GIFT or 
 
 CU'.s 4 Hoh 
 
FERN SEED 
 
BOOKS BY 
 HENRY M. RIDEOUT 
 
 Fern Seed 
 
 The Foot-Path Way 
 Tin Cowrie Dass 
 The Far Cry 
 Key of the Fields 
 
 and BoLDERO 
 The Siamese Cat 
 White Tiger 
 
 William Jones 
 
FERN SEED 
 
 By 
 
 HENRY MILNER RIDEOUT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 
 
 1921 
 
Copyright, 1921, by 
 NUFFIELD AND COMPANT ^ 
 
 )1 
 
 
 
To 
 The Rev. HENRY HOWITT 
 
 Dear Parson : — 
 
 For a lover of great books, you have 
 always shown remarkable indulgence 
 toward little ones. This, therefore, is 
 dedicated to you. If you detect any wild- 
 nesses in it, please blame them on the 
 gentleman who told corrupting tales of 
 how the devil flew over Boston Stump. 
 And please let it remind you of evenings 
 beside the fire, and of a friend among so 
 many others of yours in more than one 
 land, more than one generation. 
 
 H. M. R. 
 
 ^51SiO 
 
Digitized by the Internet Arcinive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosQft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/fernseedOOriderich 
 
FERN SEED 
 
FERN SEED 
 
 I 
 
 Afternoon sun beat down on the quays of 
 Alexandria, making the air boil and dance along 
 stone-work, above dock water, among masts and 
 funnels. A crowd waiting under the sun found 
 it hot. Leonard Corsant, after some years in 
 the Far East, cared little for this heat of Egypt; 
 he had known worse ; but now he felt impatient to 
 go aboard, get out into good sea breeze once 
 more, and continue his journey. He was going 
 home to America. 
 
 Through her window in the little sentry-box 
 office, a girl passed him his papers, and smiled. 
 She was dark, pretty, and much more his friend 
 than the occasion demanded. 
 
 **Again, sir! Ah, we always lose you I*' she 
 mourned, in excellent French. 
 
 Leonard returned her smile, as he took her pen. 
 He had a good-humored face, sunburnt, careless, 
 
 3 
 
4 PERN SEED 
 
 with a hawk nose of rather determined cut and 
 easy bright blue eyes; lifting his hat, he bared a 
 crop-head of close fair curls. He was no ladies* 
 man, to speak of; they did not bother him often; 
 and while he read her printed slip he thought this 
 one must be of those who reveal tenderness 
 when a ship casts off or a train rolls out. They 
 were not in his line of life. 
 
 "Yes, thank you, but see here, mademoiselle," 
 he objected, "I can't sign." 
 
 There was plague in Alexandria. The officers 
 of public health were anxious. Their paper which 
 the girl had given him, said, in French : 
 
 "I declare upon my honor as a gentleman that 
 I have no soiled linen in my baggages." 
 
 She looked at him coyly through the grating. 
 
 "Oh, it is a form, sir." 
 
 "Yes, but I can't sign your form," said Leonard. 
 "I have some in my baggages. A shirt and so on, 
 after bathing just now. Pardon. But this holy 
 document raises a point of honor." 
 
 The girl laughed, snatched it from his hand, 
 snatched the pen also, and wrote. 
 
 "There. I have signed," she cried. "On my 
 head be all the perjury." 
 
 Leonard seldom forgot a face, and hers was 
 too pretty to be forgotten; he had never seen 
 
FERN SEED 5 
 
 her before; yet the name she wrote, blotted, and 
 held up gaily for approval, was correct. 
 
 *'L. Corsant." 
 
 The signature might almost have been his own; 
 and beneath it she had drawn a paraph that no one 
 could have guessed, — a flourish which as a little 
 boy he had copied from his father's writing. A 
 pot-hook run through a bulFs-head, his father 
 called it: a family joke, meaningless. He stared 
 at this copy, then at her. 
 
 "How on earth did you know?" 
 
 She laughed again. 
 
 "Oh, monsieur, how should I forget? You 
 are not in the vein of compliment this afternoon. 
 But me, I will say you look much better and more 
 brown. Now go, please. I am busy. You pre- 
 tend I forget you, when you always block the way 
 standing on your punctilio." 
 
 The dark young minx waved him farewell, and 
 rolled her eyes with a look of the sort called rav- 
 ishing. Leonard passed on. The queue of sweat- 
 ing Europeans behind him — Holy Land tourists, 
 who wore mosquito veils draped voluptuously 
 round ferocious helmets — began in fact to 
 grumble, push, and use unholy outlandish words. 
 
 "Well, at last!" he thought, following his por- 
 ters up the Rubattino gangway. "There's an 
 
6 FERN SEED 
 
 Egyptian mystery for you, black magic. It's come 
 too late, of course." 
 
 He soon forgot this riddle. A very fat Italian 
 woman, dressed magnificently, helped him to for- 
 get, by waving her farewells to someone on board, 
 and falling between quay and ship. Blue-gowned 
 Arabs calmly hauled her out with ropes, — one 
 yelling mass of rage and terror, crowned with 
 muddy cascades from what had been her Paris 
 bonnet. The poor lady became a source of art- 
 less glee. Crew and longshoremen cast off mer- 
 rily. Veiled pilgrims from the Holy Land were 
 still enjoying the memory of her misfortune, and 
 chuckling, long after Pharos and Pharallon had 
 sunk in the horizon. 
 
 Leonard found the voyage a disappointment. 
 After the hot, dreamy azure of the Red Sea, 
 Mediterranean water seemed dark, bleak, and 
 chilly. Across this old route of the Roman grain- 
 ships came biting winds, like those loosed on the 
 Trojan fleet, — his former schoolbook enemies, 
 Eurus, Notus, Africus all together, more fresh air 
 than he had bargained for. Aquilo or something 
 worse blew from the Adriatic mouth, when all 
 hands took to the smoking-room and shivered. 
 Below in the doctor's cabin he enjoyed the com- 
 pany of a third-class passenger, an old Ncstorian 
 
FERN SEED 7 
 
 monk, whom he treated to Gragnano and Flor 
 de Dindigul, and who treated him to many hours 
 of profitable talk. 
 
 Naples drew near from the sea one morning 
 early as a cold amphitheatre of whited villas. Its 
 welcome took the form of a printed order, dis- 
 tributed with care by men in uniform, command- 
 ing every stranger to report himself daily for ten 
 days. 
 
 "I haven't any plague," said Corsant. "Be 
 hanged if they keep me down here to freeze.'* 
 
 His friend the monk smiled. 
 
 "Your blood has grown thin in the tropics. 
 Not so thin as mine. Helas, beaux jours perdus! 
 — Go then, my boy, in God's name. But do not 
 leave them your next address." 
 
 Leonard took this good counsel, carried the 
 old man off for forty-eight hours of happy moon- 
 ing through Pompeii, shook hands, parted, and 
 climbed into a north-bound train. He was now 
 quite alone in the world, with time to waste and 
 nothing to do. 
 
 During some years of hard work, he had cher- 
 ished the dream of another Italian holiday; but 
 now that it came true, he found the thing less free 
 and glorious than what his fancy had painted. 
 Moving from one set of obscure lodgings to an- 
 
8 FERN SEED 
 
 other — to make his money go as far as possible — 
 he learned that bed was the only warm place, for 
 him, in Italy. But then, fleas loved this haven also. 
 Thanks to a Chinese boy in Hong Kong, Leonard's 
 only great coat was travelling round by sea to 
 London. He made light of such trifles, and per- 
 severed; yet even his long walks by day, pilgrim- 
 ages on foot to the most lovely sights, became 
 little by little overcast and saddened. He had 
 too much of his own company, was always cold. 
 
 One evening in Santa Maria Novella he sat 
 as long as he could sit with a dark, hushed, humped 
 little crowd, looking out from mysterious gloom 
 to where the altar floated in a haze of candlelight 
 and of young voices singing. The contrast moved 
 him, touched him within like an allegory of our 
 poor human-kind. He would have stayed there; 
 but the mortal chill of the church had crept into 
 his bones, and drove him away. As he went 
 quietly out, through the vast empty rear of the 
 darkness, a man, a shadow leaning on a pillar, 
 turned to look at him. Leonard caught only a 
 passing impression that the movement was quick 
 and stiff. He thought no more of it. 
 
 "Well? To bed with the fleas again?" he asked 
 himself, outdoors. "No, by gum. This is bad. 
 A real go of the waggles I" 
 
FERN SEED 9 
 
 His body shook, his teeth chattered. Slapping 
 himself like a teamster, he crossed the piazza by 
 starlight, and hurried down a narrow street, to 
 find some refuge, osteria, trattoria, wine-shop or 
 eatlng-den, whatever might first appear. For some 
 time he found nothing. The way was empty, dark, 
 a rift among mediaeval shadows. When at last 
 a pair of windows gave light, ahead, their panes 
 all steamy with warmth inside, he turned toward 
 them, opened the door between, and entered. 
 
 It was a dingy little old restaurant, a narrow 
 room which in those days before the war ran 
 through cat-a-corner from Sword Street to Sun 
 Street. A dingy little old waiter leaned against 
 the wall as though put there and abandoned like 
 a worn-out umbrella. If alive, he was the only 
 living creature to be seen. Leonard had chosen a 
 table nearest the source of heat — a cavern-mouth 
 that breathed out greasy kitchen odors — and had 
 settled himself on a bench, before the old solitary 
 moved or so much as blinked. 
 
 "Good evening,'* said Leonard. "Something 
 hot, if you please." 
 
 The waiter slowly detached his back from the 
 wall, and came forward mumbling excuses: 
 
 "The cook has gone home in rage, sir. A 
 maledicted cook, who made asseverations . . ." 
 
lo FERNSEED 
 
 Then, as he became aware that his guest sat shud- 
 dering, his aged eyes grew bright, shrewd, kindly. 
 He stopped his apology, to cry one compassionate 
 word: 'Treddor 
 
 With that he darted into the kitchen, made a 
 great clatter, and quickly burst again from the 
 darkness, running with a tumbler, a black bottle, 
 and a copper kettle that steamed. 
 
 "Prompt and intelligent cuss,'* quoth Leonard. 
 In more polite phrases, he begged the man to get 
 another tumbler and share his toddy. 
 
 "Oh, sir, you are too kind," was the reply. "I 
 could not think of doing so." 
 
 The poor old chap was both surprised and 
 frightened. Leonard had an easy way with him, 
 however, and soon the pair were hobnobbing over 
 Gorgonzola verde and a good round loaf of bread. 
 Chills vanished, likewise formality. The talk 
 passed from weather and hard times to politics, 
 then to warfare and memories; for this dried little 
 ancient with his nut-cracker face and beady eyes, 
 had tramped as a boy soldier of Garibaldi's, and 
 plainly a good one. With all the shop to them- 
 selves, they took their ease, found each other ex- 
 cellent company, and held a humble revel. 
 
 "You like that story, sir?" 
 
FERN SEED ii 
 
 "I do, I do I" cried Corsant, leaning back and 
 wiping his eyes. "But it hurts to laugh so.'* 
 
 *'Then, sir, I will tell you a yet more comical. 
 At Orte were three sisters ..." 
 
 Just then the Sword Street door quietly opened. 
 A man came in. 
 
 The laughing veteran sprang up, drew away, 
 and as though by a trick on the stage, faded shriv- 
 elling back into a sad old waiter. 
 
 He who caused this transformation paid it no 
 heed, but stepped down into the room and looked 
 about scornfully. He was a lusty blond young 
 man, handsome after a fashion which, thought 
 Leonard, was too professionally male. His Eng- 
 lish clothes fitted him too well, tighter than need 
 be, and set off a muscular body powerful enough 
 for an athlete's, but not loose enough. 
 
 *'Good evening to you," he said in English. 
 
 Leonard returned the wish. 
 
 The stranger paused by Leonard's table. He 
 was smiling, but his eyes remained too pale and 
 cold. 
 
 "We always meet in odd places, don't we?" 
 He spoke affably. His bass voice came from the 
 throat and seemed to roughen It. "I shouldn't 
 quite think you'd care for this, though. There are 
 plenty of good beer-halls.'* 
 \ 
 
12 FERN SEED 
 
 Corsant, when ruffled, had a sleepy way of look- 
 ing at you. When angry — as a friend of his ex- 
 pressed it — his face died. Now he looked no 
 more than sleepy. 
 
 "It does well enough, thanks," he said. "I 
 can't recall any other places where we had the 
 pleasure?" 
 
 *'0h, just as you like.'* The stranger laughed. 
 Then, having turned to see that the servant was 
 beyond ear-shot, he laughed again, and bent across 
 the table. "I do not scrape friendship. But 
 we're off duty, eh? One good turn deserves an- 
 other, and I thought you might like to know that 
 they are after you." 
 
 Leonard had forgotten all plagues of Egypt 
 and all quarantine documents. Now he remem- 
 bered. This warning seemed freely enough given, 
 and probably true ; still he did not like the giver, 
 or the accompanying sneer of condescension. 
 
 "Oh. Much obliged," said he. "Let 'em 
 come." 
 
 The light-colored eyes flashed down at him bale- 
 fully. 
 
 "Good. We are even. I leave you to-— your 
 friend." 
 
 Removing his hat stiffly, the man swung round, 
 marched rather than walked past the waiter — 
 
FERN SEED 13 
 
 whom he Ignored as from a height — and so went 
 out by the other door into the darkness of Sun 
 Street. 
 
 ''Whowashe, Gino?" 
 
 The waiter thawed, became human again, and 
 flung off a most inimitable farewell with his hands. 
 
 "Ah, that brute! Ah, that white-eyed vassal! 
 I nev^er saw him before, sir." 
 
 "Nor I," said Leonard. 
 
 He was not so sure; that stiff wheel, and turn 
 of the back all in a piece, reminded him how some- 
 one had watched him go out of church. 
 
 "For all his garments and his altitude," said 
 Gino, grinning, "he behaved as one in a hurry. 
 No repose. Why fluster so grandly? Why should 
 one hurry, sir? The man cannot consume the 
 time, no: the time consumes the man." 
 
 Corsant agreed. 
 
 "You speak like Horatlus Flaccus. Have we 
 any more hot water? If so, the evening Is young. 
 — Come, sit down, and let us finish that yarn of 
 the Three Sisters." 
 
II 
 
 Being a young man who took things as they 
 happened, and like John Silver "kept company 
 very easy," Leonard soon forgot these adventures 
 in travel. Nothing came of them, except a long 
 illness after his chill. He spent some weeks abed 
 in France — dreary weeks, exceeding lonesome — 
 and reached England later as a pale, thin con- 
 valescent, hollow about the eyes and tottery on 
 the legs. 
 
 To get well, he made straight for the country. 
 More than once in childhood his father had told 
 him if ever he should visit England, he must go 
 search out a little old village near the sea. 
 
 "Our people came from there, or close by," his 
 father had said. "We^U have to see the Devil's 
 Nose together, and pass through it for luck, my 
 boy. We need to freshen ours. A couple of cen- 
 turies gone, I daresay, since one of us did it. 
 Some day we'll go there on pilgrimage." 
 
 These dark sayings took a child's fancy at the 
 14 
 
FERN SEED 15 
 
 moment, lay in the same storeroom with other 
 memories, bits of old tales, fairy books, things 
 imagined, or facts mysterious because half under- 
 stood, and so to the young man had sometimes a 
 trace of their faded color and fragrance. Leonard 
 had made of his father a legendary hero, power- 
 ful, gentle, with dark blue twinkling eyes, — a 
 form surrounded by the bright mist of early adora- 
 tion. They two had never gone on any pilgrim- 
 age. But as a grown man, without living kindred, 
 he had once or twice vaguely meant to do, some 
 day, what his father proposed; if only as a pagan 
 rite, the pleasing of a shade. Always before in 
 England he had been kept too busy. 
 
 "A sick man," he thought, "has no right to 
 bother his friends. So now's a good time. The 
 little old place, whatever it's like, duller the better, 
 will do for ^loungin' round and sufferin'.' The inn 
 is called Merle's, I see. Wire for a room, and 
 ask to be met. We'll go down; as father said, 
 for luck." 
 
 He went, therefore, alone. The month was 
 May, the journey an afternoon dream of green 
 fields gliding past, lovely to a sick man's eyes, and 
 to his mind one drowsy comfort that promised the 
 return of health. Towards evening, at a tiny 
 station under a hawthorn hedge, he stepped from 
 
i6 FERN SEED 
 
 his compartment into a brisk yet mild air smelling 
 of green grass and the sea, and a light that spread 
 as from vast distances unconfined yet softly tem- 
 pered and brooding. 
 
 An old man peered at his face, nodded without 
 a word, and taking his kit-bag, led him behind the 
 hedge, where stood a shaggy moorlandish pony in 
 a cart. Leonard climbed slowly to a seat; the 
 old man hopped up nimbly; the pony jumped and 
 started off trotting with wild and fitful ardor. 
 
 Up-hill, down-hill, by roads or lanes always 
 deep-sunken between hedge-banks, they jogged 
 rattling. Now and again, side-wise through the 
 gate of a field, or forward from some height, 
 Corsant caught brief glimpses of the landscape: 
 rolling hills all patchworked in great squares, rich 
 green, pale green, bright red, and where young 
 wheat had but started, faint rose-and-green as 
 changeable as taffeta. But chiefly the way wound 
 along in secret, hidden by wild-flower banks and 
 hedges, a dusky tunnel under the trees. 
 
 In one of its darkest hollows, the driver halted 
 his pony. 
 
 He said nothing, but sat and waited. Corsant 
 did the same. A minute or two passed thus. 
 
 On their right hand, the tangle of thorns and 
 beech was broken: two stone pillars, with chains 
 
FERN SEED 17 
 
 hanging between them, stood in a gap, through 
 which Leonard saw garden borders, shrubs, and 
 deeper within, half hidden, the windows of a dark 
 stone house. The place seemed empty and 
 neglected. Red valerian ran wild there. 
 
 'Well?'* said he at last. 
 
 Turning, he caught the driver's eye for the 
 first time, and only for an instant. There was 
 an odd look in it : something like respect, sympathy 
 even, mixed with shrewd understanding. 
 
 "Why, sir," replied the old man. "The chains 
 are locked, sir." 
 
 "Oh? Is this the inn?" 
 
 A quick side-glance, that began to be a stare, 
 was the driver's answer. Then he corrected 
 himself, and sat as before, watching the pony's 
 ears. 
 
 "You wish to go to the inn first, then, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir." The man gathered his reins, 
 and drove on. "I misunderstood, sir." 
 
 They jogged in silence down a hill and up an- 
 other, turned left at a cross-road, turned right 
 where many lanes met, and so went twisting 
 through a green labyrinth where twilight fell. At 
 last, about lamp-lighting time, they descended a 
 short curving street lined with thatched cottages, 
 
i8 FERN SEED 
 
 in the lower end of which their pony halted with- 
 out command. Here the driver hopped out, un- 
 loaded Corsant's bag, and guided him through the 
 gate of a small garden to a lighted doorway. 
 
 Inside the house, a stout old woman carrying 
 a lamp greeted him kindly. 
 
 *'Good evening, sir." Her voice was pleasant, 
 her florid face all a broad smile of welcome. 
 While she added some speech about dinner and 
 bed,~an aged white bull-terrier coasted round her 
 skirts, approached In purblind fashion, and sniffed 
 the stranger's legs. 
 
 Afterward, at table, she stood beaming covertly 
 on him as he ate. 
 
 "Fm sorry my husband made that blunder, sir,'* 
 she said. '*It was a pity to take you out of your 
 way; but he thought you might wish to . . . " 
 She stopped, then changing and picking her words 
 carefully, concluded: — "might care to look about 
 you a bit." 
 
 Being drowsy and tired, Corsant answered at 
 random. 
 
 "Oh, it's all right, Mrs. Merle.'' He stifled 
 a yawn. "An excellent dinner. I foresee this 
 house of yours is the place for a man to get well 
 in." 
 
FERN SEED 19 
 
 "I hope so indeed, for you, sir," she replied 
 heartily. **I do indeed, I assure you." 
 
 They were very friendly persons, he thought. 
 Going upstairs early, he found his groom of the 
 pony was now groom of the chamber, for by pleas- 
 ant candle and hearth light, old Merle, with a 
 brass warming-pan, stood caressing the sheets in 
 a vast Pickwickian bed. This ancient seemed as 
 wiry and nimble, but silent, indoors as out. To 
 a mild question if the room needed so much 
 stoking, he listened firmly, replied in brief: the 
 night air was poison, sir; and so took his leave, 
 with respectful wishes. " *The love that follows 
 us sometime is our trouble,' " thought Leonard; 
 but he waited till the old man went downstairs be- 
 fore hauling the fire apart and opening his win- 
 dows. For a while he lay watching the stars 
 through a frame of dark leaves and vines; then, 
 to the hushing voice of the sea behind some hill, 
 and the squeak of a churn-owl weaving nocturnal 
 spells round and round the house, he fell asleep 
 greatly contented and at home. 
 
 The weeks that followed made his content all 
 the deeper. When rain lashed the windows, and 
 the elms tossed, and hidden seas rumbled in the 
 distance, he lounged by the little parlor fire, read- 
 ing, smoking, dozing like the Fat Boy of Dingley 
 
20 FERNSEED 
 
 Dell; while the old white bull-terrier snored on 
 the hearth, a coffin of a clock ticked solemnly, 
 blinking its brazen eye at him, and a bullfinch in 
 the kitchen piped a few notes, forlornly sweet, 
 during the pauses of the wind. He was the one 
 guest there, alone like a single passenger at sea. 
 Mrs. Merle and her husband he seldom encount- 
 ered, for they not only took care that no one else 
 disturbed him, but kept themselves remarkably 
 out of the way. In fine weather — it soon turned 
 fine — he went outdoors so early and returned so 
 late that of the village people he saw, as it hap- 
 pened, little or nothing but a face here and there 
 at a window. His first walks led him toward the 
 sea, along high cliffs, to He sheltered by the dark 
 spines and gold of gorse, and from a green preci- 
 pice edge to look down on sparkling water, head- 
 lands that slanted away each to its **parson and 
 clerk" pair of outermost crags, and far-curved 
 surf, white streaks that seemed motionless in the 
 distance. Mild air soothed and healed, the sun 
 tanned him like an Indian. 
 
 A fortnight of this life saw him well. He began 
 to scour the country, taking walks that grew 
 longer and longer, setting out at sunrise, returning 
 at dusk, with a stride that never tired any more. 
 
FERN SEED 21 
 
 a giant appetite for Mrs. Merle*s gooseberries 
 and clotted cream. 
 
 One noonday, being far afield, both hungry 
 and thirsty, he entered a quiet little town which 
 sweltered at the bottom of a valley. Its thorough- 
 fare was empty and hot. From glaring cobble- 
 stones he stepped into the darkness of an old 
 coaching inn, the White Hart. Here a dismal 
 waiter brought him cold veal pie, strong beer, 
 sweating cheese, and angrily green gherkins. 
 
 "Haven't you any . . . lighter trifle?" asked 
 Leonard. 
 
 The man struggled with his grief awhile. 
 
 "Fll ascertain, sir,*' he replied without hope. 
 "It's not likely, but cook mi^ht have made trifle.'* 
 
 "Good Lord, no!" said Corsant in haste. 
 "These will do very well." 
 
 In that close heat, they were formidable. He 
 made the best of it, however, and attacked them 
 with care. The room was cool, though mouldy. 
 He ate alone, but through a glazed partition could 
 look into the aged coffee-room, where two persons 
 sat talking. One was a tall, black-haired man 
 with a bass voice ; the other, hidden by his broad 
 shoulders, a girl. 
 
 "No, miss, that colt was a chestnut . . . 
 You're thinking of the brown filly . . . No, an- 
 
22 FERNSEED 
 
 other trace altogether ... At Newbury In the 
 eighties, before you were born ..." 
 
 "Why, George, what are you saying?" came 
 the girPs voice. "It's not often one catches you 
 in the wrong." 
 
 "Not on that point, thank you, miss," replied 
 the bass, quietly stubborn. "Now, go back as far 
 as Ormonde's year ..." 
 
 The girl interrupted again. Leonard caught 
 only a few of their words, but knew that they 
 were discussing horses, and gathered that the girl 
 upheld her end of the argument. Some wild 
 country tomboy, he thought; a type which he had 
 seen before, and disliked: loafing in a dingy bar, 
 smoking with men, talking slang, airing her world- 
 liness. 
 
 Presently the man laughed at something, and 
 leaned back. Over his shoulder, the girPs face 
 appeared, smiling. It was not at all the face of 
 a tomboy: mischievous Indeed and young, but 
 even in that shadowy den, alight with intelligence. 
 Her eyes, large and black, were looking straight 
 in through the dusty window-pane. 
 
 "Why! There " 
 
 She sprang up from her chair, and stood for 
 an instant leaning forward, her face wonderfully 
 brightened, her lips (Corsant had time to mark 
 
FERN SEED 23 
 
 what a clear red they were) parted in surprise. 
 Next moment she had sat down, hidden again be- 
 hind her companion. 
 
 "That was extraordinary I For half a second, 
 you know, I thought ..." 
 
 The rest Corsant did not hear. But the man, 
 who had neither turned nor moved, except to 
 glance up at her, presently replied: 
 
 "No. He won't be here for another week, miss. 
 1*11 try to have everything ready as youM like it." 
 
 **It is now, George. YouVe quite splendid," 
 said the girPs voice. "I was and am delighted." 
 
 Soon afterward, through the glass, Leonard 
 saw them rise and go, the tall man following 
 her with unstudied though evident respect. She 
 herself was fairly tall; both were slender; and in 
 their easy, outdoor way of moving they seemed 
 vaguely alike. When they had vanished, a clack 
 of hoofs and rattle of wheels on cobbles passed 
 down the street and left it sleeping. 
 
 Leonard continued to stun his appetite with the 
 cold leaden pasty and discolored cheese. They 
 seemed worse than before. 
 
 "Wonder who she thought I was?" He mused 
 at the dingy window-panes, as if behind them 
 something of her brightness lingered. "Shouldn't 
 mind being the right chap." 
 
24 FERN SEED 
 
 That afternoon he walked some fifteen miles 
 more, homeward roundabout. He went slowly, 
 for the green sunken lanes held much heat and 
 little stir of air; but their hedgerow banks impris- 
 oned the sight only to enrich it. Wild flowers — 
 campion, violets, snitchwort, herb robert — filled 
 the grass and lined both sides of the road higher 
 than a man's head. On a hilltop he paused, to 
 catch the draught of soft sea breeze and hear a 
 pair of skylarks. 
 
 "She was mighty pretty," he thought; and be- 
 coming aware that he thought so, was surprised 
 at his own irrelevance. "What! Running in my 
 head, is she? What for?" 
 
 He went on down hill. These walks began to 
 be tiresome. 
 
 In the Pickwickian bedroom at Mrs. Merle's 
 that evening, he found his wash had come home 
 again. Once before the wrapping had been writ- 
 ten on: "For Lieutenant Corsant"; now the in- 
 scription ran — "For Captain Corsant," and under 
 the twine someone had stuck a nosegay of wall- 
 flowers. 
 
 "Going up in the world," thought Leonard. 
 "If promotion keeps on, they'll have me the Very 
 pattern of a modern Major-General.' " 
 
FERN SEED 25 
 
 He put the wall-flowers in a glass of water, and 
 stood enjoying their fragrance. 
 
 "Mighty pretty/* said he. "As good In profile 
 as she was full front." 
 
Ill 
 
 Curved gables of tawny-gray thatch across the 
 street, tree-tops behind them where rooks flut- 
 tered and cawed, shut off all view of the river. 
 To see it, the nearest way led through a lane 
 past the blacksmith's. A small tidal stream, curv- 
 ing between two broad low hills, it ran deep with 
 the ebb and bent round a crag Into the hidden sea ; 
 with the flood. It crept up shallow, pale, spreading 
 inland among green wooded points and fields whit- 
 ened by daisies. 
 
 Young flood had set in, grown toward half tide, 
 as Corsant went down the lane. 
 
 *'Good morning, sir," called Peacock the black- 
 smith from his cavern. A big, swart man, he 
 grinned, and saluted with his hammer between 
 blows. "Fine day!" 
 
 In the darkness an old white pony stood half 
 asleep, with a tool-box under his heels. Perched 
 on the edge of the water tub, a long-legged man 
 sat and played with a rasp, brooded, or thought- 
 
 26 
 
FERN SEED 27 
 
 fully gosiped, while Peacock bent a horseshoe, 
 the soft red iron muffling the ring of his anvil. 
 
 "A very fine day/' said Leonard. 
 
 The bitter smell of burnt hoofs drifted after 
 him, in the sunlight and hawthorn shade. A wall 
 crossed the foot of the lane; a stile mounted the 
 wall; and beyond these a path descended green 
 fields to the river. Near the stream Leonard 
 turned and looked back as though someone called. 
 No one had made a sound; but far up hill by the 
 blacksmith's door two small figures stood watch- 
 ing him, — the aproned Peacock and his taller 
 gossip. Though distant, they had somehow the 
 air of men watching long and sharply. It was 
 not Peacock, but the other, who raised one arm 
 overhead and waved a genial flourish. 
 
 "Strangers in these parts," thought Leonard, 
 "must be a rare sight." 
 
 He answered the flourish, turned, and struck 
 into another footpath which rambled along the 
 river bank. Passing behind a screen of branches, 
 he caught his last glimpse of village and lane. 
 The two little figures remained there still, watch- 
 ing him go out of sight. 
 
 "This IS a good time," he reflected lazily, "to 
 try father's project. We'll walk through the 
 thirles, and freshen our family luck.'* 
 
28 FERN SEED 
 
 But the sea, when he climbed round its barrier 
 crag at the river mouth, did not favor this plan. 
 The lonely curve of yellow sand was narrowed, 
 as if drawn taut, by incoming tide ; a great azure 
 pool, fordable, yet holding infinitely deep reflec- 
 tions of summer cloud, poured smooth across it 
 into the river; and though everywhere alongshore 
 the water line lapped nearer in tiny waves that 
 glittered and sank almost foamless, white-caps 
 were bursting round the rocks beyond. A hun- 
 dred yards out, black, ugly, pierced by two fan- 
 tastic arches, towered the Devil's Nose. 
 
 "No walking through that for a while." 
 
 The dark surf-worn pinnacle stood ringed with 
 spray, which gleamed as it came surging through 
 the two holes, veiled their shadows half-way up, 
 fell, and spouted landward into sunlight again. 
 The rock sneered at this peaceful shore, thought 
 Leonard, like a reminder of evil fury hidden and 
 disguised. 
 
 "You might swim through it." Basking on 
 warm sand, he dallied with the notion. "Why 
 not? Rather fun." 
 
 No breath of air stirred, but the waves in the 
 thirles maintained a hissing roar, continuous, like 
 winds tearing through a forest. The longer he 
 heard, the less he liked it. 
 
FERNSEED 29 
 
 "Well, by George!" He sat up, angry. 
 *' Where's your nerve gone? Turning Invalidical, 
 eh? We'll see about that!" 
 
 The beach was then, as on all his former visits, 
 deserted. He pulled off his clothes, and ran down 
 naked into the sea. 
 
 "Here goes for luck." 
 
 After his first plunge, the water seemed glori- 
 ous. He shot forth into a region of fresh life, 
 with body and mind rejoicing, the world growing 
 young to eyesight cleared by sea magic. A good 
 swimmer, Corsant put his power into a few 
 strokes, found it all there again ready at call, and 
 then went romping forward, burying his face for 
 mere wantonness, and staring down through the 
 cool green void where sunshine faded into quiv- 
 ering mist and network shadows. A cold streak 
 suddenly checked this play. He roused, and 
 glanced ahead. It was not a streak: he had left 
 the tempered surface water behind, and now swam 
 in a chill ocean current, near the rock. Green 
 hollows round him began to seethe white. 
 
 "Roughening up a bit," he said. "Right. Now 
 we come to the pretty part." 
 
 Viewed at close range from sea level, the rock 
 drew aloft, magnified itself, and became wonder- 
 fully grim. The splintered spire, jagged from 
 
30 FERN SEED 
 
 top to bottom with lumps and crockets; the two 
 wild arches that dripped, yawned, sucked in wave 
 after wave to fling it out like snow and thunder; 
 the base, carved by ages of storm: all these de- 
 tails and the gloomy color gave Corsant a strange 
 uneasiness while he gathered himself for the tussle 
 and steered cautiously into the foam. No wonder 
 this thing bore the devil's name. It resembled 
 the stump of some gothic ruin, some unholy church 
 blasted and driven into the sea. 
 
 "Well, Old Man," cried the swimmer, "if this 
 is your belfry, Vm going plumb through like a 
 bat." 
 
 It seemed to lurch and rush toward him, roaring 
 an answer. Leonard chose his moment, whirled 
 into the right-hand arch on a retreating slope, 
 was deafened with bestial throaty noises, dove un- 
 der the next wave, and came up treading water 
 in the sunlight. He caught breath, shook the brine 
 from his eyes, and saw looming above him the sea- 
 ward front of the rock, uglier than Its back. He 
 had performed half his journey; but that swift, 
 violent passage had beaten out of him all the 
 fun, all the high spirits, all desire to boast. He 
 dreaded the return. Those booming, wallowing 
 holes were loathsome. 
 
 "Get it over with." 
 
FERN SEED 31 
 
 A ridge of surf slapped him across the face, 
 left him blind, choking; and even while he fought 
 for air and light, another ridge heaved him up, 
 coiled round him, and flung him sidelong. As 
 through green glass that suddenly blew up into 
 lather, the central column of the rock rushed by- 
 like a prow. It grazed his left side. Then came 
 darkness, a prolonged hissing, the cough and spew 
 of a glutted abyss. In which malignant forces 
 mauled him, churned him round and round; and 
 then a hollow crash, with a flare of soft light in- 
 side his head. 
 
 "Busted I" 
 
 How long he remained half stunned, Corsant 
 never knew. He must have gone on swimming, 
 for he woke to find his limbs in motion, the water 
 still and warm, the shore not far away. Water, 
 sands, hill-tops, and sky reeled in a colorless glare. 
 His skull ached. 
 
 "Wah I Sounded like the sea-serpent gargling !" 
 
 He crawled up the beach, to lie by his clothes. 
 Forty winks and a sunbath would restore him. 
 As the pain gradually left his head, he dozed and 
 began to smile. 
 
 "Wonder what dad would think of that per- 
 formance? — WeVe been through, anyhow. First 
 
32 FERN SEED 
 
 time in a couple of hundred years. Did our part. 
 Now bring on your good fortune." 
 
 Sitting up, no worse but for a lump over one 
 ear, Corsant grinned at the DeviPs Nose. It 
 looked quite harmless and romantic, refined by 
 distance. The foam in the thirles murmured like 
 a summer breeze. 
 
 "Oh, yes, very sweet, my friend. Playing the 
 Cathedrale Engloiitie, aren't you? No go, no 
 can do. You're an old Gargling Gargoyle, and 
 a fraud. Now bring on your luck." 
 
 While thus engaged with fancies, he became 
 aware that he was not alone on the beach. 
 
 To his right near the inward-flowing river, a 
 tall man led a white pony down to wade. They 
 had come from Peacock's, of course: he watched 
 them idly. The man, stooping, bared his feet 
 and rolled his trousers above the knee. Somehow 
 the movements were very smart, very trim. 
 
 "Must be a sailor," thought Leonard. 
 
 The pony, having no use for sea water, began to 
 fight and cavort. With the same neatness, quick, 
 devoid of effort, his leader had him in belly-deep. 
 
 "No. Must be a groom." 
 
 Man and beast waded together along the shal- 
 lows, their figures — black and slender, white and 
 chunky — in sharp relief against rippling sunshine. 
 
FERNSEED 33 
 
 Leonard gazed after them dreamily, and when 
 they came ashore, sat watching the reflection of 
 their legs appear and vanish with each wave, now 
 mirrored in a glaze of sky-blue, now lost on dark 
 sand. 
 
 He had fallen half asleep, when footsteps 
 trampled near by. 
 
 "Well, sir,'* called a voice, "I see you went 
 withershins !" 
 
 It was a deep, rich voice, carrying like a good 
 actor's. 
 
 Leonard sat up again — quickly, for it was the 
 same voice that had talked horses with the girl 
 at the White Hart. 
 
 "Went where?" he said, blinking. 
 
 The tall man stood before him, holding the 
 white pony with one hand, and in the other his 
 boots tied together, crammed full of stockings. 
 
 "Withershins. Contrary to the sun." He 
 laughed, and swung his footgear toward the 
 DevIPs Nose. " 'Twas a sight for sore eyes, that. 
 I said to myself, marking how you swam, *He 
 remembers the lucky way round of it!' Yes, in- 
 deed." 
 
 Words, laughter, an ardent shining of his 
 bronze face, declared the man to be supremely 
 happy, jubilant. In his emotion was a queer trait: 
 
34 FERNSEED 
 
 namely, that he seemed to regard Leonard as the 
 cause of it all. 
 
 "Why, are you bringing me some luck, for a 
 change?'' 
 
 "Give us half a chance to, sir, and you'd seel" 
 The stranger laughed again. He was very dark, 
 with eyes like a sparrow-hawk's, humorous lips 
 that curved boldly, and a thin, thoroughbred beak 
 of a nose. Barefoot, he stood about six feet two, 
 clean and springy, in old clothes which he wore 
 as trim as a soldier. His face, his whole frame, 
 contained such energy that while waiting there, 
 quiet enough, the man appeared restless, alive with 
 flickering wildfire. "Ted Peacock said it was you, 
 passing his door. I'd heard rumors you were at 
 the inn. Didn't believe 'em till now. You sur- 
 prised us a bit, didn't you?" 
 
 He studied Corsant with a keen and cheerful 
 eye, paused, then added: 
 
 "Can't tell how glad I am, sir. It's good to 
 see you so fit; so much better than . . . than we 
 might expect, if you don't mind my speaking out." 
 
 Leonard stared up at him. 
 
 "Look here, my friend. You're mistaking me 
 for somebody else, I believe." 
 
 At this reply, the stranger's face underwent a 
 rapid and curious change. A shock, an alarm, 
 
FERN SEED 35 
 
 spread across it, the welcoming glow died In- 
 stantly, a tinge of pain troubled the eyes. Then, 
 looking grave, he turned to hang his boots In the 
 crook of his elbow and pat the old white pony's 
 neck, with the air of a man tiding over some em- 
 barrassment. When he looked round again, he 
 was smiling, but differently. 
 
 "Right If you say so.'' He spoke with a forced 
 heartiness. "I didn't mean to put my oar in." 
 
 So saying, the man shortened his grip on the 
 halter, and began to lead his drowsy beast away. 
 
 "Wait. Let's clear this up," said Leonard. 
 "Who did you think I was, please?" 
 
 The other looked back, and laughed. 
 
 "Anybody you like," he answered cheerily, as 
 though humoring a sick person. "I'll stay mum. 
 You can find me at the Ship on Ways, or a word 
 left there will fetch me." He hesitated. "Of 
 course you have your reasons for It, I know. But 
 Lord, sir, other folks could tell at a glance: 
 
 "*Corsant o' the thrulle 
 Hath lockeys crulle ' 
 
 As the old rhyme goes, made, I take it, before 
 the sea drilled the second hole clean through 
 out there. And It's true of all the fair ones. 
 
36 FERN SEED 
 
 You*d need to shave your head or buy a wig, and 
 even then " 
 
 He moved off, chuckling. 
 
 "How did you know my name?" asked Leon- 
 ard. 
 
 The dark man's face became a study, a droll 
 enigma. 
 
 "It was revealed to me in a dream, sir." 
 
 With that, he and the pony went up the beach 
 toward the river path. 
 
 "What a strange meeting! That fellow looked 
 like — somebody. Who was it? I want to hear 
 the rest of this affair." 
 
 Leonard, so thinking, rose to follow the 
 stranger, but sat down again. He remembered 
 that he was naked. 
 
IV 
 
 Later in the week, a fine sunny morning ramble 
 took him through another hamlet near by. A 
 brook ran past it, under a little old gray stone 
 bridge; the church tower, built of the same stone 
 and weathered to the same aged color, rose from 
 a cluster of cottages; and these, quiet as though 
 deserted, lay snugly in a bower of apple blossoms 
 that brightened the air. Bees hummed. From 
 the pink-tinged clouds of bloom, petals here and 
 there snowed lightly over stone walls into the lane. 
 
 Opposite the church, a whitewashed front with 
 tiny windows and low doorway bore a sign pro- 
 claiming it to be the Ring of Bells, kept by one R. 
 Grayland. 
 
 This, while Corsant paused to smell the apple 
 blossoms, reminded him of something. 
 
 "My washerwoman hangs out round here," he 
 thought. "A heavenly neighborhood. Let's pay 
 her a call, and thank her for the wallflowers." 
 
 The Ring of Bells, when he had stooped through 
 
 37 
 
38 FERN SEED 
 
 its open door, appeared silent. A dark little room 
 contained three or four chairs, a bench, some jugs 
 and bottles behind a counter, and a three-cornered 
 spittoon full of sand. By the window hung an 
 engraving, badly foxed, of some gloomy scene 
 from Captain Johnson's Lives of the Pyrats and 
 Highwaymen. The silence In this room gradually, 
 stirred with faint music, as the humming of bees 
 drifted in. Beyond the counter a passageway and 
 a back door stood open, so that Leonard, looking 
 straight through the house, could see the dapple- 
 green shadows of a garden. ^ 
 
 He knocked on the counter, and called aloud. 
 No one came or answered. While waiting, how- 
 ever, he heard movements and a voice that mut- 
 tered as in soliloquy, outside the back door. 
 
 Stepping through into the garden, he found 
 there a little old broad-hatted woman. 
 
 "Good morning I" 
 
 She seemed an odd little creature, wiry and 
 bent like a witch; perhaps deaf, for she did not 
 look up at his greeting. A few bee-hives of the 
 Cheshire pattern stood in rank under a high hedge ; 
 the light-green shade of a vast beech covered half 
 the enclosure, mingled with brightness refected 
 from a neighbor's apple trees; and aloft in the 
 warm, scented air, bees darted to and fro, glinting 
 
FERNSEED 39 
 
 like crumbs of brass. A tranquil Tityre Tu kind 
 of atmosphere, thought Corsant, brooded over the 
 place. 
 
 *'The sweet honey bees, some folk do murder 
 'em with fire and smoke," grumbled the old wom- 
 an. "Fd never the heart to do so. My pretties, 
 you won't be smothered here. No, no. They 
 make good honey and good mead; they shall have 
 good kindly care at the Ring o' Bells. 'Tis a 
 bargain, dears." 
 
 Maundering thus, she looked about her in a 
 vague, downcast way, as though perplexed by the 
 cares of age. She wore her sleeves rolled above 
 the elbows, and what appeared to be long brown 
 gauntlets. 
 
 "They do smell angry." Her dull gaze roamed 
 aloft, passing the young man without heed. "So 
 they do, but let 'em alone and they'll come home 
 to their lady queen, never you fear." 
 
 Coming closer, Leonard saw that her gauntlets 
 were of living bees. They covered her hands and 
 forearms with a crust of brown scales. On the 
 brim of her hat — a flapping wreck of straw, some 
 laborer's cast-off headgear — ^bees crawled or hung 
 in clusters like worn-out trimming. 
 
 "They know their Mother Grayland. Yes. 
 Good kindly care." 
 
40 FERN SEED 
 
 'Tm sure they do, mother," said Leonard. 
 
 The old body gave no sign of hearing, though 
 her eyes wandered over him and came down to 
 study the earth again. They were black eyes, 
 dim, smoky, sunken among the wrinkles of a 
 dark and withered face. 
 
 "Some folks do let foul brood come in, the 
 sluts." She brushed from her arms the living 
 scales, plucked them off like currants, and scraped 
 them from her finger-tips into a box on the ground. 
 *'Not I, sir. Not here. The dear honey pets, 
 no, never. Their habitations be sweet as babe's 
 breath." 
 
 Corsant watched her operations for a while in 
 silence. They were slow, fumbling, but uncannily 
 wise. Of a sudden she startled him by drawing 
 herself quickly up as if waked from a dream. 
 
 "Of course you want to try it, sir." And she 
 bobbed away toward the house, beckoning. 
 "Come in, come in." 
 
 Over her bent shoulders and the flapping hat 
 still trimmed with bees, he saw, as he followed, 
 that the Ring of "Bells had wall-flowers on its 
 roof. They blazed in the sun, a hanging garden 
 upheld by great flags of rock four inches thick. 
 
 "Sit down, sir, sit down." In her dusky room, 
 the bee-woman slipped behind her counter and 
 
FERNSEED 41 
 
 bent underneath, rummaging and mumbling. '* 'TIs 
 the best mead only, the old ancient mead, to be 
 sure. None of them can make it like Mother 
 Grayland's. No, sir. A secret. Ah, she's lots 
 of secrets In her crazy head, as they miscall It. 
 Yes, yes. A secret. And the White Ale, too; 
 who remembers the proper ancient grout for the 
 White Ale, sir? Not them who talks most. No, 
 no. But the mead now. Where Is It again? 
 Aha, here *tls. Here It comes forth from hiding." 
 
 Something clinked while the voice ran on; then 
 Mrs. Grayland crept Into view, holding a bottle 
 and a goblet. She had merely walked past the 
 counter without unbending her back, but this feat 
 made her appear more than ever like a witch, a 
 dark old crone stealing from some cave to ad- 
 minister a philtre. 
 
 "Taste that, sir, do now." 
 
 Filling the goblet carefully, she placed It by 
 him on the bench, and shuffled away. 
 
 "Thanks. To the Ring of Bells, and your 
 good health." 
 
 The glass, discolored by age or imperfection, 
 had a purple tinge, so that the mead as Corsant 
 held it between his eye and the window shone like 
 amethyst. He took a sip. It was cool, sweet, 
 very mild. He took a pull, and praised it. 
 
42 FERNSEED 
 
 "Delicious, mother. Refreshing on such a 
 warm day." 
 
 The woman perched on a stool before her 
 shelves doubled over a gloomy sibyl. 
 
 *'Any day," she muttered. "Warm or cold. 
 Gentlemen do say 'tis heady." 
 
 Corsant lighted a cigarette, and while smoking 
 and resting, drained his goblet. The room seemed 
 very cool and comfortable, quite home-like, as 
 Pickwickian as his bed-chamber at the Inn. It had 
 really been hot outside. He felt sorry for this 
 old creature, and must do something benevolent. 
 
 "The sample was good. Let me try another, 
 Mrs. Grayland." 
 
 She came round the counter again, refilled his 
 goblet, and went back to her perch. 
 
 "They say 'tis heady," she repeated. 
 
 Leonard smiled. This mead was pleasant, 
 nothing more, and his head fairly hard. Her 
 warning somehow called up a droll memory: how 
 Saint Louis gave a temperance lecture to the Sleur 
 de Joinville, Seneschal of Champagne, and how 
 that valiant worthy boasted of a large head and 
 a cold stomach, not to be overcome. It seemed 
 far-fetched, this bit of the past. He sat wonder- 
 ing why such a thing had drifted through his 
 mind, when suddenly the humor of It surprised 
 
FERNSEED 43 
 
 him into laughing. At the same moment, he felt 
 a genial, Insidious glow within. 
 
 "The combs I take, and put to them water from 
 Tobler's Well," droned his hostess, discoursing at 
 vacancy under her hat. **Good fair water, with 
 rose leaves, a little brandy, and cinnamont, and 
 secret arts. It comes out sack mead, sir, of the 
 best." 
 
 Her words ran on, endless and inconsequent, 
 like the humming of her bees in the garden. This 
 little room had grown too comfortable, too cozy 
 altogether. 
 
 '*By George, she was right!" thought Leonard. 
 "The sly old drink, it has a wicked recoil." 
 
 He had better do his errand, and get out into 
 fresh air. Pondering over this Inspiration, very 
 sagely, he roused with an effort. 
 
 "Mrs. Merle, at the inn, said my laundress 
 lived hereabout. Do you know her? She sent 
 me some beautiful wall-flowers, — like yours on the 
 roof." 
 
 He rose, and stood waiting for an answer. It 
 did not come. To his amazement, the old woman 
 slowly turned, climbed down to the floor, and 
 leaning across her counter, peered at him, her 
 eyes wild and sharp as a bird's, her face no longer 
 
44 FERNSEED 
 
 blank, but crafty, writhing with an almost terri- 
 fied doubt. 
 
 *'Is it a dream, sir?" she whispered. 
 
 Leonard stared at the transformation. 
 
 "I begin to think so,'' he replied; with truth, 
 for her mead now worked in earnest, turning the 
 whole scene merry and unreal. 
 
 Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. 
 Gripping the woodwork like a bat, she craned 
 forward to search his face. 
 
 "YouVe never young Mr. CorsantI" 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Yes, that's my name." 
 
 'The Lord be good to us !" she cried in a fright; 
 and letting go her hold, shrank backward as 
 though to run from the room. "It is!" 
 
 "Why? What of that?" said her visitor. 
 
 She remained speechless again, watching him 
 narrowly, edging toward the passageway. But as 
 Leonard — unmoved, quite benevolent in fact, and 
 rather dizzy — gave no sign that he should try to 
 corner her, she gradually took heart. 
 
 "YouVe been abroad, sir?" she ventured, in a 
 coaxing whine. 
 
 "More or less," he agreed, smiling. 
 
 "And come here, and bear me no grudge?" 
 
FERN SEED 45 
 
 Uncertain that he caught the words right, 
 Leonard was puzzled. 
 
 "Grudge? What? None in the world, mother. 
 Not a bit. Why should I?' 
 
 The landlady of the Ring of Bells fixed him 
 with a long stare, then kneading her hands to- 
 gether, began to smile darkly. 
 
 "Why should he? Hark P^ she mumbled. Her 
 smile had the cunning of dotage, and yet other 
 qualities crept into it: something shrewd, some- 
 thing bitter and regretful, something kindly. 
 "Hark to the grand nature. They all do keep it. 
 Free-handed, all, open-hearted. Why should he, 
 the poor lamb !'* 
 
 She made a step forward, paused, began some 
 awkward gesture of appeal, broke It off, and 
 stood hesitating. Under the absurd wreck of a 
 hat, her withered face drew into the oddest puck- 
 ers, and the gleam of her eyes appeared to change. 
 For a moment Leonard thought this queer old 
 body was pitying him. 
 
 "I can't bear to think of it!" she cried, and 
 turning suddenly, hobbled away down the passage. 
 "Why shouldn't he, more like ..." 
 
 What she brushed from her cheek as she went, 
 might have been a tear or a honey-bee. At any 
 
46 FET^N SEED 
 
 rate she closed the door behind her, and did not 
 return. 
 
 Moderately astonished, Corsant remained for 
 a time waiting. Among the whimsies frolicking 
 in his brain, however, came once more the desire 
 for fresh air. 
 
 " 'It is my opinion, Brother Tadger,' " he told 
 himself, " 'that this meeting is drunk.' Eh? 
 Shocking. Out you go!" 
 
 Sunshine, after that gloom in the Ring of Bells, 
 blazed white. It pained his eyes. Yet the world 
 outdoors had grown wondrously gay, filled with 
 charming details all fresh and new, a perfect 
 Vanity Fair of them outbidding one another. He 
 surveyed the street, where nothing moved but a 
 few petals that snowed, as before, lazily down 
 over stone walls. The beauty of it dazzled him. 
 He had never seen or smelled flowers like those. 
 Across the bridge, he fell into another muse be- 
 fore a gate-post, on which a family of snails had 
 gathered to sun themselves. Admirable : the very 
 marking of their shells . . . That train of 
 thought arrived nowhere. His study was never- 
 theless profound. 
 
 " *A11 in the merry month of May!' " 
 
 He became aware that he was humming rather 
 loudly. 
 
FERNSEED 47 
 
 "Oh, that mead!'* he groaned. "Plain maudlin. 
 I must walk it off.'* 
 
 He shook himself, and set forward briskly, 
 choosing a pleasant cover of green leaves where 
 a path wandered along the brook. With cool 
 sounds the water accompanied him through thick- 
 ets dense enough, quiet enough, shadow-hidden, to 
 seem the heart of a forest. Birds darted up from 
 bathing, and left tiny rings that widened on the 
 pools. He could have gone on with delight, mile 
 after mile. It was all too soon that the brook 
 ran forth into open fields, turned commonplace, 
 and stagnated as a kind of ditch between rounded 
 banks. 
 
 Yet the fields were pleasant also in their way, 
 broad green slopes to right and left, streaked with 
 misty white acres of daisies, a notch of sea water 
 sparkling at the far end. Some sheep trotted off 
 before him. 
 
 "Not so bad." Corsant followed them and the 
 sunken brook. "They grow plenty of sky round 
 here. The merry month of May." 
 
 A rough wooden bridge connected the banks. 
 Beyond it, to his left, a red flag waved limply in 
 the circle of a putting-green. A fat ewe stood 
 alone there, and bleated for her child across the 
 water. Past her the landscape ran upward in long 
 
48 FERNSEED 
 
 hollow curves, to where the top of a church towers 
 peeped over the sky-line. 
 
 "Miles of it, and nary soul In sight." 
 
 Something whizzed by his head like a bullet. 
 He dodged. 
 
 A golf ball hopped on the farther bank, hit the 
 ewe fairly in the ribs, and rebounded. She ran 
 bundling away, while the ball rolled down under 
 the bridge. 
 
 Leonard turned to see where this missile had 
 come from. On his right hand, a low but steeply 
 rounded hill rose bare against the sky. 
 
 "A good shot," he considered. 
 
 For a time nothing happened. Then over the 
 hilltop some bit of metal flashed against the sun, 
 and a man's figure heaved into view. 
 
 It was a young man. He came walking rather 
 carefully, with a limp or hobble, and used his golf 
 iron to ease himself down the green slope. 
 
The young man was alone, carried but a single 
 club, and came scanning the ground below him 
 negligently, as if not more than half absorbed in 
 his game. He wore loose old clothes of reddish 
 brown tweed. 
 
 "Good morning," said he, with a casual nod. 
 "Fll swear that was headed straight. Went off 
 clean as a chip.'' 
 
 The golfer had a pleasant voice. He was ofj 
 about Leonard's height and age, but more slen-, 
 derly built, or perhaps worn by illness, for his face 
 looked rather pale. 
 
 "A beauty. Hole high," said Corsant, and re- 
 hearsed the fate of the ball. "She's under the 
 bridge." 
 
 "Oh! Thanks. Glad I didn't hit you." The 
 man's keen blue eyes were busy admiring the 
 whole sweep of country. "Good old prospect, 
 isn't it? I'd forgotten how ripping." 
 
 He spoke half to himself, moved by, and toss- 
 49 
 
so FERNSEED 
 
 ing his Iron among daisies, climbed down the bank^ 
 Leonard retained an impression that the chap was. 
 rather handsome, and that they had met some- 
 where before. Presently, under the bridge, his 
 voice rang hollow. 
 
 "Mucky down here. Dark, too." 
 
 Reappearing for a moment, he threw his jacket 
 up beside the iron, then stooped and vanished 
 again. 
 
 **QuIte sure it rolled under, are you?" 
 
 Leonard answered this by taking off his own 
 jacket, dropping it near the other, and scrambling 
 below the far side of the bridge. Thus in a dark 
 hole the two men faced each other, bent almost 
 double. 
 
 "Your ball should be right here." 
 
 It was not, or stayed well hidden. For a time 
 they spied about In mud, watercress, footprints 
 of sheep, and cobwebby corners, all confused with 
 joggling sunlight from the brook. 
 
 "I can remember round here as a tot,*' said the 
 stranger. "AH Baba, Robinson Crusoe, and Ben 
 Gunn used this place by turns; it was Jean Val- 
 jean's sewer, one time; and old Macumazahn — 
 what's his name? Quartermain? — met some 
 frightful kind of monsters on this underground 
 river." 
 
FERN SEED 51 
 
 "Giant crabs,'* quoth Leonard. "A dead 
 swan " 
 
 "Right, by Jove !" His contemporary laughed. 
 "And the Flower of Light, and the burnt canoe, 
 and the parboiled nigger! All comes back now. 
 Alph the sacred river. Odd to think — Humph I" 
 He went on searching, then added gruffly: "Good 
 deal of water*s flowed under these old planks, I 
 fear." 
 
 Next moment he spoke again, in a different tone, 
 quickly, as though surprised. 
 
 "I say, here's a rum fancy! It strikes me — 
 Did we ever do this same thing together before 
 by any chance?" 
 
 In the half light, crouching like a pair of con- 
 spirators, they eyed each other closely. 
 
 "Why, you know," replied Leonard, "it does 
 seem, well, familiar. Can't say how." 
 
 The other nodded, slantwise, like a man 
 puzzled. 
 
 "You felt that, too? But — do you live about 
 here, by the way?" 
 
 "No," said Corsant. "My first visit." 
 
 "Ah, then we haven't," said the stranger, 
 lightly. "Curious, though. Some former Incar- 
 nation. — This mud Is hopeless. Let's give It up." 
 
52 FERN SEED 
 
 "Afraid so," began Leonard. ''No, here she 
 is. Have got." 
 
 The golf ball lay drowned at the bottom of a 
 tiny pit, one of the sheep's footprints. He fished 
 it out. 
 
 "Never fails," remarked its owner. "Many 
 thanks." 
 
 He straightened up, and brought his head, 
 sharply against their roof. 
 
 "Ouch ! — Alph the sacred river has shrunk, like 
 everything else. Bumped my stately pleasure- 
 dome, eh?" 
 
 , All this while the mead had exercised a benign 
 though failing power; it made their talk under 
 the bridge seem, to Leonard, an affair of great 
 humor, lawless charm; and now as they crawled 
 forth into sunlight, it moved him to laugh at the 
 man's words more than they demanded. 
 
 "Pleased you, did I?" 
 
 Conscious of a mild scrutiny, Leonard spokci 
 out. Something easy and frank in this chance ac- 
 quaintance drew his confession. 
 
 "Don't mind me. I took a drink back there, 
 and for some reason it turned out to be an old 
 ancient whopper. Looked tame enough, but stood 
 right up on its hind legs afterward and neighed." 
 
 The golfer picked up his iron, dropped the ball 
 
FERNSEED 53 
 
 over his shoulder, paused, and glanced round with 
 a tolerant smile. 
 
 *'It will happen to us, won't it?" he said kindly. 
 
 "It will,'' returned Corsant, "when an old 
 woman by the wayside circumvents you with 
 mead." 
 
 No sooner had he uttered these words, than 
 the keen blue eyes regarding him flashed once, 
 hardened, and lost all friendliness. Their lids 
 drooped as though weighed down by sleep. The 
 stranger's face turned scornful, then let every sign 
 of emotion whatsoever die. 
 
 "Ah?" He might have been about to answer, 
 but did not. Instead, he addressed the ball, 
 stopped, bent down, lifted it, snatched one of the 
 coats from the grass, whirled it over his arm, 
 and without a word marched angrily away, limp- 
 ing. He crossed the bridge, to follow the other 
 bank downstream. The baize-green circle of 
 lawn, where the red flag hung fluttering, he passed 
 as if it were contaminated. 
 
 "Now what on earth did I say?" Leonard 
 stared after him. "Temper? Golly, what a tem- 
 per ! And a good chap like that, none better, you 
 can see: what got into him?" 
 
 The thing outstripped conjecture. He could 
 only watch that indignant form striding into the 
 
54 FERN SEED 
 
 distance, conquering its limp, and visibly fretting 
 to be gone out of reach. 
 
 "Gave up the hole, too.** 
 
 He saw the man stop by a green-painted box, 
 tee his ball, shrug himself into the jacket, drive 
 cleanly, mark some invisible flight, and set off 
 to follow up the long field streaked with daisies. 
 His club-head twinkled in the sun. He never 
 looked back. 
 
 Puzzling over this encounter, trying to recall 
 their talk and sift out the offence, Leonard went 
 his own way down the brook. Mother Gray- 
 land's liquor ceased its inward prancing: that 
 inordinate cupful of mischief passed from his 
 mind. 
 
 **A strange kind of morning altogether," he 
 reflected. "And the wind-up strangest of all." 
 
 For coolness, he let the jacket hang down his 
 back, carrying it by one finger hooked through 
 the collar-tape. At home again, upstairs, he 
 tossed it upon his bed. That afternoon he spent 
 in Mrs. Merle's honeysuckle bower which, at the 
 far corner of her little garden, afforded a sweet- 
 smelling retirement. Nothing disturbed him here 
 but now and then a white-throat slipping among 
 the starry flowers, or darting over hedge and wall 
 with a rattle of song. His landlady's pet sheep — 
 
FERN SEED 
 
 55 
 
 once a cosset lamb, now aged and purblind — came 
 to lie down with the old white bull-terrier on the 
 grass beside his chair. In their innocent com- 
 pany, like part of an Aesop fable, he was ac- 
 customed to write his few letters, doze, read, or 
 take tea. A pocket map of the country engaged 
 him to-day: he measured with his pipe-stem the 
 scale of miles, and a crotchety line that zigzagged 
 over the green surface. 
 
 "Call it twenty-four," he thought. "Weather's 
 too fine for sitting in trains." 
 
 His pocket money had run low. The nearest 
 bank for his letter of credit was in a large sea- 
 port, distant more than two pipe-stem lengths on 
 the "reduced survey" map. 
 
 "To-morrow will be Sunday. Twenty odd 
 miles. I'll walk it: start after church and be there 
 by dinner time." 
 
 Having made so much effort, he lay back and 
 persevered in idleness. Not until evening, half 
 undressed in his room, did he bother with prepara- 
 tions for to-morrow's journey. They were simple. 
 
 "Tobacco's out. Must go buy some before the 
 shop closes," 
 
 Dressing again, Leonard caught up the jacket 
 that lay on his bed. He slipped into this garment, 
 opened the door, and suddenly halted. 
 
S6 FERN SEED 
 
 ** What's this? Growing heavier, am I? Surely 
 not since morning." 
 
 There could be no doubt about It: the jacket 
 bound him slightly in the arms'-eyes. He returned 
 to the window. By such light as came through 
 vines and elm branches, he found himself wearing 
 ruddy brown tweed, old but handsome, of an un- 
 wonted softness to the touch. 
 
 "Wrong one I" said Leonard. "It's the other 
 chap's. What a nuisance ! Drat the old woman's 
 mead! How are we to exchange back again, 
 now?" 
 
 He could not remember anything In his own 
 coat that would enlighten the golfer. Perhaps 
 these pockets might contain a card or a letter : he 
 felt through them. 
 
 "Nothing outside." 
 
 Inside, however, his fingers discovered some 
 kind of documents, which he drew out. These 
 were two : the first an old manlla paper envelope, 
 empty, and bare of writing; the second an ordi- 
 nary letter, open and addressed. Leonard, scowl- 
 ing in the twilight, read with great surprise his 
 own name: 
 
 "L. Corsant Esqre." 
 
 He stood wondering; then, to make certain, he 
 lighted a candle and read the superscription again. 
 
FERNSEED 57 
 
 The writing was good commercial hand, the name 
 plainly his own. 
 
 "May be an Introduction: a chit the man was 
 bringing, to look me up." 
 
 It was not : the thing contained only a receipted 
 bill showing that in London two days ago L. Cor- 
 sant Esqre had slept and breakfasted at a little 
 out of the way hotel. 
 
 "It's a lie and a pretty cool one," he reflected. 
 "Never heard of the place before. — Why, Mr. 
 Hot Temper this morning must have been using 
 my name." 
 
 So he said, but so he did not believe, remem- 
 bering the stranger's face and manner. Leonard 
 blew out his candle, restored the papers to their 
 pocket, leaned In the window, and thought. Mrs. 
 Merle's deliberate footsteps moved in her garden 
 below. The sound brought him inspiration. 
 
 "Why, of course. Plain as a pike-staff," 
 thought Leonard. "Fll ask her; should have done 
 it long ago. Self-evident." 
 
 He lost no more time, but ran downstairs and 
 greeted Mrs. Merle on the threshold. She was. 
 bringing her bullfinch Indoors for the night. They 
 stood and chatted for a while. 
 
 "Oh, by the way," said he. "Is there anybody 
 
58 FERN SEED 
 
 else of my name living In this part of the world 
 nowadays?" 
 
 Florid, round, cheerful and slow, the landlady 
 balanced her bird cage. It resembled her in shape, 
 like the wire model of another Mrs. Merle, doll 
 dressmaker's size, cut off at the waist. She 
 weighed his question. 
 
 "Why, no, sir. No, indeed." 
 
 Her answer left him disappointed, in the dark 
 again. She could not have understood. 
 
 "Are you quite sure of that?" Leonard per- 
 sisted. "No one else at all? There must be." 
 
 His hostess regarded him with mild bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 "Well, sir, living here all my life," she said, in 
 a wounded tone, "it's not likely I wouldn't have 
 heard. Anyone else of your name, that there is 
 not." 
 
 Leonard thanked her, left her mollified by some 
 general observations, and went out. The evening 
 sky remained bright, a pale-green splendor above 
 the trees; when he had bought his tobacco, he 
 lingered In the street to admire that slowly fading 
 hour of stillness; but he could not enjoy it, being 
 puzzled and vexed. Here he went in another 
 man's coat, with a receipt for money which he 
 had never paid, and which Involved things he 
 
FERN SEED 59 
 
 had never done. "Unless in my sleep," he 
 grumbled. It was enough to create feelings of 
 somnambulism, double existence, crookedness. 
 
 "Hold hard. IVe got it by one end, now," he 
 decided. "The bee woman was afraid of me. 
 That might be dotage. But then, our tall friend 
 on the beach, with the pony, thought he knew me 
 well. Go find him. At the Ship on Ways, he 
 said. Where the dickens is that?" 
 
 Halting, at gaze, Leonard marked how the 
 river, far down beyond fields, curved like a sickle 
 and shone like glass. The hills under which it 
 lay were melting in smoky brown shadows that 
 promised heat for the morrow. Very broad and 
 solemn the vista appeared, through this peephole 
 of a lane. 
 
 "Where's the Ship on Ways?" 
 
 One door in the lane stood open. The black- 
 smith, working late, crouched over something he 
 had carried out to finish while daylight lasted. 
 
 "Good. Peacock can tell where that is. And 
 Peacock will know our friend's name." 
 
 With that, Corsant drew near and gave the 
 smith good evening. 
 
VI 
 
 Mr. Peacock squatted on the ground, with a 
 vermilion paint-brush in his hand. Against the 
 door post leaned one great leaf of an iron gate, 
 beautifully wrought. He was busy dabbing red 
 lead on the hook of the lower hinge. 
 
 **Good evening, sir," he replied heartily. 
 
 *Tou keep open late," said Leonard. "What 
 a splendid pattern that is." 
 
 The blacksmith paused, and laid brush across 
 pot. Both men admired for a time, without speak- 
 ing, the firm yet flowerlike scrolls of the gate, 
 clean bars, curves and interlacing tendrils com- 
 bined by some hand that could lay hold of beauty 
 and strip away entangling prettiness. 
 
 **Yes, a noble piece of work, sir.'* 
 
 "Yours?" 
 
 "Well, hardly!" Mr. Peacock looked up witK 
 slow surprise. Then a grin stole over his broad, 
 good-humored face. "You must know that, sir, 
 if anybody does. Having your bit of fun with 
 
 60 
 
FERN SEED 6i 
 
 me. The hinge was broke, so George he asked 
 me to weld on a fresh pin, you see, which I did." 
 The speaker took his brush, and dabbed on more 
 red lead. "There now, she's done. 'Twill dry 
 to-morrow, ready to hang by Monday morning, 
 and George can put the black on afterwards. I 
 obliged him this far, George having no red handy. 
 I hope it suits. I hope the job Is satisfactory?'* 
 
 Leonard found himself appealed to, as judge. 
 He failed to see why, but answered: 
 
 "Entirely so, I should think. It matches the 
 upper one. Very neat Indeed." 
 
 This verdict seemed to delight Mr. Peacock. 
 His grimy countenance beamed. 
 
 "Thank you, sir. I did try to match 'em as 
 near as go." He stepped back and considered 
 his work gravely. "All mine, says you joking just 
 now. Only wish It was. 'Twould be a job to 
 take pride In. George says some old forefather 
 of his fashioned that gate, sir. But then George 
 is more'n half a gipsy, and a terrible liar." The 
 blacksmith paused, then suddenly added: "A 
 terrible liar in his humorous way, o' course I 
 mean; he's a good friend, as we both know, and 
 speaking serious they don't make 'em truthfuUer." 
 
 Corsant had never heard of their friend. 
 
 "What George Is that?" 
 
62 FERN SEED 
 
 Peacock, turning from his contemplation, began 
 to stare. 
 
 "George Grayland, sir." 
 
 "Yes? Who is he? I don't seem to " 
 
 "Lord love you I" cried the smith. Wonder 
 overcame him. Then, slowly, his eyes grew 
 troubled. On the point of replying, he checked 
 himself, bent down to recover the red lead pot, 
 and set it carefully inside the door. When at 
 last he spoke again, over one shoulder, his voice 
 was persuasive and subdued, his air of apology 
 almost coaxing. "Why, you'll remember George, 
 Vm sure. Him that was here with me, the other 
 morning, to get the old pony shod. As you was 
 passing by." 
 
 The manner of this speech, thought Leonard, 
 contained a puzzle: he let it go, to welcome the 
 matter. 
 
 "Ah, yes. He's just the boy I want to see. 
 Where's this haunt of his, again, the Ship on 
 Ways?" 
 
 "Down bel6w, by the river." Peacock rose, 
 and with a chuckle as of relief, stood pointing. 
 "It's the ferry house there, where Ashkettle's 
 daughter keeps her boats. The name's failing out 
 o' memory, nowadays. My grandfather used to 
 say they did build three four little dinky ships 
 
FERN SEED 63 
 
 there, Henry the Eight's time. Bless me, I knew 
 all along you wouldn't have forgot George. 
 You'll find him there, Saturday night." 
 
 Corsant helped to carry the iron gate into the 
 shop, and left Mr. Peacock thoughtfully watching 
 him, as before, down the lane. Dusk had fallen, 
 but not thick enough to blur the tips of bracken 
 near by, or quench the yellow embers of gorse on 
 out-cropping rocks. The river still gleamed, un- 
 der shadows now settling hard and black. Lamp- 
 light strayed through the open door of the Ship 
 on Ways, too early to shine far, soon lost on the 
 grass-grown slabs bordering the water. 
 
 Inside^ the first man Leonard saw was his un- 
 known friend George, the terrible liar. He stood 
 near the lamp, a tall handsome figure, laughing. 
 A cloud of tobacco smoke curled along the beams 
 — dark treenailed oak, Armada wreckage — close 
 above his head. Beyond in the heart of this cloud 
 sat half a dozen men with their beer. Someone 
 had just cracked a joke. 
 
 "Yes, that is so. But you don't count." The 
 tall man beguiled his audience with a wink. "You 
 came from Zennor, where the cow ate the bell 
 rope." 
 
 Whatever his retort signified, it took effect like 
 Old Grouse in the Gun-Room. Laughter, loud 
 
64 FERNSEED 
 
 and unanimous, broke out from the conclave. 
 Leonard could not even distinguish the victim. He 
 himself remained in the dusk, — unseen, he 
 thought, but before their merriment had fairly 
 begun, the tall man turned as if making a lazy, 
 triumphal exit, slipped outdoors, took him lightly 
 by the arm for a moment, and began at once to 
 walk with him side by side away from the house, 
 up the hill. 
 
 "Yes, sir. Good evening. What can I do for 
 you?'' 
 
 The man's alertness was a marvel. 
 
 "You must have eyes in the back of your head," 
 said Corsant. 
 
 "Heard you coming." His companion chuckled. 
 "I suppose you want to have a talk with me?" 
 
 They passed through leafy darkness in a gap, 
 entered a field, and paused there on open grass. 
 It was owl and bat light now, but each could see 
 the other's face dimly. 
 
 "Yes. You can answer a question or two for 
 me, if you will," said Leonard. 
 
 "At your service." 
 
 "I believe your name is George Grayland?" 
 
 "A very safe beginning," replied the tall one, 
 and laughed. Yet as he did so, his manner 
 changed. His eyes, that seemed to sparkle even 
 
FERNSEED 6^ 
 
 in that gloom, seemed also to take on a cutting 
 edge and grow hostile. Corsant felt them watch- 
 ing him, seeing him all anew, from head to foot. 
 It was an odd impression quickly past; for the 
 man continued as before, with easy good nature. 
 "Yes, Fm George right enough. — But look here. 
 We'll probably have a good deal to overhaul ; why 
 not say it in comfort and private? My time's 
 yours, of course, but I did promise to do a fool's 
 errand this evening. Up at the church. Suppose 
 we go there? Not far, you know, and questions 
 will keep." 
 
 Leonard consented. They climbed the fields to- 
 gether, and went up the lane past Peacock's by 
 early starlight. All the way Grayland talked at 
 random, in his deep and pleasant voice. 
 
 "Yes, sir, as you say, that iron gate's a fair 
 wonder. Makes their Jean Lamour grilles and 
 such look silly enough, to my mind." He dis- 
 coursed on weather, and fishing, and somebody's 
 mare who had foaled; then, as they left the vil- 
 lage below and entered a darkness where grave- 
 stones leaned, under elm branches and the stars, 
 
 he explained his errand. "I told my You 
 
 see, I promised an old woman to get her some 
 church-bell grease for an ointment. She cures 
 
66 FERNSEED 
 
 the hives or shingles with it, so they say. We'll 
 have to rob Gabriel." 
 
 At the church tower he halted, jingled some 
 keys, unlocked a door, and helped Corsant over a 
 blind step. 
 
 "You have the run of the place, then," said 
 Leonard. 
 
 "No. Fm a damn bad church-goer," sighed 
 Grayland, in the dark. "But the ringers keep me 
 as a hanger-on, of sorts; because when a boy I 
 lived once with a carillonneur in the low coun- 
 tries." 
 
 Corsant heard him groping near by. He swore 
 under his breath. 
 
 "Some fool's gone and left the candle upstairs. 
 Never mind, sir. It's plain round and round, if 
 you keep to the broad treads on the outside." 
 
 They mounted a winding stair, at the head of 
 which Grayland again jingled his keys and un- 
 locked a door. Boards groaned hollow underfoot 
 on some level place, like a platform. Then a 
 match flared. Grayland lighted a candle, and set 
 It on the floor. They stood In a loft, bare except 
 for two or three stools, a few letters or bulletins 
 framed and glazed on the walls, and bell-ropes 
 running up through the celling. 
 
 "Seven of 'em. A real good peal, first-chop." 
 
FERNSEED 67 
 
 By candle-shine the tall man might have been in 
 fact a robber, as he moved softly about, touching 
 the ropes. "Pega, Bega, Tatwin, Turketyl, 
 Betelin — those five are named like the old Crow- 
 land bells, burnt In the fire — and Gabriel here, 
 and Mary Rosamund." 
 
 He drew a pair of stools near the candle, in- 
 vited Corsant to sit, watched him do so, glided 
 behind him, locked the door, and pocketed the 
 keys. 
 
 "Gabrlers our tenor." He sat down, smiling 
 darkly. "Those are the names of the bells. Now 
 what's yours?" 
 
 The question sounded of a piece with his talk; 
 he had not raised his voice; but the black eyes 
 over the candle were sharp as a knife, cool and 
 dangerous. At their first flash, Leonard perceived 
 that he sat locked In a tower, alone with a born 
 outlaw who rather welcomed enemies. 
 
 "My name's Corsant." 
 
 "Drop it. I mean your real name." 
 
 "That's all I ever had. You can't change It 
 by blustering." 
 
 The man continued to smile. 
 
 "Look here," said he, "let's be frank and talk 
 sense. You can't carry it any further. Not with 
 me. You did look the part well enough before- 
 
68 FERNSEED 
 
 hand, In a way. On the beach, naked, yes: you 
 fooled me good. But now, no: there's not much 
 real likeness, and the game's up. Talk sense." 
 
 Leonard began to grow ruffled. 
 
 "Better give me a lead, then," he replied. "Talk 
 some yourself, and throw in a dash of civility." 
 
 The black eyes glanced what might have been 
 admiration. 
 
 "Well done. You have studied for it," said 
 Grayland. "I give you credit, friend: you caught 
 just his old sleepy look. But tell me, what is the 
 good of play-acting here ? None in the world. So 
 come, out with it Plump. Right out in daddy's 
 hand. Who are you?" 
 
 Leonard, shoving the stool back, prepared to 
 get on foot. 
 
 "Already told you," he declared quietly. "We 
 don't seem to understand each other very well. 
 If there's going to be trouble, why, let's begin." 
 
 The other made no answer for a moment, but 
 stayed at ease, leaning forward, arms across 
 thighs. When he spoke, it was with the same 
 careless mockery. 
 
 "Fighting? Well," said he, "as a rule nobody 
 has to ask me twice either. But that can wait. 
 All I have to do, mark you, is to step on the 
 candle. Once dark, and you're the cat in a strange 
 
FERNSEED 69 
 
 garret, me the dog who knows every corner of it. 
 Not fair, o* course. But your kind don't value 
 fair nor foul a dead herring." 
 
 "Go on." Leonard rose. "Blow her out." 
 Stooping, Grayland lifted the candle, but only 
 to balance It on one knee. 
 
 "Ready." His dark face brightened. "I like 
 you better for showing spunk. It underlay your 
 looks anyhow; that's what puzzled me, and does 
 yet." He paused, frowned, and changing from 
 his even tone, became deadly grim. "But youVe 
 going to unwrap me the whole rig, friend ; whether 
 we take to our hands and I beat It out of you, 
 or whether we just sit here all night, Sunday, and 
 all next week. Corsant Is my best friend. He's 
 the only man in this world could wipe his boots 
 on me If he chose. I've killed for him before now, 
 In the open, free-for-all. Last night he came 
 home. Here you sit wearing his clothes. What 
 have you done with him? I mean to know. He 
 came home on the quiet, a-purpose, and only two 
 people was to have foreknowledge. Well! In- 
 stead, you come sneaking down here, call yourself 
 Corsant at the inn, knock his plans whatever they 
 were galley-west buzzing all over the village, and 
 . . . Why? You'll tell me why, if we have to 
 hang you on a bell rope and scorch the flat of 
 
70 FERNSEED 
 
 your feet black. Vm the boy to do dirtier worK 
 than that for Laurence Corsant." 
 
 His hearer suddenly laughed and sat down. 
 
 "AlFs well, old man. The fight's off. I never 
 mentioned it." 
 
 Grayland's eyes narrowed like a cat's. He 
 seemed poised for action, wary of this quick sur- 
 render. 
 
 "You never mentioned what?" he drawled. 
 
 "The name Laurence. Because why, mine hap- 
 pens to be Leonard." 
 
 Across the dark man's countenance there swept 
 conflicting emotions, half hidden like rioters in 
 smoke: anger, disbelief, surprise, and a kind of 
 welcoming wonder. 
 
 "By the left hind leg o' the " He com- 
 pleted some tremendous oath in a whisper, and 
 put his candle on the floor again. "Back from 
 over the water! Leonard. American?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Return, ye children o' men! I might have 
 known. — ^What brought you here at this time?" 
 
 "Accident. Whim," said Leonard. "On the 
 look-see. I'm sorry if it spoiled anyone's plans." 
 
 Grayland wagged his head, thoughtfully. 
 
 "You didn't swim left-handed through the Nos- 
 trils by accident," he rejoined. "Look here, we 
 
FERN SEED 71 
 
 began wrong to-night. Could feel it in the air. 
 Now let's take a clean start and go with the 
 grain." 
 
 By common impulse they shook hands. As they 
 did so, Leonard caught a passing glimpse of his 
 own head and shoulders darkly mirrored in one 
 of the glazed bulletins on the wall. He peered 
 at it, and laughed. Seen thus, crouching forward, 
 the reflection told him why the young man under 
 the bridge had seemed only part stranger. 
 
 "Your friend Laurence and I have met," said 
 he. "Perhaps you can help us change our coats 
 back." Describing their encounter that morning, 
 he suddenly remembered how much longer ago 
 and farther away his story began. "Why, of 
 course ! This accounts for the girl in Alexandria 
 who signed my name. She seemed a gay and 
 forward hussy at the time." 
 
 Grayland, hearkening wisely, nodded. 
 
 "Girls always run after Corsant. He has no 
 time for 'em. — ^Yes, he's just home from the East. 
 I was out there with him a while." 
 
 The man's eyes declared that he could say 
 much more if he chose. Instead, he waited for 
 Leonard to go on, and then sat listening like a well 
 disposed but vigilant critic. 
 
72 FERNSEED 
 
 "In Florence one night a chap came strutting 
 up to me, Prussian officer way; tall, stiff beggar, 
 pale eyes ..." 
 
 The critic suddenly took another posture, with 
 elbows on knees, forehead in one spread hand and 
 one fist. He appeared to be staring at the floor, 
 but his face remained hidden. Thus, a brooding 
 visored shape, he heard Leonard's tale of the 
 restaurant in Sword Street and Sun Street, Gino's 
 cafe. As the candle-light wavered, his shadow, 
 like that of a desponding giant, swayed on the 
 wall among the black rods of the bell-rope shad- 
 ows. He made no comment. 
 
 "Does all this bore you?" 
 
 He shook his head impatiently. 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 Not until the narrative ended with that very 
 day and morning, did Grayland rouse. 
 
 "An old woman circumventing you with mead?" 
 He looked up, his bold eyes twinkling. "No 
 wonder your cousin got the hump 1 Of all chances 
 on earth, his very first walk at home, that old 
 story to fly up in his face. No wonder." 
 
 "I don't know any old story about it," said 
 Leonard. 
 
 "Of course you don't," Grayland replied. 
 "There's the miracle." He pondered. "Well, 
 
FERNSEED 73 
 
 there. And your great great something dad's 
 sword and shooting-arms laying rusting on the 
 breakfast table. Humph! All these years . . . '' 
 
 He rose, and stood there in a brown study. 
 
 **Well, ril exchange your coats to-morrow 
 morning all right," he said at last. *Tou know, 
 Mr. Corsant, I may ask you to do me a little turn 
 some day." 
 
 **Any day you like, Mr. Grayland." 
 
 "George, please. The whole thing sounds un- 
 natural enough without that, from you, sir." 
 
 They eyed each other with great favor. Their 
 quarrel in this dusky loft seemed to have created 
 a bond. 
 
 *'0h, by thunder! Forgot my errand." George 
 swung away, grinning. "You keep the candle. I 
 can see 'em all in the dark." 
 
 He took from his pocket something white and 
 round, — an old anchovy paste jar. 
 
 "For my — for the old woman's holy ointment." 
 
 So saying, he unlocked the door by the stair- 
 head, left it open, and with a bound upward 
 seemed to vanish, until Corsant spied his long 
 legs rapidly mounting a ladder. From overhead 
 came his footsteps in the belfry. A moment after- 
 ward he dropped lightly into view once more. 
 
74 FERNSEED 
 
 "A good gob of grease from Gabriel," he 
 chuckled, tapping the anchovy pot. "Must keep 
 her happy, poor soul, if we have to rob the 
 church." 
 
VII 
 
 The service, next morning, seemed to drag. 
 Dim light, from a world hidden in fog, made the 
 windows gray but served only to deepen the gloom 
 and the stone-coldness of the church. Leonard 
 fell prey to a mood anything but devout. Every- 
 one in the village had come there to cough; the 
 parson, a worthy and even a genial fellow creature 
 on weekdays, disguised himself with a Sunday man- 
 ner like that of Cowper's "jRne puss gentleman"; 
 and when in the gloom a conscientious choir per- 
 formed the Athanasian creed, their chant seemed 
 to heave stumbling-blocks, more than were need- 
 ful, across the thorny path to heaven. Corsant 
 drove away these indecorous fancies. A crick in 
 the back was his reward, and both legs went to 
 sleep; for the pew, a narrow shelf of hard old 
 oak, cut him to the haunch-bone. He grew rest- 
 less. Moreover, Grayland had promised to meet 
 him before church, to bring his jacket, and had 
 failed. This fog outside threatened to become 
 
 75 
 
76 FERNSEED 
 
 rain. Altogether the world was too much for 
 him. 
 
 "* . . . I*d soar and touch the heavenly strings 
 
 And vie with Gabriel when he sings 
 
 In notes almost divine, 
 
 In notes almo-ost divine/ " 
 
 From some pew behind, an excellent bass voice 
 joined the hymn. Its vibration came deep, as if 
 stirring the floor. 
 
 Leonard thought he knew that voice. Later, 
 glancing round, he saw Grayland's long frame re- 
 laxed in an attitude of patience. The last man 
 in church, and nearest the door, George leaned 
 his head on the rear wall, and pointing his thin 
 beak of nose upward, dreamily studied the rafters. 
 He looked like a black wolf, too lazy to harm the 
 sheepfold. 
 
 They met outside the churchyard. 
 
 "You singing about Gabriel,'* said Leonard as 
 they walked on, "after robbing him I What were 
 you in a church for by daylight?" 
 
 "Does a man no harm to chin-chin joss now and 
 then," replied the heathen, grinning. "Got as 
 much right to sing those words as Sam Medley 
 had to write 'em. Soaring and bumping amongst 
 the heavenly strings! Put the whole orchestra 
 
FERNSEED 77 
 
 out, he might; and then it would be a medley for 
 fair!" 
 
 He stooped toward a hedge, and from a cranny 
 where no bird could have well hidden Its nest, 
 produced by some conjuring trick a parcel and 
 Leonard's jacket. 
 
 "I'll set you on your way," he continued, strid- 
 ing along with these under his arm. "No. You 
 don't often catch me there. More's the pity. Like 
 perching on a hymn book rack. Those carvings 
 amongst the roof, they do tell us a heap of old 
 things worth hearing. But then, to sing you the 
 multiplication table, believe that or be damned 
 fashion. No, no: It don't persuade a chap." 
 
 In these pagan sentiments Leonard found an 
 echo of his own. 
 
 "We think alike, George, about some things." 
 
 His companion's bright black eyes darted, side- 
 long, a very quizzical glance. 
 
 "That's good.— We ought to." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Grayland ignored the question, or failed to 
 hear. He began talking at random as they went. 
 The fog was now thinning and whitening, to lift; 
 as they crossed the river In one of Ashkettle's 
 boats, a gray disk of sun glowed high among 
 streaming vapors ; and when they had climbed the 
 
78 FERNSEED 
 
 first hill on Leonard's journey, the sea lay spark- 
 ling behind them, all the green country billowing 
 before, dappled with a few last shadows that 
 scudded inland. 
 
 "Here. Short cut." Grayland, turning from 
 the lane, struck into a foot-path traced only by a 
 wavering line on the molster grass of the fields. 
 "This will save you many a step. Eat and drink 
 first." 
 
 He chose a dry rock on a knoll, sat down, and 
 opening his parcel, brought forth sandwiches and 
 a flask. 
 
 "The grub is Cousin Laurence's," he explained. 
 "Also the whiskey: it's genuine Sma' Still." 
 
 They pledged each other and fed, with sea air 
 appetite. 
 
 "Troubled about your cousin," said the pro- 
 vider of this feast. "You saw he was lame, yes- 
 terday, and looks frail? That's where he was 
 tortured by those devils." 
 
 Corsant waited, but his friend sat brooding, with 
 dark cheeks flushed and eyes that beheld some- 
 thing evil, far off. 
 
 "Who were they?" 
 
 "Some damn tribe. A white man put 'em up 
 to it. I haven't caught that noble sport yet." 
 George spoke very softly, but his voice ached with 
 
FERNSEED 79 
 
 a passion of revenge. "There's nine or ten of 'em 
 will never torture again. We pulled their stings 
 for good. I happened to be with the rescue 
 party." He woke from musing, and ate his sand- 
 wich with peculiar tidiness, like a man who ab- 
 horred crumbs. "Your cousin labored," said he, 
 "in the vineyard of the abomination of desolation, 
 out there, alone, the God-awfullest holes in the 
 East. His work, you know, was like good house- 
 keeping: well done, you never see or hear of it; 
 undone, there's gurry all over the shop. Ay, and 
 blood too. He did more'n a dozen of your po- 
 litical agents. Unattached; not recognized; 
 couldn't be. Why, that boy," he cried in admira- 
 tion, "nobody will ever know what that boy has 
 suffered and done. The quiet little beggar, I told 
 you he could wipe his boots on George Grayland 
 any day. So he can." 
 
 The speaker jumped up, strode back and forth 
 over the grass to vent enthusiasm in action, then 
 returned and flung down on the rock again. 
 
 "I'm sorry," declared Leonard, "if my coming 
 here upset his plans at all. You said last 
 night " 
 
 "No fault o' yours,^' growled George. "It did, 
 but just by happen-so. He thought to slip down 
 here, do a flit, no one the wiser. Hadn't been 
 
8o FERN SEED 
 
 home since a kid. Well, here was you, weeks 
 ahead, taking his place blindfold, the news going 
 round from mouth to mouth. Can't be helped, 
 that's all. Fate. Luck." 
 
 "Bad luck,'' said Corsant. 
 
 ''Bad or good," was the reply. "Never can 
 tell till It plays out." 
 
 Their mound, a high point in the landscape, had 
 nothing round It but grass and open sky; not a 
 bush, not a handful of leaves anywhere near, and 
 from sea landward to the farthest hill no living 
 creature but a tit-lark that fluttered and twittered 
 In the sunshine two fields away. Yet Grayland, 
 before he spoke again, looked on all sides care- 
 fully as though in a room. He lowered his voice. 
 
 "What lays heavy on my mind," said he, "is 
 this. The pole-cat we spoke of just now, noble- 
 man who had our boy tortured and maimed, will 
 follow on down here If he's got wind. Good rea- 
 son why. Expect him any day. He's a dirty 
 fighter, and dangerous. Well, so'm I: nothing 
 would suit my book better " Grayland's pow- 
 erful and shapely hands grappled some imaginary 
 bulk, wrenched it In two, and cast away the pieces. 
 "But I can't always be on deck. And with Lau- 
 rence Corsant sick as he is, needing rest— -Well, 
 
FERN SEED 8i 
 
 I'm off. Here's your coat. That damn beast 
 may be prowlin' Vound the house now." 
 
 They rose. Leonard unbuttoned and was re- 
 moving his namesake's jacket, when suddenly he 
 stopped, and pulled It on again. 
 
 "No. Why swap?" he asked. "Here's an 
 offer. I did the damage, so give me a chance to 
 repair It." 
 
 "What do you mean? How?" 
 
 "Mr. Laurence Corsant needs a rest. Suppose 
 we let him have one. I took his place blindfold, 
 you say. Now, If he's In danger, suppose I took 
 it again for a time, blinkers off. Would that 
 help?" 
 
 Grayland stared. 
 
 "Goliath o' Oath!" he cried. 
 
 "You arid I, George, would make a strong team. 
 Me the bait, and you to land the fish." 
 
 The older man laughed. 
 
 "They call me wild," said he, "but I begin to 
 believe, alongside of you, son, I'm a fuzzy lamb on 
 wheels. Danger, yes. Come now, bar nonsense." 
 
 "You bet, bar nonsense," replied the younger. 
 "It would be larks." 
 
 "Might not." George shook his head. "You 
 run along, boy. See that gorse a-shlning on the 
 
82 FERN SEED 
 
 next brow? Turn to your right round that. Fm 
 off." 
 
 Half way down the slope, Leonard heard foot- 
 steps come flying after him. He turned, and saw 
 that Grayland's long legs could cover ground 
 amazingly. 
 
 "Bait, Fm tempted to use you." His friend 
 pulled up, and clapped him on the shoulder, grin- 
 ning mischief. "You'll hear from me to-morrow 
 or day after. If 'twill work, Fll put you on the 
 hook like old Izaak, as if I loved ye." 
 
 Turning to go, George had a second after- 
 thought. 
 
 "You'd better know, in case," he added. 
 "You'd better know. Bait, that our fish is that 
 white-eyed, wooden-jointed pike you saw in Gino's 
 cafe. Street of the Sword. So long!" 
 
 With that he set off running again, up the hill 
 as if it were level ground. On the sky-line he 
 flourished his arm in farewell, and dropped below 
 the crest. 
 
 Leonard went down alone toward his landmark, 
 the shining gorse. With no lack of thoughts for 
 company, he travelled the hillsides, now so far 
 aloft that he could count the white-washed stones 
 of the coast-guard's path like a bead necklace un- 
 strung along the cliffs, now deep in a valley 
 
FERN SEED 83 
 
 chequered with fields of pink and pale green, where 
 the air boiled quivering up the slopes. An hour's 
 walking brought him to a road that glared and 
 sweltered. The afternoon grew hot. Sometimes, 
 but rarely, he passed under shade and verdure in 
 a street of cottages, all still as though abandoned ; 
 sometimes, tearing the Sunday calm into tatters, 
 destroying a mile or two of straight solitude, a 
 motor car roared by with dust and stink ; but most 
 of the way and the country he had to himself, till 
 heat and lonesome plodding turned monotonous. 
 Once, among the endless show of hedge flowers, 
 he found some white sprays unknown to him: 
 rather pretty, he thought, like dwarf lilies run 
 wild; and while resting, he plucked and pocketed 
 a few, to show Mrs. Merle later, and ask their 
 name of that wise woman. 
 
 The tramping became more and more tedious, 
 but Grayland's short cut over grass had saved 
 many steps indeed. Well before sunset he mounted 
 a rise, and saw the ugly blotch where his journey 
 should end, — a huddle of slate roofs glowering 
 bluish under hot sunset, murky with the dregs of 
 Saturday smoke. 
 
 "Now bath and dinner." 
 
 The hotel to which he asked his way through 
 grimy streets, frowned soberly from its grand 
 
84 FERN SEED 
 
 portico, but within was all cleanliness, quiet, and 
 sober welcome. His room proved regally spacious. 
 He was the more surprised, therefore, to find 
 while undressing that it reeked with onions. 
 
 "The kitchen can't be so near? Phew!" 
 
 Leonard flung open the windows, took his bath, 
 and returning met the reek still tEere, worse than 
 ever. 
 
 "Vile! The stuff's on my clothes, too." 
 
 From his pocket he tugged a clean shirt, tightly 
 rolled. With It came tumbling the remnants of 
 those pretty wayside lilies. One sniff, as they lay 
 on the carpet, was enough. 
 
 "Wheel" Leonard gathered them gingerly, 
 and hurled them into the street. "Wild onions or 
 wild garlic. Fob I Shame on you, posies." 
 
 Laughing, he leaned out at window until aired 
 enough to go downstairs among his fellowmen. 
 From a big leather chair, sheltered by hothouse 
 fronds, he watched them while waiting for dinner. 
 Amid the usual come and go of a lobby, two small 
 children drew his attention, brother and sister, 
 both dazed by the great world, shy, and dreamy 
 with wondering expectation. They were charm- 
 ing, thought Leonard. 
 
 A voice behind the leaves caught his ear. 
 
 "Look? I toP you so. Look there. — Corsant." 
 
FERN SEED 85 
 
 He turned his head quickly. Two men stood 
 behind him, at the desk. He saw only the back 
 of the taller one, and the face of the shorter, 
 which was round, dark, and chubby. Neither had 
 spoken to him : both were looking carelessly over 
 the register, as if to pass the time. 
 
 *'Shut up, you fool. I can read.'' 
 
 They went lounging off toward the street door. 
 Leonard's ambush of leaves hung in the way, and 
 when he rose for a better view it was too late. 
 The children scampered across in that direction, 
 to twine themselves round the legs of a newcomer, 
 a handsome bronzed young sailor daddy, just off 
 his ship, who beyond a doubt was glad to see 
 them. Mother followed more sedately. 
 
 Leonard forgave the obstruction. 
 
VIII 
 
 A SOLEMN gentleman In a cage, with a brazen 
 scoop, ladled forth much money and rendered his 
 opinion that the morning was overcast. Leonard 
 accepted the opinion, weighted his namesake's 
 pocket with the money, and having thus quickly 
 finished the business which had brought him so 
 many miles on foot, began his homeward journey 
 straight from the bank door. N memorial clock 
 in a dumpy little tower, staring blear-eyed through 
 fog, rang the half hour past ten as he crossed 
 the square. Few persons were abroad. In be- 
 lated stillness and gloom, a kind of Black Monday 
 reigned. 
 
 To gain variety in his return, Leonard chose 
 another route ; but for three hours of good tramp- 
 ing he saw no more than the green borders along 
 its way, the same hedge, the same branches of elm^ 
 ash, thorn, or beech, the same margin of field con- 
 tinually repeated through a world of smoky drift 
 and dampness. At times this drift brought with 
 
 86 
 
FERN SEED 87 
 
 It a sound or two : sheep bleated far aloft, harness 
 leather creaked near by, a ploughman upbraided 
 his trampling horses, a dog barked in the dis- 
 tance, a sea-gull miaowled overhead: but these 
 evidences of life unseen came rarely, and for miles 
 together he heard nothing except his own foot- 
 steps, saw nothing to right or left beyond the 
 green edges of the void. 
 
 Early afternoon found him hungry and steam- 
 ing hot. The road plunged down some valley, the 
 narrowness of which made itself felt by a more 
 sultry moisture, and seen in patches of hillside 
 floating high through the fog. At bottom here 
 Leonard came without warning, almost between 
 strides, into another village quiet as though for- 
 saken. Midway in the street rose an elm. By its 
 trunk, less graceful but no less round and erect, 
 stood a lone figure, a constable meditating on the 
 absence of crime. 
 
 "In uffish thought," was Leonard's commentary. 
 He approached the elm, greeted the thinker, and 
 asked where food was to be had. 
 
 "Well, sir," said the constable, slowly, as if 
 revolving in his mind a Homer's catalogue of 
 taverns, "you might try the Bottle of Hay. In 
 fact, it's the only one. That little house yonder, 
 with door open." 
 
88 FERN SEED 
 
 He pointed stiffly down street, to the far end. 
 Corsant thanked him, and passed on. 
 
 The cluster of cottages hidden under green 
 leaves and gray vapor, had swum into view 
 quietly as part of a dream, and even now, though 
 plain, solid, built four-square to last, it kept a 
 dreamy old look. Sleep had Keen poured on its 
 head, an exposition of slumber lay warm on the 
 gables. Mother Goose might have lived and writ- 
 ten here, nothing happened since her time. The 
 Bottle of Hay, a beetle-browed tavern, sat squint- 
 ing down at a causeway and a veiled strip of 
 marsh. 
 
 Leonard stepped through the open door, but 
 nearly backed out again at once. After so tidy 
 a street, this interior was downright scandal. 
 Round the greasy wainscot ran a black frieze of 
 smudge where heads had lolled; glutinous rings 
 marked every table top, shining like the trail of a 
 slug; the gloom was close, hot, rank-scented, and 
 the floor swam with puddles of Saturday night's 
 leaving. 
 
 "Yes, sir." A dreary slack woman, neither old 
 nor young, dragged herself forward from some 
 lurking-hole. "Good evening, sir. What can I 
 get you?" 
 
 Leonard paused on the threshold. He took a 
 
FERNSEED 89 
 
 kind of shame-faced compassion on her at first 
 glance, a helpless being, foredoomed. Besides, 
 the next food would be some ten miles farther. A 
 long course of Chinese Inns had left him hardened. 
 
 "Whatever you have best, please." Resigning 
 himself, he hung up jacket and cap on a peg in the 
 vestibule. 
 
 By pulling the Inner door wide open, he could 
 sit behind it as in a private box, and perhaps for- 
 get the rest of the room. By pushing outward a 
 stubborn window over his head, he caught more 
 fresh air, at any rate, than had passed that way 
 in years. Tobacco ashes covered his table, but 
 he blew them away, spread an old newspaper for 
 his cloth, and sat down to swelter in patience. 
 
 After a time, he heard the woman returning. 
 
 "Here, behind the door!" he called. 
 
 "Oh, sir, I thought you were gone." 
 
 She spoke as if that would have been the more 
 natural discovery, and coming round the door, 
 brought her best into his corner. It was bad 
 cheese, worse bread, and excellent beer in a sticky 
 mug. 
 
 Leonard paid her, intending to drink promptly, 
 then carry his food along with him outdoors. The 
 woman had not dragged herself out of the room 
 again, however, before a sudden whirring noise 
 
90 FERN SEED 
 
 came rapidly down the street, grew into a sputter- 
 ing roar, and ceased abruptly. Two voices be- 
 neath Leonard's window exchanged words that he 
 did not catch, and soon afterward feet trampled 
 in the vestibule. 
 
 Remembering that his jacket hung there and 
 contained almost all his money, Leonard peeped 
 through the chink of the door. He saw two pairs 
 of khaki-colored legs go by. 
 
 "Beer," said a harsh voice in the room. "And 
 bread. And be quick about it." 
 
 Chairs creaked. A man sighed. 
 
 **Ah, comme fat soiff Bon sang, je suis tout 
 mouiller* he declared plaintively. '7/ fatit rester 
 ici pour " 
 
 The first voice broke in, growling: 
 
 ^'Tu as hien souffert, pauvre ange! Bah, fen 
 at assez, de tes malheurs, Cest le mic mac, ga. 
 Mais attention, ecoute '* 
 
 The talk flowed on, in undertones. Leonard, 
 finishing his ale, heard enough to know that the 
 accent of both men was barbarous. They could 
 not be French. It struck him as odd that they 
 should sit there earnestly employing a language 
 foreign to them both. He pressed his temple 
 against the greasy wainscot, brought one eye to 
 
FERNSEED 91 
 
 the chink of the door, and so looked through, along 
 the wall. 
 
 Facing him, three yards away, sat the little 
 chubby man who had read his name aloud from 
 the hotel book last night. The fellow now wore 
 misfit cycling garb, dust-colored, wrinkled, and 
 sweaty. He mopped his dark cheeks with a hand- 
 kerchief none too clean, and glowed like a fur- 
 nace. Of his companion Leonard could see only 
 half a shoulder. 
 
 "Missed him? Till now, yes. But he must 
 have gone this road : we tried the other far enough. 
 If we don't overtake him, what then? Keep 
 straight ahead, and be there waiting, on the 
 ground beforehand." 
 
 Thus, in bad French and always harshly, the 
 man to whom the shoulder belonged was grum- 
 bling, when some object outdoors fell with a crash. 
 
 "There goes your damned motor-cycle again!" 
 he cried. "I told you to prop it, imbecile I" 
 
 The speaker jumped up from table, and 
 marched out, cursing. A moment later he re- 
 turned, more slowly, and appeared to halt near 
 the threshold. 
 
 Leonard bent forward. Aslant through his 
 good practicable cranny he spied, in the vestibule, 
 a rather tall man angrily pulling off his coat. His 
 
92 FERNSEED 
 
 motions, though energetic, were stiff and muscle- 
 bound. While tossing the garment over a peg, 
 the stranger beheld Laurence Corsant's old ruddy- 
 brown tweed hanging there. He gave a per- 
 ceptible start, pounced on it, handled, scrutinized 
 the cloth like a tailor, then quickly turned to look 
 all about. 
 
 His face, his pale gray eyes full of shifty light, 
 were unmistakeable. Here within arm's reach 
 stood George's polecat, the man who had gone 
 sneering through Gino's cafe in Sword Street. 
 
 Next moment, cool and swift, he was rummag- 
 ing in the jacket. Leonard, with great indigna- 
 tion, saw his own belongings pulled out, scanned, 
 then by flying fingers transferred into the pockets 
 of the stained yellow coat alongside. 
 
 "Smiling, are you?'* thought the young man. 
 *Tou'll smile other side your mouth, in half a 
 
 jiffy-" 
 
 He sat still, waiting. 
 
 The pickpocket entered the room on tiptoe. 
 
 "Psst! Kamsa!" He startled the chubby one 
 with a whisper. "Our man's here, in this house !" 
 
 Leonard was quick in action, light on his feet. 
 Without a sound behind the door, he climbed upon 
 the table — the bare end, taking care not to touch 
 
FERN SEED 93 
 
 the newspaper — and wriggled through the window 
 like an eel. 
 
 "Is he, though, this man of yours?" 
 
 The street lay empty and Mother Goose-like 
 as before. Under his great elm tree the constable, 
 in profile, strictly meditated. 
 
 "Shan't disturb you, my boy. We'll do our 
 own law. Tooth for tooth." 
 
 From the doorstep he heard that pair still 
 buzzing vehemently at their table. He stole to 
 the row of pegs, reversed the legerdemain, and 
 emptied his foe's pockets. There was no time 
 for choosing of property. Leonard took all that 
 came to hand, papers, money, anything, crammed 
 it inside his shirt, took jacket and cap, and slid 
 outdoors again. 
 
 "A good row would be rather fun," he thought. 
 "I've a notion " 
 
 Just then the inner door slammed. They were 
 searching behind it, in his private box the corner. 
 He laughed. 
 
 "No, a jape. A gentle jape were best in this 
 hot weather." 
 
 Two motor-cycles leaned against the front of 
 the house. Each had as fine a leather tool-pouch 
 as man could wish. Leonard procured some tools. 
 
94 FERN SEED 
 
 He did not hurry. A deliberate humor of dev- 
 iltry inspired him. 
 
 "All my life I've longed to ruin one of these 
 beastly things." He stripped off the first saddle, 
 then the second. "No time like the present. Never 
 get such a good chance again." With a pretty 
 little spanner, he gathered a handful or two of 
 vital nuts, which he threw broadcast away. Tire 
 after tire fizzed. "It's a pleasure." 
 
 On a green bank where the nuts had scattered, 
 humble wayside lilies grew, white and fairy-like. 
 
 "Just the thing. My dear old posies. Garlic 
 and onions for dressing." 
 
 He picked a handsome bunch of them, and re- 
 turned to the door. That fellow's cycling tunic 
 had shown a rip in the lining. He found it again, 
 thrust his floral tribute well down inside, and 
 patted all smooth. 
 
 **C*est le bouquet, messieurs!" 
 
 Even then his devil craved something more. 
 He could hear a throaty voice in the kitchen, 
 haranguing or calling the landlady. It seemed a 
 pity not to improve this occasion. 
 
 Leonard clothed himself, and then opened the 
 inner door. 
 
 ^^Bonjour, monsieur." He politely doffed his 
 cap. '7/ fait bien chaud" 
 
FERN SEED 
 
 95 
 
 At the table by the wall sat his little round 
 rascal, with handkerchief now tucked like a bib, 
 under his oily chops. This, and the swaddling 
 folds of his gabardine, made him resemble a de- 
 praved infant, a dark goblin child. 
 
 "Ah, ah!" he stammered. A look of stupid 
 cunning crept Into his eyes. "Yes, vairy 'ot, sir. — 
 'Ow tit you know we were Freynsch?" 
 
 "I don't," said Leonard, "because I heard you 
 talking it." 
 
 This logic appeared to confound the man in 
 the bib, who looked behind him as though for 
 help, then stared at Leonard once more. It was 
 evident he could not descry the face of his visitor, 
 against the light. 
 
 "Oh I Ah?" he mumbled. 
 
 Leonard began to close the door, but leaned 
 half way in, smiling. 
 
 "Will you give your friend a message?" he 
 said. "Mr. Corsant's compliments, and best 
 wishes for a pleasant walk home again. Mr. 
 Corsant will be at the same hotel where he was 
 last night. — Oh, and will you remember? Tell 
 him, Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow- 
 bone." 
 
 The man had sprung to his feet, stood waver- 
 
96 FERNSEED 
 
 ing, uncertain whether to charge forward or run 
 back. 
 
 Leonard did not wait, but closed the door. 
 
 On the causeway he stopped long enough to 
 throw their saddles into a pool of marsh-water; 
 then he ran on, chuckling, through the fog which 
 closed and swept away all trace of things behind. 
 
IX 
 
 Early next morning, as Leonard came out 
 from breakfast, he found Mrs. Merle, her Mal- 
 tese cat, the bullfinch, and the bull-terrier forming 
 a family group on the doorstep. In bright sun- 
 shine near by, George Grayland stood talking. 
 
 "Yes. We'll have rain. Good morning, sir." 
 He glanced up and made a slight motion with 
 one hand, a forward snap of the forefinger. Most 
 men would have failed to see, or disregarded; but 
 Corsant happened to know it for an old sign, 
 which inquires: "How are you?" 
 
 "Good morning," he replied, and with spread 
 fingers of both hands "threw a chest," in brief 
 pantomime to say: "Very well indeed." 
 
 "Now I'd give a deal, George," declared Mrs. 
 Merle, "to know how you foretell weather so 
 true. Rain? Why, there's not a cloud in the 
 sky." 
 
 Grayland laughed. 
 
 "The sheep are all gobbling their breakfast," 
 
 97 
 
98 FERNSEED 
 
 said he, "as if to catch a train. Skylarks a-singing 
 wet, too. And right there by your feet" — He 
 pointed down at the cat, who hooked her paw 
 rhythmically over one ear — "see Old Lady Maltee 
 scrub her face for rain. No common sunshiny 
 wash, that; no lick and promise, but solid work. 
 Your garden will be wet before evening, sure. — 
 IVe a chit here for you, sir." 
 
 He offered an unsealed envelope. 
 
 "Come Into the garden, Maud," said Leonard, 
 taking It. "Fd like to talk with you. Have you 
 time?" 
 
 In the arbor, where the dog and the superan- 
 nuated pet lamb joined them, the two men sat 
 down for private conference. Grayland seemed 
 very wide awake and cheerful. 
 
 "Where," asked Leonard, "did you learn Injun 
 sign language?" 
 
 "Your country. Lived among 'em once," re- 
 plied the other briefly. "But that's old. Your 
 letter's new. Go on, read It. I made him think 
 he wanted to go away for a week. It took some 
 doing, but he never suspected me." 
 
 George lighted a time-blackened briar pipe, 
 and smoked thoughtfully while his friend read the 
 letter, first to himself, then aloud. 
 
FERNSEED 99 
 
 "My dear Mr, Leonard Corsant : 
 
 "It was a pleasant surprise to learn whose 
 jacket I had been wearing, and I hope we shall 
 meet again soon. Grayland, who brings you this 
 hurried note, will explain that I am off to town 
 for a few days. If it is not asking you to bore 
 yourself too much, won't you come up and camp 
 here meanwhile? A dull enough house, but you 
 might find It interesting in spots. Grayland would 
 look after you well. 
 
 **Au revoir, and do let me find you at the house ? 
 "Sincerely yours, 
 
 "Laurence Corsant.'* 
 "Monday, P. M." 
 
 There followed a galloping scrawl of post- 
 script: 
 
 "You might even keep an eye on George for 
 me. Tell him by all the ear-marks he Is about to 
 break loose again." 
 
 The conspirators, in their honeysuckle bower, 
 grinned at each other. 
 
 "Catch a weasel asleep," said George. 
 "Boasted too early, didn't I? — ^You'll come?" 
 
loo FERN SEED 
 
 **If you still want me." Leonard put away the 
 note, and brought out two other documents. "Fair 
 exchange: here's more news. Do you know a 
 place called the Bottle of Hay?" 
 
 George nodded. 
 
 "Smells like a rabbit hutch," he testified. 
 
 "The same. Well, yesterday afternoon while 
 that note was being written," said Leonard, "I 
 met a couple of men there." 
 
 He went on to describe them. His hearer, lean- 
 ing back in a garden chair, watched him with 
 eyes half closed but far from drowsy. 
 
 "That's our pair. Talking bad French, eh? 
 They would. Your little fat greaser, he's a 
 Levantlnish mongrel of some sort. Four and 
 twenty blackbirds, all different, in his pedigree. 
 Called himself Kamsa last, but 'answers to Hi 
 or to any loud cry.' He's second fiddle. Your 
 friend from GIno's cafe Is the boss: what I call 
 a professional traitor, playing both ends, then 
 selling out either way, or to third party. Him 
 and Kamsa the Locust. That's the pair." 
 
 Murmuring thus, George kept his black briar 
 alight and missed not a word In what followed, the 
 tale of yesterday's performance at the Bottle of 
 Hay. As it progressed, his eyes opened full and 
 sparkling. He slapped his thigh. 
 
FERN SEED loi 
 
 "Spoilt the Egyptians good!" he exclaimed, 
 greatly approving. "Off with their chariot wheels, 
 so they drave heavy. You'll do, my son!" And 
 he gave a curt nod, that seemed to bind their al- 
 liance for good and all, to drive the last nail 
 home. "It runs in the family." 
 
 "While getting back my own," continued Leon- 
 ard, "these things — ah — fetched loose and came 
 away in my hand." He tossed over one of his 
 documents, an eight-page letter closely written in 
 purple ink. "Female fist. Begins like a love 
 letter, so I didn*t go Into it." 
 
 Grayland had no such scruple. He read care- 
 fully from date to signature. 
 
 "Tender," he growled; and again — "Tosh!" 
 His lips curled scornfully round the pipe-stem. 
 "Some women will take up with anything — 
 Well," he concluded, folding the pages away, "It 
 meant a lot to her, poor fool, but nothing to me. 
 My chief had better study it. — ^What's your next 
 trick?" 
 
 Corsant passed over to him a sheet of parch- 
 ment-like paper, blank on one side, covered on the 
 other with line upon line of queer marks, and 
 stamped in one corner with a bright red thumb- 
 print. 
 
 "Looks like short-hand, done In printer's ink," 
 
io3^''*;; ; >fiR:I^,;S:EED 
 
 said he. "The thumb daubed with an oily ver- 
 milion paste, you see. Chinamen use something 
 of the kind " 
 
 But Grayland cut short all this, bounding up- 
 right and strewing the lawn with sparks, ashes, 
 the bowl of his pipe in one direction, the bitt in 
 another. 
 
 *'YouVe done it now, boy !" Glee, triumph, and 
 sly calculation strove in his dark face. "Good 
 on your old curly top, go to the head of the class! 
 O Brave We I Son, youVe turned the cat in the 
 pan I" 
 
 Next moment he had subsided again, thinking 
 hard, brooding over the paper. 
 
 "What is it, then?" asked Leonard. 
 
 "No shorthand, anyway," said George. 
 "Arabic, maybe. Wrote by Turks, Armenians, 
 or Kurds, or whey, Moabites, Amalekites, — don't 
 matter a dump. We can't read it, but your cousin 
 Laurence can. Here's the point, though. What- 
 ever it is, whatever it says, our friend kept it on 
 his person, next his hide. He'd give that hide to 
 get it back, probably. Because why? I'll tell 
 you, son : because he and his Kamsa have travelled 
 many a hundred mile to lay hand on just another 
 sheet o' blessed polygots, heteroglyphs — drat the 
 word, you know what I mean — as these figgers 
 
FERN SEED 103 
 
 here. In plain language, my chief holds the mate 
 to this very writing. They want it. What hap- 
 pens? Why, in walks you, as gay as Garrick, 
 and nips their own. You turned the cat in the 
 pan. And I'd have give a double tooth to be 
 there seeing you.'* 
 
 Grayland rose, and tucked the sheet of paper 
 carefully into a pocket, which he buttoned. 
 
 "It goes home now this minute for the chief. 
 I'll stow her in safe hiding." He stooped to the 
 grass, and assembled the parts of his pipe. "Will 
 you come along? Old man Merle can fetch your 
 bags and stuff in his cart." 
 
 "They're not quite ready for moving," replied 
 Leonard. "Suppose I pack and join you later?" 
 
 "Right ho. But this can't wait," said the other, 
 turning to go. "Remember, from now till further 
 notice you're Laurence Corsant." 
 
 "Very well. — But look here, George, where do 
 I live when I'm at home?" 
 
 Grayland gave an impatient snort. 
 
 "O Lord, that's true!" He stood fretting and 
 scowling. "All came so natural, I forgot you 
 never lived in the old house. How to map you 
 the way? River runs right past your windows ; but 
 by land, all them lanes and blind corners, 'tis a 
 maze, a Fair Rosamund's Bower surely." 
 
104 FERNSEED 
 
 "Trot along," said Leonard. "I'll row up.'' 
 
 "Good as wheat!" cried his friend. "Only big 
 stone house to starboard, and Fll wave to you." 
 
 Without a sign of haste, yet light and swift as 
 any creature of the woods, Grayland seemed to 
 cross the lawn at a stride and vanish while still 
 talking. 
 
 Noon had nearly come before Corsant was 
 ready to follow him. Old Ashkettle's daughter, 
 a taciturn broad maiden, with hair the color of 
 oakum, dwelt under the Ship on Ways In a cellar 
 full of curly shavings, of oars, paint-kegs, row- 
 locks, ring-bolts, lumps of aged sponge, grease, 
 double blocks, rope, and cobwebs. Among all 
 these and many fragments, in darkness that 
 smelled of clean chips and turpentine, Miss Ash- 
 kettle drudged about moping like a stalwart Mel- 
 ancholia who cared naught for the world outside, 
 pondered the futility of all handiwork, and grieved 
 to see so much of Its lumber filling her cave. She 
 said never a word, took no heed of time. When 
 at last after immense deliberation she had chosen 
 an armful of gear, and beckoned this tiresome 
 young man with her chin, It was therefore surpris- 
 ing to find her boats the model of readiness and 
 trim order. Tight, slender, dazzling with var- 
 nish, they lined the water, glossy as brand new 
 
FERNSEED 105 
 
 toys. The spoon oars had their blades painted 
 a brilliant red; spotless cushions lay on the 
 thwarts; and at their sterns, gilded scroll by gilded 
 scroll bore the names of Daisy, Lily, Violet, Pansy, 
 Hazel. 
 
 *'How very — neat," declared the passenger. 
 Coy, he had nearly said, for the flotilla seemed 
 almost to giggle. ^'I'll take Daisy by the week." 
 
 Miss Ashkettle cast off, coiled his painter like 
 a man-of-war's man, wrote his name in a pocket 
 book, folded her arms, and watched him row off. 
 The Daisy might have been Charon's barge, and 
 she an oakum-headed sibyl who took dreary joy 
 in knowing he could never come her way again. 
 
 Round a bend, he escaped that dark influence, 
 and soon forgot. Among green hill fields, a sil- 
 very layer of tide stole up broadening to immerge 
 a curve here of sand-bar, a tiny cape there of 
 brookside gravel. The Daisy drew little water, 
 yet grounded so often in clear shallows where an 
 oar could barely dip, that he ceased trying to row, 
 fended her off, and let her drift. The shores, 
 with mirrored grass and flowers under them, 
 floated down in a trance. Here and there a gull 
 sat on the river and squalled out wicked com- 
 plaints that rang along the surface with whining 
 overtones; once his red spoon-blade grazed a 
 
io6 FERN SEED 
 
 salmon that lay torpid on bottom; and for some 
 time a mussel-shell lined with blue nacre, freighted 
 with grains of dry sand and one pearl of sea- 
 water, sailed alongside him like an elfin cargo- 
 boat, bobbing In the ripples of the undlscernlble 
 motion. Cool salt breaths arose to temper the 
 sunshine. But as he drifted inland, these were 
 the only reminders of the sea, which lay hidden 
 behind the hills. Fringes of gorse on two green 
 interlocking headlands formed as it were a giant 
 pair of outspread wings, blazing golden. A dark 
 cloud stretched between, solid from tip to tip. 
 
 "George was right," thought the oarsman. 
 "There's rain coming ashore." 
 
 Hot sunlight filled the next reacK, however, 
 and the next. High in air against blue sky, a man 
 driving two horses harrowed the crest of a great 
 red field, with snowy gulls flying behind him or 
 waddling after worms among the clods. Tree- 
 tops drew slowly across this picture. The river 
 narrowed. Banks of foliage made a winding cor- 
 ridor, quiet except where oozy reflected brightness 
 trembled and poured like misty fire through the 
 under sides of the leaves. The channel grew 
 deeper, in pools motionless to the eye. Leonard 
 could now row. 
 
 He came slowly past a point where beech woods 
 
FERNSEED 107 
 
 ran down to the water, when suddenly a voice 
 hailed him. 
 
 **0h, I say I Could you help me for a mo- 
 ment?" 
 
 It was a girVs voice, near by. He looked over 
 his shoulder. Stranded, close ahead, lay a var- 
 nished boat like his own, bearing the red oar 
 blades of Ashkettle and the name Rose. She was 
 empty. He ran ashore below her, and jumped 
 out. 
 
 "She wouldn't shove off again, you see," con- 
 tinued the voice. It was a very pleasant voice 
 indeed. 
 
 Blue-bells carpeted the grove. From water's 
 edge as far as he could see within the trees, blue- 
 bells formed one shining slope unbroken. A girl 
 stood among them. Her white dress glowed with 
 their color, half way up to her waist, as if tinged 
 with light through stained glass. Beech leaves 
 flickered round her hair in a lambency of green. 
 
 "Sorry to stop you," she said. 
 
 Leonard caught himself staring. It was the girl 
 he had seen with George, a week or more ago in 
 the White Hart coffee-room. He remembered 
 those large dark eyes, that look of friendly mis- 
 chief. 
 
 "Mr. Corsant, I am well punished." The mis^ 
 
io8 FERNSEED 
 
 chief had gone, or changed, he could not tell which. 
 *'rm well punished for trespassing on your land." 
 
 She spoke with frankness, rather gravely. Per- 
 haps it was the shifting translucence overhead 
 that made a hint of mockery seem to dart in her 
 glance, hide and seek. 
 
 "All the blue under here looked so lovely that 
 I couldn't resist." 
 
 Was he supposed to know this colored wood- 
 sprite? If so, how well? Playing for time and 
 safety, Leonard examined her boat. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right, you know," he declared. 
 "Her stem's against a rock." 
 
 "Yes. I tried to lift her round it." 
 
 He did so, though the Rose weighed heavier 
 than she looked. When about to launch her, he 
 became aware of a sudden coolness, a darkening, 
 a rustle in the air; and looking up, saw the grove 
 clouded, the lower end of the river lashed white 
 by sheets of rain that swept nearer. Grayland's 
 prophecy was coming true, coming fast. 
 
 Leonard hauled the Rose inshore again, hoisted 
 her nose on the bank, turned her keel up, and 
 laid her cushions on the ground below. 
 
 "You'd best take shelter," said he, pointing, 
 "till that's gone by." 
 
FERN SEED 109 
 
 The girl came out from her beeches, and looked 
 at the gray curtain that advanced hissing. 
 
 "Oh I" she cried in dismay. *'I should have 
 been off long ago I" 
 
 She jumped lightly down from the bank, crept 
 under the gunwale, and disposed herself in a few 
 neat whisks and tucks. Leonard brought his old 
 brown oilskin, which he placed as lap-robe. The 
 first drops were now spattering. 
 
 "This is jolly!" She smiled. Her black eyes 
 danced. "But aren't you coming under my roof? 
 — ^What nonsense ! Plenty of room." 
 
 Most willing and yet unwilling, Leonard obeyed 
 and crawled beneath the lower end of the boat. 
 Rain drummed on the strakes, threaded the gun- 
 wales with silver, then slid into gleaming points, 
 then dripped, then trickled. Rain hopped on the 
 shore like hailstones. His companion sat clasp- 
 ing her knees under the oilskin, which covered her 
 to the throat. A tuft of ferns, crushed and 
 doubled inside the bow, hung over her head. It 
 cost him a cramp in the neck to see her, for a 
 thwart intervened; but somehow the cost did not 
 count. Here in wet shadow, muffled by his old 
 slicker, this girl had a knack of being prettier than 
 when, just now, sunshine had steeped her from 
 head to foot among blue-bells and beech leaves. 
 
no FERN SEED 
 
 The only discomfort was, he crouched here as a 
 pretender. They kept silence for a while. 
 
 "Speaking sub Rosa," she said, "I think this is 
 jolly!" 
 
 Leonard agreed. She had a faint downward 
 smile which came and went as if not quite under 
 control, which he liked, but which kept him un- 
 easy. 
 
 "You must have been glad to come home." 
 
 Now here looms trouble, thought the pre- 
 tender. Why the deuce hadn't George coached 
 him a bit? 
 
 "Weren't you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, of course. Glad, yes, indeed." 
 
 Those large clear eyes regarded him from a 
 fathomless depth. 
 
 "What are you going to do about Becky?" 
 
 He would have answered at once, had he known 
 who or what Becky was, — a girl to be married, a 
 runaway parrot to be found, or a horse he had 
 talked of selling. 
 
 "Tell me if it's none of my affair," she begged 
 suddenly, as though piqued. "I didn't mean 
 to " 
 
 "No, no. Becky? No, no, not at all," said 
 he. "Yes, Becky. — ^You see, I haven't quite made 
 up my mind." 
 
FERN SEED iii 
 
 The girl wondered at him. 
 
 "Haven't you really?" 
 
 A wrong answer : it must have been. 
 
 "No, I haven't," he rejoined, turning stubborn. 
 
 The rain beat upon the Rose, dripped, and 
 splashed without, though not so heavily now. The 
 silence grew long within, and to Leonard more 
 and more distasteful. That fine spirited young 
 face opposite him, lively, delicate in coloring yet 
 wholesome, had become downcast. For a moment 
 he feared she was going to cry. 
 
 "It's not like you, Laurence, to be so grumpy 
 with your — with old friends." 
 
 So then, thought Laurence the False, he knew 
 her very well. He must speak comforting things. 
 How could he? But speak or be silent, either 
 way, there was no guessing what he might let 
 Laurence the True in for. She was trembling. 
 He could see the folds of oilskin quiver and the 
 fern that touched her head. A craven impulse 
 told him, if she did weep, to crawl out into the 
 rain. He even glanced that way. The rain had 
 stopped, the sun shone. 
 
 "Please don't cry," said Leonard earnestly. "I 
 can't bear to have you think so. If I said or did 
 anything to hurt you, please forget. Or anything 
 strange, anything not like — unlike myself, don't 
 
112 FERN SEED 
 
 you know? I can't explain it If there was. Not 
 now. But some day you may understand. Soon, 
 I hope." 
 
 He stopped, In distress between too much said 
 and too little. 
 
 She had turned her face away, and was plucking 
 a fern tip caught in her hair. 
 
 ^Tm quite ashamed of myself," she declared 
 abruptly. "Quite." 
 
 Next moment she was out in the sunlight. 
 Neither spoke again till the Rose was righted and 
 afloat. 
 
 "If you're going down the river, take my oil- 
 skin with you," said Leonard, and forestalling an 
 evident refusal, added: "Fm not far from — from 
 home, and you'll catch more showers on your 
 way." 
 
 The tree tops downstream glittered, but above 
 them came rolling another band of rain clouds. 
 
 "You can leave the old thing at Ashkettle's," 
 he urged. 
 
 The girl thanked him, and stepped aboard. 
 Taking her sculls, she discovered the tip of fern 
 still in her hand. She made as if to fling it over- 
 side, but paused, and looked up quickly. 
 
 "Fern seed. Here." Holding out her hand. 
 
FERN SEED 113 
 
 she dropped the torn leaf Into his. "For luck. 
 The receipt of fern seed, to walk Invisible." 
 
 With that she gave way, pulling a very clean 
 pair of oars. A branch jutted out to hide her and 
 the Rose; but before turning It she stopped, backed 
 water for an instant, and looking Leonard in the 
 face, quietly spoke. 
 
 "It wasn't crying. It was laughing. That's 
 what Fm ashamed of, for I do wish you luck. It's 
 a most sporting thing youVe undertaken." 
 
 Her blades flashed again. The Rose slipped 
 behind the bough. 
 
Round the next bend a little green valley 
 opened shining, refreshed with rain. Straight 
 almost as a canal, and quite as placid, the river 
 ran toward a vanishing point under the low arch 
 of a bridge. Three swans rose noisily from the 
 water and flew in line abreast upstream with a 
 great rushing sound of wings. Even as they went, 
 their whiteness darkened, a cloud and another 
 burst of rain driving after them. Drenched while 
 he rowed, Corsant peered up through the shower 
 and saw at his left a gray stone house, that looked 
 down a hillside of rough lawn dotted with shrubs 
 and trees. From one of its many broad windows 
 fluttered something white, — a towel that flapped 
 vigorously and then was whisked indoors. He 
 pulled his right oar, and headed the Daisy for the 
 nearest gravel. 
 
 Meanwhile he neither felt the rain nor con- 
 sidered his arrival. 
 
 "She knew me all the time !" he thought. "Saw 
 114 
 
FERN SEED 115 
 
 through me, that girl did, and took her revenge 
 teasing." 
 
 Down over the wet grass, as he landed, his 
 friend George came striding, — a pair of long legs 
 active under a huge umbrella. 
 
 "Wet but welcome! Hop under grandma's 
 gamp.'* 
 
 Leonard made his painter fast to a root, but 
 disregarded the invitation, and stood musing in 
 the rain. 
 
 "I've half a mind to buy the good ship Rose,^^ 
 he declared, "for a souvenir. — George, who is 
 the prettiest girl you ever saw? She's a young 
 witch, lives among blue-bells, and gave me this." 
 He held out a wet, crumpled green leaf, the fern 
 tip. "You know her. What's her name?" 
 
 Grayland viewed him askance with wicked black 
 eyes. 
 
 "No weather for day-dreams, this. In with 
 you! Come in. Under the paraploo, my son." 
 And hooking arms, George elbowed him up the 
 bank. "Get dry first at the fire, then you can 
 write her a poem; or sing her a serenade, I'll lend 
 you a concertina ; or you can carve some nice fat 
 hearts on your trees roundabout. Plenty of good 
 smooth bark." 
 
 Leonard was not to be put off with these rough 
 
ii6 FERN SEED 
 
 conceits, though he returned her talisman to his 
 pocket. 
 
 "She called it the receipt of fern seed, and told 
 me we might need to walk invisible. She knew 
 all about us ; knew I wasn^t Laurence ; knew what 
 we're both up to. Called it sporting." 
 
 His companion halted, glared, and breathed out 
 something like a curse. 
 
 "Young devil, she guessed it! Might *a* 
 known." 
 
 "Yes ? Then who was she ?" Leonard repeated. 
 
 Grayland shook his head. Mirth and chagrin 
 seemed to underlie the frown with which he kept 
 his countenance. 
 
 "No telling," he grunted. "I don't know all 
 the young women round here; been away too 
 long." 
 
 "You were talking horse with her at the White 
 Hart, less than a fortnigfht ag:o." 
 
 "No," said George blandly. "Couldn't have 
 done. Never was there in my life." 
 
 "But man, I saw and heard you !" 
 
 "Day-dreaming again." George started for- 
 ward. "Impossible. Flat Never knew a girl 
 whose opinion of a horse was worth listening to." 
 
 The umbrella — a monstrous lank-ribbed tent of 
 rusty black cotton — hid all the world except a 
 
FERN SEED 117 
 
 travelling circle of downpour and of rough lawn, 
 unkempt and weedy. As they climbed, Corsant 
 had nothing to do but study his friend at close 
 range. He learned very little : that George was 
 wearing Indoor clothes, dark, sober, sleek-fitting, 
 which made his face look all the more restless 
 and untamed; that George had been lying just 
 now; and that however long they might discuss 
 this phantom of the blue-bell grove, George would 
 calmly abstain from telling truth about her. They 
 mounted the hill, therefore, In silence. 
 
 "Here's your old house for you." Grayland 
 suddenly tilted back his umbrella. "How do you 
 like It?" 
 
 Overgrown shrubs, and vines pelted with rain, 
 hid much of the lower storey; but above these, the 
 weathered gray forehead of the house rose clear, 
 overlooking the men, the hillside lawn, and the 
 river with a kind of benignity almost human. It 
 was not a large house ; yet the two upper tiers of 
 windows, broad, nobly framed and outlined In 
 carven stone, gave It a spacious air that seemed 
 better than grandeur; and Its plainness, thought 
 Leonard, warmed him like the discovery of some 
 new virtue in an old friend. 
 
 "Ever so much," he answered. 
 
 The umbrella descended. They moved on, fol- 
 
ii8 FERN SEED 
 
 lowing round the house a path covered with weeds 
 and grass. 
 
 "By the front door you come in,** said George. 
 "We'lldoitallfitty, eh?" 
 
 But in the upper garden Leonard paused, and 
 dodging out from their grandmotherly extin- 
 guisher, looked about him. Red valerian had run 
 wild here, and been trimmed or cleared into rude 
 borders. A driveway, lately weeded and raked, 
 curved off to end among dripping trees, where an 
 iron gate stood half open. 
 
 "Why, that's Peacock's gate," said Leonard. 
 "Were there chains across, before? Then this is 
 the house Merle brought me to, the first night!" 
 
 "Of course he did." George stood grinning. 
 "And you sat in his cart and threw cold water on 
 him. You looked at your old home, says Merle, 
 neither glad nor sorry, like a dog at his father's 
 funeral." 
 
 This landward front of the house, being on a 
 crest, had one storey less than the river side. Its 
 left-hand corner stood imbedded in a great rock 
 high as a man's head, and patched with turf where 
 cranny flowers hung trembling in the rain. But- 
 tressed thus, the house appeared to hold fast by 
 mother earth, hewn stone cleaving to its native 
 hilL 
 
FERN SEED ^119 
 
 "Come." George opened the front door, in 
 the carved frame of which wall-flowers were 
 growing. "Don't stand here and soak." 
 
 He caught Leonard by the arm, pulled, and 
 brought him Indoors on the run, like Christian 
 escaping arrows at the wIcket-gate. Indeed, the 
 rain fell now like bright arrows shot aslant. Their 
 misty light entered with the men, and echoes of 
 splashing murmured In the room. It was a long, 
 deep room, at first sight gloomy; under a high 
 mantel blazed a fire of boughs; and the ruddy 
 flicker of this, thwarting rather than joining the 
 cold light from windows blurred with water, 
 showed only here and there a glancing line of 
 brightness on old furniture, and sank without re- 
 flection, as though quenched. Into the sombre oak- 
 panelled walls. 
 
 "Well, here you are," said Grayland; then 
 looked sharply at his guest. "What's wrong?" 
 
 "One moment. I can't — I can't find the words." 
 Leonard stood In a daze. "Walt till my eyes get 
 house-broken." 
 
 As they did so, he became aware of other ob- 
 jects in the room, — dark portraits along the pan- 
 els, dull gilding touched with firelight, the backs 
 of tall books, a staircase that mounted under a 
 pointed arch. But these and all details were lost 
 
I20 FERN SEED 
 
 in one overwhelming impression, a whole stranger 
 than any of its parts, because not strange at all. 
 His eyesight understood it, his tongue refused to 
 explain. Without warning he had stepped from 
 another man's garden into a room peculiarly, mys- 
 teriously his own. Everything here, color, form, 
 proportion, the carving above the panels, the stair- 
 case arch, the conflict of subdued lights and the 
 way they fell — everything was as it should be, 
 rightly placed, in the right direction. So it had 
 always been, and so, never having seen, he had 
 always known it by some remembrance lost until 
 now. 
 
 "What's the trouble?" said George. "A chill? 
 Yes, you did. You shivered. Come to the fire." 
 
 Leonard suffered himself to be drawn there, 
 but standing on the hearth, remained at gaze. 
 
 "The trouble is, I could find my way about here 
 blindfold," said he. "It's as though — it's like a 
 place where I'd lived a lifetime, when I was some- 
 body else." 
 
 "Right ho. You are somebody else." George 
 leaned his umbrella under a portrait, and left it 
 to form a brown puddle like prune-juice on the 
 floor. "Nothing to worry about, then." 
 
 He stripped off Leonard's coat, spread it over 
 the high back of a chair to dry, brought a footstool. 
 
FERN SEED 121 
 
 bade him sit between the andirons, fetched an old 
 loo-table, swung down Its top and bolted it, then 
 with long silent strides was gone from the room. 
 Leonard, his back steaming in the grateful blaze, 
 hugged his knees upon the footstool and won- 
 dered. 
 
 ^'George turned left through that door," he, 
 thought, "and I knew it beforehand." 
 
 He sat mooning, with sounds of the fire and 
 the rain for company. Along the panels, at a 
 height of seven feet or so from the floor, a series 
 of carvings took his eye. They were simple, rather 
 well done and well varied, no wise remarkable 
 but for slight quaintness in design. One of them, 
 however, in the darkest corner on his right toward 
 the garden, broke all rules of the pattern and stood 
 out grotesque as a gargoyle. Too lazy to rise, 
 Leonard peered at it for some time before con- 
 cluding that it was not an imp's head in a night- 
 cap, but a queer little image of the DeviPs Nose, 
 the sea-rock he had swum through. There in 
 miniature, holes and all, It clung to the wall like 
 a wasp's nest, ugly and misshapen. 
 
 "What's that doing here?" he asked, when 
 George returned. 
 
 "The good old Nose? Why not?" Grayland 
 bore in, and set on the table, a vast tray covered 
 
122 FERN SEED 
 
 with bread and butter, Cambridge brawn, half a 
 ham, gooseberries, cream, and bottles of soda. 
 "Why not? That was carved many a year ago, 
 that and the rest, by the man who made your iron 
 gates, I've heard tell, and all the jokers up aloft 
 in church." 
 
 While answering he went out again, presently 
 to come back with a tantalus and a tumbler that 
 looked as long as an ale-yard. 
 
 "Once was a story about that carving," he con- 
 tinued. "What to signify, nobody knows. Some- 
 thing weVe all forgot. Bad luck, or good luck. 
 Some old wives' tale." 
 
 Into the mighty tumbler he poured a hero's 
 dram of whiskey, and when he had mixed it, 
 came to the hearth. 
 
 "Down her, if you please.'* 
 
 In doing all he moved like a zealous, grave, and 
 highly trained man-servant; his voice, always pleas- 
 ant, he seemed to lower when indoors; and now 
 after placing a chair and seating Leonard by table 
 and tray, he stood at hand, attentive, ready for 
 orders. 
 
 "Come join me." 
 
 "I'm only caretaker here." 
 
 "Hang it, George, sit down!" 
 
 He did so, laughing. 
 
FERNSEED 123 
 
 "Mr. Laurence couldn't have said that more 
 like himself," he declared. "You're one of 'em. 
 The same sleepy look when ruffled." 
 
 He sat talking while his guest ate and drank. 
 The fire-light played on his han^dsome, tawny face, 
 but was no brighter or livelier than the changes 
 that came and went there like a visible running ac- 
 companiment to his thoughts. Leonard watched 
 him, pondered, and was baffled again and again. 
 Whom did the man resemble so closely, yet with 
 so many differences? 
 
 "Ay, who is it?" George suddenly asked. 
 
 "Why, how could you read my mind?" said 
 Leonard. "How did you guess what I was think- 
 ing?" 
 
 George smiled, rose, and darted one of his 
 wicked cornerwise glances. 
 
 "It was revealed to me in a dream," he an- 
 swered very drily. "I must go fetch wood to mend 
 the fire." 
 
 He went out grinning. A door shut, the sound 
 of his light footsteps passed down a stairway 
 somewhere, the fluttering of the fire and the splash 
 of rain succeeded. A long time passed. Then 
 suddenly the light footsteps came bounding up- 
 stairs, and Grayland reappeared in the door. He 
 
124 FERNSEED 
 
 brought no wood, but carried an axe. He was 
 frowning. 
 
 "I don't savvy this," he announced quietly. 
 ''Something going on behind our back. Come over 
 here, will you, and see what I found." 
 
 He beckoned, then crossing to one of the gar- 
 den windows, bent his head and fell Into a close, 
 workmanlike scrutiny. He appeared to be testing, 
 with his thumb, a defect in the head of his axe. 
 
XI 
 
 Leonard followed him to the window. 
 
 "What do you make of It?" said George, trac- 
 ing with his thumb-nail along the blade. "What^s 
 that stuff?" 
 
 Newly ground, the axe had a sharp edge. The 
 brightness of this was overlaid and dimmed by a 
 stain, a tinge of heliotrope color shading into 
 purple, as If someone had brushed the steel hur- 
 riedly, on both sides, with changeable Ink. It 
 felt dry to the touch. ( 
 
 "Juice," ventured Corsant, "or sap." 
 
 "Sap, yes," replied George impatiently. "But 
 what kind? I can't remember, can't put a name 
 to it again. Sap of what tree?" The question 
 seemed to perplex him inordinately. "Mark you, 
 not a soul about the house but one old woman 
 who's cook and bed-maker; she goes home at 
 night, by the way. This axe lay where I put it. 
 I always keep tools proper, in place. Who's come 
 and tampered with It, and what was he choppin' ?" 
 
 125 
 
126 FERN SEED 
 
 George put his nose to the blade. 
 
 "No smell," said he. 
 
 As he leaned there in the broad old window, 
 frowning, slowly examining the tool on each side, 
 he called to Leonard's mind another graceful per- 
 son who long ago "with his keener eye the axe*s 
 edge did try." Lovelocks and a court dress would 
 have made him a figure of Vandyke's ; his face be- 
 longed to an earlier century; but his black eyes 
 were sharper than any king's. Gradually the 
 wrinkles left his forehead. He began to whistle 
 Money Musk between his teeth, and dandle the 
 axe In time with that jig. 
 
 "Half a mo\ It's coming back." His thoughts 
 also had reverted to the past. "When I was a 
 lad and worked for Lord What's-name's gardener 
 on the Riviera — ^Walt. Hold hard. Yes, have- 
 got. Mimosa juice. Now where on these 
 grounds, do you suppose, can there be any 
 mimosa?" 
 
 Grayland hung the axe-head over his shoulder, 
 whistled Money Musk again in the same muted 
 fashion, then turned and smiled. 
 
 "Let's go see." It was plain he had answered 
 himself, and found the answer to his liking. 
 "Down below, if I'm not sore mistaken." 
 
 He led the way to the door by which he had 
 
FERN SEED 127 
 
 been coming and going, thence along a dark pas- 
 sage, through some darker vaulted hole in wain- 
 scot, and down a flight of blind stone stairs that 
 bent continually with unexpected crankings. Cor- 
 sant, leaving behind in the great room that sense 
 which it had evoked of things familiar and direc- 
 tions known, groped after him quite lost, down 
 and down, stumbling, guided only by one hand or 
 shoulder on the walls. At the stair-foot, George 
 unlocked a door. They stood presently in a damp, 
 close room, bare, and dismal in a greenish twi- 
 light. Three small windows glimmered in a row, 
 obscured without by grass and leaves. 
 
 "Soon learn," said George. 
 
 He closed the door, and went to the right-hand 
 square of glass. Like the other two, it was set 
 at about the level of his chin. He reached up and 
 struggled with the catch. 
 
 "Rusty. Doubt if it's this." 
 
 The fastening yielded, the window opened, with 
 a series of aged creaks. Grayland thrust out his 
 hand. 
 
 "Ouch I Holly." Closing that window, he 
 moved to the middle one. "We're below ground, 
 you understand. These look riverwards." 
 
 The middle square came open harder than its 
 
128 FERN SEED 
 
 mate, and still more noisily. Again George put 
 his arm outdoors. 
 
 "Yew." 
 
 He worried the second groaning frame shut, 
 hammered Its crazy catch into place, and tried the 
 thir^. 
 
 "Always the last of a lot," he complained; then 
 in an altered voice, cried: "Hal-lol My breth- 
 ren, I should say so !" 
 
 This last window swung In easily at one pull, 
 without a sound. A light-green feathery spray, 
 released from pressure against the pane, burst in- 
 ward nodding and sprinkling the men's faces with 
 water. 
 
 "Mimosa for you," said Leonard. 
 
 "Right as rain," replied Grayland. "Give us a 
 leg up. I thought so." 
 
 Mounting his friend's knee, he poked head and 
 shoulders through the wet leaves. Leonard heard 
 his arms threshing outdoors. He wriggled In 
 again quickly, hopped to the floor, and dashed rain 
 from his face. 
 
 "This bough was cut off to clear the window,'* 
 he reported. "They laid all back pretty near in 
 place." 
 
 He struck a match, and by Its flame looked — so 
 rapidly that Corsant could but just follow his 
 
FERN SEED 129 
 
 glances — at the intruding tuft of mimosa, the top 
 of the window frame, Its outer edge, the catch, 
 and the hinges. 
 
 "Lately cut. Leaves have had no time to wilt." 
 George blew out match and closed window. 
 "Catch pried down from outside. With my axe, 
 dare say. Hinges oiled, catch oiled, bough laid 
 across all proper. No, son. TheyM never take 
 such pains if they weren't coming back. Our 
 friends, think you? I'd give a thick un to be sure 
 it was them." 
 
 "Fork out," said Leonard. "Because I think 
 I know." 
 
 "How?" George demanded testily. "What did 
 I overlook?" 
 
 His ally repaid some late mystifications by grin- 
 ning calmly. 
 
 "Unless your old bed-maker you spoke of has 
 been cooking the same." Leonard paused to keep 
 him waiting. "It's extremely delicate. But surely 
 you — perceive? I did. I smelt 'em in here." 
 
 Grayland tossed up his head and sniffed. The 
 little subterranean room, dark as a crypt, con- 
 tained negative odors of mould and dust and air- 
 tight staleness; but through these, not quite gone 
 though very faint, a vanishing aura of something 
 positive, the smell of onions. 
 
I30 FERNSEED 
 
 "Your dear wayside posies in his tunic!" said 
 George, solemnly. "The precious little stinkards ! 
 My lad, you never did a better hand's turn than 
 yesterday's at the Bottle of Hay." He snatched 
 up his axe, spun it dangerously in the air, and 
 caught it like a drum-major. "Now," he cried 
 with joyful emphasis, "we know! Come on up- 
 stairs !" 
 
 They stood in the panelled room, and the fire, 
 generously rebuilt, was blazing high, before they 
 spoke again. Each man had remained busy with 
 his own thoughts. Leonard put on his jacket, now 
 dry and warm. 
 
 "You didn't lock that door after us, below," 
 said he. 
 
 "A-purpose," George replied. "Our friends 
 will call again. We don't want to leave any ob- 
 stacles in their way, do we? On the contrary. 
 Welcome little strangers: walk into our parlor. 
 They're bound to come soon." 
 
 The mere prospect was enough to rouse and 
 rejuvenate him. He laughed; his eyes glittered 
 in the fire-light; the swing of his arms, as he beat 
 and shook off the rain-drops from his coat, seemed 
 a gay, brisk exercise to try his muscles, make them 
 supple, and clear his body for action. 
 
 "To think o' that Amalekite!" he crowed. 
 
FERN SEED 131 
 
 "Carrying your nosegay round the house with 
 him, your forget-me-nots, eh? — But sit down. 
 YouVe not finished your snack." 
 
 Over the interrupted meal on the loo-table, and 
 — when this was In part cleared away — over their 
 pipes by the fireside, the two men sat talking, ex- 
 changing plans, ordering a mode of life for their 
 next few days together. In the upshot. It proved 
 a simple mode: they had only to stay there, loaf, 
 Grayland said, take their ease, and wait for what- 
 ever should arrive. Outwardly, all was to go on 
 as before. People would know that Laurence Cor- 
 sant, returned home but now, broken In health 
 and ordered to rest, was living there quietly. His 
 caretaker George would be seen to go errands 
 hither and yon as always, but especially to leave 
 the house before dark. 
 
 "I won't go far," said George. "Soon as our 
 old woman's out of the house, back I slip. We'll 
 burn candles half an hour In a bedroom, then blow 
 'em out : like Mr. Laurence gone to bed, you see. 
 House dark. But meantime v/e'll be camping 
 right here In this room. A good booby-trap, I 
 call it. What do you say?" 
 
 Leonard approved. They dismissed the sub- 
 ject, forgot all cares, and spent what remained 
 of the afternoon in random lazy talk. Forty-odd 
 
132 FERN SEED 
 
 years of roving had made George, whatever else 
 he was, most admirable company for a rainy day. 
 Leaning backward with his long shanks outspread 
 toward the fire, his nose pointed at the ceiling, 
 and his black eyes half-shut as they dreamily 
 watched cloud after cloud of tobacco smoke 
 ascend, he recalled an amazing diversity of this 
 world's creatures and told many curious true tales. 
 His language was often rough, but his judgment 
 of persons unfailingly gentle. The man himself, 
 his own doing, appeared in the narratives only by 
 chance now and then, to fix the year of an action 
 or supply an attendant circumstance. Corsant 
 heard all with delight, but above all privately 
 treasured these glimpses Into his friend's life. 
 Such a thing had happened when George was "a 
 ragged boy running about the hedge-rows, selling 
 colored whirligigs and paper flowers"; such an- 
 other when he was "in trouble for stealing a 
 deer" ; still other things, when he had been a sailor, 
 or doing all by numbers in the army, or observing 
 mimosa juice and steel on Lord What's-name's 
 Riviera estate, or ringing bells to earn his chow, 
 or catching rough-haired seals from Louie Pier- 
 pold's canoe, or serving his Mr. Laurence In a 
 desert, or travelling with a circus through India 
 
FERN SEED 133 
 
 and learning Pushtu pretty good. The hours 
 went all too quickly. 
 
 "Well, cheer-oh for the present." George rose, 
 yawned, tweaked his cap out from between two 
 red morocco tomes on a book-shelf, and strolled 
 away. ''Speak loud to the old girl," he added, in 
 the doorway. "She's deaf, poor soul. And got no 
 more sense than Gammer Vangs, anyhow." 
 
 It was In fact both a deaf and stupid old woman 
 who, when Corsant had sat dozing for a long time 
 in the twilight, came and summoned him to dinner. 
 He ate alone in a dark, chilly room, at the head 
 of a long table on which two candles burned for- 
 lorn In a many-branched candlestick, like a massive 
 silver tree bared of nearly all Its leaves. This 
 wintry light showed him nothing but dusk, outside 
 the glossy expanse of polished wood where his 
 knives and forks and dishes rested on their re- 
 flections, all double, as though floating in a pool. 
 The china was old and good, the silver worn but 
 heavy, fashioned like tools for the serious work 
 of many generations. The fish-slice, he thought, 
 would have served to lay bricks with. The food, 
 plainly cooked, had substance abounding, and a 
 pint of excellent claret, well warmed, stood at 
 his hand. Yet beyond these cheerful solidities, 
 all remained in shadow, hovering, unaccountable. 
 
134 FERN SEED 
 
 Whenever the woman approached, he saw her as 
 a hard-featured dame, tough, wiry, and anxious, 
 with little whiskered warts or moles dotting her 
 face, and the look of deafness in her watchful eyes ; 
 but whenever she retired, the darkness changed 
 her silence and her care Into something grim. 
 She seemed to haunt rather than to attend him. 
 
 He was glad when the meal ended, and he could 
 seek the fire again in his own room which he knew 
 so well. Another great silver tree stood on a 
 table here. It was full, this one, of candles. He 
 lighted them all, and after pacing the floor for 
 pastime, bethought him of a book. The volumes 
 on the shelves, however, he found to be chiefly 
 collected sermons and Latin discourses on divinity. 
 
 Of these he was turning the pages without en- 
 thusiasm, when footsteps crunched on gravel un- 
 der the garden windows. 
 
 "That's not George." 
 
 Bearing the candlestick, he went to the front 
 door, opened It, and peered out. 
 
 He saw only a bent figure hooded In waterproof 
 trudging off through the rain like a black penitent. 
 It was their deaf woman going home for the night. 
 The lamps of some wagon or cart, awaiting her, 
 blinked among the wet leaves by the gate. 
 
 Leonard shut himself in, and returned to his 
 
FERNSEED 135 
 
 fire. The noise of the rain continued, was now 
 and again swept under by a prolonged rush of 
 wind, began afresh, dropped almost to silence 
 through an interval of calm, and so went on, 
 splashing in gusts or sunk to a moody drumming. 
 
 "George takes his time,'' thought the young 
 man. "Must have gone farther than he intended." 
 
 That seemed nothing to complain of. As he sat 
 alone in the house, Leonard felt thoroughly con- 
 tented, even luxurious by that bright hearth, as 
 much at home for the moment as though he be- 
 longed there. He grew warm and sleepy. What- 
 ever might happen later, would be fun : meantime 
 to bask and wait and smoke was pleasant enough. 
 
 Yet while he waited, a slow uneasiness crept 
 into his revery. It was not apprehension; it cer- 
 tainly was not boredom. He could neither name 
 it nor shrug it off. There might have been a new 
 sound in the room; but if so, he had not truly 
 heard it; there might have been a vague move- 
 ment. Once or twice Leonard turned to look 
 behind him. Nothing was there but his silver 
 Burning Bush of candles, and above them the 
 carven Devil's Nose like an imp's head in a night- 
 cap. He had not expected anything. Neverthe- 
 less he acknowledged the nameless fancy: it was 
 as if someone stood behind him waiting to speak, 
 and when he turned, was gone. 
 
XII 
 
 This uneasy quiet endured for some time. A 
 sudden click of metal, breaking It, made Leonard 
 start but also relieved him. He turned to wel- 
 come something definite. 
 
 A key turned in a lock. The front door opened 
 quickly, just wide enough to let a man slip through. 
 The man who did so, and who closed it in the 
 same movement, was George. He had come 
 without a sound of footsteps. 
 
 ^'No news?" 
 
 He spoke hardly above a whisper, and stood 
 there dripping but cheerful. 
 
 "None,'* said Leonard. 
 
 *'Will you draw those curtains, please?" Gray- 
 land pointed with his thumb toward the garden 
 windows. *'Like the blockhead which I ought not 
 to be at my time o' life, I forgot 'em." 
 
 When his friend had pulled the curtains across 
 and overlapped them carefully, he advanced, 
 peeled off his wet clothes, hung them up, and in 
 
 136 
 
FERN SEED 137 
 
 his underwear squatted like a tailor, back to the 
 blaze. 
 
 "Rotten bit of work, that," he growled, scolding 
 himself. *'They could have looked right In on 
 you. I did. Enough like Mr. Laurence you were, 
 sitting here, to fool me for a moment. — So noth- 
 ing's happened?" 
 
 Corsant shook his head. The other In sign 
 language begged a cigarette, lighted It from a 
 glowing brand, and smoked and steamed with 
 great relish. 
 
 "To-night's their weather for It, unless they're 
 fools," he declared. "So wet and black, with 
 plenty of noises to cover your own: If 'twas my 
 job, I'd tackle her before midnight. Outside there, 
 a man can't even tell what's near him. The old 
 girl going home passed within touch of me; nor 
 you nor she nor the pony-cart boy guessed I was 
 there, right by your elbows." George nodded at 
 the candlestick. "You stood holding that in an 
 open doorway. Better not any more, my son." 
 He gave this advice with a hard look, said no more 
 for a time, and fell to brooding. "To-night's 
 their weather. Mind, If they do come, bags I the 
 big man. He's my meat." 
 
 Leonard glanced quickly at the speaker. 
 
 "You sound bloodthirsty, George." 
 
138 FERN SEED 
 
 "I only want to come to my hands with that 
 jockey." Grayland threw his cigarette Into the 
 flame behind him, and thoughtfully examined his 
 fists. "You leave It to me." 
 
 Both men had kept their voices lowered; George 
 spoke in a casual undertone ; but the words had a 
 meaning so cold and deadly that his companion 
 watched him closer than before. 
 
 "Why now, George, we ... " 
 
 "I know the beast better than what you do. 
 Go ask the natives whose women and babies he 
 contrived to have slaughtered." Grayland rose. 
 "Time to make your bed. Whole thing may go 
 smooth, anyway. No good beating the air. What 
 I mean to say is, If it did come to a fight, Td kill 
 him as quick as any other snake, without a smatch 
 of pity. That's all." 
 
 He stalked away into the darkness, bare-armed, 
 bare-legged, his flimsy white clothing still wet, like 
 a ship-wrecked Robinson Crusoe or a drowned 
 ghost, out of place in that quiet old room. Bend- 
 ing his head under the pointed arch, he vanished 
 up the stairs, to return soon with an armful of 
 sticks and brown canvas. These he laid on the 
 floor below a tall portrait, and rapidly built into 
 a cot, which he shoved against the wall. Once 
 more vanishing upstairs, he brought down a sec- 
 
FERN SEED 
 
 139 
 
 ond armful, this time, of bedding. With a few 
 practised movements he made all ready, the pil- 
 low smooth, sheets folded down, pajamas laid out. 
 
 "There you are,'* said George, and took the 
 Burning Bush of candles to survey his work by. 
 "Hop in. I'll carry this light upstairs and put 
 Mr. Laurence's astral body to bed there, as we 
 agreed." 
 
 He was turning away, when Leonard called him 
 back. 
 
 "Who's this gentleman watching o'er my pil- 
 low?" 
 
 The candles flooded with streaming brightness 
 the portrait, its tarnished gilt frame, and a pair of 
 swords, one naked, one in a chafed brown leathern 
 scabbard, that hung on either side. From the 
 canvas a black-eyed young man, with long black 
 curls under his plumed hat, gave them an odd, 
 impatient smile, as though bidding them do their 
 staring and pass on. Dark-skinned, high-colored, 
 humorous, restless, the cavalier stood whip in hand 
 beside the head of a bay horse. Leonard could 
 see how instantly he would turn to mount. 
 
 "That sportsman? Some namesake of yours," 
 replied Grayland. "Whoever painted him had to 
 slap it in lively, eh? *Come on,' says he. *Come 
 
I40 FERNSEED 
 
 on, Old Dabstick, get It over.' He was great 
 with the sword, IVe heard tell." 
 
 The bit of hearsay made Leonard prick up his 
 ears. 
 
 ''No I Was he?" 
 
 "A famous master of the arm, they do say," re- 
 plied George. "Killed in an ambush outside Tan- 
 gier. This naked one, here, was his pet little 
 pinking-iron. I oiled her up last week." 
 
 Leonard promptly set one knee on his cot and 
 leaning toward the sword, eyed it with care from 
 hilt to point. 
 
 ''Good plain Toledo," he murmured. "About 
 sixteen hundred. Pretty balance, I should think." 
 
 "Hobby of yours?" said Grayland. 
 
 "Used to be." Leonard drew slowly back from 
 the weapon, and stood gazing up once more at 
 its owner. "Why," he exclaimed, "there are the 
 lovelocks! I missed *em to-day when you were 
 handling your axe by the window. George, this 
 man looks like you I — And somebody else." 
 
 His candle-bearer grunted, and swung away to 
 the stairs. 
 
 "Humph ! YouVe got likenesses on the brain. 
 Let's go to bed. Talking a bit too loud, we were." 
 
 Alone with the firelight, Corsant undressed, 
 groped his way between sheets, and lay comfort- 
 
FERN SEED 141 
 
 ably watching the shadows jig across the floor. 
 Above him the swords and their master faded into 
 the common darkness of the wall. He woke to 
 see Grayland pass, blanket-wrapped like a tall 
 Indian, and lie down on the hearth. 
 
 "Oh, look here," protested Leonard, **I feel 
 like a pig in this bed, when you " 
 
 George rolled over, presenting the shadow of a 
 broad back and narrow waist. 
 
 "Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber. Tune, 
 Greenville. This is your old man^s watch." 
 
 They fell into that companionable silence which 
 is the forerunner of sleep, and which a man breaks 
 only to enjoy it longer, because his fellow across 
 the way appears to be sharing his mood if not his 
 thought. 
 
 "George, do you ever hear any noises in this 
 room? Queer ones?" 
 
 "Plenty of 'em," replied a smothered voice from 
 the blanket. "Any old house." 
 
 "Yes, but I mean " 
 
 "You mean, like somebody waiting to be spoke 
 to," said George, with a yawn. "Or something 
 waiting to be found. I know." 
 
 "What do you make of it?" 
 
 "Nothing. Fm no great believer in ghosts." 
 The voice burrowed deeper into the blanket. 
 
142 FERN SEED 
 
 "But o' course there are old ancient things that 
 don't die and can't rest." 
 
 The friendly silence intervened again. Half 
 awake, Leonard watched the fire and the jogging 
 shadows. It amused him to see what litter they 
 two men had already strewn about, like vagabonds 
 camping in a lady's parlor : their clothes and boots, 
 the loo-table still half cleared, George's umbrella 
 against the wall, as fat, shapeless, and traditional 
 as any apple-woman's in the Chatterbox of child- 
 hood. 
 
 "George." 
 
 "Oh, what now?" 
 
 "Any womankind in this family?" 
 
 "Only one, thank God," said the smothered 
 voice. "One sister." 
 
 "What's she like?" 
 
 Grayland's shadow stirred by the fire, rolled, 
 and lay on its back. His answer, withheld for 
 a moment, sounded both unwilling and vindictive. 
 
 "Old maid, standard type," he grumbled. "Flat 
 front. Long neck, coiled round with pearls, like 
 seized riggin'. Smokes and plays cards all night, 
 and snaps your head off." He paused, then as if 
 trying to be just, added: " 'But though she wears 
 another's hair, she is an interestin' person.' " 
 
FERNSEED 143 
 
 "Well for us that she's not here now," said 
 Leonard. 
 
 George chuckled. ^ 
 
 *'I believe you, my boy. Time we quit talking. 
 Good night.'* 
 
 Rain was the last thing heard. Rain, steady 
 though diminished, woke Leonard next morning 
 at daylight with muffled drums about the house. 
 Having breakfasted and set their room in order, 
 the two men parted company: George to bundle 
 the cot upstairs and take his turn of sleep, Leonard 
 to stand watch through the forenoon. A quiet 
 night had left them both disgruntled, cheating 
 their hopes ; and now a long dark day persevered 
 in gloom, hour after crawling hour, without inci- 
 dent or change, without a stir but for the hopping 
 of rain in puddles along the driveway and the 
 wriggling of bright drops down windowpanes. 
 George came from his nap surly, and when twi- 
 light drew near at last, went outdoors growling. 
 
 " 'Tis neither fit for man nor beast," he quoted. 
 "What's more, I don't believe they're coming, 
 either kind." 
 
 He left behind the contagion of his doubt. 
 Alone once more, Corsant paced the room up and 
 down a mile or two, wished the time away, ruined 
 his taste for tobacco, fidgetted, poked the fire, and 
 
144 FERN SEED 
 
 grew convinced that he and George were a couple 
 of idiots. Long before dinner time he lighted 
 the candles in their silver bush. After sitting 
 with them disconsolate, he walked the floor again, 
 stared portraits out of countenance, hauled books 
 down and put them up unread. Caleb Trench- 
 field*s Christian Chymestree, Hooker's Sermons, 
 Calamy's, Frewen's, Bishop BulPs, and Stllllng- 
 fleet's ; Burnet's History, Clarendon's : The Saint's 
 Rest, The Anatomy of Melancholy, Lockyear's 
 England Watched, Johnson's Dictionary; all these 
 he thumbed and frowned into, till for the sake of 
 gambling he shut his eyes and drew a volume. 
 
 The lot fell on worthy Bishop Bull. 
 
 **Almost a modern. 1827. Gorryl Some 
 rocks for the mind to break on." 
 
 Sinking defeated in his arm-chair, Leonard be- 
 gan The State of Man Before the Fall. It prom- 
 ised, to his ignorance, a few gleams of bliss from 
 the earthly paradise. But no sunshine leaked out 
 here. Lost in a black sand-storm where Pelagians 
 and Socinians whirled round the protoplast like 
 dead leaves, he plodded on, sometimes buffeted by 
 quatenus or quomodo, sometimes cheered by sight 
 of Crelllus or Smalcius nibbling at an argument 
 among other doleful night-creatures of the desert. 
 His courage drooped. 
 
FERNSEED 145 
 
 "... how absurd soever that interpreta- 
 tion may at first appearance seem to be." Thus 
 Bishop Bull strode manfully ahead. *'For upon a 
 diligent search you will find, that aliquid latet, 
 quod non patet, 'there is a mystery in the bot- 
 tom.' " 
 
 Here the reader stopped; indeed, he was never 
 to finish the book; for behind him, as it had come 
 last night, there came that vague unrest, a flutter 
 and a sigh. It was nothing. Yet from the corner 
 at his back, empty air called to him without words 
 and a motion ceased. That which was not alive, 
 but which as Grayland had said could neither die 
 nor rest, was waiting. The expectancy made no 
 appeal to his five senses, evaded them, glided 
 through or under and touched at their root the 
 same forgotten impulses he had known yesterday. 
 
 Leonard stood up, and turned. 
 
 There was nobody, of course; nothing but can- 
 dle-shine on dark brown oak, and shadows, and 
 in the little pointed carving two holes like a pair, 
 of blind sockets. It waited, viewless, before his 
 face. He heard again the flutter and the passing 
 breath. For a minute afterward he remained 
 there, intent, alone with what he did not under- 
 stand. He was quite cool. The thing had in it 
 no quality of alarm, only a baffling insistence that, 
 
146 FERNSEED 
 
 if comparable at all, was like the demand and re- 
 fusal of a known face to appear before the mind's 
 eye. 
 
 Leonard gave up the riddle, crossed to the 
 shelves again, and slid the good Bishop home for 
 perhaps another century of calm, where the 
 Pelagians cease from troubling. As he did so, 
 the handle of the front door turned. 
 
 "Hello, George," he said quietly, over his 
 shoulder. "Glad to see you. Been entertaining 
 more spooks." 
 
 The door closed, the bolt was shot. 
 
 "Home early, aren't you?" 
 
 George did not answer. There was a flapping 
 sound of wet raincoats. 
 
 Leonard turned from the books. Two men 
 stood near the door, watching him. 
 
XIII 
 
 At first glance he took them for strangers. The 
 candle-light falling short of where they stood, left 
 their features in doubt: their quiet appearance 
 had surprised him while his thoughts ran else- 
 where; and as for a time they neither spoke nor 
 moved, nothing told him who they were. Then, 
 by the difference In height and bearing, he knew. 
 This was the pair who had talked bad French 
 in the Bottle of Hay. 
 
 "Here we are," thought Leonard. "Trouble 
 ahead." 
 
 If they meant danger, he welcomed it after so 
 much idleness. The two seemed to be waiting 
 keenly for his next movement. He therefore re- 
 mained still, outwardly at ease. Their silence and 
 wooden Immobility conveyed a threat, but also 
 tickled his sense of melodrama: the taller man, 
 cloaked in dark waterproof, had struck a bit of 
 attitude which recalled the fatal warbler Edgardo 
 at Lucia di Lammermoor's wedding. Next mo- 
 
 147 
 
148 FERNSEED 
 
 ment, acting together with military precision, they 
 peeled off their raincoats, dropped them clashing 
 on the floor, and flung down their hats. It was 
 done quickly, in prefect time, and showed re- 
 hearsal if not drill. They had stripped at once 
 for business. Leonard perceived that much, and 
 held himself ready; but meanwhile he could think 
 only of a pair of comedians opening some trick 
 on the stage. He smiled, and when the taller man 
 came abruptly forward, received him smiling. 
 
 "I didn't hear you knock, gentlemen," said he. 
 "There is a very fine old knocker on my door." 
 
 From the corner of his eye, Leonard took note 
 that his other enemy, the swart little man, stood 
 by the door as if posted there on guard. He liked 
 this arrangement: it was a mistake. 
 
 "Bar shooting," he thought, "I can handle 'em 
 one after one." 
 
 The fellow near by, George's professional 
 traitor and Amalekite, confronted him with a 
 smirk of triumph. He was neatly but stiffly 
 dressed, as when they had met in Gino's cafe. 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. Corsant," he replied in his 
 throaty bass, and bowed with mock politeness. 
 "On soch a dark night, we could not find your 
 knocker. You must excuse. Yes, soch a dark, 
 lonesome night!" 
 
FERN SEED 149 
 
 Meeting the look in his pale eyes, Leonard un- 
 derstood. Here was a bad cggy a dirty fighter, 
 cold-blooded, yet pompous as a Prussian, touchy 
 in the headpiece, swollen, and quick to explode; 
 moreover, a chap who smirked because two to one 
 against a sick man would be easy. This last con- 
 sideration hardened our friend's heart. He re- 
 treated a few steps, limping badly. 
 
 "Now you are here," said he, "won't you sit 
 down?" 
 
 "Thank you, no." The pale-eyed fellow over- 
 did his irony. "Our business Is quite short; it can 
 be done standing." 
 
 Leonard sighed, and leaned against the wall 
 as though faint. He had hoped to draw these 
 two yet farther apart; but though one remained 
 still on guard by his door, the other, instead of 
 following, began to pace up and down across the 
 room, near the portrait of the swordsman. 
 
 "It is a very dark night," he repeated, with 
 relish. 
 
 "So dark as all that?" drawled his victim. 
 "Please don't say it again. Really, you freeze 
 the marrow in me bones." 
 
 Any kind of talk would serve to waste time; 
 the more time wasted, the better chance of 
 George's return. But whether George came or 
 
I50 FERNSEED 
 
 not, somebody about this room was to have a 
 surprise, whenever poor Mr. Laurence Corsant, 
 leaning here so feeble and nursing his bad leg so 
 plaintively, should get his health back all of a 
 sudden and jump In. 
 
 "Don't you try laughing at me, Corsant. I ad- 
 vise you not." The walker by the portrait halted. 
 His face grew red. All the bully in him blustered. 
 "Your ape's pranks at the inn, they were very 
 fonny, hey, but they did not buy you anything." 
 
 Leonard made round eyes of alarm. 
 
 "Oh, no, of course, not a red," he answered, 
 meekly. "Pure amateur sport." 
 
 "Ah, sport, sport I That kind of stoff makes 
 me sick!" The other glared at him. "I advise 
 you not to be fonny. Now come, we have talked 
 enough nonzense. You are trying to waste our 
 time; but it's no use, for that man of yours, the 
 damn gipsy, is down in the village some miles 
 away. There is only one deaf old woman here. 
 You had better give us quick what we are after." 
 
 Leonard feigned surprise and Ignorance. He 
 was in fact beating his brains : how could he en- 
 tice this chap to draw nearer, to come across the 
 room within fair striking distance? By showing 
 him any old bit of paper . . l. 
 
FERN SEED 151 
 
 "Yes? You want something?" he asked. 
 "What can it be?" 
 
 His adversary blustered again. 
 
 "Oh, come I You know well enough, Corsant. 
 Two little sheets of writing. We have called them 
 Gamma and Delta in our game. One you stole 
 from me in that pigsty place, day before yester- 
 day. The other you stole from old Jacob the 
 Beardless, at the Wolfs Well, out there." He 
 swept his arm angrily toward some unknown 
 region of the East. "We want them both. You 
 can keep all the others." 
 
 Leonard began groping lazily in his pockets. 
 
 "May I? Thank you." 
 
 Both men watched him more sharply than ever. 
 He could read in their eyes the certainty that if 
 he had a weapon, he would never draw it but half 
 way. Being unarmed, he took his time, enjoyed 
 their suspense, and very languidly searched pocket 
 after pocket. There was nothing to serve his 
 trick, not so much as an old letter, a card, a scrap. 
 Among crumbs of tobacco, his fingers encountered 
 a wilted leaf, — the fern-tip which that girl in the 
 blue-bell grove had given him for luck. He 
 brought it out and kept it in his left hand, as 
 though the crumpled fragment had really been 
 a talisman. At the moment he needed all such 
 
152 FERN SEED 
 
 friendly reminders. George's umbrella, the grand- 
 motherly gamp, stood by him against the wall. 
 He remembered how Gino had leaned in the same 
 dejected fashion. From these thoughts he looked 
 up calmly. 
 
 "It's no go,** said he. "Sorry, gentlemen, but 
 I*ve not the faintest idea where your documents 
 are gone to. I haven't them.*' 
 
 The man by the portrait stamped his foot, and 
 suddenly raged. 
 
 "Come I No more!" he cried, with a stream 
 of foul language. "Where are they?" 
 
 Leonard waited until he had done roaring. 
 
 "I don't know. Wouldn't tell you if I did, but 
 I don't." 
 
 This was perfectly true. He laughed. The 
 words, or the laugh, or both together, had an 
 amazing effect. Truth prevailed: there came a 
 dead lull of astonishment and belief. 
 
 "What's this?" The fellow's harsh voice 
 dropped to a whisper. He cleared his throat, and 
 stared, crouching forward. "What's this? 
 Watch the door, Kamsa! Look sharp. This 
 man — it*s not Corsant at all!" 
 
 Silence followed. The pair looked from him 
 to each other and back again quickly, moved, stood 
 fast, then hearkened with sidelong glances. Doubt 
 
FERN SEED 153 
 
 had them wavering, suspicions of a trap, an am- 
 buscade in some corner of the room. It was 
 Kamsa the underling who first took heart again. 
 
 "Oh, he's Corsant oil raight," affirmed the 
 swarthy Locust. *'No fear. See 'is lalg. We 
 had that given 'im at " 
 
 His master turned on him in fury. "Shut up, 
 you chee-chee. Keep your ears open. There's 
 something wrong here." 
 
 Leonard agreed with them both. 
 
 "Yes, you're seeing things. There are spooks 
 In the room," he said, blandly, and went on wast- 
 ing time. "I can tell you better In Latin. *Aliqiiid 
 latet, quod non patet/ Spooks would naturally 
 prefer a dead language, wouldn't they? It's good 
 Bull Latin. 'There is a mystery at the bottom.' 
 Or you might say 
 
 'Things are seldom what they seem. 
 Skim-milk masquerades as cream.' 
 
 In short, I have the receipt of fern seed." 
 
 The leader of his enemies remained bending 
 
 forward, glaring at him with no less perplexity 
 
 than hatred. 
 
 "I believe you are. Same silly way of talking. 
 
 Brainless puppy. Him or his brother. But the 
 
 front of your head's different." 
 
154 FERN SEED 
 
 Leonard smiled in apology. 
 
 "You're right. No brains. *The shallow part 
 Is always the forehead, at least In Oxford, sir.' " 
 He suddenly cast off his pretended weakness, drew 
 clear of the wall, stood up, and spoke out. These 
 brutes would never come close enough, so let them 
 begin. "Put your mind at rest. I'm Corsant. 
 We've fooled long enough. You, I believe, are 
 a secret agent, and a bad one who can't pull 
 off the simplest job. What any China Coast 
 comprador would call a Number Nine man, on 
 sight. That's you: a professional turn-coat, sell- 
 ing out both ends, and even so a failure. You 
 walk in here threatening me about some of your 
 trumpery blackmail papers not worth the smutty 
 thumb-prints on 'em, and then stand round talking 
 phrenology. Pretty feeble. Now get out, the 
 pair of you. I don't know where your HIttlte 
 garbage Is, and don't care. It's in safe keeping, 
 for good. You have one minute to pick that wet 
 mess off my floor, and clear yourself and your 
 chee-chee sweeper out of my house. That's all. 
 You needn't stop to beg my pardon. Start, and 
 start now." 
 
 The man by the picture, who also had drawn 
 himself upright, took this abuse at first like 
 a wooden image. Then his body began to writhe, 
 
FERNSEED 155 
 
 his features to swell, and the breath to sputter and 
 quaver between his teeth. 
 
 "Ah! You think we are blofEng!" He raised 
 both fists aloft, brandished them, clapped them 
 to his head like a madman, choked, and suddenly 
 reeling, struck with his elbow the naked sword so 
 that it clattered on the wall. '*I show you who is 
 failure!" 
 
 He wrenched the sword down, and came leaping 
 across the room. It is probable that even in his 
 frenzy he may have been taken aback when Leon- 
 ard met him half way, low-set and springy, on 
 guard with George's bag of an umbrella. 
 
 As for Leonard, he saw only the furious pale 
 eyes: that was his affair: but he heard Grayland 
 charging from somewhere with a shout, and re- 
 turned it: 
 
 "No, no ! Get that little greaser by the door, 
 George !" 
 
 Meanwhile there had been three or four passes 
 of the sword. Leonard laughed. 
 
 "Crude work, old man. — Poor schooling. — 
 Stiff. — Come again." 
 
 It came again, the good Toledo in bad hands. 
 Next moment it went whirling through the air, 
 and fell with a clang. As it did so, Corsant 
 
156 FERN SEED 
 
 dropped his umbrella, and struck out right-handed 
 for the jaw. 
 
 "There's your Amaleklte,'* he called. 
 
 But the man had hardly come down before 
 George was sitting on him, grinning like a black 
 wild-cat. 
 
 ''Hand me that sword," said George. He was 
 barefoot. 
 
 The front door stood half open. From behind 
 it, among the raincoats, a pair of short legs kicked 
 feebly. 
 
 "That's nothing. Only sent the black-and-tan 
 to bye-low." 
 
 Leonard could not yet understand the scene. 
 
 "The door was bolted," he said. "How'd 
 you get in?" 
 
 George, sitting as on a fallen horse, grew im- 
 patient. 
 
 "Crawled underneath their mimosa, o' course, 
 and upstairs. 'Twas Kamsa the Locust drew the 
 bolt. I caught him flitting. — Here!" Grayland 
 shook out one hand, fretfully. "This fellow's 
 coming to. Give me the sword." 
 
 Leonard recovered that weapon, but kept it. 
 
 "No you don't." He shook his head. "None 
 of that." 
 
 "But youVe never known this beast," cried 
 
FERN SEED 157 
 
 George, angrily. "I do. He's one trail of slime 
 from here to hell-fire. Hand over." 
 
 "No, sir. He's the captive of my trusty gamp," 
 said Leonard. "I don't want any of his low gore 
 in my nice clean house." 
 
 Another voice behind them joined the argu- 
 ment. 
 
 "My own feelings to a T," it said, crisp and 
 cheerful. "You're outvoted, George." 
 
 They turned. On the threshold, removing a 
 jaunty brown oilskin, stood young Mr. Laurence. 
 
 "Come right in with your men, will you?" He 
 looked back toward the rain, where two or three 
 dark figures waited. "House-breaking, I take it; 
 or assault with a deadly weapon? Good evening, 
 namesake. How are you?" 
 
XIV 
 
 "You were like the last scene In Hamlet," said 
 Mr. Laurence Corsant, when he and Leonard 
 were dining an hour afterward. "Prostrate forms 
 all over the stage. Rather extraordinary to walk 
 in upon, by one's own hearth-stone, wasn't It?" He 
 laughed. "Yet In a way I expected something un- 
 common. Whenever George grows mysterious, 
 you may be sure he's cooking a little surprise for 
 you." 
 
 They sat at a corner of the great table, where 
 two silver trees filled with candles now burned 
 brightly and made the surroundings less forlorn; 
 but even so their excess of elbow-room, the board 
 reaching empty away to its foot, gave them a de- 
 serted air as if they remained lingering after com- 
 pany had gone. While his kinsman spoke, this 
 fancy ran strong in Leonard's mind. It was more 
 than fancy. It was truth ; for at this lighted table 
 many had sat who were now vanished, and they 
 two alone survived. 
 
 158 
 
FERN SEED 159 
 
 "I knew George would be stirring up some 
 jagra** continued Laurence. "His devilish wiles 
 for getting me out of this house were rather lame. 
 So I didn't go far or stay long. This afternoon 
 from Mrs. Merle's window (by the way, youVe 
 quite cut me out with her) , I saw those two ras- 
 cals go by. Hence all the constabulary with me 
 this evening. I must admit you and George don't 
 require much help." 
 
 He smiled, and turned their conversation to 
 the East, both near and far. Had a stranger been 
 at table, seeing them together, he would have 
 found more traits of difference than of likeness in 
 the two men. Both were fair-haired, rather hook- 
 nosed, and in frame slender though well knit; but 
 there resemblance ended between Leonard the sun- 
 burnt hearty eater, quick of tongue, and Laurence 
 with his pale thin face, his leisurely dry speech, 
 his resignation to a narrow diet, and about his 
 eyes the look of one who had lately come through 
 suffering, unbeaten, still merry. 
 
 "Yes. That girl in Alexandria," declared the 
 ascetic, "no wonder she thought she knew you. I 
 often chucked her under the chin. Metaphorically, 
 of course. Pert little baggage. Half Greek, half 
 French. From one of the islands." 
 
i6o FERN SEED 
 
 "Mighty pretty, anyhow," urged Leonard. 
 "Wasn't she?" 
 
 His host could not remember that part. 
 
 "I dare say. Her father worked for us a long 
 while out there. Useful man, most useful, after 
 you learned to know him and could sift the lies 
 out. A chin-chucking policy helped one learn, you 
 know." Laurence's eyes twinkled at some mem- 
 ory. "But to come back. Our friend whom the 
 police led babbling away just now: he gave you 
 a friendly warning In GIno's cafe, did he? That's 
 interesting. Can't tell you how interesting. He 
 would have wanted me to clear out then. For 
 reasons. — The dickens of it is, I never can tell 
 you just what, or how very, very much you've 
 done for me, old chap." 
 
 He said this lightly, his hearer took it so; but 
 each man for an instant looked the other in the 
 eyes, and appeared content with what he saw 
 there. 
 
 "Right! Understood," said Laurence. "Some 
 things I can tell you, and shall." 
 
 A quiet step sounded In the hall. Grayland, 
 wet and sombre, came to report. 
 
 "How now, G. G. ?" said his young chief. 
 "What? Your prisoners didn't escape?" 
 
 George stood and glowered at the table. 
 
FERN SEED i6i 
 
 "No fear,'' he answered, doggedly. "They're 
 In tight enough. But Lord, what's a couple of 
 years for house-breaking?" 
 
 Mr. Laurence Corsant gave a little time and 
 study to his retainer. 
 
 "My dear George," said he, "do you sulk be- 
 cause you're not in for manslaughter yourself? If 
 so, let not your heart be troubled. That pair will 
 have reason to wish they had never seen us. Their 
 woes are only beginning to-night." 
 
 The mourner glanced up quickly. 
 
 "If It's a fair question, sir: you mean they'll 
 be taken higher?" 
 
 "Much higher." Laurence nodded. "So high 
 as to make Gilderoy's kite seem a titlark, my 
 boy, and Ossa like a wart." He sighed. "Have 
 you that paper you spoke of, the one my name- 
 sake — er — obtained at the Bottle of Hay? Not 
 the love letter." 
 
 Without a word, Grayland left the room and 
 presently returned. He laid before them the sheet 
 of paper covered with black curves and hooks like 
 shorthand, signed in vermilion with a man's thumb. 
 Laurence read It through rapidly, then dragged a 
 candlestick toward him, and read again with care. 
 His eyes appeared to darken, as if the old pain 
 
i62 FERNSEED 
 
 which they had conquered once were giving him 
 another twinge. 
 
 "All the words and music of the play." He 
 spoke bitterly, and shook his head. "With the 
 charming facts we already had, It completes a 
 very nasty mess. Finish." He lighted a cigarette 
 among the candles, and smoked pensively. 
 "Thanks to your agile doings at the Bottle of 
 Hay, all this rottenness has fallen into the right 
 hands. In the wrong, your paper here and one I 
 held, would have been used to bring on, — well, 
 massacre, followed by another hole-and-corner 
 war that might spread. Certainly a few hundred 
 men, women, and children, perhaps a few thou- 
 sand, who never heard of you or me, will go on 
 leading so-called innocent lives out there." 
 
 The morose cloud swept from George's face. 
 Glowing with admiration, he turned to Leonard. 
 
 "See him! Hear him I" he cried. "Don't let 
 him deceive you. It's a pukkah victory, that's 
 what, after hard work. And he makes as if he'd 
 lost his last friend." 
 
 Leonard rose, and took one of the candlesticks. 
 
 "Your raw material of victory, dear old chap," 
 said he, limping off toward the door, "is never so 
 pretty as the manufactured article. The dyer's 
 hand. — Let's go in by the fire." 
 
FERNSEED 163 
 
 Later, upstairs at bed-time, the two Corsants 
 were leaning on the sill of an open window, admir- 
 ing the night. In dark trees below them pattered 
 a few last drops, but the air smelled fresh, and 
 over the black cloud-like hills and whispering 
 river hung a multitude of stars. Laurence, in 
 pajamas, had come to see if the guest-chamber 
 were comfortable, and then lingered to talk a 
 while. 
 
 "Glad you and G. G. hit It off so well through- 
 out," said he. "A great old George. Curious 
 thing, you know. George and I have been in 
 tight corners together; and here's a game leg to 
 remind me how he saved the rest of my carcass; 
 and yet — that seems the least part of it, somehow. 
 We met by chance at Aden, of all places. WeVe 
 always been more like brothers, if you understand 
 me." The young man became silent, and looked 
 out as though reading the stars. "Peaceful here, 
 Isn't it? — As for George, there's something I want 
 to show you. It can wait till morning. By the 
 way, he declares that we must keep your umbrella 
 In the family archives; that our forerunner in 
 the picture, the johnny with the sword, below- 
 stalrs, would have been proud of you. Wonderful 
 work, George says: never saw anything half so 
 good." 
 
i64 FERNSEED 
 
 The speaker turned, and waiting, seemed to ex- 
 pect a reply. 
 
 "I did use to fence a bit," said Leonard, with 
 embarrassment. "Dad always believed in getting 
 the best master whoM take you, for learning any- 
 thing. Forgotten most of it now." 
 
 Laurence nodded, smiling like one who ap- 
 proved the words but saw behind them. All he 
 said was: 
 
 "Wise man, your governor. Mine, too, had 
 his — Well, it's late." He drew In his head, and 
 rose from the window-sill. "Good night." 
 
 After his host had gone, Leonard remained 
 watching the stars. There were indeed certain 
 championships, meetings between masters of 
 broadsword and foil, which his answer had ig- 
 nored; the late combat, rapier and gamp, had been 
 no boy's play; but what he concealed most care- 
 fully, and what his thoughts now dwelt on, was 
 even a less important fact. All through that en- 
 gagement he had kept, in his left hand, a dog's- 
 eared corner of fern leaf. 
 
 "By gum, you may say it was lucky." He nursed 
 with one finger a raw line that smarted under his 
 ear. "The beggar's blade missed my throat by 
 an inch." 
 
 The stars were many and bright, all things un- 
 
FERN SEED 165 
 
 der them a blackness varieci only with hints of 
 form. Leonard could hear the river like a faint 
 breeze passing down the valley. Somewhere be- 
 low, the night hid a grove of beeches, round which 
 the Rose had gone, and toward which he con- 
 tinued looking. Outwardly he saw nothing; in- 
 wardly he saw red oar-blades flash between sun 
 and water, and a girl whose dark eyes befriended 
 him as she rowed away. 
 
 "A pity." He turned from the window to bed. 
 "A pity she won't ever know her charm worked.'* 
 
 Bright sunlight, next morning, shone upon a 
 world refreshed and wonderfully green, clear 
 overhead, with vernal haze melting In the dis- 
 tance roundabout. It was lazy weather; and as 
 two lazy young men with golf clubs passed through 
 the garden, they halted to enjoy it all, — from the 
 sleepy noise of rooks half a mile away, to a pleas- 
 ant click of shears close by, and a smell of box 
 that mingled with their own first tobacco after 
 breakfast. 
 
 "Enough to make one poetical. *The earliest 
 pipe of half-awakened bards,' eh?" Laurence 
 mused, and snuffed the air. "A general Pukwana 
 of the peace-pipe." 
 
 The clipping ceased ; from behind an overgrown 
 tangle rose George ; his wet shears were spattered 
 
i66 FERN SEED 
 
 with crumbs of green, which he wiped off as he 
 said good morning. 
 
 "The man*s got his mare again." He viewed 
 these idlers with radiant satisfaction. "Each back 
 in his own coat, and all's well. Good Lord, it's 
 a treat to see a couple of you round !" 
 
 "Come along with us, George." 
 
 The bedraggled gardener shook his head. 
 
 "Not I. Nobody's trimmed this mess proper 
 for twenty years." He bent down, out of sight. 
 " 'Tis a ruin." 
 
 "By the way, coats : you remind me." Laurence 
 turned to his companion. "IVe an apology for 
 some bad temper, when we met under the bridge. 
 Too long a story now. I'll tell it to you some 
 day." 
 
 George suddenly rose again from the leaves. 
 His black eyes were sparkling oddly. 
 
 "Could I be there to hear it?" he begged. "Fve 
 a reason for asking." 
 
 "Of course. To-night, say." 
 
 Nodding to himself, Grayland once more dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 "Thank you." By his voice, he seemed content. 
 "Some tales need more than one man to tell 'em." 
 • They left him clipping peacefully behind his 
 tangle, and wandered off to their game. It was 
 
FERNSEED 167 
 
 a silent but a cheerful round that they played, 
 over miles of clean-washed turf and daisies newly 
 opened, with greens heavy and cups brimful of 
 water. Though lame, slow, and unpractised, 
 Laurence won hole after hole. His adversary 
 took a thorough beating, administered happily 
 in sunshine to the tune of skylarks. At noon they 
 went down the beach and swam In surf, then lying 
 on the yellow sand ate bread and butter, dozed 
 and grew sunburnt, watched the gulls hover about 
 the peak of the Devil's Nose, or with thoughts 
 drawn past the horizon by smoke from an unseen 
 ship, bartered yarns of outlandish adventure. By 
 sunset they returned home, now through long- 
 shadowed fields, now along some back yard wall 
 over which came grunting and the hot, sour smell 
 of pigs, now In green lanes dazzled with gold. 
 
 It was after dinner, by candlelight, that 
 Laurence repeated his words of yesterday eve- 
 ning. 
 
 "About George, now. Here's the thing I had 
 to show you. Found it stuck away In a dust-hole." 
 
 He handed to Leonard a miniature, rimmed 
 with gilt, and set in a square green velvet frame 
 or plaque. The face was that of a young Vic- 
 torian dandy, high-colored, handsome, but with 
 
i68 FERNSEED 
 
 his curly black hair somewhat too romantic, and 
 his look too dashing. 
 
 "Why it's George!" cried the visitor. "No. 
 Can't be. — George playing the fool in fancy 
 dress?" Laurence wore a quizzical smile. 
 
 "George without the brains. Just so," he 
 agreed. "Curious, don't you think ? — for that was 
 my father's brother, really. His elder brother. 
 The family runs fair and black by starts. He was 
 black, you see; died young, cut off in the flower 
 of his wild oats; fell from a horse. They say 
 *between the stirrup and the ground,' but one has 
 uncharitable doubts. Not quick enough to seek 
 pardon, that head." 
 
 "Strange," said Leonard. "The swordsman's 
 portrait, too. Both so like George masquerading." 
 
 He gave back the miniature. Laurence placed 
 It on the mantel. 
 
 "This poor relic's been long enough in disgrace. 
 I left home too young to know. But our fine 
 gentleman threw himself about a bit, I fancy. — 
 Yes: George " 
 
 Their conference ended abruptly. 
 
 "Did you call?" 
 
 They turned with a guilty air. George had 
 been coming downstairs, and paused, with his 
 head in the shadows of the pointed arch. 
 
XV. 
 
 "Just wondering where you'd gone/' said 
 Laurence, promptly. ''Don't be so damned ac- 
 tive. Come dawdle with us, G. G." 
 
 For a time after George had obeyed, and sunk 
 his long body into a chair between them, silence 
 followed. The night was warm as summer. 
 Through open windows drifted air fragrant with 
 the balm of all the country, its passage unfelt, 
 unknown but for tremors in the candle-shine and 
 weaving departure of smoke from three tobacco- 
 pipes. There was no fire ; but the men sat ranged, 
 as by habit, facing the andirons and the black 
 chimney-mouth. 
 
 **Well, brethren," Laurence broke out, of a 
 sudden, *'the spirit moves me. I promised you 
 should hear an apology." 
 
 He sank back, crossed his lame leg carefully 
 over the other, and again became silent. 
 
 "By Jove," he said at last, in a wondering tone, 
 "no one else ever heard it before I Not all. 
 
 169 
 
170 FERN SEED 
 
 Vd forgotten that. The story of a bad boy. 
 Poor little devil, off in the past, he seems another 
 person. This be none of I, but once upon a time 
 he was. 
 
 "My governor sent me to our usual school, a 
 good enough one, not so very far from here, as 
 you know. I was a very shy, bookish lad, the last 
 you'd expect to find making trouble. Never can 
 tell. One fine spring day, much like the present 
 weather, behold this child dreaming along out of 
 bounds, — not wilfully, mark you, just dreaming 
 with his head full of King Arthur, or Leather- 
 stocking, or Grettir the Strong. All at once I 
 came upon an old woman sitting by a little fire 
 under some thorns. I see her now as a dirty and 
 rather silly old creature; but at the moment she 
 seemed all that a child pictures of what a witch 
 ought to be, — elf-locks, and wild eyes, and skinny 
 fingers. You know. She had a stone jug on the 
 grass beside her, with a tin cup tied to its ear. 
 The black-thorn, or may-tree — I forget which, 
 but it was covered with the dead bodies of young 
 birds, field mice, beetles, humble-bees, and such, 
 all impaled on thorns, and every mouse pecked 
 on the head, bloody. It must have been the 
 shambles of a butcher bird, a shrike. But to me it 
 seemed the deviPs Christmas tree. The old worn- 
 
FERN SEED 171 
 
 an sat under It mumbling, with smoke in her crazy 
 eyes, and these murdered things withering round 
 her like a — like a bad halo. As If she were wast- 
 ing her enemies away with magic. She had a dead 
 beetle hanging In her hair. I knew she was a 
 witch. Jove, she was. The boy guessed right. 
 So far as one or two men's lives went afterward, 
 she was a Norn." 
 
 George removed his pipe from his mouth. 
 
 "When you caught her," he said, "she'd begun 
 stuffing hen's feathers Into a paper bag with a 
 hole In It." , 
 
 "How did you know that?" Laurence came 
 bolt upright, bringing his feet to the floor with a 
 thump. "Good heavens, man! Do I talk In my 
 sleep? Or have you second sight? How did you 
 know?" 
 
 He leaned forward, staring. 
 
 "It was revealed to me In a dream," George 
 answered, bitterly. "Go on." 
 
 But the narrative had met a check. Laurence 
 eyed his neighbor with astonishment and doubt. 
 When he spoke again, his manner seemed less 
 free. 
 
 "Why, there's not much more," he declared. 
 "The old woman blandished a good deal, told 
 some long rigmaroles, uncorked her jug, and 
 
172 FERN SEED 
 
 filled the tin cup for me, most lovingly. Don't 
 know how you guessed those feathers, George, 
 but youVe right. She was cooking a hen in a 
 ball of clay. We talked, and watched the process, 
 and I emptied her cup as often as you please. 
 She told me It was ginger-pop." 
 
 George nodded mournfully. 
 
 "Ay," said he. "A hot day and a thirsty school- 
 boy." 
 
 "Right again. It was very hot," declared 
 Laurence. "The boy turned up at school blear- 
 eyed and staggering, drunk as a hatter. The rule 
 was public flogging and expulsion. I couldn't 
 explain. I took It." 
 
 He paused, and looked slowly about the room. 
 
 "My poor old governor had things out with 
 me right where we're sitting," he continued. "You 
 may Imagine, a strict father with what was to 
 have been our fine young Oxford scholar, parson, 
 and so on. I couldn't explain to him, either: too 
 young, and — and bewildered. His face was like 
 the dead. Most of that boy died here, too. The 
 rest of him ran away and took more whippings 
 from the world. Twenty odd years of them. 
 Ever since I came home last week, I've seen his 
 ghost haunting those books." 
 
FERN SEED 173 
 
 The speaker got on foot, lighted his pipe, and 
 stood glancing down at Leonard. 
 
 "Now you understand," he added, "why I went 
 off at score when we first ran across each other, 
 and you mentioned old women with mead by the 
 wayside." 
 
 George, polishing briar with the ball of his 
 thumb, spoke as though to himself. 
 
 "She always laced that mead something 
 chronic. Three parts brandy. Mr. Leonard 
 knows, or ought to. It was the same old woman 
 and the same old mead." He looked up at Lau- 
 rence, his eyes burning with a sombre fire. "You 
 need more than one man for some stories. Too 
 young and bewildered, rot! Your boy took dis- 
 grace, let his life be spoilt, to keep his word with 
 a foolish old body whoM been stealing hens and 
 trespassing. You promised not to tell you'd seen 
 her. You never did. The boy's heart may have 
 broke in this room, but not his word." 
 
 Again Laurence remained staring in wonder. 
 
 "How on earth !" he exclaimed. 
 
 "She's my grandmother," said George. "Yes, 
 old Becky, at the Ring of Bells now. 'Twas 
 grandson's earnings put her there." 
 
 A moth was fluttering among the candles. 
 George rose, caught it with one sweep of his 
 
174 FERN SEED 
 
 brown hand, and passing to the river windows, 
 threw it out into starlight. He returned and sat 
 down. 
 
 "When I spoke of her," began Laurence. He 
 paused. "If anything was said to hurt you, I — 
 well, Tm sorry." 
 
 "You said no more than plain truth," George 
 growled. With elbows on knees, he studied the 
 floor. "She was what God made her. And some 
 help from mankind. What's past is done with, 
 and can't be recalled. Except onions, they say. 
 At any rate speak you did, so I'd better keep on. 
 
 Amongst the wreckage of her old brain " 
 
 Grayland reached out to place his pipe on the 
 table, then hung his head over his clasped hands. 
 "Well, she had secrets. Back in my childhood 
 she used to prophesy: when a man should come 
 from abroad and pass through the Devil's Nose 
 against the sun, why, enemies will be overthrown, 
 and things made clear, and good fortune, and so 
 on. Moonshine. But the first part's come true. 
 So here goes." 
 
 George struck fist into palm lightly between 
 his knees, blow after blow, as if hammering at a 
 thought. His bowed figure seemed overcome by 
 sadness. 
 
 "I was lying under the shrike's thorn," he said, 
 
FERN SEED 175 
 
 "behind it, that day of your undoing. No far- 
 ther than from here to the andirons. Had I 
 known what your name was, likely Vd have tried 
 to kill you. When I did know it, years afterward, 
 I'd learned what your word was worth; what it 
 cost you. Never been able to pay that back, but 
 Fve tried faithful. 
 
 "This is all in the family." He looked up with 
 a grave smile, which had gone as he bent his 
 head once more. "It may hurt you. It hurts me 
 now. 
 
 "That other boy behind the thorn was older 
 than you. His troubles begun earlier. He'd run 
 the hedges a long time, a whole life of it, begging, 
 cheating, after selling colored whirligigs or paper 
 flowers as a babe. People would ask you where 
 you lived, meaning kind no doubt. I'd look up at 
 'em like a wild beast, and say nothing, or else 
 run. I was. A little wild beast, afraid all day, 
 awake half the night, hunger pains clawing in 
 my belly. The only thing I had to be fond of was 
 my mother." 
 
 George stopped. He took his head in his hands. 
 
 "Maybe those feelings come stronger when 
 you're a little wild beast. Maybe not. I don't 
 know. But she was my shadow of a rock in a 
 weary land. It ended one night before dark, one 
 
176 FERN SEED 
 
 misty night. We were to lie in a bam, not a 
 decent barn like Dr. Wolcot*s that he let Dick 
 Stanley sleep in, as they tell, but an old roost 
 where trampers had made all filthy, a habitation 
 for Zim and Jim and every unclean thing. I was 
 five or six years old. She'd spoken strange to me 
 that evening — so fond and terrible deep and 
 changeable, I cried in her arms; then sent me off 
 on a long errand that came to naught, foolish 
 like. 
 
 "I got back through the roke, and went indoors 
 tired and hungry. It was dark in there. My 
 mother was standing in the midst alone, her back 
 toward me. I spoke to her about the errand being 
 no good. She never answered or moved, so I went 
 closer and spoke again. She seemed not to hear 
 me. That wasn't like her, and she stood unusual 
 tall in the dark, with her head as if listening. I 
 touched her. Last of all I put up my hand and 
 pulled at her skirt, like a child's way of doing. 
 Then my mother turned. There was light enough 
 to see her face looking down at me, and I wish 
 there hadn't been." 
 
 George moved his hands from his temples to 
 his forehead. 
 
 "She turned, and she kept on turning right 
 
FERN SEED 177 
 
 past me. And then I saw that her feet didn't touch 
 the floor." 
 
 He remained still for a moment; suddenly un- 
 covered his face by dropping his hands and clasp- 
 ing them before him; but regarded neither of his 
 companions. 
 
 "That," said he, "is what came of our fine 
 gentleman who threw himself about a bit. — I 
 couldn't help overhearing you. Penalty for quick 
 ears." 
 
 With another sudden movement, George left 
 his chair and drew himself erect; still caring to 
 see nobody, he turned, stepped to the window from 
 which he had thrown the moth, and leaned there. 
 Past his head smoke drifted into the warm, sweet- 
 smelling darkness. Across their empty fireplace 
 the two younger men exchanged looks, without a 
 word, but asking each other what was to be said 
 or done. 
 
 It was Laurence who found an answer. He 
 went limping to the table, and with unnecessary 
 pains, very slowly, mixed three great night-cap 
 drinks. He made them strong and dark, holding 
 up each tumbler for prolonged inspection, con- 
 triving a good deal of clink and rattle. Afterward 
 he stood quite still and let more time go by. 
 
178 FERN SEED 
 
 "We're waiting for you, George," he called at 
 last, In a matter-of-fact tone. "Here you are." 
 
 Grayland came back to them, quiet and com- 
 posed. 
 
 "I always knew it must be something more 
 than friendship." Laurence held out a tumbler 
 in each hand, and when these two were taken, 
 raised the third before him. "Cousin Leonard, 
 and Cousin George, I wish we were to be longer 
 under this roof. Here, let's all stand on the 
 hearth-stone. — That's better. How many years, 
 do you suppose, have gone by since three of us 
 did this together?" 
 
 With his glass, he beckoned for them to touch 
 brims. His air was at once offhand and cere- 
 monial. 
 
 "Come, all the family. Here's luck." 
 
XVI 
 
 During the next few days, the three men went 
 about together as if inseparable. The fine weather 
 continued. They shared their enjoyment of it, 
 meeting early by tacit consent, taking long ram- 
 bles, bathing in the river, rowing the Daisy down 
 for a plunge in the surf, or up for a picnic on 
 some tranquil reach where nest-guarding swans 
 with fiery eyes pursued their wake and hissed at 
 them; and coming home by sunset to talks that 
 ended only with late bed-time. 
 
 "Well," sighed Leonard one evening, "to- 
 morrow I must go. Really must, this time." 
 
 His friends both turned gloomy. 
 
 "Why, man, youVe just come," retorted Lau- 
 rence. "Is it growing so dull for you?" 
 
 "No. I should think not," declared the visi- 
 tor. " *But Scripture says an ending to all fine 
 things must be.' " 
 
 "I don't care a button what Scripture says." 
 The master of the house grew peevish. "You're 
 
 179 
 
i8o FERN SEED 
 
 not treating George and me In a high-class way 
 at all. You're only being polite. Now you drop 
 it. In Deportment For Dukes it is clearly stated: 
 *At a Hint from the Hostess, the Departure oc- 
 curs.' Then and not till then. So you wait; and 
 you'll wait a devilish long time, my boy. — That 
 reminds me. To-morrow my sister's coming back. 
 You can't run away." 
 
 From behind him, George, towering in the back- 
 ground, shot a volley of most fiendish leers. They 
 gave all warnings that a human face could con- 
 vey, against vinegar ladles who bit heads off. 
 
 "If I should let you go now," continued Lau- 
 rence, "why, Rose would make the rest of my life 
 perfectly unbearable. You can stay, can't you? 
 Good! — I've hardly seen her twice in years my- 
 self, till the other day. Brought up by some of 
 her father's old friends, *of the tribe of Dan and 
 noli me tang ere* Time to see what frills they 
 have put into her head." 
 
 Thus it happened that on the following after- 
 noon, upstairs, Leonard heard a crunch of wheels 
 that stopped by the front door, and women's voices 
 below. He felt little or no curiosity toward this 
 Miss Corsant who set her cousin George's teeth 
 so on edge : no doubt she had come to spoil their 
 harmony in bachelors' hall: but perhaps for the 
 
FERN SEED i8i 
 
 advantage of seeing the enemy first, he went to a 
 window and looked out. 
 
 The impulse had come too late. George was 
 bobbing away down the sunlit drive, In a basket 
 phaeton drawn by an old white pony, the same 
 that he had taken to Peacock for shoeing and 
 led Into the surf. Whatever passengers Grayland 
 had brought were now indoors. 
 
 *'A11 right," thought the young man. "Let her 
 snap.*' 
 
 From the stairhead came a rustle of skirts. He 
 turned. A very neat lady's maid, with gray hair 
 and a sensible, cheerful face, passed by Into a 
 corridor as If she had always been passing, knew 
 her way, and liked it. 
 
 "That woman's head never was bitten off," he 
 considered, as he went down. "George's bugbear 
 can't be so frightful." 
 
 Coming through the arch, round a corner, he 
 suddenly had his advantage after all, and saw 
 the enemy first. Under the portrait of the young 
 horseman, and the blades, a girl sat leaning back- 
 ward, her hands folded in her lap, resting, as if 
 alone with some thought which was good but 
 rather grave company. Her face, clear brown 
 tinged with delicate red, might have been that of 
 a sister to the horseman, but lacked his im« 
 
i82 FERN SEED 
 
 patience; her dark eyes were George's without 
 the guile. So much Leonard saw before discov- 
 ering to his great surprise and even greater delight, 
 that she was the girl of the blue-bell grove who 
 had sat with him in the rain. 
 
 The sound of his footsteps roused her. She 
 turned, saw him, and leaving her chair, came for- 
 ward. 
 
 "How do you do? I am Laurence's sister 
 Rose." As they met she added, in a very pretty 
 confusion : *'Thank you for your oilskin. I have 
 brought it, but should have sent It before ..." 
 
 "And thank you for the receipt of fern seed," 
 he broke In. "Your charm worked. If you re- 
 member it, under your namesake the boat?" 
 
 Her confusion deepened, and with It her color. 
 
 "Have you forgiven me for teasing you?" she 
 asked. "Fm still ashamed. But it was fun." 
 
 That downward laughter not quite controlled 
 came and went in her eyes. He liked It better 
 than ever; still better when It got the mastery 
 and looked up at him direct. 
 
 "I shall kill George," said he. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh — for things he said; and things he didn't 
 say." 
 
 "What things? Tell me both kinds." She 
 
FERNSEED 183 
 
 read his face. "About me? — Dear old George. 
 He's like a father and a brother and a naughty 
 boy to take care of, all by turns and at once." 
 
 Somehow they fell not only Into talk but into 
 step together, walking up and down the long room 
 as If they had met for that purpose, or it had been 
 their custom. They went slowly, but found much 
 to say in haste. While they did so, Leonard be- 
 came haunted with a sense that the old house 
 had come to life: this girl Rose Corsant wore 
 plain, quiet gray, yet while she turned and re- 
 turned beside him, he could have thought her pass- 
 age made a shining along the time-blackened oak, 
 and cast light rather than shadow. Far from 
 being spoiled, the place had got what it always 
 wanted. 
 
 Once or twice Rose came to a halt, and looked 
 about her, gravely, as she had looked when sitting 
 under the picture. 
 
 "I can't bear to think," she said, "that Laurence 
 will have to sell this. Poor boy. It makes rather 
 a sad home-coming." She started on again. 
 "What a pity! — But we must enjoy it all we can 
 while we may." 
 
 Leonard often recalled this saying of hers; for 
 afterward, as days passed and household ac- 
 quaintance grew, he was with her constantly under 
 
i84 FERN SEED 
 
 one roof or outdoors, and never again saw her 
 dispirited. Rose followed her own precept ad- 
 mirably. 
 
 "Hanged If I know how we got on without 
 her," grumbled George one evening. "Worth a 
 dozen of us. Hear her." 
 
 The men surrounded their hearth as usual by 
 candle-light. She was moving somewhere above, 
 humming, with little outbreaks of clear melody: 
 
 " There were three gipsies a'come to my door, 
 And downstairs ran this a-lady oh! 
 One sang high, and the other sang low, 
 And the other sang bonny, bonny Biscay, O !' " 
 
 George hearkened, his brown face lifted some- 
 what toward the sound. It was no secret that 
 he worshipped her. He had tried at first to hold 
 aloof; but her brother would have none of that, 
 and had kept him In the circle. 
 
 " Then she pulled off her silk-finished gown . . . ' " 
 
 The singer, in white, came running down 
 through the arch, floating like a feather on air 
 and gay as the lady of her ballad. 
 
 "To this day youVe not told me how the fight 
 went." Her eyes were black stars. In her hand 
 
FERN SEED 185 
 
 was George's bloated umbrella, which gave an 
 effect of Beauty and the Beast. 'Tou are all too 
 lazy to show me." 
 
 A moment later she had "them dispersed about 
 the room, three grown men playing like children. 
 George shrank into himself by the door, enacted 
 Kamsa the Locust hideously — a long-legged 
 chlmasra trying to be fat — and croaked their stage 
 directions. Laurence caught down the naked 
 sword. Leonard received her umbrella with a 
 bow, performed the grand salute, and bounced 
 on guard like a rubber ball. They turned the 
 story of that combat into a romp that left all four 
 of them laughing. 
 
 As they came to order, Leonard suddenly 
 raised his hand. 
 
 "Wait !" He warned them. *'It's here again.*' 
 
 They listened. From the corner behind him 
 came a sigh and a flutter, a movement of some- 
 thing without body or name. 
 
 "The family spectre," said Laurence. "IVe 
 heard it two or three times. Dust falling behind 
 the wainscot, probably. I'm afraid it means dry- 
 rot in these old timbers." 
 
 Rose disagreed. 
 
 "No, a real ghost," she said. "Not yet laid. 
 Hark!" 
 
i86 FERN SEED 
 
 The stir had passed, however, and did not 
 come again. They presently forgot it. Rose 
 had other questions In mind. She stood on tiptoe, 
 examining the carven lump of the Devil's Nostrils. 
 
 "How elvish this old block of wood can look at 
 night." She appealed to Leonard. "Doesn't it 
 creep and crawl? — By the way, how did you come 
 to think of swimming through the rock? That 
 morning you met George?" 
 
 "My father," explained the young man, "al- 
 ways said we must do it, one day. An old story 
 between us. He couldn't just remember what, 
 and I never knew. Something. We were to go 
 through the rock a certain fashion." 
 
 George, watching them paternally, growled the 
 single word: 
 
 "WIthershins." 
 
 "What does that mean?" asked Rose. "You 
 read it in witchcraft." 
 
 Leonard turned toward the carving and reached 
 up. 
 
 "I swam out like this, you see." He put his 
 forefinger into the left nostril. "Why! They're 
 real holes. Deep. Clear through. Thought It 
 was only scooped. — I swam out here." He 
 crooked his finger round behind toward the other 
 
FERNSEED 187 
 
 nostril. "And swam in again here, this second 
 hole. Can't quite poke it." 
 
 George corrected him. 
 
 * 'Wrong way. That's how you pass a bottle." 
 
 Leonard blew dust from his finger, and nodded. 
 
 *'This way, then." He tried the right nostril. 
 "Hallo!" said he in dismay, and withdrew his 
 hand. "IVe broken something." 
 
 They all heard a rusty creak, then saw the 
 oaken septum between the nostrils drop forward 
 and stand out from the wall like a peg. There 
 followed a groan or long-drawn shuddering gulp 
 as from old bellows. 
 
 Leonard stood like a truant caught in mischief; 
 Rose and her brother came to him quickly; but 
 it was George who first acted upon the fact, and 
 brought one of the candlesticks. His face re- 
 mained Impassive, but his eyes glittered. 
 
 "Let her," he said, pointing. "The youngest, 
 for luck. And the lady." 
 
 They saw what he meant. The panel under the 
 carving had sprung back, sunken half an inch or 
 so between its neighbors. George, with the flat of 
 his hand, pressed it farther inward. 
 
 "Now try." 
 
 A crack had appeared. Rose, rather timidly, 
 put her slender brown finger-tips into this, and 
 
i88 FERN SEED 
 
 gave a sidelong push. The smooth oak glided 
 away to the right, disappeared; a thin cloud of 
 dust flew out in her face; before them stood a 
 shallow recess backed with greenish tatters of mil- 
 dewed leather and tails of curled hair. 
 
 "Padded so as not to give hollow/* said George. 
 "Here's your ghost: any draught would set those 
 rags chafing." He spoke eagerly. "Try the gob 
 of verdigris. Below, to your hand. Must be a 
 brass door catch. Try it.'* 
 
 Rose, her black eyes sparkling like his own, 
 obeyed him. The padded leather swung inward 
 on squealing hinges, and left open into darkness 
 a narrow doorway from which two or three stone 
 steps led downward. 
 
 "Bowels of the earth," declared George. "Let 
 me test the air. — Some rumor of this crept into 
 grandmother's feeble old brain, I dare say." 
 
 He slipped through the opening shoulder-first, 
 crouched and went down, holding the branched 
 candles knee-high before him. 
 
 "They bum sweet." His voice rang in some 
 empty confinement. "All right. Come along, but 
 mind your heads." 
 
 They trooped down after him, into a room nine 
 or ten feet square, a cell with roof, walls, and 
 floor of solid stone. Dust lay thick on the floor. 
 
FERN SEED 189 
 
 in the centre of which, by a table also covered with 
 dust, were two narrow high-backed old chairs, one 
 upright, one overthrown. 
 
 "Under the garden rock that a piece of the 
 house juts into, we are.** George*s head brushed 
 the ceiling as he moved about, explored all cor- 
 ners, and came back to set his candles on the dusty 
 board. "Clever conniving. Naught but the one 
 door, though must be tirly-whirly holes to keep 
 the air so fresh.'* 
 
 The strangeness of this hidden room no more 
 touched him than if he had walked into a shop or 
 a kitchen. But Rose, her brother, and Leonard 
 saw one another somewhat daunted, and required 
 time to be themselves again. On the table stood 
 a platter with clots and crumbling Bones in it un- 
 der the powder of years, two plates, two goblets, 
 all these black as lead; a pair of pistols and a 
 sword gone to rust; a brown feather which, as 
 Rose lifted it, shed its color and became a goose- 
 quill pen; a small ink-horn, and the rags of what 
 had been a man's hat. Laurence took up one of 
 the black goblets, mechanically, with a dreaming 
 air, and set it down. By chance it struck a black 
 plate, and the intruders were surprised when they 
 heard these dead utensils give out a living chink 
 of silver. 
 
I90 FERNSEED 
 
 "What do you make of it, George?" asked 
 Laurence. 
 
 "Two men never eat their breakfast," replied 
 Grayland promptly. **War time, it's like. They 
 cleared out so quick, one of them upset his chair, 
 ril bet you" — he turned to Leonard — "your great 
 something dad galloped off without hat or weap- 
 ons down to his ship. Westward ho for your life. 
 O* course that's only my guess. Maybe he went 
 back to war." 
 
 Leonard gave a nod. 
 
 "Maybe so," he agreed. "It would bear out 
 a yarn father used to tell." 
 
 Laurence, dreaming still or thinking, did not 
 seem to hear. He raised the black platter which 
 by-gone men had left full of bones and powder. 
 
 "Why," said he, "here's what they were writ- 
 ing with your quill, Rose." 
 
 Where the dish left Its mark, an oval of pol- 
 ished wood drawn with exact edge amid the dust, 
 lay a folded sheet of manuscript fresh and white 
 as though tucked underneath yesterday. Laurence 
 took this and carefully opened it. 
 
 "Wait a minute," called George. 
 
 He skipped upstairs into the house, dropped 
 down again with hearth-broom, put the fallen chair 
 on its legs, and brushed both seats clean. 
 
FERN SEED 191 
 
 "There you are." 
 
 Brother and sister took their places at table. 
 ^'Seventeenth century hand, I think/' said Lau- 
 rence, and began to read aloud : 
 
 " *I, Leonard Corsant, being in the twenty-eighth 
 year of my age, and but newly returned from this 
 damnable slaughter of our kindred, and friends upon 
 both sides whom I saw fallen, as chiefly amongst them 
 at Chalgrove field John Hampden receiving his death 
 by the shattering his hand by the burst of his new 
 pistol . . . '" 
 
 The reader looked up. 
 
 "That's of interest," he remarked, "for Clar- 
 endon says he got hit by a brace of slugs in the 
 shoulder. — George is right. It was war time, and 
 your great something grandfather telling his 
 troubles. He flounders a little with the pen. 
 
 "*and being myself wounded, in my concealment 
 do intend this memorial . . . "* 
 
 Again Laurence paused. 
 
 "And that's all," he said. "Far as the old chap 
 ever carried with his participial history. Rough 
 sketch, perhaps. A deal scratched out, and then 
 lines ruled across the page. — Eh? What comes 
 here below?" 
 
192 FERN SEED 
 
 He read no more aloud, but scanned the bottom 
 of the sheet. 
 
 "Here's an agreement, drawn up on this table, 
 I fancy, between the same writer and his younger 
 brother Laurence. The wheel of time?" 
 
 Rose pushed back her chair and stood up, beck- 
 oning Leonard with a smile. 
 
 "You sit with him," she said. "It's more fit- 
 ting, you and he, after those two. Don't you 
 think?" 
 
 She obliged him to take her place, where dust 
 had fallen, moth corrupted, and steel decayed, 
 since two men of their name had faced each other 
 so. 
 
 Laurence read on to himself. 
 
 "Fm no lawyer," he proclaimed suddenly. "But 
 this would seem to promise fair material for a 
 pretty suit. Worth looking into. It's a plain 
 contract. Your forefather who went back to war 
 without his hat or breakfast, owned this house 
 and land. Mine, the younger, stayed at home to 
 hold it, *by policy and such devices as he may 
 in honor' — those are their words — ^till the storm 
 blew past. May be valueless now. All the same, 
 by right you should keep this." He handed it 
 across. "They drew their terms up in a rush, on 
 waste paper from a memoir that never got writ- 
 
FERN SEED 193 
 
 ten. But it*s clear, signed by Leonard and Lau- 
 rence Corsant, witnessed by one Rich. Hooper 
 and one Gabriel Grayland. — Always one of you 
 handy round the house, George." 
 
 The paper, though spotted by damp, felt al- 
 most new In Leonard's hands. He looked upon 
 it not without emotion. 
 
 "Which Is the part," he asked, "that you think 
 — er — pertains to me?" 
 
 Laurence leaned over the black dishes, and 
 pointed. 
 
 "There. At the foot. Beginning — *For the 
 guidance of our children, to preserve' — and so 
 on." 
 
 Leonard, taking his turn, read to the bottom of 
 the page with care. 
 
 "They were long-headed, but fond of each 
 other." He glanced from his table companion to 
 George and Rose. "This reminds me of what 
 Mr. Tony Weller said about his wife's will. As 
 it's all right and satisfactory, and we're the only 
 parties Interested, we may as well put this bit 
 comfortably " 
 
 He thrust the end of it into the candles. It 
 flared. 
 
 "You madman I" cried Laurence, and snatched 
 
194 FERN SEED 
 
 the blazing sheet from him. "What right had 
 you?" 
 
 Half the paper was burnt away, the offending 
 lower half. 
 
 "You saved enough for a relic," said Leonard 
 calmly. "To keep with George's umbrella In the 
 archives. My name's not Tichbourne, you know. 
 I'm just the American cousin. It was nothing but 
 an old scribble, outlawed years ago." 
 
XVII 
 
 One evening a week later, George was busy 
 outside the front door. An upstart young elm, 
 pushing its own affair in the absence of mankind, 
 had spoiled a flower bed and darkened a dining- 
 room window. George had felled it, dragged it 
 bodily by main strength into the driveway, and 
 now bent down to lop the branches. He was 
 working at great speed, finishing Eis job before 
 the dusk thickened into darkness. Barn-swallows 
 darted over the garden leaves, and slewed off in 
 frightened zigzags at every blow of his axe. 
 
 Leonard stood near him, talking with lowered 
 voice. It seemed natural for the pair of them 
 to conspire again. 
 
 "He mustn't sell this." The younger man's 
 gaze roved from house to garden. "It's a crime." 
 
 George nodded, and kicked away a bough. 
 
 "Can't be helped." He spoke sadly. "I'd 
 hate to see her go, his sister. But Laurence — Oh, 
 
 195 
 
196 FERN SEED 
 
 well, let*s cheat ourselves by thinking he*d never 
 stand the climate. In winter there's only two 
 places in England fit for a man to be — In bed, or 
 on the back of a good horse. Leave It at that, 
 for comfort. Pretend he was ordered south." 
 
 Leonard remained thoughtful and silent. 
 
 "Laurence would never accept It from me," he 
 blurted. "But If you bought the place and gave It 
 back to him, George " 
 
 Grayland looked up swiftly. 
 
 "Where'd I get the money?" he retorted. 
 "Like a shot I would. But he and I are a pair 
 of rolling stones. Where would it come from?" 
 
 He went on lopping. The muscles In his hard 
 brown forearms played like rods. His axe, the 
 same that once had a purple stain on its edge, 
 weighed some four pounds, but he swung It In one 
 hand like a hatchet, and cut off a limb clean at 
 each blow. 
 
 In two words Leonard unfolded a project that 
 had kept him awake nights. 
 
 "From me." 
 
 George pierced him with a straight glance to 
 ask if he were trying some bad joke. 
 
 "No, I mean it." Leonard's face grew red, his 
 tongue slipped and stammered. "You know, 
 
FERN SEED 197 
 
 George — the truth is — ^you know, Pm richer than 
 sin. Rich as a Parsee. Rich as a Bagdad Jew. 
 — Pll be gone, you see. Not a soul would know." 
 
 Grayland, poising his axe, accepted this truth 
 at once, calmly. 
 
 *Tou never acted purse-proud." 
 
 **Don't know about that. Dad always told me 
 not to spend much on myself," said Leonard. 
 "Wish you'd known my father, George. You 
 make me think of him so often. — ^You couldn't 
 help wanting to try to do whatever father told 
 you." 
 
 The workman straightened himself, knee-deep 
 among leaves. He smiled, and answered with a 
 kind of envy. 
 
 "The boy's not dead in you by a long chalk. 
 You're young in the world." Suddenly he raised 
 his voice. "No. Don't agree with you. The 
 axe is a pretty tool in good hands, but the broad- 
 axe beats it for cleverness, and the adze calls out 
 genius. Now I remember an old shipwright " 
 
 Leonard, staring at this vagary, heard next 
 moment what George's ears had caught a long way 
 off. It was the footsteps of Rose Corsant. She 
 came out at the front door. 
 
 "What are you two plotting now ?" She called, 
 
198 FERN SEED 
 
 and passed on toward the corner rock. "Mis- 
 chlef?'' 
 
 They watched her moving away lightly through 
 the green dusk, humming: 
 
 " *0, what care I for my wedded lord, 
 What care I for my money, O ?' " 
 
 When she disappeared behind shrubbery, Gray- 
 land laughed. 
 
 "Hear that? A reckless tribe you are. My 
 kind do come handy about this house. Could 
 you trust me proxy with such a pot? I stole be- 
 fore you was born, dear lad. I might shoot the 
 moon, or hold fast to what I collared.^' 
 
 Leonard smiled in his turn. 
 
 "We'll risk that." 
 
 "Right ho. We'll risk it." Grayland bent 
 once more, and chopped. "Now run play. Your 
 Uncle George is busy, and the daylight's nigh 
 gone." For an instant he rose, fondling his axe 
 and grinning in the dusk. "Only, there's a condi- 
 tion. No mortal hand but mine shall ring those 
 bells at your wedding. I'm the boy to make old 
 Gabriel sing tenor." 
 
 Leonard, who had begun moving away, stopped 
 and regarded him with horror. 
 
 "What! What's this, man alive?" 
 
FERN SEED 199 
 
 The man alive shot him, cornerwise, one of 
 those black arrows of wickedness. 
 
 *'Don't forget, when time comes," said George. 
 "It was revealed to me In a dream." 
 
 THE END 
 
v.- ,/ 
 
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