Bxtmamm 
 
 
 SYMPHC 
 
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 GEORCr EGEKi
 
 UBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE 

 
 ^qJL^h^jja^
 
 SYMPHONIES
 
 By 
 
 the Same Author 
 
 
 Keynotes. 
 
 Crown 8vo, 3s 
 
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 Discords. 
 
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 6d. 
 
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 Fantasias. 
 
 In preparation. 
 Also 
 
 
 
 An English 
 
 version of Ola 
 
 Hansson's 
 
 Young 
 
 Ofeg's Ditties 
 
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 \ 
 
 t. . . -JJOffkyCHei/ELlW (J)UNNE^ 
 
 'M If 
 
 SYMPHONIES 
 
 BY 
 
 CgEORGE EGERTON , -pseuxC^ 
 
 % 
 
 JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD 
 LONDON AND NEW YORK 
 
 1897
 
 o.^. 
 
 Copyright, 1897, 
 By John Lane. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson <Sr« Co. 
 At the Ballantyne Press
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND 
 J. A. M. 
 
 Woman with the best of man in her, 
 and none of the smallness of woman
 
 Our best stories are ever untold — / like to 
 thi/ik of thevt stored away in some monster aerial 
 library of tlie unwritten works of human fancy : 
 dream stories that unfold in the darkness like 
 silver flnvers with jewelled stamens — only to 
 tarnish with our first awakening consciousness of 
 their value — cu copy.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGB 
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE ....*.. ^ I 
 
 THE captain's BOOK ...... o 42 
 
 SEA PINKS ^4 
 
 A NOCTURNE 9° 
 
 OONY ''OQ 
 
 AT THE HEART OF THE APPLE l6o 
 
 PAN 219
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 
 
 The New Year numbered just two dawns, the 
 fiery sun glowed and danced on the waves, 
 and struck sparks off the brass fittings of the 
 steamers that rocked on the inland swell, and 
 tugged strenuously at their anchor chains in 
 the Bay of Valparaiso. A big Pacific liner 
 faced a Dutch man-o'-war on a flying visit, 
 and the "Blanca Encalada," of many battles, 
 nodded to her comrade of Irish name, the 
 "O'Higgins." The houses gleamed whitely 
 as they ran up the steep hill behind the town, 
 and the earth burned ochre red wherever there 
 was a space. 
 
 Down in the town, the favourite morning 
 mass was drawing to a close in the church 
 of Los Padres Fraiiccscs. In a country where 
 every woman is honestly devout, and few of 
 the younger men believers, the congregation 
 was, of a necessity, almost exclusively made 
 up of women. There were a few exceptions:
 
 2 SYMPHONIES 
 
 old Don Jose Maria Salamanca, having been 
 the most noted Don Juan of his time, had 
 turned d^vot in his decrepitude, and ogled 
 the 7iirias (young girls) as they passed in or 
 out, from his bath-chair near the door, in the 
 intervals of "making his soul" assiduously. 
 
 A back view of the kneeling throng was, at 
 a first glance, slightly dispiriting; every figure 
 was clad in uniform black, every head and 
 shoulder swathed in a vianto, the materials of 
 which these were made ranging from homeliest 
 llama to costliest crepe-de-chine. Yet when 
 once the eye had grown accustomed, some trick 
 of carriage, turn of head, twist of the coiffure 
 underneath, or line of neck and shoulders made 
 a sweetheart or friend distinguishable. 
 
 There was no choir, but the strains of a mag- 
 nificent organ, invoked to melody by a master- 
 hand, soared divinely through the great dim 
 building, carrying one out of the gloom to the 
 gorgeous altar at the far end, with its cluster 
 of starry lights and fragrant blossoms, rare 
 carvings and pendent lamps of silver and gilt. 
 The incense mingled lingeringly with the 
 liquid lisp of softly-breathed prayers and 
 ejaculations.
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 3 
 
 The officiating priest disappeared with his 
 train of white-clad acolytes, the organ burst 
 into an almost profane strain of joyous meas- 
 ure, the bent heads rose as if at one touch, and 
 the church was filled with the swish of silk 
 and the stir of moving women as they turned 
 to leave the church; and from out the sombre 
 blackness a sea of faces, with brilliant eyes and 
 carmine lips, like flower hearts with black 
 petals, burst upon one's gaze. 
 
 Many of the pretty devotees made a conces- 
 sion to the ever-seductive world, the flesh, and 
 the devil, by donning a dainty-coloured matinee, 
 the lace-trimmed sleeve of which peeped coquet- 
 tishly out beneath the sombre vianto, with the 
 hand of its owner holding the alfovibra, or kneel- 
 ing mat. Given dainty ankles, tiny, fascinat- 
 ing feet in elegant shoes, and lace-trimmed 
 petticoats, even the uniform prescribed by 
 church regulations is not without its attrac- 
 tions. 
 
 Two girls, in the first freshness of girlhood, 
 came out with the throng, closely attended by 
 an old woman in a rusty black man to. The 
 shorter of the two was as plump as a corn-fed 
 partridge, with the bloom of a peach on her
 
 4 SYMPHONIES 
 
 swarthy skin; her black hair grew in a widow's 
 peak on her low forehead, and was twisted in 
 fatillas (follow me, lads) on her temples. Her 
 rather small black eyes sparkled vivaciously, 
 her chin was heavy, her nose large, but her 
 wide red mouth showed teeth of exquisite 
 whiteness, and dimples lurked and peered 
 when she laughed, and she laughed often, 
 emphasising her mirth with gestures of a tiny 
 bronzed hand, and absurdly small wrist, about 
 which the coral and silver beads, and pendent 
 cross of her rosary made an effective temporary 
 bracelet. Her feet and ankles were elf-like, 
 her manto adjusted with such art (for it is an 
 art) that the rounded slimness of her waist and 
 the generous curves of her bust were merely 
 accentuated, not concealed. Saucily witty, 
 daintily voluptuous — and fifteen. 
 
 Her companion was an opposing type, larger 
 feet, longer limbs, flat, unformed figure, with 
 untamed grace in every movement, fair, anae- 
 mic skin, powdered with tiny honey-brown 
 freckles; piquant, irregular features; deep, 
 oddly-set, changeful eyes that flashed green in 
 one light, sherry yellow in another, — the true 
 ojos verdes toasted and sung by Spanish poets
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 5 
 
 in every key. The lace border on her crape 
 manto threw patterns on her golden fringe, 
 copper red when the sun caught it, making 
 her irresistible in a land where every second 
 woman is a study in black or brown. There 
 was warm Chilian blood in her veins, too, 
 even if her rivals called her tYve gringita (little 
 English girl), and although gringo is a term of 
 some contempt, she had the gracia, the quick 
 sympathy, the temperament that is never, by 
 any chance, a major part of the unadulterated 
 Saxon — and she was the biggest flirt in the 
 port. 
 
 They chattered gaily, calling a bright good- 
 morning to many acquaintances as they walked. 
 
 A tall woman in a manto and gown of vivid 
 virgin-blue cashmere glided past them with 
 bent head. 
 
 "How curious; who can she be.''" queried 
 Betty of the bronze hair. 
 
 " Oh, why, Maria Concepcion Bunoz ! She 's 
 making a promesa, " displaying dimples and 
 teeth as she smiled with delicious malice, — 
 "a promesa in hopes of keeping her Enrique 
 faithful, a promesa in virgin blue." 
 
 " No .-' " incredulously.
 
 6 SYMPHONIES 
 
 "Well," with a charming shrug of shoulder, 
 "so I heard it was. Enrique is gone on that 
 Bunsted girl. Tzk!" clicking her tongue; 
 " such a stiff grifiga, all pink and white like 
 a sugar stick, and so aiitipdtica, Jesu, Maria! 
 not an atom of gracia — but a purse, la, la! 
 Poor Maria Concepcion I Last year, when she 
 was betrothed to Josd Martinez, she made a 
 proraesa, three times seven, for twenty-one 
 days — in brown, imagine to yourself," with 
 an expressive flirt of finger and eyebrow, ^^ cafi 
 con lecJie [cafe au lait] brown — with her com- 
 plexion and skin ! " 
 
 "No, never," laughed Betty, opening incred- 
 ulous eyes, "she couldn't!" 
 
 "Truly, seriously she did, though; all through 
 the carnival, too. Of course he went across 
 the Andes immediately, on business; w'hat 
 could she expect? She's awfully old, nearly 
 twenty-five. She may give up hope. Love is 
 to youth. Youth is to the young!" with the 
 love of proverb that belonged to her race and 
 the pitilessness to her years. 
 
 They turned into a tiny park, guarded at the 
 entrance by two beautiful marble pumas, spoils 
 of some Peruvian conquest. The play of foun-
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 7 
 
 tains tinkled and trickled ; the heavy perfume 
 of many flowers filled the dry air; humming- 
 birds darted like flying jewels in and out of the 
 trumpet-like bells of XhQ Jlom pondia (hanging 
 flower) ; passion flowers twined, tame in colour 
 to the gorgeous cacti blooms; exquisite palms 
 shaded the seats. A handsome man in uniform 
 saluted the girls with an exaggerated rever- 
 ence and twirl of his enormous mustache. His 
 bold black eyes followed them with interested 
 appreciation, as Don Jos6, wheeled by a half- 
 cast Indian lad clad in white linen, stopped 
 his bath-chair, crying: — 
 
 "Good-morning, Coronal, good-morning! 
 Looking at the Jtifias, eh.? Aah," with a sigh 
 of regret, "what it is to be young! I was 
 once" (chuckle). "Carmencita is plain, but 
 espi^gle, aah," closing his eyes; ^^ tan simpdtica 
 the nina, such ankles, and such a little figure ! " 
 
 His nose met his waggling nutcracker chin, 
 and his bleared old eyes twinkled wickedly. 
 " Aah, if one only had youth twice over ! " 
 
 The colonel laughed, saying: — 
 
 " Caramba, yes, but each man to his taste, 
 Don Jose; for me, I prefer the Senorita Betty. 
 What eyes ! Por Dios, they move a man sin-
 
 8 SYMPHONIES 
 
 fully ! What hair, what disdain, superb, 
 matchless! True, she is unformed, like a 
 thoroughbred filly ; but wait a bit. The cadets 
 rave about her; it is a cult amongst them. 
 Sunday, three or four of the young idiots stood 
 in the rain, opposite her gate, for hours, in the 
 hope of a glimpse of her wicked eyes. Oh, 
 youth, oh, joy! It comes but once, and it has 
 the seven-leagued boots of speed in fleeing from 
 us!" 
 
 Arrived at the other gate, the girls beckoned 
 to the old woman. 
 
 " We want to take a turn in the Calle Victoria, 
 Juanita, " dwelling on the endearing diminutive 
 with coaxing emphasis, — "just one turn, to 
 buy some chocolates." 
 
 The old woman hesitated. 
 
 " You were young once, you know ; you must 
 have had many sweethearts, so sivipdtica as 
 Juanita is, eh. Carmen? I have got a piece of 
 lace, too, I don't want, — just enough for an 
 apron." 
 
 The old face, like a piece of wrinkled chamois, 
 smiled brightly as the girls, not waiting for 
 remonstrance, turned into the broad street with 
 the handsome white buildings, and sauntered
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 9 
 
 towards the plaza^ where the band was play- 
 ing the national air. The colour quickened in 
 their cheeks, their eyes brightened. Groups 
 of women in inantos, officers in naval and mili- 
 tary dress, civilians in light suits of English 
 cut, thronged the pavements. The rustle of 
 silken skirts, tap of tiny heels, and lilt of soft 
 lisping voices mixed with the music, the hum 
 of summer, and the distant call of the sea. 
 Nature itself seemed to conspire to add to the 
 atmosphere of careless gaiety and light-hearted 
 insouciance that made one feel cordially dis- 
 posed towards every unknown man or woman 
 one met. In such a climate, amidst such sur- 
 roundings, one loses the sense of grim realities, 
 the burden of responsibility that seems to weigh 
 upon one's spirit in the duller atmosphere of 
 Northern Europe. The mornings are gay with 
 meetings, innocent intrigues, and piquant, per- 
 sonal gossip in this country, where laughter 
 always peeps over the shoulder of tears, and 
 where feelings play none the less deeply for 
 showing so naively on the surface, — where the 
 people live on a volcano of national sentiment, 
 so that the loves of to-day may be the foes 
 of to-morrow, at some sudden eruption of a 
 military or naval quarrel.
 
 10 SYMPHONIES 
 
 A bell clanged brazenly, and a fire-escape 
 dashed past, followed by a second; two of the 
 firemen lifted their hands to their gleaming 
 helmets in salute, the girls smiled in friendly 
 acknowledgment as they recognised in them 
 the son of a well-known banker and the editor 
 of a popular journal. 
 
 "Good looking, eh, Alfredo, and so jolly!" 
 remarked Betty, 
 
 In Chile, every boy born in any class must 
 be registered for service in the navy, army, or 
 as a bombero (fireman), so that an alarm calls 
 forth bankers, staid advocates, or doctors from 
 desks or duty. 
 
 The ringing trot of horses upon the abom- 
 inable round pebbles, like petrified kidneys, 
 with which the streets are laid, was now added 
 to the other sounds, as girls in English habits 
 and Chileiias in ample skirts came back from 
 their morning ride. A country woman, in 
 flowing cashmere gown, sitting in her Chilian 
 saddle as if she and her steed were one, came 
 cantering up a side street. An enormous hat 
 of Panama straw threw her swarthy face and 
 heavy knot of blue-black hair into deeper 
 shadow, gold earrings dangled from her ears,
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE ii 
 
 and she carried a large basket of eggs on her 
 left arm, and guided and reined her ill-used 
 fiery blood horse as calmly as if she were sit- 
 ting in a rocking-chair. Calls of many kinds 
 echoed. The pollero (fowl vendor) shrieked 
 as he drove a pair of pannier-laden mules in 
 front of him, and the flies buzzed, when he 
 halted, upon the galled places on the beast's 
 quarters. His cry mingled harmoniously with 
 the shrill, plaintive voice of a youth calling 
 fresh, ripe peaches. Vendors of milk stayed 
 their cows at the door, and drew the measure 
 ordered from the clean-washed udders of their 
 patient beasts. A Turk, in scarlet fez and 
 baggy trousers, eyed the passers-by with sly 
 leers and an unreadable smile on his dark face, 
 as he leaned against the door lintel of his 
 bazaar. At a first glimpse this seemed conse- 
 crated to the sale of objects of piety, costly 
 ivory crucifixes, exquisitely-carved rosaries 
 fashioned out of date stones from Lebanon, 
 glowing missals, reliquaries, and crosses made 
 of woods cut in the Vale of Carmel. Strangely 
 enough, the trade in pious objects is confined 
 to Turks in Chile; yet no young lady enters 
 such a bazaar unchaperoned, for they bear an 
 evil reputation.
 
 12 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Two youths, gorgeously attired in guaso 
 (native country) dress, came galloping round 
 the plaza. They wore enormous silver spurs, 
 and their singular wooden stirrup boxes were 
 magnificently carved. T\i€\x ponchos, woven of 
 lively-coloured silks, w-ere of exquisite texture; 
 the Panama hats that covered their bonny dark 
 heads not purchasable at the price of thirty 
 Lincoln and Bennetts. They threw their 
 horses, with a jerk, upon their haunches, and 
 doffed their hats profoundly; the girls smiled 
 with demure graciousness, and stifled amused 
 giggles as they walked on. 
 
 " Aah, that is where they have been, a riding 
 party to the hacienda of Julio's uncle. No? 
 How good-looking Julio is, and how simpdtico 
 the smile of Samuel, eh, Nina.^ Now we'll 
 go home." 
 
 They bought some caramels for the return 
 walk, greeted a group of Santiaginas on their 
 way to the bath. These are more stiff than 
 the Valparaiso girls, portefias (port girls, as 
 they are called), the latter having more free- 
 dom, perhaps, owing to the English element. 
 They refused an invitation to eat ices at the 
 famous corner shop of the street of St. John of
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 13 
 
 God, and hastened homeward, as for them the 
 event of the day was over. They halted at an 
 iron latticed gate in a quiet street; a ring 
 brought a boy, who admitted them. The house 
 itself stood further back, at the end of a large 
 garden, shady with many trees, ancient fig- 
 trees, and grey green eucalyptus; passion 
 flowers and roses festooned the veranda that 
 encircled the house. The tiny kitchen was 
 detached, and in it Rosalia, a half-breed Indian 
 woman, with a long braid of coarse hair like 
 a mare's tail, and shrivelled skin like crumpled 
 brown tissue-paper, reigned supreme amidst 
 quaint copper pans and curious red-and-black 
 earthenware pipkins, from which a smell of 
 casuela (a breakfast soup) and piichero, with its 
 flavouring of chiles, green peppers, and fresh 
 corn cobs oozed appetisingly. 
 
 Betty turned to the boy, an uncouth, stunted 
 dwarf, with a head like a gnome, sallow, pock- 
 marked skin, and exquisite, gleaming green 
 eyes with curling lashes, his sole beauty, for 
 his great ears flapped, and his extraordinarily 
 long upper lip had gained him the name of 
 "Boquinuelo" (flounce lip). 
 
 "Where is the Senora?"
 
 14 SYMPHONIES 
 
 "The Senora is talking to Lisa; she has 
 brought the clean linen, and," with an inde- 
 scribable grimace, "a scandal without equal, 
 Jesu, Maria, astonishing — " 
 
 "That will do; you can go!" said Betty, 
 with an imperious wave of her hand. The 
 girls exchanged questioning looks as they 
 walked up the path, divesting themselves of 
 their viaiitos. The difference in their develop- 
 ment became more striking as they appeared 
 in their muslin matinees. 
 
 The shrill voice of Lisa echoed through the 
 French window of the Senora's bedroom, that 
 opened on to the veranda ; piles of dainty cam- 
 bric garments, tied in gaily-hued squares of 
 tarlatan, lay on the floor. The Senora herself, 
 a fat, Anglo-Chilena, clad in a chemise and 
 embroidered cambric wrapper, lay back in a 
 rocking-chair, laughing, until the tears ran 
 down her pink cheeks, at the piquant finish to 
 a story, at an acquaintance's expense. 
 
 The washerwoman in Chile often holds a 
 peculiar position; she takes the place of a 
 society journal, — Lisa is a famous raconteuse, 
 with the inventive genius of a Boccaccio ; there 
 is not a broken engagement, a highly-seasoned
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 15 
 
 scandal of club or casa that she cannot retail 
 with gusto. The advent of el lavado (the wash) 
 becomes, by a whimsical paradox, the signal 
 for the washing of much that is soiled from 
 other establishments. She changed the sub- 
 ject adroitly, in response to a warning look 
 from the Senora, and greeted the young ladies 
 with flattering attention. Lisa had been known 
 to convey a message or slip a note before now, 
 
 "Good-day, Lisa, what news; any good 
 stories .-' " 
 
 She shook her head with a sly expression of 
 regret, and the girls ran off laughingly. 
 
 In a few moments a piano sounded gaily with 
 the bright music of the opera of the " Gran 
 via, " then all the rage. Pobre cJiica ! (the semp- 
 stress' song) rang the deep, sweet voice of 
 Carmen, and the beat of her nails on the back 
 of a mandolin to Betty's playing. Suddenly 
 some one strummed an accompaniment on a 
 guitar in the next garden ; the girls rushed to 
 the window. A turret-shaped miradov (look- 
 out house) showed through the trees, and the 
 gold band of a cadet's cap glistened between 
 the leaves that half concealed the window. 
 
 "It's that ugly Juan, Betty, such a stupid
 
 i6 SYMPHONIES 
 
 youth, great cJiincJioso! as if one would look 
 at him! The conceit of the wretch." The 
 window slid aside, three gold bands appeared, 
 and a red flower came fluttering down. 
 
 "Why, it's Samuelo! oh! if the aunt were 
 to see him. Que didbolo el cJiiquillo [what a 
 demon of a boy] ! " cried Betty, with sparkling 
 eyes; "he fears nothing. Don't let him see 
 us ; stand back ! " 
 
 " Me gustan todos, me gustan todos, 
 Me gustan todos en general ; 
 Pero esta rubia, pero esta rubia, 
 Pero esta rubia me gusta mas ! " ^ 
 
 came the boy's voice. 
 
 " Tza ! The aunt will hear him, great 
 stupid ! " 
 
 Betty stamped her foot impatiently, and 
 flashed her great eyes angrily. 
 
 " How dare he come there, singing that 
 stupid, vulgar thing .^ before that fat, gossipy 
 
 * I like them all, I like them all, 
 I like them all in a general way ; 
 But this red blonde, but this red blonde, 
 But this red blonde takes my fancy most. 
 
 Pop. Song.
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 17 
 
 lump of conceit of a Juan, too! I '11 pay him 
 out for this. I won't look at him, not once, 
 at the band this afternoon. I '11 make eyes at 
 Enrico. I 've only got to look at him, half a 
 look, he'll follow like a dog," snapping her 
 fingers in emphasis. 
 
 "There, I told you, listen to aunt!" 
 
 She flew to the piano, and hammered at a 
 Czerny exercise with vigorous bass action. 
 
 " Betty, Rosalia, Pancho ! where is the 
 Seiiorita .-• " stormed the aunt, her fat, bare 
 ankles showing under her negligde as she leaned 
 over the veranda. 
 
 "Betty!" she screamed. 
 
 "Yes, aunt, I was practising; what is 
 it.?" 
 
 "Practising! that's a lame excuse; practis- 
 ing your eyes; great cat's eyes they are, too. 
 Don't tell me you don't encourage those imper- 
 tinent cadets. I know you do ; you are a for- 
 ward piece! I'll complain to the Director 
 about them. Shall I be overlooked in my 
 own garden .? Que msoleitcia! que barbaridad ! 
 Girls are changed since my day: notes, flirt- 
 ing, ogling; no wonder Lisa has such scandals 
 to tell. Sunday, — don't imagine I did n't see
 
 i8 SYMPHONIES 
 
 it, — there were four gaping at the house all 
 the afternoon like stuck sucking pigs!" 
 
 "Pscha!" answered Betty, curling her lip, 
 "I don't encourage them, and what if I did? 
 One is only young once!" 
 
 A storm of words whirled round the house, 
 one of those sudden gusts of passion that pass 
 through a Chilian household like a simoon, in 
 which the servants take sides and prolong it 
 in the kitchen, and which cause a stranger to 
 think that an irrevocable estrangement must 
 be the result. Betty nursed her wrath all 
 through the noontide, and by the afternoon she 
 had brought it to boiling point. 
 
 Carmen's black eyes blinked with malicious 
 enjoyment as she watched Betty prepare for 
 conquest ; a last look at herself in the glass 
 had convinced her that maize muslin with tiny 
 strips of Valenciennes, and a French hat with 
 blood-red carnations, had added all that lay in 
 art to enhance the charm of her ugly cspitgle 
 self. She looked more finished than Betty, 
 for the latter' s child-girl development showed 
 more in her afternoon dress. 
 
 They walked round the miniature park in 
 the wake of a youthful chaperon. The first
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 19 
 
 turn Betty passed Samuelo O'Byrne without 
 noticing him; the second, she inclined her 
 saucy nose the fraction of an inch; the third, 
 she looked, with her soul in her eyes, over his 
 shoulder at the love-lorn Enrico. The pas- 
 sionate waltz on the band, the sensuous summer 
 languor, the flame in eyes and cheek, the ill- 
 concealed, frank admiration of the men put 
 each woman on her mettle, alert for conquest. 
 A little later, as Betty sat and ate vanilla ice 
 with undisguised gourniandise, a voice behind 
 her chair whispered, half-mockingly, half- 
 pleadingly : — 
 
 "You are vexed with me, Senorita Betty; 
 what have I done.^ " 
 
 " Forgotten something of your manners, just 
 now, Seflor!" with an emphasis on the title. 
 
 "Aah! Senorita, a thousand pardons, it is 
 to be so ceremonious. Bueno ! " There was 
 an angry shake in the lad's voice, and Carmen 
 pressed a tiny foot warningly on Betty's. 
 The latter bowed with a fetching glance 
 through her lashes at a man in lieutenant's 
 uniform. The lad flung himself from behind 
 her chair, saluted formally, saying, with white 
 lips: —
 
 20 SYMPHONIES 
 
 " Adws, Sefiorita Carmin, adios, Senorita 
 Smith!" 
 
 " You are a great, heartless coquette, Betty, 
 that 's what jw/ are!" cried the former small per- 
 son, snapping her dainty-gloved fingers contemp- 
 tuously. " Now he' 11 go off to the Calle Alaipti," 
 a street of doubtful repute, "pobre joven [poor 
 boy], so handsome as he is, so smitten ! " 
 
 " Que VIC hnporta d mi [what is that to me]," 
 snapped Betty, disdainfully. " You tire me, so 
 silly as you are, with your tan buen mozo, tan 
 simpdtico. Why don't you have him yourself? 
 I 'm tired ; I '11 ask Elvira to take us home — " 
 
 At the corner of the plaza one of the great 
 rumbling hired coaches dashed past them, and 
 they caught a glimpse of an espitgle face cir- 
 cled in a lace-trimmed inanto, looking into 
 a flushed lad's face, with a gold-banded cap on 
 the back of his head. 
 
 "There, I told you so, Betty; with that 
 Mariquita, too!" 
 
 And Betty just shrugged her shoulders 
 impatiently, but was silent all the way home. 
 
 Two weeks later, when the purple gloom had 
 fallen with the suddenness that changes day to
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 21 
 
 night without any transition, as if in instant 
 obedience to some magic whisper, and the sil- 
 ver-white moonlight flooded the night with a 
 brightness that made the shadows fall sharply 
 as if thrown by electric light, the two girls 
 might have been seen sitting on the steps of 
 the veranda in the garden of Betty's aunt. 
 They were cutting slices off an enormous water- 
 melon, biting crescents out of the rose-hued 
 centre. Betty's eyes gleamed strangely, like 
 those of some tawny leopard ; indeed, she was 
 not unlike one with her shining hair and yellow- 
 and-brown striped evening frock. 
 
 "Have you heard anything of O'Byrne?" 
 queried Carmen. 
 
 " He has written three times. I have for- 
 given him, poor boy, 'twas for me he did it. 
 This is a delicious melon." 
 
 Upon the veranda a dull red spot burned 
 like a fiery eye, telling where the charcoal 
 glowed in a hrasero ; the leaves all hung 
 motionless in the cool night air; the heavy ex- 
 halation of many flowers added a note of de- 
 licious languor; the old garden seemed to brood, 
 a silent, charmed spot in the midst of outside 
 sounds of wave, dance music, and passional lisp-
 
 22 SYMPHONIES 
 
 ingf voices. The window slid back in the 
 look-out tower amongst the trees in the next 
 garden. 
 
 " Pst," hissed Betty, " Pancho ! Pst ! " turning 
 her strangely lit face towards the veranda. A 
 stir, a recumbent form glided to the railing and 
 the gnome-like face of the house boy peered 
 through like some grotesque gargoyle ; the 
 white light intensified the malicious humour- 
 ous grin and odd eyes. 
 
 " Impertinent devil," muttered Betty, adding 
 aloud, "the Seiiora, where is she, boy; does she 
 sleep?" 
 
 " The Senora sleeps, sleeps soundly, Seiiorita; 
 the decanter is empty." 
 
 " That will do." 
 
 The head disappeared ; the charcoal burned 
 redly again ; and as one's eyes grew accustomed 
 to the gloom, one could see that the boy lay 
 flat upon his stomach and fanned the embers 
 with his mouth ; a tiny kettle sang sleepily, and 
 his mate gourd and bombilla (sucking tube) lay 
 at his side. Something stirred in the great 
 tree ; there was a glint of gold in the silver light. 
 Betty's eyes danced uncannily; her hand shook 
 a little as she cut a fresh slice of melon,
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 23 
 
 so that the juice trickled off her fingers. Car- 
 men smiled sympathetically, her mouth curling 
 up at the corners, and drew closer. A louder 
 rustle, a creak, and a lad's form swung lightly 
 from the lowest branch, and dropped to the 
 ground and the shadow. 
 
 "Pst, pst," sharp as tropical grasshoppers* 
 chirp, then so softly, " Senorita Betty ! " 
 
 Who can describe Betty as she turned her 
 moon-lit face, with its moulding lovingly shad- 
 owed in the silver gloom? Her great eyes, the 
 pupils black with excitement and unconscious 
 womanhood, her mouth all aquiver with ten- 
 derness and conscious power, she slid down to 
 the lowest step. 
 
 Carmencita waved her tiny brown hand in 
 friendly greeting, and, taking her guitar, 
 thrummed a love song softly. The sensuous, 
 yearning notes, like whispered caresses, pierced 
 the night sweetly; she leaned back her dusky 
 head in its frame of white lace mantilla, and 
 closed her eyes dreamily. She had no hand in 
 this game, it was Betty's innings ; but of a 
 surety her hour would come, love was not 
 always lured or kept by beauty. 
 
 The lad stepped forth with eager eyes, and
 
 24 SYMPHONIES 
 
 knelt at Betty's feet, putting his lips to her hand. 
 Her silver bangles, with many charms dangling 
 from them, jingled as she drew it away. 
 
 " I have brought you a new chichi [charm], 
 Betty, for luck ! " He took a little gold heart 
 with letters on it out of his pocket and fastened 
 it to one of the silver circlets; his hand 
 trembled as it touched her wrist. 
 
 "What will you give me, Betty? — a tress of 
 your hair ; your wonderful hair, all witch-gold, like 
 the buried treasure of the Incas? Let me undo it." 
 
 He put up his hand, keeping his eyes on her 
 odd face the while, and slid the ribbon deftly 
 down the braid, and undid it caressingly, spread- 
 ing it over her shoulders in a tawny drift. 
 
 " Aah ! " 
 
 He drew in his breath quickly, and whispered 
 huskily: — 
 
 " You 're like an amber witch, a golden leop- 
 ard, oh, Betty ! " 
 
 He pressed closer and hid his face in her 
 gown ; she touched his bent head softly, there 
 where the hair waved off the temples (and that 
 can be the most lovable bit of a man's head to a 
 woman). He lifted his face, and his look startled 
 her; she shrank involuntarily, and at that the
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 25 
 
 lad flushed and looked hurt; she touched the 
 little heart with her lips. 
 
 ♦' It 's very pretty, Samuelito," dwelling on the 
 endearing diminutive; " I '11 always keep it." 
 
 " And my bit of hair," catching a lock and 
 kissing it, " I may — " 
 /• Not to-night, amigo, some other time." 
 
 Then seeing the cloud gather upon his face, 
 she whispered : — 
 
 " Give me your hand, Samuelo, I '11 give you 
 something instead." 
 
 She took it, a long, nervous, beautifully- 
 formed hand with strong nails; her own was 
 large and broadly modelled by comparison. 
 Above them Carmencita played a sa^nacueca 
 with a quaint lilt running through it, like a 
 shrill, sweet woman's voice, until the very stars 
 seemed to vibrate in response, and the house 
 boy whistled musically, and beat time with the 
 fingers of one hand on the back of the other. 
 She opened the palm, bent and laid a kiss in it, 
 then closed the fingers over it with firm stress, 
 as if to lock it in, and laid it playfully back on 
 his other hand. 
 
 " God, Betty, how sweet you can be, how dear 
 you are ! "
 
 26 SYMPHONIES 
 
 " No, you must stay just where you are, no 
 nearer. Look, how high the moon is rising ! I 
 wonder what the old man in it thinks ! " 
 
 " That youth is glorious, and love and night 
 the best things in the world ! " 
 
 " I wonder," said Betty. 
 
 "Betty dear—" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Don't be cross any more; you don't know 
 your power, it drives me mad; and then I do 
 wrong and sorrow the mother, poor, noble, 
 good mother — and Betty, you do care — " 
 
 " Pst ! " from the veranda. The samacueca 
 stopped abruptly and Carmen broke into the 
 the " Warning song " of the sentinel out of a 
 popular opera bouffe. Betty started, with her 
 eyes glowing like those of a startled cat, and 
 whispered urgently: — 
 
 "My aunt, oh, chiquiHo, we arc lost; you 
 must fly — " 
 
 "Yes, if you," with reckless frown, "tell me 
 that you — " 
 
 " I do, indeed I do ; good-night, oh, go, dear, 
 good Samuel — " 
 
 She slid into the shadow of the tree ; and the 
 lad caught her and pressed his lips to her
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 27 
 
 cheek, as she turned her mouth aside, and held 
 her a second, with almost a sob. A moment 
 later, when the aunt came scoldingly along the 
 veranda and leaned over the balustrade, railing 
 about the dew, and the night chills, and the 
 virtue of a tisane of linden leaves as a cure for 
 influenza, and the phenomenon of the breeze 
 that rustled the leaves of the sombre tree, Betty 
 was eating watermelon calmly, and Carmen's 
 plump shoulders shook with stifled laughter, 
 and the gnome made faces at the moon god 
 behind the back of the Senora aunt. 
 
 The streets ran with water, for the rain had 
 come ; and the river through the city, that was 
 a dry, albeit rough, roadway in the hot months, 
 was a turbulent yellow-brown stream rushing 
 with a cargo of garbage to the sea. 
 
 No gay music, no cantering horses, or laugh- 
 ing beings were to be seen in the deserted 
 streets. The measured march of feet, the rustle 
 of musketry, the dull boom of cannon from the 
 coast, sharp words of command as an officer 
 wheeled his men from the main to a side street, 
 and the dead bell tolling dismally from the 
 churches were the only sounds.
 
 28 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Such of the shops as were open had their 
 shutters up ; many of the windows and doors of 
 the houses -were securely barricaded, the bullet- 
 riddled planks showing how wisely. The city 
 was struggling in the throes of civil war. 
 
 The gate of Betty's garden was opened cau- 
 tiously and a wraith of the brilliant gringita of 
 the summer peered up and down the deserted 
 street ; then the gnome followed. They locked 
 the gate carefully, and hurried along, keeping 
 close to the walls. At a corner near the Car- 
 melite church there was a pool of blood in the 
 shadow of the porch, a naval cap, and a white 
 glove. Betty shuddered and crossed herself, and 
 sped on as a volley echoed from a square close 
 by ; they halted at a door in a quiet street, rang 
 twice and rapped ; steps came along the passage, 
 paused inside to listen. 
 
 " It is I, Betty, oh, do open ! " 
 
 The door was unbolted, and she slipped in, 
 followed by the boy. A stout, white-haired 
 woman with the remains of singular beauty 
 embraced the girl, and remonstrated with her 
 for her daring in venturing through the streets. 
 
 " Oh, I could n't stay there any longer ; it has 
 been dreadful. I have missed Carmen so ; the
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 29 
 
 hours dragged ; and the aunt, you know, is all for 
 the navy. Balmaceda knows it; she has given 
 money to help them. Now she is barricaded 
 in her room with Rosalia and old Bunoz. I 
 would n't go in, I was afraid ; Pancho went out 
 and brought me in the news ; but the suspense 
 is fearful. He said Alfonso," hesitating. 
 
 "Yes, he was wounded, only slightly though; 
 we are all in the patio." 
 
 They went out to the square courtyard about 
 which the bedrooms and house offices ran. 
 
 A youth with his head bandaged sat on a stool 
 polishing a revolver, another smoked. Carmen 
 and two girls with red eyes were plucking linen 
 to make charpie. They all shrieked together in 
 voluble Spanish, and sprang to greet her. 
 
 " Oh, Betty, I 'm so glad you 've come ; but 
 only think, half the senior cadets are impli- 
 cated; Julio, Sanchez, and Samuel are on the 
 naval side of course. That fat Juan deserted 
 and went over. They say they are amongst the 
 ringleaders, twenty-one in prison; and perhaps 
 they will be shot." 
 
 "He wouldn't dare — " 
 
 " Oh, yes, he would though, nothing is bad 
 enough for those rascally niilitares."
 
 30 SYMPHONIES 
 
 The bell jangled twice. 
 
 " It's la Lucia, poor child, oh, Senor de mi 
 alma, how troubled the days ! She went to the 
 hospital with charpie. Everything is so dear 
 too ; I had to send some jewelry to the Senora 
 Morris ; she is lending money to every one. If 
 this trouble goes on she '11 make a fine dowry 
 for her two hideous girls ; they would n't get hus- 
 bands without it." 
 
 A young woman rushed in, tearing off her 
 manto ; as she came in, her mobile face worked 
 convulsively and the tears rained down her 
 cheek: — 
 
 " Oh, Mama, think of it, the infamy, the dis- 
 grace of it ! He 's shooting them without even 
 a trial. I saw it myself; oh, it was dreadful! 
 Some say twenty of them, some forty; twenty 
 this morning; and this is Chile; oh, I could kill 
 him myself, it would n't be murder, with my own 
 hands, like Charlotte Corday ! The brute, the 
 beast, the upstart ! " 
 
 " Ssh, Lucia dear, for God's sake, calm your- 
 self; you never know who informs now; you '11 
 have the house searched before we know. It 's 
 dreadful for the poor mothers, oh, the poor 
 brave boys ! "
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 31 
 
 The tramp of feet and suppressed roar of 
 voices made the girls rush into a front room 
 to peer through the Venetian blinds ; a second 
 later they were calling, with a sudden transition 
 to mirth : — 
 
 " It 's that fat tonto [muff] Federico Edwards ! 
 Do look, he is on a mule with his feet tied un- 
 derneath its belly. Oh, he is in his pyjamas, 
 and, Dios mio, he is bald, quite bald, like an 
 egg! He must have worn a toupee. Fancy, no 
 bath with orange-flower water now; no gorgeous 
 socks, poor Federico ! It 's too funny ; Mama, 
 do come and look ! " 
 
 " No, come to breakfast, Ninas ; it 's a poor 
 meal, but one must eat; we may need our 
 strength yet. Ay de mi ! " 
 
 In a room in the second story of an old-fash- 
 ioned house in a side avenue near the plaza, 
 Samuel O'Byrne's mother paced the floor 
 wringing her hands ; thirty-five years old and 
 still a lovely woman in spite of disfiguringly 
 plain black gown and sorrow-stricken face, 
 daughter of one of the oldest and proudest 
 Spanish families, she had married for love at 
 sixteen. A year after, the outbreak of war with
 
 32 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Peru brought separation, and then the news 
 of her husband's death, — gallant officer at the 
 head of a gallant crew, reckless, daring, tender, 
 true son of an Irish-Chilian. 
 
 She had left her big house, gathering together 
 all that could be invested in an annuity; and with 
 Inez, a faithful, half-caste Indian servant, had 
 retreated into a life of thrifty monotony, waiting 
 for the little one he had left her to fight its way 
 to life. She had stifled her tears, and forced 
 her grief back, because it would have been ill 
 for the tiny soul in there, and waited through 
 months of sorrowing regret, with gleams of 
 hopeful anticipation. Then one morning it 
 came, a little son ; she consecrated him to the 
 Virgin, and dressed him, her bonny boy, in 
 " our lady's colours," blue and white, for seven 
 years. 
 
 Young, beautiful, barely eighteen, she turned 
 each would-be lover away, until no more came; 
 wore the sombre colours of a widow, and de- 
 voted herself solely to her son, her Jiijito (dear 
 little son). How proud she was the day she got 
 him into the Naval School; how she scraped 
 and saved, disposed of lace and jewels, one 
 by one, to keep her laddie on a par with the
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 33 
 
 Lyons and Edwards, the rich Anglo-Chilians 
 with money, and the older hidalgos with blood. 
 He had grown more like his father each year, 
 had loved her tenderly, taken prizes each year, 
 and now, full of promise, scarcely eighteen, they 
 told her he was in danger. 
 
 If she could only get him away, only do some- 
 thing. Yesterday, the widowed Ana Gomez, 
 poor soul, had gone on her knees to Balmaceda, 
 had bent her white head at his feet, and her 
 boys were shot at sundown. " Oh, it is too 
 cruel ! " she moaned, with the tears blinding her 
 as she walked. The door opened, a cry: — 
 
 " Mother, dear little mother, my own mother ! " 
 
 He came in, the bright colour was dimmed in 
 his cheeks; but he held his head erect and his 
 eyes flashed sombrely; he bent his head to her 
 embrace. 
 
 " Don't fret, little mother, perhaps it is not 
 written that I am to be one of the luckless ones ; 
 but if it is, it is only what my father would have 
 done. I can die," with a catch in his voice, " as 
 bravely, I hope, as poor little Gomez. You have 
 had no breakfast, motherkin, give me some 
 chocolate and take some with me." 
 
 He put her into a chair, and made a pretence 
 
 3
 
 34 SYMPHONIES 
 
 of eating, whilst he forced her to drink, with ten- 
 der attention. The tramp of feet in the court- 
 yard below made liim bend his head with 
 quivering lips, and press her head close to his 
 breast, as he stood next her chair : — 
 
 " Comfort Betty, mother, say I thought of 
 her; give her something of mine — " 
 
 The measured steps came up the stairs, a 
 sharp rap, the door was opened, and an officer 
 in military uniform entered the room, four men 
 at his heels. He saluted her gravely, stepped 
 forward and laid his hand on the lad's shoulder. 
 The mother sprang to her feet, cutting short his 
 formula of arrest with the farcical accusation of 
 treason, and threw her arms about the lad, strain- 
 ing him to her. 
 
 " I regret, Senora, but I must do my duty." 
 The lad smiled contemptuously, saying: — 
 " Duty to an upstart who would ruin Chile, — 
 a strange sense of duty — " 
 
 " I am not going to bandy words with you, 
 Samuel O'Byrne ; my orders are to shoot you 
 where I find you — " A shuddering cry from 
 the mother interrupted him. " To avoid giving 
 this lady more than necessary pain, you had 
 better come quietly; I am in a hurry."
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 35 
 
 " Bueno, at least let me say good-bye to my 
 mother alone. I give you my word," fiercely, 
 as the other hesitated ; " that has at least never 
 been questioned." 
 
 " You can have five minutes." 
 
 He stepped to the door, ordered the men out- 
 side, and leaned with his back to the room and 
 rolled a cigarette. 
 
 "Don't make it hard for me, little mother," 
 pleaded the lad ; " for it is hard when one is only 
 beginning life, and it is so jolly too. Don't let 
 me disgrace the father or you ; pray for me, 
 madrecita, and give me your blessing." 
 
 A dry sob choked his voice : — 
 
 " Oh, it is hardest on you, noble, good, dear 
 mother ; I care most, now that it has come, at 
 leaving you ; I wish I had been a better boy." 
 
 He knelt at her feet, and she blessed him 
 between her sobs ; then she held him in her arms 
 in an agony of tortured love. 
 
 " Time is up," said the officer, huskily. 
 
 "I am ready," the lad said quietly; and he 
 took a cigarette off the table and lit it, perhaps 
 not so much out of bravado, as of the need of 
 something to keep him from seeing her eyes. 
 She cried out, and sprang forward, holding out a
 
 36 SYMPHONIES 
 
 little silver crucifix to him ; the boy took it and 
 whispered unsteadily: — 
 
 " Keep away from the window; oh, my mother 
 darling, kneel and pray for me." 
 
 Every step that echoed as it touched the 
 stairs took a year of life from the woman in the 
 room. Old Ines burst in with a wail, and flung 
 herself upon the floor, with her hands over her 
 ears, rocking herself with cries of wrath and 
 grief. The mother knelt at the window with 
 agonised eyes, holding up a cross in her hands; 
 and down in the square below, the lad stood 
 with his back to the wall, the quenched cigarette 
 between his white lips. As the men formed into 
 line, he raised his cap, cried, "Viva, Chile!" 
 and then, as he lifted the little cross to his lips 
 and looked up, fell forward, riddled with bullets. 
 
 There was fighting in a street close by, and 
 the captain hastened his men to the aid of com- 
 rades sorely pressed by a body of marines ; and 
 the mother and old Ines came down and carried 
 in the lad, as other mothers had done in other 
 squares that day. 
 
 And when midnight of the day following came 
 round, and the city clocks chimed the hours be- 
 tween the unceasing peal of the dead bell tolling
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 37 
 
 for the flower of Chilian boyhood, the memory 
 of Samuel the gay, the handsome, the brave, 
 threw a shadow over three houses. 
 
 Down in the Calle Maipn, behind the closed 
 shutters of a gaudy room, heavy with the scent 
 of burning pastilles, Mariquita strummed half- 
 heartedly upon her guitar — for times were hard 
 now that men had war to play with, and bread 
 was dear; but it was not the way of her calling 
 to save, or to take things hardly: for without 
 philosophy they could hardly pursue it. " Ay 
 de mi, que triste la vida ! " she sighed ; " but 
 there is no use crying over last year's roses." 
 She fixed a flower in her hair, and her green 
 eyes only gleamed the more seductively under 
 their upward-curling fringe of lashes, long as a 
 mare's, because of the traces her quick, passion- 
 ate tears had left. She had rouged a trifle to 
 hid her pallor; and the little French barber who 
 visted her casi7/a had dressed her dusky hair into 
 most elaborate braids and curls to console her, 
 ^Q pobrecita ! So, soon her tiny child feet, in 
 their ridiculous scarlet satin slippers, beat time 
 as she thrummed a fandango. For Mariquita 
 was young, and men are but men, and the blood 
 flows quickly on tropical nights, and the moon
 
 38 SYMPHONIES 
 
 shines no whit the fainter because it looks on 
 many tragedies; moreover the Calle Maipu is 
 aquiver with passional atoms, for it is a kingdom 
 in which the throne is free to any Prince with a 
 golden key, and if Mariquita, when she looked 
 at the bangle with the M. in pearls on her slim 
 brown wrist, whispered a prayer to the good 
 Jesu, Maria, and Jose for the repose of the soul 
 of the giver, the dear lad, and then turned with 
 a flutter of her gorgeous fan to meet a coronel 
 in Balmaceda's army — well, she had done all 
 that lay in her nature to do. 
 
 And down in the casa of the Senora Aunt, 
 Betty, and Carmen had wept bitterly as they 
 wove a big white wreath to lay on his grave; 
 and they ate didccs in between, and talked senti- 
 mentally, and their little half-awakened hearts 
 ached sorely, full of tender regret. But later on, 
 when the moon peered in, it found Betty smiling 
 in her sleep, her cheek all dimpling, dreaming of 
 love and green woods, for the woman in her was 
 yet untouched. This episode was but the caress 
 of a sun ray, the sear of the great fire had not 
 yet come. For when the nameless charm of 
 youth is yet upon a maid, and the breasts are 
 still like half-blown white buds, and the senses
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 39 
 
 only stir uneasily, as yet half awake, and the 
 mystic witchery of the unknown only whispers 
 in the blood, the heart takes trial trips on many 
 streams before it embarks on the one great 
 fatal torrent that engulphs it forever. 
 
 But in the guest-chamber of the lonely house, 
 within sound of the sea that rolled against the 
 bar in dirge-like monotones, the lad lay on his 
 bier. His blue jacket was stiff where his heart- 
 blood had welled through, one gold band was 
 sadly tarnished, and a blue shadow disfigured 
 one temple; but to the watchers, the set young 
 lips seemed to smile; wax-lights burned in 
 massive silver candlesticks, and threw the white 
 limbs of the Christ on the cross, the vessel with 
 salt, and the vase of holy water into sharp relief. 
 The mother knelt at his side, rocking to and 
 fro, crooning to herself in her sorrow. " Was 
 it for this I bore you through months of pain, 
 cradled under my heart, son of my soul, my 
 only one? Was it for this I gave up youth and 
 love and life, and plunged into the land of fear- 
 ful shadows, as if the burden of your fate lay 
 heavy upon me, even before you came to life ? 
 my son, my little one ! Curse on wars ; it is we, 
 we mothers, who always suffer the most, always,
 
 40 SYMPHONIES 
 
 always! The bitterest of the world's burdens 
 rest on our shoulders. Glory or defeat, both 
 alike bring us tears ! my boy, my own, own 
 boy ! My life is ended ; the cord of your soul 
 and mine was too closely knit for me to live 
 when you are dead. I was jealous, Samuelito, 
 of every girl that smiled at you. I have prayed 
 on my knees to conquer the hate that surged in 
 my heart at the thought of her who would steal 
 you from me, who would pillow your dear head 
 upon her breast, as it lay on mine, when you 
 were all my own. Prayed that I might live to 
 find you again in your children, my son, my 
 son ! " 
 
 Thus she moaned in her pain, with sleepless 
 eyes, whilst Mariquita slept with the flushed 
 cheeks of passion, and Betty dreamed the 
 sweet visions of maidenhood. For the love of 
 man to a maid is grand; but the desire of pos- 
 session is the pith of its strength ; and the love 
 of woman to man ripples like the sea on the 
 waves of its own emotion, crying unceasingly: 
 love, love me ever ! But the mother love of an 
 unwarped woman for the son of her soul is 
 stronger than the love of man, more tender than 
 the love of woman ; for it asketh nothing in
 
 A CHILIAN EPISODE 41 
 
 return, — just gives, gives, gives, as the ocean 
 gives salt and savour and healing ! 
 
 And when the dawn rose, and the candles had 
 burned down, the mother still knelt with the 
 cold of her dead son's hand chilling her heart.
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 
 
 Let it be understood at the outset that this 
 book was even more fateful to its author than 
 the forgotten pamphlet of one John Stubbs, 
 Puritan, whose right hand, with that of his 
 publisher, was chopped off in the reign of the 
 great Queen, yclept virgin, " wich is writ sar- 
 kastic." 
 
 The Captain by courtesy, for he had never 
 really attained to more than lieutenant's rank; 
 and that, too, was due to a page in the book 
 blurred by a woman's tears and a comrade's 
 hand-grip. It is not within my ken to say how 
 the book was begotten, but I can vouch for the 
 fact that it proved ever a barrier to the success 
 of its author as a worth-while member of a tax- 
 paying community. 
 
 It was with him as a laddie when he fished 
 for troutlings in the mill-stream, or went birds- 
 nesting in the hedgerows. It floated as a neb-
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 43 
 
 ulous magnetic spirit to lure him from set tasks 
 in the dame school of his tender years, to play 
 truant in pleasant meadows, with a stolen vol- 
 ume of forbidden lore in his satchel. It trans- 
 formed every itinerant ballad-monger into a 
 troubadour; it made the wooden-legged cor- 
 poral, who mended brogues between his drunken 
 bouts, and told tales of the Peninsula and 
 Waterloo, more wonderful than Prester John, 
 and his feats greater than those of any hero of 
 Northern Saga. It gave him, to the despair of 
 tutor and parents, a leaning to the disreputable 
 society of such members of gypsydom or the 
 mummer's craft as paid flying visits with van or 
 show to the town of his birth. 
 
 Was it begotten by the reading of his first 
 romance, this desire that grew in him to write 
 some day a great book, a book of which the 
 world would ring, that would stir men's hearts 
 to deeds of valour, and women's to vows of loyal 
 love? Did it sleep in a cell of his brain at his 
 birth, fateful inheritance of some roving ances- 
 tor, with a light touch on the harp and a genius 
 for lying on his tongue? 
 
 When the dame school was abandoned for 
 college, and the velvet cap with golden tassel,
 
 44 SYMPHONIES 
 
 and the jean pantalettes with broidered frills 
 ceded to cloth small-clothes with gilt button 
 and college cap, it still grew apace ; and when 
 it crept between his dryer tasks and let duller 
 boys snatch prizes from his grasp, he whispered 
 to himself that some day he would let them 
 know why he had failed to be an easy first. 
 
 Years fled, the choice of a career became im- 
 perative ; but ever the golden book with its 
 purple letters on fairest vellum, its clasps of 
 jacinth and opal, its pageant of knights, ladies, 
 courtiers, and clowns, martial strains and dim 
 cathedral choirs with mystic cells, songs of 
 the blood, leering satyrs, and the seven deadly 
 sins in guise of maidens fair, — whispered dis- 
 tractingly to his inner ear. Indecision blinked 
 at him with restless eyes and whispered many 
 callings; Art held up a pencil and said: "You 
 who limn each passing face, who are afifectable 
 to every shade of colour, can quicken the inani- 
 mate world by the light of your fancy, if you 
 follow me. I am an arbitrary mistress, but in 
 the end I will lead you through the gate of the 
 Temple of Fame ! " And he was about to fol- 
 low, when the skirl of pipes and echo of march- 
 ing feet, the flutter of pennants, and strains of a
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 45 
 
 music that roused to imperative life the instincts 
 of the fighting man, lulled to slumber by cen- 
 turies of peace, made him pause again. Vi- 
 sions of foreign lands, gallant deeds for country, 
 and for fame, adventures by sea and shore that 
 would serve for the pages of the marvellous 
 book, decided him to abandon his true mistress 
 and follow the jade of war. 
 
 Indeed the book became so closely inter- 
 woven with the fibres of his being that often it 
 was hard to distinguish the existing from the 
 imagined, and every fact of life borrowed a 
 colour from its inscribing therein ; thus it came 
 to pass, not seldom, that men listening to his 
 narration of the happened by the light of their 
 soberer reason, looked askance at his version, 
 and whispered to each other, " He 's a liar " ; 
 and when the pain of their misunderstanding 
 had ceased to sting he told himself, " They too 
 will understand when they read the book." 
 
 One career after another was cast aside at the 
 turn to success, and those who had watched 
 the opening days of the brilliant lad with the 
 many gifts, turned their faces away when they 
 met him, for they could not aft"ord to know a 
 wastrel of the chances of life.
 
 46 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Yet the Captain was rarely unhappy, for he 
 alone conned the pages of the magic book, ever 
 present to him, a growing marvel, in manhood 
 as in childhood. When the girl of his early love, 
 weary of waiting for the home that was to har- 
 bour her, distrustful of promises as lightly made 
 as broken, turned from a world of vanities and 
 unsatisfied yearnings, to take the veil as a Sister 
 of Mercy, it was a keen wound, — soon to be 
 treasured as a melancholy sweet episode in the 
 romance of the book. So years sped by, the 
 Captain married, and little children came with 
 reckless frequency ; episodes of gay insouciance, 
 materials of sorrow and pain, dark blots, with 
 here and there a touch of shame, accumulated 
 to supply its tragedy and its truth. 
 
 Former schoolfellows, plodding boys of spar- 
 ser talents who had kept a grip on the tool they 
 had chosen, passed him in the race of life, and 
 drove by his shabby lodgings in neat broughams, 
 and forgot to greet him when they met. 
 
 What knew they of the witchery of the golden 
 book, the hashish of its whisperings, the inci- 
 dents crowding to fill it with all the experiences 
 of humanity, — a concordance of the soul of 
 man? They merely looked upon him as be-
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 47 
 
 longing to the strange race of the sons of men 
 who never work in the immediate present, but 
 who He in bed in the morning forming elaborate 
 plans to catch a sea serpent. 
 
 Debts increased, little children clamoured for 
 food and raiment; yet the Captain, ever dream- 
 ing of his book, trod lightly and whistled through 
 life, mellow in note as a blackbird ; tired women 
 stitching in narrow windows would lift their 
 heads as they heard him pass, and think wist- 
 fully of bird song and hazel copse down country 
 ways. Even when the wife of his choice, patient 
 victim of his procrastinations, closed her tired 
 eyes from sheer weariness, glad to be relieved 
 of the burden of her sorrows, the Captain found 
 solace in weaving her in as the central figure of 
 his book, an apotheosis of heroic wifehood. 
 
 But the reaping must be as the sowing, and 
 evil days must come with the ingathering: his 
 clothes grew shabbier, his friends fewer, want 
 rapped oftener at the door, gay romance gave 
 way to sordid reality, and the sore places of life 
 blotted the pages, as the plates in a book of 
 surgery; dire necessity forced the Captain to 
 woo the mistress he had jilted in early youth, 
 but she laughed elusively. The old spirit had
 
 48 SYMPHONIES 
 
 flown from the pencil, his fingers had lost their 
 cunning, and younger men elbowed him out of 
 the way ; for a man who has spent his life in 
 dreaming ever fails to grasp the " modern," the 
 changeful spirit of the day. As time went on, 
 the book became a subject of jest to his children, 
 of good-natured raillery to his friends ; the boys 
 and girls fought their separate ways, gathering 
 educational manna from every bush, and be- 
 came practical, hard-headed men and women of 
 the world, with a keen eye to the main chance, 
 a grip of the essentials of life, as befits the off- 
 spring of a dreamer. 
 
 Something of scorn for his failures, of con- 
 tempt for his ideals, impatience of his shiftless- 
 ness, tinged their attitude to him always, and, 
 spreading wider, their attitude towards everyone 
 who bore not the hall-mark of the world's esti- 
 mate of success. What is the good of it, how 
 much will it bring? was their standard of worth. 
 
 Barney, who had become a successful stock- 
 broker, occasionally found the former acquaint- 
 anceship of the old guv'nor with sundry families 
 of noble breeding of signal service to him. He 
 never failed to make capital of the " old dad's " 
 intimate knowledge of salmon fishing, or the
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 49 
 
 best places to go in search of big game and the 
 easiest way to get there. "A fellow whose 
 father is a crack shot and an authority on 
 salmon fishing can't be quite a cad, don't you 
 know ! " young De Vera would urge when 
 asking his governor to send City Barney an 
 invitation. 
 
 Barney, in return, paid for the Captain's 
 cheap lodgings, and gave him a hint that the 
 " missus " only cared to see people on invitation, 
 as the chicks asked awkward questions before 
 her folk as to why grandpa lived in such a little 
 house. It did n't do! The Captain would curl 
 his grey moustaches fiercely and turn to his 
 pipe and book, and lay the one, as it burnt out, 
 as a marker in the half-read page of the other, 
 and close his eyes with a vehemence of inten- 
 tion that boded ill for the performance, to map 
 out the chapters of the wonderful book. 
 
 Dick, who had inherited his facile invention, 
 astounding memory, and adaptive mercurial 
 temperament, without any of his tenderness of 
 heart, had taken successfully to journalism as a 
 stepping-stone to whatever might offer; and 
 when the Piccadilly Budget treated all the clubs 
 to a merry half-hour by its piquant details of 
 
 4
 
 50 SYMPHONIES 
 
 the early life of the latest created military 
 baronet, or told how the great porter-brewer's 
 grandfather had burnt the malt by accident and 
 so laid the foundation to his fortune; or gave a 
 most piquant version of an old scandal with 
 modern touches as applicable to the newest 
 woman writer, brother journalists were green 
 with envy. Readers in the running said: 
 "That's Dick O'Grady's par," and wondered 
 where the deuce the fellow picked up his facts. 
 And Dick smiled at acquaintances with the 
 winning smile that too was an inheritance from 
 the Captain, and stopped his hansom to greet a 
 club gossip useful to push him into the set he 
 wished to enter ; told him a rattling good story 
 of the latest " star's " mother, whom he happened 
 to know was a canteen woman in the Curragh 
 in 1856, and was promised a card in return for 
 Lady C.'s crush ; sometimes, too, he found a 
 modernified version of the Captain's chivalrous 
 manner to women of almost miraculous effect in 
 conciliating the esoteric petticoat influence of 
 some leading daily; and, conscious of his debt, 
 he would order a new dress suit and send the 
 old boy half a sovereign, with a letter bemoaning 
 the shortness of " oof," and asking three ques-
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 51 
 
 tions no one else in London could answer him. 
 liis Sunday afternoon with the Captain was 
 always profitably spent; he gleaned stories or 
 workable anecdotes, and if the stories he deftly 
 drew out gained in malice as they lost in genial 
 humanity, and the rennet of his cynicism turned 
 sour the milk of human kindness that ran 
 through the Captain's worst talc — well, he was 
 the better latter-day journalist for that. Nowise 
 deceived, the old man would pocket the stray 
 shillings, and wash the taste of the interview 
 down with a glass of his favourite Jamieson, 
 swearing he would make that cub, with the 
 mind of a journalising huckster, cry small when 
 he published his book. 
 
 As the sons, so the daughters. 
 
 Mary, who married well and lived in Lan- 
 caster Gate, sometimes took the children in a 
 cab to see him; but as her nurse's sister let 
 apartments in the same terrace, she had to look 
 after them herself, and that was too fatiguing 
 for frequent repetition. Kitty, the black sheep 
 of the family, who danced in burlesque, and 
 showed her pretty limbs as Captain of the 
 Guard, and her pretty teeth in her laughing 
 song, stood to him best ; but even she was
 
 53 SYMPHONIES 
 
 frankly sceptical at mention of the golden book. 
 " Chuck it, dad, and write naughty anecdotes of 
 celebrities for Modern Society or some of the pa- 
 pers ; nothing pays like scandal with just a grain 
 of truth. Like some tickets for Thursday? No ! 
 Well, buy some baccy." And she would take 
 her rustling petticoats and powdered, laughing 
 face, and saucy eyes, into a hansom with ill- 
 concealed relief. 
 
 They had all grown beyond him and his 
 dreams. Their interests were frankly material ; 
 they were keenly alive to his faults, his subter- 
 fuges, his poor, sometimes mean shifts to make 
 ends meet, his silly reverence for everything 
 that wore a gown, his wasted talents that might 
 have served their advancement; they resented 
 him as a failure and they let him know it. 
 One thing solely they were blind to, — Dick as 
 well as Barney (which was the less excusable 
 seeing how like the chip was to the block), level- 
 headed Mary as easy-going Kitty, — that they 
 themselves were the result of the very faults they 
 condemned ; that their acute sense of essen- 
 tials, their world-insight, their calculating fore- 
 thought, each of the very qualities that assured 
 their success in the world of their desires was
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 53 
 
 built up on the solid foundation of sordid experi- 
 ence his makeshift life had brought in its wake. 
 His impecuniosity had taught them the value of 
 money, his happy-go-lucky procrastination the 
 need of immediate action; he had been an un- 
 conscious object-lesson to them from their ten- 
 derest years of the things to avoid unless a man 
 wish to fail in life. 
 
 The Captain saw it clearly enough, and some- 
 times a tiny flame of his old spirit would flicker 
 into life, and he would register a vow to begin 
 the next day; perhaps he would make ready a 
 couple of quills, dust his old desk, lay out some 
 foolscap, and put away treasured letters from 
 old comrades, — his correspondence of late was 
 infrequent, — and whisper with a smile, "To- 
 morrow ! " He would cock hfs old hat jauntily 
 and nod to Jeanet, his landlady's little daughter, 
 and go on to the common with a paper and a 
 pipe, and lose himself in a happy dream of a 
 glorious first chapter, — a marvel of psychologi- 
 cal insight into the life of a child, in which youth 
 and love, and the tender colours of hope and 
 faith, would make young readers' eyes glow, and 
 old readers' eyes glisten. Later on, Jeanet, com- 
 ing to seek him, would find him asleep with his
 
 54 SYMPHONIES 
 
 chin on his stick. She was a wise Httle maid, with 
 the worldUness that is such a pitiful side of 
 London childhood, clever and practical, with a 
 strange affection for the old gentleman who 
 treated her so courteously and called her " My 
 pretty Jane," and was a mine of wonderful lore. 
 She was fiercely jealous of his stuck-up sons and 
 daughters, and resented their treatment with the 
 keen intuition and loyal devotion of childhood. 
 
 " Wake up, Captain ; you should n't go to 
 sleep like that ! " with quaint reproof. " Sup- 
 per is ready, and I 've got a new book ! " 
 
 " Have you, my pretty? I too was dreaming 
 of my book, and to-morrow I must begin. I am 
 growing old, Jeanet. Lord, how divinely poor 
 Paddy Blake used to sing that song. Yes, it's 
 time to begin ! " with a sigh. 
 
 The child, a lanky, precocious thing of thir- 
 teen winters, in whom he alone had seen a 
 promise of beauty, and whose rare intelligence 
 he had striven to cultivate, was silent. Is it not 
 of this book — his book, of which he has told her 
 so often in the long evenings when they have 
 sat together, when the mother has gone with 
 Susie to a southwest music hall — that she has 
 been thinking? Has she not learnt by heart
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 55 
 
 the story of the youth and man, the lady, — 
 so wondrous a white lady surely never lived 
 in fiction before, — of the gentle nun tending 
 wounded men in the wake of war and pesti- 
 lence, of gallant soldier friends, witch-women 
 with amber locks, little children buried at sea, 
 and racy tales, expurgated for her hearing, of 
 camp and bar? Is she not the only one who 
 ever believed implicitly in its greatness and ful- 
 filment? No wonder a plan grew in her little 
 head, and now she has almost carried it to com- 
 pletion. She hurried the old man in, only to 
 note with dismay how feeble his steps, how 
 laboured his breathing had become; and from 
 that day she redoubled her watchfulness of his 
 needs. 
 
 Some days later, Dick, sauntering up the 
 strand from one of his numerous paper offices, 
 was waylaid by an odd little maid with resentful 
 eyes, who gave him a piece of her mind with the 
 uncompromising bluntness of youth. She was 
 too in earnest for him to resent it; besides, she 
 interested him ; he had been seeking a type of 
 child girl for a curtain-raiser, and she hit it off 
 to the life. He watched each expressive gesture, 
 each trick of emphasis and quaintness of idiom,
 
 56 SYMPHONIES 
 
 noting them mentally for use; he talked of him- 
 self to draw her out. " Don't you tell me you 
 got to work 'ard," — in spite of the Captain's 
 pains she lapses into her old way of speech 
 when strongly moved, — ** you go about in 'an- 
 soms and wear expensive flowers in your button- 
 'ole, an' the Captain 'e wants strengthenin' things 
 'e don't 'ave. I thought I 'd tell you, if I was to 
 be killed for it." And Dick smiled, and prom- 
 ised to send a cheque next day, honour bright! 
 — in reply to her distrustful look — adding, 
 " You '11 write and tell me how he is ! " 
 
 Jeanet waved her hand from the top of her 
 'bus, and Dick bared his head as to a duchess, 
 and invented a lie on the spur of the moment in 
 reply to the enthusiastic query of an artist friend 
 who had seen the parting : " Who is the girl 
 with the singular face? " Dick's lies were always 
 entertaining, and he never made the mistake of 
 lying about things that might be found out. 
 
 The cheque arrived, the Captain's spirits rose 
 with his renewed health, and Jeanet came into 
 the room one evening with an air of triumph. 
 Her thin cheeks were flushed with eagerness, 
 and she held something carefully wrapped up in 
 tissue paper. The old man laid down his pipe
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 57 
 
 and his well thumbed Sterne with a sigh, and 
 watched her with an amused twinkle in his faded 
 old eyes. Jeanet undid it carefully, and dis- 
 played a gorgeous scarlet-bound book with gilt- 
 edged leaves. 
 
 " See, Captain," handing it to him with a little 
 air of solemnity, as if she were investing him with 
 some strange order, " here it is ! " 
 
 He, falhng into her mood, took it solemnly, 
 turned to the back — no title, just a square of 
 gilt lines; opened it — clean, unwritten pages. 
 
 Jeanet had been watching his face, and a 
 delighted smile broke over hers at his look of 
 wondering question. 
 
 "An album, Jeanet? I must do you a little 
 sketch in it." 
 
 " No, Captain, it is not for me, it is for you. 
 It's for the book. I got it on purpose, my own 
 self, from Sophy's young man — he 's a book- 
 binder; and now you must really and truly 
 begin. I 'm sorry it's not purple and gold, with 
 those lovely clasps you said ; but afterwards, 
 when it 's written, you can have one like that." 
 And, sliding up to his chair, and flicking a speck 
 of dust off his shabby coat, " You '11 begin it 
 now, won't you? There is really a book inside
 
 58 SYMPHONIES 
 
 your head ; it is n't a fairy tale you made up 
 just for me, is it? And you'll make a great 
 name, and they '11 put your picture in the papers, 
 and all about you, and I '11 cut out all the pieces 
 and make an album, like Sophy does with her 
 notices. She had a lovely one in the CJiaring 
 Cross Gazette. The young man who wrote it 
 owed her mother rent, and she let him off for 
 getting it in, and then when your sons know 
 you have really made the book — they don't 
 believe in it," with a note of scorn — "they'll 
 want to take you away ; but you won't forget as 
 how little Jeanet gave you the book to write it 
 in, will you ? " 
 
 The Captain blew his nose, and wiped his 
 glasses, and kissed the little maid, and patted 
 her head, and called her his little comfort, and 
 promised her a whole chapter to herself; and 
 to-morrow he would begin — without fail, to- 
 morrow. Then he invited Jeanet to supper, 
 and they decided on fried fish and baked 
 potatoes, and Jeanet laid the table-cloth, and he 
 put on his threadbare overcoat and she her hat, 
 and they went out joyous as only children at 
 heart can be. The Captain chaffed the busy 
 stout woman frying the pieces golden brown,
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 59 
 
 and insisted upon carrying the basket. Jeanet 
 was careful not to get re-roasted potatoes, and 
 gave the old man a wise little lecture because 
 he bade a rogue of a newsboy to keep the half- 
 penny change from an evening paper; and he 
 bought her a bunch of ragged bronze-brown 
 chrysanthemums ; and she tried hard to see 
 that they were prettier than the close magenta 
 ones. 
 
 They supped merrily, and whilst she mixed 
 his punch for him he unlocked an old workbox, 
 and found her a little silver fish, with a waggling 
 tail that had once served the dear white lady as 
 a tape measure ; and then she sat at his feet and 
 he told her more wonderful stories of bygone 
 days, but he lost the thread of his story at times, 
 and names bothered him; sometimes, too, the 
 tears welled up and his lips trembled under his 
 old grey moustache, and his hand shook as he 
 rubbed his glasses, and though the fires had not 
 long begun, nor the chestnut roasters taken up 
 their winter places, and it seemed only a few 
 weeks back that delicate spirals of smoke rose 
 up from all the squares, with a pungent smell of 
 burning leaves — surest London token of the 
 coming of the fall — the old man sat huddled
 
 6o SYMPHONIES 
 
 over the fire. His little friend, who had seen 
 most of the serious sides of life, observed him 
 anxiously as she whispered good-bye with her 
 good-night. 
 
 " For I am going to Aunt Sarah's for a week, 
 and I wish I wasn't going, Captain dear; but 
 I '11 write to you. I 've filled the ink-pot fresh and 
 put a hassock for your feet, and told Bessie to 
 mind your fire, and when I come back you '11 
 read me all you have written in the book." 
 
 The old man, seeing her face clouded, promised 
 her with forced gaiety to work like a Trojan, 
 and kissed her little red hand with a touch of 
 old-time grace. 
 
 Five days later Jeanet got a shakily written 
 letter in reply to hers, with a comical little sketch 
 of the Captain surrounded by icebergs, with ici- 
 cles hanging from his beard ; he wrote that he 
 missed her, felt seedy, but to-morrow surely 
 he would be better, and then he would write. 
 Jeanet declared resolutely she must go home, 
 and the next day when the shadows were gather- 
 ing thickly and the lamplighter trotted from 
 street to street, and the tinkle of the mufifin bell 
 told the hour of tea, the little maid surprised her 
 family by her advent.
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 6i 
 
 " How is the Captain? " was her first question. 
 
 ** Indeed he 's only middlin'. Bessie took him 
 some gruel at dinner time and made up the fire, 
 for he said he was going to write, an' he asked 
 about you. La ! She do make a fuss about 
 the Captain," she added to a crony, in for a 
 gossip. 
 
 Jeanet stole upstairs, and paused outside the 
 door with a strange disinclination to enter. She 
 knocked twice with caught breath; no sound 
 reached her from inside. She entered; the 
 cheap coal had burnt out to slate and grey-white 
 ash ; the shadows filled the room, accentuating 
 the strange quiet. The Captain sat a little to 
 one side with his chin sunk on his breast and his 
 old hands folded on the closed book; the quill 
 pen shone whitely on the floor where it had 
 dropped to his feet. Some sudden spell of awe 
 kept Janet from touching the silent figure, and 
 checked the cry of " Captain " on her lips. She 
 went out and fetched in the lamp from the 
 bracket on the landing and turned it up to its 
 full height, gave one look, and uttered a long 
 cry that brought them hurrying up from below, 
 and woke the lodger's baby on the floor above. 
 And whilst they clustered round his chair and
 
 62 SYMPHONIES 
 
 felt his heart and talked volubly of doctor and 
 telegrams, Janet took the book reverently from 
 under his hand, and hugging it to her breast, 
 burst into tears ; to her alone it was of significa- 
 tion, — had not his own always made a jest of it? 
 
 " He would get up, the pore gentleman; he 
 was fair set on writing in his book ; I left 'im 
 sittin' with the pen in 'is 'and," cried the girl. 
 
 When the ghastly details had been carried 
 out and the Captain lay with a restful smile on 
 his face, and sons and daughters had been and 
 gone, and the undertaker's young man was talk- 
 ing it over in the kitchen, Janet stole with swollen 
 lids and pinched features to the bedside of her 
 best friend — to open the book. It had escaped 
 every one's thought, but she had lain awake all 
 night thinking of the wonderful tale it must hold ; 
 for the Captain, Bessie said, had sat with it upon 
 his knee each day since her departure. How 
 she regretted having gone away! Her dear Cap- 
 tain ! Well, as the lips that had told her of many 
 of its wonders were silenced forever, she would 
 read it here, at his side, before they laid him 
 away forever. 
 
 She bolted the door and knelt down with a 
 light on her face of faith and devotion. She
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK 63 
 
 opened the wonderful book, paused at the title 
 with a look of surprise, turned the pages with 
 eager fingers — all fair, all unsullied ; and in 
 trembling letters across the titlepage of the 
 golden book, that had been alike the dream of 
 his life and its fate — his own name.
 
 "SEA PINKS" 
 
 Those pinks smell sweet; yes, they are fresh 
 from the country. Curious you should notice 
 them just now, they have a connection with my 
 story. 
 
 Some winters ago, I was engaged in a delicate 
 affair in which the name of the man for whom 
 I was acting was not to appear. It was neces- 
 sary to be within call of Biarritz, without being 
 there, for which I was not sorry. I took up 
 my quarters at the Hotel de la Poste, on the 
 high road sloping down to the little Basque- 
 French town on the frontier of Spain. I had a 
 glorious view from my window across the valley, 
 to the bracken-clad slope where the turrets of 
 the white Chateau St. Anne are cloistered in the 
 pine woods, and the purple Pyrenees lie in the 
 distance. Opposite, with the tri-colour dangling 
 from the flag-staff, was the whitewashed gendar- 
 merie, once the Hotel de la Postc, when the 
 present hotel was an Ursuline Convent, and
 
 "SEA PINKS" 65 
 
 the stable of to-day the Chapel of St. Ursule ; 
 where the sardine vendors from distant Fonta- 
 rabia used to pause in their eighteen mile run 
 to Biarritz to kiss the grey cross in the wall. 
 That was before the revolution. Then when 
 the white-guimped nuns were dragged forth to 
 guillotine or oubliette, the hotel owner, one of 
 a family for centuries chefs de cuisine to their 
 majesties the Kings of France and Spain, bought 
 it for a song. Soult and Wellington have laved 
 the white dust off their faces in the room where 
 the handsome sheep-stupid wife of fat Sergeant 
 Pep6 used to loll through the window. Eugenie, 
 so they told me, had often rested in girlhood 
 days, before dreams of Empire other than that 
 of hearts troubled her, on the grey-stone seat, 
 sipping chocolate with careless gaiety. Carlists 
 and Nihilists passed through the door. Talking 
 of the latter reminds me, the ironies of life have 
 a ghastly kind of humour. On Christmas eve, 
 whilst the strains of piano and guitar floated 
 out in a dance measure, and the Adeste Fidelis 
 soared up from the chapel, a Nihilist, a mere 
 lad, who had been expelled across the border, 
 was stealing back, under cover of the night, to 
 the tiny hut of his father in the Landes district 
 
 5
 
 66 SYMPHONIES 
 
 of his dear France, when fate, in the form of an 
 epileptic fit, gripped him at the very door of 
 the station. Poor devil, he rolled, squirmed, 
 and frothed in the mud and water of the gutter, 
 and brought the police to inspect him with 
 his groans. They shoved straw under him, and 
 let him writhe; as fat Pepe exclaimed, "He 
 could n't make ' the arrestation ' until the lad 
 came to his senses," lamenting the while over 
 the fragments of a twelve-sous pipe with a 
 nickel band of German manufacture : " Sapristi ! 
 I would n't have it happen for anything, my 
 beautiful pipe, twelve-sous gone, all through 
 that canaille^ And the canaille shrieked and 
 frothed and twisted his arms and legs into weird 
 shapes in jerky accompaniment to ^\q. fandango 
 and Christmas hymn. 
 
 I woke one morning with a start. I dreamt I 
 was lying on my back in a rice field, when a 
 great elephant charged at me with a shriek like 
 the call of a trumpet to action. My window was 
 open, and the light streamed in ; I could hear 
 excited voices in the street below. I listened, 
 sure enough, the padding sound of great beasts' 
 tread was real ; I stepped out on the little 
 balcony and leant over, A gigantic living van.
 
 "SEA PINKS" 67 
 
 gorgeousl}'' gilded, drawn by six piebald horses, 
 was passing underneath. Dromedaries, camels, 
 and a string of elephants followed down the 
 winding road; whilst gendarmes, bonnes, and 
 stable boys, all shrieked together at each ar- 
 rival. Gigantic cages with lions, tigers, and 
 monkeys rumbled down the hill, the drivers 
 calling and chaffing in cockney English: all 
 the varied paraphernalia of " Pepper's World 
 Renowned Circus." A woman leant over the 
 half door of the last van and smiled wickedly 
 up at me; I kissed hands to her, then dressed 
 and went down to the plage. The pleasant 
 touch of freshness that passes there for winter 
 had made all the jolly little seamstresses don 
 gay woollen capes ; they threw me a look as we 
 met, — this, the bright morning, the excited 
 people, the genial naughtiness in that jade's eye, 
 all stirred me pleasantly. I felt jolly as in 
 school days when one slithered along over each 
 bit of frozen road, and made a star with one's 
 heel in the round places, and shied at the stairs, 
 whistling for very delight in life. Aah ! we 
 were all impressionists in those days, my boy. 
 Life does n't come in pictures any longer, worse 
 luck ! If the world would only let us be happy
 
 68 SYMPHONIES 
 
 without preaching to us to be good — how good 
 we 'd all be. 
 
 The sea rippled up the sand ; outside the bar, 
 it leaped and tumbled in mad glee. Suddenly 
 a long string of animals appeared, and made for 
 the sea. I never saw anything like it, one baby 
 elephant smiled visibly ; the great beasts rolled 
 in the sand, rushed to meet the waves, and frol- 
 icked like kittens. I spoke to a clean-shaven lad, 
 with the peculiar seal of vassalage that stamps 
 the man as the horse's own upon his face. He 
 opened his gash of a mouth, showing his white 
 teeth in friendly grin at the sound of an English 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, he hailed from Twickenham ; Jem Lee, 
 at my service, born and bred in a circus. 
 They'd made a tour through Southern France; 
 had good luck in Bayonne and Biarritz ; played 
 here to-night, on to St. Sebastian, then back to 
 old England. No, he did n't care for any san- 
 guinary furriners, — the scenery might be well 
 enough, but Yde Park corner, from the top of a 
 'bus, that was good enough for him. Yes, 
 thank ye, he 'd have a drink; there was Bass* ale 
 in an English store, he saw, coming through 
 that sanguinary old street, — give him that,
 
 "SEA PINKS" . 69 
 
 he 'd as soon drink red ink as that bloomin' 
 wine." 
 
 I strolled through the town. The excitement 
 of the people had an exhilarating effect ; a fat 
 little tailor waved his tape and pranced out on 
 to the pavement screaming : " Lay la, Llanian ! 
 ejtcore ! " as each beast passed ; a row of old be- 
 guines stood in a gateway and peered through 
 their veils. Down at the market-place my pet 
 girl had no glance for me ; her stock in trade 
 of green figs and gorgeous pimentos lacked a 
 vendor ; she was struck of a heap by a big nigger 
 in green plush coat with gold epaulets. The tent 
 was almost fixed ; a forge was in full swing, and 
 two smiths worked away, the younger one sang: 
 " Knocked 'em in the old Kent Road," as he 
 hammered out a shoe, whilst the carillon from 
 the square church tower chimed in sober protest. 
 
 Groups of Basques watched the scene with 
 open-eyed amazement ; stoves of all sorts 
 burned brightly, and steaks and fish sizzled in a 
 dozen pans. One of the clowns, surrounded by 
 basket-women, bargained in comical French for 
 butter and cheese; another fooled cleverly with 
 rings of Spanish bread slung, bangle-fashion, 
 round his arms and neck; some children sat
 
 70 SYMPHONIES 
 
 on a van step eating grapes, scattering their as- 
 pirates as they quarrelled. I have a liking for 
 vagabonds of all kinds ; the man who gets his 
 living as a contortionist appeals to me some 
 way more than a fellow who earns his bread in 
 some dull calling, and is a respected vestryman 
 in his parish. 
 
 The big, green-shuttered station hotel, of 
 queer reputation, had opened its doors to the 
 better class " artistes ; " my friend of the wicked 
 eyes hid another smile under her drooped lids 
 as I caught her look as she leant over the ver- 
 anda. She wore a tan racing coat and a rakish 
 felt hat with a scarlet quill. A red-faced man 
 in a covert coat sat smoking a good cigar. A 
 girl with bronze-brown hair and a trim waist 
 leant with her back to the railings. 
 
 I met my Twickenham friend laden with a 
 gigantic coffee-pot. He told me the man with 
 the cigar was Pepper, the lady with the feather, 
 Mrs. P., rare devil to ride, could do anything 
 from trapeze work to step-dancing, a good sort, 
 straight enough as the profession went, — and 
 the girl? Oh, that was Miss Jenny Smith, the 
 famous lady rough rider, and exponent of the 
 English steeplechase, — no good in the ring;
 
 "SEA PINKS" 71 
 
 the boss picked her up just before sailing, in 
 place of the real Jenny, who could ride, if ye 
 like. I went back to the hotel; a crowd of 
 Basques sat and drank and quarrelled in their 
 extraordinary tongue in the cofifee-room. I 
 knocked at their door ; it was easy enough to 
 introduce oneself, — common tongue, order for 
 a row of seats, sell a lot in the club, etc. Mrs. 
 P. and I were chummy at once; a fellow who 
 knew the ropes at all could easily get on with 
 that lady. I ordered some fizz, and a basket of 
 Spanish sugar stuff. 
 
 The girl just bowed as I was introduced, — 
 jolly type of English girl, no beauty, just well- 
 groomed, clear-skinned, frank-eyed with a kiss- 
 able mouth. Fowler dropped in with some 
 flowers ; had met Mrs. P. at Bayonne, did n't she 
 remember ? He was followed by the Sisters 
 Vanoni from Camberwell, with a couple of 
 Johnnies from one of the hotels. Well, we ad- 
 journed, a rather rackety crowd, to the Cafe 
 Suisse for lunch, Fowler taking care of Mrs. P. 
 Pepper was off to look up the English consul, 
 the owner of the store, to see about crossing 
 the frontier. I found myself with Miss Nan, as 
 Mrs. P. called the girl. She put on a little red
 
 72 SYMPHONIES 
 
 sailor hat, and had collar and cuffs to her plain 
 serge gown like a hospital nurse. There wasn't 
 a trace of make-up on her face ; and when the 
 sun caught her eyes, they looked like sparkling 
 moselle, and when she looked at the sea they 
 grew still and green. 
 
 It was rather a larky breakfast; Vanoni the 
 younger got screwed. Miss Nan was very quiet. 
 Once I caught Mrs. P.'s black eyes narrow 
 meaningly to her. She flushed a delicious pink 
 up to her little ears, and an odd little vertical 
 line marked itself between her brows. Some 
 women only come out when alone with a man. 
 I was making no running there, so I proposed an 
 escape from the heat and smoke. We strolled 
 up across the golf ground, and sat watching 
 the waves race over the rocks. She gathered 
 a posy of the quaint little sea pinks and fast- 
 ened them at her neck. I never saw such a 
 pretty throat, not a scrap of yellow at the collar 
 line, just milk-white ; it set one wondering. 
 There is a lot in race instinct, gives one preju- 
 dices. I never fancy a foreign woman smells 
 as sweet as the wholesome, home-grown pro- 
 duct. I 'm sure that little girl was as fresh as 
 new-mown hay, in spite of vanning it. She had
 
 "SEA PINKS" 73 
 
 a funny little way of putting out her feet; she 
 turned in the left one a little as she walked ; 
 I caught myself watching for it. Her voice 
 too was nice with a North Country burr in it. 
 She told me all about her old home, — agricul- 
 ture, usual smash — boys to the colonies. She 
 and the old father almost starving until he died. 
 Aunt in London, combination of forage and 
 music hall, not her sort — offer to join the cir- 
 cus — no more. When I come to think of it, 
 she was virtuously slow. Fowler had the best 
 of it with Mrs. P. She was downright, wickedly 
 witty. Yet I think the little girl enjoyed her- 
 self, sitting up there looking at the sea with the 
 posy of pinks in her lap. I would not like to 
 swear that it was quite how I intended to spend 
 the afternoon; but woman is the incommensur- 
 able always. We met the others on the pier, at 
 least Fowler and the Missus. A wanton devil 
 lurked in each of that lady's eyes ; they had a 
 knack of expressing all she thought. I swear 
 she was laughing at my expense as they returned 
 from a scrutiny of the girl's face to mine. 
 
 " Been botanising, eh ? " asked Fowler, with 
 that beastly leer of his. 
 
 " We went up to the golf ground to watch
 
 74 SYMPHONIES 
 
 the waves," said Nan, coldly. I saw him look 
 at the colour coming and going in her cheeks. 
 I made a move, proposed tea, looked after her; 
 she was like a child at a treat, too shy to talk. 
 
 That evening I sauntered down to the circus. 
 It was the funniest sight. The ticket-seller was 
 sitting at a sort of desk outside the tent, sur- 
 rounded by a dense crowd of Basque men and 
 women, with some of the rougher fisher ele- 
 ment. He was unconsciously running a side 
 show on his own account. Whenever any one 
 tried to reach him through the crowd, he re- 
 lapsed, from force of habit, into the vernacular, 
 to their intense amusement. His round, red 
 face, sandy, mutton-chop whiskers, and brown, 
 billy-cock hat cocked on one ear, were the an- 
 tithesis of the clean-cut, classic Basque in blue 
 beret. He shrieked : — 
 
 "Plenty o' time yet, keep back there; now 
 laidys and gentlemen, keep back I sy, keep 
 back. Maike wy there, carn't ye see a party 
 wants to get in? Eecee, Mussyou, eecee, maike 
 wy there, d' ye 'eer, ye mutton-'eaded lot o' 
 Frenchies ! wee, Mussyou, doo billys, doo francs, 
 par 1^ ! Two best seats six francs, yessir, 
 thank you, sir ! first row all English ! Angcore,
 
 "SEA PINKS" 75 
 
 bong place ! w'ere the *ell are ye a shuvin' of? 
 Sam ! lend a 'and 'ere, they '11 spill me out o' the 
 bally box; keep back, I sy. AUez vous, je dis, 
 ne poussez moi — " so I left him to the laugh- 
 ing crowd. 
 
 It was n't a bad show, and the tent was 
 packed, the English parson with the church 
 contingent took up the entire first circle. The 
 English steeple-chase was third on the list. 
 Jenny Smith, in Rosebery's colours and absurd 
 top boots, cantered into the ring, — what a 
 figure ! It caused a sensation amongst the 
 French and Spanish male element, and she 
 looked ashamed of it. I fancied she coloured 
 as I caught her eye. She went through the 
 usual things, sat well, took her hurdles easily; 
 but when it came to the ridiculous fancy busi- 
 ness, she was clean out of it. She took off the 
 saddle, and held it up awkwardly, whilst the 
 band played the " Washington Post." Pepper 
 helped her by dressing the horse cleverly ; but 
 she made three slips before she succeeded in 
 vaulting from the ring onto the horse's back, 
 although the knowing old stager almost waited 
 for her. No, she might ride straight across 
 country; but she couldn't earn a crust at circus
 
 ^6 SYMPHONIES 
 
 work, even her superb figure would n't carry 
 her through; she looked stupid. 
 
 Mrs P. followed the clowns with some admi- 
 rable trick riding, quick costume-change busi- 
 ness, clown accompaniment; she captured the 
 crowd with a wink, fetched the Johnnies with 
 a smile, " took the tent," in a word ; had to 
 come back twice, to disappear finally with a 
 double summersault and salvo of applause. 
 
 I went behind to look for Jem Lee ; he was 
 busy togging elephants, so I turned a bucket 
 upside down and sat out of the way, watch- 
 ing him. Suddenly Mrs. P.'s voice reached 
 me; she must have been dressing just behind 
 my back. I was obliged to listen, as I was 
 rapidly hemmed in by a string of ponies. 
 
 " Well, Nan, old girl, Pepper told me to 
 square up with you to-night; how much have 
 you coming to you ? Three pounds I ' a 
 whistle, " that 's bad. I 'm cleaned out ; I send 
 all I can get out of him home for the kiddies ; 
 there 's no keeping it, if he knows of it. You 
 see, our not going on makes a difference. He 
 counted on making a good thing at St Sebas- 
 tian ; but the Spanish customs want forty francs 
 a beast, and tax all the fixings beside. He
 
 "SEA PINKS" -jl 
 
 should have found out before, — 'taint good 
 enough ! so he '11 break up here. He 's so 
 cross about it I daren't ask him to let you 
 come with us. Jem Lee and the Watsons will 
 take the show across from Bordeaux ; we '11 go 
 on to Paris. He 's going to engage an expensive 
 lot to open in Islington. The Vanonis are all 
 right ; they 've got a good thing on in Brussels ; 
 and the others :nly run another week in any 
 case. He '11 pay them to Bordeaux, as agreed ; 
 but you see there was no agreement with yoa ; 
 he only took you to oblige your aunt, and now 
 he 's split with her on a forage contract- I 'm 
 Sony-, old girl, I can't help. You see you are 
 not a bit fit for it; you've no go. You're 
 good-looking enough, but you 've got no stjle, 
 and you won't get on with the agents, if you 're 
 straightlaced. I don't go * the entire pig,' but I 
 have had to fool the beasts into thinking I 
 would, before now. \1rtue won't keep you in 
 smart dresses, and you won't take without 'em. 
 Look at that Vanoni girl, eyes like the black 
 pips on the end of a coker-nut, and a mouth 
 like a fresh gash; yet she got a fifly^-francs 
 Spanish cross out of that soft this morning. 
 You bet she '11 sell it back to the shop for
 
 78 SYMPHONIES 
 
 twenty to-morrow morning. She always does. 
 A fat lot you got sea-gazing. I 'm awful fond 
 of you, Nance; pull up this beastly tight; but 
 I 've no patience with you ; why can't you go 
 nap, when you 've got the cards in your hand? 
 That chap is as soft as a ripe blackberry ! Play 
 him for what he is worth, and get back to 
 London, and look about you. 'Tatn't the cards, 
 it's the playing of 'em that gets the trick. 
 What? it isn't in your nature." 
 
 The girl had muttered something indistinctly. 
 I just caught : " It seems a shame when a man," 
 when Pepper burst in, " I've changed the pro- 
 gramme ; you 'd better fix up somehow, old girl, 
 for a comical ride. Burton 's drunk. I dare n't 
 risk the lion trick." 
 
 I got up off the bucket as the ponies trotted 
 out with monkey outriders. Mr. P. was saying, 
 kindly enough, " Well, so long. Nan; see you in 
 the morning; don't you be a fool, it don't pay." 
 
 The crowd roared with exxitement ; the band 
 echoed brazenly. I went out into the quiet 
 square, with the water glistening brightly, and 
 the trees rustling gently in the transparent 
 purple gloom. The air smelt clean after that 
 reek of parafin and wet straw. I lit a cigar,
 
 "SEA PINKS" 79 
 
 and strolled through the vans. A man's voice, 
 apparently wrapped in flannel, arrested me : 
 
 "Good-night, Missy; going to sleep in the 
 van ? That 's right ; better if a few more on 'em 
 slept there too. I'll fetch the key." 
 
 Nan, for it was she, stood waiting on the 
 step; and, as I came out of the shadow, she 
 flushed and drew closer to the door. I stopped. 
 
 " Going to turn in .■' " 
 
 She nodded, looked pale; her eyes reminded 
 me of those of a little Irish terrier I once 
 thrashed, as it turned out afterwards, for some- 
 thing it hadn't done. They irritated me; any 
 sign of fear always does. I don't know why I 
 said it, but I did. 
 
 " How virtuous ! So you are not coming to 
 supper.'' " 
 
 She started, and looked at me with her face 
 working. 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir," said the owner of the 
 Jaeger voice, an aggressive, honest -looking old 
 chap, with a Newgate fringe. I stepped aside 
 as he unlocked the door. I could see the neat 
 glass, and the curtained bunk at the end. 
 
 " Good-night, Miss Nan, sleep well ! " I said ; 
 my vexation had some way melted all at once.
 
 80 SYMPHONIES 
 
 I could see tears on her cheeks, as the light 
 from a lamp flashed across her face. As she 
 stepped in, she turned and said, "Good-night," 
 very softly. Poor little devil, with three 
 pounds between her and starvation, and lots 
 of Fowlers on the prowl. I sat on a seat and 
 waited. The band was playing " God save the 
 Queen," and the crowd burst out like a flock of 
 locusts, and spread over the town and across 
 the bridges. I stood up as Mrs. P. passed me, 
 and wished her good-night. She looked jaded, 
 and showed her age; her face seemed oddly 
 battered under the powder. 
 
 " Where are you going to put up in Paris .' " 
 I asked. 
 
 She threw me a questioning look, and the 
 laughing demon leaped up in her eyes. 
 
 •'Hotel des Voyageurs, near the Gare St. 
 Lazare; not your figure — " 
 
 " I know it, though. Suppose, Ma'm, you do 
 me a favour, and somebody else a service — " 
 
 "Well — depends — " 
 
 " Suppose you take Miss Nan to Paris with 
 you. I '11 settle when I see you. I 'm going 
 there, too; business, partly. Of course, to be 
 entirely between ourselves, you know."
 
 "SEA PINKS" 8i 
 
 She stood still, and her face grew grave. 
 She said, quickly: — 
 
 "I don't know. No, when it comes to the 
 point, I 'd rather not be mixed up in any way. 
 Nan 's a good girl — and — " 
 
 "Just so; that's why!" She looked puz- 
 zled. "Virtue don't pay, as you sagely re- 
 marked. Strikes me, Mrs. P., I'm not the 
 only one as soft as — what was it } a ripe 
 blackberry." 
 
 She opened her great mouth. I never saw a 
 better set of teeth; she had a splendid, infec 
 tious sort of laugh. 
 
 "So you heard, did you; and it 's a straight 
 game ? " 
 
 "I mean so." 
 
 "You're a queer customer. I don't see 
 where your fat comes in; but I '11 do my part 
 of it, of course. So long, then ! " 
 
 The next evening was raw, with a drizzle of 
 rain; yet, somehow, when Pon Pon rattled me 
 over the stones with tremendous cracking of 
 whip and clucking of tongue, I felt like a 
 schoolboy going home for Christmas. The 
 square looked deserted, the ring of tan showed 
 like a monstrous, withered fairy ring. Pepper's 
 
 6
 
 82 SYMPHONIES 
 
 world-renowned circus had vanished as quickly 
 as it came. The sisters Vanoni and all the 
 other artistes had departed early, Fowler in 
 attendance as far as Bayonne. Pepper and the 
 Missus were taking tickets as I got in. 
 
 "How are you going, sleeping car?'' I 
 queried. 
 
 "No fear," laughed Pepper; "don't run to 
 that these times; ordinary first class, that's 
 good enough for me." 
 
 "Quite so, one return Paris!" Mrs. P.'s 
 eye was distinctly mirthful. 
 
 Nan, for the last time Miss Jenny Smith, 
 stood on the platform. She started as I said, 
 "Good-evening, Miss Nan!" She looked at 
 my bag and rug, and the same frightened look 
 appeared, with a new tightening of her lips. 
 
 I invited the Peppers to dine later on ; they 
 looked prosperous, good-humoured, and over- 
 dressed. 
 
 "The train is sure to be crowded; the rapide 
 always is. I '11 take care of Miss Nan." I 
 put her bag with mine. "We '11 look you up 
 at dinner." 
 
 She had n't time to demur, for the train 
 rushed in, and she v^'as hustled about by the
 
 "SEA PINKS" 83 
 
 usual excited Spanish and French travelling 
 crowd. I helped her in ; we had the carriage 
 to ourselves. She sat in the corner and looked 
 nervous; I put the things up, and gave her 
 time to get round. At Biarritz, I got a bundle 
 of English papers, ordered dinner, and tipped 
 the guard to lock the door. I hate a lot of 
 people in a carriage. 
 
 I tucked my rug round her; it was awfully 
 jolly to see her try to keep up a stand-off air, 
 when 'at heart she was pleased as a child at 
 the whole adventure. She had been reading a 
 letter when I got back; when she finished it, 
 she sat gazing out at the scudding shapes in 
 the dusk. 
 
 She looked worn out ; her brightness was 
 blurred. Our social arrangement is a very 
 curious one; it is really a colossal tribute to 
 the unslain beast in us. There was a girl I 
 no more wanted to harm than my own sister, 
 if I had one ; and yet we have got on such a 
 beastly footing with women that it is almost 
 impossible to render one of them a service, as 
 we might a man, without having a misconstruc- 
 tion put upon it. Can't you understand being 
 attracted by a woman because she is not a man.
 
 84 SYMPHONIES 
 
 without liking her in the least because she is a 
 woman ? Sounds mixed, but it conveys what I 
 mean. 
 
 She had a few pinks in her jacket; must 
 have got them that day, 
 
 "What is the matter, Miss Nan? You are 
 not nearly so gracious as out at St. Barbe, 
 making posies.' " 
 
 I never saw any one blush so swiftly or 
 brightly. 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 " Oh, yes, there is. Suppose I tell you. 
 But look at me, for a change ! " 
 
 Eyes are marvellous things. I never saw 
 anything more defiantly helpless. 
 
 "You are measuring me by all the cads who 
 have been pestering you for the last six months. 
 It is n't fair; why should you get that idea about 
 me .'* Have I made myself unpleasant .-' " 
 
 Her confusion and distress were delicious; 
 the little pinks trembled as her breath came 
 quickly. She said, nervously: — 
 
 "No, indeed, no; it's that I don't under- 
 stand. Mrs. Pepper means to be good tome; 
 but she looks at some things in a queer light, 
 and," she blurted this out in desperation, "I
 
 "SEA PINKS" 85 
 
 know you have got something to do with my 
 travelling this way to Paris, and — " 
 
 " You put the worst construction on it, like 
 a proper little girl. I wonder, Miss Nan, could 
 you swallow the truth. It 's seldom wise to 
 risk it with a woman. I 've made my worst 
 woman enemies, Nan, by behaving like a 
 gentleman in delicate situations; it's a fact. 
 There 's a kind of density a woman does n't for- 
 give. You would like to — Suppose I tell you 
 that I have just a fancy to send a straight little 
 girl straight back to England with a five-pound 
 note, which she can repay if she likes, in her 
 pocket, — not because I admire her, or have 
 any particular inclination for her, but simply 
 to please myself, just as a subtle form of self- 
 gratification of a new kind for me." 
 
 Women are damned queer things. I believe 
 she was annoyed in spite of herself. 
 
 "Well, are you vexed .^" 
 
 "No, why should I be.?" 
 
 "Don't know; give it up. Therefore, as we 
 are going to spend a good many hours together, 
 we may as well be genial. That 's right; you 
 are much nicer when you laugh, Nan, and look 
 chummy. "
 
 86 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Later on we went to the dining car. Pepper 
 had found a friend, — a funny, dried-up, blue- 
 eyed specimen of a Kildare man, — Count 
 O'Leary (of the Holy Roman Empire, pre- 
 sumably), " Buyer of cavalry mounts for the 
 Austrian Army, sir, and hunters for the 
 Hungarian nobility," so I gathered during a 
 very merry meal. Mrs. P. said good-night 
 meaningly; Nan was delightfully pleased ; but, 
 later on, a fat Bayonnaise, with a dry little 
 chip of a husband, in abject servitude, got 
 into our carriage. They ate liver sausage, with 
 a strong suspicion of garlic; then Madame tied 
 up her head in a foulard square, whilst Monsieur 
 unbuttoned her boots and wrapped her feet in 
 a shawl, she scolding him volubly for forgetting 
 a theatre bag. Then she sighed with satisfac- 
 tion, and, addressing Nan with an expansive 
 friendliness, remarked: — 
 
 "Eet ees so well to put off the shoes. 
 Madame will find the feet swell themselves 
 on ze long journey, etc." 
 
 I assented cordially, and proposed taking 
 them off, with, I 'm afraid, an amused look. 
 The Madame had finished Nan. She was limp 
 with confusion. She had the dearest little feet
 
 "SEA PINKS" 87 
 
 in the world, a weak point of mine. I made 
 her put them up on the seat next me; I liked 
 to have them there. She only pretended to 
 sleep, for whenever I stared at her long, she 
 stirred, and opened her eyes, and looked across 
 to me; but as the cold dawn stole in, she fell 
 asleep soundly, like a child. Madame roused 
 herself as we neared Paris, and performed a 
 coquettish toilet, by the aid of a flacon of 
 orange-flower water and a powder puff. When 
 one comes to think of it, the survival of love 
 after marriage must be often heroic, man can 
 so seldom afford to see a woman awake. Miss 
 Nan had a very rare beauty; her hair fitted 
 her head perfectly ; it turned prettily off her 
 forehead, and curled lovingly to her neck. 
 She had what I call "undress allurements;" 
 she woke, too, bright-eyed, and clear-voiced. 
 I would n't mind having her good-morning 
 always. 
 
 She and I and Mrs. P. went sight-seeing; 
 — the latter graciously accepted a paste tiara. 
 As that lady wisely remarked. Nan was a bit 
 of a fool ; she was obstinate ; she would have a 
 trumpery little enamel brooch, a flower some- 
 thing like a sea pink, and nothing else. Back
 
 88 SYMPHONIES 
 
 in the dingy hotel, she said, nervously, taking 
 out the letter: — 
 
 "I heard from one of the boys, in Africa; 
 he is doing well, and he sent me some 
 money. I thought you would like to know; 
 and I — I can manage, please, without, you 
 know — only I feel just as grateful as if I 
 couldn't — " 
 
 Of course I saw her off. Women are queer 
 things ! I had put her into a carriage, and got 
 some grapes and papers, and stretched out my 
 hand to say good-bye. She did n't take it, 
 said, shakily: — 
 
 "I am glad you thought I had no money, 
 even though you only took care of me, to please 
 yourself, not because you — " she broke off 
 short, simply put her arms up round my neck 
 and kissed me, right on the mouth, cried, "Go, 
 please," and meant it, too. I did; the guard 
 slammed the door. I waited as the train slid 
 by; but she never looked out. 
 
 Stackpoole says the episode reminds him of 
 a poor chap he once knew, who dropped in for 
 a neglected shooting. He preserved the game 
 carefully, then died without having fired a 
 shot, and left admirable preserves for another
 
 "SEA PINKS" 89 
 
 fellow. He isn't often wrong about women; 
 but he didn't know that little girl. 
 
 When I am in England those pinks come 
 every week. That kiss rather bothers me; it 
 wasn't quite an ordinary kiss, lam afraid. I 
 mean, I wish she didn't have quite so good a 
 memory.
 
 A NOCTURNE 
 
 I HAVE rather nice diggings. I got them last 
 year, just after you went on that Egyptian 
 racket. They are on the embankment, within 
 sight of Cleopatra's Needle. I like that anach- 
 ronism of a monument; it has a certain fascina- 
 tion for me. I can see it at night, if I lean out 
 of my window, outlined above the light-flecked 
 river sacred to our sewer goddess that runs so 
 sullenly under its canopy of foggy blue. 
 
 To me the embankment has beauties unsur- 
 passed in any city in Europe. I never tire of it 
 at night. The opaque blotches of the plane- 
 trees' foliage, the glistening water, the dotted 
 lines of golden light, the great blocks of build- 
 ings rearing to the clouds like shadow monu- 
 ments, the benches laden with human flotsam 
 and jetsam. 
 
 I was leaning out of my window one night in 
 November, in a lull in the rainfall ; big Ben had 
 just boomed out one, when I noticed a woman
 
 A NOCTURNE 91 
 
 rise from a seat below. She had been sitting 
 there an hour, for I had seen the light shine on 
 her hair, yellow hair like a child's, when I went 
 down to the pillar-box at midnight. 
 
 Her carriage was that of a gentlewoman. 
 Curious how gait tells. She walked a little way, 
 stumbled, stood with her hand pressed to her 
 heart, — a drunken woman would have lurched 
 again. Then she went to the parapet, and 
 leant against it, staring into the water. 
 
 A good many women I have known could 
 not gaze steadily into running water, or look 
 down from a height without feeling more than 
 an impulse to throw themselves over — something 
 impelled them to it, so they have assured me. I 
 don't know the reason for it any more than I know 
 why a man always buttons from left to right ; a 
 woman from right to left. It 's a fact, though. 
 The button-holes on a woman's garments are 
 always made on the right side, never on the 
 left ; and it is just as awkward for her to button 
 our way, as for us to try hers. — Hang it, man, I 
 know it 's so. I got a poor woman to make me 
 some pyjamas, and she put the darned button- 
 holes wrong side. I had to get the beastly things 
 changed. — Well, to come back to the story,
 
 92 SYMPHONIES 
 
 I did n't like the way that lady looked into the 
 river; it had rained all day, the streets glistened 
 with water, and a northeast wind scooped round 
 the corners. I went down to have a look at 
 her. Just as I crossed over she dropped her 
 head in an odd sort of way, took a step out, 
 then fell back against the wall. The measured 
 beat of a policeman's step struck the pavement 
 a little farther down. I steadied her, and asked : 
 " Are you ill, madam ; can I help you? " 
 She lifted the strangest face I ever saw to 
 mine. It was like some curious mask — more 
 than a flesh and blood phiz. Her eyes were 
 beautifully set and burned sombrely ; they 
 looked as live eyes might through the sockets 
 of a mask. Her yellow hair seemed like a wig 
 against her forehead and temples. She started 
 and shrank as I touched her ; her teeth chattered. 
 " Yes, I am ill ; I feel faint, strangely faint . . ." 
 She evidently suffered from some heart 
 trouble. There was a bluish tinge around her 
 mouth. She rocked on her feet, her lids drooped. 
 I put my arm through hers ; the steps came 
 nearer; she roused and moaned mutteringly: 
 
 "Yes, I'm only resting; I '11 move on in a 
 few minutes."
 
 A NOCTURNE 93 
 
 "Come with me," I said; "you can't stay 
 here ; try and walk." 
 
 She came all right, in a dazed sort of way, 
 though. All the under floors of the building 
 in which I have my rooms are offices, so we 
 met no one. She panted a bit as she mounted 
 the stairs. I kept close behind, in case of a fall. 
 Her boots must have been broken, for she left 
 little wet splotches on each step, I showed her 
 into the room. The electric light roused her ; she 
 hesitated and coloured up, — it was the most 
 curious thing I ever saw, the way her face 
 thawed and quickened. She turned round, and 
 looked straight at me ; I braced myself to meet 
 her eyes, miserable, honest eyes they were too, 
 that probed me like steel ; she would have 
 detected the least sign of bad faith, like a shot. 
 
 I pushed an arm-chair nearer the fire ; she 
 sat down, leant back her head against the 
 cushion, and before she could say whatever she 
 intended to, fainted dead away. Faith, it gave 
 me an uncomfortable sensation. I forced some 
 brandy between her teeth and tried to pull her 
 round. I like doing things for women, — any 
 kind of woman almost, — they all interest me tre- 
 mendously. I don't think I do them. Women
 
 94 SYMPHONIES 
 
 seem at fault some way in their choice of men, 
 they so often give themselves to brutes or 
 sneaks — it may be these types don't scruple to 
 seize the opportune moment with them. 
 
 I took off her hat, a quiet, little black felt affair, 
 positively soaked with rain. She had lovely hair, 
 glossy yellow, not "brown at the roots" kind, 
 you know ; it had a crinkle in it, and the line 
 down the middle of her head was white as an al- 
 mond. I hate the type of blonde that has a pink 
 skin to her scalp. I concluded she could n't 
 have been long in the streets, for the bit of white 
 at her neck and the handkerchief in her lap 
 were clean, — a day's soil at most. She wore 
 woollen gloves ; I pulled them off; she opened 
 her eyes, closed them again. She wore an old- 
 fashioned thin wedding-ring on her right hand, 
 perhaps her mother's ; she had pretty, long 
 hands ; but hands don't attract me like feet or 
 ears. I belong to the race of men to whom temp- 
 tation comes in the guise of little feet. An in- 
 step or ankle appeals irresistibly to my senses ; 
 I acknowledge it frankly ; it 's damned odd, but 
 I can't help it — the appeal, I mean. My friend 
 Foote says, delicately perfumed lingerie is his 
 weak spot; his fall is sure at a flutter of lace and
 
 A NOCTURNE 95 
 
 ribbon. To be virtuous, he would have to live 
 in a land where the drying of women's frillikins 
 on a clothes-line would be prohibited by law. 
 Her feet were not pretty, although her boots 
 were decently cut. What an odd face she had ; 
 I can see it in white relief on the red of the 
 leather. A bit like Christine Nilsson about the 
 forehead, big clever nose, tremendous jaw, — a 
 devil or a saint, or I 'm no judge. She opened 
 her eyes at last. I held out the glass ; she shud- 
 dered, pushed it away almost roughly, and said : 
 
 "No, please not that, I am afraid of it; I 
 dare n't touch it, it would be so easy to get to 
 want it — when one is miserable." 
 
 "Quite right; suppose you have some tea 
 instead." 
 
 She flushed and smiled ; the saint was certainly 
 uppermost just then. 
 
 " You are very good ; yes, I should like some." 
 
 I am rather a dab at making tea. Lloyd 
 gets me the best in the market ; never get good 
 tea in a woman's house, — afraid of the price or 
 something. 
 
 " You had better take off that wet jacket." 
 
 Odd woman that; she stood up at once — she 
 was still shaking — and took it off, hanging it over
 
 96 SYMPHONIES 
 
 an oak stool. She was a well set up woman, of 
 the thorough-bred flat, spare English type ; get- 
 ting on for the age the lady novelists find inter- 
 esting, — thirty, perhaps. They may say what 
 they like though, there is nothing like milk-fresh 
 youth. By the Lord Harry, it's a beauty in 
 itself! The plainest fresh-skinned wench with 
 the dew of life in her eyes is worth ten of any 
 beauty of thirty-five. Her dress was literally 
 soaked, it hung heavily about her ankles ; there 
 were two wet patches too, where her feet had 
 rested. I dug the poker into the fire, and said, 
 without looking round : 
 
 " You '11 be laid up to-morrow if you keep 
 that skirt on ; go into the other room and take it 
 off; don't mind me, I 've seen petticoats before 
 now. Hang it to dry before the fire and put 
 your boots in the fender. You '11 see a collec- 
 tion of Eastern footwear — it 's rather a fad of 
 mine — on the wall, find a pair to fit and slip 
 them on. . . ." 
 
 Did n't see her face, busy with the kettle. A 
 moment's silence, then I heard the door shut 
 softly. Admirable woman that ! when I come 
 to think of it, the only woman I ever met who 
 could do a thing without arguing about it ; never
 
 i 
 
 A NOCTURNE 97 
 
 wanted a reason, never gave any. It's curious, 
 the inclination women have to gab about every- 
 thing; they spoil a caress by asking you if you 
 liked it. The weather had not improved ; I felt 
 quite glad I had kept on my diggings. The 
 adventure was one after my own heart. I would 
 honour my unknown lady with my best china. 
 I took down an old Worcester cup and saucer, 
 tipped the sugar into my prettiest lacquer bowl, 
 put out some sandwiches and biscuits, and was 
 surveying my arrangements when the door be- 
 hind me opened. By Jove, how rarely that 
 woman changed when she smiled ! it reminded 
 me of the first spray of almond bloom one sees 
 in spring in some dingy, sordid London street. 
 It youthened her, melted the stark, hungry grip 
 about her mouth. I suppose the petticoat was 
 too short or something — women are so devilishly 
 illogical. I have seen half-way down a woman's 
 back and bosom, and she did n't mind in the 
 least; yet she'd have fainted at the idea of 
 showing the calf of her decently stockinged leg. 
 She had taken down an old Jap kimono, once 
 a gorgeous affair, but time had faded the flowery 
 broidery on the plum-blue ground to mellow 
 half-tones. 
 
 7
 
 98 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Her embarrassment was pretty to see ; what a 
 fetching thing a woman is when she is perfectly 
 natural. I pointed to the chair, and uncovered 
 the teapot. 
 
 She sat down and poured out the tea rather 
 awkwardly, I don't fancy it lay much in her line. 
 She drank it eagerly, but paled a bit when I 
 offered her a sandwich. I know that sensation, 
 I had it during the last days of the Siege of 
 Paris ; ask me to tell you about that some other 
 time — the poor thing was faint with hunger, 
 the very sight of food made her feel sick, she 
 put her handkerchief to her mouth ; I took the 
 sandwiches away and got out some dry biscuits. 
 
 "Have some more tea?" I said, "and try 
 these dry biscuits by and bye, when you feel 
 better. 
 
 She leant back; she had the prettiest line of 
 throat I ever saw, quite white and soft, under that 
 jaw, too. I poured out some more tea for her. 
 
 " You have been fasting too long ; when did 
 you eat last? . . ." 
 
 " Not since yesterday morning ! " 
 
 Good God ! She forgot that the hour made 
 it over two days. 
 
 She put the tea down and said simply:
 
 A NOCTURNE 99 
 
 "May I ask you for a cigarette? I think I 
 should feel better if I were to smoke one or two. 
 I don't feel as if I could eat just now." 
 
 "Of course," I said; "how jolly that you 
 smoke ! You must have some of my special 
 baccy." She was smoking tranquilly when a 
 gust of wind howled and shook the window-sash 
 viciously, and the rain rattled like gravel thrown 
 against the panes. She started and looked at 
 the clock, the hands pointed to 1-45 ; the colour 
 rushed to her face ; I took the bull by the horns. 
 
 " My dear lady, don't bother about the hour, 
 time is an entirely artificial arrangement. You 
 can't go out in that rain, it's not to be thought 
 of. You would n't be out on that seat, if you 
 had any shelter to go to. I don't want to know 
 anything you don't volunteer to tell me. You 
 do me proud in accepting my hospitality, such 
 as it is; indeed you do, it's a charity; I hate 
 going to bed. When you have had a good rest 
 you '11 think of some way out of the snarl, what- 
 ever it is. Good baccy, ain't it? " 
 
 She held out her hand and gave mine an 
 honest grip, as a nice lad might have done. 
 Those big, grey eyes of hers got black when the 
 tears filled them.
 
 100 SYMPHONIES 
 
 She was a vexatious sort of contradictory 
 person ; there was a tantalising lack of finality 
 about her — just as you had made up your 
 mind that she was really deuced ugly, she 
 flushed and bloomed and sparkled into down- 
 right charm, and before you had time to drink 
 it in she was plain again. Her voice too was 
 twin to her face. It was deep, and at times 
 harsh with sudden soft rushing inflections and 
 tender lilts in it. 
 
 " You have Irish blood in you? " I ventured. 
 
 " Yes, on the distaft'side; how did you know?" 
 
 " Oh, voice, and I suppose it's the kin feeling 
 
 of race." 
 
 We talked of a good many things during the 
 next hour. I noticed that her eyes wandered 
 wistfully to my books. I rather pride myself on 
 some of my specimens of rare binding — two 
 little shelves represent a good many years' 
 income. 
 
 '• Do you like books?" I asked. She caught 
 what I meant at once, and her face lit up. I 
 gave her my only heirloom, an, from me at least, 
 unpurchasable, Aldine classic. She positively 
 handled it lovingly. The more I think of that 
 woman, the more I am persuaded of her rarity;
 
 ♦ 
 
 A NOCTURNE loi 
 
 one is almost afraid to give one of one's book 
 pets into most women's hands. She knew it at 
 once — did n't say anything banal or gushing, 
 only, " I love the peculiar olive colour of the 
 leather." 
 
 " Have you ever seen any of Le Gaston's 
 work? Look how well the lines of gold dot- 
 work tell upon the scarlet of the morocco. 
 How it has kept its colour. Machinery and 
 cloth have played the deuce with the art of it." 
 
 " If I were a rich woman I 'd have any book 
 I cared to keep especially bound for myself." 
 
 Funny situation ! Well, I suppose it was, 
 rather. But if you come to think of it, the 
 rummiest situations and most unlikely incidents 
 in life are just those that don't get treated in 
 fiction. Most poor devils have to write with 
 one eye fixed on the mental limitations of their 
 publisher or the index expurgatorius of the 
 booksellers ; that is, if they want to pay income 
 tax. 
 
 She dropped off to sleep with a book in her 
 lap. I covered her knees with a rug, turned out 
 the light; the glow of the fire surrounded her 
 with a magic circle. I went and lay down ; I 
 can sleep or wake at will. I decided to sleep 
 
 I
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 I02 SYMPHONIES 
 
 till five. She had never stirred. I made up 
 the fire ; it was jolly to think of her there in the 
 warmth instead of being out in that awful night, 
 perhaps bobbing under a barge or knocking 
 against the arches in the swirl of that filthy 
 water. 
 
 I went back and slept till seven, tubbed, and 
 took a peep at her. Her face looked good as 
 a child's in her sleep, but a child that had suf- 
 fered under bad treatment and grown prema- 
 turely old. It was dreadfully haggard; that 
 woman had been slowly starving to death. 
 
 It was one of those beastly mornings, fine 
 under protest, with a sun that looked as if he 
 had been making a night of it. I hate the 
 mornings, except out in wild nature ; someway 
 in civilisation they are always a sort of ill-na- 
 tured comment on the night before. Like some 
 excellent women, there is a brutal lack of semi' 
 tone about them. I slipped the bolt on the 
 door; Bates never came up unless I rang for 
 him, but sometimes fellows drop in for a pick 
 mc up or a devil, — by the way, a red herring 
 done in whisky is n't half bad. 
 
 She woke in a fright with a fearsome sort of 
 half cry. I expect she thought she had been
 
 A NOCTURNE 103 
 
 asleep on that seat. I knew the beastly morn- 
 ing would unsettle her, she was right as a trivet 
 the night before. She flushed horribly wheji 
 she realised where she was, and the time, and 
 stammered : 
 
 " I'm so sorry, oh, I am so sorry! I was so 
 tired, I really could n't help myself. I have n't 
 slept for many nights, you know, and one gets 
 so stupid — " 
 
 " That 's all right. I 've been asleep, slept l?ke 
 a top ; always do. Suppose you freshen up a 
 bit in my dressing-room ; your frock is dry. 
 You will find hot water and things if you look 
 about, — help yourself I am going to lock 
 you in if you don't mind : I want my man to fix 
 things up a bit. ..." 
 
 She flushed again. I '11 stake my oath that 
 kind of blush hurts a woman. 
 
 My usual hour is eleven, but Bates cleared 
 up and laid breakfast without an atom of ex- 
 pression in his face or voice. Odd man. Bates ! 
 He brought enough for two ; makes a good liv- 
 ing, that fellow, by an expedient regulation of 
 the organs of sight and hearing. He finished 
 at last, never knew him take so long ; he asked : 
 
 " Shall you want me again, sir.^" 
 
 J
 
 I04 SYMPHONIES 
 
 " No, I '11 shove the tray outside, I am going 
 out later on, not in to any one." 
 
 " All right, sir." 
 
 I ivnocked at the door as I unlocked it. She 
 came out, self-possessed, straight and somewhat 
 stiffly slim in her black frock. I bet she could 
 ride. 
 
 " You look better already," I cried ; " would 
 you like tea better than coffee? No ! come, then." 
 
 She took her seat, outwardly unembarrassed, 
 anyhow, I opened the papers and glanced at 
 the headings. The "Globe" was lying on a 
 chair; I don't know why I got it; she asked me 
 might she see it. She glanced at the first page, 
 and whatever she saw pleased her. I dawdled 
 through my meal, for I did not know how to 
 get any further with her. She was not the sort, 
 you see, one could give a kiss and a quid and 
 say, •' Now, run along Polly, and don't get into 
 any more trouble than you can help." How- 
 ever, she gave me a lead herself, for when we 
 had finished she came over, put out her hand 
 and — well what she said don't matter, anyway, 
 it made me feel a bally idiot. I put her into 
 the arm-chair without any ceremony and pushed 
 over the cigarettes, saying :
 
 A NOCTURNE 105 
 
 " Can't talk unless I smoke. Now, my dear 
 lady, granted you consider you owe me some- 
 thing, suppose you take it out in as much con- 
 fidence as you care to give away. How did 
 you come to be without a bed last night ? " 
 
 "Simply enough; to explain, I must go back 
 a bit. Some years ago a younger brother and 
 I were left almost penniless. Neither of us 
 had been brought up to do anything except 
 to get rid of money in the most happy-go- 
 lucky way. That makes it difficult to get 
 a living when even the trained people are 
 crowded out. We got it as best we could. 
 I 've played the piano at bean feasts, ' devilled ' 
 at 6d. an hour, done whatever offered itself, 
 don't you know," she had a trick of ending 
 her statement that way. " We kept together, 
 were saving to emigrate. Then he was ill for 
 months; he died at Christmas. That broke 
 me up, don't you know; I was very fond of 
 him; and left me without a penny. I went as 
 nurse companion to a Christian gentlewoman in 
 Bath at ;^r2 a year; pay for my own washing. 
 I broke down under it in six months. Came 
 to town ill, and went into the fever hospital 
 three days after, stayed there six weeks; had
 
 io6 SYMPHONIES 
 
 to go to a convalescent home for a month. It 
 was very cheap, but it took all I had left. I 
 couldn't get anything to do. I tried for a 
 place as domestic; I didn't look it, so they 
 said. Things have been going steadily from 
 bad to worse, don't you know.? I used to work 
 at the British Museum. A fortnight ago my 
 landlady gave me notice; she was n't a bad sort, 
 but she had the brokers in herself, and there 
 was a sale. I had to leave; she let me take 
 my bo.x to her sister's for a few days. I sat in 
 St. James' Park the night before last, and sent 
 a description of it to a paper — " She hesi- 
 tated. "I have been trying journalism, para- 
 graphs, and articles," and with the most abject 
 tone of apology, "verse, rubbish, you know; 
 but sometimes it gets taken. Only one has to 
 wait such a time before one knows. I have 
 had a turn-over in the 'Globe; ' it 's a guinea, 
 and there was another last night ..." 
 
 (I had skimmed it, not half a bad one on 
 "Adder lore in the Fens." . . .) "I'll get 
 along all right now; it was rather bad last 
 night; I was overtired or ... " 
 
 I interrupted her. 
 
 "My dear woman, you can't go far on a
 
 A NOCTURNE 107 
 
 guinea with arrears of rent, however small, to 
 pay out of it." 
 
 To cut it all short, I proposed to give her a 
 note to an editress I know, a jolly, good little 
 woman, who would stretch more than a point 
 to serve me. I hinted as delicately as I could 
 that she had better not let her feelings rush 
 her ever, and give away the genesis of our 
 acquaintance; sort of thing, you know, might 
 be annotated badly. She gave me her word of 
 honour that she would let me know the result, 
 and see me next day if nothing came of the 
 interview. She took my pasteboard. I got 
 Bates out of the way with an empty gladstone 
 bag and a note to Paddy Foote, to take it in 
 and say nothing. She put on her things whilst 
 I wrote the note ; I watched her put on her hat ; 
 she looked better without it. 
 
 "I am going to speak of you as ' bearer,' " I 
 said. "I won't ask your name now; I'd like 
 to learn it just when you like — or leave it to 
 chance — I 've an idea you 'd rather ..." 
 
 She nodded gravely; we shook hands — she 
 has lovely eyes, as I said before — and went, 
 leaving one the poorer by herself. 
 
 I have n't a thing belonging to her except
 
 loS SYMPHONIES 
 
 the ashes of her cigarette. I tipped it into 
 my match-box; I suppose I am a damned fool; 
 most Irishmen are, in one way or another. 
 
 It 's curious how things have a knack of run 
 ning twos; I had never met her before that 
 night, and yet, that same evening, as I came 
 out of the Charing Cross post-office, I felt a 
 touch on my arm, turned round, and, by Jove, 
 there she was. The little woman had fixed her 
 up all right, and things were going to hum, so 
 she said. 
 
 Sometimes, when the rain beats, and that 
 beastly old river yawns like a grave, I stand 
 up at the window and look down. I never felt 
 a want in my old digs before. It was jolly 
 to have a woman — a woman of that kind, 
 you know — taking an interest in one's first 
 editions.
 
 OONY 
 
 It was the hour of the moths' visits in a moun- 
 tain district on the borders of Cork and Kerry. 
 The herds of shaggy mountain goats had hud- 
 dled to rest in the cairn like shelters fashioned 
 for them with fiat stones deftly piled one upon 
 the other against a boulder upon the road- 
 side; the smoke of their breaths, with its hot, 
 sickly, milky smell, curled softly out through 
 the night ain The bald-headed crows, tired 
 from the foraging of the day, struck a lonely 
 note by their absence. The valleys slept in 
 the shadows of the hills; the trickle of moun- 
 tain streams alone broke the silence of the 
 brooding dusk; and the night breeze, that 
 came with a sob from Kerry, through a cleft 
 in the barren hills, keened round an ancient 
 cross on the wayside; and lame Larry Byrne, 
 the fiddler, crossed himself as he heaid it, and 
 breathed a prayer for exiled sons, dead and 
 buried in Minnesota.
 
 no SYMPHONIES 
 
 The high road was lonely, winding through 
 desolate hills that watched the valleys below, 
 in grim brooding, as a hungry mother her sleep- 
 ing children. Blackened bushes and charred 
 stalks showed where the gorse and fern and 
 bracken had been " fired " to banish the game, 
 and spoil the sport of an unpopular landlord. 
 
 A little white figure flitted down the road, 
 looking over her shoulder every now and then 
 in terror. Once, when a hare darted across 
 the way, and a fitful breeze sent the dust swirl- 
 ing, and the leaves curling to meet her, in ad- 
 monition of the passing of "the little people," 
 she dropped on her knees, and raised her hands 
 in supplication. Oony believed in their exist- 
 ence, for had she not heard how the old women, 
 if forced to throw out ashes or water after dark, 
 call "huguth, huguth," warningly, "for fear of 
 hurting the crathurs." She staggered to her 
 feet with a sob, and flew on again; she was 
 bare-footed, and her soles only made a padding 
 sound as they touched the ground ; it sloped 
 downwards, and as the moon rose steadily, 
 flooding the valley with a luminous mistiness, 
 a white building on the roadside could be 
 plainly seen.
 
 OONY III 
 
 The child ran faster as she saw it, her breath 
 coming in quick, hard gasps, to drop with a 
 moan at the door of the little mountain police- 
 station. 
 
 There was the rattle of a carbine and a mur- 
 mur of voices inside, then the door was opened 
 cautiously, and a clean-shaven face, under a 
 forage cap, peered out. 
 
 "Faith, it's a girleen lyin' on the step; lift 
 her in, Dempsey, an' I '11 reconnoitre." 
 
 A second man stepped out, raised the child, 
 and carried her in and sat her on a wooden 
 bench near the fire. The first man came back 
 after a few minutes, locked the door, and bent 
 to examine her. 
 
 "Give her a sup o' tea, man; she's dead 
 beat, an' her fut's bleed in'. Christ God, the 
 whole side av her 's bloody ! " 
 
 He gripped the child, and turned her to the 
 light; the sleeve of her cotton frock and her 
 print "pinny" were stained and stiffening 
 rapidly. The girleen looked at them herself 
 with horror-set eyes, then up to the two faces 
 with quivering lips. She was a bit of a thing, 
 with thin, flaxen hair, light-blue eyes, and a 
 sharp little face, powdered with freckles.
 
 112 SYMPHONIES 
 
 " It 's Dadda's, poor Dadda's. O Christ, they 
 kilt him, an' they half murdered me Ma; an' 
 I cotched hoult av her when they batthered him, 
 an' that 's wot drenched me intirely. Oh, Ser- 
 geant, won't ye come; I've run all the road? 
 Oh, Dadda, Dadda!" 
 
 She rocked her little thin body with shud- 
 dering throes, and kept her piteous eyes fixed 
 on the faces of the men, who were questioning 
 one another with blanched faces. 
 
 " It 's O' Gorman, the emergency man, in the 
 iron hut above; I '11 go bail it 's him — " 
 
 "Yes, that 's where we live, oh, oh, oh! " 
 
 "Wake, Dogherty, an' slip on yer uniform. 
 Christ, God Almighty, but it's bad work this 
 night, an' the Inspector not at home ayther, 
 till mornin'." 
 
 He took the cup from the big constabulary 
 man's hand, and coaxed the child to drink 
 between her sobs, looked in his cartridge- 
 pouch, took some charge sheets, and gathered 
 up the cards with which they had been play- 
 ing, and hid them in an old tea caddy. 
 
 In five minutes more the men were mount- 
 ing the hill with measured steps that echoed 
 through the stillness of the night. The moon
 
 OONY 113 
 
 bathed the hills in a white delight, the mist 
 in the valley below shimmered like gossamer 
 threads cast slowly from a silver shuttle. 
 
 The child stumbled and half fell; the man 
 named Dempsey took her up on his arm with 
 a soothing: "Whisht, alanna, whisht, now!" 
 Half an hour's steady walking brought them to 
 a " borheen, " winding upwards. An old, shaggy, 
 white ass stood bearing his head sleepily on the 
 wheel of a cart, resting on its shafts; further 
 back the roof of a two-roomed hut of corrugated 
 iron gleamed bluely white in the moon rays. 
 The child struggled to get down. 
 
 "Hold still, alanna! keep beside me!" 
 whispered the man as he set her down gently, 
 "and placed his finger on the trigger-guard. 
 They went carefully on; not a sound disturbed 
 the quiet save the trickling of water and the 
 cutting crunch of a cow chewing her cud. The 
 child darted like a swallow to the open door, 
 and passed in; a shrill scream made the men 
 break into a run. 
 
 The moonlight streamed in through the small 
 square of window and the open door, and shed 
 a ghastly radiance over the two forms lying on 
 the earthen floor. The man's upturned, bone- 
 
 8
 
 114 SYMPHONIES 
 
 white face was set in a desperate, distorted 
 grin, the eyes stared wide open, and the parted 
 lips showed a front tooth missing. A terrific 
 blow had smashed in his frontal bone, and 
 mixed forehead and blood into a congealed 
 mass, with fragments of bone and brain pro- 
 truding, — that was the second blow, given as 
 he turned and fell, for the first was dealt from 
 behind, and shattered his skull. Across his 
 breast lay a woman, clad in a coarse chemise, 
 her thin, white legs gleaming strangely in the 
 moonlight. A frightened cat, with eyes glow- 
 ing like fire-balls in the dark, darted from the 
 dresser up the chimney, and a ragged Irish 
 terrier — the man Dempsey noticed, with a sick= 
 ening shudder, that the feathery hairs round 
 his jaws were dark and stiff — wagged his tail, 
 and greeted their entrance with a dismal howl. 
 The child knelt and kissed and stroked the 
 worn hand of the woman, avoiding her father 
 with her eyes. She was shivering, and the sobs 
 shook her little frame. The sergeant turned 
 the woman over to feel her heart : " She 's dead, 
 right enough ; she was a delicate slip of a cra- 
 ture, anyway. O my God, man," dropping his 
 voice, with a glance at the child, to an awed
 
 OONY IIS 
 
 whisper, "it's three of them's murdered this 
 night." 
 
 They laid her straight, and covered the body 
 with a patchwork quilt ofif the bed ; one of the 
 poor thin feet stuck out beneath it, and the 
 child covered it with a little shawl, as if to pro- 
 tect it from the cold of " the death hours" that 
 is warmth to the chill of death. 
 
 As soon as the morning broke, they made a 
 survey of the place ; the District inspector and 
 two more men arrived, followed by the doctor, 
 with an English friend, and the parish priest, 
 riding a mare with more than a strain of good 
 blood in her veins. 
 
 All through the days that followed the in- 
 quest to the poor funeral, unattended by any, 
 except by such members of the force as could 
 be spared, the child sat dumbly. Now and then, 
 a shudder seized her, and her eyes seemed im- 
 movable in the little, wan face. Dadda, her big, 
 handsome Dadda, who always brought her back 
 a sugar stick, or a wooden doll, or an orange 
 from his journeys to town under police protec- 
 tion, was murdered ; and poor Mammy was laid 
 over in the other ground near the church, all by 
 herself. The murdered man was a Catholic who
 
 ii6 SYMPHONIES 
 
 had married a decent, pretty girl, the daughter 
 of a North of Ireland cottier, a Presbyterian ; 
 want had driven him to emergency work, and 
 they had been boycotted for more than a year. 
 Scarcely were they laid under the sod when a 
 fierce controversy rose as to the possession of 
 Oony's soul. The parish priest applied for it 
 in court, as the father was a Roman Catholic, 
 and the child must, therefore, be reared in the 
 only true church; the parson, on behalf of the 
 notorious Irish church mission, made strenuous 
 efforts to procure it for his fold; whilst the 
 Presbyterian minister of a neighbouring town 
 made it an occasion for " special congregation 
 prayer" to rescue the lost lamb from perdition 
 and turn her to saving grace. The priest 
 carried the day, as it was attested, by a woman 
 who swore she knew them in the North, that 
 Oony was baptised by the Catholic curate the 
 day of her birth, as her life was wavering in the 
 balance. 
 
 There was suppressed applause as the deci- 
 sion was made known ; and Oony was given in 
 charge, on behalf of the " father," to one Mrs. 
 O'Sullivan, honest Jack's wife, of the Station 
 Hill farm.
 
 OONY 117 
 
 Mrs. Jack O'Sullivan was a short, thin woman. 
 Small, bright, brown eyes, the lids of which 
 seemed caught at the corners near her nose, 
 which was long and curved ; loose, purple lips, 
 barely hiding prominent, discoloured teeth, made 
 up a not too attractive personality. She covered 
 her thin hair with a thick chenille net brought 
 well to the front of her head. In town, a high 
 bonnet and cloth cape, trimmed with gimp and 
 beads, proclaimed her husband to belong to the 
 class of " strong farmers." Jack himself was a 
 big, loosely built man with grizzled " Piccadilly 
 weepers," tall felt hat, and homespun tweed 
 suit, yellowed at the knees ard shoulders. 
 
 Oony followed them to the yard of the public 
 house and grocery store where the car was left ; 
 an unkempt mare, big in foal, was put into the 
 shafts of a rickety side car. Mrs. O'Sullivan 
 covered her bonnet with a shawl, put a rug 
 round her legs, and settled herself with her 
 head on one side to say her prayers. Paddy, 
 the second son, whistled jigs softly as he drove 
 them home; whilst Oony sat in her thin print 
 frock, with her bare legs dangling down, and a 
 chill of desolation settling round her childish 
 heart.
 
 ii8 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Jack was what is called a " strong farmer ; " he 
 leased a farm at forty pounds a year, was not in 
 arrears, and had bought a cottage with a few 
 acres attached, which he sublet. He averaged 
 fifteen cows, a mare, with two badly bred foals 
 or Alleys always coming on ; a few sheep and 
 some good sows made up the stock. A brand- 
 new hay-shed with a corrugated-iron roof gave 
 the place a prosperous look from the road 
 below; but on close inspection the whole place 
 looked dirty and ill-kept. The " borheen " lead- 
 ing to the house was full of ruts and farm drain- 
 age, the yard a reeking bed of manure, refuse, 
 and stinking pools of stagnant water in which 
 a sow wallowed in company with the ducks and 
 geese. Ill-kept gorse hedges and ragged elder 
 bushes circled a " cabbage garden " in which 
 some neglected bees found a housing place for 
 sweet bog honey, and the poultry scratched 
 holes, and ate the cabbages before they took 
 hearts unto themselves. 
 
 The dwelling-house was a long, low, white- 
 washed building, with a brown thatched roof; 
 here and there a new patch of " rush " showed 
 goldly in the sunlight. Looking across and 
 down the turnip ridges, one could see a brawl-
 
 OONY 119 
 
 ing, brown streamlet and a new, grey stone 
 bridge, and one line of railway in the valley 
 beneath; and further away the town and the 
 square grey tower of the church and the spire of 
 the " chapel ; " and further still the purple moun- 
 tains marshalled grandly on the Kerry border. 
 
 A yelping, mongrel and a badly bred sheep- 
 dog sprang to the gate as the car arrived. Dis- 
 used mush-tubs, food-troughs, pails, and crocks, 
 and a litter of all kinds surrounded the door- 
 way; a dark-haired girl with a coarse mouth 
 and lovely brow, with beautiful eyes peering 
 sullenly through an extraordinary fringe of 
 lashes, leant with folded arms over the half door. 
 
 A thick-set man slouched out of the " bawn," at 
 the back of the cowsheds, and helped his mother 
 down off the car. He was literally clad in rags ; 
 a flannel shirt, old corduroy trousers held up 
 by a leather belt, a felt hat, green with age, and 
 a wonderfully thick pair of boots made up his 
 costume. 
 
 The girl unbarred the door; and Oony fol- 
 lowed them in, and stood shyly inside, with the 
 dog sniffing suspiciously at her thin legs. 
 
 The kitchen and living-room in one looked 
 low and dark by reason of a box-like loft
 
 120 SYMPHONIES 
 
 wliich was built half way out in to it, and 
 was reached by a ladder. A settle, a crooked 
 dresser decked with cheap crockery, meal bins 
 with iron padlocks, sundry bags of meal, yellow 
 delf vessels, and some rickety chairs were 
 huddled round the walls. Harness-straps, a 
 tattered saddle, and various old coats dangled 
 from the loft and ceiling in company with a 
 ham and two sides of fat bacon. The earthen 
 floor was uneven, and here and there in a hollow 
 wet, and dirty from the inroad of ducks and 
 hens that made raids when luck left the door 
 open. 
 
 The only cheerful spot was the great, open, 
 smoke-blackened fire-place, with glowing turf 
 piled in a heap on the hearth. 
 
 A large, three-legged, iron "skillet," attached 
 to the hanger by an iron hook, hung over the fire, 
 with bread, Oony decided, for there was a circle 
 of burning " greeshacs " (embers) on the lid. 
 A brown teapot, a lean cat, and a weak little pig, 
 of a few weeks old, on a " loch " of straw shared 
 a corner near it. A big pot of potatoes, steam- 
 ing under a cloth, took up the other side. 
 
 A girl rose from a three-legged stool in front 
 of it as they entered, and began to spread some
 
 OONY 121 
 
 dclf cups and plates on the table under the win- 
 dow; she too was black-browed, but had soft, 
 brown eyes and an honest, sturdy look, and many 
 moles on her face and neck. 
 
 The mother took off her bonnet and cloak 
 and skirt, and tied a big apron over her quilted 
 petticoat; the eldest girl, who had been loll- 
 ing over the door, followed her into the best 
 room. The floor of this was boarded, but un- 
 scrubbed ; a round mahogany table, with pans of 
 milk and the marks where others had rested, 
 stood in the middle of the room. A big press 
 and some horse-hair seated chairs bought at 
 various auctions, with dirty antimacassars thrown 
 across their backs, stood round the wall. There 
 was the close, stuffy smell of damp, and unopened 
 windows ; the fire was never lit except in the rare 
 event of a visit from some American relatives or 
 a priest connected with " herself 's" family. 
 Some cheap plaster saints stood on the mantel 
 board, and the magenta paper, violet in the damp 
 corners, was almost hidden by gaudy, pious 
 pictures framed and unframed. Woodcuts of 
 Father Mathevv and Daniel O'Connell were the 
 only tributes to a "movement;" for Mrs. Jack 
 discouraged " himself 's" attendance at political
 
 122 SYMPHONIES 
 
 meetings: it led to drink, and calls for money, 
 and interfered with the ambition of her life, — the 
 making of his youngest born Jamsie into a priest ; 
 every penny that could be saved was laid aside 
 to that end. Jack paid his subscription to the 
 Land League, and attended every big demonstra- 
 tion, to save trouble ; but beyond that Mrs. Jack 
 objected. She would have roasted a heretic 
 willingl)', ruled her family with a rod of iron, 
 attended mass and mission regularly, and " paid 
 rounds" at every holy well in the barony with 
 assiduity, but let the house slide along as best 
 it could, and with as little outlay as possible. 
 The girls washed Jack's one white shirt that 
 served for market days, Sundays, or a funeral, 
 and the very few other things the family needed. 
 Nancy and Jamsie went outwardly decent to 
 school, but donned their ragged clothes at home. 
 Few neighbours visited them, for Mrs. Jack had 
 not the graces of hospitality. The girls never 
 went to a dance or a " pattern," for she con- 
 sidered them fruitful occasions for temptation. 
 
 Miss Mary Kate sat down with her hands in 
 her lap : — 
 
 " Musha, she's a miserable slip av a thing 
 afther all the trubblc ; she '11 ate more nor her
 
 OONY 123 
 
 keep, I'll go bail. Beyant mindin' the turkeys 
 an' scariu' the crows, I dunno what she 's good 
 for atall, atall ! " 
 
 " Well, I could n't refuse Father Michael, an' 
 he doin' so much for Jamsie ; an' one could n't let 
 them swaddlers get hould av her ennyv/ay, God's 
 holy will be done, an' glory to His name ! " 
 
 Closing her eyes and nodding her head fer- 
 vently. This was a favourite formula of Mrs. 
 Jack and saved an immensity of trouble; if a 
 young calf got the scour, and Mrs. Jack was tell- 
 ing her beads at the warm fire, she ejaculated 
 this piously, and let the poor little beast die of 
 neglect. She was a " voteen " of the worst de- 
 scription; the whole place reeked of dirt and 
 neglect. The bed-linen she had brought Jack 
 as a dowry had been turned into nether garments 
 years ago ; and no bed in the house could boast 
 of a " screed " of white on it. The entire family, 
 except the two elder boys, slept in the end room ; 
 and they threw their clothes, as they took them 
 ofif, up on to the faded moreen canopy that was 
 stretched from the head to the foot of the low 
 four-poster beds. Here, too. Jack's spare 
 clothes, and in summer the spare blankets, and 
 at all seasons the wool shorn from the sheep,
 
 124 SYMPHONIES 
 
 until such time as it was taken to the mill to be 
 woven, found storing room. 
 " I wet the tay, Mama." 
 Honora, the second girl, put her head through 
 the door. They went out. The plates and cups 
 stood on the bare table to which fragments of 
 dough, from late bread-making, stuck in patches ; 
 the original colour and grain of the wood was 
 lost in dirt. A baker's loaf and a piece of fresh 
 butter in a saucer were laid for the parents ; the 
 other members of the family ate potatoes, which 
 they peeled deftly with their fingers, and wedges 
 of hot steaming buttermilk-bread. 
 
 Mrs. Jack said grace and poured out the tea. 
 " Have you any more ' colourin' [milk],' Hon- 
 ora?" she asked, tilting a diminutive milk jug, 
 to peer into it the better. 
 
 " No'a, then, I had to squeeze out all I cud 
 to make up the quantity for the cramery; we 
 had none in our tay afore aither ; there 's enough 
 there for yerself an' me Da ! " 
 
 " Faith, it was betther livin' we had before 
 them separators started. I hate them ; no butther, 
 nor crame, nor even a drain o' butther-milk, nor 
 feedin' for the pigs ; that skim-milk 's no good," 
 muttered the eldest son, shoving his hat on the
 
 OONY 125 
 
 back of his head. Jamsie and Norecn came in 
 and took their shares to the settle, nudging one 
 another as they looked furtively at the child 
 near the door. 
 
 " Miisha, my God, Mary," cried Jack, "ask 
 the girleen to sit down, an' give her a mug o' 
 tay; it's starved she is, I '11 go bail." 
 
 The girl obeyed sullenly. The meal ended, 
 they pointed out the field below where the 
 geese and turkeys strayed, and bade her go 
 down and mind them until the Angelus pealed 
 from the convent chapel, when she could drive 
 them up. The child ran down, glad to escape 
 from the hard, unsympathetic eyes ; her heart 
 was full to breaking point. Her Dadda, her poor 
 Dadda, had never said a hard word to her in his 
 life, and the mother had never passed her without 
 stroking her hair softly. She longed to lie down 
 with her face in the grass and cry ; but the tur- 
 keys clucked plaintively and got stuck in the 
 ragged gorse hedges, and the geese would stray, 
 and above at the gate Jamsie watched her. 
 
 When the rough supper had been eaten, and 
 she had washed the platters and mugs, and 
 fetched in a pail of clear water from the spring, 
 and set' it in the kitchen, for if that were
 
 126 SYMPHONIES 
 
 neglected, dire disaster would happen should 
 the " little people " call in the night and not find 
 any, then the family gathered in the kitchen 
 and said the rosary in sleepy gutturals. 
 
 Oony was told to sleep in the loft ; and hence- 
 forth she slept there on an old feather-bed with 
 many companions, both in it and in the thatch ; 
 and the one-eyed cat had a " loch " of kittens, at 
 intervals, at her feet. 
 
 The days dragged wearily, for the sensitive, 
 quaint, little child, with the heart-sickness tug- 
 ging at her breast. Then one day " Paddy the 
 fairy " peered at her through the gorse hedge. 
 He was a queer, misshapen, little figure, with 
 soft, silky, white hair, with a tinge of yellow in it, 
 like tufts of the bog cotton-flower before it falls. 
 Oony looked at him fearsomely, for she had heard 
 tell how Peggy Lacy, wife of Paddy Cronin of 
 the Cross-roads, gave birth to a fine, dark child 
 one February day; and how all went well with 
 them till one May morning, when Paddy went 
 out with the intention of digging in a " fort " ^ on 
 
 ^ Round piece of ground enclosed by trees, sacred to the 
 fairies. Superstition protects tiiem. Supposed by some to be 
 the graves of Danes, to contain treasure. Many have sub- 
 terranean passages leading to them. Few have been explored.
 
 OONY 127 
 
 his farm, in spite of Peggy's tears and the 
 neighbours' warnings. He was going to set 
 potatoes there, and chopped down one tree as a 
 beginning. She knew the "fort" well ; there were 
 many such about, but this one was a " rale fairy 
 fort," for, in the memory of man, music had been 
 heard coming from it, and lights had been seen 
 dancing in it at night; and when they raked the 
 hay in the meadow round it, they always threw 
 a handful towards it, as they began each swathe. 
 Mr. Walker, a black Englishman, had five on his 
 place; and divil a man in the barony would lay 
 spade in one. A Scotchman he had did, and 
 broke his leg on the way back. Mrs. Paddy had 
 tried with both " slutherin ' " and threats to per- 
 suade him not to meddle with it ; but he was 
 always obstinate. A while after she went, with 
 a weight on her spirits, to fetch water from the 
 spring; and when she got back, she heard a 
 screeching in the house, and the poor pig came 
 out with a mask of fright upon his face ; and 
 when she went in, there was a white-faced 
 scrawneen of a child, with a wizened old face, 
 lying in the place of her own beautiful boy. 
 Well, he screeched and screeched, so that when 
 Paddy himself came home, he was struck of a
 
 128 SYMPHONIES 
 
 wonder at it. Then they knew it was a change- 
 ling, a " fairy child " put in place of their own, to 
 punish them for meddling with the fort. They 
 got hi.s reverence to come, and the doctor; but 
 it was all to no good ; and the sergeant came and 
 threatened them that if anything happened to 
 it, or they tried any spells with it, he 'd hold 
 them responsible, and have an inquiry. For 
 maybe he suspected they wanted to give it tea 
 made of foxgloves, and thrust it out of the house 
 on a red-hot shovel, to see if it was " right ; " for it 
 was up in Cronin's they had put a black cat 
 under a skillet and heaped live turfs around it, 
 and burned it alive for a spell. Well, Cronin's 
 " fairy boy " screeched and fought its way until it 
 was nearly two years old, the sergeant calling in 
 to see it regularly; then one day Denny the 
 piper stepped in, and happened to strike up a 
 tune on an old flute that had lain on the dresser 
 for years. The child stopped whimpering, sat 
 up in the wooden box-cradle and listened, sway- 
 ing his big head in time to the air ; and as long as 
 Denny played, it held its whisht, and then 
 dropped asleep with the flute in its arms. After 
 that, it was easier, and when it was three years old, 
 it crawled all through the fields to the fort, and in
 
 OONY 129 
 
 through the gap, and Mrs. Paddy heard faint 
 music, and crossed herself. When the turf had 
 been cut and stacked six times after that, it 
 could play jigs that would make lame Molly 
 dance, and laments that would melt a stone 
 heart. Wet or dry, it stayed there in the fort; 
 so that it got to be a custom to leave its food 
 on the stile near it; and the belief grew that 
 " the good people " had taught it to play. 
 
 On summer nights, when the moonbeams 
 spun cobweb-fine as if drawn from a silver dis- 
 taff, embroidered the valleys, the strains of the 
 flute made passers-by cross themselves, and 
 whisper a prayer to Mary, so luring was their 
 sweetness. Many a night Oony lay awake lis- 
 tening, whilst strange fancies danced in her child 
 mind. Perhaps the blood of Covenanters on 
 one side worked in her veins, for she had less of 
 superstition than Mary Kate, for example, who 
 curled the combings of her black hair into a 
 ring round her finger, and hid it carefully in a 
 crevice in the wall, for fear ill might happen her 
 if she were to burn it, or leave it where any 
 one might use it against her; or Noreen, who 
 would n't pick a " fairy thimble " (fox-glove) for 
 a shining sixpence, for fear the "little people" 
 
 9
 
 130 SYMPHONIES 
 
 would come after dark and pinch her black and 
 blue ; or even Mrs. Jack herself, who would n't 
 let lighted sod, nor coal for a pipe even, pass out 
 of the house on a Saturday, nor set a clutch of 
 eggs on a Friday. Oony met the stare of Paddy's 
 light, almost pupilless, blue eyes fearlessly, and 
 smiled back. He stretched out his hand with 
 a "hank "of wild strawberries threaded on a 
 hay-stalk. After that, each day brought a visit 
 from the changeling ; on rare occasions, when 
 free, she stole up to the fort with him, and 
 whispered, " By yer lave," to the little people, 
 before she plucked the yellow rathe primroses 
 that grew larger there than elsewhere. A 
 strange friendship was cemented, and Paddy's 
 weird music sang in her heart, when lonely, and 
 whispered of fairy islands. Two incidents stood 
 out vividly in these years of the child's life. 
 
 Once, she could always recall afterwards every 
 detail in the scene, it was in July, there had 
 been a drought, and then suddenly three days' 
 hard rain. The west wind had laid the thirsty 
 poppies low, and scattered their scarlet leaves, 
 like tears of blood, in the fields. The hay looked 
 sodden ; drenched blue butterflies lay in the 
 crevices. She was leaning over the bawn gate,
 
 OONY 131 
 
 watching the white-bellied swifts cleave the air 
 with forked wings, before darting to their nests ; 
 a red setter thrashed a field below in circles 
 wide and narrow, scaring the larks. 
 
 Mrs. Jack, Noreen, and Jamsie were going to 
 pay rounds at a well in the next ploughland, 
 with the indefinite name of " the well of the 
 Saint." It was really a spring welling up at the 
 side of a stream; one of the many with the 
 legend of a blessed trout, that could be seen by 
 the devotee, were his prayer to be granted. 
 One went nine times round on one's knees, say- 
 ing certain prayers; then one dropped an offer- 
 ing into it. Looking into the clear, bubbling 
 depths, one might see the usual votive offerings 
 of pins, hair-pins, or more rarely brass trousers' 
 buttons, according to the sex, 
 
 Oony had a vague desire to see the trout. 
 
 " Ye can come and ' pay rounds ' with us, if 
 ye like ; ye don't take to yer devotions atall, 
 atall," said Mrs. Jack, with condescension. " I 'm 
 afraid it 's the black drop in ye," going in for 
 her shawl. 
 
 "What are ye going to ask for?" queried 
 Jamsie, coaxingly. 
 
 Oony hesitated; then she said, softly: —
 
 132 SYMPHONIES 
 
 "I 'm going to pray for me poor Ma's soul, 
 to get her out o' purgatory." 
 
 Jamsie's black eyes twinkled maliciously, as 
 he said, with conviction : — 
 
 "Faith, then, ye might as well be prayin' 
 for Musheragh mountain to move down to the 
 meadow beyant. She never seen purgatory; 
 cock her up with it, an' she a black Protestan' ! 
 It 's in hell she is for all eternity ! " The child 
 flushed, and her lip quivered; she sprang and 
 struck him, with her thin, little fist doubled, 
 square on the mouth, calling: — 
 
 " Ye lie, ye lie, ye lie, ye little blackguard ! " 
 
 Jamsie screamed and hit her back. Noreen 
 seized her by the hair behind. The ducks 
 quacked and scattered the mud ; and Mrs. Jack 
 and the family gathered to witness the scrim- 
 mage. 
 
 "Mush, my God, childre, what the divil ails 
 ye? Lave go, will ye, ye young divil ! Quit, I 
 tell yez, Jamsie, quit now!" 
 
 Jack separated them. Jamsie's nose was 
 bleeding, and, as Noreen said, he was a sight 
 of scratches. Oony stood gasping for breath, 
 her eyes fixed on the boy; a line of blood 
 trickled down her white cheek.
 
 OONY 133 
 
 "She sed, she was goin' to pray for her ould 
 Protestan' mother's soul," explained Noreen; 
 "an' poor Jamsie only sed she was burnin' in 
 hell, an' she wint for him wid her fishts." 
 
 "I told ye the black drop 'ud come out," 
 said Miss Mary Kate. " She 's damned crabbed 
 intirely; look how she bit his hand! " 
 
 Mrs. Jack dropped her beads, and, seizing 
 the child, belaboured her with a round stick 
 that served as a potato mashen 
 
 "I'll tache ye better manners, ye little 
 bitch [whack] ; where else would she be, 
 [whack] only in hell; an' out av hell there's 
 no redemption." 
 
 The child shrieked between her pain. 
 "She isn't, she isn't; I don't believe it, not 
 if the bishup sed it, nor," with a supreme note 
 of defiance, "the Pope hisself ! " 
 
 The entire family screamed in chorus; voluble 
 Irish oaths tripped off their tongues with the 
 ease that constant practice and no thought of 
 indecency in the use of indecent words gives 
 in a country where every man has a genius for 
 swearing. 
 
 " My God, Mary Kate, listen to the likes o' 
 that; I '11 knock it out av ye."
 
 134 SYMPHONIES 
 
 "Ye may kill me, an' I don't care. I'd 
 rather go to hell with me Ma, than stay here 
 enny wan day wid yez, an' that 's God's 
 truth." 
 
 "Quit now, Mary," called Jack. "You'll 
 be killin' her, an' trubble '11 come av id." 
 
 The matter ended abruptly; a woman who 
 had come up the borheen, drawn by the sound 
 of the blows, darted forward, and sent Mrs. 
 Jack, with a twirl of her strong wrist, into a 
 sitting posture on the manure heap. She took 
 hold of the child, and bent over the drooping 
 little figure, with the red weals burning on 
 face and arms. Oony winced as she touched 
 her; she gathered her tenderly to her knee, 
 and looked at the others, with her lips shaking 
 and her eyes flashing. The child broke into 
 sobs ; the crumb of tenderness had broken her 
 stubbornness. Lines of fine scorn sharpened 
 the woman's face; of their own race, she knew 
 how to treat them. 
 
 "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, 
 every one of you. I 'm ashamed to belong to 
 the same race as you ; you are a set of cowardly 
 hypocrites. I think, Mr. O' Sullivan, you ought 
 to keep your wife and your family in better
 
 OONY 135 
 
 order; it's a poor house where the hen does 
 the crowing. There is n't a spark of religion 
 amongst you; it's just an excuse for dirt and 
 laziness. I '11 take the child up to my cottage. 
 Come, Oony dear; that 's your name, isn't it? " 
 She led the child by the hand, and turned to 
 go. Mrs. Jack was on her feet in a second, an 
 unsavory, shaken object enough. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Miss O'Leary; she's 
 under my care, an' I thank ye to lave her 
 be. It 's a poor case if I can't chastise her, 
 when she nearly kilt Jamsie, an'," Mrs. Jack 
 crossed herself with devoutness, "made use of 
 blasphemies." 
 
 "Rubbish, Mrs. Jack. Jamsie, backed by 
 his family, is quite able to take care of 
 himself — " she picked up the stick from the 
 ground. "I 've a very great mind to send 
 for the Inspector and the doctor. I 'd take 
 her into court for two pins, and strip her to 
 show how you take care of her; you'd find it 
 would go badly with you if I produced this 
 stick." 
 
 She had a peculiar, sweet voice, a slight 
 American accent that gave way to almost a 
 brogue of her forebears as she grew excited.
 
 136 SYMPHONIES 
 
 She went, leading the child. The family 
 retired indoors to talk it over. Jack was up- 
 set ; the truth as to the dirt and laziness, against 
 which he had chafed all through the later years 
 of his married life, stung him sorely; he rated 
 the girls for making a show of him, cuffed 
 Jamsie, and cut " herself" short in her discourse. 
 Mrs. Jack was angry, but indifferent; she knew 
 religion was the most potent factor; she had 
 sent the child to her duty regularly. Father 
 Michael would stand by her, for she sent corn 
 and turf, and baskets of eggs to the presbytery, 
 and even took the mare from the plough to let 
 it draw coals from the station. Noreen ran in 
 to say that Oony was beside Miss Anne in the 
 phaeton, driving in to the town. 
 
 Mrs. Jack washed her face, and put on her 
 bonnet, and took the short cut through the 
 fields to see Father Michael. Miss Anne had 
 "foreign," not to say Protestant ways, and 
 stood in awe of no one. The Inspector was 
 from the black North, maybe a Mason; and 
 the doctor, though a Catholic, was full up of 
 English ways, and went again a Catholic, in 
 court, as lief as not. 
 
 Oony never forgot her first glimpse of Miss
 
 OONY 137 
 
 Anne's bedroom, — the snowy bed, with the 
 dimity curtains with the stripes of roses, the 
 big bath, and smell of violets, — it was all so 
 clean; it reminded her of the day of her first 
 Communion, when she fainted, and woke up 
 to find herself in the convent parlour. Miss 
 Anne sponged her face, and put wet bandages 
 round her swollen arms; and Oony felt sure 
 she was angry, by her set mouth. 
 
 As they drove through the sweet, cool, even- 
 ing air, she could hear the notes of Paddy the 
 fairy's flute melting into the rustle of the river 
 reeds. Then he broke into a mad, glad tune; 
 maybe the "lograhauns" were dancing to it. 
 Oony crossed herself, and stole close to Miss 
 Anne. The latter felt the movement, bent 
 and looked into the little wan face, with a 
 smile that broke all the sternness of her own, 
 and made Ooney think of the sun kissing the 
 snow on Musheragh head. 
 
 That evening was full of incident ; there was 
 the big, light waiting-room at the doctor's; 
 she could hear him laugh in the next room, 
 and he said: — 
 
 "Oh, I'll make the most of it, of course; 
 but you don't know them yet. They can be
 
 138 SYMPHONIES 
 
 as stoical as savages if they like; they don't 
 feel physical pain when their tempers are up. 
 I 've known them fight with scythes, and go 
 about for days with slashes that would kill an 
 Englishman, just to keep the police in the dark, 
 until they could steal up to me to stitch them up 
 for them. Yet they ' 11 groan and shiver and pale 
 at a description of suffering; I believe they 
 feel the imaginary more acutely than they do 
 the actual. They 're a queer lot, these coun- 
 trymen of mine, tender and cruel, flint and 
 wax, ineradicable savages, with the old pagan 
 beliefs in black magic and the devil underlying 
 their Roman Catholicism. ' 'Tis the will o' 
 God ' is their formula for absolute fatalism. 
 Well, if you want to keep the girleen, I '11 
 back you up; I have an old score against Mrs. 
 Jack." 
 
 Sharp words passed between Miss Anne and 
 Father Michael, the canon twirling his thumbs 
 silently, with a mirthful twinkle lurking in the 
 back of his gentle, blue eyes, as Miss Anne got 
 the better of the big hirsute man with the ugly, 
 clever face, and the fanatical fire burning in his 
 sombre, black eyes. 
 
 They drove home through the moonlit silence.
 
 OONY 139 
 
 "Krek, krek," a crane flew across the road near 
 the bridge where the "colleys" dived in shoals 
 under the arches. Miss Anne lifted the stiff 
 little form bodily out, and from that night 
 forth Oony dwelt in the thatched cottage on 
 the hillside. 
 
 At seventeen, Oony was still a slip of a 
 thing, slight as a river reed, bendsome as a 
 "sally." Her flaxen hair had caught a deeper 
 shade of gold; the big eyes looked more lumi- 
 nous than ever. The mystic eyes, with "the 
 light at the back," of the visionary, the broad 
 forehead and long-pointed face, the delicate 
 skin, egg-white with the curse of the Irish girl, 
 — chlorosis, — made her look like some quaint, 
 mediaeval saint. The retired life, almost mor- 
 bid in its monotonous refinement, that she 
 led as extra maid to Miss Anne had developed 
 the intense side of the child's nature. 
 
 Miss Anne's researches in Celtic legendary 
 lore brought strange visitors to the little 
 thatched cottage on the hill-side. Pipers and 
 " knowledgeable " women, repositories of folk 
 lore, sat in the kitchen and told tales of the 
 " good people," and "the magic red wind," and
 
 I40 SYMPHONIES 
 
 " the coming of the black pig," or crooned 
 " ould ancient" songs of kin and kine, the chant 
 of the woman of the Booly, the " Booly " being 
 the Irish equivalent of the Norsk Saeter, or sum- 
 mer mountain pasture. 
 
 Many changes had taken place in the farm. 
 Honest Jack had been carried to the grave 
 ground of his forefathers at the foot of the 
 mountains, with half a mile of side cars behind 
 him. Mrs. Jack carried on the farm with the 
 aid of the boys. Sheamus, the eldest, had gone 
 " queer," and muttered prayers as he ploughed 
 or thrashed, and was " folk shy," Paddy went 
 to town and fair, wore tweed suits, and was 
 the most " clever cut " boy in the parish. 
 Father Michael had seen to Jamsie's outfit; and 
 he was away in college, preparing for the sem- 
 inary. Noreen was in a Belgian convent, learn- 
 ing music and French. Mrs. Jack was making 
 quality of the younger ones. Whenever she 
 got their letters, she used to array herself in 
 her mass clothes, and go to the town to read 
 them to her cronies, to their envy or secret 
 amusement. 
 
 Mary Kate was the thorn in her side; for 
 she was not content like Honora to keep house
 
 OONY 141 
 
 and do her bidding; she had not the latter's 
 reason for content. Once Mrs. Jack's bonnet 
 had crossed the station bridge, Honora, with 
 her moles showing Hke patches on her ruddy 
 skin, used to hang a " praskeen " (old cloth) 
 on the furze bush ; the keen eyes of a boy 
 working and whistling in the fields below were 
 quick to see it. She used to stand waiting, with 
 her small plump hands on her broad hips, until 
 he came near, then she feigned to be busy. 
 He leant over the door and watched her work- 
 ing ; he was handsome and honest and, wondrous 
 to relate, not keen on a fortune; so Honora was 
 content to wait. 
 
 A butter buyer from Cork had met Mary 
 Kate at a wedding, and come with his spokes- 
 man to see Mrs. Jack. Katty had looked love- 
 sick, through her superb lashes, at her admirer 
 in the kitchen, whilst the spokesman, having 
 responded to Mrs. Jack's invitation to " sit up " 
 in the parlour, negociated the match. Three 
 times, they came; the cattle and chattel dif- 
 ficulty had been got over ; but the old woman 
 struck at parting with any hard cash ; so Miss 
 Mary Kate's wooer went his way. 
 
 One February day, when the river was in
 
 142 SYMPHONIES 
 
 spate and the spring fish were boring up, in 
 spite of poacher and angler, the deserted one 
 sat cutting " skallauns " (potatoes for sowing) 
 for the planting. This is an art, and many a 
 woman has had a reputation through three 
 baronies for skill in selecting the best eyes, and 
 a hand with "a lucky cut." She worked half 
 heartedly, her uncombed hair tumbling over 
 her swarthy brows, her tattered bodice show- 
 ing her white skin in more places than one. 
 
 A shadow darkened the doorway, and the 
 fine figure of Miss Bridget Devine, a daughter 
 of a woman of the Kellehers from the next 
 ploughland, home on a visit from America, 
 stepped in. She wore a stylish hat, with feathers 
 and roses, and flat curls plastered to her fore- 
 head, a plain bodice, she called it her 
 " waist," with a lace collar and a large silver 
 necklet and locket. Mary Kate fetched her 
 a stool, and looked with envious admiration at 
 the ample flounces of the worked white petti- 
 coat, she displayed as she turned up her gown, 
 and the high-heeled button-boots with the won- 
 derful fancy stitchings. She played with her 
 bangles as she talked. 
 
 " Well, I hear the match is off." Noting the
 
 OONY 143 
 
 painful flush of the girl as she bent her head, 
 she said kindly, " Och, then, if it was me, I 'd 
 cry, ' Good-bye, an' a bottle o' moss, an' when 
 ye 're gone ye 're no great loss,' to the likes of 
 him. Mary Ryan pointed him out to me ; an 
 ugly ould divil he was too, with a face on him 
 like a dish o' mush. Ye 're well quit of him." 
 
 " Faix, I dunno, I 'm not hkely to get better, 
 as long as herself 's so damned crabbed about 
 the marriage money," with bitterness. " She 's 
 savin' for Jamsie and Noreen ; she 's dead set on 
 makin' a priest an' a nun av them. Yerra, my 
 God, Biddy, I wish I was shut av the whole av 
 them. I 'm sick av it entirely, nawthin' but 
 prayin' ; she won't let me go to a dance at a 
 neighbour's even." She leant against the wall with 
 a pout on her full lips ; the other girl looked her 
 up and down, dressing her in her mind's eye. 
 
 " Well, what 's to prevint ye? I guess ye can 
 better yerself in two shakes. I would n't stop 
 here, not iv ye gave me a bag o' dollars a week. 
 You bet I won't put me fiit in it agin, now I 've 
 settled the mother." With a laugh, " The green 
 shores of Erin are all right in poetry ; but give 
 me N' York city to get me livin' in. This is 
 a quare place, after being over there ; in every
 
 144 SYMPHONIES 
 
 house I go, there 's a girl sittin' waitin' an', when 
 ye do marry, a fat lot you gain ! I guess you 've 
 got to work worse nor a nigger; and a pack of 
 kids ; an' if ye have n't them, ye 're payin' rounds 
 at all the women's wells in the land to ask for 
 them ; that ain't the style in Ammurica — t' other 
 way about. Every miserable scrawneen av a 
 man, with half an acre o' rush, is lookin' for a 
 fortune, an' payin' a compliment to a girl iv he 
 coortsher ; inagh ! Come back with me. Every 
 wan Irishman in America knows Jim Corbet's, 
 where I work. He has an elegant drink store, 
 an' a big meetin' room. Herself 's a dawny, 
 poor thing. I sed to the boss before I left, ' I 
 want a help.* ' Get one,' sez he. I guess I can 
 do pretty much as I want. Ye can lave it iv it 
 don't suit you, when ye 're used to the ways of 
 the place. What? She won't like it, sure then 
 let her lump it. Tell her ye 're set on goin', that 
 it '11 be cheaper for her to give ye the passage and 
 the clothes than be handin' out cows and pigs." 
 And so a few weeks later on, one soft Irish 
 morning early, Mary Kate, holding her new hat 
 in her hand, with her shawl over her head for 
 the last time, stood on the platform surrounded 
 by her kith and kin.
 
 OONY 145 
 
 Mrs. Jack slipped another sovereign into her 
 hand, with her: "God bless ye, me girl, go to 
 yer duty regular, an' never forget to say yer 
 beads." The boys brushed the tears away with 
 their coat sleeves ; and they all gave her, and the 
 other shawled heads with the lovely brows that 
 strained out for a last look, a mighty cheer that 
 was half a sob as the train moved out. And so 
 Mary Kate added another to the long list of 
 pure-hearted Irish girls who sail to barter the 
 flower of innocence for the fruit of knowledge 
 in the great sifting sieve at the gates of the new 
 world. 
 
 One hot July day, Oony leant over the gate 
 of the old garden. She looked dainty and sweet 
 as a bean flower in her black-and-white striped, 
 print gown. She was watching a scene that 
 Hokusai might have chosen to limn. A cock 
 and hen bulfinch were feeding in a waste bed of 
 groundsel in full bloom ; a few tall stalks of oat 
 nodded their green fringes airily amidst the 
 fluffy harvest. They fed, suspended perpen- 
 dicularly to the stalks, his brilliant terra-cotta, 
 with the effective white splotch, and her duller 
 colouring, stood out with intense sharpness 
 against the yellow flower-dots. They scattered 
 
 10
 
 146 SYMPHONIES 
 
 the filaments in showers, like tufts of silver floss 
 woven in some elfin loom. 
 
 Suddenly she started, and flushed an exquis- 
 ite pink ; a youth was coming up the lane. He 
 greeted her with a nod, without removing his 
 hat, then leant against the stile in an easy atti- 
 tude, and began to examine his nails, opening a 
 penknife to scrape them. He shoved back his 
 hat, showing a thick crop of curls on top, like 
 the tuft on the forehead of a young steer. 
 
 He had a short, thickly set figure, black, 
 coarse hair, sallow skin, with swarthy brows 
 that met over a coarse, able nose, impudent 
 blue-grey eyes, — altogether a face full of ability 
 and self-confidence. 
 
 His collar kept his head stifl", and his cuff's, 
 with silver links, almost covered his knuckles ; 
 his fingers were broad and stumpy, and in re- 
 pose always turned in acquisitively, as if grasp- 
 ing something. He wore a bloodstone signet 
 ring on one little finger, and a gold snake on 
 the other. He had a trick of looking sideways 
 through half-closed lids, and his upper lip was 
 long and flexible, as one sees in Irishmen with 
 the gift of oratory. 
 
 Oony stood in the sunlight, her colour com-
 
 OONY 147 
 
 ing and going, her luminous eyes deepened 
 strangely with emotion. She plucked a baby 
 fern leaf from the hedge and put it, diffidently, 
 in his coat. 
 
 He looked at her as she did it, and the pupils 
 of his eyes dilated, making them black. She 
 had left her hand on his arm ; he frowned and 
 jerked it off. 
 
 " Don't, there 's a good girl ! Some one might 
 see ; where 's Miss O'Leary ? " 
 
 She shrank back ; the colour ebbed from her 
 cheeks. 
 
 "She is in the town," suddenly, with a flush; 
 "you never minded afore." 
 
 " Before, you mean. No ; but I have been 
 thinking it over, an' it 's best to quit with what 
 can't come to anything anyway." 
 
 She stood still, as if some sudden shame 
 scorched her ; her voice went weak. 
 
 " 'T would have been better you thought that, 
 Eugene O'Dogherty, afore Sunday night." 
 
 He raised his brows. 
 
 "Why, Sunday night?" 
 
 Sunday night! — he asked what it meant to 
 her; it had meant Heaven, the consecration of 
 herself to him. An English girl in her position
 
 148 SYMPHONIES 
 
 would have laughed at a kiss and a clasp mean- 
 ing so much. Oony was innocent, even for 
 an Irish girl ; kisses had not come her way. 
 Until he had noticed her on his visits to Miss 
 Anne to borrow books or return them, no 
 thought of a possible lover had come to her. 
 In her ignorance, she thought that a kiss given 
 to a man was as sacred as a betrothal ; she 
 felt shamed to the depths of her sensitiveness, 
 as if she had stained her virginity with a sin. 
 
 With him, it had scarcely been even a lad's 
 fancy. He had been reading fiction and poetry 
 for the first time. His quick imagination was 
 fired by her story. Perhaps he might not have 
 noticed her even, for, like all Irishmen of peas- 
 ant stock, he associated beauty with size. " A 
 fine heap of a woman with a grand, long nose " 
 is a ritual in their catechism of beauty. It was 
 Miss Anne's fault ; she said one day to a friend, 
 as Oony left the room : — 
 
 " Have you noticed my little maid ; she 's like 
 a bit of thistledown in her airy grace? " 
 
 He observed her more closely as they met 
 in the lane as he went out; she had smiled 
 shyly. She was the embodiment of much he 
 had read just then in books and poems. All the
 
 OONY 149 
 
 budding spring and early summer he had 
 entered into Oony's life ; he liked to call up her 
 colour ; it gave him a sense of power, and power 
 was what he longed for. Very crude, very 
 clever, very unscrupulous and sinuous in con- 
 science was Mr. Eugene O'Dogherty. He 
 dreamt of himself, at some future date, impress- 
 ing the base Saxon in the House of Commons, 
 swaying audiences in the States, cowing a 
 mob by his words ; yet when one of the gentry 
 flicked his hat with his riding switch, and bade 
 him, " Good-morning, Dogherty," graciously, he 
 felt awkward and inclined to touch his cap 
 as when a small boy, chafing fiercely at the 
 difference he felt to be inherent between them. 
 
 His father had risen from industrial-school 
 boy to general shop-keeper, agent, auctioneer, 
 and money-lender. He had bought the farms 
 of evicted tenants, refused to join the Land 
 League, been boycotted, even forced to make 
 and carry his own wife's coffin to the grave. 
 He had refused police protection, been fired at 
 time after time, but always escaped. If he was 
 no Land-leaguer, he was just as little a landlord's 
 man, and for that he was respected. He put 
 men back on their farms, but as his tenants, on
 
 150 SYMPHONIES 
 
 his terms. He started by being a " gombeen " 
 man ; he ended by holding mortgages on the 
 finest properties in the county. Road-con- 
 tractor, cess-collector, owner of the big cream- 
 ery, his hairy black fist had a grip of everything. 
 Yet he and his ate bacon and potatoes, five 
 days out of six, off a coarsely decked table in 
 a stuffy room behind the shop, with a barrel of 
 " sojers " scenting the passage. He crossed his 
 girls in their love-affairs ; they took their disap- 
 pointment and their dowry to convents. 
 
 Eugene had matriculated successfully, was 
 B. A. in the Catholic University. At home, he 
 relapsed into the vernacular; in company, he 
 seemed ill at ease, owing to his efforts to elim- 
 inate common expressions from his conversa- 
 tion, Oony's naive admiration had flattered the 
 weakest spot in his nature, — his vanity; but 
 last night his father had given vent to his views 
 with decisive clearness, " You can study law, 
 whether you go in for that, or journalism, or 
 politics; it always gives you a good card in 
 your hand. I '11 pay expenses ; but — I '11 have 
 no entanglements with the wrong woman." 
 
 Mr, Eugene O'Dogherty finished his nails, lit 
 a cigarette and smoked it, watching Oony under
 
 OONY 151 
 
 his lashes. He was not quite easy ; he had 
 whispered many warm things Sunday evening; 
 the hour, the freshness of her, the song of his 
 own blood singing fervently had led him astray. 
 He had listened to his own flow of passionate 
 words with the admiring wonder of an outsider, 
 noted a few of them that seemed specially apt for 
 future use, as a poet might register an emotion. 
 
 It was his first essay in the region of sentiment; 
 he rather fancied his rendering of his part. 
 
 Oony considered him ; she drew nearer, and 
 said brokenly : — 
 
 " Did n't ye mean what ye said, or why did 
 ye say it? " 
 
 He shifted his feet uneasily; the set of her 
 mouth troubled him. 
 
 " Oh, yes, at the time, one says many a thing 
 — Ye would n't understand if I were to explain 
 to you." 
 
 " No, I suppose the like of me would n't 
 understand the likes of you." 
 
 " No, then, it would be hard for ye, ye have 
 no education [he pronounced it edjucashun]. 
 I'm goin' back to Dublin at once. Me father 
 has grand notions for me. I '11 be a great man 
 yet, Oony, an' ye '11 be proud ye knew me."
 
 152 SYMPHONIES 
 
 He glowed at visions of the future, and 
 launched into pecans of self-glorification, talked 
 of what he had studied, what he had read, what 
 he would do ; he had been thirsting to talk for 
 months. 
 
 "Ye can imagine it, can't ye, girleen?" 
 he patted her patronisingly on the shoulder. 
 " Don't take it to heart more than ye can 
 help ; it 's only at the first it '11 be hard for 
 ye. I can't afiford, in my position," with a 
 grand air, " to consider me inclinations, if I 
 would." 
 
 " No. I see that." 
 
 "Ye 're a good little thing; well, I must be 
 goin', — me time is occupied with arrangements. 
 Is — there any little thing I could send ye from 
 Dublin, — a bottle o' scent or — " 
 
 She cowered as from a blow, and said, chok- 
 ingly:— 
 
 " No, ah, no, then, indeed, an' I don't want 
 anything." 
 
 " Well, good-bye, I won't wait for Miss 
 O'Leary. I '11 send the books." He turned 
 down the lane; she stood a minute, then a cry 
 burst through her lips: — 
 
 " Oh, Eugene ! "
 
 OONY 153 
 
 He turned, frowned as he saw the tears 
 dropping. 
 
 " Musha, my God, what 's the use of crying 
 atall. I hate to see it; I thought you were sen- 
 sible; well," swinging his cane, " what is it?" 
 
 " It 's cruel of ye to go like that, Eugene ; ye 
 might say a wurrud to me." 
 
 She covered her face with her hands ; he hes- 
 itated, tightened his mouth, and walked rapidly 
 down the road. 
 
 The summer waned, and Oony with it ; she 
 used to drag herself to the fort, and sit with 
 her hands clasped round her knees, "Paddy 
 the fairy " watching her with an ecstasy of 
 devotion. The changeling had grown with the 
 years; and though in an English village he 
 would have been an object of derision and per- 
 secution, in Ireland he was sheltered as one 
 of the " God-marked." He used to play, "The 
 Call of the Fairy Man," believing that she was 
 looking for him to take her away. The next 
 winter dragged through, and the warm, Irish 
 spring that followed made the girl more lan- 
 guid; her eyes hollowed, and her skin took a 
 greener tinge. Miss Anne got her tonics ; but 
 she was deep in her research for traces of
 
 154 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Indian magic in early Irish legends, and 
 noticed her little. Easter passed, and Miss 
 Anne went to London; the girl weakened 
 daily; and when St. John's eve came, she sat 
 up in the fort, and watched the baal fires bum, 
 herself a shadow. 
 
 There was great "colloguing" at this time 
 in house and field over the return of John 
 O'Connell, who had gone to America after the 
 trouble of '68, and come back on a visit to his 
 native town with, gossip said, a million, bring- 
 ing his daughters with him. 
 
 Last mass was crowded every Sunday, and 
 the tiny chapel of Ease, four miles away on the 
 Keny- side, was barren of women, for they all 
 flocked in to see the grandeur of them as they 
 sat and heard mass. O'Connell gave a new 
 altar to the chapel, and a bell and harmonium 
 to the convent; and some said O'Dogherty 
 wanted the eldest girl for Eugene. Anpvay, 
 he was always with them. Xot knowing of 
 Miss Anne's absence, they came up the lane 
 one day; and Oony watched them from the 
 meadow. They were tall, frail girls, with 
 delicate skins and high-pitched voices; and 
 Eugene held open the gate, and talked in his
 
 OONY 155 
 
 company voice; and he gave one of them his 
 arm as they went back down the hill. Oony 
 leant her head on the gate, and " The Call of 
 the Fairy Man" came whispering through the 
 meadows, drawing the strength out through 
 her limbs. She felt drowsy, though the black- 
 bird called insistently, "Won't ye wait a bit," 
 and the yellow-hammer wheezed his simple 
 monotone as he flitted in the hedge at her 
 side. 
 
 Then one day Moll na Hatta (:\Iary of the 
 hat, for she always wore a man's beaver) visited 
 the cottage for her pinch of tea. It was 
 she who first told Oony of the great match 
 that had been made between Mr. Eugene 
 and Miss Anastasia O'Connell. They were 
 to be married "at onst," for he was going 
 back to America with them. She rose to go, 
 saying: — 
 
 " Glory be, but ye 're lookin' bad, alanna ; it 's 
 the white wakeness is on ye. There 's a man 
 in Kenmare, the seventh son av a red-haired 
 woman, an' he has a great cure for it intirely; 
 but failin' that, get a handful av the herb bug- 
 loss, and stale a piece o' butter, an' chop it up 
 in it, an' take it fastin' for nine mornin's with
 
 156 SYMPHONIES 
 
 seven paters an' seven aves an' seven glory 
 he's, an' ye '11 get better; iv id 's the will o' 
 God, praised be His holy name." 
 
 Oony stole to the chapel the day of the 
 wedding. 
 
 There was high mass, and the bishop and six 
 priests assisted; and Sister Mary a la Coque 
 played a Mozart's mass, her poor rheumatic 
 fingers introducing occasional variations in the 
 score, whilst the convent girls and the shoe- 
 maker and a constabulary sergeant added a 
 piquant, full-flavoured brogue to the Latin 
 words. The little face under the shawl was as 
 white as the bride's satin gown. The ceremony 
 over, the boys, out of respect for the daughter 
 of an old '68 man who had suffered exile at the 
 hands of the oppressor, took the horses out of 
 the carriage, and drew the bridal pair home, 
 the town band playing "The Wedding March" 
 with temerity, and "Let Erin remember the 
 Days of Old " with martial assurance. 
 
 Oony waited in the big ugly church, with 
 the white plaster angels and gaudy stations 
 of the cross, until the crowds had dispersed; 
 then she flitted across the fields, past " the well 
 of the saint," up the steep road to the cottage.
 
 OONY 157 
 
 Her breath laboured as she climbed it, and her 
 ankles gave way strangely. 
 
 She lay on her bed, and slept from sheer 
 weariness ; the dusk gathered when " Paddy the 
 fairy" rapped on the door. His light, almost 
 white, blue eyes, with the fitful gleams in them, 
 watched her anxiously. 
 
 She made some tea, and set food before him; 
 a strange nausea overpowered her at the sight 
 of it. Miss Anne would return to-morrow; 
 she felt glad at the thought, though the odd 
 buzzing in her ears, that she had felt of late, 
 made her forget things. 
 
 The shadows creeping closer in the cottage 
 frightened them; she felt cold, as if an ice 
 lump were melting slowly in her breast, and 
 soft, chill fingers creeping along her spine. 
 Outside the moon was flooding the world in 
 silver mist. 
 
 She locked the door, and hid the key, for 
 the other girl, under a stone, and followed the 
 troll-like figure of the manikin up the path to 
 the fort. The gloom gathered more closely; 
 all kinds of indefinite noises, broken by a sharp 
 squeal, sounded in the hedgerows; something 
 flopped in the spawn-covered ditch. Up there,
 
 158 SYMPHONIES 
 
 though, it was still and green and quiet, like 
 a stagnant pool fringed with trees. 
 
 She gathered her shawl tightly round her, 
 and sat down in the lair of bracken and leaves 
 that Paddy had made for himself. A spear of 
 moonlight pierced the trees, and lay across the 
 grass. Then Paddy, with his eyes watching 
 her face, began to play melodies of the things 
 unspoken that lurk in all men born of woman : 
 the fear of the unknown ever dogging our 
 steps; the irrational gladness that quickens 
 our hearts before despair; the terror of the 
 unseen we feel about us; the red glare of mad- 
 ness that darts, at times, meteor-like, through 
 the brain of the sanest man. Hour after hour 
 he played, and as the notes stole out, a drunken 
 song on the road below stopped suddenly, as 
 the revellers crossed themselves, and hastened 
 home. Then he paused, for the silver spear 
 had broadened to a silver shield, and outside 
 the shadows loomed threateningly. Oony lay 
 back with closed lids. The changeling's eyes 
 burned redly, like opals; he broke into "The 
 Call of the Fairy Man." That roused her once 
 more ; she opened her eyes, and stretched forth 
 her hands and smiled, with the smile in her
 
 OONY 159 
 
 eyes that no mortal lover had ever wooed to 
 her lips, and fell back gently into the tender 
 moss. Paddy crept closer, and slept with his 
 misshapen head at her feet. When the dawn 
 broke he woke, and touched her hand fear- 
 somely, then her face ; and a strange awe crept 
 over his, making it intelligent for a spell. He 
 felt that the fairy man had come, at last, and 
 stolen her soul, taking her through the earthen 
 door to the green land of rest. 
 
 The great tears coursed down his flabby 
 cheeks as he covered her softly. Then he 
 touched his flute; and when Miss Anne came 
 up the road to the cottage, and heard : " The 
 Lament of the Falling Leaves," "The Dirge of 
 the Riven Oak," "The Wasted Tears of the 
 Dew," and many others of Paddy's most wonder- 
 ful strains, shaking the morning quiet with the 
 sobbing gladness of their tone-rifts, a great 
 fear clutched her; and when they carried the 
 little white maid home, being a woman of finite 
 mind, she sobbed bitterly: cui bo7iof
 
 AT THE HEART OF THE APPLE 
 
 It matters little in what precise latitude, but 
 somewhere on the south coast of Norway, there 
 lies an island in a short, wide fjord, one of the 
 many that cut into the coast like the irregular 
 teeth in a broken comb. 
 
 Solitude is its dominant expression, an at- 
 mosphere of restfulness that is rarely marred 
 save by the encroachment of a stray pleasure 
 cutter " out of its bearings," that may sail up for 
 a little way, only to bear back and bend round 
 the tongue of land with which the island is 
 connected, — in winter by ice, in summer by a 
 roughly constructed bridge, — to pursue her 
 course up the west fjord. This is long and wide, 
 dotted with numerous rocky islets; landing- 
 stages for the landing of produce, tiny verdant 
 " sletteiiy' — our " slades," in old English, — fat 
 with herbage, and stray homesteads, can be seen 
 on either side as one glides up toward the prosper- 
 ous town with saw and pulp mills at the head of it.
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE i6i 
 
 The peninsula-like strip of land to which the 
 island is joined belongs to the owner of the latter, 
 an Englishman, who uses the roughly made 
 road upon it as a means of transit to the market 
 town. Notices prohibit trespassers, and so it 
 and the island are unvisited. The latter is of 
 about ten acres, six of which afiford good pas- 
 ture for the cow and sturdy little Hallingah mare ; 
 the rest is well wooded. At the time of my 
 story, it boasted of a tiny landing-stage, and 
 hidden in the trees, a long, low farm-house with 
 roof of blue glazed tiles ; a turret room with a 
 large window looking seawards had been added 
 to the older building. A stable, sheds, and tiny 
 farmyard lay at the back of it, and a neglected 
 herb garden ran along one side. Gooseberry 
 and currant bushes sadly in need of pruning, and 
 some hardy apple-trees struggled to bear in it, 
 all the trees on the island inclined one way before 
 the blasts of the wind. Birds had come from the 
 mainland, and built for many springs in perfect 
 freedom ; colonies of half-wild ducks had hatched 
 out their young unmolested, and taken them for 
 trial trips up the fjord. 
 
 One January day a little maid with a grave 
 face came down to the edge of the ice-bound 
 
 II
 
 i62 SYMPHONIES 
 
 island in the company of a solemn black-and- 
 tan hare hound. She was a quaint Httle per- 
 son ; a costly seal-skin coat reached the end of 
 her frock, and when it gaped as she moved, it 
 showed a pinafore of coarse blue-and-white 
 check; a coarsely knitted scarlet cap was 
 pulled down over her ears, and a mane of 
 tangled, red-brown, elf locks fell beneath it to 
 her shoulders ; gaiters made by finishing off 
 a pair of grey worsted stockings at the ankles 
 came to the top of her clumsy boots. All her 
 movements were deliberate ; she fastened her 
 skates carefully, stepped on to the ice and 
 tested them ; but once satisfied she darted 
 forward as if transformed. She curved like a 
 swallow, a sort of sprite in woollen, across the 
 frozen fjord. The grave little maid became a 
 demon of motion, curving, swaying, swinging 
 round, first on one foot, then on the other in 
 giddy circles ; cutting backwards, making fig- 
 ures, giving herself to the enjoyment of her 
 skill. 
 
 Her cheeks tingled, her eyes sparkled as she 
 skimmed in flying curves ever farther from the 
 island towards the turn to the other fjord, where 
 the ice became rough and ran up in curling
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 163 
 
 ridges from the wave-wash in wreaths of frozen 
 froth. She had never been so far from the 
 island before, and the alert, seeking spirit of 
 the child had longed, yet feared, to explore her 
 surroundings. The fjord she came to stretched 
 as far as her eye could see, a glistening road- 
 way breasted with steel blue ice, its sides flanked 
 with pines and firs, their branches bending under 
 a fringe of sparkling icicles, every rocky fissure 
 pendent with stalactites. 
 
 She seated herself upon a boulder, the dog at 
 her feet, and sat, a quaint little figure, her chin in 
 the palms of her hands, gazing with wondering 
 eyes up the frozen waterway. What lay up 
 there at the end of it? She has seen so little, 
 and yet in the picture books in the master's 
 room there were figures of ladies, and men, and 
 gardens full of flowers and big buildings. Peter 
 has often told her of the great towns where the 
 people crowd as thickly as the sea mews, or 
 the birds speeding southward when autumn 
 comes. Her lips curved tenderly as she 
 thought of Peter, — Peter with his odd, twink- 
 ling eyes and shaggy beard ! The days would 
 be long without Peter. Sigrid is deaf, and never 
 speaks, and never smiles, just works always;
 
 i64 SYMPHONIES 
 
 sometimes she makes her sit and learn to card 
 wool with a tiny carding-board, and knit and 
 spin ; and at times when she has looked up she 
 has found her eyes resting upon her with a 
 puzzled look, not like Peter's one bit — what 
 wonderful things he has told her ! When the 
 wild geese fly overhead and give tongue like a 
 pack of aerial hounds, he whispers tales of the 
 Valkyrie; and in summer when the rainbow 
 arches across the sky from the end of the land 
 to the selvage of the sea, Peter knew that it 
 was burning all afire to keep the frost giants 
 out of Jotunheim. And he had signs for every- 
 thing. He knew too the crevices where the 
 wagtail laid their eggs; the haunt of the fly 
 orchids, the " spraint" of lynx and badger in the 
 snow ; the folk lore of all the plants and insects ; 
 a medley of the curious and superstitious, inex- 
 tricably mixed with facts. 
 
 The child's unusually keen, unspoiled intelli- 
 gence travelled back, as her quick thoughts 
 danced inconsequently through her memory. 
 She wondered what " the England " was like, 
 and the people in it with whom she lived before 
 she was brought to the island, a little child of 
 three summers. Peter could n't tell her, for he
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 165 
 
 and Anna had only been there one year when 
 the master came with her. Sigrid was deaf, 
 and cross, and talked English to the master 
 when he wrote on the slate. Sigrid made her 
 say the names of all the things in the house 
 and yard in English, so that she might not 
 forget them. She felt a burning desire to know 
 all about it. Anna had been kind to her; she 
 had been happy up in Anna's warm room over 
 the stable. Anna used to kiss her, and make 
 her little cakes with currants in them, and 
 sometimes bake an apple as well. But two 
 winters ago Anna went to bed ; she can remem- 
 ber so well how Peter was away for half a day, 
 and came back with a fat, little man with funny 
 glasses on his nose, like tiny round windows, 
 and a fur-lined coat; how he went up to Anna 
 and came down shaking his head as he got 
 into the sleigh, and went across the bridge 
 again. 
 
 Next day she couldn't go up; Sigrid stopped 
 her, and she sat and watched Peter planing 
 white-pine planks, whilst the tears ran down his 
 cheeks and made drops on his beard as he 
 drilled holes for the screws in the funny-shaped 
 box he had made; and how roughly he had
 
 i66 SYMPHONIES 
 
 sworn at her because she began to dance 
 amongst the curly shavings with Grip, the hare 
 hound. Then two strange men in blue jerseys, 
 and leather jackets, and rabbit-fur caps came 
 and helped to put the box on a sledge, and 
 Sigrid covered it with fur branches, and Peter 
 sat up and drove away through the snow, with 
 only one bell at the horse's collar. But Anna 
 never was seen again ; perhaps Draugen, the 
 water fury, with a face like a seal and the mew 
 of an angry cat, took her away to the floating 
 islands, that disappear when ships come nigh. 
 The faces of those three men are the only 
 strange ones she has ever seen, except that of 
 Knut the Finn, who comes with a boat at times 
 to sell crockery and tins. The dog moved 
 uneasily, and the child lifted her head quickly, 
 for she was keen in hearing as Heimdal, who 
 could hear the grass grow in the meadows, and 
 the wool on the backs of the sheep. A voice 
 pierced the still, clear air sweetly, — a boy's 
 soprano, shouting the words of a student's 
 song, a song of comradeship and brave deeds. 
 She listened and watched as if spellbound ; 
 there was nothing of fear, but much of wonder 
 in the expectant look. The notes rang gladder,
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 167 
 
 louder, and a lad of fourteen sped forward with 
 rapid curves, watching his feet as he sang. 
 The dog growled, the child held him by the 
 scruff of the neck; the song stopped with a 
 check as the boy saw them. An amazed look 
 flitted across his face, — an ugly, clever face, 
 with merry, inquisitive eyes, and a mass of thick 
 fair curls clustering closely to his head ; when 
 he smiled a dimple showed in his chin, and his 
 teeth gleamed whitely. 
 
 " Hullo ! " he cried ; " what have we here? " 
 
 His quick eyes took in the incongruous parts 
 of her dress; the great solemn grey eyes, with 
 their thick fringe of lashes ; the odd, irregular 
 features and look of intense expression that sat 
 so oddly on the little face. He raised his cap 
 humourously. 
 
 "Good day, Frost Fairy; all hail! " 
 
 The child made no answer, only clutched the 
 dog more firmly; the boy glided closer. 
 
 " Have you no tongue in your country, 
 then?" 
 
 She thrust it out between her strong little 
 teeth, then drew it shyly back. The boy broke 
 into an infectiously happy laugh. 
 
 " Well, you are not deaf, anyway. But seri-
 
 i68 SYMPHONIES 
 
 ously, what is your name, if a common mortal 
 may ask? " 
 
 " My name," very slowly, with a precise enun- 
 ciation, " is Evir." 
 
 " Humph, and what else? " 
 
 " Only Evir now ; Anna used to call me Little 
 Elf." 
 
 " Discriminating person, Anna ; but you must 
 have another ; what is your father's name ? " 
 
 She knitted her straight black brows in per- 
 plexity; the lad added, " Or your mother's?" 
 
 " I have n't any, I don't know what you mean. 
 I know a mother duck — " 
 
 The boy looked intently at her, then sat down 
 on the boulder with an evident determination of 
 discovering if she were quite normal. 
 
 " Do you know what / am? " 
 
 "Yes," slowly; "you are a young man. I 
 never saw one before, except in pictures, I 've 
 only seen," counting on her fingers, "four be- 
 sides Peter ; and they all had beards, and one had 
 glass windows on his eyes." 
 
 " How old are you?" 
 
 " Peter says I am nine." 
 
 " Where do you live ? " 
 
 She pointed behind her to the mouth of the 
 fjord.
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 169 
 
 " Round there ; but," with uneasiness, " I must 
 go back; Peter will be vexed. I only skated 
 round here because I wanted to see where he 
 goes to fetch things in the boat in the summer." 
 
 " And who is Peter when he is at home? " 
 
 She answered with the same slow considera- 
 tion, and the lad's merry eyes grew grave as he 
 listened. His thoughts flew to the jolly parson- 
 age home, with the nine noisy girls and boys, 
 who made the rafters ring with quarrels and 
 laughter. He found by adroit questioning that 
 Peter went to town every week for provisions ; 
 that Sigrid got some of her clothes, some were 
 sent by the " master's " orders. He grew more 
 and more amazed as he discovered that she was 
 ignorant of the simplest relationships in life, 
 or of religion except of the curious, half-super- 
 stitious, half-pagan form of it that Peter had 
 evolved in his solitude or picked up in his 
 wanderings, or half Biblical, such as she had 
 gleaned from listening as Sigrid read aloud to 
 herself on Sundays ; and Sunday meant to her 
 the day on which less work was done than other 
 days, no more. 
 
 She told of the master, who came now and 
 then, and of how Peter kept her out in the shed,
 
 I70 SYMPHONIES 
 
 or up in the loft, so that she rarely saw him ; of 
 the wonderful pictures and pretty things in his 
 room that Sigrid let her look at in his absence; 
 of the cow " Primrose " that had a little calf last 
 spring, and many other incidents of her daily 
 life. 
 
 He put his arm round her from a sudden 
 impulse of tenderness and pity for this most 
 solitary of Httle mortals, with no playmates, 
 no soul to speak to except Peter, whom he men- 
 tally decided was crazed, and the deaf woman 
 who spoke without expecting any answer. A 
 sudden thought struck him ; he took a book out 
 of his pocket saying to himself: — 
 
 " It 's an awful shame." Then to her, " Do 
 you know what this is?" 
 
 " Yes, a book; I like picture ones best. The 
 master has a lot, full of birds and plants. I 
 know some of them. Peter says the little black 
 marks are letters that tell about the pictures ; I 
 don't see how they can, I 've thought and 
 thought about it ; I wish I could make them 
 out." 
 
 " Poor little mite ! I '11 tell you what; in May 
 when the summer is coming, I shall be home 
 for the long vacation, and I '11 teach you to
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 171 
 
 read. You quaint little thing, you would n't be 
 so lonely then, would you?" 
 
 The wistful, odd face, with the eager eyes, her 
 slow tones, and repressed old ways, roused an 
 interest in the boy. There seemed to him to be 
 a certain romance about this solitary little mor- 
 tal in medley of homespun and fine feathers. 
 He said pityingly: — 
 
 "The dusk will soon fall; I must be getting 
 back. You too, you sprite ; I '11 watch you 
 skate to the point. Adjo, then, mysterious 
 Princess, till the summer ! " 
 
 He kissed her awkwardly, and patted her 
 back patronisingly, as he did to little Aagot, 
 the youngest at home. She looked back at the 
 turn, where the ice curled up in ridges like 
 dirty white feathers, balanced herself for a 
 second, waved her hand, and vanished. Then 
 the gliding song of the skates and the glad 
 voice of the boy once more made music up the 
 Rowan fjord. 
 
 A day came when the frost king grew aweary 
 of holding the earth and water in his icy hands, 
 so he relaxed his stark grip unexpectedly, caus- 
 ing the ice to cry out with a sharp, crackling
 
 172 SYMPHONIES 
 
 rend, that told of its rapid dissolution. Then 
 the spring whispered mystically, and thus it 
 came to pass that little Evir witnessed a won- 
 derful transformation scene; for though one day 
 the snow still covered the earth in tarnished 
 whiteness, the next it had vanished, leaving 
 only shreds and rags of its mantle in the hol- 
 lows and under the bushes. There was a 
 gurgle of trickling water, the gushing music 
 of the melting snows, the rhythmic trickle of 
 a thousand rivulets, as they slid to the fjord, 
 like the cooing of infants in content; the wild 
 hyacinths peered out in the woods, the breeze 
 blossoms danced airily, and all the tender 
 leaflets shot forth and lisped of spring. 
 
 The little maid clapped her hands and 
 danced, no sun on Easter day more merrily, 
 until Peter thought she must surely be "elf- 
 shot," and watched her anxiously. She hailed 
 each token of its coming with delight, from 
 the discovery of a brood of ducklings bobbing 
 round their mother, like floating balls of yellow 
 down, in a tiny round of clear water, to the 
 distant bleat of kids, and the bell music of the 
 cattle on the main-land. 
 
 May gave way graciously to June, the wild
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 173 
 
 strawberry blossoms peered out, and the rock 
 heartsease, "step-mother-flowrets," as Peter 
 called them, nodded their wise little faces from 
 their stony harbourage. She sat, hour after 
 hour, with Grip at her side, watching the point 
 of the land with anxious eyes. Then a great 
 doubt troubled her; perhaps, after all, he would 
 not come that way; she had not told him where 
 she would meet him, and the rock upon which 
 they had sat would surely be covered with 
 water. 
 
 During the dark days since they had met, 
 she had often peered at the little black signs 
 crawling, like files of ants, from the middle of 
 the book towards the edges, until her eyes had 
 ached. She dare not venture to row round there, 
 because Peter was always about, as the master 
 was expected; she must wait until he had 
 come, and tied flies, and got ready his tackle, 
 and seen to things for the summer, and gone 
 again. 
 
 He came; the weeks dragged very slowly. 
 Then, at length, one day he was to leave. 
 She hid in the wood, and watched Peter and 
 the man with the squint eye and the leather 
 jacket prepare the big boat and row him round
 
 174 SYMPHONIES 
 
 the point. She laughed gaily, and danced to 
 the shadow of the pine needles, bobbing in 
 answer to the touch of the sea breeze. Then 
 she went up to the house and into the big 
 kitchen, with the black oaken beams and quaint 
 chairs, — seat and back hewn out of one solid 
 block, with letters and date glistening in tar- 
 nished gold amongst the gaudily painted scroll- 
 work. The deaf woman turned as she came in, 
 and pointed to her dinner of rice porridge and 
 milk. 
 
 "Peter won't be back till to-morrow." The 
 child nodded. "Don't stay out after six. Miss 
 Evir; you are growing big now, and must not 
 run so wild; you must do some sewing." 
 
 Sinking her voice, she muttered : " I can't 
 think what the master means to do with her; 
 Peter 's no fit companion for her." 
 
 The girleen finished her meal, whistled to 
 the little hound, crossed the roughly built pile- 
 bridge, and mounted the uneven stony road. 
 Once before only had Peter let her go a piece 
 of the way with him ; there seemed to be a 
 tacit understanding that she was to stay upon 
 the island. 
 
 It was a wondrous adventure; she observed
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 175 
 
 every plant and tree with interest; a silver 
 birch and a tiny yellowish-grey bird, such as 
 she had not seen on the island, were objects 
 of delightful freshness; over there she knew 
 each plant and stone by heart. She turned 
 aside at a bend in the road, and sprang, like a 
 chamois', from rock to boulder, to try and get 
 a glimpse of the Rowan fjord. The ascent was 
 difficult, for the sodden leaves from last year's 
 fall, and the wet club-moss, made her feet slip, 
 until she reached a strip of fir wood, with a 
 thread of blue shining beyond it. She darted 
 on, then dropped behind a barberry bush, seizing 
 Grip by the collar, and peered cautiously down. 
 She gave a cry of delight. An ice schooner 
 was drawn taut to the main-land, on the other 
 side of the fjord, for the rocks sank perpen- 
 dicularly into the water. Block after block of 
 ice, cut into crystal squares, came slithering 
 down the ice race on to the deck of the 
 trim craft. Peter had told her how the women 
 and children row about the tarns in autumn, 
 and pick up every twig and leaf, so that the ice 
 may not be flawed, and so lessened in value ; 
 then, when it is strong enough to bear, how a 
 man cuts it into equidistant lines with an ice
 
 176 SYMPHONIES 
 
 plough, and another man divides it crosswise 
 with a pick into squares, so that it can be 
 raised in blocks and stored in the ice-house until 
 the summer, when the ships come and fetch it 
 away to other countries. The tapering masts, 
 delicate tracery of the rigging, and painted 
 wooden figurehead of a lady enchanted her. 
 How regularly the blocks fell, as if set in 
 motion by machinery; first one sees them 
 appear high up on the ridge, flashing like a 
 bit of spar amongst the rocks, growing bigger 
 and bigger as they descend. A man on the 
 deck was singing in English; she could under- 
 stand a few of the words. Further on she could 
 see Peter and the other man pulling steadily 
 up the fjord; they would soon be hidden be- 
 hind an island. She clambered lower down 
 between the rocks and ferns and grey-blue 
 lichens. She knew from a tree on the oppo- 
 site side, a fir-tree that had been dislodged, 
 and fallen between a fissure in the rock, and 
 grew head downwards over the water, that she 
 must be near the place where she had met him 
 in the ice days. She peered down. The boy 
 was sitting in a boat, with a book upon his 
 knee.
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 177 
 
 The little face lit up with the grave smile 
 so much her own; she took a wooden flute, 
 with plated stops, out of her pocket. Peter 
 had shown her how to play; she could imitate 
 most of the birds, and she had picked out many 
 a wild melody that came to her out of the 
 world of nature and fancy in which she moved. 
 The colour flooded her little face as she put it 
 to her mouth; then the boy's own song of 
 brave deeds and true comradeship, filtered 
 liquidly through the sounds of the young 
 summer. 
 
 The lad started, listened, lifted his head, 
 loosened the boat, backwatered deftly, and 
 espied her. She stood with her heavy locks 
 fluttering in the breeze, a slight little figure in 
 a blue homespun gown, girt with an untanned 
 leather belt, fastened by a silver clasp, such 
 as the peasants wear; a scarlet crape ker- 
 chief, with silk fringe, was knotted about her 
 shoulders, and she looked down at him with 
 laughter-lit, mischievous eyes as she played. 
 He ran the boat in, fastened it, and began to 
 climb up to her, waving his cap gleefully. 
 Some sudden shyness seized her; she darted 
 behind a pine tree, and peered round the 
 
 12
 
 178 SYMPHONIES 
 
 trunk; he sprang after her, seized her by the 
 arm, and pulled her forth, looking at her 
 quizzically. Her deep-set grey eyes smiled 
 up to him with a frank charm. 
 
 "I've been watching for you for several 
 days. I thought you had been spirited away 
 by some of your fairy friends; to-morrow I 
 should have gone round to the island." 
 
 " Oh, you must never do that, it would spoil 
 everything; I couldn't come. He has been 
 here, and only went a while ago ! " 
 
 "You mean ' the master,' as you call him; 
 was he in a boat with two men and some 
 baggage .>" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "You have grown, elf; you are taller. I 
 often thought of you ; the winter seemed long 
 this year, and so much can happen in a few 
 months. Did you wonder if I'd come.'*" 
 
 She smiled an assent. 
 
 " Don't you want to know my name } — Einar 
 Stang. You can call me Einar." 
 
 He slung a satchel off his back and opened it. 
 
 "I have brought a primer and some other 
 books. You can hide them some place. If I 
 once set you going you '11 be able to get along 
 alone."
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 179 
 
 He opened the book, laid it upon a flat stone, 
 and they set to work at the alphabet. And so 
 every day for a month. With few intermis- 
 sions the boat was tied to the tree stump, and 
 the two heads bent over a book- The keen, 
 unspoiled intelligence of the child proved 
 intensely receptive. Her quick eye and ear, 
 trained, perforce, for lack of other pastime, to 
 notice each detail of the life of plant, and bird, 
 and fish, in her surroundings, had developed a 
 wonderful, visual memory. Once she had seen 
 a word and named it, she never forgot it again. 
 The primer was discarded for an easy reading 
 book, and the child's delighted wonder at the 
 rhyme and beat of some simple verses in it led 
 the lad to teach her a folk-song now and then. 
 
 July had yet a few days to riot, when he 
 failed to come. She waited for three days, 
 standing up on the highest rock, shading her 
 eyes from the fierce sun with patient hand, 
 watching the fjord unceasingly. The fourth 
 day found her listening with misery-filled eyes 
 for the plash of oars, a tense strain disfiguring 
 her little face. Noon came and went; she lay 
 with her face hidden upon her folded arms, 
 worn out with watching. The rattle of falling
 
 i8o SYMPHONIES 
 
 pebbles roused her, she sat up and gripped the 
 carved, wooden haft of the sheath knife she 
 carried peasant fashion at her hips; thus he 
 found her. She sprang to her feet with a sob 
 of relief, and flew to him, straining her arms 
 about his neck. 
 
 " I thought you had gone, Einar, never to 
 come again ; oh, I could have killed myself, I 
 just could ! " 
 
 The boy stroked back her hair with soothing 
 words, and sat down pulling her to his side; he 
 opened his satchel. 
 
 "See, I have brought you a parcel of books 
 this time, and a piece of the mother's cake, 
 and some fruit syrup. You 've been crying, 
 you dear little one! I couldn't come before 
 because — Well, let us eat our lunch first. 
 I have something to tell you." 
 
 He sat with his arm round her, and watched 
 her divide the cake, taking the smaller half 
 herself. She barely tasted her portion ; her eyes 
 wandered to his face, as if trying to read what 
 he had to tell her; the quick intuition that 
 was the essence of her nature filled her with 
 forebodings. 
 
 "Listen, childie; I 'm afraid I shall not be 
 
 ,:
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE i8i 
 
 able to come again. My father has got a 
 larger parish, a long way north, and we arc 
 to move at once. Then I am going to the 
 University, and perhaps it may be years before 
 I shall be able to come here again. Don't 
 hide your face, childie; you must be a brave 
 little maid, and try not to forget anything I 
 have taught you, and learn as much as you 
 can. I have brought you a few books, and a 
 dictionary. I '11 show you how to find the 
 meaning of words in it, and, " with a shy lower- 
 ing of voice, " a New Testament. I have written 
 something in it, but you must find that out for 
 yourself later on. See, here is a copy book. 
 I have put all the written letters under the 
 printed ones that you know now, and set head- 
 lines in these others; you can learn to write 
 this way, and when you know all the letters 
 spell out what it is, eh.-' Try and learn as 
 much as you can, and when you are grown up 
 ask that man what he means to do with you. 
 Don't cry, Evir; don't, little sis. I do want 
 you so to be jolly on our last day. Cheer up, 
 and play me one of your queer tunes ! " 
 
 The child cried, sharply: — 
 
 "I couldn't, Einar, oh, I couldn't!" and
 
 i82 SYMPHONIES 
 
 buried her head on his shoulder, and sat crying 
 quietly for a long time, only stirring once to 
 stoop and kiss his hand fiercely. 
 
 " Poor little girl, I 'm so sorry. I 'm afraid I 
 must go now, childie." 
 
 He raised her face and started at the impress 
 of pain sealed upon it, and realised that the 
 grief of this little being with her concentrated, 
 suppressed emotions was different from the 
 quick passionate crying of his little sisters; the 
 tears running down her cheeks splashing into 
 big drops as they fell, the hard, voiceless con- 
 vulsion of her breast was like the crying of a 
 deaf mute. He tried to console her, in an awk- 
 ward, boyish way, coaxed a smile from her in 
 good-bye and left her. He looked back from 
 the bend in the road ; the pathetic little figure, 
 with the wistful eyes, following him hungrily, 
 hurt him ; he bounded back and kissed her 
 again. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Five years slipped by with no change other 
 than the intermarriage of the seasons. The girl 
 at fifteen promised to grow into a glorious wo- 
 man, tall and strong, yet fine-boned and lithe ; 
 she had developed early, and showed every sign
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 183 
 
 of precocious womanhood. Amongst the an- 
 aemic, retarded girls of a city, she might have 
 passed easily for a woman grown. 
 
 There was something fawn-like in her ques- 
 tioning bright eyes, something untamed in the 
 poise of her dart-like figure and easy move- 
 ments; she suggested a wild doe. She had 
 pored over the books in the " master's " 
 room, conned dictionary after dictionary ; a 
 Norsk English lexicon had proved a treasure 
 trove. 
 
 There was not one novel, not one romance 
 amongst them; of books on birds and baasts 
 and fishes and plants with their lore, there were 
 many. Costly plates enabled her to find those 
 in her immediate neighbourhood. She spent 
 hours watching them court and brood and 
 build ; she knew their sex, noted the beauty of 
 colour or form in the male, the duller garb of 
 the female; the miracle of sex, underlying 
 every natural law, its individual working in the 
 propagation of the young, was no mystery to 
 her, and consequently no subject for prurient 
 musing; but of love or marriage, moral or 
 social laws, or the ordinary relationships of so- 
 called civilised life, she was more ignorant than
 
 i84 SYMPHONIES 
 
 any savage; she had not even a rudimentary 
 sense of family, possessed no totem. 
 
 She was a thing of absolute health, every 
 muscle, every fibre sound, every nerve strung 
 to the right key, — a creature of instinct, pure 
 and simple, quick with natural impulses, always 
 acting from them, uninfluenced by any system 
 founded on social expediency; a young female 
 animal with her basic instincts intact. 
 
 A classical dictionary gave her imagination a 
 jerk, and the pine trees held a new meaning, 
 since Attis lurked in them, with ever-growing 
 hair and ever-moving little finger, — but only 
 for a brief spell ; she leaned to the concrete, as 
 all unspoiled, simple women do ; poetry and 
 abstract imaginings being more to the man. 
 The courtships of the birds, the domestic econ- 
 omy of the little red ants, interested her far 
 more than the loves of Zeus. 
 
 A year before, Sigrid's health had failed, 
 and so it came to pass that the girl took her 
 share in the household management. She went 
 to the lambing, assisted at the coming of the 
 little white calf, saw naught of evil in God's 
 world, and knew no single cause for shame. 
 The elder woman had softened much with her
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 185 
 
 waning strength ; she sat with her Bible on her 
 knee, her faded eyes following the girl's move- 
 ments, with the wistful admiration that age 
 gives so grudgingly to youth. 
 
 At times the girl's germinant womanhood dis- 
 turbed her in a subtle way, although she was 
 ignorant of definite desires, nor thought of her 
 future with man as a possible factor in it. 
 
 Chance — or is it ever chance? — gave a new 
 trend to her thoughts. One afternoon in the late 
 spring, she stood patting some cakes into shape 
 while Sigrid baked them on an iron griddle, 
 when Knut the Finn entered the big kitchen. 
 He bore his usual fardel of tin ware, cottons, 
 pins, buttons, and hair combs. Sigrid hailed 
 him with a welcome; Knut had an extraordinary 
 faculty for making the deaf woman hear. He 
 nodded respectfully to the girl. 
 
 " Good day, good day there ! " shrieked Sigrid, 
 " indeed, but it 's good to see you. I want a 
 milk pan badly, and Peter never gets the right 
 needles. Sit down there, Knut. You '11 have 
 some ale, some bread and cheese, or some 
 coffee; it's just cooked." 
 
 " Thank you, Sigrid, indeed I thank you, but 
 my woman 's with me, and she 's none too strong
 
 i86 SYMPHONIES 
 
 yet. I '11 make bold to ask if I may take her 
 some hot coffee. I '11 take ale myself, thank 
 you." 
 
 The girl could not recall having ever seen a 
 woman's face, except those of Anna and Sigrid. 
 She felt an overpowering desire to see the ped- 
 lar's woman; she said eagerly: — 
 
 '• Certainly, Knut ; but stay where you are, 
 I '11 fetch her." 
 
 She flushed with eagerness and darted down 
 to the boat, a broad, flat bottomed craft with 
 one mast and a dirty white sail. As she drew 
 near, the woman who had stepped out and 
 seated herself upon the landing-stage, turned 
 and looked at her. Then she rose and muttered 
 an awkward good day. 
 
 She was stout limbed, with small deep set eyes 
 above high cheek bones, fair, freckled skin, with 
 pink cheeks and red fuzzy hair curling off her 
 forehead. 
 
 The girl eyed her closely, guessing her age. 
 Then she did a singular thing ; she ran to the end 
 of the stage, knelt down, and gazed steadily at her 
 own reflection in the water, looked back to the 
 other woman, made a mental comparison, and 
 then stood up proudly with a sigh of content.
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 187 
 
 " You are to come to the house and take some 
 coffee; your man says so, — you can leave your 
 bundle in the boat." 
 
 The woman chuckled softly, and pressed the 
 object under her shawl more closely to her 
 breast; a stir and faint cry resulted. 
 
 " Thank you, Miss, it 's my baby ; I 'II take it 
 with me ! " 
 
 Again, as once on the ice, the girl knit her 
 straight brows in perplexity. 
 
 " Oh ! Peter has told me of babies ; Anna's 
 died. I 've never seen the young things of men 
 and women ; may I look? I 'd like to." 
 
 The other woman looked curiously at the tall, 
 straight girl, with the signs of early maturity, 
 who spoke so simply of never having seen one 
 of the commonest things in the world. She sat 
 down and untied the knot of the shawl in which 
 she carried it. 
 
 The girl looked on with her hands clasped 
 tightly behind her back ; then she stooped and 
 touched it with her forefinger. The sun showed 
 up the tiny hairs, cobweb-fine, silk-soft as those 
 on a leaf of silverweed, that covered its forehead 
 and cheeks, the clumsy nose and pursy lids and 
 rose-flushed skin.
 
 i88 SYMPHONIES 
 
 " Why, it 's as soft as a mullein leaf! " she cried. 
 
 The mother lifted a dimpled hand, and 
 pointed out the nails, and unrolled the swad- 
 dline cloths and showed the little feet. The air 
 struck coldly ; it contracted all its pink toes as if 
 about to grip something, stirred, and opened 
 dim eyes, that blinked vacantly with a helpless 
 appeal in them. Then she wrapped it up care- 
 fully, with hushsome gutturals. The girl kept 
 silent, — a tumult of foreign thoughts surged 
 through her mind ; then, as the mother rose to 
 her feet and looked at her questioningly she said 
 
 softly : — 
 
 " I never imagined them one bit like that. 
 It's very small and helpless, strangely helpless ! " 
 
 Arrived at the house she sat and watched Sigrid 
 nurse it. The old woman was quite excited ; she 
 took it to the light, tickled its upper lip with her 
 finger, declaring that it smiled. When it cried 
 the mother put it to her breast and let it suck 
 until it fell back satisfied, and dropped asleep 
 with a pearl of milk on its lips. Then the girl 
 stole out and unloosing her boat, rowed away 
 from the island, with long, steady strokes, a 
 musing look upon her face; and after that day, 
 all the early summer through, the solitary figure
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 189 
 
 in the boat might be seen gliding about the 
 fjords, or sometimes resting tethered amongst 
 the rocks, whilst her flute sent thrills of melody, 
 quick with yearning, through the warm air; 
 her unrest and vague desires made her venture 
 ever further from the island. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 In a sheltered bay in one of the neighbouring 
 fjords, a tent had been pitched, and an easel, 
 bearing a large canvas, might be seen on the 
 strand near it. Sometimes a man sat and 
 painted ; more often he lay amidst the bracken 
 and smoked. Once as he lay there the singular 
 notes came rippling landwards. He listened 
 lazily, then, as they died away, he rose to his feet 
 and shading his eyes with his hand gazed out 
 to sea. He could see the boat; the girl was 
 plainly visible. She paddled in, fastened the 
 boat-chain round a large stone, and stood look- 
 ing about her. He watched her go to the can- 
 vas and compare the half-finished picture with 
 the landscape ; then she walked to the door of 
 the tent and looked in ; as she turned from it, 
 he advanced and met her. She came to a dead 
 stop as she saw him, drew her breath sharply, 
 and scrutinised him gravely, then smiled, with
 
 190 SYMPHONIES 
 
 her hands clasped upon her breast. Something 
 in the attitude arrested the words upon his lips, — 
 a laughing query meant for an inquisitive peasant 
 girl, as he at first assumed her to be. What a 
 strange girl ! The shy yet fearless look in her 
 wonderful eyes, her dignity of form and carriage, 
 puzzled him. He could think of nothing to say. 
 Why did the Huldre stare at him so? he felt un- 
 comfortable under her close scrutiny. He raised 
 his hat and said, as he felt, banally enough : — 
 
 " Good day, strange maid from the sea ! " 
 
 " Good day, strange young man ! " she re- 
 plied slowly and gravely. He started at the 
 few words; the voice was pure metal in timbre, 
 the idiom unmistakably that of a peasant. It 
 reassured him ; he thought with amusement of 
 his hesitation in addressing her, and his natural 
 insolent familiarity with women reasserted itself. 
 
 " I welcome you, Huldre. It was getting 
 deuced slow. What can I offer you in the way 
 of refreshment? " 
 
 He fastened the flap of the tent door aside 
 and invited her to enter. She stepped in, and 
 sat down, without any trace of embarrassment, 
 upon a camp stool, examining the things strewn 
 about with alert, observant eyes, that turned to
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 191 
 
 him every now and then. They troubled him 
 somewhat; their fearlessness was of quite a dif- 
 ferent order from the boldness of a light o' love 
 peasant girl. He cut a slice of cake and poured 
 out some wine. She tasted it, made a grimace, 
 and spilled it calmly on the ground. 
 
 " It 's very nasty, I can't drink it. I like 
 milk better." 
 
 He laughed, filled a cup out of a pitcher, and 
 came close to her as she took it. He gathered 
 a handful of her hair in his hand ; it divided into 
 heavy locks as it hung below her waist, and the 
 light caught one as he lifted it, and burnished it 
 to red gold. 
 
 " Your hair is very beautiful, you arc like a 
 Huldre, are you sure you are not one?" 
 
 She hesitated, expression was more difficult 
 than ever; since she had learned to read she 
 sought for words. 
 
 " Yes, Peter says they have a cow's tail that 
 swings when they dance." 
 
 "Let me make sure — " said the man, as he 
 laughed boisterously, with a rich, deep note in 
 his voice, and caught her by the skirt. She 
 sprang aside with blazing eyes, doubled her 
 strong little fist, and struck him between the
 
 192 SYMPHONIES 
 
 eyes, — from some undefinable instinct of self- 
 preservation, not in any way connected with 
 modesty. The blow brought smarting tears to 
 his eyes; he swore and called her a wild-cat; 
 seized her wrists and held them. She stood still, 
 knowing herself powerless, but glared at him 
 undauntedly. He tried a new wile ; he dropped 
 her hands, sat down, and held his own over his 
 eyes. One smarted as he stooped ; he let it fill 
 with water. 
 
 " Your hand is strong, Huldre, I can't see 
 with this eye." 
 
 A brief silence, during which he watched her 
 covertly through his fingers ; she stood irreso- 
 lutely, biting her apron ; then she stooped and 
 pulled down his hand, turned his head round 
 to the light, lifted up the eyelid and exam- 
 ined it anxiously. Then she let her hands 
 fall to her sides and burst into a ringing peal 
 of laughter. 
 
 " Why it 's nothing, you man, nothing. Dabble 
 it with water, the salt will cure it ! " 
 
 Before he could divine her intent, she sped 
 down to the shore, slipped the chain, and rowed 
 out, paused, keeping the boat steady by lightly 
 moving the oars, and laughed wickedly at him.
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 193 
 
 He could sec her perfect teeth as she threw 
 her head back. 
 
 "Come back, you wood-cat!" he called 
 coaxingly. " I won't touch you, I promise." 
 
 A long derisive whistle was her only response. 
 She was pulling against a current, and bent her 
 back to her work; in a few seconds she had 
 vanished, leaving the impression with him of 
 an incarnation as wholesomely fresh as a sea 
 breeze, as wildly sweet as the heath bells that 
 grew further up in the mountain woods. 
 
 Days passed ; often the man's eyes turned 
 seawards. Then one day as he sat before his 
 easel, he laid aside his brush and listened ; he 
 was obsessed by a strange presence ; he felt as 
 if eyes were watching him from behind some 
 rock or tree ; surely that was the echo of her 
 flute in the wood above. He sprang to his feet, 
 the notes died away, as a peal of mocking 
 laughter came floating down. " The jade has 
 bewitched me," he cried, impatiently. " I can't 
 work, I '11 cross to Olas and borrow a boat." 
 
 He put his things away and taking a stout 
 stick, went inland, up the roughly cut path 
 through the resinous pine and fir woods. He 
 got back late, heated and tired, for he had come 
 
 13
 
 194 SYMPHONIES 
 
 by boat ; the boy from the farm was to return 
 by the road. He had questioned him about all 
 the girls in the neighbourhood, without identif}'- 
 ing the water pixy of the mocking laugh and 
 elusive charm. As he opened the flap of the 
 tent, the perfume of brier roses came pleasantly 
 to him; he struck a match, lit the lamp that 
 hung to the centre-pole and looked about him. 
 
 Some one had been at work during his 
 absence. The bed was made, the floor strewn 
 with pine-needles, the crockery washed, and all 
 the litter of papers and cans cleared away. A 
 fresh home-made loaf, a can of cream, and a 
 wooden bowl of wild strawberries stood on the 
 box that served as a table. The perfume came 
 from a spray of roses fastened above the couch. 
 
 " By Jove, the pixy again ! " 
 
 Next day no sound disturbed his restless quiet. 
 The morning of the day after, he rowed out in 
 the direction which she had taken ; he rounded 
 a narrow tongue of land, came to the mouth of 
 a wide fjord, with many rocky islets, numerous 
 tiny creeks and sheltered coves, but no sign of 
 girl or of a habitation. He explored, until the 
 sun scorched, and struck ofi" the rock, with a 
 white, blinding glare, blistering the paint of his
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 195 
 
 boat, and making his head ache ; his hands, too, 
 began to bhster. No faintest breeze ruffled the 
 water; it was as if the sun had gone to sleep up 
 there, and the winds held their breath for fear of 
 waking him. He rowed back in a fury of im- 
 patience ; the first thing that met his eyes as he 
 landed was a row of bath towels and socks spread 
 to dry upon the rocks. He ran into the tent 
 eagerly; everything in spotless order, a spray 
 of barberries in place of the roses — no girl, 
 
 " Damn the tantalising witch," he muttered 
 as he examined his blistered palms ruefully; 
 "she must have come by land." 
 
 So the comedy played itself merrily for sev- 
 eral days; once he followed the unmistakable 
 lure of her flute up to the woods, and sat there, 
 waiting for her to appear like a dryad through 
 the tangle of sweet wild honeysuckle, and the 
 stems of the witch-beams, or the silver birches 
 with the sprays of feathery green foliage crossing 
 their satin-flecked trunks, like dappling flights 
 of green butterflies. A badger peered at him 
 round a tree, birds grew bolder as he sat mo- 
 tionless, hopped down on to the lower branches, 
 with cheeky chirps and flits of tail, and blinked 
 at him out of their round eyes; all sorts of
 
 196 SYMPHONIES 
 
 insects and tiny vermin peered at him ; the 
 whole quiet wood seemed aHve with eyes. 
 Tiiey oppressed him ; he fell asleep. The sun 
 had veered when he awoke ; he rose, yawned 
 wearily, and went down again; he broke into a 
 run as he topped the decline, for a boat was just 
 vanishing round the point. After that he stuck 
 doggedly to his work for three days. On the 
 afternoon of the fourth he rowed out, deter- 
 mined to explore every creek and islet in the 
 neighbourhood. He darted in and out round 
 the islands to no purpose; then let himself drift 
 slowly on a current that rounded a tongue 
 of land. It carried him through a ring of rocks 
 into a shorter, wider fjord : " Eureka ! " he cried 
 exultantly, for before him, rocking gently in 
 her boat, sat the girl dabbing for whiting. He 
 watched her bait the droppers with bits of 
 mussel, sink the line carefully, and then sit 
 patiently with a loop over her extended fore- 
 finger, waiting for the jerk of the bite, that is so 
 tantalisingly imperceptible to unpractised fish- 
 ers. Jerk ! She wound the line deftly round a 
 board; a flash of struggling silver; another; 
 the third fell back, and she caught the fourth 
 as it loosened, and added it to the glistening
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 197 
 
 heap in the flat tub filled with sea water at 
 her feet. 
 
 He was forced to unship oars, as the current 
 was carrying him on to a half-sunken rock. 
 She heard him, turned her head quickly over her 
 shoulder, — one shy, wild look, — dropped the 
 tackle into the boat, seized her oars, and paused 
 with an almost imperceptible hesitation as to 
 the direction which she should take, then rowed 
 rapidly and steadily towards the opening through 
 which he had drifted. He gave a sigh of relief, 
 but soon clenched his teeth obstinately as he 
 realised that she was bent on getting away from 
 him. He knew little of boating, but he had 
 dwelt so much on her for days and nights — the 
 nights were worst, when the smell of the roses 
 and leaves she fastened above his couch dis- 
 turbed him cruelly, and the sense of her past 
 presence worried him in a tantalising way — that 
 he pursued her. The currents ran strongly, his 
 breath grew laboured. "The little devil must be 
 made of steel, or else she knows every inch of 
 the way," he muttered. The brine clung to his 
 beard, he sneezed violently too, and let go one 
 oar, only just saving it by a frantic clutch; but 
 the distance grew between them ever greater.
 
 198 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Suddenly he swung round, and began to row 
 back with his head down. His knowledge of 
 women stood him in good stead. Pursue her 
 and she will flee, either from a desire to escape 
 (and then if you catch her, she is not yours) or 
 from a love of being caught ; give up the chase 
 and she will seek you, for at heart she always 
 craves you, and is lonely without you ; but the 
 ineradicable first instincts always at war in her 
 make her yield more gladly to the captor who 
 dominates, than to the suitor who pleads sub- 
 missively. 
 
 He pulled slowly, making for his temporary 
 home. She overtook him at the mouth of the 
 bay. He could hear her breath coming quickly 
 as she swept alongside. He stole a look at her ; 
 her cheeks were glowing, her eyes met his with 
 a smile lurking in their depths. He met them 
 indifferently, with no response in his own. 
 
 He fastened the boat and inspected his hands 
 without noticing her at all ; the new blisters had 
 broken, and the old ones were rubbed raw 
 again. She watched him in some concern, ran 
 her boat in, stepped out and reached him with 
 a bound; She touched his arm gently; he held 
 out his hands to her.
 
 HEART OF THE ATPLE 199 
 
 " It 's your fault ; see what you have done ! I 
 can't work till they get well." 
 
 " I'll cure them. I'll bring you something; 
 I never saw such soft skin," there is a note of 
 contempt in her voice; "everything hurts it; 
 it's like the woman's baby." 
 
 "Not everything hurts, — you do, you sea 
 witch ! " 
 
 She looked puzzled ; something in his eyes 
 startled her. She stepped back, holding her 
 palms to her breast, and as he put out his 
 hand suddenly, she turned to fly ; but he was 
 too fleet of foot and more at home on land. He 
 caught her before she reached the wood, bent 
 her waist back upon his arm, and held her for- 
 cibly. Her wild eyes looked up desperately, 
 with a strange enquiry in them; she flushed 
 darkly as she met his ; then she bent swiftly 
 and caught his hand in her teeth. He drew his 
 breath, stood still, and waited for the sting of 
 the grip; he felt her teeth tighten as if to bite, 
 then loosen as suddenly, and she burst into a fit 
 of passionate weeping, with her face turned 
 down on to his arm. After that each day saw her 
 boat tied to the flat stone ; and on many silver 
 nights, when the moon played hide and seek
 
 200 SYMPHONIES 
 
 behind the errant clouds with her own reflection 
 in the mirror of the sea, the girl glided noise- 
 lessly out from the island, and the man waited 
 at the tent door. 
 
 A wild autumn trod in the wake of the late 
 summer. Sigrid had become more helpless and 
 dependent; lately she had taken to watching 
 the girl as she went about her work or bent over 
 her books in the evenings. This was during 
 the first days of the winter. At length Christ- 
 mas came to a white world, covered with snow, 
 not crisp and sparkling, but dull, like a dirty 
 shroud, with a sky above like a leaden coffin lid. 
 
 On Christmas eve, as Peter was hoisting the 
 corn sheaf for the birds, she hobbled to the 
 door and called him, bidding him follow her 
 to the master's room, shutting the door care- 
 fully behind them. In a little while the man 
 came out with his lips trembling under his 
 ragged gray moustache. He walked slowly to 
 the woodshed, and sat down on a block, and 
 thought, in a dazed kind of way. From that 
 day forth they both watched the girl, until she 
 felt their eyes haunt her when she woke in the 
 dark; she was conscious of every look of won-
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 201 
 
 der they exchanged as she sang softly, whilst 
 she span, quaint melodies with a hushful croon 
 in them. One evening she made a fine pic- 
 ture as she sat in the big gloomy kitchen; the 
 open door of the great oven carpeting the floor 
 in front of it with a rich patch of red; the full- 
 rigged ship on the top of the tall clock rid- 
 ing rhythmically on the rampant waves in time 
 to its steady tick. The bright copper coffee 
 kettle sent a fragrant steam from its spout; 
 she stopped her wheel abruptly, got up, and 
 wrote a few words on a slip of paper, then laid 
 it on the psalm book in Sigrid's lap, leaning 
 heavily over the back of the curiously carved 
 oak settle, as the old woman read it. She 
 read it slowly, her withered cheek went a shade 
 duller, her eyelids twitched nervously, and she 
 moistened her lips as if they had become sud- 
 denly dry. The girl took the paper again, 
 wrote a few words more, and gave it back to 
 her. The woman muttered a reply without 
 raising her eyes. 
 
 The girl counted slowly on her fingers, 
 saying ; — 
 
 " This is January ! " 
 
 Then she took down a coloured almanac that
 
 202 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Peter had brought with the Christmas stores, 
 and traced the months eagerly, setting a thumb- 
 nail dent against each one as she ticked it off. 
 When she came to April she marked it deeply, 
 and pointed it out to the old woman, with so 
 radiant a smile that the latter shook with ner- 
 vous non-understanding, whilst the helpless 
 tears welled in her faded eyes and dimmed the 
 glasses of her brass-rimmed spectacles. The 
 girl patted her unsightly old hands, swollen 
 and veined and shrivelled, with the yellow- 
 brown splotches, like exaggerated freckles, upon 
 their backs; she smoothed the wisp of flaxen 
 white hair that straggled from under the close- 
 fitting black stuff cap. Something had tem- 
 pered her wildness rarely of late. That night, 
 when she slept, Peter and Sigrid sat at the 
 table, laboriously concocting a letter to be 
 taken to the post town next day. A cockerel 
 out in the shed had crowed twice before they 
 sealed it ; then Sigrid muffled herself in an 
 old fur cloak, and Peter held a lantern, so that 
 the rays fell upon the ground in front of each 
 hobbling step she took up the path to the 
 stable. She groaned as she climbed up the 
 ladder leading to the room that was once
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 203 
 
 Anna's, of blessed memory. They turned over 
 the contents of the green wooden chest with 
 the name, letters, and marriage date of the 
 dead woman painted in orange and red scrolls 
 upon the lid, and took out some things that 
 smelled of camphor, lavender, and musti- 
 ness. The letter Peter posted went first to 
 England, then to Algiers, only to be sent back 
 to London, to lie and wait until the owner of 
 the name it carried should return from some 
 unknown destination. 
 
 Meanwhile the snows melted up in Norway 
 with the waning of the April moon; the cattle 
 scented spring in their stalls, and tugged at 
 their head ropes; the kids bleated incessantly; 
 perhaps their mothers had told them of the 
 world outside, or hereditary memories of grass 
 and green things worked in their shaggy heads. 
 Peter had fetched the doctor with the beard, 
 now white; and when the master did come one 
 afternoon, the wail of a child in Sigrid's arms 
 met him as he entered the kitchen. 
 
 Later on in the evening the young mother 
 came to his room, in obedience to a behest 
 through Peter; she stood quietly near the door, 
 waiting for him to speak.
 
 204 SYMPHONIES 
 
 " Sit down, girl," pointing to a chair. 
 
 "No, I '11 stand; I must go to the child if it 
 cries." 
 
 She was examining him with absolutely calm 
 eyes. He had started as she entered, for she 
 was a glorified edition of her mother, — the 
 mother who had thrown him over for a wastrel, 
 and then, on her death-bed, had left him the 
 child of the marriage with a characteristically 
 sentimental letter. Well, the girl had actually 
 no claim on him; he had provided her with 
 food and shelter, and the years had slipped 
 by somehow. Now he realised, with dismay, 
 that he had failed in every way to do his self- 
 imposed duty by her. He had left her in a 
 living grave, with unlettered peasants, and she 
 had probably given herself to the first fisher- 
 man who had crossed her path; yet — a pile of 
 books and some cheap copy books lay on the 
 table in front of him. She flushed as she saw 
 them, and a look of dismay crept into her eyes; 
 she had forgotten them when her pains came 
 on so suddenly. 
 
 The keen eyes behind the glasses noted it. 
 He had been looking them through before he 
 sent for her, — the copy books, with the head-
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 205 
 
 lines written over and over again with patient 
 striving to perfection, letter by letter, word by 
 word. 
 
 " You are how old ? " 
 
 " Peter says I am fifteen. " 
 
 " Good God, a mere child ! " 
 
 After a pause, pointing to the book : — 
 
 " You wrote these ? " 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 " Humph, as you have taken down these 
 books, I suppose you can read ; not that I think 
 it likely you understand much of them." 
 
 " I think I can. I find the meanings of the 
 words in the dictionary." 
 
 " Indeed ; and may I ask you where you 
 acquired this knowledge?" 
 
 "From Einar Stang. " 
 
 "So. Mr. Peter then has added lying to 
 his varied accomplishments. He tells me no 
 one has visited the island." He put out his 
 hand for the bell. "Did Mr. Einar also father 
 the brat.?" 
 
 The girl did not seem to grasp his last 
 remark; she stepped forward to deter him from 
 ringing the bell, saying quickly : — 
 
 "Peter didn't know anything about it. I
 
 206 SYMPHONIES 
 
 went over," with a sweep of hand in the direc- 
 tion of the main-land, "to skate. I met Einar, 
 and he was sorry for me ; he taught me how to 
 learn. That was five summers ago. I haven't 
 seen him since." 
 
 It was not possible to doubt the truth of her 
 statement. She poised her head to listen ; the 
 attitude reminded him of a startled gemsbok; 
 the faint cry of the child echoed through the 
 house. 
 
 "I can't stay; he wants me!" she said 
 simply, and darted from the room. 
 
 Weeks passed, yet the master stayed on. 
 The girl-mother became each day a more at- 
 tractive study; sometimes he went out to the 
 kitchen and watched her at work; sometimes 
 he sent for her on the pretext of a question as 
 to some local plant or bird. Always she leant 
 against the door lintel, listening for the child's 
 cry. 
 
 She proved a never-failing delight to him, 
 this child woman, with her absolutely fresh, 
 unspoiled nature, all her basic instincts in- 
 tact; a genetic creature, fashioned of the right 
 ground-stuff for the renewal of life in man by 
 the formation of new strong individuals, —
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 207 
 
 in her physiological structruc a "driftnatiir," 
 — quick to laugh, quick to be grave, with no 
 conscious personality, a thing of perfect health, 
 sound in mind and body, all her apperceptions 
 unconfused by the scrapment system of modern 
 education. 
 
 Her mother had made him shrink from 
 women, as a gun-shy setter from the report of 
 a firearm. He had spent his early manhood in 
 visiting out-of-the-way places, in the pursuit 
 of rare plants and curious beetles. Now he 
 was tired, and had a craving for human sym- 
 pathy; his men pals had put voluntary hobbles 
 on their feet and mortgages upon their time in 
 the shape of wives and families; he was very 
 lonely. She offered fresh interest; for that 
 he was grateful. He desired to develop her 
 keen intelligence, but the way was beset with 
 difficulties. The child was a bar to every plan 
 he formed for her future. 
 
 He had soon discovered how absolute and 
 complete was her ignorance of all social laws. 
 He wrote, in stress of mind, to his sister, who 
 had married an Anglo-Norwegian, with large 
 interests in forests and timber-floating; for 
 he hoped, with the short-sightedness of a man
 
 2o8 SYMPHONIES 
 
 knowing little of women, that she might be 
 able to make the girl understand things as they 
 looked to the world outside. 
 
 He had tried to prepare her for the advent 
 of his sister. She had listened at first with 
 indifference, then with quickened interest as 
 he hinted at some possible arrangement for 
 her future. Her eyes had darkened, and she 
 clutched the child closer to her breast, never 
 letting it out of her sight from that hour; she 
 spoke, too, less than ever. 
 
 Fru Alfred Hagen arrived; she gave one the 
 idea of a freshly painted three-master with new 
 sails. She had bright hard eyes, white teeth, 
 a rich colour that never varied, and a steady, 
 gliding gait. 
 
 Common-sense, and a keen appreciation of 
 the world's values were perhaps her strongest 
 points. 
 
 The interview was characteristic, and inevi- 
 table in its brevity. Fru Alfred found herself 
 faced by a blank non-comprehension of all the 
 things that were to her the essentials of life. It 
 irritated her; the one thing for which common- 
 sense, worldly folks can never make allowance 
 is temperament, or nature. She had spoken, as
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 209 
 
 she thought, kindly, and the girl had sat and 
 hstened. She had touched, with a dehcacy that 
 was, by the way, entirely thrown away, upon 
 the identity of the father ; the mother declared 
 herself entirely ignorant of his name even, and 
 she was forced to believe her. At length her 
 patience gave way, and she dwelt with some 
 harshness of term on the shame of the whole 
 affair, and the disastrous result of the action 
 seen by the world's eyes. The words conveyed 
 nothing whatever to the girl's intelligence. She 
 listened in patient silence, with knitted brows 
 and watchful eyes. Then she spoke to her of 
 her future, and her brother's desire to educate 
 her, and proposed that the child should be put 
 out to nurse with a niece of Sigrid's, an honest 
 peasant woman in the Hollingdal. After all, it 
 was not so uncommon as it ought to be, and no 
 one need know. 
 
 " You mean to send him to strange people, 
 and leave him with them altogether? " 
 
 "Yes; it is done everyday. The daughter 
 of a friend of mine got into trouble last year, 
 and it was so well managed that no one is any 
 the wiser." Emboldened by the girl's silence 
 she waxed confident and confessed that she had 
 
 M
 
 210 SYMPHONIES 
 
 already taken the initiative steps in the matter. 
 This brought the interview to a somewhat un- 
 expected close. The girl laid the boy carefully 
 down and " went " for her in the most literal way, 
 with the instinct of a wild cat in defence of its 
 offspring. She slapped her face as a set off, 
 and then shook her to breathlessness, seized 
 the child, got into her boat, and rowed out to 
 the fjord, declaring that she would not return 
 until that unnatural beast left the island. 
 
 The " master " had been a silent spectator until 
 called to active interference in the last scene. 
 Having rescued Fru Alfred, his dormant sense 
 of humour awoke in him, and he laughed un- 
 restrainedly at the upshot of their diplomacy. 
 He endeavoured to soothe her ruffled dignity. 
 
 " She is in the right, after all, Susan ; all our 
 expedient reasonings don't weigh a doit in the 
 balance with her instincts. I'm sorry to have 
 brought you on a fruitless journey, my dear, but 
 I 'm hanged if I won't leave her unspoiLd. If 
 I don't mistake, she '11 come through all right." 
 
 The episode cost him some thousands of kro- 
 ners ; for he could scarcely refuse to meet an 
 overdue draft in connection with a pulp mill, an 
 item, after all, in a country where most of the
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 211 
 
 capital of going concerns floats on paper, and 
 one or two bankruptcies are rather cogent argu- 
 ments for ultimate success in business. 
 
 He found it more difficult to allay the girl's 
 suspicions; she refused to land. Peter took 
 her food and rugs to the boat, and the " master," 
 more anxious than he cared to own even to him- 
 self, paced the little strip of wood and listened 
 to her crooning lullabies to the child as they 
 rocked in the boat through the translucent star- 
 flecked summer light. Fru Hagen left in the 
 forenoon. 
 
 Seven years more stole away ; the farm house 
 on the island had a wing added to its sheltered 
 side, a bridge communicated with the main-land, 
 and the road there had been widened and well 
 laid. 
 
 One hot July day, the flag hung limply round 
 the new white flag-staff, the sea barely lisped as 
 it touched the rocks, not a leaf rustled, one 
 seemed to see the air quiver whitely with the 
 intense heat ; it would have been unbearable 
 but that now and then a breath of cooler air 
 tickled the land gently, as if blown in playful 
 caress by some gracious ocean spirit.
 
 212 SYMPHONIES 
 
 The chuckling, gleeful shriek of a little lad, 
 and the bcU-like voice of a woman chiding him 
 patiently, broke the drowsy quiet. 
 
 He was standing upon the wooden ledge of a 
 bathing-house in a shady nook at the water's 
 edge, and a woman, floating in the water, was 
 trying to coax him into it. The urchin pre- 
 tended to drop in, then shrieked with laughter 
 each time she turned expectantly, only to find 
 him still there. 
 
 " Don't be tiresome, Sonnikin ; do come ! " 
 
 " No, let me ride on your back like the 
 picture in the book ; you might ! " 
 
 The woman swam close to the ledge, lifted 
 her beautiful glistening shoulders out of the 
 water, turning her back to enable him to put 
 his arms round her neck, and grip her under 
 the armpits with his sturdy legs; this done, 
 she let herself slide gently out crying : — 
 
 " Let go your arms, boy, as I swim out ; 
 rest your hands flat on my shoulders and sit 
 straight ; grip tight, and don't be afraid if you 
 sHp off." 
 
 The two perfect nude figures might have 
 reconciled a pessimist to hope for humanity, — 
 the bronze head of the woman, and the quince-
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 213 
 
 coloured head of the laddy, closely, crisply 
 curled, like the hair on the neck of a retriever 
 puppy ; supple strength, skilled grace, her 
 white arms cleaving the water for her beautiful 
 body to follow; the gay laughter of the child, 
 the half-frightened catch of his breath, as the 
 water caught his breast when he slipped to the 
 small of her back; the clear deep eyes of 
 exquisite hazel filled with content that looked 
 out so fearlessly under her level brows. 
 
 After a while they clambered out of the 
 water ; the urchin escaped from her grasp and 
 running away, rolled himself like a frolicksome 
 puppy, in the dry, soft moss that filled a space 
 between the rocks. 
 
 Soon she came out of the bathing box and 
 called to him; her hair fell like a glorious 
 mantle below her waist, the half-short sleeves of 
 a print jacket showed the rarely perfect mod- 
 delling of her forearms, egg-white, to where 
 the slight, strong wrists joined the brown hands 
 so daintily. 
 
 " A boat, mother, with a man in it ! " he called, 
 paying no heed to her summons, running further 
 from her. 
 
 She walked slowly after him, to find him, his
 
 214 SYMPHONIES 
 
 chubby hands clasped behind his back, looking 
 questioningly up in his father's face. 
 
 The man looked at her as she advanced, took 
 a step towards her, then paused. 
 
 She called the boy to her with the note in 
 her voice that he had learned to obey; he went 
 and leant his head against her knees, looking 
 shyly round; thus she stood with her hand 
 upon his head waiting for the man to speak. 
 
 His eyes warmed as he looked at them, too 
 thorough an artist not to seize every detail of 
 the picture before him : the sea in the back- 
 ground; the shadowy rays of the fir spines 
 flecking the ground at the feet of this perfect 
 woman, so strangely developed from the wild 
 child girl who had given herself so unquestion- 
 ingly to him that summer ago; the little lad 
 with the seal of his own features set upon the 
 round rosy face. The instinct of possession 
 awoke in him ; it struck him that life might hold 
 a new meaning. 
 
 Her cold eyes, her unembarrassed dignity 
 disconcerted him, as once before ; he tried to 
 think of something apt to say, feeling wretch- 
 edly unsure of his ground. The child had been 
 looking impatiently from her to him; suddenly
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 215 
 
 he darted after a yellow butterfly. That broke 
 the spell. 
 
 " I see you have n't forgotten me, Huldre." 
 
 He took a step forward. 
 
 " He 's a grand little chap ! I am glad," with 
 a break in his voice, " that he is ours ! " 
 
 He broke off, for she smiled as he spoke, and 
 something in her face arrested his thought. 
 She said gravely : — 
 
 " No, I have not forgotten you, but you 
 mistake when you say ours; he is mine ! " 
 
 " How ? I — " 
 
 " Simply, you have no claim on him, that is 
 •all; he is mine absolutely. That is the compen- 
 sation the world offers the woman if she 'd only 
 recognise it. I 've often thought what I 'd say 
 if I met you. I '11 tell you now. To me he 
 would be just as dear, ay, perhaps dearer, if he 
 were a cripple or an idiot, though my pride 
 might suffer. I don't think you would be so 
 eager to claim us if his beauty and," drawing 
 herself up with a glorious flush, ''mine did not 
 rouse you. I don't want to be claimed. I like 
 it best so. I am one of the race of women, and 
 they are many, to whom the child is first — the 
 man always second. He fills life for me, and I
 
 2i6 SYMPHONIES 
 
 should be jealous of your claim on him. Mar- 
 riage does not attract me; indeed, except as 
 a means of making me a mother when I chose, 
 I would loathe it." 
 
 " 0-oh ! — yet you had some affection for me 
 that summer, I know you had. I never met 
 anyone like you since; I have never had the 
 same feeling for any of them as I had for you, 
 Huldre, I swear it." 
 
 "No? As a matter-of-fact I didn't know 
 what you call affection meant, and I don't 
 know now." 
 
 " How could 1 know? You don't understand 
 how a man — " 
 
 "Oh, but I do," she interrupted, "and I am 
 sorry for you in a way. I wish you would go 
 away now ; talking won't change anything." 
 
 " No, perhaps not. Yet I 'd like, now that 
 I 've seen you, to make it right if I can. You 
 can't take what is me out of him ! " with an 
 exultant tone. 
 
 " No, but I need not develop it. It is the 
 me in him I love. I have no use for you. He 
 satisfies me, you would only trouble me; and, 
 besides, you are not the kind of man I would 
 give a right over him ; tliat is all."
 
 HEART OF THE APPLE 217 
 
 She caught the child as she spoke, and half 
 turned to go. 
 
 " I am sorry for you, indeed I am, sorry for 
 many men like you ; you have n't learnt yet to 
 divide women into the mere women and the 
 mere mothers. I 'd hate to share him, that is the 
 truth ; I 'd be horribly jealous of interference." 
 
 " Is that your last word? " 
 
 His voice shook with anger, and his face had 
 
 gone white. 
 
 She bowed her head mutely, without looking 
 at him, only called the child. 
 
 " Come, my son, come home, you must be 
 hungry ! " 
 
 " You are an unnatural beast, you ! " cried 
 the man, breaking off with a shake in his voice. 
 
 " Perhaps, but I think not." 
 
 " I may kiss him I suppose — " 
 
 She let the child go; he stood a mutinous 
 manikin, with a scowl on his face. His father 
 bent and lifted him up and held him a moment 
 with a keen pang of self-pity, then put him 
 down gently, and read her face scarchingly to 
 find it quietly unemotional as before. 
 
 He turned and strode away; anger against 
 this, to him, enigmatical woman of the steady
 
 2i8 SYMPHONIES 
 
 eyes and quiet face full of possibilities of 
 warmth, aching wish for the possession of the 
 little son so like himself, warred in him as he 
 stepped into the boat. He let the lad in it row 
 him out, and sat with his head in his hand. 
 
 The Z note of the dancing flies, the lazy kiss 
 of the water, the regular plash, swish, trickle, 
 plash, swish, trickle of the oars, the call of the 
 riotous summer came mockingly to him; and as 
 the boat turned the point the shrill tone of a 
 little lad's voice calling, " Mother ! " echoed from 
 the rocks behind him.
 
 PAN 
 
 A HONEY golden noontide — blinding sun-glare 
 beating on to a long white road in a world of 
 quivering yellows ; gold of saffron, gold of 
 topaz, gold of jonquil and dropping laburnum 
 bloom ; a gorgeous, glowing, seething play of 
 sunshine turning the world into an orange 
 dream with changeful shafts of ochre and gam- 
 boge. The maize fields stood proudly like a 
 phalanx of golden spears guarding the hill sides, 
 and rising above them the mountains, purple- 
 clad messengers, bent to the south — La Rune 
 nodding to the Trois Couronnes. One could 
 almost hear the vibrations of the heat in warm 
 waves, between the tinkling of the neck bells 
 and the long call of the bullock drivers; and, if 
 one were to listen more intently, the silken swish 
 of the waves sending a shrewd whisper to the 
 land, heavy with scent of lime and tuberose.
 
 220 SYMPHONIES 
 
 would fall regularly on one's ear as the breath of 
 a sleeping child — one could see the silver cres- 
 sets dance in the amber light down below, where 
 the gorgeous pavilions and white villas with 
 their gaily striped awnings, in the little Basque 
 French town, clasped the bay in horseshoe form. 
 The highway was animated, for troops of shaggy 
 mules and pannier-laden asses filed up the wind- 
 ing road, great mild-eyed cream-coloured oxen 
 — the new breed, outcome of the cross between 
 the hardy red race of the mountains and the 
 fighting Spanish bull, named in an impossible 
 Basque word, the colour of the maize when 
 ripe — dragged patiently along, peering out 
 from under their head covers of dyed goatskins. 
 Acquaintances met and greeted constantly, for 
 the town was filled with bathing guests, and 
 there had been a big market, so that commodi- 
 ties of every kind met with a ready sale. 
 
 The men and women swung noiselessly along 
 like gladsome shadows, for their feet were shod 
 in hempen solid cspartinac, ankle-bound, with 
 gaily coloured tapes. 
 
 The shrill laughter and guttural Basque of a 
 group of women washing in a square stone 
 trough built across the course of a streamlet
 
 PAN 221 
 
 that strove to find its way to the sea, mingled 
 with the dull thud of their beetles as they bela- 
 boured the clothes. An old crone, with a face 
 like a shrivelled walnut and a grizzled grey 
 beard, peered at the passers-by, with glittering 
 black eyes perennially young as sin. Her com- 
 ments were greeted with shouts of laughter by 
 the women, and a blush on the olive cheeks of 
 the younger girls. 
 
 Maria Andrerea was noted all through the 
 Basses Pyr^n^es as a teller of tales, tosser of 
 cups, layer-out of cards, and vendor of philtres. 
 She was on her way back from a secret visit to 
 the mayor's wife of a neighbouring town, 
 Madame having had reason to suspect M. le 
 Maire of marital divagations. She could whis- 
 per tales of the Bassa Jauna, the goatman who 
 wantons in the " Akelarre," or mystic goat pas- 
 tures, where the warlocks and witches hold an 
 evil sabbat; or croon tender fancies of the 
 " singing tree," the bird that tells the truth, and 
 the water that makes young. 
 
 Life in all its comedy and tragedy, its pathos 
 and irony, with the broader, more naked aspects 
 it assumes in Southern latitudes, passed by the 
 well with its audience of women. . . .
 
 222 SYMPHONIES 
 
 The roll of wheels and the crack of a long 
 whip broke off Maria's moralising. 
 
 " Bon jour, Pon Pon ! How goes the 
 widow ? " 
 
 A peal of laughter followed the query, and 
 the driver flung back a volley of Basque curses 
 that made the girls clap their hands to their 
 ears. A fat padre jingled by behind a richly 
 caparisoned mule, on his way home to some 
 Spanish border town ; a troop of reformatory 
 children in uniform of hodden grey filed silently 
 past in charge of two seminarists in clerical 
 dress; a little Spaniard, a well-known contra- 
 bandist, pulled up his train of mules and held a 
 muttered conversation with the old woman, pass- 
 ing her a sealed package with many injunctions. 
 Two wretched-looking prisoners manacled at the 
 wrists and escorted by four gendarmes, halted 
 to drink at the fountain. 
 
 " Anarchists," explained the fat sergeant, " to 
 be banished across the border." The women, 
 with the exception of Maria Andrerea, who 
 made signs with one hand to the elder man, 
 crossed themselves hurriedly at the dread name. 
 An unkempt beggar, covered with loathsome 
 sores, drawn in a basket chair by a miserable
 
 PAN 223 
 
 donkey, whined prayers, or called down curses 
 with equal zest as the exhibition of a gangrened 
 stump extracted alms or a shudder of disgust 
 from those he met. 
 
 The Angelus pealed from the towers below, 
 and tinkled at a little chapel up at the monas- 
 tery; the women tied their washing into bundles 
 and bore it away on their heads. Maria An- 
 drerea squatted on a flat stone and sucked at a 
 short pipe as she waited. A man's voice broke 
 through the summer sounds, a rough bass, troll- 
 ing out a Gascon drinking song. The old woman 
 lifted her head with a grim smile of satisfaction. 
 A peasant, tall, lithe as befitted the best pelota 
 player in the district, clean-shaven as are all 
 Basque men, came down the road. His blue 
 beret ?>3X. insolently upon his black, crisp curls and 
 shaggy forelock, his red brown eyes that got so 
 easily bloodshot with excitement, looked boldly 
 ahead; his blue trousers tapered to his ankles, 
 and the crimson sash wound round his loins an- 
 swered in colour to the flush on his tanned cheek. 
 He had a wineskin flung over his shoulder. 
 "Agour! (Hail) Maria Andrerea." 
 " Agour ! Sebastian, I 've been waiting. I 've 
 got the philtre."
 
 224 SYMPHONIES 
 
 The man's teeth gleamed whitely as he 
 laughed, and he laughed often. 
 
 " All right, mother. Have you seen Tienette 
 pass yet? She gave me the slip, the hussy. 
 What's come to the girl? — she's as shy as a 
 hawk." 
 
 The old woman laughed, and eyed him 
 keenly as she rose to her feet. 
 
 "There are maids and maids, inon gars ; some 
 must be wooed and some must be taken," with 
 a significant wink. '' Bon jour, Sebastian, ban 
 jour, and good luck to the taking." 
 
 The man stood still a moment, and watched 
 the retreating figure, then went on with a 
 curious smile curving his lips. 
 
 • • • • • • • 
 
 Always the river gurgled, and rilled, and 
 trickled, and no one joassed awhile. Then a 
 girl came up the road — a girl whose head 
 seemed to catch and imprison the sun itself. 
 Such hair, thick and crisp, and red-gold at 
 the roots, and in the curls at her neck; sun- 
 bleached like a maize leaf to a wonderful towy 
 yellow on top; the vivid blue of the silken 
 kerchief enclosing the braids at the back, 
 Basque fashion, into a silken knob, offering a
 
 PAN 225 
 
 supreme note of contrast. Her features pre- 
 sented as delicately distinct an outline as the 
 image on an Iberian coin, and, where the neck 
 of her bodice opened, her skin showed privet 
 white. 
 
 She swung the bundle off her head with a 
 curve of arm that was all grace, and sat down 
 with a sigh that was almost a dry sob. Her eyes 
 burned under their golden lashes with a sombre 
 fire — eyes that had something of the amethyst 
 of the mountains, something of the green of 
 the sea- She dabbled her hands in the water, 
 and leant back, letting her heavy lids droop. 
 
 She had been troubled of late; her senses 
 had quivered and tickled strangely; the notes 
 of a melody that had played upon the lute 
 strings of her soul all through the months, 
 that had danced gladly by since the first volup- 
 tuous stirrings of the southern spring, awoke in 
 her and made her heart sick; it had vibrated 
 in between the regenerative cry of the earth 
 in her, and around her, until she seemed to 
 listen for it with her very blood, as if every 
 vein were an ear, conveying it with a clutching 
 throb to her heart, causing a sickening weak- 
 ness in every limb. She pressed her hands 
 
 IS
 
 226 SYMPHONIES 
 
 tightly down as she thought of it, and moved 
 her head uneasily. 
 
 When was it this had first happened to her? 
 Early, quite early in the spring, at Easter, 
 when Pierre and Marie Jeanne were wed. She 
 can remember the much-talked-of player, whom 
 the gentlemen of the town called a genius. 
 She recalls how she laughed at his first appear- 
 ance, pale and lame, with mild dove-like eyes, 
 and silken brown curls that fell about his 
 throat and ears like a girl's; she can see him 
 take old Jean the fiddler's place upon the plat- 
 form in the fonda where they held the wed- 
 ding; she can hear again the wild notes of the 
 fandango and the trip of feet upon the floor; 
 remember how she had watched him, later on, 
 slip out and seat himself upon a low stone wall 
 that faced the sea. She had followed and lis- 
 tened as he played to the milk-warm night, 
 and in-running sea, and starlit sky. Surely 
 the melody must have held witchery in its 
 cadence.'' It had colour in it, changeful as the 
 rainbow gleams in the wave-mists when the 
 spray mounts high at Socoa, and a strange call 
 in it, like a fervid love-whisper in the dusk, 
 and a power like the grip of a master-hand
 
 PAN 227 
 
 forcing one's head back to find one's mouth. 
 It held man's need of woman, and woman's 
 yearning for man, the primal first causes of 
 humanity; and it had struck upon the most 
 secret sensory fibres of her being, thrilling 
 them and disturbing her strangely. He had 
 come to her side for a moment, and she had 
 felt faint, though she could have taken him up 
 in one arm, so slight and frail was he beside 
 her. She had stolen home early, for the click 
 of the castanets and the shuffle of the feet hurt 
 her like coarse blots on a beautiful fabric. 
 Ever since the cadence of his music had sung 
 in her; she heard it in the sea, and in the 
 trees when she gathered firewood in the forest, 
 in the wind as it rushed through the valleys. 
 All these months past it had weakened her. 
 At vespers it mingled with the organ notes 
 and distracted her devotions, and even the 
 white Christ on the Cross, whose feet she had 
 kissed with a prayer for help against the 
 imperative call of her awakened womanhood, 
 had mild brown eyes, with the look of a maid 
 or a dove, and helped her naught. The dry 
 summer heat had intensified the disorder in 
 her, and many a night she had crept out and
 
 228 SYMPHONIES 
 
 crushed her white limbs in the cool, dew- 
 laden moss that carpeted the wood near the 
 cabin in which she lived with her aunt. 
 
 Every Sunday afternoon she had gone down 
 into the town, because the melody drew her 
 there; sometimes she had met his long, soft 
 gaze and had cowered under it; a few times she 
 had striven to talk with him, but he answered 
 her in monosyllables, it almost seemed to her 
 with reluctance. The ladies of the town spoke 
 to him whenever they came to see the gather- 
 ing, and then she had thrown herself recklessly 
 into the fling of the dance, for no one could foot 
 a fandango better than Estefanella or Tienette 
 the yellow-haired. 
 
 Sebastian, with the by-name of the Toro 
 Negro (Black Bull), courted her, and laughed 
 when she spurned him, saying she would come 
 to him yet. Her aunt had chided her for her 
 refusal, for the Toro Negro had a good farm 
 and a share in a sardine boat, and would surely 
 settle down when married. 
 
 She shuddered when she thought of him, 
 for he made her afraid, and the fatal melody 
 vibrating in her had robbed her of force to 
 resist his power.
 
 PAN 229 
 
 Suddenly she sprang to her feet and listened 
 with quickening breath, then darted behind a 
 flowering oleander bush. The roll of wheels, 
 the laughter of men and women's voices, the 
 notes of a strange wild melody came nearer, 
 as a brake drove by, with a wedding party — the 
 bride with myrtle and orange blossoms crown- 
 ing her hair, the bridegroom with his arm 
 round her shoulder, and sitting next the driver 
 was the lame musician, playing as if life held 
 no cares. She rubbed her eyes in a dazed way, 
 swung the bundle on to her head, and sprang 
 along the dusty road in restless haste, her san- 
 dalled feet keeping time to the fatal tune 
 ringing in her heart. 
 
 Up where the road bent mountainwards, and 
 the bay could be seen through a break in the 
 trees, like a glittering sapphire held in a pearl- 
 rimmed shell, she paused and strove for breath 
 in the heavy lime-scented air. A man's voice, 
 singing a stave, struck upon her ear, causing 
 her to pale, till the heat flush died out of her 
 cheeks, leaving the golden freckles that pow- 
 dered it plainly visible. 
 
 "You are late, Tienette! I looked for you 
 down in the market," he cried. "Did you
 
 230 SYMPHONIES 
 
 think to escape me? You are tired. Your 
 colour has gone," with a dance of amusement 
 and admiration in his smile. 
 
 He took the bundle from her, bending close 
 to her with an odd look in his eyes. The girl 
 shrunk, but made no protest. They walked 
 along silently. The road wound upwards, a 
 forest of stunted oak trees, with a thick under- 
 growth of fern, bracken, and gorse, skirting it 
 on either side, whilst leafy plane and chest- 
 nut trees towered above. Her limbs seemed 
 weighted, her nerves tingled in response to the 
 dance of the motes in the gilded sunshine, and 
 everywhere, all round in wave and spray, and 
 stir of heat, the witch melody that was keyed 
 by the wan musician's hand seemed to be struck 
 into rougher chords by the man at her side. 
 His nearness oppressed her, as it always did, 
 half-frightened her, until she became a mere 
 jangle of sensory nerves and almost desired to 
 be hurt in some way as a relief. 
 
 " Did you play pelota on Sunday last ? " she 
 asked desperately. 
 
 " Yes," with a toss of his shaggy forelock, 
 " a match for five hundred francs. My side 
 won. I 've more than enough to start house-
 
 PAN 231 
 
 keeping. How long arc you going to hold 
 out? " 
 
 He placed his arm round her shoulders as he 
 spoke, and pushed her quietly towards a wicket- 
 gate leading into the wood. 
 
 There he faced her with his breath fanning 
 the curls on her brow, and his bold eyes read- 
 ing her disturbance. She put up her hands, 
 palm outwards, as if to ward him off, but he 
 only laughed a ringing laugh that seemed to 
 find a strange echo in the wood, until the girl, 
 true Basque as she was, fancied that the wood- 
 spirit — the goat-man — answered him. 
 
 Then he caught her hands and pressed them 
 to his great breast, so that she felt the mighty 
 throb of his heart and the heave of his chest. 
 
 " How long, little one ? I have been patient, 
 and I am not patient as a rule, and I have al- 
 ways had my own way," with a triumphant 
 whisper. 
 
 She had turned her head aside and was strug- 
 gling to free her hands, when he bent and 
 caught the back of her neck between his lips 
 and crushed it roughly. She strove feebly like 
 a half-frozen bird in a warm palm, only to 
 give way with a stifled cry, as he snatched her
 
 232 SYMPHONIES 
 
 up in his arms, and half carried, half led her 
 into the wood. She made no resistance, the 
 disturbance of the past months had come to a 
 climax; she was worn with the warring in her 
 strong, physical nature of forces not under- 
 stood. Even the Virgin had ceased to help 
 her, though she had prayed at her marble feet 
 all through many a long summer night. 
 
 She was weary of it, so she let him lead her, 
 as in a dream, further in where the bracken 
 grew high, and one could walk ankle-deep in 
 the maiden-hair, and the club moss bedded the 
 ground right royally. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Once more the man and the girl stood at the 
 wicket. He was leaning against it with his 
 hands thrust in his trousers pockets ; she was 
 trembling violently. A dried leaf had caught 
 in her hair, she plucked it out fiercely, and cried 
 out a reproach. 
 
 He had been watching her with a curious 
 look of indifference, almost of dislike, and he 
 said : — 
 
 " Oh, what is the use of that, Stephanita? " 
 
 The girl turned as if stung, and, lifting her 
 hand, struck him across the mouth. He laughed,
 
 PAN 233 
 
 but a lurid light shot in his eyes and one could 
 see that they were too near his nose ; he caught 
 her hands and twisted them behind her, bent 
 her face back and kissed it roughly, whispering 
 something that made her writhe and caused the 
 blood to leap in a flame to her cheeks, then he 
 let her go so suddenly that she almost fell, and, 
 waving his beret laughingly, called back over 
 his shoulder as he went: — 
 
 " Remember that, my wild hawk ! " 
 She dropped down in the moss and lay quite 
 still, except that now and then little convulsive 
 shivers ran through her frame; and once she 
 turned and tore the moss with her teeth, as one 
 has seen a magpie strip the bark off a tree in a 
 rage at being watched. 
 
 November had almost run its course, mildly, 
 even for the South. The warm smothering 
 south wind blew over the headlands, carrying 
 the fragrance of the sea-pinks into the valleys, 
 distilling a wonderful memory of brine and old 
 home gardens to many an English visitor. 
 
 Outside, the waves ran high, and the bay was 
 full of craft unable to cross the digue at Bay- 
 onne; the mountains wore snowy mutches
 
 234 SYMPHONIES 
 
 above their mantles of purple mist, and the 
 bright blue flower stars of the chicory peered 
 out amidst the feathery cool green of the tama- 
 risk bushes. Away across the land the maize 
 stalks hung in whity-brown dejection; and as 
 the pale sun slanted over them, it struck here 
 and there an orange speck, telling how a pump- 
 kin had been left to ripen ; the fishing, too, had 
 commenced. 
 
 A wan reflection of Tienette the yellow-haired 
 of the golden summer, stood at a cabin door 
 upon the hillside, shading her eyes from the 
 pale sun. She was watching a boy, a ragged 
 brown urchin in tattered jersey playing 3. jota on 
 a jew's-harp as he climbed up the path. He 
 stopped and pulled a note out of his pocket, 
 with a greeting. 
 
 " From the aunt, Juanito? " she queried. 
 
 " Ay, she gave it me, and the uncle gave me 
 a whole franc to bring it. He is rich. They 
 are saying down there," with a backward gesture 
 of head and hand, " that he '11 buy the fonday 
 La Puerta. The widow Echegarray wants to 
 join the beguines and make her soul." 
 
 The girl read the four lines slowly, unheeding 
 his chatter. An uncle, the elder brother of the
 
 PAN 235 
 
 aunt with whom she lived, had come back from 
 Brazil after an absence of fifteen years, — report 
 had it with much money. Now she is to go 
 down to see him. She dreads the gossip, the 
 prying eyes, the tongues of the women. She 
 had felt rather than seen the half shy look of 
 the girls, the scrutinising gaze of the matrons, 
 in church and market-place. Her aunt's steady, 
 watchful eyes questioned her at home, — aye, even 
 at vespers the men's eyes have peered down 
 from the gallery. 
 
 She placed a piece of Spanish bread, close 
 and white as bleached sponge, upon the table, 
 with a slab of ewes' milk cheese, and a terra- 
 cotta jar of lovely shape filled with clean spring 
 water, with an : — 
 
 " Eat Juanito, and God bless the food ! " 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Half an hour later she locked the door behind 
 her, unslipped the goats from their pen, and 
 turned the ass loose into the wood. 
 
 She had donned her black feast-day gown, 
 wound a black kerchief about her braids, and 
 wrapped herself in a black llama manto of the 
 aunt's. 
 
 Her gait was heavier than in summer ; the magic
 
 236 SYMPHONIES 
 
 music has been silent in her soul ; never once has 
 she heard the witch-white melody that proved 
 her ruin since the day when it had made her 
 bend as wax in the grasp of the Toro Negro. 
 
 A woman stopped to greet her, and scanned 
 her face curiously; her cheeks are hollower, 
 and there is a pinched look about her nose ; to 
 the peasant's eye, with the wholesome love of 
 robust health, she had lost in beauty. 
 
 " Agour, fitienne ! I hear the uncle has come 
 back with thousands. Congratulations ; but you 
 are not looking well, have you taken cold?" 
 with an expressive look at the manto. 
 
 " Yes, it has hung over me all the autumn — 
 a chill after a dance perhaps." 
 
 " Try a tisane, a tisane a qiiatrc flenrs, borage 
 or mallows with violets and lime blossoms, or 
 perhaps lilies. Adieu, then ! " 
 
 She parted company with Juanito at the 
 bridge leading to the older, quainter town, the 
 fishing colony, where every house gave some 
 sign of the occupation of its inhabitants. Sou'- 
 westers and jerseys hung over the balconies in 
 company with festoons of blood-red chillies, like 
 coral necklets, slung out to dry. 
 
 Half-bred Spanish pointers yelped and fought
 
 PAN 237 
 
 in the gutters, a Spanish pedlar with a box 
 slung round his neck, called vanilla pods for 
 sale ; English visitors in knickerbockers, carry- 
 ing golf sticks, added an unfamiliar note to the 
 scene. 
 
 Down in Socoa she lifted her head, setting 
 her teeth hard, sorely conscious of eyes peering 
 from low windows of the fondas, and shops ; 
 of heads popped out of the doorways of the 
 long work-rooms where gossiping girls sat at 
 their sewing machines and turned out modes 
 et robes; of remarks made by the women and 
 men, all acquaintances, who gave her a " good- 
 day" as they sat outside and plaited hempen 
 soles for espargatas, or covered sunshades for 
 next year's bathing season. 
 
 The foiida Le Port was a straggling three- 
 storied building, Ici on sert d hoirCy d ina)tger, 
 painted in great tarred letters across its pale, 
 green-washed frontage; six stiff plane trees 
 guarded the entrance, all bending landwards, as 
 if shrinking from the rough caress of the ocean, 
 and a statue of Our Lady of the Sea looked 
 patiently out from a niche above the door. The 
 big kitchen served as bar, parlour, eating-room, 
 and dancing floor, when the " lads " were home.
 
 238 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Bright copper utensils, strings of onions, and 
 gigantic sausages, wine-skins, chillies, and casta- 
 nets hung with a miscellanea of all kinds from 
 the roof and walls. A fat Frenchwoman with 
 long gold drops in her ears and Basque head- 
 dress greeted the girl as she entered : " Yes, the 
 uncle is here. He has the best room, indeed the 
 best the house affords; stands treat all round; 
 a well-to-do man, one can see. That 's what 
 comes of going abroad." The widow sighed. 
 " Go up the stairs one flight, the front room." 
 
 The girl knocked and went in. 
 
 A little, thin, sharp-featured woman with a 
 meek expression sat in an armchair warming her 
 hands over a hrassero. She never took her eyes 
 off the girl's face from her entrance except once, 
 when she turned to the man dozing on the bed, 
 and said gently: " Here is Stephana, our Anna's 
 daughter." 
 
 The man rose, a Basque of herculean frame, 
 with a curved nose, strong chin, and keen blue 
 eyes. He had gold rings in his ears, and a skin 
 tanned to the colour of an old saddle. He held 
 out his hand and peered at the girl keenly as he 
 shook it. 
 
 She flushed and looked back with his own
 
 PAN 239 
 
 look, and the old golden beauty returned for a 
 spell. He laughed and slapped her on the 
 shoulders. 
 
 " A handsome girl, by God ! The rascal knew 
 what he was about — but he did n't reckon with 
 the Uncle Pierre. Sit down, girl, take off that 
 dingy shawl, let's see you. I've brought you 
 some silk stuff and a gold chain. The women 
 out there are brown as coffee berries, so they 
 like bright things. So do I. I like my wine to 
 sparkle and my women gay as humming-birds, 
 por Dios I do ! " 
 
 He forced her to take some wine and eat 
 sweetmeats, whilst he talked incessantly in 
 guttural Basque, mixed with French and bastard 
 Spanish. 
 
 " Well, my girl, and when is the wedding to 
 be? The gossips say you ate the meat before 
 you said the grace ! Well, Uncle Pierre won't 
 dwell upon that, but it will not do to wait too 
 long." 
 
 The girl felt the curious steady gaze of the 
 quiet woman in the chair lame her, as it always 
 did. If she could only escape from it ! 
 
 " I don't know. " He " — with a half sob — 
 " laughed when I spoke of it. They say he is after
 
 240 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Laurentina, Jose Echaverria's daughter — she 
 has a dowry." 
 
 The man struck his clenched fist upon the 
 table till the glasses danced, and launched into 
 a string of curious oaths. 
 
 " Let him look out! How much has she?" 
 
 " A thousand francs, a span of oxen, and 
 linen." 
 
 " Young, well-favoured? " 
 
 " Turned thirty," interrupted the old woman, 
 " with a squint, like her mother before her." 
 
 The man laughed. 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " Up beyond Sare at the Palombier, * the 
 pass of the pigeons.' He goes there for the 
 sport, with Enrique. The English, too, pay to 
 see it; they make much at it." 
 
 " VVc '11 drive to Sare to-morrow, you '11 go 
 up to him and tell him I desire him to come 
 down and name the day; that the Uncle Pierre 
 stands no nonsense ; that I '11 give you two 
 thousand francs to start with, and all that be- 
 comes a niece of mine in linen and housewares." 
 
 A dull feeling of terror and rebellion surged 
 up in the girl. No, no, she would sooner go 
 away, as so many of her countrywomen had
 
 PAN 241 
 
 done — go to America; but a stir, so faint as to 
 be barely felt, knocked like a tiny hand below 
 her heart, and hushed the words on her lips. 
 • •••••. 
 
 The next morning, they set out in Pon Pon's 
 ramshackle landau drawn by two chestnut " gar- 
 rons," high-boned Rosinantes, ungroomed, half- 
 starved looking animals that never seemed to 
 tire and responded lazily to the crack of the 
 long whip. Uncle Pierre lay back with a huge 
 cigar in his mouth, and waved his heret gaily 
 to any chance acquaintance. The aunt sat 
 bolt upright with a smile of subdued triumph 
 on her sharp face. Only twice before — at a wed- 
 ding and at a funeral — had she driven in such 
 a fashion. Tienette sat as in a dream ; the cool 
 morning air fanned the little curls about her 
 temples ; the familiar scene, the white chateaux 
 with shutters closed for the winter, the farms 
 with the cone-shaped stacks of bracken, each 
 with an earthen crock inverted on a stick above 
 them to catch the earwigs, struck her as they 
 might a stranger. She was thought-free, al- 
 most restful. It was simply good to let oneself 
 go, to watch the sun creep up the mountain- 
 side and scatter the mists. 
 
 16
 
 242 SYMPHONIES 
 
 They left St. P6e and Sare behind them, and 
 then Pon Pon pointed out the opening between 
 the mountains — " the pass of the pigeons." 
 
 " When we get to the foot of the mountain, 
 you can see if the signal is set, they always fly 
 a flag if there are signs of a drive. It is a good 
 mile to the Palombier." 
 
 Arrived there, Tienette alighted, and started 
 up the winding unmade mountain road in which 
 bullock waggons had cut deep ridges in the 
 clay between the boulders. The girl's nerves 
 were tensely strung and her breath laboured ; 
 half-way up she was forced to loosen the bands 
 of her skirts, and seat herself upon a boulder 
 to rest. A great stillness reigned, unbroken 
 except by the distant call of a driver to his 
 oxen, or the scream of an eagle — one could 
 see them soar and drop against the blue sky. 
 Beneath her in the valley the square church 
 tower looked like a fortress guarding the town ; 
 above, at the cleft between the hills, the flutter of a 
 white flag no bigger than a kerchief proclaimed 
 the expected arrival of the birds. On the steep 
 slope a man was busy loading bracken on to a wag- 
 gon, the cream heads of his team of oxen gazing 
 patiently out through the russet brown tangle.
 
 PAN 243 
 
 She could distinguish the man, a farmer from 
 Sare, collecting his store for the winter. 
 (Basque peasants hold bracken rights in tur- 
 bary, as an Irish peasant, turf.) She had met 
 him once ; he was a cousin of the Toro Negro 
 on the mother's side ; he recalled the object of 
 the journey; she got up wearily and plodded 
 on, treading the chalices of the purple and 
 yellow autumn crocus underfoot. A farm- 
 house, with thatched roof and a gate, barred 
 the entrance to the pass. 
 
 "Is Sebastian here?" she asked the boy 
 guarding the gate. 
 
 " Yes, but he 's with the nets." 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 *' How do you know when the birds are 
 coming? " 
 
 He pointed out a tree on the northern side in 
 which a lookout of twigs, like a giant crow's 
 nest, was built ; in this a man, known all through 
 the district for his hawk's vision, perched each 
 morning, with his eyes fixed on the horizon 
 beyond which lay Bayonne, watching for the 
 first token of the coming flock. 
 
 A shrill whistle pierced the clear air, and 
 the boy called : " Les palombcs, the pigeons,
 
 244 SYMPHONIES 
 
 they come; hide behind a bush; quick, girl, 
 quick!" 
 
 Some of the excitement in the lad's voice 
 communicated itself to her. She ran and 
 crouched behind a ckimp of furze. 
 
 The scene of the drive was in a defile cutting 
 through a mountain that faced the south; the 
 bottom of the cutting was a clear space, like the 
 grass-grown bed of a dried-up river. Twelve 
 trees grew across in a straight line, some close 
 together, some at intervals, as if planted for the 
 purpose by the hand of man. From those, two 
 giant nets were suspended, invisible to the birds 
 until retreat was too late. 
 
 A skilful arrangement of pulleys and wire 
 enabled the men concealed behind the bushes 
 to draw up and drop the nets. A wooden hut 
 with a trap-door, through which the captives 
 were thrust, stood to the right. Every bush 
 concealed a farmer or would-be sportsman with 
 a gun. She noticed that the tree above her 
 head, and many of the trees on each side, held 
 men concealed in titan nests. 
 
 She started as a whisper reached her, and 
 Sebastian's voice made all the blood recede 
 from her face and gather round her hearts
 
 PAN 245 
 
 Looking northwards, she saw what seemed to 
 be a long streamer of grey smoke floating 
 towards the gorge; and as it came nearer, a 
 sound as of the rushing of a mighty wind 
 through a tunnel ; louder, ever louder, with a 
 rhythmic beat in it — quicker, ever quicker, as 
 it approached, quite near — a palpitating, flut- 
 tering, quivering, steady blue-grey mass of 
 birds, that fly as if driven by some unseen 
 power, drawn by some irresistible force to seek 
 the south, and seek it on this wave line and 
 no other. She has heard it said that year after 
 year, winter after winter, never once have they 
 been known to diverge, never once chosen an- 
 other opening; always they have flown straight 
 to their fate — one flock after the other. 
 
 She held her breath, and waited with throb- 
 bing pulses. Nearer, nearer, surely on the 
 wings of a great wind; — beat, beat — the noise 
 has become deafening, like the charge of hun- 
 dreds of invisible aerial warriors treading the 
 air above her. Now they have entered the 
 pass; thousands of birds, a grey-vvhite throb- 
 bing mass of wing-beating units, driving as one 
 compact body straight to their doom. 
 
 They are flying rather high, but each man
 
 246 SYMPHONIES 
 
 hidden in the nest has a wooden hawk fastened 
 to his wrist, and as they enter he throws it high 
 in the air above them with practised skill, and 
 they drop with a thud — see the net too late — 
 for those behind press the foremost on, and in 
 one second they are trapped. 
 
 The nets fall and they are prisoned tightly. 
 The men spring forward, seize them in hand- 
 fuls, and thrust them through the trap-door. 
 The stragglers are picked off by the gunners; 
 those that escape soar in frightened circles to 
 the north and east and west, only to form a 
 new body, make a detour and return by the 
 same route into the nets, as if unable to choose 
 another passage. Tienette drew a sharp breath 
 as the last straggler fluttered to the ground. 
 The smell of powder and the blood-stained 
 feathers fluttering on every side made her feel 
 faint. The men plunged their hands into the net, 
 clutching the struggling birds, many maimed, 
 all half-paralysed with terror, calling out the 
 number as they thrust them into the shed to 
 the tally-man, who notched them on a stick 
 dangling from a tree. 
 
 She saw the Toro Negro put his gun down 
 with a laugh as he went by to help. How red
 
 PAN 247 
 
 his lips were, and how white his teeth ! A feel- 
 ing of hatred rose up in her against him ; not a 
 care touched him, he was filled with the zest of 
 the sport. It flashed to her in a vague way that 
 in that lay the gulf between man and woman. 
 
 Life to him was made of creative moments, 
 but the woman was tied to the burden of years 
 of mothering. 
 
 She turned back to the house, and sent the 
 lad for him. He came, whistling gaily, his face 
 flushed with excitement, an insolent look in his 
 careless eyes. He beckoned to her to go down 
 the slope out of sight of the house. There he 
 leant against a tree and waited for her to speak. 
 His shirt-sleeves were rolled above his elbows, 
 his hands blood-stained, a few red fluffy feathers 
 stuck in the hair on his sinewy arms. She 
 shivered a little, and delivered the uncle's mes- 
 sage in a toneless voice. He folded his arms 
 and considered. He hated all bondage, but the 
 farm needed a woman. Money was welcome ; 
 no other girl of his class in the district had such 
 a dowry; and besides, the airi had taxed him 
 on Sunday ; the child was his. True Gascon, 
 he calculated the advantages and decided. 
 
 "Where is the uncle?"
 
 248 SYMPHONIES 
 
 " At St. P6e, in the Cabaret des Palombes." 
 "Very well, in an hour." 
 
 . 
 
 One evening, some weeks later, a broad band 
 of light streamed out into the glistening road- 
 way from the wine-cellar of Jos6 Echegarrez. 
 Voices and laughter, the rattle of castanets 
 and the snap of fingers, the beat of dancing feet 
 in time to the strains of a violin playing a fan- 
 dango, stole out to greet the threatening skirl of 
 the landward-blowing wind. 
 
 The guests were footing it merrily at the 
 wedding feast of Tienette the golden-haired. 
 Wooden benches were placed round the walls 
 for the older guests, the fiddler was perched 
 upon a platform of planks stretched across 
 two giant hogsheads of ageing grape-juice. 
 The best man, none too steady in his gait, 
 was going from guest to guest with a bottle 
 of wine and a glass, out of which all drank 
 alike. The uncle Pierre had behaved lib- 
 erally; the bride had driven to church dressed 
 in a black silk gown, her golden head crowned 
 with orange-blossoms and myrtle, and a flow- 
 ing white veil. The table had taken up the 
 whole length of the long room of the inn Le
 
 PAN 249 
 
 Port, and they had sat to it for four hours, and 
 eaten and drunk to satiety. 
 
 Only once had there been a break of an un- 
 pleasant kind. Uncle Pierre had caught sight of 
 the lame musician, and called to him with lusty 
 voice to join the revels ; nay, more, had dragged 
 him in by force, and compelled him to a seat 
 opposite the bride, and called for a toast. The 
 bride had not raised her glass in response, but 
 had looked at him with a hunted, deep gaze that 
 had called a flush to his thin cheeks, and made 
 his hand shake so that the wine ran over; then 
 she had fainted. The matrons carried her out, 
 and Sebastian swore all women were alike, weak 
 idiots, for he had drunk liberally, and was quar- 
 relsome in his cups. 
 
 Later, when the twilight was falling, she 
 stood at the door, looking, with hollow eyes 
 and a strained quiver about her mouth, into 
 the room at the swirling round of figures. All 
 lightness, all grace had departed from them 
 with the first bars of a commonplace polka; 
 they were keeping time with mechanical steps 
 and a kind of forced gravity, a tribute to the 
 foreign nature of the music. She had donned 
 her sombre cashmere gown, and her white
 
 250 SYMPHONIES 
 
 wreath sat strangely on the yellow hair above 
 the pale mask of her face. Sebastian looked 
 at her once or twice as he passed with his part- 
 ner; she had been a reproach to him all day, 
 with her spoiled figure and gloomy eyes, and 
 Uncle Pierre had been bluntly offensive since 
 he had gained his object. 
 
 The polka came to an end with a flourish, 
 and he swung his partner to a seat, and went 
 over to the woman who was as much his prop- 
 erty as the patient oxen who answered to his 
 goad, or the faithful pointer he caressed and 
 kicked alternately. He took hold of her arm, 
 none too gently, between his thumb and finger. 
 
 "A malediction on your white face, — it 's 
 more fitted for a funeral than a feast; it 's a 
 poor compliment to me. I 'm sick of seeing 
 it." 
 
 He pinched her with a quiet savagery that 
 called the blood to her cheeks. 
 
 "That's better; if you can't join in the 
 dance go down and see to the supper. Don't 
 stand watching me; I won't have it; I've 
 danced to the uncle's tune all day, you '11 dance 
 to mine from this out." 
 
 He pushed her, as he spoke, into the pas-
 
 PAN 
 
 251 
 
 sage, and left her with a meaning look that 
 held a covert threat in its sheathed glance. 
 The girl stood a moment; the rhythmic tramp 
 of feet had begun again overhead, and struck 
 like hammer-blows on her senses. She opened 
 a side door leading to the street; the wind 
 almost forced her back, and it took all her 
 strength to pull the door to after her. 
 
 The twilight had fallen, but there was a weird 
 half light that presaged a storm. She gave a 
 great sob as she hurried along, with the wind 
 catching her breath and buffeting her chest; 
 the impulse of months was crystallising into a 
 resolve. Some of the doors on the sheltered 
 side of the street were open, and the bright light 
 streamed out in golden bars across the roadway, 
 and the smell of roasting chestnuts mixed with 
 that of ooze and brine. 
 
 She stopped a moment and looked in at one 
 door: a woman holding a little child on her lap 
 was laughing and talking to it in the firelight ; 
 she put its fat little fingers one by one in her 
 mouth and pretended to bite them, and the 
 child crowed again. The girl hurried on with 
 a cry, past the narrow bit of road where the 
 waves burst over in mocking spray laughter.
 
 252 SYMPHONIES 
 
 Two men leaning over the wall gazed seaward 
 with field-glasses. At the bridge leading to the 
 tongue of land upon which the fort was built she 
 paused for breath. The boats tossed uneasily 
 in the swirling water, under it; the " Hijito del 
 Mar " snatched a rough kiss from the " Ivonne " 
 each time the swell came, as they rocked side 
 by side on their chains. She looked back at the 
 town in the distance, to the twin towers with their 
 gleaming clock-lights, the coloured lights of the 
 craft in the bay. 
 
 The rattle of a chain, as a safe-to-harbour 
 steamer dropped its anchor, and the thrice three 
 peals of the Angelus floated out across the bay 
 to the surge-tossed ocean outside, home sounds 
 from the shelter that the patient skill of man had 
 devised to best the will of nature. She almost 
 faltered in her resolve, but the thought of the 
 dawn when she would have to go home with her 
 half-drunken master clutched at her soul again, 
 and she turned from the sight of the windows, 
 blinking at her like friendly eyes, and faced the 
 gloom. 
 
 She toiled up the clifif where the grass grew 
 sparsely mingled with broken shells, and leant 
 against a boulder and looked seawards. Omi-
 
 PAN 253 
 
 nous slants of bilious green showed through the 
 rents in the cloud-masses hurtled against the sky. 
 Battalions of wind-tossed clouds in distorted 
 shapes drifted from north to south, gashed here 
 and there with a livid streak like a gaping wound. 
 And over all a background of brooding stillness 
 hung, broken at intervals by the surge of the 
 waters and sudden shrieks of the wind. When 
 the wave did come it dashed with a boom like a 
 great gun against the digue, and the smaller waves 
 fell back with a rattle as of artillery. The spray 
 mounted in a conical water-spout of foam, dissolv- 
 ing and scattering into spindrift. Every rush of 
 the water expressed anger and rage and cruelty. 
 She crept down lower to where rough steps 
 cut in the cliff led to the rocks below. There 
 she crouched and stared down. At her feet 
 the water bubbled as in a cauldron of seething 
 foam, a giant churn in which a yellow-green 
 liquid was tossed by invisible hands. Away 
 through the mist beyond the curling wall of 
 breakers, with their topping of white, and the 
 boil and bubble and swirl of the water midst the 
 rocks, a couple of lights and a line of smoke 
 against a background of green told of a steamer 
 making for shelter. She sat, and the storm
 
 254 SYMPHONIES 
 
 lulled her. A stone or two rolled down the 
 rough steps, as if kicked by a faltering foot, 
 then a voice pierced through the din in a broken 
 whisper : 
 
 "Is it you? I thought at first it was your 
 * fetch.' I saw you at the bridge." 
 
 She turned her head ; the deep eyes stared as 
 out of a carven mask, and met the puzzled gaze 
 of his milder brown ones. 
 
 " Yes. Why did you follow me? " 
 
 "Why?" crouching at her side and laying 
 his violin-case at her feet ; " because the look 
 your eyes gave me to-day has haunted me like 
 the melody I hear in the wind sometimes. You 
 are unhappy, and yet," dropping his vcice, 
 "you must have loved him." 
 
 " I have always loathed him." 
 
 " God ! — then why — ? " 
 
 " You ask me that, —you ? Because your 
 music got into my soul, and melted me like wax 
 in hot weather, so that I was soft to run into any 
 mould, and — he came at the right moment." 
 
 "God! Tienette — was it I? — I, who never 
 dared approach you — I, a cripple, and you 
 — you were so beautiful." 
 
 She turned and peered into his face. His
 
 PAN 255 
 
 words called back all the old witchery to her 
 eyes and lips. 
 
 A blast of wind struck them both, and tore 
 the spray-sodden wreath from her head, with a 
 strand of her hair, and whirled it over and over 
 till it vanished over the ledge. She laughed an 
 odd, quiet laugh, and then she wound her arms 
 round his neck, and kissed his eyes and mouth, 
 and whispered : 
 
 " Play to me here in the storm the goat- 
 man's ' call ' that you played that day at the 
 contest, — your own piece." 
 
 And she took the fiddle out of the case, 
 and she kissed the bow before she handed it to 
 him; and he, forgetting storm and hour and 
 aught else but the wonder of her love and the 
 inspiration of her caress, laid his chin to the 
 brown wood and drew a cry from the strings 
 that was as wonderful as the cry of a first-born 
 to a mother; and then he played with closed 
 eyes until the song of spring with its bursting 
 blossoms and call of the blood rang potently 
 through the night of winter storm. 
 
 The girl drew softly away, until she stood 
 silhouetted against the sky on a ledge where 
 the cliff sank steepest. The melody crept in
 
 256 SYMPHONIES 
 
 silver notes between the skirl of the blast, now 
 clear in the lull, now lost in the storm, rising 
 louder and louder through a frenzy of passion 
 and yearning to a cry of triumph; and as the 
 last note died away the player opened his eyes 
 as from a dream, and the wind kissed away all 
 trace in the sand upon the ledge of the httle 
 feet of Tienette the golden-haired — but Pan 
 still lives. 
 
 Printed by Ballantvne, Hanson 6^ Co. 
 Edinburgh <5r= London
 
 ^^ JOHN LANP:J^.ff- 
 
 'MiS--i Tiir-: J./ i 
 
 BODLKY f 
 
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