 have been here and that I mean you to come again." 
 
 As Lorna said this, in a manner as confident as 
 need be, I saw that she had learned in London 
 the power of her beauty and knew that she could 
 do what she would with me or, for that matter, 
 with any one. As she stood there, flushed with 
 pride and faith in her own loveliness — and, what 
 was more, radiant with love itself — I felt she had 
 power without limit. And I went down the broad 
 stairs, wondering in my soul if any man in all Eng- 
 land were so blessed as I. 
 
 But of course, as you must know without my
 
 326 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 saying it, I could not well shake off the sense of 
 her rank and station, and it brought me distress of 
 mind. Was I not just a yeoman, anyway? Could 
 I help thinking it over, with this distress of mind 
 of which I was speaking? However, just in my 
 greatest need something happened to bring me, not 
 only much of comfort but of confidence also; and 
 this was the way of it. 
 
 One evening as I was leaving the earl's house 
 after a visit to Lorna I espied three villainous look- 
 ing fellows skulking around the comer. They saw 
 me, but I struck out on the London road and, when 
 far out of sight, fetched a wide compass and, two 
 hours before midnight, took up my position in the 
 shrubbery near the earl's mansion. And sure 
 enough, the men appeared, effected an entrance, 
 and I followed them. To make a long story short, 
 I struck down one of them, and when another drew 
 his pistol I caught up the prostrate man and used 
 him for a shield. The shot finished him, and then 
 I had it all my own way. I took the two men in a 
 grip they had never known before — I well know 
 that — brought them together with some force, and 
 then bound them together, and I swear I wound 
 the ropes good and tight ! 
 
 Now it fell out that these three men were the 
 blackest rogues in the kingdom, and the king was 
 much concerned to lay hands upon them. There- 
 fore, hearing of all this — which I suspect lost noth- 
 ing in the telling — what does his majesty do but 
 send for me to come to him immediately. So I
 
 LORN A DOONE 327 
 
 put on my best clothes, hired a fashionable hair- 
 dresser, drank half a gallon of ale — for my hands 
 were shaking — and wished myself well out of it. 
 
 Well, his majesty talked with me, and bantered 
 me, and also thanked me; and to repay me for my 
 loyal service — what was coming I knew not — he 
 called to some men in waiting and they brought him 
 a little sword, such as my sister Annie would skewer 
 a turkey with. Then he signified to me to kneel — 
 which I did, after dusting the floor for the sake of 
 my best breeches — and he laid the sword very 
 lightly on my shoulder and said, "Arise, Sir John 
 Ridd!" 
 
 The astounding good fortune of it! The King of 
 England had knighted me, and now I could hold 
 up my head with the lords and, for that matter, 
 with the ladies too! I knew well that it made 
 Lorna proud of me, although she never said so, but 
 called me "Sir John" so constantly, with fun in 
 the corner of her eye, that I was almost cross with 
 her. Still, the great good fortune of it! A kind 
 heaven knew I needed some such dignity to help 
 me in my difficult position. 
 
 When I returned home from London it was with 
 no doubt in my heart. And when, after a long 
 time, Lorna herself came also, she seemed as glad 
 as a bird to be back again. 
 
 "Oh, I do love it all so much!" she kept saying, 
 "the scent of the gorse on the moors and the prim- 
 roses under the hedges!" 
 
 She ran about here and there, delighting in the 
 21a
 
 328 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 chickens and the ponies, and where was her old 
 friend the cat ? All the house was full of brightness, 
 as if the sun had come over the hill and Loma was 
 his mirror. Her queenly ways — queenly and art- 
 less at the same time — her tears springing out of 
 smiles, her unaffected goodness, and last, her sweet 
 love of me — "Surely," said I to myself, "this is 
 too fine to last, for a man who never deserved it." 
 
 Seeing no way out of this, I resolved to place my 
 faith in God, and so went to bed and dreamed of it. 
 And having no presence of mind to pray for any- 
 thing, I fell asleep before I knew it, and the roof 
 above swarmed with angels, for was not Loma 
 under it ! 
 
 After long months the day came for the wedding. 
 Our church was crowded to the doors, and the Lady 
 Loma Dugal was the bride. She looked so lovely 
 that I was afraid of glancing at her. Surely it was 
 an angel! And then when all was done, the ring 
 and the promises, and Loma turned her eyes full 
 upon me — those wonderful, glorious, soul-awakened 
 eyes — the sound of a shot rang through the church 
 and a mist came over them! I caught her in my 
 arms. I petted her and coaxed her, but it was no 
 good ; there was her bright blood on the altar steps ! 
 It was with a heart of stone that I laid her in my 
 mother's arms and went forth to my revenge. I 
 do not love the shedding of blood, and I do not be- 
 lieve God loves it, and yet I was a human being; 
 that is all I can say. 
 
 Of course I knew who had done it; only one man
 
 LORNA DOONE 329 
 
 within my knowledge could have done the damnable 
 thing. I mounted our wild horse that nobody could 
 ride but I and, without a single weapon, rode forth 
 just to find out this, — whether in this world there be 
 or be not a God of Justice. I forbear to tell the 
 awful story of the death of Carver Doone. He shot 
 me, but there was a God, and I had the strength 
 to do what was to be. I had likewise the strength to 
 ride home and to ask to see my dead bride ; and then 
 they made me know she was not dead, but hovering 
 in the shadow of death all the same, and they led me 
 away to be healed myself, for a darkness was com- 
 ing over me. 
 
 And here it will take me but a moment to tell a 
 sweet little story — as sweet as any I ever read in 
 books — which comes to me as if it were right out 
 of yesterday. In the days when I first knew and 
 loved my Lorna, my cousin Ruth of Dulverton, a 
 lovely maid and with a heart of gold, grew to love 
 me dearly and without my knowing it. When I 
 first brought my Lorna home and her nearness to 
 me began to be talked of everywhere — poor Ruth! 
 her heart was nigh to breaking. I know this, for 
 they told me so afterwards. But when the time 
 came that they took Lorna away to London, and 
 I was desolate, Ruth was the very one that gave 
 me courage. I was saying to her, with what show 
 of indifference my pride could muster, that I must 
 do my best to forget Lorna Doone, as being so far 
 above me, — 
 
 "You must not talk like that, John," said Ruth,
 
 330 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 in a low and gentle tone and turning away her eyes 
 from me. "No lady can be above a man who is 
 pure and brave and gentle. You should follow her, 
 show her that you are true to her, and if her heart 
 be worth having she will give you loving welcome." 
 And even while she said it her heart was almost 
 breaking! I know it now but did not then. 
 
 And now when I had left my Lorna for dead — 
 they told me of it afterwards — sweet Ruth came 
 forward and took command. She made them bear 
 the body home. With her own deHcate fingers she 
 probed the wound and found the bullet. She bade 
 them fetch her Spanish wine, and she gave a little, 
 and again a little. Everybody was saying it was of 
 no use, when a short, low sigh made them look and 
 wonder. For hours and days Lorna lay at the door 
 of death, and sweet Ruth was her ministering angel. 
 It was Ruth's tenderness and faithfulness, never 
 relaxed for a single moment through all those weary 
 hours, that by God's mercy saved her. I have read 
 in books of beautiful deeds that almost bring me to 
 tears, but I never read of anything more beautiful. 
 Dear, dear Ruth, Ruth of the sore heart, Ruth 
 almost wearing her life out to save Lorna to be my 
 bride! Oh, but we love her, Lorna and I, with a 
 love that earth knows little of and cannot under- 
 stand anyway. It was Ruth who brought Lorna 
 to my room — for she recovered long before I did — 
 and closing the door upon us left us together in our 
 joy. When I grew stronger Lorna told me of her 
 sweet nurse and of her own unspeakable gratitude
 
 LORNA DOONE 331 
 
 to her for what she had done. We keep a place by 
 our fireside for the dear soul whenever she will come, 
 and we make her to understand that we know angels 
 from common mortals. 
 
 This, then, is my story; told in halting words, it 
 is true, but I dare to hope that all who believe 
 in pure hearts will read it with pleasure. And I 
 repeat what I said at the beginning. There is one 
 good thing that comes to me out of the years that 
 are behind me. It is this, and I often say it, "Verily, 
 I believe in God, and I think it is because I believe 
 in love."
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 
 
 SHE was an heiress — one of the richest in Eng- 
 land — the possessor in her own right of several 
 millions. When, at the age of twenty-one, she 
 graduated from college at Newnham, she found her- 
 self facing the serious responsibilities of life. What 
 to do with her education, her immense wealth, and 
 the opportunity that these would assuredly bring? 
 Nay, what of the duty which they imposed? For 
 although only twenty-one, the possession of a fortune 
 brought a most sobering influence upon her, and 
 the more so that she must meet the responsibilities 
 of life alone. Her father and mother were both 
 dead, and she had no near kinsman to serve as pro- 
 tector and adviser. 
 
 As to her personality, the thing that one noticed 
 most was her earnest face, her honest, brown eyes 
 which looked fearlessly out upon all things, fair or 
 foul; and last, but not least by any means, was her 
 splendid physique. When she walked it seemed 
 as if she would like to dance or run, such was her 
 vitality. 
 
 One evening in June — it was the week of her 
 graduation — she was talking with her schoolmate 
 of their school life, now over, and of the life that 
 was coming. 
 
 "My dear Angela," said her friend, — she was a 
 great student and terribly in earnest, — "we have 
 
 332
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 333 
 
 only this one life before us, and what a pity if we 
 waste it or lose our chances. Oh, to think of the 
 girls who drift, and get nothing out of their lives at 
 all ! My life shall be given to mathematics and the 
 sciences — you have heard me say so before — but it 
 seems to me that you are as yet undecided." 
 
 "I confess, my future is not quite clear to me yet," 
 said Angela. "The education appointed for me has 
 been, as you know, of the practical kind, — manufac- 
 turing, bookkeeping, the laws of trade. I have 
 taken the course in social and political economy. 
 I know all the theories about people and, to tell the 
 truth, I have begun to suspect that none of them 
 will work. Now, do you know, it comes to me more 
 and more that before I attempt to apply any of 
 these theories I must get to know the people. And 
 as to applying these theories, let me tell you what I 
 mean. There is that great factory of mine in East 
 London. I own whole streets of houses there! 
 Yes, I know, my agents are supposed to look after 
 them all, but how do I know whether they do it 
 well; whether they do right by these hundreds of 
 souls who work for me? I tell you, my dear, I can- 
 not shift the responsibility, however much I might 
 desire to do so." 
 
 "Well, what can you do?" 
 
 "Let me tell you in confidence what I am going 
 to try to do. Do not breathe it, I pray, to a single 
 soul. I am about to disappear, at least for the 
 summer, probably for a year. I have made up my 
 mind to study the people in East London. I shall
 
 334 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 be a dressmaker there under another name, and shall 
 see whether I cannot learn something and do some- 
 thing. Miss Kennedy, madame, respectfully solicits 
 you orders!" 
 
 Lord Jocelyn, — as he was usually known, — a 
 bachelor of ample means, had reared and educated 
 young Harry, the son of a fellow-soldier who fell 
 at his side in India. Fulfilling a promise he had made 
 his ward, he told him of his parentage, now that he 
 had attained the age of twenty-three. The result 
 was that the young man declared with the utmost 
 emphasis and decision that there should be no 
 concealment of the fact of his peasant extraction — 
 he would not pretend to be what he was not — and, 
 more than that, he intended to go among his cousins 
 in East London, and for a time to see for himself that 
 side oflife, following the trade of cabinetmaker, some 
 features of which he had picked up in his leisure. 
 
 He was, by the way, a splendid fellow in his per- 
 sonal bearing. There was about him the thorough- 
 bred air; there was a real refinement in his features 
 and his ways. His education, of course, had been of 
 the best; and while there was a touch of frivolity 
 in his view of life, yet below it there lay a real 
 earnestness. 
 
 And so it came to pass that Harry Goslett, the 
 cabinetmaker, and Miss Kennedy, the dressmaker, 
 took rooms in a respectable boarding house in East 
 London, each of them ignorant of the existence of 
 the other.
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 335 
 
 "Let me introduce Mr. Goslett, Miss Kennedy," 
 said the landlady. 
 
 As Harry faced her, and bowed in that superior 
 style so natural to him, he was,- to say the least, con- 
 siderably astonished; for she had the carriage and 
 the manner of a lady. She was dressed quite simply 
 in black cashmere, with white cuffs and collar. 
 Her great brown eyes met his frankly, and yet with 
 a certain look of surprise that see medan answer to 
 his own. And when, that evening, she sat at the 
 piano playing easily, gracefully, and with expression, 
 he sat and watched her, still wondering. She an 
 East London dressmaker! Who in all this forsaken, 
 commonplace region could have taught her that 
 touch and that style of playing ! 
 
 "Mr. Bunker," said Miss Kennedy — she addressed 
 a gray-haired man, an agent to whom she had been 
 recommended, — "I want to establish myself here as 
 a dressmaker. I shall want a convenient house, a 
 staff of workwomen, and a forewoman. What can 
 you do for me?" 
 
 He had precisely the house for her — as he usually 
 had for every applicant — and could let it furnished 
 if desired. He could supply competent workgirls 
 also in any number, and the general terms of his 
 services w^ere soon arranged. 
 
 "I understand," said Miss Kennedy, "that you 
 were connected with old Mr. Messenger for many 
 years in the large business at the factory?" 
 
 "It is true, miss. I was his confidential agent, 
 as indeed I am now for the general manager. There
 
 336 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 are hundreds of dwelling houses owned by the com- 
 pany of which I have the care." 
 
 ' ' I should like very much to see this great factory 
 of which I have heard so much," said she. "Could 
 you take me over ? " 
 
 It was agreed. 
 
 "Does she often come here?" she continued as 
 they went over. "The heiress, I mean. You were 
 saying that all this great property belongs to Mr. 
 Messenger's daughter." 
 
 * ' Never once been anigh the place ; never seen it ! 
 Draws the money, and that's all." 
 
 "I wonder she has not more curiosity." 
 
 "Ah! it's a shame," he replied, "a shame for so 
 much property to come to a girl! Covers thirteen 
 acres! Think of that! Seven hundred people em- 
 ployed! And all she thinks of is enjoying her fine 
 home in London, and taking the profits. Here," 
 he continued, "is the book for the visitors' names," 
 as they paused in the outer office. 
 
 She took the pen from his hand and wrote hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 "Ho! ho!" he exclaimed, as he glanced at the 
 page. "That's a good one! See what you've written." 
 
 She had written her own name, "Angela Mes- 
 senger." 
 
 "How stupid of me!" she said, blushing violently. 
 "I was thinking of the heiress; they said it was her 
 name." Carefully erasing it, she wrote, "A. M. 
 Kennedy." 
 
 She passed through the enormous building, listened
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 337 
 
 to voluminous explanations, and went home trying 
 to realize her great possessions. This enormous 
 manufactory! Streets of houses! And heavy in- 
 vested funds besides! She realized as never before 
 the weight of her responsibilities. She walked the 
 dreary, monotonous streets which she was supposed 
 to own, feeling as if the cramped lives and starved 
 souls of these hundreds of people were a burden 
 laid upon her. Precisely what she should do she 
 did not know, but she had planned a beginning in a 
 practical way. 
 
 The young Mr. Goslett was so intelligent, so 
 sensible, and withal of such an inventive turn, that 
 she found it extremely interesting to converse with 
 him of the people among whom they lived, the social 
 conditions in that part of East London, and what 
 might be done to improve them. 
 
 "Suppose, for instance," said she one day, "that 
 this young lady, this Miss Messenger who owns 
 all this property, were to use her money for the 
 benefit of the people; how would she begin, do you 
 suppose?" 
 
 "Oh, most likely she would give away quantities 
 of food and clothing and so on, and pauperize more 
 people than she would benefit. That's generally 
 the way, you know." 
 
 Angela sighed. "That is not very encouraging," 
 she said. 
 
 "Oh, well," said he, "there is encouragement 
 enough for such a person as she, should she happen 
 to care. Let me tell you how it seems to me.
 
 33S FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Here are these people on a low, dead level. It is 
 work, work, work, day in and day out. We are 
 not starving poor; if you see us on Sundays and 
 holidays we are not a bad looking lot. But we do 
 not live a large life. We know nothing of its best 
 thoughts, its high aspirations, its real enjoyments. 
 We workingmen — ' ' 
 
 "Wait a moment, Mr. Goslett. You are not a 
 workingman; whatever else you are, you are not 
 that." 
 
 She faced him with her honest eyes as if she would 
 read him, for she felt sure she was right. 
 
 He replied, without the least change of color: 
 
 "Indeed, I am the son of Sergeant Goslett of the 
 loth Regiment, who fell in the Indian Mutiny, and 
 I assure you I am a cabinetmaker. I have been 
 fortunate in my education, that is all." 
 
 "I beg pardon," said she, "for interrupting. I 
 am much interested in what you were saying." 
 
 "Well, I was speaking of the narrow, starved life 
 we live here; starved as to our better natures. 
 What we need, as it seems to me, is more of the 
 beauty of life, more of its graces and pleasures. 
 I'll tell you!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm — 
 "but there, it's of no use. I was only going to say 
 that if this young heiress we were talking of wanted 
 to do any good here she might build a palace right 
 here in East London which should be so arranged 
 and so managed as to bring the brighter, better 
 side of life within our reach. But then, what is the 
 use of building air-castles?"
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 339 
 
 "Oh, it will do no harm," she replied. "How 
 should it be arranged and managed?" 
 
 And then he went on to outline, in his charming, 
 inventive way, what might be done. There should 
 be a library, a reading room, a reception room where 
 young people might meet, schools which should 
 teach the best things, — music, art, accomplishments, 
 the graces of life. There should be a hall for lec- 
 tures, readings, recitations, the drama. How the 
 doors would open into the larger, beautiful life! 
 
 She caught his enthusiasm, glowing with an eager- 
 ness to see something of this accomplished. 
 
 "How delightful!" she exclaimed. "The good, 
 the true, and the beautiful! Surely that is what 
 they need. How different it would be with the best 
 music in every home ; pictures, too, the work of some 
 member of the family; the best books to read and 
 the best things in conversation; and wonders of 
 beauty in the great palace for the free use of all." 
 
 "I declare," said Harry, "you ought to have had 
 the millions." 
 
 Meanwhile Angela's preparations for the business 
 of dressmaking were materializing. A suitable house 
 was rented, a sign, "The Dressmakers' Association," 
 placed in the window, and she began to assemble 
 her force of workers. Bunker the agent, for an 
 ample consideration, placed her in communication 
 with them. She found herself one day at the 
 Trinity Almshouse, talking with a beautiful young 
 girl whose father was an inmate. Angela greeted 
 her cordially, taking her by the hand.
 
 340 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "What is your name, my dear?" 
 
 "I call her Nelly," said her father, "and she's a 
 good girl. Will you sit down, Miss Kennedy?" 
 
 She did so, examined Nelly's work, and con- 
 cluded with saying, "If you approve, Captain 
 Sorenson, I will engage your daughter from this 
 day." 
 
 "I have only been out as a seamstress, as yet," 
 said Nelly, "but if you will really try me as a 
 dressmaker — Oh, father, it is sixteen shillings 
 a week!" 
 
 Angela's heart smote her. A poor sixteen shillings 
 a week, and the girl was delighted with getting so 
 much! 
 
 "What do you say, Captain Sorenson? Will you 
 trust her to me, and let her come?" 
 
 "Madame," said the captain, while his eyes filled 
 with tears, "who ever in this place offered work as 
 if taking it were a favor to the one who offered it!" 
 
 "Mr. Bunker tells me," said she, "that you are 
 hard to please; that you refused a place that he 
 offered." 
 
 "Yes; God knows if I did right. You can see 
 we are desperately poor. Yet my blood boiled when 
 I heard of the character of the man whom my Nelly 
 was to serve. I could not let her go. She is all I 
 have, Miss Kennedy." The old man drew the 
 beautiful girl to himself. * ' If you will take her, yes 
 — and may God bless you." 
 
 "You may trust your daughter with me, sir," 
 said Angela, with tears in her eyes. She gave him
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 341 
 
 her hand at parting, and he bowed over it with the 
 courtesy of a captain on his own quarter deck. 
 
 "Oh, father," cried Nelly when she had gone, 
 "was there ever anybody like her!" 
 
 On the evening before the regular work of the 
 shop was to begin Angela assembled her girls to the 
 number of about a dozen and unfolded her plans. 
 She had invited Mr. Goslett also, as she wished 
 for his assistance and suggestion. Her forewoman 
 was to have the entire management of the shop, 
 while she herself — to the astonishment of her lis- 
 teners — began to tell them what she intended as 
 her own occupation. 
 
 "The girls will be here at nine in the morning. 
 We will work till eleven, and then I have arranged 
 for a half hour of exercise. The long hours of 
 sitting and bending over work are wearisome, and 
 need this relief. You see the yard outside? We 
 will play lawn tennis." 
 
 None of the girls knew what it was, but they were 
 too dumb with amazement to ask. 
 
 "Then," she continued, "we shall work from 
 eleven till one, when we shall stop for dinner." 
 
 "They bring their own dinner," said the fore- 
 woman, "and are generally allowed ten minutes to 
 eat it." 
 
 "But," said Angela, "I have a different plan. 
 I have a dining room arranged in the rear, and shall 
 give the girls their dinner; something plain and 
 wholesome, that is all. Then we shall rest an hour. 
 Then, as the afternoon is the most tedious part of
 
 342 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 the day, I think perhaps we will arrange to have 
 some one come and read aloud to us." 
 
 She then led them to the front room of the house, 
 and there in a recess stood a piano. 
 
 "And what is this?" said the forewoman, who 
 alone found her voice. 
 
 "This room is for recreation. It will not do to 
 work all the time and, remember, we propose not 
 to work in the evening. Here we shall have music 
 and games; dancing sometimes, singing and reading 
 too — anything to brighten our lives." 
 
 "I beg pardon," said her forewoman, "but no 
 business will stand up under such expenses. May 
 I make bold to ask how 3^ou will pay for all this?" 
 
 "My friends," said Angela, coloring, for this was 
 a crisis, and to be suspected here might be fatal, 
 "I have a confession to make to you. I have seen 
 how the girls in our shops toil for long hours and 
 little pay. Now I thought if I could start a shop 
 where a different system should prevail, it would 
 at least be worth the trying. I knew it would 
 require money, so I wrote to a wealthy friend of 
 mine — you know her name, I am sure, — Miss 
 Messenger, the owner of all this property here, — 
 telling her of what I wanted to do. And, if you will 
 believe it, she has interested herself in the enterprise, 
 furnished the funds to start us, and has given us the 
 furniture — including the piano — and the rent for 
 a year. And I have in my pocket a letter from her 
 inclosing a large order for work. She says also that 
 some day she hopes to come and see us."
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 343 
 
 "Since she has helped you so Hberally in this 
 matter, you might try her for the palace," said 
 Harry, as they were talking that evening. "Just 
 tell her," he continued, for he was enthusiastic in 
 the matter, "just tell her that if she wants to do a 
 thing unparalleled among the deeds of men, let her 
 build this palace for the people." 
 
 "Do you really think she would?" said Angela. 
 
 "Well," he replied, "you know best, since she is 
 a friend of yours. But if I were she, I should tremble 
 lest some other person with money should get hold 
 of the idea and step in before me." 
 
 The opening day came, the workgirls began their 
 tasks. How Angela taught them the uses of recrea- 
 tion in lawn tennis and the gymnasium — well, it 
 was very, very strange to them, but at the end of a 
 week it had almost transformed them. When the 
 dinner hour came she led them to the dining hall, 
 and at the mere sight of the meat and vegetables 
 and other good things — plain though they were — 
 one poor girl could not keep back the tears. Why 
 she wept, and how Angela followed her home, and 
 what that home was like, and why she and her 
 mother and her sisters do now praise and pray for 
 Angela, we have not the time to tell. One thing was 
 certain; the heart of this rich young woman began 
 to know a glow of happiness of which it had never 
 dreamed. 
 
 In the evening, when the work was put away, she 
 invited them all upstairs. She had invited Harry 
 and Captain Sorenson to help her. And while the
 
 34-1 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 latter played for them — he loved his violin — she 
 gave them their first lesson in dancing. At the 
 mere beholding how the young man approached 
 Miss Kennedy and, bowing, courteously asked to 
 be allowed the pleasure, and then stepped with 
 her through the beautiful music — it was another 
 world above and beyond theirs, and the doors were 
 open for them to enter! 
 
 There was plenty of objection and criticism. 
 "All this is too good for the girls," said her fore- 
 woman; "it will make them discontented." 
 
 "That is what I want," said Angela. "Unless 
 they are discontented there will be no improvement. 
 Discontent is the first step; the rest follows." 
 
 More and more the joylessness of East London 
 life was in evidence about her everywhere. It was 
 ignorant, contented joylessness, and her heart gave 
 a great bound as she realized that she had made a 
 break in it. For the first time her girls learned that 
 there were joys in life, joys which they could reach, 
 poor as they were. It was delightful to see how the 
 better living, the sunny life, the diversions — how 
 all this brightened them, developed them, new- 
 created them! With a full heart Angela Messenger 
 thanked God every night for what life had come to 
 mean to her, and for that which, by His blessing, she 
 might yet come to know. 
 
 It could not be that two young people should meet 
 in this way, with mutual interests and many con- 
 versations, and nothing whatever should come of it. 
 They were a surprise to each other at the first, and
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 345 
 
 a problem to each other as the days went by. The 
 one found in a dressmaker the unmistakable refine- 
 ment and accomplishments of a lady; the other 
 found in a cabinetmaker the distinguishing marks 
 of a gentleman. And how this could possibly be, in 
 either case, neither of them could imagine. 
 
 Early in their acquaintance Angela had taken 
 occasion to say to him, "I believe that in our class 
 of life it is customary for young people to 'keep 
 company,' as they say. Is it not?" 
 
 "It is not uncommon," he replied with much 
 earnestness. "The custom has even been imitated 
 by the higher classes." 
 
 "I speak of the matter," she replied, "for this 
 reason. I do not wish, at present, to keep company 
 with any one. But if you please to help me, if I 
 ask your advice, I shall be grateful." 
 
 The ordinary young man would have been incap- 
 able of respecting such a wish and of conducting 
 himself always in a strictly courteous, friendly, 
 gentlemanly way. But our hero took her at her 
 word, and acted accordingly. There is, by the 
 blessing of kind heaven, ever left unto us a remnant 
 of those who hold woman sacred; who are governed 
 always by that strong, fine sentiment, the honor 
 of a gentleman. And the only thing which made it 
 possible for Angela, situated as she was, to cultivate 
 the acquaintance of this youth was her perception 
 of this moral soundness. She grew perfectly sure 
 of him as one on whose discretion and good will she 
 could depend. As for him, his fate was already
 
 346 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 sealed. He confessed to himself that in all his 
 experience of society he had not met her equal. 
 And she a dressmaker! 
 
 Angela noticed that he did not work steadily, and 
 mentioned the fact to him. He replied that he was 
 looking for a situation. Possibly he could not 
 obtain it in East London. 
 
 "If you should find work here," she asked him, 
 "would you be willing to stay?" 
 
 "Certainly I would stay if you tell me to stay," 
 he replied with sudden earnestness. 
 
 "I would bid you stay," she said, speaking as 
 clearly and as firmly as she could, "because I like 
 your society and because you have been and will be, 
 I hope, very helpful to us. But if I bid you stay" — 
 she laid her hand upon his arm — "it must be on no 
 misunderstanding. ' ' 
 
 "I am your servant," he replied with a little 
 agitation in his voice. "I understand nothing but 
 what you wish me to understand." 
 
 Two days after this conversation the young man 
 received an offer of employment at the great factory. 
 He was to have a workroom to himself, and the 
 wages were fair. He was requested to give his 
 answer next day. It is, of course, needless to say 
 that this offer was the result of a letter sent by Miss 
 Messenger to the general manager. 
 
 Here was a dilemma. What was he to do? He 
 felt sure he could not go on in this idleness and 
 retain Miss Kennedy's esteem, even. She had 
 intimated as much. The truth was he was not
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 347 
 
 quite prepared to live always a cabinetmaker in 
 East London. 
 
 ' ' You are silent to-night, Mr. Goslett," said Angela. 
 
 "Yes," he replied; "I am in a brown study. The 
 fact is, I have had an ofifer of work from the factory. 
 Miss Messenger herself, so I am informed, arranged 
 it — for some unearthly reason — and I am to accept 
 or refuse to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Indeed! I congratulate you," she said. "Of 
 course you will accept ? " She looked at him keenly. 
 
 "I do not know," said he. 
 
 "I should be very glad if you would take the 
 place," she said. "I know I am selfish, but you are 
 a great help to us here." 
 
 "Miss Kennedy — " He checked himself in what 
 rose to his lips and he added, only, "It is done, 
 then. I stay for your sake, because you command 
 me to stay." 
 
 As the winter season approached, Angela found 
 she could not altogether ignore the social life she 
 had left behind in fashionable London. There 
 was one lady in particular whose invitation she felt 
 bound to accept. Occasionally, therefore, she was 
 seen in the society to which she belonged. At a 
 certain dinner party she was taken down by a rather 
 pleasing man who was presented as Lord Jocelyn. 
 
 "Strange people in this world. Miss Messenger," 
 said he, intent only on amusing her. ' ' There is my 
 ward, Harry — did you ever hear of a young man 
 renouncing all the advantages of social position 
 and casting his lot among the people!" 
 22
 
 348 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 **I do not understand," she said. 
 
 "Why, it was this way. I brought him up in 
 ignorance of his origin; and when I had told him, 
 as I had promised, he declared he wouldn't sail 
 under false colors. And, more than that, he said 
 he would see the pit from which he was digged, and 
 insisted on plunging into East London. And when 
 I returned from my cruise in the Mediterranean — 
 but there, Miss Messenger, I am garrulous enough; 
 pardon me." 
 
 "But I am deeply interested," said she. "What 
 was the result of this experiment of his?" 
 
 "Why, he came back to me after some months 
 and talked a prodigious amount of nonsense about 
 equality, and his duty to his own people. He said 
 farewell to me, and thanked me for all I had done 
 for him, saying that he had secured a permanent 
 situation at Miss Messenger's factory in East London. 
 And furthermore — What is it, Miss Messenger?" 
 
 She had become suddenly and unaccountably pale. 
 "It is nothing, Lord Jocelyn, nothing. Pardon me, 
 but I forgot to ask the name of your ward." 
 
 "It is Harry, and his father's name was Goslett; 
 Sergeant Goslett of the loth Regiment, and a good 
 man, too, for I knew him well." 
 
 "And you were saying that the young man secured 
 this permanent situation — " 
 
 "Yes; and for a long time I couldn't understand it. 
 The idea! A talented young man, one who could 
 have and enjoy everything in life; no matter who 
 his father was — for I love Harry, Miss Messenger,
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 349 
 
 and would be glad to give him anything — the idea 
 of such a one securing a permanent situation down 
 there among the working people ! As I said, I could 
 not understand it. However, after a while I got 
 out of him the real truth." 
 
 "And what was that?" 
 
 "Ah, it was something romantic enough, I assure 
 you. He confessed that he was in love." 
 
 "With a young lady of East London? One may 
 hope she is a worthy person, a girl of whom you 
 approve." 
 
 "Well, I can hardly say. The fact is, she is 
 nothing but a dressmaker. But there! The boy 
 is dead in love, and what am I to do?" 
 
 "A dressmaker. Oh!" She threw something of 
 coldness into her tone. And indeed there was 
 some need that she do so, for she was blushing 
 furiously, and she held her fan before her face to 
 cover her confusion. 
 
 "Nevertheless," he went on, "he insists that she 
 is a lady. He went into raptures over her. She is 
 beautiful as the day; she is graceful, accomplished, 
 well-mannered, a queen — " 
 
 "No doubt," said Angela. "But really, Lord 
 Jocelyn, as it is Mr. Goslett, the cabinetmaker, and 
 not you, who is in love with this paragon, we may 
 be spared her praises." 
 
 "Very well. But you have no idea of Harry's 
 enthusiasm. And this is the more remarkable in 
 view of the fact that she will have nothing to say 
 to him."
 
 350 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "That is indeed remarkable. But perhaps, as she 
 is the queen of dressmakers, she is looking for the 
 king of cabinetmakers." 
 
 ' ' Possibly. But I do assure you it is the prettiest 
 romance I ever heard of. Think of it. His suit is 
 hopeless, but his love is undying, and he steadfastly 
 refuses to leave the place. I am so sorry for him. 
 I wonder what the end will be." 
 
 "Let us hope for the best. I trust the dressmaker 
 will relent, that the wedding bells will ring, and that 
 they will live happily ever after. I thank you for 
 your little romance. Lord Jocelyn. Your Harry is 
 certainly a brave and loyal lover. He gives up all, 
 all, for love! It is good to know of such things." 
 She looked around the room filled with guests, her 
 great eyes became limped, and her voice fell low. 
 "All for love! How must a woman feel to be loved 
 Hke that!" 
 
 "I think," said Lord Jocelyn afterwards, "that if 
 Harry had met Miss Messenger before he did his 
 dressmaker we should not have heard so much about 
 the beautiful life of a workingman. Oh, confound 
 it! Why couldn't it have happened so? What a 
 woman! What a match it would have been!" 
 
 Meanwhile, in Angela's conversations with Harry 
 the idea of the palace for the people had taken shape 
 in her brain. She delighted to draw him out with 
 regard to it, to raise objections for him to answer. 
 Upon looking over the ground she found a four- 
 square block of her own houses of the poorer class 
 which afforded ample room for her design. She
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 351 
 
 held consultations with her architect — but always 
 in London; not on the spot, where she might be 
 recognized — and the details were carefully arranged. 
 She also stipulated that no curious inquirers on the 
 spot should be told the purpose of the building or 
 who was the builder. And so the ground was 
 cleared and the walls of the palace began to rise. 
 
 About this time she received a letter, addressed 
 to Miss Messenger, from Mr. Bunker, complaining 
 of one of the tenants: "I thought it best to write 
 to you direct," said he, "for reasons that will appear. 
 A certain Miss Kennedy has established herself here 
 in one of your houses as a dressmaker. I hear she 
 has your custom, and considered that I ought to 
 inform you about her. She has employed a lot of 
 foolish girls, and is filling their heads with nonsense 
 about enjoying life, and better wages, and what not, 
 and they are getting discontented and feeling above 
 their station. They have short hours, and dinner, 
 and resting spells; and in the evening it's worse, 
 for then they have games and singing and dancing. 
 Where this Miss Kennedy comes from, nobody 
 knows, but she is doing a sight of mischief in spread- 
 ing discontent among the other shops. I thought 
 it right to give you this information, because if you 
 should withdraw your custom she will have to wind 
 up her affairs ; which I hope may happen before long, 
 and the girls go on again as before, and leave singing 
 and dancing to their betters and be content with 
 the crust to which they were born."
 
 352 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Oh, Miss Kennedy," said sweet Nelly one day — 
 Angela had come to love her dearly — ' ' you call 
 yourself a dressmaker, but we know better. You 
 are a lady; my father says so. He used to have 
 great ladies aboard his ship, and he knows. We 
 don't ask your secret, but we are afraid that some 
 day you will go away and not come back to us again. 
 And what should w^e do then?" 
 
 "My dear, dear girl! Whatever happens, I 
 promise you I will not desert you! I shall stay by 
 you all," was the comforting reply. 
 
 Talk of happiness ! Talk of enjoying life ! Angela 
 had never known it till now. Her girls loved her 
 with all their hearts, not only grateful for her kind- 
 ness, but responding so beautifully to her love of 
 them. They clung to her. They worshiped her. 
 She had led them out into the beauty and the joy 
 of life, and she was their queen ! Heiress as she was, 
 how often had she contemplated the difficulties of 
 her own position. "A woman like me, with vast 
 wealth at her command, is so flattered and impor- 
 tuned by every one. How is it possible for her to 
 know her true friends? And how, pray, is she to 
 know the angel of love, if so be it shall come? How 
 distinguish between love of her wealth and love of 
 herself?" And then she fell to thinking of the 
 youth whose acquaintance she had made in these 
 last months. She knew now of his sacrifice. He 
 had deliberately chosen the life of a workingman, 
 and she knew beyond a peradventure what was the 
 reason. The heiress could not help realizing that
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 353 
 
 it was sweet to be loved for her own sake. Ah! 
 there are so many lovely, beautiful, royal things 
 that money cannot buy ! 
 
 Harry was telling a story one night for the benefit 
 of the girls, and Angela was talking with his friend 
 Dick Coppin, who had been invited that evening. 
 
 "They say at the club," said he, "that this place 
 is all a sham; that what is done here does not 
 amount to anything in real benefit of the people." 
 
 "Will you not bring your friends some evening," 
 she replied, ' ' and show them that they are mistaken ?" 
 
 "Harry enlightens them once in a while," said he. 
 "He stood up for you in a plucky way the other 
 night." 
 
 "I can believe he is a brave man," she answered. 
 
 "Yes, the other night they were talking about 
 you, and one said one thing and one said another, 
 and a chap said he thought he'd seen you in a West 
 End music hall, and he did n't believe you were any 
 better than you should be." 
 
 She shrank and winced as if she had received a blow. 
 
 "Well, he didn't say it twice. After Harry had 
 knocked him down he invited him to stand up and 
 have it out. But he wouldn't." 
 
 Her look of admiration and gratitude! Harry 
 lost it in his preoccupation. 
 
 Lord Jocelyn was in low spirits one day and, as 
 he had not seen Harry since his strange decision, 
 bethought himself that he would seek him out in 
 his workman's exile. He found him interested in 
 
 23
 
 354 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 his work and unalterably determined in his present 
 course. Upon leaving him, it occurred to Lord 
 Jocelyn that he would call upon Miss Kennedy, if 
 he could find her, and see for himself this siren who 
 had so charmed his Harry. 
 
 Angela was sitting at the window and saw him 
 approaching. She divined the truth in a moment. 
 She whispered to Nelly that a gentleman was coming 
 to see her who must be shown upstairs. 
 
 Her heart beat hurriedly as she awaited him. She 
 heard his footsteps on the stairs; the door opened. 
 She rose to meet him. 
 
 "Why, Miss Messenger! You here? This is 
 indeed a surprise." 
 
 "No, Lord Jocelyn," she said, confused, yet 
 trying to speak confidently, "in this house, if you 
 please, I am not Miss Messenger. I am Miss 
 Kennedy, the — the — " 
 
 Then she remembered exactly what her next 
 words would mean to him, and she blushed vio- 
 lently. "I am the — the dressmaker." She could 
 hardly have imagined how entirely lovely she was 
 in her confusion. 
 
 A man of the world at forty-five seldom feels sur- 
 prised at anything, unless, indeed, like Moliere, he 
 encounters virtue in unexpected quarters. This, 
 however, was a thing so extraordinary that Lord 
 Jocelyn gasped. 
 
 "Pardon me. Miss Messenger," he said, recovering 
 himself. * ' I was so totally unprepared for this — 
 this discovery."
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 355 
 
 "Now that you have made it, Lord Jocelyn, may 
 I ask you most earnestly to reveal it to no one — to 
 no single soul?" 
 
 "Most certainly, Miss Messenger, I will keep your 
 secret. But I would ask a favor in return, if I 
 may." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "Will you take me further into your confidence? 
 May I ask you why you are doing this very unusual 
 thing? I hope I am not impertinent in asking this 
 of you." 
 
 "By no means, for all this must seem strange to 
 you. After what you once told me about — " she 
 hesitated a moment, then turned her clear brown 
 eyes straight upon his face — "about your ward, per- 
 haps some explanation is due you." 
 
 She went on to explain her work and her purposes. 
 She told him with glowing enthusiasm of her girls 
 and of what she had been able to do for them. 
 
 "Oh," said she, "if you knew their joyless lives — 
 narrow, dull, and hopeless; if you could imagine 
 the great joy I have in trying to help them, and the 
 intense interest that my problem has for me, you 
 would not wonder at my staying here." 
 
 Man of the world though he was, he was deeply 
 affected by her recital. 
 
 "I think," said he, "that you are a very noble 
 woman." 
 
 Then she spoke of the palace, — the walls of which 
 they could see from the window, — giving full credit 
 to Harry for being the originator of the scheme.
 
 356 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Miss Messenger," said he, "may I be pardoned 
 if I earnestly commend my boy to you? May I 
 very, very earnestly ask you not to break his heart ? 
 For if you turn from him, that is what it will be. 
 He is a splendid fellow, and he is most devotedly 
 yours." 
 
 "Yes," she murmured, "I cannot doubt his 
 entire sincerity, for he knows nothing of my fortune. 
 Perhaps; perhaps. Be patient w4th me for a little. 
 The time is not yet come. And I implore you, keep 
 my secret." 
 
 "Do not fear," he said; "neither he nor any one 
 shall ever learn from me what you have been so 
 good and kind and generous as to tell me." 
 
 Lord Jocelyn went home in a state of mind! 
 
 ' ' That Harry ! the lucky rascal ! To lose his heart 
 to the richest heiress in England, and to have his 
 passion returned! And such a lovely woman! 
 Talk of romance! Well, well!" 
 
 "Miss Kennedy," said Harry one day, "will you 
 pardon me just one word? You command me not 
 to say the thing I most desire to say. If the time 
 should ever come when the reasons which command 
 my silence are removed, will you be so kind as to 
 tell me so?" And she could not help but promise. 
 This courtly deference on his part, and she nothing 
 but a dressmaker! Surely he possessed the true 
 spirit of a gentleman. 
 
 "The Palace of Delight," as Angela called it, was 
 finished at last. One evening, a fortnight before 
 the opening day, she invited her girls, and with
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 357 
 
 them Harry and the old captain, to come with her, 
 for she had something of especial interest to show 
 them. She spoke very seriously, and they went 
 with her, wondering. Finally she stopped before 
 the strange, magnificent building, and they ascended 
 the broad steps to the porch, where Angela rang a 
 bell and the door was opened. Several attendants 
 seemed to be waiting for them. 
 
 "Miss Messenger's party?" asked one of them. 
 
 "We are Miss Messenger's party," replied Angela. 
 
 "Whoever we are, we are a great mystery to 
 ourselves," said Harry. 
 
 "Light up. Bill," said one of the men. 
 
 They stood in the great hall, while the electric 
 lights were turned on. 
 
 "My friend," said Angela to Harry as they entered 
 one of the large halls filled with pictures, statues, 
 and all beautiful things, "this is your Palace of 
 Delight, your own creation." And then turning 
 to the girls before he could reply, "My dears, I 
 have a wonderful story to tell you." 
 
 And then she told them of a girl who had the 
 misfortune to be born rich — a misfortune because 
 it attracted to her all sorts of designing men and 
 pretended philanthropists. She could not tell who 
 were her real friends even, and she began to fear 
 that she should never know such a thing as genuine 
 love. This girl's name was Messenger. In the 
 midst of her perplexity she hit upon a plan to use 
 her money in a practical way. She had a humble 
 friend — only a dressmaker — who loved her and
 
 358 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 wished to serve her, and who for this reason came 
 to live among the girls in East London. She saw all 
 their sad, hard life and, through the aid of Miss Mes- 
 senger, was enabled to help some of them. And that 
 was how the Dressmakers' Association was founded. 
 
 "And then another thing happened," Angela 
 went on to say. "There was a young gentleman 
 staying at the East End at that time. He called 
 himself a workingman, but every one knew that 
 he was a gentleman. This dressmaker made his 
 acquaintance and talked with him a great deal, and 
 he proposed an immense building like this, to be 
 placed at the service of the people. When the 
 scheme was fully drawn up the dressmaker took it 
 to Miss Messenger. Oh, my dear girls, this is the 
 Palace of Delight. And here is the man who 
 invented it." 
 
 Then she led the way through the great building. 
 There were schoolrooms, a library, a concert room, 
 an immense dance hall, a hall for the drama built 
 in the Roman style. There was a completely 
 appointed gymnasium, and also a reception room, 
 where the girls could meet their ^riends in a self- 
 respecting, suitable way. There were rooms for 
 instruction in painting, wood carving, modeling, 
 cooking, and sewing. 
 
 "It is a palace of delight," said Angela, "but we 
 shall not be like a troop of revelers, thinking of 
 nothing but dance and song. We shall learn some- 
 thing every day, growing in all the best things, and 
 entering the larger life."
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 359 
 
 She sent the girls home with Captain Sorenson, 
 and lingered a moment with Harry. Never knight 
 of old had been more loyal. He had been the 
 impersonation of perfect courtesy, had shown himself 
 a thorough gentleman, had proved his real interest 
 in the people, had also proved the genuineness of 
 his passion, and now his reward had come; for he 
 learned from her own lips, to his own great joy, that 
 on the day of the formal opening of the palace which 
 he had designed, he might claim her as his bride. 
 
 "So then, the young man does not know, even at 
 the eleventh hour!" 
 
 Harry heard the words as he called, on the wedding 
 day. He found her in consultation with an elderly 
 man, who was, in fact, the senior member in the 
 firm of her legal advisers. There were certain 
 papers to sign, involving the transfer of property. 
 
 "Do you wish me to sign without reading?" said 
 Harry. 
 
 "If you will so far trust me," was her reply. 
 
 When this was done, there remained only the 
 marriage ceremony at the parish church at noon. 
 
 She took his hands, and, looking into his face with 
 her earnest, brown eyes, "You do not repent, my 
 poor Harry?" 
 
 "Repent? Angela!" 
 
 "You might have found a rich bride. Do you 
 deliberately choose a life of work and ambition, with 
 me, among the people?" 
 
 The lawyer was standing gazing out of the window.
 
 36o FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 If Harry had been watching him he would have 
 remarked a curiously tremulous movement of the 
 shoulders. 
 
 One request she had, if he would only trust her. 
 "Please to let me go away," she said, "directly the 
 service is over, and not see me till the evening 
 festival at the palace opening. Meet me with my 
 girls in the great hall at seven." 
 
 It was a strange request, but he could refuse her 
 nothing. 
 
 Her dear girls were to be her bridesmaids, for they 
 loved her. And the beautiful white dresses and 
 gloves and bonnets that Miss Messenger sent for 
 them to wear — it was almost past belief. Their 
 own simple gifts to their benefactress were arranged 
 on a table by themselves. As Angela looked at them, 
 and thought of the love out of which they came, she 
 was happier, a hundred times over, than she would 
 have been with the gifts and jewels that would have 
 poured in upon the young heiress at her wedding. 
 
 It was noised abroad that Miss Messenger would 
 be present at the festival that evening. At the 
 appointed time, a train of carriages from London 
 drove to the doors, and Harry's bride was escorted 
 by Lord Jocelyn. But what a change ! For whereas, 
 in the morning, she had been dressed plainly like 
 her bridesmaids, she was now arrayed in white 
 satin, mystic, wonderful, with white veil and white 
 flowers, round her white throat a necklace of spark- 
 ling diamonds, and diamonds in her hair. Harry 
 stepped forward with a beating heart.
 
 ANGELA MESSENGER 361 
 
 "Take her, my boy," said Lord Jocelyn proudly. 
 "But you have married, not Miss Kennedy at all, 
 but Angela Messenger herself." 
 
 Harry took his bride's hand in a kind of stupor. 
 What could Lord Jocelyn mean! 
 
 "Forgive me, Harry," she said. "Say you 
 forgive me." 
 
 Then he raised her veil and reverently kissed her 
 forehead before them all. But he could not speak, 
 because all in a moment the sense of what this 
 would mean poured in upon his brain in a great 
 wave, and he fain would have been alone. 
 
 The girls, frightened, were shrinking together at 
 the mighty name of Messenger. Angela went 
 among them, and kissed them all with words of 
 encouragement. 
 
 "Can you not love me, Nelly," she said, "as well 
 when I am rich as when I was poor?" 
 
 The people poured in — for had not all the em- 
 ployees of the great factory been invited? — and 
 fifteen hundred sat down to the dinner. Lord 
 Jocelyn read the deed of gift of the palace, which 
 named the trustees, and handed it with a profound 
 bow to Angela. Then she stepped forward and 
 raised her veil, and stood before them all, beautiful 
 as the day, and with tears in her eyes. Yet she 
 spoke in firm and clear accents which all could hear. 
 
 "My dear friends, my kind friends, this palace 
 has been originated and designed for you by my 
 husband. All I have done is to build it. It is 
 yours, with all it contains. I now declare it open,
 
 362 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 the property of the people, to be administered by 
 them and them alone. I pray God it may be used 
 worthily, and that He will richly bestow His blessing 
 to the end that it may open to you all the doors of 
 the larger life." 
 
 Then Harry spoke, describing the uses of the 
 building, and at the close the organ broke forth and 
 played the grand old Hundredth Psalm, and the 
 great audience rose and joined with their voices. 
 A serious ending to the great feast? Yes, but life 
 is serious.
 
 DR. HOPKINS 
 
 TTE is sitting in his quiet study, absorbed in 
 •^ -■■ the sermon he is writing. It is good to look 
 at him as he sits there — a man of massive propor- 
 tions, strong in his early manhood, with a lofty 
 forehead and a face on which nature has set her 
 stamp of nobility. There is nothing common 
 or insignificant about him. Indeed, it was said 
 that when on one occasion he walked in a pro- 
 cession side by side with General Washington, the 
 minister in the majesty of his gown, bands, cocked 
 hat, and full-flowing wig was thought by many 
 to be the more commanding figure of the two. As 
 we view him now he is absorbed in his theme 
 with the abstraction of the scholar; the tremendous 
 theme of God and duty as it was conceived by 
 the fathers, and we hear him saying to himself, 
 "Immaculate virtue is possessed by the Deity, 
 but can it be the duty of a creature to have it?" 
 And he answers the question in the affirmative, 
 with the text before him, "Be ye perfect, even 
 as your Father in heaven is perfect." This virtue, 
 this perfection, he held to be the utter renunciation 
 of self and unconditional surrender to the Infinite; 
 to be so wholly in accord with the Divine will as 
 even to be willing from the heart to be damned 
 forever if that should be for the glory of God. 
 Anything, any sacrifice, any treading in the dust 
 
 oo 363
 
 364 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 of human selfishness so that Almighty God be 
 exalted and glorified ! It was a magnificent ideal, but 
 an impossible one for ordinary mortals. Our sage, 
 the doctor, dwelt upon it in thought till it became 
 to him the all of religion. He knocked out' every 
 round of the ladder by which men might reach it, and, 
 pointing to the saintly elevation, said to the world, 
 ' ' Go up thither and be saved. " Our story tells, among 
 other things, how this rugged believer lived his creed. 
 
 He lived — unmarried — in the family of the 
 widow Scudder, respected and honored as such 
 men ever were honored in old New England; and 
 by none more deeply than by the daughter Mary, 
 now in her early womanhood. Beautiful beyond 
 any in the whole region, abounding in the domestic 
 virtues, sweet in disposition, devoutly religious, 
 she was the model Puritan maiden. Thoughtful 
 as well as devout, it must be imagined how she 
 drank in the lofty teaching of the great man who 
 represented to her the glory of infinite truth. 
 
 Among her acquaintances her cousin James 
 had been to her as a brother all her years. He was 
 a brilliant, dashing, reckless, good-hearted fellow. 
 It is to be said also that he had no capacity for 
 superhuman metaphysics and was accustomed to 
 make fun of the religion of the time. Ambitious, 
 dissatisfied with the quiet life of the seaport town, 
 he had, of a sudden, left his home and taken to the 
 sea. When news was brought that he had sailed 
 in the Ariel his stem father said, "He went out 
 from us because he was not of us!"
 
 DR. HOPKINS 365 
 
 But old Candace, the negro servant, who loved 
 the truant boy, turned upon the man, lifting her 
 great floury fist from the kneading trough, exclaim- 
 ing, "Oh, you go 'long, Massa Marvyn; ye '11 live to 
 count dat ar boy de staff o' your old age, now I 
 tell ye. Got de makin' o' ten or'nary men in him. 
 Kittles dat's full allers will bile ober; good yeast 
 will blow out de cork — lucky if it don't bust de 
 bottle. I tell yer de angels has dere hooks in 
 sich, an' when de Lord wants him dey'll haul him 
 in safe an' soun'." 
 
 And when, at the end of a year, James Marvyn 
 returned home more manly than he had ever been 
 before, asking pardon of his parents and bringing 
 them — especially his mother — beautiful gifts from 
 strange lands, Candace contemplated it all with 
 increasing satisfaction and grew more and more 
 certain that the angels were beginning already 
 to shorten the line. 
 
 "Mary," said James one day, "I can't stand this 
 nonsense any longer. Your mother is bound I 
 shall not see you alone. I know she thinks I am 
 not good enough for you, and I'll admit that I 
 am not religious like you people, but then, what's 
 the use ? You people are all safe in the harbor, and 
 you seem to look with suspicion upon one who 
 is not, and who says it is all nonsense trying to 
 get in. It seems to me you good people might 
 care a little for a fellow." 
 
 "Oh, James, you don't know! I not care about 
 your soul! Ah! you do not know how many,
 
 366 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 many times I have prayed that you might be led 
 to know God and love Him. Dr. Hopkins told 
 us last Sunday that we should be willing to give 
 up our own salvation, if necessary, for the good of 
 others. I am sure I feel so. Yes, I would give 
 my very soul for yours! I wish I could." 
 
 There was such a spiritual quality in her words 
 and in her tone that James was still. After a 
 moment he spoke in a low and altered voice. 
 
 "Mary, I am a sinner. No sermon ever taught 
 it to me, but I see it now. I see, too, that I am 
 not worthy of you, and I do not see why you should 
 ever care for me at all." 
 
 "Then you will be good, James? And you 
 will talk with Dr. Hopkins?" 
 
 "Oh, hang Dr. Hopkins! I can't make head 
 or tail of what he says. I can't find top nor bottom, 
 nor side, nor up, nor down to it. It 's, you can and 
 you can't, you shall and you shan't, you will and 
 you won't — " 
 
 "James!" 
 
 "No matter; I won't say the rest of it. And I 
 don't want to slander your good doctor. He's a 
 great, grand, large pattern of a man, a man who 
 is n't afraid to say what he thinks, and a good 
 man. But I do believe if he would take a voyage 
 aroimd the world in the forecastle of a whaler, he 
 would know more about men than he does now. 
 All his talk about high and mighty things — you 
 don't know how it tires me; I don't know what to 
 make of it. But, Mary, I believe in you. There
 
 DR. HOPKINS 367 
 
 is something in you that I call religion. The doctor 
 spent half a day last Sunday trying to tell us what 
 holiness is; he told us what it wasn't, what it 
 was like, and divided it and defined it and expounded 
 it enough to wear you out ; and I thought to myself 
 he'd better tell 'em to look at Mary Scudder, and 
 they'd understand all about it." 
 
 "James!" 
 
 "Well, never mind, my dear, but it's true. Now 
 Mary, my ship sails to-morrow, and perhaps I 
 shall not see you again. I was going to ask you 
 for a promise, but I won't. Only, Mary, just 
 give me your little Bible; I'll promise to read it, 
 and see what it all comes to, and when I am tempted 
 to go wrong I'll think of you. And now good-by." 
 
 If Mary had spoken all that welled up in her 
 heart at that moment she might have said too 
 much. She took her Bible, gave it with trembling 
 hand, and he was gone. 
 
 Our Mary was, as we have said, a sober, discreet, 
 devout soul, devoted to the higher things of religion, 
 but — she was a woman. What did it avail her that 
 she could say the Assembly's Catechism from 
 end to end without tripping, and that every habit 
 of her life beat time to practical realities? The 
 wildest Italian singer, nursed on nothing but excite- 
 ment from her cradle, never was more thoroughly 
 possessed of the awful and solemn mystery of 
 woman's life than was this Puritan maiden. And 
 next day she made a discovery that considerably 
 astonished her, namely, that all that had made
 
 368 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 life interesting to her had suddenly gone. And 
 yet she did not realize its meaning. 
 
 "Mary," said her mother, "have you told James 
 that you loved him?" 
 
 "Yes, mother, always. I always loved him, and 
 he always knew it." 
 
 "Yes, yes; but I mean something more than 
 that." 
 
 "Why, mother, I told him I loved his soul, and 
 would do anything that he might see the truth, 
 and would pray for him. I want to see him a 
 noble, useful man. I never expect to marry him 
 or anybody, if that is what you mean." 
 
 "Well, then, you would like to see him well 
 married, would you not? I think Jane Spencer 
 would make him an excellent wife." 
 
 This was the keen arrow that shot a new pain 
 through the young heart. Till this moment she 
 had never been conscious of herself. 
 
 "Oh, mother, mother.!" she exclaimed, as she 
 hid her face. "I am selfish, after all." 
 
 But she took up the holy life again, determined 
 to live according to the highest, and hoping for 
 the grace of God to come into his soul; and as he 
 had a place in her daily prayers, she was not likely 
 to forget him. 
 
 Meantime the doctor went on his way, wrestling 
 with metaphysical problems, speaking the truth 
 as God bade him, and that without shrinking. 
 And whenever anything in the life of his parish 
 needed rebuke, it was given with unsparing hand.
 
 DR. HOPKINS 369 
 
 "I must testify," he said one morning, "I must 
 testify against this sin of African slavery." (It 
 existed in certain New England circles in those 
 days.) 
 
 "In what way?" asked Mrs. Scudder. "It seems 
 to me a difficult subject. There is Mr. Simeon 
 Brown, one of the largest supporters of our church; 
 he is in the trade." 
 
 "Difficult? No subject can be simpler. If the 
 system is wrong, it is wrong. As for Mr. Brown, 
 I can show him that this follows logically from the 
 theological principles he holds." 
 
 "Mr. Brown," said the doctor, as he afterwards 
 met him, "I should like to go on with our last 
 conversation. We did not quite conclude our 
 review of the argument." 
 
 "With all my heart, doctor," said the man, not 
 a little flattered. "Come right in." 
 
 "Mr. Brown, we believe in the incomparable 
 glory of God, to which we must be ready to make 
 any and every sacrifice?" 
 
 "Certainly, sir." 
 
 "And the glory of God consisteth in the happiness 
 of His rational universe, so that when we devote 
 ourselves to His glory we devote ourselves to the 
 highest good of all His creatures?" 
 
 "That's clear, sir." 
 
 "And in this we should be ready to make any 
 sacrifice, whether of ease or comfort or worldly 
 goods?" 
 
 24
 
 3 70 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "I trust so, sir," said Mr. Brown, wondering 
 what was coming next. 
 
 "My friend, did it never occur to you that the 
 enslaving of the African race is a violation of the 
 great law that commands us to love our neighbor 
 as ourselves?" 
 
 Mr. Brown started. "I — I never regarded it 
 in that light, sir." 
 
 "Possibly not, so doth custom blind the eyes 
 of men. Nevertheless, behold the truth! I feel 
 humbled that I have not perceived it before, but 
 hereafter I shall devote my best energies to pro- 
 claiming it, and, Mr. Brown, I count on you to 
 help me." 
 
 "Doctor, you astonish me. I must say I think 
 you are too fast. You are not a practical man, 
 doctor. You are good in your pulpit; nobody 
 better. Your theology is clear and logical. But 
 coming to practical life, why — it's different, you 
 see." And at the end of the long discussion — 
 "Well, doctor, you can do as you like; but if you 
 go on with this, I give you fair warning that I, 
 for one, shall cancel my subscription and go to 
 Dr. Stiles's church." 
 
 "Mr. Brown," said the doctor, "I am pained 
 to find in you a lack of true, spiritual illumination. 
 I much fear you have no part nor lot in this mat- 
 ter, and I warn you to search the foundation of 
 your hope." 
 
 The next Sunday his sermon denouncing the 
 evil rolled like a thundercloud over the heads of
 
 DR. HOPKINS 371 
 
 the congregation. The man was mighty in his 
 moral majesty. A Httle child said afterwards, 
 "I saw God there, and I was afraid." 
 
 His supporters left him one by one, and his 
 salary, never large, was cut in two; but duty was 
 his goddess, and he never looked back. Still the 
 friends who stood by him were right loyal. Mary 
 was useful to him in many ways, and was glad to 
 serve him. She attended to his study, copied his 
 manuscripts, was much in his society, and an 
 intimate friendship inevitably grew between them. 
 Many were their discussions touching the soul's 
 "evidences of grace," as they called them then, 
 and the holy man came to regard her as the priestess 
 of an inner shrine. Hearing her sweet voice in 
 song, as she went about the house, now here now 
 there, he was charmed, he knew not why, and fell 
 to thinking of angels and the millennium. 
 
 "Mrs. Scudder," said Miss Prissy the dress- 
 maker, ' ' I know folks like me should n't have 
 their eyes open too wide, but then I can't help 
 noticing some things. Did you notice the doctor 
 when we were telling him about Mary, what a gift 
 of prayer she has in the Ladies' Circle? Why, he 
 colored all up, and the tears came into his eyes. 
 It's my belief that that blessed man worships the 
 ground she treads on. Well, well, I don't know — 
 but what a minister's wife she'd be! All the 
 ladies are talking about it." But Mrs. Scudder 
 wisely kept her own counsel. She could not abide 
 the thought of giving her Mary to the unregenerate
 
 372 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 James Marv>'n. However, a three years' voyage 
 was a long one, she thought, and meanwhile much 
 might happen. 
 
 Mary, during this time, walked daily by the sea, 
 and thought of the white-winged ship so far away, 
 and hoped and prayed for the soul of her sailor 
 boy. Returning one day from one of these walks 
 by the sea, as she approached the house she heard 
 the sound of Miss Prissy's voice, and the words that 
 fell on her ear were these: 
 
 "Mrs. Marvyn fainted dead away. She stood 
 it till it came to that, and then she fell as if she had 
 been shot. The vessel — " 
 
 And her poor heart divined the rest. They laid 
 her on her mother's bed — that first and last resting 
 place for broken hearts — and at a sign from Mrs. 
 Scudder the doctor began to pray. "Lord, thou 
 hast been our dwelling place in all generations." 
 The great heart, so strong and tender, forgot its 
 dogmas of election, and rose like a blessed angel 
 whose wings shed healing dews of paradise. 
 
 The next day Mary learned about the wreck of 
 the vessel, and a yearning came over her to go to 
 his mother and comfort her. 
 
 Mrs. Marvyn was a peculiarly thoughtful woman. 
 She lived in the atmosphere of doubt in view of the 
 tremendous doctrines. And now to think that 
 God had foreordained that her boy, the light of 
 her life, should be taken from her, only to be lost 
 forever, was more than she could bear. She walked 
 the floor in a mad despair.
 
 DR. HOPKINS 373 
 
 "It is frightful!" she exclaimed, "It is awful! 
 No end, no bottom, no shore, no hope! O God! 
 
 God! Leave me alone, all of you! I tell you, 
 
 1 am a lost spirit!" 
 
 Mary summoned the household. "Oh, do come 
 in quick! I am afraid her mind is going." 
 
 "Lor' bress ye. Squire Marvyn, we won't hab 
 her goin' on dis yer way," said the great, motherly 
 Candace. "Do talk gospel to her, can't ye? Ef 
 you can't, I will. 
 
 "Come, ye poor lamb, come to ole Candace!" 
 and with that she gathered the pale form to her 
 bosom, and sat down and began rocking her as if 
 she had been a babe. "Honey, darlin', ye ain't 
 right — dar's a drefful mistake somewhere. Why, 
 de Lord ain't what ye t'ink — He loves ye, honey. 
 Who was it wore de crown o' thorns, lamb? Who 
 was it said, 'Father, forgive dem'? Say, honey, 
 wasn't it de Lord dat made ye? Dar, dar, now 
 ye 're cryin' ! Cry away, an' ease yer poor heart. 
 Why, de Lord died for Massr Jim — loved him an' 
 died for him; laws, jest leave him in His han's, 
 dear. Yes, yes, our doctor's a mighty great 
 preacher, and a good man, an' in fair wedder it's 
 all right to hear de mighty t'ings he's got to say. 
 But, honey, dey won't do for ye now. Jes' come 
 right down whar poor ole black Candace has to 
 stay allers. It's a good place, darlin'. Look 
 right to de Lord Jesus; tell ye, honey, ye can't 
 lib no oder way now." 
 
 Thus she spoke in the child language of her race,
 
 374 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 and the peace of God stole into the rebellious soul, 
 and made it captive. 
 
 And Mary! She would have given her own 
 soul for his salvation ; and now she found it doubted 
 on every hand. 
 
 "Honey," said Candace mysteriously, "don't 
 ye go to troublin' yer mind 'bout dat ar. I'm 
 cl'ar dat Massr James is one ob de 'lect; an I'm 
 cl'ar dar's conside'ble more o' de 'lect dan people 
 t'ink. Why, Jesus didn't die fer nuffin; all dat 
 love ain't goin' to be wasted. So don't ye go to 
 lay in' on yer poor heart what no mortal creeter 
 can bear." 
 
 Well, the time came — we have seen it approach- 
 ing — when the good doctor, deliberately yet with 
 much misgiving, asked Mrs. Scudder for her 
 daughter's hand. But when she bore the message 
 to Mary, the surprise, the confusion, the doubting, 
 the conflict, were pitiful to see. 
 
 "Oh, mother," she exclaimed, "let me cry just 
 for a little! Oh, mother, mother!" was the despair- 
 ing wail under which was hidden the parting of 
 the last strand of the cord of youthful hope. The 
 struggle was such as few may know. 
 
 Finally, however, her promise was given, and 
 her mother bore the intelligence to the doctor, who 
 awaited his fate, perfectly certain that he was 
 going to be refused. When he heard the words, 
 "She has accepted," he turned quickly round and 
 walked to the window, and stood there quietly, 
 swallowing hard and wiping his eyes. Soon he
 
 DR. HOPKINS 375 
 
 returned and said, "I trust, dear madam, that this 
 very dear friend may never have reason to think 
 me ungrateful for her wonderful goodness, and I 
 hope I may never forget the undeserved mercy of 
 this hour." 
 
 "Mother," said Mary the next morning, "I 
 would like to see the doctor a few minutes alone." 
 
 As the doctor sat in his study, the door suddenly 
 opened and Mary entered like a white saint, her eyes 
 calmly radiant, her whole manner serious and 
 celestial. 
 
 The doctor bowed his head and covered his 
 face with his hands. 
 
 "Dear friend," said Mary, kneeling at his feet, 
 "if you want me, I am come." 
 
 And the doctor — no, the study door closed 
 just then, and we know nothing more. 
 
 Well, there was gossip and bustle enough in the 
 parish; and it is a rare tribute to our heroine that 
 the alliance was commended on every hand. Yet 
 there was variety of comment. One spirited maiden 
 declared that, for her part, she never could see 
 into it how any girl could marry a minister; she 
 should as soon think of setting up housekeeping 
 in a meetinghouse. "Now, other men," she went 
 on, "let you have some peace, but a minister's 
 always round under your feet." And the same 
 irrepressible said to Mary, later, that she did n't 
 see, for her part, how she could keep so calm when 
 things were coming so near; and Mary's only 
 answer was a smile.
 
 376 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 In the midst of all the bustle — the quiltings 
 and the dressmaking and the cooking — black 
 Candace had thoughts of her own, and revealed 
 them in confidence to her friend. They were 
 talking of dreams and signs. 
 
 "Some folks say," said Candace, "dat dreams 
 'bout white horses is a sure sign; specially if it's 
 just arter bird-peep; I've know'd it to come true 
 dat some fren' was dead." 
 
 "And then there's dogs howling under windows," 
 said the other. "O' course I don't believe in it, 
 but I never knew it fail that there was a death in 
 the house after." 
 
 "Ah! I tell ye what," said Candace, "dogs knows 
 a heap more'n dey likes to tell. Now look here," 
 she went on, "I hain't neber opened my mind to 
 nobody, but dere's a dream I'se had tree mornin's 
 runnin' lately, dat I saw Jim Marvyn a-sinkin' 
 in de water an' stretchin' up his han's; an' de Lord 
 Jesus come a-walkin' on de water and take hold 
 ob his han', an' says he, 'O thou of little faith, 
 wherefore didst thou doubt!'" 
 
 "Well, well, well," said the other. "But, you 
 see, it may be something about the state of his 
 soul." 
 
 "I know dat," said Candace, "but as nigh as I 
 could judge in my dream, dat boy's soul was in his 
 body.'' 
 
 It was one week before the day appointed for 
 the wedding. The sun was just setting, and the
 
 DR. HOPKINS 377 
 
 whole air andl andscape were flooded with color; 
 through the tremulous, rosy sea of the upper air 
 the silver full moon looked out in the calm of her 
 quiet glory, and Mary was walking by the sea. 
 She fell into one of those reveries which she thought 
 she had forever forbidden herself; and there rose 
 before her eyes the picture of a marriage service, 
 — but the eyes of the bridegroom were dark, his 
 wavy hair was black as raven's wing, and in her 
 heart was an infinite pain. 
 
 The road wound through a little grove of cedars 
 close by the surf. Suddenly she heard footsteps 
 behind her, and some one said, "Mary!" 
 
 She turned, and saw the embodiment of her 
 vision — the same familiar face, the same manly 
 form! 
 
 "Oh, James! Is this a dream? Is this a dream? 
 Are we in heaven? Oh, I thought you would never, 
 never come!" 
 
 They spoke of love mightier than death, which 
 many waters cannot quench. They spoke of longing 
 prayers, of hope deferred, and then of this great joy. 
 And he told her how he had read her Bible; how 
 he had resolved in the quiet of his heart to try to 
 live as God would have him — that her God should 
 be his God ; how the shipwreck came as a Day of 
 Judgment, only to bring heaven near; and how he 
 had come home with a whole new world of thought 
 and feehng in his heart. 
 
 And yet as they talked the moment came when 
 the charm was broken, when the beautiful soul
 
 378 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 came out of dreamland back to life. It was when 
 he spoke of the future; and she told him she had 
 opened her mouth in solemn promise, and she could 
 not go back. 
 
 Argument and entreaty alike were vain, for was 
 not duty the goddess of her soul? What it cost 
 her no one might know. The mighty wealth of 
 passion might storm her heart, but she would not 
 prove a traitor to duty and the right. And so 
 when she had fully conquered, and sang in the 
 choir the next Sunday with his rich voice near her 
 as of old, she felt sublimely upborne with the idea 
 that life is but for a moment, and that love is im- 
 mortal. And as she sang, the doctor, from the 
 pulpit, looked upward and marveled at the light 
 in her eyes and the glory of her transfigured beauty, 
 and his soul took wing in the fervor of his prayer. 
 
 Well, out in social circles and among the friends 
 of the young people there was commotion. Black 
 Candace and the irrepressible dressmaker held 
 high consultation. 
 
 "Now," said the former, "dar 's reason in all t'ings, 
 an' a good deal more reason in some t'ings dan dar 
 is in oders. As long as eberybody thought Jim 
 Marvyn was dead, dar war n't nothin' else in de 
 world to be done but marry de doctor. But now — 
 I heard Jim a-talkin' to his mother las' night, 
 an' it mos' broke my heart. Miss Mary, she has 
 too much feelin' for de doctor to say a word, and I 
 say he oughter be told on't; dat's what I say." 
 
 "I say so, too," said Miss Prissy; and the upshot
 
 DR. HOPKINS 379 
 
 of the long discussion was in the resolution, "I 
 guess to-night, before I go to bed, I'll make a dive 
 at him." 
 
 "It isn't about myself, doctor," said she, when 
 admitted to an interview. "If you please, it's 
 about you and Mary. Did you know, doctor," 
 almost choking with fright as she went on, "did 
 you know that Mary and James Marvyn had 
 loved each other ever since they were children, 
 and she can never love any other man in the world 
 as she loves him?" 
 
 "Madam!" said the doctor, in a voice that 
 frightened the little woman out of her chair, while 
 a blaze like sheet-lightning shot from his eyes, and 
 his face flushed crimson. 
 
 "Mercy on us, doctor! I hope you'll pardon 
 me. But there! I've said it out. She'll keep her 
 promise to you if it breaks her heart. They 
 would n't tell you, and so I 've told you on my 
 own account, because I thought you ought to 
 know it." 
 
 The doctor had gone to the window, and was 
 standing with his back toward her. He made a 
 gesture backward without speaking, indicating that 
 she should leave. And then, then, alone with God, 
 he had his dark hour, unseen by man. At such 
 times as these, when the soul cries out, "This or 
 nothing!" men have plunged into intemperance 
 or wild excess, they have gone to be shot down in 
 battle, breaking their life and throwing it away 
 Hke an empty goblet — the wine was bitterness 
 
 24
 
 38o FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 itself — and have gone like wailing ghosts out into 
 the dread unknown. Tlie possibility of all this lay 
 in that soul which had just received this stunning 
 blow. Although he had lived a life of the sternest 
 self-control, he found his heart to be none the less 
 an ocean-tempest of passion. For a time it was 
 seething in wild rebellion. He had thought him- 
 self established in a submission to the will of God 
 that nothing conceivable by man could shake. 
 But now he was, for the time at least, shaken to 
 the very center of his being. He walked the room 
 for hours, with clenched hands and tense frame. 
 Then he sat down to his Bible, but his thoughts 
 wandered far, very, very far from its sacred pages. 
 Then he set himself to some definite mental work, 
 and held to it with a dumb tenacity, till at last he 
 worked himself down to such calmness that he 
 could pray. And then he reasoned with himself, 
 strongly and sternly, till at last he could say to 
 himself, "O soul of mine, what is it that thou art 
 fretting and self -tormenting about? Is it because 
 thou art not happy? Who told thee that thou 
 wast to be happy? Is there any ordinance of the 
 universe that thou shouldst be happy? Art thou 
 nothing but a vulture, screaming for prey? Canst 
 thou not do without happiness? Yea, thou canst 
 do without happiness, and instead thereof find 
 blessedness." And so he came at last to rest upon 
 the solid rock of his faith — unselfishness, the great 
 duty of man. He came to the conclusion that 
 blessedness, which was all the portion his Master
 
 DR. HOPKINS 381 
 
 had on earth, might do for him also. And so he 
 kissed and blessed that silver dove of happiness, 
 which he saw was weary of sailing in his own ark, 
 and let it go out of his hand without a tear. 
 
 He slept little that night; but when he came to 
 breakfast all noticed his unusual gentleness and 
 benignity of manner. And Mary saw tears rising 
 in his eyes when he looked at her, and she wondered, 
 knowing not the reason. 
 
 An hour later word was brought to James and 
 Mary that the doctor would like to see them in his 
 room. They entered, wondering what was coming. 
 When they were seated, there was a pause of some 
 minutes, during which the doctor sat with his head 
 leaning upon his hand. 
 
 "You both know," he said, "the near and dear 
 relation in which I have expected to stand toward 
 this friend. I had not been worthy of it had I not 
 felt that in case any trouble threatened this dear 
 soul I could give myself for her, even as Christ gave 
 Himself for the Church. I have just discovered," 
 looking kindly upon Mary, "that there is a great 
 cross and burden which must come either on this 
 dear child or on myself, through no fault of either 
 of us, but through God's good providence; and 
 therefore let me bear it. Mary, my dear child, I 
 will be to thee as a father, but I will not force thy 
 heart." 
 
 At this moment, Mary, by a sudden, impulsive 
 movement, threw her arms about his neck, exclaim- 
 ing, "No! no! I will marry you, as I said!"
 
 SS2 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Not if I will not," he said with a benign smile. 
 "Come here, young man," he said to James. "I 
 give thee this maiden to wife." And he placed 
 her gently in his arms. 
 
 "There, children, it is over!" he said, "God 
 bless you." 
 
 "Sir," said James, as he grasped the doctor's 
 hand, "I have no words to thank you. This tells 
 on my heart more than any sermon you ever 
 preached. I shall never, never forget it so long 
 as I live!" 
 
 They slowly left the room, and the grand hero, 
 closing the door upon them, closed it also upon 
 the future that had opened so brightly before him. 
 
 There is only a word upon what came afterward. 
 The wedding, when it came, was something to 
 touch the heart. As the young couple came in — 
 the bride a dream of loveliness — the doctor greeted 
 them with a peaceful smile which was a benediction. 
 Mary grew white as if she were going to faint. 
 When all was ready, the doctor began his prayer. 
 The great sacrifice he had made, fresh in the minds 
 of all — one must try to imagine the wave of feeling 
 that swept through the company. As he com- 
 mended the young souls to the mercies of the Great 
 Father, and prayed for rich blessing to come into 
 their life, the tears fell everywhere like a summer 
 shower. Heaven seemed to come down nearer; 
 and so they were married. 
 
 And when James, by and by, would confess his 
 faith, the doctor prepared to examine him very
 
 DR. HOPKINS 383 
 
 carefully as to his evidences; and he seemed so 
 anxious because the candidate failed to talk in 
 the regular way. But when James asked to tell his 
 story, and, in straightforward, manly fashion re- 
 counted the way in which he had been led by the 
 Father's hand, of Mary's Bible and the shipwreck 
 and the loving-kindness of the Lord, the doctor's 
 spectacles got all blinded with tears, so that he 
 could n't see the notes he had made to examine him 
 by; and he cut it all short with saying, "Let us 
 pray!" 
 
 Grand, pure, heroic soul ! His system of thinking 
 was obsolete long ago, but the moral quality of it 
 still challenges the admiration of men.
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 
 
 'T^HERE was a monster temperance meeting in 
 •*■ the town of Barton. It had been advertised 
 so widely and anticipated so long that the town hall 
 was crowded to the doors. Squire Tomple, the 
 richest and fattest citizen, was chosen chairman, 
 and the four pastors, with others, were on the plat- 
 form. The band gave some rousing temperance 
 music, the Reverend Brown prayed earnestly that 
 intemperance might cease to reign, and a very 
 affecting temperance song called "Don't you go. 
 Tommy," was sung by the Crystal Spring Glee Club. 
 The chairman then introduced Major Ben Bailey, 
 the famous temperance orator, who inveighed against 
 the drink demon in the usual way, exhibited statis- 
 tics, told stories, sketched a touching picture of a 
 drunkard's home, and closed with a dramatic appeal 
 to all present to beware of the flowing bowl. It was 
 all trite enough and hackneyed, but its effect, some- 
 how or other, was out of all proportion to its merit. 
 For when the pledges were circulated — which was 
 done with a rush, everything being ready therefor — 
 everybody began to sign. The list was publicly 
 read from time to time, and soon included not only 
 the names of all the respectable citizens — as usual — 
 but also those of some of the heaviest drinkers in 
 town. And, to crown all, the chairman announced 
 that their fellow citizen, Mr. Jonathan Crupp, who 
 
 384
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 385 
 
 had been a large vender of intoxicating liquors, had 
 declared his intention of abandoning the business 
 forever. There was great applause, the four pastors 
 shook hands enthusiastically with each other, and 
 in the midst of the excitement Mr. Crupp was thrust 
 upon the platform. He was a hard-headed, practical 
 man with no sentiment about him, and evidently 
 did not enter into the enthusiasm. He simply reaf- 
 firmed his decision in a quiet, firm, nonchalant way. 
 
 The meeting over. Squire Tomple took Mr. Crupp's 
 arm and walked off with him, appropriating him in 
 full as a matter of course, being himself the richest 
 man in town. He swung his cane in a superior way, 
 as if he felt himself master of the situation, and that 
 the great drink evil had been practically conquered 
 in Barton. 
 
 "Crupp," said he, "you've done the right thing. 
 You might have done it sooner, but you can do a 
 great deal of good yet." 
 
 "Yes, if I'm helped at it," he quietly replied. 
 
 "Helped? Of course you'll be helped if you pray 
 for it. You've repented; now address the throne 
 of Grace, and — " 
 
 "Yes, I know, I'm not entirely unacquainted 
 with the Lord if I have sold rum. His help is always 
 in order, I'll allow. But just now it's help from 
 men that I want, and I 'm afraid I shan't be able to 
 get it." 
 
 "Why, Crupp, you cannot be in any need; you 
 must have made something out of your business 
 if it is an infernal one." 
 
 25
 
 3S6 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "I don't mean that, squire. Just let me explain. 
 We agree that it 's all right for drinking men to sign 
 pledges, but pledges can never quiet an uneasy 
 stomach, no way you can fix 'em. And the fact 
 is that the drinking fellows that signed to-night will 
 be a'^'ful thirsty in the morning." 
 
 "Well, they must pray, and act like men." 
 
 "Oh, yes; but some of 'em don't believe in prayin* 
 and some of 'em can't act like men because it is n't 
 in 'em. Now what I mean by needin' help is this; 
 I know just about how much every drinkin' man in 
 town takes, an' when he takes it, an' about when he 
 gets on his sprees. Now if there 's anybody to take 
 an interest in these fellows at such times, they're 
 going to have plenty of chances mighty soon." 
 
 The next morning Mr. Crupp, instead of knocking 
 in the heads of his liquor barrels as some had ex- 
 pected, closed out the entire lot at the highest price 
 it would bring. "It was good liquor," he said, "the 
 very best, and would do considerable good if it 
 was only used properly." He then set himself to 
 work, and his first move was to call upon the Rev. 
 Jonas Wedgewell. 
 
 "Ah! my valiant friend," said the enthusiastic 
 parson, "you have made a noble stand! The morn- 
 ing songs of the angels must have been sweeter as 
 they thought of your noble deed. Your ill-gotten 
 gains — surely they will now be consecrated to the 
 Lord." 
 
 "Excuse me, parson, but they won't, for I never 
 had any ill-gotten gains. I never sold anything but
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 3S7 
 
 good liquor, and the price was always fair. I never 
 sold any liquor to a drunken man, either. What I 
 came to you for is this; I know all about these 
 drinking fellows, and those who signed last night 
 are going to have a job on their hands." 
 
 "Well, my dear sir, prayer — " 
 
 "Oh, wait a minute, parson. Prayer never cured 
 a dyspeptic stomach that I ever heard of, nor a 
 man's hankering for whisky, either. But these 
 fellows can be kept from falling into the old ways 
 again, I believe, but they 've got to be handled care- 
 fully, and what I came to you for was to ask who 
 is going to do the handling. Now the question is, 
 who's free-handed with money in your congrega- 
 tion?" 
 
 The effect of this short speech upon the parson 
 was marvelously depressing. His face fell, his eyes 
 enlarged behind his glasses, and he stared in a help- 
 less way. 
 
 "Look here, parson," resumed the other, "let 
 us get down to business. There's Tom Adams that 
 drives the brickyard team. Tom's a good, square, 
 honest fellow, and he loves his family, but I don't 
 see how he's going to stop drinking. He can't 
 work without it; leastways, he can't work the way 
 he's working now. Deacon Jones ought to let up 
 on his work a little till he can bring himself around ; 
 but Deacon Jones won't waste his money in that way 
 if he is a member of your church. Then there's 
 old Bunley; there isn't anything to him. He's 
 been drinking and drinking and drinking this forty
 
 388 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 year, and yet he was well brought up, and he has 
 some children, too, that are worth saving. But he 's 
 always in debt and always discouraged. If some 
 one would take hold and give him a lift for three 
 months, who knows what it might do for him? 
 Then there's young Fred Macdonald; he's going to 
 be the hardest man to manage in the whole lot. 
 Good family, you know; got a judge for a father 
 and ambitious as the — as Napoleon Bonaparte. 
 He's all in with the steamboat fellows — steamboat- 
 ing, you know, looks big to him; shows off well, and 
 so on — and they'll ruin him sure. It's no use 
 talking to him; he's proud as the — as Lucifer, and 
 he'll tell you to mind your own business. Now if 
 some of the business men would get up some- 
 thing enterprising and put Fred at the head of it, 
 on condition that he would n't drink, why, they 
 might make a little money and help him into the 
 bargain." 
 
 "Mr. Crupp," said the parson, "I confess that 
 your treatment of the subject is one to which I am 
 entirely unaccustomed; but I believe you are in 
 earnest, and thereat I rejoice. But in these matters 
 I do not think I am a capable adviser. I would 
 suggest that you consult some of our business men." 
 
 "That's what I am going to do. What I want of 
 you is to back me up, and preach at these good people 
 who are well enough off and who hold their pocket- 
 books so tight." 
 
 "I'll do it! I'll do it! A suitable text has 
 already providentially entered my mind. 'Am I
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 389 
 
 my brother's keeper?' Three heads and applica- 
 tion. First, demonstrate that every man is his 
 brother's keeper; second, show how in the divine 
 economy it is wise that this should be so; third, 
 the example of Christ. Application, our duty to the 
 needy in our midst ! I beg your pardon, my dear 
 Mr. Crupp, but if you have other calls to make, I 
 will repair at once to my study and prepare a dis- 
 course based upon this text. Excuse my seeming 
 rudeness in thus abruptly closing our interview, 
 but my soul is on fire with an ardor — " 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said the other. "Business is 
 business; it's so in the liquor trade, and I suppose 
 it is in preaching. Good day." 
 
 Tom Adams was employed by Deacon Jones only 
 six months in the year, but business was driving 
 in the busy season, and he worked from daylight 
 till dark. It was too much for him, and when he 
 called in the aid of a stimulant — as he sometimes 
 did — the result was too often a spree of two or 
 three days' duration. In the winter he had no 
 regular work, and the result was no better. The 
 Sunday after he signed the pledge was a dreary day. 
 People seemed to look at him sidewise, as if their 
 eyes were asking, "Are you keeping your pledge?" 
 And his loving wife gave him such a beseeching look 
 whenever he left the house that he almost hated her 
 for her anxiety. 
 
 "Tom," said the deacon on Monday morning, 
 "about this temperance business; you signed the 
 pledge the other night?"
 
 390 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Yes, an' kep' it, too!" 
 
 "I'm glad of it, Tom; there's times when you 
 did n't, you know. Now, could n't I help you a 
 little? I've heard 'em say that when men work 
 too hard they sometimes take to drink to brace 
 'em up. P'raps 't would be better for you to work 
 only ten hours a da}^ Say ! vSupposing we make it 
 that, and I give you work all the year round at 
 seventy-five cents a day; would it help you any to 
 keep straight?" 
 
 "Would it?" said Tom, wrinkling his brows and 
 eying the deacon incredulously. "Would it? Well, 
 I should say!" 
 
 "Well, then, I'll do it. Of course, you won't 
 mind workin' pretty middlin' faithful if you have 
 shorter hours; and I shall have to put you on some 
 at the pork house, where we have to pay more — 
 but then, you won't mind helpin' out in that way 
 on what we lose on you other ways. But mind, no 
 fooling with whisky if I do all this by you." 
 
 "Nary drop, sir! Ten minutes ago I wouldn't 
 have given a pewter dime for my chance of stickin' 
 to it through the day; but now I wouldn't give a 
 cent for a barrel of ten-year-old rye." 
 
 "There!" said the deacon as he walked home. 
 ' ' I wonder if that '11 suit Crupp and Brother Wedge- 
 well. Queer that Crupp should have bothered me 
 two hours Saturday night, and the preacher should 
 have come out so strong about being our brother's 
 keepers the very next day. 'T was a Christian act 
 for me to do, too! And the joke of it is I shan't
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 391 
 
 lose a cent by the operation; I can keep him busy 
 enough! It makes a man feel good, though, to 
 do a kindness for his fellow man." 
 
 As for Tom Adams, he mounted the wagon and 
 seized the reins. "Thunder and light'nin' ! I '11 just 
 drive round by the back street and tell the old 
 woman! Reckon she won't look at me any more 
 that way now!" 
 
 On the way he met Mr. Crupp. 
 
 "The old man's engaged me for a year at six bits 
 a day, and only ten hours a day to work ! " he shouted. 
 
 "The devil!" said Mr. Crupp, and hurried off to 
 the parsonage. ' ' First blood, parson ! " he exclaimed. 
 "Old Jones has hired Tom for a year, and he's got 
 only ten hours a day to work!" 
 
 ' ' Bless the Lord ! Who would have thought that 
 so undemonstrative a man would have been the 
 first to heed the word of exhortation!" 
 
 "He's the first to see money in it; that's why." 
 
 "My dear sir! Do you really ascribe Deacon 
 Jones's meritorious action to sordid motives?" 
 
 "H'm, well, no; I guess 'twas a little mixed," 
 replied Mr. Crupp, meditatively analyzing a honey- 
 suckle blossom. "I dinged at him, you preached 
 at him, he thought it over, and whatever Deacon 
 Jones thinks over long enough is sure to have some 
 money in it in the end." And Mr. Crupp left the 
 minister to new and strange meditation. 
 
 "Squire Tomple," said Crupp an hour later, "I 
 have a proposition. You know about old Bunley 
 as well as I do. You 've sold him goods on credit to
 
 392 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 help him, and others have done the same. He has 
 a notion that he is always about to do great things, 
 but he never pays ; and yet he keeps up that pompous 
 conceit of his. Now if you'll stand one half the 
 expense of supporting him for three months I'll 
 stand the other half, and we '11 just talk good, plain 
 English to him, let him understand he's a pauper^ 
 and see if that won't put him on his mettle. What 
 do you say?" 
 
 "Now, look here, Crupp. Temperance is all 
 very well, but I don't think it's my business to 
 stand part of the expense of reforming everybody. 
 People seem to think I'm made of money. The 
 parson has been at me to help every lazy drunkard 
 get work; and now Bunley, that I've thrown away 
 money on for so long — it's too much, that's all!" 
 
 "Squire, is n't there something in your Bible that 
 is n't complimentary to men who say to the needy, 
 'Depart in peace; be ye warmed and filled,' and 
 don't put their hands in their pockets to help 'em? 
 I tell you a man that 's got the love of drink fixed in 
 every muscle of his body, and every drop of his blood, 
 is worse off than any hungry man you ever saw. 
 He's got to be helped just like drowning men have 
 to be." 
 
 The squire was about to argue the point further, 
 but was suddenly silent. Crupp 's eye was on him, 
 and in it he detected a softness and haziness unusual 
 in the eyes of men. And he said, in a shamefaced, 
 hurried way, "Crupp, you're a good, square man, 
 and I'm proud to know you, and — all right!"
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 393 
 
 Great was old Bunley's surprise when the two 
 men called on him. There was an embarrassing 
 pause. The squire looked appealingly at Crupp; 
 Crupp winked encouragingly at the squire; the 
 squire coughed feebly; Crupp gazed at a stem of 
 timothy he had in his hand, as if he had never seen 
 such a thing before; the squire took out a pocket- 
 knife, opened it, and examined it, and then Crupp 
 remarked that it was a fine day! 
 
 "Bunley," finally said the squire, "you don't 
 seem to get along in the world." 
 
 "That's a fact, squire! For a man who was 
 born and bred as I was, luck seems to be strangely 
 against me." 
 
 "Well, we've come down to help you get along." 
 
 "To help you with money, not talk," added Crupp. 
 
 Bunley looked quickly at both men from under 
 the inner edge of his upper eyelid. 
 
 "Look here," said Crupp. "You signed the 
 pledge the other night, and we propose, between us, 
 to show you that we're in dead earnest to help you 
 to keep it. We propose to support you for three 
 months so you can get a start and won't have any 
 excuse for drinking to drown trouble." 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Bunley, springing to his feet, 
 "you 're — you 're — gentlemen. I do assure you, you 
 shan't lose anything by it. I'll pay it back — " 
 
 "But we don't want it back; we give it to you 
 out and out." 
 
 "Gentlemen, I'm Virginian born! I'm not a 
 pauper!"
 
 394 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Hold on!" said Crupp. "That's just what you 
 are, and we think you 've got the stuff in you for 
 something better. Now what do you say?" 
 
 When the two men had taken leave and, glancing 
 back, saw Bunley furtively wiping his eyes, "Don't 
 that look good?" said Crupp, and the squire could 
 not deny it. 
 
 Parson Wedgewell's daughter was the envy of all 
 the Barton girls. She was not a beauty, and they 
 could n't see, they said, what young men found in 
 Esther Wedgewell to rave about. But the fact was 
 — and the girls might have seen it if they hadn't 
 been blind — that her splendid, honest, gray eyes 
 and the soul that looked out of them were the cause 
 of all the fascination. No one ever knew the exact 
 number of rejected suitors, but it transpired that 
 Fred Macdonald was at last the fortunate man. 
 How he won her was a mystery; but it came out 
 later that she had obtained his promise to stop all 
 drinking after their marriage. This was the best 
 she could induce him to make, but he was a young 
 man of such honor that, having his promise, she 
 was sure of him. To be sure, Mr. Crupp, with his 
 usual enterprise, had secured subscriptions for stock 
 to the amount of twenty thousand dollars — heading 
 the list himself with one hundred shares — for a woolen 
 mill with Fred as manager. Whether this flattering 
 ofifer helped him to make the promise Esther asked 
 of him, nobody knew. It would not be strange if it 
 should appear at the judgment day that his bride and 
 Mr. Crupp had each an equal share in his salvation.
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 395 
 
 "Fred," said his young wife one day, "I'm the 
 happiest and proudest woman in Barton. But you 
 don't know how sad it makes me when I think of 
 the good wives who are not as happy as I am. 
 There's Mrs. Crayme, the captain's wife; she don't 
 say anything, but I know she's miserable. And 
 the only reason I can see is that her husband drinks, 
 and is growing worse and worse." 
 
 "I guess you're right, dear. She didn't begin 
 her domestic tyranny in advance, as you did — 
 bless you for it." 
 
 "Fred, my dear, I've been thinking of a plan." 
 And then going to him with a kind of persuasion 
 of which she was mistress but which words did 
 not convey, she said, "It is this. You yourself are 
 the very man to reform the captain." 
 
 "Oh, Esther, don't! Why, he'd laugh in my 
 face; that is, if he did n't actually knock me down. 
 Reformers need to be older men, and more digni- 
 fied; men like your father, for instance." 
 
 "Father says they need to be men who under- 
 stand the man they are dealing with, and you told 
 me once that you understood the captain perfectly." 
 
 "But just think of what he is, dear, a steamboat 
 captain. Such men never reform. Why, drinking 
 is a part of their profession. The only way I was 
 able to make peace with the captain for stopping 
 drinking myself was to say that I did it to please 
 my wife." 
 
 "Did he accept that as a good excuse?" 
 
 /'Yes," said Fred reluctantly, adding, "Now, 
 25
 
 396 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Esther, dear, nobody would like to see him with a 
 wife as happy as mine is better than I, but — " 
 
 "Then just do something, Fred, won't you? 
 You can't imagine how much happier / would be 
 if I could meet that dear woman without feeling 
 that I had to hide the joy that it 's so hard to keep 
 to myself." 
 
 It all ended in the triumph of her love and earnest- 
 ness, for Fred promised to see what he could do. 
 But he groaned in spirit. He grew moody and 
 abstracted. He declared one morning at the 
 breakfast table that he would n't be sorry if the 
 captain's boat were to blow up, and Mrs. Crayme 
 find her happiness in widowhood. Still, he would 
 do anything in the world to please his wife — 
 
 "Look here, Fred, what ails you?" said the cap- 
 tain, as Fred sat with him in his stateroom, looking 
 rather pale and talking rather absently. "I believe 
 you must take something." 
 
 "No, thank you; but, captain, I may as well tell 
 you first as last. The main thing on my mind is 
 this; I want you to swear off taking something." 
 
 "Well, by blank cartridge! If that isn't the best 
 thing yet — a steamboat captain swearing off his 
 whisky! Perhaps you would like to have me join 
 the church; I forgot you'd married a preacher's 
 daughter. Say, Fred, does your wife let you drink 
 tea and coflee?" 
 
 "Captain!" exclaimed Fred springing to his feet, 
 "if you don't stop slanting at my wife, I'll knock 
 you down!"
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 397 
 
 "Good! Now you talk like yourself again. I 
 beg your pardon, old fellow, but it is too funny. 
 The idea of running a boat without whisky ! You '11 
 have to take a trip or two with me, and be reformed." 
 
 "Not any, thank you. Better take your wife 
 along, and reform yourself." 
 
 "Look here, now, young man, you're cracking 
 on too much steam. But, honestly, Fred, I 've kept 
 a sharp eye on you for two or three months, and I 
 am right glad you can let drink alone. I've seen 
 times when I wished I was in your boots. But I 
 tell you, steamboats can't be run without Hquor." 
 
 "Captain," said Fred suddenly, "how do you 
 suppose your wife feels about it?" 
 
 The captain looked sober as he repHed, "Oh, 
 she's used to it; she does n't mind." 
 
 "You're the only person in town that thinks so," 
 was the reply. 
 
 The captain rose, and began pacing the floor. 
 
 "Well, between old friends, Fred, I don't think 
 so very strongly myself. Hang it ! I wish I 'd been 
 brought up a preacher, or something of the kind, so 
 I could stand some chance of being the right sort 
 of family man. Emily don't like my drinking, and 
 once, she felt so awfully about it, that I did swear 
 off— don't tell anybody, for God's sake!— but I 
 had to do it by playing sick, and I read novels and 
 the Bible to keep me from thinking. And blue! 
 Why, a whole cargo of indigo would have looked 
 like a snowstorm alongside of my feelings the 
 second day, and once I caught myself crying, and
 
 398 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 I could n't find out what for, either. Then I made 
 up my mind to get well, go on duty, and dodge all 
 the fellows I used to drink with. But do you know, 
 the first time I went near the bar I had something 
 do-wn before I knew it, and I was just heavenly 
 gay before morning. I suppose I 'd have got along 
 better if I'd had somebody to keep me company, 
 and reason with me like a schoolmaster; but I 
 hadn't." 
 
 "/ hadn't reformed then, eh?" said Fred. 
 
 "You? Why you're one of the very fellows I 
 dodged ! On one of those nights when I was knock- 
 ing roimd, keeping clear of the drinking fellows, I 
 caught sight of you aft and I tell you I was in bed 
 again in about a minute, and was just a-prayin' 
 you had n't seen me!" 
 
 "Captain," said Fred suddenly, "try it again, 
 and I'll see you through. I'll crack jokes, tell 
 stories, fight off the blues, and even break your 
 neck for you, seeing it's you, if it'll keep you 
 straight." 
 
 "Will you, though? Then you're the first honest 
 friend I ever had in God's world. But, Fred — 
 where '11 my reputation be?" 
 
 "Reputation be hanged! Lose it for your wife's 
 sake. As for the boys, tell them I've bet you a 
 himdred that you can't stay off your liquor for a 
 year, and that you're not the man to take a dare." 
 
 Well, the matter was finally settled. Just before 
 starting on the down trip the captain called on Dr. 
 White and detailed such an array of symptoms that
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 399 
 
 the doctor grew alarmed, prescribed rest and quiet, 
 and gave to Fred a multitude of directions. During 
 the first day of the trip there was no trouble. The 
 second evening the two men played cards, and Fred 
 told all the stories he knew. The captain grew 
 restless, despondent, and finally much excited, 
 declaring he was going back on all the good times 
 he ever had. 
 
 * ' Curse you, Fred, I wish I 'd made you back down 
 when you begun this thing." 
 
 "Oh, no; better curse your wife. You've been 
 doing it ever since you married her." 
 
 The captain sprang at him like a tiger. Fred 
 grappled with him. and finally threw him on his 
 bunk. There was a good, stiff tussle. 
 
 "Captain. I — promised — to see you through — 
 and — I'm going to do it — if — I break your — 
 neck." 
 
 All at once the captain gave up. "Fred, you've 
 whipped me! Oh, confound it, what's the use!" 
 And he lay with his face to the wall, and shook with 
 his sobs. "Hang it. Fred, how tjw what's bab\"ish 
 in men get the better of a full-grown steamboat 
 captain!'' 
 
 "The same way it got the better of a full-grown 
 woolen-mill manager once. I suppose." 
 
 "What! Is that so* " exclaimed the captain, 
 suddenly turning over and gazing at his companion. 
 "You had ycur blubbering spell? Why. how are 
 you, Fred ! I feel as if I were just being introduced ! 
 Did an\'body else help?"
 
 400 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 "Yes, a woman, God bless her! But — you've 
 got a wife, too." 
 
 "Oh, if I could only think about her, Fred, but I 
 can't. Whisky's the main thing, now! Can't put 
 my mind on anything else for the life of me." 
 
 "Can't think about her! I'll never forget the 
 evening you were married." 
 
 "That was jolly, wasn't it! I'll bet such sherry 
 was never opened west of the Alleganies before 
 or — " 
 
 "Blast your sherry! It's your wife I remember. 
 My stars! but I'll never forget her! I don't mind 
 telling you that I wished myself in your place." 
 
 "Did you, though? Well, they say she did shine. 
 Let's see; she wore a white moire antique, I think 
 they called it, and it cost twenty-one dollars a dozen, 
 and there was at least one bottle broken in every — " 
 
 "And I made up my mind she was throwing her- 
 self away in marrying a fellow that was sure to care 
 more for whisky than he did for her." 
 
 "Ease off, now, Fred. We didn't have any 
 whisky there, if we did have champagne. But, old 
 fellow, tell me about her yourself. I'll take it as 
 a favor." 
 
 "All right. She looked like a lot of lilies and 
 roses, only you could n't tell where one left off and 
 the other began. Everybody there were just off 
 their heads in admiration of the bride. And she 
 looked so proud of you! But it seems to me I 
 haven't seen her do it since." 
 
 "You will, though, confound you! Perhaps you
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 401 
 
 think a steamboat captain can't love his wife and 
 can't make her proud of him. Get out o' here! 
 I can think about her now, I tell you, and without 
 any of your help, either!" And the recording 
 angel set down in his books the triumphant issue; 
 for at last the battle was won. 
 
 The woolen mill prospered, and some who had 
 not taken any stock began to see their mistake. 
 Father Baguss, one of the wheel horses of temper- 
 ance, intimated in a roundabout way that he was 
 willing to buy if any one had shares to sell. 
 
 " I '11 sell you some of mine," said Crupp, "if you'll 
 go into temperance with all your might." 
 
 The man was struck dumb for a moment, but soon 
 found his tongue. "Go into temperance! Did 
 anybody ever hear the like of that! I, that's 
 belonged to the Good Templars all my life, that's 
 voted for the Maine Liquor Law, that's done more 
 to provide temperance lectures than any other 
 man — I told to go into temperance ! ' ' 
 
 "That was all very well, Father Baguss, but it 
 was n't going into temperance. Talk is one thing 
 and work is another. Did you ever, in all your life, 
 go to work and buy a man away from his liquor? 
 There's your neighbor, old Tapplemine, and his 
 family. What have you done for them?" 
 
 "A lot of poor white trash, that's what they are. 
 They're no good. They drink, they all drink; and 
 who under the sun can stop 'em?" 
 
 "Well, Mr. Baguss, I can tell you this much; a 
 good, honest, religious rum-hating neighbor who 
 
 26
 
 402 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 looks at 'em so savagely and lets 'em alone so hard 
 that they'd take pains to get drunk — he ain't 
 going to stop 'em. Tell me, did you ever in all your 
 life try to help 'em? Did you ever do one blessed 
 thing to show 'em that you would like to take hold 
 and lift a little? Mind, I'm only asking these 
 questions; 3^ou're not obliged to answer 'em." 
 
 As Crupp turned and went his way, Baguss 
 followed him. "I say, Crupp, I'll try 'em somehow 
 or other, though how it'll be I can't tell; an' I 
 don't care if you do let me have about five shares of 
 that mill stock. I suppose you won't want more 
 than you paid for it." 
 
 "Tapplemine," said Baguss the next day, "I've 
 come over to see if I could do anything to help you 
 into better habits. You don't amount to a row of 
 pins as things are now. You've got a small farm; 
 why don't you work it, and give up drinking?" 
 
 "Why don't I work it? Well, 'cause I hain't got 
 any plow nor any harrow, nor but one hoss, nor 
 rails enough to keep out cattle, nor seed corn, nor 
 wheat, nor money to buy it with. Why don't I 
 give up drinkin'? 'Cause drinkin' makes me feel 
 good in the face of it all. You fellers that drink on 
 the sly— " 
 
 "What! I never touched a drop in all my life!" 
 
 * ' That 's right ! Stick to it ! There 's some that '11 
 believe that yarn. But as I was a-sayin', folks 
 that drinks on the sly — I don't see why they should 
 be so hard on them as does it fair and square."
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 403 
 
 Father Baguss groaned in spirit. Plows and 
 prayers and harrows and seed corn and the seed 
 sown by the wayside and good whisky — all mixed 
 themselves in his mind in great confusion. But 
 he stood to his task manfully. 
 
 "Look here, Tapplemine, I'll lend you seed and a 
 plow and a team and a harrow and a hoe — that is, 
 I'll hire 'em to you and agree to buy your crop at 
 the rulin' price and pay you the difference in cash." 
 
 "Wall, that sounds somethin' like," said the other, 
 although evidently not overjoyed at the prospect. 
 And when his neighbor had departed he sauntered 
 into the cabin, wondering how much of the promised 
 seed com and wheat he could smuggle into town 
 and trade for whisky. But he was greatly surprised 
 when his poor wife, who had been listening at a 
 broken window, threw her arms about his neck, 
 exclaiming, "Now, father, we can be respectable, 
 can't we? The chance has been a long time acomin', 
 but we 've got it now ! " 
 
 And as he sat the rest of the day at the hearth- 
 stone, nursing his knee, the good woman not 
 only coaxed her lord into resolving to be respect- 
 able, but allowed that gentleman to persuade him- 
 self that he had formed the resolution of his own 
 accord. 
 
 How Baguss, having put his hand to the plow, 
 both literally and figuratively, furnished a team to 
 break ground, and not only seed corn but some of 
 the labor of planting; and how Tapplemine, between 
 unaccustomed labor and enforced abstinence, fell
 
 404 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 sick and required nursing, we do not pause to tell. 
 Baguss found himself, to his own consternation, 
 spending money without knowing what he was to 
 get for it. 
 
 One day, about to enter the cabin, he heard the 
 word "whisky," and was fain to listen at the door. 
 Tapplemine was pleading with his wife for just a 
 little whisky, and she, with all the wit at her poor 
 command, implored him to be again the man he was 
 when she married him twenty years before. ' ' Please 
 do, for the sake of the children!" she cried. And 
 the ne'er-do-well at last swore a great oath that not 
 another drop would he touch if he died for it. Ba- 
 guss stole away, muttering to himself, "Huh! 
 After all I've done for him, I can't even say to 
 myself that / saved him." 
 
 "Too bad about Wainwright, isn't it?" said the 
 postmaster to a group who were waiting for the mail. 
 
 "What's that?" asked half a dozen at once. 
 
 "Why, he's been pretty high on his drinkin' for 
 two or three days, and now they say he 's got snakes 
 in his boots and made a break for Louisville. Any- 
 how, he started on foot two hours ago for Brown's 
 Landing, to catch the steamboat. His wife is half 
 wild about it, but here's nothing she can do." 
 
 "I saw him coming down the walk," observed 
 Squire Tomple. ' ' I don't like to get into a row with 
 men in that fix, and so I just stepped across the 
 street." 
 
 "Of course there was nothing else to be done,"
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 405 
 
 said Crupp, who apparently had been carefully 
 reading a posted notice of some kind. 
 
 Not twenty minutes later, Parson Wedgewell was 
 seen walking somewhat rapidly on the river road. 
 
 " 'Pears to me, parsons are out walkin' this 
 mornin'," said one old woman to her neighbor 
 across the garden. "I saw Brother Wedgewell go 
 past a while ago, and now there goes Brother Brown. 
 I thought he was agoin' to call, but he only bowed 
 awful solemn, and kep' right on." 
 
 When Brother Brown had reached the river he 
 spied a canoe, and straightway untied it and took 
 the paddle. 
 
 "Hello, there! What are you doin' with my dug- 
 out?" shouted a man who was fishing near by. 
 
 "The Lord hath need of it ! " roared the old divine, 
 picking up the paddle. 
 
 ' ' Well, I '11 be blanked, ' ' exclaimed the man, ' ' if that 
 ain't the coolest ! The Lord '11 get a duckin' I reckon, 
 for that 's the wobbliest canoe. I don't know, though ; 
 the old fellow paddles as if he were used to it." 
 
 About the same time Tom Adams ventured to 
 impress the deacon's brickyard team into a good 
 cause, and went driving down the river road. 
 
 "I orter to be able to ketch him, but what in 
 thunder am I to say to him? Like enough he'll 
 knock me down. Hold on ! I can knock him down 
 and put him right in the wagon and bring him back, 
 and the joltin' would bring him to, an' clear his head. 
 But what a redick'lus wild-goose chase it does look 
 like!"
 
 4o6 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 Meanwhile, Parson Wcdgewell had been walking 
 and praying; "Father in Heaven, verily the sheep 
 is astray! O thou who didst say that the race is 
 not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, make 
 thou the feeble power of man to triumph over the 
 enemy!" He was far beyond the limits of his 
 parish, and the region was strange to him. Coming 
 to a fork in the roads he was utterly at a loss which 
 road to take. In a fervor of excitement he fell upon 
 his knees, exclaiming, "The hosts of hell are pressing 
 hard, O Lord. O thou who didst guide thy people 
 of old, guide thy servant this day!" And rising, 
 he went down the left-hand road at a lively run a 
 moment after Tom Adams, a long way in the rear, 
 had shaded his eyes, exclaiming, "Blamed if there 
 ain't a fellow a-praying right in the middle of the 
 road! If he wants anything that bad, I hope he'll 
 get it. Go 'long, ponies, let's see who he is." 
 
 Meanwhile Fred Macdonald was galloping along 
 the opposite river bank, and Crupp was quietly 
 waiting in his boat around the bend in the river to 
 board the steamboat when she came down. The 
 outcome of it all was that the two parsons, arriving 
 at the same moment, each took the drimken fellow 
 by the arm on either side, and the three men stood 
 a moment, not knowing what to say; while Tom 
 Adams, arriving in furious haste, exclaimed, "Oh, 
 Mr. Wainright ! Mrs. Wainright is particular anx- 
 ious to see you for something, I don't know what, 
 and I had n't time to get any carriage, but only the 
 brickyard wagon ! ' '
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 407 
 
 "There," said Tom to himself, "that's the biggest 
 yarn I ever did tell ! I knew I should n't know 
 what to say." 
 
 The poor fellow made no objection to being taken 
 home, the rescuers insisted on bearing him com- 
 pany, and the vehicle with its occupants was by 
 all odds the most remarkable that ever drove into 
 the town of Barton. 
 
 At the end of a year there was another temperance 
 meeting in the town hall, and Mr, Crupp presented 
 a brief report of the year's work. "Signatures to 
 the pledge one year ago, 627. Signatures of persons 
 who were in the habit of drinking, 231. Number 
 of broken pledges, 160. Number reclaimed by 
 special, personal effort, 46. Amount subscribed in 
 this work, and without hope of pecuniary gain, 
 $590. Of this amount six sevenths came from five 
 persons, representing one fiftieth part of the taxable 
 property of the township." 
 
 The quiet that prevailed as Mr. Crupp took his 
 seat was, considered as quiet, simply faultless. 
 While the audience were thus apparently deep in 
 meditation, old Bunley dropped a mellow cough, 
 and stepped to the front. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," said he, "it's the style 
 in this town to kick a man when he's down, and 
 then to trample on him. I know one man that's 
 been there, and knows all about it. 'T was his own 
 fault he got *here, and there were plenty who told 
 him he ought to get up. But how kicking and
 
 4o8 FIGURES FAMED IN FICTION 
 
 trampling were to help him do it he never could see ; 
 and he made up his mind that folks did as they did 
 simply because it suited them. So he 's been hating 
 the whole town full for years. One day a couple 
 of gentlemen — I won't mention names — came 
 along and gave the poor fellow a helping hand, and 
 gave him the first chance he 's had in years to believe 
 in human nature at all. And all the time everybody 
 else around him was acting in the way this same 
 fellow would have acted himself if he had wanted 
 to play devil. The same couple of gentlemen went 
 for a good many other people, and acted in a way 
 that you read about in novels and the Bible, but 
 mighty seldom see in town. And those fellows 
 believe in those two gentlemen, now, but they hate 
 all the rest of you like poison. I don't suppose you 
 like it, but truth is truth." 
 
 Several persons got up and went out, with very 
 red faces; but Fred Macdonald stood up in the 
 audience and clapped his hands. In the midst of 
 the uproar. Father Baguss got upon his feet. 
 
 "Brethren and sisters," said he, "it occurs to me 
 to say this one thing, that hollerin' an' singin' 
 makes a hypocrite of a man if he don't open his 
 pocketbook. If you don't believe it, remember me. 
 It anybody liked his own more'n I did, he's a curios- 
 ity. The hardest case I ever got acquainted with 
 was me, Zedekiah Baguss, when I could n't dodge 
 it any longer that I ought to spend money for a 
 feller critter. And, brethren and sisters, I have this 
 exhortation; don't try to do any more work in the
 
 MR. CRUPP OF BARTON 409 
 
 cause of temperance until you practice a little self- 
 examination in the matter of cash." 
 
 Confessions followed from one and another that 
 were good for the soul — the souls, that is — of the 
 speakers. And the conclusion of the whole matter 
 which Mr. Crupp thus forced upon the unwilling 
 town of Barton was this, namely, if the cause of 
 temperance is to prosper, the reform must begin 
 with those who never drink.