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 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN AYSCOUGH :P^'^^' 
 
 Author of "Faustula," "Saints and Places," 
 "French Windows," etc. 
 
 New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 
 
 BENZIGER BROTHERS 
 
 PUBLISHERS OF RENZIGER'S MAGAZINE 
 I918
 
 Copyright, 1918, by Benziger Brothers
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Sacristans 7 
 
 The Lady OF THE DuNESHORE .... 35 
 
 Old Wine and New Bottles . . . .107 
 
 A Franco-American Encounter . . .147 
 
 For Surmise 191 
 
 The Awakening OF Miss GiRVAN . . .219 
 
 A Prelude in Prose 259 
 
 Maneuvers 271 
 
 Athelmar 284 
 
 Fring 305 
 
 Her Ladyship 320 
 
 By the Way 336 
 
 "Poor Eleanor" 347 
 
 John Hardwick's Luck 363 
 
 A Prelude in Winter 384 
 
 5
 
 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 THE SACRISTANS 
 
 THE two churches faced each other, with the open 
 space of the Naumachia between them, in the 
 
 midst of which was the stone ship, like the one in the 
 Piazza de Spagna at Rome, that gave the place its 
 name. 
 
 Santa Venera is a very old place, much older than 
 its name, unless they are right who declare that no 
 such Christian saint ever existed as Venera, and that 
 the name is simply a variant of venere, and nothing 
 more or less than the Italian form of the name of the 
 goddess of love. These people maintain that the 
 hill-town of Aphrodisia stood on this site, and that 
 the church of Santa Venera, in the Naumachia, was 
 a temple of Aphrodite seven hundred years before 
 Christianity had any martyrs. Anyway, the place 
 is admittedly an ancient Greek colony, founded from 
 Colchis, a year or two later than Syracuse. And en- 
 thusiasts affirm that the people have Greek faces 
 still, and that their speech is thickly strewn with Hel- 
 lenisms. Throughout Sicily, we are constantly told, 
 there are three strongly marked types: the Punic, 
 the Greek, the S.iracenic; and Santa Venera is in the 
 heart of the Greek sphere. 
 
 In all the world no place can be more exquisitely 
 hung between the mountains and the sea — the Ion- 
 ian Sea, where gods sailed and heroes who were the 
 sons of gods. I( is not half a mile inland, but a 
 thousand feet above the saffron belt of shore; and 
 from the Naumachia all the mountain gorges of 
 Calabria, across the strait, are mysteriously visible. 
 
 7
 
 8 THE TIDEfVAY 
 
 No one could believe those are real mountains, ly- 
 ing disclosed, yet veiled, in the light of which our 
 poet sang, such a light, as surely, elsewhere, never 
 was on sea or land. 
 
 Maso was the sacristan of Santa Venera, and 
 Tito the sacristan of the Pieta ; and their churches 
 faced each other. Both had been temples, and in 
 both the old heathen columns had been built into the 
 Christian walls. Maso's church was much the big- 
 ger; it was, in fact, the cathedral, for Santa Venera 
 has a bishop ; all the same, it was quite a small build- 
 ing, much smaller than any church in all Northhamp- 
 tonshire. But Tito's was more fashionable, and, as 
 a consequence, much smarter. One side-altar in the 
 Pieta possessed more artificial flowers than the 
 whole of Santa Venera could boast of, including the 
 high altar; and such facts as these Tito was studious 
 to impress on Maso's recollection. 
 
 Tito was, naturally, much better off than Maso; 
 and he liked to show it. Maso got very little be- 
 yond his wages, and they were only ten scudi a month 
 — for the church in those parts still keeps its ac- 
 counts in scudi, though such a coin has not existed 
 for half a century. Only the priests belonging to 
 the church ever said Mass at Santa Venera, and they 
 simply looked on Maso as their own servant; of 
 course, they never tipped him. 
 
 But several "congregations" were established in 
 the Pieta, such as the Figlie di Maria, and the San- 
 tisstmi Cuori. And Tito drew a pleasing revenue 
 from each of them. Moreover, the Madonna of 
 the Pieta was miraculous, and plenty of tourist 
 priests who wished to give a pious touch of pilgrim- 
 age to their holiday would come and say Mass at 
 her altar. Tito, on these occasions, so managed 
 matters that no priest could get out of the sacristy 
 without giving him at least a franc for the murky
 
 THE SACRISTANS 9 
 
 black coffee he would bring him in a thick tumbler. 
 Added to all this, there were the candles that the 
 faithful offered to the Madonna that was so noto- 
 riously miraculous, and which they had to buy of 
 Tito. They were in four sizes: those at two soldi, 
 which cost Tito two francs the hundred; those at 
 five soldi, which cost him one franc a dozen; those 
 at half a lira, for which he paid two and one-half 
 lire the dozen; and very grand ones at a franc each 
 (painted gilt or ornamented), for which Tito had 
 to pay five lire the dozen. 
 
 As Tito always took care the candles should by no 
 means burn out, he managed another very comfort- 
 able profit that way. But the correctness of his 
 business instincts was sufficiently shown by his choos- 
 ing the greatest proportion of profit should be on the 
 cheapest candles, of which the sale would naturally 
 be the most extensive. 
 
 Maso advertised his comparative poverty by a 
 personal dirtiness that would have astounded any 
 beholder whose ideas of Sicily were drawn from 
 clever English or American novels. Not that Maso 
 himself considered dirtiness any advertisement of 
 anything; he merely regarded cleanliness as foppish. 
 
 All the same he liked to be thought poorer than 
 he actually was; it made him feel a sort of credit- 
 balance of possession. 
 
 Tito, on the other hand, was smart and rather 
 clean to the naked eye; only the hands, face and 
 neck after all are visible to it. These Tito not only 
 washed, but he used scented, very highly scented 
 soap to them. So that he smelt like a muskrat. 
 
 Tito saw no use in opulence, unless one looked 
 affluent; and he endeavored, with some local success, 
 to appear more affluent than he really was. No one 
 had ever seen Maso on the day he shaved, though 
 he was not understood to grow a beard, any more
 
 lo THE TIDEWAY 
 
 than the other ecclesiastical persons of Santa Ven- 
 era. Tito, no doubt, was far from being shaved 
 daily; for even his extravagance had its limits, and 
 daily shaving would have seemed a profligate ex- 
 travagance indeed to the Sicilians of the province of 
 Catania. But on his unshaved days Tito never 
 seemed to be in evidence. Moreover, he always 
 wore a coat, whereas Maso only wore his when he 
 happened to be serving Mass; he had a pair, too, of 
 celluloid cuffs with immense solitaire studs (repre- 
 senting the King and Queen of Italy, a good deal 
 flushed by their regalia), and he wore collars and a 
 blood-colored necktie; shoes also, with intensely 
 pointed toes, while Maso's ragged stockings were 
 very little concealed by a pair of raw hide sandals. 
 
 Finally, Maso was eighty-three, though quite una- 
 ware of the fact, and had a wife nearly as old, quite 
 as dirty, more ill-tempered and miserly and ignorant 
 than himself. Tito was a bachelor, and considered 
 himself about seven and twenty. 
 
 "Four priests from Malta said Mass at the 'Mir- 
 aculous' to-day," observed Tito with detachment. 
 He had nothing to do. Maso was cobbling a boot, 
 and Tito liked watching him ; it emphasized his own 
 leisure. For Tito had no trade, outside his sacrls- 
 tanship, though he often earned some francs by wait- 
 ing at one of the hotels, or at the bar in the Teatro 
 Elena. 
 
 So now he leaned against the doorpost with his 
 fine eyes bent on the mustard-colored boot, with 
 high top for the trousers to button into, at which 
 the old man was working. 
 
 "That's where England begins," observed Maso; 
 and Tito nodded. 
 
 "But these were not English," he explained. 
 "Maltese." 
 
 Maso raised his head and spat far out into the
 
 THE SACRISTANS ii 
 
 sunlight J It was his only recreation, and cost nothing. 
 
 Tito made a cigarette and lighted it. 
 
 "That makes eleven this month," he remarked, 
 "and to-day we have the seventeenth only." 
 
 "Eleven francs?" 
 
 "No. But fifteen francs fifty. One gave me 
 five francs ; he was English, and another two francs 
 fifty. It should have been twenty-five francs fifty, 
 but the ten franc note the American gave me was a 
 bad one." 
 
 Maso began to look pleasanter; a friend's dissap- 
 polntment is exhilarating. "The money Is all bad 
 in America," he asserted with a fine independence of 
 data. 
 
 "The note was Italian," observed Tito. 
 
 Maso smacked the sole of the boot with a flat mal- 
 let, as though he were a Prince of Wales declaring 
 that It was well and truly laid. Tito stared over 
 his head Into the house, whence came the sound of 
 slipshod feet moving about. He knew It was not 
 PIppa — she was not at all slipshod — without seeing 
 her, for It seemed quite dark In there from where 
 he stood In the hot sunlight: he knew It was her 
 grandmother. All the same he called out, "It goes 
 well, Pippa?" 
 
 Old Lucia was as deaf as a post. There came no 
 answer from her; but Maso muttered: 
 
 "She Is not. She Is gone to Glardlnl. This one 
 is the old she." He did not look up; nor did he 
 speak very plainly, for he had a piece of waxed 
 thread In his mouth. But Tito heard him. 
 
 "She Is getting very deaf," he observed; as though 
 he were not thinking of PIppa. 
 
 "When they become old they are like that," 
 snapped Maso. 
 
 He spoke with impatient tolerance, as If he him- 
 self were a young fellow still.
 
 12 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Is it not bad to suck that?" inquired Tito. "Bad 
 for the stomach?" — with a slight tap on his own 
 chest. 
 
 "I do it," replied Maso. "It Is my custom." He 
 went on with his boot; and Tito looked across the 
 Naumachia to a gap between the houses in which all 
 Calabria was framed. He had not the least idea 
 that it was beautiful. 
 
 "To bite the wax thread — that is my custom," 
 continued Maso. "Others smoke paper with minced 
 tobacco inside. The wax thread tastes also bitter. 
 I prefer it." 
 
 Suddenly he withdrew the thread from his teeth 
 and hospitably offered It to his visitor. "Taste !" 
 he said. "It is bitter like the v/et end of cigars." 
 
 But Tito waved a refusal, politely. 
 
 "I believe," he declared gravely. 
 
 It was nearly eleven o'clock, and the sun was very 
 hot. He stepped in over Maso's legs; and pres- 
 ently could see Lucia plainly enough as she slopped 
 about the floor. There was a smell of wood smoke 
 and onions and leather, especially the two latter. 
 Tito remembered complacently how much more com- 
 fortable his own house was, though he was a bache- 
 lor. 
 
 All the same, old Lucia considered that she was 
 having a rather special clean-up to-day. She pulled 
 things out of their places and presently pushed them 
 back again; and she turned a few things out of 
 drawers into cupboards. One cupboard opened 
 with some difficulty; Inside were a few jars of the 
 common glazed ware made in the place; jars of per- 
 fect shapes and satisfying tone of color. 
 
 Lucia was short, and the cupboard rather high 
 up; she had to stretch on tip-toe to grope In It. 
 Presently she pulled a jar down altogether; it fell to 
 the birch floor and was smashed there. In a
 
 THE SACRISTANS 13 
 
 moment the uneven, broken flooring was strewn with 
 gold coins. 
 
 II 
 
 Tito strolled across the Naumachia to his own 
 church. He had nothing to do there; but he had 
 observed casually to Maso that the ladies (i.e., of 
 the Santissimi Cuori) had a conference this after- 
 noon, and he must prepare for it. As a matter of 
 fact he had prepared already. Not that he had any 
 very particular object in lying. It was, as Maso 
 had said, his custom; he did it. Nor would he have 
 been at all affected by the knowledge that the old 
 man never believed him. His custom would have 
 remained unaltered. 
 
 "I go," he had said, "to make ready for the 
 Jesuit, the Jesuit of the ladies. He comes from 
 Acireale to-day." 
 
 Maso grunted. He did not like Jesuits, though 
 he did not know why ; he thought it right. So Tito 
 walked off; and disappeared into the Pieta. He 
 had not taken any notice at all of the gold pieces. 
 Only he had said when the jar smashed, "It will be 
 said I have the 'evil eye' !" And he pretended to 
 make horns against himself. "I go or Maso will 
 want me to buy him a new jar, and that one I saw 
 had no spout, and was cracked already." 
 
 Thus, as he felt, with infinite tact did he cover 
 his immediate retreat, and leave Maso to gather up 
 his money. 
 
 Would Lucia get a beating? he wondered. He 
 did not care in the least whether she did or no. He 
 had no grudge against her, and no fancy for her. 
 He was quite indifferent. That his enemies should 
 be hurt would please him; that his friends should 
 get good luck did not annoy him, so long as their
 
 14 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 luck was not better than his own. For the rest he 
 thought only of himself. 
 
 He let himself out of the sacristy door of the 
 church, having first locked the big door towards the 
 Naumachia from inside. As he passed the high 
 altar he did not genuflect; there was no one to see 
 him, and he was bored by all the observances of 
 religion. That was the worst of being a sacristan. 
 He had no religion at all, and it was tiresome to 
 have to pretend to any. He liked his occasional 
 duties at the Teatro Elena much better. For that 
 one thing he had been sorry when his military ser- 
 vice was over; during that time he had certainly 
 made no show of religion or morality. 
 
 The sacristy door opened on to a narrow, steep 
 path, descending between garden walls to the road 
 down to Giardini. Tito intended to go to meet 
 Pippa as she came back. There was no hurry, and 
 it was shady here between the high walls. Tito en- 
 joyed his leisure, and he was thinking of other pleas- 
 ant things besides Maso's handsome granddaughter; 
 of those gold pieces, for instance; of the fact that 
 Pippa was the old sacristan's only descendant or 
 relative ; and of that trick he had of chewing the wax 
 thread, piece after piece, all day long. After nearly 
 a quarter of a mile the descent ends in steps, and the 
 steps end in the broad, winding carriage road. Tito 
 lay on the bank and continued to enjoy his leisure. 
 After all, it was unquestionably less trouble to be 
 sacristan of the Pieta than a soldier, and much more 
 remunerative. Over against him Etna hung in the 
 sky; but all her beauties were invisible to him. 
 Beauty is in the eyes. And yet Tito's own eyes were 
 beautiful enough; he was well used to the undis- 
 guised admiration artists betrayed for him; and had 
 often earned easy money as a model. Perhaps in 
 him the pure Greek type was uppermost, but the
 
 THE SACRISTANS 15 
 
 Saracenic strain that struggled with it only bettered 
 it. 
 
 It would be hard to find a more opulent example 
 of physical beauty than Tito — but that he should 
 be a Christian ! His very beauty belied his super- 
 ficial Christianity; it was pagan; classical, with just 
 suspicions of the Arabic, the Oriental. Oddly 
 enough, the man, worthless in fifty ways, had scarce- 
 ly any personal vanity. He was much vainer of his 
 clothes. He had bought those for himself, and they 
 had cost much ; and Tito deeply respected what was 
 expensive. His beauty had been given him, and 
 Tito hardly ever valued a free gift, unless it were 
 money, and even then he cared less for it than for 
 money he had acquired by his own scheming and 
 unscrupulosity. 
 
 Besides, there were other young men in Santa 
 Venera nearly as handsome as himself, but there 
 were none of his class so smartly dressed. Never- 
 theless, Tito consciously valued his appearance as an 
 asset, for to be vain of a possession and to be aware 
 of it are two different things. And Tito knew that 
 his assets were not so many that the most obvious 
 of them could be left out of calculation. 
 
 For Tito was desperately in want of money. He 
 knew very well that the appearance, rather than the 
 reality, of affluence had all along been his; to a repu- 
 tation for wealth he had sedulously lived up, than 
 which no process is more hopelessly expensive. And 
 now he was inextricably in debt. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Pippa came up from Giardini, in the blazing noon, 
 unembarrassed by the sun's stare, and unvexed by the 
 the fury of his caresses. She neither loitered nor 
 hurried, her limbs moving, as it seemed, of them-
 
 1 6 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 selves, without her taking any thought of them. 
 And she held herself finely erect, as though a water- 
 vessel were balanced on her head, as indeed it often 
 was. The road winds north and south, along the 
 face of the steep, but, whichever way she faced, 
 there was always one of the loveliest views In the 
 world before her. But she noticed it all as little as 
 Tito. 
 
 Presently, however, she came close to someone 
 whose trade it was to notice such things, one of the 
 artists who abound here, to whose presence every- 
 one had long grown accustomed. They had come 
 long before the tourists, and now, before the hor- 
 rible tidal wave of tourists, they were beginning to 
 recede. This one was a Sicilian, like Pippa herself, 
 but come hither from a Roman studio, up ninety- 
 three steps, in the Capo le Case, not far from where 
 it runs sideways into the Via Sistina. 
 
 He sat in the bend of the road that jutted out a 
 little, as on a sort of rock bracket, and had a view 
 of Etna that was incomparable. Scores of people 
 passed up and down every day, but he had been the 
 only one to discover just that particular view, and 
 he was proud of it. A dozen paces up or down, 
 and the picture was quite different. 
 
 "Buon giorno, signorina!" 
 
 Pippa had slowed down perceptibly from the turn 
 of the road whence she caught sight of him. He 
 had seen her long before as she came up the twist- 
 ing road — she was close to hinj now and almost 
 stood still. 
 
 "Giorno!'' 
 
 She glanced at his picture; it would not have in- 
 terested her, but that she knew it would be bought 
 by someone. Anything that brought money was, 
 naturally, important. Signor Enrico Longo quite 
 understood her point of view.
 
 THE SACRISTANS 17 
 
 "I shall put it in the Esposizione dei Belli Arti,'* 
 he said, "and sell it for four hundred lire." 
 
 Pippa made a polite little noise, expressive of not 
 too much surprise, absolute belief and appropriate 
 congratulation. But she did not really suppose he 
 would get so much. She had a sort of scale of ex- 
 aggerations in her mind, and assessed the selling 
 value of the picture at about two hundred and fifty, 
 which was, alas ! about the real figure. 
 
 Signor Enrico took a fairly long look at her, and 
 then looked back at his view. He quite felt that it 
 was his, and liked it especially for that reason. But 
 he liked the picture on the canvas best. He only 
 cared for the actual view as it was capable of becom- 
 ing a picture. His appreciation of the magnificence 
 of beauty in mountain and sea and sky, and Pippa's 
 and Tito's lack of it, were not really very wide apart. 
 To be alive to such beauties was his trade, and it was 
 not theirs, that was all. 
 
 They were all three Sicilians, and all three mate- 
 rialists. 
 
 Pippa looked at Signor Enrico. He was very 
 handsome, too, for the present, and his eyes would 
 always be divine. But no other feature was perfect, 
 as every feature in Tito was. The artist was thin, 
 and his nose, owing to his thinness, appeared too 
 long; so did his neck. But he was a gentleman, and 
 Pippa balanced it all accurately. And she was quite 
 right in counting Longo a gentleman, though as a 
 matter of fact his father was only a small innkeeper 
 at Noto. They had known each other some weeks, 
 and Pippa was certain that Signor Enrico admired 
 her, though, oddly enough, he had never made love 
 to her. Had he attempted to do so, she would have 
 been extremely capable of taking care of herself. 
 
 He was looking at his canvas with a quiet satis- 
 faction that was entirely unlike vanity. Except of
 
 1 8 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 a certain walking stick he had, he was not in the 
 least vain of anything. It had a watch and a musi- 
 cal box in the top, and must have been extremely ex- 
 pensive; an American who had bought one of his 
 pictures had given it to him. Yet his picture was 
 really beautiful, and he was serenely conscious of 
 his complete achievement. It was exactly what He 
 had intended it to be. 
 
 "Signorina!" 
 
 Pippa attended. 
 
 "I would like to paint your portrait." 
 
 She laughed. "Why?" she asked, with more 
 coquetry than was habitual to her. 
 
 "Because it would be a beautiful picture, and I 
 should sell it instantly." 
 
 "For how much?" 
 
 "For six hundred francs," he replied with undis- 
 guised flattery. 
 
 And Pippa was flattered. "Six hundred francs !" 
 Say he even got half of it. For one's portrait to 
 fetch three hundred francs and perhaps go to Rome 
 and be seen by all the world in the Esposizionef 
 
 "If there is an opportunity," she observed, with a 
 doubtfulness that was not intended to discourage; 
 merely to enhance the concession. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was just then Tito came round the corner and 
 found them. He had grown tired of waiting, and 
 had found that the bank whereon he lay was over- 
 stocked with big blank ants, like minute dumb-bells. 
 He was not at all pleased at finding Pippa talking 
 to Signor Longo, so smiled broadly, and they both, 
 being compatriots of his, understood perfectly. 
 
 "The signorina," observed the artist, "has prom- 
 ised to let me paint her portrait."
 
 THE SACRISTANS 19 
 
 The noon-day Ave Maria was just ringing from 
 the convent above them, and Longo began to put his 
 things together; it was time to go up to the inn for 
 dinner. 
 
 Tito remarked: "What an honor!" without speci- 
 fying to whom. 
 
 "Why should not I have your portrait, too? 
 Will you also be painted?" asked the painter. 
 
 "Why?" inquired Tito, just as Pippa had done, 
 but with less coquetry. 
 
 He was really uncertain why Longo should wish 
 to paint him; and, being uncertain, inclined to be 
 suspicious. Perhaps the artist would manage that 
 the portrait should be ugly, and at the same time 
 very like him. Tito did not like that idea and could 
 not see where it might lead to. 
 
 "Oh," said Longo quietly, "I have always wished 
 to paint you. You are the handsomest man I have 
 ever seen." 
 
 Tito was taken aback. It was not that his mod- 
 esty was disconcerted; he was wholly unassailed by 
 any. But he was a very primary person, sure to be 
 diconcerted at first by the unusual. And the direct, 
 obviously sincere, praise of his beauty expressed by 
 the artist was a first experience. To compliments 
 from other artists he was well inured; but they had 
 always been deftly insinuated, only half expressed, 
 and yet had always conveyed a note of exaggeration. 
 He knew nothing yet of this Northern directness. 
 
 As for Longo, he was not at all ignorant of the 
 effect of his speech; he quite understood it. He, 
 too, was Southern, and used to the stale compliment 
 of convention; but he had been startled once by re- 
 ceiving from an Englishman a tribute of which his 
 own to Tito had been the paraphrase. He had been 
 at once so conscious of the effect, that he had re- 
 solved, when occasion offered, to try the simple
 
 20 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 weapon himself. In his way Longo was very 
 clever; and he made some use out of everybody. 
 
 "I go to school to everyone," he said, "and they 
 all teach me something. Even the very stupid ones 
 teach me not to be stupid." But this avowal was to 
 himself; he had no other confidant. 
 
 "Will you paint us together? Pippa and me to- 
 gether — you mean that?" demanded Tito. 
 
 "If the signorina prefers it thus." 
 
 But the signorina was very far from preferring it; 
 that she and Tito should be painted together would, 
 she thought, be equivalent to the most public an- 
 nouncement of their betrothal. 
 
 They all three came up the steep road together, 
 Pippa talking very little. Indeed, the Signor En- 
 rico bore the weight of the conversation. Tito saw 
 no use in talking to the girl with another man there. 
 And he did not particularly want to talk to Longo. 
 All the same, he did talk a little, otherwise he felt 
 he should think too much, and he did not want the 
 artist to guess what he was thinking about. 
 
 At his dinner, however, he gave way to it, think- 
 ing with a good deal of compressing and intensity. 
 For Tito was capable of dogged effort and concen- 
 tration of purpose. And, especially he was con- 
 scious that he must make haste. He had felt that al- 
 ready, before finding Pippa and Signor Longo to- 
 gether. But now he realized that it was, more than 
 ever, necessary to be quick. 
 
 Less than two months ago he had been certain 
 that Pippa was ready to marry him! so certain that 
 there had seemed to him no instant necessity to ask 
 her. And, on the other hand, he had not then at all 
 made up his mind that Maso had any money worth 
 considering to leave her. He knew that some 
 people declared the old man had saved a fortune; 
 but, then, they were sure to say that of an old man
 
 THE SACRISTANS 21 
 
 who was notoriously a miser; and until to-day Tito 
 had murh doubted the report. Pippa was so beauti- 
 ful that he could not bear to think of her marrying 
 any other man; but he wanted money so badly! If 
 she had nothing but her beauty could he afford it? 
 
 Like all Southerners, Tito was practical. He 
 had a keen appreciation of luxuries, and a whole- 
 hearted inclination for pleasures and indulgences; 
 but he was very conscious that there were undoubted 
 pleasures and indulgences beyond his means. Now 
 that it had come to his knowledge, through Lucia's 
 accident, that Maso had plenty to leave his grand- 
 daughter, to marry her appeared to Tito no longer 
 an extravagance, but a duty. But he felt no longer 
 so sure of her. If she also were aware of her pros- 
 pects, it is natural she should rate herself highly. 
 And it suddenly seemed certain to Tito that she had 
 been less favorable to him since the artist had turned 
 up. 
 
 For more than four-score years Maso had lived 
 and never had been ill. That he should be ill now, 
 therefore, made him angry. He could not under- 
 stand it. He remembered a good many people dy- 
 ing, and had generally attended their funerals, pro- 
 fessionally walking beside the hearse in an aston- 
 ishingly black suit, and carrying a big torch of dirty 
 brown wax, to the Campo Santo on the spur of the 
 hill just outside the Giardini gate, below the Cappu- 
 cini. All that had appeared to him very natural. 
 It had put four or five, sometimes ten francs in his 
 pocket, and had always seemed to him a very sen- 
 sible arrangement of Providence'.' But he did not 
 at all see why he should be ill himself, as it had 
 never happened before. And he had a disagree-
 
 22 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 able conviction that he should die; and that would 
 upset all his habits. 
 
 Maso had never been anywhere else; not even to 
 Messina or Catania or Acireale. He had never 
 wanted to visit strange places. They were always, 
 he understood, exceedingly expensive. About fif- 
 teen years ago, too, there had been a landslip, and 
 part of the Campo Santo had gone violently down a 
 steep place into the sea ; that was just after the rainy 
 spring and the earthquake of 1889. And now there 
 had been another earthquake and the spring had 
 been intolerably rainy. He could not bear the idea 
 of being in the Campo Santo if a landslip were to 
 send half of it jumping down the hillside to Capo 
 Sant' Andrea again. Yet he felt sure he must be 
 going to die. Otherwise why should he be ill? He 
 felt confident that he was not a person to be ill just 
 for nothing. All the same he went on as if nothing 
 were going to happen. He continued doing his 
 work in the church exactly as usual; though one or 
 two of the priests noticed he was ill, and advised 
 him to take a holiday. ( 
 
 "When their illustrious Reverences give me a 
 pension!" he retorted, enjoying his own sarcasm 
 sourly. 
 
 And Tito offered to do his work for him; but he 
 only said sharply, "That you may get promoted to 
 my place once you have pushed your toe into it!" 
 
 Tito made a face which the old man saw and 
 chuckled over; it was pleasant to pretend that it 
 would have been promotion for the smart young 
 sacristan of the Pieta to be translated to Santa Ven- 
 era. So he kept on in the church; and kept on at 
 his cobbling in the dirty front room, with its open 
 arch, unglazed level with the street. But his face 
 grew more ghastly every day, so that, had he closed 
 his eyes and leaned back against the wall, anyone
 
 THE SACRISTANS 23 
 
 would have said he was dead already; and his 
 temples stuck out nearly as fleshless as a skeleton's. 
 Nevertheless, he went on smacking the sole of the 
 shoes with his wooden mallet, and sucking the bitter 
 wax threads as, he had told Tito, was his custom. 
 
 Of Tito he thought almost constantly. Of his 
 wife scarcely at all, and of Pippa not much, except 
 in relation to Tito. Maso had never been romantic, 
 and sixty years of wedded life had thrown no halo 
 round Lucia's squalid old head. Her miserliness 
 was the only endearing quality she retained for him. 
 That she was dirty he would not have noticed, nor 
 did he particularly mind her being ugly, as she had 
 been for forty years and longer; but her deafness 
 was inconvenient and uncalled for. Also he was 
 exasperated with her for having smashed the jar 
 in which he had hidden his beloved savings. As he 
 sat cobbling he never thought of her, except with an 
 occasional brief movement of jealous irritation at 
 her surviving him. Nor, as has been said, was he 
 much occupied about Pippa. He had never, after 
 all, cared a great deal for the girl; and his only real 
 interest in her had begun comparatively lately, when 
 he had perceived that the idea of marrying her had 
 come to Tito. For Maso adored Tito. In all his 
 long dull life Maso had never cared for anyone else 
 except Peppino, the girl's father, who had been born 
 to him and Lucia after fifteen years of marriage. 
 Peppino had been sickly, and had only plucked up 
 strength to marry when he was nearly thirty. That 
 was how Pippa came to be so young. Long before 
 she could remember, her father had died; whereupon 
 Maso had devoted himself to saving for the sake of 
 the money itself, which he had at first begun to 
 scrape together for Peppino. 
 
 It was all very simple and squalid. What was 
 not simple, was the adoration the old man had grad-
 
 24 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 ually conceived for the young rival sacristan. To 
 himself, Maso never acknowledged it, and could not 
 in the least understand it. Perhaps no one could. 
 To do him that much justice, Tito never suspected 
 it, though it is not likely that, if he had, it would 
 have made any difference to his needy selfishness. 
 Maso always snubbed him, and belittled him as well 
 to his face as behind his back. The very things for 
 which the old man secretly admired him, he openly 
 derided and scoffed at : Tito's fine clothes and smart 
 ways, his schooling, and power of writing as well as 
 speaking Italian, his conceited manners — alas! his 
 lax morality, even his selfishness and self-indulgence. 
 Maso sneered less at his scheming and unscrupulous- 
 ness, but those also he admired slavishly; and the 
 only person in the world who suspected it was Don 
 Cenzo, the notary. For Don Cenzo was a wise old 
 man and very silent, and he had made Maso's will 
 for him and understood it. 
 
 VI 
 
 The day before Maso died, a thing happened 
 which might have been of no ultimate importance 
 had not Signor Enrico Longo, the artist, chanced 
 to see it. He was standing by the wide arch-door 
 of Maso's workshop, and undetected by the old man 
 had been rapidly sketching him; his appearance had 
 become so extraordinary that Longo thought it 
 worth making into a rough study that might be use- 
 ful. It had not taken long and he had finished and 
 put the bit of paper away, when Tito came saunter- 
 ing across the Naumachia, and presently leaned 
 against the opposite doorpost. His nonchalance 
 was so unstudied that it attracted Longo's attention, 
 and made him discern under it a further excitement. 
 Tito looked more dissipated than usual, which was
 
 THE SACRISTANS 25 
 
 one of fate's unfairnesses, for he had been lately 
 much steadier. He was as handsome as ever, but 
 his eyes seemed almost too big and brilliant, and 
 there were deep shades of black under them, almost 
 like bruises. 
 
 "He won't call the doctor," observed Longo, nod- 
 ding towards Maso. "I've been telling him that 
 I met Doctor Manchini just now, down the hill there 
 by Castello a Mare; he had been to see someone at 
 the convent, and I nearly told him he should come up 
 here to see Maso." 
 
 Maso growled. He did not believe in doctors, 
 and knew they were expensive. Tito was unable to 
 repress entirely a certain relief at his obstinacy. It 
 was not that, however, which Longo particularly 
 noticed, but something that took place immediately 
 afterwards. 
 
 Don Taddeo, the carpenter, who was also the un- 
 dertaker, had a goat, and this animal came along the 
 Naumachia tossing her head conceitedly. Now 
 goats, especially the Sicilian goats, have many salient 
 characteristics, but diffidence is never one of them. 
 An inquisitive appetite is; and as she came close to 
 Maso's wooden tray on short legs, that stood out- 
 side on the pavement close to his elbow, and at the 
 same level, she thrust her nose into it in search of 
 anything obviously edible that might be in it. A 
 bundle of wax threads, cut into rather uneven 
 lengths, seemed to satisfy every requirement, and 
 she seized them hastily in her very prehensile mouth 
 and made hurriedly off with all the exhilaration of 
 conscious transgression. At that particular moment 
 Signor Longo's eyes happened to be on Tito's face. 
 "She has taken them, Maso!" he called out. 
 "Your bunch of wax threads." 
 
 The old man looked after her indifferently. 
 With uplifted head she had paused, fifty yards away, 
 to devour them hastily.
 
 26 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "I chew them, signor," he observed. "It is my 
 custom as I told you, Tito. They taste bitter, like 
 the wet end of a cigar; and they cost cheaper." 
 
 Presently Longo went away. But he lodged with 
 Don Taddeo, and that evening he was informed of 
 the goat's demise, which was the more trying to 
 Taddeo that her condition was at the time most in- 
 teresting. Half an hour later Maso himself heard 
 of it. Pippa brought back the news, for she had 
 been to see Assunta, Don Taddeo's wife, who had 
 always been rather a friend of hers, and more 
 markedly so during the last few weeks. Assunta 
 was a good-natured woman and liked Signor Longo, 
 whereas she detested Tito, who gave himself airs — 
 as if a sacristan were much higher in ecclesiastical 
 precedence than an undertaker — which Don Tad- 
 deo's wife resented vigorously, seeing that her hus- 
 band had a couple of fields and the two black horses 
 that drew most people on their last drive out of 
 Santa Venera. 
 
 "They are tiresome things," observed Pippa, sym- 
 pathetically, "and who knows what will poison them. 
 Don Marsom, the farmacista, had a goat that ate 
 a lot of yellow spurge and was no worse, only his 
 bambino that drank the milk died. Whereas your 
 goat eats some wax threads (that belonged, saying 
 your honor, to my grandfather, for his cobbling) 
 and she dies. Eccol" 
 
 She thought it well to remind them that the origi- 
 nal grievance had been Maso's. From Don Tad- 
 deo's Signor Enrico walked home with her; the first 
 time she had definitely accepted his escort, though 
 often enough they had met in the road and talked, 
 or walked a bit of the way together. In the Corso 
 they met Tito, and Pippa told him Don Taddeo's 
 goat was dead. 
 
 "Don Taddeo, the undertaker, has he got a 
 goat?"
 
 THE SACRISTANS 27 
 
 His ignorance seemed to Longo rather elaborate. 
 
 "No," he said, "he has not; for it is dead, as 
 Pippa is telling you." 
 
 "But he had one; a blue one!" said the girl, who 
 was certain Tito knew very well that the under- 
 taker had a goat. 
 
 "It ate a bunch of Nonno's wax threads this morn- 
 ing," she explained in a tone of complaint, as though 
 the result were vaguely discreditable to the family, 
 "and soon after the Ave Maria it died." 
 
 "Altro! It was that goat? I saw it," said Tito. 
 
 They walked on, and Tito continued his way in 
 the opposite direction. They were both thinking 
 about his pretending not to know that Don Taddeo 
 had a goat. So when they spoke it was of another 
 matter. 
 
 "Why should it die?" complained Pippa, adher- 
 ing to her grievance. "A few wax threads !" 
 
 "And your grandfather has always chewed them, 
 as he told Tito." Signor Enrico's tone was inno- 
 cence itself, and his face was as expressionless as he 
 could make it. All the same, Pippa immediately 
 knew what he was thinking of. 
 
 "Until now," she observed, "they never did him 
 harm. He has chewed them all his life." 
 
 Longo looked more and more innocent. 
 
 "All his life, yes," he agreed, "they did him no 
 mischief — until now." 
 
 "And now," the girl asked, "What do you think? 
 He is very ill?" 
 
 "He will die very soon," the artist declared 
 plainly. 
 
 VII 
 
 Maso was dead — yes, and buried, too; for in the 
 hot south the great onward journey of one's soul
 
 2 8 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 is followed very quickly by the shorter last journey 
 of one's body. Close by the cracked wall, on the 
 side nearest the precipitous hill at whose foot lies 
 Capo Sant' Andrea and the sea, lies his ugly new 
 grave; in an inevitable position for the next landslip. 
 For Maso had said nothing, and his repulsions on 
 the subject were unconjectured. 
 
 Another old sacristan, belonging to the Cappucini, 
 had borrowed his threadbare and greasy black suit 
 to walk by his hearse, partly out of respect for the 
 deceased, and partly to gain two francs fifty. Tito, 
 of course, attended also in his newer black suit, the 
 same he waited In at the restaurant of the Teatro 
 Elena. And naturally Don Taddeo was there, for 
 there Is only one undertaker In Santa Venera, talk- 
 ing, as he walked to his neighbor, the chemist, 
 Don Marco; they spoke a little of old Maso, but 
 more of Don Taddeo's goat, as was natural. And 
 under the big hibiscus tree in the corner of the 
 Campo Santo stood Signor Longo, the artist, sketch- 
 ing the funeral, which he recognized as pictorial. 
 His own country was not without honor to this 
 prophet; and though a Sicilian, he was keenly alive 
 to the scenic splendors of Sicily. That he loved Its 
 marvelous beauties I am not prepared to say, but he 
 thoroughly recognized their utility for reproductive 
 purposes. Up In the dim old house on the Nauma- 
 chla, PIppa and old Lucia were receiving visits of 
 condolence, and their visitors were bellowing well- 
 aired fragments of philosophy Into the widow's deaf 
 ears. 
 
 The dead man's bench and tray and stool looked 
 pathetic now their master of more than threescore 
 years had gone from them; but It was not a pathos 
 to appeal to PIppa nor the visitors. When the 
 latter had all gone, the old woman began to move 
 about aimlessly. She was quite lost without Maso.
 
 THE SACRISTANS 29 
 
 For sixty years she had been used to his ill-tempers 
 and scoldings, and their cessation for ever left her 
 helpless. She had never had anything to do but to 
 defend herself against them, and life had become 
 suddenly silent. 
 
 She was as unromantic as Maso himself had been; 
 but he had been her husband, a faithful one, if 
 crabbed and untender; and her life had never been 
 anything but the less significant half of his. You 
 might as well try to cut a raw egg in halves as divide 
 her existence from that of her lifelong companion. 
 She could not have defined or explained her grief; 
 indeed, she had never tried to define or explain any- 
 thing in her life. Perhaps it was not grief in the 
 common sense at all. But it would suffice to kill 
 her. The habit of living, as it were, half a life, had 
 so grown into her that it would not be possible for 
 her to continue living a separate, independent life 
 all to herself. 
 
 Don Cenzo, the notary, who was elderly and wise, 
 perceived this when he came in, half an hour after 
 the other visitors had gone away. He did not tell 
 her about Maso's will; it seemed to him useless to 
 trouble her. But he told Pippa. The old man had 
 left everything to the man who should marry Pippa. 
 He had always taken it for granted that he should 
 himself survive Lucia. But no doubt, said Don 
 Cenzo, Pippa and her husband would look after the 
 old woman. 
 
 "But I have no husband!" said the girl, with a 
 little laugh. 
 
 "Not to-day," replied the notary, "but that will 
 be an affair of to-morrow." 
 
 He bowed politely. And he guessed already that 
 Pippa would not marry Tito, as her grandfather had 
 intended. This slightly shocked him, for he was a 
 lawyer, and had a feeling that the wishes of a testa-
 
 30 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 tor should be complied with. But when testators 
 express their intentions thus vaguely, they have but 
 themselves to thank if they are defeated. Being a 
 lawyer, he felt that also. And Don Cenzo, like 
 Assunta, disliked Tito. 
 
 As for Pippa, she had made up her mind that no 
 power on earth would now make her marry the 
 handsome young sacristan; not even the undeniable 
 power of his beauty. For she had also made up 
 her mind about something she had suddenly read in 
 Signor Enrico's mind, a suspicion of his that, 
 abruptly, had been born a robust certainty in her 
 own. That Signor Longo wanted to marry her, she 
 had also become certain. 
 
 At that moment, though she did not know it, the 
 two men were together. Tito had taken off his 
 evening suit, and put on his ordinary clothes, in 
 which he looked much better. He was now in the 
 sacristy of the Pieta, getting out the next day's vest- 
 ments. To his displeasure and surprise the man he 
 least desired to see of all men in the world had, un- 
 invited, joined him there. 
 
 The front doors of the church opening on the 
 Naumachia were locked, and Signor Enrico knew it. 
 He, therefore, knocked at the sacristy door, and, 
 without waiting for any reply, opened it quickly and 
 went in. For a moment the two men looked at each 
 other without speaking. Tito had not expected this 
 visit; and his surprise gave the other that much 
 initial advantage. On that Longo counted; and by 
 a further advantage of surprise he intended to pro- 
 ceed. Taking from his pockets a small canvas bag 
 he put it down, close to Tito, on the vesting table 
 of antique polished mahogany, nearly black, but 
 without saying anything. 
 
 "What is this?" asked the sacristan.
 
 THE SACRISTANS 31 
 
 "Money," retorted the artist promptly. "Open 
 and count it." 
 
 Almost mechanically Tito began to do so. 
 
 "But why should I?" he inquired presently, paus- 
 ing with the notes in his hand. 
 
 "Because it concerns you." 
 
 Tito went on counting; the artist watching him, 
 and chiefly occupied with the thought of the man's 
 astonishing beauty. Just as he by no means desired 
 to live in the houses that were best to paint, so was 
 he quite free to recognize the beauty of this man 
 who was altogether hateful. Tito did not count the 
 money to an end; he could tell exactly how much it 
 was without that. It was, to his standards, a good 
 deal. 
 
 "How does it concern me, signor?" he asked, as 
 though pausing, but feebly. 
 
 "It is yours." 
 
 "Mine? How; what for?" 
 
 "To take you to Argentina." 
 
 Tito did not drop the money; but he could scarcely 
 hold it without betraying that his hand trembled. 
 He let it rest on the time-smoothed wood. He 
 wanted to look full into Longo's face, but for the 
 life of him he could not though he felt the other 
 man's eyes fixed on his own. And he wanted to say 
 something; but he dared not; nothing seemed safe; 
 he had no role, no programme. 
 
 Longo had thought him cleverer and more coura- 
 geous, too, and began to despise him more and more. 
 This gave his voice, as he went on, a confidence and 
 sense of power, a certainty, that the wretched Tito 
 felt intuitively, and that materially assisted Signor 
 Enrico's success. 
 
 "To take you to Argentina. A number of Cala- 
 bresi are going from Reggio this evening; they are 
 crossing to Messina even now. In the Florio boat,
 
 32 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Ei?ipedocle, they will start this evening at five 
 o'clock. On Friday morning they will reach 
 Naples, and re-ship; that same afternoon in the 
 Speranza they will sail for Buenos Ayres. That is 
 how you will go." 
 
 Still Tito could not turn his full face, nor lift 
 his eyes nor ask "Why" as he was trying to. His 
 tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and his 
 mouth itself felt dry. His desire and his inability 
 to speak was exactly like what is experienced In a 
 nightmare. He was always a coward, though no 
 one had known it till now. Perhaps not himself, 
 even. And how brave would he need to have been 
 not to prove a coward now, with a conscience like 
 his! He had two additional reasons for cowardice, 
 that his tormentor, who had guessed so much, could 
 not guess — one physical, one moral, and both added 
 themselves to all the rest to demoralize him utterly. 
 
 There was something the matter with his heart 
 besides its blackness. He had become certain of it 
 only lately; more than ever certain since that quick 
 knock had come just now on the door opening on the 
 steep path. It was not that his heart was beating 
 violently; after one horrible leap into his throat it 
 had ceased, he thought, to beat at all. He longed 
 to put his hand upon his breast and feel, but with 
 those ruthless, untiring eyes upon him he could not. 
 
 The moral thing that weighed him down and 
 demoralized him was worse. But of that presently, 
 though he was thinking of It all the time ; and its 
 effect was so gatheringly apparent that Longo saw 
 its paralyzing effect, and his pitiless voice hardened, 
 and grew more masterful, more irresistible, so that 
 the listening wretch felt all spirit of resistance ooz- 
 ing hopelessly out of him. 
 
 "That is how you will go," insisted the voice. 
 "For Santa Venera is unhealthy for you; as it was
 
 THE SACRISTANS 33 
 
 for Maso, as it was for Don Taddeo's goat, .... 
 and there are other unhealthy places, too; Panta- 
 laria and Ponza, for instance. You never heard, 
 perhaps, how unhealthy Pantalaria was for the Em- 
 press Messalina, the poisoner. . . . ." 
 
 Tito heard no more. The voice faded into im- 
 measurable distances, and when he came to himself 
 again, Tito was alone. Then he, too, went: exivit et 
 non erat; he went out and it was night ; like his pro- 
 totype, the other traitor, but Tito's night was not 
 the merciful darkness of nature. Down the hillside 
 he staggered, in the blazing noon with the pitiless 
 staring of the July sun blinding him; but with no 
 sun of hope, no light of any saving love of Gpd or 
 man or woman; for this desire for Pippa had been 
 no more than the mere jealous greed of possession; 
 the vulgar avarice of beauty, as common and not 
 much nobler than the vulgar avarice of money. 
 
 When Pippa told poor dying Maso how Taddeo's 
 goat was dead that had eaten the wax threads, 
 Signor Longo was still there, and the old man's eyes 
 were on his face. And into the growing darkness 
 of those eyes that looked so close on death, grew a 
 wistful light, of sadness unspeakable, but nobler than 
 any that had ever gleamed in them. For a time no 
 one spoke. Then Maso bade the women begone, 
 and beckoned Longo to stay by him. No sooner 
 were they alone than the wistful look translated 
 itself into speech, answering the suspicion in the 
 young man's face. 
 
 "I did it. I myself," he said eagerly. "No one 
 
 knows No one must know. But I did it. 
 
 I insured my life, long ago; I thought it could be 
 only for a few years. But I lived and lived; and 
 the money was all going, paying the money of the 
 insurance. I could not bear it all to go. So I 
 chewed wax threads, and they are velenosi, poison-
 
 34 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 ous. Now I die, and there will be no more paying, 
 but a big money from the insurance. Don Cenzo 
 knows what it is. And my will. He made it, and he 
 knows that, too. He keeps it for I cannot read. 
 . . . Thus I did it; thus, I myself." 
 "Yes, yes. I see," said Longo; knowing well 
 that the dying man lied to save the living; then he 
 called back the women and went away, determined 
 now that he was certain that Tito should go, too, 
 go far, and go for ever. The women had come 
 back, and would have sat up all night with the old 
 man who was dying, but he drove them fiercely away 
 to bed. All night he sat alone, and early in the 
 morning he sent for Tito. To him, too, he told his 
 wistful lie, but never looking at the young man«s 
 face. 
 
 That was the second thing that demoralized him; 
 'to know that Maso himself knew and excused him, 
 knew and loved him. So he staggered blindly down 
 the hillside in the utter night of the fierce noon, while 
 the weird fichi d'India clutched at the steep as it 
 leapt downwards to the sea. Hopeless, hopeless ! 
 Utterly hopeless, if his final judgment were to lie 
 with us, with sins of our own to make us merciless 
 to the different sins of others. But Perfection does 
 not delegate the function of judgment, and imper- 
 fection is not to be judged by imperfection.
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 
 
 I 
 
 IF one hated a mountain, or an iron-bound coast, 
 that region which we may as well call the Dune 
 Shore would have been the very place to inhabit. 
 The whole province contained no hill of a greater 
 elevation than six hundred feet above the sea-level, 
 and for even such a hill as that it would have been 
 necessary to go far inland. The sea-board was as 
 flat as the North African desert; that is to say, not 
 flat at all, but like an ocean that had been changed 
 Into sand after a storm that had past and left behind 
 it a long low ground-swell. Nowhere did the dunes 
 attain any height, but everywhere there were dunes; 
 so that, unless one should walk along the very beach 
 itself, one would continually be going up and down 
 low hills. Next the sea the dunes were of sheer 
 sand, not held together by any herbage, and of 
 changing contour; for, after summer's long drought 
 had pulverized the sand, the gales of September 
 blew it far and wide. Later on, the cold rains and 
 cold gales alternating caked it, and It became hard 
 enough, and not bad to walk upon. Just a little 
 further Inland, more out of reach of the salt spray, 
 though not wholly out of reach, a miserable sour 
 grass bound the sand, and held it from shifting. 
 Yet further inland came a region of soggy lean pas- 
 tures, and hungry reclaimed land, on which meagre 
 crops were cultivated — mostly by mannish-looking 
 women, for the men were almost all fisherfolk, or 
 sailors, or boatbuilders and shipbuilders, or, in the 
 larger of the small towns, engaged in some other 
 
 35
 
 36 THE TIDE fV AY 
 
 commerce that dealt with seafaring matters. There 
 were sailmakers, and ropemakers, ships' store- 
 dealers, even here and there a ship's instrument sel- 
 ler, and a foundry where anchors, bolts, iron beams 
 and girders and cables were cast. 
 
 In all the province there was no large town. 
 Helsing, the capital of the Duchy, was about the 
 largest, and its population was under sixty thousand. 
 It was not exactly on the sea, but not far up the 
 river-estuary, and one of its suburbs trailed out al- 
 most on to the dunes. 
 
 It was not a bad sort of a town. It had a few 
 decent buildings — the Ducal Palace, the Court 
 House, the Town House, the Cathedral, five other 
 churches, and the Bishop's Palace. As for these, 
 they were not raw or new, but would have been 
 older, and might have been finer, but for the great 
 fire of 1630. After the fire everything had had 
 to be rebuilt at once, and there was hardly enough 
 money to go round. So the Duke's palace was not 
 enormous, and was very plain, though not exactly 
 ugly. The Bishop's residence was called a palace 
 only as being his official house ; it was of very moder- 
 ate size and of modest pretension architecturally. 
 
 There was also a theatre, but it formed part of 
 the Ducal Palace, and the cathedral balanced it, 
 forming the left wing of that face of the palace that 
 fronted on the Public Gardens. On the other side 
 of those gardens was the Barrack, and the Town 
 House. The Court House formed one side of a 
 sort of square upon the quays. The prison formed 
 another, and opposite was the Duke's Admiralty 
 Court. Nearly the whole aristocracy of the duchy 
 lived at Helsing — for warmth one would almost say, 
 for the lands were cold and wind-swept, and except 
 for occasional "belts" of low stone-pines there was 
 no timber.
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 37 
 
 None of the aristocracy condescended to trade, 
 but many had shipping interests, and that gave them 
 a further reason for dwelling at Helsing; not but 
 what other towns had many the same importance; 
 in no other town, however, was there a Court and a 
 Court Theatre — one might say a Court Bishop. The 
 Bishop of Helsing was Court Bishop, and he was 
 apt to be a cousin of the reigning Duke. 
 
 It was a f.airly clean town, and though it was far 
 from suggesting opulence, neither had it any air of 
 being poverty-stricken. Its burghers were solid, 
 slow-moving people, who grew rich deliberately, and 
 never ran risks of bankruptcy. 
 
 The Duke was by far the richest man in the prov- 
 ince, and all the dukes had had a comfortable habit 
 of marrying princesses with adequate, if not daz- 
 zling, dowries. 
 
 The Bishop was the Court-Bishop of Helsing, 
 but the Duke was His Serene Highness the Duke of 
 Platland, Count of the Free Trucairs, and Admiral 
 of the Dune Shore, Prince of the Empire. 
 
 Neither he nor the society that adorned his court 
 will, however, concern us much — as yet at all events ; 
 for strangers were not warmly welcomed in the 
 ducal circles of Helsing, and certainly not strangers 
 who came without certificates of their fitness. And 
 it is with a stranger we have to do. 
 
 When Ida Patersen arrived at Helsing she might 
 have been two and twenty, to judge by her appear- 
 ance, which was staid and widow-like, and perhaps 
 her deep, ugly mourning made her look older, for 
 in reality she was not twenty years old. 
 
 Her arrival was of no public consequence, and 
 the public, small as it was, was not immediately 
 aware of it. At first — for some weeks — she lived 
 very quietly in a substantial but staid and decorous 
 Inn, the Golden Swan. The Order of the Golden
 
 38 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Swan was second only in dignity to that of the Black 
 Ship — the Duke's armorial had for its principal 
 quarters sable a szvan, or, and or a ship in full sail, 
 sable. At the end of a month Madame Petersen, 
 as she called herself, bought a small house, in that 
 suburb that straggled seaward towards the dunes, 
 and began to live there as quietly as she had lived in 
 the hotel. 
 
 The price asked had been rather high, and she 
 had agreed to it (and paid it, too) without demur. 
 The agent had recommended a dealer in furniture, 
 and to him she had gone, and furnished her abode 
 out of what he had. He also found her easy to deal 
 with; and, not being a dishonest man, and perceiving 
 that what he asked she seemed willing to give, he 
 proceeded to name reasonable if profitable prices. 
 She interested him as being a lady of some individ- 
 uality of taste; for he had in his store not only new 
 stock, which attracted her little, but all sorts of 
 quaint bits of furniture brought at various times 
 from overseas. This she bought — hangings, car- 
 pets, even tapestries, inlaid bureaus, and gilded 
 mirrors (often tarnished, but of good design and 
 quality) , especially anything French, Italian or Span- 
 ish — nothing northern. 
 
 She spent freely enough, and if the house had not 
 been so small the furnishing of it would have been 
 very costly. 
 
 "She has an excellent taste," the dealer informed 
 his wife, and indeed some of his more regular cus- 
 tomers, who often came to chat and to look as 
 much as to buy. "And she takes what she chooses 
 without haggling." 
 
 "That," said one of the customers, "must be 
 rather dull. Buying a thing one fancies is like play- 
 ing a fish; there's little sport in landing him at the 
 first strike. Where does she come from?"
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 39 
 
 "That, of course, I didn't ask her." 
 
 "Madame," his wife observed, "is not a lady 
 one would easily intrude upon. She has a dignity." 
 
 "Born, do you suppose?" inquired the customer, 
 who frequented the Court. 
 
 "I didn't ask her that either," said the dealer, 
 drily. 
 
 "She has a pretty face," declared his wife, "when 
 her veil is up, and a fine face, too, and her hands 
 are the hands of a lady." 
 
 "Oh," said the dealer, "there is no doubt she is 
 a lady." 
 
 II 
 
 Now I want to introduce the reader to Ida Peter- 
 sen; but I prefer to wait till a few months after she 
 had gone to live in her small house near the dunes; 
 for her mourning had gradually become less por- 
 tentous, gradually, but by rather swift gradations. 
 During the weeks in the Golden Swan no one could 
 have doubted her being a widow. Then her black 
 became less ugly, cumbrous and dismal; and little 
 by little, while still remaining black it came to lose 
 the character of mourning; but into no other color 
 did it ever merge. And yet she had loved bright if 
 soft hues, and of black she had been used to express 
 an almost vehement abhorrence. One afternoon in 
 autumn she sat by her fire of logs, alone, in the 
 quaint and pleasant parlor where the best of her 
 gleanings from the dealer's were gathered together. 
 The wooden walls were covered with ancient tapes- 
 tries, and her chairs were covered with fine and rare 
 needlework, made by French fingers dead a century 
 and a half ago. 
 
 She rose from her deep chair, and walked to the 
 window that looked seawards — the sea was hidden 
 behind the dunes. A very graceful figure, tall and
 
 40 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 slim, but not lean or meagre ; and a noble head, ex- 
 quisitely set on. The face itself noble too, and 
 beautiful; but occasionally, often indeed, though not 
 always, marred by a terrible expression. It should 
 be remembered that it was a very young face, not at 
 all that of a woman who had long world-experience. 
 There were no lines in it, and its color was not dull 
 or pallid; the complexion, indeed, was both brilliant 
 and healthy. It was a face, too, not made for 
 gloom, but obviously for gaiety and mirth; express- 
 ing in general a happy nature, and a sweet confi- 
 dence, a warm, trustful outlook upon life and her 
 fellow-men. And yet — sometimes, there swept 
 over it, like a dark submerging wave, a look of utter 
 horror. Such an expression in the eyes (so lovely 
 in themselves, and so apt to reflect wholesome and 
 glad thoughts) could be explicable in one who had 
 been called to behold an abominable crime, some 
 hideous treachery, some heartless cruelty, but to 
 associate with the girl herself any idea of complicity 
 in the crime was not possible — unless the Devil, quod 
 absit, should have power to impress the stamp of 
 innocence on a mask of wickedness. 
 
 "I can not stay in," she said to herself, not in Ger- 
 man. "It fills my book to-day. It illustrates every 
 page. It is cold and bleak, and I daresay it will 
 rain — perhaps snow. It is cosy here. And I am 
 my own mistress. I need not go out in chill wind, 
 or foul weather, as many poor women must. Yet 
 out I must go. Not to the town. I know the town 
 by heart, and I'm not in the mood for its tidy de- 
 cency and smugness. Besides there's a ball at the 
 palace, and the ladies will be buying fal-lais. I will 
 go out there; it's odd how often I feel I must go 
 there. Yet, though it is the sea, it is a sea so differ- 
 ent. I like the ugliness of this sea; it is flat, and 
 grey, and plain; but honest, somehow. Not," and
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 41 
 
 she shivered, and the awful look came darkling all 
 athwart her lovely face, "not cruel, mean, cowardly, 
 treacherous! Ah, God!" 
 
 She did not call her maid, but made herself ready 
 to go out without her help. Her three servants 
 were all Helsingers; she had brought no maid with 
 her whence she came. 
 
 Her house was the last towards the dunes, and in 
 a few minutes she was walking on them towards the 
 sea, but still not in sight of it. 
 
 There was not much wind, which made it more 
 likely that the leaden sky would empty itself of rain 
 or sleet — or, perhaps, regular snow. It was cold 
 enough; and when, as happened now and then, there 
 came a pallid glint of sunlight, the dunes looked 
 all the colder for it. In the higher regions of the 
 air there must have been more movement than down 
 upon the earth's surface, or those rendings of the 
 ragged clouds, which let the pale yellow sunlight 
 down, would not have come. 
 
 "I suppose for ever," said Ida, as if answering 
 herself, answering some question that had asked it- 
 self in her mind. 
 
 Then she came to the ridge of the highest line of 
 dunes and looked out across the sea. It was full 
 tide and the belt of sand between it and her was 
 narrow. It was of a dusky green, laced with white, 
 but thinly; here and there were darker patches. 
 When one of those chilly sun-gleams shone down 
 these patches became deep purple, shading to slaty 
 black in the centre, paling to amethyst at their 
 fringe; and then the green of the waste around, 
 where it lay in the cold light, was yellowish — the 
 green of young larch foliage. 
 
 There were no islands in sight here, though there 
 were many along the coast. There was no ship, or 
 boat, upon the desolate water.
 
 42 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 " 'Great as the sea is thy affliction, who can heal 
 it?' " the girl quoted. 
 
 Then she went down and walked upon the hard 
 sand, only a few feet from the breaking of the 
 waves. 
 
 "Bitter," she said aloud, "altogether bitter." 
 
 A sea-gull let himself fall, with a loud scream like 
 laughter, swerving, slantwise, down quite close to 
 her. 
 
 For many minutes she walked with eyes bent upon 
 the breaking waves close at her side; their monoto- 
 nous iteration soothed her like a drug. And the 
 clean salt air was doing her good. She was healthy 
 by nature, not only in body, but in mind and heart, 
 too; only a horribly poisoned wound had stricken 
 her heart and spirit. 
 
 After she had been out fully an hour the sun- 
 gleams ceased, and there was nothing but the leaden 
 sky and the leaden sea. The clouds had knit to- 
 gether, and cowered lower down. Still it was not 
 yet late in the afternoon, and such light as there 
 was should last some time yet; she hardly wanted to 
 get home till there should be excuse for shutting out 
 the dreary day altogether. Presently the humor 
 took her to leave the beach, and go back among 
 the dunes. She passed over the ridge into a shallow 
 depression between it and the next range of hillocks, 
 not a straight little valley, but twisting, for the hil- 
 locks did not lie in parallels. She had not walked 
 there five minutes before, turning round the broken 
 base of one of the hillocks (broken by some high 
 tidal wave), she met quite face to face a man, whose 
 surprise seemed less than her own. 
 
 Oddly enough he instantly explained himself. 
 
 "I saw you before," he said, standing still and re- 
 moving his hat. "I saw you walking by the 
 sea.
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 43 
 
 You did not see me — that was plain; and you did 
 not imagine but that you had the whole sea and 
 shore to yourself. I felt an intruder. If I had 
 walked on we must have met, and I thought it might 
 almost startle you; I should have come so very near 
 you before you knew. So I climbed over the ridge 
 and came to continue my walk here. And now I 
 have come upon you still more suddenly. I hope it 
 has not startled you. If it has, I am sure I beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 She had not been exactly startled; but in all her 
 many walks here she had never met anyone but a 
 fisherman, very rarely anyone at all. She was cer- 
 tainly surprised. But there was nothing alarming 
 about him. He was a gentleman, and young — per- 
 haps half a dozen years older than herself; his face 
 was pleasant, very kind and courteous, like his man- 
 ner and his voice. There was almost a smile in his 
 quiet, manly eyes, but he did not smile outright, sim- 
 ply because a smile would have been a little greater 
 approach to familiarity, and it was clearly his de- 
 sire to treat her with extreme deference. He had 
 spoken German, and in German she answered, but 
 it was not very correct, and her accent was foreign. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "the sea and shore do not belong 
 to me ! You could not have been an intruder. 
 No, you did not startle me. Only I never met 
 anyone out here before, and I come here very 
 often." 
 
 He still stood uncovered, and he did not imme- 
 diately move away. "I am afraid," he said, look- 
 ing up at the lowering sky, "that you are walking 
 in the wrong direction. I am weather-wise, and 
 it will snow very soon." 
 
 "Oh, will it?" then she asked him to replace his 
 hat, and he did so, saying: 
 
 "In a snow-storm on these dunes one might
 
 44 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 easily wander far and be lost. When it starts 
 snowing it will go on all night — perhaps much 
 longer, unless the wind shifts. Perhaps you do not 
 know the weather here as well as I do." 
 
 "I have never been here at this season. I came 
 at the end of last winter. No, I do not know what 
 your weather is like." 
 
 "It is not exactly my weather," he said, and now 
 he did smile, "though I have been here at all sea- 
 sons. You see, I am a sailor." 
 
 It did not surprise her. There was something 
 in his face that answered to it; something in the 
 grave and courageous eyes, that were not melan- 
 choly, but only steadfast; something, too, in the 
 smooth, browned complexion. 
 
 "If you would not think it impertinent of me to 
 advise you," he said, with a singular firm gentle- 
 ness, "I should urge you not to walk on in the 
 direction you seem to be going, but to turn home." 
 
 Most certainly there was nothing like imperti- 
 nence in his manner of tendering this prudent 
 counsel. ■ 
 
 "Oh, I think you are very wise — and kind," she 
 answered. But the word "home" that he had used 
 brought a swift start of loneliness to the girl's mind. 
 Her home had been murdered. 
 
 There are faces behind whose thickness few emo- 
 tions move visibly, but Ida's was not one of them. 
 Just as her brilliant color came and went behind 
 the bright clearness of her skin, so was her coun- 
 tenance but a thin veil of her transient emotions of 
 pain or gladness. 
 
 At first he had set her down as a woman, though 
 a very young one — perhaps of two or three and 
 twenty. Something in her grace and dignity of bear- 
 ing had made him, without arguing the point, assume 
 her to be a married woman. But now she seemed to
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 45 
 
 him very girlish and her youth had an almost child- 
 like appeal. 
 
 "Come, then!" he said, with a very pleasant air 
 of protection, like an elder brother's. And, as if it 
 was the simplest and most natural thing, he walked 
 at her side. 
 
 "I think I can show you a near way to the town," 
 he explained — but not as if in excuse of giving her 
 his escort. 
 
 "Oh," she said, but not in the least drawing back 
 from that escort, "I do not live in the town." 
 
 "Ah, you live here." 
 
 "Yes — I do, now. But my little house is the very 
 nearest to these dunes; not in the town at all, but in 
 St. Blarien." 
 
 "That is all the better. For it is much nearer, and 
 the snow will be here very soon. See, there is a 
 flake." 
 
 "You," she asked, with a quite frank curiosity, 
 "do you live here?" 
 
 "Well, I am a sailor, as I said. My town is a 
 ship. But I know Helsing well, and have lived 
 there." 
 
 "Ah! If you lived there now I must have met 
 you. One knows by sight everyone — from the Duke 
 and Duchess downwards; but I never saw you be- 
 fore." 
 
 "Nor I you." 
 
 He was quite sure he should have remembered 
 her had he seen her once. Then he added: 
 
 "I have been away — very far away; and for just 
 over a year. I wonder how you like Helsing?" 
 
 "Oh — well enough; pretty well; not very much." 
 
 Yet she had come to live there; not belonging to 
 it, she must have chosen it. 
 
 "It isn't," he admitted, "particularly lively." 
 
 "No. Nor am I."
 
 46 THE TIDEIVAY 
 
 He hardly knew whether this confession, if it was 
 one, surprised him or no. It had seemed to him 
 that her eyes were windows through which looked 
 out a nature that was cheerful, and yet he had seen 
 that sudden glint of sadness (it was not a shadow, 
 but a wan gleam like those that a little while ago 
 had slanted from time to time across the dunes) 
 which crossed her face when he had spoken of her 
 home. 
 
 He made no response to this little saying of hers; 
 a sort of compliment, or some sort of question, 
 would have been almost the only response possible, 
 and he was too respectful to compliment or to 
 question. 
 
 The flakes of snow were falling a little more 
 thickly, but they were as yet thin, small and dry, 
 and there was even less wind than before. Such 
 as it was it was, however, coming to meet them — 
 out of the east. 
 
 "Look," she said presently, "that is my little 
 house over there. The snow can't be much, or we 
 would not see it." 
 
 "Oh no ! It is nothing yet. But it isn't going to 
 stop, and it will soon be thick enough." 
 
 He had eyes that were used to scan wide dis- 
 tances, and they were turned towards the lit- 
 tle house with decided interest. It certainly 
 looked lonely. She knew he was considering it, and 
 said: 
 
 "It looks black now, and ugly. But it is not bad 
 inside. It is warm and comfortable. I come out 
 here on these cold, ill-tempered dunes to make my- 
 self like it a little." 
 
 "I rather like the dunes. An odd taste, eh?" 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps / like them — in a fash- 
 ion. At all events I like them better than anything 
 else here."
 
 • THE LADY OF THE DUNES HO RE 47 
 
 "You are not, like me, their old friend. There 
 are not dunes everywhere." 
 
 Immediately she seemed to wrap a cloak of si- 
 lence round herself, even though she spoke again 
 before long. He felt instantly that he had said 
 something amiss. 
 
 "I suppose," she said presently, "that you can 
 understand my German, but I know it is bad." 
 
 "It is not bad at all. Of course I can understand 
 it. I myself have had to learn and speak many lan- 
 guages, and English, French, Norse, Danish and 
 even Russian are nearly as easy to me as German." 
 
 "But you are German?" 
 
 "Oh," said he, laughing, "I'm a Helsinger. But 
 my mother is Russian, and my grandmother, who 
 is still alive, is a Dane." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Around Ida's house was a garden, and at the 
 gate the young sailor again uncovered, even while 
 he opened it for her to pass through. 
 
 For a moment she hesitated, then, with a smile 
 that he thought more characteristic of herself than 
 anything she had said, she asked him, with frank 
 goodwill to come in. 
 
 "My tea will be ready," she said, "and it is not 
 a bit late. Your snow hasn't come to much yet. 
 But a cup of English tea will do you good." 
 
 He thought anything she might give him would 
 do him good; but that he could not say. 
 
 "I shall melt, and wet your room," he said laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 "Oh, no ! Only your overcoat is a little snowy, 
 like my cloak. Come! I took your advice; take 
 
 mme." 
 
 "Certainly 1 will."
 
 48 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 And they had, in fact, already almost reached 
 the porch. 
 
 "Oh, Madame !" cried Ida's maid, opening the 
 door and coming out. "Madame went out, and 1 
 didn't know. I should have taken the liberty of 
 warning Madame that it would snow; and now she 
 is wet." 
 
 "Scarcely at all; my cloak only. See, even my 
 boots are hardly wet." 
 
 "Please change them, though," urged the sailor. 
 "Madame should change them at once," he de- 
 clared, still quite with an elder-brotherly manner, 
 as he turned from Ida to her maid. 
 
 "Very well — Elsa, take this gentleman into the 
 drawing-room — I will join you in a moment." 
 
 It was very dark in the entrance hall, which had 
 only one window of thickened glass, and was hung 
 with dim old tapestries. Even in the drawing-room 
 it was dusk; but the fire cast a pleasant warm light, 
 and shaded lamps were being set about, on the piano 
 and several tables, by Ida's housemaid. 
 
 As the woman turned to leave the room she shot 
 a sharp glance at her mistress's visitor, but he was 
 tall, and the lamps cast their light no higher than 
 his waist; his back was to the window, and she 
 could not make out much of his face. 
 
 Almost immediately Ida reappeared, and then 
 her maid and housemaid came back bearing tea- 
 things — silver tray and urn, a little special table, 
 and so on. 
 
 In obedience to his hostess's invitation, the young 
 man sat down in a low chair near the hearth-rug, 
 and here the light of a lamp fell full upon his face. 
 
 "What a delightful room !" he said glancing 
 round. 
 
 "I told you it was not uncomfortable." 
 
 "No ! But you didn't tell me it was full of charm-
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 49 
 
 ing things. I don't believe there is such a nice room 
 in Helsing." 
 
 Having arranged the tea-things, the two servants 
 went to the windows and drew the warm curtains 
 close. Then, as they went to the door, they both 
 turned, and simultaneously dropped each a quick, 
 perpendicular courtesy. 
 
 Ida's back was towards them, and she did not 
 see it. The young man nodded, and made a little 
 quick gesture with one hand. Neither did Ida see 
 that, as she was attending to her tea-cups. 
 
 *'You have been here," he said, when the women 
 had gone out, "only a few months. And all these 
 things of yours look as if they had been here al- 
 ways." 
 
 "I daresay you think they belong to me — I only 
 bought them. I do not even know who that is," 
 and she pointed to a fine seventeenth century por- 
 trait, "but it is a good picture, and the woman's 
 face interested me. So I bought it." 
 
 "I can tell you who it Is," he said, after he had 
 risen to examine it more closely, and sat down again. 
 "It is Juana la Loca, mother of Charles V, and 
 daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella. Her husband 
 and lover was Philip of Burgundy. 'Jane the Mad.' 
 It is a splendid picture, and you are lucky to have 
 found it." 
 
 "I didn't look for It; it found me. How strange 
 that you should recognize it at once." 
 
 "Oh, I have had Spanish ancestors, too. And I 
 know a little about those sorts of things." 
 
 "Spaniards or portraits?" 
 
 "Both, perhaps." 
 
 "You are rather a learned sailor." And Ida 
 laughed. 
 
 "Poor Juana!" he said, laughing too. "Her hus- 
 band behaved hatefully to her. And she adored him;
 
 50 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 it was part of her madness. She took his dead body 
 with her in all her travels." 
 
 As he spoke he arose to take the tea Ida had 
 poured- out for him, and, after another glance at 
 the portrait, he looked down upon her. 
 
 That awful expression had come into her lovely 
 face — upturned towards the portrait, as it were in 
 sympathy with his allusions to its original. Her 
 beautiful hands lay in her lap — lifeless-looking. And 
 in her deep and exquisite eyes was that appealing 
 look, as of an innocent, helpless, agonized creature 
 who had been forced to witness a dastardly crime. 
 
 I do not think the young sailor ever forgot it. 
 Whenever he thought of it afterwards he told him- 
 self: "She is the victim of some horrible offense; 
 something cruel, mean, devilish; yes, something 
 cowardly and base. For she herself is full of cour- 
 age and generous trust." It made him hate some- 
 body, and all the more vehemently that there was 
 neither name nor image in which to house that 
 hatred. 
 
 At this moment he felt something he had never 
 known before — the presence of a difficulty in face 
 of which he was wholly powerless. 
 
 Not for an instant, after that first one, did he 
 let his eyes rest on her face. He took his cup, and, 
 though all his nature turned to her, he turned his 
 back to her, and as he moved away went on talking 
 as if he had seen nothing to interrupt him. Yet she 
 knew he had seen. And, to account, as it were, for 
 it, she also spoke. 
 
 "A ghastly story." 
 
 "Isn't it? To drag with one everywhere the 
 corpse of a dead love." 
 
 He sat down, and looked into the fire. He had 
 not the least idea what to say. He had not the 
 least idea if she were herself a widow — on her fin-
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 51 
 
 get- he had seen there was a wedding ring. Yet she 
 must be a widow; what memories must be her fel- 
 low-travelers wherever she went. 
 
 Almost immediately she spoke again — trivially, 
 of a trivial matter. "There is no sugar. They have 
 forgotten it. Do you take it?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Lots of it. I think all sailors do." 
 
 "Then will you ring?" 
 
 He did so at once, and the prim, elderly house- 
 maid appeared. 
 
 "You forgot the sugar," said her mistress. 
 
 The woman seemed covered with confusion. In 
 a minute or two she returned, set the heavy bowl 
 down, and before retreating again turned to the 
 young man, and dropped another perpendicular 
 curtsey. This time Ida saw; and as soon as the 
 door had closed she said: 
 
 "What is that for? I never saw it done before. 
 Is it the Helsing etiquette ?" 
 
 "I suppose so," he answered, laughing. 
 
 "Well, I never saw it. Let me see. Before I 
 bought this little house I lived in the Golden Swan 
 for a month. Ah! there were waiters there; I sup- 
 pose they do not curtsey to young men. 
 
 "Oh, no. Look here, Madame 
 
 "Madame Petersen. That is my name. 
 
 "Well, I had better tell you mine. I see your 
 servants know me, and they will certainly tell you 
 if I do not. I am Anton von Helsing-Weissburg." 
 
 "One of the Duke's sons?" 
 
 "No. One of his five brothers' six sons. Per- 
 haps that's why they let me be a sailor." 
 
 Ida laughed. "Ought I," she asked, "to get up 
 and curtsey like Luisa?" 
 
 They were both of them grateful for this touch 
 of comedy. Luisa had been a benefactress. 
 
 "That old warrior," he explained presently, 

 
 52 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 pointing to another portrait, "is an ancestor of 
 mine. Duke Ernst the Red; and another excellent 
 portrait." 
 
 "What a good thing," said Ida, laughing, "that 
 I did not pretend he was an heirloom. I might 
 have christened him, as a lady I once knew used to 
 christen the old portraits she picked up — after mem- 
 bers of her own family. 'That,' she said to me one 
 day, pointing her tea-pot at a new arrival, 'is my 
 father's great-grandfather, Lord Newgrange, the 
 famous lawyer. A great man, but queer and much 
 behind the times.' 'He dressed behind them,' I 
 dared to tell her, 'unless he was got up for a fancy- 
 dress ball. That's a Dutch Admiral's uniform of 
 the time of William the Silent.' She didn't mind a 
 bit. *Oh that — ' she said, 'you mean the man in 
 the blue coat. He was Dutch : Admiral Van Eyck 
 — he came over to escort Charles I's daughter to 
 Holland, and married my ancestress. Lady Mar- 
 cia de Grandechose. You're looking at the wrong 
 picture.' Suppose / had claimed your ancestor!" 
 
 "I should have been delighted to share him with 
 you." 
 
 "You are most generous! Joseph Surface didn't 
 mind selling his ancestors, but you are ready to give 
 yours away for nothing." 
 
 "Ah! You read Sheridan. Shall we talk Eng- 
 lish?" 
 
 "Certainly, if you like. But I am not English." 
 
 She paused a moment as if about to add some- 
 thing, and he guessed that she was about to say 
 what she was, if not English. But she changed her 
 mind and said no more. 
 
 He did not wish to go away till she had had time 
 to recover entirely from whatever it was that had 
 brought that dreadful look into her eyes; and so 
 he stayed on. They talked very cheerfully, and
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNES HO RE 53 
 
 the discovery of her guest's princely rank did not 
 seem to make the least difference to Ida's calm and 
 self-possessed friendliness. 
 
 "To-night," he said, "there is a ball at the pal- 
 ace. If you are going to it I wonder if you would 
 promise me a dance beforehand?" 
 
 "Oh no, I am not going. I do not go anywhere. 
 As to the palace — I am not eligible ; I have not been 
 presented to the Duchess, and I never dreamed of 
 being." 
 
 "I wish you were going to the ball. I should 
 look forward to it much more." 
 
 "It is very kind of your Highness to say so. But 
 you will certainly never meet me in society. I do not 
 say I shall never dance again; but I cannot imagine 
 how the occasion to do so should ever arise; for I 
 bought this little home intending to settle down here 
 — forever; and I shall not, certainly, ever mix in the 
 gay world of Helsing." 
 
 He laughed lightly and said: 
 
 "Such a gay world as it is." Then, after a mo- 
 ment's pause, he turned his frank and grave eyes 
 to hers and said: 
 
 "We never met till to-day; and I am not given 
 to impertinence; but I cannot simply laugh as I hear 
 you speak of shutting yourself up alone here for- 
 ever. It makes, to my mind, a terrible picture." 
 
 She shook her head gently, and he went on, with 
 a glance around the room. 
 
 "I do not mean that there is anything terrible in 
 your home. It is delightful; and, somehow, fits 
 you; makes a fit background." 
 
 "Of course I know what you mean. You mean 
 that I am too young to say that here I will sit — till I 
 die." 
 
 She stooped a little forward, and he saw some 
 soundless words upon her lips. I do not say that
 
 54 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 he could have read them by the mere motion of her 
 lips; but they had leaped into his own memory: 
 
 "Here I and sorrow sit. 
 Here is my throne. 
 Let kings come bow to it." 
 
 He was only a prince; but with all the deep chiv- 
 alry of a noble and gentle nature, he bowed to it. 
 Her eyes were tearless; the horrible look had not 
 come back, but all her girlish youth and grace 
 crouched in sorrow. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said, in a plain, low voice. 
 
 "No, I thank you. I know, from the first mo- 
 ment, how good you are. It is a great thing to feel 
 such kindness near one. If I do not ask you to 
 come again believe me there is a good reason. I 
 should like to ask you." 
 
 "May I come unasked?" 
 
 "I think not." 
 
 He felt sure her reason must be a good one. He 
 certainly was not going to try and clutch it from 
 her. But it seemed intolerable to think that he 
 could not come again. 
 
 "That picture," she said presently, without turn- 
 ing to it, yet he knew at once which she meant, "I 
 can no longer bear it here. You say it is a fine 
 
 one." 
 
 j» 
 
 "Very fine.' 
 
 "May I give it to you?" 
 
 "But — it is, perhaps, priceless; a princely gift." 
 
 "And you are a prince." 
 
 "That is not my fault." 
 
 "It is not a fault. Nor a misfortune — " 
 
 "Surely that is not why I may not come back 
 here!" 
 
 "That was not my reason. But it is another rea- 
 son. Will you have the picture?"
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 55 
 
 "If I should say, No!" 
 
 "I would burn it." 
 
 "Why not sell it? I could very easily sell it for 
 you." 
 
 "Sell that poor lady, and her story ! No, thank 
 you." 
 
 "Then I will accept your gift. But, Madame, do 
 you not see that you put me in an awkward place? 
 I am to accept at your hands a very costly gift, and 
 you forbid me to come again even to thank you. 
 And I may give you nothing." 
 
 "You may give me a thing I should value — your 
 friendship." 
 
 "And I am never to see you again!" 
 
 "Does friendship lie in seeing one's friends? I 
 thought you would have known better." 
 
 "I do. Though we should never meet again I 
 will be your friend. Forever." 
 
 "While I sit here!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She stood up, but not as giving him signal of de- 
 parture. Looking down into the fire she spoke again. 
 
 "Prince Anton. Listen. I treasure your gift. 
 Sitting here I shall not forget it — nor you. Yet 
 it is to forget that I sit here. I am young, as you 
 say — just over twenty years old; but though I sit 
 here — till I die — it will not be easy to forget. That 
 is my business." 
 
 She was quite dry-eyed; but his eyes burned and 
 glistened. 
 
 "Ah, dear God!" he cried, "if I could be your 
 brother." 
 
 "I wish," she said, smiling, and looking straight 
 at him, "I wish you were. Eh! how kind you are. 
 But I have no brother, no sister, no father or 
 mother; I am free to go where I will in all this 
 haunted world. So I came here — to forget. I
 
 f 
 S6 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 never imagined it would be easy, or could be done 
 quickly. Perhaps it never can be done. Only I 
 shall try, and I must try alone. I have to do what 
 she, Juana la Loca, did from choice. The corpse 
 is horrible, intolerable; but I must carry it with me 
 in my travels till I can forget. She did it for love ; 
 — I for loathing. I also had a husband. I am not 
 a widow, though I wished Helsing to believe me one. 
 But he is dead — and turned altogether to corrup- 
 tion." 
 
 She hardly paused, and then finished. 
 
 "Look," she said. "You ask to come again, and 
 I said No. I say it again. And, because you are 
 what you are, noble and generous, you would not 
 try and snatch my reason from me. You see that 
 I have just spoken as women do not speak. I will 
 be still less like other women. I will tell you my rea- 
 son. I ask you not to come back. I forbid you to 
 come back. A little while ago I sat there picturing 
 the pleasantness of it — how friendly and pleasant 
 it would be if you could come often, constantly. 
 Dear Christ ! how lonely I am ! But I am not blind, 
 though I may seem to you shameless presently — " 
 
 "Nay, Madame, that I will not have you say." 
 
 "Listen first. I am not blind. If you were to do 
 as I dreamt for half an hour, and come here often, 
 often as we should both of us wish — I know you 
 wish it. I know I do. This would be the end of it. 
 I should love you, and you would love me. Now 
 you see how shamelessly I can speak." 
 
 "There is no shame in it. Only that would not 
 be the end, but the beginning " 
 
 "Ah! And, Prince Anton, I have a husband. 
 His body is not dead, but alive and young. It is 
 his soul that is dead — the soul, at all events, of our 
 marriage. We are not even divorced. So far as I 
 know his crime would not make any Judge declare 
 me free to divorce him. Listen: he believes me
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNES HO RE 57 
 
 dead, and he may even now have taken another 
 wife — God help her if that be so ! But I am bound 
 to the loathsome memory of him. It is his memory 
 I try to forget — the memory of what he did. And 
 common sense shouts to me that I never can forget. 
 At any rate, I cannot love, and I should soon love 
 you." 
 
 She had called herself shameless, and she had 
 spoken as women do not; and spoken without 
 shame. Yet he knew that she was noble and 
 womanly, girlish rather; wise, too, and fearless. He 
 already loved and worshipped her, and knew that 
 she knew that it was so, and that he would not dare 
 to set it out in words, or in any gesture. Because 
 women who are pure and honest scarce ever dare 
 speak as she had spoken. Words are written that 
 are not pure. Their silent modesty engenders the 
 whole plot, the whole generation of pregone con- 
 clusions. 
 
 Anton had long ago risen, and he stood watching 
 her and listening; he had only risen, and had not 
 moved a step nearer to her. He felt for her an 
 immeasurable respect. She looked so girlish, and 
 so womanly, so simply innocent; and yet her dignity 
 was marvellous. She had used astounding words, 
 and they had only increased her dignity. He did 
 not for an instant fall into the absurd mistake of 
 thinking that she was saying that she already loved 
 him, or that he already loved her. She had asked 
 for his friendship, and he knew her to be saying 
 once for all that she neither could or would give 
 him anything beyond friendship; and because she 
 would not she would run no risks, or suffer him to 
 run any. 
 
 "You are very wise and altogether noble," he 
 said. "It is unfortunate that my own past must 
 be, in comparison of yours, but a sorry one " 
 
 "Stay," she interrupted. "I cannot let that pass.
 
 58 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 It was I who askfd yovi in here. That was my 
 doing. A silly obedience to two impulses — that of 
 mere hospitality, and that of the desire to be less 
 lonely for half an hour. Almost immediately I 
 knew I had been wrong." 
 
 "You were not wrong. I do not believe you are 
 ever wrong, I accept your dismissal as right also. 
 Before I go I ask you one thing. You know my 
 name — will you tell me yours?" 
 
 She sat down, and looked up into his face, and 
 answered : 
 
 "I never meant to tell any human being my name. 
 But I will tell you. It was Sylvia Carstairs — I am 
 Scotch, not English — it became Sylvia Garioch; I 
 call myself Ida Petersen. Please think of me as 
 Madame Petersen." 
 
 "I will. And now I am going. I understand 
 that I am not even to come and fetch your gift? 
 I cannot take It away now, can I?" 
 
 "You could hardly carry it on your back. No," 
 she answered laughing. "But if you send for it, it 
 shall be ready. Tell me, Is she also an ancestor — 
 ancestress — of yours?" 
 
 "Yes. So it happens." 
 
 "I am glad. Because I like to think she has happy 
 descendants after all her pain. I feel churlish 
 enough In not asking you to come and fetch her; 
 but you see I have said so much that I think it bet- 
 ter to end now. So good-by." 
 
 And she stood up, and dropped a little curtsey 
 like Elsa's. 
 
 Of course she did It that their parting might be 
 a laughing one. 
 
 IV 
 
 "I thought you were going to stay at home for 
 a while." 
 
 "So I did, my little mother," said Anton.
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 59 
 
 "And you are leaving us so soon !" 
 
 "I think it best." 
 
 The Princess had always assured herself that she 
 had no favorite among her five sons, but that firm 
 assurance had been necessary, for Anton was more 
 simpatico than any of his brothers. She was not her- 
 self German, and it had not much delighted her 
 when she was first made aware of her family's deci- 
 sion that she was to marry a German princeling. 
 Her father was of the Russian Imperial family, but 
 only very distantly related to the Emperor, and he 
 had a number of sons and daughters, having been 
 twice married. She was the youngest of his chil- 
 dren by his second wife ; her face, which was ex- 
 tremely pleasant, was not remarkable for beauty; 
 and an accident in early girlhood had left her with 
 a slight limp. So that the marriage with Prince Ru- 
 dolph of Helsing-Weissburg had not seemed to her 
 father altogether undesirable. Theprlnce was of rep- 
 utable character, handsome, and, like all his family, 
 sufficiently wealthy. He was certainly very Ger- 
 man, and his destined bride did not much like Ger- 
 mans, or Germany either; but she knew that any 
 suitor proposed for her would probably be a Ger- 
 man, and resigned herself to the inevitable. She 
 was pretty well aware that her father thought it 
 advisable she should be married without delay, for 
 she had allowed It to appear that she saw no crime 
 in the ill-dissembled admiration for herself of a 
 young nobleman without the least pretence to royal 
 or princely rank. Without pretension to beauty she 
 had felt the more Inclined to condone Count K.'s 
 offense; and, though she had not fallen In love her- 
 self, she had suspected that she might have done 
 so had she had pluck enough. 
 
 She had not believed herself in love, and at her 
 marriage she had not the least Intention of carry- 
 ing to her husband a broken heart; she had merely
 
 6o THE TIDEWAY 
 
 decided that the less she thought of heart the bet- 
 ter. Prince Rudolph was neither jealous nor sus- 
 picious, and he had probably never heard of the 
 existence of Count K. He did not make a bad sort 
 of husband, and his wife was far from from imag- 
 ining herself unhappy. Her sons appeared, and she 
 was fond of them all, in spite of their being Ger- 
 mans — ^but she certainly liked Anton the best, who, 
 as she fancied, was much less German than his 
 brothers. As he grew up he really did become less 
 German, and his long absences in other parts of 
 the world helped to increase this tendency. 
 
 Between him and his mother there was another 
 point of sympathy, though neither of them said 
 much, if anything, about it — they were both of 
 them bored by the whole business of princeliness. 
 
 As for Count K., the princess had not often de- 
 liberately remembered him, but she had never for- 
 gotten him; and at one time, when her boys were 
 very little fellows, she did occasionally wonder 
 whether Prince Rudolph would not have been a 
 happier man had he married, instead of herself, 
 a certain Fraulein von Z., and whether In that case 
 it would not have been well for her to have braved 
 all difficulties and let herself fall in love with Count 
 K. and marry him, too. 
 
 But all this was now very ancient history. Frau- 
 lein von Z. had married the Graf von P. (an old 
 schoolfellow of her father's), and Count K. had 
 married two ladies, the former when he was about 
 thirty, the latter when he was nearly fifty. 
 
 "I suppose, my son," said the Princess, "I am to 
 ask no questions." 
 
 "I think that also will be best." 
 
 "I don't wonder," said Anton's mother, "that you 
 like to get away from Helsing. I should rather like 
 to be a sailor myself."
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 6i 
 
 "Poor little Mother! It is a queer little corner, 
 certainly, when one is stuck fast in it." 
 
 "I'm jammed in it. If one were like the women 
 one sees in the streets and in the Luxgarten" (where 
 all Helsing drove every day of its life) "one could 
 get away. I think der Hebe Gott must be a Repub- 
 lican, he makes it so intolerable for princes and 
 princesses — especially princesses." 
 
 "Perhaps we make it intolerable for ourselves." 
 
 "If I had been a brave person and energetic — 
 whereas I was an arrant coward and deadly lazy — 
 I think I should have set up as a Reformer of 
 Princeliness. It is a downtrodden caste of slaves 
 that no one ever dreams of emancipating. When 
 shall you go?" 
 
 "The day after to-morrow." 
 
 "And you only arrived two weeks ago. And 
 I'm to ask no questions. Is it a lady?" 
 
 Anton laughed. 
 
 "For one who asks no questions you go pretty 
 far!" he replied. 
 
 "Ah, then, it is a lady ! And you hurry off to 
 her, after two weeks. It's almost as bad being a 
 mother as being a princess. As soon as one has sons 
 they begin to look about for another woman." 
 
 "I didn't look about at all. She arrived." 
 
 "Anyway, you dash away from your mother to 
 get back to her." 
 
 "Quite the contrary." 
 
 "Well, you came home two weeks ago, and the 
 day after to-morrow you hasten away to her. Is 
 she a Patagonian?" 
 
 (Prince Anton had visited Patagonia during his 
 late absence.) 
 
 "I believe not." 
 
 "Will it take a long voyage to reach her?" 
 
 "I shall not see her for a very long time."
 
 62 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Anton, what a mystery! Perhaps you are now 
 going to the South Pole — that is the fashionable 
 resort; it used to be the North Pole. Are there 
 Laplanders down there? I hope she is not a Lap- 
 landerin." 
 
 "I have not the honor of knowing a single Lap- 
 lander lady. It doesn't occur to you that you are 
 asking questions?" 
 
 "Only silly ones. Tell me." 
 
 "Tell you what?" 
 
 "Where are you going to her?" 
 
 "I am not going to her." 
 
 "Oh, Anton! Do you pretend that it is not for 
 her sake you are going?" 
 
 "No. I don't pretend that." 
 
 Suddenly the Princess ceased (for a time) to ask 
 questions. "She is here'' she told herself. And she 
 was astounded. She knew every lady in Helsing — 
 every possible lady. It must be an impossible 
 lady. 
 
 Anton perceived instantly that she was not carry- 
 ing on her catechism, and was able to guess why. 
 
 "Look here," he said simply, "I don't want you 
 to imagine things. I am not in any scrape." 
 
 "I can't imagine you running away from one. 
 And I can't imagine your being in one that made 
 running away advisable." 
 
 "No. At the same time I am running away." 
 
 A sudden idea flashed wildly into his mother's 
 mind. 
 
 "Anton!" she cried. "Are you running — 
 alone?" 
 
 "Well, not quite. There will be a good many 
 other men on board." 
 
 "Oh, men." 
 
 "You seem," he said, laughing, "rather dis- 
 appointed."
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 63 
 
 "I sniffed a romance. And — and, Anton, / 
 didn't mind." 
 
 She also laughed. Then, after a brief pause, 
 she grew quite earnest and said : 
 
 "You would never care for anyone who was un- 
 worthy. I am su7'e you care for no one here 
 whom I know, no one who comes here ..." 
 (with a gesture that indicated not only the 
 place where they were, but the whole of Ducal 
 society). 
 
 "That is certainly true." 
 
 "But there may be nice people hereabouts of 
 whom I never heard." 
 
 "There is one, at all events." 
 
 "Ah! Now I go on. If I were a man I should 
 not bother about being a prince " 
 
 "I do not." 
 
 "Good! I should think of my happiness — and 
 hers." 
 
 "God bless you, little Mother." 
 
 "Now I will ask questions . . . you are go- 
 ing alone. Is she to meet you somewhere, to be 
 married to you there? Tell me. I daresay you 
 think I ought not to know, so that I may not be 
 scolded when it is known. But I do not care. I 
 shall take your part." 
 
 "I should not do that Avithout telling my father, 
 and the Duke, too. I am not doing it." 
 
 The princess looked plainly disappointed. 
 
 "Well," she said cooly, "it will save a lot of 
 trouble." 
 
 "I am not afraid of trouble — that sort of 
 trouble. But, I assure you I am not getting mar- 
 ried, nor have I the least intention of seeing again 
 the lady of whom you speak." 
 
 "I am absolutely certain you love her." 
 
 "Are you? You are a very wise lady."
 
 64 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "No. Not at all wise. But I know that. You 
 are quite changed." 
 
 "For the worse?" 
 
 "Neither better nor worse. Different. Alto- 
 gether different. You are not in love with a dead 
 lady?" 
 
 "Good gracious! A dead lady?" 
 
 ''Juana la Eoca." 
 
 Anton literally started, though he laughed. 
 
 "Ah! Since that picture appeared in your 
 rooms I noted the difference," declared his mother. 
 "And haven't I seen you staring at it? And with 
 what a look! If Juana's husband were alive you 
 would be capable of killing him." 
 
 "Don't say that, Mother. It is horrible." 
 
 She was again astounded. A look of real hor- 
 ror had darkled in his eyes — and how could any 
 young man be in danger of wishing to kill Charles 
 V's father! Yet she knew she had touched near 
 a tragedy. 
 
 "How," she asked abruptly, "did you find her?" 
 
 |Tind her?" 
 
 "Yes, Juana. It is a priceless picture. Where 
 did you find it?" 
 
 "I did not find it." 
 
 "Then you did not buy It." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then she gave it to you." 
 
 "She?" 
 
 "Yes. She. She.^' And the princess tri- 
 umphed. 
 
 "She must," she declared, "be at all events rich. 
 That portrait is worth half the Duchess's dia- 
 monds." 
 
 "I think so, too." 
 
 "So your lady is rich. Ah, Anton! not, not, not 
 a Jew's daughter?"
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 6s 
 
 "Certainly not,'' he answered with conviction. 
 "I believe her father was a Scottish nobleman." 
 
 "You believe. Didn't she tell you?" 
 
 "Certainly not. And I may be wrong, but I 
 think I am right." 
 
 The ground he had to go upon was this. She 
 had told him her name was Sylvia Carstairs; that 
 she had married one Garioch, that she had neither 
 father, mother, brother nor sister. He had found, 
 by looking It up In an English Peerage, that there 
 was a Scottish Earl of Solway, the present Earl a 
 young man, who had succeeded a distant cousin 
 some five years since. That cousin had died a 
 widower and had left one only child. Lady Sylvia 
 Carstairs. Lady Sylvia had married, three years 
 after her father's death, a Mr. David Garioch, of 
 Duners, In Shetland. 
 
 To Anton Is seemed a certainty. 
 
 "And do you tell me," asked the princess, "that 
 this Scottish nobleman's daughter Is living here in 
 Helsing?" 
 
 "I told you nothing about it. But it is nearly 
 true — not quite, for she does not live in Helsing." 
 
 "But near?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And she bears no title." 
 
 "She bears none." 
 
 "Then she cannot be a Duke's, a Marquis's, or an 
 Earl's daughter." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "I should like to shake the truth out of you." 
 
 "You can try. But It will not be shaken out. 
 That which Is well fixed In doesn't get shaken out I" 
 
 "Anton, a Scottish nobleman's daughter is en- 
 tirely respectable, though not princely " 
 
 "She Is entirely respectable." 
 
 "Well, I shall think It all out. And I shall meet
 
 66 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 her. Scottish nobleman's daughters can't live un- 
 discovered in places like Helsing." 
 
 "I am sure you will not meet her. And she 
 doesn't live in Helsing." 
 
 "We shall see." 
 
 On the very day of her son's departure, not two 
 hours after he had gone, the Princess's lady in wait- 
 ing came to her and said: 
 
 "Highness, there is a cabman, and he has a small 
 box. He says it contains something that he thinks 
 he should give to Prince Anton. Something found 
 in his cab." 
 
 "I will see the man. Let them bring him here." 
 
 "Here, Highness?" 
 
 "Yes, here. And when they bring him up, I will 
 see him alone." 
 
 Presently the cabman appeared, much abashed at 
 finding himself in a saloon of Prince Rudolph's 
 palace — which was only a wing of the Duke's. 
 
 The Princess received him very graciously, and 
 asked what he had found. 
 
 "Highness," he said nicely, "I have been ill 
 ..." and he paused apologetically. 
 
 "Never mind. One is not ill on purpose." 
 
 "No, Highness. I lost nearly a week's work by 
 it. I was taken ill the day I went to fetch a picture 
 for His Highness Prince Anton " 
 
 "Where from?" inquired the Princess carelessly. 
 
 "From the Chalet Ferdinand, Highness. And 
 
 "Oh, the Chalet Ferdinand," interupted the 
 Princess, more carelessly (she had never heard of 
 it), "on the St. Hubert road." 
 
 "Forgive me. Highness. No. In the North
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNES HO RE 67 
 
 Suburb, near the Dunes; the last house toward the 
 dunes." 
 
 "Ah, yes. Of course. The house where the 
 Herr Professor of Painting lives — who has a glass 
 eye. A worthy man." 
 
 "I am sure so. Though I had never heard of 
 him " 
 
 "Not!" (nor had she). 
 
 "No, Highness. But the note was not to the 
 Herr Professer " 
 
 "To the Frau Professor probably." 
 
 "No doubt — 'Madame Petersen'; that was on 
 the note. There was no answer." 
 
 The cabman was now allowed to go on with 
 much less interruption. In fact her Highness 
 slightly hurried him. 
 
 "There would naturally be no reply. The note 
 was merely an authorization to deliver ti,e picture 
 to you — the bearer. You brought the pic ure here, 
 and afterward unfortunately became ill." 
 
 "Yes, Highness. That is why I did not clean 
 out or examine my cab before. It is my own cab. 
 Highness, and did not go out while I was ill. To- 
 day I cleaned it. And I found this. It is doubt- 
 less a piece of the frame of the picture. I hope 
 Her Highness will not think I had handled the 
 picture carelessly " 
 
 "Far from it. It is a thing that happens 
 easily." 
 
 She spoke most graciously, and most gracious 
 was her smile as she held out her hand for the little 
 box the man was holding. 
 
 "Oh yes," she said, after opening it, "it is cer- 
 tainly a little bit of the frame; quite a small bit. 
 It is easy to understand how such a small piece 
 might get knocked off. Perhaps It had been 
 knocked oft before and stuck on again."
 
 68 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "I think so, Highness." He did not think so, 
 nor did the Princess. 
 
 Then she gave the man ten marks, and he 
 thought her a most excellent princess, having half 
 expected a wigging, either for having knocked a 
 bit off the frame, or for not having brought it 
 sooner. 
 
 That afternoon her Highness roundly accused 
 her lady in waiting of having a cold in her head, 
 and would take no denial. 
 
 "You certainly have a cold in your head," she 
 insisted. "Your dear old nose is red, and so are 
 your eyes; you never cry, so you must have a cold. 
 Also you sneezed at luncheon " 
 
 "I shook out too much pepper; the top of the 
 pepper-box " 
 
 "That would not make your nose red. You 
 have a cold. And I shall drive alone. You can 
 go to bed." 
 
 The Grafin loved to go to bed, with a hot bottle 
 and a novel; and she succumbed. Princess Rudolf 
 drove out alone. 
 
 "To the North Suburb," she told the footman, 
 who transmitted the order to the coachman, "the 
 Chalet Ferdinand, please. It is the last house 
 toward the dunes. 
 
 At the Chalet she was told that Madame Peter- 
 sen was in; and in two minutes she was in that 
 lady's drawing-room. 
 
 "I will go and tell Madame," said Elsa, curt- 
 seying for the fourth time in two minutes. And 
 her Highness was left alone. 
 
 "The picture," she told herself, "hung there. 
 There is a gap there." 
 
 And instantly she brought out of her muff the 
 broken off bit of frame and dropped it into a tall 
 porcelain vase that stood close to the wall, under
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 69 
 
 the gap, and behind a big sofa that stood not many 
 inches out from the wall. 
 
 Then she had time to admire the room. 
 
 "She has taste, Madame Petersen," she decided, 
 "and money, too. Also she knows how to make 
 herself comfortable." 
 
 The very bleak view over the empty and desolate 
 dunes, through the well-curtained windows, only 
 accentuated the warm comfort of the large pleasant 
 room. 
 
 Then the door opened and Madame Petersen 
 came in. A pale yellow beam of watery sunlight 
 lit up her figure for a moment as she stood near the 
 door. 
 
 "Yes," thought the princess, "she Is quite beauti- 
 ful. And 'born' ; oh, ever so much born." 
 
 The line of pallid sunlight was only between one 
 window and the door, and In a moment the girl 
 had advanced out of it. 
 
 "I am the Princess Rudolf," said her guest, smil- 
 ing, "the mother of Prince Anton, whom you 
 know." 
 
 Madame Petersen curtseyed, but the Princess 
 had come a step nearer as she spoke, and had taken 
 her hand, with a sort of abrupt uplift. 
 
 "I have seen him once," said the girl, without 
 the smallest sign of embarrassment. 
 
 "He has gone away," said the Princess, seating 
 herself with a little gesture that was half an an- 
 nouncement that she wished to sit, and half a per- 
 mission to her hostess to sit also. In order to sit 
 down Ida did not at all turn her face away, though 
 she could easily have done so; the Princess could 
 not perceive either that Madame was surprised to 
 hear of the Prince's departure, or that she had been 
 aware of it.
 
 70 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Yes," Princess Rudolf repeated, "he is gone. 
 He is always traveling." 
 
 "His Highness told me that he is a sailor." 
 
 "Oh yes. But he has not gone on a cruise this 
 time. He has simply gone away — traveling." 
 
 The girl paused a moment, and then asked quiet- 
 
 "Did he tell your Highness he had been here?" 
 
 "Oh no ! He never mentioned your name, nor 
 where you lived — I found out both by accident — 
 after he had gone away. Of course, you are won- 
 dering what brings me here — " 
 
 "It is, of course, an honor I could not have ex- 
 pected. I am entirely unknown here." 
 
 "Except to Prince Anton," suggested his mother, 
 smiling. 
 
 "To him also I am very little known." 
 
 Perhaps the Princess was wondering how they 
 had become known to each other at all; but she 
 betrayed no curiosity either by word or look. Per- 
 haps Madame Petersen was wondering if she 
 should explain — if so, she had not yet made up her 
 mind. 
 
 "I wish," said Princess Rudolf abruptly, "he had 
 not gone away." ("She blames me for it," 
 thought the girl.) 
 
 "He had so recently come home," added his 
 mother. "I hoped to keep him quite a long time. 
 He had been so long away; and, Madame, he is 
 very dear to me." 
 
 The words were very gently spoken, and Ida 
 perceived at once that she was not being 
 scolded. 
 
 "Ah, I can understand that — he is your son," 
 she said simply. 
 
 "I have five sons. But he is the only one who 
 never stays at home."
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 71 
 
 ("And the one she would like best to have at 
 home," thought Ida.) 
 
 "It is sad for your Highness. If I may say so, 
 I am very sorry for your sake that Prince Anton 
 should have gone away," she said aloud. 
 
 "Only for my sake!" 
 
 "I do not think your Highness quite understands. 
 I met Prince Anton once — by accident. We should 
 not have met again." 
 
 ("That," thought Princess Rudolf, "is all you 
 know about it.") But, smiling, she said aloud: 
 
 "Fortunate accidents repeat themselves." 
 
 "That accident would not have repeated itself," 
 said the girl, not smiling. 
 
 ("She is sure of herself. She is not a nobody," 
 thought the Princess. "It is a good thing I did not 
 come to sit upon her, it wouldn't have been easy.") 
 
 "I cannot," she said aloud, impulsively, "under- 
 stand why Anton went away. I should have 
 stayed." 
 
 To this Madame Petersen attempted no reply 
 whatever. A very slight flush came over her 
 lovely face, but it was certainly no blush of shame 
 or guilt. 
 
 "Come," cried Anton's mother. "You are not 
 going to tell me, his mother, that you are glad he 
 has gone!" 
 
 "To Prince Anton's mother I should say nothing 
 about it, but since she asks me I will say that I am 
 not sorry. I am' neither glad nor sorry. Can 
 your Highness not understand that, had he re- 
 mained, we should not have met again? He would 
 not have sought me, and had he done so I should 
 have gone away. I think a little time ago your 
 Highness was about to explain to me why you have 
 so very greatly honored me by this visit." 
 
 "Yes. I came because a little bit of the frame
 
 72 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 of the picture of Juana la Loca is, I find, broken 
 off. It seems to be quite a new fracture. The 
 frame itself is contemporary with the picture, and, 
 like it, nearly priceless. It would be a great pity 
 to mend it with a new piece — if the broken piece 
 could possibly be found. As soon as I had found 
 out your name and address (it was only to-day) I 
 resolved to come myself and ask if by any chance 
 the fragment was here. The break might so easily 
 have happened during the removal of the portrait 
 from the wall." 
 
 "If so I think my servant would have found the 
 fragment and have told me. But I will look now." 
 
 She rose at once, and so did the Princess. 
 
 "Do let me help you," she said cheerfully. 
 
 "The portrait hung there," said Madame Peter- 
 sen, "on that wall over the sofa." 
 
 She drew the sofa, which ran easily on excellent 
 casters, forward; and bent down to search. The 
 floor was thickly carpeted up to the wall. Of 
 course she found nothing. 
 
 "Oh, how awkward I am," cried the princess, 
 who had also come behind the sofa, and was grop- 
 ing about. She had nearly overturned the tall por- 
 celain vase, but saved it. 
 
 "Something rattled," said Ida, and she shook the 
 vase again, herself. 
 
 "There it is," she announced, looking down into 
 the vase. "We must turn it upside down," which 
 she did, and the 'piece of frame' fell out upon the 
 sofa. 
 
 VI 
 
 "That," said Princess Rudolf, "is exactly the 
 missing bit. Either it fell in there, or somebody 
 dropped it in on purpose."
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNES HO RE 73 
 
 "The gardener and another man took the picture 
 down. Possibly they broke the piece off, and were 
 afraid to confess." 
 
 "Perhaps it was the cabman." 
 
 Ida noted shrewdly that her Highness knew the 
 picture had been fetched away in a cab, but she only 
 said: 
 
 "No. The picture was ready for him when he 
 came. I told Prince Anton it should be ready." 
 
 "If anyone had given me so splendid a present I 
 should have come for it myself." 
 
 "It did not seem to me in the least a splendid 
 present. I gave quite a moderate sum for it. 
 Prince Anton said it was an original, and valuable 
 
 "So you gave it to him!" 
 
 "No, not at all for that reason; simply because 
 I wished it to go away, and he admired it." 
 
 ("I wonder," thought the Princess, "why she 
 suddenly wished to be rid of it? Did she really, 
 or was it only as an excuse for giving it to Anton? 
 I must decide that.") Then aloud she said, lightly, 
 and with a smile : 
 
 "I suppose, since you bought it, that you also 
 admired it then?" 
 
 "Yes. I thought it a fine portrait, and very in- 
 teresting. But I did not know of whom it was a 
 portrait." 
 
 "Ah! Anton knows all those sort of things — 
 besides he is descended from her; I suppose he told 
 you." 
 
 "He did not tell me he was descended from Juana 
 la LocaJ" 
 
 ("He told her," thought the Princess, "it was 
 Juana's portrait, and he told her Juana's story. 
 Then she wanted to get rid of it. Only another 
 mystery.")
 
 74 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "He certainly," she declared aloud, "ought not 
 to have sent a cabman to fetch such a treasure. 
 He ought to have fetched it himself." 
 
 "I cannot see that he ought," said Madame 
 Petersen coolly. 
 
 "He should have seen that he ought. I cannot 
 understand such a failure of courtesy in him. He 
 is the most courteous young man I know." 
 
 "I only saw him once in my life, but he gave me 
 the impression of being all that your Highness 
 says." 
 
 They had not sat down again, but were now 
 standing up on the big fur rug in front of the log 
 fire. The Princess was watching Madame Peter- 
 sen's beautiful face in the glass; the girl's eyes were 
 bent on the logs. 
 
 ("She shall look up," thought Princess Rudolf.) 
 And half aloud she said: 
 
 "You gave him a splendid present; just of the 
 sort he most appreciates; I simply cannot under- 
 stand his not coming to take it safe home himself — 
 unless . . ." She paused an instant, but Ida did 
 not look up. Then the Princess added: "... 
 Unless he had been forbidden to come himself." 
 
 "Is it," asked Madame Petersen, looking up and 
 meeting the Princess's eyes in the glass, "is it neces- 
 sary that your Highness should understand?" 
 
 Princess Rudolf was fifty-five years old, but no 
 human being had ever asked her such a question be- 
 fore. It was as if someone had suddenly opened 
 a window and let in a current of remarkably fresh 
 air; but she had none of the German abhorrence 
 of fresh air, and was not terrified. In fact she 
 rather liked it. She was quite honest enough, and 
 quite shrewd enough to be aware that the girl was 
 not impertinent — she merely did not intend to sub- 
 mit to impertinence.
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNES HO RE 75 
 
 ("Only I did not come to be impertinent — for so 
 very different a purpose!" she half expostulated, 
 but without a word.) 
 
 "Come, my dear," she said, smiling out of eyes 
 that (for all her little traps and schemings) were 
 very honest eyes, and quite rarely kind, "I will 
 frankly admit that it is not necessary that I should 
 understand anything you do not choose to let me 
 understand." 
 
 ("I believe," thought Ida, "she is simply friend- 
 ly-queer and quaint, but ever so friendly.") And 
 the proud, grave girl thawed instantly. 
 
 "Madame," she said, "I beg your pardon — you 
 made me forget — your Highness. If you had 
 asked me," and she laughed, "plump out, ten min- 
 utes ago, I should have answered straightfor- 
 wardly. But roundabout questions get all they de- 
 serve when they receive roundabout answers — or 
 none. Was Prince Anton forbidden to come here 
 again to take away his picture? Practically yes." 
 
 "I am sure Anton had deserved no such prohibi- 
 tion," cried his mother eagerly. 
 
 "/ am sure you know him well enough to be sure 
 of what you say. But it was no question of desert. 
 He simply asked what was my wish; and I told 
 him." 
 
 "Not to come?" 
 
 "Not to come." 
 
 Ida waited a moment and opened another win- 
 dow. 
 
 "I feel sure," she said, very quietly, "that If you 
 had asked hhn was it his wish that you should come 
 — he would have answered No." 
 
 "You are very direct," the Princess remarked 
 without annoyance, and again smiling. 
 
 "I thought you demanded directness." 
 
 "Anyway, I do not mind it. But I may say that
 
 76 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 you are wrong. Had Anton known that I thought 
 of coming to you, and known why I should wish to 
 come, he would have said, 'Go and God bless 
 you.'" 
 
 Ida shook her head. 
 
 "Of course," added Princess Rudolf, "he could 
 not know. He was clearly resolved to tell me 
 nothing about you — not even your name, nor where 
 you lived. He has broken no faith with you " 
 
 "I am sure he would not." 
 
 ("Ah, ha! my dear. So you did forbid him to 
 tell anyone anything about you!" thought Anton's 
 mother.) 
 
 "I simply knew that someone had given him that 
 picture," she went on, "and I found out after he 
 had gone whence, and from whom it came. So / 
 came." 
 
 Ida's lip did not move, but she looked up, and 
 her eyes certainly asked "Why?" 
 
 ''Because," said the Princess, "I was curious. I 
 wanted to know you. Yes, and to know what you 
 were like. Please understand — I do know my son. 
 He is a very simple person, but he is a prince, and 
 he is not the sort of young man to whom anybody 
 dare offer a splendid gift; I cannot imagine his 
 accepting such a gift from anyone he did not recog- 
 nize as his equal " 
 
 "I certainly am not a princess— " 
 
 "(I know nothing about that. I should cer- 
 tainly believe you if you said you zvere one.) I 
 knew Anton too well to doubt the sort of person 
 you must be. I simply wanted to see — and share. 
 I came without the least misgiving. You under- 
 stand?" 
 
 "Yes, I understand." 
 
 "Anton would have approved, for he would 
 know I could only want to see you in order to — be
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 77 
 
 friends with you. He will approve; for, of course, 
 I shall tell him 1 have been here." 
 
 "I hope you will not." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I would wish that nothing should keep 
 the thought of me in his mind. Neither do I wish 
 to encourage the thought of him in mine." 
 
 "Ah! that is cowardly. Just because he is a 
 prince !" 
 
 The girl looked straight at the prince's mother, 
 and said with remarkable decision: 
 
 "I simply never thought of it. It had nothing 
 in the world to do with it." 
 
 ("She is as proud," thought the Princess, "as 
 proud as the devil.") But she absolutely believed 
 her, and was the more intriguee. 
 
 "It is not because you are a princess," the girl 
 went on, "that I do not accept the friendship you 
 come and offer; though that is different. You are 
 of the Court here, that I cannot be." 
 
 "Is that quite true?" 
 
 "I am Madame Petersen " 
 
 "Is that quite true?" 
 
 The girl turned on her a look that was full of a 
 sudden cold dignity, and the Princess thought she 
 had made a mistake — that Petersen must really be 
 her present name. 
 
 "You may certainly be Madame Petersen," she 
 said laughing, "but you might also be the daughter 
 of — say, a Scottish nobleman." 
 
 "Or of the Grand Lama of Thibet," retorted 
 Ida, without turning a hair. 
 
 "Hardly, my dear. The Grand Lama of Thibet 
 is a monk." 
 
 "Oh is he? Yes. I forgot. Anyway, I can- 
 not be of your Court here, and I iv'iU not be. Will 
 you be angry if I tell you something?"
 
 78 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "No. I like being told things." 
 
 Neither of them could help laughing — it was so 
 patently the fact. 
 
 "Perhaps, though, you will not like this. Un- 
 less you promise to ignore me, to leave me alone, 
 I shall go away." 
 
 "Out of the room!" 
 
 "Further. Out of this place. I came to this 
 place to be alone ; and I confess I find it lonely. 
 Nevertheless I intend to go away unless your High- 
 ness promises to leave me altogether alone." 
 
 "Because I am a princess!" cried her guest — not 
 believing it. 
 
 "Not in the least. Because you are the mother 
 of that particular prince. You might be the 
 mother of the Prince of Wales, and if you were so 
 kind as to offer me your friendship I should con- 
 sent. Pm not particularly frightened of prin- 
 cesses." 
 
 ("She is a British subject anyway," thought 
 Princess Rudolf, "her acme of royalty is ths Prince 
 of Wales' mother.") 
 
 "What is there objectionable in the particular 
 prince of whom I am the mother?" 
 
 "Nothing. You tell me all good of him, and I 
 am delighted to believe it — I do believe it, though 
 I know almost nothing of him. Must I tell you 
 again that I have seen him once, and that not for 
 long." ^ 
 
 "I think he must have seen you more than once." 
 
 "No. He has only seen me once too. Are you 
 trying to force me to explain why I am sure we 
 shall not meet again, and why I neither wish to be 
 specially reminded of him nor that he should be 
 reminded of me?" 
 
 "He will need no reminder. He intends to 
 marry you."
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 79 
 
 "I am sure," the girl answered with calm con- 
 viction, "he did not say so, nor hint it either." 
 
 "He did neither. Nevertheless I know that it 
 IS so. 
 
 "And I know," retorted Ida, "that it is impos- 
 sible." 
 
 "What do you mean?" cried the Princess, with 
 a sudden most chilly qualm. "He is not married 
 already!" 
 
 She certainly knew her son. She did not believe 
 he would have secrets from her. Yet there was 
 plainly a mystery. He had gone away because he 
 was in love, and the girl he loved was here. Then 
 he had been away, off and on, for years. Oh dear! 
 
 "Married, no," said Ida a little too positively 
 for a lady supposed to know so very little about 
 him, "you would know if he were married." 
 
 "Certainly I should. But why, then, is it impos- 
 sible he should marry you? You say it is not be- 
 cause he is a prince." 
 
 Madame Petersen did not answer. Her hand, 
 with many rings upon it, and very splendid rings, 
 lay now upon the chimneypiece. She raised the 
 other hand and took them all off, but one. 
 
 VII 
 
 "But," said the Princess in a low voice, "I don't 
 know why, 1 felt sure you were a widow." 
 
 "I am not. And the man I married is younger 
 than your son, and perfectly well." 
 
 "Oh, my dear! Oh, my dear!" And the kind, 
 queer, indiscreet, romanceful elderly woman's voice 
 was all sympathy and respect. She had not a doubt 
 of the girl, and the girl felt it instantly. Princess 
 Rudolf's eyes brimmed, she could not have said
 
 8o THE TIDEWAY 
 
 » 
 
 why, only she felt herself close, close to a great 
 pain and (she was sure) a great wrong. 
 
 'Oh, my dear!" she cried, almost with a sob. 
 "You need me. You need a friend, and something 
 solid (like me; you see how solid I am!) to lean 
 upon. Don't send me off. Don't send me off." 
 
 "I have told you why." 
 
 "I promise never to tell him." 
 
 "No. But I do not want to remember him 
 either — except as the pleasant, courteous guest of 
 one afternoon. I want him to fade. I only saw 
 him once, and he will fade. ." 
 
 ("Not if I know it," thought the Princess, 
 vehemently. ) 
 
 "Really," the girl ended, "there is no more to 
 say about it. I like you — there. You are not 
 accustomed to be told that — " 
 
 "No indeed. Alas, no." 
 
 "Well, I tell It to you. I do like you. In spite 
 of — in spite of your ways. And I should like well 
 to have your friendship — you are absolutely kind. 
 But I intend to go away." 
 
 "That," protested the Princess, "would be 
 wicked." 
 
 "No. Except that I loathe him I am not 
 wicked." 
 
 "If you loathe him, he deserves It," declared the 
 Princess with robust certainty. 
 
 "See now! While you angled and maneuvered I 
 would tell you nothing. Now I will tell you " 
 
 It was quite Impossible for the Princess to dissem- 
 ble her rapture of anticipation. 
 
 ("She is queer," thought Ida, "is she quite, quite 
 a lady?") Nevertheless she went on. 
 
 "We had been married a little over a month, and 
 he imagined himself still in love. But he was a 
 coward, and I had always thought him brave, andi
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 8i 
 
 had always bent down and worshipped bravery. 
 Because he was afraid for his own life he (as he 
 thought) killed me. That is all." 
 
 "All!" cried the Princess, "isn't it enough?" 
 
 "That," said Ida, who understood perfectly, "is 
 all I am going to tell you." 
 
 A genuine old tear was creeping down the Prin- 
 cess's nose — quite as genuine as her incurable 
 curiosity. 
 
 "I loathe," whispered the girl, shivering, "the 
 very name of him." She had grown horribly pale, 
 and the old awful look had darkened across her 
 ashen face. But for the moment it was the Princess 
 who was looking down into the fire — with greedily 
 listening eyes. She did not in the least realize 
 that for an hour she had been holding on a rack a 
 very sensitive creature, whose pride and resistance 
 had been kept at a sharp tension, who for several 
 days before had been living on another rack, alone, 
 who for many months — nearly two whole years — 
 had been fighting alone a losing fight against a hor- 
 rible nightmare of memory. 
 
 The Princess only heard her say with horror: 
 
 "I loathe the very name of him." 
 
 And, afraid to lift her inquisitive glance, she said 
 innocently, "Why not lay it aside?" 
 
 Ida laughed, and at that sound the Princess did 
 indeed look up, horrified. And the beautiful slim 
 figure collapsed beside her. 
 
 VIII 
 
 "Is there," asked the Princess, "a doctor any- 
 where near here — quite near?" 
 
 "There is. Highness," Madame Petersen's maid 
 replied, "the Herr Doctor at the small house with
 
 82 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 yellow shutters. They say he is clever. He also 
 limps." 
 
 "Send at once for him. Tell them to take my 
 carriage for him, let them bring him back in it. If 
 he is not in, say that they are to drive at once to 
 the Allerheiligen hospital and bring back a doctor." 
 
 The woman curtseyed and went off at once; she 
 almost hoped the Herr Doctor would be out so that 
 the Princess's carriage might have to fetch another 
 out from Helsing for her mistress. But he was not 
 out, and in ten minutes he had arrived — a small, 
 white-faced old man, with, as the maid had said, a 
 heavy limp. The Princess received him in Madame 
 Petersen's dressing-room, a large room, nearly as 
 beautifully furnished as the drawing-room under it, 
 and opening into the actual sleeping room, which was 
 smaller. By that time they had got the patient to 
 bed. 
 
 *'I am so glad you were in, and were able to come 
 at once," said the Princess in English. 
 
 *'I beg your Highness's pardon," said the little 
 man, putting a colorless hand upto his ear. 
 
 ("Ah, ha! So you're a little deaf, and you do 
 not understand English," thought Princess Rudolf; 
 "that is very suitable.") 
 
 Through the open door into the next room the 
 voice of the poor sick lady could be heard moaning 
 and chattering incoherently — in English. 
 
 "I only said," observed the Princess, very gra- 
 ciously, and speaking louder, in German, "that I was 
 so glad you had kindly come at once. I fear 
 Madame Petersen is, or is going to be, very ill. She 
 fainted — quite dead away; wholly collapsed — quar- 
 ter of an hour ago, downstairs in her drawing-room 
 at my side. And she did not recover consciousness, 
 but only started moaning and talking wanderingly. 
 She is very young; a very young widow, and has had
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 83 
 
 great trouble. The loss of her husband was very 
 sudden and attended by terrible circumstances. 
 Come to her." 
 
 After a few minutes the doctor and the princess 
 came out together into the dressing-room. 
 
 "Brain-fever," he declared, without hesitation, 
 "a very delicate organization much overtaxed. I 
 should say there has been long and grievous mental 
 strain. Collapse was inevitable." 
 
 "I am sure you are right.' 
 
 The little Herr Doctor knew very well he was 
 right — he always knew that. But the lady who told 
 him so now was the wife of his Sovereign's brother, 
 and he did not snort; on the contrary he smiled a 
 little tight, crooked smile, and bowed gratefully. 
 
 "Madame Petersen," he said, "must have a 
 nurse." 
 
 ^^Neterlich. You can send one? You know of a 
 suitable one? Madame Petersen is — much es- 
 teemed by me." ("Madame Petersen," said her 
 Highness's manner, "is a lady of importance.") 
 
 "Yes, yes. That is self-understood. Your High- 
 ness, there is my sister-in-law; a widow herself, and 
 since her husband's death she has returned to her 
 profession of nursing. A very capable lady, and 
 much experienced." 
 
 ("I wonder," thought the Princess, "if she is as 
 old as you and as ugly?") 
 
 "If she is very cheerful " she said aloud. 
 
 "She is cheerful. And young, quite young. Say 
 forty. Also she is of a pleasant visage. Also she 
 is at hand, for she is in my house. She, and my 
 wife, and I were at tea when your Highness sent 
 for me." 
 
 "I think, if she could come at once, I would like 
 to wait till she arrives." 
 
 The Princess's carriage took the doctor home,
 
 84 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 and, in quarter of an hour, returned with his sister- 
 in-law. She looked under forty, and was really 
 pleasant, and reasonably good-looking. As she en- 
 tered the dressing-room the Princess rose from a 
 chair with a book in her hand. 
 
 *'I was reading this English novel," she said, 
 smiling, "till you should arrive. It seems charm- 
 ing — no doubt you read English." 
 
 "Alas, no, Highness. I neither read nor talk it 
 — I do not understand it at all. Is that necessary? 
 Does Madame not speak German?" 
 
 "Oh yes. She is not English. But it is her 
 language. She talks German fluently. At present 
 too fluently — she wanders incessantly." 
 
 The Princess had not really been sitting there 
 reading since the little doctor's departure; she had 
 only left Ida's side on hearing the carriage return. 
 Before that she had been very tenderly bathing the 
 girl's burning forehead with Eau de Cologne, and 
 softly smoothing her lovely, but too abundant, hair. 
 Ida never ceased to mutter and chatter. 
 
 "Oh!" she moaned, "why did you and father both 
 die? You wouldn't have let me act, act, act fool- 
 ishly. Especially you. You knew I was foolish. 
 You said so. You know you did. You used to say 
 that. Not crossly, I know. You used not to scold. 
 Father scolded. Sometimes he lost — his temper. 
 He was not gentle. He was good. Yes, I know. 
 Harsh. Sometimes nearly savage. I knew he was 
 good. Only you never frightened me. Didn't I 
 always do what you advised? If you had come 
 back then — then. It's too late now. He has done 
 it now. It can't be altered now. If you had come 
 back then I should have listened. You would have 
 known. You always knew. You would not have 
 let me. I know you would not have let me. He 
 looked so good. You would have known he was
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNES HO RE 85 
 
 bad. It was not in his face. Oh, his face — up 
 above me, looking down, frightened, frightful. Oh ! 
 I was not frightened before — not very much; it was 
 dangerous. Yes, I knew. But I was not terrified 
 till I saw his face. If you had come back in time, 
 it's too late now; it's all done. You would not have 
 let me marry him. I should have listened — really. 
 Yes, though I did worship him. But I should have 
 listened to you. To father, even. You both died. 
 I had nobody. Nobody left. And I wanted some- 
 body. And I loved him then. Till he — oh, his 
 face ! Up above me. Looking down. Peering 
 down. Cruel. Oh ! coward — cruel. Then I grew 
 afraid. I knew. I knew what his face meant. To 
 kill me. To save himself. I knew before I saw the 
 knife. Oh, the mean terror in his face. Like a 
 dog. His lips frothed. He hated me for terror. 
 Oh — when his eyes looked down; the fear in them; 
 the hatred of fear; and the fumbling for the knife. 
 The knife was in his eyes first — before I saw it in 
 his hand. Ah, ah! too late, mother, you cannot 
 wipe him out like that. Ah-h-h." And she fell 
 back with a sudden despairing upward gaze, fell as 
 one falls in nightmare, on to her low, flat pillow. 
 
 "She is m a nightmare," thought the Princess. 
 ''Ah, poor child ! Yes, she feels as if she were fall- 
 ing an immeasurable distance, and it is only on to her 
 pillow. / have had a nightmare like that." 
 
 IX 
 
 Anton von Helsing was in Paris. He had taken 
 up his quarters at a good hotel of established repute, 
 which was not, however, one of the newest, most 
 fashionable and most luxurious. We may call it the 
 Hotel de I'Aigle. 
 
 He was lunching, and at another table not next to
 
 86 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 his own, but opposite to it, another young man was 
 hinching alone. As it happened, at all the other 
 tables there were little parties of two, three or more. 
 The young man opposite was evidently British; his 
 dress, his face, his manner all proclaimed it, and 
 Anton decided that he was of good position, also 
 that he was not much used to Paris, He was tall 
 and stalwart, and though not handsome had a pleas- 
 ant and trustworthy face. The eyes were of a 
 greenish hazel; the hair what is called sandy and not 
 in the least of the color of sand; the mouth rather 
 large, and it carried out the kindly expression of the 
 very clear eyes. The moustache was blonde, and 
 not big. His hands were rather big, strong-looking, 
 and capable. 
 
 When he had finished eating he signed to a waiter, 
 who noted down what he had eaten and drunk, and 
 took the number of his room. Then he asked a 
 question, which Anton overheard, got up and went 
 out. 
 
 Five minutes later Anton went through the same 
 ceremonies. 
 
 In the hall he asked the concierge if he knew the 
 name of No. 31. 
 
 "Oh yes, Highness! The Earl of Solway. An 
 Englishman." 
 
 *'Ah, I felt sure he was English." 
 
 Anton got his hat and went out. Getting into a 
 taxi he said to the man: 
 
 *'Au Salon de Peintres Inconnus, Avenue des 
 Champs Ely sees" 
 
 The gallery was not very large, consisting of two 
 small rooms, and one more spacious. Some of the 
 artists who exhibited there had evidently a macabre 
 taste ; some seemed to be much in want of any taste 
 at all; and some were, one would say, not likely to 
 remain always inconnus.
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 87 
 
 Nearly in the middle of the Grande Salle there 
 was an ottoman, and there Anton sat down, and be- 
 gan to study his catalogue. There were, as yet at 
 all events, very few visitors to the pictures. When 
 therefore Lord Solway came in, as Anton had been 
 waiting for him to do, he saw him at once. Till he 
 had heard him ask the waiter the whereabouts of 
 the Salon de Peintres Inconnus, Anton himself had 
 not thought of visiting it. All the same, he knew the 
 gallery, and had been here before, during other visits 
 to Paris. He himself knew much and cared much 
 about pictures — somehow he had been a little sur- 
 prised to hear that other young man inquiring for 
 this particular gallery, not one well-known to for- 
 eigners, or to persons without any special fondness 
 for art. 
 
 When Lord Solway entered the Grande Salle he 
 held a catalogue open in his hand, and was clearly 
 seeking a number. Having found it he walked 
 straight to the picture. No. 179, without even glanc- 
 ing at any other. From where Anton sat it was 
 quite easy to see at which picture the Scotsman was 
 looking. But it was not so easy to read the number of 
 it. For several minutes the young man stood Intent- 
 ly regarding the picture; and when he turned away 
 the expression of his face was very singular. It was 
 a kindly, good-natured face, but now there was a 
 murderous savage expression in the clear eyes, and 
 the pleasant mouth was very hard-set. 
 
 Anton got up and walked across to the picture, 
 and as he did so the two young men's eyes met for 
 an instant and the prince slightly raised his hat. 
 
 "Oh. You are in my hotel," said the Scotsman. 
 "I saw you at luncheon, at a table near mine." 
 
 "Yes. Of course, I saw you too." 
 
 Anton smiled as he said this, and Lord Solway 
 said :
 
 88 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Are you English?" 
 
 "No, I am Prince Anton of Helsing-Wefssburg. 
 You are Lord Solway? I think I know a relation 
 of yours." 
 
 Having said this he moved on to the picture, and 
 Lord Solway went back to it with him. 
 
 Anton stood opposite it, reading it, as one reads 
 a book: and slowly on his face the expression deep- 
 ened to intensity, quite slowly, for he had to under- 
 stand gradually. Perhaps it was not dark and 
 vengeful as Lord Solway's had been, for anger and 
 loathing had to fight with compassion, and the com- 
 passion was in his case the stronger emotion. 
 
 "I had that painted," said Lord Solway. "It is 
 not by a Frenchman. It was done for me by a Scots 
 artist. And it has been exhibited in many galleries. 
 I had it done for a purpose. And It is advertised 
 for a purpose. Have you read what is under it?" 
 
 At the foot of the picture was a gilt label, on 
 which, in English and French, was the following in- 
 scription in black letters. 
 
 "A noble lady married an ignoble young man. 
 Within a few weeks he and she together went to seek 
 for the eggs of a very rare sea-bird. They de- 
 scended the precipice by means of a knotted rope. 
 When the husband felt the rope unequal to their 
 weight he cut it, beneath himself, and saved him- 
 self." 
 
 "Yes," said Anton. "I have read." 
 
 Both young men continued steadfastly gazing at 
 the picture which represented the scene. 
 
 "It is," said Anton gravely, "her whom I know." 
 
 "But," cried Lord Solway, "you cannot. He 
 killed her." 
 
 He laid his hand on the prince's arm, and Anton 
 felt it tremble. 
 
 "He meant to let her be killed. But she is alive. 
 She is Lady Sylvia Carstairs."
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 89 
 
 "Of course. My cousin. I succeeded her father. 
 I was only twenty then. I was never intimate with 
 him or with her. But I have no sentiment stronger 
 than my loathing for that beast — " and he pointed 
 to the man in the picture. Anton had an even 
 stronger sentiment — pity for the victim of the beast. 
 But he did not say that. 
 
 "How can she be alive?" cried Solway. "Don't 
 you see it is impossible? You" must have met her 
 before." 
 
 "No. I never met her till three weeks ago. She 
 is alive. Hozv I cannot tell. Lord Solway, I do 
 not feel sure yet whether I ought or ought not^ to 
 tell you where she is. I only know that she is living 
 somewhere, and that she hides her identity, that she 
 wishes to conceal her existence. I will think it over, 
 if you will not mind, and this evening if you will 
 come to my room in the hotel I will tell you what I 
 have decided. I am not at all intimate with her, 
 though I respect her most deeply. I would rather 
 say no more at this moment, and I will ask you to 
 leave it at that. Of course you are impatient, per- 
 haps inclined to be angry with me : but I cannot help 
 it. What I feel is this — by an accident I have her 
 secret, and no one else has. I must decide whether 
 I am bound to keep it, though, frankly, I shall prob- 
 ably decide not to keep it from you." 
 
 "I hope you will not. Would you rather I now 
 left you?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so." 
 
 "Very well. Good-by, Prince. I hope you will 
 decide to tell me all you know." 
 
 And Lord Solway lifted his hat and went away. 
 Anton sat down, where he had sat before, to think. 
 For over two hours he sat there, and by that time 
 there were more visitors to the gallery. As he got 
 up at last to go away he saw a young, very hand- 
 some man coming across the gallery, so singularly
 
 90 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 handsome that several people looked at him with 
 almost open admiration. Yet Anton instantly dis- 
 liked him. It was not a bad face at first glance, but 
 something ruined it; a furtive, driven look. The 
 young man did not seem at all vain; you would say 
 that he quite ignored his own really rare beauty; if 
 he was aware that people looked at him with curi- 
 osity, he was certainly not delighted by it. His man- 
 ner was at once irresolute and harried. He was 
 extremely slim, and not tall, very light in weight, no 
 doubt. He walked with a queer indetermination, 
 almost zigzagging, as he went across and across the 
 gallery. "Like a mosquito," thought Anton. Once 
 he got quite close to No. 179, and Anton thought he 
 was going to look at it, but he didn't. Three other 
 people stood opposite it, and he turned sharply away 
 and crossed the room. Presently there was no one 
 by No. 179, and he turned as sharply as before and 
 zigzagged across the gallery, so that till he had actu- 
 ally brought himself to it you could not have told 
 whether he really meant to go and look at it or no. 
 But he did go this time, and he devoured the picture 
 with his haggard, splendid eyes. 
 
 "It was for that," thought Anton, "that Solway 
 had it painted. Incredible that it should have suc- 
 ceeded." 
 
 There was no one at all near No. 179 now except 
 the singularly handsome young man. Anton 
 watched, but did not seem to watch. Not till the 
 man who devoured the picture turned away did An- 
 ton walk up to him and say : 
 
 "Isn't it a pity the painter did not make the faces 
 portraits?" 
 
 "Oh! I don't know. Yes, of course. But the 
 picture would have had to be so large." 
 
 The gallery was closing, and there was a small 
 crowd round the door. Anton kept close to the
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 91 
 
 stranger, without this being very marked, as they 
 had to wait for the people in front to get out. 
 
 "You," remarked Anton, "are not the only person 
 specially interested in No. 179 this afternoon. 
 There " 
 
 "Oh, I'm not at all interested in it. It is macabre 
 and I don't admire the sort of thing. I came to 
 look at 203. A friend of mine painted it." 
 
 It was a bad shot. 
 
 "Ah," said Anton, "Jean Berthel's picture. It 
 has been here five years." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know that. He told me." 
 
 "Your friends, Monsieur, are unlucky. He also 
 is dead." 
 
 The people in front had mostly got out now, and 
 the stranger pushed on. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he said, "of course he's dead " 
 
 "I supposed he told you." 
 
 The handsome stranger had edged between two 
 slightly indignant ladies, and was quite close to the 
 door. But there they made him wait his turn, and 
 Anton managed to get close to him again. 
 
 "The other men interested in No. 179," he said 
 over the wretched stranger's shoulder, "who visited 
 it to-day are myself and — Lord Solway." 
 
 "He is in Paris?" The words were simply 
 blurted out by sheer surprise and worry. 
 
 "Oh, yes! Shall I give him a rendezvous from 
 you? I'm sure he would wish to see you. He is in 
 Paris on purpose to see the picture — but I know, 
 Mr. Garioch, he would like to see you, too." 
 
 X 
 
 As soon as Anton had returned to the Hotel de 
 I'Aigle he asked if Lord Solway was in.
 
 92 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "No, Highness. But he said he should dine here, 
 and he must be in shortly." 
 
 "Will you please ask him, as soon as he returns, 
 to come to my room?" 
 
 Half an hour later Lord Solway knocked at the 
 Prince's door. 
 
 "1 am not immediately going to tell you," said 
 Anton, "where I met Lady Sylvia Garioch, or how 
 it comes about that I know anything of her history. 
 Simply because I have something else to tell you. 
 Garioch is in Paris." 
 
 Lord Solway, who had only just sat down, jumped 
 up again and said: "Where? How do you know?" 
 
 "I know because I saw him. I did not know him 
 by sight — I had never seen him. But for meeting 
 you I should not have known who he was when I did 
 see him. It has all happened most wonderfully. 
 My meeting with you here was purely accidental; I 
 had never imagined I should meet you. Then you 
 told me how you had had that picture painted, and 
 that you had done that for a purpose, and had it 
 exhibited in many places, and its whereabouts adver- 
 tised for the same purpose. It was not hard to 
 guess the purpose. You were in hopes he would 
 be drawn, compelled, to go and look at it. . . ." 
 
 "Yes, that was my purpose." 
 
 "Strange to say it succeeded. He came to look 
 at it this afternoon. I was still there. I watched 
 everyone who looked at it, but only he looked at it 
 in any fashion at all remarkable. I spoke to him, 
 and let him see I knew the story; I stuck to him and 
 bothered him, and told him yoii were in Paris, and 
 would like to see him. By that time I was sure it 
 was he, and I called him by his name; then I was still 
 surer. All the way down the steps of the gallery 
 I stuck to him, talking, and telling him you were de- 
 termined to meet him. I think he was nearly mad
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 93 
 
 before he got off. There was only one taxi outside 
 and he jumped into it — it had evidently brought him 
 there, and was waiting for him. 
 
 "To where we came from," he told the driver, 
 and the man went off at once," 
 
 "So you lost him." 
 
 "For a time, yes. But I got another cab very 
 soon, and told my man he was to drive up the 
 Avenue and see if he could pick up No. 1266 that 
 was ahead. I said if he did I would give him fifty 
 francs over and above whatever fare there might 
 be to pay. Well he did pick it up, close to the Place 
 de I'Etoile. 'Now follow,' I told him. And he 
 did — down the Avenue Friedland, and back into 
 Paris: finally to the Hotel Mercedes, a rather mis- 
 erable place in the Rue St. Anne. There he got out 
 and paid the man, and went in. I did not let my 
 man stop, but went on to the end of the street. 
 There I got rid of him and went back: Garioch had 
 not come out again. He was still inside the hotel. 
 I reconnoitered and saw he was not in the entrance, 
 and went in myself. I asked the concierge if a 
 Lord Edinburgh was staying there, a friend of mine 
 who had written to say he was coming to Paris and 
 would descend at the Hotel Mercedes. The man 
 was flattered: it is not at all a sort of place where 
 lords would come : and he pretended not to be quite 
 sure. 'There is,' he said, on examining the list, 'a 
 Scottish gentleman, M. MacAlistair — but no, all 
 our other guests are French. If milord Edinburgh 
 arrives shall I say that Monsieur called to see him?' 
 I said, 'Yes,' and at that moment Garioch came hur- 
 riedly downstairs into the hall. He looked worse 
 than ever. At sight of me he stopped and turned 
 crimson. 'Monsieur,' said the concierge, 'calls to 
 inquire for his friend milord Edinburgh, whose 
 arrival at the Hotel Mercedes he expects,'
 
 94 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Garioch lost his head and cried fiercely: 
 
 " 'There is no Lord Edinburgh. It is a lie. 
 That man is a spy.' The concierge was a bit taken 
 aback; but I did not look guilty and Garioch did. 
 
 " 'Nonsense,' I said calmly, "I am not a spy. I 
 am Prince Anton of Helsing-Weissburg.' And ^ 
 took out a card-case with a crowned cypher on it 
 and gave the concierge one of my cards. 'You are 
 quite welcome to find out all about me at the Ger- 
 man Embassy if you like,' I told him ; 'in fact, to go 
 there with me now. As to your M. MacAlistair, 
 his real name is Garioch, and I advise you to look 
 after him. He committed a horrible crime — and 
 you can see for yourself that he knows I speak the 
 truth.' Garioch indeed looked appalling. But 
 with a fierce exclamation he turned and went upstairs 
 again. I doubt very much If the concierge will let 
 him go out without seeing where he goes." 
 
 In this Anton was wrong. When he and Lord 
 Solway went to the Hotel Mercedes they were told 
 that M. MacAlistair had paid his bill and left. 
 
 "I was not sorry," said the concierge. "If he Is 
 really a criminal we do not want him here. But 
 neither do we want to have him arrested here, nor 
 to have his name connected with our hotel. That 
 sort of reclame we do not desire." "Of course, It 
 seemed as If Garioch was quite lost to us. But, as 
 I left the hotel a young waiter came after me, on 
 pretence of opening the door for me. He came 
 outside on to the step, and said. 'Attene, I took 
 the number of the taxi, It was 8906 : and he told the 
 driver to go to the Gare St. Lazare.' I tipped the 
 fellow and came on here to get you. There Is no 
 train for England from St. Lazare till 9.20; that 
 is via Dieppe : ordinarily speaking there is the 7.47 
 via Havre, but to-night that train does not run 
 because of an accident to a bit of the line that is
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 95 
 
 flooded. I happened to read that in a paper 
 this morning. Shall we go to the Gare St. 
 Lazare?" 
 
 "Yes. Can you come at once?" 
 
 The young men went off together, without waiting 
 to eat anything: and in less than ten minutes were at 
 the Gare St. Lazare. They went to the ticket-office 
 for the Dieppe line and Anton asked for a ticket for 
 London. 
 
 "It is only eight o'clock," said the man, "the train 
 is not till 9.20. 
 
 "Oh very well. I will not take the ticket yet 
 then. I really want to travel with a friend, I sup- 
 pose he has not asked for a ticket yet — a very singu- 
 larly handsome gentleman, English, with a green 
 tie." 
 
 "He wanted a ticket for the 7.47 to Havre: and 
 I told him the train does not run to-night. He 
 arrived in good time for it, soon after six o'clock. 
 I noticed him, because he is so handsome as Mon- 
 sieur says, and also because he looked very ill — a 
 par pres abime. And he was excited." 
 
 "There," said Anton, turning away. "I did not 
 really want a ticket. But I have found out that he 
 really came here. My waiter at the Hotel de 
 I'Aigle did not lie. The question is did he stay 
 here? He would probably go to the Bureau de ren- 
 seignments here and find out if there were an earlier 
 train than the 9.20 from here at some other station. 
 Let us ask." 
 
 They did ask, and found that the gentleman, who 
 spoke French badly, had inquired as Anton had 
 guessed. 
 
 "I told him," said the man, "that there was the 
 9 o'clock from the Gare du Nord. But he seemed 
 nearly fou to find there was nothing earlier. For 
 some minutes he walked most impatiently up and
 
 96 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 down the Grande Salle, then he disappeared — per- 
 haps to get dinner." 
 
 For nearly half an hour Anton and Solway walked 
 about the huge station, but there was no sign of 
 Garioch. 
 
 "We may as well," said Anton, "sit down at one 
 of the tables of the buffet out here in the hall and 
 pass some of the time away dining. It won't be a 
 very nice dinner. But we can see a good deal from 
 there." 
 
 So they took a table, out in the great hall, and 
 watched all who came up the stairs close to them. 
 Garioch might not come up by them, of course, for 
 there are two other stairways leading up from the 
 entrance. But, as it happened, he did come : it was 
 then nearly nine o'clock; and his first glance was 
 towards the clock. iVlmost instantly he looked at 
 the crowd of little tables and his eyes fell on Anton 
 and Solway. His face was quite colorless, and his 
 mouth twitched : the driven look was now far more 
 terrible, and his eyes had a hunted, quite desperate 
 expression. He turned sharply and ran down the 
 stairs, jostling against many of those who were com- 
 ing up. 
 
 "Solway," said Anton, "I had better do the pay- 
 ing here. I shall manage it quicker. You can go 
 after him. I will follow." 
 
 Lord Solway went off at once, but half way down 
 the stairs he was at fault: the stairs turned to the 
 right into the lower hall of the station, but on the 
 left was an opening into the Rue d'Amsterdam that 
 runs uphill alongside. There was no sign of Gari- 
 och — by which way had he gone? 
 
 Solway decided to go out into the street, and go 
 down it as quickly as possible to the station entrance 
 gates: it was almost certain that by hurrying he 
 would reach them before Garioch could pass out that 
 way.
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNES HO RE 97 
 
 When Garioch reached the gates — he had gone 
 down into the courtyard of the station — he saw Sol- 
 way standing on the curb outside watching for him. 
 He turned abruptly and saw the prince coming 
 towards him. He stood still, waivered, and turned 
 again. Someone cried out and in a moment a large 
 and heavy motor had knocked him down and passed 
 over him. 
 
 He was not killed outright, but horribly crushed, 
 and the blood spurted from his mouth. Almost 
 immediately he died. 
 
 XI 
 
 "Now," said Anton, "I will tell you all I know." 
 
 He and Solway were sitting by the fire in the 
 prince's room, and it was past midnight. 
 
 The story was not very long. 
 
 "You see," he ended, "I cannot tell you how she 
 comes to be alive. That she must tell us. But this 
 I will tell you — if I can induce her, some day, to 
 accept me, I will marry her. There is another 
 thing to say; I have letters from my mother, I found 
 them here when I came in this afternoon : and she 
 writes that Lady Sylvia — 'Madame Petersen' — is 
 very ill indeed, with brain-fever. But at the end 
 of her second letter, for two arrived together, she 
 says that Madame seemed better, though not yet 
 out of danger. I shall return at once to Helsing. 
 Would you like to come with me?" 
 
 "Certainly I would, but you understand that I do 
 not know my cousin well. Oh ! and you must re- 
 member I came here hurriedly and have not with 
 me exactly the clothes for introduction to a princely 
 household." 
 
 Of course Prince Anton assured him that that did 
 not matter, though it is unlikely that any one of his 
 brothers would have thought so, and it was agreed 
 that they should start together the next morning.
 
 98 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 When they reached Helsing it was over a fortnight 
 since the day on which Madame Petersen had been 
 taken ill, and she was no longer in danger. The 
 little doctor had really been skillful and his sister 
 had proved a most devoted and capable nurse. 
 Princess Rudolf had come to see her patient every 
 day, and after the second day the girl had fully 
 recognized her, and had entirely ceased to wander 
 in her mind and talk. She had been disposed from 
 the first to like the Princess, though she did not al- 
 together approve of her, and long before Anton 
 and Solway arrived she had learned to be very fond 
 of her. 
 
 "You really are like my own mother," the girl 
 assured her, "while I was light-headed I thought 
 it was my mother come back again. Yet I knew, all 
 the time, that she was dead." 
 
 "If your mother," declared the Princess laugh- 
 ing, "was like me, it is not from her that you in- 
 herit your beauty." 
 
 On the following afternoon "Madame Petersen" 
 was downstairs for the first time, and she found her 
 drawing-room full of beautiful flowers. As she had 
 only one friend in Helsing, it was not hard to guess 
 whence they came, and as soon as the Princess ar- 
 rived she thanked her. 
 
 "Oh, I sent them on Anton's behalf," his 
 mother said cheerfully, "as he isn't here yet to send 
 them for himself." 
 
 The girl knew at once by her tone that he was 
 coming, and a little flush crept over her pale face. 
 
 "He hasn't been away long this time," the 
 Princess went on. "I hadn't expected him so soon. 
 But he will be here to-night." She meant at the 
 Chalet, but intended Madame Petersen to think, 
 as she did think, that he would only arrive at Hel- 
 sing that night. He was already at Helsing, and 
 Princess Rudolf now knew all he could tell her.
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 99 
 
 "He has," she went on cheerfully, "a traveling 
 companion who knows you — not very intimately 
 though he is a relation." 
 
 "Knows me? Prince Anton traveling with some- 
 body who knows me. How can the Prince know 
 that." 
 
 "The Prince knows all sorts of things. My dear, 
 it is best to make no mysteries. There is no longer 
 any occasion for them. Lord Solway is with him." 
 
 "Lord Solway!" 
 
 "Yes. And I must say you have behaved rather 
 badly in reference to a very kind man." 
 
 "But he must have thought I was dead." 
 
 "Exactly. And you aren't. Now, my dear Syl- 
 via, he and Anton have important news. They, or 
 one of them, will tell it to you in full when you are 
 strong enough to hear it in full. But I intend to tell 
 you myself in part, and whether the Herr Doctor 
 would allow me to do so, if he knew, I cannot tell. I 
 take it on myself. For it concerns things of which 
 the Herr Doctor knows nothing. No one knows ex- 
 cept Anton, and Lord Solway, and L It is seldom 
 news, but I am not hypocrite enough to pretend that 
 is bad news. You are alive, and someone else is 
 dead." 
 
 The girl's eyes were fastened on her face. 
 
 "Who?" she whispered, laying a hand on the 
 Princess's arm. 
 
 "Your husband." And Princess Rudolf watched, 
 not without much trepidation, the effect of her 
 words. The girl's eyes filled with tears which did 
 not fall, and she looked away into the red heart of 
 the fire. Her lips moved soundlessly, and she bent 
 her lovely head a little. 
 
 The kind, queer, rash, and tactless Princess 
 slipped to the floor, and knelt beside her, caressing 
 her softly. 
 
 "How do you know," the girl said, suddenly,
 
 loo THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "who my husband was? That he, who you say is 
 dead, was my husband?" 
 
 "You married David Garioch of Duners. He is 
 dead. Anton and Lord Solway saw him dead. 
 7 here is no mistake." 
 
 Sylvia looked back at the fire and sighed. 
 
 "I have longed to be free from him — from the 
 thought of him," she said simply. "And nothing 
 could free me. Now that I am free — " she paused 
 an instant and went on, "it is like the end of a night- 
 mare. While it lasted 1 could only loathe him. Now 
 it is over I do not loathe him any more. Is that not 
 odd? For his being dead makes no difference to 
 what he did." 
 
 "He killed you — as he thought and meant — to 
 save his own mean life?" 
 
 "Yes. If he had wanted to kill me because he 
 hated me it would not have been so bad. It was 
 the meanness and cowardice that made him loath- 
 some to me. I doubt if he was wicked. Simply a 
 coward. I do not know, but I think I could have 
 pardoned any wickedness." 
 
 "My dear, you are a woman. We are all like 
 that." 
 
 "Well, now I can pardon that, too. Death ends 
 it. There is no meanness in death." 
 
 After a while she spoke again. 
 
 "It is odd. All these months and months that 
 make up over two years his face has been madden- 
 ning me, as I saw it that last time. Now it is gone. 
 I can only remember it as I saw it the first day we 
 ever met. He was quite wonderfully handsome." 
 
 "So Anton says." 
 
 "Ah! He is here?" 
 
 "Yes, he is here." 
 
 "Please, do not let him come to me. I want 
 to be quite well before I see him." 
 
 "He shall not come till you are well, Sylvia "
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE loi 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Will you tell me how it is you were not killed.'' 
 I know all the rest." 
 
 The girl sighed again and said: 
 
 "When he cut the rope, just above my hands, I 
 fell, fell, fell. And he could see me no more. There 
 was a vehement wind, and it blew me, hither and 
 thither, like a rag, and, of course, I was falling 
 lower all the time, but not straight down. I fell 
 at last into the sea, quite out, and clear of the rocks. 
 I can swim very well, but I could not swim at once; 
 If my clothes had not buoyed me up I suppose 
 I should have drowned. When I could strike 
 out I did so, and I swam a good way. I was 
 tired out when a boat picked me up — a small cargo- 
 boat. I told them I had swam out too far and been 
 caught by a current; that I was not of Shetland, but 
 of Scotland, which was true; but had been staying 
 in Shetland — that was true too^ The boat was 
 Norse, but the skipper talked English quite well. 
 He said they were bound for Dundee, and thence 
 home to Norway, and I asked him to give me pass- 
 age to Dundee; I had five or six pounds in my 
 pocket, and I showed them to him. He said he 
 would not want any payment — he was a very nice 
 young man, kind and respectful. When I insisted 
 on paying, he said a pound would cover all I should 
 eat. The rings on my fingers were worth hundreds 
 of pounds, but I had no need to think of selling 
 them yet. At Dundee I was not far from my own 
 house, left to me by my father. And I went there. 
 It was the middle of afternoon when I arrived and 
 all the doors and windows were open, and no one 
 seemed to be about. I went in from the garden 
 through the door of my own little sitting-room, and 
 in a queer Indian cabinet I knew I should find the 
 key of my bureau. The cabinet Itself was locked, 
 but the lock was weak and poor, and I easily prised
 
 I02 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 it open with the penknife on my writing table. In 
 the bureau in a secret drawer were the keys of my 
 safe. The safe was not in that room, but in what 
 had been my father's bedroom, and it was hidden 
 behind the oak panels, and no one but myself knew 
 where it was, or how to open the panel. Well, I 
 kept upstairs, and met no one. That was natural 
 enough, as no servant ever used the front stairs, and 
 I think they were all out In the hayfield amusing 
 themselves " 
 
 "But had no one seen you before you reached your 
 house?" 
 
 "Several people, but I had dressed myself in very 
 deep, but very common mourning, such as a crofter's 
 widow would wear, and my face was covered with 
 thick crape. It was only at the little station any- 
 one saw me even thus. Thence I walked through 
 the wood, and met no one ; the wood runs right up 
 to the shrubberies. Well, in my safe I knew I 
 should find plenty of money. And I took it all — 
 about six hundred pounds; also I took all my dia- 
 monds, and some splendid rubles that had been my 
 mother's. I took it all. I was determined to dis- 
 appear, and I would not tell my agents or bankers. 
 I was ashamed. I went back to Dundee and took 
 a passage to Norway. But I could not bear the 
 high cliffs and the sea. It made me think of Shet- 
 land. I stayed a while at Bergen. Thence I went 
 to Christiania, where I sold a very few diamonds. 
 Thence to Stockholm, where I sold more. Thence 
 to Copenhagen, where I sold more. After a while 
 I went to Paris, where I sold a lot. There I read 
 by chance of the Duneshore, and made up my mind 
 to go and see it. I seem to stifle away from the 
 sea, and yet I could not abide any sea where there 
 are rocks and high precipices. I did not see why 
 my money should not last, I had so many jewels.
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 103 
 
 Of course, I have plenty left — plenty of money, I 
 mean, and of jewels, too. I spent about three hun- 
 dred pounds furnishing this little house, and it only 
 cost five hundred to buy; to live here costs only 
 about three hundred a year, not much more. It 
 has not tired me to tell you all this, it has rested 
 me. I am not a secret person by nature, and all this 
 secrecy was a strain. I am glad to be at the end 
 of it. Now, please, how did you find out anything 
 about me?" 
 
 "Anton found out. He must tell you himself. 
 It is rather a strange story, so simple and yet so 
 unlikely. When I came here that first day, I had 
 not the least idea who you were; Anton knew, or 
 suspected, but he never told me." 
 
 "Why did you come?" 
 
 "To see you for myself. I knew you could be no 
 ordinary person." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because Anton would not have gone away at the 
 bidding of an ordinary person." 
 
 "I never bade him go away. I only said that I 
 did not wish to see him again." 
 
 "That was civil!" 
 
 "It was not civil or uncivil. It was true." 
 
 "And I know why you wouldn't let him come 
 again. I did not dare to ask him, but I knew. That 
 was why I came here. You were afraid of him." 
 
 "And of myself." 
 
 "Exactly. Now you need not be afraid. There 
 is no great harm in being a Princess, though it bores 
 me to pieces at times." { 
 
 Sylvia's face again flushed; she liked the Princess, 
 and yet she was also saying things that the girl 
 disliked. 
 
 "Will you tell me," Princess Rudolf asked, who 
 saw that she had annoyed the girl, and wanted to
 
 104 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 change the subject, "how It was that there was so 
 much money in your safe. Six hundred pounds seems 
 a good lot to have in notes and cash in a safe." 
 
 "I always kept a good deal. There is no bank 
 very near the House of Carstairs, and it gave 
 my people trouble paying them by check. I paid 
 wages in notes or cash. Then we were going 
 abroad, and I had the money for that. It seemed 
 very odd taking it away and slinking off with it like 
 that — as if I were stealing if from myself. I won- 
 der how Prince Anton came to know who I was." 
 
 "Ah, he must tell you. Of course he only sus- 
 pected at first. The confirmation of his suspicions 
 came about very strangely. What / wonder is how 
 that other man got away, why he wasn't arrested 
 at once." 
 
 "I do not even know whether it Is a crime in the 
 eyes of the law to do — what he did — to save one's 
 own life. But in a newspaper in Dundee I read 
 about my own disappearance and his. We had been 
 seen going to the rocks, and after that no one saw us 
 together. After — after I was gone he must have 
 climbed up, by the knots in the rope. He never 
 went back to Duners, but walked to a little place 
 called St. Olaf's and there he hired a boat that took 
 him to the island called the Mainland. He took 
 passage thence from Lenvich to Thurso, and after 
 that all trace of him was lost. It was in the morn- 
 ing the — thing — happened. It was only quite late 
 in the afternoon they began to search about, and 
 finally they found the rope, and saw that it had been 
 cut with a knife. It seemed very grim to read of 
 their efforts to find my body." 
 
 "Why did you call yourself Madame Petersen?" 
 
 "It was the name of the cargo-boat that picked me 
 up, and I took it. When I opened an account at a 
 bank here they asked me to sign my name in a book,
 
 THE LADY OF THE DUNESHORE 105 
 
 and I had to invent a Christian name and I chose Ida 
 at haphazard — it was the name of the heroine in a 
 novel I had been reading that very day." 
 
 "And, if Anton had not found you out, would you 
 have lived here always, buried alive on the Dune- 
 shore?" 
 
 "I suppose so. I meant to." 
 
 "And your property — did you never think what 
 would become of it?" 
 
 "No. On my marriage I settled it all upon him. 
 He had very little of his own, just the little estate 
 in Shetland and scarcely anything besides. It didn't 
 matter: I was rich, for the estates that went with 
 the title were the least part of what my father had: 
 my mother's estates, and my grandmother's, he could 
 leave to me and he did. Even though I was dead 
 Lord Solway would have no claim to them. I had 
 the right to do as I chose with them — " 
 
 There came a ring and she stopped talking hastily. 
 
 "My dear," said the Princess, "it is only the lit- 
 tle doctor, and if I were not myself, he would give 
 me a wigging. I know he will think I have let you 
 talk too much. That's one good in being a princess, 
 one doesn't get wiggings — not from doctors." 
 
 But later on the doctor told her Highness that his 
 patient was altogether better. 
 
 "I find in her," he explained, "the removal of an 
 incubus. The incubus had not been removed by her 
 previous recovery. The collapse itself ended the 
 strain — ended it in collapse. And that collapse 
 might have ended everything — her life, or her rea- 
 son. But it did not. Physically and mentally she 
 is strong, and her youth and strength saved her. 
 But as she recovered I noted the presence of that 
 which I call an incubus. I noted it with misgiving: 
 for if it remained her recovery would never have 
 been sure and complete. Now I am convinced that
 
 io6 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 it has been removed. It strikes me that your High- 
 ness has helped her as much as either doctor or 
 nurse." 
 
 Princess Rudolf doubted very much if he would 
 have said as much had she not been the wife of the 
 little doctor's Sovereign. But she had no objection 
 to compliments, and she happened to believe that 
 he was right. 
 
 "All the same," she told her son that night, "you 
 must not see her yet, nor Lord Solway either. Let 
 her grow used to the knowledge that you are here." 
 
 In reality she was much less patient than her son: 
 and he had been to the Chalet Ferdinand many 
 times before he had any satisfactory response to 
 give to her eager demand. 
 
 "Anything to report?"
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 
 
 I DARESAY," said Raymond d'Argnes to himself, 
 "it isn't the proper thing," — but he did it. 
 That is to say he sat down upon one of the benches 
 in the Champs Elysees. And he sat down because 
 he found himself more tired by a very moderate 
 amount of walking than he had expected. 
 
 It will be obvious from his uncertainty as to the 
 correctness or incorrectness of sitting down in the 
 Champs Elysees that he was not Parisian; nor was 
 he, in spite of his name, French. Though his fam- 
 ily came from Normandy it was English : if eight 
 centuries and a half in England could make it so. 
 
 He sat down and laid on the seat beside him the 
 walking stick that he had found more necessary than 
 he had thought it would be. He turned to his right 
 and looked upon the long perspective of the most 
 splendid avenue in any city in the world as it curved 
 up to the magnificent Arch of Triumph, beneath 
 which only troops returning from victory may pass. 
 Turning to his left he saw the avenue end in the 
 vast open space that has had so many names — Place 
 Louis Quinze, Place de la Paix de la Revolution 
 and, at last and still, Place de la Concorde — in 
 whose midst stands the Egyptian monolith on the 
 spot where the ancient monarch of France was mar- 
 tyred. 
 
 Then he glanced with half-inattentive eyes at the 
 stream of folk passing either way. Of the men, at 
 least nine in ten were French soldiers, and it seemed 
 to him that nine in ten were wounded. There was 
 a real poilu, not absolutely young but seeming older 
 by reason of his hirsute and shaggy chin and neck. 
 
 107
 
 io8 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 But there were many more to whom the term pollu 
 could only be applied generally, quite young, smart, 
 well-shorn and shaven, nearly all handsome, all with 
 expressive faces. The women, except the very poor- 
 est, were almost all in mourning; but Raymond 
 thought with relief that in France deep mourning 
 is worn for relations that in England would not be 
 considered very near. 
 
 Two ladies passed quite near his seat at a moment 
 when there was a sort of gap in the stream; and 
 perhaps for half a minute no one else had gone by 
 down the broad walk, though there were strollers 
 under the trees behind him. 
 
 The ladies might be mother and daughter; the 
 elder not more than forty-five, if so much; the 
 younger twenty, perhaps. Both were rather tall, 
 and there was a resemblance in their figures, as in 
 their walk and manner, as frequently happens in the 
 case of members of the same family who are con- 
 stantly in each other's company. They were talk- 
 ing, as they passed, and their voices, he thought, 
 had the same tone ; but that might have been his 
 fancy, for they did not speak loudly. They spoke 
 French, and French they undoubtedly were. 
 
 The elder lady glanced at him, not as she went 
 by, but just before they came up, and he could see 
 that she noted he was wounded. For a fraction of 
 a moment his eyes and the lady's met, then she 
 turned hers away; but even in that instant she some- 
 how conveyed the impression of sympathy and re- 
 spect. It did not amount to a smile, even the grav- 
 est smile; it was rather like an effort to restrain a 
 motherly benison. The younger lady, he imagined, 
 had not noticed his presence at all. His eyes still 
 followed them when they had gone by. Then his 
 eyes dropped, and he saw on the ground, six paces 
 from his seat, a very small case, probably a card-
 
 OLD WINE AND NEPV BOTTLES 109 
 
 case. He had no doubt at all to whom it belonged; 
 only one of the two ladies could have dropped it. 
 It had not been there before they passed. He im- 
 mediately got up, and having picked it up, went 
 after them. The case was quite small, of polished 
 leather, hard, and with a fine grain in it, and dyed 
 green — almost like the old-fashioned shagreen; in 
 one corner was a tiny coronet. 
 
 The ladies walked quickly, and he had to do the 
 same, but he found his knee more painful and he 
 limped a little. Still he did not doubt he would 
 overtake them. Unfortunately it began to rain and 
 quite heavily. He could see the two ladies in front, 
 but he saw also that they were going to take a taxi. 
 He felt he must do the same, and so looked about 
 for one. 
 
 A dozen were hurrying towards the Arch of Tri- 
 umph, but all were occupied; several passed in the 
 other direction, but they also were occupied. The 
 two ladies had found one free and had taken it. 
 
 "I must catch them," he thought, "perhaps there's 
 money in this case." 
 
 Presently a taxi swerved in towards the curb, and 
 Raymond saw that an observant French soldier had 
 understood his predicament, and had signalled it. 
 The young cuirassier smiled and Raymond thanked 
 him. 
 
 " 'Tis nothing," said the soldier. "Monsieur was 
 half occupied looking after the two ladies who went 
 away in the other taxi. I happened to see this one 
 coming and free." He opened the door and shut it, 
 with another pleasant smile, when Raymond got in, 
 then he saluted. 
 
 "Follow that other taxi," the cuirassier said to 
 the driver, "monsieur wishes to overtake it." With 
 a final smile he turned av/ay, quite happy in the be- 
 lief that he was assisting at a little romance. The
 
 no THE TIDEJVAY 
 
 driver had not argued, he did not object. "There 
 are forty taxis — which taxi?" but pushed down his 
 label and made off. He picked up the other taxi, 
 and soon drew near enough to note the number. 
 Then perhaps he thought he might as well not make 
 the journey too short; possibly he could have over- 
 taken it sooner. It turned at the Place de la Con- 
 corde towards the Hotel Clisson, and there were 
 many others making the same sweep to the left. It 
 turned again left, towards the Madeleine, where 
 there was much more traffic. Passing the big 
 church, it took the left still and went swiftly along 
 the Boulevard Malesherbes, where the traffic, still 
 considerable, was not so great, and the pursued taxi 
 was easier to pick out. The shower had stopped, 
 and the glistening pavement was no longer wetted 
 with heavy splashes of rain. At the open place in 
 front of the Church of St. Augustine the taxi con- 
 taining the two ladies again took the left, and bore 
 uphill towards the group of rather solemn, old-fash- 
 ioned but highly respectable, squares of tall houses. 
 Into one of them It turned and drew up about the 
 middle of the west side. 
 
 Raymond's taxi drew In just behind It; he got out 
 and paid the man. The two ladies were standing 
 upon the still wet and shining pavement. 
 
 "Claire," the elder lady was saying, "have you 
 any money? I had some in my card-case, but I 
 can't find it. ..." 
 
 "Madame," said Raymond, limping forward, "it 
 is here. Madame dropped it in the Champs Elysees 
 soon after passing the place where I was sitting, 
 and I saw it and . . . here it is." 
 
 "And you have taken so much trouble to follow 
 us," said the lady, smiling, and her smile was just 
 what Raymond expected — gracious, friendly and 
 sincere.
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BO TTLES 1 1 1 
 
 "That," declared the young man, smiling, too, 
 "was common honesty." 
 
 "Perhaps. But extreme courtesy." 
 
 She had taken the little case from his hand, and 
 had drawn from it a note and offered it to the taxi- 
 driver. 
 
 "Madame, it is for a hundred francs. I have not 
 change enough." 
 
 "Would you allow me to pay him, madame?" 
 Raymond suggested. And he stepped forward and 
 did so without waiting a verbal permission. 
 
 "And now," said the lady, "that you have paid 
 him, comes my common honesty. I must pay you. 
 Will you come in and I will get change?" 
 
 Raymond was delighted, and followed the two 
 ladies to the door of the large, somewhat austere 
 looking house. Over the entrance was a shield of 
 arms, surmounted by the same coronet as he had 
 seen upon the card-case. When he had rung, the 
 door was opened by an aged man-servant, and all 
 three passed in. The hall was wide and high, and 
 flagged with squares of black and white marble; 
 the stairs were very broad and shallow; one could 
 easily have ridden up them. At the head of them 
 was a gallery hung with portraits, large and impos- 
 ing, evidently representing distinguished person- 
 ages, mostly in court dress. From the gallery sev- 
 eral wide and tall doors opened, and through one 
 of them Madame led the way into a spacious salon. 
 
 "And now," said the lady, "let me pay you my 
 debt of thanks. . . . The other little debt I could 
 have paid downstairs, for old Jean has always plenty 
 of money ! But I preferred to give you the further 
 trouble of coming up here that T might thank you 
 less hurriedly." 
 
 "What I did was nothing," protested Raymond. 
 "My only fear was lest my taxi should miss yours.
 
 112 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 If it had, I would have looked for your card In- 
 side." 
 
 "But the address is not on the cards — only Hotel 
 d'Argnes." 
 
 Raymond's eyes lighted with a look of surprise. 
 
 "You say, madame," he asked, "that this house is 
 the Hotel d'Argnes?" 
 
 "Yes; I am Madame d'Argnes." 
 
 "That is odd," he said smiling, "for if my mother 
 were in France she would also be Madame 
 d'Argnes." 
 
 "Really ! That is interesting. But — if you are 
 not in a great hurry — will you not sit down? You 
 ought not to stand long, for I see you are wounded." 
 
 "Oh, I am nearly quite well. I was wounded in 
 the knee weeks ago. I am in hospital at Versailles, 
 and they gave me leave to come to Paris to see my 
 half-brother, who is in an embassy, but I found he 
 had gone to Chantilly; so I was strolling about." 
 
 The old butler had reappeared, and was setting 
 out little tables for tea. 
 
 "Do tell me, if it is not too inquisitive," begged 
 madame, "about Madame d'Argnes. I never knew 
 I had an English prototype." 
 
 "Well — d'Argnes is the surname of my family. 
 My half-brother's name is Furnival." 
 
 "I have met him," she interrupted, "he is much 
 older than you." 
 
 "Oh, yes. Eight years older." 
 
 "Well, monsieur, our surname is not d'Argnes. 
 It is de la Mer. But my husband's title is Count 
 d'Argnes." 
 
 "That again is odd, for the founder of our fam- 
 ily was Count d'Argnes. He was an uncle of Will- 
 iam the Conqueror, and came with him to England, 
 and our surname has been d'Argnes ever since. But 
 his lands and castle in Normandy were lost to him 
 before he came to England."
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 113 
 
 "It is really strange and very Interesting. But, 
 monsieur, I am afraid we are not relations, for our 
 family had nothing to do with the reigning; house of 
 Normandy. It was only in the sixteenth century 
 that the Chateau d'Argnes was granted by Francis 
 I to one of the de la Mers; and now it does not 
 belong to us, but is, as perhaps you know, a national 
 monument." 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Raymond, "that we are not re- 
 lations." 
 
 "Papa," observed mademoiselle, "will be disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 "My husband," said madame, "is a great gene- 
 alogist. Jean, will you tell the Count that tea is 
 ready?" 
 
 "Mother," remarked mademoiselle in excellent 
 English, "could not live without her tea. Papa 
 rather despises it, and says it does away with any 
 advantage in having a good cook, since it spoils 
 your dinner." 
 
 "It never spoils mine," said Raymond. 
 
 A distinguished-looking, rather lean, gentleman 
 of about sixty came in, and the Countess said to 
 him : 
 
 "I have an interesting introduction to make — 
 Monsieur d'Argnes, Monsieur d'Argnes." 
 
 The Count bowed, smiled, and held out a thin 
 hand cordially. 
 
 "But now, Henriette," he begged, "will you ex- 
 plain?" 
 
 "My husband," declared the Countess, "has no 
 patience, he always reads the last chapter of a novel 
 first." 
 
 "I see no use In suffering anxiety concerning peo- 
 ple who never existed. Claire, can yoii explain the 
 mystery?" 
 
 "It seems to me, papa, that this gentleman is a 
 real d'Argnes, and you only a nominal one."
 
 114 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Then the Countess gave the explanation, conclud- 
 ing with: "But after all, we are not relations. Is 
 it not a pity?" 
 
 "Wait a bit," said the Count, "I know all about 
 it. I know all about William, Count d'Argnes, the 
 Conqueror's uncle. He belongs to history. And 
 also I know about the English family of the same 
 name, who belong " 
 
 "Only to Devonshire," laughed Raymond. 
 "When my Uncle Robert wants to tease my father 
 he says we are famous for never having done any- 
 thing in particular for eight centuries and a half." 
 
 "I am quite sure," continued the Count, "that my 
 wife is mistaken in saying we are not relations. Our 
 name of de la Mer is the English name Delamer, 
 and one of our family married an English lady, 
 Adelais d'Argnes, of the Devonshire family." 
 
 "So," observed the Countess demurely, "we are 
 cousins. I began," she continued wickedly, "our ac- 
 quaintance in a cousinly fashion by borrowing 
 money." 
 
 The Count looked rather shocked; so shocked 
 that his wife explained matters hastily. 
 
 "Claire," he remarked presently, "aren't you 
 stifled in that long coat? Do take it off." 
 
 Mademoiselle obeyed and displayed a white nurs- 
 ing dress. 
 
 "Claire," her mother explained to Raymond, 
 "nurses in one of the hospitals in the Champs 
 Elysees; to-day her time was up at three, and I had 
 gone to fetch her home when you saw me." 
 
 "Tea," observed the Count, "is but a poor sort 
 of hospitality. I hope, Henriette, you will make 
 monsieur stay to dinner." 
 
 "I believe," declared mademoiselle, "that we have 
 been wrong all the time, and he is not Monsieur 
 d'Argnes at all." 
 
 "Claire!" cried her father.
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 115 
 
 "I've been reading the stars (only on his shoul- 
 der, papa!) and I'm sure he is a captain." 
 
 "Unfortunately," said the young man in a^ low 
 voice, "it is true, I should not be a captain if all 
 my friends were alive." 
 
 "Ah," said the Countess, almost In a whisper, 
 "the sad, sad war." 
 
 Again Raymond thought how tender and delicate 
 was the little glance of sympathy she gave him, how 
 kindly, how motherly. 
 
 His promotion had cost him the loss of the best 
 friend he had ever had. 
 
 "Our own boy's place at our table," the Countess 
 said gently, "is empty. He is fighting for France. 
 Will you not take his place to-night?" 
 
 II 
 
 Raymond d'Argnes was sent home to England, 
 but before many weeks had passed he was back in 
 France; not in Paris, now, but in the fighting line, 
 at a point where the English and French troops 
 nearly overlapped. From England he had written 
 more than once to his kind friends of the d'Argnes 
 family, and his photograph stood on the writing- 
 table of the Countess's own boudoir, close to that 
 of her own son. She had opened her heart to the 
 young English officer : he was just what she admired, 
 brave and quiet, simple and gentle. It was only 
 from English newspapers that she learned how 
 greatly he had distinguished himself. The Count 
 had brought them home. 
 
 "There," he observed. "See now, what your cap- 
 tain did ! And not a word about it to us. The Vic- 
 toria Cross is the highest reward of valor the Eng- 
 lish have." 
 
 "And many sergeants and corporals have won 
 it," observed Claire with demure malice.
 
 ii6 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Oaire," cried her father, "you are a little 
 Jacobin." 
 
 "Claire," said her mother carelessly, "was not so 
 taken with our cousin as I was." 
 
 "It is only married ladies of forty-five who allow 
 themselves to fall in love at first sight nowadays," 
 said the Count, with almost a wink at his daughter. 
 
 "I was only forty-three last Wednesday," 
 pleaded the Countess, "it is ungenerous to lean upon 
 a fact so recent." 
 
 "Apart from all this frivolity," said Claire, "are 
 you going to let me go to St. Just?" 
 
 St. Just was a town in the north of France, not 
 forty kilometers from the fighting lines. There was 
 an auxiliary hospital there, under the auspices of the 
 Women of France, and more assistants had been 
 asked for. The head of the Association had just 
 called and requested her parents to allow Claire to 
 fill one of the vacancies. 
 
 The Count had several objections to the plan; he 
 was old-fashioned and it was not in accordance with 
 his ideas that his daughter should be a nurse in a 
 hospital far from home. 
 
 Claire was not at all sure that her mother would 
 take her part, and sent a most grateful glance to her 
 when madame said: 
 
 "Adrien, I should be quite of jour opinion if 
 Claire had to go and live in a hospital of which we 
 knew nothing. But the auxiliary hospital at St. Just 
 is really a Convent of Reparatrice Nuns, and the 
 Reverend Mother herself is an old schoolmate of 
 mine. With her Claire would be in good hands. 
 Moreover, if you do not wish Claire to live in the 
 convent, she might stop with her cousin, Madame de 
 St. Hilaire, who is head nurse at the hospital. She 
 has a house at St. Just and would be delighted to 
 have Claire with her." 
 
 "If she is to go, it certainly would be better for
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 117 
 
 Claire's health that she stay with Madame St, 
 Hilairc. She would thus have change of scene every 
 day and some pleasant recreation. To tell the truth 
 I think a change from Paris, after more than a year 
 here, would do Claire good rather than harm. You 
 know she was never here for so long a time in her 
 life before." 
 
 After a good deal of discussion — the Count 
 rather liked discussion and hated precipitancy — it 
 was settled that Claire might go. 
 
 Ill 
 
 One night, when Claire was on duty, a large 
 convoy of wounded was brought into the hospital 
 at St. Just. A warning had come earlier in the week 
 that a larger number than usual might be expected 
 and special preparations had been made. Everyone 
 was very busy; stretchers came in what seemed an 
 unending procession; and many operations had to 
 be performed at once. Most of the cases seemed 
 serious enough; some very terrible. 
 
 Claire was working in the same ward with Ste- 
 phanie, her hostess's daughter, and they were both 
 of them fully occupied, silent and business-like. 
 Presently Madame de St. Hilaire, herself, came into 
 the ward and said to her daughter: 
 
 "Claire speaks English well, does she not? Yes! 
 Well, there are several English brought in with our 
 people, and I have been able to put all together in 
 the same ward — the Good Shepherd ward, on the 
 ground floor. I think I will transfer Claire to it, 
 and give you Marie Duphot here instead. Claire 
 will be more useful there, for Marie talks no Eng- 
 lish." 
 
 She went across to Marie and told her of the ar- 
 rangement, taking her off at once. 
 
 In the Good Shepherd ward were fifteen beds,
 
 ii8 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 and in four of them lay wounded English: a ser- 
 geant, two privates, and an officer. 
 
 "Here they are," said Madame de St. Hilalre in 
 a low voice, "what a comfort it will be for the poor 
 fellows to hear their own language." 
 
 At first Claire only spoke a few words to each by 
 way of introducing herself, and showing them that 
 there was a nurse who spoke English, and, as 
 madame had said, they seemed immensely pleased 
 to find someone whom they could understand. 
 
 It was the officer to whom she came last. 
 
 "Captain d'Argnes!" she exclaimed as soon as 
 she saw him. 
 
 "Your brother?" cried Madame de St. Hilaire, 
 thrown off her guard with surprise. "But surely 
 no! He is an English officer, is he not?" 
 
 "Certainly. But he has our name and we know 
 him." 
 
 At that moment one of the soldiers, the first she 
 had spoken to, called to Claire: "Please, Sister," 
 he said, and she turned at once and went to him. 
 
 "Madame!" whispered Raymond to the head 
 nurse, "would you mind bending down, I want to 
 say something quickly." 
 
 "Ah! you talk French!" said madame, doing as 
 he had asked. 
 
 "Madame, that nurse's brother Is here; wounded 
 badly, I fear — you did not know? He was brought 
 in with me. He is over there, in that bed opposite. 
 Do not let her find him, without preparation. He 
 is either unconsious or asleep. I do not know 
 which; nor how badly he is hit; but I know he is 
 Lieutenant d'Argnes; and he is exactly like her, still 
 more like her father, only very boyish. He is a 
 cuirassier, and there is a wounded soldier of his 
 regiment here too; I had met him once in Paris, and 
 we recognized each other and talked a little at the
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 119 
 
 dressing station. He told me first that the young 
 officer was Lieutenant d'Argnes — there is no mis- 
 take." 
 
 "I will do at once what you suggest. Thank you 
 very much indeed, monsieur. But how are you 
 wounded yourself?" 
 
 "A bit of shrapnel in my lung. Please, madame, 
 would you do that at once?" 
 
 "Yes, I will, at once. But you; you must be In 
 horrible pain." 
 
 "Enough to satisfy me ; but please. ..." 
 
 And Madame de St. Hllaire, full of admiration 
 for the courage and thoughtfulness of the wounded 
 man, moved across to where the French lieutenant 
 lay. She did not think, so far as she could judge, 
 that he was so dangerously wounded as the English 
 officer. Nor did she think he was unconscious, but 
 only dozing. And she was right. As she stooped 
 down over him he opened his eyes and smiled. 
 
 "You are Monsieur d'Argnes, are you not?" she 
 asked gently. 
 
 "Yes, of the Ninth Cuirassiers." 
 
 "I know your friends. I am Madame de St. 
 Hllaire, and my husband and I are old friends of 
 your father's. A relation of yours is nursing here 
 and I don't want her to see you suddenly. Where 
 is your wound?" 
 
 "Only in my hip. But I lost a good deal of blood, 
 and it makes me weak. So I doze often. Madame, 
 I know which relation it is. For I have heard of 
 Claire being under your care." 
 
 "But she does not know you are here, I do not 
 want you to speak to her till I have told her. 
 
 And madame left him to rejoin his namesake, by 
 whose bed Claire was now again standing. She 
 knew already where Raymond was wounded, and
 
 I20 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 that It was very dangerous. But, of course, she was 
 talking cheerfully. 
 
 "And the piece of shrapnel has not been removed 
 yet?" 
 
 "No, mademoiselle. It is too firmly fixed, but 
 the doctors say it may loosen. I have to be patient. 
 They dared not operate at the dressing station. 
 Presently your doctors may see their way to do so." 
 
 "Claire," said madame, "go and get him some 
 soup — what you English call beef tea, eh?" 
 
 "I have seen her brother," she went on, when 
 Claire had gone. "He knows she is here. Now I 
 will go after her and let her know. If patience is 
 to cure you, my dear Captain, you will do well.' 
 
 » 
 
 IV 
 
 Raymond was fully aware of the gravity of his 
 condition, though he said nothing about it and bore 
 his greatest sufferings with cheerful patience. What 
 added to them was that he coughed almost inces- 
 santly, and each cough caused real agony. It might, 
 however, be that the coughing would tend to dis- 
 lodge the piece of shrapnel embedded in the lung. 
 
 It had entered through the back, and there was 
 no wound in front. The doctors in charge of the 
 hospital were very skillful, and only too willing to 
 operate, and indeed attempted to do so, but found 
 it impossible to remove the bit of shell without al- 
 most certainly fatal risk to the patient's life. The 
 chances were all against his recovery, and he knew 
 that it was so. So did all about him; but he con- 
 tinued to be thoroughly cheerful, and gave far less 
 trouble than many a man only superficially wounded. 
 His doctors and nurses, therefore, soon grew very 
 fond of him, and so did the other patients, his 
 neighbors.
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 121 
 
 The young cuirassier who had arrived at the same 
 time was orderly to Lieutenant d'Argnes, and was 
 the soldier who had called the taxi for Raymond 
 that afternoon, months before, in the Champs Ely- 
 sees. He was wounded in one foot, but soon began 
 hopping about the ward, the foot swathed in bulky 
 bandages, and acting as "orderly man." He was a 
 most engaging creature; full of good spirit, and 
 fuller of kindheartedness. He made himself gen- 
 erally useful, but took special care of his own mas- 
 ter, and was also particularly glad to do anything 
 for the English captain who had his master's name. 
 
 There were two regular orderlies in the ward, 
 and they also seemed to have special pleasure in at- 
 tending to Raymond, not only because he was more 
 dangerously wounded than any other patient in the 
 ward, but also because he was a stranger in a strange 
 land. Of these two orderlies the elder was about 
 eight and twenty, the younger not more than nine- 
 teen. 
 
 "Monsieur," asked Madame de St. Hilaire on 
 the morning after Raymond's arrival, "if you would 
 rather be alone, there is a tiny room I could give 
 you. But it is very small, and it is not specially 
 cheerful, for it has but a small window, and the 
 trees outside make it rather dark. Of course, you 
 would be quieter, but perhaps you might find it less 
 cheerful." 
 
 "Yes, madame, I think I would. And I like to 
 see my neighbors here. Thank you so much for 
 thinking of it, but I would rather stay where I am." 
 
 Madame de St. Hilaire hesitated a moment, then 
 said: 
 
 "It is our custom to write to the friends of any 
 patients who cannot write themselves. Should you 
 like us to do so for you?" 
 
 "I believe I could write — though not a very long
 
 122 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 letter. Perhaps you would also write to my mother. 
 I will give you the address, and tell her if she would 
 be allowed to come here. You will not, I am sure, 
 frighten her; but she would much rather know the 
 exact truth. And the exact truth is that I shall 
 probably not get over this." 
 
 "I will certainly write. Your mother, of course, 
 knows French like yourself? Yes, I thought so. 
 But I cannot tell her that I think you will probably 
 not get over this, for I have a conviction that you 
 will. I have been doing this work for fifteen months 
 now, and I have almost always been right; even 
 sometimes when the doctors thought there was 
 hardly any hope, and that is not their opinion now. 
 I have also to write to the other Madame d'Argnes, 
 for Henri had a hemorrhage early his morning, 
 and he is not so well. Claire knows; it happened 
 before her night-duty had ended." 
 
 When she perceived how this news troubled Ray- 
 mond she was sorry she had told him. 
 
 "I had understood from Claire," she said, "that 
 you did not know Henri." 
 
 "No, I do not. But he looks such a boy, it seems 
 pitiful that he should suffer so much." 
 
 "But you," said the woman smiling, "you do not 
 look a very old man." 
 
 "I am six and twenty." 
 
 A little later, when the elder of the two orderlies 
 was attending to him, Raymond asked: 
 
 "How is he? Monsieur d'Argnes, I mean." 
 
 "Oh, just the same. No worse, if another 
 hemorrhage does not occur. And one hopes there 
 will be no other. He does not fidget, but lies abso- 
 lutely still, and that is a great thing." 
 
 Raymond perceived by his voice and his whole 
 manner that he was well-bred. "You yourself are 
 a soldier — in the Chasseurs a pied, are you not?"
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 123 
 
 "I was with my regiment in the Argonne, but lost 
 my right eye, quite at the beginning of the war. 
 This is a glass one. Now I am doing this work." 
 
 "Monsieur," Raymond asked in a still lower 
 voice, "has he — Monsieur d'Argnes — seen a 
 priest r 
 
 "Ah I You are a Catholic?" 
 
 "No. But half the men in my regiment are Irish, 
 and Catholic, and I know that to see a priest is what 
 they think of most when they are even a little 
 wounded. I will tell you the truth : I have seen so 
 much in this war, that if I understood more about it, 
 I should like to be a Catholic myself." 
 
 "Monsieur, I am myself a priest, a monk too. I 
 don't look much of a monk in this tunic, do I? And 
 the other — the young orderly (he is not strictly an 
 orderly, but what we call a stretcher-bearer) — he is 
 to be a priest, too. He is what we call a seminarian ; 
 only now the war has come to interrupt his studies; 
 but I do not think these works of charity he is doing 
 will injure him." 
 
 "What a beautiful face he has; not handsome, but 
 with a singular expression of holiness." 
 
 "Yes, he is a good boy. But, monsieur, do you 
 know that it makes you cough to talk, and that I 
 should not allow it?" 
 
 "I'm not sure that it does make me cough more. 
 It takes my mind off, and the cough comes from a 
 sort of irritation." 
 
 The young priest thought: "A sort of irritation. 
 If I had a jagged bit of shrapnel in my lung I won- 
 der if I should call it a sort of irritation. One is 
 always at school, and the Schoolmaster sets many 
 different pupil-teachers over one." 
 
 By the time Madame d'Argnes arrived from 
 Paris, Raymond was much worse; her own boy not 
 at all worse, if not decidedly better. She grieved to
 
 T24 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 see the young Englishman in so grave a condition, 
 and her son seemed full of interest about him. 
 
 "Henri," she said gently, "he is interested in you, 
 too, and he asked a question about you, just as you 
 are asking questions about him." 
 
 "Claire says he is always asking her about me." 
 
 "Yes. But this question he did not ask Claire. 
 She does not know." 
 
 "Well, what did he ask?" 
 
 "He wanted to know if you had seen a priest." 
 
 "Mamma," answered the lad, "I have seen thou- 
 sands of priests." And he gave a little laugh. 
 
 "Yes. But you know quite well what he means." 
 
 "Is he a bigotf" 
 
 "He is not even a Catholic." 
 
 "Isn't that odd? I can't understand not being 
 a Catholic. But then, I am French." 
 
 "And yet you only think it a joke when -" 
 
 "Not a joke at all, Mamma," laughed Henri, 
 "just the opposite. It is a very bad joke to die; 
 and it is when one has to do that that a priest be- 
 comes necessary. By and by." 
 
 "That bad joke of dying — we all have to make 
 
 it." 
 
 "Some time, yes. But there's no hurry. I'm only 
 twenty-one." 
 
 "My little Henri, I hope you will live seventy 
 years." 
 
 "At ninety I shall send for a priest — on my birth- 
 day. I promise." 
 
 "I hope you will not wait till so many years after 
 I shall have made your bad joke. But I think if 
 you did, you would be ashamed to do it then. Do 
 you think Christ only wants dotards? You would 
 think it mean to offer Him your dotage after keep- 
 ing all the good years for yourself." 
 
 "Mamma !" said the lad, still teasing her, "I will
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 125 
 
 send for a priest — even if I am quite well — the day 
 Captain d'Argnes sends for one." 
 
 V 
 
 When Raymond's mother arrived he seemed to 
 her less gravely ill than she had feared to find him. 
 But she soon understood that he was much worse 
 than she had feared. No operation had been pos- 
 sible, and he was much weaker. Almost all food, 
 even the lightest, made him sick, and he was much 
 weaker. The cough still continued and shook him 
 to pieces. He could talk very little, though he could 
 read, and she often sat silently knitting by his side 
 while he read. 
 
 One morning while the doctors and nurses were 
 changing his dressings, she went to the chapel of 
 the convent and knelt down to pray there. At the 
 other end of the little church a nun was kneeling 
 before the altar of the Blessed Virgin. Presently, 
 a bell rang and the Sister rose, and came down the 
 church, passing close to Madame d'Argnes. As she 
 went by she bent her head in a courteous salutation. 
 
 "Sister," said Raymond's mother, leaning towards 
 her. 
 
 "Madame." 
 
 "Sister, when you again come to pray here, will 
 you pray for my boy?" 
 
 "We are all praying for him. I was praying for 
 him when the bell rang; it was hard to stop, but Our 
 Lady will take my obedience for a prayer — I was 
 asking her to do something." 
 
 "What?" whispered the poor mother. 
 
 "To send her own Son to him. To let Him be 
 your son's doctor Himself. 'You can spare Him 
 for a little while,' I told her, 'you have Him at your 
 side for all eternity.' " 
 
 To the Protestant lady, though she was not at all
 
 126 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 bigoted, the nun's way seemed quaint, almost too 
 quaintly familiar, and yet its simplicity moved her, 
 and then it was so tender. 
 
 "Ah!" she whispered, "I wish He would go." 
 The nun hesitated a moment, and then said sim- 
 ply : 
 
 "He will go. It is His business. His own busi- 
 
 ness. 
 
 Raymond's mother turned her eyes for an instant 
 towards the place where the nun had come and was 
 startled. The sister saw the look upon her face, 
 and was about to turn involuntarily, in the direction 
 Raymond's mother was looking, when the latter, 
 yielding to some impulse, said hurriedly, laying her 
 hand on Mother Genevieve's sleeve: 
 
 "No. Please do not look !" 
 
 The nun obeyed, and saying, "I must go — you 
 will pardon me," moved noiselessly on her way 
 down the aisle. 
 
 "Now, Mother," she said in her heart as she 
 went away, "show this other mother what you can 
 do. Make your Son give her hers." 
 
 That "other poor mother" was looking with 
 awed eyes up the little church towards the altar 
 where Mother Genevieve had been praying. Over 
 it, in a niche, stood a figure, life-size, of God's one 
 great Mother. A shaft of light shone upon it and 
 brought out all the colors — the blue mantle flow- 
 ered with lily-heads, the soft brown kirtle powdered 
 with golden stars, the long dark auburn hair, the 
 jeweled crown. The altar itself was in a shadow, so 
 were the plants and flowers decorating it. But, 
 whereas when the nun had knelt before it, the Vir- 
 gin Mother's arms had clasped her Son close to her 
 shoulder and her heart, it seemed to Raymond's 
 mother that they were empty now. 
 
 "He has gone," she said, not aloud. She still
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 127 
 
 looked and the arms were still empty. "He has 
 gone," she said again. 
 
 And then, not wilfully disbelieving, but yielding 
 to innate habit of repulsion from the supernatural 
 and miraculous, she thought : "Impossible. I am 
 superstitious. I will go." 
 
 And she rose to go back to her son. As she left 
 the place where she knelt she did as the nun had 
 done, and bent her knee to the tabernacle. 
 
 "He is there, anyway," she thought, "I believe 
 that." 
 
 Her obeisance, because she was not used to it, 
 was not the same as the nun's; it was such a pro- 
 found bending of the whole body as is given at court 
 to a sovereign. 
 
 "The King of kings," she thought as she bent low. 
 
 VI 
 
 Outside the Good Shepherd ward was a little of- 
 fice where Madame de St. Hilaire did her writing, 
 and carried on her other business of administration. 
 
 "Madame, may I go back to Raymond?" 
 
 Madame de St. Hilaire got up from the table 
 and drew the English lady in. "Not for a few 
 minutes please. The doctors have finished with 
 your son, but they are still in the ward. They will 
 be gone very soon. ..." 
 
 "I wonder what they thought of him. When I 
 left him I thought him worse." 
 
 "I thought so too, dear madame. I saw him 
 just after you had left him. And I was with him all 
 the time the doctors were examining him. But, 
 courage ! I have always felt a conviction of his 
 recovery. To-day he is, I confess, worse than any 
 day since he came here : but there must be fluctua- 
 tions — to-morrow may be a good day for him."
 
 128 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 While Madame de St. Hilaire was speaking, 
 more hopefully than she felt, Claire d'Argnes came 
 out of the ward. 
 
 "Madame," she said, "Doctor St. Simon wants 
 you again." Then turning to Raymond's mother 
 she said: "Madame d'Argnes, I do not know if I 
 am indiscreet, but Raymond is better." 
 
 The girl did not notice that she had called her 
 patient by his Christian name, nor did his mother. 
 Madame de St. Hilaire noticed it; but not on that 
 account did she think that perhaps Claire was indis- 
 creet. Her own opinion was that Captain d'Argnes 
 was very much worse. She, however, had to obey 
 the doctor's summons and went away at once. 
 
 "You say he is better!" said Madame d'Argnes, 
 "Madame de St. Hilaire and I were, alas, agreeing 
 that he was worse." 
 
 "Yes; he was, this morning, before the doctors 
 came, and while they were examining him. But 
 twenty minutes ago I felt certain I saw a change. 
 The doctors had gone to attend to other cases, and 
 I was finishing up with him. He gave a little start 
 as though I had hurt him, touching the wound, but 
 I had not touched it at that moment. All the same 
 I apologized for hurting him. . . . *But you did 
 not touch me, did you?" he asked, and I had to say 
 that I had not. A few minutes after that he said: 
 'The pain is gone, and I do not want to cough. I 
 am not choking.' It was true that he was no longer 
 coughing. He has not coughed once since. And 
 he asked me to give him some soup. He said he 
 felt hungry. The soup did not make him sick. I 
 am sure when the doctors are gone and you can go 
 in you will see that he is better," 
 
 *'//^ did go," thought his mother. 
 
 She was so quiet that Claire suggested she could 
 not trust herself to believe such good news.
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 129 
 
 "I am not deceived," she added gently, "it would 
 be cruel to buoy you up with false hopes. Only I 
 know that he is better. He is reading again : all 
 yesterday and the day before he was not able to 
 read." 
 
 "What is it he reads? I did not, for some reason, 
 care to ask him." 
 
 "Catholic books," the girl answered simply. "I 
 hope you do not mind. He asked for them." 
 
 "No," his mother answered quietly, "I do not 
 mind." She paused a moment and then said: "But 
 I am very selfish. How is your own brother?" 
 
 "Doing very well. The doctors think there is 
 now practically no danger of another hemorrhage. 
 He was so much troubled all yesterday that Captain 
 d'Argnes was so ill. As soon as I came on duty this 
 morning he began asking about him." 
 
 "Raymond is very fond of him. He said: 'I can't 
 talk to him, because I can't raise my voice enough; 
 but we smile at each other' ; and Claire, my dear 
 (you don't mind my calling you so?), your brother 
 has a most entrancing smile." 
 
 His sister laughed and said: "He is a naughty 
 boy. He teases our mother. She wants him to be 
 good and he says: 'I haven't been bad enough yet.' 
 He hasn't been to confession for ever so long and he 
 says: 'It's better to wait till one has more to tell, 
 thus one can be sure of contrition.' He is not bad 
 at all; only he is very frivolous." 
 
 Raymond's mother gave a little reserved smile. 
 She was anything but frivolous; a religious woman in 
 her way, but all her habits had made her think 
 religion a thing it would be almost indelicate to dis- 
 cuss in Claire's easygoing fashion. She herself had a 
 special voice for religious topics, and Claire talked 
 of them in just the same voice she would have used 
 had she been discussing her brother's tastes in dress
 
 I30 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 or amusement. Above all she was taken aback by 
 the girl's way of mentioning confession — Catholics, 
 she supposed, ought to go to confession, but it 
 seemed to her quite awful to talk about it. 
 
 Claire, who was far from being obtuse, perceived 
 that she had somehow been indiscreet. Her mother 
 was much in the habit of reproving her indiscretions. 
 
 "All the same," she thought, "I think Englishmen 
 are nicer than their mothers. Raymond would not 
 have looked like that." 
 
 Presently the doctors passed out to go to another 
 ward, and Claire said: 
 
 "Madame, you may go in now. You will find that 
 he is better." 
 
 They entered the ward together, but Claire left 
 Mrs. d'Argnes to go to her son's bed alone. She her- 
 self went to her brother. 
 
 "Did the doctors say anything about d'Argnes?" 
 he asked her at once. 
 
 "They did not to him, of course. But they told 
 Madame de St. Hilaire he was very much worse." 
 
 "You speak very coolly about it. I suppose you 
 felt sure of it before." 
 
 "Yes. But, Henri, he is not worse now. He is 
 much better." 
 
 "Really! In this short time?" 
 
 "Yes." And she told him what she had told Ray- 
 mond's mother. 
 
 Henri was unfeignedly delighted. He had taken 
 an immense liking for his English brother-in-arms. 
 
 "His mother," he said in a low voice, "she is ex- 
 cellent and very nice to me. She often comes over to 
 chat with me, and one can see that she is full of 
 sympathy. But, oh, Claire! she is stiff. Why do 
 English ladies feed on pokers?" 
 
 "To stiffen their backs. The seat of the English 
 conscience is in the back."
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 131 
 
 "The seat of mine is in my pocket; and sometimes 
 it drops out." 
 
 "No one would hear it fall; it is too light. But, 
 Master Henri, one of these days you'U lose it 
 altogether." 
 
 "No. I shall tell St. Anthony of Padua to find it 
 for me. He always finds my collar stud." 
 
 "You'd better not talk to the Saints about your 
 conscience ; they might tell you some disagreeable 
 things about it." 
 
 "Oh, no! It is pert misses, like you, who do 
 that. They know all about it, and have unlim- 
 ited tact. I think that little stretcher-bearer is a 
 saint." 
 
 "Does he talk to you about your conscience?" 
 
 "No. I tell you he is a saint. But when he talks 
 to me I remember that I have one. If Raymond 
 d'Argnes were a Catholic, he would probably be a 
 saint, too." 
 
 "Good gracious!" 
 
 "Yes. He and the stretcher-bearer are much 
 alike." 
 
 "I can't imagine two people more unlike." 
 
 "That is your mistake (one of your mistakes). 
 One tall, noble, and very handsome — you need not 
 blush, mademoiselle, I am not describing you — the 
 other small, plain-faced and insignificant, but they 
 have the same expression, the same sort of expres- 
 sion. They are supernatural creatures, and you and 
 I, my dear, are natural ones." 
 
 Claire did not know that her brother and the little 
 stretcher-bearer had struck up a kind of intimacy. 
 But she knew Henri well enough to guess that his 
 talk with the young seminarian would be very differ- 
 ent from his talk with her. She and he were always 
 chafl^ng each other, even when the subject of their 
 conversation was a serious one.
 
 132 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "After all," said Henri, "it's just as well d'Argnes 
 is not a Catholic." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "The day he sends for a priest I have to send for 
 one. I have promised mother." 
 
 "And you would keep your word?" 
 
 "Of course I would. I am supposed to be a gentle- 
 man." Claire laughed and went off to attend to her 
 duties. 
 
 VII 
 
 The little stretcher-bearer, whose name was Rous- 
 sel, liked very much to wait upon the young lieu- 
 tenant of cuirassiers; and the lieutenant's own or- 
 derly was not at all jealous. He had a cordial 
 liking for Roussel; and was fond of helping him In 
 his tasks about the ward. Roussel never bored 
 Henri and never tried to talk about religion. He 
 had a certain impression that the young officer 
 was not religious, but he thought Our Lord must 
 be fond of him all the same. "I don't see," thought 
 the little seminarian, "how He can help it. / am, 
 and I have done nothing for Him, while He has 
 done everything." 
 
 "What a lot of trouble I give you !" said Henri to 
 him, on the afternoon of the day on which Raymond 
 began to grow better. 
 
 "No trouble. Only little pleasures. And — and I 
 think it a great honor. In my heart I salute all the 
 wounded — and in the street and here in the ward. 
 'Voila, des braves!' I think. It is wonderful to be 
 brave. I am not." 
 
 "Eh! but that is untrue. You are much braver 
 than a fellow like me. You have no human respect. 
 I'm full of it."
 
 OLD PVINE AND NEW BOTTLES 133 
 
 The lad regarded him with a quiet, direct look out 
 of his grave eyes and said: 
 
 "Perhaps what you call human respect is shyness." 
 
 "You, my dear Roussel, are the first person who 
 ever thought I was shy !" and he laughed. 
 
 "Still it may be so." 
 
 "You have something in your head, say it." 
 
 "Perhaps I had better not. I do not say things 
 well." 
 
 "Well enough for me. I am not a master of 
 good French." 
 
 He knew very well the boy did not mean that, and 
 said: "It is you who are shy." 
 
 "Maybe. But it is not that. When one talks 
 amiss one injures the subject." 
 
 "You will not. Say what you meant. I give you 
 an obedience — there !" 
 
 He laughed, but Roussel's rather pallid face 
 flushed a little. 
 
 "Well, I accept the obedience you give me," he 
 said. "When I said that perhaps what you call 
 human respect is shyness. I think I meant this — you 
 might omit some external proof of reverence for 
 what is right, not because you are on the side of what 
 is wrong, but because you are too shy to range your- 
 self on the side of " 
 
 "Well, mon petit, go on." 
 
 "Of Our Lord then, lest it should seem you were 
 claiming a friendship with Him that does not exist; 
 taking a certain liberty." 
 
 "It certainly would be a liberty for me to claim 
 that friendship." 
 
 Roussel did not go on; and did not guess that 
 Henri really wished that he would. 
 
 "Why," asked the young soldier after a pause, 
 "did you stop?" 
 
 "I had said what I meant, and badly; as I knew I
 
 134 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 should. That is a liberty. No one has a right to 
 speak ill in a good cause unless he is bound to say 
 what he can." 
 
 "You have not injured your cause; don't be 
 afraid." 
 
 Henri meant more than he said. To him it seemed 
 that the lad, even if he spoke far more clumsily than 
 he did, must help "his cause" by being what he was. 
 He felt sure that it was purity, faith, religion that 
 had made the boy what he was. No doubt he was 
 the son of a peasant, a peasant himself, with not 
 much general education, but the young officer recog- 
 nized in him a nobler creature than himself, and 
 knew well In what school that nobility had been 
 learned. Who was his Schoolmaster, what His les- 
 sons had been. 
 
 "Listen,- vion cher," Henri said presently, "all 
 talk worth listening to is of the things with which 
 one's heart Is full. I wish you would, when you talk 
 to me, not try to choke yourself up, but speak of 
 what is In your heart." 
 
 "I can't talk much of anything. I have not the 
 habit. At home even I picked up the habit of 
 silence. My mother's heart is full of us (her seven 
 children) and of our father, but she does not talk 
 of us." 
 
 "Not to you." 
 
 "There are hardly any neighbors. We live three 
 kilometers from the village — a little tiny village. 
 It is only when she goes to Mass she sees people, 
 and then she has to hasten home. There Is so much 
 work." 
 
 "But you have had to learn the habit of thought. 
 You have, for instance, to make meditations." 
 
 "I do it ill. I have always distraction. Every- 
 thing distracts me." 
 
 "For instance?"
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 135 
 
 "Well — anything. I try to meditate about Our 
 Lady and I look perhaps at her statue to help me; 
 and my eye falls on a flower and I think of that — 
 how wonderful its color is, and then I say to myself : 
 'God thought of everything, even the color of the 
 flower. What kindness ! He need not have made 
 any, people do not eat them; or He might have 
 made them all green or all red. And then I think of 
 the smell of them. He thought of that, too, and I 
 suppose they smell like Christ's Feet. And then 
 very likely I think of some poor soldier's feet, 
 crushed and wounded and lame perhaps forever, 
 and one thinks: 'You will have to take his arms, 
 poor brave; it is hard enough to get to heaven on two 
 sound feet. You will have to help him up that 
 steep road.' And then my thoughts wander to other 
 wounded, to you, often, lately : and instead of medi- 
 tating on the Blessed Virgin's humility, I am begging 
 her to obtain that you have no more hemorrhage. 
 I am a wool-gatherer." 
 
 "Eh, my little stretcher-bearer, go on gathering 
 your wool for me, and perhaps she will weave a 
 white garment out of it for some poor devil of a 
 soldier who hasn't kept his own very clean.'* 
 
 VIII 
 
 Meanwhile Raymond and his mother were talking 
 too. He had been reading: and looking up he 
 caught her eye. 
 
 "You wonder what my books are?" he asked, 
 smiling. 
 
 "I used to wonder. I think I know." 
 
 "They are about the Catholic religion. I want 
 to know more about it. I think it always interested 
 me; but only as a fine thing out of date like chivalry 
 and the Feudal System: a great idea that had made
 
 136 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 the Middle Ages more picturesque than our own. 
 Still one could not now go back to the old feudal 
 ways." 
 
 "I suppose not," said his mother, rather uncer- 
 tainly. She was a Tory of Tories, and was not 
 sure that modern times were all that they should be. 
 
 "Well, I think there is always affectation in ignor- 
 ing that past things are past. Tournaments and 
 jousts now — they would be an affectation — and we 
 do not need to fortify ourselves in castles. An old 
 castle is most fascinating, but to build a new one is 
 appalling. I suppose I thought Catholicism was 
 gone like the castles. Just as in some old families 
 there are the castles still, and their owners, do right 
 to preserve them carefully, so in some of our oldest 
 families there is still the Catholic faith, and I 
 thought them also right, having it, to keep it — a sort 
 of heirloom and relic. But where it was gone, it 
 seemed to me, it would only be an affectation to pre- 
 tend it hadn't gone — like building a new castle. You 
 see I thought it also a relic, and relics are of the 
 dead, not of the living. So I thought there would 
 be a sort of vulgarity in becoming a Catholic — as if 
 a man should buy some other family's heirloom; im- 
 agine a nouveau riche buying at an auction the shirt 
 Charles I was beheaded in!" 
 
 "It's just what Lord — would do if he had the 
 chance !" declared Mrs. d'Argnes with disgust and 
 conviction, and rather glad to be able to say some- 
 thing quite on Raymond's side. 
 
 "You understand then. Well, since I came out 
 here I have found how different it is. The Catholic 
 religion is not antique; it is eternal. It is not medi- 
 aeval a bit; the Middle Ages belonged to it; but it did 
 not belong to them. It is quite as modern as being 
 alive, and eating and drinking and being happy and 
 sad; and instead of being an obsolete phase it is an
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 137 
 
 undying principle and the only one for which hun- 
 dreds of millions of living men would care to die. 
 It is no more dead than Christ." He paused an in- 
 stant and said in a very low voice, "It is Christian- 
 ity." 
 
 "Oh, Raymond!" 
 
 "Yes. I have come to feel sure of that. All 
 others are broken chips knocked off Christianity by 
 the jostle of doubt and opinion. The difference, I 
 have come to see, between the Catholic Church and 
 other Churches is the difference between God's reve- 
 lation and man's opinion. Perhaps, what first set 
 me on that train was a thing a young officer of my 
 regiment said. He is a Catholic and very devout, 
 but not fussily or obtrusively. Everybody respects 
 him because one feels that his religion is part of him- 
 self, not part of his talk. Well, one evening — we 
 were taking our rest and were altogether — some of 
 us were talking about religion and he was reading. 
 One fellow said: 'My idea is so and so,' and another 
 said, 'The way I look 'at it is this,' and someone 
 else said: 'And my notion of It is that,' and so on. 
 It was interesting, but simply a clatter of theories : 
 then one of us asked Chichester what his ideas were. 
 'I am,' he answered simply, 'a Catholic. It is not 
 with us a question of notions, but of what God has 
 revealed. The Catholic Church teaches us that.' 
 And mother, I think that is why other Churches 
 keep changing their teaching and the Catholic 
 Church never does. They started with human opin- 
 ion and so they naturally feel they have a right to 
 modify it. The Catholic Church knows she has no 
 right to change one jot or one tittle of what Christ 
 revealed and set her to guard. She is the trustee 
 of His bequest of faith, and cannot cheat His chil- 
 dren of the smallest coin of it." 
 
 "You intend to become a Catholic?"
 
 138 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Yes, dear mother. I hope you will not mind 
 very much." 
 
 "I am sure you will only do what you think right. 
 But it will divide us so." 
 
 "You and me?" 
 
 "Yes, dear. It will build up a wall between us." 
 
 "There is no wall between you and Lionel; you 
 and he are just as much to each other as ever you 
 were." 
 
 Her son, Lionel, had abandoned all faith and said 
 so. His mother had been shocked, but, as Raymond 
 said, it had not divided her from her son. 
 
 She could not answer that, but spoke of something 
 else. Raymond was saying: "I do not believe you 
 will love me less because I am a Catholic, and if I 
 could love you more I should believe it would make 
 me love you more." 
 
 She just touched his hand, smiled and said: "If 
 you turn Catholic you will have to go in for miracles 
 and all that sort of dreadful stuff." 
 
 Even as she spoke she felt an uncomfortable 
 twinge, and really thought she heard a voice say, not 
 in her ear, but in her heart, "I did go." 
 
 "Go in for them!" said Raymond with a little 
 smile, "if you mean believe in them, I do: God is 
 always the same, omnipotent and kind. There are 
 still blind men to be made to see and dead folk to 
 bring to life." 
 
 She was not really listening to him, but wondering 
 whether, if she were incredulous, this miracle of his 
 being better might be cancelled through her fault. 
 That frightened her. Then she thought, "It was not 
 I who asked Him to go. It was the nun who asked 
 His mother to send Him. Her faith was re- 
 warded, not mine, and her faith doesn't stumble." 
 That comforted her, but she prayed in her heart: 
 "Do not let me spoil it."
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 139 
 
 IX 
 
 When Claire entered the ward next morning — for 
 she was on day duty — her brother's little friend, the 
 stretcher-bearer, said to her at once : 
 
 "Please, will you go to Monsieur d'Argnes?" 
 
 "My brother?" 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle. He asked me to say you 
 were to go first to him." 
 
 "Here I am, Henri, what is It?" she asked, as 
 soon as she had reached his bedside. "Is anything 
 the matter? Did you have a bad night?" 
 
 "No." Then he looked queer and said: "But — 
 you will have to send for a priest." 
 
 "Oh, Henri ! Do you mean that you are worse ?" 
 
 "Worse than I thought, perhaps . . . but, oh, 
 don't look frightened. I was teasing you. 
 
 "You don't really want a priest?" 
 
 "Yes, I do. I told you I would keep my word; 
 and Raymond d'Argnes is to have a priest. The 
 little stretcher-bearer told me. He is going to be- 
 come a Catholic. Roussel is so nearly in heaven 
 already with delight, that if we don't hold on to him 
 he will slip off altogether." 
 
 "I'll tell you who won't be In heaven then — 
 Madame d'Argnes. She will hate It." 
 
 "Mamma?" said Henri, hypocritically, pretend- 
 ing to misunderstand. "I should think she would 
 be glad." 
 
 "Not our mother, but Captain d'Argnes'. She is 
 Protestant all down her long back." _ 
 
 "People," observed Henri audaciously, "always 
 do dislike their mothers-in-law." 
 
 His sister darted a most savage look at him, which 
 he sustained with unflinching effrontery. 
 
 "It is perfectly beasdy of you to say that," she 
 remarked hotly, in English.
 
 140 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 **Ah, ah, Miss, you would not dare to use such 
 expressions in French! Stick to your mother 
 tongue ; it restrains you. It wasn't at all 'beastly' of 
 me to say that. It was to clear the ground. It was 
 to save you the embarrassment of having to make 
 a certain announcement one of these days." 
 
 Claire did not look much mollified by this. 
 
 "If mamma heard you talking like that," she ob- 
 served, "she would wash your head for you." 
 
 "If mamma heard you talking of 'perfectly 
 beastly' yoii would be soaped, my dear. As a mat- 
 ter of fact she and I quite approve, and you know 
 very well that she and I can persuade papa of any- 
 thing; if you are too uppish I shall withdraw my 
 consent, and then see what papa says !" 
 
 "You don't mean to say," said Claire in a tone of 
 horror, "that you and she have been discussing this." 
 
 "Yes, I do. It is quite correct. Young ladies are 
 not to arrange these matters for themselves. The 
 heads of their families have to adjust their opinions 
 first." 
 
 "You one of the heads of my family! What — I 
 shall have to talk English again." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 \'Wh2it cheek r 
 
 "Claire! I'm sure your excellent Mees (what 
 names English Meeses do have! Mac-Gilly, Cuddy, 
 wasn't it?) I'm sure she never taught you to say 
 'what cheek!'" 
 
 "No, it was you." 
 
 "Pray understand that though there are no gen- 
 ders in English there is masculine English and femi- 
 nine English. I may talk of your cheek, but you may 
 not talk of mine. Yours, by the way, is slightly 
 flushed. 
 
 Clare, still unreconciled, went off to her duties. 
 All the same there was a grain of truth in what
 
 OLD WINE AND NEPV BOTTLES 141 
 
 Henri had said. If something did happen, the fact 
 that her mother and brother were cordial in ap- 
 proval, would certainly go far to secure her father's 
 consent. 
 
 X 
 
 Raymond continued to improve. He was able to 
 eat well, and almost hourly seemed to recover 
 strength. The cough was wholly gone. The doc- 
 tors, who had not yet made another examination of 
 the wound, began to hope that an operation might 
 be possible, and the piece of shrapnel be removed. 
 When they did examine the wound they found that 
 the piece of shell had come away and was near the 
 entrance of it. It could be taken out instantly and 
 without an ansesthetic. The wound itself was al- 
 ready much more healthy, and now it would be 
 necessary to encourage its healing. Hitherto it had 
 been essential to keep it open. 
 
 As Raymond was now able to talk, not only with- 
 out fatigue or danger of bringing on the cough that 
 had agonized him, but in a much stronger voice, 
 Henri asked to be moved across the ward to the bed 
 next his, rendered vacant by the departure of one of 
 the wounded. Raymond was delighted, and Ma- 
 dame de St. Hilaire gave her consent. 
 
 Henri could not help teasing his sister, and said 
 to her before he was moved across: "You see I 
 shall thus be able to improve my mind by hearing 
 your conversation with Captain d'Argnes." 
 
 "He talks a great deal more to your little stretch- 
 er-bearer than he does to me." 
 
 "One can understand that. Roussel is not frivo- 
 lous. He does not say 'cheek'." 
 
 The priest came to Raymond and gave him condi- 
 tional baptism and heard his confession, his profes-
 
 142 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 sion of faith and absolved him. For his first Holy 
 Communion it was decided that he should wait till 
 he should be able to go to the convent chapel. But 
 at St. Just there lives a Bishop, not the Bishop of the 
 vast diocese, but one of his Vicars General, and he 
 came to the hospital and gave Raymond confirma- 
 tion. While he did this screens were arranged 
 around the patient's bed. As he came out, when the 
 brief rite was finished, he saw Henri looking up in 
 his face, and he smiled. 
 
 "Everything goes well, my brave man?" asked 
 the bishop, and as he smiled the young cuirassier 
 thought: "What a good man. There is my priest." 
 
 "Monslgnor !" he said aloud. And he made a 
 little gesture for the bishop to stoop down. 
 
 "Yes? What is it, my brave man?" 
 
 "You have just made a soldier of Christ of the 
 Christian," said Henri, "now make a little Christian 
 of this soldier. I want to confess myself." 
 
 For a bishop monsignor was young; he was not 
 yet ten years in the priesthood. 
 
 "I had to do that before," he said, smiling down 
 into the honest young eyes. "I was a soldier, too; 
 not an officer, just a little corporal of infantry" (he 
 was about six feet high) "and one day The Captain 
 called me — and orders are orders — I had to obey. 
 I had to change armies, and make myself a Chris- 
 tian. I tell you this that you may feel that I know 
 all about it. I did not mean that one cannot be a 
 good Christian in our glorious French army; I know 
 there are hundreds of thousands; I only mean that / 
 
 was not." 
 
 He spoke so simply, so wholly without pose or 
 unctuousness, that Henri was quite sure he had been 
 right in thinking, "Here is my priest." 
 
 The screens were still round Raymond's bed, and 
 as Henri's was the last at the end of the ward, no
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 143 
 
 one saw that the bishop was sitting at his side. It 
 was only just as he was going away that the little 
 stretcher-bearer came to take away the screens. 
 Claire came up at the same time. When the bishop 
 had gone, Henri, who was as teasing as ever, said 
 to her: 
 
 "I shall not send for a priest." 
 
 "Oh, you have changed your mind." 
 
 She did not speak reproachfully, but he saw at 
 once that she was disappointed that he had gone back 
 on his word. 
 
 "After all a bishop is a priest," he observed, mak- 
 ing a queer little face at her. 
 
 "Do you mean . . . ?" she asked eagerly, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "Yes." And though he only nodded she under- 
 stood. 
 
 "Isn't he nice ?" she asked. She had far too much 
 tact and instinct to gush forth in congratulations. 
 All the same she was in her heart thanking God; 
 she felt sure it was years since he had been to con- 
 fession. 
 
 "After all," whispered Henri, with a little jerk 
 of his head toward Raymond's bed, "it was his idea, 
 wasn't it? I had not the least thought of it." 
 
 Another patient called her, and Henri looked 
 toward Roussel, who had just finished taking away 
 the screens and was about to go away himself. He 
 caught the lad's eye, and with a gesture of the head 
 invited him to come near. 
 
 "Roussel," he said, when the little stretcher- 
 bearer was standing by his bedside, "did you hear 
 my sister and me talking?" 
 
 "Of course I did. But I was going and coming, 
 and only caught one sentence; besides, you were 
 neither of you talking loudly." 
 
 "What was the sentence?"
 
 144 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "I thought," the lad answered honestly, "that I 
 heard you say, 'I shall not need a priest' I then 
 took one of the screens away to the end of the ward." 
 
 "I suppose you were sorry?" 
 
 "I had not known you had ever thought of send- 
 ing for a priest. But I was sorry." 
 
 "You would like me to confess myself? Don't 
 you often find it hard to find anything to say?" 
 
 "No. But I have heard some people say that 
 they found it hard." 
 
 "Ah ! that's the worst of going too often. I had 
 no difficulty." 
 
 He could not help teasing even Roussel a little, 
 but he liked much better making him happy. 
 
 "I told Claire," he said, "that I should not send 
 for a priest because I had confessed to the bishop." 
 
 XI 
 
 By the time Raymond was well enough to go to 
 the chapel for his First Communion, Henri was also 
 able to be up ; though he could not walk. He went 
 in a wheeled chair to the chapel and received Holy 
 Communion, too. On the afternoon of that day he 
 was again wheeling himself about in the chair, 
 though only in the ward. Presently the door 
 opened, and Madame de St. Hilaire came in and at 
 her side walked Count d'Argnes. Neither of his 
 children saw him enter; their backs were turned to 
 that end of the ward. 
 
 "Claire," Henri was saying, "to-day has an odd 
 feeling. Can you understand?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so." 
 
 "It feels," the young cuirassier said, "like the day 
 of my First Communion." 
 
 "Henri," she said, almost in his ear, as she leaned 
 over the back of the wheeled chair, "I was afraid
 
 OLD WINE AND NEW BOTTLES 145 
 
 you would have had too much human respect. The 
 chapel was so full, and you not being able to go to 
 the altar made it worse." 
 
 He had occupied a bench quite at the front, and 
 the priest had brought the Blessed Sacrament to him 
 there. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "the little stretcher-bearer taught 
 me not to mind about human respect. He thinks 
 he is a coward, and I know he would go to Holy 
 Communion before ten thousand unbelievers." 
 
 Madame de St. Hilaire touched Claire upon the 
 shoulder and said: 
 
 "Look down there, you two people, see what 
 visitor I have brought you." 
 
 Claire turned the chair round with a rapid sweep, 
 and at the same moment they both saw their father 
 and mother coming toward them. 
 
 "Papa!" they cried. 
 
 "Yes. I am here ! I took it into my head to 
 come and see what you were all about." 
 
 Madame de St. Hilaire went away and left them 
 to themselves. 
 
 "Sit down," said Henri, "that's my bed." 
 
 And M. d'Argnes sat down upon it. 
 
 "Henri," he said, "I find you very well. You 
 have recovered nicely. And Claire — I think the 
 change of air has done her good. Madame de St. 
 Hilaire tells me she is a very good nurse, but she 
 does not look overworked." 
 
 "Oh, no," declared her brother, "Claire has excel- 
 lent distractions." 
 
 His sister looked savage and her mother looked 
 inclined to give her son a slap; but one cannot box 
 wounded men's ears, and he escaped. 
 
 "Captain d'Argnes," said the Count, "looks al- 
 most well. His mother is not much like him — a 
 very noble woman, but — no, I find no resemblance."
 
 146 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Claire does not find any, either," remarked her 
 brother in a disengaged manner. "Papa! should 
 you like Claire to enter holy religion?" 
 
 "My dear boy," cried her father, "what on earth 
 do you mean?" 
 
 "She is determined never to change her name." 
 
 Count d'Argnes adjusted his pince-nez and looked 
 at each member of his family in turn. 
 
 "What is Henri talking about?" he asked appeal- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Well, circumstances," said Henri, "lead me to 
 the conviction that she is resolved to stick to the 
 name of d'Argnes." 
 
 His mother was trying not to laugh, and Claire 
 was trying (with indifferent success) to look loftily 
 unconcerned by her brother's foolish remarks. His 
 father, without any endeavor at all, was looking 
 thoroughly puzzled. 
 
 "There seem," said Henri, "only two ways in 
 which she can carry out her plan; one way is to enter 
 holy religion; the other ..." and he gently raised 
 a crutch and pointed down the ward to Raymond's 
 mother, whose tall figure was turned their way. Ray- 
 mond himself, with his back to them, was hidden 
 in the big armchair in which he was sitting, ". . . . 
 the other," explained Henri, "is to do as she did." 
 
 "As she did?" repeated his father. 
 
 "Yes. Didn't she marry a Mr. d'Argnes? I 
 think it an excellent plan; and so does mother. As 
 for Claire, I suspect it's about the only thing in 
 which she would be disposed to imitate our good 
 friend, Raymond's mother."
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 
 
 I 
 
 " A H," said Miss Shenstone, making a grab at 
 -^^ Piou-piou, "here is Madame de Valmandois." 
 
 It was not at the gentleman to whom she had been 
 talking that she grabbed, but at her sister's griffon. 
 
 *'He is," she exclaimed, as she clutched him, 
 "always excited out of doors. It is only excitement 
 that makes him seem to bite people; all our dogs 
 are perfectly good-tempered. But they are excitable 
 (of nervous temperaments), and out in the garden 
 they wish to rush about. The arrival of any addi- 
 tional person they seize as a pretext. ..." 
 
 "I suppose Piou-piou," remarked M. de Saulmoz, 
 "regarded me as a pretext; he certainly seized 
 me." 
 
 Miss Shenstone hardly appeared to hear this ob- 
 servation, for she merely completed her sentence 
 . . . "indoors they are always calm and hospitable. 
 I wish Anna would take up Dando, he makes more 
 fuss than Piou-piou, and he looks more savage. 
 Thank goodness Essie has got Fi-fi in her lap, I hope 
 she will keep him there. Beau Bichon doesn't seem 
 to be about. He bit one of the gardeners after 
 luncheon, and it was the one whose sister the second 
 footman is making up to; I shouldn't be surprised 
 if Michael had shut him up in the study to curry 
 favor." 
 
 "If I wanted to make up to a young lady it would 
 never occur to me to shut her brother up in the 
 study." 
 
 Miss Shenstone smiled indulgently at this poor 
 pleasantry, and said: 
 
 147
 
 148 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Of course, it is Beau Bichon who is shut up — oh, 
 there he is!" 
 
 There, indeed, he was; tearing wildly across the 
 lawn, and barking with such passion as almost to 
 choke himself, and quite to blind himself, for other- 
 wise he would hardly have tumbled over in mid- 
 course. Piou-piou had leapt from Miss Shenstone's 
 arms, Dando had hurled himself from under a 
 wicker tea-table, where he had taken up a post con- 
 venient for refreshment, when its good things should 
 be dispensed, Fi-fi fled from the embrace of Miss 
 Essie Shenstone, and all three were making amain 
 at Madame de Valmondois when Beau Bichon tum- 
 bled over himself, whereupon they instantly fell on 
 him, and bit any part of him that they could get at. 
 
 The perfidy of this conduct shocked the four Miss 
 Shenstones, who dashed to the relief of the prostrate 
 Beau Bichon. Each seized a tail or a leg of her own 
 or of one of her sisters' pets, and Madame de Val- 
 mondois reached the company in a comparative lull. 
 Dando, who loved sympathy and sentiment, wailed, 
 indeed, and Fi-fi made explosions like a cat, Piou- 
 piou silently bit his mistress's elbow to calm himself, 
 and Beau Bichon glared and hiccoughed defiance, as 
 who should say, "Wait a bit. I shan't forget, my 
 dears." Otherwise there was calm. 
 
 "I arrive," observed Madame de Valmondois, 
 "with some eclat.'' 
 
 She herself had remained entirely undisturbed, 
 and had, while all four dogs were in full tilt at her, 
 continued to advance toward her hostesses and their 
 friends. Perhaps there were twenty people under 
 the trees near the tea-tables; only three or four were 
 gentlemen. Most of them seemed to know 
 Madame de Valmondois, Gaston de Saulmoz had 
 never seen her before. 
 
 He had an impression that her entrance, if ordi-
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 149 
 
 narily pointed by less eclat, seldom failed to attract 
 the attention of the company. He could not imagine 
 her arrival anywhere passing unnoted. He even 
 told himself that her presence anywhere must some- 
 how add a distinction to the company she joined, no 
 matter of whom it might consist. And all this, he 
 also assured himself, was not due merely or wholly 
 to her beauty. Her beauty, in fact, was of a quality 
 that might not always arrest the first hasty glance. 
 ("All the same," he thought, "no one could glance 
 hastily and be content") The distinction that even 
 a first glance revealed was not in her face but in 
 herself. She was tall, but not so tall as she seemed 
 — not, he found, a little to his surprise, so tall as 
 himself. She was slim though not thin; her figure 
 was charming but it was not in her figure alone, any 
 more than in her face alone that her charm lay; nor 
 yet in her manner of walking, of moving, of standing 
 still, though she walked so beautifully that Gaston 
 assured himself that she could not be English, her 
 movements were grace itself, and yet simplicity 
 itself, too; and when she stood still he thought her 
 so graceful that any movement must soil her. He 
 had only heard her say the four words quoted above, 
 but they were enough to tell him that her voice was 
 perfect. 
 
 Being a man he could not have told anyone how 
 she was dressed; in black, yes, but not in mourning; 
 the black was light in texture, gauzy, summery, 
 and there was a little lilac in the gown and in the 
 hat. 
 
 How old could she be? Only royal ladles, he 
 thought, could have so calm a dignity and be mere 
 girls; yet it was a girl's figure, and, now that he 
 could again see her face, it was the face of a lovely 
 girl. She was talking to a whole group and he could 
 hear quite plainly.
 
 I50 * THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Presently," said Miss Shenstone, "I want to 
 introduce you." 
 
 "Who," he asked eagerly, but speaking in a very 
 low voice, "is she?" 
 
 "Madame de Valmondois." 
 
 "I have lived so little in France since I was a boy 
 — hardly at all in Paris — that I am afraid I do not 
 know what that means." 
 
 "She has not lived in Paris till now. Valmondois 
 is one of the many titles in the Saint Mesmin family; 
 her husband was Due de Valmondois." 
 
 'Was? Is he dead?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. She married at seventeen. M. de Val- 
 mondois was killed in a motor accident five weeks 
 afterwards." 
 
 "How terrible for her." 
 
 "Yes. But ..." 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "Well, I personally thought him most disagree- 
 able. And he was not an angel." 
 
 "There are no dukes among the angels, Made- 
 moiselle." 
 
 "No, but there may be angels among the dukes. 
 He was not one. And then he was thirty-five years 
 older than her; and — well, I thought the marriage 
 a mistake; and if I was right, its speedy end might 
 not be such an irremediable misfortune in the long 
 run." 
 
 "At seventeen few misfortunes are irremediable; 
 you say she lives now, at last, in Paris. 
 
 "She has a house there. But she had lived and 
 still lives chiefly on her estates; the winters she has 
 sometimes spent at Bagneres de Big. ... It was 
 there she and we were neighbors." 
 
 "Of what nationality is she?" 
 
 "Why not French? You can hear that she talks 
 French perfectly."
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 151 
 
 "Yes. Really perfectly. I cannot say why she 
 should be French. It would be very kind of her 
 to be so." 
 
 "You evidently do not believe she is, though. Nor 
 is she." 
 
 "Not English, I am sure." 
 
 "No. Her kindness extends further than that." 
 
 "You mean that she is American?" 
 
 "Yes. She is American like ourselves. In fact, 
 her mother and ours were relatives, though not near 
 relations. Her mother was a Virginian, and so was 
 ours. But her father was a Philadelphian and ours 
 was from Georgia. Now come and let me present 
 you." 
 
 Though we have spoken of this lady as Miss 
 Shenstone, she was not the eldest of the four sisters. 
 Miss Anna was the eldest, and she alone of the four 
 was frankly and exclusively American; Miss Essie 
 was the youngest, and had only been to America 
 once ; she was to all intents and purposes a French- 
 woman, and both her accent and idiom in talking 
 English had a French tinge. Miss Megsie reverted 
 for type to her maternal ancestry, which was Scottish 
 and highly aristocratic. Miss Sally, whose conversa- 
 tion with M. de Saulmoz we have been overhear- 
 ing, was quite equally French and American. All 
 four ladies were extremely American in the admir- 
 able qualities of unbridled hospitality and measure- 
 less largeness of heart; perhaps also in a chronic 
 tendency to unfettered criticism of whoever hap- 
 pened to be President for the time being of the 
 United States. No accusation was ever more sharply 
 repelled by each of the four than that of being 
 English — an accusation always rather to be made 
 against English-speaking sojourners on the Euro- 
 pean continent by the Continentals, who really mean 
 no harm by it. This vigorous repudiation was due
 
 152 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 merely to patriotism ; and did not imply any dislike 
 of Great Britain; on the contrary, there would have 
 been five Miss Shenstones had not one of them mar- 
 ried an Englishman of excellent family and position. 
 These ladies had no hatred of monarchs, but in a 
 monarchy the public are called subjects, and the 
 Misses Shenstone had no idea of being subjects. 
 Yet it must not be inferred that they lived in France 
 because it was a Republic; there is no reason what- 
 ever for supposing that they would have quitted it 
 had it suddenly made up its mind to be again an 
 Empire or a Kingdom. Most of their French friends 
 awaited such a conversion with loud impatience, 
 though without ever doing anything whatever to 
 bring it about. 
 
 If it be inquired of what age were these ladies, 
 I can only say that such curiosity is intrusive, and 
 that I will not indulge it, merely remarking that the 
 charming chateau near Versailles in which they spent 
 their summers had been bought by them about five 
 and twenty years ago. 
 
 II 
 
 M. de Saulmoz, it may be remembered, alluded 
 to himself as having been absent from France almost 
 continually since his boyhood; which circumstance 
 was due to the fact that his father, the Marquis 
 de Saulmoz-Monthois, had been French Minister in 
 Portugal — and then French Ambassador at Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 As he had lived with his parents until it was time 
 for him to come back to France for his period of 
 military service, he was a better linguist than is com- 
 mon with young Frenchmen of his age. For he spoke 
 Spanish, Portuguese and English quite fluently. 
 
 To Madame de Valmondois, however, he spoke
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 153 
 
 French, as It was in French that Miss Sally Shen- 
 stone introduced him. Having performed the little 
 ceremony that lady moved away to talk to some 
 other guests. 
 
 "I admired," Gaston observed, smiling, "your 
 intrepidity at the moment of your arrival." 
 
 "I resented only the affectation of those gentle- 
 men. All the Miss Shenstones' dogs are old friends 
 of mine, and they recognized me perfectly. One's 
 friends should not disown one in public." 
 
 Few people, thought Gaston, would be less likely 
 to be so disowned than Madame de Valmondois. 
 
 "It may have been humility," he suggested. 
 
 "Humility should be less vociferous. If you wish 
 to cut me, when next we meet, till you are sure of 
 being remembered, I trust you will not be quite so 
 noisy about it." 
 
 "Perhaps they were thinking of the story of the 
 poor and obscure noble from the country who bit 
 Louis XIV's hand, on being presented, to secure 
 remembrance." 
 
 "He secured more than the little he aimed at. 
 For if the King forgot him, posterity, we see, has 
 not." 
 
 They were walking toward a part of the garden 
 called the Bosquet, where, in the midst of the small 
 thicket, a small white temple crowned a low mound; 
 a semicircular pond at the foot of the knoll reflected 
 the little temple. 
 
 "It is pretty," said Madame de Valmondois, "but 
 I do not care about it. It is too obviously a sin- 
 cere flattery of the Music Pavilion in the Little 
 Trianon." 
 
 "You despise flatteries, even when sincere?" 
 
 "I do not admire small imitations. There are 
 thousands of copies of Versailles — its grandiosity. 
 Louis XIV had not a faultless taste, but it was large.
 
 154 THE TIDEPVAY 
 
 If he had laid out Versailles on a less ponderous 
 scale it would have been cittish." 
 
 "You know Fontainebleau also, no doubt?" 
 
 "Yes, and care much more for it. Fontainebleau 
 is history; Versailles is only autobiography, and 
 self-conscious; the autobiography of a big little man 
 whom I do not heartily admire." 
 
 "If you would think of it as the cenotaph of a 
 great monarchy, its grandiosity, perhaps, would seem 
 more fit. St. Denis was the burial place of our Kings, 
 but Versailles is the tomb of our royalty." 
 
 In spite of the somewhat phrasic quality of his 
 little speech, the simplicity and quietness of his tone 
 saved the young man's words from the pitfall of 
 magniloquence near to which they certainly ven- 
 tured. 
 
 And Madame de Valmondois, who knew the his- 
 tory of his country pretty well, was fully aware that 
 nearly his whole family, as it had existed then, had 
 died for the crime of possessing a name that meant 
 loyalty to the monarchy in its agony. 
 
 They stood close to the water's edge. 
 
 "I cannot say," she confessed, "in spite of my 
 strictures, that the reflections are exquisite." 
 
 She raised her eyes to compare them with the 
 originals; his were still bent upon the water, and one 
 reflected image really held his gaze. 
 
 "No one could deny it," he said gravely. 
 
 "The reality," she said, "is not so perfect as 
 the shadow. If logic were true it would be. But the 
 reflections down there discard all that spoils the 
 reality. How, I wonder? The real little temple 
 is an affectation, a courtier-ism; the one down there 
 is lovely." 
 
 "Down there it is a picture. Only supreme artists 
 can make their pictures better than the original when 
 the original is lovely; even a supreme artist has to
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 155 
 
 fall short of an original that is itself perfect. But, 
 if there is obvious imperfection in the reality a pic- 
 ture can ignore it. Is that the answer to your 
 riddle ? 
 
 "No. But I have found it." 
 
 "Will you tell me ?" 
 
 She paused, the fraction of an instant, and then 
 answered, "Man arranged all that," pointing to the 
 other side of the water, "and man built that little 
 temple. God arranged all this, and only He built the 
 temple down there." 
 
 "Is that," he wondered, "religion or mere 
 poetry?" 
 
 And he did not wish it to be poetry. 
 
 His eyes had followed hers down into the water, 
 and they could look at her image there without 
 intrusiveness or impertinence. 
 
 "God," he thought, "certainly made that; one of 
 His chefs-d'ceuvres." 
 
 "You see," she said, "that the charm of all down 
 there is like the charm of mountains in the clouds. 
 No one's foot ever climbed that little path to the 
 temple, or ever will ; no one will ever scratch a vul- 
 gar name on those white walls down there." 
 
 He perceived that her tone, though earnest, was 
 grave. Perhaps a certain shyness had assailed her 
 after her use of a Name so great that most of us will 
 not easily use it to one another. And they were 
 strangers. He was half sorry, but he thought him- 
 self bound to suit his tone to that which she chose, 
 and he laughed a little. 
 
 "I am afraid some one will walk up your little 
 path!" he said, and pointed across the water. 
 
 A gardener was going up to the temple. 
 
 "He cannot walk up my path unless I let him," 
 she declared. "I will not look down. Besides, a 
 gardener doesn't matter. Adam was a gardener."
 
 156 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "What you call in English a husbandman. Rather 
 an unlucky husband." 
 
 "At all events he had no trouble over his love- 
 making. No rivals and no uncertainty. He woke to 
 find himself married." 
 
 "And with a hole near his heart. The hole his 
 sons often inherit; the heaven-sent spouse not so 
 often." 
 
 "Come, M. de Saulmoz," said the lady, turning 
 away from the water's edge, "confess that a man 
 prefers to find the heaven-sent wife for himself, in- 
 stead of having to submit to such a rather dictatorial 
 heavenly provision." 
 
 "Oh! if finding were all! But one may find her 
 for oneself without the possibility of gaining her for 
 oneself. Adam had no embarras de choice; Eve or 
 nothing. But, then, Eve v/as in the same predica- 
 ment; it was Adam or old-maidhood." 
 
 "How short history would have been had she 
 chosen old-maidhood!" 
 
 Madame de Valmondois, who always listened 
 attentively, had noted with satisfaction how the 
 young man at her side had not left the first half of 
 his last speech to stand alone. Had it been the con- 
 clusion of his utterance her own reply would not 
 have been so easy. "He is well bred," she thought. 
 Of course, she had become aware that he admired 
 her, but he had not made compliments. 
 
 "By the way," she observed, "I noted just now 
 that you can talk English, though it was only one 
 sentence." 
 
 "My father, you see, was our Ambassador at 
 Washington till three years ago, and I was there 
 during the whole of his stay." 
 
 "That," said she laughing, "would enable you, 
 according to some impertinent people, to talk Amer- 
 
 ican."
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 157 
 
 "Do _>'o« talk American?" 
 
 "Of course, I can't tell," she answered In English. 
 "You must judge for yourself." 
 
 Until they had rejoined the group around the tea- 
 tables she continued to speak English. 
 
 "If that is American," Gaston assured himself, 
 "Adam and Eve must have been Americans before 
 the Fall!" 
 
 Ill 
 
 "Is she not charming!" asked Miss Essie Shen- 
 stone. Tea was over, and she was walking with M. 
 de Saulmoz. Piou-piou escorted them with bland 
 dignity and looked as if butter would not melt in his 
 mouth. 
 
 "She has a quite singular charm. It seems a pity 
 that more quite young girls can't be widows ! As a 
 rule they are not interesting; then they are mar- 
 ried, and their interestingness Is more Important to 
 their husbands than to the public. I do not mean to 
 say that Madame de Valmondois ov/es her charm 
 to her misfortune. Her grace and beauty, her pecu- 
 liar quality, do not come from her widowhood, of 
 course. But the fact that she is at once a young 
 girl, and married, and unmarried, all help. So 
 much dignity w^ould seem strange in an unmarried 
 girl of her age unless she happened to be a royal 
 personage. Yet she is thoroughly young, and she 
 has no pose; her dignity is not that of place, but of 
 quality." 
 
 "We are all of us devoted to her," said Miss 
 Essie, and Gaston perceived that the strength and 
 conviction of his eulogy of Madame de Valmondois 
 pleased his friend. 
 
 "If I were you," Miss Essie continued, "I should 
 call upon her. She receives on Thursdays."
 
 158 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "She would, perhaps, think it intrusion." 
 
 "Oh, no, I shall tell her I asked you to do so." 
 
 She gave the address — a number in the Rue 
 Bayard — and there was no fear of his forgetting 
 it. After a while they began to speak of the assassi- 
 nation of the_ Archduke Ferdinand, the news of 
 which had arrived that day. 
 
 "Many of the Austrians will be easily consoled," 
 he said, "he has always been much disliked." 
 
 Neither of them had the least idea that the hor- 
 rible crirne would prove the match that was to set a 
 smouldering Europe all ablaze. 
 
 He was rather glad that the very next day was 
 not Thursday; for though he was impatient to go 
 and see Madame de Valmondois, the very next day 
 would have seemed too soon; yet he could not have 
 waited a whole week. On Thursday afternoon about 
 four o'clock he was on his way to her. It now 
 seemed to him a very long time since they had met; 
 for, though he had not done a great deal in the 
 meantime, he had been away from Paris for a whole 
 day, and during his absence he had thought continu- 
 ally of her. He was by no means a man liable to 
 falling in love at first sight. He was not, indeed, in 
 general what is called susceptible. Somewhat silent 
 and reserved, those of his friends who knew him 
 well enough to take liberties had been rather 
 disposed to chaff him as being too much centered 
 in himself to have very open eyes for ladies' 
 charms. 
 
 Now, however, he was quite sure that he had 
 found his heaven-sent lady. But he was neither vain 
 nor sanguine, and he did not Hatter himself that she 
 even took an interest in him. The moon does not 
 drop into our arms because we recognize her splen- 
 dor, any more than in obedience to our tears. This 
 moon of his seemed very far up in an aloof sky,
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 159 
 
 and a sky that was too serene and clear not, as he 
 thought, to imply a certain coldness. 
 
 Still, he was a man, and what a man could do 
 he would do, however difficult it might be and how- 
 ever long. 
 
 He was told, as he expected, that Madame was 
 at home; but the footman, a little to his surprise, 
 was not sure that she was visible; he would, how- 
 ever, go and see. 
 
 "The reason," Madame de Valmondois explained 
 as soon as the footman had closed the door, after 
 ushering Gaston into her salon, "the reason why you 
 were not at once told I was lisible is that for this 
 week I had changed my day for receiving. A friend 
 of mine has her fete to-day, and she begged me to 
 come. I must go about five. So I have put my 
 own day off till to-morrow. If I have to leave you 
 at five perhaps you will come to-morrow — I ask it 
 because Madame de St. Firmin will be here, I know; 
 she is a very old friend, she tells me, of your 
 mother's, and wants to meet you. But, do sit down. 
 I need not go till five." 
 
 Gaston thought his mistake a most happy one. 
 There was to-morrow to the good, and he had to- 
 day as well. And to-day he had a tete a tete, which 
 he certainly had not expected. He also perceived 
 with satisfaction that Madame de Valmondois had 
 been speaking of him to his mother's friend. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "I have often heard of Madame 
 de St. Firmin. My mother even tried to persuade 
 her to come and stay with us at Washington, but the 
 journey was too long for her." 
 
 "You know she is old — not the contemporary of 
 Madame, your mother: she had been her mother's 
 friend. She is, however, entirely delightful: I like 
 her better than almost any one I know. I must tell 
 you that she was immensely interested to hear about
 
 i6o THE TIDEWAY 
 
 you, and wanted to know far more than I could tell 
 her. That is why you must come and answer all her 
 questions for yourself." 
 
 Presently it appeared that the old lady had wished 
 to know what he was going to be. 
 
 "Of course I could not tell her," said Madame. 
 
 "I'm not absolutely sure that / can. I have only 
 finished my military service a few months ago and 
 since then I have been to London and St. Peters- 
 burg. Before my military service I was for a little 
 over a year unpaid attache to my father. But I have 
 not decided to enter diplomacy." 
 
 "You have just finished your service in the army !" 
 
 "Yes. I look rather old, do you think. It is 
 true: most people say I look six and twenty, or 
 more." 
 
 "Six and twenty is not very old I" 
 
 "No. But my mother says it is indiscreet of me to 
 look so old. You see she is only forty-three and 
 you would say she was not more than five and thirty. 
 When one is beautiful and looks still young it is a 
 great lack of tact in one's son to seem nearly thirty." 
 
 "Madame de St. Firmin showed me the portrait 
 of the Marquise. She is certainly beautiful." 
 
 It is not necessary to detail all their talk. It is 
 enough to say that Gaston did not go away much 
 before five o'clock and that Madame de Val- 
 mondois did not appear to think he was stay- 
 ing too long. Of herself she said nothing, but in 
 him and his life in America she showed a sincere 
 interest. 
 
 "^ demain," she reminded him as he took his 
 leave. "I shall meet your mother's friend in half an 
 hour, and shall promise her that to-morrow she can 
 ask you all about your mother and yourself." 
 
 "Madame, there is no fear of my forgetting to-
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER i6i 
 
 morrow," he said; but he did not say aloud, "though 
 no such person as Madame de St. Firmin existed in 
 the world." In the street he enjoyed very pleasant 
 reflections. 
 
 "The merest beginning of a prelude," he thought, 
 "but not a set-back at the start, at all events. And 
 the excellent Demoiselles Shenstone have asked me 
 to dinner on Sunday: I have an intuition that they 
 have also asked Madame de Valmondois : I wonder 
 if she said Yes. If Madame de St. Firmin really 
 loves my mother she shall invite me too. There is 
 another avenue. If she gives me the chance I shall 
 frequenter that old lady, and it is hard if I do not 
 meet Madame there also." 
 
 IV 
 
 He had no idea that in the old lady he had never 
 seen he already had an unavowed but eager ally. 
 She loved no young person as she loved Madeleine 
 de Valmondois, and she loved Gaston's mother for 
 her own sake and for her mother's. Gaston's 
 grandmother had been the dearest to her of all the 
 friends of her far-away youth. Now she was de- 
 termined to find in Gaston himself the renewal and 
 reincarnation of the qualities that had made his 
 mother, and her mother, dear to her. Certainly he 
 w^ould have no difficulty in attaining her intimacy : 
 but sl^ went further than that. He was, she de- 
 cided, to prove the one young man worthy of Made- 
 leine. 
 
 About an hour after he had left the Rue Bayard 
 the old lady and the young one were talking of him. 
 
 "So I shall see him to-morrow," said Madame de 
 St. Firmin. "Why don't you tell me what he is 
 like?" 
 
 "You know very well that it is the portraits of
 
 1 62 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 dogs that I can paint. You insisted on my painting 
 yours, and said it was not like anybody." 
 
 'Tm sure he is not a dog." 
 
 "Of course not. But I can't describe him. He is 
 tall and rather lean. And serious. And he talks 
 well, but solemnly, and not very much. To-day, 
 however, he talked more." 
 
 "Yes, but is he handsome? He must be." 
 
 "Then you know more than I do. I really cannot 
 tell you if he is handsome." 
 
 "He must be. His mother is absolutely beauti- 
 ful. You have seen her portrait." 
 
 "He is not at all like it." 
 
 "But his father was a very handsome man. All 
 the de Saulmoz men are." 
 
 "Then he must be handsome. He is a man and 
 a de Saulmoz." 
 
 "You are very annoying. I am devoured by 
 curiosity." 
 
 "Don't let it eat you all up in twenty-four hours. 
 This time to-morrow you will know exactly what 
 he is like." 
 
 "Twenty-four hours is a long time at my age. 
 Tell me now." 
 
 "I have told you all I know. Nearly all. He 
 was not sea-sick in crossing the Atlantic, but he was 
 in crossing the Channel. He wears black and white 
 hats." 
 
 "Black and white hats!" 
 
 "A black one to-day, a white one the other day 
 at Versailles." 
 
 "How tiresome you are! Has he no eyes?" 
 
 "Two, so far as I noticed. Tm pretty sure he has 
 two. Had there been fewer, or more, I should 
 have remarked it." 
 
 "Of what color are they?" 
 
 "I don't remember. To save you trouble I may
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 163 
 
 as well say that he has a mouth (rather too firm) 
 and a chin (rather much of It)." 
 
 "No nose, I gather?" 
 
 "Oh yes. I did not perceive anything approach- 
 ing to deformity in him. Here comes Miss Essie 
 Shenstone, ask her. She knows him much better." 
 
 On the following day Gaston went to keep his 
 appointment : and he did keep it, though something 
 happened on the way that chilled his eagerness, 
 chilled him to the marrow of his life. 
 
 Turning out of the Avenue Montaigne into the 
 Place Francois ler, he noticed carelessly that two 
 elderly gentlemen were talking together. They 
 stood still near the middle of the round place and 
 one of them had his back to the Rue Bayard. He 
 might be about fifty-five: the other was older, and, 
 to judge by the loud voice in which his friend ad- 
 dressed him, slightly deaf. 
 
 Gaston had to cross within a few yards of them. 
 There was no traffic, and there was no one else in 
 the place. 
 
 "Austria is behaving very badly," almost shouted 
 the elder gentleman, who endowed all the world 
 with his own deafness. "God knows what'll come 
 of it." 
 
 "She always does. Her politique is subterrane- 
 ous. Eh, well ! we shall see. I've just been to the 
 Hotel Valmondois. The Duchess, you know, is 
 marrying again." 
 
 "Already! To Monsieur de Greoulse?" 
 
 "Not at all! To Henri Flamboin. ..." 
 
 "Tiens! Beauty and the beast?" 
 
 "The beast all right. As for the beauty ..." 
 
 Gaston did not slacken his pace at all; what he 
 heard he heard just before passing close to the two 
 gentlemen, as he passed, and as he was leaving 
 them behind. He did not turn his head by a frac-
 
 1 64 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 tion of an inch; and the gentleman who alluded 
 somewhat dubiously to the question of Madame's 
 beauty certainly lowered his voice then. 
 
 Gaston walked on into the Rue Bayard and his 
 pace did not alter; but his face had altered, and he 
 told himself plainly that his life had altered. Every- 
 thing had changed. Ten minutes ago the sky had 
 been overcast, and a black shower had threatened, 
 but Gaston had not accused the day of being dull 
 or gloomy. Now the rollicking breeze had rolled 
 the big cloud away, and there was abundant sun- 
 light. But to Gaston the garish light on the white 
 houses seemed ghastly — like a glare on dead faces. 
 He seemed hardly to remember the words he had 
 heard, but they had done his business for him. 
 What he appeared to remember most in them were 
 the things that made no difference. 
 
 " 'The Hotel Valmondois,' " he repeated to him- 
 self; "it is a good house, and has its courtyard and 
 porte-cochere; it is an hotel, of course, but I did not 
 know it was a family house. That fat idiot did not 
 seem sure about the beauty. It is strange I did not 
 think of knocking him down." 
 
 It was bitter to him that the other man should at 
 once have been ready to couple a name with that 
 lady's, the moment he heard of her as betrothed. 
 A Monsieur de Greoulse. And there was another 
 man. Two men at least, anyway. He had some- 
 how felt a certainty that since her husband's death 
 there had been no man — and there were two. 
 
 Everything was changed. He had really been 
 looking forward to meeting his mother's old friend, 
 quite apart from his selfish interest in making 
 friends with her. He had thought of the amuse- 
 ment and pleasure it would be to write and tell his 
 mother all about her. Now he hated the necessity 
 of meeting her; it would be sheer penance and cjene. 
 He felt almost an antipathy to the old woman.
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 165 
 
 He had been covering the Miss Shenstones with 
 his benisons for having asked him to dinner; now 
 he looked forward with repulsion to the idea of 
 meeting Madame de Valmondois there. Yet he 
 had no idea of not dining with them; no idea of 
 not going to the "Hotel Valmondois." That he 
 had not was characteristic of him. He always kept 
 to engagements; he seldom changed his mind or his 
 plans. 
 
 Only the plan of his life was changed. He had 
 not changed. That was the worst of it. It had 
 revolted him to hear two men's names joined with 
 Madame de Valmondois's in the space of a few 
 seconds, but he had not changed his mind about her. 
 Ten minutes ago he had told himself what a long 
 task the winning of her must be, what a hard one, 
 no doubt; but he knew now that he had not doubted, 
 that he had simply determined she should share his 
 life with him. His life was gone; there would be 
 nothing for anyone to share. 
 
 " 'Already.' That old man must be a fool. He 
 was an insolvent fool. Had not the Due de Val- 
 mondois been dead three years? Though she was 
 only twenty, he had been dead three years. 'Al- 
 ready,' indeed ! Had she not a right to marry 
 to-morrow?" 
 
 All the same, she had no right to marry anyone 
 but himself. 
 
 The "Hotel Valmondois" was down at the end 
 of the Rue Bayard, near the Cours le Reine. He 
 had reached the outer door, opening into the court- 
 yard. He could hear a Seine boat screaming on 
 the river. It was as hideous as if a gamin had 
 shrieked suddenly in his ear. All the same he turned 
 in; the big doors stood open, and a huge Limousine 
 car stood under the porte-cochere. A large, fat, 
 pale man was getting out of it. It was a car that 
 spoke, almost shouted of opulence, but there was
 
 1 66 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 no coronet on It. The fat man's neck bulged out 
 behind over his tall, stiff, shining white collar. He 
 was too spruce for his age. AH these trivialities 
 Gaston noticed. 
 
 V 
 
 Gaston was ushered through the salon where the 
 Duchess had received him yesterday (yesterday! it 
 seemed five years ago) into a much larger one, 
 where there were already a number of people. She 
 was accepting the greetings of the fat man out of 
 the Limousine. Gaston was almost surprised that 
 he should have been able to get upstairs so quickly; 
 he ought to be out of breath. 
 
 Then M. de Saulmoz was announced, and the 
 Duchess moved a step or so towards him. 
 
 "Madame de St. Firmin is here already. She is 
 quite impatient," she said, smiling. "Come and be 
 presented to her. It will take you an hour to an- 
 swer all her questions." 
 
 All the same she did not quite immediately take 
 him to the old lady. She kept him at her side for 
 a few moments and spoke of something else. 
 
 "Two Miss Shenstones are coming," she told 
 him, "I have promised to dine with them on Sun- 
 day, their little dinners on Sundays are an institu- 
 tion. Always en petit comite, you are not asked 
 unless you are thoroughly approved." 
 
 "I am proud to say, then, that I also am dining 
 with them on Sunday." 
 
 "Voila. Your imprimaton! Madame de St. 
 Firmin is glaring at me. Come ! For an hour 
 there will be more and more people, then fewer and 
 fewer. By the time Madame has done with you I 
 shall be able to talk to you myself. Come !" 
 
 "She makes much of me," thought Gaston, "be- 
 cause she is engaged. She can be civil without 
 arriere pensee.'
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 167 
 
 But he only smiled and followed her to the sofa 
 where Madame de St. Firmin was sitting. 
 
 "Now, Celestine," the old lady said to a young 
 lady who was trying to talk to her, "you are to go 
 away. Monsieur de Saulmoz is to sit there." 
 
 And she immediately set him down at her side. 
 
 "I will leave you," said their hostess. "Mon- 
 sieur de Saulmoz can tell you for himself, if he is 
 handsome!" she laughed, and bending down almost 
 whispered to Madame de St. Firmin: "I had better 
 go and talk a little more to Monsieur Flamboln; I 
 cut him a little short on M. de Saulmoz's arrival." 
 
 She went away and immediately began a small 
 conversation with the fat man of the Limousine. 
 At first he looked a little sulky, as if conscious of 
 having been neglected. Then he thawed and as- 
 sumed a somewhat pawing manner — perhaps his 
 way when he wished to be charming with ladies. 
 His ample chest was turned towards Madame de 
 St. Firmin's sofa. The Duchess's slim back was to- 
 wards it, and Gaston could no longer see her face. 
 
 "Who," asked Gaston, "is M. Flamboin?" 
 
 "Oh," replied the old woman, "he is a very happy 
 man. But I do not admire him." 
 
 "Is it necessary to admire him? Why is he 
 happy?" 
 
 "Because he has induced someone who might 
 have known better to make him so. It is not In the 
 least necessary to admire him. I do not care at all 
 how rich he Is, his money has nothing to do with 
 me. I like people to marry in their own class." 
 
 "So do I. What is his class?" 
 
 "Goodness knows. He is what they call a finan- 
 cier. And he is ambitious, and wants to be a per- 
 sonage. But I do not see why people in our monde 
 should help him; especially by marrying him." 
 
 "Nor I. But I suppose it is a question of taste."
 
 1 68 THE TlDEfVAY 
 
 "A question of the loss of taste. But, M. At 
 Saulmoz, I did not come here to talk of M. Flam- 
 boin. I want to talk about your mother, and your 
 grandmother, too." 
 
 And she usually did what she wanted, and so 
 Gaston and she talked for very nearly the hour 
 Madame de Valmondois had prophesied about the 
 subject the old lady chose. 
 
 "Mind," she said, at last, "you are to come to 
 me very often. If not I shall write and complain 
 to your mother. I am too old to receive many peo- 
 ple, but the ones I like come often." 
 
 Here was exactly what Gaston had wanted; now 
 it was no good. All the same he promised, not 
 eagerly; and he was not the man to say Yes and 
 mean No. 
 
 Madame de Valmondois did not talk to M. Flam- 
 boin for anything like an hour. Far too many ar- 
 rivals of other visitors demanded her attention. 
 But the big millionaire did not turn away with a 
 displeased air; in fact, he moved about the room 
 with an appearance of complaisance, and it was 
 not difficult to guess that, as he went from one ac- 
 quaintance to another, he was receiving congratula- 
 tions. He seemed to purr, where he did not paw. 
 Gaston was pleased to be able to decide that he 
 was altogether loathsome. 
 
 When M. Flamboin departed it was almost in 
 the wake of a lady of about his own age, also stout, 
 and entirely free from distinction of manner, but 
 with some appearance of having been pretty. She 
 had a little of his purring way, and Gaston would 
 not have heard with surprise that she was his sister. 
 
 "Had M. Flamboin a sister?" he asked his old 
 friend on the sofa. 
 
 "A sister? Oh, yes! A Madame Rou-Roussel, 
 a Roubaise; as rich as he is. She was here just now.
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 169 
 
 I suppose she came on the strength of the approach- 
 nig relationship. That's the result of those sort of 
 adventures. AH the Duchess's family will have to 
 see Madame Roubaise panting up their stairs, ex- 
 cept me ! I will not." 
 
 "Why do you suppose the Duchess marries such 
 a man?" 
 
 "Dieu salt! But some women like to make a 
 man. He is pushing and not a fool, and means to 
 arrive. Perhaps she intends to be the wife of a 
 Minister. No doubt she could help him. Had 
 she any children they might have stood in the way. 
 A woman of our world would not like to have to 
 present such a stepfather to her son." 
 
 "Her son would be rather young to object!" 
 
 "As her son has never been born we can't 
 say. , . . But I really don't want to talk about M. 
 Flamboin, nor his marriage; though, for that mat- 
 ter, it is what everyone is talking of. That nuisance 
 will not last long as they are to be married without 
 delay." 
 
 As Madame de Valmondois had said would be 
 the case, there were not so many people in the room 
 by the time Gaston's long talk with Madame de St. 
 Firmin was finished. Still, it was very far from be- 
 ing empty. 
 
 "Gaston," said the old lady (she had already 
 told him that she must call him by his baptismal 
 name), "Madeleine is talking to no one; and here 
 is a crony of mine bearing down upon me. Will 
 you not go and talk to the Duchess?" 
 
 How welcome such a hint would have been had 
 he not heard this hateful news ! As it was he acted 
 on it chiefly as a fitting courtesy to his hostess. 
 
 As he walked across the room he thought how 
 beautiful the girl was; and she looked more youth- 
 ful without the hat which she had been wearing on
 
 170 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 both the other occasions. Had he really only seen 
 her twice? Could he really have only known her 
 live days and her marriage be so horrible a blow 
 to him? 
 
 "I have answered all Madame de St. Firmin's 
 questions," he began. "As you told me they were 
 numerous." 
 
 "She was quite savage with me because I could 
 not tell her what you intended to be. She seemed 
 resolved that you should be something important. 
 Not to be ambitious, she says, is idleness in anyone 
 who has the means to be ambitious." 
 
 "FoM think men should be ambitious?" 
 
 "Oh, I? Well, yes; I think a man should do 
 something. If he is poor it is always something that 
 he should work for his living. If he is already rich, 
 or well ofF, and need not work to live, he should live 
 to work so as to be something." 
 
 ("She is not thinking of me," he told himself, 
 "she is thinking of M. Flamboin.") 
 
 He, therefore, only smiled, and bowed as though 
 to accept her judgment, without comment. 
 
 At once she felt that his cool politeness amounted 
 to a sort of reserve if not exactly to a rebuke. 
 
 "Nevertheless," she added quietly, "one should 
 mind one's own business." 
 
 She would certainly show no more interest in 
 what he might have been saying to Madame de St. 
 Firmin. 
 
 "I do not quite understand," he said simply. 
 And he turned his rather somber eyes to meet hers. 
 
 "No? I was, perhaps, seeming to lay down my 
 own ideas as a sort of principle. My ideas can cer- 
 tainly not be principles for — other people." 
 
 He saw that he had offended her, or rather that 
 he had somehow repelled her. 
 
 "Madame," he said, "your principle is altogether
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 171 
 
 to my taste; and that you should frankly tell me 
 what you think (you remember I had asked you) 
 was simply a kindness. I am not as it happens 
 poor enough to have to work to live. So far as 
 I can see work will be the only thing worth living 
 for." 
 
 His eyes were certainly somber, and, though his 
 words were not, their tone was. She was surprised; 
 for on their two previous meetings he had struck 
 her as being grave but by no means melancholy. 
 
 "I am glad my pronouncement did not displease 
 you," she said, "for a moment I thought it had — I 
 am rather a new acquaintance to be dispersing my 
 advice." 
 
 "Oh, Madame! I must be a stupid fellow to 
 have given you such an impression. Your advice 
 I should know to be an honor. I will tell you the 
 truth : it did not seem to me that you were giving 
 me any; I thought you were thinking of someone 
 else." 
 
 "Of someone else! I was thinking of nobody. 
 I assure you it is not my habit to talk to one per- 
 son and suit my remarks to some third person. 
 M. de Saulmoz, would you mind telling me of whom 
 you could imagine I was thinking?" 
 
 He answered at once, but with some hesitation. 
 "I do not think I have the right to tell you. I have 
 annoyed you already — twice, it seems ! You would 
 feel that I had taken a real liberty If I answered 
 your question frankly." 
 
 "There can be no liberty In frankly answering a 
 direct question. It is so extraordinary! You do 
 not know even the name, perhaps, of a single friend 
 of mine. I have very few. How could you be 
 thinking of any person as likely to occupy my 
 thoughts." 
 
 "No, Madame, I know none of your friends, ex-
 
 172 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 cept the Misses Shenstone and the Comtesse de 
 St. Firmin. And I have only heard the names of 
 two others." 
 
 "What are their names?" 
 "M. de Greoulse and M. Flamboln." 
 "As it happens I do not know M. de Greoulse. 
 He is a friend of my brother-in-law's widow. One 
 sees him in society, but I simply do not know him." 
 "There remains only M. Flamboin." 
 "I certainly was not thinking of him when I was 
 speaking to you. To tell the truth he is not a per- 
 son I think of with much pleasure. M. Flamboin! 
 It is quite bad enough that he should be on the 
 point of marrying the lady of whom I just spoke to 
 you; my brother-in-law's widow." 
 
 The rain had come after all, and the boisterous 
 wind had not dropped; the rain smacked at the win- 
 dows, and there was a moaning whistle in the win- 
 dow-sashes. But Gaston did not think the day was 
 falling sadly. 
 
 "What," he asked, as carelessly as he could, "is 
 the name of the lady who has so greatly honored 
 M. Flamboin?" 
 
 "Her name?" Then Madeleine de Valmondois 
 felt herself flushing. "Why — the same as my own. 
 She is Duchess de Valmondois. My husband's 
 elder brother is Due de Somain — there he is, the 
 tall, very thin man with white hair and pince-nez. 
 My husband's younger brother became Due de Val- 
 mondois. He died a year ago, scarcely a year ago. 
 He had been married for nearly twenty years. And 
 now the Duchess is making a new departure. After 
 all, M. Flamboin will not be my brother-in-law. He 
 is not even marrying my sister-in-law. Perhaps you 
 think it out of place in an American, a Republican, 
 to object to a man because he is not noble; it isn't 
 that. But he IS ignoble. He is brutally rich; he can
 
 ./ FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 173 
 
 bring riches out of anything — out of a drain, out of 
 a puddle. One can be vulgar without being rich. 
 He would be vulgar if he had to sweep a crossing." 
 
 "Let us hope," said Gaston, laughing, "that he 
 will not be reduced to sweeping one in the Rue 
 Bayard in front of the Hotel Valmondois." 
 
 "The Hotel Valmondois is not in the Rue Bay- 
 ard, it is in the Place Franqois ler; you passed it, 
 perhaps coming here, Madame de St. Firmin is 
 going — I must say a demahi to her; I lunch there 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "So do I. She was very kind as to ask me." 
 
 He had a much livelier sense of her kindness now 
 than when the invitation had been given. He also 
 thought with extreme benevolence of the Misses 
 Shenstone. What tact they had! M. Flamboin he 
 had the highest authority for still thinking intoler- 
 able, but he had no animosity towards him, and 
 had no malevolent desire to see him sweeping a 
 crossing. He certainly would not be a brother-in- 
 law. M. de Saulmoz escorted the Comtesse de St. 
 Firmin to her carriage; as she leant on his arm 
 down the stairs she said: 
 
 "I hope you will follow your father's lead, and 
 be an Ambassador. If I were a man I should have 
 been an Ambassador." 
 
 "Then why were you not an Ambassadress?" 
 
 "I can't think. Unless no Ambassador asked me. 
 As a matter of fact the Ambassadress is quite as 
 important as the Ambassador. I advise you to re- 
 member that." 
 
 "Yes, I promise." 
 
 "She has to be beautiful, and clever, and distin- 
 guished, and dignified, and of high reputation. And 
 if she is also rich it is no great disadvantage." 
 
 "There could be no difficulty in finding such a 
 lady!"
 
 174 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "That depends who seeks. Some men never can 
 find anything." 
 
 "And some can't get what they want when they 
 have found it," 
 
 "Not if they are betes." 
 
 Gaston had some just misgivings that he had al- 
 ready been bete. Did Madame de Valmondois 
 guess that he had thought her capable of marrying 
 M. Flamboin?" 
 
 "You'll think of me," he said laughing, as he put 
 his mother's old friend into her carriage, "if you 
 happen to meet such an Ambassadress as you de- 
 scribe?" 
 
 "Perhaps. A demain. You are coming to lunch- 
 eon to-morrow?" 
 
 "Of course. Do you think I should forget?" 
 
 He thought that, as it was still raining, the old 
 lady might as well have offered him a lift in her 
 big carriage. But she did nothing of the kind. 
 
 "My dear," she cried, "I have left my handker- 
 chief on that sofa. You might bring it with you 
 to-morrow. Tell the man 'Home,' please." 
 
 She knew quite well that he had not intended to 
 go back to the salon. Old intirgante! But the 
 handkerchief really was on the sofa — under a 
 cushion. 
 
 "Not, however, by such easy tricks," thought 
 Gaston, "is my business to be done. It will take 
 long, and it will be difficult." 
 
 VI 
 
 Next day at Madame de St. Firmin's, Gaston 
 had something to say to her, and he said it aloud at 
 luncheon, where only two other guests were seated 
 at the large round table — Madame de Valmondois 
 and Miss Essie Shenstone." 
 
 "Madame," said he, turning to their hostess, "you 
 have ordered me to be an Ambassador: I hope you
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 175 
 
 will not be angry if I cannot obey you quite in- 
 stantly." 
 
 "One sometimes has to begin by becoming an 
 attache," she admitted. 
 
 "I had thought of that. But I cannot even begin 
 in that way for the moment. Events have moved 
 very rapidly, more rapidly than! the newspapers 
 have as yet found out. The Quai d'Orsay is nearly 
 certain that there will be war. Austria is forcing 
 war on Serbia, and it is pretty sure who is pushing 
 her from behind. We do not want war, England 
 has no army and hates the idea of it. But Russia 
 will not allow Serbia to be ecrasee, and says so vig- 
 orously. The English Foreign Office is exhausting 
 itself In trying to keep the peace, but Austria will 
 not listen. England has lost the habit as well as 
 the gout of mixing herself in continental quarrels. 
 We know who has always meant to force tis to fight. 
 And If Austria makes war against Russia we are 
 bound to range ourselves on Russia's side. Eng- 
 land ought to be bound to range herself with us; as 
 to that we shall see. But If France goes to war — 
 well, I am afraid, Madame, that I cannot become 
 an attache till it Is over." 
 
 The three ladies who heard him had the impres- 
 sion, whether rightly or wrongly, that he had more 
 definite authority for his remarks than he hinted, 
 that probably he knew more than he said. 
 
 At least one important personage at the Quai 
 d'Orsay was his father's old and intimate friend. 
 The old Comtesse jumped to the conclusion, though 
 she did not proclaim it, that he had actually come 
 from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs whither he 
 might have gone really on some business connected 
 with his own entrance Into the diplomatic service. 
 
 "I wonder," she said, shaking her old head, "if
 
 176 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 we are read^^ We thought we were in the Soixante 
 Dix." 
 
 "Germany Is anyway," said Gaston. "That is the 
 best of being a man of one idea. That whole na- 
 tion is an army. And armies do not exist for the 
 sake of shaking hands with foreigners who are also 
 neighbors." 
 
 "And Germany is not a Republic," said his 
 hostess dismally. She herself was vehemently mon- 
 archist. 
 
 "Come, Madame," laughed Gaston. "France 
 won a few battles when she was a Republic. The 
 Republic was the mother of Napoleon." 
 
 "Hardly. One isn't born before one's mother, 
 and he was born before her." 
 
 They all laughed. 
 
 "If Napoleon had been the son of the First Re- 
 public," the old lady chuckled, "he would have been 
 a matricide : for he strangled her without much com- 
 punction." 
 
 "In our Republic," said Miss Shenstone, "we 
 take care to have no Napoleons to play such pranks 
 with their mother." 
 
 "So I've heard, my dear. So do we here now." 
 
 After this little passage of arms, they fell to 
 graver talk. 
 
 Madame de Valmondols had always thought Gas- 
 ton grave; he certainly was no longer melancholy, 
 and if he was still grave it struck her as being a 
 cheerful gravity. He had found, she thought, a 
 purpose; and it made him earnest but contented. 
 She did not know that he had found two : one she 
 herself had provided last night; the other the day's 
 news had given him. 
 
 "You never thought of the army- as a profes- 
 sion?" asked Gaston's hostess. 
 
 "Oh, no! If there is war I must fight as a sim-
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 177 
 
 pie soldier. When the war is over I shall remem- 
 ber your commands." 
 
 They all thought, "if you are alive." And he did 
 not forget that proviso, but it would have been very 
 unlike him to express it. His disposition was rather 
 courageous than sanguine, and he was not at all 
 the sort of man who takes it for granted that mis- 
 haps are for other people only. He knew quite 
 well that all he might have to do in life might be 
 finished in a few weeks : but he saw no use in staring 
 at the chance, and most assuredly would not talk 
 of it. 
 
 He did not much like the idea of war, because 
 he could not guess how France would fare in it. 
 Had he been a soldier by profession it might have 
 been different. Still he had been a soldier very 
 lately, and if there was war he felt that nothing 
 could be more immensely interesting and absorbing 
 than taking his single share in it. 
 
 "Eh, my dears," said the old lady, "if you re- 
 member 1870! I had hoped to see nothing like it 
 again. This can't be as bad as that. It is terrible 
 when one is old to think of one's country's scars torn 
 open to bleed afresh. You young men turn to your 
 bright swords, we old women can turn only to our 
 rusty prayers." 
 
 Gaston glanced quickly and quite involuntarily 
 at Madeleine: were hei' prayers rusty? He thought 
 not. Could he trust in having a share in them? 
 Her eyes met his, and I think he read a promise 
 in them. 
 
 VII 
 
 This is not a war story. That the war came and 
 has not gone a whole agonized world knows. Its
 
 178 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 taste is in our meat and drink: it is in all we read, 
 though we choose our books never so carefully from 
 old shelves laden before it came: it walks with us, 
 though we pace the unvexed fields of neutral lands; 
 the lark's song at heaven's gate or near it dins it 
 in our ear; its cloud is on the most aloof mountain 
 top; and the artillery of great oceans echoes it in 
 their booming caverns. 
 
 To an old man of peace and of the pen who has 
 stood near-hand to it the anguish of writing of it 
 is too raw and terrible. He will not. 
 
 If he has not wholly failed in this swift picture, 
 to sketch the outline of a young man's portrait, the 
 reader will not need his asseveration that Gaston de 
 Saulmoz did not fall short. What he did Gaston 
 never told nor will this writer. Where unnumbered 
 heroes did their best Gaston did as they. Their 
 comrades know their names, history may never 
 know them. History likes to sum up and general- 
 ize; slow as she is and fumbling enough in her gait^- 
 she is hasty and will scarcely encumber herself with 
 endless rolls of names that are not to recur in her 
 page. To have laid one's life down, or stood with 
 it in one's fist at gaze with Death and ready to 
 yield it up if need be — that is not enough for his- 
 tory: her business is not with the led who fall, but 
 with the leader who conquers. 
 
 Yet I think the fallen carry smilingly their com- 
 rades' names before another Court of Honor as 
 patient because it is Eternal, as history is hurried 
 and transient. 
 
 The round world does not ring with Gaston de 
 Saulmoz's name, but some have reported his deeds 
 in a book that shall outlive history, and many of his 
 comrades still alive will remember them always. 
 Fame may be too busy for him : she cannot be every- 
 where, and it is somewhat her fashion to give most
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 179 
 
 easily to them who are rich already. And Gaston 
 did another thing she seldom likes : he fell out of 
 the ranks — twice ; not willingly but by reason of 
 being cut down in them. 
 
 His first wound came in the first few months of 
 the war: and it was serious enough. For three 
 months he was in hospital. Then he was able to 
 go back, and fought for half another year. The 
 second wound left him with only one arm. 
 
 But what has been so briefly told took a long 
 time in action and it had for him much result. 
 
 He did not actually leave Paris till about three 
 weeks after his first meeting with Madame de Val- 
 mondois though he had resumed his private soldier's 
 uniform six or seven days earlier. During those 
 three weeks they had met many times, at Madame 
 de St. Firmin's house, at the Miss Shenstones' and 
 at Madame de Valmondois's own. At least five of 
 those six ladies had felt sure that he would not go 
 away without declaring himself. What the sixth ex- 
 pected it would be more difficult to guess, and more 
 indiscreet to inquire. From the day of his first seeing 
 Madame de Valmondois in their garden the four 
 kind American ladies had been aware that the young 
 man had been seriously attracted by the beautiful 
 Duchess; and they were shrewd judges of charac- 
 ter; he was not, they were convinced, the sort of 
 person who fancies himself In love once or twice 
 a year. They were discreet as well as observant 
 and dropped no hint elsewhere or to Gaston him- 
 self, still less to the Duchess, though they had known 
 her much longer and knew her more intimately. 
 Nevertheless they perceived that what they had seen 
 begin had not died away. The first attraction had 
 steadily though rapidly deepened. 
 
 Under normal circumstances they could imagine 
 that M. de Saulmoz would not be a very hasty
 
 i8o THE TIDEWAY 
 
 wooer. But the existing state of affairs was not 
 normal: events of all sorts were moving quickly 
 elsewhere, and they thought his might move rap- 
 idly too. That he and the young Duchess were 
 constantly meeting they knew ; surely he would not 
 go away without saying something to the purpose. 
 
 Madame de St. Firmin had somewhat outgrown 
 discretion, and almost boasted of it. She thought 
 herself too old to call delay by the demure name 
 of patience. 
 
 She was not exactly in awe of Gaston, but, though 
 she would venture so far as to wrap up dexterous 
 hints in the folds of indifferent observations, she 
 was not quite hardy enough with him to do more 
 when he chose to appear wholly obtuse. 
 
 "You are made for an Ambassador," she told 
 him, "you are all prudence and caution. Events 
 must mold themselves : to grab at them and twist 
 them in your fingers to your own shape you would 
 think mere rashness." 
 
 He only laughed and said that his father was 
 fond of quoting a great English writer who de- 
 clared that for tangling a skein there was nothing 
 like violent tugging at one particular thread. 
 
 With Madeleine de Valmondois she was frankly 
 indiscreet. 
 
 "To-morrow he goes," she said, "I wish I knew 
 If he had done his duty." 
 
 "You may be sure he will do it." 
 
 "Don't be a hypocrite. You know what I mean 
 very well. His duty will be to do things. Here it 
 is to have said something." 
 
 "He is not talkative. But he says more to you 
 than to anyone else." 
 
 "To me? There Is nothing for him to say to me. 
 You are intolerable! Has he been a fool?" 
 
 "He is not in the least a fool."
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER i8i 
 
 "He would be if he went away without saying 
 something to you. There!" 
 
 "On the contrary, he would be wise." 
 "Wisdom consists in knowing what one wants." 
 "And also in not spoiling one's chance of getting 
 
 it." 
 
 *'ro« know at all events what he wants." 
 "My dear old friend, if he tells you his secrets 
 (which I doubt) he does not tell them to me. And 
 therein I say he is wise. If you try to force me 
 to guess all them, I refuse. Would you mind talk- 
 ing of something else?" 
 
 VIII 
 
 They neither of them saw him again for three 
 months. To the old Comtesse he wrote several 
 times, to the Miss Shenstones about as often: once 
 he wrote to Madame de Valmondois, as she care- 
 fully told Madame de St. Firmin. It appeared that 
 he had asked her to lend him a certain book, and 
 in returning it he had written a letter. 
 
 "A nice letter?" demanded the old lady. 
 
 "No doubt it is a nice letter. I will give it to 
 you to read." 
 
 "I have not the slightest desire to see it if you 
 are willing to show it to me." 
 
 "I am perfectly willing." 
 
 "Then keep it to yourself!" 
 
 At the end of three months all the ladies of whom 
 we have spoken as his friends saw him. For he 
 was brought, wounded, to a hospital at Neuilly. 
 Among the voluntary nurses, infirniieres, was 
 Madame de Valmondois herself: and she promptly 
 reported his arrival to Madame de St. Firmin and 
 to the Misses Shenstone. 
 
 "You are nursing him?" asked the former with 
 ill-concealed triumph.
 
 1 82 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "No. He is not in my ward. There arc twenty 
 wards." 
 
 The Comtesse was quite clearly of opinion that 
 they had put him in the wrong ward. But the 
 Duchess was busy and would not stay to talk. 
 
 When Madame de St. Firmin went to see him 
 she allowed herself to be taken over the hospital 
 by the Infirmiere Chef who was her own niece. 
 
 "I think," said the old plotter, when she had 
 seen it all, "that you have put my young friend in 
 the least cheerful of all your wards. Eighteen and 
 twelve are the best — ^bright and pleasant. Thir- 
 teen is dismal, besides It's an unlucky number. If 
 he doesn't get well it will be your fault !" 
 
 The Infirmiere Chef laughed and said: 
 
 "There is not a spare bed in Eighteen. They 
 are all full" (the Comtesse had carefully noted the 
 circumstance), "but they have two empty beds in 
 Twelve, and it is opposite Thirteen. I did not know 
 M. de Saulmoz was superstitious ! But it wouldn't 
 be difficult to move him." 
 
 "Oh, he isn't superstitious. / am: so is his 
 mother." (Oh! Madame de St. Firmin! where do 
 you suppose you will go to?) "I certainly shall not 
 tell her he is in Thirteen." 
 
 "If you wait till to-morrow perhaps you can write 
 that he is in Twelve." 
 
 It was certainly a weakness of this old lady to try 
 and prevent Providence from being overworked. 
 
 Thus it came about that for nearly three months 
 Gaston was one of Madame de Valmondois's pa- 
 tients, and she neglected none of them. We are 
 not bound to suppose that she exclusively neglected 
 him. Still, there were many patients, and she was 
 was far from being the only infirmiere in the ward. 
 Perhaps Madame de St. Firmin exaggerated the Im- 
 portance of her success; more especially since it is
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 183 
 
 true that "In vain Is the net set in the sight of 
 any bird," and Madeleine had seen the net very 
 promptly, though the Infinniere Chef had sus- 
 pected nothing. Gaston knew nothing about it, 
 had he known it is probable he would have been less 
 irritated than was Madame de Valmondois. 
 
 When he went back to the front Madame de St. 
 Firmin was disgusted. "I thought," she avowed 
 unpatriotically, "that the only good of being nearly 
 killed was that you wouldn't have to go and be 
 killed again. You've got the Croix de Guerre and 
 the Medaille Mllitaire, you ought to give the other 
 young men a chance." 
 
 She would have been still more annoyed had she 
 known how doggedly Gaston had been moving 
 heaven and earth to get sent back to the front at 
 once. If he had not done this he would perhaps not 
 have gone back for at least another three months. 
 
 Madame de Valmondois did know, and was not 
 offended. Had he been her husband she would have 
 wished him to go if he should not be simply unable 
 to go. And he was not even her betrothed. She 
 had long "known what he wanted" : and she had 
 wholly approved of his not asking for it. Had he 
 asked before he first went to the war she would 
 have said "No" : that he had kept silence was, she 
 was sure, because he had not felt that he had any 
 right to expect "Yes." She could not love merely 
 because she was loved, nor mistake a respectful af- 
 fection for love. That her friendship amounted 
 almost to affection she confessed, and she did more 
 than almost respect him. 
 
 But when he went away to fight once more she 
 would not have said "No" had he asked. Even 
 then he did not ask. Though they had been friends 
 for over half a year, he did not ask if she would 
 be more. And therefore he did not tell her in any
 
 1 84 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 speech, or in many speeches, that he loved her bet- 
 ter than all the world. Whether she fully under- 
 stood his silence this time I am not prepared to say. 
 
 She was quite certain that he had not changed: 
 he had grown, but though his character had devel- 
 oped, and was finer, richer, more ripe, she knew 
 very well that his heart, which had also deepened, 
 was not changed. 
 
 Still he left her that second time, also without 
 asking anything of her, without offering her any- 
 thing — for indeed he could not have offered that 
 thing without asking it in return. That, of course, 
 she understood: and no doubt she understood too 
 that he must be aware that if he now offered she 
 would give. Anyway he had gone, and he had not 
 even said that he would write to her. To the Miss 
 Shenstones he did write, and to the old Comtesse : 
 and in writing to them he always asked "her news" 
 and sent his hommages to her. But to herself he 
 did not write even once. He knew her fete day, 
 and when the 22nd July arrived a gerhe of exquisite 
 flowers came to her from a florist's with his card 
 attached to it, but there came no letter. 
 
 She took the flowers to the Madeleine and had in- 
 tended asking that they should be added to the im- 
 mense number before the statue of the saint, but 
 changed her mind and asked that they should be 
 placed before that of the Blessed Jeanne d' Arc. 
 She prayed a long time after the man had gone 
 away who had done her bidding. But the card was 
 not on the flowers : that she kept. 
 
 "How silent he is," she thought. "And I never 
 liked talkative men. But he is silent." 
 
 On the card was written only her own name, 
 above his printed name and "Souvenir respectueux." 
 
 Madame de St. Firmin no longer teased her: 
 she was angry with Gaston. Had he behaved him-
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 185 
 
 self as he ought she felt sure Madeleine would have 
 told her. She was savage with Gaston, but she was 
 not indiscreet enough to put her crossness into writ- 
 ing. She kept all her indiscretion for word of 
 mouth. But she left his letters, as they came, a 
 long while unanswered. 
 
 IX 
 
 Then he came back. Not, this time, to the 
 hospital at Neuilly, but to one at Fontainebleau. 
 There was no question of Madame de Valmondois 
 nursing him now. At the moment she was not nurs- 
 ing at all : she had worked too hard, and been con- 
 stantly a little ill, and at last the doctors had sim- 
 ply ordered her to rest. That was only a few days 
 before his return from the front in late October, 
 191 5. He was quite unaware that she had tem- 
 porarily broken down. 
 
 It was from Miss Essie and Miss Sally Shen- 
 stone that the Duchess heard of his arrival at Fon- 
 tainebleau. They had been to see him the day be- 
 fore. They began by saying how cheerful he was, 
 then they told her that it was the left arm that had 
 been wounded. With singular carefulness they 
 managed the telling, not holding her in suspense, 
 but quite quickly and yet gradually arriving at the 
 whole truth. The lower arm was gone ; it had been 
 blown off just below the elbow. The real danger 
 had been at first, the danger that he might bleed 
 to death. All that danger was over before he had 
 been sent down from the front; now he was doing 
 very well. 
 
 "Madame de St. Firmin," said Miss Essie, "will 
 be almost glad, for now he can fight no more." 
 
 Of course, they all three talked of it for a long 
 time ; when the two kind Americans got up to go
 
 1 86 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 they said they had promised Gaston to go and see 
 the Comtesse de St. Firmin. 
 
 "I think Anna and Megsie are going to Fon- 
 tainebleau to-morrow," said Miss Essie, "I sup- 
 pose you would not care to go with them?" 
 
 "No. But I should like them to tell him that I 
 will come." 
 
 They knew that she meant she would go alone. 
 I really cannot say if they were surprised. Per- 
 haps they hardly knew themselves if they were or 
 no. She went on the day following that on which 
 Miss Anna and Miss Megsie Shenstone had been. 
 
 "They told me," he said, "that you would come. 
 I did not dare to expect you so soon." 
 
 "I should have come yesterday only that they 
 were coming." 
 
 "They said you had not been well. But I think 
 you have been really ill." 
 
 "I don't know. The doctors said I was, or that 
 I soon should be. I did not feel ill, but tired," 
 
 "And now you come all this way; that will not 
 rest you." 
 
 "It will. I could not stay at home and not know 
 how you really were. Not see with my own eyes. 
 That would have tired me." 
 
 He was pale, for he had lost much blood, and he 
 looked older. Nevertheless, he did not seem ill. 
 After having been so slow, it might have struck 
 her as odd that he should now be so quick, for he 
 held out his hand — his only one, and said: "I have 
 only this one left; but it is the right one." And he 
 offered it to her. 
 
 And without hesitation she took it. 
 
 "You know what I mean?" he asked, not holding 
 her hand long, but meeting her eyes plainly. 
 
 "Yes, I know," she answered as plainly. 
 
 "I shall not die," he said, "that is why I offer it
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 187 
 
 to you now. I might have been killed. While 
 there was that certainty I would not hold out to you 
 what might have been a dead man's hand." 
 
 "I have always understood you," she told him, 
 "from the first day." 
 
 "From the first day I loved you," he said, "and 
 I cannot hide my wants. But I knew that if I spoke 
 soon it would not gain me what I longed for. 
 When I went away the second time I knew better 
 what that hell was like to which I was going back. 
 If I should not come back I would not have you 
 bound to my memory." 
 
 "I should have been bound. I should have been 
 then in truth a widow." 
 
 He did not explain further, for he saw there was 
 no need. Simply he would not have had her be 
 known to the world as a woman widowed of her 
 betrothed. Neither did she explain. Her coming 
 to him, thus by herself, to many men would have 
 seemed strange, perhaps unworthy of her and her 
 somewhat aloof dignity. He knew her too well. 
 
 "I have always understood," she said again. 
 "That is why I came to-day. I knew what you 
 would say. I came on purpose. You had waited 
 long enough. So had I." 
 
 "Ah, Madame! How long it has been — for me." 
 
 "For us both." 
 
 "Do you remember," he asked presently, "the 
 first day that we met, how we talked of Fontaine- 
 bleau?" 
 
 "I remember all we said." 
 
 "I never thought then what was to happen at 
 Fontaineleau." 
 
 "Nor I. How could we, either of us? But I 
 knew then that something had already happened — 
 there at Versailles. I had met someone who would 
 give me a thing I had never had. Unless I could
 
 1 88 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 give him as much I could not take it; I cannot. It 
 was a long time till I knew that I could give him as 
 much." 
 
 "I also have always understood." 
 
 Then her grave eyes changed, and there was a 
 little dancing light of mischief in them. 
 
 "Always?" she said. "When you thought me 
 capable of marrying Monsieur Flamboin?" 
 
 "Ah," he protested laughing, "you begin on that 
 already? I thought you would have kept it for 
 our first quarrel to grind me down with!" 
 
 "Oh, I could not wait for that. It might have 
 been so long." 
 
 "Very well. If you grind me down now, gloat- 
 ing over my stupidity, I can only say that you are 
 pert/' 
 
 "I can be ever so pert. You think you know 
 exactly what I am like. But I am not so solemn as 
 you imagine. At first I used to wonder if you were 
 not too grave for me. Our kind friends at Ver- 
 sailles, Miss Anna and Miss Essie, Miss Megsie 
 and Miss Sally, they know I can be pert, and I have 
 often made them laugh. Gaston, I do not believe 
 I ever made you laugh." 
 
 "Well, begin now. You could never find it so 
 easy. To-day I could laugh at anything. You need 
 not be extremely witty." 
 
 "Strange to say I can't think of anything in the 
 least amusing. But it will be rather amusing tell- 
 ing Madame de St. Firmin. Latterly I've been 
 afraid of going near her. She has been savage." 
 
 "But with me; I could see that." 
 
 "With me also. She evidently thought it was my 
 fault you had not done your duty." 
 
 "All the same I like Madame de St. Firmin. It 
 was a great thing to perceive that what I wanted to 
 do that she considered to be my duty."
 
 A FRANCO-AMERICAN ENCOUNTER 189 
 
 "Of course, one likes her. Gaston, do your 
 father and mother know anything about me?" 
 
 "I expect they both know all 'about you,' as you 
 call it. I told my mother, and no doubt she has 
 told my father. Do you know what those dear 
 Americans are going to do? They say they shall 
 come and stay at Fontainebleau — Miss Essie says 
 Piou-piou requires change of air." 
 
 "So do I." 
 
 "You will come and stay with them!" 
 
 "If you can induce them to ask me." 
 
 "No doubt my mother will come here. She is 
 in England. Then you can stay with her." 
 
 "Gaston, I shall return to Paris to-night. And 
 I shall go and satisfy Madame de St. Firmin about 
 something. Before she saw you she tormented me 
 to know if you were handsome, and I really could 
 not tell her. I shall now report that you are 
 really " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Not so bad considering." 
 
 "There," he said, "I promised I should laugh, 
 even if you were not very witty. You see, I keep 
 my word. Is this a pretty ring?" 
 
 And from under the pillow he drew forth a lit- 
 tle twist of white paper, and unfolded from it a 
 half-circlet of large emeralds. 
 
 "Give me your hand," he demanded, and he set 
 the ring upon her finger. 
 
 "Have you," she asked, laughing, "a jeweller 
 under your pillow?" 
 
 "Oh no. I bought it in Paris before I went away 
 the second time. It was the only thing of yours I 
 had, so I wore it round my neck on a chain." 
 
 "But it would not have been mine if I had not 
 taken your hand just now." 
 
 "No. But I always understood. There is just
 
 I90 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 one word I want to say, I have never said it to 
 myself. You see how confident I have been; but 
 always respectful. In my thoughts I never called 
 you anything but 'Madame.' Now I want to say 
 •Madeleine',"
 
 FOR SURMISE 
 
 "Jeanne," said Madame de Beaucaire, "1 want 
 J you to come indoors, there are some visitors. 
 A lady and her daughter — English, with letters of 
 introduction. And I find Madame enough; you 
 must come and help mc with Mademoiselle." 
 
 Jeanne smiled and got up at once. The two 
 ladies turned towards the house. 
 
 "I have an idea," said the girl, "from your way 
 of speaking, that I shall find mademoiselle more 
 than enough." 
 
 "It is possible. But I did not intend to give you 
 that impression. You know I am nervous; and 
 strangers made me more so — strangers who drop 
 out of the clouds! No, there are no clouds," with 
 a little laugh as Jeanne lifted her pretty head to- 
 ward the sky, "when I am nervous I imagine my- 
 self more deaf than I really am " 
 
 "You are in reality scarcely deaf at all." 
 
 "Well, I can always hear you. You do not yell." 
 
 "Do these English ladies yell?" 
 
 "No. Oh, no! But they talk in duet — at least 
 the daughter does." 
 
 "She must be clever." 
 
 "I mean that while her mother is speaking she 
 chips in." 
 
 "That is not very well-bred." 
 
 "Oh, they are not ill-bred. But Madame does 
 not talk French easily; correctly, but not fluently — 
 perhaps she has not been in France much recently, 
 and has lost the facility — then her daughter seems 
 to want to hurry things up and puts in." 
 
 191
 
 192 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "I call that being mal elevee." 
 
 "We should think so. But the English — autre 
 pays aiitres moeurs, you know." 
 
 ''And what are they doing all this time? You 
 left them to interrupt themselves at their leisure?" 
 
 "Oh, no! The young lady said she was dirty 
 and would like to wash her hands — it is very dusty, 
 and they came from Rocheberg in an open motor. 
 So I rang for Marie and she has taken them up- 
 stairs. Madame was certainly covered with 
 dust." 
 
 "Mademoiselle also, I suppose." 
 
 "No. She did not seem dusty. Perhaps It Is 
 her style of dress that does not show it. 
 
 "She IS clever, evidently," said Jeanne, with a 
 little laugh. "It is certainly clever to avoid all the 
 dust that covers your companion in the same 
 motor." 
 
 They had now reached the chateau, and entered 
 the drawing-room, a large, rather gaunt room that 
 seemed almost dark after the sunlight outside. 
 There were fine pictures on the walls, and the por- 
 traits at once gave the impression that the family 
 at home here must be one of consequence. The 
 furniture was all of one period — Louis XVI — and 
 was of an excellent taste. There were no nick- 
 nacks, and not many flowers. 
 
 "They haven't come down yet," observed Jeanne. 
 "Perhaps Mademoiselle is having a bath. English 
 people do it all day long, don't they?" 
 
 "Jeanne! Tsh ! here they come." 
 
 A footman threw open one leaf of the big double 
 doors leading to the hall, and stood aside. Two 
 ladies entered. Both were tall, the elder was also 
 lean, but her daughter was only slim. She had, 
 indeed, a very pretty figure, but her mother walked 
 better : the girl seemed to want to run.
 
 FOR SURMISE 193 
 
 "Madame," said her hostess, presenting Jeanne, 
 "this is my niece, Mademoiselle de St. Gatien." 
 
 The English lady bowed — she was really not yet 
 near enough to shake hands: Mademoiselle de St. 
 Gatien made a curtsey. Madame de Beaucaire 
 then introduced the two girls. By this time they 
 were close together and Miss Hexham held out her 
 hand. It was a pretty hand, very well shaped, but 
 rather sunburnt. 
 
 "She is clever," thought Jeanne, as they shook 
 hands, "and certainly pretty: more than pretty. 
 And my aunt was right, she is not ill-bred." 
 
 The English girl had very dark blue eyes, with 
 long lashes, they and her abundant hair were nearly 
 black. Her nose was particularly well-shaped, and 
 Jeanne had had an idea that English noses were apt 
 to be thick; it was an aristocratic nose, but it had a 
 little tilt at the end that gave it a slightly impertinent 
 expression. The mouth, not very small, was also 
 well formed and had an air of distinction, that was 
 not spoiled by a tiny curl of the excellent shaped 
 lips, though that little curl carried out the imperti- 
 nence of the nose. 
 
 Lady Hexham was not in the least like her. She 
 had never been pretty, but as an elderly woman was 
 still handsome. She was frankly badly dressed, 
 but had she been in rags no one could have mis- 
 taken her for anything but a lady, and a lady of 
 position too. 
 
 "We did not know," she was saying, "that your 
 chateau was anywhere near Rocheberg: and I had 
 meant to have written first and sent on our letter 
 of introduction." 
 
 "It was very natural," said Madame de Beau- 
 caire, "for though Rocheberg is nearer, our post- 
 town is Saint Blaise des Ours, and we are not even 
 in the same Department as Rocheberg."
 
 194 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "No. And then we thought that you would allow 
 us to bring our letter ourselves. Had we posted 
 it we should not have known for a couple of days 
 if you had received it — and you might have been 
 away." 
 
 Miss Hexham looked a little bored by these 
 lengthy apologies and explanations, but she did not 
 interrupt. Perhaps she could not very easily, as 
 Jeanne was talking to her. 
 
 "We are going on to St. Blaise," Lady Hexham 
 now explained, "we have ordered rooms there and 
 dinner. I hope my slow French does not bore you 
 very much. Of late years we have spent much time 
 in Italy, and now I find that when I open my mouth 
 Italian comes into it instead of French." 
 
 "My mother is too conscientious," her daughter 
 declared, "she really talks French much better than 
 I do, but she waits to choose the most correct ex- 
 pressions. I go straight across country heedless of 
 all obstacles. If I make mistakes tant pis pour mes 
 auditeurs. I don't mind in the least." 
 
 She did not even now actually interrupt her 
 mother, as her remark was ostensibly addressed to 
 Jeanne, but her tone was not subdued, and Lady 
 Hexham evidently paused to let her daughter's lit- 
 tle speech be heard. 
 
 All this Jeanne confessed was not bad manners, 
 though it was not French manners. From her 
 aunt's description she had been prepared to find 
 Miss Hexham something less than charming, but 
 she perceived that the girl was at all events not dis- 
 agreeable. 
 
 II 
 
 The English ladies had refused Madame de 
 Beaucaire's invitation to stay for dinner. But they 
 would have tea.
 
 FOR SURMISE 195 
 
 "May we see the garden?" Miss Hexham had 
 asked. "It looked fascinating from the window 
 upstairs." 
 
 And when they had gone out into it, and the two 
 elder ladies were a little in front, she went on — "I 
 saw you being fetched. I was sorry for you. Your 
 aunt was unable to convince you that you would 
 find us most engaging people. Description is evi- 
 dently not her forte." 
 
 And the young lady laughed demurely. Jeanne 
 laughed too and said: 
 
 "She did not attempt it. She merely said you 
 were here." 
 
 "If she only said that then description is her 
 forte. For you had quite made up your mind 
 about us both before seeing us. That was ob- 
 vious. 
 
 "And what had I decided?" asked Mademoiselle 
 de St. Gatien, endeavoring to acclimatize herself 
 to this somewhat breezy frankness. 
 
 "That I was intolerable and my poor mother a 
 victim. Live and learn, my dear." (Jeanne was 
 not yet sufficiently acclimatized. People she was 
 used to meet did not say things to which urbane 
 reply is almost impossible, nor did strangers call 
 her "my dear.") 
 
 "I am learning," she declared, laughing. 
 
 "If I had time I could convince you that I am 
 not Mamma's tyrant, but her slave. It is I who 
 conduct her life for her. I who provide her with 
 beds, luncheons and dinners. She does all our for- 
 getting and I have to do the remembering. Europe 
 is strewn with her handbags — it is her inalienable 
 prerogative to forget them: interference there 
 would be cruel. All I can do is to prevent her put- 
 ting anything into them that matters, and to see 
 that they are themselves of no value. The result
 
 196 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 is some vulgarity occasionally — that one was all I 
 could buy at Rocheberg. I scoured the town for 
 it while Mamma was writing a sonnet among the 
 ruins — In the Abbey kitchen." 
 
 "Does Madame write sonnets?" 
 
 "Thousands. Hundreds survive, but she keeps 
 bundles of them in her handbags. Do you always 
 live here?" 
 
 "I or my aunt?" 
 
 "Oh, you don't live with your aunt?" 
 
 "No — I live with my father. But I come here 
 often and stay long, for my aunt has no daughters 
 left." 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 "No, one Is married, one Is a nun." 
 
 "And which shall you do?" 
 
 Jeanne nearly jumped. Three quarters of an 
 hour ago she had never heard of Miss Hexham's 
 existence; and now that extremely pretty young 
 lady was asking her questions that none of her old 
 friends had ventured on. 
 
 "Can you advise me?" she said, smiling rather 
 coldly. "Which have you decided on?" 
 
 "I can't very well become a nun; I am not a 
 Catholic. The worst of the other thing is one 
 can't tell what it's like till one has tried, and when 
 you hanje tried you have to stick to It." 
 
 "That reflection," said Jeanne, "has perhaps oc- 
 curred to profound thinkers before." 
 
 "Have you definitely resolved to dislike me?" 
 asked Miss Hexham, standing still and smiling with 
 great vigor at a magnolia blossom. 
 
 "Oh, no. But give me time." 
 ("I am beginning to talk very oddly," she 
 thought, "I am learning quite quickly.") 
 
 "There is really," said Miss Hexham, "no neces-
 
 FOR SURMISE 197 
 
 sity to dislike me. And — I would rather you 
 didn't." 
 
 As she turned her pretty face to Jeanne it had so 
 quaintly fascinating an air of almost childish frank- 
 ness that the other girl found it irresistible. The 
 more so that it was not quite childish. Jeanne was, 
 by a year or two, at least, the younger; and certainly 
 Miss Hexham was not young for her twenty years. 
 She had seen much more of the world, and her eyes 
 did not miss much. Much that she had seen might 
 as well have been missed. Yet now there was a 
 very youthful appeal in her voice and in her lovely 
 eyes; and it was no pose. Of all pose she was sim- 
 ply incapable. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said Jeanne smiling, and per- 
 haps because she was not always smiling her smile 
 seemed to be a gift worth something, "indeed there 
 is no necessity for me to dislike you. But, if I did, 
 how could it matter? You had not seen me an hour 
 ago, and in another couple of hours you will have 
 seen the last of me." 
 
 "I don't know about that. It often happens to 
 me to meet a new word which I had not known the 
 existence of; then I meet it constantly, and it be- 
 comes part of my language, and I wonder how I 
 did without it before. And so it is with people. 
 You need not count on never seeing me again — I 
 shall crop up. Don't you go to Paris?" 
 
 "Of course I have been there, and — well, I dare- 
 say I am here five or six times in the year — but I 
 never live there now. My father is very delicate, 
 very nervous, and since my mother died we live 
 almost at Champs-le-marais." 
 
 "Is that your chateau?" 
 
 "Yes, it is a chateau." 
 
 "Big?" 
 
 "Very big."
 
 198 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 "In the Sologne. It is a very quiet place." 
 
 "No neighbors?" 
 
 "Oh, there are neighbors; but they live a good 
 way off. And Papa is not often well enough to 
 receive company. If people come a long way and 
 are not received they give up coming." 
 
 "And you have no sisters?" 
 
 "None unmarried. There are three of us, two 
 girls and a boy. My sister is six years older than I 
 am — she is married, and her husband, M. de Chan- 
 desfontaines, divides his time between Paris and 
 their home in Burgundy; and she divides her time 
 between him and her children and her poor peo- 
 ple." 
 
 "Chandesfontaine? Is your sister the Princess 
 de Chandesfontaine?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I know that name." (Jeanne was not surprised. 
 It was sufficiently illustrious. But she did not say 
 so.) "And your brother, is he also married?" 
 
 "No, he is attache to our Embassy in Rome. He 
 comes home, of course, but I am mostly alone with 
 my father at Champs-le-marais." 
 
 "And when you come here, how does M. de St. 
 Gatlen get on without you?" 
 
 "His sister, the Duchesse d'Hesdigneul comes 
 to take care of him. She is a widow." 
 
 "I must say your life doesn't sound very amusing. 
 I suppose you are 'out' ?" 
 
 "Out?"_ 
 
 "Well, in England one is 'out' when one has been 
 presented to the King. But there is no Court at 
 the Elysees, is there?" 
 
 "No. Anything but." 
 
 "After one is presented one goes to balls." 
 
 "I have been to some. Not very many." ,
 
 FOR SURMISE 199 
 
 *'DId you like them?" 
 
 "Some of them. You go about the world much, 
 do you not?" 
 
 "Yes, we never sit still. I get tired. But my 
 mother likes to woo fresh inspiration in fresh 
 scenes. Almost anything does if it is new — well, 
 not new, but never seen before — a mile-stone, or a 
 mill, a fortalice, or a crag, or a dead cow in a 
 meadow. The microbe of inspiration may be perch- 
 ing on any of them; if it assaults her we stop and 
 the sonnet ensues." 
 
 "You also write poetry?" 
 
 "God forbid! I detest it. I'm all for people. 
 Mamma is rather bored by them," 
 
 "By all people?" 
 
 "Nearly all. She says the great ones are all 
 dead. For me I thank the gods I am not great. I 
 should like to go and talk to that gardener, and 
 find out all about his life and his children, and what 
 he thinks about." 
 
 "He probably doesn't think. He is an excellent 
 servant. His children squint, like their mother; she 
 had a little money." 
 
 "I think you are as hard as a tenpenny nail." 
 (Jeanne laughed at "un clou de vingt sous.") 
 
 "Am I? You say you are all for people. I'm 
 all for facts." 
 
 "Yes, my dear. And you are too proud to go 
 and find them." 
 
 Jeanne pondered this saying, not feeling at all 
 sure of understanding it. 
 
 "'Proud'?" she queried, not as well pleased as 
 if she had been certain it was a bad shot. 
 
 "As full of pride as an egg is full of meat. Not 
 because you are beautiful, nor (perhaps) because 
 of your rank, though I'n^' not so sure of that. 
 You're a duchess or a princess, I suppose?"
 
 200 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "My father is a duke. I'm simply Jeanne de 
 St. Gatien." 
 
 "Very simple, indeed ! Je suis in prince, in comte 
 aussi je suis le Seigneur de Cony." 
 
 "I wonder," said Jeanne laughing, "why you are 
 scolding me." 
 
 "To get at you. You sit in yourself as in an im- 
 pregnable castle, and I want to make you come out." 
 
 Jeanne had so instinctively felt this motive that 
 she was quite surprised at its being boldly avowed. 
 
 "Having sat in my castle all my life," she said, 
 laughing, "is it worth while to drag me out for half 
 an hour? Of course, I should go back." 
 
 "It is always worth while to do anything that is 
 anything. Providence sent me here on purpose. 
 You are obstinate enough to go back; but if I had, 
 even for half an hour, got you outside you would 
 not find it quite the same. You would know what 
 it was like outside and might try again. You are 
 as old as the hills at eighteen or so. The selfish- 
 ness of the people for whom you live will end by 
 making you as selfish as a statue. Who comes 
 here?" 
 
 Ill 
 
 Miss Hexham had turned to look at the chateau; 
 it was worth looking at, and the afternoon light fell 
 upon its western front flatteringly. In shadow it 
 had an air of somewhat sad reserve; the sunshine 
 lent it geniality, and made it more humane. One 
 could now imagine children playing there and mak- 
 ing irreverent noise. 
 
 It is my uncle — and my brother," said Jeanne. 
 My uncle has been to Fleche to fetch him from 
 the station." 
 
 The two gentlemen came across the grass. The 

 
 FOR SURMISE 201 
 
 Marquis de Beaucaire was a country gentleman, 
 who only dressed when he was in Paris; on his 
 estates he was merely clad. He looked about fifty. 
 The young attache was rather trim, and a good 
 deal like his sister, but only good-looking, whereas 
 Jeanne, as Miss Hexham had remarked, was beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 "My aunt and Lady Hexham have gone down to 
 the lake," said Jeanne; then she presented the gen- 
 tlemen to Miss Hexham. They uncovered and held 
 their hats in their hands while they spoke to her. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said M. de Beaucaire, "we 
 bring what is good news for us, but bad news for 
 you. You will have to honor us with your presence 
 longer than you intended. We have been talking to 
 your mechanicier. He tells us that your car gave 
 trouble all the way from Rocheberg " 
 
 "That is true, but Mamma did not mind. The 
 first stoppage occurred where there was a ruined 
 chateau, and there was something inspiring at each 
 of the others." 
 
 "And now," added the Marquis, "the car will 
 not budge at all. The only plan is to let a car of 
 our own tow it to Fleche, where there is quite a 
 good garage. But, if we can imagine you to be so 
 kind, you and madame must stay here till to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 Jeanne perceived at once that htt uncle was 
 merely hospitable, but that her brother for his own 
 sake hoped that the ladies (only one of whom he 
 had seen) might be induced to stay on. 
 
 "We will go," she said, "and find my aunt, who, 
 I hope, will persuade you to remain." 
 
 It was ultimately decided thai*. Lady Hexham 
 and her daughter should stay till next day. Con- 
 sidering how much Miss Hexham had seemed de- 
 sirous of her friendship, Jeanne was a little sur-
 
 202 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 prised to perceive that this decision was due not to 
 her, but to her mother. All the same, the English 
 girl still stuck close to the French one, a circum- 
 stance not lost on the Comte de St. Gatien, who was 
 fully prepared to relieve his sister of the easy duty 
 of entertaining the young stranger. Lady Hexham 
 fell to him instead. 
 
 "You are attache at your Rome Embassy," she 
 observed, in a far-away manner. "Ah! Rome is 
 home to me." (The rhyme had served her in more 
 than one sonnet.) "Everywhere else I am in exile." 
 
 The word exile she had found unmanageable. 
 No dexterity would rhyme it with smile; she had 
 coined "flexile," but had got little change out of it. 
 She adored language, but words instead of being 
 her henchwomen were too apt to be her shrewish mis- 
 tress. M. de St. Gatien behaved well, but he rather 
 wished that Miss Hexham were doubly an orphan. 
 To be bored and to seem interested were part of 
 his profession; but he could not forget that he was 
 now on holiday. 
 
 "Why," he asked his sister, as she turned into her 
 bedroom to get ready for dinner, "do you absorb 
 Mademoiselle? Her Mamma gives me earache." 
 
 He enjoyed perfect health, and looked it; when 
 disposed to indisposition he invariably professed 
 ear-ache. 
 
 "Loulon, it is not my fault. But Mademoiselle 
 arrives with a mission to do me good ; and you 
 know the English — their duties those they will do." 
 
 "Pray let her do me good. I need it more. My 
 ills lie too deep for mothers." 
 
 "Well, you must do It all yourself. I will say 
 this for her " 
 
 "The mother?" 
 
 "No, of course; the daughter. I half thought that 
 when you cropped up. . . ."
 
 FOR SURMISE 203 
 
 "Cropped up!" 
 
 "You see, I am half English already ! When you 
 arrived I should not have been surprised if she had 
 left me a little in the lurch. But, to tell the truth. 
 Monsieur, she hardly seemed to remember you had 
 arrived. 
 
 "So I perceived." 
 
 "To me she is affectionate. Really affectionate. 
 Par de blague. I like her; and I did not mean to." 
 
 "She had much better like me. She would get on 
 quicker. You know, my excellent Jeanne, that you 
 are as approachable as an obelisk." 
 
 At dinner there were three gentlemen and three 
 ladies. The latter have been accounted for; the 
 third gentleman seemed to be everybody's uncle — 
 except Lady Hexham's and her daughter's. He sat 
 by Jeanne and talked furtively of food, a subject 
 which he Illustrated by copious anecdote. 
 
 M. de St. Gatien sat next Miss Hexham and 
 wished the party were larger. He had little oppor- 
 tunity for tete-a-tete; with only six people at table 
 the conversation was apt to be too general. He be- 
 gan to think better of Lady Hexham when one of 
 her peculiarities seemed to his enterprising mind to 
 open the possibility of a small adventure. 
 
 "My mother, I perceive," observed Miss Hex- 
 ham to him, "has lost her pocket handkerchief. She 
 is sniffing. Armed with a handkerchief she never 
 needs one. Conscious of Its absence she develops 
 Instantaneous catarrh." 
 
 It was true that Lady Hexham had sniffed, and 
 that lamentably; her replies to M. de Beaucaire 
 were becoming embarrassed and her whole manner 
 much pre-occupied. 
 
 "Muriel !" she said appcalingly. "It was in my 
 little bag." 
 
 "I suppose you left it in the drawing-room ..."
 
 204 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 *'I know I brought it down, for I was sitting on it 
 in the salon and it humped me." 
 
 "If," said Muriel, getting up. "Madame de 
 Beaucaire would excuse me- " 
 
 At the moment no servant was in the room. 
 M. de St. Gatien instantly rose, too, but said noth- 
 ing. It looked as though he were merely going to 
 open the door for Miss Hexham. But he had deeper 
 designs. He did open the door, but when she 
 had passed out he followed, and shut it behind 
 him. 
 
 "I know exactly where it is," he declared, keep- 
 ing beside her. How needlessly quick she walks, 
 he complained to himself. "There is no hurry." 
 
 "I think / do. But one can never be sure; it is 
 quite possible Mamma is sitting on it at this mo- 
 ment." 
 
 The drawing-room was not yet lighted up, and 
 it was already dusk. Arrived there this young diplo- 
 matist made some haste, and felt about in the re- 
 cesses of a large easy chair. He uttered a small 
 expression of disappointment. 
 
 "Haven't you found it?" asked Miss Hexham. 
 
 "Have you?" 
 
 "No. But you were supposed to know exactly 
 where it was." 
 
 "The wisest are less wise than they think at 
 times," he suggested airily, continuing to search in 
 all sorts of places, chimneypiece included. 
 
 "Yes, that is true," agreed Muriel. "You have 
 not examined the coal-box." 
 
 "Mademoiselle, your tone is ironical. It could 
 not be in the coal-box unless it had been secreted 
 intentionally. And you yourself — you are aban- 
 doning the search already!" 
 
 It was true that Miss Hexham had turned 
 toward the door and seemed on the point of retir-
 
 FOR SURMISE 205 
 
 ing to the dining-room. She laughed and said 
 cheerfully: 
 
 "It has been secreted intentionally," 
 
 "In the coal-box?" 
 
 (But he did not go to look there; he preferred to 
 keep an eye on the lady.) 
 
 "No, Monsieur, not in the coal-box. In your 
 pocket." Her laugh was distinctly at him, but he 
 determined to laugh with her. 
 
 "The highest wisdom," she observed senten- 
 tiously, "is simplicity." 
 
 "How did you know I had found it and — hidden 
 it again?" 
 
 "You were rather in too great a hurry. You 
 almost pushed past me. We must now hasten to 
 Mamma's relief. If she is kept long in suspense 
 she is capable of sneezing." 
 
 She evidently meant to go, and go she did. 
 
 "How extremely fast you walk," he remarked. 
 
 "The distance is not great; but if the pace 
 fatigues you I will take word that you are coming 
 and relieve Mamma's mind. There is a chair, you 
 might rest a little." 
 
 "I can never rest alone. I require assistance. 
 Solitary repose is mere inaction and exhausts me. 
 I am sorry you have been in such a hurry — I wanted 
 to talk to you about my sister." 
 
 "I like talking to her better. Come, Monsieur, 
 am I to open the door myself?" 
 
 IV 
 
 They all left the dining-room together, but the 
 gentleman who was everybody's uncle did not re- 
 appear in the drawing-room. M. de St. Gatien did 
 not find that the change to it promised any greater 
 facility for conversation with Miss Hexham. She
 
 2o6 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 rejoined his sister, almost as if after a long absence, 
 and her mother bore down upon him. 
 
 "The Coliseum!" she exclaimed, "what must it 
 be looking like to-night! The moon was rising be- 
 fore dinner — the harvest moon." 
 
 For a moment Loulon felt his blood tingle to 
 rebellion. Then a gentler feeling toward this long- 
 backed poetess suggested itself, for he was not 
 without resource. 
 
 "It may be," he said, speaking softly and not 
 too loud, "mere association and home prejudice. 
 But for my part I have never seen anything that 
 moves me more than the moon (the harvest moon) 
 upon our ruins here. They are, of course, haunted. 
 They lie behind the lake. By such a moon as this 
 (harvest) moon to-night they seem to lie in it. Sil- 
 ver in a bath of steel. And one can hardly help 
 seeing the ghosts of the White Sisters in the ruined 
 choir. You know the convent was sacked in the 
 Revolution." He spoke earnestly, but dreamily, 
 almost absent-mindedly. 
 
 "I should like," murmured Lady Hexham, "to 
 see that." 
 
 "Ma tante!" he said, with a singular return of 
 vivacity, "Madame wishes to go and see the ruins 
 by moonlight." Then, briskly going to his aunt, he 
 almost whispered : "Yoii need not come, nor my 
 uncle. You play your piquet. / will escort the 
 English poetess." 
 
 His air of polite martyrdom might have deceived 
 the very elect. It did not deceive Jeanne. She had 
 heard the proposal and watched the little conference 
 preceding it; and she was a good sister. 
 
 "We will go, too," she said to Muriel. And they 
 went; but it was Jeanne who took possession of 
 Lady Hexham. 
 
 At first Miss Hexham seemed inclined to avenge
 
 FOR SURMISE 207 
 
 herself by a wilful silence. Her temper, however, 
 was too good for obstinate unpleasantness. But 
 when she broke into a low laugh M. de St. Gatien 
 was not entirely satisfied. 
 
 "May I not share your merriment?" he Inquired, 
 with some dignity. Now dignity in Miss Hexham's 
 opinion should never be permitted to walk arm in 
 arm with Impudence. 
 
 "You have every claim to share in it," she replied 
 ingenuously, "having occasioned It." 
 
 "It is a great thing to be amusing without having 
 even tried to be. Many wits fail In spite of la- 
 borious effort." 
 
 "Perhaps one should not laugh at a young man's 
 devotion to his profession." 
 
 "My profession!" 
 
 "I understood your sister to say that It was diplo- 
 macy." 
 
 The moon was really splendid; her light upon 
 the smooth lawns was more golden than silvery. 
 What M. de St. Gatien noted with greater admira- 
 tion was that it completed the beauty of his scoffing 
 companion. 
 
 "Do you think," he asked meekly, "that a tone 
 of mockery suits this serene stillness?" 
 
 "As well as plots and infinitely trivial schemlngs. 
 The night is not only silent, but sincere." 
 
 "I am sincere. Do you demand my silence also? 
 That I think would be presumption on my part. 
 Only to established intimacy is silence permitted; 
 I am no more than your host." 
 
 "If I were sincere and not silent, you would have 
 the right to call me rude." 
 
 "Prove me." 
 
 "I would rather be talking to your sister than to 
 her brother."
 
 2o8 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 That she was sincere was the worst of it. He 
 knew she was. 
 
 "You at least," she said, "are not rude. You 
 might have told me that / was, and I think you 
 would have been right." 
 
 "Oh, no," he answered quietly. "I could not. 
 I am a man." 
 
 "Ah, but," she cried, "I do not want mean 
 feminine privilege. What I meant was simply this. 
 You spoke of your sincerity — she is sincere. She 
 will not even pretend to like me — but her disap- 
 proval is worth fighting against. Her reserve is 
 part of her fine character. Nevertheless, I would 
 like to violate it. Can you not see what is happen- 
 ing to her? But wait — before you answer, I want 
 to finish my explanation. I would, I say, like to 
 make her talk; not to make her like myself, but be- 
 cause of something I would, if I could, break up in 
 her. There isn't much time. Is there? Or much 
 opportunity? I simply said out what I meant, and 
 it didn't sound courteous to you. I would like to be 
 talking to her. And " 
 
 "And what else ?" 
 
 "It seems to me better worth while than making 
 moonlight talk with you. Listen: I see you can be 
 patient and gentle, too. What you say to me you 
 might say as well, or better, to any other girl. It is 
 part of a convention. What I would, If I could, 
 say to her, might, If I knew how to say It, do some 
 good." 
 
 If she had not spoken very rapidly, without 
 pauses, he might have thrust In at more than one 
 point. That she afforded him no such pauses was, 
 he knew, not accidental. He was clever enough 
 and sincere enough to perceive her absolute Incapa- 
 bility of coquetry. It was his sister in whom she 
 was Interested.
 
 FOR SURMISE 209 
 
 "Now," he said, with a plain gentleness that ad- 
 vanced him to a point of intimacy he could never 
 have reached by scheming, "tell me what you mean 
 about Jeanne. For, really, I do not understand." 
 
 "That is just it! None of you do. You do not 
 see that she is a girl of very fine and noble nature, 
 whose character will be spoiled unless something 
 intervenes. You look half froisse already. You 
 say the moonlight demands sincerity, and mine sets 
 your back up. But I do not care. Listen! I am 
 going to be worse. The truth is everyone about her 
 is selfish " 
 
 "I am sure Jeanne did not tell you so." 
 
 **0f course not. But, well done ! You are be- 
 coming clearly warm like the moonlight. We shall 
 get on much better that way. Well, I repeat, your 
 father, your aunt the Duchess, your aunt here — as 
 far as your sister is concerned — are all selfish." 
 
 Her tone was not that of a philippic. Her voice, 
 always very musical, had sunk to a low, restrained 
 pitch. She was not scolding, but she was pleading. 
 This he recognized, and turning for a moment to 
 glance at the girl's lovely face, he thought, "She is 
 speaking of a thing she knows. Her life is nailed 
 to some other's selfishness." 
 
 "Duty," she went on, "is a noble thing; a fine 
 motive of life; but the acceptance, when it is only 
 succumbing to their imposition of an incubus of poor 
 duties dulls some souls and chokes some lives — 
 many girls' lives. I do not want anyone to spurn 
 the duties, but I want Jeanne to take care. There 
 is nothing ignoble in the role of garde-malade to 
 one's father — even if he is not ill. She would not 
 be Jeanne if she refused it. But a girl's character 
 has to shoot outwards, and blossom outwards, and 
 bear fruit outwards. The danger for her is that 
 there should be no outwards. She must live, and
 
 2IO THE TIDEWAY 
 
 be somebody; she can not be a useful nobody; of 
 that dull mechanic role she is not capable, whoever 
 may be. 
 
 "The danger is that she will be simply Made- 
 moiselle de St. Gatien, year by year, settling down 
 more hopelessly into the slough of the despond of 
 her high birth, her rank, her impregnable position; 
 without contact with anything; all the world out- 
 side, and inside nothing but a girl's ghost. If I 
 were eloquent I could make you understand. But 
 I only know what I mean and can not say it. Love 
 will be beneath her. Life will be beneath her. 
 Pride will be her only confidante." 
 
 Being a youn^ man, perhaps, it was not unnatural 
 that he was thinking, while the girl spoke thus 
 oddly, rather more of her than of his sister. Odd 
 he did think it. But, somehow, its strangeness did 
 not make him simply think "The English are all 
 mad. She has a bee in her bonnet." He merely 
 understood that she was not a girl to flirt with and 
 forget. He had quite abandoned the idea of flirta- 
 tion, but he did not think he should easily forget 
 her; and he found it more interesting to be walking 
 by her side now than he would have found it had 
 flirtation been possible. 
 
 "It is to me," he said quite frankly, "wonderful 
 that you should care so greatly. I see you do 
 care." 
 
 "Strange that I should care when I believe that 
 I see a fine and noble nature that threatens to be 
 stunted and made empty? Is not emptiness being 
 full of nothing?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle, what can she do? French girls 
 of our class do not make themselves careers." 
 
 "Girls of any class have a right to live. I did 
 not dream of what you call a career. Girls of your 
 class in France marry or become nuns."
 
 FOR SURMISE 211 
 
 "I hope she will not become a nun!" 
 "Of course. When you come to France for your 
 furlough, or whatever you call it, you like to find 
 her here!" 
 
 "For my part I should be glad that she married." 
 "And you know that she will not while your 
 father lives, and he may live for thirty years. Could 
 she marry then? She can not marry because she is 
 Mile, de St. Gatien, and no man who would be fit 
 for her would marry your father's nurse, and be 
 shut up in his enormous hospital in the Sologne. 
 She has no more idea of marrying than I have of 
 cutting my throat. She understands. She is to be 
 Mademoiselle de St. Gatien and leave her money 
 to your children." 
 
 Then Muriel, to his surprise, turned sharply to 
 him and laughed. "And now," she asked, "are 
 you glad you took so much trouble to make my in- 
 nocent mother declare a longing for the moon—the 
 harvest moon? Has it been a triumph of diplo- 
 macy?" 
 
 Monsieur and Madame de Beaucaire did as their 
 nephew had suggested and sat down to piquet. 
 
 "They say," remarked the Marquis, "that the 
 English are all mad. It was the old one that wanted 
 to go and find ghosts by moonlight in the ruins. 
 If it had been the girl it would have been very well. 
 Also she makes poetry — the old one." 
 
 "Among the letters you brought from Fleche was 
 one from Gaston de Pierngrise. It was his wife 
 from whom they brought an introduction. They 
 knew Lord and Lady Hexham when they were at 
 our London Embassy. He says they are of the 
 very best position, and Lord Hexham was charming,
 
 212 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 also extremely clever. Madame was always 
 bizarre." 
 
 "She looks like an asparagus without sauce." 
 
 "She was enormously rich. So was the husband, 
 and Mademoiselle will have it all : there never was 
 any son. He says she would have half London run- 
 ning after her, but her mother hates London and 
 takes her all over Europe in a motor-car. It seems 
 to me that the girl is sick of it. The mother is 
 bete, and selfish, too. I will take three cards, 
 please." 
 
 "The girl is pretty. I take five cards, you see." 
 
 "Certainly she is pretty: but her mother must be 
 blind not to see that all this rushing about in every 
 sort of weather will ruin the child's look — she is 
 too brown already, and too thin. She has a beauti- 
 ful skin and it will grow coarse and harsh. I do 
 not look at my cards." 
 
 Monsieur and Madame de Beaucaire had just 
 finished the sixth hand when the moonlighters came 
 in. 
 
 "It was exquisite!" Lady Hexham declared, 
 "and M. de St. Gatien was so eloquent that no won- 
 der a ghost came to listen to him." 
 
 "You saw a ghost, Madame!" 
 
 "Oh, Mamma! It was only me," Muriel ex- 
 claimed. "I heard M. de St. Gatien telling you 
 where you should look, and I strolled round there, 
 behind the pillars in the shadow, then crossed a 
 slant of moonlight!" 
 
 Loulon had no further talk with her. She soon 
 went over to his uncle and began a conversation 
 with him that lasted some time. They got on ex- 
 cellently, and M. de Beaucaire found her, what 
 neither Jeanne nor Loulon had done, extremely 
 amusing. "She is full of wit," he told himself, 
 "she is spiritiielle et fine. And not tiresome. Talk-
 
 FOR SURMISE 213 
 
 ing girls usually are. Her manners are pretty too: 
 frank, but not bold. She has grace and distinction. 
 What does the mother mean carrying her about 
 the roads of Europe like a caravan-girl!" 
 
 He was a shrewd person and it was not lost upon 
 him that his nephew was envious of that tete-a-tete. 
 It delighted him: when one is a grandfather, and 
 not at all a lady's man, it is pleasant to see hand- 
 some young men neglected in one's own favor. 
 
 Madame de Beaucaire thought it rather a pity 
 that Loulon should have only his aunt and sister 
 and the young lady's mother to talk to. 
 
 When the party broke up Loulon went to his sis- 
 ter's room. 
 
 "Did she," inquired Jeanne, "ask you to like 
 her?" 
 
 The question, or rather his sister's tone, her atti- 
 tude toward the English girl, somehow annoyed 
 him. 
 
 "Far from it." 
 
 "Perhaps she perceived it was unnecessary." 
 
 "Quite unnecessary. I like her very much. But 
 it is a matter of perfect indifference to her." 
 
 "What am I to say? What did you come to 
 say?" 
 
 "I came to talk about her. But I no longer feel 
 disposed to. The subject bores you. Perhaps also 
 you are tired and I had better say good night." 
 
 "I am never tired. As to the subject boring me 
 — I am simply indifferent. I am not specially inter- 
 ested in this girl : she is a new type to me, and I am 
 not sure that I admire it." 
 
 "You mean you are sure that you don't." 
 
 "Put it how you choose. You must be fair, 
 Loulon, and remember that I am not like you. You 
 have seen the world and live in it and meet for- 
 eigners often. I see very few. I am simply French.
 
 214 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 To me it is a new thing to meet a girl with her heart 
 in her mouth." 
 
 As Miss Hexham had said, Jeanne was sincere, 
 and she only said now what she actually felt. Still, 
 just as M. de Beaucaire had been conscious that his 
 nephew was envious of his own tete-a-tete with 
 Muriel, so was her brother instinctively conscious 
 that Jeanne was jealous of the attraction the Eng- 
 lish girl inspired in him. Jeanne had seen him flirt 
 very often, but only now how this sort of jealousy 
 assailed her. Poor girl ! He was the person she 
 loved best, and she would like him to love her best. 
 
 "When one has no heart," he said, slightly red- 
 dening, "there is no danger of its mounting to the 
 lips." 
 
 He was not thinking of his sister, but of count- 
 less women he had known, in whose mouths was 
 only the more or less deftly veiled demand for 
 flattery. But it was natural that Jeanne should be 
 thinking of herself. 
 
 "I would rather have no heart," she said coldly, 
 "than put out my tongue to show it." 
 
 "Jeanne!" he begged. "I wish you would not 
 abuse her. It seems Jiard. Because she thinks so 
 much of you." 
 
 "That is just it. I do not ask her to think much 
 of me. It is an impertinence. I am a French girl, 
 and it seems to me intrusion. Do you think your 
 sister has to accept the alms of friendship from 
 any chance stranger who turns aside off the high 
 road!" 
 
 "Naturally," he said quietly, "I know that my 
 sister is Mademoiselle de St. Gatien." 
 
 Of course he was thinking of what Muriel had 
 said. Her voice was echoing in him, and the echo 
 affected him more than the actual words had done. 
 Perhaps because the words had brought him a new
 
 FOR SURMISE 215 
 
 Idea that did not then convince, and now the idea 
 had lodged, and he saw that it was true. Certainly 
 he also perceived that the girl herself would not 
 be able to do any good: possibly she too knew she 
 had not much chance of success, that she was giving 
 herself to a forlorn hope : if so, being brave him- 
 self, he must admire her the more. To assail his 
 sister in her fortress must demand, he was con- 
 scious, a very valorous readiness for self-sacrifice. 
 That it implied also some lack of tact he did not 
 pause to remember. Tact is mostly supreme calcu- 
 lation, and the bravery that hurls itself to a for- 
 lorn hope must ignore calculation. All wise prob- 
 abilities are defied by the simply brave. 
 
 "I am afraid," he said gently, "that you will 
 never like her " 
 
 "At last we are agreed." 
 
 "It is a pity. She is worth liking " 
 
 "She will be gone to-morrow." 
 
 "Not as far as I am concerned. Jeanne, I am 
 determined that to-morrow shall not see the end 
 of my intercourse with her. You may as well 
 know." 
 
 "Is it as bad as that?" 
 
 "It is as bad as that." 
 
 He did not retort her certainly provocative tone. 
 His tone was gentle ; grave, but friendly and kindly. 
 He had abandoned any idea of being cross. 
 
 "I just want you to know," he added smiling. 
 
 Their eyes met in the mirror over the chimney- 
 piece, and Jeanne told herself that he had, some- 
 how, bettered. A new something had come into his 
 face. He was more a man. 
 
 All her life afterwards she was glad that, meet- 
 ing his eyes in the looking-glass, she had answered 
 his smile with her own. Two roads met there ; 
 division and affection. She had been within an ace
 
 2i6 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 of walking away into final isolation down the wrong 
 one. 
 
 "I succumb," she said, just touching his shoul- 
 der for an instant. 
 
 He only lifted his own hand to touch hers, and 
 said nothing. 
 
 "I thought," she said, "I was stronger. But I 
 cannot lose my brother." 
 
 "Poor Jeanne! You haven't much. Your 
 brother hasn't been much. There will be more of 
 him." 
 
 He did not say, "And you will gain a sister." 
 
 And, to reward him for not saying it, she said it. 
 
 "If you succeed I shall have a sister." 
 
 "I shall not succeed soon." 
 
 "She is not hard-hearted." 
 
 "No. But whole-hearted. And I have no place 
 in her heart yet. It will not be easy to find the way 
 in. Patience!" 
 
 "You patient?" 
 
 "Yes. It is the first time I have wanted anything 
 worth patience. Can you not see the change?" 
 
 "I see it — with wonder." 
 
 "Yes. I give you leave to wonder. To me mar- 
 riage has seemed the end of youth. Now I know 
 it is the beginning of manhood." 
 
 "That is the change. I saw it in there. You 
 were a fascinating lad. And this girl has come 
 round the corner and made you a man." 
 
 "Jeanne," he said, "no girl could do that. It is 
 what she had in her hand. I wish some man would 
 come round the corner with it in his hand for you." 
 
 "To make me a woman? It is better to be a girl 
 as long as one can. When I am a woman I shall be 
 an old one. It is different with boys — they are only 
 boys till they become men: incomplete, unripe." 
 
 Her tone was no longer hostile, or hard. So
 
 FOR SURMISE 217 
 
 long as she spoke of him and his future it was now 
 gentle and friendly; but when she spoke of herself 
 it was dry and reserved. He was quite aware that 
 she had brushed aside his allusion to hej' future. 
 
 "Jeanne," he said, "it is well to be a girl as long 
 as you can. It is also well to be an old woman when 
 the almanack insists — when a woman hears children 
 call her 'grandmother.' But to be an old woman 
 at seven or eight and twenty, that is not well!" 
 
 "I am not twenty!" 
 
 "No. But you are already too old, because you 
 have already given up expectation; you abdicate the 
 future, and, without liking it, you say to the present, 
 'Let it be permanence.' " 
 
 It may seem that Jeanne must instantly resent 
 this, in arms, as she had resented Miss Hexham. 
 But she did not. Miss Hexham was a stranger, 
 Loulon was her brother. It even soothed her 
 lonely spirit that he should think of her. She 
 thought it was a part of the change in him. 
 
 "Lovers," she thought, "are notoriously selfish 
 and self-absorbed. Love has made him unselfish. 
 He can feel outside himself. Lovers are supposed 
 to see only one girl in all the world, to him love has 
 revealed the existence of his sister." 
 
 It touched her close. Are we not all of us touched 
 by the pathos of our own lives? She knew what an 
 arid waste her life was; that he should know, at once 
 made it less desert. She had loved him as girls so 
 often will love an only brother whom they know well 
 to be selfish. She had not grudged him the pleasant 
 sunlight of his life, though her own was all a mono- 
 tone of shade; but she had never expected him to 
 think of her life, or to realize its sterility. 
 
 He not only knew but he was resolved to inter- 
 fere. 
 
 "Look here, Jeanne," he said simply, with a cheer-
 
 2i8 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 ful decision that was comfortable to her. "I am 
 not going to see you sacrificed. There's no reason 
 why you should be a garde-malade than why Adele 
 should be, or I, either. And Papa is more than half 
 malade imaginaire. When I go back to Rome, I 
 intend that you shall go with me. The Ambassadress 
 is rtiy excellent good friend, and she is also our 
 cousin, as you know. I shall say nothing till she 
 invites you, then I shall simply tell them. Papa and 
 Aunt Celestine, that it is out of the question to re- 
 fuse. Have I ever failed to get anything that I 
 wanted out of them?" 
 
 "Nothing that you have wanted." 
 
 "Well, I want this. You need not look doubt- 
 ful. I shall manage it. It will not be nearly so 
 difficult to make Papa understand that he must do 
 without you for six months as it will be to persuade 
 Miss Hexham that she cannot very well do with- 
 out me for her whole life. But I intend to do that. 
 I intend to do both." 
 
 "How long," asked Jeanne, laughing, "will it 
 take?" 
 
 "To persuade Papa, quarter of an hour. — To 
 persuade Miss Hexham, perhaps a quarter of a 
 century." 
 
 "I do not know," said his sister, "which to admire 
 most, your patience or your humility!"
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 
 
 Miss Glrvan sat alone in her blameless drawing- 
 room (the word "parlor" she abominated) and no 
 doubt she was reading. In her hand, that is to 
 say, she certainly held a book, and she was not 
 asleep; her eyes were on the page, and they even 
 followed the lines; not so very long ago she had 
 turned a leaf. Perhaps she would turn another pres- 
 ently; nevertheless she was scarcely at all conscious 
 of what her author was telling her, and, as he was 
 a quite superior writer, he must have known Miss 
 Girvan never, in fact, read any but superior books; 
 though I cannot honestly say that she was at heart 
 a literary person. She was well enough educated 
 to know who are the best authors, and to them she 
 was determined to stick. On leaving school, in- 
 deed, she had received from Miss Selina Porteous 
 a compendious list of "safe" authors, with a sug- 
 gestion that she would do well to follow a definite 
 course of reading. 
 
 "You," the schoolmistress had said, "will have 
 abundant leisure. Pray do not be contented to sup- 
 pose your education now complete. Supplement it 
 for yourself. The town where your parents now 
 reside is not large ; its situation is relatively remote ; 
 you may find the society restricted: accustom your- 
 self to the best society, which you will find in the 
 best writers." 
 
 I protest that Miss Selina Porteous was not a 
 prig: she thought of EDUCATION always in large 
 capitals, and feared that in large capitals too many 
 other and less worthy things absorbed the public 
 
 219
 
 220 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 interest: and she was from top to toe a schoolmis- 
 tress. But she was not stupid, and she was not 
 without some cool personal interest in her depart- 
 ing pupil. Carrie Girvan had been almost a model 
 pupil, not brilliant, but painstaking, obedient, of 
 good principles, anxious to learn (if only she knew 
 what) and not dull; no, not even dull, though her 
 perceptions were less industrious than herself, and 
 her appreciations seldom alert. 
 
 "Thank you, Miss Porteous," the girl had an- 
 swered, "I will follow your kind advice. Pokestown 
 is a small place. There is, I should say, no society 
 there. I am sorry Mr. Pentlow and Mamma have 
 chosen to make it their home. As you say, the situa- 
 tion is very remote." 
 
 As to the last indictment, of course the situation 
 of every place must be remote from many others — 
 it depends whence you start measuring. Miss Por- 
 teous and her departing pupil meant that Pokestown 
 was far from Boston — as indeed it was — very far. 
 
 In alluding to Mr. Pentlow and her Mamma, 
 Carrie had meant almost to correct Miss Porteous 
 — to go as near to correction as was consistent with 
 sincere deference: for Miss Selina, in speaking of 
 "your parents" had touched upon a sore point. 
 Carrie by no means recognized Mr. Pentlow as a 
 parent: her father had been the late Mr. Craigs- 
 wood Girvan — a very different person. Few fami- 
 lies in Boston had had a tenderer respect for their 
 pedigree than the Girvans : it was not in the least 
 mythical, and after a century of separation, the 
 Girvans of Craigswood in Ayrshire were quite alive 
 to the honorable existence of their kinsfolk in New 
 England. Perhaps, if he had not been the last of 
 them, and therefore unaided by the risk of adverse 
 family criticism on the spot (the Laird's family in 
 Scotland might be supposed to be hardly alive to
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 221 
 
 New England values), Mr. Cralgswood Girvan 
 might never have been guilty of falling in love with 
 the undeniably pretty Caroline Stevens, who had 
 not any family in particular : she was fifth daughter 
 of a Kentucky farmer, who, if he wanted a pedigree, 
 would certainly have to begin it in his own person. 
 
 In her heart of hearts I am afraid Carrie did 
 blame her father for his only marriage, as she un- 
 doubtedly blamed her mother for her second. 
 
 Carrie hardly remembered him — he had been 
 almost an old man when he married, and he died 
 when she herself was not five years old. But she 
 was sure that she remembered him to have been very 
 different from Mr. Pentlow. Mr. Pentlow was far 
 from old, nor was he ugly — quite _ the contrary: 
 Carrie, however, held his good looks in poor esteem. 
 They were common, blatant, like his voice and his 
 obstreperous geniality. His boisterous cheerfulness 
 struck her as scarcely less common, and was even 
 more blatant, not affected but spontaneous and un- 
 justified by circumstances for his circumstances were 
 always involved. When he died he quite radiantly 
 declared that it was a Providential interposition 
 to save him from bankruptcy. If, he asserted (and 
 poor Carrie had some reason to believe him) he 
 was to live another three years he would be bank- 
 rupt, sure enough. Carrie had helped to avert that 
 stroke on repeated occasions. Her own fortune had 
 been materially diminished by that help. And she 
 had trenched on it also for the education of her 
 half-sisters and half-brothers: and, as each of the 
 three went out in the world, Carrie had opened her 
 purse generously enough. What she had less gener- 
 ously loosened were the strings of her heart. She 
 had a dutiful and quite genuine fondness for her 
 mother (though if she could have chosen her, that 
 mother would have been a wholly different sort of
 
 222 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 person). She had never been nasty to her step- 
 father, whom she had thought nasty, which he was 
 not; and he had innocently imagined that she was 
 fond of him in her way: but that was one of his 
 many sanguine mistakes. In any relation of life she 
 would have thought him intolerable; as her step- 
 father the whole idea of him set her teeth on edge, 
 and it was really to her credit that even he, with all 
 his coarsegrained easy-goingness, had never been 
 forced to realize her dislike. 
 
 As to Ben, Susie, and Lizzie, they were so like him 
 that it was hardly surprising she should have thought 
 of them chiefly as being his children, three super- 
 fluous commemorations of her mother's unpardon- 
 able second marriage. 
 
 II 
 
 Miss Girvan sat, as has been remarked, in her 
 drawing-room alone. And alone in it she spent 
 a very large proportion of her time. 
 
 It was in a peculiar sense her own room ; the 
 whole house belonged to her, had been bought by 
 herself with her own money very soon after Mr. 
 Pentlow's death; and it need hardly be said that it 
 was not in the abhorred Pokestown. But, to do her 
 justice, Carrie never spoke of the house as hers. 
 She never even alluded to "my drawing-room." It 
 was simply "the drawing-room." Still, this was 
 entirely her room. Her books were there, which 
 she read with conscientious if laborious persistence; 
 her piano was there, upon which she had long ceased 
 to play — Miss Porteous had said nothing about the 
 duty of continuing her "music," perhaps not entirely 
 through forgetfulness, but partly because she was 
 fully aware how little the girl cared for music. Her 
 papa's portrait hung there, and the large old print
 
 THE APFAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 223 
 
 of "Craigswood Castle, Ayrshire, Seat of Alexander 
 Girvan of that Ilk," with the engraved escutcheon 
 of the Girvans between the words "Craigswood" 
 and "Castle." The seats of the chairs were covered 
 with tapestry-work wrought by her own hands, one 
 at school, the others — to match — since. 
 
 When indoors, which she mostly was, Carrie 
 always sat in her drawing-room; Mrs. Pentlow never 
 did, except when she came in there to drink her 
 tea, after which she returned to the breakfast-room. 
 The breakfast-room looked "up street," and the 
 old lady liked to note what went forward outside. 
 Miss Girvan never looked into the street; her 
 bedroom peered out over a lawn on which no one 
 ever played any game, and the drawing-room was 
 on the ground floor beneath it. The view from the 
 lower room was even less exhilarating, for the ever- 
 green hedge at the end of the lawn was high enough 
 to shut out the shaggy paddock, visible from upstairs, 
 in which Miss Girvan's pony supported as best he 
 could a life of forlorn uselessness (for Miss Girvan 
 rarely drove out) and dismal seclusion. If, as is 
 unlikely, his mistress ever adverted to that seclu- 
 sion she would not have pitied him, he was not much 
 more secluded than herself, and, idle she was, she 
 never wallowed in self-pity. She took her own seclu- 
 sion for granted as the lot of a woman whom no one 
 had married, and unconscious of any neighbors 
 whose intimacy she could support. 
 
 Was Miss Girvan at this period an old maid? 
 She was under thirty by as many years as she had 
 unexpectant, not inexpressive eyes. What did those 
 two darkish brown eyes, a little darker than her 
 abundant and certainly pretty hair, express? Alas, 
 most noticeably, the absence of expectancy. 
 
 They were far from being bad eyes. They were 
 not small nor mean, nor cold, though cool ; they were
 
 224 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Incapable of malice, or unkindness. A little prim, 
 possibly, as was the neat, though not too small 
 mouth; but not hard, nor suspicious; not calculating, 
 nor superstitious, nor conceited. One's eyes express, 
 not one's ancestors, but oneself; and, if this lovely 
 lady was silently vain of her pedigree, she was 
 wholly free from any vanity on her own account. 
 Of herself she thought meekly; so meekly that it 
 never had caused her the least surprise that no one 
 had ever betrayed the least wish to marry her. 
 Her stepsisters had found admirers even at school, 
 to the great annoyance of their schoolmistress, and 
 had both married very young — Carrie providing 
 the wedding clothes, and wedding feasts, and some 
 moderate dowry for each, as well. Yet, in spite of 
 the sort of good looks they Inherited from their 
 father, Carrie herself was far more really pretty; 
 and If men had all good taste — but It Is probable the 
 young men who married Susie and LIzz had not good 
 taste. Carrie's figure was pretty, and would never 
 grow coarse; her hands and feet were small and 
 excellently shaped, her ears were dainty, and she 
 had a good skin and a singularly good nose. 
 
 Yet no one had ever asked her to marry, and she 
 was sure no one had ever dreamt of it. 
 
 After all It is expression which matters most, and 
 the expression of Miss Girvan's quite pretty face 
 did nothing much for it. Anyone could see that 
 she was harmless, really a lady, Inacapable of any- 
 thing mean or unworthy. But not much beside. Was 
 she. In fact, simply insignificant? 
 
 Rising from her seat to stir the fire, she laid 
 her book open on the table, and said: 
 
 "I try to read It. But can't get on. Is it because 
 there is nothing in the book, or because there Is noth- 
 ing In me?" Then pausing with the poker in the 
 fire, "No one has ever tried to read me — because 

 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 225 
 
 there is nothing in me. In my book, the book of me, 
 there are eight and twenty chapters already, and 
 nothing in any of them. I don't see what there 
 can be on the others. Well, it's better to be blank 
 than blotched. God has kept the blotches away, if I 
 have provided only the blanks." 
 
 She still held the poker, and still looked down into 
 the fire, which had rewarded her touch by a little 
 blaze. It cast a not unflattering glow upon her bent 
 face, always rather pale; and the dancing flicker 
 reflected in her eyes a movement and comfortable 
 glimmer that helped them also; for they were of 
 themselves too immobile. 
 
 "Twenty-eight chapters! If there are to be sev- 
 enty or eighty it will be rather a heavy book to 
 hold." 
 
 She put the poker back in its place, neatly (as she 
 did everything) and returned to her chair. It was 
 perhaps too comfortable a chair; she, perhaps, had 
 grown too much used to all such comfortable things, 
 to rely on them, as it were, and pad out her meager 
 life with them if not consciously at least deliberately. 
 That drawing-room of hers was a blank dull sort of 
 room; correct, blameless, but expressionless. It 
 made no hospitable suggestion, and you could not 
 imagine any cheerful company crowded into it — 
 Miss Girvan would have hated to see it crowded. 
 But it was full of physical comfort. The carpet of 
 a drabbish neutral tint, was very soft and very 
 thick, and ran up to the wall everywhere, and into 
 every corner. The rug before the fire was of a rather 
 expensive white fur and very "deep" and warm. 
 The wide French window had been (by oft-repeated 
 visits of an intelligent carpenter) made to fit exactly 
 and exclude all draughts, as had the door. The cur- 
 tains were of a soft velvety texture, and very ample, 
 so as to draw quite close after day-fall. The risk
 
 2 26 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 of any draught from under the door was guarded 
 against by a screen, not ugly, but a little blank, for 
 it had four tall and wide folds covered with a very 
 pale gray damasked silk, closely resembling the wall 
 paper. 
 
 The whole house was comfortable, noiseless 
 and staid: and Miss Girvan kept a good table, and 
 drank a little good wine with her slow unhurried 
 meals. In spite of the inroads on her fortune made 
 by the late, though unlamented, stepfather, and by 
 her assistance of his children. Miss Girvan was by 
 no means poor, and all the expenses of her house 
 were borne by herself. Mr. Pentlow had lived long 
 enough to spend all his wife's money. 
 
 It must not be supposed that Carrie spent hers 
 only upon herself; she still sent substantial help 
 to her married sisters, whose families increased 
 more rapidly than their husbands' incomes : her 
 mother had excellent clothes and was never without 
 a comfortable lining to her purse: and Miss Girvan 
 gave considerably in charity — it was indeed her 
 principle to devote a tithe of her income to charity, 
 in which she did not count generosity to her sisters. 
 What she devoted to "charity" was mostly placed 
 at the disposal of her minister (the Girvans had 
 always been Presbyterian) and she was glad that 
 he should spend it without much reference to herself. 
 From any personal contact with the poor she shrank, 
 as she shrank from bleak weather and books with 
 any crude appeal to the emotions. 
 
 Miss Girvan, I say, resumed her place In her 
 deep and soft chair, and drew it slightly nearer to 
 the fire. Having adjusted a plump cushion to a 
 more exactly comfortable position behind the nape 
 of her neck, she resigned herself with some com- 
 placence to the enjoyment of her material advan- 
 tages.
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 227 
 
 "No," she thought, "the Book of Me will not be 
 worth reading, but — I hate tragedy. It won't be 
 awful." 
 
 The rain smacked against the large plate glass of 
 her window, and one could hear a rattling wind out- 
 side, but it did not moan in the window (it used to, 
 but Carrie had had that corrected) nor in the chim- 
 ney. 
 
 "Pussy," she said, "you like to be warm as well 
 as I do. You have an excellent home, and you would 
 turn up your nose at a mouse, wouldn't you?" 
 
 Miss Girvan did not care much for animals, but 
 she liked to see a cat on the rug before the fire. 
 It brought out the flavor of her own comfort, as 
 warmth brings out the bouquet of some wines. The 
 worst of Pussy was her occasional indiscretion in 
 having kittens, which her mistress thought to be a 
 slightly indecorous weakness : however, they were 
 soon drowned, and neither their mother nor Miss 
 Girvan thought much more about them. 
 
 "It's a thoroughly disagreeable day," said Carrie, 
 "that is the best of having nothing to make me go 
 out when I do not wish to." 
 
 She let her eyes wander round the room and said: 
 
 "I don't see what's the matter with it — it's a quiet 
 plain room, and not uncomfortable. I'm sure noth- 
 ing shocking ever happened in it — I suppose it's un- 
 interesting, but they say rooms reflect their owners. 
 I'm not interesting," she paused and added — "thank 
 God. For they say the annals of the untroubled 
 are dull." She remembered that several of her 
 school-fellows had had, since those calm school- 
 days, troublous lives enough. 
 
 "Poor Mary Findlater," she thought, "there was 
 a romance, but what a tragic one ! And Esther 
 Purchar — a story for a novel, but not the sort of 
 novel I would willingly read. I like happy endings:
 
 228 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 not only a wedding but an income too. No, I would 
 rather sit here alone, by this warm hearth, and hear 
 the wet wind outside, than have to know there were 
 chapters like theirs in my dull book. Even Susie and 
 Lizzie have worries enough, and Ben's scrapes would 
 be almost tragic if they weren't so vulgar." 
 
 Ill 
 
 "Please, Miss Girvan," said the Irish house- 
 maid closing the door behind her and advancing 
 nearer, to speak more confidentially, "there's two 
 ladies in the hall, and they would like to see you. 
 Shall I show them in?" 
 
 The Irish servant girl was only temporary. Miss 
 Girvan's parlor maid was a staid, and not very 
 young spinster from Massachusetts, who dated 
 from the purchase of the house. But she had gone 
 home to nurse a dying mother, and Norah was her 
 locum tenens. 
 
 "Two ladies? What ladies?" 
 
 "Well, Miss, they're sisters." 
 
 "Not the two Miss Blitters !" (Carrie detested 
 the Miss Blitters.) 
 
 "Well, Miss, I should think not. I don't think 
 they're sisters to one another. They're Sisters of 
 the Holy House. Nuns, Miss." 
 
 Miss Girvan was quite unbigoted. She had no 
 animosity against nuns; only she had never met any. 
 
 "And you said I was at home?" 
 
 "Ma'am, I said I thought perhaps you were en- 
 gaged." 
 
 The rain slapped at the window and the wind 
 clattered among the boughs of the trees outside — 
 and Carrie was anything but hard or ill-natured. 
 
 "Bring them in, Norah. And bring tea as soon 
 as you have it ready." 
 
 One of the Sisters proved to be quite young, and
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRI^AN 229 
 
 the other might be forty. They were both rather 
 damp. The elder did the talking, at first, and the 
 younger looked at the floor. 
 
 "Miss Girvan," Sister Philippine began, "we 
 know you are not a Catholic. But we have heard 
 that you are generous, and we have come begging. 
 We go everywhere. Very few are cross with us for 
 troubling them. It is for our old folks and our little 
 ones. We have lately opened a house here — about 
 a year ago, and it's full already, forty-two old men 
 and women, childless you know and helpless; and 
 nineteen little things, nearly babies some of them — 
 orphans," 
 
 "I'm fraid you're very wet," said Miss Girvan. 
 
 "Oh, no. We have fine big umbrellas, almost like 
 gig-umbrellas. A wet day is rather good for us, we 
 find more people in, and that's everything." 
 
 "I should hate paddling round in the rain," said 
 Carrie with perfect truth. "/ certainly am not cross 
 at your troubling me — it only troubles me to see you 
 so uncomfortable. It's such a contrast — " and she 
 glanced at herself, and at Pussy, and round the warm 
 dry room. 
 
 "Ah," cried the Sister genially, and without the 
 faintest ironic intention, "that's altogether different! 
 It suits you to be comfortable. And why not? All 
 your comforts come from God." 
 
 The younger sister gave an almost imperceptible 
 nod as much as to say, "There's no doubt of that." 
 
 "Anyway," said Carrie, "I shall be very glad in- 
 deed to help. I daresay you won't think it much — I 
 don't know in the least what people usually give 
 you. ..." 
 
 "Oh! nothing, sometimes; sometimes enough to 
 feed all our old folks and all our children for a day." 
 
 "And how much would feed them all for a day?" 
 
 Sister Philippine told her, and it seemed to Car-
 
 230 THE TIDEIVAY 
 
 rie terribly little. She knew to a penny what her 
 own housekeeping cost, and it had never struck her 
 as extravagant. 
 
 *'Well," she said, "and there are yourselves. 
 The nuns themselves, I mean. How many of them 
 are there?" 
 
 "We are sixteen In community." 
 
 "Well, and you must eat!" 
 
 "Certainly," laughed Sister Philippine, "we eat 
 — what the old folk and the children leave." 
 
 Carrie shuddered. "Look here," she said, "I will 
 give you $200 — ^but I should like to make a condi- 
 tion." 
 
 At the mention of so generous a sum, both sisters 
 made a little exclamation, and the young one looked 
 up from the floor. When Carrie spoke of a condi- 
 tion they tried not to seem disappointed. 
 
 "What condition, please?" asked Sister Philip- 
 pine. 
 
 "That you go straight home and beg no more to- 
 day," said Carrie promptly. 
 
 "Then I'll promise," declared Sister Philippine, 
 and they both laughed. 
 
 Carrie saw there was a little joke and asked 
 what it was. 
 
 "Well, the truth is our rounds are over for to-day. 
 It is nearly five o'clock and we generally do our 
 begging between nine in the morning and five In the 
 afternoon. This was to be the last house. Per- 
 haps you will not give us so much now." 
 
 "Oh yes, I shall." 
 
 And Carrie went over to her bureau whence she 
 returned with the money. 
 
 "There's $202," she said. "The two dollars 
 are for a cab. Your convent is quite at the other 
 end of the town, is it not? It Is pouring. I want 
 you to go home in a cab."
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 231 
 
 She spoke with far more animation than was her 
 custom, for it was seldom her custom, poor girl, 
 to be interested, and she was interested now. Not, 
 1 fear, chiefly in the old men and women and or- 
 phans, but in the two gentle ladies who were begging 
 for them. Her eagerness brought a slight but most 
 becoming flush into her pale cheeks, and her quiet 
 brown eyes had an unwonted light in them. 
 
 "Your condition," said Sister Philippine, with a 
 little laugh, "was that we should go home — " 
 
 "In a cab !" declared Carrie firmly. 
 
 "I didn't hear that," said Sister Philippine. 
 
 "Nor I," said Sister Angela. 
 
 "Come!" cried Miss Girvan, "is it worth while to 
 lose two hundred dollars for your old creatures just 
 for the sake of getting more thoroughly wet? That 
 would be obstinate!" 
 
 "I think it would." 
 
 And both sisters laughed quite comfortably. 
 
 "What a pretty creature you are!" said Carrie 
 impulsively (she was far from being impulsive in 
 general), and as if she couldn't help it, to Sister 
 Angela. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" said Sister Philippine, "Nuns and 
 compliments are queer company." 
 
 But she did not speak severely. 
 
 "Come," cried Carrie, "if she is pretty, it's no 
 riiore her fault than my comforts are mine. My com- 
 forts and her looks come from the same place." 
 
 She spoke so genially, and looked so girlish that 
 Sister Philippine felt quite at home with her. When 
 they had first entered the room she had inwardly 
 decided that Miss Girvan was a stiffish personage, 
 and had put her down for well over thirty. 
 
 "Dear me," laughed Sister Philippine, "you can 
 be quite saucy!" 
 
 Undoubtedly it was the first time anyone had
 
 232 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 called Miss Girvan saucy. If Mrs. Pentlow had 
 heard it she would have been almost frightened. 
 But Carrie rather liked it, without exactly knowing 
 why. The stout nun was so human; she seemed 
 to give out a kind of warmth and wholesomeness 
 like an atmosphere. People usually accorded to 
 Miss Girvan a sort of matronly position, as if she 
 were almost elderly, and this Sister treated her as a 
 young girl. 
 
 "How old do you think I am?" she demanded 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Oh — well, three or four and twenty, perhaps. 
 No, less, I should say." 
 
 "I'm twenty-eight." 
 
 "That's young, too. And — do you live all 
 alone . . . here? It's a fine room, but, but, some- 
 how, elderly." 
 
 "Yes, I live all alone here. And it is elderly. 
 That's exactly what it is. I can't help it." 
 
 As she spoke, in a queer, almost flurried fashion, 
 the younger nun caught her eye and Carrie found it 
 very sympathetic. 
 
 "Won't yoii say something?" she said. "You've 
 hardly spoken to me." 
 
 "I was thinking," the nun answered, with a gentle 
 hesitation, "that I would rather live among our old 
 broken-down creatures and our little orphans." 
 
 At that moment Norah entered with a tray — a 
 very heavy silver tray, laden with heavy silver tea- 
 pot, cream ewer, and sugar bowl. 
 
 "How long you've been, Norah!" said her mis- 
 tress, please bring in the other things quickly." 
 
 Then turning to her guests she said: 
 
 "After your ploddings through the rain a cup of 
 tea will do you good." 
 
 They explained that they never ate or drank out 
 of the convent, but thanked her with hearty good-
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 233 
 
 will. Her obvious disappointment was very hos- 
 pitable. 
 
 "But," said Sister Philippine, "if you will come 
 to our Convent we should love to give you tea." 
 
 "Do," begged Sister Angela. 
 
 IV 
 
 When Mrs. Pentlow came to the drawing-room 
 for her tea, she immediately became conscious of a 
 change in its atmosphere. 
 
 "Your visitors didn't stop," she observed, glanc- 
 ing at the two extra and unused tea-cups. 
 
 "No, Mamma ! and I was so sorry. But they 
 weren't exactly visitors. They were beggars!" 
 
 "Beggars, my dear?" 
 
 "Clean beggars; and very nice." 
 
 Then she explained. 
 ^ "Well, I'm sure I'm glad they came. They've 
 done you good," declared her mother. 
 
 "How?" asked Carrie, not austerely. 
 
 "You look ten years younger — you do, indeed. 
 And ever so much prettier. That's the truth, my 
 dear." 
 
 "Mamma, you know I'm not pretty." 
 
 "Just you look in the glass." 
 
 Carrie laughed and did look, 
 
 "Perhaps I don't look so frumpish as usual," she 
 admitted. 
 
 "You aren't a frump a bit; only you live as if you 
 were. You live as if you were an elderly person. 
 Don't bite me for saying so, but it's the truth. I 
 wish those begging ladies would come every day. 
 I never saw such a difference." 
 
 Mrs. Pentlow was quite astonished to hear her- 
 self talking like this. It was due to the change in 
 the atmosphere of the drawing-room. 
 
 "They do a deal of good, those ladies," she ob-
 
 234 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 served presently. "I've heard a many praise them. 
 I wish I'd seen them." 
 
 "One of them," cried Carrie, "said I was saucy." 
 
 Her mother swallowed quite a large bit of toast 
 prematurely. 
 
 "My shakes!" she ejaculated. 
 
 When Norah came to take the tea-things away 
 Mrs. Pentlow arose in accordance with her custom 
 to return to the breakfast-room. 
 
 "Stop and talk," her daughter begged. "I want 
 to talk. You've got your knitting, and we can keep 
 blind man's holiday." 
 
 Mrs. Pentlow did not say "My shakes!" this 
 time, but she felt it. Never before since they had 
 lived in that house had Carrie given the slightest 
 hint of a desire not to be left alone when her mother 
 had shaken out the crumbs (into the fender, and 
 with due respect to the drawing-room carpet) and 
 prepared to withdraw, as soon as tea was over, 
 to her own region. 
 
 When Norah had gone Carrie sat for a few min- 
 utes looking into the fire without speaking, and her 
 mother knitted, equally silent. 
 
 "Mamma," the girl said presently, without turn- 
 ing her eyes from the fire, "I suppose you can read 
 while you knit. You never need to look at the knit- 
 ting." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I can read, easy, as I knit — by propping 
 the book up on the table. But I don't do it very 
 often. I don't study like you." 
 
 Carrie had a half-guilty consciousness that this 
 was a very fine name for her somewhat torpid 
 reading. 
 
 *'Well," she said, "I suppose you prefer your own 
 thoughts." 
 
 "I don't know as I'm very fond of them, either. 
 While it's daylight I look out of the window and see
 
 THE AJFAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 235 
 
 what folks go by, and that. When it's dark and the 
 house is shut up, I have my chair turned round and 
 I knit by the fire. That's company. I can't truly 
 say that it's exactly thoughts I prefer to reading." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Pentlow, she was not plucky enough 
 to confess that she had a good deal more conversa- 
 tion than she now hinted at. When the servant 
 came with the lamp, and when she would come in 
 afterwards to attend to the fire, or on that pretence, 
 her mistress would seldom let her go without a 
 fairly prolonged chat. The cook was breakfast- 
 room maid. As the more austere Selina was draw- 
 ing-room maid I am afraid Mrs. Pentlow and the 
 cook gossiped, though harmlessly. And Carrie's 
 mother was fully conscious that gossip with a ser- 
 vant could find no favor in her daughter's ideas of 
 correctness. 
 
 "Mamma," said the girl, and she spoke with a 
 certain impulsiveness that her mother was not accus- 
 tomed to see in her, "Mamma, it all sounds rather 
 —lonely." 
 
 The tone was so obviously self-accusatory that 
 Mrs. Pentlow, who was entirely good-natured and 
 easy-tempered, said: 
 
 "Well, my dear, I don't know as I often feel it 
 like that. When a woman's getting up In years, and 
 has three children's worries and scrapes to think 
 about, and a comfortable home of her own to think 
 about them in — if she's any sense, she don't get 
 wondering if she's lonesome. I should say you'd 
 be more like to feel lonesome all by yourself in 
 here." (Mrs. Pentlow was quite aware that Carrie 
 had no such resources in Selina as she had in 
 Jemima.) "Though, of course, there's your studies. 
 What I mean is, you're young, and yet you never let 
 any young folks' pleasures come anigh you. And 
 you sit here forever, just as a woman might, thirty
 
 236 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 years older than you are, who'd never married." 
 
 For a little while Carrie seemed to sit musing 
 what her mother had said. It was true enough and 
 good enough sense. And she was quite sufficiently 
 intelligent to perceive that it expressed an habitual 
 thought — Mrs. Pentlow was not the woman to put 
 out in pat phrases all at once a new idea that had 
 only just arrived. 
 
 "Mother," she said, with a little blush, at last, 
 "what does it matter whether I begin now or in thirty 
 years to live — like that? You know I shan't ever be 
 married." 
 
 I fear Mrs. Pentlow had even discussed this very 
 subject* with the cheery cook — who was about Car- 
 rie's age, and had, at least, two strings to her own 
 bow. 
 
 "And why not, my dear? See how quick Lizzie 
 and Susie went off. And not half your looks — no, 
 my dear, they hadn't. They were pretty enough" 
 (she was still a pretty old woman herself), "but 
 they hadn't your looks. None of your style." Car- 
 rie winced at that appalling word. "They're my 
 own gals, but I know as well they're a different 
 class ! Yes, and I know what you're thinking — their 
 husbands would never do for you. So they wouldn't. 
 But there's plenty of young men in the world as are 
 your class. There's nought to hinder, only your 
 living shut up in this room like a hermitess, if there's 
 such a thing. A young man can't exactly knock at 
 the front door and say to Selina, 'I'll just step in the 
 drawing-room and propose to your young lady. 
 Can he now?" 
 
 "Oh, Mamma, I don't want any young man to 
 step in!" cried Carrie really blushing. There was 
 much common sense in what her mother said, but 
 (plainly) it seemed to her vulgar. Yet, she knew 
 that it was all said with so simple a frankness that
 
 THE AWAKENING OE MISS GIRVAN 237 
 
 somehow it failed of the real essence of vul- 
 garity. 
 
 "No, you don't. There it is," said Mrs. Pentlow. 
 She shook her head and that head-shake was elo- 
 quent. "There's the obstacle," it declared roundly, 
 "and it's one that no one can climb over." 
 
 "But, mother! Why should everyone marry? 
 Lizzie and Susie have trouble enough; and, of my 
 old schoolfriends, half who have got married have 
 had far, far worse troubles than theirs." 
 
 "Troubles! What does a trouble or two matter? 
 Don't it say as we're born to 'em as the sparks fly 
 upwards? And it's better to share them than sit 
 chewing them by yourself. I'd troubles enough 
 with your stepfather (he and me together had) but 
 I never repented marrying him, for I was fond of 
 him and he of me. I know you couldn't bear the 
 sight of him, though he didn't see it — and it wasn't 
 for me to tell him. He hadn't much head to speak 
 of, and no manners (not what you'd call manners. 
 Well, I know they were common), but his heart 
 wasn't common; and, Carrie, I'd liever sit by my 
 fire and remember it than — study. And I'd liever 
 have Liz and Sue married to men as thinks the world 
 of 'em, and have children at their breasts (troubles 
 or no troubles) than have them sit alone with naught 
 but a book betwixt them and the thought that there 
 Avas nothing but the next meal to look on to, and 
 be lonely night after night, and a long day to follow, 
 and so on with all the nights and days, and nothing 
 to expect, nothin. Eh, my dear! I'm sure I thank 
 the Lord (and you) for all the comforts I have. 
 And more I thank Him that you aren't dependent 
 on anyone, nor poor. (Struggles 'd never do for 
 you, my dear. And He spares them to you.) But 
 often when I kneel at nights I can't help asking Him 
 if that's all He can send — 'just a little happiness.
 
 238 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 too, O Lord,' I call out; not out loud, but in my silly 
 old heart." 
 
 A very sharp stab of compunction assailed Carrie. 
 Just now she had noted very shrewdly, though 
 silently, that her mother had spoken of three chil- 
 dren; as If Ben and Susie and Lizzie were all the 
 children she had. And, hurt, she had confessed that 
 it was not strange or unjust; they were loudly demon- 
 strative In their affection for their mother, and what 
 was she? Because their noisy kisslngs, and inoppor- 
 tune embracings struck her as "common" she had 
 made of a cool evenness of demeanor, and absence 
 of all effusion a point of breeding. And now came 
 this poignant revelation of a simple, but loving, 
 mother kneeling at night In the decorous comfort 
 of her lonely bedchamber, and crying out to Heaven 
 for happiness for the daughter who had always 
 kept her at arm's length. 
 
 The girl's really pretty face was held between her 
 two long and shapely hands as she bent her eyes 
 on the fire, and her mother saw shining tears slowly 
 form in those eyes, and slowly break from them. 
 
 "Oh, my dear;" cried the old lady. "Oh Car- 
 rie!" 
 
 "I'm a wicked girl." 
 
 "Wicked! Because you've never been a husband 
 catcher, like most ! Eh, my dear ! I've always been 
 proud of it. Sue and Liz led their young fellows 
 on — didn't I know it? They'd have got married 
 right enough, without it, I'll be bound : still I know 
 they led their young fellows on : they were in a 
 hurry like — Sue and Liz were. And for that matter 
 it was In their blood. I was just the same." 
 
 "Oh, Mamma, please don't." 
 
 "Yes, but I was. I don't know as poor Pentlow 
 wanted much leading on — he was not that sort; he 
 was like one of those big bouncing sort o' dogs as'll
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 239 
 
 scarce wait for a look In your eye to encourage 'em. 
 But Mr. Girvan was very different. I was younger 
 still then, and prettier, too, but he was a deliberate 
 kind o' gentleman, as had been a bachelor too long 
 to give it up without a bit of help, and I did help 
 him, else p'raps I'd never have been your mother — 
 and many's the time I've wondered whether I'd not 
 better have left him alone. But I doubt, if I had, 
 you'd never have had a mother at all, so I do. But, 
 Carrie, I shouldn't like to think o' you helping on. 
 It wouldn't be like you, nor yet worthy of you, so it 
 wouldn't." 
 
 "Mamma, dear; I wasn't thinking of that at all 
 when I said I was wicked. I was thinking of how 
 I'd treated you, not since I grew up — indeed 
 always." 
 
 "Treated me ! I don't know any girl as does more 
 for her mother. What have I ever wanted for? 
 Isn't it your bread I eat? and isn't every stitch on 
 my back your giving? and the good bed I lie in, 
 warm and comfortable (when many lie cold and 
 hard) isn't it your bed, as you paid for? Yes, and 
 though you see that I have everything, haven't I 
 always plenty in my purse? And my children — 
 where'd they be but for you? Who educated them 
 and paid for their weddings, and saw as they didn't 
 go empty to their husbands?" 
 
 Mrs. Pentlow made no more pretence of knitting; 
 her knitting lay in her ample lap, and her large soft 
 hands fluttered in the air and large shining tears 
 coursed down her cheeks. 
 
 But Carrie shook her head. 
 
 "All the same," she said sadly, "I've neglected 
 you—" 
 
 "Neglected me! I'd like to hear anyone else 
 say that ! If that's neglect !" 
 
 "Yes. That's just what it has been. I've let you
 
 240 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 live all alone in the same house with me. All these 
 years. All these selfish years." 
 
 "My dear, I can't abide to hear you speak like 
 that. I've always understood. We're not equals, and 
 that's the simple truth. I was never your papa's 
 equal and he missed it. Couldn't I see it? He was 
 a gentleman to his fingers' ends, and I was never up 
 to his level, never. Poor Pentlow, you couldn't 
 do with him at all, but he and me were equals, he 
 was my sort, and he was the husband I was fit for. 
 And Ben and Liz and Sue — I'm the mother for 
 them, but not for you. It cuts me to hear you 
 blaming yourself, so it does," 
 
 "Eh, mother: it's time I did blame myself. I've 
 not been in much of a hurry about it. Doesn't all 
 you say make me blame myself much more?" 
 
 "Then I wish I'd bitten my tongue out before 
 saying it — " 
 
 "No, I'm glad. It shows me what I'm like," and 
 the girl bent her pretty head lower, toward the flick- 
 ering red, warm heart of the fire, and added, "I 
 know now. There's only one real lady in this room, 
 and it's not me." 
 
 "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Carrie, Carrie, don't say 
 such ugly things. Don't now. It does cut me. All 
 the beautiful clothes as ever you've given me could 
 never make a real lady of me, and I know it well." 
 
 "No," said Carrie, "it's not on your back, it's in 
 your heart. And God did it." 
 
 V 
 
 "Mamma," said Carrie, a day or two after this, 
 as they were finishing their early dinner, that Miss 
 Girvan had liked to call "luncheon," "those ladies, 
 the nuns, I mean, asked me if I would go to tea with
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 241 
 
 them at their Convent. I think I shall go to-day." 
 
 "Do, my dear. It will do you good." 
 
 "Yes. I think I shall have Blight's carriage and 
 drive there. But I want you to come, too." 
 
 "Me!" 
 
 "You wouldn't mind coming?" 
 
 "Oh, no, I should like to see that place. But 
 shan't I be in your way?" 
 
 "When you say that it cuts me, as you say. Do 
 come, you'll like those ladies." 
 
 So they went together. And the drive was quite 
 a treat to Mrs. Pentlow. She liked an excuse for 
 wearing her velvet and furs, and she liked what she 
 called a "ride"; and particularly she liked having 
 Carrie at her side chatting comfortably. 
 
 At the Convent, Miss Girvan asked for Sister 
 Philippine in some dread of hearing that she was 
 out begging. But the Sister Portress said No, it was 
 not Sister Philippine's turn, she was in, and, if the 
 ladies would wait a few minutes she would fetch her. 
 Meanwhile she led the way across a bit of garden 
 to the main building. 
 
 "It's a pretty garden," said Mrs. Pentlow to Car- 
 rie. "What a thing for those old bodies to have 
 such a nice place to walk in." 
 
 A number of old men were strolling about in 
 groups and enjoying a pipe of tobacco. 
 
 "I'm glad," Mrs. Pentlow whispered, "as they 
 let them smoke. I thought, likely, there'd be a rule 
 against it, when you're old, and poor, and done for, 
 a pipe o' tobacco is a fine thing. There's not so 
 many pleasures left as you can do without one and 
 not miss it. I guess these nun-ladies are sensible. 
 And the Convent's a fine building, look I Not pris- 
 ony. A fine cheerful house, wi' plenty o' windows 
 and light. Yet it don't look all draughts and bleak- 
 ness. Carrie, here's a nun."
 
 242 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 It was Sister Philippine, and she was walking 
 toward them with the last sort of person in the 
 world Miss Girvan would have expected to see 
 there — a young man. A tall, stalwart, decidedly 
 handsome young man, with a rather loud voice, and 
 a cheerful open-air kind of manner. 
 
 "Sister Philippine," said the Portress, going for- 
 ward, "these ladies are asking for you." 
 
 "Well, now!" cried Sister Philippine, "if that's 
 not kind of you. Miss Girvan! I didn't half think 
 you meant to come. And you've come so soon." 
 
 Carrie introduced her mother. 
 
 "That's better still of you. Miss Girvan, to bring 
 her along. This gentleman is our doctor, Dr. Des- 
 mond Clare — he cures us all for nothing. Nearly a 
 hundred patients he has with us all, and not a fee 
 among the lot!" 
 
 "And not many patients among the whole hun- 
 dred," said Dr. Clare laughing. "Nuns never let on 
 that they're ill, if they ever are; and the little ones 
 are the healthiest children I come across. It's only 
 a few of the old folk, and you know, Mrs. Girvan, 
 that nursing's the best part of doctoring, and it's 
 the Sisters who do all that." 
 
 Mrs. Pentlow thought him a delightful young 
 man — Carrie was not sure. 
 
 "But," said the former, "though I'm like Miss 
 Girvan's mother, I'm not Mrs. Girvan. I'm Mrs. 
 Pentlow." 
 
 As plainly as if she had said It, her tone Im- 
 plied, "I'm only Mrs. Pentlow, that's all." 
 
 "Before we go In," suggested Sister Philippine, 
 "perhaps you'd like to see the garden. This is only 
 the old men's garden. The old women's is prettier, 
 I think, and then there's the little ones' playground, 
 and their little garden plots, and their cricket piece." 
 
 I do not propose to make the reader also go round
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 243 
 
 those gardens. But Mrs. Pentlow and her daughter 
 went round the whole place, and Dr. Clare helped 
 Sister Philippine to do the honors. 
 
 "If I hadn't such a good daughter," Carrie's 
 mother confidentially informed the young man, "and 
 want for nothing, I should think I'd be fine and con- 
 tent here. It's that homelike." 
 
 "Yes, it is. It isn't called a 'Home,' thank good- 
 ness, but it just is one. We never call our own 
 homes 'Homes,' do we? We stick that label on 
 places that aren't at all home-ish, and that aren't 
 for ourselves; the nuns ttiake this a home, and take 
 good care not to label it." 
 
 All the same he was half laughing. For the 
 elderly lady at his side, in her furs and velvets, 
 looked so particularly prosperous that he was 
 amused at her idea of needing a refuge for her age 
 but for having such a good daughter. 
 
 Miss Girvan and Sister Philippine were well in 
 front, and Mrs. Pentlow (who loved talking) 
 chatted away unrestrainedly with the cheery young 
 Irish doctor. 
 
 "Do you live here?" she asked him. 
 
 "Oh, no. I live in town; I have my work there. 
 This is just recreation." 
 
 "What part of town do you live in?" 
 
 "In Washington Avenue. All by myself. I'm a 
 helpless bachelor." 
 
 "I'm sure you're not helpless. Washington 
 Avenue! And our house is at the end of Jefferson 
 Street, not so far off of it." 
 
 "I call it quite near." 
 
 "Who," demanded Mrs. Pentlow, "mends for 
 
 'No one in particular." 
 
 'Eh dear! And your socks — when there's holes 
 in them, how do you manage?" 
 
 "]
 
 244 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 ""They manage to get bigger — the holes do," an- 
 swered Dr. Clare laughing. 
 
 "So I should think!" She glanced involuntarily 
 down at his feet as if she were wondering whether 
 there were holes in his socks at that moment. He 
 perfectly understood the glance. 
 
 "Yes," he confessed boldly, "my toes are poking 
 through now." 
 
 "It's fearful. Dr. Clare, I just wish you'd let me 
 mend you. I mend my own boy still, though he is 
 out in the world. He sends me a parcel o' things 
 and I send them back something more Christian- 
 like than they come. But I've nothing to do, and 
 I'd just love to mend you, too; your own mother 
 wouldn't mind?" 
 
 "My own mother," the young man said gently, 
 "has gone already where these good nuns are going." 
 
 "Eh dear, eh dear! And I'm sure she'd be no 
 ways an old woman not if she'd been spared, now." 
 
 "She would be fifty-two; I'm thirty-one, and she 
 was just one and twenty when I was born." 
 
 "Poor thing! And to have to go away and leave 
 you : eh, it must have been hard for her." 
 
 "I don't know. She was wrapped up in my father, 
 and his death nearly killed her: she died herself so 
 soon after that I think she could only feel that she 
 was hurrying after him catching him up on his 
 way." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Pentlow with all her frank 
 simplicity, "I've buried two husbands: and it was 
 hard enough to lose them, but I shouldn't have liked 
 to go and leave my children — I've three besides 
 Carrie there. Not own brother and sisters of hers, 
 you know; nor yet of her sort. Ben and Sue and Liz 
 are more ordinary-like." 
 
 It is quite possible that Miss Girvan's mother 
 amused Desmond Clare, but if he smiled sometimes
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 245 
 
 it was a smile full of friendliness. He liked the 
 simple motherly creature, and told himself that she 
 was altogether "a good sort." 
 
 Presently Sister Philippine took her turn of walk- 
 ing with her, and Miss Girvan fell to the young 
 man. He found her very unlike her mother, much 
 less talkative, and either shy or reserved. Had she 
 been a young girl fresh from school he would have 
 decided that she was merely shy, but she was not 
 without a certain dignity and self-possession, and 
 her demure quietness was anything but awkward. 
 
 He found the easiest thing to talk about, as it was 
 In the circumstances the most obvious, was the Con- 
 vent, the nuns and their work. To that she listened 
 with evident interest, and after a while he perceived 
 that her face could show plenty of animation. He 
 was quite sure that, whereas her mother had almost 
 at once begun talking of him and of herself, It would 
 not have been possible to make Miss Girvan talk of 
 herself or of him. When Sister Philippine led her 
 guests indoors she begged him also to come in and 
 have his tea, but he excused himself, and took his 
 leave. 
 
 "My dear," observed Mrs. Pentlow as she and 
 Carrie drove home, "I did enjoy It. A treat it was. 
 And what a splendid tea ! I'd like, if one got to 
 know 'em better, to ask for the receipt of those 
 potato-scones — as light as feathers they were, and 
 so much taste ; in general potato-scones are heavy 
 and no more taste than flock. The one they call 
 Reverend Mother — I did like her: and so pretty 
 an' all. You'd never think, she had all that great 
 house and near a hundred in family to manage for. 
 A pretty doctor's bill she'd have every year, too, 
 if that Dr. Clarke didn't do It for nothing." 
 
 " 'Clare,' Mamma: his name is Dr. Clare." 
 
 "Just like me. I always do get wrong hold o'
 
 246 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 names. Carrie, I'd like to give them something for 
 their house — ^yoii keep me so well in pocket. I'd 
 got it on the tip of my tongue to offer something 
 as we were coming away, then I was afraid it'd 
 look badly — like paying for the good tea." 
 
 "Yes, I'm sure you were right. It would be better 
 to send it." 
 
 VI 
 
 "Norah," said Carrie a fortnight later, "will you 
 tell Mrs. Pentlow that tea is ready?" 
 
 "I will, Miss — but she's got a visitor. A young 
 gentleman. Shall I bring another cup?" 
 
 Miss Girvan hesitated, "almost flurried, she was," 
 Norah subsequently reported to the cook. 
 
 "Has he been long?" asked Carrie. 
 
 "Pretty well. Miss. Best part of an hour." 
 
 "Then he must be near going. No, you needn't 
 bring another cup. Just tell Mamma, when he has 
 gone." 
 
 But Norah considered that the breakfast-room fire 
 must want attention, and went to see to it herself 
 without troubling Jemima. 
 
 "Norah," said Mrs. Pentlow, "it's nearly five 
 o'clock. Didn't I hear you carrying the tea-things 
 to the parlor?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. It's ready." 
 
 "Then we'll go to tea, come along. Dr. Clare," 
 said the old lady. "You shall carry my traps for 
 
 me." 
 
 Norah usually carried them, but she was far too 
 wise to offer her services on this occasion. She went 
 instead for the extra cup and saucer, taking care not 
 to reach the drawing-room before Mrs. Pentlow and 
 her guest. 
 
 "Well, I never!" said Jemima, "a gentleman's 
 fallen down the chimley at last! If it wasn't for
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 247 
 
 sollying her gown I guess Miss Girvan'd be fit to 
 jump up it to get out of his way." 
 
 "An Irish gentleman, too," said Norah, giving 
 an extra polish to the cup and saucer, "and lovely 
 tall. And the eyes of him!" 
 
 "You go along. It's Miss Girvan as his eyes 
 are for." 
 
 "Please God." 
 
 Miss Girvan's drawing-room struck Desmond as 
 somehow quaintly characteristic: not that it was 
 quaint in itself, but simply that it was so demure, so 
 staid, and prim : it was by no means ugly, and it was 
 comfortable, warm, too, though its colors were cold. 
 It was not devoid of taste, but it suggested a taste 
 somewhat timid. And it was too elderly. 
 
 "He thinks it dreadful," thought Carrie, who had 
 caught the quick comprehensive glance with which 
 the young man took it all in. 
 
 She was not sorry to see him, but she did not 
 look glad. He shook hands, but her own hand 
 barely touched him and he thought it limp. He had 
 not the least idea that she, having heard from Sister 
 Philippine of his good work among the poor, his 
 generosity, and self-sacrifice, regarded him as a 
 hero. 
 
 He was still thinking of her room. "It is," he 
 thought, "thirty years too old for her. Here she 
 evidently lives, she has assumed the role of old maid 
 at eight and twenty." (Needless to say her mother 
 had told him the age of all her children.) 
 
 As Norah had said. Miss Girvan was really a 
 little flurried, but her manner was so calm and staid 
 that it only showed itself in a slightly heightened 
 color that made her prettier. 
 
 "It's something uncommon," observed her mother, 
 "for us to entertain a gentleman; the only one that 
 ever comes in is Mr. Pound."
 
 248 THE TlDEfVAY 
 
 (( 
 
 'And who," asked Desmond cheerfully, "is the 
 lucky Mr. Pound?" 
 
 "Oh, he's our Minister — Reverend Simeon 
 Pound. I don't know as he's lucky. He has eleven 
 children and they mostly have something catching 
 among 'em." 
 
 "He must be a gold-mine to his doctor," said 
 Desmond laughing. 
 
 "Not if his doctor's like you and does it all for 
 nothing," said Mrs. Pentlow. 
 
 "Oh, but all my patients aren't nuns. I assure 
 you, I've rather a big practice, and some nice sickly 
 rich patients among them; people who wouldn't 
 think it respectable to have a cold without sending 
 for the doctor. Miss Girvan, I'm sure that's a first- 
 rate piano. I'm cracked about music." 
 
 "She never plays, hardly," complained her moth- 
 er, "and it's a pity. She used to play anything you 
 like — nothing too hard for her. She studies, you 
 
 see." 
 
 Desmond looked slightly surprised. He had not 
 thought of Miss Girvan as a blue-stocking. 
 
 "Oh, Mamma! The truth is," said Carrie sim- 
 ply, "I never could play. At school they taught me 
 difficult sonatas, but I always had wooden hands. 
 And my 'studies' are — reading novels." 
 
 Of course, when she mentioned them, he glanced 
 at her hands, which were singularly pretty, and 
 looked by no means wooden. 
 
 "After tea," she went on quickly, "perhaps you 
 would have mercy on that poor piano, and play for 
 us upon it. It is always kept in tune, but it must be 
 wretched having all possible music in oneself, as it 
 has, and for none of it ever to be brought out." 
 
 "I can't believe," he said, watching her face with 
 interest, "that you do not care for music, or you 
 would not have said that. Perhaps you are idle."
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 249 
 
 "I am altogether idle. I do nothing at all. Noth- 
 ing. But as for caring for music — I only know that 
 I have none in myself. And I simply do not know 
 whether I should care for it in anyone else. I have 
 never heard any music that seemed to me very beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 "You never go to concerts? To good concerts?" 
 
 "We have lived in small places, and — to tell the 
 truth I never go anywhere." 
 
 "That is true," said her mother, shaking her head 
 rather dolefully. "Dr. Clare, young people are sup- 
 posed to love nothing like going about, but she 
 never has gone anywhere. Dear me ! I should have 
 thought myself in prison if I'd been forced to shut 
 myself up as she has shut herself up, and no one to 
 free her." 
 
 The young man was keenly interested. He was 
 sure that the motherly widow was letting escape 
 some long pent-up feeling; and that the girl shrank 
 from hearing it, not crossly, but from habit, and 
 from a shy reserve that obsessed her. He was also 
 sure that the girl was not merely dull or stupid. 
 
 To him, who fully realized that this sober, neu- 
 tral-tinted room was all the setting her still young 
 life had, it seemed pathetic, almost ghastly. There 
 was something morbid about it that almost angered 
 him, that he at all events wanted to smash up. 
 
 "You see," the girl said, speaking with an oddly 
 humble honesty, "I have never had any friends." 
 
 Her tone said, quite simply, "Why should I have 
 had any?" There was the humility; and it was odd 
 because he felt instinctively that Miss Girvan had 
 not been used to think herself inferior to her sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 "If you have had no friends," he said smiling, 
 "surely that must have been your fault." 
 
 "Oh, yes," she answered, taking his words in a
 
 2 so THE TIDEWAY 
 
 sense quite different from that which he had in- 
 tended, "I am sure it must have been my fault. The 
 world is full of nice people — I am sure it is. But 
 I have never had the knack of finding them." 
 
 "And, of course, if you really do always shut 
 yourself up — in here — they could not find you." 
 
 "That's what I say," declared Mrs. Pentlow, 
 slightly varying what she actually had said, "folks 
 can't knock at the front door and tell the girl they'd 
 thank her to show the drawing-room as they'd come 
 to make friends with Miss Girvan." 
 
 But Carrie remembered so clearly what her 
 mother really had said, that she flushed hotly. 
 
 "She's very pretty — more than pretty!" thought 
 Desmond. Her character struck him as by no means 
 dull, but queerly dormant, and he was sure it might 
 awaken to something fine and noble. There was, 
 he told himself, an almost childlike innocence, a lim- 
 pid purity and a plain honesty that the cruel shyness, 
 or timidity, only made more interesting. Yet he 
 knew that she was useless, and he was used to 
 women, like the Sisters of the Holy House, whose 
 whole life was usefulness and service; yet her use- 
 lessness did not at all dispose him to think meanly 
 of her — it only struck him as a part of her mis- 
 fortune. 
 
 He noted shrewdly that when she was not blush- 
 ing her face was pale with a rather peculiar del- 
 icacy of clear whiteness, yet he was certain that she 
 was not delicate or unhealthy. It was simply the 
 result of a life almost wholly passed indoors. 
 
 "Now," she said, when it was evident that he 
 had finished his tea, "will you not try the 
 piano ,'' 
 
 He at once did as she asked. And Mrs. Pentlow 
 secretly thought, "She can play better than him if 
 she likes. Those things aren't difficult, I guess."
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 251 
 
 They sounded quite simple at all events, and were 
 soft and dreamy, largely on minor keys; a string 
 of very short things, without (as Mrs. Pentlow de- 
 cided) much tune. She liked plenty of "air" ; things 
 you could get hold of immediately and hum. 
 
 Carrie did not think them so easy, and she per- 
 ceived at once the delicacy and certainty of the young 
 man's touch. Listening very attentively as she did, 
 she began to fancy a certain sequence and connection 
 between the rapidly changing themes ; almost a voice 
 expressing one idea in varying phrases. Some of 
 the first movements were a little sad, in all there 
 was something plaintive. This rather surprised her, 
 for he had struck her as above all things cheerful; 
 indeed, she had felt his buoyant cheerfulness almost 
 as a reproach. Yet she was aware that in what he 
 played there was no morbidity. 
 
 After quite a momentary pause — as if what he 
 had been doing was merely an introduction — he 
 seemed to express a theme more definitely. There 
 came a little prelude full of animation and light; 
 then a movement of ever-deepening softness, almost 
 sleepiness. And this effect remained; and here it 
 was that Carrie became fully aware of the com- 
 poser's and the player's genius, for surely these 
 sounds were meant to express, and did express, what 
 you would say sound could not — a heavier and heav- 
 ier silence. It did not really last long, but appeared 
 to; and while it lasted every note seemed like a tiny 
 flutter, ghostly, almost inaudible, falling on the thick 
 silence, as a leaf might on the floor of an autumn 
 forest, as a muffled footfall in an empty place. Then 
 you would say the silence was a mere breathing in 
 sleep, an unconscious waiting. And at last came a 
 light, but definite footfall; and then a singular rustle 
 and awakening, like the spring's resurrection, that 
 gave all the effect of light and sunshine, merry
 
 252 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 breeze, and merry bird, whose frozen music thawed 
 in the day's eager warmth. 
 
 "What is it?" Carrie asked, rising and going over 
 to him, as soon as he had ended, and before he 
 had time to go to her. 
 
 "The Legend of the Briar Rose." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "By Nobody." 
 
 Of course she knew that he meant by himself. 
 
 VII 
 
 It grew, by fairly rapid degrees, into a custom for 
 Desmond to come to see Mrs. Pentlow and her 
 daughter. And every time he came he played, and 
 presently they found that he could sing, too. Car- 
 rie's mother liked the singing much better; she could 
 understand it better — so she thought. 
 
 Because she liked ballads, he oftenest sang them; 
 old English ballads, old Scots ballads, and Irish, 
 too, of course. 
 
 Mrs. Pentlow liked the English ballads best. Car- 
 rie liked best the Scottish; perhaps there was some- 
 thing in her Scots blood that answered to them. 
 Many of them were terribly pathetic; and as she 
 sat listening by the fire her eyes often brimmed 
 with tears; and he knew, though she did not think 
 that he could see her. 
 
 "They are not morbid, it seems to me," she told 
 him one evening, "and yet they are so pathetic that 
 I can hardly bear them." 
 
 "There is nothing morbid In pathos," he answered 
 simply. "Nor anything unwholesome in being 
 touched by real sorrows, though the hearts that felt 
 them have ceased to beat centuries ago. I shouldn't 
 think very well of you if you could hear 'The 
 Queen's Maries' and not be moved." 
 
 The echo of it was deeper down than in her ears.
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 253 
 
 "Last nicht the Queen had four Maries, 
 This nicht she'll hae but three. 
 There's Mary Beaton and Mary Seton 
 And Mary Carmichael — and me." 
 
 ii-yj . 
 
 'Your Scots ballads," she told him, smiling, "have 
 made me more a Jacobite than ever." 
 
 "I'm glad you are a Jacobite. Every woman the 
 world over is, if she is worth anything, and a Scots 
 girl must be." 
 
 "It was after the '45 that my great-grandfather's 
 grandfather came over here," she said. "He was 
 the second son, and had 'gone out' with the Prince. 
 His father and elder brother stayed at home." 
 
 "Yes. I know. To see how the cat was going 
 to jump. I'd rather be descended from your man. 
 My people had fought for James in Ireland. And 
 the King made the Desmond Clare of that day an 
 Earl." He laughed and added, "I'm Jacobite Earl 
 of Tallaght now, if I wanted to set up as an Amer- 
 ican Earl." 
 
 ''Are you American," she asked, "or Irish?" 
 
 "I am both. My father was naturalized here, 
 and I was born here. I'm an American. But every 
 drop of my blood is Irish, and I was educated in 
 Dublin." 
 
 They were alone in the drawing-room, for during 
 Desmond's singing Norah had come and called Mrs. 
 Pentlow away to see a dressmaker. Carrie's 
 mother loved clothes still, and, not regarding her- 
 self as a lily of the field, took much thought as to 
 what she should put on. 
 
 "Did you really compose that music you played 
 here the first time you came?" Carrie asked, almost 
 absent-mindedly. 
 
 "To express the Legend of the Briar Rose? Yes; 
 it came out of my head as I went along."
 
 254 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "I thought it wonderful. I don't pretend to have 
 known all it meant — for though I knew the legend, 
 I did not know what you were doing. I wish, now 
 I do know, you would play it again." 
 
 "I don't know if I could. I was thinking then of 
 the Legend. Something had brought it into my 
 head." 
 
 "Think of it again!" 
 
 "I'm not sure if I can — in the same way. The 
 Princess has begun to wake." 
 
 He looked down at her and smiled; it was a very 
 pleasant smile, kind and honest, with not a hint of 
 mockery in it. But she looked up in time to catch 
 it, and certainly he had no cause to complain that 
 she was pale. 
 
 "How," thought he, "could I ever have been so 
 stupid as to think her pretty? She is much, much 
 
 more." 
 
 Yet he was sorry he had made her blush, for he 
 was singularly unselfish, and though it made her (as 
 he thought) lovely, he saw that she was startled. 
 
 "Oh," she said, catching at anything to say, "I 
 have wondered whether she, the Princess, grew old 
 while she slept her long sleep." 
 
 "When she woke she was younger than ever," he 
 assured her. "And she kept on growing younger." 
 
 "I hope," Carrie declared laughing, "that she 
 knew when to stop, or the Prince must have found 
 her a perfect baby." 
 
 "Oh, no! no fear at all of that. He liked to 
 watch her growing younger. In that way he could 
 be sure that her wretched long sleep had stolen 
 nothing — that she had got back the empty 
 years." 
 
 "It's rather a ghastly story after all. It all hung 
 on a chance. If he had never come she would have 
 never wakened."
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 255 
 
 "Oh," protested Desmond, cheerfully, "he was 
 hound to come. That was what he was for." 
 
 ''He hadn't been Idle before. He had been doing 
 all sorts of things while she slept." 
 
 "All sorts of dull useful things. The thing was 
 to get through the tangle round her and wake her. 
 That was his business. All the rest, that came be- 
 fore it, was only training." 
 
 "I wonder," said Carrie, "whether he found her 
 after all rather stupid?" 
 
 "Certainly not. She was not stupid — quite the 
 contrary." 
 
 Carrie laughed. 
 
 "You seem to know all about her," she said. 
 
 "Yes. I have made a complete study of her. If 
 you imagine she was stupid it only shows that I 
 know far more about her than you do." 
 
 "Don't you think that she was liable to relapses? 
 I suspect she had a somnambulistic way at times. 
 The sleep had got so into her bones." 
 
 "You really do not understand her a bit! She 
 had slept so long that, once awake, she had a horror 
 of it. His difficulty was to induce her ever to shut 
 her eyes." 
 
 "It surprises me that you should be interested in 
 the Legend. It isn't my idea of you." 
 
 "Do tell me what your idea of me is." 
 
 "Well, I should have thought you quite incapable 
 of patience with anything morbid; and, after all, 
 the Briar Rose story is morbid." 
 
 "No. It is the story of a horrible morbid thing 
 cured. The Princess fell sick of that disease; I am 
 interested precisely because she was cured. The 
 Prince cured her. You see, I am a doctor; and a 
 very rare disease is far more appealing to a doctor 
 than an every-day one." 
 
 "You think her disease very rare?"
 
 256 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 **So rare that I never expected to come up against 
 a case of it in real life. That can not be an acci- 
 dent. I was allowed to meet it in order to cure it. 
 That is what, I believe, I was for." 
 
 "You think it worth while?" 
 
 "I can imagine nothing better worth while — worth 
 a whole life's effort, if that were necessary. I tell 
 you that I believe It to be the thing I am for." 
 
 "It seems to me," she said in very low tones, "that 
 you are very humble." 
 
 "Humble! It seems to me that I am very ambi- 
 tious — like the fellow who woke the princess. You 
 remember how he did it?" 
 
 "By breaking through the tangle that had grown 
 up all around her while she slept." 
 
 "That first. But he did not simply call out, and 
 babble in her ear, and go away. He held out his 
 hand and asked for hers; I call that amazingly am- 
 bitious." 
 
 "To me it seems quite different. Only a singu- 
 lar goodness." 
 
 "I told you you did not know anything about her. 
 Singular goodness, indeed ! Why he was a very 
 ordinary fellow. She was miles above him." 
 
 ''She didn't think so." 
 
 "No, God bless her! She had slept so long — 
 without so much as a dream — that she simply had 
 no idea as to what men were like. And, having no 
 one to compare him with, when she saw him she 
 did not know that he was quite an ordinary decent 
 sort of fellow." 
 
 "Oh, I'm glad you have done abusing him. You 
 admit that he was a 'decent' sort of fellow." 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes. I'm far from intending to abuse 
 him. I should like to make the very best of him. 
 I should paint him with the heroic virtues — if I 
 wasn't sure of being found out."
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MISS GIRVAN 257 
 
 He laughed, and she smiled. 
 
 "Perhaps," she suggested, "she wouldn't have 
 demanded quite all the virtues." 
 
 "No, she was far too wise. She had plenty for 
 the.m both. What she wanted was an honest fel- 
 low, not too foolish, a protective sort of man, used 
 to the knock-about world outside of which she knew 
 nothing, and of which, alone, she would have been 
 frightened, in which she would have lost her way 
 badly. She had all the delicacy and gentleness, he 
 had to supply the toughness that can stand the knocks 
 and jars of life." 
 
 "I am sure he was gentle," Carrie protested, but 
 in a very soft voice, "marvelously gentle." 
 
 "Pray don't think I grudge your praising him. 
 I love it. Praise him far above his deserts and / 
 shan't object. But I'm afraid you don't know him 
 as well as / know her." 
 
 "Oh, I can fancy he had his faults. For instance, 
 he was sure he knew best." 
 
 "Only about her." 
 
 "For my part I would rather believe what his 
 friends say of him than what you say. As to her 
 friends " 
 
 "Poor lady! She hadn't any." 
 
 They both laughed, and Carrie lifted demurely 
 laughing eyes to his and asked: 
 
 "How can you tell!" 
 
 "I've heard her say so," 
 
 "Gracious! And she dead this thousand years!" 
 
 "She's no more dead than you are. She isn't even 
 very old. Not very, very old." 
 
 ||How old?" 
 
 "She looks about one and twenty. Sometimes 
 much younger." 
 
 "That's not very honest of her. For she's older 
 than that. A great deal older."
 
 258 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Gracious! And how do you know?" 
 
 *'She and I were much together as children : even 
 earlier. I can't remember her birth, but I remem- 
 ber her falling downstairs at four years old and it 
 hurt me. It even raised bumps on my forehead." 
 
 "What sympathy! You must have been fond of 
 her!" 
 
 "I don't know that I was. I don't know that I 
 am. She bored me to death. She'd bore you if 
 you had to live with her as I have." 
 
 "No. You're wrong again. There is nothing 
 boring about her. She interests me all the time. I 
 propose to spend all the rest of my life with her, 
 and you shall see that she will give up boring even 
 herself. Only she'll have to do for me what she 
 did for the fellow who got through the tangle. You 
 pretend to know all about her. Do you think she'll 
 do that?" 
 
 "Do what?" 
 
 "Give me her hand?"
 
 A PRELUDE IN PROSE 
 
 WHEN It became known in Blackmere that Mere 
 Park was taken there was quite a flutter of 
 excitement. 
 
 "It would be," said Miss Ranger, "a great thing 
 for the place if some really pleasant strangers came 
 among us." 
 
 "Oh! of course," Miss Bywater agreed (but 
 doubtfully), "if they really were pleasant." 
 
 "I agree with you," Mrs. Landward observed, 
 "one never knows what strangers will be : and we 
 have been so comfortable among ourselves. We all 
 get on together," 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Ranger, "that's just it. 
 We are all getting on together. None of us grow 
 younger. ..." 
 
 "I shouldn't wish to," declared Miss Bywater, 
 who certainly might have grown thirty years younger 
 without becoming exactly a girl. 
 
 Mrs. Landward sighed; but her sigh was more 
 cheerful than Miss Bywater's protestation of con- 
 tentment. She was nearly seventy, and had long 
 given up thinking of youth. 
 
 "All the wishing in the world wouldn't make me 
 anything short of an elderly woman," Miss Ranger 
 continued; "but a little young blood in the place 
 would do us all good." 
 
 "There are the Carraway girls," suggested Miss 
 Bywater. 
 
 "Yes; and all three of them have been the Carra- 
 way girls these twenty years," remarked Miss 
 Ranger, ruthlessly. "And there are the four Dear- 
 ings — all young ladies, no doubt; but the youngest 
 of them will never see thirty again." 
 
 259
 
 26o THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Cissy and Carry are twins, though, and not five 
 and thirty," Miss Bywater observed, "and Helena 
 comes between them and Julia. Julia won't be two 
 and thirty till July — she was called after the month." 
 
 "I shouldn't at all mind if the new people at Mere 
 Park were young — quite young," said Mrs. Land- 
 ward. "But I rather shrink from strangers. And 
 I hope they won't be rich — we all live so quietly." 
 
 "A little money in the place wouldn't be amiss," 
 Miss Ranger observed, "and they are not likely to 
 be millionaires. Mere Park is nice, but it would not 
 accommodate any establishment." 
 
 "Old Mrs. Prestwick always kept a butler," Miss 
 Bywater reminded her, slightly offended. For Mere 
 Park was the nearest approach to a "place" quite 
 close to the little town. 
 
 "Oh, yes, and a gardener, and three maids; that's 
 not an establishment," said Miss Ranger. 
 
 She was second cousin of Sir Park Ranger, of 
 Rangewood, and had larger ideas than Miss By- 
 water. 
 
 "I wonder if there will be many daughters," Mrs. 
 Landward remarked. She took it for granted that 
 the tenant would be a widow lady — old Mrs. Prest- 
 wick had been a widow, and all the married ladles 
 in Blackmere (except the doctor's wife and the Rec- 
 tor's) were widows and had daughters. No one 
 had any sons on the spot; the doctor had one, and 
 so had the Rector, but Dr. Swallow's son was in 
 the Colonies and the younger Mr. Glebe was a 
 curate in the Midlands. 
 
 "There may not be any," suggested Miss Ranger. 
 "There may be seven sons." 
 
 So bold a surmise startled Mrs. Landward. 
 
 "It would be a great thing for the Carraways 
 and the Bearings," said Miss Bywater. "Seven 
 sons!"
 
 A PRELUDE IN PROSE 261 
 
 *'If they were not too young," said Miss Ranger 
 drily. 
 
 As it turned out, the tenant of Mere Park was 
 not 3. widow; but he was a widower, and not of- 
 fensively young — perhaps as old as Miss Bywater. 
 He had not many daughters, only one in fact, and 
 that one was hardly twenty years of age; pretty, 
 too, and with pleasant manners, as every one agreed 
 as soon as she had been seen in church. 
 
 Captain de Guise looked delicate, and Miss de 
 Guise evidently tXDok great care of him. There was 
 also a young man — not precisely handsome, but 
 "well-looking," and certainly better dressed than Dr. 
 Swallow. Was he a brother? Was he a young Mr. 
 de Guise, or only a visitor? If he was Captain de 
 Guise's son, would he live at Blackmere, and if so 
 what would he do there ? 
 
 It transpired in the course of a day or two that 
 he was Captain de Guise's son, but only half- 
 brother to Miss de Guise, for the Captain was not 
 now for the first time a widower. 
 
 Mrs. Landward, who had only been a widow once, 
 thought he should not have married again; Miss 
 Bywater, who had never been a widow, thought it 
 did not matter. He was not old even now. 
 
 "I call Muriel a sweet name," she declared, "it 
 sounds hereditary; and de — with a small 'de,' you 
 know — quite aristocratic; no doubt they are well 
 connected. Muriel de Guise! I wonder what the 
 Captain's name is — something equally distinguished, 
 I daresay; his nose is marked; you can see that. I 
 remember Lord Oldcourt's nose, when he gave new 
 colors to the Militia." 
 
 "So do I," said Miss Ranger, "when he blew it 
 it was like a fog-horn." 
 
 "I alluded to the shape. It was remarkable — all 
 the Oldcourts have it, I understood."
 
 262 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Miss de Guise hasn't her father's nose, and I 
 think she is just as well without it," Miss Ranger 
 noted. 
 
 "Oh! there are male and female noses in fam- 
 ilies," Miss Bywater conceded, "hers may be some 
 ancestress's. I should say young Mr. de Guise must 
 be nine and twenty . . . and Julia Dearing doesn't 
 look more." 
 
 Ranalph de Guise was, in fact, twenty-seven, and 
 the Captain's name was Ranalph, too. Lest the 
 reader (should there be one) should share in Miss 
 Bywater's altruistic hopes on Julia Dearing's behalf, 
 we may as well say at once that to the day of his 
 death the younger Ranalph never had any inkling 
 of them, and never realized the separate existence 
 of any of the Miss Dearings. And yet he continued 
 to live in Blackmere. 
 
 And so did his sister, which concerns us 
 more. 
 
 On the whole, the arrival of the de Guise family 
 did little to justify the pleasant fluster it had occa- 
 sioned. No one accused them of being too fine for 
 the place, and they were civilly responsive to its 
 gentle advances. But the Captain thought himself 
 an invalid, and disliked evening parties except In 
 his own house. Muriel seemed occupied in making 
 him comfortable, and her brother was often away. 
 It was whispered that he was a poet, and he would 
 not have objected had he been aware of the whisper, 
 though he would have preferred to have it circulated 
 in London. 
 
 "I should think," he observed kindly to his sister 
 one day, "that you could write yourself. Prose, of 
 course." (No poet ever believes that any contem- 
 porary could write poetry.) 
 
 "Certainly It would be prose — if I wrote in verse," 
 said Muriel. "It generally is, don't you think?"
 
 A PRELUDE IN PROSE 263 
 
 "It almost always is. That's why I recommend 
 you not to affect verse. I shouldn't like to see your 
 initials at the bottom of a 'Lyric' in the Poet's Cor- 
 ner of a local paper." 
 
 His own initials had lately been visible to the 
 world at the end of a Sonnet on the Waterhen in a 
 Saturday weekly much addicted to literature and to- 
 tal abstinence. Ranalph had now quite decided to 
 adopt poetry as a profession; and, having seven or 
 eight hundred a year of his own, It did not much 
 matter. 
 
 When he spoke of his sister writing prose, It was 
 chiefly an opening for the discussion of his own fu- 
 ture as a poet: and, as she did not seem disposed 
 to jump at his fraternal suggestion on her account, 
 he did not press the matter, but talked about lit- 
 erature and himself instead. 
 
 "Raeburn says," he observed gravely, "that my 
 powers (whatever they may be) will never fully 
 awake till I have suffered." 
 
 Miss de Guise had often heard of Mr. Raeburn; 
 he had been at Cambridge with her brother, and was 
 now on the staff of the paper that had published 
 "The Waterhen." She Imagined him to be a some- 
 what ladylike young man with more taste than sense; 
 but she had never seen him, and only knew him as 
 quoted by Ranalph. 
 
 "Wordsworth must have suffered a lot," she re- 
 marked. "In secret, I suppose." 
 
 "Oh ! Wordsworth ! I don't know that I think so 
 very much of Wordsworth. Only about two per 
 cent, of his sonnets are great." 
 
 He had expected that some reviewer would have 
 said of "The Waterhen" that no finer sonnet had 
 appeared since Wordsworth's "On Westminster 
 Bridge"; but the remark had not yet been made. 
 
 "By the way," he said, at the end of this conver-
 
 264 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 sation, "Raeburn wants to come down here. Shall 
 I say next week?" 
 
 When Mr. Raeburn arrived Muriel was agree- 
 ably surprised. That he had taste she could not 
 deny; his talk about books and about beauty in na- 
 ture, though not at all forced or ostentatious, proved 
 it. But he was not in the least ladylike; neither 
 was he (as she had decided he would be) prettily 
 good-looking. Perhaps he could hardly be called 
 good-looking at all, but he had a fine, strong face, 
 and a manly figure, stalwart and vigorous. He was 
 certainly not deficient in good sense and he did not 
 talk too much; when he did talk, he evidently knew 
 what he wanted to say. Somehow to her surprise 
 he said to her one day: 
 
 "Don't encourage Ranny to go in for poetry. If 
 it's there it will come out. A man ought to work; 
 I don't call making sonnets work. A fellow who has 
 nothing to do but wonder what he can say in poetry 
 will never have anything to say." 
 
 "I thought you encouraged him." 
 
 "No, I don't. I got them to put in his sonnet, 
 because it deserved to be put in — better than plenty 
 of verses they had published. But I try to make 
 him do something with his life : if his life has noth- 
 ing in it neither will his poetry have anything in it. 
 To some men troubles have given the spur that 
 drove them to be poets — but one doesn't desire that 
 incentive for one's friend." 
 
 "And a woman? Have the women who wrote 
 best had any special trouble, or anything special 
 at all in their lives to urge them into literature?" 
 
 "Miss de Guise, I wasn't talking of women or of 
 literature, but of a young man who wants to be a 
 poet . 
 
 "I beg your pardon." 
 
 "You needn't. I only asked you to note what was
 
 A PRELUDE IN PROSE 265 
 
 my point. Now for yours. The five greatest women 
 writers in English have been, as I think, Fanny 
 Burney, Maria Edgeworth, Jane Austen, Emily 
 Bronte and George Eliot. The last was set on, it 
 may be, by the cross-purposes of her life. Emily 
 Bronte was unique and can form no instance for 
 common argument. The other three were particu- 
 larly normal women who were only remarkable for 
 doing with extraordinary fidelity the duties they 
 found ready to hand. If Emily Bronte and George 
 Eliot can hardly be cited as peculiarly domestic, they 
 can." 
 
 "So you think a woman's absorption in her home 
 need not prevent her writing?" 
 
 "Not if she knows how. Jane Austen, Fanny 
 Burney, and Miss Edgeworth certainly did know 
 how. Do you know that I am a publisher's reader?" 
 
 "No. I thought you were on the staff of the 
 Lambeth Review." 
 
 "So I am. It does not mean a great deal. I write 
 about two columns a week in it. I could hardly live 
 on that. I write other things: and also I read for 
 one firm of publishers. 'House' is the cant term now, 
 not 'firm'; we only talk of the Firm of Habsburg 
 or Bourbon; it is the House of such and such a pub- 
 lisher. In Byron's time they didn't mind being called 
 booksellers." 
 
 "Do you have to read many books by women?" 
 
 "Hundreds — and by old women in trousers, too. 
 It's not a fiercely exciting trade — being a publisher's 
 reader. But now and then one is rewarded. I have 
 here in the house with me a MS. that is a book. 
 I should like to read you some of it. May I?" 
 
 "Wouldn't that be unfair to the writer?" 
 
 "Depend upon it the writer would like all the 
 world to read it: and many will." 
 
 "Is it a man's writing or a woman's?"
 
 266 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "The writer assumes, or really owns, a name that 
 might be a man's or a woman's. That is why I con- 
 clude it is not a real name. You remember that the 
 Brontes called themselves Currer, Ellis, and Acton 
 Bell." 
 
 "And this name?" 
 
 "Ah! That's a different matter. I am sure I 
 may read you part, or if you like, the whole of the 
 book; but I'm not so sure that I can tell the author's 
 name — yet. I shall certainly advise our people to 
 publish the book, and they will : then you will know 
 the name." 
 
 When Mr. Raeburn began to read. Miss de Guise 
 said laughingly, "I mustn't peep at the MS. or I 
 should certainly make up my mind whether the 
 handwriting were a man's or a woman's.'' 
 
 "You may peep as much as you like ; it is all type- 
 written. Shall I begin?" 
 
 He read three or four chapters ; then paused. 
 
 "Well?" he asked. "Have you nothing to say?" 
 
 "I am not a publisher's reader." 
 
 "No. But I know you are what is more to the 
 point — a reader. If anyone talks to me for five 
 minutes about books I can tell if they know what a 
 real book is." 
 
 "And you have said that this is a book?" 
 
 "Yes. A singular book. Not because it deals 
 with abnormal things — that is mere singularity and 
 may be merely bad taste. You can see that it deals 
 with quite ordinary people and events; and there is 
 no effort to make them seem rare and strange. The 
 rarity is in the power to make them absorbing. Can 
 you deny you are interested — already?" 
 
 "No. It does not interest me." 
 
 "It must. This writer is so full of interest in the 
 plain folk described, so intimate in knowledge of 
 them that the capacity of appreciation amounts to
 
 A PRELUDE IN PROSE 267 
 
 creation. No great author ever created anybody; 
 the 'creations' of fiction or of poetry are monstrosi-. 
 ties. Shakespeare and Jane Austens did not manu- 
 facture men and women, but perceive them." 
 
 "Jane Austen and Shakespeare in a breath!" 
 
 "The universe and a village tea-party may be 
 joined in a breath; both are real. His theme was 
 everything; hers was what she knew. No one could 
 have known it more perfectly. This writer also 
 knows; and he (or she) handles a thing Jane, the 
 supremely tactful, never touched — emotion—and so 
 delicately that one is moved before suspecting any 
 assault on one's feelings. A pathetic grocer. Con- 
 fess you never foresaw pathos threatening a gro- 
 cer with flabby ears." 
 
 "I shall confess nothing. The moment the gro- 
 cer appeared (dropping h's over his shoulder to his 
 wife in the parlor behind the shop) I knew that he 
 was ultimately intended to give me a lump in my 
 throat." 
 
 "And he did!" 
 
 "I was too much occupied in watching the effect 
 of him upon you." 
 
 "I wish you would not fence. Tell me that you 
 relish the quality — the real literary quality — of what 
 I have read." 
 
 "Of course, if you insist on my relishing it!" 
 
 "That's fencing again. I know that you do relish 
 fine work — little as we have talked about books I 
 know that. You are not so uncertain of your own 
 judgment as to admire any that has been sealed with 
 public admiration. Come now — praise me this new 
 writer's work." 
 
 "How can I refuse? I am a most obliging per- 
 son. Tell me in what terms I am to praise and I 
 will use them." 
 
 "Obligingly! Miss de Guise, you are exasperat-
 
 268 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 ing. If this were poetry and you were a poet, I 
 should tell you you were jealous." 
 
 "No, I'm not jealous of your new author. I wish 
 him (or her) all possible success. By the way, how 
 do you know it is a new author?" 
 
 "Because with such powers if he was not new he 
 would be well known ; and authors stick to the rep- 
 utation they have gained like grim death." 
 
 "You think this one will achieve reputation?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And fortune, too?" 
 
 "Perhaps. But the two things do not quickly unite 
 just now. I meant literary reputation, and the best 
 literary work is not the most successfully financial. 
 If 'Cranford' were as yet unpublished, and were to 
 appear now, it would gain for its author a real rep- 
 utation, but it would not probably make her rich. 
 But you still wander from my point ; tell me frankly 
 what you think of this book I am reading to you." 
 
 "Why not go on reading it?" 
 
 "Because I want encouragement. My own opin- 
 ion of this writer is very high; but I would like an- 
 other opinion." 
 
 "How can my opinion be independent when you 
 force it? Oh! please don't look savage. Come, I'll 
 praise. The people interest me, as you say they 
 interest the author; I feel that I know them." 
 
 "Exactly. And also, I hope, that the author 
 makes them worth knowing, which a less art could 
 
 not." 
 
 "Very well. I concede that, too." 
 
 "I don't want concessions. I want spontaneous 
 admiration." 
 
 Miss de Guise laughed. 
 
 "You want so much," she said. 
 
 "Yes. More than I may ever get — from you. 
 More than you suspect. You are determined to
 
 A PRELUDE IN PROSE 269 
 
 economize your eulogies of this writer and I am 
 disappointed. I thought you would be more gen- 
 erous." 
 
 "You are so generous yourself there's no keeping 
 pace with you. I'm sure Curtis Marke ought to be 
 much obliged to you." 
 
 ("Curtis Marke," said Mr. Raeburn to himself, 
 "she never saw the title-page.") 
 
 "The typescript," he observed aloud, "reached 
 our house from a London Club for ladies and gen- 
 tlemen. I think of calling there and asking to see 
 Mr. Marke——" 
 
 "But how if it be a name assumed?" 
 
 "I think It is; but I should run the real person 
 to ground. If, as I believe, the author is a lady, I 
 should have a proposal to make." 
 
 "About the publication of the book?" 
 
 "About that In any case. But, I should, ulti- 
 mately, propose something else, if Curtis Marke 
 should be a lady." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "She and I might share profits." 
 
 "Do publishers' readers usually make that sort of 
 proposal?" 
 
 "They can only make it once. There could only 
 be one way of it. Curtis Marke would have to be- 
 come Mrs. Raeburn." 
 
 "How romantic! But, Mr. Raeburn, how if she 
 were indeed a lady, but married already?" 
 
 "Then I should be disappointed again." 
 
 "Again? Have you already 'proposed to Nom 
 de Guerre' and found her married?" 
 
 "No; I was alluding to the way in which you dis- 
 appointed me by your stinginess of admiration of 
 this writer, whom I so deeply admire. Curtis 
 Marke might disappoint me again." 
 
 "By having a ready-made husband, I see. Per-
 
 270 THE TIDE fF AY 
 
 haps it would be safer not to risk any such discov- 
 ery. Why not let well alone, and publish his 
 book " 
 
 "Her book." 
 
 "Very well, since you are so sure. Her book; and 
 leave the sharing of the profits alone?" 
 
 "I prefer the risk. And as to the profits. I am 
 not really thinking of them. It is the author I want." 
 
 "Dear me ! What a romance ! And perhaps she 
 is fifty — and like a horse. Do not profane people 
 say that the sublime George Eliot was like a horse?" 
 
 "Oh, she is not in the least like a horse: and I 
 doubt if she is one and twenty." 
 
 "You are in love with her book, and have made 
 a frontispiece to it (her portrait, of course), and 
 have fallen in love with it, too !" 
 
 "Over head and ears." 
 
 "How delightful: and what is the frontispiece 
 like?" 
 
 "Miss de Guise, I am not a poet, nor a painter. 
 I cannot sing or paint perfection . . . just go over 
 to that looking-glass and look in it, and you will 
 have a more exact idea of the frontispiece than 
 any awkward words of mine could give you."
 
 MANEUVERS 
 
 Lor!" exclaimed Mrs. Tumblin, pointing with 
 her whip at a placard posted in front of the 
 bridge over which she was just about to drive. 
 
 This Bridge is entirely destroyed. 
 
 C. D. Martingale, 
 H. O. Longmore, 
 
 Umpires. 
 
 said the placard, printed on white paper and affixed 
 to a board mounted on a lean, leggy pole. 
 
 "Lor! William, look'y thar!" cried Mrs. Tum- 
 blin over her shoulder. 
 
 William had his back to the placard, but turned 
 himself round to read it aloud. 
 
 "Don't look as If t\ie destruction was visible to 
 the naked eye, do It, mum?" he observed, eyeing the 
 bridge, which presented the same appearance It had 
 worn during a good many centuries. 
 
 "No, it don't!" agreed his mistress, rubbing her 
 nose with the whip-handle about where its bridge 
 would have been if It had ever had one. 
 
 William got down and clambered over the rails 
 into the field on the right to get a good side view 
 of the bridge. 
 
 "All right this side," he called out. Then climb- 
 ing back Into the lane, and thence Into the field on 
 the left of It, "All right this side, so far as mottle 
 eye can see." 
 
 "S'pose," his mistress suggested, "I get down and 
 walk over; If It bears me you can lead the mare 
 
 oer." 
 
 271
 
 272 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Yes, mum. But wait till I've walked o'er first. 
 If it bears me, 'twill carry you." 
 
 It did bear him; it also bore Mrs. Tumblin, 
 though if it be true that the last straw can break 
 the camel's back, the difference between her weight 
 and William's might have done the bridge's busi- 
 ness. For Widow Tumblin was a big woman, tall 
 and portly, and whereas William was, as she herself 
 considered "an insignificant scrap of a creature," 
 who had been brought up in a racing stable and 
 retained all the meagerness of his youth. The mis- 
 tress expanded with the years, as they rolled pros- 
 perously by, the man only dried and withered like 
 some sorts of apples. 
 
 "P'raps you'd better take the mare out and lead 
 her over," suggested Mrs. Tumblin, safe on the 
 homeward side of the bridge, "and then just pull 
 the car o'er. Dumpling's heavy. I should be loth 
 to see the bridge go in with man and cart and all." 
 
 "So should I, mum. If it did, I'd have the law 
 o' they Manoovers, if I was you, mum." 
 
 "No law for me, thank you kindly. I'd set the 
 County Council on 'em. Seems hard tho' as they 
 Manoovers should go about like roarin' lions blowin' 
 folks's bridges up." 
 
 While she stood watching William lead the mare 
 over, a young officer on horseback, with a white band 
 round his arm, came clattering down the lane. 
 
 ^''Halloa ! What's up ?" he called out. 
 
 "Seems as this here bridge is destroyed com- 
 pletely," replied the widow. 
 
 "Oh, it'll carry you," the ofiicer declared, laugh- 
 ing. "You're not a belligerent." 
 
 "That's as may be," said the widow, uncertain 
 whether a compliment or the reverse was intended. 
 
 The officer rode over the bridge himself and can- 
 tered away, with sharp glances to right and left.
 
 MANEUVERS 273 
 
 Dumpling was harnessed again as his mistress took 
 the reins, then William got up behind and they drove 
 on. 
 
 As they turned in at the white gate that led by 
 rather a fine old avenue of elms to her own front 
 door — ^not that Mrs. Tumblin was going there, for 
 she always drove into the yard — she espied a sec- 
 ond placard, more audacious, as she inwardly de- 
 clared, than the first. 
 
 This Farm and Outbuildings is occupied by 
 
 Half a Battalion of Cavalry 
 
 (Southern Army) 
 
 C. D. Martingale, 
 H. O. Longmore, 
 
 Umpires. 
 
 S3.IO f'nP DI3P3T*(i 
 
 "Well, I never!" cried the widow. "That Mar- 
 tingale beats all for imperence." 
 
 "And Longmore's as bad, tho' he do come in half 
 a neck behind," agreed William. 
 
 "Cavalry too! They'll eat up all the new hay, 
 sure as my name's Maria." 
 
 "And the troopers'll have nought to do but make 
 love to the wenches," suggested William. 
 
 "Where be they, 'Lijah?" she called out to a 
 carter, who had just turned loose the big wagon 
 horses in the home field. 
 
 ''Be '00?" asked 'Lijah. 
 
 "Why, they cavalry — the sodgers !" 
 
 "There baint bin no sodgers, except three as came 
 to the back door a while gon and asked for a drink 
 o' milk — and paid for it, tuppence a glass, they did. 
 Sixpence they gave, they did for the three glasses." 
 
 "And Miriam should never have took it," cried
 
 274 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 the widow, "pore thirsty chaps. It's just encour- 
 aging them against temperance; surely there's milk 
 enow without charging sodgers tuppence a glass for 
 it. But 'Lijah — where's the rest of 'em? The 
 half battalion o' cavalry as the board gives notice 
 of?" 
 
 *'0h, them! Them's nowhere. I see the of- 
 ficers come and have thick board set up. I axed 
 'em if you was agreeable, and they said no doubt 
 you was. All ladies was, and the cavalry wasn't 
 comin'. That board was to prevent others fro' 
 comin'. Then they laughed both on 'em, and said 
 as much hay as goed in a teaspoon would feed all 
 the horses that half-battalion would eat on yer." 
 
 "Lor!" said Mrs. Tumblin, stepping to earth 
 with a confused sense of the intricacies of military 
 tactics. 
 
 "Aunt Maria!" came in a clear, high voice from 
 the garden. 
 
 "Well, Fan?" 
 
 "I'm looking for you. I've been out blackber- 
 rymg ! 
 
 "It's early for 'em," said her aunt, letting her- 
 self into the garden by a small white wicket, "but 
 the summer's been so hot and long, they're ripe, I 
 dessay, before their time." 
 
 "Yes," replied Fan, a very pretty girl as slim 
 and fair as her aunt was stout and rubicund. "I 
 found plenty. But, Aunt Maria " 
 
 "Well, then?" 
 
 "In the far close, where I found enough in one 
 hedge to fill the basket nearly, I found a poor sol- 
 dier lying just as if he was dead, right in the hot 
 sun with his face turned up — as red as a plum, poor 
 fellow." 
 
 "My goodness!" 
 
 "Yes, and I believe he'd fainted. He was all
 
 MANEUVERS 275 
 
 alone, and his comrades would never have left him 
 lying there if they'd known, would they?" 
 
 "They're 'ard-'arted, sodgers is," observed Wil- 
 liam, who was listening over the low wall. 
 
 "Anyway he was all alone," Fan went on rather 
 breathlessly, for she had run home nearly all the 
 way from the far close, "and his collar seemed so 
 tight and he was strapped up so, with all sorts of 
 guns and knapsacks and bottles strapped all over 
 him " 
 
 "Bottles there's sure to be," remarked William 
 with cold criticism. 
 
 "And I was half afraid the poor thing would die, 
 Aunt Maria " 
 
 "Like enough," said Aunt Maria, sympathetically, 
 but enjoying herself. 
 
 "Not he !" said William. 
 
 "So," Fan went on hastily, "I undid him." 
 
 "Larks!" cried the widow. 
 
 "Him, indeed!" said William. 
 
 "I undid his neck, and it was ever so hard " 
 
 "His neck was?" queried Aunt Maria. 
 
 "His cheek, I doubt," suggested William. 
 
 "The buttons were," said Fan, "and then, because 
 I hadn't any brandy or anything " 
 
 "Not likely. Whativer'd you want with brandy 
 in the far close " 
 
 "I ran home, and please, Aunt Maria, do send 
 a couple of men to carry the poor fellow home " 
 
 "And how on earth am I to tell where his home 
 is?" the widow expostulated. 
 
 "The canteen's his home, I reckon," said William. 
 
 "Home here, I mean," Fan explained. "We can't 
 leave a fellow-creature to die in our far close." 
 
 "Not if we can stop him," her aunt agreed 
 heartily. 
 
 William would have argued out the question of
 
 276 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 his being a fellow-creature. But the opportunity 
 was not permitted him. 
 
 "Just you put that mare up," his mistress called 
 out over the low wall, and tell John and Enoch to 
 come on to the far close in a minute. Come, Fan, 
 we'll go on first, and take a spot o' brandy and a 
 jug o' water with us." , 
 
 Armed with the "spot" in question (about a pint) , 
 a glass and the water-jug, the widow and her niece 
 made haste to the far close. The soldier was sit- 
 ting up, staring vaguely at the landscape. 
 
 "For all the world," thought Mrs. Tumblin, "like 
 a calf that's lost his mother." 
 
 "Hope you're feeling more like yourself," she 
 observed aloud: not that she had the slightest idea 
 how that might be. 
 
 "Yes, a bit, thank you," the soldier answered, 
 trying to get up. He was a mere boy, quite slight 
 and delicate looking. The widow's motherly heart 
 went out at once to him. She had had a baby son 
 once, who had just taken a peep at this world and 
 had enough of it. 
 
 "Just take a sip of this," she said, plumping down 
 on the grass at his side and handing him a glass of 
 pretty strong brandy and water. "It'll do 'ee good, 
 maybe." 
 
 It did do him good. 
 
 "What's the matter, lad?" the kindly woman 
 asked. "What's hurtin' ye?" She had noticed a 
 look of pain on the young, innocent face. 
 
 "Well," the boy answered simply, "I fell at that 
 hedge — the others were a good bit in front and I 
 couldn't keep up because I'd chafed my heel long 
 before, and could scarcely limp along on it. I fell 
 on my leg and I think it's broken. I dragged myself 
 up out of the ditch, and then I suppose I went off." 
 
 "Dear heart! And the sun this side of the hedge
 
 MANEUVERS 277 
 
 beatin' down on 'ee like a furnace. Poor lad, we'll 
 see to it. Hurry up, John, there, you and Enoch." 
 
 "William's on'y just told us," coming up at a 
 ramshackle trot. 
 
 "Now this Immediate minute," Enoch corrobo- 
 rated. 
 
 Their mistress bade them kneel down (like a pair 
 of camels) and make a "lady's chair" with their 
 four joined hands: the soldier with an arm round 
 each of their necks was hoisted upon It, and the 
 procession moved homewards. 
 
 At the farm they found the young officer who had 
 passed the widow by the bridge. 
 
 "This is your farm?" he began with an easy, good- 
 humored politeness. "I delivered a despatch and 
 thought I'd ride in and explain about the cavalry. 
 But I see you're In charge of an ambulance. ..." 
 
 Then explanations followed, and the officer said 
 he would ride on to camp and send back a doctor. 
 
 "His leg's broken sure enough," he observed in 
 a lower voice to the widow, with a glance at the 
 helplessly dangling limb in question. "They'll send 
 an ambulance to take him to the field hospital," he 
 added in a business-like manner. 
 
 "No they won't!" declared the widow. "He'll 
 just bide here. Let the doctor come and welcome, 
 but the lad'U be in bed 'fore he's ten minutes older, 
 and in bed he'll lie or my name's not Maria Tum- 
 blin. That's flat, perambulance or no!" 
 
 "I'm sure you're very good," the young officer 
 said, with a glance that included Fan. "We shall 
 all come here to break our legs. ..." 
 
 "Get along," cried the widow, "and you, John 
 and Enoch, bring the lad up the front way — the 
 stairs is easier. Sorry to leave you, sir, but it never 
 was good for a broken leg yet to be kept waiting." 
 
 The young officer, thus dismissed, saluted and
 
 278 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 rode off at a quick trot. Quarter of an hour after 
 the soldier boy was safe in bed, a medical officer 
 rode up and took the case in hand. 
 
 "A rough diamond," the other officer had said 
 to himself as he trotted away with a smile as he 
 thought of Mrs. Tumblin; "good sort, too. The 
 daughter seems a different class altogether." 
 
 This was sharp of him, as he had not even heard 
 Fan speak, and he was right in both his judgments, 
 for the widow was a "diamond," and a rough one, 
 and her niece was, as Maria Tumblin would have 
 stoutly maintained herself, of a different quality 
 entirely. 
 
 For generations Matthew Tumblin's family had 
 owned Sheepdown Farm, and about a thousand 
 acres of lands belonging to it; but some of his imme- 
 diate ancestors had set up for little squires and had 
 spent more, hunting and sporting, than the modern 
 Sheepdown estate warranted. When Matthew suc- 
 ceeded there was a mortgage of five thousand pounds 
 on the land, and he had scarcely anything left to live 
 upon. Fortunately for him, he fell in love with 
 Marie Netherstone, the only child of a well-to-do 
 miller, who died the year after their marriage, and 
 her money paid off the mortgage and left a thou- 
 sand pounds over. 
 
 Matthew, however, died young and Maria 
 reigned in his stead, for they had never had chil- 
 dren, except the baby son, who lived less than a year. 
 
 As his wife had freed the land, Matthew left it 
 to her, his only sister being well provided for, she 
 having married a Chalkminster solicitor, one Her- 
 bert Newbridge (Esquire by Act of Parliament). 
 Frances Newbridge was the only child of this mar- 
 riage, a very nice girl, pretty and well educated. 
 
 She was fond of her uncle's widow, and often 
 stayed with her, Mr. Newbridge being well content,
 
 MANEUVERS 279 
 
 for he also liked his wife's sister-in-law, and agreed 
 with his wife that Sheepdown ought not to go off 
 to any of Maria Netherstone's cousins. 
 
 As we have no room for mysteries, we may say 
 at once that the widow had never the least inten- 
 tion of leaving her husband's property to anyone 
 but her husband's niece. And during her long wid- 
 owhood she had done well by the little estate, buy- 
 ing back a neighboring farm that had long ago 
 belonged to it. 
 
 But with all her comfortable prosperity, the 
 widow never set up for a lady; her father had 
 started as a working man, and her mother had been 
 the daughter of a very small farmer. That her 
 husband's niece was a lady she had no doubt what- 
 ever. 
 
 While the two women were at supper a step was 
 heard on the walk, and a knock came on the front 
 door that opened onto the pretty garden. 
 
 "It's that doctor captain come back, I'll be bound, 
 though he said he shouldn't till the morning," re- 
 marked the widow, in a low tone to her niece. 
 "Well, let him. There's always supper for an extry 
 one in this house, thanks to goodness. Well, Cap- 
 tain, so you've looked in again — oh!" 
 
 For as Kezia ushered in the visitor, the widow 
 perceived it was not the doctor. 
 
 "Yes, I've looked in again. I thought I'd like to 
 walk over and ask how your patient is." 
 
 It was the young officer who had passed the widow 
 by the bridge. 
 
 "You're welcome. Captain. Kezia, set another 
 place. You'll have a taste of supper, won't you?" 
 
 "Thank you, I shall be very grateful; there's not 
 much going up at camp," and the stranger looked at 
 Fan as if he thought an introduction might be con- 
 venient.
 
 28o THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "This is my niece (leastways, my poor hus- 
 band's), Miss Newbridge," explained the hostess. 
 
 *'My name's Martingale. ..." 
 
 "Indeed!" murmured the widow ("the imperent 
 one!" she thought to herself). 
 
 Then aloud: 
 
 "It's you that destroys the bridges, is It?'* 
 
 "Me? Oh, no! That's my uncle, Colonel Mar- 
 tingale. I'm only a galloper." 
 
 "Only a galloper! And how fast might the 
 colonel ride, then?" exclaimed the widow. 
 
 The young officer laughed, and explained briefly 
 his official position on maneuvers. He was a cheer- 
 ful young man and good-looking, as the widow was 
 not too old to notice with approval. 
 
 "I'm a sort of mounted errand boy," he declared. 
 "My uncle's a big pot and hardly remembers my 
 existence. I'm not a captain, though you kindly call 
 me one — so, of course, I ought to be one." 
 
 It occurred to Fan that he had rather forgotten 
 the young soldier with the broken leg. And this oc- 
 curred to him also presently, for he repeated his 
 inquiries with an easy air of interest and good- 
 will. 
 
 "As it happens, the lad belongs to my own regi- 
 ment," he observed, "and what's more, too, to my 
 own company; so, of course, I take an interest. 
 You'll forgive my looking round to ask about him?" 
 
 "Yes, sure. Come when you like." 
 
 "Oh, we'll be moving on soon, but not to- 
 morrow. There's to be a big battle close to-morrow. 
 You and Miss Newbridge might like to see it. I'll 
 tell you where to go to see it properly. You know 
 that hill with the British Camp on it?" 
 
 "Tinling's Rings," the widow interpolated, and 
 the young officer told them all about it. 
 
 After supper the widow went off to see her pa-
 
 MANEUVERS 281 
 
 tient, and Mr. Martingale said he would wait and 
 hear her report. So Fan and he were left alone for 
 a quarter of an hour — Mr. Martingale thought five 
 minutes — and observed, on the widow's return, that 
 her clock seemed fast. 
 
 "Farm-house clocks always are," she admitted. 
 ''They're mostly half an hour before the day." 
 
 "Ah, I thought so," said the officer, as if that 
 made it obvious that there was no hurry. 
 
 "Well," he promised, when he said good-night, 
 "I shall look for you on Tinling's Rings — about ten 
 o'clock, mind. And I'll tell you what it's all about. 
 You'll never get so good a sight of a battle in all 
 your life." 
 
 "Please God!" said the widow. 
 
 "So he's not the imperent one," she remarked, 
 when the last sound of his footsteps had died out 
 on the gravel path. 
 
 "He did not seem to me at all impertinent." 
 
 "That's what I'm saying, I like his way. So free 
 and pleasant and none cheeky with it all." 
 
 The widow saw the battle next day and under- 
 stood nothing whatever about it. If Fan also failed 
 to understand it, it was not Mr. Martingale's fault. 
 If sanguinary, the combat was not protracted, for it 
 was all over by two o'clock or so. 
 
 "The Northern Army," Mr. Martingale assured 
 them, riding up for the ninth time to the side of 
 the governess cart, "is completely annihilated." 
 
 "Wiped out," said Mr. Martingale complacently. 
 "That regiment," he explained, pointing to a very 
 lively looking body of men swinging over the hill 
 in the direction of their camp, "was cut to pieces. 
 Nine out of ten of them are as dead as mutton." 
 
 "It makes my flesh creep to hear 'ee," the widow 
 protested, and Fan and the young officer only 
 laughed at her.
 
 2 82 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "If you've the heart to peck a bit after such 
 ghastly doin's," said the widow, "you'll find it down 
 home at Sheepdown." 
 
 "That I have — only there's a bit of a pow-wow 
 first, and I must hang round till the bosses have 
 done it — then I'll come. I daresay I'll not be very 
 late. You drive by the lanes — I ride across 
 country." 
 
 He saluted and rode off, the widow vaguely sur- 
 mising that pow-wow was some military dish he 
 was bound to devour on the field. 
 
 "Some nasty Indian mess, I'll be bound," she 
 assured herself. 
 
 The pow-wow by no means destroyed Mr. Mar- 
 tingale's appetite for Mrs. Tumblin's roast chicken, 
 and all the afternoon he lingered on at the farm. 
 Fan liked poetry, and he read it aloud beautifully — 
 under the cedar tree, while the widow dozed and 
 knitted. Having been out all morning, she had a 
 mildly unearthly feeling as If it were Christmas 
 Day (for Wednesday couldn't possibly be Sunday) 
 In the third week of September. Once she snored, 
 and woke up slightly offended with the other two 
 in consequence, but they had clearly not noticed, and 
 she merely remarked that the last piece was the 
 prettiest. 
 
 "So I think," said the officer, without explaining 
 that the last piece had been read over half an hour 
 before. 
 
 ^ :|: 4< :{: 4: ^ 
 
 The lad with the broken leg got quite well at 
 last, and went away with a very grateful heart, but 
 he was wise enough to be most grateful to the widow, 
 although her niece had found him first In the far 
 close.
 
 MANEUVERS 283 
 
 Mr. Martingale went away too, but not "for 
 good." The last time he went Mrs. Martingale 
 went with him, and nowhere in all the earth was 
 there any Frances Newbridge — not that her parents 
 minded, or her aunt either.
 
 ATHELMAR 
 
 LADY Francis Acres, of Coldacres Park, had 
 a good deal to be thankful for, but hardly 
 realized it. On the contrary, she considered her- 
 self a failure, and her original intention had been 
 to achieve a striking success. She had been the 
 beauty of her father's five daughters — but then 
 Lord Martinhampton's other children were almost 
 all plain — Lord Chilmark, the eldest son, was un- 
 deniably ugly, though his excellent temper and 
 lively manners made it a matter of very little con- 
 sequence. The son of a rather poor earl, he had 
 married the handsomest daughter of a marquess 
 who was so rich that it was always said he would 
 be raised to a dukedom. 
 
 Lady Mary St. Mark, Lord Martinhampton's 
 eldest daughter, was nearly as plain as her brother; 
 but she too, did very well indeed, for she married her 
 brother's wife's second brother, Lord Hubert, who 
 was Chancellor of the Duchy of Cornwall in two 
 Conservative administrations. Lady Adelberta 
 was only a little better looking, but, as her husband 
 was a bishop, it did not matter. 
 
 Lady Gladws was as plain as her eldest sister, 
 and yet she married an ambassador, who was given 
 an earldom on retiring from diplomatic life. 
 
 The Ladies Frances and Rachel were twins, but 
 very little alike ; what resemblance there was only 
 served to accentuate the great superiority of Lady 
 Frances in point of beauty. So that, when Lady 
 Rachel married Sir John Wrest, of Wrestling Hall, 
 one of the greatest magnates in the proud country 
 of Rentshire (where the squires were all rich enough 
 to be peers) it was confidently predicted that her 
 
 284
 
 ATHELMAR 285 
 
 pretty sister might look very high indeed. Perhaps 
 she looked too high. One of her grandfathers had 
 been a duke, and she thought there was a duke who 
 would like her to be a duchess. But he married a 
 Miss Mayflower, of Massachusetts, and there, as 
 far as Lady Frances was concerned, was an end of 
 him. One thing she had resolved not to do, after 
 her twin's marriage, and that was to become the 
 wife of any baronet. She did not like Sir John 
 Wrest at all, and almost told him so : he as good 
 as said that he did not care sixpence whether she 
 did or no. Also, she explained to her family that 
 a baronet was a ridiculous thing — a commoner with 
 an hereditary title, no coronet, and precedence be- 
 low younger sons of life peers. 
 
 And yet at thirty she herself married a baronet, 
 of about her own age, and not strikingly handsome, 
 nor phenomenally clever or good-tempered. He 
 had not (as she had pointed out several years 
 earlier) even a Christian name — he was Sir Fal- 
 lows Acres. "Baronets don't have Christian 
 names," she observed. "It is part of their absurd- 
 ity — look round you (it was at a ball in London) 
 there's Sir Fulham Rhodes, Sir Euston Square, Sir 
 Kensington Gore, Sir Snell Marshgrove, Sir Bridge 
 Knight, Sir Frene Peak, Sir Rutland Gate — not a 
 Christian name among them!" 
 
 Still, if she had chosen to remember it, she had, 
 as we have said, many things to be thankful for. 
 Her husband was wealthy, and she could not pos- 
 sibly have been poor; and his family was ancient, 
 and the baronetcy dated from Charles I's time. 
 Coldacres Park is a fine place, and the house is 
 large, comfortable, and singularly picturesque — 
 more like a castle than many big places that are so 
 called — it was, in fact, a castellated manor house, 
 dating from the fifteenth century, and it had always
 
 2 86 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 belonged to the Acres family. Sir Fallows was 
 member for his division of the county, and the house 
 in London, 17 Kent Square, in Belgravia, was also 
 a family mansion, and had belonged to his ancestors 
 since the square was built, and long before it was 
 re-christened after Queen Victoria's father. Added 
 to all this. Sir Fallows was very fond of his wife, 
 and, though not a sweet-tempered man, he was an 
 excellent husband and of most respectable character. 
 To her he was always courteous, and, indeed, consid- 
 erate. He proved it by never betraying in words his 
 disappointment that she brought him no heir. The 
 family, indeed, was in no danger of extinction, for 
 his brother Constantine had three sons, and his uncle 
 Philip had two sons and five grandsons. But neither 
 Sir Fallows nor Lady Frances liked Constantine or 
 his boys, and they particularly disliked Uncle Philip 
 and all his clan. So Lady Frances felt herself a 
 failure; instead of being ancestress to a line of 
 dukes, she had only to look forward to being aunt- 
 in-law to a baronet. 
 
 II 
 
 Lady Frances was not addicted to good works. 
 The role of Lady Bountiful had no charms for her; 
 it almost implied intimacy and co-operation with 
 the Rector of Cold Glebeham, and she could not 
 abide parsons, and detested the Rector — as did her 
 husband. Also, she was sensitive to unpleasant 
 smells, and declared that all cottages smelled of 
 corduroy and Irish stew. Nor did she care for the 
 sort of adulation which (she chose to believe) was 
 the payment fine ladies exact for condescending 
 charity to their poor neighbors. Had she inter- 
 ested herself in the poor around her she would have 
 been less bored in the country; as it was, having
 
 ATHELMAR 287 
 
 no children, and finding most of her neighbors of 
 her own class rather dull, she was often bored for 
 days together. 
 
 But though not addicted to the ordinary good 
 works of ladies in her position, Lady Frances had 
 an irresponsible kindness of heart, and her heart 
 suffered from a chronic though unavowed hunger. 
 She was quite aware that her husband was in love 
 with her, and she had married to oblige him. Then 
 it seemed to her that she had done enough, and the 
 idea of falling in love with him in return never 
 occurred to her. She did not make game of him to 
 his face (though she did to her father, who did not 
 mind, once she was married), and that, she thought, 
 was very proper in her. She pretended, on her 
 best days, to be Interested in the property and the 
 constituency; but she had many days that were not 
 her best, and then she would listen, but yawn pro- 
 digiously, and suddenly begin talking of her dog, 
 or her parrot, or a French novel. When she was 
 really amusing — and she often was — Sir Fallows 
 was not amused, and that she perceived very plainly. 
 
 "What a pity he didn't marry Rachel," she would 
 think. ''''She would never have puzzled him. No 
 one ever heard her say anything funny, and I could 
 have quarreled with Sir John. It's no use quarrel- 
 ing with Pincher" (Sir Fallows hadn't liked being 
 called "Pincher" at first, but he had had to get used 
 to it) "he wouldn't understand it." 
 
 One day a thing happened that quite altered the 
 stagnant condition of things at Coldacres Park. 
 Lady Frances came in from a drive with a baby 
 on the narrow front seat of the brougham. 
 
 "Take care, Stoger," she said to the butler, as 
 she got out of the carriage, "of that parcel; there's 
 a baby in it. You'd better send for RIbbits." (Miss 
 Ribblts was her ladyship's maid, and Lady Frances
 
 288 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 thought she hated her.) "Ribbits," she directed, 
 when that frosty spinster appeared, "take it up to 
 my sitting-room, and don't let the borzois eat it. 
 It's my adopted son; and, of course, poor Czare- 
 vitch will know his nose is broken. If he eats it, 
 you'll be eaten. Is Sir Fallows in?" 
 
 *'Yes, my lady. Writing letters in the li- 
 brary." 
 
 "Very well. I'll come up in five minutes. Stoger, 
 has your wife been confined lately?" 
 
 "No, my lady." 
 
 "You don't mean it! Well, I'll bring it up by 
 hand, like Pip in 'Great Expectations.' If you 
 drop him, Ribbits, I'll know you did it on purpose." 
 
 "Poor little thing," said Ribbits, with outraged 
 femininity, "/ shan't drop him." 
 
 Lady Frances went away delighted. "Poor old 
 Ribbits," she thought, "I never thought she had so 
 much repartee in her. I did drop my monkey, but 
 not till he bit me. I clove to him after he had bit- 
 ten Stoger, both footmen, and Pincher. And I 
 dropped my lamb when it bulged out into a mere 
 mutton. Pincher, I've been to Cold Swaffham, and 
 brought back a new pet. He won't bite you, and 
 he won't say 'Gladstone forever,' like my parrot. 
 And he shan't kill two peacocks, like Czarevitch. 
 I'm going to bring him up by hand, like Pip's sis- 
 ter, so you'll have to be Joe Gargery, and 'ever the 
 best of friends,' you know." 
 
 Sir Fallows pushed back his chair and looked 
 astonished (he often had to) ; but there was some- 
 thing unusual in his wife and it softened him. She 
 was softer. For all her queer incoherence and in- 
 consequence, he could see she was in earnest, and 
 that her pretty eyes glistened with a light that was 
 not hard and mocking. She came quite near and 
 let her dress touch him, and looked down into his
 
 ATHELMAR 289 
 
 harsh face with a pucker in her lips, that was like 
 a promise of tears. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked shyly, and wondering 
 what she would do if he laid a hand of his on the 
 little fingers that were playing with the pen he had 
 laid down. 
 
 "Oh, Pincher, do let me keep him," she begged, 
 and a small hot tear dropped on the blotting pad. 
 She had never asked anything before, as a favor, 
 like that; and never had he imagined that she could 
 melt into meekness and petition. 
 
 "I don't know what it is; but I promise. Fan, 
 you shall keep him." 
 
 She did not quite look at him, but she heard the 
 shake in his voice, and out of the corner of an eye 
 she did see his patient, wistful face. 
 
 Was he hungry, too? 
 
 "Oh, Pincher, it is very good of you. You are 
 a gentleman." 
 
 "I hope so," he said, more stiffly. 
 
 "Ah, but it doesn't follow as you think it does. 
 Lots of men whose family is all right would not 
 promise, like that, without knowing. And this is a 
 hard thing. You will think it a hard thing; and, 
 Pincher, I will give you back your promise, if you 
 can't bear it." 
 
 "Fan, for heaven's sake tell me what it is." 
 
 "Oh, I know how you want a son" (he almost 
 shivered as she said it), "and so do I. Not, like 
 you, for the sake of the family — though I can't 
 stand Constantine or Uncle Phil; and you can't, 
 though you don't say so. But I want a baby. And 
 it is one. Can you bear that? I'll give you back 
 your promise " 
 
 "A baby! What do you mean, Frances?" 
 
 "Ah, I knew you couldn't! And oh, I did want 
 to keep it so."
 
 290 THE TIDE fV AY 
 
 Then she wept. And she slid down to the floor, 
 and cried against the arm of the chair (with a grin- 
 ning lion's head at the end of it), and told him all 
 about it. 
 
 "I drove all round by Cold Swaffham," she said, 
 "and somehow I felt lonely. There was a gipsy- 
 woman trailing behind her husband along the road, 
 and she had a baby in her arms, and she cuddled 
 it up against her neck. And the children ran in at 
 every cottage door as we drove past — like little 
 rabbits into their burrows. At Swaffham that young 
 doctor, old Kilham's assistant, came out of the 
 'Acres Arms,' and stood still on the steps, putting 
 his gloves on before getting into his dog-cart, and 
 his face looked grave and anxious. Pludger, who 
 keeps the little inn, was talking to him, and I stopped 
 and signed to him to come to the carriage window, 
 but the doctor thought I meant him, and came in- 
 stead. I asked him if anybody was ill in there 
 (I saw it couldn't be Mrs. Pludger, her husband 
 looked as dismal as ever), and he said 'Yes.' A 
 strange lady had been brought up from the train 
 in the station omnibus, too ill to go on her journey; 
 she wasn't traveling to Swaffham; and they had 
 taken her in and put her to bed " 
 
 "A lady?" Sir Fallows interrupted; "really a 
 lady?" 
 
 "Yes, for I saw her. I asked the doctor if I 
 might, and he went back with me. There's no doubt 
 she's a lady, but very poor; and, Pincher, she had 
 a wedding ring, and her sad, dying face was so 
 good. Yes, she was dying; I stayed more than an 
 hour, and she was dead before I came away. She 
 had grown worse, much worse, even in the few 
 minutes after the doctor had left her, and before 
 he came back with me. 'Collapse,' he whispered to 
 me, only he called it 'Collops.' He did what he
 
 A T HELM A R 291 
 
 could, so did Mrs. Pludger; she's not a bad woman, 
 though she does wear only velveteen and smells of 
 stale beer. He seemed to think I could do no harm; 
 so I knelt down by the bed and made him and Mrs. 
 Pludger go behind the screen, and I asked the poor 
 lady if I could be any help at all. She opened one 
 hand (the other arm was round the baby), and 
 there was about twelve shillings in it — a half-sov- 
 ereign and some sixpences. She meant it was all 
 she had, and her eyes said that she knew she was 
 dying. Then she tried to touch the baby with that 
 hand, and I knew very well that she was saying all 
 the help anyone could be to her would be there. 
 And so I put my mouth to her ear, and asked if I 
 might have it for my own. And I said : 'I am a 
 married woman, too; but I have no baby. And I 
 am rich.' I know, Pincher, that Pm not — but there 
 was no use puzzling her, and explaining. And so 
 I promised Pd be her baby's mother — and that's 
 all. She never spoke, and now she's dead; and I 
 brought the baby home. Ribbits has it. I told 
 them at the inn I should pay for everything — the 
 doctor, and the funeral, and all that. Of course, 
 I can very easily do that out of my own money; so 
 I can for bringing up the baby — only I promised 
 without asking your leave. And I know what a thing 
 it is to ask. It is a boy baby, too, and that makes 
 it worse. If you can't stand it I shall not wonder; 
 but, oh! I should like to keep it." 
 
 "You mean," said her husband gravely, but 
 gently, too, "that you want to adopt it?" 
 
 "Yes, please; though it's a dull, ugly word. I 
 want it to be my own. She gave it to me for a 
 present, and it doesn't belong to anyone else." 
 
 "Was she a widow? Was she in mourning?" 
 
 "Oh, Pincher! People don't wear mourning in 
 bed — stop. Don't get impatient. I'll answer se-
 
 292 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 riously. I'll tell the truth; her clothes weren't 
 mourning clothes. The linen was neat, like a poor 
 lady's, and every bit marked 'A. CM.' Mrs. 
 Pludger said that the lady had spoken once, after 
 the doctor went out, and before he came back with 
 me. She tried to point to the baby and said 'Athel- 
 mar,' and Mrs. Pludger said it after her twice or 
 three times, to be sure of the name, and asked if 
 that was what she wanted the baby christened. She 
 could just whisper 'Yes,' and that was the last word 
 she ever did speak." 
 
 " 'Athelmar,' " said Sir Fallows, making a little 
 note in pencil on a slip of paper of the name, and 
 of the initials A. CM., too — "as if," thought his 
 wife, **I should forget them." 
 
 "Athelmar," he observed, "is a very uncommon 
 name. It might be of importance in helping us to 
 identify the child." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Lady Frances, "I hope not. I want 
 to keep him for my own." 
 
 "You shall keep him unless they who have a 
 legal claim to him are found, and then it may be 
 impossible." 
 
 And here we may as well say that in spite of all 
 efforts made by Sir Fallows and his lawyers, no one 
 with any such legal claim to the child was found; 
 the railway ticket which the dead lady had pos- 
 sessed was only for a great junction whence lines to 
 every part of England branch off, and afforded no 
 real clue even to what had been her destination. 
 
 Over the stranger's grave in Swaffham church- 
 yard Lady Frances caused a marble cross to be 
 erected, with this inscription: 
 
 To the Memory of 
 
 A. C M. 
 
 A strange Lady who died here 20th 
 
 March, 1888, the Mother of Athelmar
 
 ATHELMAR 293 
 
 March (adopted son of Lady Frances 
 Acres), who was Born on the same date. 
 
 Sir Fallows, when he read It, did not fully ap- 
 prove of the inscription; for he thought the men- 
 tion of his wife's name unnecessary. But he never 
 said it till the stone had been set up, and he believed 
 it would be difficult then, if not impossible, to remove 
 It — even if Lady Frances would have consented. So 
 there it stood. 
 
 When the baby was christened he received the 
 name of Athelmar; but it seemed necessary to give 
 him also some surname when the moment for reg- 
 istering the baptism arrived; and Lady Frances her- 
 self proposed that of March, being the name of the 
 month in which he was born. To this Sir Fallows 
 made no objection, and as Athelmar March the child 
 was registered. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Lady Frances was In her thirty-fifth year when 
 she brought Athelmar home in the brougham; and 
 nearly five years later she had a child of her own — 
 a girl. 
 
 "Now," thought RIbbits, "we shall see who drops 
 the poor fondling" (foundling). 
 
 Perhaps Sir Fallows himself half suspected that 
 his inconsequent wife would now tire a little of her 
 adopted son, but she did not. Her own baby only 
 seemed to teach her how to be more motherly to 
 the little boy who had no real mother. And seeing 
 this made her husband respect her more. He had 
 perceived long before that the coming of Athelmar 
 had been a good thing for his wife, and for himself 
 too. She must always be queer and capricious, but 
 she grew gentler, and a certain hardness and defiance
 
 294 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 towards the world and towards her husband sof- 
 tened. She never forgot that evening in the library 
 when he had told her she might keep the child. 
 She had now an interest in life that made her much 
 more rarely complain of the dulness of Coldacres, 
 and she gave up railing against the stupidity of 
 neighbors whom her husband had known all his life 
 — and liked chiefly for that reason. 
 
 "I hope," she said one evening, soon after her 
 own baby's birth, "you won't begin to wish you 
 hadn't said I might keep Toto." ("Toto" was Ath- 
 elmar; she had nicknames for everybody.) 
 
 Her tone was almost shy and he could see she 
 was really anxious. 
 
 "No, Fan. No; that would be cruelly unjust. I 
 never go back on my word." 
 
 She was pleased and laughed a little. 
 
 "Well, Pincher, you have your reward: for Toto 
 thinks more of you than of me." 
 
 Perhaps she would not have been pleased had she 
 really thought this; but it was true that Athelmar 
 had a peculiar devotion to his rather austere-looking, 
 silent foster-father. 
 
 "Wasn't I right," she asked presently, "when I 
 told you Toto's mother was really a lady?" 
 
 "He is a very high-bred looking child," her hus- 
 band answered, quite understanding. 
 
 "And I only hope Carlotta will be as pretty," 
 said Lady Frances, looking down at her baby's small 
 pink face. 
 
 "Carlotta?" and Sir Fallows almost blushed with 
 pleasure. "Isn't she to be another little Frances?" 
 
 "No. Certainly not. One Frances is quite enough 
 for you ! She's to be Carlotta." 
 
 Now, Carlotta was not only his own dead moth- 
 er's name, but it had long been a favorite in the 
 Acres family (old Lady Acres had been her hus-
 
 ATHELMAR 295 
 
 band's cousin), and Lady Frances had often abused 
 it and said it was harsh and ugly. So he knew she 
 meant to be good and gracious. 
 
 "Fan," he said, "I should be very ungrateful to 
 grow cold to Athelmar — since he came he has set 
 us all to rights." 
 
 As the years went on, troubles of a kind they 
 had never expected fell on the Acres family at Cold- 
 acres Park. No son ever followed little Carlotta, 
 and her father, anxious to make better provision for 
 her and his wife, did, as many have done, and acted 
 unwisely in investments which were really specula- 
 tions. There came a terrible day when he knew 
 that he was practically a ruined man — for every 
 inch of his property was strictly entailed — and even 
 to meet all his liabilities he had to raise money on 
 his own life interest. And though he was not old, 
 he was then as near sixty as fifty years of age, the 
 doctors who examined him for insurance found — 
 or thought they found — that he had organic disease 
 of the heart. To insure at all he had to pay enor- 
 mous premiums. 
 
 The jointure settled on his wife was safe, but 
 though good it was not large, and for his daugh- 
 ter, now nearly sixteen, there was no provision ex- 
 cept what he could make by saving and by insur- 
 ance on his life. 
 
 Lady Frances behaved perfectly, and did all she 
 possibly could to lighten her husband's trouble, and 
 to convince him that she found nothing to regret in 
 their comparative poverty. 
 
 "Athelmar," she declared, "will set us all to 
 rights; and, Pincher, in spite of those wretched doc- 
 tors, you will live another thirty years — another 
 forty. I shall ask Dr. Hart." (Dr. Hart was the 
 gentleman who had brought Athelmar into the 
 world.)
 
 296 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Strange to say, she was right in both her prophe- 
 cies. Dr. Hart (when she persuaded her husband 
 to let him examine him) declared that in his opin- 
 ion there was no organic heart-disease, but only a 
 functional derangement that might, and should be 
 cured — as a matter of fact, Sir Fallows is alive and 
 well now. 
 
 Also Athelmar did set matters to rights, though 
 not by any marvelous things achieved by himself. At 
 twenty he was not only very handsome, with that 
 look of high breeding of which Sir Fallows had 
 spoken when he was a small child, but he was clever 
 and his conduct had always been excellent. At school 
 he had done very well, and now he declared that he 
 was ready to earn his own living. Inwardly he re- 
 solved to do more — and help his foster-father — 
 though exactly how he could he could not yet see. 
 
 One morning he said to Lady Frances: *'If you 
 and Sir Fallows will let me, I want to accept a sit- 
 uation. I have found it for myself by answering an 
 advertisement." 
 
 "A situation! What situation?" 
 
 Lady Frances did not much like the word, it 
 sounded like going to be a butler or a gamekeeper. 
 Sir Fallows was chiefly struck by the lad's having 
 found it himself. 
 
 "You've been very quiet about it," he said smiling. 
 
 "Well," Athelmar confessed, "I didn't want to 
 bother either of you till I saw what came of it. 
 It seemed rather a bold thing to offer myself; and 
 I could hardly suppose it likely I should succeed. 
 And, after I had written, I was afraid I might have 
 done wrong in writing from here, with this address 
 on the paper. So I wrote a second letter explaining 
 that, though I lived here, I was no relation of yours, 
 but had been brought up by you out of great kind- 
 ness."
 
 ATHELMAR 297 
 
 "Well! What is the 'situation'?" asked Lady 
 Frances impatiently. Carlotta was listening eagerly, 
 but kept quiet. In looks she resembled her mother, 
 but in character she had more of her father's sober 
 restraint. 
 
 "Private secretary to a gentleman in Paris," an- 
 swered Athelmar. "At least, he writes from Paris 
 — I don't know where else he lives. But he asks 
 me now to meet him in London. There is his 
 letter." 
 
 It was written in the third person, and said that 
 Lord de Valence would be glad to have a personal 
 interview with Mr. Athelmar March at the Lang- 
 ham Hotel in London on Thursday, 22nd March, 
 at 1 1 A.M. If the interview proved satisfactory. 
 Lord de Valence thought it probable that Mr. 
 March would become a member of Lord de Va- 
 lence's family. 
 
 "And is this," asked Sir Fallows, "his first letter 
 to you?" 
 
 "No. He wrote before, in answer to my first, 
 asking a number of questions (which I answered), 
 and saying that the salary would be £200 a year. 
 Doesn't it seem a lot?" 
 
 "Private secretaries to wealthy men sometimes 
 get much more ; but they are not often so young as 
 you. Does he know your age?" 
 
 "Yes. He asked the date and place of my birth, 
 where I was educated, what my father's position 
 and calling had been, my state of health, height, and 
 description — also I had to send a photograph. May 
 I go up to London to see him?" 
 
 "Yes, but I shall go with you. You cannot sat- 
 isfy him as to your character so well as I can. And 
 I must also satisfy myself as to his. I admire very 
 much your determination to earn your own living 
 at the earliest possible moment, but we must be sure
 
 298 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 that this stranger is a man fit for us to entrust our 
 son to." 
 
 Lady Frances was truly pleased, and Athelmar 
 was even more so. 
 
 "By the way," Sir Fallows asked, "did you tell 
 him you were an adopted son?" 
 
 "No, I had no right to say that. I only said 
 how you had brought me up, and educated me, and 
 done everything for me from the day of my birth." 
 
 After breakfast Sir Fallows withdrew to the li- 
 brary and there he consulted a Peerage, but of that 
 he said nothing to his wife or to Athelmar. The 
 reference he looked up was to the name of Lord de 
 Valence. 
 
 It ran as follows: De Valence, Baron Aymer de 
 Valence, nth Lord de Valence, of Court Valence, 
 Hereford, b. 2^d March, i860, succeeded his uncle 
 Athelmar, lOthLord, gth April, 1888, m. 20th May, 
 1887, Alice Clare, d. of late Rev.. Henry Marlow. 
 Heir presumptive, his cousin, Capt. Aymer Hum- 
 phrey de Valence, iiith Lancers, s. Rev. Humphrey 
 Athelmar de Valence, 2,1'd ^on of <)th Lord. 
 
 Somewhat to her surprise and much to her pleas- 
 ure, Sir Fallows told his wife that she had better 
 go to London with him and Athelmar. 
 
 "If I find nothing objectionable in this man," he 
 said, "I shall ask him to meet you. / can speak 
 warmly in praise of the lad, but you can be eloquent." 
 
 "He asked you about your parentage," Sir Fal- 
 lows remarked casually to Athelmar. "What did 
 you tell him?" 
 
 "All I knew; that is, "nothing as to my father; 
 as to my mother, that Lady Frances knew her for 
 a lady, that her initials were A. C. M., and that 
 her ring had a date engraved inside it: 2Cth May, 
 1887. Also I said that it was by her direction I 
 received the name of Athelmar, and that March
 
 ATHELMAR 299 
 
 was given me for a surname because I had none 
 and was born in that month. I thought I ought to 
 tell him all I knew." 
 
 "Perhaps you're right." 
 
 "Did you tell him," laughed Lady Frances, "that 
 / only call you Toto?" 
 
 "No, I didn't," and Athelmar laughed too. 
 
 IV 
 
 At the Langham Hotel, on the 22nd, Sir Fallows 
 sent up his own card with Athelmar's name penciled 
 on it; and he was not surprised to receive a message 
 that Lord de Valence would wish to see him first 
 alone. He found the nobleman looking older than 
 his forty-eight years warranted — very dark, rather 
 handsome, with an irritable expression of face, and 
 a sort of rough, but imperious manner, such as col- 
 onists often have who have lived much with people 
 of inferior race. Still, he was very civil, and cour- 
 teously thanked Sir Fallows for taking the trouble 
 to come to him. 
 
 "Of course I came," said the baronet simply. 
 "Athelmar has been like a son to us; and though I 
 respect his resolve to earn his own living, now he 
 is grown up, we could not let him leave us unless 
 we were satisfied that he was acting wisely." 
 
 "You are very straightforward." 
 
 "So is he. There are few good things I could 
 not truthfully say of him. Of course, he can bring 
 you no testimonials as to capacity; for at his age, 
 it would be impossible that he should have any ex- 
 perience; but I may say that he has been very use- 
 ful of late to me " 
 
 "Never mind all that. Just tell me all you know 
 about him — about his antecedents." 
 
 "He seems to have told you all that is known."
 
 300 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Would you mind telling it all again. I do not 
 ask out of idle curiosity. His name is a rare one — 
 and it is my own." 
 
 "Is not your name Aymer?" 
 
 "Aymer and Athelmar are the same name. One 
 a French form, the other Latin. In our family the 
 eldest son is usually called by it — in one form or 
 the other; and generally the form is alternated in 
 each successive generation; my father's was Athel- 
 mar, his father's was Aymer, like myself. I will 
 ask you an abrupt question. Does your foster-son 
 resemble me?" 
 
 "You may judge for yourself presently — but I see 
 no resemblance. He is very fair, with clear blue 
 eyes, and a brilliant complexion." 
 
 "Perhaps he is like his mother." 
 
 "I never saw her. But Lady Frances says he is 
 like her." 
 
 Then Sir Fallows told again the whole story of 
 Athelmar's birth; in doing so he often quoted his 
 wife verbatim, and once he spoke of the baby as 
 Toto, which nickname Lady Frances had from the 
 very first day given rim. 
 
 " 'Toto; who's 'Toto'?" asked Lord de Valence 
 abruptly. 
 
 "It was a name my wife gave the child, and one 
 she did not invent; among the few things left behind 
 by 'A. CM.' was only one scrap of paper, a torn bit 
 of a letter beginning 'Darling Toto,' — written in a 
 woman's hand, and with only a few words besides — 
 as if the writer had begun a letter and abruptly 
 ceased; it was in the dead lady's pocket, and perhaps 
 was written in the train; there was no date or 
 heading, and the penciled writing was shaky and 
 distorted." 
 
 "Toto was my wife's pet name for me. . . . 
 Now do you guess anything?"
 
 AT HELM AR 301 
 
 "I never guess. But I am here partly because I 
 wondered " 
 
 "I thought so. I can explain nothing now; I am 
 on pins and needles to see him; but this I will say : 
 though I am now a very rich man, I was penniless 
 when I married — nor was I a lord — or a lord's 
 heir; my uncle's own son was living; alas, he killed 
 himself — and his father, too, in doing so, wretched 
 lad! I was in pursuit of him to try and save him 
 and came up a day too late; he was in Australia, 
 whither he had fled to escape public disgrace. And 
 I had left my poor wife in anger. She was wrongly 
 jealous and accused me bitterly and falsely. And 
 I would explain nothing, but gave way to my appal- 
 ling temper; there was a bitter quarrel, and she 
 said she would go back to her own people — but that 
 I know she did not. She was silly and savage, and 
 I was savage and brutal. It is a long and sad and 
 miserable story — but you cannot hear it now. I 
 want to see Athelmar." 
 
 The lad was sent for, and, as he entered the room, 
 Lord de Valence said in a low voice to Sir Fallows : 
 "There is no doubt at all. He is Alice's son," and 
 he turned away into a window, leaving the youth 
 standing, half troubled, in the middle of the room. 
 
 Coming back. Lord de Valence went up to Athel- 
 mar, and took his hand, but the left one; holding it 
 in his own right, he pushed up the sleeve and said : 
 
 "Did none of you notice this?" 
 
 "Of course, it has always been noticed." 
 
 A little higher than the wrist there was a mark 
 like a bruise, a V, as if made by two pinching 
 fingers. 
 
 And Lord de Valence thrust up the left sleeve of 
 his own shirt and coat and showed another mark 
 like it. 
 
 "Now," he asked, almost laughing, but eager.
 
 302 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "can you say Calisthenics, Esthetics, Esthonic, Sos- 
 thenes." 
 
 Considerably astonished, Athelmar repeated: 
 
 "Calis-sosthenics, .^s-s-thetics, Es-s-sthonia, Sos- 
 -s-sthenes." 
 
 "It is rude to imitate people!" laughed Lord de 
 Valence. "Can't you say them without lisping?" 
 
 "'I don't lisp," cried Athelmar, quite indignantly. 
 
 "Nor do I, except in words where th follows an s. 
 But you do there. So we all do. Sir Fallows, you 
 deny that he Is like me, but Isn't his mouth like mine, 
 and also his ears? Look what a queer crumple they 
 have. I'm not cracked, Athelmar, and you needn't 
 be afraid Sir Fallows is going to let you become 
 private secretary to a lunatic. When I wrote to 
 you I said that if this interview was satisfactory you 
 would probably " 
 
 He paused. Intending, I think, to be interrupted. 
 
 "Be engaged as your private secretary," sug- 
 gested Athelmar. 
 
 "Did I say that? I think not. I did not promise 
 that." 
 
 Sir Fallows smiled, though Athelmar looked dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 "No, Athelmar," said Sir Fallows, "Lord de 
 Valence did not promise that. What he said was 
 that, if this interview was satisfactory, you would 
 probably become a member of his family. I noted 
 the expression. But, Lord de Valence, if you will 
 allow me, I would suggest that at this moment we 
 should all go and join Lady Frances at luncheon; 
 she will be of more use to you than myself." 
 
 And they went. 
 
 V 
 
 Lord de Valence not only went to luncheon with 
 Sir Fallows and Lady Frances, but went down with
 
 ATHELMAR 30^ 
 
 J 
 
 them and Athelmar to Coldacres Park that same 
 afternoon. There he was shown the very few ar- 
 ticles that had belonged to Athelmar's mother — her 
 clothes, the scrap of an unfinished letter, and her 
 wedding ring. 
 
 "I did not need to see them," he said. "I was cer- 
 tain Athelmar was her son the moment I saw him. 
 His voice is my own, but his face and figure are 
 hers — and it is not an ordinary face. I can identify 
 this ring with the date of our marriage on it, and 
 each of these poor bits of clothing; they are marked 
 with initials of her maiden name, because ours was 
 a sort of runaway match, and she never had any 
 trousseau. Certainly the scrap of a letter is in her 
 writing, and I treasure it, because it shows that she 
 had forgiven me — little as she had time to write 
 before her great illness fell on her; you can see 
 yourself that that little scrap is a message of recon- 
 ciliation. I have had my twenty years of purga- 
 tory for my fault — now from beyond the grave 
 comes this message of forgiveness. Now I may 
 tell Athelmar." 
 
 Athelmar was told. Lord de Valence did not en- 
 gage his services as private secretary, but he did 
 take him as a member of his family. 
 
 "I am," his father told Sir Fallows, "a very rich 
 man; not because I am Lord de Valence, for our 
 family had long been rather poor, but because for 
 twenty years I have been making money. I could 
 not bear England after returning here and failing 
 to find my wife, and I have lived entirely abroad. 
 I had nothing else to do but make money, and I 
 made it all the while — the more readily perhaps 
 that I did not care much whether I made it or no. 
 Some people's speculations fail" (Sir Fallows 
 sighed) "because it matters so much to them; mine
 
 304 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 always succeeded because it did not seem to mat- 
 ter at all. Athelmar will be very rich." 
 
 And so he was. At five and twenty he succeeded 
 his father, and long before that he had married. 
 
 Sir Fallows had no further anxiety as to Car- 
 lotta's future. 
 
 Athelmar's wife needed no provision from her 
 father, and her husband so managed matters that 
 she was able to pay off every claim and every en- 
 cumbrance on her father's life income. 
 
 "The best thing you ever did," Sir Fallows told 
 his wife, "was bringing Athelmar home, and the 
 best I ever did was saying you might keep him." 
 
 "Oh, Pincher," she said, "supposing I hadn't 
 driven round by Swaffham that day — if I hadn't 
 seen that young doctor on the steps outside the 
 "Acres Arms" and been a woman who always asks 
 questions ; Athelmar would have been taken to the 
 workhouse, and been brought up a pauper. How 
 awful to think of — what a chance saved him!" 
 
 "Chance, Fan? Providence, rather."
 
 FRING 
 I 
 
 FOR twenty years Miss Fring had lived at Burn- 
 ham Abbey and she could no longer imagine 
 herself living anywhere else. All the same she had 
 only come for three or four months, and the rea- 
 son of her coming at all was like this — Lady Julia 
 Fitzrupert, whose husband, Sir Rupert Fitzrupert, 
 owned Burnham Abbey and Burnham village, and all 
 the lands that had long ago belonged to the Abbess 
 of Burnham, was, as we all know, sister of Lady 
 St. Blazes, down in Cornwall : and Lord St. Blazes 
 suddenly resolved to economize. It had never oc- 
 curred to any of his family for several generations : 
 and it might not have occurred to him had not the 
 inventor of Pearl Soap been seized with a strong 
 desire to live at Blaze Castle. He offered (through 
 the family lawyer) such an enormous rent that it 
 seemed, said Lady St. Blazes solemnly, a DUTY 
 to accept. 
 
 "You know, Babbo," she argued with a sudden 
 sense of financial insight, "we have always spent 
 more than we had: that 77iust mean debt. If we let 
 this place to the soap man we shall he actually get- 
 ting more than we spend" (her husband shook his 
 head, not as impeaching the justice of her position, 
 but dazed by it) "and that must mean getting out 
 of debt. If you get ten pounds a day and spend 
 twelve pounds ten you get into debt two pounds ten 
 every day. If you get fifteen pounds a day and only 
 spend ten, you're getting out of debt at the rate of 
 five pounds a day — you can't deny it." 
 
 Lord St. Blazes knew he couldn't. 
 
 "But, Totes," (her ladyship was christened 
 Giralda) he asked dubiously, "where are we to 
 
 305
 
 3o6 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 live? We can't live in London all the year round. 
 No one could. Even if Sixteen wasn't a tight fit 
 for us with all the girls grown up." 
 
 When anyone at Blaze Castle talked of Sixteen 
 he meant i6 Buccleugh Square, as proper a place 
 for a poor peer to live as any in London, though 
 the houses were thin — "tall and squeezy, like Aunt 
 Carlotta," the young St. Blazes ladies called them. 
 
 "No," agreed Lady St. Blazes, "no one could 
 expect us to live all the year round at Sixteen : not 
 if we owed millions. But we needn't. There's 
 Melbourne." 
 
 No one at Blaze Castle meant by Melbourne the 
 capital of Victoria, but a small property of that 
 name belonging to her ladyship. It, a set of fine 
 emeralds, two silver soup tureens (one of which 
 didn't leak), five bedroom candlesticks of the same 
 metal, and nine or ten family portraits, had been 
 her dowry — though an earl's daughter she had so 
 many sisters. 
 
 "Melbourne!" observed her husband, without 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "It's small — " she conceded cheerfully. 
 
 "About as big as this room," said Lord St. 
 Blazes, less cheerfully: but then the White Saloon 
 at Blaze Castle was one hundred and twenty-four 
 feet long; and no fires on earth would ever warm it 
 in an east wind. 
 
 "It's small," continued her ladyship, "but it isn't 
 ugly: and it's a Grange: there's no harm in living 
 in a Grange — one's notepaper wouldn't disgrace 
 one. I shouldn't care to live in a tiny Hall — that 
 would be vulgar: a Hall should be ENORMOUS 
 or it's nothing. Its smallness will be our salvation. 
 If we let the soap man come here we not only get 
 the rent (and to refuse that would be like evading 
 Providence) but he will have this place to keep up
 
 FRING 307 
 
 instead of us. And at Melbourne we can't spend 
 much." 
 
 "/ could if I tried," said her husband with 
 gloomy candor. "1 could spend thirty thousand a 
 year in a — Chambers De Broke did." 
 
 "De Broke is a misery, and so's she. I'm not, 
 and you're not. Come, Babbo ! Here's our 
 chance : live on here, and we can't cut down any- 
 thing — the place won't let us. But now there's this 
 new departure opened up — let's do it: for the chil- 
 dren's sakes; and oh, Babbo, I'm sick of Billy!" 
 
 "So am I!" said the Viscount, whose legislative 
 duties sometimes bored him : all the same he was 
 touched. He dearly loved his wife, and his chil- 
 dren, and his home: and for the sake of all three 
 he would let a rather vulgar stranger come and live 
 in the house that no one but the St. Blazes had ever 
 lived in yet. 
 
 Lady St. Blazes wrote to Lady Julia Fitzrupert 
 — in her huge, sanguine, happy-go-lucky, good- 
 natured handwriting, that used up reams and reams 
 of notepaper every year: 
 
 Blaze Castle, 
 
 Thursday. 
 Dear Judie, 
 
 That man who makes Pearl Soap (it smells 
 like Ratafia Pudding, so I can't stand it) is 
 going to take this place, and we shall live at 
 16 and Melbourne. So we shall congedier 
 two footmen, and two kitchen-maids, four 
 housemaids, both scullery-maids, and some of 
 our own maids. We're going abroad first, 
 for three months, and it would be quite absurd 
 for each of the girls to have a maid to herself. 
 Of course, Flunce will come (no one else could 
 make me wake in a morning) and Button.
 
 3o8 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 They've been with us ten years, and would 
 break their hearts without each other to 
 quarrel with. But Lacy and Ribb are new, 
 and we must get rid of them. While we're 
 abroad Flunce and Button will have to man- 
 age for the girls between them. Then there's 
 Fring; you say your creature must go at once 
 or there'll be bloodshed in your halls, and im- 
 plore me to find you someone. Take Fring 
 as a loan; she's excellent; most honest, civil 
 and respectful (but not too dreadfully; she 
 doesn't say "my lady" at every comma) ; very 
 well conducted (a Roman Catholic), and been 
 in good places. She can dressmake very well, 
 and is not talkative. Our neighbors, the Pol- 
 welliams, have a chapel in the house, and she 
 goes there — do let her go to Mass if you can. 
 Babbo has a cold in his head, and sends his 
 love. Your affec, 
 
 Totes. 
 
 Lady Fitzrupert sent a telegram — she never had 
 any stamps, and the telegrams went into the butler's 
 book : 
 
 Send your treasure and I'll pay her back 
 honor bright. 
 
 JUDIE. 
 
 II 
 
 So Fring went to Burnham Abbey and liked it. 
 At first she didn't, because she came as a stopgap, 
 and the housekeeper, butler and valet (like Miss 
 Nipper) suspected Temporaries. But Miss Fring, 
 they found, leant to permanence and was gentility 
 personified. Mrs. Stumger, the housekeeper, liked
 
 FRING 309 
 
 to talk (and so had the late lady's maid) , Miss Fring 
 preferred listening. Mrs. Stumger confessed to her 
 own conscience, though not elsewhere, that she "had 
 never lived higher than a baronet," whereas Miss 
 Fring's lowliest place till now had been a Viscount — 
 there had been a Marquis, and a Duchess (though 
 Italian), and yet she never bragged of them. Here 
 was true restraint and gentility — Sellars, the butler, 
 never wearied of the Earl (and only a Scotch one) 
 that had been his last place. Sellars and Braces (the 
 valet) conceived a high opinion of Miss Fring be- 
 cause they could not in the least perceive that she 
 was a favorite with her ladyship. Sir Rupert was 
 "short" with his butler, and not sweet with his valet, 
 whereas Tucker (the late lady's maid) had been for 
 ever quoting the intimate and jocular sayings of my 
 lady to her. Miss Fring never had much to tell of 
 Lady Fitzrupert, and Sellars and Braces cheerfully 
 concluded that it was because her ladyship only took 
 her on sufferance. And they were not altogether 
 wrong. Lady Fitzrupert thought Fring dullish; and, 
 as she had only come for three months, it was hardly 
 worth while making out If there was anything par- 
 ticular behind. Fring was plain; and her manner 
 was plain, too, demure, sober, not shy, but self-con- 
 tained; at five and twenty she was as staid as a 
 woman of forty. Lady Fitzrupert liked to say queer 
 things, and Tucker had thoroughly enjoyed them and 
 loved to repeat them. Fring heard them with a sub- 
 dued air of refusing to be surprised and didn't even 
 laugh. 
 
 "Will your ladyship wear any ornaments to- 
 night?" she would ask, almost absent-mindedly, a 
 moment after her mistress had said something funny, 
 which would have filled Tucker with impatience to 
 be off to "the room" to retail it — with (imagined) 
 improvements. And not a soul in all Burnhani
 
 310 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Abbey would have guessed why Fring was absent- 
 minded. 
 
 "She's all Totes promised," Lady Fitzrupert 
 would admit to herself, "as respectable as a hearse 
 and six horses, honest, clean, tidy, careful, a won- 
 derful dressmaker, respectful, good-tempered — and 
 no more idea of a joke than a stone ball on a lodge 
 
 But the positive good qualities were so undeniable 
 that Fring stayed twenty years. When the St. 
 Blazes returned to England Lady St. Blaze wrote to 
 her sister and said: "The girls have picked up a 
 Frenchwoman, who has broken Flunce and Button's 
 noses. You can keep Fring, if you like. Babbo 
 sends his love, he has a housemaid's knee, or he 
 would write himself; he got it in the Coliseum tum- 
 bling out of the place where the Emperors used to 
 sit, while he was standing back to say 'Ave Caesar 
 moritim te Salubant.' It won't get well, and he 
 won't try a bonesetter. An Italian prince wanted to 
 marry Juliet, but she said his name wasn't Romeo, 
 and she didn't see any point In it. If you don't want 
 to keep Fring, Lady de Ribstone wants her." 
 
 "Then she won't get her," said Lady Fitzrupert, 
 who couldn't abide any of the Pepin family, and felt 
 quite sure that, if Fring went to Appleshaw Court, 
 old Lady de Ribstone would try and pump her about 
 Burnham Abbey and Its ways. "And she might as 
 well," Lady Fitzrupert confessed to herself, can- 
 didly, "try to pump the Pontine Marshes." 
 
 So Fring stayed on, and stealthily grew Into a 
 permanency. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Nobody at Burnham Abbey had the slightest idea 
 why Miss Fring was absent-minded, and at last she
 
 FRING 311 
 
 didn't know herself. She did at first. She had mis- 
 givings about her soul. 
 
 In the first instance she would never have gone 
 there had she not understood that she was to 
 be sent to Mass on all Sundays and days of ob- 
 ligation. 
 
 She went the first Sunday after her arrival. A 
 Cabinet Minister was staying in the house, and on 
 Saturday night he received a command to dine with 
 the Sovereign on Monday; but the Queen was in 
 Scotland, and he would have to go to London to 
 pick up his court dress, and that meant catching the 
 only morning train from Saltminster at 10.50 on 
 Sunday. A brougham took him; but there was a 
 luggage cart to take his things and his valet, and 
 Lady Fitzrupert (with a brilliant stroke of relevance 
 and recollection) told Fring at 11. 15 on Saturday 
 night, that it could take her to Mass, too. 
 
 "Thank you, my lady," said Fring, "it's but a lit- 
 tle place, Saltminster; I wonder when Mass is?" 
 
 "Oh, Mass goes on all the time from sunrise. 
 I've been abroad. I often said Mass. At Mainz 
 there was a High Mass at each end and little Masses 
 all round. You could hear eleven at once." 
 
 "There'd be a many priests there . . ." observed 
 Fring. 
 
 "Oh, baskets of them: they sang through their 
 noses " 
 
 Fring was not impressed by the circumstance, at 
 all events it did not convince her that there would be 
 a long succession of Masses at Saltminster. 
 
 "I've seen the Saltminster priest," her ladyship 
 went on, "he never wears anything but a tophat. 
 You go in with Lord John's man and let him drop 
 you at the corner of Ox Row, it's not five minutes 
 from there to Fiddle Street where the Catholic 
 church is, you'll get there by half-past ten — or
 
 312 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 twenty to eleven. Probably the service is at eleven. 
 Even if it's at half-past ten you'll be in time, for the 
 priest has to go round first mailing aspersions on the 
 people, as our French governess used to say." 
 
 Well, Fring went, and didn't arrive till quarter to 
 eleven, and the Mass was at ten; so she was rather 
 late. ' 
 
 On the following Sunday Lady Fitzrupert was on 
 a short visit at Beansite, where the Duke was enter- 
 taining their Serene Highnesses the Prince and 
 Princess of Reannfels-Hinterlangonbach, and of 
 course she took her maid with her. The park at 
 Beansite is so big that the nearest village is seven 
 miles off — and the nearest town is eight miles further 
 on. Even there there is no Catholic church, though 
 there are nine Nonconformist chapels. 
 
 On the Sunday after that Fring borrowed a bi- 
 cycle (they were nothing like so common then, and 
 she had no great proficiency in riding them). She 
 got to Mass in time, but arrived at Burnham Abbey 
 on her return with a black eye and no skin on her 
 nose, having collided with a telegraph post and been 
 shot off on to a heap of newly-broken granite stones 
 for road mending. 
 
 "My goodness," cried Lady Fitzrupert, "if they 
 black your eyes at Mass " 
 
 But Fring was so deeply hurt by this jocund con- 
 dolence that her mistress stopped laughing and said: 
 
 "You shall have the dog-cart next Sunday, and 
 Thomas shall drive you in. Fll speak to Sir Rupert 
 about it in good time." 
 
 She really meant it, only the horse belonging to 
 the dog-cart was seriously indisposed on the follow- 
 ing Sunday, and Thomas considered it would be as 
 good as "killing of him in gold blood" to put him 
 in the shafts.
 
 FRING 
 
 313 
 
 The Sunday after that Sir Rupert, my lady, Mr. 
 Braces and Miss Fring were all at Dudlow Manor 
 to see the Honorable Maria Duddle married, on 
 Monday morning, to Captain Shikker, the great 
 sportsman and oriental traveler. 
 
 "Fring," said Lady Fitzrupert on Saturday night 
 while being dressed for dinner, "I asked Lady Dud- 
 low about Mass, and she nearly had a fit — thinking 
 I had turned Catholic like a thief in the night. But 
 there's no Catholic church anywhere about here now 
 — I told you there was, and so there used to be : 
 Catesby House is only a mile away, but it seems Sir 
 Guy Fawkes-Catesby has let Catesby to some sewing- 
 machine people (American and Pilgrim Fathers, no 
 doubt) and the chapel is shut up." 
 
 It Is not necessary to explain exactly how it was 
 that Fring hardly ever could get to Mass: and it 
 would be sad to explain how gradually she came to 
 give up trying. You must remember that I am not 
 asking you to believe she was a young woman of 
 determined character or of intense piety. She was 
 honest, respectable, well-conducted, not vain, nor un- 
 truthful, not light-minded: but she was not eagerly 
 devout and all her surroundings were placidly pagan. 
 From week's end to week's end she neither saw nor 
 heard anything whatever to remind her of her re- 
 ligion: and her disposition was spongily receptive. 
 Without being quick to receive new impressions she 
 slowly absorbed the influences that pressed upon her 
 as intangibly as an atmosphere. At first she had felt 
 a dull misgiving of losing her faith, but when she 
 was really losing it she had ceased to notice. 
 
 If you do not think her story worth attention I 
 will ask you to remember that it is that of hundreds 
 and hundreds of Catholic servants in non-Catholic 
 houses up and down England.
 
 314 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 IV 
 
 When the St. Blazes came back from the Con- 
 tinent not three months after Fring went to Burn- 
 ham Abbey, but seven, there was her opportunity; 
 but she missed it. Had they returned four months 
 earlier she might have seized it. But she had been 
 at Burnham more than half a year and was used to 
 it: she liked her mistress much better than Lady 
 Fitzrupert Imagined, and she also liked Mr. Braces. 
 This is not going to be a romance of the house- 
 keeper's room, and I may say at once that nothing 
 came of Fring's silent and shy admiration for the 
 sparkling Mr. Braces. He was quite unaware of 
 it, besides he was engaged (not Impatiently) to a 
 Mrs. Scraper, who was trying the experiment of a 
 small boarding house at Coldport-on-Sands, and 
 when it turned out a success, he, in due course, mar- 
 ried her. Fring bore no malice and subscribed thirty 
 shillings to the electro-plated teapot, milk-jug and 
 sugar basin that the upper servants at Burnham pre- 
 sented him. 
 
 Still when, three years earlier. Lady Fitzrupert 
 had said to her, "Fring, will you stay on here, or go 
 to Lady de Ribstone?" the thought of Mr. Braces 
 had not been without influence. 
 
 "I don't like changes, my lady," Fring had re- 
 plied calmly. 
 
 The attractions that held her to Burnham Abbey 
 were not all romantic : the place was thoroughly com- 
 fortable, and Fring liked comfort. She was not 
 greedy, but she enjoyed good eating: her wages were 
 high, and her mistress was generous ; her own room 
 was uncommonly pleasant and had a fire all day In 
 winter, spring and autumn; and the housekeeper's 
 room was the most comfortable room in the 
 house.
 
 FRING 3 1 5 
 
 Oddly enough there was one thing at Burnham 
 that reminded Fring now and then of her religion; 
 the only Catholic who ever showed his nose there 
 was an Irishman who came at rare intervals to buy 
 rabbit skins, but Fring had nothing to do with rab- 
 bit skins and seldom saw him. She didn't want to, 
 his calling was low, and it annoyed her that he 
 should be associated with her religion. But Burn- 
 ham was an Abbey, and the name gave her a sort of 
 smack from time to time. Strange to say, it was 
 not so at first: she had lived there for many years 
 without thinking of it. 
 
 It began in this way : Lady Fitzrupert bought all 
 manner of old things, warming-pans, door-knockers, 
 chairs with no bottoms, and so on ; and one day she 
 came back from Saltminster with a crozier sticking 
 out of the window of the brougham. It was wooden 
 and gilt, and had belonged to a statue. 
 
 "I'd have bought the statue, too, Fring, and given 
 him to you. But it was St. Joseph, and he finds peo- 
 ple husbands — I thought of it in time; and he was 
 six feet high in his nimbus, and wouldn't go on your 
 chimneypiece." (She was wrong about his being St. 
 Joseph, he was St. Patrick.) "So I let a dealer get 
 him for three pound seven, and gave him five and 
 twenty shillings for the crozier." 
 
 "But, my lady, you can't wear it." 
 
 "No. But that didn't stop me buying the copper 
 warming-pan, nor the spinet with no Insides. Isn't 
 it pretty? And quite the proper thing for an Abbey. 
 I shall pretend we dug it up." 
 
 Mrs. Stumger saw the crozier In the Green Draw- 
 ing-room and didn't approve of it. 
 
 "It's enough," she told Fring, "to bring one of 
 them old Abbesses out of their graves to look for 
 it. There are no ruins here, thanks to glory, but 
 the bowlin' green was the old buryin' ground, and
 
 3i6 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 there's them as have seen what / could never abear 
 to." 
 
 "What?" asked Fring, with awe and eagerness 
 combined in pleasant proportions. 
 
 "Nuns," answered Stumger, poking the fire and 
 looking over her left shoulder (at the jam cup- 
 board). 
 
 From that out, as they say in Ireland, Fring never 
 completely forgot it was an abbey, and the idea of 
 nuns would now and then occur to her — not com- 
 fortably. 
 
 "Did the Fitzruperts turn the nuns out?" she once 
 asked Mrs. Stumger. 
 
 "No. It was before their time. They're from 
 the Stuart times, this fam'ly; they got Burnham by a 
 marriage. Seymour was the name, I think, of the 
 gent that old King Harry gave this place to. Or else 
 it was King Edward. Anyway, Seymours got it." 
 
 "And what came of the nuns?" 
 
 "They were sent to the right about. The Abbess 
 died under the big yew near where the lodge is — she 
 was as old as sin, but an 'armless woman, of titled 
 fam'ly, and it was winter (Christmas Eve, I've heard 
 say) when they carried her from her bed all in a lit- 
 ter (and no wonder, not expecting it), but she died 
 under the big yew, and they say her spirit ran back 
 to the Abbey — folks saw her, her black gown show- 
 ing up on the snow in the moonlight. She's one that 
 walks, or used to. And if I was my lady I wouldn't 
 bring croziers In the house to give her something to 
 come for." 
 
 Fring sincerely hoped she would never see her. 
 In ghosts she believed with reluctant firmness. Why 
 on earth couldn't Burnham be a Castle, or a Court, 
 or a Hall, or a Manor — anything but an Abbey? 
 
 She kept oftener and oftener remembering that 
 it was an Abbey, and why. Over and over again she
 
 FRING 317 
 
 thought she saw a black-robed figure lurking in a 
 corner of the long gallery; and though it always 
 proved to be a shadow, the next time she was equally 
 sure it was a real figure. 
 
 At last, and no wonder, she began to dream of the 
 figure. One evening, in a foggy dusk, her mistress 
 said: 
 
 "Fring, I must have dropped my little gilt bag on 
 the bowling-green before tea. It's the only place I 
 stood about at, go and look for it, please." 
 
 The moon was just up, and there were long 
 shadows; the grass looked white in the wan light. 
 Fring found the bag, but was sure she had seen the 
 black figure motionless under a broken cedar tree. 
 
 That night she dreamt; and in her dream she sat 
 up in bed, sure that someone was in the room, and 
 stared about to look for it. Out of the shadow by 
 the door it came quietly into the dying glow of the 
 pleasant fire; a black-gowned figure holding my 
 lady's crozier, and pausing, and peering, as though 
 searching for something — some little thing, for it 
 stooped, and groped, as if the thing were too small 
 to find easily. 
 
 "Oh, ma'am. Oh, my lady — what is it? What 
 are you looking for?" wailed poor Fring in her 
 dream. "There's nothing here but what belongs 
 to me ; / never took any of your things ; nor any- 
 body's things. You'll find nought here but what's 
 mine." 
 
 "Yes, it's yours," said a voice, very old and weak 
 and patient, "and I'm trying to find it. But it's 
 grown so little — if I can't find it, and give it back 
 to you, you'll lose it out and out. It'll be clean 
 gone, and there'll be an end of it." 
 
 "Never mind it, ma'am, my lady," pleaded 
 Fring, in her dream. "Don't you trouble. I shall 
 never miss it — maybe I'll get another."
 
 3i8 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "No. That you never can. You've only one 
 and it's growing smaller, and smaller, and smaller; 
 and being smothered " 
 
 "Oh, my lady, ma'am, what is it?" 
 
 "Your soul. . . ." 
 
 And then Fring awoke, crying bitterly, and the 
 pleasant cosy room, with a good fire blazing still, 
 and thick curtains and good furniture, had never 
 looked homelier; but it was long before Fring could 
 go to sleep again, she was in such dread of dream- 
 ing that horrible dream over again; yet it was worse 
 lying awake, for that had only been a dream, and 
 she was in a nervous terror of seeing something 
 with her waking eyes. 
 
 Twice afterwards, a week later and two weeks 
 later, the dream came back, though never again did 
 the nun with the crozier say anything. There was 
 no need. Fring knew very well what the little thing 
 was for which she was looking — peering and stoop- 
 
 After the third time Fring made up her mind. 
 
 "My lady. If you please," she said to her mis- 
 tress, "I'd like to leave." 
 
 "Fring!" cried Lady Fitzrupert, quite indig- 
 nantly, as If Fring had said something disrespectful. 
 
 "I do beg your pardon, my lady," wailed poor 
 Fring. "You've been a kind mistress, and you've 
 never known how truly fond of you I've been for 
 many many years — from the first, I think. But 
 there's a little thing I have of my own, and, oh, I 
 shall lose it if I stay here " 
 
 "Lose it? Lose what?" demanded her lady- 
 ship, staring with unfeigned astonishment. 
 
 Fring was very earnest not to tell, but her mis- 
 tress was determined to be told, and she was a far 
 more obstinate woman. Of course, Fring told her 
 at last — had she said nothing about her dreams I
 
 FRING 319 
 
 think Lady Fitzrupert would have laughed; but the 
 whimpering old woman's maid did tell about them, 
 and her mistress was extremely superstitious. Any 
 religion she had was a singular mixture picked up 
 out of all sorts of books, a kind of bric-a-brac, not 
 at all useful, and not worth very much. But she 
 was ready for any superstition. She would not 
 believe anything because God had revealed it, but 
 she would believe any odd story told on the au- 
 thority of somebody's aunt or somebody's cousin's 
 gamekeeper. Also she was good-natured, and she 
 saw very clearly that Fring was "all to pieces"; be- 
 sides, she was no longer young herself, and a 
 younger person about her would be more cheerful. 
 
 "Well," she declared at last, "if you do go I can 
 give you an excellent character." 
 
 "Thank you, my lady, but I wasn't thinking of 
 taking another situation — not at present." 
 
 What she did was to become a lay-sister in the 
 very Order to which the Burnham nuns had be- 
 longed : and there she is still, much respected and 
 placidly happy. 
 
 "Dreams and omens, and such-like fooleries," 
 she sometimes says to herself, "no doubt they're 
 fooleries : but God don't fish for fools with wise- 
 folk's bait; and p'raps He condescends to teach a 
 body that can't be taught wisdom any better way 
 by means even of a foolery," 
 
 As to whether the moral of this story is good or 
 bad, you must make up your mind for yourself. 
 
 Personally I lean to Fring's opinion.
 
 HER LADYSHIP 
 I 
 
 WHEN Doris Hepworth announced her inten- 
 tion of earning her own living as a school- 
 mistress the Hepworth family was deeply scandal- 
 ized — much more loudly so than when her Uncle 
 Varloman took to drink; but then he did not pre- 
 cisely announce the circumstance — it announced it- 
 self. The Hepworths were genteel, and it is not 
 genteel to become a schoolmistress, and teach vil- 
 lage children reading, writing, arithmetic, and such 
 other subjects as the School Board in its inscrutable 
 wisdom declared to be necessary for future plow- 
 boys and their sisters — such as chemistry and com- 
 position. 
 
 They did not go so far as to assert that it is 
 genteel to addict one's self to habitual inebriety, 
 but instances of it had occurred In families even 
 more well connected than their own : whereas Board 
 schoolmistresses were unheard of in the pedigrees 
 of any family that had pedigrees. Added to which, 
 they saw no reason why Doris should earn her own 
 living at all. Her father was alive and held the 
 respectable post of principal assistant junior clerk 
 in the Waterways Department of the Board of In- 
 land Communications. The secretary of the de- 
 partment was Sir HIgham Pitcher, and even the 
 assistant secretary had married an honorable — the 
 Honorable Terentia Marples, seventh daughter of 
 Lord Strathtidlem. The office of the Board, as 
 everyone knows, is In Whitehall, and all its mem- 
 bers hold their noses aloft, and duly despise all such 
 civil servants as have their offices in Somerset 
 House or on the Embankment. 
 
 32Q
 
 HER LADYSHIP 321 
 
 True, Mr. Hepworth's salary was not large, and 
 his family was; or perhaps we should say each of 
 his families was — for he had been twice a widower, 
 and had twice ceased to be one, and none of the 
 three Mrs. Hepworths had been denied the blessing 
 of offspring. 
 
 It is fair to say that Mr. Hepworth himself saw 
 nothing scandalous in his eldest daughter's deter- 
 mination to earn her own bread and butter; it was 
 chiefly her aunts and her late mother's aunts who 
 were shocked at her doing so. 
 
 Miss Adeliza Hepworth complained most, and 
 with most right, as she was the wealthiest member 
 of the fiviiily, and held more state than any of the 
 others. She lived by herself in a small chilly coun- 
 try-house called Billings Court, where she had 
 ample leisure to survey her own gentility and to 
 alter her will whenever any of her kindred annoyed 
 her. If it had occurred to her to invite her niece to 
 come and live with her she might have been less 
 lonely, and possibly Doris would never have been 
 a schoolmistress; but that idea never entered what 
 she was pleased to call her head. She preferred to 
 scan the imperfections of her relations from afar, 
 and point out their deficiencies through the penny 
 post. 
 
 She duly wrote to her brother — to Doris she 
 never intended to write any more — and explained 
 that his daughter was taking a step which would ren- 
 der it impossible for her, Adeliza, to retain any fur- 
 ther cognizance of her existence, and darkly alluded 
 to four hundred pounds which would now be devoted 
 to the endowment of a cats' cemetery. 
 
 "To bury herself in, I suppose," observed Mr. 
 Hepworth, and his own wit put him in, so good a 
 temper that he gave Doris ten pounds as a parting 
 present.
 
 322 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 His wife, however, took Aunt Adeliza's part; 
 her step-daughter's decision to go forth and work 
 for her bread she took as a reflection on herself. 
 
 "Well, my dear," her husband urged, "I can't 
 live forever, and / can leave Doris nothing: she 
 might have to go out as a governess — and she pre- 
 fers being independent. Besides, it's easier begin- 
 ning young, while one is stll energetic." 
 
 "She might marry. Robert Skewpole has an eye 
 on her, I'm certain." 
 
 "That's more than I would dare to say — he 
 squints so, there's no saying what his eye's on." 
 
 "Reginald, pray! We needn't all be vulgar, 
 even if one of your daughters is going to be a 
 schoolmistress." 
 
 Mr. Hepworth warmed his gloves, and went off 
 to the Waterways; and in due time Doris went 
 away to take up her first appointment. 
 
 We need not follow her long career step by step. 
 It will be enough to say that by the time she was 
 six-and-twenty she had a school of her own, in the 
 remote Fenshire village of Cold Overton. 
 
 Her adventures had not been hitherto exciting, 
 but neither had she been unhappy. Her health was 
 good, and her disposition cheerful; she made no 
 great demands of life, and Fate had not persecuted 
 her — Fate is probably too aristocratic to trouble 
 herself about schoolmistresses. 
 
 She was slim and active, with a neat figure, and 
 a face that boasted no wonderful beauty, but was 
 far from being insignificant; her skin was as smooth 
 as that of a peach, her dark grey eyes were large, 
 intelligent and thoughtful, her mouth suggested 
 sweet temper, even when she was not smiling, and 
 her smile was very pleasant. Perhaps her hair was 
 her strong point — it was of a rich auburn brown, 
 and very abundant, soft and shining, and she did
 
 HER LADYSHIP 323 
 
 not neglect It. She wore It In a manner that suited 
 her, and her dress was always neat and dainty, 
 though quiet and Inexpensive. 
 
 When she had settled herself Into the cottage at- 
 tached to the schoolhouse, she felt as though she 
 had now fixed herself for life, and she mildly 
 thanked Heaven that she had so little to com- 
 plain of. 
 
 The cottage was not pretty outside, but It was 
 comfortable and convenient within, and she had 
 taste enough to make It look like the home of a 
 lady. Her books lined nearly the whole of one 
 wall, and stood on shelves she had made herself; 
 her pictures were of her own painting, and had been 
 framed by herself, and the curtains were embroid- 
 ered by her own hands, too. 
 
 Cold Overton is a long village, consisting of one 
 winding street, at one end of which Is the church 
 and the vicarage at the other end Is the school. 
 All round are flat fens, over which the mists 
 from the sea, three miles off, are apt to creep 
 when the short winter day turns from leaden grey 
 to black. 
 
 "I'm glad there are shutters," Doris said to her- 
 self; "they make It twice as warm." She put 
 another piece of wood on the fire, and her cat, 
 Tudor, smiled to himself as he lay on the warm rug, 
 and thought complacently of less well-to-do cats 
 that had to search the hedges for sleeping birds If 
 they wanted any supper. 
 
 The log burned with a blue flare, for it was a bit 
 of ship's timber, and tarry — Doris had bought a 
 small load of it from a certain Moses who came 
 round with a donkey cart on which he sat with his 
 wooden leg cocked out in front ol him like the 
 bowsprit of a little vessel. 
 
 Doris was knitting and her eyes occasionally
 
 324 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 wandered to the fire, and the blue flame made her 
 think of ships and the sea. 
 
 "I hope it wasn't a wreck," she thought to her- 
 self. "God help all on the sea to-night." For the 
 wind was keen and cold outside, and sometimes the 
 blast would smack at the shutters, or even whistle in 
 at a keyhole as though saying: "Let me in! Come 
 now! I want company!" 
 
 But Doris, instead of letting him in, stuffed the 
 keyhole with flannel list, and let him carry his com- 
 plaints elsewhere. So he ran away across the flats 
 to sea, and whistled fiercely in the rigging of any 
 ships he could find, and Doris sat warm and snug 
 by her fireside, while Tudor purred approvingly. 
 
 So far as Doris could see she would sit there 
 night after night, through all that winter, and all 
 the winters of, say, the next fifty years. And she 
 had not the least objection. She was not ambitious, 
 and she liked her work; it was not useless, and If 
 it was not highly paid, it yielded her all she wanted. 
 Smart clothes, fine feeding and "society" w'ere as 
 far outside the scope of her desires as they were 
 beyond her reach. She told herself flatly that she 
 was an old maid; it was merely a question of time, 
 and she had no intention of interfering with what 
 time would bring about. She drew her chair a little 
 nearer to the comfortable red fire, and wondered 
 how Mr. Drumble spent his evenings. 
 
 Mr, Drumble was the vicar and there was no 
 Mrs. Drumble ; so that the sagacious reader may 
 perhaps say that Doris would not have wondered 
 how he spent his evenings had she really been in 
 earnest about being an old maid — at six-and-twenty, 
 too! But then Mr. Drumble was about as old as 
 her father and was a leathery person, with a beard 
 of half a dozen different shades of dingy grey. The 
 reader must take my word for it that Doris Hep-
 
 HER LADYSHIP 325 
 
 worth had not the least idea of becoming Mrs. 
 Drumble. She merely wondered how his evenings 
 were spent because he was the only person of her 
 own class within a radius of four miles, because he 
 lived alone, like herself, and because, somehow, he 
 did not give her the idea of being a man specially 
 addicted to reading. 
 
 As it happened he was at that moment wonder- 
 ing how Doris spent her evenings; he knew she was 
 a lady, and he did not for a moment suppose she 
 would make friends or companions of any of the 
 village folk. He told himself that it was a pity, 
 for her sake, he was a bachelor; had there been 
 any Mrs. Drumble he and that lady might have 
 been neighborly. 
 
 Strange to say, Mr. Drumble and Miss Hep- 
 worth were both of them being discussed by Mrs. 
 Bagg, of the post-office, on whom Mrs. Diggle, the 
 sexton's wife, had dropped in for a chat. 
 
 "There," said Mrs. Bagg, "him a bachelor and 
 her a 'single lady — and well born, as anyone can 
 see — it's a pity they don't make a match of it. It 
 would be company for them." 
 
 "Very like they will. What strikes you and me, 
 Mrs. Baggs, may strike them as well. 'Twould be 
 a good thing for his linen — I'm sure his cuffs are as 
 furry round the edges. And his hankershers are as 
 holey as one of the prophets." 
 
 "And there'd be an end of reading at his meals — 
 cruel for the digestion. Well, I wish her good 
 luck, and him too." 
 
 About three weeks after this Mr. Drumble's sis- 
 ter came on a visit, and he took the opportunity of 
 "being neighborly." Miss Hepworth was invited 
 half a dozen times to supper, and she made a good 
 impression on Miss Acacia Drumble — her Chris- 
 tian name was the only ridiculous thing about her.
 
 326 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Well, Acacia," said the gentleman one night, 
 on returning to the drawing-room after escorting 
 their visitor to the door, "it seems very snug in 
 here; there's a biting wind outside, and I felt quite 
 inhospitable when I shut Miss Hepworth out." 
 
 "You ought to have walked home with 
 her." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. Village people are such 
 talkers." 
 
 "Or you should have asked her to stop." 
 
 "Asked her to stop!" 
 
 "Yes — to stop for good. You have often asked 
 
 me." 
 
 Yes. Why won't you?" 
 
 Because I should feel bound to stay here for- 
 
 u 
 u 
 
 ever. 
 
 And that's just what you ought to do. That's 
 what I meant by stopping for good." 
 
 "Exactly. But I can't. Philip, I'm going to be 
 married." 
 
 "Good gracious!" 
 
 "Yes, I'm engaged to be married." 
 
 "Goodness! And why did you not tell me be- 
 fore? You've been here a fortnight." 
 
 "Twelve days. But I have only been engaged 
 since five o'clock." 
 
 "Since five o'clock! Nobody was here at five 
 o'clock except Solomon Baggs, the postman, and 
 he's married already." 
 
 "It Isn't Solomon Baggs; but he brought me a 
 second post letter and he waited in the kitchen while 
 I wrote the answer. The answer was 'Yes,' and 
 I'm engaged to Captain Eustace, whom I have men- 
 tioned to you pretty often." 
 
 "Him! I think you have. You said, I think, 
 that he was not handsome." 
 
 "Handsome is as handsome does. He's about as
 
 HER LADYSHIP 327 
 
 good-looking as I am. You'd better follow my ex- 
 ample." 
 
 "/ can't accept Captain Eustace." 
 
 "You can give Miss Hepworth the chance of ac- 
 cepting you." 
 
 Unfortunately he gave the chance too soon. 
 He thought it over, and next day, without consult- 
 ing his sister further, suggested mildly to Miss Hep- 
 worth that it would be very kind of her if she would 
 become Mrs. Drumble. 
 
 "It's no good," he informed Acacia at tea time. 
 "She doesn't seem to care about it." 
 
 "Care about what? Care about what? Who 
 doesn't seem to?" 
 
 "Miss Hepworth, of course. There's no one 
 else. I asked her and she was very nice about it, 
 very nice, indeed. But it's no good at all." 
 
 "Good gracious, Philip! You don't mean to say 
 you asked her to-day. You should have waited; 
 no wonder she made up her mind at once." 
 
 "Why, you seemed to think I should have asked 
 her last night." 
 
 "Oh dear, what foolish creatures men are!" 
 
 "Captain Eustace is a man." 
 
 "If he had asked me like that — but he waited 
 three months and let me see what was coming. You 
 don't suppose his letter surprised me. I could stay 
 here six week — if you'd gone on having Miss Hep- 
 worth here you might have asked her during my 
 last week. How awkward ! I suppose I shall feel 
 bound to go away now, and you'll have a schoolmis- 
 tress like the last one, who sang all the hymns flat 
 and smacked the children." 
 
 "No. She won't go away; I begged her not to. 
 I begged her to think no more of what I had said. 
 'It was merely an idea of mine — and of my sister's,' 
 I told her. 'Pray think no more of it — / shan't.' "
 
 328 THE TIDEJVAY 
 
 "Good gracious! And you dragged me in, too. 
 I have no patience with men. The older they 
 are the sillier." 
 
 II 
 
 To do him justice Dr. Drumble did seem to 
 "think no more of it." And Doris did not find her 
 position had been made embarrassing. She con- 
 tinued in charge of the school at Cold Overton, and 
 gave everybody complete satisfaction. Mrs. Baggs 
 and Mrs. Diggle still thought she and the Vicar 
 ought to make a match of it, but they were leisurely 
 people themselves and were content to give them 
 time. 
 
 The winter merged with chill deliberation into 
 spring; spring presently warmed itself into summer; 
 autumn soon laid summer by the heels, and then 
 the long, windy, foggy winter set in on the fens once 
 more, and Cold Overton justified its name. 
 
 Doris found her snug cottage very pleasant in 
 the long firelit evenings, and she never felt them 
 over long, for she had taken to writing, and had 
 achieved more moderate success than falls to ninety 
 out of every hundred who make the attempt. 
 Within the last twelve months she had earned as 
 much by her pen as her whole salary came to, and 
 she found she could write best in winter; she was 
 sure of being free from interruption during the 
 long hours between tea and bed-time. 
 
 Tudor did not wholly approve of this writing — 
 it occasioned a certain unpunctuality in the matter 
 of supper; and Tudor liked his meals regular. 
 
 One evening Doris, with her little table close to 
 the warm hearth, was busy with her pen, which was 
 taking a higher flight than usual. 
 
 "I hope nobody who has been in a shipwreck will
 
 HER LADYSHIP 329 
 
 read this," she thought to herself. "I can't say I 
 regret not having been In one myself. I wish that 
 loose bough would not knock at the shutter so — it's 
 jnuch too cold to go out and see to it." 
 
 But the knock came again — not at the shutter 
 this time, but at the door, and Doris had to get up 
 and go to it. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said the stranger whom she 
 found on the doorstep. "I knocked at the first 
 door I came to. I'm nearly frozen, and I wanted 
 a warm ; but really, I beg your pardon, the wind has 
 blown your candle out." 
 
 So it had; but there was a splendid fire, and the 
 cosy room was full of warm light. 
 
 "Come in," Doris said, without hesitation, and 
 the stranger walked in without waiting to be asked 
 twice. His thick outer coat was drenched, and the 
 rain dripped from the hat he took from his head. 
 
 Doris shut the door, and whilst she lighted the 
 candle again, bade him warm himself. 
 
 "Take your overcoat oft and hang it to the fire," 
 she said in a business-like manner, and the stranger 
 obeyed, to the extreme annoyance of Tudor, who 
 didn't like to be dripped on. 
 
 "They told me at Sandmouth that the vicarage 
 was the first house in cold weather," the stranger 
 explained, "but I'm sure I took a wrong turn, and 
 I suppose I've arrived at the wrong end of your 
 village. I'm coming to stay with Mr. Drumble, 
 he's my uncle. There is only one fly in Sandmouth 
 and It has gone to a dinner party five miles away, so 
 I walked it." 
 
 "If Mr. Drumble expects you, he'll be anxious 
 perhaps." 
 
 "No, he won't. For I was to come to-morrow. 
 But my ship got In a day early, so I came on." 
 
 He had not said he was a sailor, but he looked
 
 330 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 like one, and Doris lifted up her little table bodily 
 and put it away in a corner. It made her shy to 
 think of her amateurish account of a shipwreck 
 being so close under the nose of a sailor. 
 
 "I'm a frightful nuisance to you," he went on 
 cheerfully. "You were writing, and I've interrupted 
 the flow of your ideas! But really I was frozen. It 
 was a downright charity to let me come in and 
 thaw myself." 
 
 "I'll make you a cup of tea ; the kettle is boiling, 
 you see." 
 
 "It would be awfully good of you. But I'm 
 spoiling the writing." 
 
 "The writing will keep. In fact, I had just got to 
 a sticking place." 
 
 The stranger laughed comfortably. 
 
 "Who was in trouble? he asked, "the hero or the 
 heroine? I hope it wasn't the lady. Men are used 
 to it. Born to it, you know, as the sparks fly up- 
 wards." 
 
 He did not look as if his own troubles had 
 weighed heavily on him. He was, perhaps, a year 
 older than Doris; tall, straight, comely, with a bright 
 eye that seemed full of healthy merriment. His 
 manner was frank and free, but not free and easy; 
 on the contrary it was plain enough that he was 
 well-bred and used to the company of well-bred 
 people. His features were refined though strong, 
 and the hands he held out to the fire were those of 
 a gentleman, finely shaped, if rather large. His voice 
 was pleasant, and the tones clear, but not over 
 loud. 
 
 "I think I ought to tell you my name," he re- 
 marked smiling, "dropping down incognito like this. 
 I am, as I said, Mr. Drumble's nephew, and I am 
 Sir Ralph Berwick." 
 
 "My name," the young lady explained, "is Doris 
 Hepworth, and I am the schoolmistress."
 
 HER LADYSHIP 331 
 
 "Doris Hepworth ! I've read yarns by you ! Rat- 
 tling good yarns, too. I read one in the train to-day 
 and now I have interrupted you in the thick of 
 another." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Doris laughing, "it was providen- 
 tial. "I was describing a shipwreck and hoping no 
 one would read it who had ever been in one. Fate 
 may have sent you to tell me all about it." 
 
 At that moment another knock came at the door 
 and Sir Ralph Berwick looked as little pleased as 
 Tudor had been at his own arrival. 
 
 It was Mr. Drumble himself. 
 
 "Good evening," he said as soon as the door 
 was opened and without coming in. "I came down 
 to tell you that two of the little Baggs have devel- 
 oped measles and I think we shall have to close the 
 school for a week or so, till we know if any more 
 cases appear." 
 
 "Come in," said Doris. "It is much too cold for 
 you to stand talking in that wind, and I've a visitor 
 that belongs to you." 
 
 Sir Ralph, who was hidden by a tall screen, heard 
 all this and was rather amused at her self-possession. 
 Some young women in her position would, he 
 thought, have been slightly embarrassed by the ar- 
 rival of their "chief" at a moment when they hap- 
 pened to be entertaining a strange young man. 
 
 Doris was not in the least embarrassed. She led 
 her new visitor in and smiled cheerfully at his sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "Ralph!" he exclaimed, "how on earth did you 
 get here?" 
 
 His nephew explained and Doris continued her 
 preparations for tea. 
 
 "One cup of tea," she observed, "is not much of 
 a return for all the suppers you have given me." 
 
 Sir Ralph suppressed a smile; he perceived that
 
 332 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 his uncle was not so free from embarrassment as 
 their hostess. 
 
 "So he stands her suppers!" he said to himself, 
 "these quiet parsons know a thing or two." 
 
 Mr. Drumble longed to explain that it was only 
 when his sister was at the Vicarage that he enter- 
 tained Miss Hepworth. 
 
 "Ah!" he said diplomatically, "when Mrs. Eus- 
 tace comes again we must have more supper parties." 
 
 "Meanwhile it is my turn to be host," said Doris, 
 and invited the two gentlemen to sit down. 
 
 It was not a very late party when Mr. Drumble 
 and Sir Ralph said good night, it was not yet eight 
 o'clock. Then Doris went back to her writing. 
 
 A night or two afterwards Sir Ralph came again. 
 
 "My uncle has been called out to go to see an old 
 woman who lives at the other end of the parish," he 
 explained, "and when I got In from a long walk I 
 found a note from him saying we should not have 
 supper till nine o'clock. So I came round to inquire 
 how that shipwreck is getting on. I really was in a 
 shipwreck once, and I offer you the use of my ex- 
 perience." 
 
 He persuaded her, much against her will, to read 
 what she had written, and then he told her, briefly 
 but with a certain pictorial force, exactly what his 
 own shipwreck had been like. 
 
 "Can you work it in?" he asked when he had fin- 
 ished. 
 
 "Yes, I think so. I will try presently." 
 
 "Then I shall come again to-morrow evening to 
 hear what you have written." 
 
 "I took it for granted," Doris remarked pres- 
 ently, "that you must be in the Navy. I gather that 
 you are not." 
 
 "No. I was meant for the Civil Service, but I 
 didn't cotton to it. Then I chucked it, and I was too 
 old for the Navy so I went into the Mercantile
 
 HER LADYSHIP 333 
 
 Marine. I was determined to be a sailor of some 
 sort. My people were rather scandalized — they 
 didn't think the Merchant Service smart enough." 
 
 Doris smiled to herself and he noticed it. 
 
 "What amuses you?" he inquired. 
 
 "I was thinking we had something in common; 
 my people were scandalized, too; they didn't think 
 a village schoolmistress at all smart either." 
 
 "It seems to suit you." 
 
 "Yes, it does. I like being my own mistress, and 
 eating bread I've earned myself." 
 
 When he went away, which he did in a few min- 
 utes, Sir Ralph thought over this. 
 
 He did not unreservedly agree to it. Women, in 
 his opinion, should eat what man earned for them. 
 When he got back to the vicarage he found Mrs. 
 Eustace there. 
 
 "Philip wrote and said you were here," she ex- 
 plained, "and asked me and Jim to come and help 
 to amuse you. But Jim has an examination for pro- 
 motion on hand. So I came myself. Is Miss Hep- 
 worth still here? Phil never mentions her and I 
 don't like to ask; it's a sore subject, I expect." 
 
 Mrs. Eustace was still a chatterbox and soon told 
 her nephew all about it. 
 
 "He does not seem very lovesick," Ralph de- 
 clared, poking the fire unnecessarily. 
 
 "No? I daresay not. When she refused him, he 
 told her it didn't matter. It's a pity he was in such a 
 hurry. She would have looked after his shirts and 
 seen that he had his hair cut." 
 
 Ralph did not seem to think his aunt's idea a very 
 brilliant one, and that lady perceived the fact with 
 some amusement. 
 
 "We'll have her to supper again," she observed 
 cheerfully. "You and I can play cribbage and leave 
 the coast clear." 
 
 "I can't play cribbage."
 
 334 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "Oh, I'll teach you. The great thing is to give 
 them time, I must beg him not to propose again for 
 — well, say a fortnight." 
 
 "I should think once was enough." 
 
 *'0h, I don't know. I'm all for her marrying; 
 she's really very pretty and very well-bred, and quite 
 as well born as we are. It's all nonsense her being 
 a schoolmistress." 
 
 "There's something in that!" agreed her nephew. 
 
 "And," said Mrs. Eustace, "Phil's her only 
 chance." 
 
 Ralph poked the fire again, and smiled up the 
 chimney. 
 
 Mrs. Eustace stayed three weeks, and while she 
 was packing on the day before her departure, she 
 also smiled — into a hat box. 
 
 "I don't believe," she assured herself, "that Phil 
 will mind a bit. He has so little spirit." 
 
 Nor did he. 
 
 When she went down to tea her brother swallowed 
 three cups without saying a word. 
 
 "Where's Ralph?" she asked demurely. 
 
 "He has gone back to fetch Miss Hepworth — he 
 was here just now. He asked me to tell you. It's 
 just as well I did ask her too soon, though you were 
 cross with me at the time. Ralph will suit her far 
 better, and, though I enjoy your visits extremely, I 
 don't know that I should care to have a lady always 
 on the spot. It seems to upset the women servants, 
 and I could not stand being tidied as a regular thing. 
 During your visits I make the best of it. But only 
 to-day, you tidied two sermons together, and now I 
 can't tell which is which !" 
 
 "And you really don't mind? You're not disap- 
 pointed?" 
 
 "Not at all. But Ralph would have been. He 
 tells me he was so nervous till he knew what she
 
 HER LADYSHIP 335 
 
 would say, that he couldn't even read the news- 
 papers. I remember when / asked feeling nervous, 
 too — if she had said 'Yes,' there would have been 
 no backing out of it," 
 
 When Aunt Adeliza heard the news she tele- 
 graphed to her lawyer and made a new will without 
 a day's delay. As Sir Ralph Berwick was very well 
 off, and his wife could not possibly need any more 
 money, the old lady left her Billings Court included, 
 and that will was never altered. 
 
 "Doris," she wrote to her brother, "is the only 
 member of the family who ever had any decision of 
 character; she takes much more after me than after 
 you or her poor mother. Sir Ralph must bring her 
 here as soon as the honeymoon is over; Lady Ber- 
 wick must be introduced to her future tenantry."
 
 BY THE WAY 
 I 
 
 It's no use, sir," observed the railway guard (a 
 civil person with a rosebud in his button-hole), 
 "I'm afraid you'll not find a place. All the thirds 
 are full up. The train's moving — you'd better step 
 in here, sir." 
 
 And he held open the door of a first-class car- 
 riage, and assisted either the indecision or the in- 
 agility of Dom Maurus by a slight pat or push in 
 the small of the back, which landed him almost on 
 the knees of a young officer, who smiled pleasantly. 
 Dom Maurus dropped into the seat opposite, and 
 begged his pardon. 
 
 "The railway company," observed the only other 
 legitimate occupant of the carriage, "should pro- 
 vide more third-class compartments." 
 
 He was a gentleman of what is called a full habit, 
 with a great deal of double chin, and a neck that 
 overlapped his stiff collar considerably. The young 
 officer glanced at him, but turned his eyes away 
 again quickly, as though the briefest inspection were 
 quite enough to satisfy any desire he had had of 
 looking at the gentleman. 
 
 The stoutish gentleman had a good deal of lug- 
 gage and had so disposed it as to take up a good deal 
 of room. Dom Maurus had only a small bag, which 
 he contrived should take up no room at all, as he 
 almost sat on it. 
 
 "Pardon me," said the stoutish gentleman, "are 
 you going to London?" 
 
 Again the young officer glanced, hurriedly, at the 
 stout gentleman, and in doing so uncrossed his legs, 
 and crossed them again — as it were impatiently. 
 The glance and the gesture seemed to protest 
 
 336
 
 BY THE WAY 337 
 
 "surely this poor gentleman may go where he likes 
 without giving us any account of it." 
 
 "No," answered the young monk, "I am going 
 to Oldminster." 
 
 "Then you will have to change at Saxby. In the 
 slow train you will doubtless find plenty of third- 
 classes." 
 
 At this second allusion to third-class carriages 
 the young officer darted a third glance at the stout 
 gentleman and coughed slightly. 
 
 "Did you address me, sir?" asked the stout gen- 
 tleman, turning himself in his collar. 
 
 "Anything but," replied the young officer, with- 
 out a moment's indecision. 
 
 "Personally, I frequently converse with the 
 chance companion of a journey," remarked the stout 
 gentleman (whose portmanteaux had the letters 
 O. Y. stamped upon them in gilt). "Thus I enlarge 
 my knowledge of the race." 
 
 "To get tips?" suggested the young officer. 
 
 The only tips of which the stout gentleman had 
 cognizance were gratuities, and he looked vague. 
 
 "Life itself," he explained, "is but a journey. And 
 I snatch the chance of encounter of its little counter- 
 part to widen my outlook." 
 
 He widened his outlook at the moment by open- 
 ing his bulgy eyes to their utmost capacity. 
 
 The young officer slightly groaned and buried 
 himself in Punch. 
 
 "You, I take it," said O. Y., "are one of the band 
 of our brave defenders." 
 
 "I'm not," declared the young officer desperately, 
 "in the band. I doubt if I should defend you very 
 bravely." 
 
 "I used," observed O. Y., "the term 'brave de- 
 fenders' generally. Of your personal courage you 
 are yourself, no doubt, the best judge."
 
 338 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 He spoke with a smile of great extent, but super- 
 ficial depth. 
 
 "And you, sir," he said, slightly indicating the 
 intruded third-class passenger, with a little wave 
 of his fat hand, "are, as I apprehend, a Roman 
 priest." 
 
 It showed, I think, what a good fellow the young 
 officer was that he was much more savage with the 
 stout gentleman for his assaults on the third-class 
 passenger than bored by those levelled at himself. 
 He looked at O. Y. with a very plain intention of 
 demanding, "Why the mischief can't you let him 
 alone?" 
 
 "I am not a priest — yet," answered Dom Maurus, 
 "and I am not a Roman. Most of the younger 
 Roman priests are, I fancy, at present with the 
 Italian armies." 
 
 "I took you," said the stout gentleman, "for a 
 Catholic—" 
 
 "I am certainly a Catholic." 
 
 "And your dress is clerical !" 
 
 "You seem," remarked the young officer cheer- 
 fully, addressing O. Y., "to have made a clerical 
 error." 
 
 The stout gentleman slightly cleared his throat, 
 but did not look at the young officer. 
 
 "You state," he observed to his other victim, 
 "that you are not a Roman — " 
 
 "Any fellow could see," interpolated the young 
 officer, "that he was an English gentleman." 
 
 "But," continued O. Y., ignoring the interrup- 
 tion, "you admit you are a Catholic — " 
 
 "It is no admission. It is the best thing there is 
 about me." 
 
 The stout gentleman closed both eyes as firmly as 
 he had previously opened them, and slowly shook 
 his head. It was clear, his opinion that if being a
 
 BY THE WAY 339 
 
 Catholic was the best thing about the third-class 
 passenger he must be in a bad way. 
 
 He kept his eyes so long closed that the young 
 officer began to hope that he was going to sleep, 
 though he could not divine in what had lain the 
 narcotic power of his fellow-victim's very brief 
 speech. 
 
 But O. Y. opened his eyes again suddenly and 
 remarked — "I fail to understand why you denied 
 that you were a Catholic priest." 
 
 The young officer's disappointment made him 
 truculent. 
 
 "You fail to understand a lot, I daresay," he de- 
 clared. "Why not go on failing?" 
 
 "I am not habituated to failure. To understand 
 things is my unalterable custom: Why deny it?" 
 In answering the young officer the stout gentleman 
 had not looked at him : he had looked fixedly at the 
 direction for stopping the train. But he turned 
 largely to Dom Maurus to address him. 
 
 "Because it happens to be the case that I am not 
 a priest. I am only a deacon." 
 
 "A deacon!" cried O. Y. "And surely a deacon 
 is as much a young priest as a young elephant is a, 
 a, an elephant!" He spoke with the air of a man 
 who scorned trifling and subterfuge, and regarded 
 the trifler with some severity. 
 
 "A young deacon may become a young priest 
 certainly," said Dom Maurus smiling, "but a young 
 elephant is an elephant already." 
 
 O. Y. shook his head sadly. He had been pre- 
 pared to find Dom Maurus disingenuous, but this 
 was very bad. 
 
 "I perceived at once," he observed, "that you 
 were an ecclesiastic of the Roman Obedience. I 
 am seldom deceived." 
 
 "And I," almost wailed the young officer, "per-
 
 340 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 ceived at once that you were a bore of enormous 
 calibre : and oh, how glad I should have been to have 
 been deceived." 
 
 The stout gentleman grew a little purpler, but to 
 this attack he made no verbal rejoinder whatever. 
 Perhaps because, like Dr. Johnson on a certain 
 occasion, he had nothing ready. 
 
 "Your hair," he remarked to Dom Maurus, who 
 had long ago removed his hat, "is oddly cut" 
 — ("Good Lord!" cried the young officer) " — is 
 oddly cut," repeated O. Y. imperturbably. "I opine 
 that you are a friar." 
 
 "No," said Dom Maurus. "I am a monk." 
 
 Again the stout gentleman had the air of expos- 
 tulating thrice. 
 
 "A monk, not a friar. Very well, indeed." 
 
 "I wish I was a monkey," wailed the young offi- 
 cer, "a man-eating monkey. I'd do my best, though 
 it poisoned me." 
 
 "An officer and a gentleman!" remarked O. Y., 
 lifting a fat hand and dropping it again rhetorically: 
 smiling at the square toe of his immense boot with 
 an exasperating sense of having neatly triumphed. 
 
 The young officer seemed so very ready for retort 
 that Dom Maurus put in a plea for peace. 
 
 "I should leave him alone if I were you," he said. 
 
 "Yes, if he'll leave you alone." 
 
 "I don't mind it in the least. I imagine he is per- 
 fectly well-meaning." 
 
 The young officer looked with admiration at the 
 young monk — it was so abundantly evident that his 
 kindly tolerance was gall and wormwood to the 
 stout gentleman. 
 
 The young officer smiled, and leaning forward 
 said in a low voice — 
 
 "You are, I see, very well able to look after your- 
 self. I shall leave you alone and watch the fun."
 
 BY THE WAY 341 
 
 "I," said O. Y., rising so to speak in his stir- 
 rups, "am used to petulance." 
 
 Dom Maurus bowed, and no words could have 
 more clearly said, "You must occasion it pretty 
 frequently." 
 
 "But petulance," added O. Y., "never turns me 
 from my purpose. In life's course one meets many 
 men : and their life interests me. Yours does." 
 
 Dom Maurus bowed again. 
 
 "Yes, yours. Now tell me what it is." 
 
 "My life?" 
 
 "Yes. The life of a — I beg your pardon, not a 
 friar — but a monk. What does a monk do?" 
 
 "Well, sir; you see monks are men" (O. Y. 
 slightly raised his eyebrows as willing to let the 
 statement pass unchallenged) "and, like other men, 
 they do different things." 
 
 O.Y. again assumed the air of defying the whole 
 Church of Rome, to deceive him with shallow sub- 
 terfuge : let alone one deacon who wasn't man 
 enough to admit he was a priest and face the conse- 
 quences. 
 
 "I had hoped," he said patiently, "to have learned 
 what the life of a monk is from one who, who, who 
 undergoes it." 
 
 "Well, I myself am a Benedictine." 
 
 "Oh! A Benedictine," (he pronounced it like the 
 liqueur) "and what do you do? Make the bever- 
 age of that name?" 
 
 "It is not commonly used precisely as a beverage. 
 No, neither I nor any Benedictines in England 
 make the liqueur. It happens to be a patent of a 
 foreign house. I will tell you, if you care to listen, 
 what we do. We have a large school for boys, and 
 many of the monks teach in it, though not all. We 
 have a house of studies at Oxford, for ourselves 
 and for boys who have gone on from school — a hall
 
 342 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 in fact. At home we have a large farm where much 
 of what we use is grown; and that, of course, re- 
 quires management; some of the monks see to that. 
 There is, in so big a house, much correspondence, 
 and the Abbot and his assistants see to that. There 
 is a large, that is, extended parish, and two of the 
 monks attend to that. Some of our monks are great 
 students, and some are writers: apart from the fact 
 that we have a quarterly Review published at the 
 Abbey, and all its contributors are monks. So hur- 
 ried an epitome must be dry, but I hope you can 
 perceive even from it that one way or another we 
 have a good deal to do." 
 
 O. Y. slightly bowed and less slightly shook his 
 head. He intended to convey the impression that 
 he would not commit himself; that which as stated 
 by the young monk sounded a good deal might in 
 reality be very little indeed. 
 
 "You appear," he observed judicially, "to create 
 activity for one another. However, I am glad to 
 hear that there are activities (of a sort) " 
 
 "So far, then," said Dom Maurus, with an air of 
 relieved suspense, "we are fortunate in escaping 
 your censure." 
 
 "So far, yes. Observe, I do not enter in the dis- 
 cussion as to how far those activities are directed to 
 an end intrinsically good. To admit the Intrinsic 
 goodness of the end would be tantamount to admis- 
 sion that education in certain principles was itself 
 laudable. Now those principles " 
 
 ''Oh, Lord! cried the young officer, "why can't 
 there be a moderate railway accident? I'd sustain 
 a shock, or lose a toe or two, and never claim a 
 penny from the company, if only it would give you 
 aphasia." 
 
 So profane a wish really had momentarily the 
 effect desired. The stout gentleman was for many
 
 BY THE WAY 343 
 
 a minute dum founded; and he could (during that 
 lamentably brief period) only shake his head at the 
 rack for light articles, only on which a ponderous 
 bag of his own reposed. 
 
 "By principles," he said then, "I have through 
 life been guided." 
 
 *'I wish to goodness they had guided you into 
 some other carriage," cried the young officer, still 
 with great heat. 
 
 "The carriage has a door " O. Y. was be- 
 ginning. 
 
 "It has also a window," the young officer inter- 
 rupted darkly. 
 
 O. Y. smiled disdainfully. There were two win- 
 dows, but if the young officer had paused to consider 
 he must have perceived that the stout gentleman's 
 back would secure him from any chance of exit by 
 either of them. The stout gentleman did consider 
 It, and It restored his complacence. "You," he said 
 to Dom Maurus, "are, as you state, a Benedic- 
 tine " 
 
 "Are you going to prove that he's a Kummel or a 
 Curacoa?" moaned the young officer. 
 
 "And the Benedictines (I have heard the claim 
 advanced before) make some show of educational 
 activity. But there are monks who do not even set 
 up such a claim." 
 
 Dom Maurus bowed patiently. 
 
 "Monks who do not even pretend to do anything 
 whatever." 
 
 "Is that so?" 
 
 "That is so. Possibly as a Benedictine you may 
 excuse yourself from defense of the Carthusians — " 
 
 "Look here," exclaimed the young officer, "mind 
 what you're saying, / am an Old Carthusian." 
 
 For the first time the stout gentleman really did
 
 344 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 jump, and for the first time Dom Maurus laughed.. 
 The young officer looked so particularly young, and 
 his whole appearance was so far from being mo- 
 nastic, that O. Y. had some excuse for being taken 
 aback. 
 
 "This gentleman," explained Dom Maurus, "is 
 not claiming to be an old monk; he was probably 
 educated at the Charterhouse." 
 
 "He stated that he was an Old Carthusian — I fail 
 to comprehend." 
 
 "Comprehension ain't your strong point," ob- 
 served the young officer with unfettered candor. 
 "I'd knock it off if I were you. Try contrasted ig- 
 norance; you're cut out for it. You'd get the Gold 
 Medal for it any year." 
 
 "Come," pleaded Dom Maurus, "he does his best. 
 No, sir," (to the stout gentleman), "I should not 
 presume to excuse the Carthusians. Theirs is a rare 
 and high vocation." 
 
 "Vocation presumes calling. Who calls them?" 
 
 "He who calls you to serve Him, no doubt in some 
 different fashion." 
 
 "I, sir, am a Worker."' 
 
 ("I wish," murmured the young officer, "you were 
 at home; in your workhouse.") 
 
 "A worker, sir. That is my calling. To work for 
 good. To increase the sum of good in the world." 
 
 "The Carthusians, unseen and unheard, are em- 
 ployed, like you, in increasing the sum of good in the 
 world." 
 
 "By doing nothing! By leading idle lives — like 
 drones." 
 
 "I do not know that we need at present occupy 
 ourselves with the usefulness of drones, li they were 
 useless there would be something amiss with crea- 
 tion; for they would not exist had they not been 
 created by the same Wisdom that created the queen
 
 BY THE WAY 345 
 
 bees and the workers. It is enough to remind our- 
 selves that the drone is as essential to the bee race 
 as the queen, and more so than an equal number of 
 worker-bees. But at present we are talking not of 
 bees, but of Carthusians. They, and many like them, 
 such as Carmelite nuns, and the other pure contem- 
 platives, do their noble share in the Church's work 
 for God by contributing to its quality." 
 
 The young monk, as he ended, rather lowered than 
 raised his voice, but his final words were spoken with 
 a clear emphasis. 
 
 "You are probably aware," he went on more 
 quickly, "that many persons do, in fact, join our 
 Church?" 
 
 The stout gentleman lifted a sad hand, as who 
 would say, "Alas ! Too true." 
 
 "And what brings them to it?" 
 
 "Delusion!" 
 
 "No doubt you think so. But you must see that 
 they^ at least, would not so answer. They join the 
 Church because of a certain quality that they come to 
 recognize in her. Because in her they recognize some- 
 thing that they do not find elsewhere; a quality of 
 excellence that draws them; that which we call the 
 Note of Sanctity. If the Saints had not been Cath- 
 olics you may be sure that our preachers would 
 preach in vain; no subtle exhibition of doctrines 
 would suffice of itself to allure those who stand out- 
 side, were it not that they outside who have come 
 to us have first of all arrived at the instinctive con- 
 viction that in the Church is a quality unique ; and to 
 that quality the hidden contemplative has been con- 
 tributing through the slow and silent ages. Here, sir, 
 is Saxby, I believe ; and here I change into the local 
 train, in which I shall find, as you observed, plenty 
 of third-class carriages. You two gentlemen are per-
 
 346 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 kaps for London, and will continue your journey to- 
 gether." 
 
 "Not if this one of them knows it," said the young 
 officer, with intense conviction, hurriedly getting his 
 rugs and traps together.
 
 "POOR ELEANOR!" 
 I 
 
 THE question is — will any reader put up with a 
 heroine of thirty ? If it be assumed that no un- 
 married woman of that age can be worth writing 
 about, then the case of Eleanor Winton is hopeless. 
 For when she met Sir Oliver Morland for the first 
 time she had already kept (without much fun over 
 it) her thirtieth birthday. 
 
 As it happened he caught the first sight of her face 
 in a looking-glass: and the looking-glass was hang- 
 ing on the wall of a large room in a great London 
 hotel : and in the room a meeting was being held — 
 organized by a society for fostering friendly rela- 
 tions between this country and Germany. 
 
 Sir Oliver Morland had come there out of a cer- 
 tain curiosity as to what the speakers would have to 
 say, and what means they would suggest for insuring 
 the amity they both desired and believed in. At the 
 moment when he became aware of the lady's re- 
 flected face in the mirror he had just heard a very 
 high ecclesiastical dignitary declare that war between 
 England and Germany was "unthinkable"; but, in- 
 teresting as that decisive pronouncement was, he 
 found himself at once more interested by the face 
 he saw in the looking-glass. 
 
 Miss Winton was making some remarks in a low 
 voice to another lady seated on her left, and her head 
 was turned away from Sir Oliver and towards the 
 mirror; so that though he could only actually see the 
 back of her head he could see her face in the mirror 
 very well. It attracted him at once, not merely by its 
 beauty, though he thought it beautiful, but because 
 it seemed to him quite unusually interesting. Miss 
 Winton was rather tall, and also rather slight, 
 
 347
 
 348 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 though not thin ; her very dark eyes were not black, 
 but of a sort of deep shadowy gray, and while her 
 features were good it was the whole expression of the 
 face that gave a peculiar distinction to it. As the 
 lady beside her turned to answer what she had said, 
 the young man perceived that it was the Duchess 
 of Solway, whom he knew very well; at whose house 
 in Cumberland he was indeed going to stay within 
 the next few days for the coming of age of Lord 
 Rockcliff, her only son. 
 
 Catching his eye the Duchess smiled, and nodded, 
 and put on a queer little expression as much as to 
 say, "You here, too: and what do you think of it 
 all?" 
 
 Between them, besides Miss Winton, there were 
 two other ladies, unknown to either, who had fol- 
 lowed the speeches with severe attention, and had 
 applauded decisively as though that settled it. So 
 at present the Duchess and Sir Oliver Morland could 
 do no more than smile at each other. But after a few 
 minutes he received a little note from her, scribbled 
 on the back of a programme, and forwarded by 
 favor of Miss Winton and the two decisive ladies. 
 
 "Come to tea," it said, "and let's talk over this." 
 
 Whether he would have gone to tea at Solway 
 House when the meeting ended (with cheers for 
 King George and the Emperor William: with God 
 save the King, and without Deutschland iiber A lies), 
 if he had not seen Miss Winton's face in the looking- 
 glass, I cannot say; but it is certain he did go. And 
 it is certain that he found that lady still with the 
 Duchess. 
 
 "Well," said he, when she had introduced him to 
 Miss Winton, "I'm sure it was all very nice. Only 
 I wish that Herr Pastor, who spoke so tenderly of 
 his nation's longing for our love, hadn't pronounced 
 it 'loaves'. "
 
 "POOR ELEANOR/" 349 
 
 "Now, Aunt Elspeth," protested Miss Winton, 
 "if you're going to scoff." 
 
 "I'm not. I was merely expressing a wish. I 
 thought it a good meeting. General Pan looked 
 like a lion in a den of lambs. I wonder what he 
 thought of it all. Come, Oliver, what are we to 
 say? Is peace now a settled thing forever, and are 
 we to turn the Navy Into a fleet of pleasure cruisers 
 — perhaps Cook would buy them?" 
 
 "I'm sorry I took you to the meeting," said Miss 
 Winton. 
 
 "Well, I didn't particularly want to go. However, 
 I'm glad I did. The speeches were good. But, oh 
 dear!" 
 
 "What does *Oh dear!' mean. Duchess?" Mor- 
 land asked laughing. 
 
 "It means that I wonder how much the Emperor 
 William cares for it all." 
 
 "I expect he thoroughly approves," said Sir 
 Oliver. 
 
 "So do I," agreed his hostess. "That's just it. 
 He hasn't the slightest desire that we should dream 
 of war — " 
 
 "Nor do we," said Miss Winton. 
 
 "I'm sure we don't," declared Morland. 
 
 "No," said their hostess, "we dream of Peace, and 
 one fine morning he'll wake us up." 
 
 Then followed an argument, which need not be 
 repeated here. What concerns us is that they were 
 all very friendly and intimate together; so that 
 when, six days later, Morland and Miss Winton 
 found themselves together again at Solway Court 
 they did not meet as strangers. 
 
 He did not see her till he came down from his 
 room for dinner, and when he walked into the long 
 gallery, where it was the custom of the house for the
 
 3 so THE TIDEWAY 
 
 party to assemble before dinner, she was the only 
 other person in it. 
 
 He was not much given to consider the details of 
 a lady's dress; but it struck him at once that hers 
 was exactly suited to her : and he was sure that, 
 though her beauty by no means depended on mere 
 adornment, evening dress showed it off much better 
 than the present fashion of ladies' outdoor costume 
 which he happened not to admire. 
 
 He made some slight remark on the beauty of the 
 great gallery and its rather famous tapestry: add- 
 ing, "I have only been here once before. You, I 
 suppose, know the place well." 
 
 "I used to." Then, after a moment's pause: 
 "Till yesterday I had not been here for years." 
 
 Just then a Miss Chipchase came in, and soon 
 afterwards Sir Oliver had to take her to dinner. She 
 knew all about everybody and was accustomed to 
 talk about people. She read books and looked 
 at pictures (even landscapes when she could not help 
 it) , but people were her subject: that is to say people 
 of her own class. 
 
 "You," she said at a very early stage of dinner, 
 "are a friend of Rockcliff's, aren't you? You know, 
 he is my godson." 
 
 "I know him rather well now, but I have not 
 known him long. You see I'm ten years older and 
 he has only just stopped being a boy." 
 
 "He never will stop. Did you know the elder 
 brother, Lord Malbray? He would be just your 
 
 "No, I never met him. He was killed in South 
 Africa, wasn't he?" 
 
 "Yes; just at the end of the war. All the sisters 
 came between him and Rupert, as we called him 
 then. Of course, Rockcliff is only a Baron's title, and 
 it's a little odd for a Duke's eldest son to be only a
 
 ''POOR ELEANORr 351 
 
 baron, but, as you know, when anything happens to 
 an eldest son the next one, who steps into his shoes, 
 never takes the same courtesy title." 
 
 Morland did know, but was not particularly inter- 
 ested. What Miss Chipchase said next interested 
 him a good deal more. "You were talking to 
 Eleanor Winton before dinner," she went on. "Of 
 course, you know she was engaged to Malbray." 
 
 "No, I didn't. I only saw her for the first time 
 last week." 
 
 After a moment's pause he added: 
 
 "She must have been very young — if Lord Mal- 
 bray was killed thirteen years ago." 
 
 "She was barely seventeen when he became en- 
 gaged and he was killed three months afterward." 
 
 "She certainly does not look thirty now," said Sir 
 Oliver. 
 
 "How old should you have thought her?" 
 
 "I never gave it a thought till now. ... I 
 should say not more than five and twenty." 
 
 "The fact is," declared Miss Chipchase, "she has 
 looked exactly the same for the last seven or eight 
 years, and will go on looking the same perhaps for 
 another seven. I intend to look the same for the 
 next ten or twenty." 
 
 "You couldn't do better," said the young man 
 laughing. 
 
 "At all events," asserted the lady, laughing, too, 
 "it's a personal matter; when a woman is five and 
 ^iorty her looks only concern herself, and the public 
 has no right to ask questions." 
 
 "I didn't ask any. You told me." 
 
 "Certainly; but you ought to have said I only 
 looked thirty-five. Why should Eleanor get all the 
 compliments? Especially as she can't hear them, 
 and wouldn't care sixpence for them if she did." 
 
 Morland was rather glad she had got back to
 
 352 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Miss Winton; and, to do her justice, Miss Chip- 
 chase was much fonder of talking about other peo- 
 ple than of herself. 
 
 "Since Malbray died," she went on, "Eleanor has 
 put all that aside." 
 
 "All what?" 
 
 "Of course you know what I mean. Being so very 
 young, and having only been engaged so short a 
 time, most people thought she would get over it in 
 a year or two, and would probably marry someone 
 else — she was a lovely girl then." 
 
 "So she is now." 
 
 "Oh, I shouldn't call her a girl. Not exactly a 
 girl. I'm sure she never counts herself as one. And 
 everybody was wrong. I doubt if any man has ever 
 proposed to her during all these years — I don't be- 
 lieve anyone ever got the chance." 
 
 "You mean she didn't get over it." 
 
 "I don't mean that she has been thinking of poor 
 Malbray day and night for thirteen years. Nobody 
 can go on like that. But I'm sure she gave up, for 
 good and all, any idea of marrying. I like Rockcliff 
 very much, but Malbray would have made a better 
 duke and Eleanor would have made a typical duch- 
 
 ess. 
 
 "Then," said Morland, glancing at the head of 
 the table, "her aunt is not a typical duchess." 
 
 "No, of course not," Miss Chipchase agreed, also 
 glancing at their short, and rather plain hostess, "she 
 is only a duchess in real life. Eleanor would have 
 looked like a duchess by Gainsborough or Sir Joshua. 
 What a pity Malbray didn't marry her before going 
 
 out." 
 
 "That," observed the young man without enthu- 
 siasm, "would not have made her a duchess." 
 
 "No. But it would have made her a countess. 
 And I'd rather be a countess than Miss — Chip- 
 chase."
 
 "POOR ELEANOR!" 353 
 
 "I don't believe you would a bit. I'm convinced 
 you love being Miss Chipchase." 
 
 "Well," the lady admitted, comfortably, "it would 
 depend a little on the Earl. I shouldn't like one 
 who spent all my money, and went off to Monte 
 Carlo or Somaliland to shoot tigers and left me at 
 home to look after the poor people." 
 
 "There are no tigers in Somaliland — or Monte 
 Carlo either." 
 
 But while he chaffed Miss Chipchase the young 
 man was thinking of Miss Winton. 
 
 What the elderly, wealthy lady had told him was 
 quite true ; she was always right in her facts. Eleanor 
 Winton had engaged herself at seventeen to her 
 cousin, and from the day of his death had put aside 
 all thought of marriage. 
 
 "What I meant," Miss Chipchase observed pres- 
 ently, "was not quite what I said. I don't know that 
 I think so very much of being a countess " 
 
 "Of course not, or you'd be one." 
 
 "That's better. Now you're getting civil. But it's 
 not civil to interrupt. I do mean this — when a ter- 
 rible thing happens, like that that happened to 
 Eleanor Winton, I think it's better for her to be 
 really the poor fellow's widow than to be as she 
 was. The widow puts on widow's clothes, and knows 
 how to behave. In the other case it's not so plain, 
 she feels like a widow, but she isn't one. She has to 
 wonder what she must do — how far in widowness 
 she may go, just when she wants to cry her eyes out 
 and think of nothing. She feels the poor dead man 
 belonged to her more than to anyone else in the 
 world, and yet she can't quite show that. She has to 
 measure and weigh her actions, and what his own 
 people — father, mother, sisters — will feel and think. 
 Sir Oliver, if you think of marrying me, and choose 
 to go off to Timbuctoo, or somewhere, pray let us 
 get married before you go."
 
 354 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "But," objected he, laughing very cheerfully, "you 
 said you would not put up with such conduct in your 
 Earl, how could I propose it?" 
 
 He laughed cheerfully, but he was not thinking 
 of Miss Chipchase and her jokes. He was thinking 
 of Miss Winton, and wishing that his neighbor 
 would not trail off into these elderly pleasantries. 
 But Miss Chipchase was rather enjoying her sem- 
 blance of a bold flirtation. 
 
 "No," she declared, "that Earl would only have 
 married me for my money: you wouldn't dream of 
 doing such a thing." 
 
 "No, I wasn't dreaming of it — till you put it in my 
 head. Now, of course. ..." 
 
 "Well, well," crackled Miss Chipchase, delighted 
 (partly with a Fol-au-vent, that was really first-rate) , 
 "don't propose here. There's a place under the 
 stairs — in my young days people didn't sit under the 
 stairs between dances: but aiitres temps atitres 
 moeurs and we must live up to — the servants' hall. 
 Shall we say under the stairs at half-past ten?" 
 
 Though no other guests have been mentioned be- 
 sides Miss Winton, Miss Chipchase and Sir Oliver 
 Morland, the party at Solway Court was a large 
 one. The Duke's three daughters and the husbands 
 of those ladies were there, and more than a dozen 
 other relations and friends. Miss Chipchase could 
 not talk throughout dinner to Sir Oliver, nor could 
 he talk only to her. But his conversation with the 
 lady on his left has nothing to do with this story. 
 What Miss Chipchase told him has been quoted for 
 the sake of the information it gave him about Miss 
 Winton. 
 
 II 
 
 "You and old Patty Chipchase were as thick as 
 thieves at dinner," the Duchess declared about an
 
 'TOOK ELEANOR/" 355 
 
 hour after dinner was over. She had Sir Oliver in a 
 corner of the Saloon and was prepared for a little 
 tete-a-tete. 
 
 "Certainly we were. Our intimacy made rapid 
 strides. She has ordered me to meet her under the 
 stairs at half-past ten to make a formal offer of my 
 hand and heart." 
 
 "That won't do at all," said Her Grace. "She's 
 Rockcliff's godmother and must leave all her money 
 to him." 
 
 "Yes, she mentioned that — not that she had to 
 leave him her money, but that he was her godson." 
 
 "She's a useful person to sit next the first night 
 you're in a house, for she tells you who everybody 
 is and what they've done. That's why I sent you to 
 dinner with her." 
 
 "She was talking chiefly about Miss Winton." 
 
 "Oh, Eleanor!" And the Duchess shot one swift 
 glance at the young man. "There's not much to tell 
 about her. Everything that was going to happen 
 to her happened many, many years ago." 
 
 "Yes," said he, quietly, "Miss Chipchase told me. 
 Then he added : "It seems to me quite odd to hear 
 of 'many, many years ago,' in connection with her; 
 she looks so young." 
 
 He spoke gravely, in a low voice, remembering 
 how sad the subject must be to the Duchess herself. 
 For a minute or so she was silent, then she said : 
 
 "I wondered if you knew; I'm glad old Patty told 
 you. Eleanor was very nearly being my daughter 
 and her mother (dead even then, when my poor boy 
 was engaged to her) was my favorite sister. Of 
 course we hoped that Eleanor would — she was such 
 a child in years, though not in anything else, when it 
 happened — that she Avould do as other girls do, 
 and marry some good man who would make her 
 happy; not too soon, but after a year or two."
 
 356 THE TIDEJVAY 
 
 "Miss Chipchase seemed to think she had never 
 thought of it," he observed, not quite knowing what 
 to say. 
 
 "I don't believe she ever has. Oliver, I think 
 that's a mistake. I was his mother : but I don't think 
 one grave should bury two young lives." 
 
 Her words were very gently and tenderly spoken, 
 and the young man loved her for them. 
 
 "No man," she went on, "even the kindest — and, 
 Oliver, I know you are kind : no man, I think, can tell 
 what it is to a woman to lose her son. But I had my 
 husband left, and my other boy, and our three girls. 
 She had no one. Her mother was gone, her father 
 was gone, and she never had brother or sister. I 
 would have welcomed her here if she would have 
 made it her home — but she would not; partly, I be- 
 lieve, because she dreaded lest her presence should be 
 a standing reminder of my own boy. And she went 
 on living with her other aunt, Colonel Winton's sis- 
 ter, rather a grim old woman; and for years she 
 never even came here on a visit." 
 
 Again she paused, and then added: 
 
 "You say it sounds odd to you to hear us talking 
 of 'many, many years ago' in connection with her, 
 because she looks so young still. I can understand 
 that. But the truth is, I think, that her clock stopped 
 long ago. She became a woman in one day: and 
 Time has let her alone all these years: perhaps he 
 will let her alone till some other day when she will 
 become an old woman." 
 
 "I cannot bear to think of that," Morland an- 
 swered, simply. 
 
 He was not looking at the Duchess, but at the 
 picture her words called up. She, however, was look- 
 ing at him. 
 
 "He is good-looking," she told herself, "and looks 
 good. Honest, manly, quiet, and true-hearted. I
 
 "POOR ELEANOR/" 357 
 
 like him. So does Rupert, and I never knew him like 
 a man that was not worth it. Rupert isn't clever 
 like his father, or like dear Maurice; but he has 
 wonderful plain instincts about people that never 
 deceive him. If he" (she wasn't thinking of Rock- 
 cliff now) "if he likes her, why shouldn't she like 
 him ? I'd have trusted one of my own girls to him, 
 and I'd trust her." 
 
 Though the Duchess of Solway had married three 
 daughters to men of high name, rank and fortune, 
 she was not counted a matchmaker. But she was 
 a little romantic (in spite of her plump figure and 
 rather red cheeks) and she was uncommonly kind- 
 hearted. She liked her friends to be happy, and she 
 had almost a guilty feeling that Eleanor Winton's 
 chances of happiness should not be simply laid aside 
 because of the great sorrow that had fallen on the 
 girl through her own son's untimely death. 
 
 A very beautiful voice was filling the huge saloon 
 with its singularly clear true tones : 
 
 " 'Last necht,' " sang the voice, " 'the Queen had 
 Four Maries. 
 
 This necht she'll hae but three. 
 
 There's Mary Seaton, and Mary Beaton, and 
 Mary Carmichael and me. . . . ' " 
 
 "Listen," said the Duchess hurriedly, "I can't talk 
 if she sings that. It makes me want to cry." 
 
 Morland did not want to talk. He wanted to listen 
 to Eleanor Winton, He was not altogether Scotch 
 like the Duchess, but he was half Scotch, like Miss 
 Winton, his mother, like hers, having been of a 
 Highland family; and the exquisitely tender pathetic 
 song would have appealed to him even if it had been 
 sung by another voice. 
 
 It was the Duchess who^spoke, leaning nearer to 
 him and whispering. 
 
 "Ah! I remember! Your mother was a Hamil-
 
 358 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 ton, and of Mary Hamilton's line. Isn't it marvel- 
 ous how that girl's cruel death, who died such cen- 
 turies ago, can hurt us like this? My Jacobitism 
 begins with Mary Stuart, . . . Hush!" 
 
 Indeed he had not uttered a sound; he was eagerly 
 driniiing in the beautiful sad sounds of what he 
 thought was the loveliest voice he had ever heard. 
 Only once before had he heard the song, sung by a 
 man, and it seemed to him much more fit and touch- 
 ing from a girl's mouth. 
 
 He could see the singer now, for he had risen 
 from his seat as if out of respect; and he thought 
 that he was only now beginning to grasp fully her 
 grave and singular beauty. It did not seem to him 
 at all strange that no one for so many years had 
 ever thrust in upon her with any new tale of love. 
 What struck him as strange was that in his heart 
 he should have ventured already to have such am- 
 bitions. 
 
 Perhaps his shrewd neighbor guessed something 
 of his thoughts. When the song was finished, she 
 stood up and said to him: 
 
 "Poor Mary Hamilton. . . . Well, our 
 tears can do nothing for her now. She doesn't need 
 them; hers have been dried in heaven hundreds of 
 years before we were born. But that's our way, 
 isn't it? We cry our eyes out about sorrows that 
 have been turned into joys ages ago, and the people 
 that are sad still we leave to themselves." • 
 
 Upon my word. Duchess of Solway, I thing you 
 were a bit of a matchmaker, after all. But Sir Oliver 
 Morland only thought her a remarkably sensible 
 woman. And Miss Winton knew nothing at all 
 about it. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Sir Oliver Morland met Miss Chipchase for the 
 first time at Solway Court on the evening of the last
 
 "POOR ELEANOR/" 359 
 
 day of June in 19 14. He met her again on the 
 morning of the loth of August following on the 
 broad pavement of Whitehall, within a few yards 
 of the War Office. She greeted him with rather 
 more than the familiarity of an old acquaintance. 
 
 "Ho, ho ! Sir Oliver," said she. "A little bird has 
 been telling me news of you." 
 
 "It's a way little birds have," he remarked cheer- 
 fully. "Was your little bird the Morning Post?" 
 
 "The Morning Post? No. Has your engagement 
 been in the Morning Post 9" 
 
 "My engagement!" 
 
 "Oh, come ! Sir Oliver, I admit I tried In vain to 
 pump old Selina Winton — you might as well pump 
 the Desert of Sahara. How's her niece? How's the 
 other Miss Winton?" 
 
 "There's only one Miss Winton. The late Miss 
 Eleanor Winton — poor thing, didn't you know they 
 had put an end to her?" 
 
 "Lord! Sir Oliver. Put an end to her? You 
 make my blood run cold. Who did it?" 
 
 "It was done," said Morland, lowering his voice, 
 "by a clergyman." 
 
 "Goodness! Where ?"^ 
 
 "In his church; here, in London, yesterday. I 
 saw her myself just before — and just after, too." 
 
 "Sir Oliver, how fearful ! Didn't you try to pre- 
 serve her?" 
 
 "No. I knew what he was going to do — I sug- 
 gested it. I chose the hour and the place. We were 
 accomplices." 
 
 "Lord ! And what did she look like — before and 
 after?" 
 
 "Well, she looked, before the clergyman had done 
 his work, just like herself, like Miss Eleanor Win- 
 ton. Afterwards she looked like — Lady Morland." 
 
 "Come," cried Miss Chipchase laughing, "I've 
 known your mother pretty well by sight for twenty
 
 36o THE TIDEWAY 
 
 years or more. An excellent lady. But only a most 
 devoted son could think her in the least like Eleanor 
 Winton." 
 
 They both laughed, and Miss Chipchase looked so 
 like digging him in the ribs that he recoiled a 
 little. 
 
 "Well, well," said she, "I must congratulate you. 
 But it's very good of me. A jilted woman! You 
 were to have met me under the stairs at Solway, and 
 you never turned up. . . . But, Sir Oliver, I 
 don't like to meet you just here. I hope you're not 
 going in there." 
 
 She wagged her head towards the War Office. 
 
 "But I am," he confessed. "And what's more I 
 must go at once. I have an appointment." 
 
 "Poor Eleanor!" cried the really good-natured 
 woman and good-hearted old maid. "Sir Oliver, If 
 you go out to this horrible war and let a German kill 
 you, I shall never speak to you again." 
 
 "Why?" asked the young man, holding out his 
 hand, and laughing. "You may get to heaven, too." 
 
 But Miss Chipchase, as she pattered on her way, 
 could only go on repeating to herself "Poor Elea- 
 nor," and somehow I think the words may have been 
 heard in that heaven to which the young man had 
 made such light allusion as a little prayer for his 
 wife's happiness and his own safe return to her. 
 
 Pattering on her way, Miss Chipchase came to the 
 Cathedral, and into it she walked, though no service 
 was going on, and she had very little taste for either 
 religion or architecture. She crept into a corner, and 
 put up a little prayer for the young creatures who 
 had been man and wife so few hours, of whom one, 
 at the inexorable call of duty, was leaving his new- 
 born happiness in God's great hands, to find again, 
 or lose, as He might choose. It is not for me to put 
 down the homely, sincere words of her entreaty;
 
 'POOR ELEANOR!" 361 
 
 but we may know what her thoughts were like, and 
 they were something of this sort: 
 
 "He has no father. Eh! how he needs one to 
 lead and protect him now. If / can pity the poor 
 things . . . surely. . . . She must have suf- 
 fered enough — all those sad lonely years. Since 
 the other brave lad was taken she has had no one, 
 till now. Not this one, too. Oh, not this one too. 
 For mercy, not him as well. To give her the first 
 sip of happiness and take it away, it would be like 
 making a promise and not keeping it. Oh, let it 
 be kept ! I know it will. . . . He must come 
 back. Wounded perhaps; but alive. Alive; and to 
 live and see his own child. Please, please, please. 
 
 • • • • 
 
 The old maid (she was ten years older than she 
 had pretended) toddled home; but next day she pat- 
 tered back: and every day for three months she 
 came to the same shady corner, behind the pillar, in 
 the great dim fane. It became almost a superstition 
 with her — as if to omit it would be a menace to the 
 life she pleaded for. All over England, Ireland, 
 Scotland, Wales, all over France and far-off, little- 
 known Russia, millions were doing as she did. She 
 would not let herself off her share. Rain or fog 
 (and damp weather set the rheumatism to active 
 work in her), snow or shine, she crept daily to her 
 quiet unobserved place and made her untiring prayer. 
 She, in worldly things so talkative, never told any- 
 one : only she would come, and plead and plead. 
 Often (for she did say her prayers) she had asked 
 for odd-enough things, for stocks to go up, and 
 money that she did not need to come into her pocket. 
 But now she only asked for the one thing, and left 
 the shares alone. 
 
 In the drear November days she read In her news- 
 papers of "Captain Sir Oliver Morland, Queen's
 
 362 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Own Cambrian Rifles" — and his name was among 
 those supposed to have been killed, 
 
 "I won't believe it," she whimpered: trying hard 
 not to. "If I had to believe that — I couldn't believe 
 anything any more." 
 
 She flung the horrible paper away: and rang for 
 her maid, and demanded hat and outdoor things. 
 
 "It's raining, ma'am," the maid objected, "sleet- 
 ing, and a cold east wind." 
 
 "I'm going out. Hold your tongue, Simson; and 
 get me ready. Tell Porkins to whistle for a taxi." 
 
 And out she went. 
 
 "Wait for me here," she told the driver, as near 
 to the Abbey as she could get. "I shan't be long." 
 
 She was not long. But, inside, in her dim, shad- 
 owy corner she demanded (almost desperately) in 
 defiance of all logic that it mightn't be true. 
 
 Nor was it true. Captain Sir Oliver Morland, a 
 later telegram informed the War Oflice, was wound- 
 ed, and had been missing, but was alive, and in no 
 danger of death. But though he kept Christmas 
 with his wife, he had only a left arm with which 
 to raise his glass to drink her health. 
 
 "Oh, dear," thought Miss Chlpchase, "I should 
 have asked for both arms. However, it will keep 
 him at home, and that's what I meant."
 
 JOHN HARDWICK'S LUCK 
 I 
 
 JOHN Hardwick was glad enough when his inter- 
 view with Mary Layering was over. And that 
 in itself was a circumstance striking enough to merit 
 notice. For a time had been when the difficulty was 
 to make up his mind to leave her. In those days 
 their leave-taking had been wonderfully protracted, 
 and between John's first farewell and his last, half 
 an hour often slipped unheeded by. 
 
 Some men have many flirtations; John had never 
 indulged in one. And some are always in love and 
 out again half a dozen times a year. Jack Retallack, 
 for instance, who lived in the same "diggings" with 
 Hardwick, boasted, with some reason, that he gen- 
 erally made one suit of clothes last him through 
 three engagements. But Jack Retallack and John 
 Hardwick were very different men. No one ever 
 called Hardwick "Jack" and no one ever spoke 
 of Mr. Retallack. The latter was a month or two 
 the older, but the grave, rather severe manner of 
 Hardwick made people think him the senior. 
 
 John Hardwick was a dark pale man, with rather 
 thin lips, and keen solemn eyes. Jack Retallack had 
 curly, light hair, childish blue eyes, and warm, red 
 lips that were forever smiling. As has been said, 
 Jack had often been engaged, but no one ever 
 expected to hear of his being married. But John 
 Hardwick was a man of whose marriage one would 
 probably hear rather than of his engagement. He 
 had the faculty of keeping his affairs to himself, 
 without conscious effort, or any definite plan in so 
 doing. 
 
 Z^2
 
 364 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Nevertheless, he had been, if not explicitly, to all 
 intents and purposes, engaged to Mary Layering, 
 and now such engagement was to be entirely at an 
 end between them. 
 
 "You have every right to reproach me if you 
 like," he had said, "but I will not allow you to con- 
 sider yourself engaged to me ; and I am going away." 
 
 Though he said this he did not expect Mary to 
 reproach him. She was not a woman prone to re- 
 proaches, and she knew well that, in spite of his 
 words, John did not really accuse himself of any 
 fault in her regard. 
 
 "No," she said, "you could not help loving me, 
 and you could not help making me love you : there 
 was no making, it came of itself — inevitably. Be- 
 cause we were meant to love each other." 
 
 John smiled rather grimly. 
 
 "That seems a hard destiny, if we are not also 
 meant to marry each other," he observed. 
 
 "We are." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders a little. 
 
 "We shall certainly marry each other," she said. 
 "Your going away now will make no difference." 
 
 "I will not let you hold yourself engaged to me; 
 I may never come back. Certainly I shall not come 
 back unless I have what at present I see no chance 
 of — enough to marry you without your losing any- 
 thing." 
 
 "John, why will you persist in that? What do I 
 care for the things I should lose? I would give them 
 up to be your wife to-morrow." 
 
 "It is no use. I will not marry you — neither to- 
 morrow nor in twenty years' time, unless I can give 
 you a home fit for one who has had such a home 
 as yours . . . Good-by." 
 
 "I will not say Good-by." . . . And you, are 
 you to hold yourself engaged to me?"
 
 JOHN HARDWICK'S LUCK 365 
 
 "I will marry no one else . . . Good-by, 
 
 Mary." 
 
 "Nor will I marry anyone else but you. So we 
 are still engaged, wherever you go." 
 
 "No, Mary, we are not engaged. Will you say 
 'Good-by'?" 
 
 "I will say anything else. I will say 'Farewell,' 
 and I will say 'God bless you' ; you cannot make me 
 say 'Good-by'." 
 
 "I would rather be blessed by you than by anyone 
 on earth, Mary. But say 'Good-by,' too. It is only 
 a contraction for God be with you !" 
 
 "God be with you, dear. I do not like contrac- 
 tions; I will not say good-by." 
 
 II 
 
 Whether she would say good-by or not he was 
 gone, and for a long time she was to see him no 
 more ; nor was it at all likely that he would write to 
 her. Nevertheless, Mary Lavering neither pined nor 
 grew pale. Her nature was loyal and steadfast, and 
 she had a steadfast trust and patience. 
 
 As for John, his disposition was averse, almost 
 equally, from despair to sanguine confidence. 
 
 In his heart he intended to marry Mary, and knew 
 that in spite of all difficulty he would do it. But at 
 present there seemed no chance of it. 
 
 He had never known what to expect from his 
 uncle (the only relation he had ever known), but 
 he had certainly expected something considerable. 
 The old man, so far as he knew, had no one else 
 to leave his money to, and he was reputed to be 
 rich. Old Reuben Hardwick had lived sparingly, 
 but it was universally said that he did so out of miser- 
 liness, and not at all from poverty. "All the better 
 for John," people said; and the young man himself 
 had heard something of their whisperings. They
 
 366 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 had never seemed very fond of each other; In fact, 
 old Reuben loved nothing but money, and his nephew 
 was not of a specially affectionate disposition. One 
 would have needed a very affectionate disposition 
 indeed to grow fond of Reuben Hardwick ! 
 
 John Hardwick had for two years lived at Furze- 
 don Regis, and had only visited his uncle from time 
 to time. For Galeham, in the fens, was a hundred 
 miles off, and the young engineer had neither time 
 nor money to spare. Nor were two such men likely 
 to correspond much by letter. 
 
 And now old Reuben was dead, and it did not 
 seem that his nephew was to be any better off for it. 
 The old man had died suddenly, and search where 
 they would, no will could be found. Nor was any 
 money to be discovered, though the mattresses and 
 chair-seats of the cottage at Galeham were popularly 
 supposed to be stuffed with Bank of England notes. 
 
 It was after old Reuben's funeral that John Hard- 
 wick went back to Furzedon, and told Mary Laver- 
 ing that there must be now no engagement between 
 them. He had allowed himself ♦:o fall in love with 
 her believing that he had good prospects; his pros- 
 pects had now receded into the dimmest distance. 
 
 Immediately after his departure from Furzedon, 
 John Hardwick applied for a position abroad, and 
 the reply he received was encouraging, though he 
 was informed that no appointment could be hoped 
 for quite at once. 
 
 Then he went down to Galeham in the fens to 
 wind up the simple affairs there that remained to be 
 attended to. There was to be a sale of furniture of 
 the cottage, and as the cottage itself had been his 
 uncle's it was to be sold also. As next-of-kin, the 
 proceeds would be his, but these were not likely 
 to amount to much. In spite of their professed belief 
 that the armchairs were padded with bank-notes,
 
 JOHN HARD WICK'S LUCK 367 
 
 no one would be likely to bid the value of one bank- 
 note for any one of the chairs. 
 
 Ill 
 
 John Hardwick reached Oxham at half-past three, 
 and he had then to drive in a spring cart four miles 
 across the fens to Galeham. It was a cheerless and 
 chilly drive. A sulky, black wind came driving in 
 from the low coast, bringing with it the moaning of 
 the wintry sea. Bad weather was brewing up, and 
 the gulls were blown in upon the land ; they wheeled 
 and screamed in the ghastly gleams of pale, level 
 sunlight, over the deathly fens, and behind all was 
 the solemn murmur of the German ocean. 
 
 The man who drove Hardwick was a stranger 
 from Lincoln, and made no conversational efforts. 
 As for John, he was by nature a silent man, and he 
 was latterly more and more preoccupied. Ten weeks 
 ago he had come down like this to Galeham, sum- 
 moned by the telegram announcing his uncle's death, 
 and like this he had been driven over the fens from 
 Oxham. He was thinking of that now. 
 
 He had been shocked after a fashion, and even 
 to some extent grieved, by the sudden news of the 
 death of his only kinsman. He had come down in 
 no merry mood, but he had, he knew, been unable 
 to avoid remembering that his uncle's death would, 
 as he took for granted, improve very materially his 
 own worldly position, and enable him to propose im- 
 mediate marriage to Mary Lavering. 
 
 That was early in September, and the afternoon 
 had been hot and sunny; the sea had lain ever so blue 
 then beyond its saffron belt of sand, panting in the 
 blazing heat. 
 
 The cottage that his late uncle had occupied was 
 on the Oxham side of Galeham, and stood by itself 
 half a quarter-mile outside the village, so that John
 
 368 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Hardwick's arrival was noticed by none. He got 
 down, and the man handed down his bag, was paid, 
 and with a brief greeting turned his pony's head back 
 toward Oxham. 
 
 John stood, half idly, half absent-mindedly, watch- 
 ing him as the cart grew smaller and smaller, on its 
 way across the straight and level fen road. Then 
 he turned in to the cottage. 
 
 It was much as he had seen it last, except that 
 the flower-plot outside was more untidy, and the 
 whole air of the place more woebegone. 
 
 There was an old deaf caretaker who did not 
 hear his arrival; he found her in the kitchen peeling 
 potatoes, and she told him she had lighted a fire in 
 the parlor. But he found only a black grate with a 
 poker stuck up against it, and a few charred, and 
 evidently damp, sticks under the coals. 
 
 He bade her light the fire again and see that it 
 burned up. Meanwhile he would walk out for half 
 an hour; on his return let tea be ready. 
 
 He met scarcely anyone in the village; it was a 
 straggling, windy place, with no sign of life, and 
 Hardwick returned from his walk a little colder and 
 a little more depressed. In dull and solitary silence 
 he had his tea, and then followed a dull and solitary 
 evening. At eight o'clock the old deaf caretaker 
 brought him a chop and the potatoes he had seen her 
 peeling. When he had finished she removed the 
 tray (she had not thought it necessary to lay the 
 table) and brought him a bed-candlestick. She bade 
 him good night, and informed him that she had 
 got ready the old master's bedroom for him, as the 
 other let the rain in and she wasn't rightly sure what 
 the weather would keep like. At ten o'clock John 
 Hardwick himself went to bed, not because he was 
 sleepy, but because it was better than sitting alone 
 in the dingy parlor downstairs.
 
 JOHN HARDfVlCK'S LUCK 369 
 
 He was not at all a fanciful man, or superstitious, 
 but it did occur to him that the last man who slept 
 in that bed had never wakened, and after he had 
 put out the light he lay thinking of that lonely end- 
 ing of a lonely, unloving life. 
 
 And when he slept his dreams followed the cur- 
 rent of his last waking thoughts. It was natural 
 enough that they should, except that he was a man 
 who scarcely ever dreamed at all. And now his 
 dream was clear, and unconfused and very definite. 
 The old dead man in whose bed he lay was by his 
 side, and pointing with tremulous hand to a certain 
 scene or picture, and, as he pointed, his lips moved, 
 as when one who is tongue-tied by some great and 
 sudden shock strives to speak and can but form the 
 words with silent and unsounding lips. The scene 
 to which he pointed his claw-like, quivering fingers 
 was this : — 
 
 Upon a point of land, jutting far into a rock- 
 strewn sea, there seemed a grove of tropic trees, 
 tall palms, and date trees, sandal wood and tree 
 ferns, and between the emerald branches flashed 
 the sapphire sea. Strange birds slid down from 
 bough to bough, blue and gold and scarlet, and mid- 
 most of all, up rose one huge tree, whose like the 
 dreamer had never seen before. Its leaves were 
 shaped like the fingers of a giant hand, and they 
 were of a wondrous crimson, the bole, tall and 
 scaly, was ruddy brown, the flowers alone were 
 green, and these were trumpet-shaped, and of a 
 heavy fragrance, the sleeper could smell plainly in 
 his dream, a deathly, overpowering odor such as 
 he had never smelled. It was all so living and 
 pictorial that our John-a-Dreams could seem to hear 
 the sighing of the sea along the shore, the calling of 
 the birds of gold and blue, the rustle of the leaves 
 upon the strange and unfamiliar trees. And still
 
 370 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 the old dead man would point and point, and seemed 
 beside himself that John failed still to see what 
 the quivering fingers indicated. 
 
 But presently a large red bird, so like the leaves 
 in color that, sitting still among them it had passed 
 unnoticed, slid shrieking from its perch and fluttered 
 to a branch below. And John now noticed where 
 the bird had been around a white object half hid- 
 den among the ruddy leaves, and to that he under- 
 stood at length the old man pointed. As he 
 dreamed the sleeper seemed to be raised up and 
 close to the object which at first he could neither 
 see nor understand, and now he found it was a 
 naked skull, a whitened death's head, fixed upon a 
 branch of the unknown tree and staring with empty 
 eyeballs forever out across the hot and panting 
 sea. But were they empty — those cavernous sight- 
 less spaces? Nay, in one there gleamed a lurid 
 crimson light, as though the hollow had been fitted 
 with a crystal globe of blood, a horrible, wicked 
 eye of fiery crimson. 
 
 For ever so long this dream had seemed to last 
 when John awoke. He struck a light and looked 
 at his watch to find that it was half-past one. He 
 remembered that it was the hour fixed by the doc- 
 tors as that of old Reuben's death. The body had 
 been found at half-past seven, and had then, as 
 the doctors asserted, been lifeless for six hours. 
 
 IV 
 
 The writer trusts that it will be admitted that he 
 has not described an imaginative or romantic rnan. 
 Certainly not an impressionable and superstitious 
 
 one. 
 
 Nevertheless, John Hardwick, as he lay abso- 
 lutely wide awake, told himself frankly that the
 
 JOHN HARDfVICK'S LUCK 371 
 
 situation was peculiar — peculiar, and somewhat 
 "eerie," as it is generally called. Outside a low- 
 sobbing feeble gale crept round the solitary cot- 
 tage, and then went on its way, out among the 
 lonely fens. Otherwise there was dead silence, nay, 
 not dead silence, for on the stairs close beside 
 Hardwick's door, an old clock ticked loud and 
 solemnly; the same clock that had ticked delib- 
 erately out the old miser's life; that had ruthlessly 
 struck his death hour. Many a time, no doubt, in 
 the sleeplessness of age, he had lain awake as his 
 nephew lay now in his bed, listening to its weary 
 monotone. 
 
 Oddly enough, in such a man, John Hardwick 
 was convinced that his dream was no dream at all 
 in the common sense. He never dreamed. And this 
 had been not like any dream. He had been a wit- 
 ness, an actual living witness, of some distant scene, 
 distant but real, and actually existent, as he felt quite 
 certain. Hardwick was a man roughly practical and 
 un-ideal of temperament, nevertheless he was con- 
 vinced, and, with a singular directness, he hit at 
 once on something very near the truth. 
 
 He was certain that there was, somewhere on the 
 earth, such a place as he had seen, with such birds 
 and trees and shore. And that the last sleeper in 
 that bed had, in the supreme moment of his dis- 
 solution, had that scene pictured on his brain, and 
 in his heart, the young man felt convinced. And 
 this, he admitted to himself, was rather gruesome, 
 for it brought the old dead man and his own living 
 self into so odd a relation now; into a rather ghastly 
 and altogether unusual telegraphic connection — the 
 living with the dead, in the very place of death of 
 the dead person. 
 
 Ultimately John Hardwick slept again, and 
 dreamlessly, as was his wont. But when he awoke
 
 372 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 in response to the old deaf caretaker's loud bang- 
 ing at his door, the dream was not forgotten. Nor 
 did he, as we shall see, ever forget it. 
 
 Much sooner than he expected John Hardwick 
 received the offer of an appointment. It appeared 
 that the native ruler of the Suleiman Islands wished 
 to build roads in his dominions, and even a light 
 railway in the principal island, and had been per- 
 suaded by the British Resident at his court to en- 
 trust the work to an English engineer. The Sulei- 
 man Islands are a long way off, and the largest of 
 them is nearly bisected by the Equator. They are 
 numerous and scrappy, so that the work to be done 
 was not likely to be important. Otherwise it would 
 doubtless have been offered to an older man with 
 more reputation. 
 
 John Hardwick was given a week to make up 
 his mind, and he did actually accept the appoint- 
 ment within twenty-four hours. 
 
 He lodged within a minute's walk of the British 
 Museum, and as soon as he had read the letter con- 
 veying the offer of the appointment he put on his 
 hat and walked over there. Leaving his stick at 
 the entrance he marched into the library and wrote 
 out a demand for "Encyclopaedia Britannica," latest 
 edition. Vol. SOL to SPA. It was brought, and 
 he turned to Suleiman Islands and set himself to 
 find out something about them. 
 
 The Suleiman Islands, he learned, are 365 in 
 number (what important group of islands is not?), 
 and lie all within the first parallels of north and 
 south latitude; Jehar, the largest and seat of gov- 
 ernment, being divided into two nearly equal parts 
 by the Equator. It is also divided by a range of
 
 JOHN HARDWICK'S LUCK 373 
 
 mountains of some altitude, so that the climate of 
 the capital situated near their summit is less torrid 
 than would be expected. Many of the islands are 
 very small, some mere coral islets of a few acres in 
 extent. They are governed by a native sultan, 
 nominally under the suzerainty of the Sultan of 
 Johore, but actually independent. Owing to the 
 geographical position of the archipelago, combined 
 with the mountainous character of the larger islands 
 (which are volcanic and not coralline in origin), 
 the fauna and flora are singularly varied. Hig- 
 ginsia Maniflorens Rubra, found nowhere else on 
 the globe, Is a native of these remote islands of the 
 Pacific. 
 
 As Hardwick left the Museum he was accosted 
 by an acquaintance from the country. Jack Retallack, 
 who seemed unreasonably pleased by the chance 
 meeting. 
 
 "I'm going in," explained Retallack, "to consult 
 an authority concerning a plant I found the other 
 day." Hardwick knew he was a botanist, and had 
 always rather looked down on that science in con- 
 sequence. Like many rather solemn men, he mis- 
 took the other's boyish light-heartedness for 
 flightlness. 
 
 Hardwick told him of the offered appointment. 
 
 "Suleiman Islands!" said Retallack, meditatively, 
 "that's where Higginsia Rubra Maniflora grows. 
 If you come across it I wish to goodness you would 
 send me home a seed or two if you can find any. 
 But it's very rare, ev€n there, and they say it seeds 
 only once in twenty years." 
 
 "What's it like?" interrupted Hardwick. 
 
 "Well, I can't describe It, never having seen it. 
 But there's no mistaking It, If you do see it, for 
 the leaves are blood color, and are shaped like an 
 outspread hand. The flower — when you catch it In
 
 374 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 flower — Is enormous, and of a brilliant parrot 
 green like a long green trumpet; the seed is as big 
 as a pigeon's egg, or nearly, and is ruby color, much 
 the color of the leaf." 
 
 VI 
 
 John Hardwick accepted the post and went out 
 by the next boat; his friend at the Colonial Office 
 cabling out meanwhile that he was being sent; his 
 credentials he took with him. From London to 
 Singapore by P. & O. took thirty-three days, and 
 that was a day short of the advertised time. At 
 Singapore he had to wait five days for the "ditcha" 
 that was to take him on to the Suleimans. Unlike 
 the P. & O., this was two days behind Its time, so 
 the five days became, In the result, seven. 
 
 The voyage In the coasting steamer was unspeak- 
 ably wearisome. After the luxury and space of 
 the great liner, with Its round of amusements and 
 host of pleasant companions, the dirty, rickety 
 "tramp," Ill-found and scarcely seaworthy, seemed 
 a dingy and unclean prison. Hardwick was the 
 sole passenger, and the skipper and his mate were 
 no sort of companions for a gentleman; they were 
 both half-castes, and surly, scampish-looking ruf- 
 fians at that. But there Is little traffic to the Sulei- 
 mans, and John Hardwick knew there was no 
 choice; a somewhat taciturn man, he took refuge 
 in silent isolation. 
 
 On the fifteenth day (the voyage was to take 
 twenty or twenty-one) the least experienced sailor 
 could not have failed to see signs of mischief brew- 
 ing, and two hours after sunset the tornado broke. 
 From the first Hardwick was certain that with such 
 a craft they would never weather It. Nor was he, 
 as it turned out, deceived. The captain was more
 
 JOHN HARD WICK'S LUCK 375 
 
 than half-drunk, the mate almost beside himself 
 with terror, the crew (and the vessel was shame- 
 fully undermanned) might have been decent fellows 
 in better hands, but were nearly useless as it was. 
 
 The darkness was indescribable ; a palpable, ma- 
 terial blackness, like the ancient darkness of Egypt. 
 At the most hopeless hour of night, two hours after 
 midnight, the ship struck and began almost instantly 
 to sink, sliding back into deep water. 
 
 John Hardwick was a splendid swimmer, but 
 whither should one swim, in such utter blackness 
 and in such a sea ! Apart from the question of 
 actual fear there was something unearthly in strik- 
 ing out thus into the impenetrable blackness. But 
 the water was at least warm, and above all things, 
 it was necessary to get free of the sinking craft. 
 
 More, as we say,; by luck than management, 
 Hardwick was carried in the direction where alone 
 lay any hope of safety. After what seemed an age, 
 but was really less than a quarter of an hour, he 
 suddenly felt a beach beneath his feet, and, scarcely 
 able to believe in his deliverance, he climbed a 
 steeply shelving shore and was on land. Still the 
 driving foam drenched him, and the appalling din 
 of wind and wave and breaker continued to daze 
 his numbed senses. 
 
 VII 
 
 Day broke slow and sullen, but the tornado had 
 passed upon its way, and hour by hour the mad- 
 dened, tortured sea grew calmer. 
 
 When it was fully light John Hardwick ven- 
 tured to move and look about. He was on an islet 
 not more than half a mile in breadth, and not a 
 mile in length, but comparatively high at its eastern 
 end, behind which the sickly light was growing. It 
 
 ^
 
 376 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 was thickly clothed with trees, and a corona of rock 
 islets, some supporting a single palm, some quite 
 naked, wreathed around it. Of the ship there was 
 no sign whatever, nor of any of its crew scarcely a 
 sign yet, even of Its wreckage. 
 
 John Hardwick clambered up the steep and 
 rocky shore, and walked Inland, partly to stretch his 
 stiffened limbs, partly out of a natural curiosity to 
 see more of his solitary domain. Perhaps some 
 of his late companions might be there hidden among 
 the trees or out of sight upon the other shore. But 
 by noon he had found no one, and was finally con- 
 vinced that he had the island to himself. It had, 
 however, a large population of land and sea birds; 
 the former of strange and gaudy brilliance of 
 plumage ; and there were myriads of a small and 
 pretty animal of the gazelle tribe, but scarcely big- 
 ger than a hare. 
 
 Growing at last very hungry he made a nutri- 
 tious meal of sea-fowls' eggs, of which there were 
 thousands all along the shore. He had to eat them 
 raw, and this he found distasteful, but at least, he 
 thought, there seemed no fear of actual starvation. 
 He had seen several good springs of fresh water, 
 and there were abundant fruits, so he was without 
 present anxiety. Concerning the menaces of the 
 future, John Hardwick was not liable to anxiety. 
 After his meal he rested for a while, then con- 
 tinued his explorations. In the center of the Isle 
 there rose a mound topped with a bald green patch, 
 free of trees or bush, and toward this he bent his 
 rather aimless steps. He was soon there, and the 
 beauty of the outlook repaid the brief exertion. 
 The sapphire sea lay all about to east and west and 
 north and south, but eastward and northward it 
 was set with countless emeralds, islets like his own 
 of varying size and form.
 
 JOHN HARDWICK'S LUCK 377 
 
 The gloomy dawn had brightened to a moon of 
 cloudless heaven and broad and golden sunshine. 
 John Hardwick flung himself down upon the 
 smooth turf and thought upon the strange destiny 
 that had set him here alone, the sole monarch of 
 an unpeopled kingdom in the tropic sea. What was 
 most strange was that he had an odd sense of fa- 
 miliarity with it all, as though the scene were in 
 truth familiar. 
 
 Just beneath him, almost overgrown with brush 
 and tangle, was a jutting spire of coral rock. It 
 was tilted, as it were eastward, and, but for the 
 surrounding growth, would have cast a shadow like 
 the index of a sundial. 
 
 Some idle impulse made the young man descend 
 and examine it more closely. He began to tear 
 away from it the circling bonds of creeping plants 
 that had flung themselves about it, and presently, 
 deeply cut into the eastern face of the rock, he came 
 upon two letters, carved indubitably by a human 
 hand; the letters were R.H. They were very fa- 
 miliar initials to him — those of his old uncle's name, 
 Reuben Hardwick. 
 
 Oddly enough, a red flush mounted to John 
 Hardwick's dark pale face, as he stood staring at 
 the carved letters in mute surprise. He was quite 
 certain that no hand but the old miser's had cut 
 them there: common as the initials were he recog- 
 nized their form and character. 
 
 His unforgotten dream again asserted itself, and 
 the unromantic practical man was convinced of his 
 destiny, of the strange web of fate that had brought 
 him hither. He recognized in all his surroundings 
 the island of his dream. 
 
 He set his back against the rock and looked 
 straight before him; his gaze showed him the east- 
 ern promontory of the isle almost hidden by a rising 
 knoll five hundred yards away. Thither he made
 
 378 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 his way, and gaining the summit of the knoll, he 
 saw beneath him, blazing amid the tangled green 
 of the tropic foliage a blood-red patch of color. 
 His heart beat as he made his way toward it, and 
 five minutes later he saw before him the very scene 
 of his dream. High overhead towered the blood- 
 red tree, with weird leaves like the spread fingers of 
 a ghastly crimson hand, and great trumpet flowers 
 of brightest parrot green. Close beneath was the 
 sapphire glancing of the sea, the saffron belt of 
 sanded shore, and, all about, the flashing of the 
 strange birds, blue and gold and purple, that slid 
 from bough to bough, and cracked the hot silence 
 of a tropic noontide with their astonished chatter- 
 ings — for a quarter of a century no human eye had 
 looked upon the scene; the oldest parrot of them 
 all had never seen a man. 
 
 Suddenly as John Hardwick gazed upward into 
 the mysterious red-leafed tree, a bird, also of the 
 parrot kind, but of almost the same sanguine tinc- 
 ture as the foliage of the tree, spread its wings 
 and fluttered down from the perch where It had 
 sat weirdly watching the strange invader. 
 
 Behind, gleaming white among the red, was a 
 death's head, staring for ever towards the rising 
 sun. A lambent weird flame of crimson fire seemed 
 to pour from one eye-place ; the other was dark and 
 vacant. 
 
 It was no easy matter to climb the tree and sit 
 where the bird had been upon the lofty branch, but 
 Hardwick did it, and when he stood again upon the 
 ground he held in his almost trembling hand a huge 
 roundel of liquid, crimson flame, the Ruby Eye, the 
 largest ruby in the world. 
 
 VIII 
 
 For five weeks John Hardwick lived alone upon 
 the isle and the presence of the Great Red Eye be-
 
 JOHN HARDWICK'S LUCK 379 
 
 came hateful to him. There was the ever-present 
 sentiment of Fate's mockery that had given him a 
 kingdom and a king's wealth, and taken all else 
 away. And there was the horrible weird stare of 
 that unwinking eye of flame. 
 
 Nevertheless he was not one of those who having 
 in so strange a manner found such a gem would 
 fling it away or lose it. 
 
 And at last his lonely abandonment came to an 
 end. One morning, seated on the mound at the 
 center of the isle, he saw rising out of the southern 
 horizon, a gleaming sail; and hour by hour it grew, 
 till an hour or so before sunset it was close to his 
 seagirt territory. His signals had been seen, and 
 rescue and escape were close at hand. 
 
 At length a boat put out, and he went down to 
 meet it. He had nothing to pack up, nothing to 
 take away, except one round stone, not larger than 
 a bantam's egg, and yet, tattered and ragged as he 
 was, he knew, as he walked down to the shore, that 
 he had hidden among his rags much greater wealth 
 than that of the owner of yonder trim yacht, who- 
 ever he might be. 
 
 The yacht was English, and the castaway met 
 with an English welcome and, as the cruise was one 
 of pleasure only, and restricted by no necessities of 
 time or destination, the good-natured owner at once 
 declared that he would take Hardwick to Jehar, 
 and this accordingly was done. The British Resi- 
 dent listened with interest to the account of Hard- 
 wick's shipwreck and five weeks' residence upon the 
 coral island; but his welcome struck John as being 
 the reverse of warm. 
 
 "The truth is," he explained, when the tale of 
 adventure was finished, "your arrival is a serious 
 embarrassment to me. I did not expect you." 
 
 "You guessed I had been wrecked, and did not
 
 38o THE TIDEWAY 
 
 expect to see me alive!" said Hardwick, his dark 
 face flushing angrily. 
 
 "The fact is I did not expect to see you at all. I 
 was absent when Garstang's cable arrived; as soon 
 as I got home I cabled to him to stop your de- 
 parture. Hearing no reply, I supposed I had been 
 in time; I did not know you had been so prompt." 
 
 "To stop my departure ! Had you any objection 
 to my appointment?" 
 
 "None whatever. But the Sultan had. He re- 
 fused at once, and peremptorily, to sanction it." 
 
 "Refused? And why?" 
 
 "That I cannot tell. At first he made no objec- 
 tion at all. But on the following day he sent for 
 me, and stated his determination not to employ you; 
 nor will any persuasion alter his decision." 
 
 "Can I see him!" 
 
 "I scarcely know. I will ask him." 
 
 The Resident went at once to the palace. In an 
 hour he returned. 
 
 "I have induced him to grant you an interview; 
 it was with great difficulty. You had better come 
 at once before he changes his mind — before he has 
 time to see his mother." 
 
 John Hardwick stared. 
 
 "I am sure," said the Resident, "that It was some 
 machination of the old Begum's that made him turn 
 against you in the beginning. He was perfectly well 
 disposed at first. She is a bigoted and very super- 
 stitious old woman, of a very strong character; 
 clever, determined and politic, but utterly retro- 
 grade, and anti-European. She has persuaded the 
 Sultan not only to refuse to ratify your appoint- 
 ment, but also to relinquish the engineering plan 
 altogether. 
 
 As they arrived at the palace the Resident added : 
 "You will, of course, be reimbursed for your loss
 
 JOHN HARDWICK'S LUCK 381 
 
 of time, and all that, and generously, you may be 
 sure; the Sultan is immensely rich and most open- 
 handed. So, to do her justice, is Aijamand Begum." 
 
 The Sultan, a young man of three and twenty 
 years of age, received the Resident with distinction, 
 Hardwick with courtesy, but coldly, and with evi- 
 dent displeasure. Hardwick was interested and 
 pleased with the young potentate; his skin was fair, 
 and the character and expression of his face was 
 earnest, dignified and noble. But it had some ele- 
 ments of weakness. To the great surprise of the 
 Resident the Sultan withdrew into an inner cabinet 
 and signed to Hardwick alone to follow him. 
 
 Then he spoke in a low, cold voice, courteously, 
 but without any smile of encouragement or polite- 
 ness. 
 
 "The Resident has told you that I have refused 
 to sanction your appointment. I will tell you why. 
 Afterwards you can, if you choose, tell him. I 
 would not tell him, for I have no desire to prejudice 
 him against you, who may be an innocent man. As 
 soon as I have given this explanation I shall expect 
 you to return to the British Residency and not 
 leave its precincts till you can be deported, which 
 will be in a few days, from my dominions," 
 
 Hardwick was astonished, and looked it. 
 
 "And what," he inquired calmly, "is your High- 
 ness's objection to me?" 
 
 "My objection is first of all to your name. Many 
 years ago there came to the court of my father an 
 English adventurer called Roo Ben Ardwick. 
 Your name is also Ben Ardwick." 
 
 "Excuse me, it is John Hardwick. But Reuben 
 Hardwick was my uncle." 
 
 "You admit it! Well, that man won the entire 
 confidence of my father, but he abused it; he stole 
 from the treasury the Great Eye, the talisman of
 
 382 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 our dynasty; a ruby that in itself was worth a hun- 
 dred kings' ransoms, and was the amulet, the load- 
 stone of our royal race. He stole it and escaped in a 
 coasting ship, but Fate followed him. The ship was 
 wrecked and he was, no doubt, drowned; but with 
 him the Great Eye of Suleiman sank also to the 
 secret depths of the ocean. Were it known among 
 our people, we might lose the very throne itself, 
 for the old prophecy saith : 'Till the Red Eye sees 
 no longer the line of Suleiman shall reign on the 
 islands of the sea.' If our people knew that the 
 Great Eye had sunk into the dark ocean, they might 
 rise against us, as abandoned by Fate." 
 
 Hardwick listened with a quiet interest. 
 
 "And your Highness thinks that my name is evil- 
 omened; that I might bring you further loss and 
 trouble." 
 
 "Perhaps," the young prince answered patiently. 
 "At any rate, your name is insufferable. It must 
 not be heard here. As for your loss. . . ." 
 
 "Nay, I have lost nothing. If you send me away 
 I might go richer than I came. But . . ." he thrust 
 his hand deep into his breast and drew forth a 
 leathern bag. "Your Highness," he said, "I am 
 come to repair, not to complete the loss that came 
 with my uncle. How he passed his youth I know 
 not. That it was passed in outlandish countries I 
 often heard. But that he was not drowned I know. 
 He had the character of wealth, but showed no 
 signs of it. He died, and I should have been his 
 heir, but he seemed to leave nothing for me to in- 
 herit." 
 
 Then John Hardwick, in a few concise sentences, 
 told the prince his story, and ending it drew from 
 its leathern bag the huge Red Eye of Fire. 
 
 "One of my name took away the stone," he said, 
 "and I give it back again,"
 
 JOHN HARDWICK'S LUCK 383 
 
 "And you give it back thus ! When no one 
 guessed of its existence, when you could so easily 
 have taken it away forever; when you have been 
 so poorly treated by us here. You give it back, and 
 you make no conditions !" 
 
 "It is yours," said the Englishman quietly. 
 "How can I make any condition?" 
 
 The Sultan smiled gravely. 
 
 "You are like a prince," he said, "and I am also 
 a prince." 
 
 The British Resident was called to their counsels. 
 With him the Sultan spoke aside for a few mo- 
 ments, then the Resident turned to Hardwick. 
 
 "His Highness decides to carry out the engineer- 
 ing works as he at first intended, only on a much 
 larger scale, and only on condition that you under- 
 take them; he offers you two thousand a year for 
 five years and a retaining fee of twenty thousand 
 pounds down."
 
 A PRELUDE IN WINTER 
 
 It's silly," said Rupert de Grandmaison to him- 
 self, "but it's true — I've lost my way: if there 
 can be said to be any way ..." and he peered 
 through the gathering dusk to left and right, straight 
 ahead, and turned to look backward, as he had done 
 twenty times already, with as little result as ever. 
 
 " 'Oh, Salisbury Plain is bleak and bare,' " he 
 quoted to himself, also for the twentieth time, add- 
 ing, "I wish I could say (like the Reverend Thomas 
 Ingoldsby), 
 
 'At least so I've heard many persons declare 
 For to tell the truth I've never been there.' 
 "I'm there, and just at present I'd as soon be 
 somewhere else. What's it going to do next — snow 
 
 "DM 
 
 or ram: 
 
 As to that, at all events, he was not long in doubt, 
 for the snow presently began, and the dim light that 
 remained was soon swallowed up in it. 
 
 "It's silly enough to be lost, but it's worse than 
 silly to find oneself benighted as well — ^de-cidedly 
 awkward,' as the cow said when the train ran over 
 her. No train hereabouts, though. No anything. 
 The last tree was half an hour ago, and the last 
 house was an hour before that : and the old deaf man 
 in it couldn't understand where I wanted to go be- 
 cause I told him I was quite ready to go anywhere if 
 he would kindly tell me the way there. . . . Quite 
 Canadian this: ought to seem homely, but it's a bit 
 too homely when nobody seems to have a home any- 
 where round." 
 
 Nevertheless the young soldier did not look much 
 depressed. His face was cheery, and so was his voice, 
 
 384
 
 A PRELUDE IN WINTER 385 
 
 and so was his way of walking : some people have a 
 dismal manner of walking that you can notice a quar- 
 ter of a mile off. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I'm determined to get some- 
 where: England's such a scrap of an island anyway, 
 that if you stick to it you must get to the sea if you 
 walk straight on. I wonder if I shall strike South- 
 ampton or South Shields." 
 
 "One thing Salisbury Plain isn't," he confessed, 
 "and that is, flat. One is always going uphill, unless 
 one's going down, and it's generally up. I wonder 
 if there's anything particular at the top of this hill?" 
 
 After seven or eight minutes he found that there 
 was a shepherd there. 
 
 "If I keep straight on shall I come to anywhere?" 
 Rupert shouted, not because there was a high wind 
 to speak against but because he concluded that the 
 shepherd would certainly be deaf. 
 
 "Straight on which way?" asked the shepherd. 
 
 "Any way," said Rupert obligingly. "I'm not par- 
 ticular." 
 
 "If ye aren't particular ye'll probably lose yersen," 
 observed the shepherd. 
 
 "I've done that. Is there anything that way, for 
 instance?" (jerking his head to the right). 
 
 "There's Enver that way. 'Enver in the Wild 
 Down, nine mile from any town.' It's six mile." 
 
 "This, then, is clearly not a town. I had come to 
 that conclusion myself. And, that way?" (With a 
 jerk of his head to the left.) 
 
 "That way there's Winterbourne Money- 
 Koran—" 
 
 "Sounds like an Arab settlement on the Stock 
 Exchange," thought Rupert. 
 
 "Money-Koran (Monachorum) 'cause there was 
 monks ther' once when there was such things. I live 
 thcr' : it's two mile — and better."
 
 386 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 ("And worse," thought Rupert.) Then aloud: 
 "Is it big? Is it a big place?" 
 
 "It's about as big as Shipton Regis — ^but the 
 church is bigger, twice bigger. The first 'ouse you 
 comes to on the road is Updown Manor." 
 
 "Oh! On the road, is it?" 
 
 "On the road to Winterbourne Money-Koran: it 
 ain't azackly on no road. It stands back. There's 
 a avenue to it." 
 
 Rupert had plenty of money, and the shepherd 
 did not look as if he had any. He gave him half 
 
 a crown 
 
 Winterbourne Money-Koran," observed the 
 shepherd, anxious to give the stranger as much as 
 possible for his money, "is a tidy-size place. There's 
 a bank an'all — Wilts and Dosset Branch. Opens 
 Toosdays and Fridays from ten to two pea^^w. 
 You'll see Updown Manor, there'll be lights and 
 all." 
 
 "Besides the bank (this is Saturday P. M.) is 
 there an inn at Winterbourne ?" 
 
 "There's two inns at Winterbourne Barons — the 
 Swan and the Regent. ..." 
 
 "How far to Winterbourne Barons?" 
 
 "Better'n seven mile. At Winterbourne Money- 
 Koran there's the George, only 'is wife's dead, she 
 is, died o' Thursday, bin ailin' a long while, and 
 might 'a died anywhen. And there's two publics, the 
 Ring o' Bells and the Blue Pigeon. They lets beds, 
 but the George is the best. Quality stops there." 
 
 II 
 
 A mile further on Rupert came to a gateway, on 
 each side of which were square pillars with stone 
 balls on the top, and on the top of the stone balls
 
 A PRELUDE IN WINTER 387 
 
 were thick caps of snoM^ But It had stopped snowing 
 now, and the moon was up. 
 
 A dozen yards from the gate was a motor, and it 
 was motionless. 
 
 "What a bore!" said a gentleman with a young 
 voice who had apparently been walking round the 
 motor, "to be hung up just at your own gate !" 
 
 "I'd rather be hung up at my own gate than five 
 miles away," declared the lady, who had been the 
 only other occupant of the car, in a voice that was 
 also young and full of good temper and cheerfulness. 
 
 "I'll go up to the house and get Peter — if he has 
 got back from fetching second post letters," said 
 the young gentleman, "and we'll have to push it 
 home. You'd better sit still, Clarissa. You'll only get 
 your feet wet trudging through this snow." 
 
 "Can I help you to push?" suggested Rupert, 
 coming up close to them. 
 
 "You're very kind," said Clarissa. 
 
 "Oh, I'm used to it ! I had a car of my own at 
 home, and it had to be pushed sometimes." 
 
 Clarissa and her brother both perceived by the 
 stranger's voice that he was a gentleman; they also 
 guessed by the very slight tinge of American accent 
 and by his uniform that he was one of the Canadians. 
 
 "It would be uncommonly kind of you," said Clar- 
 issa's brother. 
 
 Rupert declared that it was not a bit kind, and 
 started pushing. 
 
 "I expect," he remarked, "that the water's frozen. 
 I don't believe there's anything more the matter 
 with it." 
 
 "I wish," said Clarissa's brother, "it had waited 
 to finish freezing another four or five minutes. 
 " And he started pushing, too. 
 
 Rupert was rather glad It had not waited; he liked 
 Clarissa's voice.
 
 388 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 The car yielded to their pushing, and moved 
 quite amiably. 
 
 "I'd better get out," said Clarissa. "I make it 
 heavier." 
 
 "You'd better sit still," said her brother. 
 
 "Your weight doesn't make the slightest differ- 
 ence," said Rupert. 
 
 "You can get out now" said Clarissa's brother, 
 when they had reached the front door of Updown 
 Manor. "Perhaps this gentleman will help me to 
 take it round." 
 
 "Certainly," said Rupert; then laughing, "I'm 
 Sergeant Grandmaison, of the hundred and thirtieth 
 Duke of Connaught's Canadians." 
 
 "Oh, indeed," said Clarissa's brother. 
 
 "De Grandmaison de Vieil Cartel?" suggested 
 Clarissa, who knev/ all sorts of things. A Grand- 
 maison de Vieil Cartel had fought against Wolfe 
 at Quebec, and been taken prisoner, and the Eng- 
 lish had noted his bravery and good conduct. 
 
 "No, madame, de Grandmaison de Ste. Pelagic. 
 The Grandmaison family of Vieil Cartel were our 
 cousins — a hundred and fifty years ago." 
 
 "When you have been so kind as to help Bruno 
 to take the car round, you will come in, won't you? 
 Our father and mother will wish to thank you " 
 
 "For nothing!" said Rupert. "But I shall be 
 honored." 
 
 "And you must have a drink," said Bruno. When 
 the two young men arrived in the Oak Parlor, 
 Clarissa presented the stranger to her mother, who 
 looked like her sister, and a very pretty sister, too. 
 
 "This," said the girl, "is M. de Grandmaison, 
 who helped to get us home. Do you say 'Monsieur' 
 in Canada?" 
 
 "In the Army here we do not. I am simply Ser- 
 geant Grandmaison."
 
 A PRELUDE IN WINTER 389 
 
 He could not help wondering how old, or rather 
 how young, the young lady's mother could be. 
 Clarissa was tall, and might be twenty, her mother 
 looked less than thirty. In reality Clarissa was 
 only eighteen and her mother was eight and thirty. 
 
 "Where tvere you going?" asked Clarissa, "you 
 were on the road to Winterbourne, and no camp 
 lies that way." 
 
 "All the same I was going to Winterbourne. I 
 had lost my way, and a shepherd told me there was 
 an inn there. Only 'his wife,' the George's wife, 
 'was dead.' Still, I meant to try the George." 
 
 "Mrs. Viney is dead," said Clarissa's mother, 
 "and the funeral is not till to-morrow. Bruno, take 
 Mr. de Grandmaison into the dining-room and look 
 after him. Then bring him back here." 
 
 As soon as the young men were gone she went to 
 her husband in his study and told him all about it. 
 By the time Bruno and Rupert got back to the Oak 
 Parlor she was back there, and her husband was 
 with her. He had heard her report, but liked to 
 see things with his own eyes; apparently they satis- 
 fied him. For almost as soon as the young Cana- 
 dian had been introduced to him he said: 
 
 "Must you go back to your camp to-night? I 
 understand you were thinking of finding the George 
 at Winterbourne and putting up there?" 
 
 "Yes, I was. No, I have leave till to-morrow 
 night." 
 
 "Then stay where you are. We shall take as good 
 care of you as they would at the George." 
 
 Rupert told himself that all this family were 
 alike in one thing, a singular and attractive cordial- 
 ity. They were not otherwise much alike. Bruno 
 and Clarissa were not like each other, nor had either 
 any great resemblance to their father or mother. 
 Clarissa was rather small, and very fair, whereas
 
 390 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 her mother was tall, and had a quantity of very 
 dark hair, her eyes were a deep brown, and her 
 skin, not in the least sallow, was of a rich olive 
 tint; Bruno was tall, and darker than his sister, but 
 he had not her blue eyes, for his were almost black. 
 His father was a handsome man, with slightly 
 aquiline features; he looked about five and forty. 
 
 Rupert admired in both the ladies a delightful 
 graciousness that he was sure was more than the 
 mere graciousness of manner; something that was 
 not simply an external of breeding, but sprung from 
 some interior quality of themselves. At first he had 
 been inclined to imagine Bruno less friendly, but 
 now he could see that it was only a greater shyness, 
 for, big as he was, he was quite a boy, younger, as 
 Rupert presently found, even than his sister. 
 
 "Lady Oldershaw told me," said Clarissa's 
 father, when Rupert's staying at Updown had been 
 settled, "that you were a Canadian; and now, of 
 course, I can see it by the letters on your shoulder. 
 From what part of Canada?" 
 
 "From Quebec, sir." 
 
 "I suppose, then, that French is your language." 
 
 "Oh, yes; but if French is my mother tongue, 
 English is my mother's tongue. She is American — 
 from Philadelphia." 
 
 "Ah," quoted Clarissa, " 'Boston for what you 
 know. New York for what you've got: and Phila- 
 delphia for who you are.' " 
 
 "You know that saying! I've often heard my 
 mother quote it," said Rupert. 
 
 "Clarissa," declared her brother, "knows every- 
 thing. We call her Mademoiselle Sait-Tout." 
 
 "The truth is," remarked her father, "Clarissa 
 has a wonderful memory for things that don't mat- 
 ter. She is a repertoire of quite useless informa- 
 
 tion."
 
 A PRELUDE IN WINTER 391 
 
 "I think she remembers charmingly," said Ru- 
 pert. "I assure you we were brought up in deep 
 reverence of Philadelphia pedigrees. My mother 
 was of Scotch descent, and her name was Mac- 
 Adam; I understand the clan made its first descent 
 on the lowlands from the Garden of Eden." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Lady Oldershaw laughing, "we 
 are relations, for my mother was also a Miss Mac- 
 Adam and also Scotch, and if she were here she 
 would suffer no gibes about the clan, I can tell you. 
 Her chieftain was the MacAdam of Kilcani." 
 
 "Oh, I've heard of him," cried Rupert, "but my 
 mother's great-grandfather came to America from 
 a place called Gleneden — after the garden, no 
 doubt. He was the youngest of seven sons and he 
 would have had the second sight, only his father 
 was the eldest son, instead of being only the 
 seventh." 
 
 "And haven't I often heard of the Glenedens!" 
 said Lady Oldershaw. "They and the Kilcanis were 
 always at feud except when they proclaimed a short 
 truce to harry the McGregors. We are cousins, 
 you see. What is, please, Madame de Grand- 
 maison's Christian name?" 
 
 "Jean," said her son. 
 
 "There! And so was my mother's: both Jean 
 MacAdam. Bruno there is going into the Scots 
 Guards, but my mother will only think him half 
 worthy of it, because he is not Alastair as she 
 wanted him to be. However, we have an Alastair, 
 as you shall see, and a David too, and a Jean." 
 
 In fact he saw very soon, for five minutes after- 
 wards they came in, two boys of twelve and ten, 
 and with them a little girl of eight. They were es- 
 corted by a young lady to whom Lady Oldershaw 
 said, "Please don't go away, Ninette. Here is a 
 sort of compatriot of yours (and of mine tool) I
 
 392 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 want to introduce you — Mademoiselle Marchand, 
 this gentleman is Mr. de Grandmaison who has 
 come all the way from Canada to fight for Eng- 
 land and for France — and to look for his mother's 
 relations." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Mademoiselle Marchand was not at all like the 
 traditional French governess of British fiction. She 
 was neither sallow nor lean, her eyes by no means 
 suggested little shallow drops of ink, and were 
 far from being beady or sharp. She had not thin, 
 tight lips, nor was her glance shrewish and crafty. 
 Her complexion was bright, as were her rather 
 large, deep hazel eyes, and her abundant hair was 
 of a brilliant auburn. Her mouth had a sensitive 
 expression, and her glance as it rested on the chil- 
 dren was full of friendly kindness. And, if her 
 manner was a little shy, it had not the shut up, 
 compressed suggestion of the fictional French gov- 
 erness. As a matter of fact, she was among very 
 friendly, kind people, whose kindness she fully de- 
 served. Presently they were all talking French to- 
 gether, and Rupert, though not surprised to find 
 Lady Oldershaw and Clarissa speaking it perfectly, 
 had not expected that Bruno and his father would 
 be so fluent. Clarissa, on her side, was a little 
 amused to note that, though the young Canadian 
 spoke French without the least tinge of American 
 accent, his English had a distinct Trans-Atlantic 
 savor. 
 
 Ihe entrance of Mademoiselle Marchand had 
 brought Rupert himself to a third stage of impres- 
 sion. At first he had told himself that Clarissa was 
 exactly the person to fall in love with. Then he 
 saw her mother, and told himself laughingly that
 
 A PRELUDE IN WINTER 393 
 
 it was impossible not to fall in love with her. And 
 finally Mademoiselle Marchand had arrived. 
 
 That young lady — he was sure she could not be 
 one and twenty — was not so brilliantly beautiful as 
 either his hostess or her daughter, and she had not 
 nearly so much to say. Her dress was less pic- 
 turesque than Lady Oldershaw's white tea-gown and 
 quaint white mob cap with pale blue ribbons; and 
 it somehow;' lacked the distinction of Clarissa's: 
 still it was not governessy, and managed to avoid 
 the sort of aggressive neatness that young ladies in 
 her position are apt to affect as a point of conscience. 
 
 Mademoiselle Marchand was certainly less strik- 
 ing than the other two ladies; all the same Rupert, 
 who had been immensely interested as well as fas- 
 cinated by Miss Oldershaw and her mother, was 
 soon even more interested in Mademoiselle Mar- 
 chand. Her silences were clearly not stupid, they 
 were merely modest and youthful ; and, while they 
 gave no suggestion of a watching reserve, they 
 often made him wonder whether this quiet girl was 
 not thinking more than any of the talkers. He was 
 French enough to think no worse of a girl for talk- 
 ing rather too little than too much. 
 
 "Monsieur!" demanded Jean abruptly. "Have 
 you killed any Germans yet?" 
 
 "Bloodthirsty child!" said her mother. "Don't 
 you know there are no Germans on Salisbury 
 Plain?" 
 
 "There's Fraulein Schmidt at the Selbys', and she 
 shut me in a dark cupboard when I went to tea." 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said Rupert laughing, "we don't 
 kill ladies." 
 
 "No, of course. But you could put her into a 
 Condensation Camp." 
 
 " 'Concentration,' Jean. Poor old Fraulein 
 Schmidt! If she was shut up in a Concentration
 
 394 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 Camp," said Lady Oldershaw, "you'd want to go 
 and take her all your toys." 
 
 "I'd take her," said Jean, "the old dolly with tow 
 hair because she squints, and says 'ya' when you 
 squeeze her waist, like a German. And she's spotty. 
 And her clothes won't come off. And when we 
 buried her and dug her up there was a worm in her 
 shoe." 
 
 "Jean, I'm shocked. Mr. de Grandmaison will 
 think you learn these ungenerous sentiments from 
 your mother, and it must be Mademoiselle — Ninette, 
 I did not think you were so truculent." 
 
 Certainly Mademoiselle Marchand did not look 
 truculent. But Rupert laughed and said: 
 
 "For my part I think Jean's old dolly would be 
 quite good enough for the Boche lady. We French 
 and Canadians have a more wholesome abhorrence 
 of Germans than you English." 
 
 "But you don't make war on old governesses," 
 said Lady Oldershaw. 
 
 "No. But we are not so trustful as you are. An 
 old German governess may be an old spy; all spies 
 are not young and lovely." 
 
 "You are encouraging Jean in her iniquity! Poor 
 Fraulein Schmidt! She's a very harmless, not very 
 engaging, maid, who has seen better days — her 
 father was a Prussian general." 
 
 "Ah!" laughed Rupert. "He ought to have left 
 her better provided for." 
 
 "But he didn't. So she earns her bread: and 
 what on earth could she spy on here — in all this 
 empty plain, where in her walks abroad she can 
 see nothing but sheep?" 
 
 "That depends on where she walks," observed 
 Rupert. Lady Oldershaw laughed, and Bruno 
 chipped in: 
 
 "And Sir Heracles Selby is a general, and his son
 
 A PRELUDE IN WINTER 395 
 
 is an aviator: after all, Mum, she might hear a 
 thing or two." 
 
 "And," observed Mademoiselle Marchand qui- 
 etly, "Fraulein's dear brother, August, is a Prussian 
 Colonel. Perhaps she writes to him all about the 
 sheep." 
 
 Rupert looked amused: Lady Oldershaw looked 
 slightly displeased. 
 
 "Look here!" she said, "I don't like it. Fraulein 
 Schmidt has eaten our salt, and I don't admire this 
 sort of joking. She has been with the Selbys ever 
 so long — " 
 
 "Nearly two years," observed her husband mali- 
 ciously, "and before that she was with Sir Timothy 
 Redtapp (of the War Office) : she evidently likes 
 official personages." 
 
 "Voila!" murmured Mademoiselle Marchand. 
 
 And Rupert laughed openly. 
 
 "Lady Oldershaw," he pleaded, "don't be angry! 
 No doubt your Fraulein Schmidt is an exemplary 
 personage, as the daughters of all Prussian Gen- 
 erals, and the sisters of all Prussian Colonels, ought 
 to be. But prejudiced creatures like me and Jean 
 would not mind shutting her up in a cupboard." 
 
 "She'd make it," cried Jean with decision, "very 
 stuffy — that cupboard." 
 
 Bruno and Rupert laughed again, and Clarissa 
 did not frown, but Lady Oldershaw observed 
 severely : 
 
 "Jean, your remarks bear in upon me that it is 
 your bedtime. I shall now ring for Nursey." 
 
 "Oh, Mummy," entreated Jean, "one other 
 weeny, teeny ten minutes, and I'll take Fraulein 
 Schmidt when she's condensed, my best dolly who 
 shuts her eyes when she lies — " 
 
 "Jean!!" 
 
 "Down/" shouted Jean, "and says 'Papa ! Papa' !"
 
 396 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 "In memory," suggested Rupert, "of the Prus- 
 sian General." 
 
 Lady Oldershaw rang the bell firmly. 
 
 "No teeny weeny ten minutes for you, Jean. Mr. 
 de Grandmaison ought to be sent to bed too." 
 
 "Nursey," cried Jean demurely, when a very 
 pleasant-faced comfortable woman appeared at the 
 door, "you're to take us (the officer and I) to bed." 
 
 "I'm not an officer ..." said Rupert. 
 
 "Why not?" demanded Jean, really interested, 
 but with a calculating eye on the clock. 
 
 "Nursey," said her mother, laughing, but fully 
 alive to the maneuver, "take Miss Jean at once. 
 Mr. de Grandmaison can stay." 
 
 IV 
 
 Though Sir Bertram and Lady Oldershaw were 
 people of what is called "rank and fashion" they 
 did not send their French governess to sup in a 
 lonely schoolroom while they dined with their fam- 
 ily. At dinner all their children, except little Jean, 
 were present, and Mademoiselle Marchand sat be- 
 tween Rupert and Bruno. Certainly she had not 
 so much to say as Lady Oldershaw; and, except 
 when the conversation was quite general, as it 
 mostly was, she talked more to Bruno than to her 
 other neighbor. Still Rupert retained his convic- 
 tion that her quietness and comparative silence was 
 no sign of dulness. 
 
 "Before the war," Sir Bertram told him, "we 
 were all great politicians here. Clarissa was our 
 Tory. Bruno our fervent Radical. Their mother 
 and I endeavored to improve our minds and derive 
 instruction. Alastair gave a general but unreliable 
 support to Bruno, and David was on Clarissa's side 
 when he could make out what she was driving at.
 
 A PRELUDE IN WINTER 397 
 
 But now it's the Millennium, and the strife of par- 
 ties is ended. We are all simply English people and 
 keep our abuse for England's enemies." 
 
 "So it is with us," said Rupert. "We Canadians 
 are all English too — French Canadians or English, 
 it is all the same." 
 
 "If I had two hearts, one should be English," 
 said Ninette. 
 
 "My dear, it's a good thing you haven't," 
 laughed Lady Oldershaw. "The one that she has, 
 she added to Rupert, "is too big for her body." 
 
 Rupert hardly knew why it gave him undoubted 
 pleasure to hear this tribute: but it certainly did, 
 and he told himself that the praise was simply and 
 cordially given. They were evidently, all of them, 
 very fond of the girl, and that in itself seemed to 
 him high praise. For, friendly, as they all were, 
 they had a certain shrewd directness, and he did 
 not fancy them likely either to praise or to like 
 indiscriminately. 
 
 After dinner Lady Oldershaw and Rupert had 
 an opportunity for some short talk that was more 
 confidential. 
 
 "Ninette," said she, "is such a good girl: it would 
 be natural for her to be very much depressed, and 
 no one could blame her if she were distrait and 
 melancholy, but she is always the same cheerful 
 person. Her home is in the war zone, in fact in 
 a district where the worst fighting is going on. 
 Many of her near relations have been taken pris- 
 oners and she has no news of them. The houses of 
 others are occupied by German OflUcers. Her 
 father is dead, but the uncle and aunt with whom 
 she used to live have their home very near the 
 fighting line, and from day to day one never knows 
 whether their village may have fallen into the 
 enemy's hands. When the war broke out she was
 
 398 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 about to leave us, for Alastair and David will soon 
 be too big for her, and have to go to preparatory 
 schools, and she is too advanced and clever to be a 
 mere nursery governess to a tiny tot like Jean. 
 But the war came, and her home must be with us 
 till it ends. She herself would like to go, because 
 she would wish to share any danger or hardship 
 that may fall in the way of her uncle and aunt who 
 brought her up. She is a very brave girl, and most 
 unselfish. But M. and Madame, de le Grange- 
 Brune wrote begging of her to stay in England and 
 we insisted." 
 
 "I know that name. At school I had a friend 
 called Rene de la Grange-Brune : his people came 
 to Canada under Louis XVI." 
 
 "Before the Revolution it was a great name in 
 France. But during it they lost everything, and 
 they are poor enough now. Her father was an 
 officer, and poor too, but he was very handsome, 
 and I have seen his portrait: she is rather like it. 
 I am going to make her sing — Clarissa has a finer 
 voice, but she can't sing like Ninette." 
 
 Rupert was rather surprised at first to notice 
 that Mademoiselle Marchand did not choose any 
 French song, but old-fashioned English and Scotch 
 ballads. But he had no notion how touching and 
 beautiful they could be : and to him they were very 
 far from being stale or hackneyed. 
 
 "Sing," begged Lady Oldershaw, " 'Rappelle- 
 toi'?" 
 
 It is not a young girl's song: but a folk-song, in 
 patois, supposed to be that of a very old peasant, 
 crooned by a fireside in winter to a wife as old as 
 himself. Unlike the modern song of fashion it was 
 very long, and had a patient monotony, for the air 
 scarcely varied with the verses: but it had a whole 
 life-story in it, and rang every change of idea from
 
 A PRELUDE IN WINTER 399 
 
 childish innocence and youthful hope to the tender 
 wistful resignation of lonely age. 
 
 "Dost remember?" it asked, "when we were lit- 
 tle chits together, thou, ma mie, and I? Our play in 
 the quiet, sunny village street, our naughty truant 
 wanderings in the fields, when I made thee daisy 
 crowns, and thy brother Jacques married us in play, 
 in the cathedral of the woods. Rappelle-toi, ma mie, 
 rappelle toif Dost thou mind when we grew bigger, 
 and thou grewest shy (but I not) ! And thou 
 wouldst feign to see me not (and I seeing naught but 
 thee!) as we walked home from Vespers through 
 the little street. Rappelle-toi, ma mie, rappelle toif 
 Mindest thou of our wedding, and the little home I 
 had for thee, and the little garden where I set flow- 
 ers for thee, in the sweet-scented summer evenings 
 after my other work was done? But other flowers 
 blossomed on our very hearth, and they were 
 sweeter, fragrant of our love? Rappelle-toi, ma 
 mie, rappelle-toif Then God looked from heaven 
 down on them, and some were too lovely for our 
 little corner in the world, and He asked for them, 
 and transplanted them, Rappelle-toi, ma mie? But 
 He left us Jean and Philippine, and Marie and 
 Raoul, and He blessed them and made them strong, 
 to work like us, and they found each a mate (as 
 thou foundest me, and I thee) Rappelle-toi, ma 
 mief And in the Great War Raoul fell, and 
 Marie's husband Jacques, and our tears fell with 
 the snow, Rappelle tot, ma mief And now their 
 children are gone home after their play by our 
 warm hearth, but thou art there, ma tnie, I can hear 
 thee; though my eyes are blind, I can see thee, for 
 thou changest not, and in my heart thou standest 
 as at first, ma mie; I am thine, and thou art mine, 
 Rappelle-toi, rappelle-toi, ma mief" 
 
 To make of a theme so simple, as old as the heart
 
 400 THE TIDEWAY 
 
 of man, what Ninette made of It, seemed to Rupert 
 a sheer wonder. He did not wonder that no one 
 spoke when she had finished, that the only compli- 
 ment they gave her was their silence, and the look, 
 upon their faces. 
 
 The modern drawing-room song is so often a 
 brief, but almost desperate wail of passion: earthly 
 enough : in Ninette's song there was no passion, and 
 no despair, and it was not sad but tender and wist- 
 ful. And it was full of love, not the wild love of 
 an hour and "after that the dark," but of a love 
 as long as life and stronger than death. 
 
 After a while they asked her for more folk-songs 
 of her own pays in the patois of her people: and 
 she sang many. They had in common with each 
 other the same quality of purity and sweetness, 
 simplicity and tenderness, but they were very va- 
 rious. Some were very gay and joyous, with the 
 fragrance and light of flowers and young summer: 
 others had the patience of winter, but its bracing 
 vigor too. There were young men's songs and 
 girls' songs, and songs such as the women sang over 
 their washing of linen together in the stream by the 
 village : hunting songs as well, and odd monotones, 
 but never tedious, songs such as the plowman sang 
 aloud to their horses as they paced the long furrow. 
 
 Rupert hardly noticed — no one with any real ap- 
 preciation would have thought it worth while to 
 notice — that Ninette's voice was not In itself re- 
 markable. She could not have done much with 
 songs requiring any great range, nor could she have 
 sung to any purpose In a large hall ; her gift was 
 not that of power but of sympathy, not of the throat 
 and chest but of the heart. 
 
 Rupert had heard plenty of great singers, and 
 had liked it very well; he would be well enough 
 content to hear them again in some huge opera
 
 A PRELUDE IN WINTER 401 
 
 house, but he would not have cared to be obliged 
 to hear any one of them daily, in his own home. 
 He thought it would be almost a grace, more than 
 a mere pleasure, if he could listen to Ninette in his 
 own home all his life. 
 
 He lay awake long that night, and the echoes of 
 those tender, simple songs of a poor and patient 
 people sounded not merely in his ears but in his 
 heart. 
 
 "For me," he thought, "the world can never con- 
 tain but two people, and ..." He knew already 
 who, henceforth, would be for him the other one. 
 
 PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK
 
 AA 000 276 229 2